THE HERO LEAST LIKELY

Seven full-length novels by

Darcy Burke

Christi Caldwell

Rose Gordon

Sue London

Ruth Ann Nordin

Erica Ridley

and Lauren & Devon Royal

TABLE OF CONTENTS

- Title Page

- Cover Image

- Books in This Boxed Set

- SCOUNDREL EVER AFTER by Darcy Burke

- Dedication

- Chapter 1

- Chapter 2

- Chapter 3

- Chapter 4

- Chapter 5

- Chapter 6

- Chapter 7

- Chapter 8

- Chapter 9

- Chapter 10

- Chapter 11

- Chapter 12

- Chapter 13

- Chapter 14

- Chapter 15

- Chapter 16

- Chapter 17

- Chapter 18

- Chapter 19

- Chapter 20

- Chapter 21

- Chapter 22

- Chapter 23

- Epilogue

- Thank You!

- Acknowledgements

- More in This Series

- About Darcy Burke

- FOREVER BETROTHED, NEVER THE BRIDE by Christi Caldwell

- Dedications

- Acknowledgments

- Chapter 1

- Chapter 2

- Chapter 3

- Chapter 4

- Chapter 5

- Chapter 6

- Chapter 7

- Chapter 8

- Chapter 9

- Chapter 10

- Chapter 11

- Chapter 12

- Chapter 13

- Chapter 14

- Chapter 15

- Chapter 16

- Chapter 17

- Chapter 18

- Chapter 19

- Chapter 20

- Chapter 21

- Chapter 22

- Chapter 23

- Chapter 24

- Chapter 25

- Chapter 26

- Chapter 27

- Chapter 28

- Chapter 29

- Chapter 30

- Chapter 31

- Chapter 32

- Chapter 33

- Chapter 34

- Chapter 35

- Chapter 36

- Chapter 37

- Chapter 38

- Chapter 39

- Chapter 40

- Chapter 41

- Chapter 42

- Epilogue

- More in This Series

- About Christi Caldwell

- DESIRES OF A BARON by Rose Gordon

- Prologue

- Chapter 1

- Chapter 2

- Chapter 3

- Chapter 4

- Chapter 5

- Chapter 6

- Chapter 7

- Chapter 8

- Chapter 9

- Chapter 10

- Chapter 11

- Chapter 12

- Chapter 13

- Chapter 14

- Chapter 15

- Chapter 16

- Chapter 17

- Chapter 18

- Chapter 19

- Chapter 20

- Chapter 21

- Chapter 22

- Chapter 23

- Chapter 24

- Chapter 25

- Chapter 26

- Chapter 27

- Chapter 28

- Chapter 29

- Chapter 30

- Chapter 31

- Chapter 32

- Epilogue

- More in this Series

- About Rose Gordon

- ATHENA'S ORDEAL by Sue London

- Dedication

- Acknowledgements

- Epigraph

- Chapter 1

- Chapter 2

- Chapter 3

- Chapter 4

- Chapter 5

- Chapter 6

- Chapter 7

- Chapter 8

- Chapter 9

- Chapter 10

- Chapter 11

- Chapter 12

- Chapter 13

- Chapter 14

- Chapter 15

- Chapter 16

- Chapter 17

- Chapter 18

- Chapter 19

- Chapter 20

- Chapter 21

- Chapter 22

- Chapter 23

- Chapter 24

- Chapter 25

- Chapter 26

- Chapter 27

- Chapter 28

- Chapter 29

- Chapter 30

- Chapter 31

- Chapter 32

- Chapter 33

- Chapter 34

- Chapter 35

- Chapter 36

- Chapter 37

- Chapter 38

- Chapter 39

- Chapter 40

- Chapter 41

- Chapter 42

- Chapter 43

- Chapter 44

- Author’s Note

- More in This Series

- About Sue London

- THE EARL'S SCANDALOUS WIFE by Ruth Ann Nordin

- Dedication

- Chapter 1

- Chapter 2

- Chapter 3

- Chapter 4

- Chapter 5

- Chapter 6

- Chapter 7

- Chapter 8

- Chapter 9

- Chapter 10

- Chapter 11

- Chapter 12

- Chapter 13

- Chapter 14

- Chapter 15

- Chapter 16

- Chapter 17

- Chapter 18

- Chapter 19

- Chapter 20

- Chapter 21

- Chapter 22

- Chapter 23

- Chapter 24

- Chapter 25

- Chapter 26

- Epilogue

- More in This Series

- About Ruth Ann Nordin

- THE MAJOR’S FAUX FIANCÉE by Erica Ridley

- Epigraph

- Chapter 1

- Chapter 2

- Chapter 3

- Chapter 4

- Chapter 5

- Chapter 6

- Chapter 7

- Chapter 8

- Chapter 9

- Chapter 10

- Chapter 11

- Chapter 12

- Chapter 13

- Chapter 14

- Chapter 15

- Chapter 16

- Chapter 17

- Chapter 18

- Chapter 19

- Chapter 20

- Chapter 21

- Chapter 22

- Chapter 23

- Chapter 24

- Chapter 25

- Epilogue

- Thank You For Reading

- Acknowledgments

- More in This Series

- About Erica Ridley

- CORINNA by Lauren & Devon Royal

- Chase Family Tree

- Acknowledgments

- Dedication

- Prologue

- Chapter 1

- Chapter 2

- Chapter 3

- Chapter 4

- Chapter 5

- Chapter 6

- Chapter 7

- Chapter 8

- Chapter 9

- Chapter 10

- Chapter 11

- Chapter 12

- Chapter 13

- Chapter 14

- Chapter 15

- Chapter 16

- Chapter 17

- Chapter 18

- Chapter 19

- Chapter 20

- Chapter 21

- Chapter 22

- Chapter 23

- Chapter 24

- Chapter 25

- Chapter 26

- Chapter 27

- Chapter 28

- Chapter 29

- Chapter 30

- Chapter 31

- Chapter 32

- Chapter 33

- Chapter 34

- Chapter 35

- Chapter 36

- Chapter 37

- Chapter 38

- Chapter 39

- Chapter 40

- Chapter 41

- Chapter 42

- Chapter 43

- Chapter 44

- Chapter 45

- Chapter 46

- Chapter 47

- Chapter 48

- Chapter 49

- Chapter 50

- Chapter 51

- Chapter 52

- Chapter 53

- Chapter 54

- Chapter 55

- Chapter 56

- Chapter 57

- Chapter 58

- Chapter 59

- Chapter 60

- Thank You!

- Author's Note

- More in This Series

- About Lauren & Devon Royal

- Thank You for Reading

- Copyright Page

BOOKS IN THIS BOXED SET

7 New York Times, USA Today and Internationally Bestselling Authors

7 Romantic Heroes You Don’t Expect and Won’t Forget…

SCOUNDREL EVER AFTER by Darcy Burke

When wallflower Audrey Cheswick runs away with England’s most wanted criminal, she learns adventure comes with a price—not just her reputation or her virtue, but her heart. If Ethan Jagger can escape the hangman’s noose and start anew, will she consent to love a scoundrel ever after?

FOREVER BETROTHED, NEVER THE BRIDE by Christi Caldwell

War-torn veteran, Lord Drake devotes himself to forgetting his days on the Peninsula through an endless round of meaningless associations. He no longer wants to feel anything, but Lady Emmaline is making it hard to maintain a state of numbness. With her zest for life, she awakens his passion and desire for love.

DESIRES OF A BARON by Rose Gordon

Giles Goddard, Lord Norcourt is odd. Odder still, he has suddenly taken a fancy to his brother’s love interest, the fallen Lucy Whitaker. Lucy was once thrown over by a lord and she has little desire to let it happen again, but she’s about to learn that his desires just might be enough for the both of them.

ATHENA’S ORDEAL by Sue London

Quincy Telford, Duke of Beloin, has hated Viscount Bittlesworth as long as he can remember. Now the man’s daughter is constantly in his path. Can he escape her temptation and avoid peril in the increasingly dangerous game of cat and mouse he is playing with his blackmailer?

THE EARL’S SCANDALOUS WIFE by Ruth Ann Nordin

Season after Season of not being able to secure a wife, Lord Clement's life changes for the better when a beautiful stranger kisses him. Now he has a wife who has it all: beauty, passion, and excitement. But it's not over. Thanks to her tainted past, her newfound love with Perry is threatened when her brother comes back into her life. Can she protect Perry from finding out the truth or will her brother get the upper hand?

THE MAJOR’S FAUX FIANCÉE by Erica Ridley

When Major Bartholomew Blackpool learns the girl-next-door from his childhood will be forced into an unwanted marriage, he returns home to play her pretend beau. He figures now that he's missing a leg, a faux fiancée is the best an ex-soldier can get. He admires her pluck, but the lady deserves a whole man--and he'll ensure she gets one.

CORINNA by Lauren & Devon Royal

What’s a colorblind Irishman to do when he’s blackmailed into impersonating a renowned landscape artist, lying to all of London society, and risking the ton’s collective wrath if he’s found out? Why, fall for the lovely and unattainable marquess’s daughter next door, of course. But his fetching neighbor is no simpleton and an artist in her own right. When she realizes his ruse, will she expose his misdeeds…or find herself drawn into the hoax?

SCOUNDREL EVER AFTER

Darcy Burke

For Janice

The baskets in chapter eight are for you.

And they’re filled with gratitude and love

(instead of apples and chicken, though you can have those too).

ONE

London, September, 1818

Ethan Jagger ran like hell. Every swing of his arm pumped blood from the knife wound in his bicep and brought a fresh burn of agony. Still, he couldn’t stop. Stopping meant capture. Capture meant the hangman’s noose.

He didn’t chance a look back. Though he couldn’t yet hear them, he knew the Bow Street Runners were closing in. Wounded as he was, Ethan wasn’t sure he could outpace them. St. Giles was still too bloody far away.

He almost stopped cold. He couldn’t go to St. Giles. Despite his allies, and he had more than a few, everyone in the rookery would know Gin Jimmy was after him. And if they had to choose their loyalty, and they did, they’d award it to the man who could cause them the most harm: Gin Jimmy. Pursued by the law and the outlaw: Ethan was well and truly buggered.

There was no help for it. He had to get out of London and figure out what to do next. To do that, he’d need to get to one of the hiding spots where he kept his emergency funds. The closest one—and more importantly in the opposite direction of St. Giles—was in Berkley Square, which meant he had to double back.

But first he had to elude the Runners. He veered left onto a narrow street. And ran straight into a whore.

She grasped his arms to steady herself. Her hand closed around his wound. He sucked in air and white lights speckled his sight.

“Ho there!” She drew her hand away. “Wot’s wrong with ye?”

Lamplight from the wider street up ahead filtered back into the alley, but it was too dark for him to discern much of her features. He could, however, tell she was studying her hand. She had to have felt the blood seeping from the gash Gin Jimmy had given him scarcely a quarter hour before.

Aware that this pause was allowing his pursuers to gain on him, Ethan pushed her aside so he could slip past her down the alleyway.

“’Ey now, there’s no need to be rude!” she shrieked.

Ethan didn’t spare her a glance as he hastily set off once more. But then a very large man stepped in his way. “Ye shouldn’t be rude to me trollop.”

Bloody fucking hell. Ethan did not have time for a prostitute or her pimp. However, before he could take off running once more, the pimp stepped so close to Ethan that he could smell the man’s filth as well as the gin he’d swilled earlier.

“’Is arm’s ’urt,” the woman said.

Ethan braced himself, expecting the pimp to hit or grab him in the arm, but the hulking bloke only leaned in closer, sticking his face a mere inch from Ethan’s. “Jagger?” he asked.

It didn’t surprise Ethan that the pimp knew him, though the recognition was not reciprocated. One didn’t rise as far as Ethan had within the criminal ranks without developing a reputation and a . . . following.

“Yes, Jagger. Now, back off.” He kept his tone even, yet commanding.

The pimp stepped back, and Ethan inhaled fresher air. His pulse was slowing, which meant he’d been motionless too long. The Runners were going to be on him.

“Ye don’t spend as much time at the flash houses as ye used to.” The pimp’s tone carried an edge of skepticism that Ethan didn’t like. “I hear ye’ve taken up with a diff’rent class o’ folk, and that ye might not even go by Jagger no more.”

Ethan didn’t have time or patience for the man’s inquiry. His arm was killing him and if he didn’t start running again, Bow Street would be upon him. “I need to be on my way. Move aside.”

Ethan made to dash past, but as he stepped to the side, the pimp’s arm shot out and he grabbed Ethan’s bicep. With a howl, Ethan spun and sent his fist into the pimp’s jaw. He would’ve followed up with another jab to his middle, but Ethan couldn’t make his right arm work.

A shout of “There he is!” came from behind. Damn everything to hell. The Runners had found him.

The pimp had been momentarily surprised by Ethan’s blow, but he recovered quickly and threw a fist toward Ethan’s gut.

Ethan danced away, barely missing the hit. “Those are Bow Street Runners, you imbecile. We need to move!” Whatever the pimp’s motive, he wouldn’t want to be detained by Bow Street. None of their class ever did.

The pimp straightened, his body angled toward where Ethan had come from.

“Hold there, Jagger!” one of the Runners called. Teague. He’d been hounding Ethan for years, but particularly during the last fortnight. Ethan didn’t mean for him to catch him now.

Jabbing his elbow out toward the pimp, Ethan took off running.

“Catch him!” Teague shouted. “Or find yourself in trouble!”

The pimp’s hand closed around Ethan’s bicep and dragged him to a stop. Agony spiraled up and down Ethan’s arm. “Sorry, mate.”

No. Ethan refused to go down like this. With a surge of energy, he threw off the pimp’s grip and punched him in the jaw again. The pimp was slightly more prepared this time and angled his head away, though Ethan still caught a piece of him.

Then the Runners were on them.

Ethan moved quickly, pulling his knife from his boot and squaring off before all three men could get to him. Suddenly a high-pitched squeal filled the air as the prostitute jumped on Teague’s back and began to beat him about the head. Ethan would’ve thanked her for her support if he hadn’t needed to dispatch the other two blokes.

He glanced around the narrow alley, gauging his options. A half dozen or so wooden crates were stacked to his right. But they were the only relief from the bricked walls rising up on either side of the close.

The pimp rushed at him, but Ethan flashed his knife, which slowed the other man’s attack. Ethan didn’t want to cause him damage—the bloke was only trying to save his own hide—so he snatched up one of the crates to use it as a weapon instead of his knife, which he kept tucked into his left palm. He lifted the crate as the pimp came at him again. Ethan brought the box down over the man’s skull. The pimp stumbled backward as the crate splintered.

The second Runner rushed at him like a flash, his truncheon raised. Ethan pulled his arm back, but the truncheon hit his wrist hard enough that he dropped his knife. Swearing, Ethan skittered backward. He rubbed his wrist in an effort to banish the pain as he cursed the loss of his weapon.

The Runner eyed him warily. He kept a firm grip on his club, keeping it elevated. “Just come along with us now, Jagger. I don’t want to have to hurt you.”

Though he’d lost his knife, Ethan thought he could disarm the Runner. Even so, Ethan doubted his ability to take down all three men—the prostitute surely couldn’t overpower Teague, though she was managing to keep him occupied. Still, Ethan had to do what he could to escape. He held his hands up and speared the Runner with a direct stare. “I’ll go with you.”

The Runner didn’t appear convinced. He edged forward slowly, tentatively.

When the Runner drew close, Ethan kicked him in the knee. The Runner went down, colliding with the pimp who’d been shaking off the remains of the broken crate. They landed together in a tangle of wood pieces and flailing limbs.

Ethan lunged forward. He snatched the truncheon from the dazed Runner and waved it in his face. “I’m going now, and you’re letting me.”

“Jagger, hold.” Teague had finally gotten free of the hissing prostitute. He held the woman by the hair.

“Ye go on then, Jagger,” she said, gritting her teeth as Teague tugged at her scalp. “Don’t worry none ’bout me. I can take care o’ meself.”

Given her spitfire demeanor, Ethan didn’t doubt it. But he wouldn’t leave her to Teague.

Ethan skipped back several steps, lest the downed Runner or the pimp decide to reach out for his ankles. “Let her go. Then let me go and I’ll get Gin Jimmy for you.”

That had been his original goal: Take down the man who would ensure Ethan never broke free of his past. However, he had no idea how he’d manage that when tonight’s plan had been a total pissing failure. Still, he had to try. It was the only chance he had.

Teague took a step forward, dragging the woman along with him. “I’d be much obliged, but that doesn’t erase what you’ve done. You’ll answer for your crimes, Jagger.”

“Which ones?” There were far too many to count. Far too many that Ethan would just as soon forget.

Teague’s glare was menacing. “Murdering Wolverton. Conspiring to kill Lady Aldridge.”

“Is that all?” Ethan drawled, injecting a false carelessness into his tone.

“For now.”

In a fluid movement surely born of years of practice, the prostitute turned toward Teague and kneed him square in the bollocks. Teague released her as he crumpled to the cobblestones. She cast a glance back at Ethan. “Run, Jagger!” Then she took off herself.

Ethan didn’t need further urging. He turned to go, but a hand wrapped around his ankle. The pimp had disentangled himself from the other Runner. His meaty fingers grasped at Ethan’s boot. Ethan brought the truncheon down on the man’s wrist. The pimp howled with pain and withdrew his hand. Ethan sped from the alley as if the very devil were licking at his heels.

And he supposed he was.

Ethan had eluded the law for more than a decade, and he only needed to do it a little while longer. Until he could get out from under Gin Jimmy and get on with the life he’d begun to taste. A life where he could be Ethan Locke—better yet, Ethan Lockwood—and hold his head up as a member of the precious ton, even on its fringes. Not because he cared about them, but because he wanted to stay close to his brother.

As Ethan raced up the new Regent Street, he looked back to see if any of the men were pursuing him. Nothing yet. Still, he kept up his pace until he was panting and his side began to ache.

A few moments later, he turned onto Conduit Street and the energy that had dulled the pain in his arm began to ebb. His steps were flagging, and the burn in his bicep reached a crescendo. Wincing, he reluctantly slowed to a fast walk. He looked behind him, ever aware that the Runners or even the pimp were likely chasing him. He should have taken a less traveled path, but he was desperate to get to Berkley Square—and to his stash of money—as quickly as possible.

That thought spurred him on. He dug deep, searching for the perseverance that had guided his survival for over a decade, and picked up speed again. He had to navigate traffic to get across New Bond Street, but it was late and he was lucky. With his goal nearly in sight, he pressed himself even faster, so that by the time he cut into the Berkley mews, his entire body was thrumming with exertion and pain.

It took every ounce of strength he had left to vault the wall into the garden where he’d hidden his money. He slumped back against the stone, its coldness seeping through his layers of clothing and offering a slight respite from the heat of his activity.

The garden was dark, but pale light flickered in a few of the windows of the house. No matter, as no one would notice a shadowy figure climbing a tree. The fucking tree. Climbing that was going to hurt.

Inhaling a shuddering breath, Ethan pushed himself away from the wall and put one foot in front of the other. He just had to get his money and then he could be on his way. A much-needed rest—maybe even inside the house—for an hour or so tempted him, but he wasn’t sure he dared. At the very least, however, he should find something to bind his wound.

At the base of the tree, he set the Runner’s truncheon on the ground. He winced as pain radiated from his sliced arm. How the hell was he supposed to pull himself up? Damn Gin Jimmy to hell and back.

Heaving out a frustrated breath, he reached up with his left hand and found a handhold. At least Jimmy hadn’t wounded his stronger arm.

Ethan pulled himself up and flinched as pain sparked anew. He stepped up into a vee and exhaled. He couldn’t use his right hand to climb, so he put his left up again and slowly made his way to the hollow where he’d stashed a bag of money the last time he’d gone up the tree. He nearly smiled at the recollection.

His gaze flicked up a few feet to where he’d entered the house on two other occasions. He’d climbed in Miss Audrey Cheswick’s window for secret waltzing lessons. He shook his head at how ridiculously normal that sounded—save the secret part. How he yearned for such simplicity as dancing lessons or paying court to some young woman. Not that he’d courted Miss Cheswick. He was in no position to court anyone. And he wasn’t even sure he wanted to.

He pulled the bag from the hollow and cradled it in his left arm. Though he was content with its weight, he opened it and stuck his hand inside to feel the notes and coin within. Relief and comfort at having his hard-earned money, however, didn’t take the edge off the pain shooting up his arm. Definitely time to find some sort of bandage. Once inside, he’d also nick a bottle of brandy or whisky or whatever the hell he could lay his hands on.

Cinching the bag tight, he tucked it back in the tree. There was no way he could carry it and climb, so he’d have to fetch it on the way down. He gritted his teeth for the final ascent. It was only a few feet, but he had to stretch to reach the window. He only hoped the sash wasn’t locked.

He pulled himself up to the branch and thought about which hand to use to hold on to the tree and which hand to extend for the sash. However, before he could make up his mind, a pale face appeared in the window. He nearly fell out of the tree.

The sash came open and the stricken expression of Miss Audrey Cheswick sent a shaft of fear straight to his gut.

“Mr. Locke,” she said. “Thank goodness you’ve come. There are men in the house!”

Shit. “What sort of men?”

“I can’t say, but they don’t mean well. There was a tussle in the foyer.” Her eyes were wide with fright. “I’m afraid for our butler.”

Men in her house on this night of all nights couldn’t be a coincidence. But why? They hadn’t trailed him here unbeknownst to him, had they? But no, it wouldn’t be Bow Street. They would’ve treated the occupants of this house, including the retainers, with respect. These had to be men of a different sort.

He leaned forward with his right arm because he didn’t trust it to hold on to the tree. “Help me.”

She took his hand and pulled. Then gasped. “There’s blood on your arm!”

“I know.” He clutched the window ledge. Clenching his teeth against the pain, he took his hand from the tree while keeping his feet braced on the branch. Then he hauled himself up over the ledge and into the room.

He sank down to the floor. His breath came in deep pants as he closed his eyes in sheer agony.

“I hear them in the corridor,” she whispered.

Ethan opened his eyes. There’d be time to nurse his pains later. God, he hoped there’d be time.

He pushed himself up with his left hand. He touched her shoulder, and she turned her head back to look at him. The coals burning low in the grate cast a faint glow over her frightened features, made her eyes glimmer like aquamarines. Ethan put his finger to his lips, then crept past her toward the door.

Pausing with his ear against the wood, he listened intently. Low voices. Footsteps. Two men. One large, one not as large. Something shattered, like glass or pottery. A man swore.

“Watch yerself,” a voice hissed. “Which room do ye s’pose is ’ers?”

They were here for her. Why?

Sweet Christ. This was an entanglement he didn’t need right now.

Miss Cheswick thrust a pistol into his hand.

He stared at her. Especially when he realized she was holding one too. “Where in the hell . . .” he mouthed, then shook his head. It didn’t matter where she’d gotten them. “Do you know how to use that?”

She nodded.

It seemed the fairer sex was bent on saving his arse tonight.

“What the devil’s going on here?” came a loud booming voice. Not one of the invaders.

Ethan pressed against the door as she crashed into his back, presumably in an effort to get around him.

“Grandfather!”

There went their advantage. She reached around him and wrenched open the door. The sound of a body hitting the floor greeted them as they rushed into the corridor. Light from a sconce illuminated two burly thugs standing over an elderly gentleman in his nightclothes.

“Grandfather!” Miss Cheswick tried to rush forward. Ethan moved in front of her to block her progress.

But it didn’t matter. It turned out she could shoot a man just fine right where she was.

Audrey gaped at the fallen man for a brief moment before recalling the reason she’d shot the bounder in the first place: her grandfather. Her intent to rush forward was blocked by Mr. Locke tackling her to the floor. They landed in a tangle of limbs, his face a mere inch from hers. Then he rotated his body so that he was on top of her. The sound of a bullet lodging in the wall behind them eradicated any outrage she might’ve felt.

But then she didn’t actually feel any outrage. At least not toward Mr. Locke.

His gaze met hers, and his mouth was pressed into a grim line. Before she could ask if he was all right, he leapt up and launched himself toward the man who was still standing.

Audrey crawled over to her grandfather. His face was ashen, his eyes closed. Audrey clasped his hand—warm and alive. She exhaled and shot a glance at the second criminal, who was lying next to her grandfather.

The criminal’s eyelid crept up, revealing a bloodshot eyeball. His lip curled. Audrey screamed.

Mr. Locke spun toward her. He looked at Audrey, his features tight.

“He’s conscious!” She inclined her head toward the ruffian, who was now trying to right himself on the other side of her grandfather.

In a quick, superbly fluid move, Mr. Locke pivoted. His hand shot out and wrapped around the wrist of the criminal who was still on his feet. Mr. Locke shook the man’s hand, apparently trying to wrest the knife from the other man’s grip.

Wait, what had happened to the gun she’d given Mr. Locke?

Audrey glanced around frantically, finally seeing the weapon lying near the open door to her bedroom. Though loath to leave her grandfather’s side, she crawled over to it and grasped it firmly.

Mr. Locke was still fighting the other criminal. Meanwhile the one on the floor was trying to get up. Blood was visible on the shirt beneath his coat, spreading out from a wound on his right upper chest.

The knife clattered to the floor, and Locke’s opponent punched him squarely in the arm where he was wounded. Mr. Locke groaned, his knees bent, and for a quick, frightening second, she thought he was going to fall down. He staggered backward and managed to keep his footing.

Audrey didn’t hesitate. She leapt to her feet and stepped toward them, around her grandfather. “Stop!” She leveled the pistol at the criminal who was stalking Mr. Locke. “I’ll shoot you like I did your friend. Or, you can leave.”

“Letting them leave isn’t wise,” Mr. Locke said, sounding breathless.

Audrey’s toe came into contact with the knife the men had been fighting over. She kicked it toward Mr. Locke. Then she scooted toward him and addressed the criminal once more. “Help your friend up and get out.”

Mr. Locke swiped up the knife with his uninjured arm. “Miss Cheswick, shoot him. Please.”

Audrey hadn’t thought before firing earlier, but now that reason had returned, she couldn’t bring herself to do it again, not if there was a chance she could avoid it. Still, she kept her gaze fixed on the intruders. “I’d rather they just leave.”

“For Christ’s sake, they’re here to—” Mr. Locke stopped short. “Why are you here?” He asked the standing criminal, a stocky fellow with a grizzled face.

The man’s small, pale eyes, one of which was beginning to swell—a likely product of his quarrel with Mr. Locke—squinted. “I think ye know, Jagger.”

Audrey frowned. Who was Jagger?

Mr. Locke sidled toward her until their arms were nearly touching. “I didn’t think this was a simple robbery gone awry. You tell Gin Jimmy I’m a step ahead of him and I always will be.”

And who was Gin Jimmy? Audrey forced herself to focus on the moment, to keep her pistol trained on the criminal.

The criminal on the floor groaned and reached for his cohort. “Help me.”

“Shoot him!” Mr. Locke’s elbow grazed her arm.

“No!” The standing criminal held up his hand. “We’ll go.” He grabbed the other’s collar and pulled him up.

The wounded man wobbled to his feet. “We can’t jes’ go, Jimmy wants ’er.”

Mr. Locke’s hand covered hers and before she knew it had snatched the pistol from her. He aimed and fired, but his movement had given the men enough time to throw themselves out of the way. Rather, for the one criminal to throw himself to the floor and pull the other one back down with him.

“Go! Go!” The stocky ruffian shoved his cohort toward the stairs.

Mr. Locke moved toward them, his knife raised.

Audrey grabbed his arm and pulled. “What are you doing?” she whispered. “Let them go. We need to help my grandfather.” She glanced at his bleeding arm. “And you.”

He tugged his arm free of her grasp. “I can’t let them escape. You heard what he said about you.”

She lunged toward him and wrapped her hand around his arm again. This time she thrust her body forward into his path too. “Just what do you plan to do, kill them?”

Mr. Locke blinked at her, his long, inky lashes very briefly shuttering the gray of his eyes. He sealed his lips together, but she couldn’t tell if it was due to his wound. He had to be in an enormous amount of pain after the way he’d just exerted himself.

The criminals scrambled down the corridor, their awkward movements making a clamor. Mr. Locke tried to push past her, but she held her ground. “Let them go, please.”

He muttered something that sounded like a curse. He stopped trying to move past her, his body slumping.

She tightened her hold on him. “You need to sit down. Go on back to my room.” She took a step and tried to guide him.

He straightened slightly. “I’m fine.”

As he staggered toward her bedchamber, Audrey rushed to her grandfather, who was still unconscious on the floor. She kneeled and touched his neck. He was warm, his pulse strong. The opening and closing of drawers sounded from her bedchamber.

She stood and hurried inside to find Mr. Locke going through her dresser. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for bandages and liquor.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t keep those things in my bedchamber.”

He looked sideways at her. “Why not? You kept a pair of pistols in here.”

Heat crept up her neck. “You need to sit.” She hurried toward him and perched him on the edge of her bed. The entire situation was beyond scandalous, but Audrey didn’t let such nonsense bother her. She went into the small dressing chamber adjoining her room and came back with a length of toweling, which she used to dab at his wound.

She couldn’t see the actual wound beneath the layers of his coat and shirt. He was going to need to take his clothing off. The heat that had crept up to her face a moment ago now snaked its way much, much lower. She gently shook her head to eradicate such trifle. “How did you learn to fight like that? You don’t belong to Lord Sevrin’s fighting club, do you?”

Mr. Locke gaped at her. “How do you know about that? First pistols—and you’re a damn fine shot—and now this. Are you trying to shock me tonight?” He gasped, which she took to mean that her ministrations had probed a particularly painful spot.

She flashed him a weak, regretful smile. “Sorry. Here, press this on your arm while I go find supplies.” She turned to go, a dozen tasks running through her mind, but he clasped her elbow with his good hand.

His gaze was blisteringly intense. “Find something here. I need to leave.”

She frowned at him; his face had gone a bit ashen. “That’s absurd. You need care and rest. Furthermore, I need to see what happened to our butler and other staff, check on my grandfather, and send someone to fetch Bow Street—” She stopped talking because he got up from the bed and made his way, somewhat erratically, toward the window.

A groan from the hallway drew their attention. Audrey rushed to the door and could hear Mr. Locke following. She hastened to her grandfather’s side as his eyes fluttered open.

“Audrey, dear?” His voice was rough.

“Grandfather, are you all right?”

“My head.” He groaned, and his eyes closed for a long moment.

Audrey wiped a hand over his brow. “Grandfather?”

His eyes opened again. “I’m here, gel, I’m here.” His brown gaze fixed on her and then moved past her. “Who the devil is that? The brigand who hit me?”

Audrey looked back at Mr. Locke who stood at the threshold to her bedroom. His features were drawn tight—presumably with pain.

“Is that a pistol?” Grandfather drew Audrey’s attention once more. “Did you shoot him, dear?”

The sound of running footsteps prompted Audrey to turn her head. Her maid, Thorpe, rushed down the corridor. “Your lordship!” She dropped to her knees beside Audrey. “I’m so sorry, Miss. I heard the men come into the house and I hid in the linen cupboard. I came up here as soon as I heard them leave!”

“Please, help Grandfather.” Audrey glanced back at the doorway to her room. Mr. Locke was no longer there, and the unmistakable sounds of him trying to do something foolish, like climb back out of her window, drifted from her chamber. “I’ll be right back.” She leapt up and dashed into her bedroom. Sure enough, Mr. Locke had one foot thrust out the window. She rushed to him. “What are you doing?”

“Leaving.” He grimaced as he grasped the tree branch with his right hand and angled his body out of the window.

“Why? Wait, who’s Jagger? Was that criminal referring to you?”

He pulled his other leg outside. “Yes. I’m Jagger, but don’t ask me anything else. I won’t put you in danger. Aw, fuck.” His shoulders slumped for a brief second. “You’re already in danger. Goddamn that Gin Jimmy.”

She’d heard plenty of coarse language before, but it never failed to make her blush. “Who’s Gin Jimmy?”

“I told you not to ask me anything else.” He gave his head a fierce shake. “Never mind, you have to come with me. It’s not safe for you to stay here.”

“Why not?”

“You heard what they said. They were here for you. And they’ll try again.” He glanced down at her robe. “Throw something on.”

She was actually already dressed beneath her robe. She discarded the outer garment and dared to look at his reaction. He gaped at her pantaloons, open waistcoat, and shirt. She hurriedly pulled on her boots, which she’d stashed beneath her bed.

She hesitated a moment—she was worried about Grandfather. But he seemed fine, and Thorpe was with him. Still, Audrey ought to tell him she was leaving. And how would that go? Grandfather, I’m running off with Mr. Locke because some man called Gin Jimmy wants to take me. That sounded rather absurd. Perhaps she should leave a note . . .

“Audrey!”

She snapped her gaze up and saw the urgency in Mr. Locke’s eyes. No time for a note. Besides, she’d left a note last time and that had only ruined things.

He pierced her with a sharp stare. “You come with me now or you stay. I can’t protect you if you stay.”

He wanted to protect her? Something inside of her unfurled and spread warmth to every darkened corner of her soul. She went to the trunk in the corner and grabbed the hat, cravat, and coat she’d put away earlier.

When she reached the window, he’d already started climbing down the tree. He grunted with the movement and she realized she still didn’t have a bandage for him. She grabbed a second cravat and followed him out the window. Surely she had a minute to tell her grandfather she was leaving . . . But he’d try to stop her and she wanted to go. She needed to go. This adventure was exactly what she wanted, what she’d been looking for, and it would irrevocably change her life. A life she barely tolerated.

She heard a muffled sound and looked outside. Mr. Locke or Jagger or whatever his name was had fallen to the ground. He needed her. Grandfather had the staff—Audrey refused to think anything bad had happened to them—and Mr. Locke had no one at present.

Audrey thanked God for her above-average height as she reached for the tree and swung herself out the window. It was a challenging move, but she managed to get herself onto the branch, though she dropped her coat, hat, and the cravats. The white linen fluttered to the ground in a graceful series of swaying arcs.

“Throw that bag down!” he called up to her. “It’s in the tree.”

Audrey’s foot nudged a bag tucked into a small hollow between the branches. She picked it up, heard the jingle of coin, and dropped it next to him on the ground. Then she shimmied her way down the tree, grateful that she was, indeed, dressed like a man. The disguise would also help, but she’d forgotten the wig she usually wore over her dark brown curls.

By the time she reached the base of the tree, Mr. Locke had righted himself and had slung the bag over his uninjured shoulder. He was also armed with a truncheon, which he must’ve left outside before coming up. Why had he climbed to her room in the first place?

“Let’s go.” He took off across the garden, moving much more efficiently than he had in the last several minutes. Maybe the fall had done him good.

Audrey plucked up her coat and pulled it on. Then she shoved the hat on her head and stuffed the cravats into the pockets of the coat. She ran after him, stopping when she reached the stone wall separating her grandfather’s small rear garden from the alley that led to the Berkeley mews.

Mr. Locke turned and looked at her. The dull light of the half-moon offered just enough illumination for her to see his shadowed features. “Can you climb the wall unassisted? I’m not in much shape to help you.”

She nodded. “I’ll be fine. But can you do it? Tell me how I can help.”

The wall was six feet tall, but there were foot and handholds in the rock.

“I’ll go first,” he said. He handed her the bag and truncheon. “Hold these, and then toss them over when I get to the other side.”

“Please be careful.”

He hesitated briefly, his gaze inscrutable in the near darkness. Then he turned and climbed over the wall, far more easily than she would have imagined possible in his currently wounded state.

“Throw the bag and the truncheon!” he called.

She tossed the club first, heard it hit the ground. Then the bag, but it made a different sound, as if he’d caught it. She tried to find the same hand and footholds he had, but her efforts took longer. When she finally pulled herself up and over the top of the wall, she was breathing heavily. She swung her body down against the other side and tried to find a foothold, but a hand on her buttocks surprised her. She squealed and let go, falling to the ground feet first.

She spun about, ready to take Mr. Locke to task for touching her in such an intimate fashion, but bit the reprimand back. What did she expect? She was taking off on a midnight adventure with a man she barely knew. An adventure she’d tried and failed to execute two years ago.

Excitement thrummed through her along with a hundred questions. “Now what?”

“You follow me and keep quiet.” He turned, the bag slung over his shoulder once more, and rotated the truncheon in his grip.

“Wait.” She hurried up beside him. “Tell me where we’re going. Shouldn’t you go home and take care of yourself?”

“I can’t go home.” He started forward.

She kept pace with him. “Why not?”

He stopped short and faced her. “Let me clarify one thing straightaway. There will be no questions. Do you understand?” His tone was dark, clipped, almost . . . sinister. He didn’t sound anything like the charming man she’d taught to dance on two occasions.

A bead of fear slithered along her spine. He’d known those criminals—rather, they’d known him. Jagger. What the devil was going on? What sort of adventure had she just agreed to?

I can’t protect you if you stay.

Though this seemed a dangerous endeavor and every schooled and rational part of her screamed to return home, she couldn’t banish the desperate words he’d uttered. The implication—that she was vital, important—sparked something deep inside of her. He made her feel like she was someone worth taking a chance for. And no one had ever made her feel that way before.

She nodded once at him, steeling her will. He turned and continued on toward the mews. When they drew near, he moved her into the shadows cloaking the area surrounding the massive archway that led into the courtyard.

“What are we doing here?” she whispered without thinking. No questions. She pressed her lips together in silent self-reprimand. “Sorry. Forget I asked.”

He made a sound that reminded her of a muffled laugh. Before she could wonder what had provoked his sudden and surprising sense of humor, he said, “We’re going to steal a phaeton.”

TWO

Ethan knew he was shocking her, but couldn’t seem to stop himself. And why bother? They were on the run, both from Bow Street and Gin Jimmy’s gang. There would be plenty of shocks coming her way.

She pulled him against the corner of the archway. “You can’t steal a phaeton!”

He put his finger to her lips. “Keep your voice down. How do you suggest we get out of town without a vehicle?”

“We’re leaving London?” She shook her head. “Sorry, I have to ask questions. And don’t tell me I can’t. You’re not kidnapping me, after all; I came of my own accord.”

He hadn’t meant to growl at her about asking questions, but he’d needed to think. They had to leave town. His usual havens were out of the question—every single one was known by at least one person who would claim loyalty to Gin Jimmy. There was a slim chance they’d defer their loyalty to Ethan, but it was a chance he couldn’t take. Not with Audrey.

Christ, what was he doing with her?

Trying to save her life.

“Can you at least save your questions for later?” He pressed her back against the brick wall and peered around the corner into the courtyard. There’d be maybe five stable lads on hand at this hour, most of them sleeping. All of them, if they were lucky. Ethan, however, feared his luck had run out.

He exhaled as he pressed his head back against the cool brick. His aches were many—his arm, his legs from running, his head from the entirety of this ruined night. All of his careful planning to lure Gin Jimmy from the rookery so that Bow Street could arrest him had been for naught. The criminal overlord had gotten away and in the process had learned that his right-hand man—Ethan—had worked to bring him down. Shit, Ethan’s life wasn’t worth a farthing. Especially not in London where everyone, lawman and criminal alike, would be searching for him.

He brought his head back around and looked at Audrey. It was difficult to discern every nuance of her expression in this light. He spoke in low tones. “You must heed everything I say now. No questions, no behavior that will draw unwanted attention.” His gaze dipped over her manly costume. “You make a lousy gentleman, particularly with your hair sticking out like that.” He reached up and lightly tugged one of the curls drooping against her neck.

She pulled the hat down more firmly on her head and notched her chin up. “I neglected to grab my wig.”

He shook his head. He had plenty of questions of his own for later. “Keep your head down and lean on me. Can you play drunk?”

She hesitated, then nodded.

He doubted her. “Have you ever been drunk?”

“No. Unless you count having two glasses of sherry at Michaelmas.”

At any other time, he would’ve laughed. “Just stumble and make indeterminate noises now and again.”

“I can do that.”

He smiled at her, appreciating her pluck. He put his uninjured left arm around her and drew her against him. His right arm continued to ache, but he’d relegated the pain to the back of his mind.

She stiffened slightly as she came against him, then relaxed. In fact, she slumped against him and he had to prop her up.

“Perhaps you could merely try to look incapacitated instead of actually being incapacitated,” he whispered down at her. “I’m having a hard time supporting both of our weight in my wounded state.”

She immediately corrected her posture, pulling herself away from him, but still keeping close as if she were leaning on him. “Give me a pinch or something if I’m hurting you.”

Yes, Miss Audrey Cheswick was a most intrepid young woman.

He moved around the corner into the courtyard. A couple of lanterns glowed, offering just enough light for him to select their quarry, though he could probably do just as well in the dark. He’d come to these mews often as a lad and knew them nearly as well as the rookeries.

There were no stable lads about, but they wouldn’t be far off—either slumbering in an empty stall or gathered around a table drinking from a bottle of this or that.

He led her to the first alcove, but it held a coach. And the next one contained a brougham. He paused and leaned against the brick again. Hitching up horses was complicated with two good arms. How in the hell was he going to manage it with only one? He leaned down, tucking his head beneath her hat, and spoke softly against Audrey’s ear. “I don’t suppose you know how to hitch horses to a vehicle?”

She angled her head, trying to look at him, but he pressed her back against his shoulder. “Don’t,” he whispered. She needed to keep her head down to continue their ruse. Furthermore, turning to look at him would’ve brought her mouth dangerously close to his. It was bad enough his lips were against the delicate shell of her ear. Worse, his nose was full of her tantalizing scent—something floral, but with a bit of spice. She smelled clean, fresh, not like the women of his acquaintance who used fragrance to draw one’s attention away from their lesser attributes.

“Not very well,” she whispered in response to his question.

He could work with that. He pushed away from the wall, intent on finding a smaller vehicle. The sound of horses’ hooves and wheels over cobblestone drove him back against the wall. “Shhh,” he hissed as the carriage—or whatever it was—drew near to the courtyard.

A stable lad dashed into the center of the cobblestoned area to greet the vehicle, a jaunty two-seat cabriolet.

Perfect.

Ethan grinned against her ear. “No need. We’ll take that one.”

A tiger jumped out of the terribly fashionable cab, its two-person seat shielded from the elements by a dark blue cover. He exchanged words with the stable lad and then took off hastily across the courtyard back the way he came. Even better.

The stable boy led the horse and vehicle toward the opposite side of the courtyard. Ethan pulled his arm from around Audrey’s shoulder and drew a few coins from his bag. “Wait here.”

He set his bag and truncheon down beside her, then strode purposefully across the cobblestones to where the boy was leading the vehicle toward an empty stall. The boy would unhitch the horse, store the vehicle, and take care of the livestock. Or, he would if Ethan didn’t have other plans.

“‘Evening there,” Ethan said warmly. “That’s quite a piece.” He nodded at the cabriolet.

As expected, the boy regarded him suspiciously. He cocked his ginger head to the side. “Who’re you?”

As a lad, Ethan had offered to help the stable boys, give them a reprieve from their duties—free of charge. They’d tottered off to have an ale or play some cards upstairs, while Ethan had taken the vehicle out for a wild ride. Such a ruse wouldn’t work in this instance. Ethan couldn’t pass himself off as a poor young boy looking for a brush with finery. Instead, he said, “I’m a friend of his lordship’s,” and hoped the owner of the cabriolet was in fact a peer.

“What’re ye doing ’ere?” The boy’s question was laced with doubt. He kept his hand on the horse’s lead.

“He bade me meet him here for a midnight ride. It appears he forgot.”

The boy seemed to relax slightly. “Not surprised. ’E takes this thing out at all hours. Couple o’ times ’e’s been passed out inside when the tiger drops it off.” The boy laughed commiseratively.

Ethan smiled. “Sounds like him. I don’t suppose you’d mind if I took it out anyway?”

The boy’s brow furrowed and he scratched his head. “I don’t want no trouble.”

“It’ll be fine.” Ethan grabbed the boy’s hand, startling him, and dumped the coins into his palm. “It’ll be our secret. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

The boy stared at the coins. It was more than he’d make in a week. “Right ye are.” He released the horse, touched his forehead, and ambled across the courtyard to a dimly lit room in the back corner.

Ethan moved fast. He pulled the horse around and looked to see if Audrey had watched the exchange. She was already stepping out of the stall they’d been hiding in, carrying his bag and truncheon. Good girl.

When she got to the cabriolet, he helped her up into it and then climbed in, wincing, beside her. He hadn’t planned it, but was glad to be on her right so that she wouldn’t jostle against his wound. Plucking up the reins, he turned the horse and drove them out of the courtyard.

She looked sideways at him from beneath her too-large hat. “How did you manage that?”

He steered the cab toward Piccadilly, past Devonshire House. “Money.”

“You gave him some money and he just let you take this?” She sounded incredulous. How innocent and naïve she was. People would do just about anything for money, but he wouldn’t spoil her illusions. Not yet.

“I told him we were only going for a short ride.”

She pulled her coat more tightly around her. “You lied.”

“I did what I had to.” Lying was the least of his crimes. What would the guileless young lady beside him think if she knew the depths of his wickedness? He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead as he turned the corner onto Piccadilly. The traffic was more congested here, but not terrible. It would lighten up as they traveled west.

“Do you have a destination in mind yet or are you driving blindly? I should like to know where we’re going.”

“Questions, questions. I’m not precisely sure of where we’ll end up. We’re getting out of London before those men can find you again.”

She exhaled loudly, a sound of profound relief. “That’s undoubtedly for the best. I hope it won’t take terribly long to get there. Your wound needs attention.”

He looked sideways at her. The small lanterns hanging from the sides of the cover offered a faint glow that streamed over her pale face. She was looking forward, her hands wrapped about herself. “Are you cold?” he asked.

“A bit, yes.”

He reached down and pulled a flap up to cover her knees. “It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing.”

She settled it more firmly across her legs. “Thank you.” After a moment, she tried again. “Do you have a specific location in mind?”

Hell no, just out of London. He’d take them out the Knightsbridge Highway. There were plenty of inns where they could stop for the night. Two gentlemen on their way out of town. He glanced at her, wondering if she could even pass for such a thing. But apparently she already had—or had at least tried to. His curiosity was piqued.

They made their way past Hyde Park in silence. Ethan worked to keep himself upright. He felt weakened, exhausted. He blinked furiously and stiffened his spine.

“Mr. Locke,” Audrey’s voice rang out clear and startling after the length of quiet, “or should I call you Mr. Jagger?”

“I prefer Locke.” He actually preferred Lockwood, but he wasn’t quite there yet. His half-brother, Lord Jason Lockwood, might finally be willing to claim him as blood, but would he share his name?

“Is Jagger your real surname?” she asked softly. “Your mother’s name?” She knew what everyone knew—that he was a bastard, Lockwood’s bastard brother.

He didn’t want her to know that name, and not because of his illegitimacy. If she knew even a fraction of the things Jagger had done . . . she’d never look at him with kindness again. “Yes, but as I said, I prefer Locke.”

She was quiet a moment. The dark night enveloped them as they drew away from the park. “I have a lot of questions.” She turned her head to look at him. “Beginning with why you came to my window tonight.”

Best to stay with the truth, or at least a partial version of it. “To tend my wound. You were the closest person I knew.” And my money was stashed in your tree.

“And how did you sustain the wound?” She looked across him, her gaze fixed on the bloodied tear in his coat. “Did a knife do that?”

“You know your weapons,” he said wryly. “I have questions for you as well.” Deflection was an old and welcome tool. “How does a proper young lady like you know how to fire a pistol? And why do you keep two of them in your bedroom?”

She withdrew her hand from his arm and thrust it into the pocket of her coat. Then she snapped her gaze forward. “I grew up in the country with two much older brothers and too many male cousins.”

He noted she only answered one of his queries, and only barely. Just as he didn’t wish to be pressed, he would allow her the same courtesy.

Silence descended once more, for a good ten minutes. Finally, she breached the void. “Are you in some sort of trouble?”

A fair conclusion for anyone with average intelligence, and he knew Audrey Cheswick well enough to know she possessed quite a bit more than that. “Perhaps.” Time for more deflection. He reached his arm around her and pulled her against his side to pool their warmth. “We’ll be there soon.” Ethan would stop at the first inn he felt was far enough away from town.

“It’s just . . .” Her voice was laced with something cold and brittle, a sadness tinged with disbelief. “I’ve never shot anyone before. I hope he’ll be all right.”

Ethan swallowed a laugh. She wouldn’t find any humor in the situation, while he couldn’t help but be amused by her concern for a criminal. “You shot him near the shoulder. He might have trouble with his arm for a while, but if he takes care of it, he’ll be fine.” Back on the street enforcing Gin Jimmy’s will within the week, probably.

“You think so?” Her frame relaxed against his. “I’m pleased to hear it. I would hate to think I killed a man.”

“You do realize he knocked your grandfather unconscious? And was going to kidnap you to God-knows-what fate.” Ethan knew what fate, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to outline it for her.

She stiffened. “You’re right. I refuse to feel badly for him. Maybe he won’t be able to use his arm well again. That would serve him right.”

Ethan smiled into the darkness. “What a little cutthroat you are.”

Just then, a man on horseback moved into the road, forcing Ethan to slow. The lights from the cabriolet illuminated the cocked pistol in his hand and the nasty leer on his face. “Stand and deliver, mate.”

Ethan clenched the reins. Fucking highwaymen. Ethan considered running the man down, but the cabriolet wasn’t a particularly heavy vehicle. The sound of a pistol cocking to his right made the final decision. A second brigand had ridden up beside them and was close enough that his shot wouldn’t miss.

Audrey inhaled sharply and grabbed Ethan’s elbow with both hands as if she were holding on for her life. His mind scrambled to think of how to defend her. He had the knife he’d taken from the criminal at Audrey’s tucked into his boot, but he missed his familiar blade and wished he hadn’t had to leave it behind in the alley. He shook his head to refocus, a problem he’d never encountered before tonight. But then he’d never had to protect a young lady before.

He also had the truncheon, which was tucked beneath his coat beside him on the seat.

“Follow what I do,” he whispered urgently toward Audrey. He held up his left hand, which dislodged her grip, as well as her hat as his fingers grazed the brim. “We don’t have anything for you.” Not true, but there was no way he’d relinquish his bag of money, which sat on the floor of the cabriolet between their feet.

“We’ll jes’ see ’bout that,” the highwayman to his right said.

The other one steered his horse toward them and came around to Audrey’s side. Her hat had fallen to her lap, revealing her hair and face and leaving no doubt as to her sex. Ethan didn’t like the way the man leered at her.

Ethan’s pulse thrummed hard and fast in his veins. He wished she had a pistol to fire. The highwaymen wouldn’t stand a chance.

The highwayman next to Ethan spoke again. “Pull the flap back. Slow or my friend,” he nodded toward the other highwayman, “will jes’ as soon kill yer bird.”

Ethan’s blood started to boil. He steeled himself and hoped Audrey could handle what he had to do.

He eased the cover back, exposing their legs by degrees. Audrey’s tension and fear seeped into him like cold and damp on a harsh winter night. As he pushed the flap down toward their ankles, he slipped the knife from his boot and thrust it up beneath the cuff of his coat. The steel was icy against his wrist, the hilt a welcome weight against his palm.

“Wot’s ’at?” the man near Audrey asked. “Looks like a bag. Toss it ’ere then.”

“I don’t have the strength,” Ethan said, infusing his tone with pain and weakness. He held up his right arm so the highwayman on his side could see the bloodied tear in his coat. “I’m hurt. You’ll have to come get it.”

“She can toss it.”

“Faint!” Ethan muttered, barely moving his lips.

A beat passed and then she let out a shriek before collapsing against him, her eyelids dropping.

“Fer Christ’s sake. Jes’ get it, Tim!” the brigand on Ethan’s side called.

The highwayman slid from his horse and stepped onto the side of the cab. “We should take the gig. Never seen one this fancy.” He leaned down to pick up the bag, and Ethan made his move.

He reared up and slashed at the man’s neck with the knife. Blood spurted across Audrey’s pantaloons and the man slumped upon her feet. Her eyes flew open and she screamed.

Ethan shoved her down, her head coming within inches of the bleeding highwayman at her feet, just as his partner’s pistol discharged behind Ethan. The bullet grazed his right shoulder. With a cry, he turned and launched himself from the cab. His body connected with the highwayman, knocking him from the horse. They landed in a heap on the opposite side of the animal, near the ditch beside the road. The beast whinnied and skipped away.

Ethan gripped the knife and rolled onto his knees. The brigand was also trying to come up from his back, but Ethan was a bit faster. He lurched over the highwayman and aimed the knife for his jugular, but the man brought up his hand, earning a nasty gash across his forearm.

Another scream from the cabriolet drew Ethan’s attention, allowing the highwayman to roll away. Dammit, if he wasn’t distracted, the thief would be dead by now.

Ethan reared up and reached for the man, but he was already on his feet. He took off running. As Ethan made to go after him, he glanced back at the cab to check on Audrey and saw a slight figure—a boy who was maybe working with the highwaymen or maybe not—jumping down with Ethan’s bag in his hands. The boy spared Ethan the slightest of glances and took off running. With his money.

Cursing, Ethan ran after him, but with his twice-wounded arm and the bruises he’d just sustained from attacking the highwayman, he was too slow. The boy was already disappearing into the dark night. Uttering another, much louder, curse Ethan stalked back toward the cab. Christ, Audrey! She’d screamed a second time. Had the boy hurt her? Why had Ethan been more concerned with the money than with her?

Shame washed through him as he found the strength to run back to the cabriolet.

She stumbled onto the road as he arrived, his breath coming hard and fast. Her eyes were huge in the lamplight, her face nearly white. “He’s . . . he’s . . . he’s dead.” She clapped her hand over her mouth and rushed to the side of the road.

She bent over, but Ethan couldn’t be certain if she was sick. Torn between going to her and disposing of the body in the cabriolet, he decided he’d better do the latter before attempting the former.

He moved slowly to the other side of the cab, stopping briefly to reassure the horse, who’d been astonishingly calm throughout the encounter. Ethan’s experience with the animals wasn’t extensive, but he knew a horse attached to a vehicle of this caliber would be a well-trained beast. Thank God for that.

The highwayman was sprawled on the floor, his feet dangling over the edge of the cab. He was on his side, a pool of blood beneath his head. His eyes gazed sightlessly at the night sky. Ethan felt no remorse. In his life, the tenet of “kill or be killed” was more than an idea; it was reality.

He pulled the lifeless body out of the cab. His muscles screamed in agony at the exertion required to wrestle the large man to the ground. Then Ethan dragged the highwayman to the side of the road and pushed him over into the ditch.

When he turned around, Audrey was standing near the coach. “Why did you kill him?”

“He would’ve killed us.”

“Would he have? Maybe if you’d given him the bag, they would’ve gone about their way and left us alone.”

Ethan shook his head. “No, they wouldn’t have. At best, they would’ve taken the money and you. I saw the way they both looked at you.” With lust and violence gleaming in their eyes.

She brought her hands to her mouth and clenched her eyes shut.

Though agony poured through him, Ethan forced himself toward her. “Miss Cheswick. Audrey.” He had no experience in soothing a distraught young woman. “He was a very bad man. A criminal.” Like Ethan. He took her hands away from her face. “Look at me.”

She opened her eyes slowly, revealing wariness in their depths. She averted her gaze from him and spoke softly, but firmly, “I want to go home.”

He couldn’t take her home. And if she went home, she’d be a sitting target for Gin Jimmy. He opted for deflection again. “Just stand here and look at the stars. Do you see Aquila, the eagle?”

She tilted her head back. After a long moment, she exhaled. “Yes.”

“Good. Tell me what else you see.”

He hurried back to the ditch where he pulled the highwayman’s coat from his body. He glanced back at Audrey and saw that she was watching him. He pointed to the sky. “What else?”

She snapped her head back up. “I see Cygnus, the swan, and Delphinus, the dolphin.”

“Excellent. Cygnus is one of my favorites.” He rushed back to the cabriolet with the coat, one sleeve of which was already rather bloody. He used the rest to wipe up as much of the blood on the floor of the cab as he could.

She was quiet as he moved past her to dispose of the ruined coat, which he tossed atop the corpse. When he turned back toward her and the cab, he was suddenly and thoroughly spent. His vision blurred. His knees shook. He barely kept a grip on consciousness.

He must’ve swayed, because the next thing he focused on was her coming toward him.

“Are you all right?” she asked. She clasped his good arm and only just stopped from grabbing the bad one.

No, but he didn’t say that. Nausea swirled in his gut. Tossing up his own accounts didn’t seem like such a bad notion all of a sudden.

“We need to get off the road.” She pulled him toward the cab and helped him climb up.

“I’m supposed to be helping you,” he muttered.

“It’s a bit late to act the gentleman, isn’t it?”

Nothing she said could’ve stung more. He’d tried very hard to be a gentleman. It was all he bloody wanted. But it was impossible when trouble was intent on finding him. If tonight’s plan had been successful, he’d be at Lockwood House toasting the arrest of one of London’s worst criminals and he’d be free of his old life.

Instead, he was fleeing London with two holes in his arm and was subjecting a perfectly lovely young woman to atrocities she should never experience. Yes, it was altogether too late to be a gentleman.

He landed in the seat with a loud exhalation.

She climbed up and sat beside him, casting a look of distaste toward the floor. She didn’t, however, break down, once more affirming his estimation of her intrepid spirit. “How’s your arm? Should I drive?”

Ethan cradled his injured arm and winced. “Do you know how?”

“I used to drive our gig in the country. It had two horses, so this has to be simpler, doesn’t it?” She picked up the reins.

Ethan wanted to argue, but he was too overcome with pain and exhaustion. He just wanted to close his eyes.

The last thing he heard was another shriek.

Audrey barely kept Mr. Locke from toppling from the cabriolet. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him toward her, trying to be careful of his arm, but in the end, she feared she’d caused him more pain.

But now he was slumped toward her. She peered at his face in the lamplight. Dark circles, accentuated by the pallor of his skin, had formed beneath his eyes. Eyes that were closed.

“Mr. Locke?” She shook him gently. “Mr. Locke?”

He was utterly unresponsive.

She let him go, careful to angle him against her, and leaned back against the seat. Panic seared through her. Where was she to go? She couldn’t stay here. One of the highwaymen had run off. He might decide to return with reinforcements.

Get a hold of yourself, Audrey. You are not a simpering featherwit.

She turned sideways and shook him again, this time more firmly. “Mr. Locke. Wake. Up.” In the absence of smelling salts, she did the only other thing she could think of: She slapped his cheek.

His eyes shot open. “Ow.”

“Sorry, but I had to wake you.” She smoothed her hand against his stubbled cheek. The dark growth of his beard was visible. She ought to find his appearance shocking; instead she was oddly intrigued by the scratch of the hair beneath her fingers.

“No, my arm.” He groaned again and cradled his wounded arm with his good one.

“You may return to your unconscious state as soon as you tell me your plan. Where am I to drive?”

His head rolled back against the seat and he closed his eyes. His pale throat was elongated above the twisted knot of his cravat. He looked a gentleman, despite his unshaven state, but he’d done things tonight she doubted most gentlemen could—or would—do. “An inn,” he said weakly. He tried to sit up, but barely moved. His breath came in sharp gusts, like he’d run a great distance.

He pierced her with his intense gray stare, eyes she’d looked into before as she’d taught him to waltz. She’d wondered why he hadn’t learned before, but had been too shy to ask. It would join the list of questions she’d formed tonight.

“Be careful. Not all of the inns are . . .” His head lolled back against the seat and his eyes shuttered once more.

“Not all of the inns are what?” She willed him to open his eyes again, to answer her, but he didn’t stir. His chest rose and fell with his breath, rapidly at first, and then slowing to a sleeping rhythm.

She repositioned herself on the seat and picked up the reins again. It took a few tries, but she managed to get the horse moving. The road was dark as pitch and rather uneven. She was glad Mr. Locke was unconscious because the constant bump and jostle would’ve caused him no small amount of pain.

Her mind traveled over the course of the night. She’d started it with scandalous behavior—a quick glance down at her gentleman’s costume affirmed that—and she was ending it in much the same manner. If anyone knew that she was alone with Mr. Ethan Locke, she’d be completely ruined.

As if it mattered. What sort of marriage prospects did she have? None. Her parents would be horrified; she’d scandalized them before, but that would be the extent of things. Oh, she supposed she wouldn’t go to any more balls or parties, but what was the point of them anyway? She propped up the wall and visited with her small circle of friends, things she could do anywhere, anytime.

Should she turn back to London? No, she wanted to find shelter as soon as possible, and there was nothing behind her for a few miles. However, returning home meant she could preserve her reputation. Her stomach roiled, not with the same gut-wrenching sickness the dead highwayman had provoked, but with a gripping tension that accompanied thoughts of the life that awaited her in London. The life she’d tried so hard to appreciate and succeed at, and she’d failed miserably on both counts.

Yet when she thought of the last hour, her body thrummed with exhilaration—dead highwayman notwithstanding. She flinched. What sort of person did that make her? She’d shot a man, committed larceny, and witnessed a murder. No, surely it wasn’t murder since Mr. Locke had been defending her.

And what sort of person was Mr. Locke? He’d fought off the intruders at her house, orchestrated the theft of the cabriolet, and saved her from the highwayman. She couldn’t fault him for any of those things, only the manner in which he’d done them. And yet, she was invigorated by him.

The cabriolet moved forward. Away from London. Away from the life she didn’t really want. A sense of rightness settled over her. Whatever happened now, things would be different. She relaxed into the seat and smiled softly. The one thing she would do upon arriving at the inn would be to draft a short note to Grandfather, assuring him of her well-being. She didn’t want him to worry, but neither did she want to give details about where she was or why.

The sound of hooves clopping in the dirt drew her to sit up straight and search the darkness. She prayed to God it wasn’t another highwayman. Where on earth was an inn? She needed to get off this blessed road!

The horseman came into view. And rode straight into the center of the road, just as the highwayman had done.

THREE

Light blistered the backs of Ethan’s eyes. He turned his head to try to evade the intrusive glare and promptly groaned at the shard of pain that sliced through his temple. Tentatively, he opened his eyes. He stared at the ceiling over his head, registered that he was in a bed, and that his arm was on fire.

Memories of the previous night rushed over him. Audrey.

He pushed himself up, wincing with the pain the movement wrought. A thorough scan of the room revealed it to be empty. It was narrow, with two slender windows on either side of his bed. A small table and a rough-hewn chair sat before the hearth, which held a smoldering fire. Though sparse, the space appeared clean and well-kept. And completely foreign.

Where was he? Was Audrey near? God, he hoped nothing had happened to her. He didn’t remember a thing after dragging the body of the highwayman from the cab.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He still wore his breeches, but the rest of him was quite bare, save the bandages covering his right bicep and shoulder. Who had tended his wounds? More importantly, who had removed his clothing?

The door opened and Audrey stepped over the threshold. She carried several garments folded over her arm. Her gaze connected with his and she smiled. “Good morning!” she said cheerily, as if she hadn’t seen things last night that no proper young lady should.

And she looked like a proper young lady this morning—gone was her gentleman’s garb. A simple gray frock hung a bit loosely from her frame, and it was too short for her taller than average height. Her hair was pulled up haphazardly. Errant curls tumbled here and there. She looked fresh and lovely, not at all like she’d been to hell and back the night before.

She set the clothing on the chair next to the table and bustled toward him. “You shouldn’t be up.”

“Where are we?” he croaked, as if he’d spent the night drinking too much gin in a flash house.

She waved at his feet, directing him to put them back on the bed. However, she kept her gaze fixed on his face. “An inn. Don’t you remember?”

He complied and brought his legs back up, though he kept them atop the coverlet. “Should I?”

Her brows gathered in an adorably perplexed expression. “You seemed at least semiconscious, but perhaps you weren’t.” She fluffed up the pillow. “You should lie down.”

“May I have something to drink first?” He had no intention of lying down.

“Certainly, I should have thought of that straightaway.” She went to the table, where there was a pitcher and a cup. She returned to him with water, which he drank greedily.

He handed her the empty cup. “Thank you.”

She kept her gaze focused on his face. He recognized that his lack of attire was completely scandalous to someone like Audrey. The gentleman he was trying to be urged him to put on a shirt, but the wounded animal he currently felt like didn’t give a damn.

“What happened last night? I’m assuming I lost consciousness. How did you get us here?” Shit, they didn’t have any money since that boy had stolen his bag from the cab. How was she paying for this?

She turned and went to the chair. When she came back, she handed him a shirt. “Maybe you could put this on?” Her gaze dipped to his bare chest and dainty little roses bloomed in her cheeks.

Ethan leaned back against the wall behind the bed. A jolt of satisfaction shot through him. Audrey was a beautiful woman, intelligent, and able to handle herself. In any other circumstance he’d tumble her into the bed. Just then a stabbing pain in his arm reminded him that tumbling of any kind might be a few days off.

He took the proffered shirt. “I’m not sure I can raise my arm up to get this on. At least not without help.”

Her blush deepened. “I can help you.”

He sat forward from the wall and drew the shirt over his head. Thrusting his left arm into the sleeve was no problem. He looked at her and she helped lift his right arm and slide it into the shirtsleeve.

“I don’t suppose you helped me out of my clothes last night?”

She pulled the shirt down his back and stepped quickly away from the bed. Her maidenly sensibilities were charming. “Yes, with the innkeeper’s wife’s assistance. We had to burn the clothes, however.”

“Yet, you found new ones, as well as lodgings, and treated my wounds—”

She cut him off. “Yes, wounds. Why didn’t you tell me you’d been shot?”

“If you recall, we didn’t exactly have time for idle conversation. I was terribly distracted by those foul highwaymen—and that lad who stole my money.” He peered at her intently. “I’m afraid to ask how you’re paying for this room and my care.”

Her eyes widened and he belatedly realized his comment could have been taken in a rather perverse way. He added, “I didn’t mean to suggest you’re doing anything untoward. You are, I’m certain, above reproach.”

She glanced away. “Clearly not, since I fled London with you.” When she returned her gaze to his, she revealed a quiet dignity in the depths of her blue-green gaze and he knew in that moment that he was right—she was above reproach. And not just by Society’s standards. She was a good and honest person at heart. The type of person who should run screaming from the likes of him.

“I had money in a purse sewn inside my pants,” she said.

His mouth sagged open for a moment before he snapped it closed. “Your pants. Why the devil were you even wearing pants? And why did you have money sewn into them? Thank God you did.”

“Yes, thank goodness I did, though I suspect the Bow Street Runner would’ve paid for our lodgings.”

Ethan’s blood ran cold. His legs itched to run. He mentally calculated how quickly he could finish dressing and get out of the inn. Except he didn’t know the layout, which put him at a very distinct disadvantage. Any criminal worth his salt knew every way to escape a building before he entered it. “What Bow Street Runner?”

“The one who was thankfully patrolling the highway last night. I encountered him after you fell asleep, and he guided us to this inn.”

And not directly to Bow Street? Ethan relaxed, but only slightly. “What did you tell him?”

She blinked at him, appearing a little uncertain, perhaps because he’d asked that question in a rather ferocious tone. “I said we were attacked by highwaymen.”

He modulated his question this time. “What did you tell him about us?”

“Oh!” She flashed a beguiling smile that did odd things to his belly. He found her quite attractive, but it was more than that. He didn’t like it. “I told him my name was Mary St. Clyde and that you were my brother, Algernon.”

“Algernon?”

She lifted a shoulder. “To be fair, I only called you Al.”

“What a god-awful name.” That she’d taken the time to come up with aliases and even a nickname for him only proved her cunning and courage. He looked away from her. “Smart girl.” Dangerous girl. “Why’d you lie?”

“I thought it best to protect my identity for now. My reputation will likely be ruined, but then I have no intention of returning to my life in London, so it really doesn’t matter.” She squared her shoulders as if in response to some silent conversation going on inside of her. He wanted to ask what she intended to do, but she continued before he could open his mouth.

“The Runner was kind enough to lead us to this inn, which he knew to be reputable. You’d cautioned me about the inns, but I’m afraid you slipped from consciousness before explaining. The Runner said some of the establishments along the highway are in league with the highwaymen, is that what you meant?”

“Yes.” And with Gin Jimmy. “Where are we exactly?”

“Hounslow.”

Jimmy’s reach extended at least this far, which meant they needed to get back on the road. And go where? His experience with the country was limited to a few summer visits to his father’s estate in northern Oxfordshire. But they couldn’t go there, his brother’s mother lived there and she was ill. Plus, she despised Ethan like fire hates water.

He looked back to Audrey who was watching him expectantly. “Where’s the Runner now?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “He guided us here and was going to go back to take care of the dead highwayman.” She cringed and looked at the floor. “Sorry, I had to tell him what happened, that you’d killed him defending me. I know he was a terrible criminal, but he at least deserves to be buried.”

Is that all she thought a terrible criminal deserved? If she knew how terrible he’d been . . .

“You look worried.” She took a step toward the bed. “He’s coming back to talk to you. Do you think we should tell him the truth?” Her shoulders slumped. “I suppose we should.”

“No.” He spoke without thinking, but there was no other answer. The truth would reveal his true identity—that of a notorious criminal—not only to her but to Bow Street, which was already looking for him in order to charge him with the murder of the Marquess of Wolverton and for organizing the death of Lady Aldridge. Ironically, they were two crimes he hadn’t actually committed. No one would believe that, however. No one save his brother, who’d only just decided to trust him last night. That thought gave Ethan a very small amount of relief.

“You still haven’t told me why you needed to leave London. Or why you were climbing up the tree outside my window.”

And he didn’t plan on answering those questions now. “Assuming I’m identified as the man who was in your house last night, I think it’s fair to also assume Bow Street will think I’ve kidnapped you. For that reason alone, I should prefer to avoid not only Bow Street, but also the entirety of London.”

Her eyebrows—slender brown swathes that made her forehead impossibly elegant with the way they swept over her incredible eyes—slanted down. She shook her head once. Definitively. “That doesn’t address why you were climbing the tree outside my window.”

“Perhaps you’d care to tell me why you were wearing men’s clothing?” Her eyes widened and she shook her head again as definitively as before. “Then I guess we’re both going to keep a few secrets.”

She exhaled, then went over to the window. Her long fingers parted the curtains and she looked down. He remembered those fingers entwined with his when she’d taught him to waltz. He longed for those fingers—

She dropped the curtain and abruptly turned. “He’s back.”

Mr. Locke swore again. He swore an awful lot, more than any other gentleman of her acquaintance, but then she had to consider whether he was truly a gentleman. She wouldn’t really know unless he unveiled his secrets, and since she wasn’t willing to share hers, she couldn’t blame him for guarding his.

He climbed out of bed, grimacing in pain as he pushed himself to his feet.

She rushed to his side. “Let me help you.”

“We need to leave. Now.”

“Sit, I’ll get the rest of the clothing.” She hurried to the chair and grabbed what the innkeeper’s wife had found besides the shirt—a coat, a cravat, and fresh stockings. She handed him the latter and then realized he couldn’t put them on with his wounded arm. Taking them back, she kneeled before him and pulled the first one onto his left leg. She tried not to pay any attention to his bare calf. Or the fact that her bare fingers were touching that calf. Mostly, she tried not to pay attention to how much she enjoyed it.

When both of his stockings were on, she went to grab his boots, which were at the end of the bed. She set them before his feet and helped him draw them on.

“This is bloody awkward,” he breathed. He stood up from the bed and worked to tuck in the hem of his shirt. “Go and see if he’s still outside.”

She went to the window and looked back down into the courtyard. “There are two men on horses, but neither one of them is the Runner. There are also two empty horses being held by a groom.”

Another curse, this one quite colorful. “Help me with the coat.”

She dashed to assist him, again guiding his right arm into the sleeve. “The innkeeper’s wife didn’t have a waistcoat.” Belatedly, she realized she could’ve given him the waistcoat she’d been wearing, but after Audrey removing her purse from the pants, she’d traded the costume to the innkeeper’s wife for the garments she was now wearing. She’d also borrowed a needle and thread, and had stitched the small purse to the top of her stocking. On second thought, her waistcoat wouldn’t have fit his broad shoulders.

With his one good arm, he wrapped the cravat around his neck so that it hung loose. “Do you know where the back stairs are?”

“I don’t.”

He grasped her hand and pierced her with his devastating gray stare. “Tell me everything you know about this establishment. How many doors, how many floors, how many people might be about.”

She swallowed. He was looking at her so . . . expectantly. No, that wasn’t wholly accurate. There was an intensity about him, the same he’d displayed last night in every situation they’d encountered. Again, she wondered about his true nature.

She searched her brain for whatever details she could recall from their late arrival the previous night, or rather, quite early this morning. “There’s a door to the rear yard. But I don’t know another way downstairs besides the main staircase—we’re on the second floor.”

He’d gone to the window while she’d explained what she knew. “Is it a large inn? How many rooms?” He pulled back the curtain and swore violently. He spun about and marched toward her. “Time to go.” He snagged her elbow and propelled her toward the door.

She went along, her veins icing at the desperation in his tone. It wasn’t fear, but he was clearly anxious to leave. Which made her anxious.

He paused in the corridor. “Which way?”

“Right.”

Voices sounded from that direction—not close, but there nonetheless.

“Left, then.” He let go of her elbow and strode down the hallway. His boots made very little sound as he moved, and his gait reminded her of a cat stalking its prey—soft, but surefooted. “You didn’t answer me before. Is this a large inn?”

“I suppose. I think she said they had ten rooms of varying size?”

“They must have a servant staircase.” He stopped at a door and cracked it open. Then pulled it closed. He moved to the next one, on the opposite side of the hallway from the first, and did the same. Again, he closed the door and moved on. At the third door, he pushed it wider. She came up behind him and saw that it was a narrow staircase.

He glanced back at her. “Quietly,” he whispered, bringing his finger to his lips.

Light from a small window illuminated the stairs. He descended swiftly, but stealthily. She closed the door behind her and followed close on his heels, trying to keep her steps as light as his. They reached the door at the bottom. He pulled it open slowly until the barest gap separated the door’s edge and the frame. He peered through the slim space.

Audrey’s breath hitched, her ears strained to pick up the faintest sound, and sweat dotted the back of her neck.

He angled his head toward her. “Which way is the common room?”

She thought about the layout. “Left. Maybe thirty feet.”

He nodded slightly, then pulled the door wide. He grabbed her hand and turned right. He stopped at the first door on the right and turned to look at her. “How much money do you have?”

“A bit.”

“Give me a guinea.” He was asking for money at a time like this?

“A guinea? What for?”

“Just give me the bloody guinea.”

She withdrew her hand from his and lifted the skirt of her borrowed dress. Aware she was revealing far more of her leg than she’d ever allowed a gentleman to see, she quickly withdrew the coin from her purse and dropped her skirt. She deposited the guinea into his hand.

Wordlessly, he curled his fingers around it and opened the door. He tugged her into the chamber, a room slightly larger than the one he’d awakened in upstairs.

He glanced around the room. “There’s no one here.” Then he rushed toward the window and threw open the sash. “Come on. Quickly.”

She joined him near the window. “You were expecting someone? It’s nearly noon. I’m sure the traveler left long ago.”

“Damn, I didn’t realize it was that late. You should’ve said so.”

She didn’t care for his scolding tone. “Pardon me, but you didn’t ask.”

He gestured for her to precede him from the window. “Just climb out the window, so we can be on our way.”

Right. Escape. Or, she could stay here and return to London with the Bow Street Runners. She wanted to know why he was running, but the question died on her tongue when she looked into his eyes. The desperation and anxiety she heard in his voice was mirrored there.

He muttered something under his breath and clambered out of the window, albeit awkwardly since his arm wouldn’t quite cooperate. Lines of pain creased his face.

“Wait,” she said softly before following him. She wasn’t going to let him go off alone. Besides, she’d left London with him for a reason. This was the adventure she’d always wanted, the life-changing escapade that would satisfy her soul.

He lightly massaged his wounded bicep. “Where’s our cab?”

Technically speaking, it wasn’t their cab, but she didn’t think now was the right time to remind him of that. “It’s in the stables on the other side of the courtyard.” Another foul curse. She couldn’t help herself this time. “You do realize you’re in the presence of a lady?”

He peered at her askance. There was a subtle lift to his lips. “Who wears gentleman’s garments, stashes money about her person, and can fire a pistol better than most men. Despite all of that, yes, I realize.” He held out his hand. “Are you still with me?”

She slid her fingers through his. “Yes.”

“Then let’s go.” He led her from the back yard area to a low stone wall. It took little effort to vault the impediment, but he groaned with the effort nonetheless.

She hated that he was hurting. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

Once they were both on the other side of the wall, he took her hand again. “I can’t stay back there.”

“Dare I hope you’ll tell me why at some point?”

“Something tells me you’ll dare plenty.” The look he threw her was both dark and seductive. It heated the depths of her belly.

She looked away just as a shout came from behind them—from the inn. They both stopped and turned to look, but didn’t see anyone. There was more shouting, but she couldn’t make out what they were saying.

He let go of her hand. “We need to run.”

Without waiting for a response, he took off across the field. She worked to keep up with him, which was difficult in her dress. Why had she changed clothes? If she’d known they were going to be dashing about the countryside, she wouldn’t have. She let go of his hand so she could hike her skirt up and allow her legs more freedom with which to run. And she had to flat out sprint to keep up with him.

How was he moving so quickly? He’d been grievously injured the night before, and he hadn’t eaten anything today. By all accounts, he should be exhausted and feeble. Instead, he was running as if his life depended on it. Perhaps it did.

Audrey chanced a look back at the inn and saw a few figures in the rear yard. “I think they’re coming,” she huffed.

He didn’t turn his head, but increased his pace as he dodged to the left where there was a hedge. He ran along it, and she thought he was trying to find a way through so they could get on the other side in order to shield them from their pursuers.

At last there was a space where the foliage wasn’t as thick, but it wasn’t really large enough for an adult to fit through. He came to a stop and parted the branches. “Go on.”

She was breathing heavily, and pitched slightly forward due to the hitch in her side. Unlike him, she’d had a good-sized breakfast a couple of hours ago and she felt every bite of it like a rock in her stomach. “I can’t fit through there, how can you?”

“Go!” He spoke softly but urgently, and his eyes were the color of winter storm clouds.

She pushed her hands through to separate the branches and stuck one foot into the shrub. Then he shoved her and she fell on the other side of the hedge in an awkward heap. She clamped her jaw shut lest she voice the jolt of pain in the leg she’d landed on. He came through next, barely sidestepping her before taking off again.

She pushed herself up and regained her bearings. Dirt and mud clung to her dress, but she didn’t take the time to tidy herself. Mr. Locke was already running toward a building several hundred yards away. She picked up her skirts again, still breathing hard from the last sprint, and took off after him. Light raindrops fell against her bare head, and again she wished she’d retained her gentleman’s clothing, especially the hat.

It seemed to take a lifetime to finally reach the building, a dilapidated stable belonging to an equally dilapidated cottage situated beyond the stable. Mr. Locke was already inside grabbing implements to . . . saddle a horse? She looked around, but didn’t spy any animal at all, let alone a horse.

She glanced outside and saw four men running across the field. There was no door to shut and lock, it was just an open doorway. She stepped further into the interior, toward Mr. Locke. “They’ll be here in another minute.”

He didn’t respond, nor did he look at her. He exited the building through a doorway on the other side. Audrey followed him quickly, her boots kicking the straw and dirt beneath her feet.

The doorway led to a small enclosure, where a single horse grazed. Mr. Locke was already in the process of bridling the animal. Once he had the bit in the horse’s mouth, he threw a blanket over the beast’s back and finally turned to Audrey. “You can choose to stay. All I ask is that you lead them away from me.”

“And how shall I do that when I don’t know where you’re—we’re—going?” She considered staying, she would be a fool not to, but the pull of the adventure was too strong. Or perhaps, the pull of her old life was simply nonexistent. “No, I’m going with you.”

The unmistakable sound of their pursuers entering the stable prevented further conversation. Mr. Locke put his hands together and boosted her onto the horse, then she helped him clamber up behind her. He groaned, and she imagined the movement must have hurt him greatly.

“Can you take the reins?” he asked against her ear.

It would be difficult with no saddle to help her keep her seat, but his support helped. “Hold on to me.”

His arms wrapped around her middle and his chest pressed against her back. She clicked her tongue and dug her knee into the horse’s flanks just as the men came into the yard.

“Stop, Jagger!” There was that name again.

The gate to the enclosure wasn’t open. Audrey hadn’t jumped a horse in a long time. “Hold on tight!”

Mr. Locke’s arms squeezed her midsection as she vaulted over the fence. She felt him slide away from her as they arced over, but then he slammed against her as they hit the ground. She pressed her knee into the horse again and urged her faster. Shouts and curses sounded from behind them, but faded quickly. Exhilaration and joy swept through her as she left their pursuers behind.

Several minutes later, she allowed the horse to slow to a less frantic gallop.

“What are you doing?” Mr. Locke asked. His breath tickled her neck. “They’ll go back to the inn and get their horses and continue their pursuit. We need to put as much distance between us and them as possible.”

“We can’t run the horse that fast indefinitely, best to conserve her energy. Isn’t that right, sweet girl?” Audrey patted the horse’s neck.

Mr. Locke grunted in response.

“How’s your arm?” she asked, concerned that he’d reinjured himself with all of that exertion.

“Awful. But it’s better than the alternative. Where are you going?”

“I don’t know.” She glanced up at the gray sky, trying to discern the position of the sun and therefore the direction they were headed. The light rain had stopped, but it looked like a stronger downpour might be coming. “North, maybe? It’s going to rain again soon. We should find shelter.”

“We aren’t stopping. Change direction.”

She turned the horse west. She was quiet a few minutes, straining to hear if anyone was pursuing them. She knew Mr. Locke had turned his head several times trying to ascertain the same. “Is there anyone coming?” she finally asked.

“Not yet.”

She had no idea where they were going, besides vaguely west, maybe southwest actually. There was no sign of a road, but she figured he preferred to stay away from them anyway. “Are you going to tell me why you’re running from Bow Street?”

“It’s a long story. A misunderstanding.”

“That’s not terribly reassuring.” Had she fled London with a criminal? It was certainly beginning to seem like it. “You can trust me—haven’t I proven that?”

“I don’t trust anyone.”

It was a simple statement, and one that could be disregarded as the declaration of a man who was weary with fatigue and the effects of his wounds. However, his tone reflected a conviction she felt into her bones. “That sounds very lonely.”

“It is.” His grip around her waist loosened and he sat back from her, though it would’ve been impossible for them to not be touching in some way. His hips were still snug against her backside, and his chest was close enough to her back that she felt his heat.

She didn’t want him to feel lonely. “Well, you aren’t alone anymore, and I’ll tell you again that you can trust me. I hope you will. However are we going to get on if we can’t trust each other?”

“Get on? Just what do you think we’re doing?”

She had no idea, she just knew it was better than what she had been doing. “You have no plan whatsoever, do you? Luckily for you, I do.”

“You do?” He couldn’t have sounded more incredulous, which suffused Audrey with a mixture of irritation and pride.

“I do. We’re about two days from Wootton Bassett.”

“What’s a Wootton Bassett, some sort of dog?”

She smiled in spite of the situation—which she had no means of classifying. “No, a town. I know people who live there and we can at least get decent clothing and rest for a while to get you healed. I would prefer to stop sooner, but I doubt you’ll agree to that.”

“You’re a very smart young woman. The distance of Wootton Bassett from London sounds perfect.” He fell silent a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was low and vibrated through her like a song. “Why are you helping me?”

As he asked, he sounded equally as incredulous as he had a few minutes ago, but there was something more. There was a disbelieving quality that was perhaps at the root of his distrust. “Because you helped me. You saved me and my grandfather from those men. And you let me come with you.” She felt him shaking his head behind her.

“Probably a foolish decision.”

“Why?”

“You really have to ask?” Scorn laced his tone. “Bow Street is already after me, and now I’ve kidnapped a young lady.”

“You didn’t kidnap me.”

“I doubt they’ll see it that way.”

“They will see it that way. I had the inn post a note to my grandfather telling him I was safe.” She felt him tense behind her and rushed to say, “I didn’t tell him where we were going or who I was with. I’ve made that mistake before.”

“What?” Was there a bead of respect in his question?

Her lips curved into the softest of smiles. “I ran away with the blacksmith’s son two years ago.”

“Good Christ, you didn’t.”

“I did.” She sighed, exhaling the regret she always felt when she thought of the ill-fated venture. “Unfortunately, I left a note and it didn’t take my parents too long to find us at an inn.”

“Were you eloping?”

“No, I wasn’t in love with him, nor was he in love with me. We were friends who wanted different lives. I didn’t want to be married off to some rich lord I didn’t like, and he didn’t want to become a blacksmith.”

“So you simply ran away.” Again his breath tickled her neck, causing a shiver to cascade down her spine. She tried to keep herself stiff, lest he become aware of her reaction to his proximity.

“We had a plan—we were going to America. My mistake was in telling my parents that in the note. They were able to track us to an inn on the way to the coast where we’d planned to book passage on a ship.” Memories of that awkward evening crowded into her mind, but she pushed them away.

“Who financed this excursion—you or the blacksmith’s son?” He asked the question in a way that inferred he already knew the answer. Damn him for asking, for reminding her of her poor judgment.

The familiar heat that accompanied recollections of her failed adventure crept up her neck. She was glad he couldn’t see her face. “I did.”

“And what happened to the blacksmith’s son?”

Her jaw clenched, but she forced the words out. “My parents let him go off to America—they paid his passage.”

He pulled his hands back from her waist so that he only barely gripped her sides. “How convenient for him.” He splayed his palms against her ribcage. Though the shift in his touch was subtle, she felt suddenly and wholly caressed. Then his mouth was close against her ear, closer than it had ever been. “If I ever find my way to America, he’d best watch his back.”

There was no quashing the appreciative tremor his words provoked within her. She only hoped he didn’t feel it.

FOUR

Though they were tired and hungry, Ethan had forced her to ride to the outskirts of Reading. They’d found a small inn where they’d pretended to be a young couple by the name of Miller. Such a ruse had required them to rent just one room, which also happened to be all the tiny facility had to offer.

Ethan liked the place because it was on a quiet lane with an easy escape route. Their bedroom faced the road and he left the window open so he could hear anyone approach.

Dinner had been a simple affair of beef and potatoes, but both he and Audrey had satisfied their hunger. Then they’d retreated to their chamber, a small square room with a bed, a fireplace, a spindly table with implements for washing, and one chair.

Audrey strode directly to the pitcher on the table and poured water into the washbasin beside it. “Time to tend your wound. Sit.” Her tone was so adorably commanding that he allowed himself to be managed.

The chair was situated near the fire, which had been stoked by the innkeeper while they’d eaten. His arm was sore, but he’d become accustomed to the dull ache, and it was better than the sharp pains he’d endured last night as he’d fought to keep them safe.

She came to his side and helped him out of his coat. He winced as the garment moved over his injuries. She’d tied his cravat before they’d gone into the inn earlier, and now he unthreaded the linen and pulled it from his neck. She took the cloth from him and set it over a hook on the wall where she’d hung his coat.

Now his shirt would have to come off. He looked up at her standing beside his chair. Her gaze was focused on the hearth behind him, giving proof to the discomfort she felt. But what was causing her discomfort? It could be any number of things, and he had no indication she shared the undeniable attraction he felt in her presence. What a bloody nuisance that was too. This entire escapade would be a damn sight easier if he didn’t like her or find her alluring. He wished he could put her at ease, but the fact was he needed her help. “You’ll have to assist me with my shirt again.”

She nodded imperceptibly. “Put your left arm up.” He did as she bade and she eased the garment up his arm and over his head so that only his right arm was still encased. Then she slid it from him without causing him even the slightest discomfort.

“Well done.” He looked up to find her watching him.

Her cheeks pinked. Then she snapped her gaze to his arm as she worked to undo the bandage she’d affixed that morning. Presumably. He had absolutely no recollection of anything she’d done.

She pressed lightly at his flesh, causing him to bite his cheek and to question why he hadn’t asked the innkeeper for a bottle of brandy. “I think the poultice the innkeeper’s wife used last night is working. And she was kind enough to give me a small jar.” She pulled the medicinal from her skirt pocket.

He looked over at the wound—or wounds; he actually had two, he recalled—seeing them for the first time. His eyes widened in surprise. “I slept through someone sewing my flesh together?”

“Not exactly.” She went to the basin where she dipped the edge of a towel into the water. When she returned, she cleaned around the stitches of the knife wound. The gunshot’s graze looked like it had barely pierced his skin, for a long, red welt was all that remained.

She opened the jar and smoothed some of the liniment over his injuries. “You swore even worse than you do when you’re conscious. You condemned both me and the innkeeper’s very pleasant wife to a fate worse than hell. I shan’t repeat the specifics.”

This made him feel a bit better, or maybe it was the slight humor playing about her lips. “How long do the sutures need to remain in? And who will take them out?” He didn’t fancy trying to cut them out himself.

She retied the bandage around his arm, her slender fingers working deftly. “She said maybe as long as a fortnight, but that I would be able to tell, and she told me how to remove them.”

“I see. And how did this estimable woman come about her medical knowledge?”

She peered at him, her aqua eyes luminous in the firelight. “You don’t trust anyone at all, do you?”

“No. But you admit it’s odd to find a woman with the ability to stave off putridity from setting in. That knife wound cut fairly deep, did it not?”

She grimaced as she tied off the bandage. “It did. We were very fortunate that she was able to help you. Don’t question a gift from Fate.”

He wouldn’t, particularly in his current predicament. “I should like more of them.”

“Wouldn’t we all?” she murmured. She moved away from his chair and stood before the fire. “There’s only one bed.”

He knew this would be a problem, but didn’t care to sleep in the chair or on the floor. His entire body was aching and sore from the events of last night and from spending all day riding a horse. He hadn’t ridden that much since his father had taken him to his country estate, and that had been fifteen years ago.

“It’s big enough for both of us,” he said. “I promise to keep my hands to myself. It’s not as if I can move very well.”

She glanced at him, her gaze briefly landing on his bare chest. She wrung her hands, then smoothed them down the folds of her skirt. Apprehension and anxiety radiated from her and filled the tiny room.

“I’ll sleep on the floor.” She didn’t look at him. “You should take the bed.”

“Horse—” He caught himself before swearing again. He really needed to stop doing that around her. “Nonsense. There’s a blanket at the edge of the bed. Roll it up and put it between us as a barrier. Will that suffice?”

She snuck a quick glance in his direction. “I suppose.” She still sounded doubtful.

What he was about to ask wasn’t going to help matters, but it had to be done. “I, ah, I’ll need your help removing my boots.”

Her head snapped up. “Oh.” She came toward him and he prayed she wouldn’t kneel at his feet. He recognized he was attracted to her, but he hadn’t taken things further in his mind. He hadn’t allowed himself to feel outright desire. But then, dear God, she kneeled, and for the first time, his body tightened with lust in her presence. He forced himself to look away and steeled his nerves for her touch.

Her fingers wrapped around his calf and drew the boot from his foot. Then she repeated the action on the second leg and quickly stood. By the time he dared look at her, she’d retreated to the other side of the bed and was busily rolling up the blanket.

After she’d placed the barrier in the middle of the bed, she crawled beneath the coverlet. “Sleep well,” she said as she turned to her side.

He was about to ask why she was sleeping fully clothed, but decided even he wasn’t that much of a brute. She was a chaste young woman and he would let her be.

For the hundredth time, he asked himself what the hell he was doing with her. She was a chaste young woman whom everyone probably thought he’d kidnapped. Or at least Bow Street would think that. What did anyone else know of her disappearance? Dread curdled his gut.

Did his brother think he’d kidnapped her? They’d only just reached some sort of accord. Ethan hoped Jason would give him the benefit of the doubt. Logically, however, Ethan had to ask why he would. Ethan had given Jason very little reason to trust him and had made it clear he couldn’t trust anyone in return.

Jason’s fiancée, Lydia, was Audrey’s closest friend. She had to be overwrought with worry. He grimaced against the twinge of regret. He wished there was a way he could communicate to them what had happened and that Audrey was safe, but he daren’t send any correspondence. Bow Street was too close.

Ethan stretched his legs out and slid down the chair until the back of his head rested against the top.

For the first time in over a decade, he had no firm plan. His father had died when Ethan was ten, leaving him and his mother with nothing save the small house he’d purchased for her when Ethan had been born. The house would’ve been a decent legacy, if his mother hadn’t sold it to settle debts. When she’d joined his father in death four years later, Ethan had been cast into the world alone with only his mother’s former lover, Davis, to guide him. With no money and no prospects, Ethan had consented to train as a thief-taker at Davis’s side. Until Ethan had been forced to choose his own life over Davis’s.

Ethan had spent the years since living by that creed—survive at any cost. He still lived by it, or he might not have killed that highwayman. An image of Audrey’s terrorized expression stole into his brain. He squeezed his eyes shut to banish it. He’d tried to change, dammit. He wanted to change. He’d established a relationship with Jason, the only family he had left, and he wanted it to continue. It was the whole reason he’d executed the failed plan to take Gin Jimmy down. The permanent removal of Gin Jimmy was the only way Ethan could be truly free of the criminal life he regretted.

Disgust knifed through him. The future he wanted with Jason was gone. The minute Ethan set foot back in London, he would be arrested for murder, tried, and likely hanged. Or, mayhap Gin Jimmy’s men would get to him first and his fate would be far worse. Since neither option was acceptable, that left leaving the life he wanted behind.

But for what? Jaunting around the countryside with Audrey?

He pushed himself up from the chair and went to the bed. She was still on her side with her back to him, the coverlet pulled to her ears. Her dark curls were drawn up, but several of them had escaped their pins. They lay in stark contrast against the ivory pillow beneath her head. He longed to loop his finger through one of them and satisfy his curiosity regarding its softness. Since the days of their secret waltzing lessons, he’d admired the beauty of her hair, which seemed to have a mind of its own with the way it unerringly escaped from any proper style.

He lay down on the bed and stretched out his aching muscles, save his arm, which wouldn’t put up with such activity.

She was a proper young lady. Who’d escaped London with him, and had opted to continue along with him for the sake of adventure. Had she really tried to run off to America? He could imagine her sailing for an unknown land, her hair exhibiting a similar independence and working its way completely free from its reins, blowing haphazardly and beautifully in the salty breeze. He could join her, start anew in America.

What a load of horseshit. He was Ethan bloody Jagger. No, Lockwood. Son of a viscount and brother to a viscount. He was not going to run off with his tail between his legs. He wanted the life he deserved, the life he’d just begun to taste at his brother’s side.

He turned and looked at Audrey sleeping. And imagined the life he might’ve led if his father hadn’t died. Or if his mother hadn’t died and left him with nothing. Or if Davis hadn’t recruited him. Or if he hadn’t so easily and thoroughly allowed himself to be corrupted.

Looking back, it seemed everything was destined to happen as it did. No matter how much he wanted things to be different, he couldn’t change who he was, who he was likely always meant to be: a criminal.

Audrey awoke just after the sun rose. She wasn’t typically an early riser, but she also didn’t typically share a bed. With anyone, let alone a man. The barrier she’d placed between them was still in place. She peeked over it. Mr. Locke was on his back, his good arm flung above his head, his dark lashes fanned against his cheeks. She stared at those lashes, marveling at how long and luxurious they appeared, completely unfair for a man to possess. Audrey wished hers were that spectacular. Instead, they were just brown and somewhat nondescript. Like the rest of her.

In repose, Mr. Locke looked younger. His ink-dark hair was thick and in need of a trim. His beard was longer still, and Audrey was surprised to find she still found it attractive. Despite the growth of hair, his chin was squared and strong. He might look youthful in sleep, but he also exuded a power and magnetism that was undeniable. At least to her.

Mr. Locke’s eyes shot open and he was suddenly on top of her. He’d rolled like quicksilver, pinning her to the mattress.

She gasped—both with surprise and with the shock of his masculine body pressed atop hers. He was hard and muscular, and for the first time in her life she felt dainty and impossibly feminine.

His gray eyes focused on her, but she couldn’t immediately discern what he was thinking. Then his brow arched and he drawled, “Good morning” without sounding the least bit apologetic.

“I beg your pardon,” she said, trying desperately not to blush in his presence for the thousandth time.

He stared down at her, studying her face. His hands were on either side of her head while his hips were settled firmly against hers.

She squirmed beneath him, which only served to heighten the closeness. Shards of heat sparked between her legs, and made her want to invite him to do more.

He rolled off her, gently, so that his hips brushed hers as he retreated to his side of the bed.

She jumped up, eager to put space between them. “Was that necessary?”

He massaged his bandaged arm. “We’re in a precarious situation. I’m on my guard.”

“You thought I posed a threat?”

“Not you exactly. I didn’t immediately process who you were. Forgive me if I’m not used to waking up beside beautiful young society misses.” He swung his legs off the side of the bed.

He thought her beautiful? Warmth suffused her. He’d paid her similar compliments when she’d taught him to waltz, had flirted with her, but she’d written it off as a gentleman’s charm. He was ridiculously handsome, and men who looked like him flirted with everyone. Well, everyone except her.

She fetched his shirt and helped him don the garment, working to keep her gaze averted from the muscles rippling in his back and chest and arms. He had muscles everywhere. It was very disconcerting. Once he was covered, she took a deep, sustaining breath. Much better.

She brought his boots over and tugged them up his calves after he’d stuck his foot inside. “I’d best tie your cravat again.” She slid the linen around his neck and adjusted the collar of his shirt.

He stared at her intently, his eyes boring into her with a heat she felt all the way to her toes. Was it purposeful? Was he flirting with her again? She wasn’t sure she could bear it. No one had ever flirted with her until him.

She dropped her gaze to the cravat her clumsy fingers were trying to knot. “Please don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

She chanced a glance at him and was sorry for it because his gaze had only intensified, if that were possible. Plus, he’d arched his brow again in that frustratingly provocative manner. “Oh, never mind.” She knew she mumbled, but she deeply regretted drawing attention to her discomfort. The constant blushing was bad enough.

She finished her work as quickly as possible and helped him don the coat. At last, they were ready to leave.

“What about your hair?” he asked.

She’d been so flustered, she’d forgotten all about her own toilette. Of course her hair would be a disaster, but she had no brush and she’d lost more pins than she had left. A small glass on the wall revealed a completely disheveled mess. She now doubted the veracity of his flirtation—he was surely bamming her. No one would find her attractive, least of all a man like him.

She pulled what pins remained out of her hair and looked about for a place to set them.

He appeared beside her with his palm open. Three hairpins were already lying there.

She looked up at him. “Where did you find those?”

“In the bed.” The mere mention of the word bed threatened to send heat up her neck again, but she managed to keep it at bay. “I’ll hold the others while you make repairs. I’m sorry you don’t have a brush.” The fact that he sounded genuinely apologetic only made things worse. Why did he have to be so gentlemanly when she was perfectly aware he was probably no gentleman?

She deposited the pins in his hand. “Thank you.” Trying to work her hair into a serviceable knot was nearly impossible, but she managed to secure it, at least for now. Doubtless, when they got on their way, it would begin its inevitable descent.

“Ready?” he asked, going to the door.

“Yes.” She followed him out of the room and down the narrow stairs to the small common area.

The innkeeper’s wife greeted them and offered them a modest repast of potatoes, ham, and bread. When they were finished and preparing to leave, she approached Audrey with a small bag. “This is for your luncheon,” she said warmly. “And I also have these for you.” She handed Audrey a bonnet and a . . . brush.

Audrey glanced at Mr. Locke, who was conversing with the innkeeper near the front door. He’d procured these things for her, she was certain of it.

“And don’t worry,” the innkeeper’s wife said, “your secret is safe with us. No one shall know the Millers passed through. I realize Miller isn’t likely your real name.” She winked at Audrey and gave her a quick hug.

What sort of secret had Mr. Locke told them? Audrey set the bonnet atop her head and tucked the brush into the food bag. “Thank you for your kindness.” She turned and joined Mr. Locke.

He opened the door for her and they stepped out into the overcast morning. “What’s that?” he asked, nodding toward the bag.

“Food from Mrs. Hodges. Thank you for asking for the bonnet and brush.”

He looked at her askance. “How did you know that was me?”

“How else would she have known?”

He shrugged, moving toward the lean-to where their horse was stabled. “Maybe she was just observant.”

Audrey stared after him. “Are you saying it’s obvious my hair was in want of a brush?”

He turned. “Are you trying to make me into a villain?”

She cringed internally. Wasn’t he a villain? “What story did you tell them?”

“What we agreed to, that we were a young married couple.”

The untied ribbons of her bonnet lifted in the breeze. “That can’t be all you said. Mrs. Hodges told me not to worry, that our ‘secret’ was safe.”

He exhaled and came toward her. He took her hand and pulled her toward the lean-to. “We need to be on our way.”

“You’re not going to tell me what you said, are you?”

“What does it matter?” He let go of her hand when they got to the lean-to.

She wanted to know the truth. She felt fairly certain by now that he was a criminal. He had to be. Why else would he run from Bow Street? And why else would he keep the truth from her? More importantly, if she believed he was a criminal, why was she trusting him? She’d given him a portion of her funds the previous night so he could pay for their lodgings. Had he used it all? He hadn’t given her any of it back.

“Where’s the rest of the money I gave you?” she asked, her suspicion getting the better of her.

He took the bag from her and tied it to the back of the horse, which was now sporting a saddle. “I had to use it all.”

She was glad she hadn’t given him the lot. “Why?”

He untied the horse and led her into the yard. “The lodgings, your accoutrements, the saddle, and a second horse, which we’ll need to have someone return at some point. I couldn’t afford to buy her outright.” He inclined his head toward the lane.

A boy was leading another horse toward them. He came into the yard, touched his cap and handed the lead to Mr. Locke.

“Thank you, lad.” Mr. Locke gave him a penny and the boy turned and ran back the way he’d come. “Actually, that was the last of the money.”

She eyed the second horse. “Why did we need another mount?”

“I thought we’d make better time if we rode separately. And I thought you might appreciate your own horse—with a sidesaddle—you’re a very fine horsewoman.”

Another compliment and another flush of pleasure. She had to admit it was probably safer—at least for her sensibilities—if he wasn’t pressed behind her. “Thank you.”

“May I help you up?”

She tied her bonnet beneath her chin. “Yes, please. Does she have a name?”

“I was told she’s called Athena.” He boosted her onto the horse and climbed atop the one they’d stolen the day before. “We’ll have to keep referring to this one as ‘girl,’ I suppose.”

Audrey felt bad about stealing the first horse, and felt much better that they’d paid for everything today, even if it meant their funds were running low. And she was also glad he’d done the paying instead of resorting to thievery. Maybe he wasn’t truly a criminal after all. “Do you think we could return your horse to that farmer we, uh, borrowed it from?”

“I suppose.” He didn’t sound as if he’d given it any thought. “To be honest, I don’t even know how we’ll get anyone to return your horse.”

Had he lied? “But you told them you would. Return it, I mean.”

“I did, and I will try.” He gave her a hard look. “Sometimes life doesn’t work out the way we plan.”

She was well aware of that. Still, she felt a bit uneasy.

As they rode out of the yard, he turned to her and said, “Mr. Hodges gave me directions on how to get to Wootton Bassett. Without taking the main roads of course.”

Of course. Surely Mr. Hodges had found that odd. Suddenly she was quite fed up with him withholding information. “Why is Bow Street chasing you? I think I’ve a right to know what I’m fleeing.”

“You’re not fleeing anything.” He kicked his horse into a trot.

She followed him and easily caught up. She wasn’t going to let him ignore her questions again. Perhaps she could try another way to learn his closely-guarded secrets. “I’ve been thinking about you. You clearly know how to steal. I wonder if you stole a lady’s heart. You’re certainly charming and handsome enough.”

He looked over at her. “Very amusing.”

“Of course, Bow Street wouldn’t actually pursue you for such nonsense. So maybe you stole something else.”

He was looking forward once more, but she could make out his scowl in profile.

She continued on her path of inquiry. “Or perhaps it was some other crime entirely. Perhaps you exhibited public drunkenness.”

“Haven’t we all? Save you of course, unless your two sherries at Michaelmas induced you to run amok in public.”

She smiled. “What about blasphemy? You certainly like to swear a lot.”

“Are you having fun?”

“In the absence of your forthrightness, I have to make my own assumptions.” And yes, she was having fun. “I know! Adultery. As I said, you’re too handsome for your own good.”

“Fine.” He slid her an embittered glance. “If I tell you something, will you stop?”

She’d been hoping to divert him, but that was proving to be difficult. “That depends on what you tell me.”

“When I was a lad, I was called ‘Pretty Boy.’” His tone held a weary scorn that provoked her to laugh.

She looked over at him. Yes, he had a pretty face, but his attraction was so much more than that. He had a presence about him—of authority and arrogance, of intelligence and wit that gave him an aura of power, as if he was in absolute control of any situation. “Can I call you Pretty Boy?”

He turned his head and their gazes connected. She chilled at the ice in his eyes. “No, you may not,” he said. “I hated that nickname. No one ever took me seriously.” He slowed his horse to a stop, and she did the same because she was absolutely compelled by him.

“Would you like to know how I got rid of that nickname?” he asked softly. Dangerously.

A shiver curled in her belly. “Yes.” The word was barely a whisper.

“As a lad, I worked in a theft gang. When I was fifteen, I was tired of being discounted because of the way I looked. I wanted power. Prestige. Respect. So I killed the leader of the gang and assumed his place. No one ever called me ‘Pretty Boy’ again.”

FIVE

As the sun began to set, Ethan looked over at Audrey. They’d barely exchanged words since he’d told her about killing Four-Finger Tom, and that had been hours ago. They’d stopped briefly for lunch and here and there for personal reasons, but for the most part, they’d ridden relentlessly. He wanted to put as many miles between him and London as possible. But then what? Hang around Wootton Bassett until when? Forever? His skin itched at the prospect of settling into a tiny village in the middle of the countryside.

“Are we going to stop soon?” Exhaustion weighted her tone, and her posture was that of a person who was tired of sitting atop a horse. Ethan knew this because he was certain it mirrored his own.

He was weary, sore from being in the saddle so long, and his arm ached almost unbearably at times. He wanted to stop, but there was no village in sight. “I don’t know if we’ll find a place to stay before it gets dark. We may just have to make do with something else.”

She moved her horse closer beside him, walking them side-by-side. “What does that mean?”

“It means we may need to sleep wherever we find shelter. Provided we even find any.”

She didn’t respond and kept her face directed straight ahead. He ought to apologize for frightening her earlier. He had frightened her—he was certain of it. He’d admitted to not only thievery but murder.

He’d been considering what to do, trying to formulate a plan. Taking her out of London had been a gut reaction. Yes, she’d been in danger from Gin Jimmy, but Ethan wondered if he couldn’t have asked Jason to ensure her safety. He was sure his brother would’ve agreed. If only Ethan had trusted him. Or even thought of trusting him. Christ, having an ally—a true, blood ally—was going to take getting used to.

He glanced at Audrey again, wilting in her saddle. His future was as uncertain as ever. She was a burden he couldn’t really afford, and he’d done what he’d set out to do—he’d gotten her out of London. He didn’t expect Gin Jimmy or Bow Street, who likely couldn’t spare a Runner for a merry chase, would follow them this far out. Ethan’s mind kept returning to the obvious solution: as soon as they reached Wootton Bassett, he’d leave her with her friends—she’d be safe this far from London—and be on his way.

At last, a small building came into view. It sat at the edge of a large enclosure with a dozen or so sheep grazing in the golden rays of the setting sun filtering through the mottled clouds.

“Will that work?” she asked, eyeing the shelter.

“Let’s find out.” He kicked his horse into a canter and stopped at the edge of the enclosure. He dismounted, his wounds protesting angrily with the movement. His legs wobbled, like they were made of pudding. He tied the horse to the fence and climbed over to investigate the building.

It was small, maybe twelve by fifteen feet, with three walls and support posts along the open side that faced the pasture. The dirt floor was littered with hay. Unfortunately, there were no blankets, but if they kept riding in search of something better they might not find anything else. This was, at least, shelter.

He limped back to the fence, Christ, his arse was sore. She was still in the saddle. Smart girl. He didn’t really want to get back on his horse now that he was off.

“It’s a shelter with a dirt floor.” He’d slept in worse.

“Do you think we’ll find anything better?”

He glanced at the rapidly darkening sky. “Probably not before the sun sets.”

“Then we should stay here.” She was already sliding off her mount, before he could rush to her aid. Not that he would be much help with his arm. Some gentleman he was turning out to be.

He wanted to hit something or yell at someone. Those were the ways he typically expended his frustrated energy. Definitely not the actions of a gentleman. But hadn’t he well and truly botched that effort? There was no hope for him now. If he returned to London, he’d be hanged. The best he could hope for was to start over somewhere else unless he wanted to take his chances with Teague and the rest of Bow Street. The glaring answer was hell no, but hadn’t his life changed? He had his brother he could call upon, and perhaps even Lord Daniel Carlyle, a viscount who was a former magistrate. Ethan had saved his life once—and the life of his wife. Would he come to Ethan’s aid? Though he owed Ethan at least one favor, if not two for past assistances, in Ethan’s experience people didn’t help each other unless there was something in it for them, and Ethan had nothing to offer any of them.

Audrey tied her horse beside his, then removed the food pack from her saddle and came to the fence. It was only four feet high, so she handed the bag to Ethan and then hoisted herself up and over. Her skirts caught, but Ethan flipped them over so she could jump down unhindered.

“I’ll take care of the horses in a minute,” Ethan said, following her into the shelter.

She surveyed the interior and then turned toward him. “I suppose it’s better than nothing. I’ll set out some food.” She held her hand out for him to return the food bag.

“Don’t bother.” He pulled a small hunk of cheese from the bag before transferring the pack to her. “I’ll just eat before I tend the animals.”

Her eyes tentatively met his. “Is this how it’s going to be? You tell me you killed someone and that’s it? I’ve done everything you’ve asked. Indeed, without me, you’d be God-knows-where since your money was stolen.”

He arched a brow at her. “You assume my money would’ve been stolen had you not accompanied me.”

She blanched. He bit back an apology, hating that he’d grown soft in recent weeks. But why, hadn’t he wanted to change? If he wanted to shirk the mantle of his former life, what better way than to show kindness, especially to her of all people? “Pardon me,” he said softly. Yes, she deserved at least that. And a modicum of honesty. “I think you’ll be safe in Wootton Bassett. I can’t believe Gin Jimmy would follow us this far from London.”

She clutched the bag and stared at him. “Are you planning to abandon me?”

His temper—frayed by travel, his wounds, and most importantly, the lack of a plan—threatened to blow apart. He wiped his hand over his brow and scrubbed at his eyes for a moment. When he looked at her again, she was still watching him but there was a wariness in her gaze. “I’m not abandoning you. I got you out of London, and Gin Jimmy’s men won’t leave the city. These people in Wootton Bassett are your friends. Staying with them is much better than a life on the run.”

“And then what? I’m to stay there forever? Alone?”

He cringed at the disappointment in her questions. He hadn’t meant to . . . what, give her hope? For what? He leaned toward her, narrowing his eyes. “What would you have me do? As you so accurately surmised, I’m a criminal, not a gentleman who’s going to whisk you away to some fantasy life.”

She drew the bag closer to her chest, maybe as protection. Or maybe she just wanted to hold on to something because she felt completely adrift, which was precisely how he felt. “I don’t think you want to be a criminal.”

He’d never really wanted to be. But it had been better than begging. Or dying. “I killed that boy because I had to. His was marginalizing me to the point where I would’ve been excised from the gang.”

She blinked. “Excised?”

“Killed.”

“You had no choice?”

“Not if I wanted to live, Audrey.” It was the first time he’d used her given name in a moment that hadn’t involved them defending their lives and he liked the way it tasted on his tongue. “I lived on the streets. After my mother died, I had no one to turn to, no one to care for me. I made the most of my life with what I could.”

That life seemed so far away, like someone else’s existence.

“You have that chance again now,” she said softly. “You can change what you are, who you want to be.”

He’d been trying to, before this Wolverton mess. “All I ever wanted was to bring my brother pain. To hurt him the way he and his mother had hurt me.”

The pain in her eyes had warmed to empathy. At least he thought it might be—he couldn’t be certain since he’d only rarely been shown any. “Why?” she asked.

There was no reason not to tell her. It wasn’t a secret, and it didn’t mean he trusted her. The facts of his life were just that—cold facts that he couldn’t change. “When my mother died, I had nothing. No one, save her final protector.” An image of Davis’s gray and desperate expression just before the hood had fallen over his face on hanging day swam before Ethan. “But he was a criminal, and I’d been raised to be a gentleman. I was supposed to go to Oxford.” The pain of his lost dreams superseded the agony in his arm.

“I went to Jason and his mother, begged them to take me in. She laughed in my face. Then spit on me.” His left hand involuntarily curled into a fist.

“Jason didn’t intervene?”

Ethan’s answering laugh was hollow and dark, just like his husk of a heart. “Why would he? He hated me almost as much as she did. She threw me back into the street and I had no choice but to take Davis’s protection. Which meant working with him as a thief-taker.”

Her brow furrowed. “That’s not a terrible thing.”

“It is when he’s setting up the thefts and sending the thieves to prison or worse. And when he planned to use me in the same fashion.”

“What do you mean?” The horror in her question matched the familiar sense of betrayal that roiled in his gut.

“He was being investigated and had to deflect suspicion from himself. He set me up to take the fall for him, but I figured that out, and he’s the one who swung.”

And that had been the beginning of Ethan’s downfall. From there, he’d joined the theft gang run by Four-Finger Tom. After taking that over, he’d gained respect and power. Soon after, he’d begun to work for Gin Jimmy’s crew, working his way up over the years until he’d become one of Jimmy’s most trusted men.

Audrey set the bag down and moved toward him. Her eyes were soft, caring. No one had ever looked at him like that. Not even his mother when he’d been a young boy. He couldn’t bear her concern. He didn’t deserve something so pure. He backed away. “I’ll take care of the horses.”

“Wait.” She touched his arm and it was like the jolt of energy one experienced just before a fight or a theft. But a thousand times better. “I can’t imagine the life you’ve led, what you’ve overcome . . .”

He didn’t want her pity, and he didn’t deserve her understanding. “No, you can’t imagine. And this is why we’ll be parting ways. I’m a criminal and that’s all I’ll ever be.” The knowledge speared through him until he wanted to retch.

She pressed her fingers into his forearm. “Why were you learning to waltz? You were behaving like a gentleman. All of London thinks you’re the charming, long-lost half-brother of Jason Lockwood.”

“Aren’t I?” He extracted his elbow from her grip. “I am the long-lost brother of Jason Lockwood, but rest assured: I’m no gentleman.”

Later that night, Audrey huddled into the corner of the sheep barn. She’d curled into a ball on her side, facing the pasture where the murky shapes of distant shrubs and trees along the perimeter rose out of the near darkness. The moon was faint, its glow dimming and brightening as clouds drifted across it.

She ought to close her eyes and try to sleep, but she was too cold. Shivers racked her body intermittently, but there was no help for it unless she wanted to snuggle up with Mr. Locke. Right now, she wasn’t sure he was someone she wanted to snuggle with.

He’d taken quite a long time to deal with the horses. When he’d finally returned, she’d already eaten and had replayed his revelations dozens of time in her head. She could scarcely believe all he’d told her, yet it made sense, given everything she’d seen him do. No gentleman would know how to steal a cabriolet or fight the intruders in her grandfather’s house or kill a highwayman. Then again, no gentlewoman ought to know how to fire a gun, much less shoot a man. Yes, appearances could be deceiving and she would try not to judge.

At last she closed her eyes. If she didn’t sleep, she’d be miserable tomorrow, and they needed to make good time to reach Wootton Bassett. She thought of a fire and a warm bed. And a bath. How divine that would be.

She turned over, thinking it might be better to face the wall, where her warm breath might bounce off the wood and at least her nose wouldn’t be frozen. It was pathetic reasoning, but it was all she had.

A few minutes later she nearly jumped out of her skin when something came over her shoulders. Her eyes shot open and she turned her head to see Mr. Locke tucking his coat around her. He turned to go.

“Don’t.” It wasn’t fair that he should sleep in his shirtsleeves. She knew it was horribly improper, but what place did propriety have when one was freezing? “Sleep here. We’ll share the coat.”

He hesitated. “I don’t think that’s wise.”

“Nothing I have done in the past two days has been wise. Don’t make me start now.”

His soft chuckle gave her a burst of warmth. “If you insist.”

“I do.” She held the coat up to let him under it.

He settled down behind her and inserted himself beneath the edge of the coat, leaving most of the garment covering her. She felt his heat, but he wasn’t as close as he’d been when they’d ridden the same horse. “Move closer for heaven’s sake. I want to be warm, don’t you?”

“You’re a managing chit, do you know that?” He slid closer until his chest pressed against her back. “Better?”

“Much.” His heat was already seeping into her. He’d tried to threaten her earlier. By all accounts she should be frightened of him, but she wasn’t. He made her feel protected and secure. She’d heard the pain when he’d recounted his youth, and she wanted him to experience the sensation of knowing that someone cared what happened to him, that someone wanted to keep him safe. “How’s your arm? I wish you would’ve let me check it earlier.” He’d insisted it was fine, but she knew he was just trying to increase the distance between them.

“I’ll let you check it when we arrive tomorrow, all right?”

“Or, I could take a look at in the morning.”

“I want to be on our way as soon as it’s light.”

So they could get to Wootton Bassett and he could dump her there. That gave her tomorrow—and tonight—to convince him otherwise. “What will you do when you leave Wootton Bassett?” Her breath hitched as she awaited his answer.

“Even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“I think you should stay. Just for a bit. You need to rest your arm.” Her brain seized on a way to keep him from leaving. She turned to look at him. “You can’t leave until after I take your stitches out. You’ll need to stay for at least a week.”

The muted light from the moon cast a halo about his head and made his features barely visible. The edge of his mouth ticked up. “I will?”

“Yes. I insist.”

“You do like to manage,” he murmured. “But no, I won’t stay that long. I’ll find someone to remove my sutures.”

“It doesn’t sound as if you have a plan. Why not stay until you do?”

He was quiet a moment, perhaps considering. “If I tell you I’ll think about it, will you let me sleep?”

It was as much as she could expect. She’d continue her campaign tomorrow. “Yes.” Another idea struck her. “What am I to tell Miranda and her husband? That I just came for a visit by myself? Or will you wait to leave until after you’ve met them?” Maybe then it would be harder for him to depart.

“It’s probably best for everyone if I don’t meet them, don’t you think?” He shook his head. “No, don’t answer that. I’m afraid of what you think. It’s much easier and cleaner if I see you to your friends’ house and be on my way before making anyone’s acquaintance.”

Audrey deflated. He sounded resolute. Still, she could try to come up with some other plan tomorrow. For now, exhaustion was starting to get the better of her. She turned to her side so that her back was against his chest once more.

She listened to his breathing, deep and sure, and let it flow through her until his proximity and heat lulled her body into relaxing. As sleep threatened, she voiced just one more thing. “I know you want to leave me in Wootton Bassett, but if you decide to go to America, I hope you’ll take me with you.”

He did nothing to indicate he’d heard her, which was just as well. Likely, he would have reconfirmed his plan to drop her off and behave as if the last two days had never happened. As if the last two days hadn’t altered her life in the most unchangeable of ways.

Her body twitched as sleep claimed her.

SIX

As dusk fell the next day, Ethan glanced over at Audrey. He was glad they were riding into Wootton Bassett at last. She looked tired and had every reason to be, considering how little he’d allowed her to rest the past two days. They’d been awakened just after dawn that morning by the sheep farmer who owned the barn they’d been sleeping in. He’d damned their souls as he’d run them off. Ethan had expected Audrey to be upset, but she’d been quite pleasant all day. In fact, she was bewilderingly cheery toward him. His revelations hadn’t sparked fear, disgust, or worst of all, pity. She treated him much the same as she’d done when he’d been her waltzing student.

His gaze again strayed to her riding beside him, as it had many times during their journey. He’d studied her greatly, the subtle turn of her nose at the very tip, the graceful sweep of her brows, the supple curve of her lips. She appeared so elegant, despite the hopeless creases in her gown and the absolute ramshackle mess of her hair trying to fight its way from beneath her bonnet. Elegant and composed. Maybe it was the way she carried herself. Or the commitment she’d demonstrated to this adventure she’d chosen. Or the way she hadn’t run screaming when he’d revealed he’d murdered someone.

And he’d expected her to. It was why he’d done it. She’d been flirting with him, dammit, and he was already too attracted to her. Nothing good could come from their association and once he settled her in Wootton Bassett, it would be at an end. He’d post a letter to Jason asking him to ensure her safety when she returned to London and he’d enclose a letter for Carlyle. The man owed him, and Ethan would collect. Carlyle would find a way to protect her until Gin Jimmy realized Ethan was gone for good.

A chill settled at the base of Ethan’s neck. He’d never planned his life around the welfare of someone else. It was a bloody nuisance. And yet, he’d bound himself to her—at least temporarily—when he’d snuck into her house for waltzing lessons.

If you decide to go to America, I hope you’ll take me with you.

Her request had kept him up long after she’d fallen into slumber. He’d actually considered what she said. Fleeing to America where he could be Ethan Lockwood. And she could be . . . What could she be? His wife? The dream he’d long envisioned of somehow regaining the life that had been stolen from him had never included domestic bliss.

That dream had started to become reality when he’d entered Society several weeks ago as Jason Lockwood’s long-lost bastard brother. People had been titillated by his mysterious background and his charming disposition, which was at such odds with Jason’s reputation as a potential lunatic who hosted notorious vice parties, a reputation Ethan took credit for creating.

Ethan had done a good job displacing Jason from Society years ago when he’d accidentally scarred his face in a fight. Then he’d ensured Jason’s staff had fled his town house, declaring him mad like his mother. Jason’s marital eligibility had promptly disintegrated and he’d been left with nothing but a frightening reputation, which he’d turned into one of scandal and decadence when he began hosting London’s premier vice parties.

But Ethan didn’t want that revenge anymore. Instead, he and Jason had begun to claim the brotherhood they’d lost amidst the wreckage their parents’ hatred had left. That was more valuable to Ethan than he’d ever dreamed anything could be. To feel a sense of belonging, of rightness . . . He wanted that. And he couldn’t get it in America, which meant he had to find a way to make it happen in London.

“I’m not sure where Bassett Manor is located.” The lilt of Audrey’s voice broke into his thoughts. Bassett Manor was the estate where her friends resided.

“Shouldn’t be too hard to find,” he said as their horses walked onto the High Street. “How many estates can one little village have?”

“Actually, there’s another nearby, Cosgrove.”

Bloody rich people. “Let’s just have a look, shall we?”

They rode up the street past some shops and a pub. Several coaches were parked in front of a large building. As they came closer, music drifted from the open doors.

Lanterns from the coaches and from the building illuminated the area and allowed him to see her face more clearly. She was smiling. His heart did a little trip, as if it had missed a beat.

“Can we listen, just for a minute?” she asked, guiding her horse to the side of the street.

He followed her and dismounted, his body protesting with its various aches and pains. He tied his horse to a post and helped her down. While he secured her mount beside his, she moved to the side of the building where a window was open and tapped her foot to the music.

They ought to find Bassett Manor, but he couldn’t deny her a moment’s joy after their grueling journey. Nor could he deny himself the joy of watching her.

The music stopped and then started again, but with a slower tune. A waltz.

She turned toward him. “Have you been practicing?”

He had, in fact. With some of the lightskirts at the Crystal, the flash house where he kept his primary lodging in St. Giles. They hadn’t been nearly as skilled or graceful as Audrey, but he’d closed his eyes and done his best to imagine her in their place. He realized he had the opportunity to enjoy the real thing. Perhaps the last such opportunity he’d ever have.

He went to her and offered his most courtly bow. “May I have the honor of this dance?”

She curtseyed in return. “You may.”

He clasped her hand and splayed his palm against her back as he swept her into the dance. He’d practiced enough to make the steps without counting, but he still worried about stepping on her toes, as he’d done the first time she’d taught him.

“You have been practicing. And with excellent results. You dance divinely, sir.”

He resisted the urge to nuzzle the graceful column of her neck. “I had an excellent teacher.”

“You seem the perfect gentleman.” Her tone had been light but now took a darker, more serious turn. She looked at him again with that infinitely warm and sympathetic gaze that threatened every wall he’d built around himself. “I’ll say it again, you can change what you are, who you want to be. Who you want to be with.”

He knew what she was asking. Temptation hovered before him just as surely as the promise of brotherhood was luring him back to London. Both were a risk and he was no stranger to risk . . .

“Ethan.” Her voice drew him back. Had she called him by his Christian name? No one save Jason had called him that since his mother had died. He’d been “Jagger” nearly as long as he could remember.

The music seemed to fade from his ears as he looked into her eyes. He slowed until they were no longer waltzing. She touched his cheek. His smooth, unscarred, pretty-boy cheek.

“Did you know I gave Jason his scar? I wish it had been the other way around.”

She shook her head. “Why?”

He smiled wryly. “A menacing facial disfigurement would’ve suited my lifestyle far better than his.”

She brought her other hand up and cupped his face. “Don’t wish that. Don’t.”

A part of him knew what she meant to do before she did it, but he was paralyzed by her touch, by the soft look of understanding and empathy in her gaze. And by God even if he could’ve moved, he wouldn’t have. He wanted her lips on his.

She kissed him, her mouth pressing against his with an innocence sweeter than any delicacy he’d tasted during all of his decadent years as Gin Jimmy’s right hand. During that time, Ethan had evaded death countless times, always with a fervor for life and an absolute refusal to surrender, but right now he thought he might welcome his maker, for nothing could be closer to heaven than her. Nor had he ever wanted anything more.

He wrapped his other arm around her and drew her up against him. Her tall, lithe body fit into his with sweet precision, as if their coupling was ordained by God himself. A silly notion, for God wouldn’t have paid any attention to Ethan Jagger.

Her hands moved from his face to the back of his neck. He took the action as an invitation and slanted his head. With his lips, he applied pressure to her mouth, coaxing, teasing. He held her close, anticipating she might flinch as he licked along her lower lip. She surprised him again by clasping him more tightly. Her lips parted in another invitation he couldn’t refuse.

He slid his tongue into her mouth. Cautiously, so as not to frighten her, he swept along her interior, relishing her velvety softness. She was hesitant, allowing him to kiss her but not responding in kind. It wasn’t enough. He wanted her to give what she was getting, to share in the rapture he felt.

He skimmed his left hand up her spine and fingered the curls that had escaped their pins and grazed the back of her neck. They were as soft and silky as he’d imagined. He wanted to twist his hands in them as he probed her mouth. And why not? He might never get this chance again.

He speared his fingers into her hair beneath her bonnet until he palmed the back of her head. Then he deepened the kiss, stroking his tongue into her mouth with mad possession, demanding her response.

Now she flinched. Or did she shiver? Whatever she did, she didn’t pull away, and that was all he needed. He tugged at her hair, pulling her head slightly back and arching her neck. He nipped at her lower lip. “Kiss me, Audrey.”

He’d looked at her shuttered eyelids as he’d spoken. Her eyes flashed open, their aqua depths sparkling like jewels. She stared at him the barest moment before pulling his mouth back to hers and doing exactly as he’d instructed.

Her kiss wasn’t perfect and it wasn’t graceful. Her teeth grazed his as their mouths connected, but the ferocity with which she clutched him to her and pressed her tongue into his fired his need better than any lustful imagining. But she was no dream. She was real and wonderful and everything he never knew he wanted.

He massaged her scalp as he plundered her mouth. The kiss burned through him. His cock grew hard as it had been the other morning when he’d rolled on top of her. That he could explain away as a typical morning problem. But he could no longer deny he wanted Audrey. He wanted her naked and moaning beneath him. On top of him. Every way he could have her.

Her fingers dug into his neck. She copied him and nipped at his lower lip. His lust roared and he pulled her head back farther, exposing her neck, then put his open mouth on her flesh. He sucked and nibbled beneath her jaw, then licked a path to her ear. He’d just lightly closed his teeth over her sensitive lobe when a cough behind him froze his desire.

“Oh my goodness, is that Audrey Cheswick?”

Audrey’s eyes flew open and she stepped backward. Ethan let her go—there was no point in trying to think of him as anything other than Ethan now—and her knees wobbled. She managed to focus on the couple gaping at them from maybe five feet away, standing between them and the street. She recognized them of course, as they were the people she and Ethan had come to find.

“Lady Foxcroft.” Audrey strove to keep the apprehension from her tone. She curtseyed, as one would do in the presence of the daughter of a duke. Then she repeated the action for her husband. Though he wasn’t a peer at all, he still deserved a curtsey, she reasoned. “Mr. Foxcroft.”

“Good evening, Miss Cheswick,” Mr. Foxcroft said. He gave both Audrey and Ethan a thoroughly assessing perusal. “You are, ah, a bit underdressed for the assembly.”

Audrey and her friends had known Lady Foxcroft as Miranda before she’d been expelled from London two and a half years prior for exhibiting scandalous behavior. Her exploits had, in fact, inspired Audrey to launch her own ill-fated adventure with the blacksmith’s son.

Miranda smacked her husband playfully on the arm. “Fox, they are clearly not going to the assembly. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be skulking about the window. What are you doing out here?”

The fear that had shot through Audrey when she’d heard the cough returned tenfold. She glanced at Ethan and hoped she didn’t look as panicked as she felt. He, on the other hand, looked calm and cool, not at all as if they’d just shared an incredible embrace that had been tragically interrupted.

“We’re actually looking for you.” Ethan smiled and the effect caused Audrey’s knees to wobble again. The man possessed devastating charm when he wanted to, and probably even when he didn’t. “We’re, ah—”

“Eloping,” Audrey said, sidling closer to him and putting her arm around his waist. There was no sense hiding what they’d been doing. And really, what else were they going to tell them? Their plan, rather, Ethan’s plan, had been to simply drop her at Bassett Manor and leave her to explain how she’d gotten there. However, now that they’d both encountered the Foxcrofts and they’d been caught in an embrace, it seemed a new plan was in order.

Miranda and her husband looked at each other, doubt clearly etched on their faces. Her mouth curled into a confused moue. “You came here on your way to Gretna Green?”

“Something like that,” Ethan said smoothly, moving away from Audrey. “We’ve come a long way. Might we go to Bassett Manor for a bath and perhaps a meal?”

Miranda straightened. “Of course! We only just arrived for the assembly, but we’ll have the coach take you home.”

Fox looked at her, his mouth lifting in a half-smile. “Shouldn’t we go with them? For propriety’s sake?”

“Why bother? They’ve clearly been traveling alone.” Miranda glanced at Audrey who was certain her face had turned a vivid scarlet. She gave her a commiserative smile. “Sorry, dear.” Miranda touched her husband’s arm. “I’m sure they want to get cleaned up. We’ll see them later. I refuse to miss the quarterly assembly.” She turned to look at Audrey and Ethan. “You see, my husband is the finest dancer in all of Wiltshire.”

Audrey didn’t think it would be seemly to argue that Ethan was, in fact, the best dancer in all of England. Probably because her opinion had more to do with his kissing than his actual dancing skill.

Mr. Foxcroft scrutinized Ethan. “Gretna Green, you say? You’re a bit out of the way if you’ve come from London.” His gaze raked over them again and he clearly wondered why they were dressed as they were—Ethan in an incomplete suit of clothing and Audrey in an unfashionable, ill-fitting sack. Thank God she at least had the bonnet to mask her disastrous hair, though she suspected it was a catastrophic mess after the way Ethan had tangled his hands in it. Heat bloomed in her belly and she tried desperately not to think of their kiss. Rather, kisses.

Ethan’s features were placid, his smile benign. “As I said, it was something like that. We’re not on our way to Gretna Green.”

Audrey recognized what he was doing; he’d done it with her the past few days. He acted as though he was answering questions in a polite fashion, but in reality he didn’t impart the information one was looking to ascertain. Then again, he’d also outright ignored her questions or told her plainly that he wasn’t going to answer them. She decided this was a better tactic.

“Might we discuss this later, Foxcroft?” Ethan asked. “I’d like to see Miss Cheswick to Bassett Manor right away.”

“Certainly, and it’s Fox.”

Ethan held out his hand. “Ethan Locke.”

Miranda offered her hand to Ethan, who pressed a kiss to her glove. “Fox, you remember, he’s Lord Lockwood’s brother.”

Ethan smiled broadly. “Indeed. We, ah,” he glanced at their horses, “have mounts that will need to be tended.”

“We’ll send a couple of grooms to collect them when the coach comes back to retrieve us. Fox?” She inclined her head toward the coachman.

Fox shook his head at her, then went to direct the retainer. When he returned he said, “Everything is organized. The coachman will take you to Bassett Manor straightaway.”

“Thank you.”

Miranda went to Audrey and linked arms with her. “Pardon us, gentlemen.” She moved her away a few steps and whispered, “What the devil are you doing here with him?” Her gaze dipped over Audrey’s form. “And just look at you. Good Lord, what happened?”

“It’s a dreadfully long story. I’ll tell you about it later.” Which will give me time to figure out exactly what to say. “However, if you have clothing we might borrow . . .”

Miranda waved her hand. “Of course. Just ask my maid for whatever you need.” She turned and led Audrey back to where Ethan had moved to stand near the coach. “See you later!” She waved, then dragged her husband into the assembly.

Ethan, meanwhile, helped Audrey into the coach and climbed in after her. They started moving almost immediately and the rumble and sway of the vehicle, and its delightfully cushioned seats, were a welcome respite from horseback.

Ethan sat on the seat opposite her. The lantern inside the coach showed the firm set of his jaw and the lines around his mouth. “That was unfortunate,” he said.

“Them catching us? Yes.” She’d been about to say the kiss had been anything but; however, she decided it might be better if they didn’t discuss it. Not when Ethan looked annoyed. “Are you angry?”

His features relaxed slightly and he leaned his head back so that he was looking at the ceiling of the coach. “No. I just have to readjust my plan.” He lowered his gaze and directed her a half-amused, half-frustrated look. “They think we’re eloping.”

“What else was I supposed to say? They saw us . . . you know.” Audrey scooted toward the corner where the lantern light didn’t quite penetrate, in the hope of shadowing her flaming cheeks.

He pulled the curtain aside and looked outside. “I don’t know. I suppose we’ll simply tell them tomorrow that we’ve changed our minds. I’m sure they’ll agree to come up with a story that will preserve your reputation.”

“My reputation is beyond preservation.” She had no remorse about this, but recognized her family would be devastated. However, there was nothing she could do about it now. “My grandfather knows I left with you.”

He dropped the curtain and sat back. “If everyone thinks I kidnapped you, your reputation could be salvageable.”

She laughed, but it was hollow. “You don’t really understand Society, do you? I could tell them all you stole me away in the night but didn’t lay a hand on me. No one would believe that. Besides, I won’t let anyone think you kidnapped me, because you didn’t.”

A long moment of silence stretched between them before she continued. “Let’s just tell them we’re going to America together. Then we can leave after your arm is healed.”

“And actually go to America? My life—my brother—is in London, Audrey.”

“You left London. In quite a hurry too. Won’t Bow Street be waiting for you when you return?” How she longed to know why they were pursuing him.

“Probably.”

This time the heat in her face was due to anger. “Why won’t you just tell me what happened? It can’t possibly be worse than killing someone, and you’ve already admitted to that.”

He rubbed his hand over his eyes. “Audrey, please don’t ask me. I’ve told you far more than I’ve ever told anyone.” He lowered his hand and settled a dark glare on her. “Don’t make me regret that.”

She leaned slightly forward “People would help you. Your brother and Lydia. Me. And we know other people.”

“Your faith in people is astounding.” The disbelief in his tone filled the coach with a sour air. “You assume there’s a way to help me without even knowing what I’ve done.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “You see why it would be so much easier if you would just trust me?”

“What’s easy for you is bloody impossible for me. I can’t do what you’re asking.”

Weariness from the past few days of travel and from doing battle with him on this issue made her droop back against the seat. “No, you won’t. There’s a difference. I only hope someday you’ll find a way to see it.”

SEVEN

Ethan was grateful he hadn’t had to endure an interrogation from Fox last night. When he and Audrey had arrived at Bassett Manor, an ancient pile of stone that looked as if it was undergoing much-needed refurbishment, they’d both been shown immediately to their rooms. He’d enjoyed a meal and a bath in his chamber and had forced himself to fall into bed, where dreams of chocolate corkscrew curls and aqua eyes tortured him all night long.

Now, however, the stark light of a bright October morning streamed through the hall windows, and as he stepped into the breakfast room, Fox was already seated at the table.

“Good morning,” Fox said, smiling. He indicated the sideboard, which was stacked with food. “Help yourself.”

Ethan goggled at the amount and variety of items. There were ham and kippers, potatoes and turnips, eggs, bread, and cheese. It was an awful lot of food for Fox and his wife and their guests.

Fox interrupted Ethan’s cataloging of the menu. “Miranda wanted to have a proper breakfast for you. I told her it was too much.”

“Perhaps.” Regardless, Ethan was hungry and would do his best to put a dent in her array. He piled a plate high and joined Fox at the table.

Fox eyed Ethan’s plate. “Perhaps not.” He popped a bite of toast into his mouth. Then he sat back in his chair. “So, you’re not exactly eloping to Gretna Green. Pardon me, I have to ask.”

Ethan understood. It was why he’d planned what to say. He only hoped Audrey would cooperate by crying off before they went anywhere. Otherwise, he’d have to be the one to leave her, and he didn’t want anyone thinking she’d been abandoned—she deserved better than that. “No, we’re headed to Plymouth where we plan to take a ship for America.”

Fox shot forward in his chair. “The devil you say. That’s quite a departure.”

Ethan shrugged. “I’m the bastard son of a viscount. My prospects are likely better there.”

Fox settled back in his chair. “Your prospects are whatever you make them. I can see the benefit of starting in a new place, of establishing yourself. However, it’s not as if you wouldn’t be accepted here. I suspect you’d gain entry into more places as Lockwood’s bastard than I do as a legitimate nobody.”

Ethan scooped up a spoon of potatoes. “You’re not a nobody. You’re married to the Duke of Holborn’s daughter. That will gain you entry anywhere.”

“You know what I mean. Before Miranda, I wasn’t fit to clean the man’s boots.” Fox’s mouth twisted wryly. “Believe me, he told me so.”

Ethan swallowed. He understood what Fox was trying to say, and didn’t disagree with him. In fact, Ethan had counted on his ability to claim a place in Society despite his illegitimacy. He was, as Fox had pointed out, the son of a viscount. That counted for something and while it wouldn’t give him carte blanche, it would likely allow him to do just about everything he wanted.

Which was what? Attend house parties? Take tea with London’s elite? Obtain a voucher to Almack’s? He nearly choked on the bite of kippers he’d just taken. So maybe not Almack’s, the horror, but he thought he might like a house party or two. His last few days on horseback had been painful, but he’d recalled the lessons he’d taken as a lad, the promises of riding with his father, of joining him on a hunt, and he’d begun to revisit the dreams he’d thought long destroyed. Dreams that were still likely unreachable, given his problems with both Bow Street and Gin Jimmy.

“You should come with me to the orphanage today,” Fox said. “I’ll show you what we do there.”

Ethan was surprised to find he was actually tempted to stay for a few days. He told himself it was because he was tired and he wanted to rest his arm, but there was something appealing about spending a day or two with Audrey before he left. Or at least today. Since she hadn’t left her room yet this morning, there hadn’t been an opportunity to organize their plan. He might as well accompany Fox to his orphanage. “Yes, show me your orphanage.”

Fox pushed back from the table and stood. “Excellent. I’ll meet you out front when you’re finished.”

Ethan nodded and welcomed the peace of enjoying his breakfast the way he so often did: alone.

Little more than a half hour later, Fox steered his cart up the long drive to Stipple’s End, a monstrosity of a building that was equally as ancient as Bassett Manor, but less stately in its appearance. Ethan didn’t know much about architecture, but even he could recognize the house had been renovated many times over the past centuries.

He didn’t bother censoring his reaction. “How old is this place?”

Fox chuckled as he steered the cart around the building to a stable area in the back. “Six hundred years. But that’s just the original building. The various enlargements happened at different times.”

Ethan surveyed the peaks in the roof, part of which appeared to be newly repaired. “And you said it’s been in your family nearly as long as it’s been in existence?”

A boy maybe twelve years old rushed to meet them. Fox handed him the reins as he climbed down. “Thank you, Charlie.”

Ethan stepped out of the cart and joined Fox as he made his way toward the back of the house.

“We’ve run the orphanage for nigh on four hundred years, beginning when Stipple’s End came to the Foxcroft family by way of marriage,” Fox continued. “My forebears didn’t need two houses and sought to use the extra one to help the children in the district. It started as a school, actually, but gradually became an orphanage.” Fox held the back door open and gestured for Ethan to precede him into a narrow hallway.

Ethan walked inside and sniffed as a strong odor assaulted him.

Fox strode past him. “They must’ve already started painting. We’ve done a lot of improvements over the past couple of years. The roof fell into the great hall two years ago.”

Ethan followed him into a massive great hall. “That sounds expensive.”

“Quite. Luckily, I married Miranda. She inherited a property that makes an income, and I’ve been able to make improvements at Bassett Manor so that it’s now starting to earn a better income.”

“You married her for her money?” Though it was a typical occurrence, Ethan was surprised to hear Fox say so.

Fox pivoted to look at him. “Hell no. I married her because she’s Miranda. That she improved my financial state is simply a happy accident.”

Ethan felt a pang of alarm. Fox had fallen in love with her. Like Jason had fallen in love with Lydia. Christ, love was all around him. What if that happened to him—with Audrey? Falling in love had never been something he considered and now . . . there couldn’t be a worse time. If he’d needed a reason to get the hell away from Audrey, he had one now. Not that he was actually in danger of falling in love with her. He was, however, in danger of falling in lust.

“Bernard, you’re off to an early start this morning,” Fox said, moving toward the boys who were painting.

A tall lad, probably fifteen years old or so, turned. He held a round brush in his hand and had been applying whitewash to the wall. “Good morning, Fox. I hope you don’t mind. I wanted to get this done today, if possible.”

“Why would I mind your industriousness?” Fox clapped the boy on the shoulder. “Locke, this is Bernard, he’s been with us since he was what, four years old?”

Bernard nodded. “Nearly ten years.”

Ethan’s curiosity was piqued. “How did you come to be at Stipple’s End?”

“My father was in the navy, but he didn’t come home. My mother passed and the vicar—we lived in Swindon—sent me here.”

Ethan knew what would’ve happened to the boy if the vicar hadn’t stepped in. He thought of all of the children in London who ended up in workhouses or on the street. He didn’t know which was worse. He knew with certainty, however, that Stipple’s End was far better than either of those alternatives.

Fox moved around to watch two younger boys who’d gone back to whitewashing. “Painting the walls in the great hall is the final step in the long renovation. Miranda wanted to hang wallpaper, but I convinced her that whitewash was the smarter choice in a facility full of children. You’re doing a fine job, boys.”

One of them, an apple-cheeked lad who couldn’t be more than nine or ten and whose hands were covered in whitewash, flashed him a grin.

Fox nodded toward Ethan. “Come, I’ll show you the library, the only room I’ve allowed Miranda to decorate.”

Ethan trailed him along a corridor past a grand staircase. He couldn’t stop thinking of the boys and the incredible opportunity they’d been given in coming here. “What happens to the children when they leave here?”

Fox took a right through a doorway. He turned back to look at Ethan. “Bernard has taken quite an interest in the refurbishment. We had an architectural firm from London here and Bernard was fascinated. I’m going to send him to school in a couple of years—he’s only thirteen though he looks older, I know—and then he’s going to apprentice with them.”

Ethan nearly stumbled over the edge of the carpet as he moved into the library. That an orphan would be able to make so much of his life was astounding. “This is a remarkable place, Fox.” While he was impressed and amazed, he doubted the orphanage would’ve taken him. At fourteen, Ethan had been too old for anything but a workhouse. “Do you have an age limit for those you take in?”

Fox tipped his head right, then left. “Somewhat. It’s more of a judgment call. I can tell if someone is too set in their ways to benefit from what we do. We teach them rudimentary skills such as how to speak and eat properly, how to conduct themselves in different situations. It seems like they ought to know such things, but you’d be surprised at what we take for granted in our station.”

If only Fox knew the “station” Ethan had been living in, that he knew all too well how different things were for the lower classes. He’d not only been taunted for his good looks, he’d been ridiculed because of his upper-class way of speaking and his manners. He’d worked hard to dirty his language and comport himself in a less formal fashion before he’d established himself.

Ethan glanced around the huge room lined with bookshelves. “The orphans have access to all of this?”

“Yes, I transferred all of the books from Bassett Manor here after my father died. It made more sense to have them accessible for the children. I just borrow the books I want and return them when I’m finished.”

His own private lending library. Books were one of the things Ethan had missed most since his father’s death. Ethan possessed a passion for reading, but when his mother had sold the house Lockwood had purchased for her, she’d also sold the books. Ethan read when he could, but the life of a master criminal hadn’t allowed him such luxury. That’s one thing he would do when he regained his life as Ethan Lockwood: He’d have his own goddamned library.

He strolled to the bookshelf and ran his finger along the spines. He inhaled deeply, trying to catch the whiff of parchment and ink, of knowledge and joy. “How did you manage all of this? You inferred that before you married Miranda, you were in financial difficulty. Yet, you managed to keep two estates running and support,” he turned to look at Fox, “how many children?”

“It varies, but we currently house forty-nine. We’ve been able to take in more since I married Miranda. She insisted.”

“She now shares your dedication?”

“Vociferously. Hell’s teeth, you should’ve seen her when she was first forced to work here as penance for her scandalous behavior.” Fox’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “She was completely out of her element. Still, she bewitched me from the start.”

Ethan turned back to the books, picked up a thick volume, and flipped through the pages, relishing the weight of the tome in his palm. He glanced up at Fox. “This is your whole life then? The orphanage?” A noble enterprise.

“And our own family. You haven’t yet met Alexander—our son. He’s only a year old.” Fox gave his head a shake. “He already has everyone wrapped around his finger, just like his mother. He’ll be here later this morning, I imagine.”

Ethan looked up again, once again surprised. “He spends time here with the orphans?”

Fox’s answering stare was cool. “Yes. I grew up with the orphans, and I consider myself the better for it.”

Ethan snapped the book shut. “I meant no offense. I was merely startled to hear that you would allow your son to mingle with them. Most gentlemen would not.”

Fox inclined his head and seemed to relax slightly. “I’m not most gentlemen. I’m barely a gentleman at all. Remember, I’m just Montgomery Foxcroft, farmer and orphanage owner. Who happened to marry the daughter of a duke.”

A vision of Ethan in such a life flashed before him. Could he settle into a situation where he was a country gentleman with a wife and retainers, people who depended upon him? He had underlings who worked for him, but it wasn’t the same. On several occasions, they’d turned against him or simply left his employ for a better offer. There was a degree of loyalty, but money and the promise of power always won out. Ethan imagined it was different in Fox’s experience. “You’ve built quite a life for yourself here. It’s enviable.”

“You hope to do the same in America?” Fox turned toward him and leaned his shoulder against the bookshelf. “Forgive me, but I’m curious as to why you would elope in the first place. Did her parents refuse your suit because of your parentage?” Fox’s lip curled in distaste.

Ethan appreciated the other man’s compassion, but he wasn’t going to divulge any information he didn’t have to. “Audrey and I prefer to start our life somewhere new. She’s long wanted to go to America.” That part, at least, was true. Surprisingly so. Ethan could still scarcely believe she’d tried to run off with a blacksmith’s son. She was either terribly adventurous or exceedingly foolhardy. Ethan recognized those qualities in himself. They were why he’d become a successful criminal—one had to possess a bit of both if one wanted to reap the greatest rewards.

Fox was quiet a moment, perhaps trying to decide whether he would press Ethan for a better answer. Ethan gave him an unwavering stare, daring him to question him further.

With a subtle nod, Fox pushed away from the bookshelf. “If you want to confide in me about anything, I promise you the utmost discretion. America is an awfully long way to go, but I suppose the opportunities there are incomparable—for the right people. I hope you and Miss Cheswick are the right people.” He straightened. “Come, there’s more to see, if you’re interested. You can take the book if you want.”

He did. “Thank you.” Ethan tucked the book under his arm and accompanied Fox from the library. Fox’s words bounced around his brain—America was an awfully long way to go. Could he and Audrey start over somewhere closer? Somewhere that would allow him to at least see his brother from time to time?

Alarms pealed in his brain. What the hell was he doing planning anything with Audrey in mind? It was all a lie, a fabrication they’d told the Foxcrofts to explain their being here. They had no future, no relationship, no reason to be together. The sooner he got away from her, the better. For everyone.

EIGHT

Audrey wasn’t an early riser by any account, but she’d slept rather late that morning. The fresh clothes the maid had left were of the construction that allowed Audrey to dress herself. A boon, because she was eager to see Ethan as soon as possible. Though she hurried through her toilet, dealing with her hair without assistance was a particular chore. When she finally decided she was presentable, she made her way—achingly thanks to several days in the saddle—downstairs. Her haste had been for naught however, when she found the breakfast room empty save for Miranda sitting on the floor with her young son.

Miranda smiled up at her. “Good morning, I trust you slept well.”

Panic rooted in Audrey’s gut and made her feel shaky. She didn’t want to make small talk. “Yes, thank you. Has Mr. Locke come down yet?” She practically held her breath waiting for the answer. He wouldn’t have left without saying good-bye . . .

“He and Fox are at Stipple’s End. If you’d like, we can go for a visit. Just let me take Alexander up to the nurse for his nap.”

Audrey recalled that Stipple’s End was the orphanage they operated. If Ethan was there, Audrey definitely wanted to go. “That would be lovely. I’ll have a quick breakfast.”

Miranda scooped her son into her arms and brought him to Audrey. “Say hello to Miss Cheswick, Alex.”

He held his hand out toward her, his fingers splayed. “Ba!”

Audrey couldn’t help but grin at him in return. “Ba!”

His lips spread to reveal two teeth peeking from the bottom of his mouth. “Ba!”

Audrey moved her head forward so he could touch her cheek. Instead, he grabbed at her hair and pulled a curl free. “Ba!”

Miranda laughed. “We could play this game all day, but you probably want to eat and Alex needs to sleep. Help yourself to the sideboard and ring the bellpull if you need anything—one of the footmen or maids will attend you.”

Audrey nodded as they left and went to serve herself. Her mind immediately returned to Ethan and what they were going to do next.

They.

They weren’t going to do anything. He was going to leave her here and she was going to what, return to London? She had to convince him to take her with him. At the very least, she wasn’t ready for her adventure to end. At the very most, she’d persuade him to trust her and she’d find a way to help him with his Bow Street problem.

While she ate, Audrey pondered how she might get through to Ethan. She also wondered if he’d appropriately cared for his wounds. She’d given him the jar of ointment last night, but had no idea if he’d actually applied it.

As she was finishing up, Miranda returned carrying bonnets for both of them. She handed one to Audrey.

“Thank you for lending me the dress and this bonnet.” She set it atop her head, grateful to have something to contain her wayward hair, and tied the ribbons beneath her chin.

“It’s no trouble. That dress is from when I was carrying Alexander. I thought the larger bodice might fit you a bit better, though I’m sorry it’s so short. But then you’re quite tall.”

“It’s lovely.” Audrey ran her hand along the soft cotton day dress. It was pretty, and most importantly, serviceable.

Miranda chuckled. “Not quite what we’d wear in London, is it? I’m a far cry from the young woman who gadded about London without a care for her reputation. Motherhood changes a person drastically. And I suppose my first taste of it came when I worked at Stipple’s End two years ago during the summer I was banished from London.”

“I remember that. You’d been caught on the Dark Walk at Vauxhall?”

Miranda tied the ribbons of her bonnet. “People weren’t supposed to know.”

Audrey stood from the table and joined her in leaving the breakfast room. “Lady Lydia Prewitt is my dearest friend. I’m afraid I know many things that people aren’t supposed to know.” Lydia had spent the last several years as one of the ton’s premier gossips, at the behest of her chaperone, London’s premier gossip, her harridan great-aunt.

“I see.” Miranda’s lips pursed, and Audrey had the sense that Miranda didn’t perhaps care for Lydia. But then many people didn’t. However, they didn’t know the real Lydia who was kind and witty and the most supportive friend Audrey could ask for. Perhaps now that Lydia was out from under her aunt’s control and had decided to build a future with Jason Lockwood, people would see her for who she really was.

“Lydia isn’t a bad person. She was the victim of terrible circumstances because of her family. Surely you can understand that?” Audrey knew that Miranda’s father, the Duke of Holborn, was a cold and fearsome autocrat. Miranda’s sister-in-law, Olivia Sinclair, was a friend of Audrey’s, and Audrey had heard a tale or two about the duke’s cruelty to his children.

Miranda eyed her cautiously. “I can. And I value second chances. The people here gave me one. They taught me what was truly important in life. Coming here—being exiled—was the best thing that could’ve happened to me. I thank God every day that I was foolish enough to be sent to the country. It’s funny how a poor decision can turn out to be the very thing that makes everything fall into place.”

Audrey acknowledged that her decision to accompany Ethan hadn’t been well thought out, and only time would tell if any good would come of it. She’d wanted an adventure, something that would fill her with excitement and purpose, instead of detachment and ennui. She blinked. It was already exciting. And she’d felt great purpose in taking care of Ethan’s wounds, in helping him to escape, even if she hadn’t realized that was what she’d been doing. If he would only trust her, she would do everything in her power to help him. She knew in her heart that he wasn’t the monster he purported to be, that he was trying to change. Why else would he have been trying to establish himself in Society?

“Audrey, however did you meet Mr. Locke?”

“Through Lydia, actually. She and Lord Lockwood will be announcing their engagement shortly, I imagine.” If they hadn’t already. Lydia had planned to tell Lockwood that she loved him and propose marriage to him, if necessary. He’d already asked her—quite publicly—but she’d frozen amidst the stares and expectation of the entire ton, and hadn’t responded. She regretted her silence, and his humiliation, to her very bones. Audrey was certain she would make it up to him. They made a surprisingly perfect couple.

Miranda paused a moment as they strolled into the large entry hall. “Indeed? I’m shocked to hear Lockwood is going to marry. What about his vice parties?”

“He’s giving them up.”

Miranda laughed. “That will disappoint a good number of gentlemen.”

“Probably.” Audrey averted her gaze and continued toward the front door. She knew far more than most about those parties. With the exception of Lady Philippa Sevrin, Audrey was the only young, unmarried woman to ever attend one. In actuality, she’d attended four, including one on the night she’d left London with Ethan.

“So, Lydia has found love with England’s most scandalous rogue, and you’ve found it with his illegitimate brother?” Miranda shot her an amused glance. “Why did London have to get so interesting after I left?”

Audrey couldn’t contain a laugh, but then Miranda was laughing too. Though a sobering thought was at the back of Audrey’s mind—she hadn’t found love with Ethan. What, then, had she found?

Miranda opened the door—Audrey had learned from the maid the previous evening that they didn’t have a butler, just a housekeeper, a cook, a small complement of maids who performed various tasks, and only a few footmen who also worked in other capacities such that a retainer was rarely stationed at the entry—and led Audrey into the late morning sunshine.

“What a marvelous day,” Miranda said, looking up at the blue sky, marred by just a few drifting clouds. She turned to Audrey expectantly. “Now, you must tell me why you’re eloping. Is it because Mr. Locke is illegitimate?”

It was an easy explanation. But would her parents really care? Audrey was nearly four and twenty. They might be happy to marry her off to a bastard. After all, he was the son of a viscount and that was certainly better than a blacksmith’s son. “Yes. They’re disappointed in my choice.”

The coachman drove toward them and brought the vehicle to a halt. He opened the door and assisted first Miranda, then Audrey inside. During the brief, ten-minute trip to Stipple’s End, they discussed parental disappointment and how they would be far more understanding of their own children. Audrey only hoped she’d have the chance to be a parent someday.

At Stipple’s End, a round-faced woman in an apron greeted them at the door with a broad grin. “Good morning, Miranda.” Her face immediately fell. “Where’s Alexander?”

“He’s napping. Millie promised she would bring him over later.” Miranda turned to Audrey. “They hate it when I come without the baby. Audrey, this is Mrs. Gates, Stipple’s End’s headmistress. Mrs. Gates, this is my friend, Miss Audrey Cheswick.”

Mrs. Gates inclined her head. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Cheswick.” She opened the door wide and gestured for them to enter.

“And you.” Audrey stepped into a massive hall pungent with the smell of whitewash. The far wall was about half painted, but it looked like they’d stopped in the middle.

“What happened with the painting?” Miranda asked.

“An impromptu picnic in the apple orchard,” Mrs. Gates said. “It’s such a lovely fall day and who knows how many more we’ll get. Plus, the children wanted to pick apples before the rest are harvested next week. Fox and Mr. Locke are with them.”

“Then that’s where we’ll go.” Miranda smiled as she linked arms with Audrey and led her through the great hall, then down a narrow corridor to a door that led into the rear yard. They veered left and went down a hill toward the orchard. The midday sun warmed Audrey’s shoulders through the linen of her borrowed gown.

The sounds of children playing and laughing wafted toward them. A small group was playing a game in a clearing, while others were climbing trees. A man, whom Audrey was fairly certain was Ethan, stood on a ladder against a tree.

He balanced a basket full of apples on his hip as he climbed down the ladder. At the bottom, he turned. His gray eyes glinted in the sunlight and seemed to heat as they settled on Audrey. “Miss Cheswick,” he murmured.

Audrey moved closer and kept her voice low. “You should probably call me Audrey. Since we’re supposed to be eloping.” She looked at him with raised eyebrows, urging him to comprehend.

He inclined his head. “I see. Audrey.”

The single word slid into her chest and wound to her extremities, stroking her like an intimate caress. She recalled they weren’t alone, even if it suddenly felt as though they were. “Miranda brought me.”

Ethan’s gaze moved to Miranda. “Hello. Thank you again for your hospitality.” He flicked a glance down at his costume, a gray coat topping a pair of dark blue breeches. The coat was a little wide for his shoulders, but the color suited his black hair and light gray eyes. He wore a simple cravat, which was more than what Fox had donned—his shirt was open at the collar. He came around the tree with another basket of apples and set them near his wife.

Fox dropped a kiss on Miranda’s cheek. “You are as lovely as the day is bright.”

Miranda rolled her eyes. “My husband, the poet.” She gave him a look that clearly held some sort of personal, intimate meaning. Audrey returned her attention to Ethan, lest she intrude.

But averting her gaze to Ethan offered no solace, for he was staring at her with an intensity that was going to set her face on fire. “Why are you looking at me like that?” she whispered urgently before thinking better of it.

“We’re supposed to be a couple, aren’t we?” He took her hand, their bare fingers touching and igniting sensations Audrey felt all the way to her core. He lifted her hand and kissed the back, his eyes never leaving hers.

Despite the warmth of the sun, shiver after shiver raced up and down her spine. “Should you have been climbing the ladder? What about your arm?”

“It’s much better.” He spoke softly. “More importantly, I don’t want them to know I'm injured. Too many questions.”

She understood. “Did you put the poultice on it?”

“Yes, Nurse.” His gaze danced with merriment and she was reminded of her flirtatious waltzing partner instead of the dangerous criminal.

“Come and have some chicken,” Fox said, indicating a blanket bedecked with several hampers of food. “There’s a special basket for us adults.”

Ethan let go of Audrey’s hand, which would’ve been disappointing, if he hadn’t immediately slid it to her lower back to guide her to the blanket. Audrey practically floated there. She didn’t remember the last time a gentleman had paid her such singular attention. Probably because it had never happened.

They situated themselves on the blanket while the children continued their antics around them. Normally, Audrey would’ve been interested in their games and laughter, but she couldn’t tear her attention away from her enigmatic companion. It seemed she didn’t need to try very hard to pretend they were a couple.

Miranda dished them up some chicken and, naturally, apples, though she gave Audrey a lighter portion, likely since she’d only eaten breakfast a short while ago. Audrey didn’t care, she wasn’t the least bit interested in food.

Fox turned to Audrey. “Locke tells me that you and he are going to America.”

Miranda gasped. “America? Why?”

Fox laughed. “Pardon my wife. She once held Wootton Bassett in the same esteem.”

She playfully smacked his arm. “At least it’s still England. And I came around. I can’t imagine living anywhere else now.”

“I imagine you’d do the same in America if we went together. After all, it’s not where you live, but who you’re with that really matters.”

Miranda’s eyes locked with her husband’s and her lips curved into a beatific smile. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Neither could Audrey. Which was why she was willing to go to America with Ethan. Had he really told Fox that, and had he meant it? She slid him a glance. He was eating a chicken leg, seemingly oblivious to the topic. But she knew him better than that. He paid attention to everything.

Miranda turned to look at Audrey. “What will your family think of that?”

Audrey lifted a shoulder. “They’ll have to grow accustomed to it.”

Miranda exhaled. “They will. My parents did.” She flashed Fox a commiserative grin. “Although, you needn’t go all the way to America to avoid your family. Wootton Bassett is far enough removed that I needn’t tolerate my parents and they needn’t suffer me or Fox. It’s a splendid arrangement.”

“I suppose we could stay in England,” Audrey said. Except they weren’t even actually eloping. She was all but certain he was preparing to abandon her here. Why then had he told Fox they were going to America? It must be part of some ruse—hopefully he planned to clue her in. She glanced at Ethan, but he was watching the children who were rolling down the hill.

“I hope you’ll consider it.” Miranda’s eyes widened and she leaned toward Audrey and touched her arm. “You could even settle here. We’d love to find someone to help us with the orphanage. It just keeps growing and there’s so much to do. What do you think, Mr. Locke?”

Ethan’s focus was still on the children. “I haven’t done that—rolling down hills—in ages.”

Audrey stifled a smile at Ethan’s complete—and typical—lack of response to Miranda’s inquiries. Normally, Audrey found this behavior infuriating, but in this instance it was surprisingly endearing. Maybe because she suddenly wanted to roll down the hill. With him.

“Then, we’ll have to partake.” Fox stood up and held his hand for Miranda. “Come, dear wife.”

Miranda took his hand and got to her feet.

“Since I’m wearing a borrowed costume, I feel as though I must ask if I may join in,” Ethan said, standing.

As fun as it looked, Audrey didn’t think it would be good for Ethan’s arm. At all. “My dress is also borrowed. I’d feel terrible if we ruined the clothing.” She tried to send Ethan a pleading glance to silently tell him to sit back down.

Fox shook his head. “It’s no bother. And consider them yours. We won’t send you on your way without provisions.” His eyes hooded for a moment. “Nor will we ask why you didn’t have any to begin with.”

But it had been noted. Audrey stood up in an effort to battle the sudden uneasiness she felt.

Miranda pretended to scowl at him. “Fox, be nice. It’s not as if we haven’t ignored propriety.”

Fox pointed his finger at her. “You ignored propriety. I tried very hard to court you properly.”

“Fine.” She lifted her chin and gave him a haughty look. “Either way, be nice and mind your own business.”

He held his hands up in defeat, then swatted her backside as they turned toward the hill. Miranda threw her husband a flirty, provocative glance. Audrey snuck a look at Ethan to see what he thought of their romantic play, but he was busy brushing a speck of something from his sleeve.

He looked up and registered her, arching his brow in silent question.

“What about your arm? You really oughtn’t roll down that hill.”

“What am I to say?” He touched the small of her back again and urged her to follow Fox and Miranda.

“Just tell them you fell off your horse or something.”

He chuckled. “No. My riding skills are poor enough without adding that lie.”

“You like lying.” At his dark look, she added, “ You at least like avoiding the truth.” And he was rather good at it.

He peered sideways at her. “Maybe I just want to roll down a hill with you.”

“Hurry up!” Miranda called from the top of the hill.

They hastened their pace and joined Fox, Miranda, and the boy who was leading the activity.

“Philip,” Fox said, “we need an adults-only race.”

Philip, a boy of maybe thirteen or so, grinned. “You heard Fox,” he shouted to the children. “Move aside so our elders can have a go.”

Fox cringed at the word elders, but only shook his head with a small smile. “How does this work? First one to the bottom wins what?”

“First pick of Mrs. Gates’s cakes this afternoon at tea,” Philip said.

Fox tapped his finger against his mouth. “That won’t work for us as we likely won’t be attending tea.”

“The winner gets to determine our after-dinner entertainment this evening,” Miranda said with a mischievous glint to her eye.

Fox leaned toward Audrey and Ethan. “We can’t let her win, else we’ll be subjected to charades or some such nonsense.”

Miranda crossed her arms. “You have no idea what I have in mind.”

Audrey had her own ideas about the sort of after-dinner entertainment she might prefer, but none of it included their hosts.

“I’ll take care of winning,” Ethan said with a determined set to his mouth. Audrey had seen him look like that many times before. Miranda didn’t stand a chance.

Philip moved back from the top of the hill. “All right then, assume your positions. Just lie down on your side facing the slope.”

The children gathered around Philip, their faces eager. Some moved to stand near Fox at the end, clearly interested in how he would fare.

Audrey lay down on the grass on her side. Then she turned her head to see Philip.

“Ready? Roll!” Philip brought his arm down.

Audrey pushed herself and rolled a few feet before stopping. The slope wasn’t that steep at first, so they had to work to keep rolling. She propelled herself forward and tumbled a few more feet, laughing as the shouts and cheers of the children spurred her onward. She held her arms close to her sides and threw herself down the hill. The ground fell away as she hit a steeper section and her rotation picked up speed. Her equilibrium went completely sideways as she rolled faster and faster. She closed her eyes to keep the swirling images of ground and sky at bay. Then she landed against something firm, yet very warm.

She opened her eyes and found herself staring into clear gray. In rather close proximity. So close, she could feel his heat.

And see the tight set of his features.

Alarm washed through her. “Are you all right?” She hoped he hadn’t ripped out his stitches.

“I think so.” His voice was tight, thin. “That was, however, ill-advised. I should probably listen to you in the future.”

Audrey would remind him that he said that. “Yes, you should. Although, I must commend you on refraining from cursing.”

This elicited a laugh of such warmth from him that Audrey couldn’t help but laugh with him.

“Believe me,” he said, “it took a great deal of effort.”

“Did you do that for me or for the children?”

His gaze was steady, direct. Soul-stirring. “The children can’t hear me.”

For her, then. She nearly forgot they were in the middle of broad daylight in sight of dozens of people and leaned forward to kiss him.

He shook his head and pushed himself up to a sitting position. “Not here,” he murmured.

“Not here” perhaps meant someplace else. She could hardly wait.

With a grimace, Ethan got to his feet. Audrey scrambled up. Fox and Miranda were twenty or so feet away, laughing. The children were chanting, “Fox won! Fox won!”

“Damn shoulder,” Ethan said. “I should’ve won.”

Audrey wished she could check his wounds. She hoped he hadn’t disturbed the sutures. They weren’t due to come out for several more days. “You’re swearing again.”

He shot her an apologetic glance. It was a first, and caught her off guard. But she recovered quickly in order to take advantage. “Why did you tell them we were going to America? You’re not really planning on doing that are you?”

His answer came swiftly. “No. They’re coming,” he whispered. He wrapped his good arm around her waist and drew her close. “Well rolled, Fox.”

Audrey leaned into Ethan. Though she knew there was no future for them, she gave herself up to the ruse. For today she would pretend to be Ethan’s fiancée. And she would cherish every moment of it. Tomorrow—forever—would come soon enough.

NINE

As the winner of the rolling contest, Fox had chosen dancing as their after-dinner entertainment. To have an adequate number for dancing, Miranda had invited two other couples. The Knotts, Rob who was Fox’s steward and his wife Felicity, were longtime friends of Fox’s. Beatrice Stratham was Miranda’s distant cousin—her parents had taken Miranda in after she’d been exiled from London. Beatrice’s husband, Donovan, was a former MP who’d lost his seat after admitting to accepting bribes. Miranda had told Audrey that Fox had been instrumental in exposing Stratham, which, understandably, made for a strained relationship between the two men. However, since their wives had become close, they suffered each other’s company when required.

Ethan escorted Audrey from the dining room. “What sort of dancing will there be?” he whispered near her ear.

She leaned toward him. “A lot of the kind I believe you termed ‘silly.’” That had been during their first waltzing lesson.

“I haven’t the slightest idea how to do anything but waltz.”

She patted his arm as they entered the drawing room. “You caught on to waltzing fairly easily. I’m sure you’ll do the same with country dancing. I’ll make sure Miranda and Fox call the first dance and we’ll go last. That way you can see how it’s done.”

He gave her a sidelong glance. “I’ll just nod and pretend I understand what you’re saying.”

Audrey smiled at him and laughed softly. “You can pretend you know how to dance as well as I pretended to be drunk when we borrowed that cabriolet. You’ll be as fine as you look.” She dipped her head to hide the blush that stole up her cheeks. She couldn’t help herself; he did look fine. He’d been outfitted in a splendid costume that fit him well enough for her to wonder if someone had made alterations to his clothing as Felicity Knott had done to Audrey’s gown. She’d added a flounce to the hem of one of Miranda’s old dresses so that it now suited Audrey’s height.

“Thank you,” he said, addressing her embarrassing comment. “However, I’m certain I pale in comparison to your brilliance this evening.”

Now her blush was for an altogether different reason. Thankfully they were summoned for the dance. She gave him an encouraging look and led him to the makeshift dance floor.

Over the next half hour, Ethan made an extraordinary effort to keep up. If anyone noticed he’d never performed a country dance in his life, they didn’t say so.

Stratham, a somewhat short—shorter than Audrey anyway—but attractive fellow smoothed back his dark hair. “I say, Locke, been awhile since you danced?”

Or at least, they hadn’t.

Ethan shot the former MP a scalding look, but quickly masked it. Not that Stratham would have noticed. He spent most of his time fawning over his wife, who was expecting their first child.

A small array of refreshments had been laid out, and the gentlemen now took an opportunity to enjoy a glass of spirits. Beatrice and Felicity were discussing her impending motherhood while Miranda came to Audrey with a slight grimace. “I have to beg your pardon for Stratham. He can be a bit of a blurter.”

Audrey nodded understandingly. “It’s all right. Ethan doesn’t dance very much, and when he does, it’s typically a waltz. Like the other night at the assembly.”

Miranda flashed a smile. “Is that what you were doing?”

Audrey’s face heated, much to her chagrin, but she was a hopeless cause when it came to subduing her self-awareness.

“I must beg your pardon,” Miranda said, touching Audrey’s arm, “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“It’s all right. I’ve a terrible habit of blushing. All the time. It’s a nuisance.” She’d almost said “bloody nuisance,” speaking of terrible habits. Ethan was apparently leaving his impression.

“How long do you think you and Mr. Locke will stay before you continue on to America?” Miranda wrinkled her nose. “My apologies, but it’s just so far away. Like I said this afternoon, I just don’t see why you need to go that far. Why not go to Gretna Green and then come back to England?” She cocked her head to the side and smiled softly. “You could come back here, in fact.”

“What do you mean?”

“Fox was telling me about Mr. Locke’s interest in the orphanage. He seems like a man looking for his place in the world. And we really would love to find some people—the right people—to help us enlarge the facilities at Stipple’s End. Imagine being able to help even more children.”

Ethan was interested in the orphanage? Audrey was surprised by this. More than surprised. She was intrigued. “You’d let us come to stay? To live?”

Miranda patted her arm. “It’s something to think about.” She looked over at Felicity and Beatrice, who were coming toward them.

Audrey forced a smile as she tried to push the conversation to the back of her mind. It was difficult—Miranda had given her more than something to think about: She’d given them another option.

However, it included one crucial aspect she and Ethan had never discussed, and one she wasn’t even sure either of them wanted: marriage. She liked Ethan and was attracted to him, but there were so many things she didn’t know about him. Put that with the things she did know, and she had to admit a future with him seemed unlikely, no matter how wonderful he made her feel.

She just had to convince him to stay. Perhaps time would make things clearer?

Later that night, Ethan eased out of his shirt. Undressing had been easier with Audrey to help him. He could’ve accepted the offer of a valet from Fox, but had declined. He’d tried using one when he’d entered Society several weeks ago, but it was an unusual thing to become accustomed to, and the notion just hadn’t stuck. Perhaps that was because the man Ethan had employed was a criminal like him. He hadn’t wanted to invite an unknown into his inner circle. It seemed he couldn’t even trust someone to take care of his clothing.

Furthermore, a valet provided by Fox would’ve seen his wounds, and Ethan didn’t need to explain stitches to a retainer who would blather it to all and sundry. He knew servants, and they were a gossipy lot.

He had, however, asked for a basin of hot water so he could bathe. Barefooted, he padded to the glass in the corner to scrutinize his wound. It had bled a bit, leaving a small, dark stain on the bandage, but it thankfully hadn’t seeped through to his shirt.

After unwrapping the bandage and dropping it to the floor, he prodded at the flesh. It didn’t look angry and it was feeling better, though the hill-rolling had been agony. He’d been cursing his foolishness all afternoon, through dinner, and throughout their post-dinner entertainment.

Ethan didn’t remember when he’d had such a wonderful time. He hadn’t thought of Gin Jimmy or Bow Street or his brother or anything but keeping up with Audrey and learning several new dances—country dances, which he’d never imagined he’d enjoy and which he’d never remember on the morrow. Though he might not recall the steps, he’d remember the evening forever.

Damn, it had felt good to be normal, if only for a day. He was sorely tempted to stay another day, but he worried it would turn into another and another. Still, would that be so terrible?

Miranda’s invitation for them to remain and help with the orphanage, though likely spoken in fun, actually held appeal. He’d never imagined he could be happy anywhere but London, but seeing the difference Fox made to so many young people gave him pause. When he thought of the boys he could help—boys from London that he could bring here and educate . . . They’d be safe from London’s crime and grit, from the temptations that would inevitably lure them to a life of bitterness and regret.

A life like Ethan’s.

A gentle click had him reaching for the knife in his boot, but he wasn’t wearing anything on his feet. He turned from the glass and instantly relaxed at the sight of Audrey creeping into his room.

He hurried to the door and closed it swiftly, leaning against the wood and peering at her, garbed in a dressing gown wrapped tightly about her middle. The gown barely reached her ankles, giving him the opportunity to appreciate her naked feet. Pity there wasn’t more of her to see.

She immediately fixed her gaze on his arm. “I came to see to your injuries.” She took his hand and dragged him to the fireplace where a fire burned brightly. The day had been warm, but the night had turned quite cold.

Ethan allowed himself—happily—to be managed by her. Perhaps his perfect day wasn’t over after all.

She looked at his knife wound and frowned. “There’s dried blood.”

“Hardly any. I’m fine.”

With a mild scowl, she went to the basin with its now-tepid water and dabbed a cloth into it. She returned to him and cleaned around the stitches as best she could. “Does that hurt?”

“No,” he lied. It actually hurt a little, but it was nothing compared to the pleasure elicited by her fingers stroking his skin.

“Where’s the poultice?”

“The drawer in that table next to the bed.”

She fetched the ointment and spread it on his wound. She drew a length of cotton from the pocket of her gown. “I brought you a new bandage.” She wrapped it around his arm and secured the ends. “There. No more rolling down hills.” She gave him a sincere, but captivating stare.

He held up his hands in surrender. “You win. Thank you for coming. I suppose you should go back to your room.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Not so fast. You owe me an explanation. You told me you didn’t have time to stay here, that you needed to be on your way. And then you go and tell Fox that we’re eloping to America. I’m not going to let you evade my questions. Not this time.”

She was so resolute, so adorably perturbed, he almost wanted to prolong her irritation. But even he wasn’t that cruel. “I had to tell Fox something.”

She edged backward from him. “You plan to leave, then?”

He frowned. He didn’t want her to go. “I must. At some point.”

“Why?”

He couldn’t give her all the answers she wanted. It was one thing to confess to killing Four-Finger Tom. That had been more than a decade ago. He wouldn’t tell her he was wanted for killing the Marquess of Wolverton, particularly because he hadn’t done it and he was afraid she wouldn’t believe him. She liked him. She looked at him in a way no other woman had ever looked at him, and dammit she was like sunlight to his blackened soul. She didn’t want anything from him, save his trust. Ironically—tragically—it was the one thing he just couldn’t give. “It’s complicated.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” she said softly, lowering her gaze to the carpet that cushioned their feet before the fireplace. When she raised her face once more, her eyes were so clear and blue-green, he thought he might be looking out at the sea. He’d seen it twice. Just last spring when he’d gone to Cornwall for a prizefight, and as a boy when his father had taken him to Brighton. That life was barely a memory, and yet after a day like today, it seemed within his grasp.

She straightened her spine and clenched her jaw. “Why did you take me with you?”

Because Gin Jimmy had sent men to take her. They thought she was important to him. And, dammit, if she hadn’t been then, she sure as hell was now. The best thing he could do for her, though, would be to leave her so that Gin Jimmy would think he’d tired of her. He never kept a woman long, so it made sense that Ethan would discard her at some point.

But what of Bow Street? It was one thing to start over in Wootton Bassett to avoid an irksome family as Lady Miranda had done, but something altogether different to escape charges of murder. Sooner or later, he was going to have to deal with that.

“I took you with me to protect you from those men who came to your house.” He watched her intently. “You remember what they said—that they’d come there for you.”

She suddenly looked very tense. “Who were they?”

“Men who work for my employer, Gin Jimmy. He’s a lord of crime, Audrey, a very bad man.”

“Why did they come for me?”

As always, he considered how much to reveal. In this case, he didn’t think it would harm her—or him—to know the truth. “They think you mean something to me. I suspect they saw me sneaking into your house when you gave me waltzing lessons.” Which meant they’d been following him for weeks. How long had Gin Jimmy suspected Ethan of turning against him? Or had he simply been keeping tabs on Ethan, who’d been sent into Society to keep an eye on the widow of one of Gin Jimmy’s “inside men,” an earl who, for a price, had identified opportunities for theft within the ton. That widow had ultimately been killed, a murder Ethan was also being charged with.

Audrey’s eyes rounded briefly before she turned to look at the fire. “I see. But you think I’m safe here, so you can continue on and I’ll stay? That’s what you planned isn’t it?”

There was no point lying to her. She deserved the truth—at least as much as it pertained to her. “Yes, I think you’ll be safe this far away from London. I planned to ask you to cry off. Then I’ll leave.”

She threw him a sad smile. “That’s magnanimous of you. However, it won’t spare my reputation.”

He couldn’t keep himself from edging closer to her. “You knew your reputation would be damaged the minute you stepped outside your window.”

“I did. And I’d do it again.” She turned to face him, just a mere foot or so away. He could reach out and touch her, but he didn’t dare. She deserved so much more than he could give.

“Ethan.” Her eyes turned soft. “I would do it again. I don’t want to go back to London—even if I could and it sounds as if it’s not safe for me there, at least not yet and maybe not ever? I don’t really understand how this is supposed to work. But you said you could protect me, so,” she took a deep breath, “take me with you.”

His heart hammered, sending reverberations of want and need through his body until they settled in his groin. Women had begged him for all manner of things: favors, his attention, money. Never had they asked for his company in so earnest a fashion, as if their very peace depended upon it. Still, he couldn’t allow her into the darkness that was his existence. Not now, and, to echo her words, maybe not ever.

“I can’t.”

“Why not? You said I’m safer with you. Keep me safe. Let me do the same for you. I don’t think anyone has cared for you. I do. I will.”

The room swayed a moment and his knees felt as though they might give way. He could scarcely bear what she was offering, and yet his soul hungered for it like nothing before.

She stepped before him and cradled his cheek. “Don’t turn me away. I want to come with you—of my own accord. There is nothing for me anywhere. I’ve never felt as alive as I do with you. Together, we can figure out whatever we need to figure out. Or,” she smiled crookedly, “we can actually go to America and be whoever the hell we want.”

She’d cursed. For him.

Ethan crushed his mouth over hers in a blistering kiss. He didn’t want to coax or invite her, he wanted to own her, to tame her, to bring her completely under his control. When he decided he wanted something, he conquered it fully, and he wanted Audrey.

He thrust his hands into her hair, knowing it would tumble from its pins with the barest of effort. He wasn’t disappointed. With a gentle movement of his fingers, her curls cascaded over his hands and down her back. Violets and honey filled his senses.

He plundered her mouth with his tongue, pleased when she met him thrust for thrust. Her hands clutched at his neck as she pressed herself into him. She was taller than any other woman he’d held, which meant she fit against him in ways no other woman had. His cock burned against her hip. He adjusted her, pulling her so that he was between her thighs. He drifted one hand down her back and splayed his hand across her backside, drawing her tightly to him.

She moaned softly. Ethan continued to devour her mouth as he brought his hand around to the front of her dressing gown. He slid his hand beneath the fabric, wondering if—hoping that—she was naked beneath it. But she wasn’t. Her chemise prevented him from connecting with her bare flesh. It was just the interruption he needed for sanity to gain a foothold in his brain.

He pulled away abruptly and stepped back. “Audrey,” he croaked. “You should return to your chamber.”

“I don’t want to.” She untied her dressing gown, but stopped short of slipping it from her shoulders. She was trying very hard to be seductive and brave, but he saw the underlying tremor of apprehension.

Christ, she was a virgin. Ethan didn’t do virgins. Not since he’d been one, anyway. That had been an awkward affair when he was fifteen. From then on, he’d sought out more experienced partners. Yet, he felt certain none of them would hold a candle to Audrey.

“Audrey, you must. Your reputation might be tainted, but I will not be responsible for actually ruining you.”

“What if I told you I was already ruined?”

He thought of the blacksmith’s son and her aborted escape to America. Her behavior with him over the past several days did not indicate a woman who was comfortable with a man on an intimate level. “I wouldn’t believe you.”

Even as he said it, he was less sure. Had something happened with the blacksmith’s son? He suddenly wanted to get on a goddamned ship and find the prick on the other side of the world.

Her frame relaxed slightly, and so did his. “I can tell you want me. Why can’t I stay?”

He couldn’t keep from laughing, loving her honesty. How strange and pleasant the world would be if people were as genuine as her.

“It’s best for everyone.” He reached out and tied her robe closed, his hands lightly shaking as they grazed her hip. He wanted so desperately to tear every strip of fabric from her body and worship her in the golden glow of the fire. “You deserve a better life than running with me.”

She splayed her hand against his chest, and his will faltered. “You don’t have to run.” She was killing him.

He kissed her again, more gently this time, but still with all the need he’d suppressed for as long as he could remember. Forever, probably. He could relent. Relinquish the control he relied upon to keep himself apart, safe, alone. It was why he didn’t trust anyone to get close. They’d all left him or hurt him or both. If there was one thing he’d learned it was that nothing was permanent. Nothing. At least not for him.

He tore his mouth from hers. He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed away from her, backing up several steps before he could change his mind. “Go. Please.”

“I won’t cry off.” She elevated her chin and gave him a challenging stare. “You’ll have to be the one to do it.” She knew he didn’t want to, was trying to call his bluff. She turned and left, her curls taunting him as she went.

He stared at the closed door for a long time. It was unfortunate she didn’t realize that no one forced him to do anything. Why then, was he considering it?

Audrey had a maid wake her early the next morning. She didn’t want Ethan dashing off before she rose. When she arrived downstairs, however, she learned he’d accompanied Fox to the orphanage to help him with some repairs. Worried he might try to leave her at Bassett Manor, she hurried to join them.

During the short ride to Stipple’s End, she relived Ethan’s kisses. And his rejection. She’d been disappointed that he’d turned her away, but she also knew how painful it had been for him to do so. She smiled, hoping she’d started to convince him they could be better together than apart.

Upon arriving at the orphanage, she was relieved to find him and Fox working on a section of fence. Around a sheep pasture. She smiled at the irony, given where they’d slept two nights ago.

The remainder of the morning passed in a blur as Audrey assisted Mrs. Gates with various duties around Stipple’s End. It was nearly luncheon when Mrs. Gates asked her to oversee the children in setting the table. When Audrey was finished, she made her way to the kitchen to see if she could help serve the food.

Audrey halted just outside the door at the sound of Rob Knott’s voice. “The man said he was from Bow Street, that he was looking for a man called Jagger or Locke.”

“Bow Street?” Fox said, his tone rising with surprise.

Bow Street was here? Audrey couldn’t breathe. She didn’t want to alert anyone to her presence, but more importantly, she just couldn’t seem to draw air into her lungs.

“Unfortunately, Stratham overheard the man and offered that he’d met Locke at Bassett Manor, that he’s your guest.”

Fox swore. “Pardon me, Mrs. Gates. Stratham’s a menace.”

“Did you know Bow Street was looking for Locke?” Rob asked.

“No, I didn’t.” Fox sounded dismayed. “I’ll go and speak with him. Rob, is the Runner on his way?”

“I don’t know,” Rob said. “As soon as I realized Bow Street was looking for him, I came straight here.”

It was all Audrey needed to hear. She tore out of the building and stopped short. Miranda and three girls were just dismounting from their horses in the stable yard. Audrey could scarcely believe her good luck. She hurried over.

Miranda handed her reins to one of the boys who were learning how to groom. “Audrey, are we late for luncheon? I lost track of time, I’m afraid. The girls were doing so well today.”

“No, you’re right on time.” Audrey eyed Miranda’s mount. “Do you mind if I borrow one of the horses? I need to fetch Ethan and I turned my ankle, so I’d prefer to ride.” The lie fell off her tongue with surprising ease.

“Not at all, take mine,” Miranda said.

Audrey wasn’t sure she wanted to take Miranda’s horse. What if she and Ethan left immediately? She was still only borrowing the creature, but the length of the loan was currently indeterminate. “I’ll just take this one.” She took the reins of the nearest animal.

“That’s Posy. She won’t give you any trouble.”

Audrey led her to the block and mounted. “See you in a bit!” She rather doubted that was true and felt a pang of regret that she was perhaps leaving without a proper thank-you or good-bye. She smiled at Miranda. “Thank you. For everything.” Then she turned Posy and raced for the sheep pasture.

Ethan drove a nail into the fence, the effort and exercise soothing him in a way he’d never expected. It was so different out here—the quiet, the smell of earth and grass, the simplicity. He wasn’t sure he liked it, but he didn’t hate it. He did, however, like feeling needed and that he was making a positive impact. By repairing a fence at an orphanage? He scoffed at himself. He could do better than that.

In London, he did what he could. He tried to look out for young boys, and while it was typically too late to dissuade them from crime, he did his best to teach them how to take care of themselves. He schooled them in ways he’d never been taught, and he hoped he made some small difference.

Except in the instance of Oscar. He’d been a young lad, small for his age, orphaned—or so he’d said. He could easily have had parents who were either too drunk to care for him or had pushed him out because they had too many other mouths to feed. At nine, he would’ve been deemed old enough to take care of himself.

He’d turned up in one of the flash houses and would’ve been put to work as a prostitute, or he might’ve joined up with a young theft gang. He’d tried to pick pockets, but hadn’t been very adept. Ethan could see that he was going to fail and likely end up in gaol or worse. So Ethan, who’d been relatively young at the time, just seventeen, had taken the boy out of London to a vicarage.

Ethan had earned sufficient funds to pass himself off as a gentleman. He’d convinced the vicar that the orphaned Oscar would make an excellent groomsman or gardener or anything the vicar could train him to be. He’d then given the vicar a sum of money large enough to ensure he couldn’t say no. But as it happened, the money hadn’t been necessary. The vicar’s wife had brought them tea and upon hearing what Ethan had proposed had wept. They’d been unable to have children of their own and she saw Oscar as a gift from God. It had been the happiest day of Ethan’s life.

Upon returning to London, however, a few of his cohorts had suspected what he’d done. It had made him look soft and weak. He’d never indulged that sort of fancy again. And now, here, amidst Fox’s kindness and benevolence, his lack of action weighed on him.

The sound of an approaching horse made him look up. A lone rider was coming toward him down the road that ran beside the sheep pasture. The back of Ethan’s neck tingled, but he shrugged the sensation away. It could be anyone.

The brim of his hat shielded his eyes from the sun, but he squinted nonetheless in an effort to make out the rider. As he drew nearer, Ethan’s blood ran cold as recognition hit him. Teague.

Ethan tensed to run, but the horse would overtake him quickly. His mind raced. He didn’t want to be dragged back to London to the noose. Unfortunately, that seemed suddenly inevitable. Unless he could take Teague down.

Teague led his horse through the gap in the fence—the gap Ethan and Fox had been repairing—and stopped. He withdrew a pistol from his coat and pointed it at Ethan’s heart. “Finally found you.”

Ethan fought to keep the panic at bay. His fingers clenched around the hammer. Its presence gave him a modicum of comfort. “You came an awfully long way. Most people would’ve given up. In fact, I didn’t realize the Runners even came this far out.” He was satisfied that he sounded calm, unaffected, but then he’d spent years perfecting such deceit.

Teague slid from his horse, but kept his gun trained on Ethan. “I’d follow you to the ends of the earth. Particularly now that I have you away from your protective army, and I’ve charges to lay against you to boot.”

“Ah yes, the charges. You’ve been working so hard to find something. The irony here is that this is one crime I am not guilty of.”

Teague’s lip curled. “I saw you standing over Wolverton’s body with a bloody knife. It doesn’t get much more damning than that.”

Ethan couldn’t argue that, but he hadn’t killed the marquess. “It was Gin Jimmy. You know Wolverton controlled a theft ring. He worked for Gin Jimmy, just like Aldridge did.”

“And Wolverton ended up dead, just like Aldridge.” Teague cocked his head to the side. “You’re Gin Jimmy’s right hand. You were there. It’s logical you would carry out his bidding.”

Logical, yes, but he hadn’t done it. Ethan gritted his teeth. “I’m guilty of a lot of things, but this isn’t one of them.”

Teague’s dark eyes glittered in the midday sun. “Do catalog them for me so that I may increase the charges against you. Shall we start with my sister?”

Ethan expected nothing less. “There was nothing illegal about what happened with your sister. You can’t fault me for her choices.”

“The hell I can’t. She died because of what you did to her.”

A stab of regret pierced Ethan’s gut. Janey Teague had been a nice girl once. Just as he’d been a decent boy. That she’d chosen a dangerous life instead of fighting for whatever opportunities her brother had found wasn’t Ethan’s fault. At fifteen, they’d been each other’s first lovers. He’d liked her, liked having someone he could be intimate with, but their relationship hadn’t lasted long. She was young, beautiful, and possessed a wealth of charm. Lured by the promise of fame and fortune, she’d left Ethan to become some man’s paramour. Years later, when she’d fallen out of favor and had found herself back in Ethan’s world, she’d tried to use their former association to gain entry into Gin Jimmy’s favorite flash house, presumably to draw Jimmy’s eye. However, she’d been turned away and months later, Ethan had heard she’d died of drink. Teague blamed him for her death since she’d told him on her deathbed that Ethan had been the one to ruin her.

Ethan gripped the hammer and calculated whether he could use it to disarm Teague. “I was a lad and she was more than willing. And she left me—I had nothing to do with her later choices. I am sorry for her death, but if I hadn’t been her first, she would’ve found someone else.”

“You rotten piece of filth!” Teague spat.

“I’m not going with you,” Ethan said quietly. He tested the hammer’s weight in his hand. “I didn’t kill Wolverton. You’re going to have to fight me.”

Teague shook his head. “Drop the hammer or I’ll put a bullet in you. That’d be a shame since I’d prefer to watch you hang. The other Runner will be here shortly. We’ll shackle you and take you into town where we’ll get a cart to transport you back to London.”

Ethan’s blood turned to ice. The sound of hooves beating against the earth reached his ears and his stomach clenched. The other Runner.

“As I said. Here comes Lewis.” His mouth contorted into a snarl. “Now, drop the hammer.”

Ethan glanced at the road, but there was no horse. Then he saw it racing down the slope from the orphanage. It was sidesaddled and there was a skirt flowing against the horse’s flank. Audrey.

Relief poured through him and he sought to distract Teague so he could gain the upper hand. He grinned toward Audrey. “It’s not Lewis.”

Teague turned, his brow knitting. Ethan lunged forward and used the hammer to knock the pistol from Teague’s hand. The weapon fired into the air, and Teague’s horse darted off.

Teague spun toward him as Audrey bore down on them. She ran her mount at Teague, who fell to the side before he could be trampled.

“Ethan!” she called, bringing her horse to a halt beside him. “Get on.”

He wanted to tell her to get off the horse so he could leave alone, but how in the hell was he going to ride a horse with a sidesaddle? He climbed up, awkwardly, behind her and she maneuvered the animal out to the road. She kicked the horse to a full run.

He wrapped his arms around her waist and held on, grateful that she was an excellent horsewoman. Or so he thought. He really had no expertise in the matter.

Her head was bare, her dark curls blowing against his cheeks, evidence perhaps that she’d dropped whatever she was doing and come to his rescue. While part of him thrilled at this notion, the rest of him was cold and dead. She shouldn’t be here with him. She should be back at Bassett Manor where she could be safe.

After a short while, she slowed the horse.

His insides twisted frantically. “Must you slow down?”

“I can’t run Posy that hard for too long.”

Posy? He looked up at the sky and tried to gauge their direction. Southeast of Wootton Bassett, he would guess. What was he going to do with Audrey? “You can’t come with me anymore.”

She shook her head. “I’m not leaving you. I still have money, and you don’t. You need me.”

He’d been alone as long as he could remember. Teague had just reminded him of that. “I don’t need anyone. And I’m fairly certain your informing that farmer the other morning that we were on our way to Wootton Bassett is how Teague found me.” She’d made a simple mistake, and if he wasn’t such a prick he wouldn’t have thrown it in her face. But he needed her to go back, and maybe if she stopped liking him, she would.

“I’m sorry. But I’m not leaving you.” She was quiet a moment, but he sensed she wasn’t finished. “The Runner—Teague?—he followed you an awfully long way. Will you now tell me why he means to arrest you?”

They’d come to a copse of trees, a perfect place to take cover if need be. Audrey brought Posy to a stop.

“What are you doing?” Ethan hissed near her ear.

“Stopping.” She turned her head to look at him. “I just saved you back there, something I’ve been doing for days now, and you still won’t tell me why Bow Street is chasing you all over England. I deserve to know the truth.”

Ethan glared at her, hating that she’d helped him, even as he felt relief and gladness that she really should go with him now. Teague had found him, so there was a chance Gin Jimmy’s men might not be far behind. Ethan’s irritation at his lack of control over the entire situation took hold of his emotions. He slid from the horse, needing to think for a moment. “I never asked you to help me.”

“I’m not leaving.” She followed him, albeit gracelessly, and landed against him. She clasped his arms to steady himself. He cringed as her fingers bit into his wound. She pulled her hands away. “Sorry.” Her eyes hardened. “No, I’m not sorry. And I’m not letting you go alone.”

The sound of approaching horses drew them both to turn. Two riders were bearing down on them, and judging from the way their pistols were pointed, they were either more Runners or worse—Gin Jimmy’s men.

TEN

Ethan shoved Audrey to the ground and fell on top of her. So much for her being safe out here.

The report of a pistol sounded. Ethan braced for pain and exhaled when there was nothing. He glanced back and saw one of the men climbing down from his horse, while the other was still riding straight for them. Posy whinnied and ran off.

Ethan rolled off Audrey and dragged her up. “Move!” He ran with her to the trees and pulled her behind a thick trunk. “Can you climb one of these?”

She turned her head to look at him and squeezed his hand. “I’m not leaving you.”

He leaned his head back against the rough wood. “Christ, you’re impossible. You’ll be safer up there.”

“I can’t let you fight both of them. They have pistols.”

“Jagger, there’s nowhere else to run,” one of the men shouted.

Ethan peered around the trunk. A lanky fellow with his pistol cocked moved into the copse. The second one wasn’t visible. Probably reloading his pistol, if he was smart.

Ethan slid the knife from his boot. If he’d learned anything from his years preserving himself, it was to act fast and act sure. He stepped out from behind the tree and launched his knife at the man with the pistol. The blade drove into his flesh just beneath his collarbone. He managed to fire, but the shot came nowhere near Ethan or Audrey.

The lanky man staggered and dropped to his knees, his eyes wide. Ethan ran to him and withdrew the knife. Then he pulled the man’s head by his hair and sliced his throat with a quick flick of his wrist. He dropped the corpse to the ground and spun about before the second man could surprise him, but he hadn’t reappeared.

Ethan moved cautiously toward where they’d stopped their horses. The animals were grazing carelessly, oblivious to the danger around them. But then they weren’t in danger.

Shit, Audrey.

Ethan pivoted and rushed back toward the tree where he’d left her. Too late.

The second man, a thick-chested brute, had Audrey by the waist. He clutched a pistol against her side, but the real threat was the blade pressed to her throat.

“Come with me, Jagger, an’ I’ll let yer gel go.”

Audrey’s skin had gone deathly gray. Her wide, aqua eyes were fixed on Ethan.

Ethan clutched the knife in his hand and considered his options, not one of which was leaving with this prick. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t play along. “How do you want to do this?”

“Drop the knife,” the man said, “then get down on your knees.”

“You going to kill me or take me back to Gin Jimmy? That is why you’ve come, isn’t it?”

“Ye’re a smart lad, but then we all know that.”

“You won’t be able to take him alone,” Audrey said, her voice sounding small but strong. She never failed to surprise Ethan with her bravery.

The rogue grinned and moved his mouth far too close to Audrey’s ear. “I don’t plan to. There’s another pair of gents just behind us.”

Audrey flinched. Ethan’s patience was wearing thin. He wanted to end this. Now. But if he missed . . .

The man’s grin turned into a malevolent sneer. He dug the knife into Audrey’s neck until a drop of blood appeared. “Drop the blade, Jagger.”

Ethan didn’t hesitate. He threw the weapon and prayed his aim was true. The knife speared into the man’s jugular. His eyes rolled and he stumbled backward.

Audrey swayed. Ethan rushed forward and caught her. “I have you!” He looked into her eyes and tried to give her some strength. But he couldn’t stay with her. Not yet.

He squeezed her arms and dashed to where the man had fallen to the ground. His eyes stared at the treetops, and his mouth sputtered as blood leaked from between his lips.

Ethan pulled his knife from his neck. Blood spilled from the wound, staining the dirt beneath him in an ever-widening pool of black-red.

Ethan wiped the blade on the man’s coat and replaced it in his boot. They needed to get out of there in case there really were two more men coming. He wasn’t sure he believed that, but wouldn’t take the chance.

He walked back to Audrey, who’d turned to watch what he’d done. He lightly clasped her arm and drew her away. “Don’t look.”

He guided her quickly through the trees, silently cursing that they had to walk past the other dead man. She kept her gaze focused straight ahead.

“On the brighter side of things,” he said, “we have two saddled horses to take us where we’re going.” There was no question now that she had to come with him.

She pulled her arm away from him. “I’m not going with you.” She didn’t make eye contact, but maintained her vacant stare. She’d changed her mind?

“I’m afraid you must. You heard him. There are more men coming.”

“I’ll ride back to Wootton Bassett. It’s what you want, isn’t it?” She’d sounded so resolute in the copse—frightened, but still brave. Now, she sounded defeated. Broken.

Ethan hated himself more than he had ever thought possible in that moment. But what choice did he have? He couldn’t let those men hurt her. Or take him.

He grabbed her shoulders and forced her to look at him. “You’re coming with me. I had thought you’d be safe this far from London, but clearly that’s not the case. We need to keep going.”

“Fox will see to my safety once I get back.”

He used his sternest voice, knew that he wasn’t helping matters, but they didn’t have time to debate this. “You’re not listening to me, Audrey. Get on the horse.” He pulled her to the nearest one and tried to push her to get on.

She resisted, elbowing him in the process. “Let me go!”

He’d shocked her, like that night on the road near Hounslow when he’d killed the highwayman. She’d work through this and accept it as necessary, just like she had before. At least, he hoped she would.

He slid his hands on either side of her head and flattened her back against the side of the animal. “Audrey.” He pressed his fingers gently against her scalp. “You’re not thinking clearly. I know that was traumatic. But I had to kill them. It was that, or let them kill me, because that’s the only other way that would’ve ended.”

Emotion finally entered her eyes, dark and soul-piercing. “Why won’t you go back to Wootton Bassett? Bow Street is a better alternative than having to kill to stay alive.”

He wouldn’t argue with her that fighting for his life was second nature, that he’d rather kill a thousand of Gin Jimmy’s hirelings than take his chances with the hangman’s noose.

Why he finally decided to be honest with her, he didn’t know. He just knew he needed her to come with him and he’d do anything to make that happen. He leaned closer and stared into her eyes. “Because I’m wanted for murder and I’ve no wish to dangle from a rope.”

Audrey endured the next day and a half with barely a word to Ethan. They’d ridden well past dark the previous night, but the moon had lit their way to a small inn on the outskirts of Bath. Ethan would’ve preferred to sleep in a barn again, but they’d had to change horses. They’d ridden theirs too hard for too long. So they’d found a coaching inn where they’d replaced their mounts—which included acquiring a ladies’ saddle for Audrey—and slept for a few hours.

That early morning stop seemed forever ago, though it was only dusk of the same day. They’d just skirted the town of Glastonbury—they avoided entering any place that was too populated—and Ethan had informed her a while ago that they’d stop when they reached Street, a small village a few miles away. He still didn’t trust her enough to share their ultimate destination. If he hadn’t been so purposeful in their travel, she might’ve doubted he even had one.

Weariness overcame her and she closed her eyes as her mount plodded along. She’d slept last night, early this morning really, out of pure exhaustion, but the images of the men Ethan had killed permeated her dreams. She didn’t really blame him, not when he’d done it to save their lives. The part she couldn’t quite process was the ease with which he’d done it. He’d thrown that knife as if he’d done it every day of his life, and he’d shown the same remorse one might when one squashed a fly, which is to say none. And now she knew the truth of his escape from London: Bow Street wanted to arrest him for murder. She’d been too stunned to ask for more information, too overwhelmed by the events that had transpired.

“You’re not falling asleep are you?” His voice, coming from her right, jolted her eyes open.

“No.”

“I know you’re tired. We’re nearly there,” he said.

“To Street, but where after that? I wish you would tell me. I won’t tell anyone.”

His mouth pressed into a tight line. “I can’t afford for you to let it slip by accident.”

She glared at him. “I’m not a simpleton.”

“I didn’t say you were, but you’re also not skilled in deception.”

She thought of the times she’d fooled everyone at Lockwood House into thinking she was a man. “I’m better at that than you think.”

He cast her a sidelong glance. “Indeed?”

“Don’t ask me about it. I’ll be as closemouthed as you.” She actually took solace in having a secret to keep from him. “Don’t think that your revelation yesterday has softened my temper.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He sounded amused, the blighter.

She was so bloody tired of his half-answers and cheeky attitude. She drew her horse to a stop. He rode a few yards in front of her before stopping and turning back.

She walked her horse up beside him. “Did you commit murder? Aside from yesterday. And the highwayman. And that boy you killed when you were younger.” Four people. He’d killed at least four people. She shouldn’t be surprised if there were more.

“Are you asking me if I did what Bow Street is accusing me of? No, I did not.”

Some of the tension leaked out of her, causing her frame to wilt a little. Instinctively, she believed him, but why? What cause had he given her to trust him? He’d kept her safe, protected her at the greatest of costs. But he still wouldn’t open himself to her.

“Why should I believe you?” She held up her hand to stop him from speaking, though realizing he likely wouldn’t have said a word—at least not on that subject. “Never mind. I don’t care to know. I only want to get wherever we’re going. Do you want to leave me there too?”

His jaw clenched as he stared at her. At length he finally answered. “I don’t know.”

Maybe he didn’t have a destination. He hadn’t before. “Do you even know where we’re going?”

“Yes. Very far from London. Someplace I hope you’ll be safe.”

She tried to conceive of where he might take her, but then how would she know anything that went on in his secretive mind? She was surprised to hear that he even knew of anyone or any place outside London, let alone “very far” away. “You thought I’d be safe in Wootton Bassett.”

His stare turned into a glower. “For now, we need to keep moving. I’ll figure out what to do when we get where we’re going.”

She’d had enough of his cavalier behavior. “You’ll figure out what to do. Am I not to be consulted?”

He tore his gaze from hers. “Dammit, Audrey, I’m trying to do what’s best for you.”

She sharpened her tone. “My parents have also tried to do what’s best for me—in their opinion. I think I should like to decide what’s best for me. That’s the reason I came with you.”

He glanced at her, but his expression was unreadable. “We need to find a place to stay.” He kicked his horse forward. Since she didn’t want to linger in the middle of nowhere, she followed him. “To conserve money, we can’t stay at an inn every night. I’d like to find a cottage or a house that might take us in. A vicarage would be good—they’re keen on helping others.”

That made sense. “You plan to simply ask for lodging?”

“You’re expecting a child, and we can’t travel anymore today.”

“What?” It was a good thing she was on a horse, because if she’d been walking, she would’ve tripped.

He shot her as sidelong glance. “We want them to take pity on us. Do you have a better idea?”

No, but that didn’t mean she had to like it. Two days ago, the idea of pretending such nonsense would’ve made her laugh. She’d enjoyed faking their engagement in Wootton Bassett. She’d never felt more alive, more wanted. “And why are we traveling on horseback with nothing but the clothes on our backs?”

“I’m your brother and I’m helping you escape your abusive husband.”

Her brother. So much for a sham romance. She looked over at Ethan. He looked like a farmer in his floppy hat, but beneath the brim was the visage of a hard man, a criminal who’d seen and done unspeakable things. His kisses had enthralled her, but what more could he promise her? He’d done her a great service by sending her back to her room the other night, and if she were smart she’d welcome any space between them.

They passed the gates to a wide drive. Audrey looked up and saw a manor house atop a hill. It was stately and beautiful with the setting sun coloring the windows a burnished gold.

They rode another few minutes before Ethan’s sharp voice drew her attention. “Audrey.” He inclined his head toward an intersection with a narrow lane where a man was watching them.

The man stepped into the road. Ethan’s hand drifted toward his boot. Hoping to avoid another violent act, Audrey rode past Ethan and engaged the man. He looked to be past thirty, with ragged hair, and an untrimmed beard. His clothing was in good condition, but a bit dirty. He tipped his hat at her, which she found encouraging.

“Good evening, kind sir,” Audrey said as Ethan rode up beside her.

“Evening, miss.” His gaze darted to Ethan.

“I’m Miss Hughes.” Belatedly, she realized she was supposed to be married. Oh well. “This is my brother.”

Ethan inclined his head. “We’re looking for a place to stay for the night.”

“I expect so.” The man looked up at the darkening sky. “Not many places to stay in Street.”

“We’re a bit low on funds, as well,” Ethan said. “Perhaps you can direct us somewhere with a tendency for generosity.”

The man nodded. “Can’t rightly think of such a place. But you’re welcome to stay with me. I’m Peck. I live in the hermitage at Versant House.”

That must be the manor house they’d passed. Audrey had known of a few hermits at grand houses, but had never met one. “Thank you for your kindness.”

Ethan looked over at her, and she could tell from the set of his mouth that he wasn’t convinced they should accompany the hermit. Audrey thought it was the best they could hope for. The hermit wouldn’t tell anyone about them. It would afford them a level of anonymity they likely wouldn’t find anywhere else.

She stepped her horse closer to his. “Come, brother. The hermit seems a kindly fellow, and he’s all alone.”

With a subtle nod of his head, he seemed to get her meaning. “Very well.” He looked down at the hermit. “Lead the way.”

“’Tisn’t far.” He led them down the narrow path for perhaps a half mile, before cutting through some rougher terrain to a small clearing nestled in a grove of trees. He gestured to a small stone structure. “My humble abode.”

Humble indeed. It boasted a single room and a dirt floor, though at least it had a hearth.

The hermit gestured toward the trees. “Just tie your beasts up. I can’t offer lodgings for them, but there’s fresh grass, plus an apple tree and a stream over yonder.” He pointed opposite the way they’d come.

Ethan climbed off his horse and Audrey followed suit. He took care of tying them up and unsaddling them, then used his hands to brush his mount as best he could, while Audrey did the same for hers. Meanwhile, the hermit had gone into his little house.

“What the hell is a hermitage?” Ethan asked.

He’d never heard of one? But why would he have? “Some large houses like the one we passed keep hermitages—small houses or even caves. Most are follies, but this one is real. It seems Versant House keeps a live hermit.”

His eyes widened in horror. “What does that mean—keep? Is he a pet?”

She shook her head, smiling at his reaction. “No. He likely prefers to live on his own and in the elements. Some landowners employ a hermit to provide a sort of entertainment for their visitors.”

Ethan paused in brushing his horse. “I don’t understand.”

Audrey chuckled. “No, I don’t imagine you would. It’s an odd situation, really, though it’s not as popular as it once was, according to my father. As I said, in many cases there is just a hermitage, an abode like that one that looks rather charming and fanciful. However, sometimes there’s an actual person who lives there to give truth to the myth, bringing the fantastical to life.”

Ethan shook his head, appearing altogether perplexed. “I will never understand the eccentricities of the wealthy. He’s paid to live out here alone because it might amuse the landowner and his friends?”

“That’s about right.” Though when he said it, the notion did indeed sound absolutely ludicrous. “It suits the hermit fine, so it’s not a hurtful arrangement.”

“I understand.” He sounded as if he really didn’t.

Audrey finished brushing her mount. “I’m going to pick apples for the horses. They should eat something beyond grass.” Both had been grazing since they’d been tied up.

“No, let me. I’ll water them too.”

Audrey watched him pick his way through the shrubbery and wished they could go back to the way they’d been in Wootton Bassett. Rolling down a hill seemed so far away. It was part of the adventure she’d longed for, but she realized it was only a piece of it. This, now, fighting for their survival is what she would’ve done had she made her way to America. Was it what she truly wanted? It could be, with the right person. But was Ethan the right person?

“I have rabbit stew for dinner.” The hermit’s voice startled her from her thoughts. “Come inside.” He beckoned her from the doorway.

“My brother’s gone to get apples for the horses.” She glanced back toward the way Ethan had gone.

“He’ll come in when he gets back.”

Nodding, she went into the small hermitage. She’d been in one once, but it had been a folly while this was a real home. The interior was dark, with a single window on the opposite wall. A fire sparked in the hearth, its heat permeating the space to make it quite warm. There was a narrow bed in the corner and a single chair with a rickety table.

“I don’t have enough seating, but the rug is comfortable enough.” He gestured to the oval carpet placed in front of the hearth. “His lordship likes to give me things he doesn’t need anymore.”

Not very many things it seemed, but it was better than nothing. She sank down to the carpet and curled her feet to the side. She pulled her bonnet from her head and immediately felt her hair slump to the side in rebellion against the few pins she had left tucked into the curly mass. “You’re happy here?”

Though she’d explained the arrangement to Ethan, she wasn’t sure she didn’t share at least a portion of his surprise at such a situation. Particularly the living outside and alone, which she supposed was the crux of it.

“Oh yes,” the hermit answered, kneeling before the hearth to spoon the stew into three bowls, which once again looked like castoffs from the manor house. “Solitude suits me just fine, but I do appreciate company now and again.” He smiled at her warmly, then handed her a steaming bowl. He fetched three spoons from a small cupboard in the corner and gave her one. “Where are you and your brother headed?”

Ethan would want her to be noncommittal. She tried to mimic the way he danced around questions. “We’re just passing through.” Though Ethan had given her a concrete story to tell, she found she didn’t even want to pretend such an awful existence. “My brother is going to be a teacher at a boys’ academy, and he secured a position for me as housekeeper for the headmaster.”

“He really is your brother then?” The hermit glanced at her skeptically.

Audrey dropped her gaze and filled her spoon with the aromatic stew. “Yes, he is. I’m quite proud of him.”

“Mr. Hughes,” the hermit said, “come in and join us.”

Audrey turned her head to look at the doorway. Ethan stood in shadow, the twilight casting a faint glow around him. He looked rugged and handsome, and she envisioned him living the life of a hermit in the more glamorous hermitage she’d seen before, with its columns, arched doorway, and multiple sparkling windows. Could he live like that? Would he want that?

Ethan moved inside and sat down beside Audrey on the carpet. He set his hat near the hearth and plucked up his bowl of stew and the third spoon with a nod of thanks to the hermit. Ethan shot Audrey a questioning glance, but she couldn’t comprehend what he was asking. Had he overheard the story she’d told? If not, she’d best inform him.

“My brother Wendell is going to be an excellent teacher,” she said. “He’s quite good at motivating young lads.”

Ethan’s nostrils flared, but that was the only indication that he was perhaps surprised or dismayed. Too bad. She was tired of taking only his directives. She’d chosen to come on this adventure and she’d been through quite a lot. If she wanted him to be a teacher instead of her fleeing a violent husband, he could play along.

“What will you be teaching them?” Peck asked before spooning stew into his mouth.

Audrey watched Ethan and wondered what he would say. He’d said he was supposed to attend Oxford and had sounded bitter about not going. Perhaps making him a teacher hadn’t been very thoughtful of her.

“A variety of things,” he said smoothly. “Though Greek is my favorite.” He said something in what had to be Greek, drawing Audrey to look at him in surprise. He was watching her with that edge of arrogance that never failed to heat her belly. “‘Education is an ornament in prosperity and a refuge in adversity.’”

Peck grunted. “I was fortunate enough to learn to read, but I don’t speak any languages beyond my native tongue.”

Ethan leaned slightly forward. “How does one become a hermit?”

“I suppose it must be different for everyone, but if you make enough mistakes and ruin enough chances, there’s not much left to do.”

Audrey studied Ethan for some sort of reaction, but he’d gone back to eating.

Peck finished up his stew, drinking the dregs from his bowl, and wiped his sleeve across his mouth. He stood and put his bowl and spoon on the table. “Just set your dishes here. I’ll wash them in the stream in the morning. I’ll be going out to hunt now. Make yourselves comfortable and leave whenever you wish.”

Audrey blinked at him. “You hunt at night?”

“There are many creatures that only inhabit the shadow hours.” He grinned. “Tasty creatures.”

Ethan nodded and laughed. “Right you are.”

Peck took a blanket from the end of his bed and set it next to Audrey. “I have just this one extra covering, but it’s better than none. Sleep well.”

After he’d gone and closed the door, Audrey turned to Ethan. “Why did you laugh? What do you know of nighttime hunting?”

“Plenty. The best game come out after the sun goes down. We hunters know this.” The gleam in his eye made her shiver. What could he possibly hunt in London?

She thought about what Peck had said about why he was a hermit, about mistakes and ruined chances. Misfortune had driven Ethan to a criminal life, something he would not have chosen otherwise. “You seem to have more in common with the hermit than I would’ve thought.”

“Mmm.” He spooned the last bit of stew into his mouth. “Are you finished?” At her nod, he took her bowl and deposited their dishes atop the table. “Why did you tell him I was a teacher? What happened to the story we planned?”

“‘We’ didn’t plan a story. You did. I didn’t want to be pregnant or abused.” She stretched her legs out in front of her. “Anyway, where did you learn to speak Greek?”

He stood beside the table and looked into the fire. “I didn’t. My father had several favorite quotes.”

“Would you have liked to learn Greek?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I had a tutor who taught me Latin for a time, but I’ve forgotten most of it.”

A life interrupted by tragedy. That he was still here, still fighting for his survival was a testament to his self-discipline. She didn’t know much about the life he’d led but imagined he was someone important. Why else would men have followed him so far from London? “What sort of criminal are you?” she asked softly. “You said Gin Jimmy was a lord of crime. What are you?”

He turned his head to look at her. The firelight danced in his eyes. He shrugged out of his coat and folded it up, then placed it on the carpet that covered the dirt near the hearth. “Your pillow, my lady. You take the blanket as well.”

He wasn’t going to answer her. Again. She wanted to shout in frustration. She settled for glaring at him, but he wasn’t paying attention as he untied his cravat, pulled off his waistcoat, and made his own, smaller, pillow.

She ought to check his wound, but she was too annoyed. Besides, they’d left the poultice at Bassett Manor so there was nothing to do except inspect it. He’d begun to scratch at it, she’d noticed, which meant the wound was healing. Or so the innkeeper’s wife had told her.

He lay down on the carpet, his head on his waistcoat. She did the same, using his coat as her pillow and drawing the threadbare blanket over her. She was careful to keep at least a foot between her and Ethan. Then she rolled on her side, putting her back to him for good measure.

“I’m Gin Jimmy’s right hand. Or I was until I tried to double-cross him.”

Her breath hitched and she held it, trying to be extra quiet in case he said something more. When he didn’t, she rolled over and looked at him. His eyes were open, staring at the beamed ceiling.

“What did you do?” Fear for him quickened her pulse. No wonder men had followed him so far from London. If he’d gone against this crime lord, he would have enemies.

“I wanted to be Ethan Lockwood.” His mouth quirked into a wry smile. “A stupid dream, I realize now.”

“It’s not stupid. And it doesn’t have to be a dream.” She scooted closer to him. “You are Ethan Lockwood, aren’t you?”

He turned his head and looked at her. The searing gray of his eyes nearly burned her with their intensity. “I am who I am, Audrey. I’m a criminal who is wanted for murder and I doubt there’s a way I can redeem myself. I can’t seem to go even a couple of days without having to kill someone.”

She heard the pain and regret in his tone and longed to soothe it all away. “I’ll help you, however I can.”

His features hardened. “There’s no helping me. Any regret I feel at killing those men is because of you. I regret bringing you along and exposing you to my depravity. But know this: I don’t regret killing them. In fact, I revel in it. I rose to become Gin Jimmy’s right hand because I am smart and cunning and above all ruthless. Don’t ever forget that, and don’t ever think I’m someone I’m not. I am the hermit, Audrey. A solitary monster who’s chosen his lot and must endure it.”

She exhaled then, having held her breath through all he’d said. She wanted to argue with him, to again say it wasn’t too late to change, but so far he hadn’t listened.

He looked back at the ceiling. “Go to sleep. We’ve still four or five more days of travel until we get to Beckwith.”

Beckwith? The name was familiar . . . Lord Sevrin’s estate in Cornwall. Where her friend Philippa lived.

Ethan put his back to her, signifying an end to their conversation, and perhaps their friendship, if that was what it had ever been. She rolled to her back and stared at the wood crisscrossing above her. At least he’d finally revealed some of himself, and he’d told her where they were going. A minor victory, but she’d celebrate it since it was the only one she had.

ELEVEN

The hermit Peck awoke early and departed the tiny cottage. Ethan opened his eyes after he left. He’d turned toward Audrey in the night. Now, he watched her sleep, her long, dark lashes fanned against her cheeks. The fire had died down, but still cast enough heat that her cheeks were pink and lovely.

He’d watched her sleep every night that they’d been together. The two nights he’d spent apart from her at Bassett Manor had been cold and lonely. He’d been annoyed at how quickly he’d grown accustomed to her company. He was right about being the hermit—he’d lived a solitary life for far too long and it galled him to rely on anyone else, let alone want to.

Did he want to rely on her? Trust her?

The temptation was there. She was so earnest in her desire to help him, to understand him, to vindicate him. All of it was so misplaced. He didn’t deserve that, especially from her. Which was why he’d continue to keep her at arm’s length no matter how badly he’d softened toward her.

And he had.

She occupied his thoughts as they rode each day and crowded his dreams every night. She was beauty and goodness and he desired her so badly he nearly shook with it. He was no better than a rutting beast. She wanted to improve him, and he wanted to shag her. Proof that he wasn’t worthy of her.

He just needed to get through the next handful of days until they reached Beckwith. Then he could deposit her with Sevrin, who would keep her safe. He’d take his leave and return to London to attempt to clear his name. How would he do that? Teague would stop at nothing to ensure he hung for killing the Marquess of Wolverton. And Ethan had made it easy for him. For Christ’s sake, Teague had found him standing over the dead body with a bloody knife. Ethan wiped his hands over his eyes and cursed his stupidity, as he’d done countless times since that night.

He’d crafted an elaborate plan in which Wolverton would be exposed as the head of a theft ring that preyed upon the elite of Mayfair, while at the same time appearing to have double-crossed Gin Jimmy, which would lure the crime lord out of the rookery. That last part had been the most difficult to manage. Jimmy stayed close to his usual haunts, where he was safe and protected. Getting him out of St. Giles so he’d be vulnerable had taken careful planning. But Gin Jimmy had learned that someone had set him up.

Ethan had tried to puzzle out how that had happened. He could only reason that Jimmy had arrived at Wolverton’s too late that night, after Bow Street—whom Ethan had anonymously tipped off—had already infiltrated the marquess’s home. Instead of being at Wolverton’s when Bow Street had arrived, he’d showed up after the fact. Probably, Bow Street had ignored Ethan’s tip to conceal themselves until after they’d apprehended the crime lord and consequently, Jimmy had seen them at the house.

It made sense that Jimmy had then gone on the hunt for Wolverton, finding him at Lockwood House during one of Jason’s notorious vice parties. Jimmy had killed one of Jason’s footmen, donned his livery to pass into the party unnoticed, then killed Wolverton. Ethan had gone onto the terrace just as Wolverton lay dying. The marquess had told Ethan that Jimmy was dressed as a retainer. Then Ethan had caught sight of the knife Jimmy had used. The hilt had been engraved with the letter J, which Ethan knew meant Jimmy, but which could also be interpreted as being for Jagger. He’d picked it up, intending to remove it from the scene, but that was when Jason and then Teague had come onto the terrace and discovered him.

In the eyes of Bow Street, Ethan was a murderer. It didn’t help that they’d also wanted to charge him with the death of Lady Aldridge, who’d died of opium poisoning at the hands of Jimmy’s underlings. Her husband had led a second Mayfair theft ring and had been killed last spring when he’d been in danger of being caught by a former magistrate. Jimmy didn’t want Aldridge or his widow telling the authorities about the intricate theft rings he’d built among London’s Upper Ten Thousand.

Audrey’s eyes opened and she blinked several times before focusing on him.

He tried to read her expression, but couldn’t. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” she murmured. She sat up abruptly. Her hair had come completely undone, as it usually did in her sleep. The dark curls cascaded past her shoulders. She put her hands up and patted the mass.

He gathered up the pins on and around his coat and handed them to her. “Here. I don’t see a glass, and judging from the length of Peck’s beard, I presume there isn’t one.”

She held her palm flat to receive the hairpins. “I daresay you’re correct.” She smiled at him, and it was at moments like these that he wondered if he could truly choose a normal life. With her.

He shook off the ridiculous fancy and got to his feet. “I need to run outside.”

He took his time conducting a rudimentary toilet in the narrow stream running seventy or so yards away from the hermitage. He wondered if he’d run across Peck, but didn’t.

Perched on a rock, he leaned over and splashed water on his face. The sound of a gunshot nearly launched him into the creek. He leapt up and raced back toward the hermitage. If Jimmy’s men had found them again . . . He nearly tripped in his desperation to get to Audrey.

As soon as he reached the clearing where the tiny cottage was settled, he stopped short. Four young dandies were circled around with their rifles. Peck and Audrey stood near the doorway to the cottage.

Everyone looked safe and whole. Ethan’s heartbeat began to slow.

One of the dandies turned. “This your brother, then?” He took in Ethan’s damp hair and shirtsleeves. Ethan hadn’t bothered to don his waistcoat or any of his other garments yet, while these men were decked out in their best hunting attire. Their finery grated on Ethan. His clothing and accoutrements back in London rivaled anything they were wearing. He might be a goddamned criminal, but he was the best-dressed one in London.

Audrey had managed to tame her hair into a sedate style. Dressed in Miranda’s dark blue gown that was too short for her, she looked like an inferior miss in hand-me-down clothes. Ethan detested that far more than his own inadequate costume. In different circumstances, he would gown her in the finest silks and drape her in jewels.

“Yes, this is my brother, Wendell,” Audrey said. “Wendell, these gentlemen are out for their morning hunt.”

“I heard the gunshot. I trust they’re not hunting hermits.” He didn’t bother masking his glower. What manner of idiots were they to be firing so near to the hermitage?

“No, no,” one of them answered jovially. “Just a misfire!” He didn’t seem to notice or perhaps he didn’t care about Ethan’s annoyance, which only served to irritate Ethan even more. Everyone paid attention to his reactions. It was generally accepted that agitating Jagger wasn’t beneficial for one’s health.

Ethan cut through the group of gentlemen and went into the hermitage. He quickly donned his waistcoat and simply tied his cravat. He pulled on his thoroughly rumpled coat as he walked back outside.

“If you weren’t such a delightful young lady,” one of the men was saying to Audrey, “I’d be inclined to report Peck’s behavior to my father.”

“What sort of ‘behavior’ is that?” Ethan asked, again not sparing the effort to keep the bite from his question.

“Having guests. We don’t pay him to entertain.”

One of the other men snorted. “That’s precisely why you pay him. To entertain us. And I’m thoroughly entertained by Miss Hughes.” He dropped a lascivious gaze at Audrey’s chest and it was all Ethan could do not to toss his dagger into the man’s throat.

“Ah, Wendell, we should perhaps be going,” Audrey said, touching his arm and drawing his murderous glare away from the man who’d offended her. Audrey’s gaze connected with Ethan’s and she widened her eyes to perhaps communicate with him to stop. Though Ethan wanted to eviscerate the man who’d ogled her, he recognized such foolishness, though satisfying, wouldn’t aid their cause.

He forced a smile at the dandies, his lips threatening to break under the exercise. “Don’t blame Peck. He merely took pity on us as we were traveling through. It was quite late and my sister is in a rather delicate condition.”

He slid a glance at Audrey, whose face had paled. “Come, Sister, it is time for us to depart.” He went to their horses and loosened them from their tethers. Then he helped Audrey to mount.

Ethan offered his courtliest bow to the hermit, and pointedly ignored the others. “Thank you for your kind hospitality.” He swung himself up on his horse and led Audrey from the clearing.

They weren’t able to ride side by side until they reached the main road. Audrey wasted no time in riding abreast of him. “Why did you say that about my condition?”

“I wanted to mitigate any trouble our visit might’ve caused Peck.” And attempt to make her less attractive to their lewd attention.

“I don’t think it caused any trouble.”

“You heard what that fop said. He considered telling his father that Peck had somehow overstepped his role of hired hermit.” Peck was little better than a slave, it seemed. They weren’t so alike after all. Ethan enjoyed absolute freedom. He could do whatever he wished whenever he wished.

His body slumped as if he’d been kicked in the gut. No, he couldn’t. He couldn’t simply tell Jimmy he was through being his right hand, that he wanted to be a proper gentleman in Society as Ethan Lockwood. Jimmy would never let him go, would never free him from his criminal obligations. It was why Ethan had orchestrated his plan to bring him down in the first place. Only then would he be truly free.

Ethan and the hermit were exactly the same. Men who’d chosen a life in the hope that it would be an improvement, only to find they were little better than serfs of old.

“I’m not sure they really meant any harm,” Audrey said.

His hands tightened on the reins. “You might have if you’d noted the way they were looking at you.”

She snapped her gaze to his, then nodded, understanding his meaning. “I didn’t realize. No one ever looks at me like that.”

I do. He bit back the words before he uttered them. There was absolutely no reason to encourage an attraction between them.

They rode a few minutes in silence. “Peck said he put some bread in the saddle bag for us,” she noted. “I hope those gentlemen didn’t mean him ill. He really is a kind soul.”

A kind soul. How Ethan longed for her to think of him in that way. Could he be kind? He’d tried to be. He’d gone out of his way to try to save people in recent months, risking his own neck in the process. Not only had he not had a hand in Lady Aldridge’s death, he’d tried, unsuccessfully, to persuade her to leave London, to remove her from Jimmy’s reach. And now, seeing how far Jimmy was willing to go to get his way, he had to ask himself—would it have helped? Ethan wondered if he’d even have a chance at life if he went back to London. Clearing his name was one hurdle; surviving Jimmy’s death warrant would be a far more dangerous one.

He had another choice. He could go to America and start over. It wasn’t what he’d planned or what he wanted, but what if Audrey went with him? She’d seemed not only open to the idea, but even enthusiastic about it. She’d tried to do it once, after all.

He looked over at her, her gaze fixed straight ahead, her posture tall and regal in its bearing. She might’ve agreed to go with him once, but now? After all she’d seen at his hand and everything he’d revealed?

He wanted to nurture a sliver of hope, but he didn’t know how. The life he’d chosen had led him to abandon such worthless sentiments.

Four very long days later, Audrey followed Ethan into the tiny inn where they’d secured a room in Lostwithiel. It would be their last stop before reaching Beckwith.

Audrey had never been so happy to arrive somewhere. Her body was exhausted and her mind equally so. Keeping Ethan at arm’s length took a great deal of mental effort. They’d both adopted mutual avoidance tactics, but she’d no idea if it came easier to him or not. It certainly seemed as though it might. They ate meals in relative silence, traveled in absolute silence, and exchanged mere pleasantries upon retiring each night and awaking each morning. It was, upon reflection, the antithesis of the adventure she’d hoped for.

Since the hermitage, anyway.

Prior to that, it had been one life-changing event after another. The question was, in what way? Her life was unalterably different, which meant she’d have to figure out what to do once she arrived at Beckwith. She knew what she couldn’t do, and that was return to the life she’d been living before Ethan Locke-Jagger-Lockwood had waltzed into it. Which left spinsterhood, perhaps retiring to her own hermitage, or if she really wanted to embrace her ruination, lead the life of a demimondaine. She smiled to herself at that absurd thought.

“Audrey?” Ethan nudged her arm, dislodging her from her musings.

“Yes?”

“We have a room, albeit a very small one just beneath the roof. The innkeeper is preparing it now. I also requested a tub of water.”

Audrey nearly squealed with delight. They’d spent the last two nights in a barn and a lean-to. She was just grateful to have a bed tonight—everything else was extravagance.

“Thank you.”

His gaze lingered on her a moment. Though their relationship had cooled, the attraction between them had not. Every night, she fought to keep space between them, and every morning she woke up curled against his heat.

“The innkeeper said we could go through there,” he gestured to a doorway on the other side of the staircase, “and take our supper.”

Audrey nodded before preceding him to the small dining room where they enjoyed a delicious repast of mutton stew and the best ale she’d ever tasted.

Ethan apparently agreed. He said, “Our host is an accomplished brewer. He’d be one of the most popular ale makers in London.” It was the sort of innocuous conversation they’d shared since leaving the hermitage. Audrey was weary of trying so hard, so she only nodded.

His forehead creased. “Are you tired?”

She arched her brows. “Aren’t you?”

He chuckled softly. “I think I’m making a bad impression on you. You’re turning sarcastic. If I’m not careful, you’ll become cynical too.”

“I doubt that. I’m far too optimistic.”

He drank the remainder of his ale. “A remarkable trait.” He fixed her with a dark stare. “Don’t lose it.” He wiped his mouth with his serviette and stood. “Are you ready to go up? I’m sure the innkeeper is finished by now.”

“Yes.”

He performed the duty of footman and pulled her chair back so she could stand. She turned her head to look at him, but he’d gone back to avoiding looking at her.

They trudged up two flights of stairs, the latter set being very narrow and close. They had to duck their heads the last several steps lest they knock against the ceiling.

The room really was tiny. They could only stand straight in the very center where the roof peaked. There was no fireplace, but several lanterns cheered the space. Best of all, there was a tub of water from which steam curled into the air. It wasn’t large enough to bathe in, but there was sufficient water for both of them to share.

“You go first,” he said.

She glanced around the chamber. The basin sat on the floor, and aside from it and the lanterns, there was a pallet in the corner. Her belongings—the various items Ethan had procured over the last several days, including a second hairbrush and bonnet since she’d left the first ones at Bassett Manor and a spencer that offered at least a modicum of warmth during the cool nights—sat in one corner. The innkeeper must have brought them up from her saddlebag, something else Ethan had mysteriously obtained.

The space and furnishings were definitely meager, but Audrey thought it grand after their recent lodgings. Still, there was no privacy. She supposed she could ask Ethan to go back down to the dining room, but the innkeeper’s wife had bustled in as they’d left, presumably to clean it up for the night.

“I’ll just lie down on the pallet and look at the wall,” he said. “I promise I won’t peek.”

She trusted him not to, which was probably foolish, given all she knew of him. Even so, he’d always proven to have her best interests at heart. “I’ll be quick.”

She went to the basin and kneeled beside it, putting her back toward the bed. She hesitated until she heard what sounded like Ethan lying down. To confirm that, she turned to look. He’d discarded his coat and waistcoat at the foot of the pallet, along with his cravat.

Satisfied that the situation was as private as it was going to get, she unhooked her dress. Thankfully, it was a garment she could remove without the assistance of a maid. It felt wonderful to divest herself of it and her corset entirely. And though she ought to put both back on before going to bed, she didn’t think she could.

She dipped one of the small towels the innkeeper had left into the water and scrubbed her face. The cloth smelled vaguely of rosemary, which only added to her comfort. She closed her eyes and imagined she was home. But that actually had the reverse effect. She didn’t want to be home. She wanted to be right here.

She glanced back over her shoulder at Ethan. He wasn’t facing the wall anymore. He’d rolled toward her and was watching her.

Her breath became trapped in her lungs. “You promised you wouldn’t look.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “You trusted me?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but without heat as she recognized this was the banter she missed sharing with him. “You’ve given me plenty of reasons to believe I’m safe with you. In every way.”

He flopped onto his back and looked at the ceiling. “I’m a scoundrel, Audrey. Forevermore. You make me . . . No, I’m still a scoundrel.”

She made him what? He’d never tell her if she asked, so she didn’t bother.

She longed to peel her chemise from her body and wipe away the days of travel, but wasn’t sure she dared. If she kept her back to him, he wouldn’t see anything . . . intimate. Provided she only took the chemise down part way. Gathering her courage, she wriggled her arms from the capped sleeves. The garment pooled at her waist. She didn’t dawdle, but completed her toilet as quickly and thoroughly as possible given her partially dressed state.

When she was finished she set the wet towel to the side and pulled the chemise back up over her arms. Only then did she brave a look back at Ethan. He was unabashedly watching her again. Scoundrel indeed.

The water drying on her flesh should have chilled her, but heat pooled in her belly and swirled through her. Her skin tingled beneath the chemise and her nipples hardened to stiff points. She turned away from him once more in the hope of dousing the pull between them. Perhaps she was going to have to don her other garments again after all.

“I’m finished.” She stood and moved away from the basin, careful to keep her back to him, though there wasn’t really any place she could retreat to.

She heard him rise from the pallet, felt the air shift as he moved past her. She snatched a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around herself. Then she snuck a glance at Ethan. He’d also kneeled next to the basin. He drew his shirt over his head and the lanterns cast a golden glow across his muscled back.

She forced herself to sit on the bed with her back toward him. The deprivation did nothing to ease the want burning in her core.

“Audrey?”

His voice jolted her to an even greater sense of awareness. Had he somehow read her thoughts? Of course not, that was impossible.

“Yes?” Her voice sounded much too high.

“I believe it’s time for my stitches to come out.”

She turned toward him and looked at the wound. It appeared pink and quite healed. Yes, the stitches could likely come out. But she didn’t have a blade.

Even as she thought it, he pulled his knife from his boot. Then he removed his footwear and slid it toward the wall. He sat down next to the basin. “Will you bring one of the lanterns?” There was one near him, but two would provide better illumination.

She swallowed, trying not to stare at his bare chest. Or at his face, so handsome and cold, yet dearer than she would’ve thought possible. She’d grown quite fond of this man, despite his faults, or maybe because of them.

She picked up the lantern nearest the bed and carried it to the basin. She kneeled beside him. He held the knife in his palm, offering it to her. Her fingers grazed his flesh as she took the blade. It was lighter than she imagined. For some reason, she’d thought a weapon that had killed would feel heavy, oppressive.

It would be tricky to slide it beneath the sutures without puncturing his flesh. Anxiety pricked her neck. “You must be careful not to move.”

His eyes bored into hers. “I shall be a statue.”

Who apparently planned to stare at her.

“Please don’t look at me like that. I’m nervous enough.”

He looked mildly surprised. “Why?”

She tested the unfamiliar knife in her hand. “I’m not a surgeon.”

His mouth softened, and it transformed his face. She realized then that he held himself in a different way when he was her charming waltzing partner, as opposed to the brutal criminal. That he could change from one to the next in the space of a breath filled her with awe—and trepidation.

“You’ll do fine. Just go slow.” He touched her hand lightly. “And if you nick me, do not fret. I will have deserved it anyway.”

She wanted to argue with him, no one deserved pain, but more than that she wanted to get this over with. Steeling herself, she slid the blade beneath the thread and gently sliced it up. The knife cut clean through the thread. She exhaled and set the weapon down, glad to be done with it. She plucked the stitches through his flesh as quickly as she dared.

He sucked in a breath, and she froze. “What is it?” she asked.

His lip curved up. “It tickles.”

She moved rapidly to finish. It wouldn’t do to have this turn into something else. She was sorely tempted by him, but he’d made his motives clear. She was a hindrance, and he would’ve left her behind already if he hadn’t felt beholden.

She pulled the last of the thread through his flesh just as his hand came over hers. The heat of his fingers seared her. She tried to pull away, but he lifted her hand, took the thread, and tossed it away.

He pressed his lips to her fingertips. “Thank you.”

The touch of his mouth sparked her desire. What had been curling through her, tempting her, roared to life. Maybe it was the closeness of the room or the enticing flicker of the lantern light or the sight of his bare, golden flesh—all of it, she decided. Whatever the reasons, she picked up a towel and wetted it, then drew it over his chest.

His inhalation sounded like a crash amidst the quiet. It jarred her and her hand froze against him.

“Don’t stop.” His voice cracked. She hadn’t the courage to look at his face. She barely had the courage to continue what she was doing, but she’d started this dangerous game and wanted to finish it.

She cleansed his chest and shoulders, taking particular care to wipe away the tiny specks of dried blood that had come loose from the removal of his stitches. Aside from that wound, he had several scars scattered about. There was a particularly long one that stretched from his collarbone over his sternum. She wanted to ask how he’d sustained these injuries, but didn’t want to disrupt the quiet connection that flowed between them.

The scratch from the highwayman’s bullet was merely a faint red line now. Soon it would disappear completely. Would the memory? Would their time together fade as day becomes night? She didn’t want that. She would remember their time—remember him—to the end of her days. It was suddenly imperative that he never forget her.

“Turn.” She sounded strong, commanding. She chanced a look at his face. His eyebrow arched in that damnably attractive manner that set her heart to fluttering.

He scooted around so that his back was to her. She continued his bath, dunking the towel into the basin and scrubbing his back. She attended to his neck, her fingers itching to trace the tendons there. To kiss the hollow behind his ear.

Heat flushed her face and she was glad he couldn’t see her. But then he turned. She lowered her head. “Your feet?” she asked softly.

He stretched his legs out and she cleaned his legs from the base of his breeches his toes. It was the most intimate act she’d ever performed. By the time she was finished, she was breathless and warm. She wanted to throw the blanket off her shoulders, but to do so would expose herself, and potentially her want. Could he see her desire?

She looked at his face again, tentatively, and bit down on the inside of her lip at the naked lust in his eyes. She had very little experience with such matters, but it was the way he’d looked at her that night at Bassett Manor. No, it was even more intense, she decided.

She set the towel down and told herself to go to the pallet. But she didn’t move. She simply gazed at him, at the strong line of his nose, the arc of his cheekbones, and the three days of growth on his face since he’d last shaved. He looked wild. Utterly untamable. Devastatingly handsome.

At last, she moved, reaching for the edge of the pallet. He moved too. His arm snaked around her waist and drew her back to him. He looked at her for the briefest moment, and his eyes said all that was necessary: I want you.

His mouth found hers with a desperate hunger. The blanket fell from her shoulders as she clutched at his biceps and pressed herself against his heated chest. With only her chemise to separate them, she felt him in a way she never had—his warmth, his strength, his power.

One of his hands held her fast, splayed against her lower back, while the other tangled in her hair and scattered her pins to the floor. He combed his hand through her curls and palmed the back of her head, holding her captive to his mouth and tongue.

But he didn’t need to, for she was a willing participant. She met his kiss with eager licks and longing suckles, applying what he’d taught her the last time.

He moved his hand down the side of her face to her neck. He stroked his thumb along the underside of her chin, coaxing her mouth to open even wider so he could devour her more fully. She’d never felt more vulnerable or more seductive.

Then his mouth left hers and moved to her neck. His hand drifted downward and settled gently over her breast. She tensed, but he didn’t press her. He merely laid his palm over the mound as his lips and tongue worshiped her neck.

She closed her eyes and cast her head back, unable to hold herself upright as her body melted in his embrace. His hand at her back gave her support while his mouth gave her ecstasy. Gradually, she became aware that his hand had closed over her breast—slowly and with great care. His fingers teased her nipple. A moan sounded and she realized it came from her. His mouth moved lower, taunting her flesh and driving her need ever higher. He cupped her breast and then she felt his tongue against her sensitive nipple. The linen of her chemise kept him from touching her flesh directly, but she wasn’t sure it mattered. Sensation drove through her, coaxed her to arch into his mouth. She gasped, her hands moving to clutch the hair at the base of his neck.

He pressed her breast upward, squeezing her almost roughly, but divinely as he drew her nipple to an even harder peak. Her core pulsed as a wild craving swept through her.

“Lie back.” His words pierced the sensual haze that had settled over her. She felt herself falling backward toward the pallet. Not falling exactly, because his hand was guiding her. He managed to situate them onto the bed, his hand never leaving her breast.

He paused above her and she opened her eyes. She wanted this, wanted him. But he was right that she deserved better. She’d turned her back on her former life, but that didn’t mean she had to settle for what he was offering her—which wasn’t enough. Their physical attraction was unlike anything she’d ever known, an intoxicating remedy for her hungry soul. She wanted more than that, though—she wanted him to open up to her and she wanted his trust. She wanted more than he could give.

She put her hand to his chest and pressed. “Ethan.”

He let go of her breast and an icy chill rushed over her. “Forgive me.” He sat up and turned away, then handed her the blanket that had fallen from her shoulders.

She pulled the quilt over herself and moved to the far edge of the pallet. “Forgive me as well. I didn’t mean to encourage you.”

“You are blameless in this.” His voice sounded strained. He got up and pulled on his shirt, then his boots. He plucked his coat up.

She leaned up on her elbow. Her body was still thrumming with desire. It would be so easy to call him back, but she wouldn’t. “Where are you going?”

“Out. Get some sleep. We’ll leave early so we can get to Beckwith as soon as possible.” He turned and left.

She stared at the closed door for a long time. Tomorrow their adventure would end. Tomorrow she would fight to move forward, to encapsulate her time with Ethan into a neat package she could recall and at which she would smile fondly. Tonight, however, she would weep for the future she could never have.

TWELVE

As usual, Ethan woke early. Instead of torturing himself by watching Audrey sleep, he left the pallet and readied himself. He crept down the steep, narrow stairs to the door that led to the corridor and then to the next set of stairs leading to the ground floor. He made his way to the room where they’d taken last night’s meal and encountered the innkeeper.

He was a slight, seemingly frail man, but Ethan believed his unassuming appearance masked a core of steel. He’d insisted on taking care of their horses last evening and had seen to their bath—without the aid of footmen. He squinted at Ethan. “Ye’re up early.”

“We have a lot of miles to cover today.” It was all he would say. He’d been careful to conceal their direction. Bow Street could still be behind them, particularly if Teague had managed to somehow figure out their destination. Ethan had considered the possibility that Teague might trace them to Beckwith, but he didn’t have any better ideas of where to go. He thought Audrey would be safe with Sevrin. He was the only gentleman of Ethan’s acquaintance who’d held his own among the criminal element.

The innkeeper nodded. “I’ll have a luncheon made up for you to take along.”

“Thank you.” Ethan chose his words carefully. “Might I confirm your discretion about our being here?”

The man laughed, a low, gritty sound that reminded Ethan uncomfortably of his former mentor, Gin Jimmy. “Not your sister, eh?”

Ethan pressed another coin, one of the last they had, into his hand. “I appreciate your help.”

“I hope ye’ll do right by her. I’ll go and get yer horses.” He left the room via the kitchen situated at the back of the dwelling.

Ethan could spend the rest of his life trying to make Audrey’s dreams come true and he doubted he’d ever come close to doing “right” by her.

The innkeeper’s wife plied him with toast and ham. She grinned when he asked for a mug of ale—plus a flagon to take with them. “My husband makes the finest ale in Cornwall.”

“Maybe in all of England,” Ethan said, smiling at her in return.

The creak of the stairs drew him to turn from the small table where he’d taken his breakfast. Audrey appeared, her bonnet and hairbrush in hand, her hair half up.

She patted the back of her head. “I couldn’t find all of the pins.”

The innkeeper’s wife returned with Ethan’s ale and clucked her tongue upon seeing Audrey. “Come with me, dear. I’ll set you to rights.” She held out her hand and led Audrey back through a doorway.

Ethan watched the gentle sway of Audrey’s hips as she followed the innkeeper’s wife. His mind was suddenly full of images and sensations of her—the silk of her hair, the curve of her breast, the heat of her hips as he’d moved against her on the pallet. If he didn’t curb his thoughts, he’d need to excuse himself as he’d done last night. His left hand was a sorry replacement for what he craved, but it was all he had. The alternative—surrendering to temptation—was inconceivable. That would cross a line they couldn’t come back from, and Ethan wouldn’t do that. One of the things that had ensured his criminal success was knowing when to stop before a critical error caused irrevocable damage.

A short while later, Audrey emerged from the doorway. Ethan instantly recognized the London miss who’d taught him to waltz. Her hair had been neatly coiled and she wore a fresh gown, one that actually suited her height. The style of the gown was a few years old, but its pale green color accentuated her eyes, making them appear more jade than aqua. An ivory ribbon was threaded beneath her breasts, emphasizing their delicious fullness. Again, her bearing reminded him of someone who was untouchable—at least to him.

He couldn’t contain his reaction. “You’re so beautiful.”

She blushed, and he realized he’d missed her bouts of shyness and embarrassment. Why had they become less frequent? Because they didn’t talk as much, or was it more than that? Had he ruined her innocence?

The innkeeper forestalled anything further when he stuck his head into the room. “The horses are ready.”

Ethan looked to Audrey, who was tying the bonnet beneath her chin. The innkeeper’s wife bustled in carrying Audrey’s spencer, which Ethan had nicked from an inn three nights ago.

She smiled at Audrey as she helped her don the coat. “Here you are, dear. Take good care of yourself then.”

Audrey gave the woman a quick hug. “Thank you again for the gown.”

“I’m pleased to have found someone to wear it.”

Audrey nodded, then turned to leave. Ethan gestured for her to precede him and worked to remain stoic as she passed, despite the desperate urge he felt to reach out and touch the small of her back.

They stepped outside into the dark, gray morning. They’d been blessed with mostly dry weather for their journey, but the sky looked as if it might drench their hopes for one more decent day.

Audrey raised her face to the sky. “I daresay those are rainclouds.”

“We should get moving.” Ethan helped her to mount her horse and climbed on his own.

They made it an hour before the rain started. It was, at least, a placid rain that would take some time before it soaked them. Hopefully it would stay that way.

“What is your plan when we arrive at Beckwith?” Audrey asked. “I want to be sure I play along with whatever Banbury tale you’re going to tell.”

He deserved that. He’d required her to go with whatever he determined, though she seemed to enjoy tweaking his plans from time to time—like with the hermit. “I’m going to tell him the truth, that you escaped London with me for your own safety.”

She stopped her horse and gaped at him. “The truth?”

He deserved that too. “We need to keep moving.” When she started forward again, he continued, “I have to tell him the truth,” at least about that, “in order to keep you safe. He needs to know that Gin Jimmy wanted to take you to get to me.”

“‘Wanted’? You mean wants. I doubt his plans have changed.”

“Perhaps not, but I’m hopeful he hasn’t bothered to follow us this far from London.” Especially after what Ethan had done to the men he’d already sent—but Ethan didn’t say that out loud. “I’m also hopeful that he’ll realize you won’t be good leverage against me after I leave.” He waited for her reaction, but she was quiet and the edge of her bonnet shielded her face from him. Christ, when had he cared what anyone thought of what he did or what he said? The irritation he tried to stir up didn’t even spark. That man was gone—at least with regard to her. He cared what she thought of him.

Finally she said, “Where will you go?”

Once he would’ve avoided her question. He still considered doing so, but in the end he was tired of the wall he’d constructed. With her he could be himself. Couldn’t he? Of all the people he’d come to know in his life, hadn’t she been the most patient, the most kind, the most forgiving? “I don’t know. Probably back to London. I can’t keep running.” And he couldn’t keep her in a perpetual state of danger.

She shot him a sharp look. “But you’ll hang.”

A chill settled into his bones and made his teeth ache. His damp clothes suddenly felt like they were coated in ice. “Jason will help me.” He hoped. God, could he really ask? He couldn’t even recall what it felt like to solicit assistance. Reliance and expectation were for weaker men.

“I’m glad you’re going to ask him. I’m also glad you’re telling Lord Sevrin the truth.” Her voice softened. “I think you’ll be glad too.”

Ethan spent the rest of the day brooding, even after the clouds parted and the sun dried them. The air had changed and the wind carried the not-too-distant scent of the sea, which he recalled from his last visit here. It was late afternoon when he finally broke the silence. “We’re nearly there. Maybe another mile.”

“You’ve been here before, haven’t you?”

He nodded. “Last spring. My pugilist was to compete in a prizefight.”

“But it ended up being Lord Sevrin, did it not? Philippa told me about it.”

He hadn’t realized she and Sevrin’s wife were on such intimate terms. That could prove difficult, though it seemed as though Philippa hadn’t shared what he’d done. If she had, Audrey never would’ve gone along with him. He shoved the thought away, unwilling to give it his concern. He had far weightier things to consider, such as how in the hell he was going to simply walk away from her.

He’d spent the bulk of the day fantasizing about leaving with her. Going to America, or anywhere really, and starting a life where no one knew the names Jagger or Lockwood. He had enough money stashed here and there to take them wherever they wanted to go as well as to set them up in at least a modest lifestyle. But then what would he do? Farm? Learn a trade? He thought of Fox, and while the farming seemed beyond Ethan, the orphanage management held a surprising appeal.

However, obtaining his stashed money was another problem altogether. Perhaps Sevrin and Jason could help him with that too. That he was actually considering it and that he was prepared to solicit even more support made his head spin. Bloody hell, he’d changed on this journey.

He slid a glance at Audrey’s profile. His chest ached when he looked at her. Just as he didn’t want to ponder any difficulty with Lady Philippa, nor did he want to think about why Audrey made him feel that way.

At last they rode up the drive to Beckwith. Audrey looked up at the impressive house, which was a converted medieval fortress. It wasn’t in the best repair, but its placement on a bluff overlooking the bay was enviable. The weather in Cornwall was typically warmer and more pleasant than London. Ethan had enjoyed his stay in the nearby town of Truro.

“Was it a castle?” Audrey asked.

“I think so.” Ethan had obtained only a few details from some people in Truro. Sevrin hadn’t been terribly conversational during Ethan’s visit. Though Ethan had tried to make amends to the viscount, he wasn’t completely certain their arrival would be welcome. Now that they were here, he was having second thoughts.

They stopped in the shell-covered path just before the front entrance. Ethan dismounted and helped Audrey do the same. He offered his arm, as a gentleman ought. She looked at him quizzically, as if such an action were bizarre, and he supposed it was. He hadn’t behaved in the most gentlemanly fashion.

He’d try to make it up to her in the time they had left. The chill he’d been fighting off all day returned, sending ice down his neck. He didn’t want to think about leaving her. Not yet.

He rapped on the door and it was instantly opened by a tall, young footman. Ethan vaguely recognized him from his last visit. “Good afternoon, we’re friends of Lord and Lady Sevrin. Would you please tell them that Mr. Ethan Locke and Miss Audrey Cheswick have arrived?”

The heavy sound of boots falling across marble drew Ethan to look past the footman. Sevrin appeared in the entry hall, his dark brows drawn into a scowl. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?”

Audrey tightened her grip on Ethan’s arm. Lord Sevrin did not look pleased to see them here. Or at least Ethan. Sevrin hadn’t seemed to register Audrey’s presence at all.

“Might we come in?” Ethan asked pleasantly. He stepped over the threshold, forcing the footman to move back, without waiting for a response.

Sevrin stopped in the center of the entry and finally looked at Audrey. “Miss Cheswick, are you all right?” He returned his angry gaze to Ethan. “You didn’t kidnap her, did you?”

Ethan’s eyes narrowed. “Does she look kidnapped?”

Audrey moved forward toward their host. Hopefully he would be their host. Where else would they go? They were nearly out of funds and if she had to sleep in a barn again, she might cry. “Lord Sevrin, I am here of my own choosing.”

All of the stories they’d told over the past days flitted through her brain, but Ethan wanted to tell the truth. The notion still bemused her. What had changed? She glanced at Ethan, but his features were still hardened in a mask of irritation. “Mr. Locke hasn’t kidnapped me. In fact, he’s saved my life multiple times.”

Sevrin put his hands on his hips and stared at Ethan. He didn’t look as if he believed Audrey. “I’m sure he only had to save your life because he put it in danger.”

Just then Philippa came into the hall behind Sevrin. “What’s going on?” She stopped short and gasped upon seeing Ethan, then her mouth formed an O when she saw Audrey. “Audrey!” She rushed forward and drew her further away from Ethan. “Ned, close the door, please.”

The footman complied, but kept a wary eye on Ethan. Ethan stepped to the side, his gaze moving from Sevrin to Audrey. She detected the tiniest crack in his fierce composure—a slight wrinkle in his forehead.

Audrey put her hand over Philippa’s. “I’m fine. We had to escape London. It’s a dreadfully long story. Might we sit down and discuss the matter?” She longed for a glass of something that would warm her insides.

“Of course.” Philippa linked her arm with Audrey’s. “Come with me.” She turned and led Audrey from the hall, but looked back over her shoulder at Ethan.

Audrey also turned back and watched the men stare at each other a long moment before Sevrin put his hands to his sides and then gestured for Ethan to precede him.

Philippa helped Audrey out of her spencer and took her bonnet, both of which she handed to Ned, who had followed them. “Will you have Mrs. Oldham prepare the chamber in the north wing for Miss Cheswick?”

The footman nodded and retreated from the room. It was impossible not to notice that she hadn’t given instructions for Ethan’s comfort.

“Philippa,” Audrey said, “Mr. Locke will also require a bedchamber.”

Philippa threw a heated glare at Ethan. “I’m not certain I want him staying in my house.”

“Please,” Audrey said, squeezing Philippa’s hand, “we’ve come such a long way, and he’s recovering from being wounded.”

“Which I’m sure he deserved.” Philippa shook her head. “I’m sorry, Audrey, but I can’t imagine why you’ve willingly traveled across southern England with a criminal like Jagger.”

Philippa knew him as Jagger? Audrey’s neck prickled with unease. “I told you, he saved my life. I was in danger in London.” And Sevrin had been right, it was because of Ethan. Those men had wanted to take her because they thought she meant something to him. Which she didn’t. Her unease grew until she felt cold and hollow.

“You were correct, Sevrin.” Ethan’s deep voice cut through the tension clouding the room. “She was in danger because of me. I brought her here because it’s the farthest—and more importantly safest—place I could think of.”

“It wasn’t all that safe for me when you came last spring.” Philippa’s tone dripped with scorn. Audrey had never heard her friend talk like that, not even when she was bemoaning her parents’ scandalous affairs.

“I’ve apologized for that repeatedly. And I took care of the matter.” He shot Sevrin a dark glance.

“By having Swan killed?” Philippa turned to Audrey. Her golden brown eyes were distressed, but earnest. “You don’t know anything about this man. You may have met him as Ethan Locke in London last month, but he’s a criminal.”

“I know that.” But what did she really know? He’d been mistreated by his half-brother and Lockwood’s mother, and because of that had been driven to a criminal life. He stole and killed with ease and had become an excellent dancer. He was also angry and frustrated because his plans had not worked out the way he’d envisioned. “He’s trying to reform himself.”

Philippa glanced at Ethan. Her lips pursed. “That may be, but he’s got an awful lot to reform. I can’t let you think he’s a decent person. He may not have kidnapped you, but he abducted me on two occasions, and a third time one of his men took me.”

Audrey gaped at her. She’d no idea any of that had occurred. She looked at Ethan. His gray eyes were cold. She expected him to look furious, but his features were devoid of emotion.

“Yes, I kidnapped Lady Philippa.” He moved to a sideboard with several bottles of spirits and splashed some into a glass. “I needed a prizefighter and I wanted Sevrin. I tried inviting him to come see me, but he responded by soundly beating two of my men. Proof that all men possess a degree of vicious intent.” He lifted his glass in a silent toast toward a glowering Sevrin, then took a hearty drink.

His controlled response befuddled Audrey. She opened her mouth to ask why, but Ethan continued. “I used Philippa to gain Sevrin’s cooperation. Not once, but twice. I had my men take her from a house party outside London and bring her to Sevrin’s fight. That way I could be assured that Sevrin would do his very best to win.”

Audrey’s limbs felt weak. Her brain struggled to process what he was telling her and why it seemed worse than what she already knew of him. Kidnapping couldn’t be worse than murder, could it? But all of it together . . . “Why did you want to win?” It was the only question her mouth could seem to form.

“I always win. At least I did until I had to flee London.” Now his tone darkened and the fury she’d glimpsed in the hall resurfaced. “I told you I was ruthless, Audrey. I told you that you deserved better.”

Yes, he had. But she’d clung to her belief that he wanted to change, that he’d been trying to. There was so much more to him than what he showed on the outside.

He looked at Philippa, his expression taking on a hint of remorse. “The only thing I regret is bringing Swan with me when I came for the fight. I had no idea he’d planned to abduct Philippa—something he never would’ve done if not for me. Without me, he wouldn’t have even known of her existence, let alone had occasion to be in her presence.”

Audrey shook her head. She was glad he regretted that, but it couldn’t be the only thing. He had at least half a lifetime he should want to repent, shouldn’t he?

Audrey was vaguely aware of Philippa stroking her back. It was supposed to be comforting, but her mind was in too much turmoil to relax. She locked eyes with Ethan, who’d gone back to appearing detached. “You told me Gin Jimmy was a bad man. But so are you.”

His stare was unrelenting. “Yes, I am.”

And there it was. The cold, stark truth from him at last.

She shouldn’t have been surprised, and maybe she wasn’t, but hearing him say it brought reality into the cocoon she now realized she’d constructed around them—or at least around herself where he was concerned. She looked away from him, unable to bear her foolishness in trusting him another moment. “Philippa, will you take me up to my room?”

Philippa gently guided her the way they’d come. Audrey paused as they passed by Ethan. “Thank you for bringing me here. I’m sure you’ll understand when I say it’s best if I remain while you continue on. Our association is finished.”

THIRTEEN

Years ago, when Ethan had taken to the streets, his life had gotten darker. Since then, he’d lived in a constant state of gray where there was no clarity, no right or wrong, just existence. But with Audrey, he’d glimpsed a brightness he’d never known, a glimmer of hope, of happiness. Now, hours after she’d ended their . . . whatever it was, total blackness threatened.

Ethan looked around the small, sparsely furnished room Sevrin had consented to give him. Though it was lit only by the dying fire and a single candle, Ethan could still catalog its modest furnishings: bed, armoire, chair. It didn’t even have a view of the bay—but it was all Ethan deserved from him. Actually, it was probably more than that.

Dinner had been simple, but delicious, delivered to him by the housekeeper, Mrs. Oldham, three hours ago. Ethan had asked her where he might go for a bath. She’d pursed her lips at him, indicating she’d already judged him a scoundrel, and told him that her son, Ned the footman, would take care of it. After dinner, he’d brought up enough water for Ethan to bathe himself in a better fashion than he had since Bassett Manor.

Ethan had spent the intervening time lying on the bed, contemplating his next move. He’d leave for London tomorrow after sending an advance letter to Jason—provided he could even convince Sevrin to do it. Ethan had foolishly underestimated the power of the man’s memory—and more importantly, that of his wife.

Lady Philippa held him in the lowest of opinions. Could he blame her? He’d given her no reason to like him and certainly no reason to trust him. In retrospect, he should’ve perhaps chosen someplace else to go, but no, this was the best place for Audrey. Sevrin would keep her safe, and she was as far from London as he could get her without putting her on a boat that would take her across the world.

Ethan jumped up from the bed, where he’d been staring at the ceiling. He needed a drink.

He grabbed the candlestick and made his way downstairs to the great hall. A fire still burned in the huge grate at the end of the room opposite the staircase. Ethan glanced around, but the room appeared to be empty.

He went to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of whisky and downed half of it in one gulp. He tucked the bottle beneath his arm, and carried his candle and glass through the great hall to a smaller chamber with expansive windows. The night was dark, but Ethan dropped onto a settee and stared at the blackness, thinking it mirrored what he felt inside.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat like that, but on his third glass of whisky, Sevrin came into the chamber. “I see you helped yourself to my liquor,” he said.

Ethan gestured toward the bottle, which sat on a low table before him. “Join me.”

“How magnanimous of you to invite me.” He left and came back with a glass, which he promptly filled. He picked up Ethan’s candlestick from the table and lit two lamps, then took a chair near Ethan’s settee. “You oughtn’t drink too much. You want to be on the road early, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Ethan said. They’d discussed his departure earlier.

Sevrin sipped his drink. “I won’t try to detain you, but you should know that I’ve written to Lockwood and informed him of your arrival. My footman took the letter into town to be posted first thing tomorrow.”

Ethan was mildly surprised, but shouldn’t have been. Everyone would, of course, treat him like the criminal he was. “I wish I’d known. I was going to ask you if I could post a letter to him. I’d like him to be aware of my return before I arrive.”

Sevrin arched his brow. “You’re actually going to go back to London? I admit I didn’t believe you when you told me earlier.” He shook his head. “A murder charge . . .”

Ethan shrugged and tried to appear nonchalant, though his insides were an anxious mess. He didn’t remember the last time he’d felt as if he wasn’t in absolute control of his life. “I told you, I didn’t murder Wolverton; Gin Jimmy did. There has to be a way to prove it.”

Sevrin rested his elbows on the arms of his chair. “If you’re vindicated, will you go back to your life of crime?”

Strangely, this line of inquiry made Ethan more uncomfortable than discussing the murder charge. Maybe because this was what meant most to him. Or, because he doubted his dream would come to pass. “I’d prefer not to. I’d rather resume my place as Ethan Locke.”

“Does Lockwood know this?”

“Yes.” It had been a source of conflict between him and Jason, though Ethan believed he’d finally convinced his brother that he was trying to lead a new life. Granted, that had only been after he’d told him the truth about what he’d been trying to do—bring down Gin Jimmy so he could leave his criminal life for good. Would his plan have worked if he’d trusted Jason sooner, as he’d repeatedly asked Ethan to do? Ethan downed a healthy swig of whisky.

Sevrin was watching him guardedly, like a hawk circling its prey, or a thief identifying his mark.

Ethan took a deep breath and then a massive leap of faith. “I lured Gin Jimmy out of the rookery so that Bow Street would arrest him as the mastermind of several theft rings, including one run by the Marquess of Wolverton. I made sure Jimmy learned that Wolverton had told Bow Street that he was behind the rings and that he’d orchestrated the deaths of Lord and Lady Aldridge.”

Sevrin’s eyes widened briefly. “He killed Lady Aldridge? I thought she died of laudanum poisoning.”

“She did, but it was due to Gin Jimmy. He wanted me to make sure she died, but I couldn’t do it.” He looked out at the black night, regret swirling in his gut.

Sevrin leaned slightly forward. “You couldn’t kill Lady Aldridge?”

Ethan shook his head. “I tried to save her.” He’d worked to persuade her to leave London, but she’d refused to leave the house she and Aldridge had spent most of their time together in. She’d been devastated by his death last spring. Though Ethan hadn’t caused the earl’s demise, he also hadn’t been able to stop it, which served to bring out every shred of guilt Ethan had worked to bury over the years. It was perhaps this guilt that was driving him to face Bow Street. That, and Audrey. He wanted to deserve her, though he feared he never would.

Sevrin settled back against his chair. “What changed? You were—to use your own word—ruthless, in our dealings with you. I still want to punch you every time I see you.”

Ethan didn’t doubt it. “I wouldn’t try to stop you, despite your deadly hook.” Sevrin had hit him once, and it had been enough for Ethan to want to never be on the receiving end of his fist again.

Sevrin fixed him with a direct stare. “What happened? You were a king—or so it looked to me when you brought me to your den. Why would you want to leave that?”

Ethan laughed, but it sounded empty, even to his own ears. “Everyone licks my feet because they’re afraid. I never know who my friends are.” He couldn’t bear Sevrin’s scrutiny another moment so he studied his whisky. “I don’t have any friends. When you agreed to fight for me, I thought . . . I imagined we might’ve been friends. If things had been different.” He looked up at Sevrin. “I regret what I did to you—and even more what I did to Philippa. Seeing you together . . . your love for each other.” He took a fortifying drink. “I didn’t want to be alone anymore.”

“A criminal with a heart.” There was a touch of something in Sevrin’s voice—disbelief, wonder? “I didn’t know such a thing existed.”

Ethan scowled. “I don’t have a heart, just a growing conscience. I don’t like doing what I have to do. I never really liked doing it, but I didn’t have much of a choice.” He lifted his gaze to Sevrin’s and stiffened his spine. “Besides, I was bloody good at it.”

“There’s the Jagger I know,” Sevrin said softly.

Anger sparked through Ethan. He banged the glass down on the table in front of him, his body quickening into fight mode. “You know nothing. I’ve more wealth than I can spend, and I command the respect and admiration of a good many men.”

Sevrin set his glass down also, and he leaned forward, his nostrils flaring. “Do you want that, or do you want to be a gentleman? You can’t have both—at least not the way you’ve made yourself.”

“Don’t you think I fucking know that?” Ethan stood as he shouted, fury grinding through him. He went to the window and rested his forehead against the cool glass. It soothed the ragged edges of his temper. He closed his eyes. “I don’t want to be a criminal anymore. Problem is, it won’t let me go.”

“Because of this charge from Bow Street.”

Yes and . . . “No. The things I’ve had to do since I took Audrey out of London.” He turned from the window and released the anguish stored deep in his bones. “I’ve had to steal. I’ve had to kill. To keep her warm and well and safe.”

Sevrin’s eyes glittered. “That’s not being a criminal. I would do anything to protect Philippa.” He dropped his gaze for a second. “Though I understand feeling guilty. I’ve spent many years battling that emotion and I still wonder if I’ll ever truly defeat it.” He looked up again. “Fortunately, I have Philippa at my side to help me.”

Nothing he said could’ve gutted Ethan more. He turned back to the window. It was ironic that he’d finally found someone he wanted to trust, who he wanted to trust him, and that her importance caused him to commit acts that ensured she never did.

“Are you in love with her?” Sevrin’s question hit Ethan in the back like a dagger.

Ethan tensed, but didn’t turn. He had no idea what romantic love felt like. He’d loved his mother and his father, but in an adoring, childish way. “I don’t know. I don’t love anyone.”

“Not even your brother?”

He’d grown very fond of Jason in the past few weeks. They’d reached a brotherly accord, a kinship Ethan had never imagined, but love? “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“You said you stole and killed for Audrey in order to keep her safe. She’s clearly important to you. Would you have done those things if she hadn’t been at stake?”

Ethan tried to think but couldn’t find an answer. He honestly couldn’t imagine being without her now. Consequently, he couldn’t answer the question. So he said the only thing that filled his mind. “I don’t want to leave her.”

Sevrin came to the window and stood a few feet away. “I left Philippa once because I thought it was the right thing to do for her. I made a decision that affected her without discussing it with her first. It was the worst decision I ever made. Thankfully she’s much smarter and braver than I am and came after me.”

What was he saying, that he should talk to Audrey first? Just like he should’ve talked to Jason weeks ago, shared his plan, solicited his aid. But that took trust, something he never gave. Yet he’d have to give it to Audrey if he wanted any kind of future with her. If she’d even have him. “You heard Audrey. She doesn’t want anything more to do with me.”

“Then go back to London and see how leaving her feels. I’m willing to wager you’ll figure it out by the time you hit Plymouth.” Sevrin shot him a look that clearly told him he was an idiot if he left. “Whatever you decide, I promise we’ll keep Miss Cheswick safe.”

Ethan wanted to fix him with his most imperious glare, one that wouldn’t brook any failure, one he used on his men all the time. But he was too overwhelmed with trepidation and uncertainty. All he could manage was to say, “Thank you.”

Audrey dismissed the young maid Philippa had sent to help her prepare for bed. She’d almost forgotten what it was like to have assistance with her clothes and her hair—such as it was. Thankfully, her curls were in much better condition since taking a bath. The maid had brushed the heavy mass until it was nearly dry. It ought to have relaxed Audrey, but she was as tightly wound as she’d been hours ago when she’d left Ethan downstairs.

She’d known he was a criminal, had seen him kill firsthand. However, the things he’d revealed tonight had been far more personal. He’d hurt people she knew and cared about. It made everything he’d done, everything he was, far more real.

A slight rap on her door made her tense even further. She got up from the chair by the fire, her legs feeling like brittle wood, and made her way slowly to the door. “Yes?”

“It’s Philippa. May I come in?”

Audrey opened the door. “Please.”

Philippa offered a warm smile, then came in to give her a swift but strong hug. “How are you?”

“Better after a bath. Thank you for loaning me your maid.” Like Miranda and Fox at Bassett Manor, they kept a relatively small staff and didn’t have a spare ladies’ maid. “And this dressing gown and nightrail, and . . . I could go on, but I’ll stop.”

“Of course.” She closed the door and walked with Audrey into the bedchamber. “Have you given any thought to what you’d like to do?”

“I’m not sure. Can I just stay here forever?” She smiled weakly as she perched on the edge of her bed. “Not really.”

“You could if you wanted to,” Philippa said, sitting beside her. “Will your parents mind?”

Philippa was a good enough friend to know that Audrey’s parents gave little thought to her other than to be disappointed by her failure to attract a husband—a failure her father had been assured of for years, which only made his disappointment both puzzling and frustrating. Would they mind if she disappeared? Given the way they’d stopped her from running to America two years prior, she supposed so. Still, removing herself to quiet spinsterhood in Cornwall might just be acceptable to them. The question was—would it be acceptable to Audrey? It would have to be. The dream she’d had of running away with Ethan was dead.

“Ethan and I pretended we were eloping to America.” She wasn’t sure why she shared this, but her emotions just seemed too great.

Philippa’s eyes widened. “Oh.” Then her gaze narrowed shrewdly. “Is that all it really was, pretend?”

Audrey recalled the kisses they’d shared in his bedchamber, the waltz outside the assembly, the spirited evening with Fox and Miranda. Those had been the happiest two days of her life. “Somewhat.”

“You didn’t know what sort of man he was then.”

Audrey looked at her friend. “I did. But I believed he was trying to change. I still think he is. He doesn’t want to return to his criminal life. Philippa, if you only knew what he was forced to endure. He was left alone to fend for himself at a young age.”

Philippa’s gaze was kind. “I’m sure he’s had a difficult life, and I can’t fault him for trying to change. Lady Jocelyn Carlyle told me something last month when we were in London. We were talking about Lydia and Jason. Jocelyn asked if I knew Mr. Locke—Ethan. The manner in which she asked led me to believe she might know him as I’d known him—as Jagger.”

“And did she?”

“Yes. He’d been involved somehow in a theft ring that had stolen something of Jocelyn’s. Her husband—Lord Carlyle is a former magistrate—helped to recover the item. Apparently Lord Aldridge had been behind the theft. He’d given the piece to his wife, which is how Jocelyn had discovered it. Facing exposure, Aldridge had tried to find a way to avoid any charges against him. However, his criminal cohorts prevented him from going to the authorities by killing him. Jocelyn said she and her husband witnessed the entire thing.”

Audrey inhaled sharply. “How awful.”

Philippa nodded. “Indeed. Jagger was there too, and he stopped the criminal from killing Jocelyn and Carlyle.”

Audrey’s chest expanded. “See, he is trying to change.”

“Maybe, but it’s going to be a long while before I’ll forgive him. I can’t forget what he’s done.” She touched Audrey’s hand. “Can you?”

No, but neither could she forget his touch, his kiss, the way he looked at her. All of it was intertwined to make him the complicated gentleman criminal known as Ethan Jagger Locke Lockwood.

Philippa gave her hand a pat and stood. “Sleep on it. Jagger plans to leave in the morning. Audrey, what sort of life would you have had with him?”

Was he really going to leave? Though she’d told him he should—without her—the reality of it cut into her heart. “What sort of life do I have now? I have no idea what awaits me in London. What’s more, I’m not certain I care. I chose to leave with him. I preferred an unknown adventure to known tedium. I had no marriage prospects. My father won’t finance any more Seasons for me. He wants me to become a lady’s companion. He says it’s the best I can do.”

Philippa’s eyes shone with pity. “Oh, Audrey, I had no idea.”

No one did, because Audrey had never shared the true humiliation that was her life. To her parents, especially her father, she was at best a pawn, and at worst, a hindrance. She’d long ago accepted her lot, but that had been when she’d assumed she’d marry and establish herself as someone’s wife and mother. But with no marriage proposal, year after year, that expectation had withered and died. When the blacksmith’s son had told her of his desire to go to America, she’d leapt at the opportunity to reinvent herself in a new place. Her parents had convinced her it had been reckless, though as she’d resumed her stagnant life she’d decided it hadn’t been, not when she truly believed there was nothing beneficial about her life in London. That’s why when the chance came up again—with Ethan—she hadn’t hesitated. And this time she wouldn’t have to go back to her useless existence. Her reputation would be tarnished enough that it would likely be impossible.

Audrey forced a smile, her lips feeling tight and thin. “It’s all right. I’m sure things will work out for the best. They did for you, didn’t they?” As they had for Lydia and Olivia, Audrey’s other dear friends. So many happy endings; it seemed unlikely she would find one too.

With a last empathetic look, Philippa turned and left. Audrey lay back and stared at the canopy overhead. It was hung with a rich, gold velvet, with drapes that pooled on the floor at each post. The bed itself was a massive piece of furniture, rather masculine in its size, but the gold hangings and stitched coverlet gave it a feminine touch. She ran her fingers over the outline of a leaf. Who had worked this thread and when? Had she lived here? Mayhap she’d been a spinster like Audrey would be—doomed to a life alone and without love. Had anyone even missed her after she’d passed? Would anyone miss Audrey?

She didn’t know how long she sat there nursing her maudlin thoughts, but the click of her door opening and closing drew her out of her reverie. “Philippa?”

Ethan moved further into the chamber. “No.”

He prowled like a cat, his booted feet moving without sound. He wore only his shirtsleeves, the collar open at his throat. His dark hair was carelessly rumpled, as if he’d been lying down, but he’d shaved his face, leaving every contour and dimple naked and overwhelmingly attractive. His gray eyes raked her from head to foot with a sense of possession.

Her entire body came alive, her seconds-ago sadness immediately cast aside. “Why are you here?” She ought to tell him to leave, but she couldn’t bring herself to banish him.

“I know you said you didn’t want to see me, but I can’t leave tomorrow without . . .” He looked away and it was the first time he’d appeared uncertain, anxious.

Her heart leapt at the change in him, but she cautioned herself not to capitulate to her attraction to him. Just because she didn’t want to be alone didn’t mean she should accept him. Even if she wanted him. Which she absolutely did.

He refocused on her, his chin set as if he was working up his courage. She would’ve smiled if she hadn’t been wound like a clock.

“I can’t leave tomorrow without seeing if there’s any chance you would still come with me.”

She felt like her heart might beat out of her chest.

He stepped toward her, his gait slow and purposeful. “I know I’ve given you every reason to hate me, but I want to leave my past behind and the best way I can see to do that is to start somewhere new with you—somewhere we could both be safe. If you want me, that is.”

The urge to wrap her arms around him and kiss him senseless was so great that it paralyzed her. Or maybe that was her doubt and her fear keeping her fixed to the edge of the bed.

“What do you mean, ‘somewhere new’?” Her voice sounded distant, strange. Her breath caught.

“Anywhere you want.”

Five days ago she’d wanted nothing more, but that had been before she’d watched him kill—again—with such brutal precision. Before she’d learned what he’d done to Philippa. Before she’d truly understood the horrors he was capable of. She couldn’t bring herself to talk about those things just yet. “But you wanted to return to London and fight for your innocence.”

“I did.” He went to the hearth, where the fire had burned low. He picked up a poker and stirred the coals, coaxing the flames into an active dance. “There is every chance I would hang.” He replaced the poker and turned back toward her, his eyes bleak. She’d never seen him look like that—forlorn and lost. She imagined that was how he must’ve looked after his mother had died.

She stood from the bed and took a step toward him.

“How can I face the end of my life,” he said softly, each word rustling over her like a lover’s caress, “when I feel as if it’s just beginning?”

Audrey threw herself into his arms and kissed him hard on the mouth. She twined her hands around his neck and kneaded his flesh. She never wanted to let him go.

His lips opened over hers and their tongues met in a clash of fire and need. He slanted his head and lifted her flush against him. She pressed her chest to his, reveling in the feel of his heated flesh. She shouldn’t want him. She should push him away. She couldn’t breathe.

She ripped her mouth from his and would’ve stepped back, but he held her fast.

“Don’t leave me,” he croaked.

Audrey fought to inhale and exhale. She stared up into his desperate eyes and felt his despair in her bones. “I don’t know if I can—”

He cupped her face and stroked his thumbs along her cheeks. “Audrey, I’m not the man I was six months ago. Hell,” he closed his eyes briefly, “pardon. I’m not even the man I was six days ago. Because of you.”

Her legs felt weak. Hope expanded in her chest.

“I don’t want to be bad anymore. I’ve had enough of corruption and death. When I think of what I did to Philippa—” He inhaled sharply, then let go of her face. He stepped back. “It’s too late,” he whispered.

Her face must have reflected something to cause his reaction. “No. I want to believe you. I think you do want to change. Philippa told me you saved Lady Carlyle and her husband.”

His eyes widened for the barest second, but she caught it. “Lady Carlyle told her that?”

Audrey nodded. “Is it true?”

“Carlyle and his wife, though she wasn’t his wife then, had been kidnapped by the man who was running Lord Aldridge’s theft gang. His name was Nicky Blue.” He recalled the vivid blue eyes of his onetime right hand. “He was a friend of mine once—as much of a friend as someone like me can have. But he was a bloodthirsty wretch, which is why I knew he’d kill Carlyle and his wife.”

“You didn’t let him.”

He shook his head, his mouth twisting in a cold, but wry smile. “For the first time in my life, I ignored the code of survival. I risked myself to save someone else. Do you want to know the worst of it? I almost regret doing it, because you see, if I hadn’t, Gin Jimmy might not have determined that I was double-crossing him. At least, that’s the only thing I can figure.” He wiped his hand over his face. “I spent all summer plotting how to escape being Ethan Jagger, and Gin Jimmy must have somehow suspected me, despite my careful planning.”

Audrey thought she understood. “You think he sensed a change in you.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. He’d sent me into Society to ensure Lady Aldridge didn’t know anything about her husband’s theft ring. He didn’t expect me to like it. He had no idea it was what I wanted. But then, I didn’t know how badly I wanted it either.”

She heard the longing in his voice. He wanted the life he’d been denied, a life as the son and brother of a viscount. Yet, he was willing to walk away from the chance of having it in order to start over with her. One might argue he was simply saving himself from the noose, but he’d been ready to return to London. Something had changed his mind. She had to know what that something was.

She breached the gap between them and laid her palm against his chest. Her fingers touched his bare skin, while the heel of her hand rested against his shirt. His heart beat strong and fast beneath her hand, like a wild animal locked within a cage.

“Why would you forgo that life to be with me?”

His gaze was fierce. He laid his hand over hers, trapping her fingers against him. “Because I love you.”

FOURTEEN

Ethan watched her eyes widen and her mouth open with surprise. Regardless of how she felt, joy coursed through him. He didn’t remember the last time he’d felt so full, maybe never. Giving her his love gave him hope that perhaps his life wouldn’t be a waste. He’d heard the opposite so many times over the past dozen or so years that he’d almost grown to believe it.

He lifted her hand and pressed his mouth to her palm. His kiss was soft, but he licked her flesh and felt her shiver. He moved up to her wrist and kissed her again, his mouth open and wet so that he could suckle her softness. He wanted to taste every inch of her.

Her eyes slitted as he pushed up the sleeve of her dressing gown. He ascended her forearm until he reached the gentle indentation of the inside of her elbow. She twitched when he tongued her there.

He straightened. “Look at me, Audrey. I will stop whenever you ask me to.”

She shook her head, her eyes still half-closed. “Don’t stop.” She unhooked the front of her dressing gown and let the front gap open to reveal her nightrail beneath.

It was the most chaste offer he’d ever received, but by far the most provocative. A tremor ran though his body at the thought of what she was truly offering. Her life, and his, would be irrevocably changed. It was why he’d kept his hands to himself since they’d left London. Well, for the most part.

“Does this mean . . . you’ll come with me?” He was almost afraid to ask, but he had to know. This was an action that, once taken, could not be reversed.

She gazed at him with hope. “If you truly mean to stop being a criminal, yes.”

“I do.” Happiness, true bliss, was just within his grasp. “You’ll have to marry me, though.” He’d never imagined that would come to pass, and Christ, he’d bungled the proposal horribly. He took her hand and dropped to his knees. “Audrey, please be my wife and I will spend my life trying to deserve you. You make me yearn to be decent and,” he stopped before his voice could crack and took a sustaining breath, “good.”

She smiled down at him. “Yes.” With her free hand she leaned down and cupped his cheek. “You have made me the happiest woman alive. I know you’ve struggled and I understand what you’ve done in order to survive. And I am so glad and relieved you want to be different. I know you can be, Ethan. I’ve seen the man no one else has.”

Her confidence filled him with awe. He wasn’t sure he’d ever deserve her, but he was going to try his damnedest.

She tugged on his hand. “Stand up. Please. You can’t make love to me from down there.”

Just because he was giving up his criminal activities didn’t mean he had to abandon his wicked nature, at least not when it pertained to giving her pleasure. He clasped her ankle beneath her gown, eliciting a gasp from her. “On the contrary. I can make spectacular love to you from down here.”

Her cheeks pinked and he hoped she never, ever stopped blushing.

“I can see you’re trying to puzzle that out.” He slid his hand up her calf, his fingers sliding along her flesh until he wrapped his hand around her knee. His thumb found the curve at the back and she twitched as she’d done with her elbow. “You’re ticklish.”

“A bit,” she said breathlessly.

“Back up to the bed.” He inclined his head.

With one small step back, her buttocks hit the mattress.

He let go of her hand and slid his hand up her other leg until he was lightly clasping both of her knees. “Now, be a love and lift your nightrail.”

She pulled the cotton up to his hands, exposing her ankles and calves.

“Very pretty,” he said, appreciating the view. “Higher, please.”

The garment climbed slowly, revealing inch after tantalizing inch of her thighs. His hands followed the movement, all the while caressing her softness. She paused just before revealing what he wanted to see most. He looked up at her, saw that her eyes were a mix of desire and trepidation. She wanted this, but didn’t precisely know what “this” was.

He grasped her thighs firmly but gently. “I shall stop whenever you ask.” She nodded in response. He pushed the nightrail up to expose her mound and the delicate chocolate curls. “Beautiful.”

She still held on to the nightrail and didn’t try to lower it. He traced his hands down over her hips and slid them between her thighs. “Open wider, my love.”

Her legs trembled as she followed his command. He pressed a kiss to her inner thigh, a chaste brushing of his lips against her smooth, pale skin. But then he caught the scent of her arousal and he couldn’t help himself. He opened his mouth and deepened the kiss, licking at her and drawing on her flesh, while his hands kneaded her. She slumped against the bed, which was why he’d positioned her there. He’d meant to put her on the edge of it, at least, but he hadn’t gotten there yet, and damn, he might not.

His cock raged but he ignored his own wants, beyond wanting to give her pleasure. For that was what he most desired—to show her the wonders of her body. He glided his hand up to her entrance and grazed his thumb along her pink flesh. She twitched again, but her thighs opened farther. Good girl.

He wanted to bury his tongue in her wet heat, but he urged himself to go slow. They had all night—no, they had a lifetime—before them. He used his thumb to stroke her, gently at first so she could become accustomed to his touch. When she grew slick, he found her clitoris and flicked it softly. Her gasp made him smile against her thigh, where he continued to lave kisses upon her flesh.

When his mouth was just below her sheath, he slid his finger inside of her. She was tight, but there didn’t seem to be a barrier as there had been with his first experience—his only virginal partner. Was Audrey not a virgin then? He’d assumed she was, but there had been the blacksmith’s son. Jealousy knifed through him.

“Audrey,” his voice sounded dark and pained, “have you done this before?” He looked up at her, his breath halting.

Her gaze locked with his and there was panic reflected in their blue-green depths. “I—” She nodded. “Not like this. Geoffrey, the blacksmith’s son, he . . .” She looked away. “You know.”

Ethan stood and cupped her face, forcing her to look at him. “Did he rape you?” Rage coursed through him.

“No, though I did think we were going to wait until we were properly wed.” She rushed to add, “I didn’t want him like I want you. He was a means to an end and I liked him well enough. I didn’t realize there would be more to it until I met you, that I would feel so . . . hungry.”

Laughter threatened Ethan’s fury. “I’m going to hunt down that prick and tear him apart.”

She frowned at him. “No, you’re not. You don’t do that anymore. Besides, he didn’t hurt me.” Her eyes softened. “Are you disappointed I’m not untouched?”

Ethan slid his hands into her hair. “Never. I want you any way you’ll allow me. Don’t for a minute think you’re somehow a lesser woman—not to me, not to anyone. People have disregarded you for far too long. You are beautiful and strong, and the most desirable female I have ever encountered.”

Her lips spread into a smile. “Would you mind going back to . . . ?”

He loved that she asked him, even if she couldn’t say the words. And he hadn’t even started what he really meant to do. He kissed her deeply, his tongue probing the hot recesses of her mouth as he tipped her head back. She kissed him in return, her hands coming around him and digging into his spine.

He drew his mouth from hers, but didn’t retreat. “Lie back.” He lifted her onto the bed and she reclined. He hastily removed his boots and stockings before climbing onto the bed beside her. He drew the bed curtains closed on either side, leaving the base of the bed open to the glow of the fire. He wanted to see her sprawled before him. Her dark hair fanned against the white pillow, her legs were slightly parted, bare up to her mid-thighs, where the nightrail had shifted when she’d moved.

He caught her gaze with his and held it while he pushed her nightrail back up. And when his fingers teased her opening, her nostrils flared. Then as his middle finger slid up into her, slowly but effortlessly amidst her wetness, her legs parted, inviting him further. He buried himself as far as he could go, then withdrew gradually. Her eyelids fluttered and her mouth opened. He repeated the action several times, never increasing his speed. With each stroke, she reacted in some way. When her hips began to move, he took that as indication to go a bit faster. He thumbed her clitoris and she thrust to meet his finger.

He kneeled between her legs and put his mouth on her. She gasped loudly, her body tensing. She was so hot and wet. He settled her thighs over his shoulders, opening her to his attentions. He licked her, savoring her soft, slick flesh. She cried out. Her muscles clenched. She was very close, and he’d only just begun his feast. He wanted to prolong this for her, but didn’t know if he could. With each lick and suck, her hips came further off the bed. Her cries became more erratic, more desperate. Her fingers tangled into his hair and she tugged when he closed over her clitoris and sucked hard. He pumped two fingers into her and felt her begin to spasm. Her thighs quivered and he heard his name spill from her lips over and over. It was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard. At last he was Ethan, a man and a lover instead of Jagger, the criminal.

Her orgasm rocked through her, and he kept up his lovemaking until he felt her go still. His own lust raged hard, but he rested his head against the softness of her lower belly and inhaled the lavender scent from her bath.

“Ethan,” her tremulous voice broke the silence, “I had no idea. This is probably a silly question, but does that only happen when you use your mouth? Or, is it possible when you put your . . . your penis inside me? Geoffrey did that, but it didn’t feel like what just happened.”

God, how he loved her innocence. His world had been full of corruption and decay for far too long. She was sweet and honest, and she was a balm to his soul.

He rose and looked at her beautiful flushed face. “If a gentleman is a considerate lover, you would feel like that in any instance of lovemaking. Geoffrey sounds like an inexperienced, or perhaps just callous, ass.”

“I see. What do you mean, any ‘instance’?”

“There are many ways in which to find satisfaction with your lover. I could’ve just used my hand, but I’m afraid I was desperate to taste you.” He knew he was shocking her, but he couldn’t help but add, “Better than honey too.”

She didn’t look away from him. In fact, her eyes narrowed slightly, perhaps as her desire began to ignite again. “And I could do that to you? With my hand, or with my mouth?”

Ethan’s cock hardened to granite at the thought of her doing either of those things. “Yes.” The word was barely more than an exhalation.

“Would you mind taking your shirt off? I like looking at you without it.”

He was enjoying playing with her far more than he’d ever imagined. “You’ll have to remove it.”

She gave him a saucy look, then brought herself up to kneel so that they were facing each other in the middle of the bed. She found the hem of his shirt and drew it over his head, Her gaze fixed on his exposed chest and then her hands splayed over him. “I never thought a man could look so . . . delicious.” She ran her thumbs over his nipples.

He gritted his teeth against a powerful surge of lust. “Careful, Audrey.”

She lifted her gaze to his and gave him a saucy smile. “Don’t I get my turn?”

Oh, God. She didn’t mean to put her mouth on him?

She shrugged out of her dressing gown and cast it aside. Then she pulled her nightrail over her head and tossed it away, too. Her naked breasts were plump and pale in the firelight, their nipples pink and peaked. He leaned forward to taste one, but she pushed him backward until he was lying flat and had to stretch his legs out toward the pillows.

Her hands trailed down his chest and paused at his waistband. Then she found the buttons of his fall and slid them open one by agonizing one.

“Audrey,” he groaned.

Her lips came down against his chest. She kissed and licked swirls around his nipples and then south along his ribcage. She opened her mouth and suckled him as she worked his breeches down his hips.

She absolutely meant to mimic what he’d done.

Her movements stilled with his breeches trapped around his thighs. He looked down and saw her contemplating his cock. It rose hard and proud, seeking her touch. Gingerly, her fingertip brushed the head. Ethan squeezed his eyes shut; the sight of her touching him was nearly his undoing.

“I can use my hand,” she wrapped her palm around him, encasing him in her soft heat. If she stroked him . . . “Or I could use my mouth.” He felt something wet and delicate against the tip of his cock.

He tortured himself and looked. Her tongue, pink and perfect, was laving him. He didn’t know where he found the ability to speak, but said, “Or you could use both.”

“Oh!” She grinned up at him, her eyes narrowing seductively. “I see.” Her hand squeezed around him with the perfect grip, sliding down to the base and then back up to the head. Then her mouth came down over him and somehow, bewilderingly and amazingly, the tutor became the student.

Audrey had no idea where she’d found the courage to do what she was doing. But maybe it wasn’t courage, it was simply need. She wanted to give him what he’d given her.

She didn’t know if she was doing any of it right, but focused on doing what felt good. He was so hard, yet his skin was like the softest silk. And at his tip, moisture seeped out, just as she’d grown wet when he’d touched her. Their bodies, it seemed, while quite disparate, had their similarities too.

When she’d moved her hand along his shaft, he’d moaned, so she took that as encouragement. She copied what he’d done to her, moving slowly at first and then quickening her pace. His hips thrust into her hand, and, strangely, she wanted to rotate her own hips in response.

“Audrey, my breeches. I’m rather . . . restricted.” His words were clipped with an underlying desperation.

She smiled, enjoying the power she never knew she possessed. She quickly divested him of his breeches and returned to her task—both for her own pleasure and his.

She wrapped her hand around his sex and guided him to her lips. She slid her tongue down his length and drew him deep into her mouth. His hands twisted in her hair and his moans filled the room. She withdrew, then pitched forward again; this time his hips met her. He tasted of salt and man, something she never imagined she would’ve found desirable and yet she couldn’t get enough.

Suddenly, his hands dragged her away from him. “Audrey, you have to stop.”

She gazed up at him, sensing he’d been close to achieving what had happened to her. “Why? I want you to . . .”

“Orgasm. That’s the word.” He grimaced like he was in pain. “I desperately want to come—that’s another word—but, I’d rather do it inside of you.”

“Oh. Can’t you just do both?” She’d felt her own . . . orgasm building again while she’d been attending to him. She was amazed she could feel like that from what she was doing to him. But he was so beautiful and the sounds he was making spurred her own desire.

He laughed. Then he reached up to cup the back of her neck and drew her down to kiss him. His tongue speared into her and all of a sudden she wanted exactly what he wanted—him inside of her. She lifted her head and looked down at him. “Show me what to do.”

“Straddle me.” He put a hand on her hip and guided her into position. His sex nudged her opening, tantalizing her.

She pressed down, seeking the friction of him against her. She gasped as his hand came up to her breast. He pulled on her flesh, tweaking her nipple. Sensation shot straight to her core and she swiveled her hips down.

His hand moved between them. “Help me put my cock inside you. Audrey, look at me.”

She’d blushed—for the thousandth time tonight—at his language, not because it was crude, but because she found it strangely . . . erotic. Her gaze met his and her body reacted to the stark desire in his eyes. “Yes.” She put her hand over his, but he shifted so that her fingers wrapped around his hot length.

He parted her and thrust gently upward. “Guide me.”

She positioned him and slid her body down over his cock. Thinking the word made her feel bold and powerful. Then he filled her and she didn’t think at all.

He gripped her hips and held her on him for a long moment. But she wanted to move. She rose and fell, slipping over him like a well-made glove.

His fingers ground into her skin. “You are so beautiful.”

She looked down at herself, the firelight playing over her breasts and felt a moment’s shyness. But then his thumb was on that most sensitive place between her legs and she threw her head back and moaned. She widened her legs and moved faster.

He increased his pressure on her and her orgasm built. She pitched forward and his mouth found her breast. His tongue and teeth teased her until she thought she might burst. “Ethan, I can’t—”

He wrapped his arm around her waist and clasped her tight. Then he flipped so that he was on top of her, his cock never leaving her. He came up over her and fanned her hair out, his pause giving her a moment to catch her breath as she hovered at the edge of the cataclysm.

He smiled at her. The glow of the fire made his eyes look like liquid silver. “What can’t you do, my love?”

“Hold on. You make me want to let go of everything.”

“Then let go.” He kissed her softly and pumped into her with swift precision.

She arched up, meeting his thrusts and kissed him back.

“Wrap your legs around me,” he said into her mouth.

She complied and he sank deeper inside of her. One more thrust and she threw her head back against the bed, her eyes closing in ecstasy.

He continued to move, which only intensified the sensations within her. There was light and bliss and an overwhelming satisfaction. She made awful, hideous sounds, but couldn’t help herself. Then he shouted and buried his face into her neck.

They lay like that for several minutes. She loved his weight and size on top of her. As a taller than average woman, she rarely felt delicate or very feminine, but he made her feel both of those things. As well as desirable and . . . loved.

He’d said he loved her. Did she love him in return? She wasn’t certain—her mind was still awhirl with everything that had happened, how drastically her life had altered in just a fortnight.

He shifted finally and guided her underneath the bedclothes. Then he parted the drapes and stepped from the bed.

She grabbed his arm. “You’re not leaving?”

He smiled at her. “No. Just getting something for you to clean yourself.”

How thoughtful. And how utterly mundane. Maybe they could have a normal life together. Yes, she thought they could. After seeing him at the orphanage with Fox, she knew there was a side to him that even he probably didn’t know—or was only just beginning to discover.

He returned with a towel, which she used to clean between her legs. He waited patiently for her to finish, then disposed of the article after completing his own brief toilet.

When he climbed back into the bed and closed the curtains, she yawned widely. She offered a weak smile, suddenly feeling bone-tired. “Pardon.”

He lay on his back and drew her against his chest. She heard his heart beating and was already drifting off when he said, “Sleep well, my love. Tomorrow, our future awaits.”

FIFTEEN

Despite the most satisfying sleep of his existence, Ethan woke early as always. It seemed he couldn’t escape his training. Sleeping late meant having your meager possessions stolen or perhaps your throat slit. There were plenty of occasions when he hadn’t risked sleeping at all.

But all of that seemed so long ago, so far away now as he watched Audrey in slumber. Her dark lashes fanned against her cheeks, which were pale as porcelain. Her nose had a gentle, but regal slope. And her lips were dark pink and lush, cushioned against each other just waiting for his kiss.

Her hair was a wild tangle of dark curls. He’d longed to touch it again, bury his face in its softness, and inhale her scent. But now that wasn’t enough. He’d been to heaven and back, and he was forever changed.

Where would they go? America? The continent? Somewhere more obscure? Maybe an island in the tropics. He’d heard of men who owned plantations there. Or perhaps they needn’t go so far. Surely they could start anew in a remote area of Scotland or Wales.

A piece of him still longed to return to London. He regretted having to forfeit his dream of taking his place as a Lockwood, especially since he and Jason had seemed to forge a brotherly relationship—or at least the promise of one. But his dream hadn’t accounted for a woman like Audrey. He’d never imagined he’d wed or even want to. She was an unexpected gift—a treasure he wouldn’t deny.

He had to admit a certain relief about not having to fight Teague or Jimmy. Guaranteeing Audrey’s safety was paramount, which was why he needed to make certain that wherever they went, neither Bow Street nor Gin Jimmy’s men would follow. He rather thought Teague would give up at some point, if he hadn’t already. However, Jimmy was a tenacious bastard, and he had a particular hatred for those he thought had personally wronged him. And since he’d trusted Ethan like no other and knew Ethan had betrayed him, he would take extreme measures to ensure Ethan’s demise.

Audrey stirred beside him, a sigh escaping her kiss-ready lips. He evicted thoughts of Jimmy and Teague from his mind. He didn’t want them here, not with her.

He leaned down and pressed his mouth against hers softly. She opened her eyes, which for a moment reflected surprise. Then her lips curved into a smile. “Is it morning?” she asked.

“Close enough. I thought it best if I returned to my room.”

“Why? I don’t want to hide from Philippa and Sevrin. I plan to tell Philippa that we’re leaving together.”

He didn’t see any point in lying to them either. Still, did he want to be obvious about their behavior since they hadn’t yet exchanged vows? “We’ll tell them this morning, but I prefer not to shock the maid when she comes to wake you.”

“I don’t even know if a maid will come. They employ a limited staff.” She scooted closer to him and slipped her arms around his middle, squeezing one beneath him to accomplish her goal.

He turned so that he was half-lying on her. He kissed the sensitive spot beneath her ear. “I’m happy to play lady’s maid if you require assistance.”

She giggled. “Somehow I think your ‘assistance’ might be more of a hindrance.”

He drew back and gave her a look of mock affront. “Did I not provide service on our journey?”

She wriggled beneath him, bringing her hips into contact with his. “You did. My apologies.”

His cock grew against her, but she didn’t draw away. He resumed kissing her neck and stroked her breast.

She sighed softly and kneaded his back. “Where will we go?”

He moved his lips past her collarbone. “We have several choices. America, if you still wish. Anywhere, really.”

“But we don’t have any funds.”

Hopefully, Sevrin would help him on that front. “Let me worry about money.” He drew her nipple into his mouth and suckled her while he massaged her flesh.

She moved her hand up and twisted her fingers into his hair, holding him against her. “I think America is the best choice. You can be anything you want there—or so Geoffrey said.”

“I think I’d prefer you didn’t mention that bounder again. His opinions don’t hold much weight with me.”

“You’re right, of course. Would you prefer to go somewhere else?”

He paused in his attentions and looked up at her. “Audrey, either you are thinking way too hard or I am not performing my duties properly. Why aren’t you lost in the throes of ecstasy?”

Her lips lifted in a seductive smile. “I’m quite enjoying your attentions.” She pushed his head back to her breast.

He nipped her softly and she arched into his mouth. He closed his mouth around her, drawing on her and sending shocks of pleasure to her core. She squirmed beneath him, opening her legs.

Accepting her invitation, he moved one hand between her thighs and caressed her slick softness. Her body came up off the bed, seeking more of him wherever he touched her.

He increased his pressure on her breast, laving and suckling her insistently, as if he could devour her whole. He slipped his fingers inside of her moist sheath. She cried out and bucked as he pumped into her.

She rotated toward him. “I want you. Now. Please.”

He pushed her back against the bed and rose above her. Her hand came between them—his beautiful intrepid girl—and guided him home.

Where last night he’d taken his time to bring her pleasure and ensure her satisfaction, this morning he was more confident in her abilities to find what she sought. Which gave him the freedom to do what he’d asked of her last night—to let go.

He drove into her, but still held back. He didn’t want to hurt or frighten her. But, Christ, he wanted to fuck her until his head exploded. Nothing in his life had felt as good as Audrey. Her laugh, her kisses, her simultaneously innocent and brazen touch.

She spread her legs wider and wrapped them around his hips, squeezing him with her muscles. She drew his head down and kissed him, her mouth open and wet. “Faster, please,” she breathed against his lips.

It was all he needed. He braced his hands on either side of her head and slid his length to the hilt, then retreated only to plunge forward again. He moved fast and hard. Her hands clenched his biceps and her cries grew louder and higher.

“Ethan!” She tensed with her orgasm and Ethan rushed to join her. He called out as he came, then went rigid as shocks of pleasure jerked through his body.

He rolled to the side, taking her with him. “Thank you.”

She kissed the underside of his chin. “Why? I should be thanking you.”

He took deep breaths to regulate the frenzied beating of his heart. “We can thank each other. You’re amazing.”

“Am I?”

He heard the pride as well as the sliver of doubt in her voice. He brushed her hair back from her face and kissed her, exploring her mouth with sensual precision. He drew back and looked into her eyes. “You are spectacular. I have never been happier in all of my life.”

She smiled and stroked his cheek. “When can we leave for America? I can’t wait to start our new lives together.”

“We need to talk to Sevrin and Philippa first.”

Her smile faded. “Yes, but I think Philippa will try to dissuade me from going with you.”

Sevrin probably wouldn’t be terribly supportive, either. “As she should. She’s a good friend.”

“She’ll change her opinion of you when she understands who you truly are.” She flattened her palm against his face, her touch soft yet firm. “Ethan, you have to let your guard down now—with some people. Please. You trusted me, didn’t you?”

He did. He marveled at that even now. “I will do my best. This is all new for me. And you must accept that you are special.” He covered her hand against his cheek and drew her palm to his mouth for a fierce kiss. “You know that, don’t you? You are something no one has ever been for me.”

Her eyes met his and held. “I know, and I won’t ever let you down.”

She kissed him and he was lost to the wonder of her once more.

After making love to her again, Ethan had reluctantly left her chamber an hour or so after sunrise. Audrey completed a quick and solitary toilet and hurried downstairs to join the others. She found Ethan and Sevrin in the breakfast room. Both men rose from the table as she entered.

Ethan pulled out the chair beside his for her. “I’ve just told Sevrin of our change in plans.”

Sevrin frowned at her. “You’re certain you wish to leave with him? You’re not under any sort of duress, are you?”

Audrey tried not to look affronted. She had, after all, given him the distinct impression that she and Ethan were parting ways. “No. I want to be with Ethan. I was . . . angry yesterday.”

“I’ve sent the footman to fetch Philippa. She will undoubtedly want to participate in this conversation.”

She sat and gave Ethan a quick smile over her shoulder before turning to their host. “That would be lovely. But do save us all the effort of disagreement. Nothing you can say will change my mind.”

“Audrey!” Philippa sailed into the room in her morning gown, something she might not have normally worn in Ethan’s presence. “Is it true that you’re going with Jagger?”

Audrey’s pulse began to pick up speed in anticipation of the coming conflict. “His name is Locke, and yes, I’m going with him. We’re going to be married.”

Philippa’s amber eyes widened, then focused on her husband in a communication that clearly said, “Do something.”

Sevrin shrugged. “Please sit, sweetheart.” He indicated the chair beside him, which Ned, the footman, pulled out for her.

She sat but crossed her arms and fixed Audrey with an insistent stare. “What happened?”

Sevrin touched Philippa’s hand. “Sweetheart, do you really want to know the answer to that?” The dryness of his tone nearly made Audrey laugh. She snuck a look at Ethan, whose lips were twitching. “Now,” Sevrin continued, “do we have to understand her choice or like it? No. But there are plenty of people who thought your choosing me over Allred was sheer foolishness, so perhaps we ought not judge.”

Philippa shot her husband a surprised look, but then her shoulders seemed to relax as she sat back against her chair. “I see your point.”

Audrey also began to relax. “Philippa, I hope you’ll come to see the Ethan I know. He deeply regrets what he did to you. I know you can’t forget what happened, but perhaps in time you can forgive him.”

“He has an awful lot to prove,” Philippa said.

“They’ll be leaving in a few days,” Ambrose said. I’m going to talk to Sedley about taking them to Guernsey.”

“Who’s Sedley?” Audrey asked.

“He owns several boats in Portscatho.”

Audrey turned to Ethan. “And why Guernsey?” It was a small island near the northern coast of France.

“Sevrin suggested it,” Ethan said after swallowing a bite of egg. “It doesn’t follow the same laws as England, so we should be safe there. And it’s much closer than America.”

Did that mean he wanted to try to come back at some point? She couldn’t fault him for wanting that, not when he wanted to get to know his brother.

Ethan smiled at Audrey. “We can be married there immediately, as well.”

“Is that what you want?” Philippa asked.

Audrey smiled back at Ethan, her chest expanding with emotions she could barely contain. She’d been hesitant to declare her love—she hadn’t tried to love anyone in such a long time. “Yes,” she said, then added softly, “I love him.”

His gray eyes reflected surprise and joy and astonishment. She took his hand and squeezed it. He seemed to fight a battle, then capitulated and brought her hand to his mouth for a gentle kiss.

Sevrin coughed discreetly. “Call me tenderhearted, but I can’t fault anyone who finds true love.”

Philippa exhaled, drawing Audrey to finally look away from Ethan. “I shall endeavor to support you, my dear friend, since this is clearly what you want. We’ll need to take a trip to Truro to outfit you with a trousseau. Are you going to write to your parents?”

“I should, but I don’t want them to know where we’ve gone.”

Ethan still held her hand. “You should send a note telling them you’re safe and happy, that they needn’t worry.”

Both Philippa and Sevrin looked at him as if surprised he’d suggest such a thing.

“I realize I haven’t given you reason to think I’m a thoughtful person,” he drawled wryly, “but hopefully you’ll see that I can be.” The last part was uttered with such sincerity that Audrey didn’t know how they couldn’t.

Philippa looked at Audrey with concern. “Are you certain you wish to leave your life behind?”

Audrey straightened her shoulders. “I already did when I chose to leave London with Ethan. There’s nothing for me there.” She added softly, “You know that, Philippa.”

There was a beat of silence before Sevrin said, “Then it’s settled, I’ll go and speak with Sedley today, and Philippa will take Audrey into Truro tomorrow.”

Audrey didn’t want to wait. What if they could leave tomorrow? “It’s early, why can’t we go today?”

Ethan laughed. “My bride is in a hurry.”

Sevrin chuckled. “I know how that feels.”

Philippa blushed and shook her head at him before addressing Audrey. “Yes, we can go today. We need a little alone time, I think, so I can hear just how Mr. Locke changed your mind.” That she referred to him as Mr. Locke and not Jagger was progress.

SIXTEEN

After visiting Sedley and arranging for passage to Guernsey the following day, Ethan and Sevrin strolled back through Portscatho toward Beckwith. It was a fine autumn day, the sea breeze was cool, but the sun overhead provided enough warmth, as did their exercise. But then Ethan thought this might just be the most splendid day of his life.

He looked at Sevrin’s profile as they walked, still uncertain if they were friends or not. He wasn’t sure he’d ever had a true friend. “I can’t thank you enough for helping me. The truth is, I can’t quite believe it, either.”

Sevrin glanced at him. “Neither can I. No, that’s not precisely true. I’m trying to practice forgiveness—for myself as much as for you. I have my own bad decisions and regrettable actions to overcome.”

This wasn’t the first time Sevrin had inferred his past was less than exemplary, but then Ethan had heard he’d ruined his brother’s fiancée or some such. And then today, with Sedley, there’d been some underlying current. “Something to do with Sedley?”

They turned onto the main street of Portscatho. “You could say that,” Sevrin said. “Mrs. Sedley was once engaged to marry my brother.”

Shit. That was definitely something. “I’d heard the rumor that you’d dallied with your brother’s fiancée. That’s her?”

Sevrin shot him a pained look and gave a subtle nod. “I’ll never fully recover from what I did to him. He died, indirectly, because of my callous indiscretion.”

His message came through very clearly: Ethan might not recover from his past deeds either. “I’m aware I have to live with the things I’ve done. How do you manage it?”

Sevrin inhaled. “Fighting. At first.”

Ethan began to understand why Sevrin had fought. He’d wanted Sevrin as his prizefighter because he’d been damned good—good enough to win the title—but he’d suddenly stopped. Ethan had hoped to coax him out of retirement, but he’d refused, which was why Ethan had used Philippa to persuade him to agree. “If the fighting soothed your pain, why did you stop?”

“Because it also brought me glory. I didn’t deserve that.”

Ethan’s neck prickled. He suspected he didn’t deserve this amazing day, the feelings of joy inside of him, or the love of Audrey. But could he even consider doing what Sevrin had done—deny himself that which made him happy because he didn’t deserve it? What purpose did it serve? “Do you fight anymore? Obviously, I’m aware you turned Ackley’s training over to one of your fighting club men.” Sevrin had found Ethan a prizefighter—Ackley—and had trained him until marrying Philippa.

He shook his head. “Not since Philippa and I wed. I occasionally spar with Ned, but it’s purely educational.”

“Pity, you were awfully good.” Ethan enjoyed a good fight. He’d wanted a prizefighter because it was a legitimate way to make money and it had been his father’s favorite sport. He used to take Ethan and Jason to bouts when they were lads. Those were some of the best memories of Ethan’s life.

They came upon the one of the town’s inns just as a man stepped out into the street. Ethan recognized him immediately. “Hell.”

Teague had just covered his balding pate with his hat when his gaze connected with Ethan’s. He strode toward him purposefully. “You can’t mean to run again.” He shouted toward the inn, “Lewis!”

The second Runner came from the inn. He wasn’t as large as Teague, but he was tall and fit. Ethan didn’t think he could take both of them on. He glanced at Sevrin. He wouldn’t help Ethan fight, but would he join the Runners?

Teague drew his pistol and Lewis did the same. Teague inclined his head at his cohort, who circled around to Ethan’s side.

Deep furrows carved into Sevrin’s brow. “What do you mean to do with Locke?”

“I’m arresting him for the murder of the Marquess of Wolverton and transporting him back to Bow Street.”

At Sevrin’s intake of breath, Ethan shot him a dark look. “I didn’t kill Wolverton.”

“The evidence against you is enough. My testimony alone will commit you to trial.” Teague flicked a glance at Sevrin. “I saw him standing over the body, holding a bloody knife, on the terrace at Lockwood House.”

Ethan could see the doubt in Sevrin’s gaze. “Teague, use the logic you’re so fond of. Jimmy was wearing the livery of the dead footman you seem to have conveniently forgotten. Jimmy had to have killed him, donned the costume, and committed the murder against Wolverton. I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Teague appeared unconvinced. “Nothing with you is as simple as you’d have it seem. You’re Jimmy’s most trusted man. I’m certain you worked together. In fact, I suspect it was you who anonymously informed us Jimmy would be at Wolverton House—that way we’d be busy while you and he killed Wolverton at Lockwood House. Don’t worry, we’ll be taking him down, too.”

If they could bloody find him, which they wouldn’t be likely to do. Jimmy knew and was welcome in just about every rookery in London. The denizens of those places wouldn’t help Bow Street.

“You should go,” Sevrin said quietly. “We’ll follow you tomorrow.”

The world careened sideways as Ethan saw his options disappearing. Hadn’t he planned to return to London anyway? Before he’d glimpsed a dream life with Audrey. Audrey. His knees nearly buckled. “I don’t want to leave without seeing Audrey.”

Sevrin clasped his shoulder. “It’s all right. I’ll take care of her. And I’ll send a note to your brother.”

It was more than Ethan could hope for. Far more than he likely deserved. He turned to Teague, hating that the man would see this as a victory. “I’ll go, but I promise to disappoint you. I’ll prove my innocence.”

Teague nodded at Lewis, who went to one of their horses and came back with a pair of shackles. His eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “How could this possibly disappoint me?”

“Is that really necessary?” Sevrin asked. “He said he’ll go with you.”

Teague’s glower didn’t move from Ethan. “I don’t trust him.”

Sevrin moved toward Lewis. “You can’t mean to keep him locked up for several days. That’s brutal. Ja—Locke,” he corrected, “tell them you won’t run.”

“I won’t run.” He looked at Sevrin. “Thank you. You’ll bring Audrey?”

Sevrin nodded. “We’ll figure this out. Don’t run.”

Teague scoffed. “You don’t trust him either.”

Sevrin turned to him. “No, I’m trying to make him understand that he can trust me, that he can rely on someone. I don’t think he knows how to do that.”

It seemed Ethan had a friend at last. He only hoped he’d be around long enough to appreciate it. No, he wouldn’t think like that. He would prove his innocence. He simply couldn’t contemplate the alternative.

Sevrin looked at the pair of horses they had tied outside the inn. “How are you transporting him?”

“We’ll get a cart and I’ll drive. I’ll arrange to have my mount returned to London,” Teague said.

“Why don’t you come back to Beckwith with us?” Sevrin said. “I’ll provide your transportation and you can leave in the morning.”

Ethan wanted to hug Sevrin, or at least thank him profusely.

Teague shook his head. “I want to get back to London as quickly as possible.”

“Then let me ride a horse,” Ethan said, hating the idea of being confined to a cart for the next five or six days. “I won’t bolt. And we’ll get back much faster.”

Teague shook his head. “No. We’ll find something here in town.”

Sevrin inclined his head toward Ethan. “I can procure something comfortable.”

In a short while, Sevrin had obtained a curricle with a single horse and gave Teague instructions to change the horse once a day. Teague wasn’t a particularly good driver, but though he hadn’t shackled Ethan’s hands, he also refused to let him take the reins. They rode out together, with Lewis traveling on horseback beside them. Sevrin had agreed to bring Teague’s mount back to London.

Ethan looked back at Sevrin and tried to find a thread of hope. But it was far easier to believe that his dreams for a happy future had just gone up in flames.

It was late afternoon before Audrey and Philippa returned to Beckwith. They’d spent a productive day gathering supplies for her and Ethan’s trip to Guernsey. She’d purchased some clothing, but it would require alteration once they arrived at their destination. She wondered what they would do there and looked forward to discussing it with Ethan. Hopefully, he would’ve worked out their transportation as well as how to obtain his money from London so they would have a means to live.

Philippa had quizzed her about why she’d changed her mind and Audrey had explained that Ethan was indeed trying to change and that all he really needed was for someone to have faith in him—and she did.

“How long will you stay in Guernsey?” Philippa asked as the coach came to a stop in Beckwith’s drive.

“I have no idea.” Nor did she particularly care. She was just happy to have the chance to start a life with the man she loved. “You and Sevrin must visit us.” The voyage wasn’t that long.

Ned, who had accompanied them on their errands, helped them from the coach.

The front door of the house opened and Sevrin stalked toward them, his face a dark mask. Audrey’s stomach fell straight through her toes. “What is it?” she breathed. But the absence of Ethan told her all that really mattered: He was gone.

“Come inside.”

“No,” Philippa said. “Tell her now. Did he leave?”

“Yes, but not of his own accord. Bow Street found him.” Sevrin looked to Audrey. “He didn’t want to leave without seeing you, but he wasn’t given a choice.”

Part of her was glad he would have the opportunity to prove his innocence, but the rest of her was devastated their plans had been ruined. There was always a chance he would be found guilty . . . She straightened and blinked against sudden tears.

She walked toward the house. “When can we leave?”

“Tomorrow,” Sevrin said, trailing behind her.

She paused at the door, wanting to protest, but knew it was pointless to depart today. They would barely have enough light to make it back to Truro, let alone anywhere on the way to London. She nodded as defeat seeped into her bones. No. She’d find a way to save him from hanging. He said he hadn’t done it, and she believed him.

Sevrin and Philippa followed her inside. She removed her gloves and bonnet with shaking hands. “I know you don’t have much faith in Ethan, if any, but he’s innocent of this crime.”

“What do you know of it?” Sevrin asked.

Audrey fought the embarrassment that rose to her cheeks. She hated that she didn’t know much of anything. “He said he was innocent and I believe him.”

Philippa gave her a sad look. “I hope you’re not wrong to place your trust in him.”

“He told me the same thing,” Sevrin said, leading them into the hall where he rang for refreshment. “He said he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Lockwood House, to be exact.” Sevrin glanced at Philippa. Lockwood House held special meaning for them.

And maybe it did for Audrey too . . . Her mind turned. This murder had to have happened the night they’d left London. It was why he’d fled. She’d been at Lockwood House that night.

It had been an odd evening, unlike any of the others she’d spent there. She’d been in the card room watching the hazard table when a footman had come in from the terrace. A few moments later, Lord Lockwood had gone out onto the terrace and shortly thereafter another man had followed him. There had been an urgency and tension to all of their movements. She’d grown nervous. Well, more nervous than sneaking into Lockwood House typically made her, and she’d departed quickly. But the important thing was that she’d been there.

She knew what she had to do and she didn’t hesitate. “I was at Lockwood House that night. I know what happened.”

Sevrin snapped his gaze to her. “You were?”

Philippa was also staring at her. “Audrey, what were you doing there?”

Audrey fought the blush that rose up her neck. “After you made it seem so easy to get in, I decided to try it for myself. I went once in a face-covering mask.” But she’d garnered too much attention from the attendees. People inviting her to do things she could scarcely imagine. “After that, I went dressed as a gentleman.”

Philippa blinked. Then she smiled and shook her head. “Shocking.”

“Did you see the murder?” Sevrin asked, his voice heavy with concern. “Can you identify the man who killed Wolverton?”

The Marquess of Wolverton had been the one killed? No wonder Bow Street had followed Ethan to the end of England. One didn’t kill a peer and get away with it. Not that he’d done it, but Bow Street thought he had. “I can. It wasn’t Ethan.”

“I don’t understand.” Philippa crossed her arms over her chest. “Why wouldn’t you have gone back to London together if you could prove his innocence?”

Audrey exhaled. She’d have to tell them the truth—or at least part of it. “We didn’t discuss the specifics of what he’d done. I didn’t realize who he was accused of murdering until now.”

But how she wished they had. If he’d been honest with her, she could’ve told him she’d been there, that she would give the testimony that would save him from hanging. Her neck chilled. If she’d been honest with him about why she’d been dressed as a gentleman, he would’ve realized she was there that night and maybe he would’ve told her his truth. They’d both been foolish, and now they were paying the price.

“You didn’t really see anything, did you?” Sevrin asked quietly.

“I saw enough. And I was there. I’ll be able to prove it. I won a large sum of money at hazard.” Which she and Ethan had spent on their travels.

Philippa gasped. “Audrey!”

Sevrin moved toward Audrey and pinned her with a serious stare. “Ethan says Gin Jimmy killed Wolverton. He was dressed in Lockwood livery.”

Audrey nodded slowly. “I saw him leaving the terrace.” She recalled Lord Lockwood and the man—now that she thought about it, she was sure that had been Teague, the Bow Street Runner—had gone onto the terrace. “Was Wolverton killed on the terrace?”

“Yes.”

Audrey’s heart sang. She hadn’t seen Gin Jimmy commit the murder, but she absolutely believed he had. “I’m going to say I saw Gin Jimmy kill Wolverton.”

Philippa came to her side and touched her arm. “You’re going to lie?”

She’d do that and more. “I’ll do whatever is necessary to save the man I love.”

Audrey barely slept that night and finally gave up trying just before sunrise. She dressed and went downstairs just as the sun was creeping over the horizon. Where was Ethan? Was he sleeping? Was he as distraught as her? Was he well?

Her heart clenched and she fought to take a deep breath. She went through the solar to a small room that led to the back terrace. She grabbed a bonnet and a wrap hanging from a hook and went out into the cool morning. Sea mist dampened her cheeks as she awkwardly tied the ribbon beneath her chin. The wrap was large and soft, something Mrs. Gates had knitted, Philippa had told her. It was also warm and comforting. She tried to imagine Ethan’s arms around her in place of it.

She was anxious to leave. Sevrin had promised they would depart early, but until they were actually on the road moving toward London, she wouldn’t relax. Hell, she probably wouldn’t even relax then. Listen to her, swearing. She smiled, missing Ethan and his foul but delectable mouth.

She walked through the yard to where there was a gate in the wall. Philippa had told her it led to a path that wound along the cliff side and then down to the beach. Audrey had hoped she and Ethan could walk to the beach together before they left for Guernsey. Now, alone, she went to the edge and looked out at the waves. Waves she ought to have been riding to her new life. With Ethan.

They could still have that life. He wouldn’t hang before she got to London—she wasn’t even a full day behind him. She’d tell her story, and he’d be freed. Maybe Bow Street would even apprehend Gin Jimmy, which would solve that problem too. Free from pursuit, they could stay in London; he could be close to his brother. But what sort of life would they have? He’d been marginally accepted as the curious long-lost brother of the scandalous and allegedly mad Lord Lockwood, but once the ton became aware of his criminal background, he’d be ostracized. And her reputation, such as it was, had to be ruined by now.

It didn’t matter to her where they lived, so long as they were together.

The breeze rustled the grass at her feet and the shrubbery dotting the cliff side. It was a bit noisy, but soothingly so. She could imagine living here, actually.

When the hands grabbed her arms, she inhaled sharply. When the palm came over her mouth, she jumped. When the voice hissed in her ear, “Don’t say nothin’ or we’ll just save ourselves the trouble o’ haulin’ ye back to London and slit yer throat right ’ere,” her stomach curled in on itself and her knees gave out.

The smell of unwashed flesh overcame the soft, fresh sea air and filled her nose until she thought she might pass out. She turned her head to see the assailant to her right. He was a bit shorter than her, with greasy black hair and a pockmarked face. The man on her left was taller with a short crop of sandy hair and small, vicious eyes. His lips spread in a nasty grin. “I’m Perkins and that’s Bird. If ye keep yer mouth shut and yer hands to yerself, ye’ll make it to London in one piece. Can ye do that?”

She nodded. Bird’s hand loosened over her mouth, but both men kept a tight hold on her arms. “Do you work for Gin Jimmy?”

Perkins’ grin widened. “We do.”

Her knees shook. How could she help Ethan if she was Gin Jimmy’s captive? And would she be just a captive? “What are you going to do with me?”

“Gin Jimmy wants ye,” Perkins said. “He wanted yer man too, but that damned Runner got to ’im first. No matter, Jimmy’ll get him one way or another.”

They knew Ethan had gone with Teague. And they wanted her anyway. Which had to mean they planned to use her to lure Ethan into some sort of trap where Gin Jimmy could exact his revenge. Audrey lifted her chin. “He’s in custody, and I’m the only person who can free him.”

The criminals exchanged looks and then laughed. “Ye don’t know Gin Jimmy!” Bird cackled. “Yer man’ll get out and come right for ye.”

Perkins sobered and gave her a hard look. “Time to go. Remember, don’t scream or do nothin’ else to draw attention. I’d hate for ye to get to London in more than one piece.”

Audrey’s blood ran colder than the Thames in winter. As they dragged her toward their pair of horses, she wondered how she was going to endure the journey to London. She quickly realized that was only the beginning of this nightmare.

SEVENTEEN

Ethan lay on his bed in his basement cell at Bow Street and stared at the ceiling. Two other prisoners lay on their beds, to which they were each shackled. Ethan had spent the last night the same as the previous five: frantic with worry about Audrey.

Was she well? Was she on her way to London? Did she even want to come to London now that he’d been arrested?

The door opened and Teague walked into the windowless room. He was a large, beefy man, which made the low ceiling seem even lower.

“Sleep well?” Teague asked, though his sarcastic tone said he didn’t actually give a damn.

Ethan sat up. “Let’s get this over with.”

Teague gazed at him with stark superiority. “In a hurry to get to Newgate?”

Which is where he’d go to await trial if the magistrates found the evidence against Ethan sufficient. Teague unlocked the shackle around Ethan’s ankle.

Ethan massaged his lower leg before drawing his boots on. “Has my brother arrived?”

“He is, in fact, waiting in the courtroom. Carlyle, too.” Teague said the last with a tone of irritation.

Carlyle had come? Ethan didn’t know if he was friend or foe. Ethan had saved his life, but Carlyle had made no secret of the fact that if he had to choose between Ethan and the law, the law would always win out. Perhaps Jason had convinced him to come, but Ethan didn’t know why.

“I’ve waited a long time for this day,” Teague said slowly, deliberately. “But I won’t truly celebrate until the hood is placed over your head and you’re swinging from the rope.”

Ethan understood the man’s anger and sadness over the loss of his sister, as well as he understood the need for revenge. However, at no time in the long years in which he’d hated his brother had he wished for Jason’s demise. He only wanted him to feel the pain of loneliness Ethan had endured. “It’s a dangerous thing to want another man’s death.”

Teague’s head snapped up. “As if you haven’t wanted that.”

Ethan stood. “I have, but I’ve only killed when I had to, for my own survival. We’re human, Teague. It’s the one thing we fight for from the moment we enter this godforsaken world.”

Teague was quiet a long moment. “I’m a man of the law. I want you to pay the price for what you’ve done—and that’s hanging.” He moved toward Ethan, holding his gaze as his eyes narrowed. “Yes, you’ve survived. But you have to live with your actions. How do you do that?”

Ethan allowed the remorse and regret he worked so hard to repress wash over him like a cleansing wave. Only he didn’t feel clean. He’d never feel clean. “Not very well, I’m afraid. Do I look as if I’m living a dream life?”

In truth, he’d been so close. Closer than he’d ever imagined. But Teague only reminded him that he didn’t deserve it. And maybe that’s why it hadn’t come to pass.

Teague opened the door and held it open for him. “Let’s go.”

Ethan picked up his coat from the bed and shrugged into its wrinkled folds. He was a rumpled mess from traveling so many days, but there was nothing he could do about it save knot his cravat the best he could, which he’d done earlier.

He paused beside Teague and looked him in the eye. “I didn’t do this.”

Teague bared his teeth. “I don’t believe you.” He jerked his head toward the door.

Ethan kept his head up as he preceded Teague from the cell. They went upstairs to the ground floor and made their way to the courtroom.

Several people stood about the room. They were prosecutors or witnesses, perhaps even spectators who’d heard Gin Jimmy’s closest ally was appearing today. Or, they’d learned Mr. Ethan Locke wasn’t all he’d purported to be.

Ethan stepped over the threshold and looked for his brother. Relief sagged through him when he saw him standing near the dock. Jason pivoted toward him, the nasty scar Ethan had caused standing out on his left cheek. Ethan suppressed a wave of self-loathing. He couldn’t indulge any unnecessary emotion today. Everything inside him needed to be directed to gaining his freedom.

Ethan recognized Carlyle standing beside Jason, but there were two other men with them.

Carlyle gave Ethan a quick nod and gestured to a thickset fellow. “Allow me to introduce my friend, the solicitor Jeremy Bates. He’s brought along a colleague to stand with you today. Lockwood has apprised him of the situation.”

The fourth man, a young, slender gentleman, inclined his head toward Ethan. “Mr. Harworth at your service. Shall we proceed?” He gestured for Ethan to precede him up to the raised dock against the wall on the right side of the room. The magistrates’ table was opposite, with the well of the court between them. This is where witnesses gave their testimony and where Teague took himself. Jason and Carlyle joined him in the well.

The three magistrates were seated at the table. The one in the center, a portly fellow with a ruddy complexion scrutinized Ethan. “Ethan Jagger?”

“Ethan Lockwood, your worship” Jason answered.

Ethan grabbed the railing in front of him for support. So much for suppressing emotion. His knees nearly buckled from Jason’s declaration. He looked down at Jason, but his brother was glaring at the magistrates. Glaring. Ethan nearly smiled at how good that felt.

“Indeed?” the magistrate asked, while the one to the left scribbled a note. “Teague, is this the correct man?”

Teague sent Ethan a harassed look. “Yes, he is. He has several aliases, your worship.”

The magistrate nodded. “We’ll address him as Mr. Lockwood then. Mr. Lockwood, you are charged with murdering the Marquess of Wolverton.”

“I am not guilty of that crime,” Ethan said. Harworth elbowed him discreetly and he added, “Your worship.”

The magistrate on the right cleared his throat. “Mr. Teague, you have evidence to present?”

“I do. I witnessed Mr. Jagger, pardon, Mr. Lockwood, standing over the marquess’s body holding the knife used to stab him to his death.” Teague glanced at Jason. “Lord Lockwood witnessed the same scene.”

The magistrate turned his attention to Jason. “Is this true?”

“Yes, your worship,” Jason said coldly. “However, I did not witness him stabbing Wolverton. He merely picked up the knife.” He glowered at Teague. “Mr. Teague didn’t witness the murder, either.”

“Is this true, Teague?” the magistrate in the middle asked.

“It is, but Mr. Jagger, pardon, Mr. Lockwood, is a known criminal. He claims Gin Jimmy, a crime lord of some fame, committed the murder, but I believe they worked in tandem. I know they were cohorts. Your worship, I have other evidence that ties Mr. Lockwood to the murder of Lady Aldridge.”

The magistrate’s dark brows—at odds with his gray hair—rose. “Are you charging him with that today also?”

Teague grimaced, and the flesh around his mouth paled. “Unfortunately, no. The primary witness has gone missing.”

That would’ve been Oak. What had happened to him?

The magistrate on the right grunted, while the one on the left wrote more notes. The magistrate in the center turned his attention to Lord Carlyle. “Lord Carlyle, what are you doing here today?”

“I came to hear the evidence, your worship. It is my belief that Gin Jimmy committed the murder of Wolverton, as well as the murder of Lord Lockwood’s footman, without the assistance of Mr. Lockwood.”

Teague gestured to the magistrate’s table. “That knife is the weapon Mr. Lockwood was holding over Wolverton’s corpse. Upon inspection, you will see it is inscribed with a J.” Teague turned his head and smirked at Ethan. “For Jagger.”

Ethan sneered. “It’s for Jimmy, you half-wit.”

Mr. Harworth touched Ethan’s arm briefly before addressing the magistrates. “The inscription on the knife is not conclusive evidence that it belongs to Mr. Lockwood.”

The center magistrate picked up the weapon and examined it. “Is this your knife, Mr. Jagger?” That he’d reverted to Ethan’s criminal name tensed Ethan’s muscles. He didn’t dare correct him and was relieved when no one else did either. He wanted to be recognized as a Lockwood, but he wanted his freedom more.

“No, your worship.”

“And you didn’t use it to kill Lord Wolverton?”

“No, your worship.”

The magistrate frowned. He exchanged glances with the other two magistrates, who were also frowning. They spoke to each other in low tones, their discussion impossible to hear from Ethan’s location.

Ethan’s attention was drawn to the waiting area to the left as a pair of men made their way rather close to the dock. He recognized Sevrin, who was accompanied by his friend, the Earl of Saxton. Ethan looked for Audrey, who surely would be with him, but couldn’t find her in the crowd. He felt a moment’s relief—he wasn’t sure he wanted her to see him like this—but it was short-lived as he registered the lines around Sevrin’s mouth. Something was wrong.

At last the magistrate in the center addressed the room. “As much as it pains me, Teague, I’m not sure you have quite enough to commit him to trial.”

“I’m an eyewitness. Surely that should be enough.” Teague sounded desperate.

Sevrin went up to the dock and whispered to Ethan and the barrister, “There’s a witness who saw the murder and will testify that it wasn’t Mr. Locke.”

Mr. Harworth leaned down toward Sevrin. “Where is he?”

Sevrin glanced at Ethan and the lines around his mouth deepened. “Unfortunately, she’s unavailable.”

She.

Ethan didn’t have to wonder who Sevrin referenced. He bit the side of his mouth to keep from exploding. What the hell had happened?

Harworth frowned. “When will she be available?”

Sevrin’s expression was pained. “That will depend. She’s an estimable member of Society. Will that help his cause?”

“What are you discussing?” one of the magistrates asked in a booming voice.

Harworth straightened. “We beg your pardon, your worships. We’re discussing another witness who is currently unavailable. She saw who committed the murder and will testify that it was not Mr. Lockwood.”

The magistrate on the left made more notes while the one on the right asked, “Who is this witness?”

“Miss Audrey Cheswick,” Sevrin answered. “Her grandfather is Lord Farringdon.”

The magistrates exchanged looks again and then nods. The one on the right addressed Teague. “You don’t have enough to charge Mr. Lockwood with the murder of Wolverton, especially if this other, quite credible, witness is able to give testimony.” He looked up at Ethan. “Mr. Lockwood, you are free to go.”

Mr. Harworth clapped Ethan on the shoulder and escorted him from the dock. Ethan was bursting with nervous energy about whatever had happened to Audrey.

Jason and Carlyle came out of the well, followed by Teague, who paused only long enough to say, “I’ll find a way to see you hang.” Then he stormed from the courtroom.

Ethan didn’t take even a moment’s respite to celebrate. He turned toward Sevrin. “Where’s Audrey?”

Sevrin looked even more pained than he had in the dock. “I don’t know. She disappeared the morning after you left.”

Ethan wanted to wrap his hands around Sevrin’s neck because he was the closest person he could punish. The earth was falling out from beneath him and he was going to tumble into a black abyss. “What the fuck do you mean by ‘disappeared’?”

“She was just gone. No one saw her leave. It appeared she rose early—some of her clothing was gone—and went for a walk. There was a wrap by the door to the terrace and it’s missing, as if she went out that way and took the wrap with her. I think she went to the cliff side path. We searched, but there was no sign of her.”

Jason wrapped his hand around Ethan’s elbow, the contact giving him a physical support he hadn’t realized he needed. “What do you think happened to her?”

“Gin Jimmy.” Ethan’s insides hardened with resolve. Audrey wanted Ethan to be done with hurting people, but he was going to carve Jimmy’s heart out if he’d hurt her.

“You think she’s here in London?” Carlyle asked. The four men were standing around Ethan now, each one watching him intently like he was some sort of caged animal on display as a curiosity. Others were watching him too, despite the fact that the court proceedings had continued at the other end of the room.

“I can’t imagine she’d be anywhere else.” Unless they’d done something with her along the way. No, he wouldn’t let himself think that. Not yet. He turned to Sevrin and worked to keep the despair out of his voice. “You’re certain she didn’t fall or meet any other sort of disaster on the path?”

Sevrin shook his head. “There was no sign of that.”

Ethan ran his hand through his hair and fought to rip it from his head. He wanted to tear the room apart, lash out at these men who were just standing there doing nothing.

But what could they do?

“I have to find her.” He moved toward the door, but Sevrin caught his arm.

“Wait. Let us help you.”

Ethan’s lip curled as he contemplated the four aristocrats. “How the hell are you lot going to help me?”

Carlyle adjusted his cravat. “I’ll try not to be offended that you would think I couldn’t help you. After all, I owe you, and you know my contacts are equal to yours.”

Ethan grunted. “I doubt that. But I take your point. Please find out whatever you can.”

“Shall we reconvene at Lockwood House this afternoon?”

Hours from now. “I can’t wait that long.” Ethan heard the anguish in his tone and wanted to shout his frustration.

Jason probed him with an earnest stare. “Be smart, Ethan. You’ll be much better served with a plan. You seem to be the master of them.”

He was referring to the plan Ethan had been orchestrating to take down Gin Jimmy in order to free himself and join Society. The plan Ethan had refused to share with his brother. He looked at Jason and their unspoken exchange was clear: Jason would help him, but Ethan had to trust him.

Ethan forced himself to exhale and push some of the tension from his shoulders. “What do you propose?”

Jason’s eyes flashed briefly with surprise. Then he too seemed to relax. “Let’s see what Carlyle learns.”

“We’ll have to flush him out,” Ethan said, his mind working. He knew Gin Jimmy better than anyone. The man rarely left his comfortable rookery in the heart of the Seven Dials and he was untouchable there. If he’d taken Audrey—and Ethan absolutely believed he had—that was the only place he’d keep her. “I know where she is, but if I go in there, I’m dead.”

“He’s laid a trap,” Sevrin said.

“Then we’ll have to lay our own.” Saxton drew everyone’s attention. His pale blue gaze was cunning. “Lockwood—that’s bloody confusing.” He focused on Ethan to differentiate between the brothers. “If we can lure him away from her, will you have a chance or are you dead either way?”

“I might have a chance,” Ethan said slowly. There were those who were loyal to Ethan, who would support the overthrow of Gin Jimmy, but they’d want Ethan to lead them instead. And Ethan wanted no part of that. “It depends on what Gin Jimmy’s told them in my absence. I don’t know how much allegiance I still command.”

“I’ll find out,” Carlyle said, striding toward the door. “See you at Lockwood House. You can update me on the plan then.”

“Carlyle,” Ethan called. The man paused and turned back. “Confirm that she’s there—the Cup and Burrow’s his place—that she’s safe.”

Carlyle nodded and left before Ethan could say the most important thing of all: Thank you.

“Did you have a specific trap in mind, Sax?” Sevrin asked.

Saxton shrugged. “It seems like the one thing that could coax Jimmy out of his lair is the thing he wants most.”

“Me.” Ethan shook his head. “I have to get into his stronghold.” Not only because he needed to be the one to save Audrey—and he needed to be that man—but because it was also imperative that he take Jimmy down for good. And that would require help, which he could only get by turning the men’s allegiance from Jimmy to him.

Saxton lips spread in a shrewd smile. “Not you. The other Lockwood.” He inclined his head toward Jason. “Perhaps we can use your similarity in build and coloring to draw Jimmy out. Your scar, however, could be a problem.”

Sevrin shook his head. “Not if we covered it. I got pretty good at disguising my injuries from the Black Horse.”

“You tried,” Saxton said. “Let’s employ an expert. I’m certain Olivia can put her experience from the theater to good use. It won’t be perfect, but we should be able to mask the scar enough to fool people at a distance.” Saxton looked to Ethan. “Will that work?”

“It could.” Ethan envisioned Jason dressed like him and situated in a dark corner of the Brazen Bride flanked by a few of Ethan’s men. It would sufficiently dupe anyone watching into thinking that Ethan was there, which would hopefully draw Jimmy out. Ethan decided he needed to weigh the odds and knew exactly what he could say to lure his former mentor from his den.

The question was, could he bare himself to Jason? He wouldn’t have to, he reasoned. He could write a message that would bring Jimmy from his den without telling Jason what it said. He glanced at his brother. His brother. His neck tingled uncomfortably. No, the time for secrets had passed. It was time to trust and discover faith—if he could.

“Let’s go to Lockwood House where we can sort this all out.” Jason slapped him on the shoulder in an exceedingly brotherly manner. “I’m not asking you to relax, but you can bathe, change your clothes, and have a glass of whisky. As my butler North would say, you need fortification.”

No, what he needed was Audrey. If anything had happened to her . . . He wouldn’t be able to bear it. To have happiness within his grasp only to have it be torn away would kill him. But did he deserve anything else?

After a brutal six-day journey that had seen her bounced around in a stolen cart, racing over hillsides on a stolen horse, and ushered into London in a rundown—and, yes, stolen—carriage, Audrey was simply glad to be still. Even though it meant she was locked in a windowless room in a flash house in St. Giles. She wasn’t sure what a flash house was, but it wasn’t good.

The ground floor had been somewhat like a pub or tavern, but filled with a class of folk Audrey had never encountered. Men, women, children—all filthy and possibly drunk—had gaped and leered at her as Perkins and Bird had dragged her inside. A woman had taken her from them and brought her upstairs to the third floor, a warren of rooms from which came intermittent and disturbing sounds. Crying. Shouting. Darker sounds of a more . . . intimate nature.

The woman, Mother Dean she’d called herself, had drafted two younger women to help Audrey. They’d set up a bath and brought her fresh clothes, though Audrey would’ve preferred to have her old clothing, wretched as it was after the nearly incessant travel. Her new costume didn’t fit properly. As with most gowns that weren’t tailored for her, this was too short and too tight in the bodice. It also revealed much more of her bosom than she’d ever exposed.

The room she’d been placed in was small, little more than an alcove beneath the stairs leading to the uppermost floor. The now-tepid bath sat in the corner while Audrey perched on a wooden chair. One of the young women, Ellie, who’d helped her bathe and dress, was styling her hair, and the other had gone to fetch cosmetics.

“I’d prefer not to apply anything to my face.” The gown was degrading enough.

“It’s expected of the girls ’ere at the Cup and Burrow.” Ellie stuck pin after pin into Audrey’s hair. “How do ye manage these curls?”

“It’s a bit of a trial. What do you mean the ‘girls’?” Audrey had a pretty good guess but asked anyway.

“The Cup and Burrow’s a flash house. The cup is for the gin and the burrow’s for what’s between yer legs.”

Audrey’s gut tightened with fear as her guess was affirmed. “How many girls are here?”

Ellie jabbed a pin into Audrey’s hair, scratching her head. “Depends. As many as forty sometimes. We get new girls often, but not all of ’em work out.”

“What happens to them?”

“Out on their arse, unless there’s another need for ’em. I can usually tell who’ll wash out. I tend to ’em when they come in, like I’m doing for ye, if they need it. Most of ’em arrive lookin’ as they ought. Not like ye.” She stuck another pin into Audrey’s curls. “Ye won’t last a day.”

Audrey suppressed a shudder. “I’m not one of the ‘girls.’” God, what if she were? No, she’d cling to the hope that Gin Jimmy was only using her as bait to get Ethan. “But if I were, what would happen to me next?”

“Ye’ll be allowed to settle in for a day or so. And if ye’re smart, ye’ll drink a lot of gin to make things easier.” She laughed, which gave the room a subtle scent of the gin she spoke of. She gave a final pat to Audrey’s hair, then moved around in front of her. “Ye’ll do. After we get yer face done, I’ll take ye downstairs to the common room for somethin’ to eat.”

The second woman came in. Beneath the kohl around her eyes and the unnatural shade of red on her lips, she looked far younger than Ellie, though Audrey suspected they were of a similar age.

Ellie stared at the other young woman. “Nan, where’s yer cosmetics basket?”

“I was told to bring ’er downstairs immediately. Mother Dean wants to see you, Ellie.”

Ellie went to the door and paused, looking back at Audrey. “Remember what I said about the gin.” She gave Ellie a knowing smile and quit the room, leaving laughter in her wake.

Audrey got up from the chair, her legs trembling. “Where are you taking me? I’m not one of the . . . girls.”

Nan smiled softly. “I know. I’m taking you to Gin Jimmy. Is it true you’re Jagger’s woman?”

Though the label was somewhat crude, it gave Audrey a silly thrill. “Yes. You know him?”

The young woman’s smile turned shy as she nodded. She suddenly looked quite young. “I’m not one of the ‘girls’ either, and I have Jagger to thank. I came ’ere to be one. I didn’t have no money and there was nothin’ left to sell. It was starve or come ’ere. I was lucky that ’e was in the common room that first night. ’E could tell I didn’t want to be ’ere. I kept refusin’ the gin.”

Audrey was desperate to hear why she was grateful to Ethan. “What did he do?”

“’E told Mother Dean I’d make a good maid. They were short one at the time. It was just a few months ago.”

“And you haven’t had to sell yourself?”

Nan shook her head almost violently, then suddenly took Audrey’s hand. “It’s terrible what’s goin’ to happen to Jagger. I wish there was somethin’ I could do.”

Audrey’s skin prickled. “What’s going to happen to him?”

“I don’t know for sure, but from what I hear Gin Jimmy’s angrier than anyone’s ever seen ’im.” That didn’t sound good at all. “Come on, we ’ave to get downstairs.” She gave Audrey a pitying look, then turned and led her back down to the ground floor. Instead of going to the front of the flash house, where the common room was located, they turned to the back of the building. They entered an extravagantly decorated room. The walls were hung with silk, the furniture ornate and expensive, if a bit mismatched. There was a dais at the opposite end with a large chair surrounded by lush pillows littering the floor. It was a reception area fit for a king who prized decadence and self-importance.

A stout man with a shock of white hair came from a door in the corner and climbed the dais to sit in the chair. Audrey recognized his face—the man who’d been wearing the livery at Lockwood House: Gin Jimmy.

He was dressed in clothing that suited his surroundings—a dark velvet frock coat and a garish silk waistcoat with alternating red and gold stripes. Lace from the cuffs of his shirt draped over his hand, which were covered in brightly jeweled rings. He looked like an aging dandy.

“Miss Cheswick at last. Ye know who I am?” He held his hand out just as a boy rushed to his side with a gold goblet.

“Gin Jimmy.” She noted the men who’d clustered at the sides of the dais. Rough-looking men like Perkins and Bird, who were standing a few feet away.

“Ye’ve done well,” Gin Jimmy said to them. “Ye’ve earned yer keep.” He inclined his head at the man closest to the dais, a surprisingly young fellow with spectacles. He withdrew two pouches from his coat and tossed them at Perkins and Bird.

They each caught their pay, bowed their heads, and left. Bird flashed her a nasty leer as he passed.

Audrey suppressed a shiver. They hadn’t touched her beyond moving her here and there, but the danger surrounding her was seeping into her bones by degrees. She glanced behind her for a supportive look from Nan, but the maid was gone.

“Were ye comfortable upstairs?” Gin Jimmy asked before taking a draught from his gaudy chalice.

“Not particularly.”

Gin Jimmy laughed. “Ye’ve got fire. No wonder my boy Jagger likes ye. But at least I didn’t put ye to work. I’m thinkin’ ye’d rather not do that.”

A chill settled over her. “No. Thank you.”

“Polite too.” Gin Jimmy chuckled, shaking his head. “What’s happened to my boy? He’s traded a good life for a bit of Society fluff. Question is, can ye keep his attention? At least long enough for him to come after ye?”

Audrey looked at the group of men with their pistols and knives and was glad Ethan couldn’t walk into this trap. “He can’t. He’s been arrested by Bow Street.”

Gin Jimmy took another swig from his cup and handed it back to the boy who’d kneeled on one of the pillows. “That won’t stop him.”

Audrey couldn’t contain her curiosity—or her worry. “What do you mean?”

He lifted a velvet-clad shoulder and Audrey noticed a sparkle in his earlobe, an earring. “Jagger’s a cunning lad. He’ll find a way to get out. And if he doesn’t”—he glanced at his small army and grinned, stirring them to grin and chuckle in return—“they’ll try him and sentence him to hang.” His tone had turned cold, vicious. His eyes shrank to terrifying slits.

Audrey clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking, but it was no use. A shudder shook her frame. She couldn’t countenance either of those outcomes. “What do you plan to do with me?”

“We’ll just wait fer a bit. I’m not lettin’ Bow Street rob me of sendin’ ’im to ’is maker. If necessary, we’ll get ’im out and then ’e’ll come for ye.”

She tried to show bravado. “He may not.” Could Jimmy tell she was lying?

He scrutinized her a long moment. “I think ’e will. ’E dragged ye all over England. Aye, ’e’ll come fer ye, and then I’ll gut ’im. I’m going to ’ave some luncheon. Ye must be famished.” He made the observation as if he hadn’t just promised to murder the man she loved.

Audrey could only stare at the garish fiend. But then her stomach growled, prompting everyone in the room—save the boy—to laugh.

“Stay and eat then.” He stood and walked down the steps of the dais toward her. She fought the urge to turn and run. He held out his hand. “Come, dearie. Let us share a meal and ye can tell me all about our boy Jagger.”

Audrey didn’t want to tell him a thing. “I’d rather not.”

Gin Jimmy’s eyes hardened. “Ye ought not turn down my generosity. Wouldn’t want ye to end up in a room upstairs.”

His threat had the desired effect. Audrey could scarcely breathe through her fear. She gave him her shaking hand. He took it and she steeled herself against the rush of revulsion as he led her to a baroque table at the side of the room. The boy rushed to hold a chair for her.

After Gin Jimmy was seated at the head of the table and she on his right side, the crime lord snapped his fingers. A young woman rushed forward and curtseyed to him. Her gown was even more revealing than Audrey’s. The woman, little more than a girl really, was a tiny thing, but her breasts had been pushed up until they swelled above the neckline nonetheless.

“Fetch Marie,” Gin Jimmy said to her.

She dashed from the room and came back a moment later with a very attractive woman. She was curvaceous, with blazing red hair and full lips. Her attire was equally scandalous, but for some bizarre reason it suited her. She didn’t look nearly as awkward as Audrey felt.

“Marie,” Gin Jimmy said, “this is Miss Cheswick. She’s Jagger’s new plaything. Miss Cheswick, this is Marie.” His eyes narrowed with devious intent. “She’s Jagger’s old plaything.”

Guffaws sounded from the gallery of men near the dais. Gin Jimmy laughed with them, then inclined his head for them to take seats at the table.

Audrey stared at Marie, who was beautiful, despite her vivid attire. Jealousy pricked her, but she quashed it. Thinking of Ethan with another woman was pointless. He loved her. And he would come for her. But no! She didn’t want him to walk into a trap.

Marie sauntered toward her. “Can’t see what Jagger’d want with ye. But I s’pose it was all part of his act.” She leaned down and sneered in Audrey’s face. “Can’t pretend to be a fancy gent without a fancy gel on yer arm.”

Audrey opened her mouth to tell Marie she was far more than arm decoration, but Gin Jimmy snapped his fingers again and more scantily-clad women appeared bearing trenchers of food. As a steaming plate was placed before her, Audrey struggled between hunger and nausea. She looked around at the men attacking their meals and wondered how she was ever going to escape this nightmare. She wanted to pray for Ethan to find her, but couldn’t bear to see him killed. Neither could she contemplate him hanging. If a more hopeless situation existed, Audrey couldn’t imagine it. All she could do was fight for her survival. With that thought, she picked up a piece of bread and ate.

EIGHTEEN

Despite a bath, fresh clothing from his own apartment at the Bevelstoke fetched by a pair of Jason’s footmen, and two glasses of whisky, Ethan didn’t feel remotely fortified.

They were still waiting for Carlyle to arrive, so Ethan had asked Jason to meet him in the office. Ethan paced the room like a caged animal, occasionally looking up at the portrait of their father, which strangely gave him a modicum of solace. Father had loved him, had wanted the best for him despite his illegitimacy. He would’ve hated what had happened to Ethan, what Ethan had done. The solace melted into shame.

Jason came into the office and shut the door. “Carlyle’s not here yet.”

“I know. But there are . . . elements to the plan I wanted to share with you alone.”

Jason blinked at him, appearing astonished, as he sat behind his desk. “You want to share something with me?”

Ethan stopped his pacing to glare at his brother. “Is now really the time for sarcasm?”

Jason held up a hand. “My apologies. I’m just shocked.”

“If you’re going to pretend to be me, I may as well tell you why you’re going where you’re going.”

“And where’s that?” Jason asked.

“A flash house off Portugal Street—the Brazen Bride.”

Jason sat back in his chair and studied Ethan. “Why is this particular place important?”

“It’s where I first met Jimmy.” Memories rushed over him. He immediately smelled the filth and the putridity and the cheap perfumes that were used to hide the overwhelming stench of desperation and decay. He’d wanted to cry at the loss of the comforts he’d known, but such weakness had been beaten out of him right after his mother had died. “After you turned me away, I went to Davis. He’d been Mother’s final protector.” Ethan didn’t look at Jason while he spoke, but went to the bookshelves that lined two walls of the room and sightlessly studied the spines. He didn’t want to see the play of emotions cross Jason’s face. And if there weren’t any, he didn’t want to see that either.

“He was a thief-taker, but corrupt,” Ethan continued. “I didn’t know that at first and I was simply glad to have a roof over my head, which he’d arranged for me at the Brazen Bride.”

“You went to live in a flash house.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement toned with disbelief.

Ethan glanced at Jason, but didn’t let his gaze linger. “That’s where I met Jimmy—back when he was just Jimmy Gare.” Ethan recalled the younger version of Jimmy, with his red-blond hair shot with only a few strands of white and his jovial grin. Something inside of Ethan bent, but he ignored the reaction. “He took a liking to me, I don’t know why.” Though he could guess. He’d been young, vulnerable, and desperate for someone to treat him with kindness. Davis had helped him, but he could be cruel, demanding. He beat Ethan and his crew when they didn’t score enough. “I worked in Davis’s theft gang, and Jimmy’s gangs were rivals. Davis was setting me up with a job so that he could take the bounty for catching me and the crew. Jimmy helped me foil his plan, and it was Davis who was arrested and hanged.”

Jason’s intake of air sounded like a thunderclap. “Jesus, Ethan. How old were you?”

Ethan shrugged. He didn’t want Jason’s pity. “Barely fifteen. After that, I joined one of Jimmy’s gangs and eventually took it over.” Why not tell him the whole truth like he’d told Audrey? “I had to kill the leader of the gang. It was that or be killed. Jimmy congratulated me and encouraged my leadership.” Jimmy had taken Ethan under his wing and brought him up through the ranks. He’d risen along with Jimmy as he’d grown his criminal empire. “Eventually I oversaw all of Jimmy’s thieving operations, but I refused to become involved with any of his brothels or gin shops. I figured one vice was enough to see me to hell.”

“Why are you telling me all of this?”

Now Ethan turned. “Because the Brazen Bride is where my life changed. It’s where I left my life as Ethan Lockwood behind and became Ethan Jagger. It’s where Gin Jimmy found me, thoroughly corrupted me, and treated me like his son. I would’ve done anything to please him.” And he had. Thankfully, he hadn’t had to kill, only on occasion to protect himself, as with the leader of the gang, but he’d ensured plenty of people had carried out Jimmy’s death sentences. Ethan might not have wielded the weapons, but he felt the blood on his hands just the same.

Jason stood and came around his desk. He strode toward Ethan, stopping only a foot away. “I don’t know what to say. All this time I hated you for giving me a stupid scar and ruining my reputation, when your life has been nothing but an open wound. Would that you had a scar, for that would mean your injury is old and healed.” He pulled Ethan into a hug. “I wish I could go back and make my mother take you in.”

For a moment, Ethan just stood there. Jimmy had hugged him at first. But the outward affection had decreased as Ethan had gotten older, which made sense. Men like them didn’t show their emotions, particularly between each other. Yet, Ethan had always known Jimmy cared for him, as much as a bastard like him could care for anyone. It was the one thing that had kept Ethan human.

“We’re going to get Audrey back,” Jason said, pounding his fist against Ethan’s back. “And we’re going to eliminate Jimmy from your life. He isn’t your family, Ethan. I am.”

Ethan closed his eyes and hugged his brother. The tension in his chest splintered and emotion swept through him. He squeezed his eyelids tight and held on.

A moment later, a discreet cough broke them apart. Jason’s butler, North, stood just over the threshold. “Lord Carlyle is here, along with Lord Sevrin and Lord and Lady Saxton. Lady Lockwood will be pouring tea for them in the drawing room.”

Ethan looked at Jason. “You included Lydia?”

Jason moved toward the door. “Of course. Audrey is her dearest friend, and you know my wife, she’s not to be deterred.”

Ethan followed him, glad for this trifling conversation after the weight of his revelations. “Your wife? You were married by special license while I was gone?”

“I’m afraid we couldn’t wait for the banns to be read. I had to get her away from her vicious aunt.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s the only reason for your haste.” Ethan gave him a knowing look. “I’m still sorry to have missed the occasion.”

Jason turned and clapped his shoulder. “We’ll celebrate at your wedding.”

Ethan silently prayed that would come to pass, but didn’t want to dwell on it. Instead, he recalled something from earlier that day. “Do you know what happened to Oak? He was going to testify that I’d paid him to poison Lady Aldridge.”

Jason shrugged. “He might’ve gotten on a ship bound for the Orient or some faraway place. You could ask Scot.”

Gratitude—an emotion Ethan reserved for very few occasions and even fewer people—swelled within him.

They went to the drawing room, where Carlyle, Saxton, Lady Saxton, Sevrin, and Lady Lockwood were already seated. North’s twin, and Jason’s manservant, Scot, was just delivering the tea tray. Instead of departing, he took an empty chair.

Ethan’s gaze settled on Scot, and on his brother, North, who lingered near the door.

“We need all the help we can get,” Jason said, sitting beside his wife on a plush settee. He indicated for Ethan to take the chair angled beside him, then turned his attention to the former magistrate. “Carlyle, what did you learn?”

Carlyle inched forward in his chair opposite Ethan. “She’s at the Cup and Burrow. Arrived sometime this morning.” He looked to Ethan. “There are men stationed at all of your usual haunts, including the Bevelstoke.” Carlyle glanced at Jason. “Because Jason’s retainers went there to obtain your things, Jimmy is undoubtedly aware that you are no longer at Bow Street.”

“Does he know Ethan’s here?” Jason took his wife’s hand. “Is it safe?”

“I’ve asked Bow Street to post a couple of Runners outside, just in case.”

Ethan’s insides churned with anxiety. “It doesn’t matter, I won’t be staying. We need to act. Do you know if Audrey is all right?”

“Not specifically, no.” Carlyle grimaced apologetically. “I agree we need to move quickly.”

Ethan removed a piece of parchment from his coat. “I drafted this letter to Jimmy, asking him to meet me at the Brazen Bride. I’ve used . . . language that should be enough to draw him forth.”

Sevrin leaned forward. “What does that mean?”

Jason jumped to answer before Ethan could. “They share a common background. The Brazen Bride is where they met and Ethan believes the location holds enough personal meaning that Jimmy won’t be able to deny Ethan’s request.” He shot Ethan a questioning look. Ethan nodded imperceptibly, relieved that Jason understood and that Ethan didn’t need to explain anything to the rest of them.

Carlyle took the paper. “I’ll see that it’s delivered.”

“I, of course, won’t be at the Brazen Bride; Jason will be. In addition to covering his scar, he’ll wear some of my clothing, which I had his footmen bring from my apartment—things that are known to belong to me.” Ethan allowed a small smile. “I’m quite known for my style.” He flashed his left hand, which bore three of his rings, including the one inscribed with L that he’d had made after he’d amassed some of his wealth.

“I’ll go with his lordship,” Scot said.

Carlyle opened his mouth, but Jason cut him off. “Scot has some experience in the underworld. I wouldn’t take anyone else.”

Carlyle nodded. “I’ll be waiting nearby, watching for Jimmy so that we can apprehend him. I’ll have some of my old constable friends with me.” He turned to Ethan. “We’ll send a message to you as soon as we arrest him so you know you’re free and clear.”

“What can we do?” Sevrin asked, indicating himself and Saxton. “You know I can fight, but you should know Saxton’s nearly as skilled.”

“Nearly?” Saxton sounded mildly affronted. On any other afternoon, Ethan would’ve laughed.

“This can go several ways,” Ethan said slowly. He’d thought this through every way possible over the past hours. In the best scenario, Jimmy went to the Brazen Bride and was arrested. In the worst, Jimmy never left the Cup and Burrow, and Ethan was forced into his trap. “You can help Carlyle. Or you can wait for me outside St. Giles.” The rat’s castle was no place for men like them. They’d be eaten alive.

Saxton frowned. “If we dress appropriately, why can’t we go in with you? Can’t we pass for your lackeys?”

“I can’t endanger you that way.” He looked at Sevrin. “Lady Sevrin,” he glanced at Saxton’s wife, “and I’m sure Lady Saxton, would never forgive me. Please, don’t.” Ethan hoped Sevrin knew how sincerely he meant it.

Sevrin stared at him a long moment before settling back in his chair with a slight nod. He looked over at Saxton and shook his head.

Saxton scowled, but nodded his assent. “We’ll be waiting for you and if you take too long, we’re coming in after you with a bloody army.”

Ethan appreciated the support. He opened his mouth to say something and was surprised to find a lump in his throat that he simply couldn’t speak past.

Carlyle stood. “Then we’re ready.” He tucked the missive into his coat. “Lockwood, you’ll get to the Brazen Bride within the hour. Jagger—pardon, what the hell do we call you?”

“Ethan is fine.” His voice sounded cracked and dry. He coughed as he got to his feet, eager to get to Audrey now that the moment was at hand. “I know the stakes.”

Everyone else got up and moved to leave. Lydia Lockwood touched his hand. “Mr. Locke.” She shook her head. “Ethan. Please bring Audrey back safe.” She swallowed and nodded. “I know you will.” She gave him a wobbly smile that was probably as much to fortify herself as it was for Ethan.

He took her hand between his. “If I don’t bring her back, you’ll know that I’m dead.”

Lydia nodded and stood on her toes to kiss his cheek. “Don’t let it end that way,” she whispered.

Ethan turned and walked past Jason, who clapped him on the shoulder again and said, “See you soon, brother.”

“Ethan, I’ll walk out with you,” Carlyle called, following him from the drawing room.

They moved through the hall and a footman let them out.

Carlyle turned when they were outside. “You’re not going to wait to hear that we’ve arrested Jimmy, are you?”

“No.”

Carlyle nodded grimly. “How will you get Miss Cheswick out?”

“I still have a contingent of loyal men. I’ll collect them first. With their help, I’ll hopefully be able to convince those at the Cup and Burrow that I’m not the enemy.”

“That Jimmy is.”

“Yes.”

Carlyle walked toward the street. “You think they’ll just let you walk out of there with Miss Cheswick?”

Ethan didn’t want to contemplate the alternative, but he had to. He fell into step beside Carlyle. “If they don’t, you’re going to have to go in after her.”

“Understood. Hopefully, we’ll get Jimmy and you’ll extract Miss Cheswick.”

“We both know things rarely go as planned—which is why contingency plans must be prepared.” Ethan withdrew an envelope from his coat. “Will you have this delivered to Bow Street?”

Carlyle accepted the missive. “You’ve plotted quite thoroughly.”

He had to; there were too many variables. “Just promise me that no matter what happens, you’ll make sure Audrey is safe. You owe me, and that’s the only thing I want.”

Carlyle pressed his lips together. “I’ll never forget what you did for me and Jocelyn. You have my word that Audrey will be safe.”

Ethan relaxed, but only slightly. Until he saw with his own eyes that she was whole, he wouldn’t be free of this hellish torment.

After managing to take a small amount of sustenance at Gin Jimmy’s raucous “luncheon,” Audrey sat in the corner of his reception room, with Marie at her side. She’d hoped she’d be allowed to return to her dismal closet, but Gin Jimmy had ordered them to sit and keep him company while he discussed business matters with his men. They were gathered around the garish table and spoke low enough that Audrey couldn’t hear them.

“Ye know ye won’t be leavin’ the Cup an’ Burrow?” Marie asked her.

Audrey looked askance at the woman, noting the smirk twisting her reddened lips. It was becoming increasingly difficult to remain silent. At the best of times, Audrey liked to talk and at the worst, she rambled in an attempt to mask, and perhaps settle, her nerves. She pressed her lips together to keep from asking why. The woman was just trying to provoke her.

“Whether Jagger comes to get ye or not, ye won’t be leavin’. ’Course I’m hopin’ Jimmy doesn’t kill ’im. That’d be a real shame.” Her voice had taken on a dreamlike quality.

Audrey bit the inside of her cheek to keep from talking to Marie, though she burned with questions. This was a glimpse into Ethan’s world. But did she really want to see it?

Marie tsked. “Do ye talk at all? Heh, maybe not. Jagger wasn’t much for talkin’ anyhow. Leastwise in the bedroom. Or wherever.” She gave Audrey a wicked look. “Jagger ever take ye to ’is bed? Or anywhere else?”

She stared at Marie, appalled at her prurient curiosity. “That’s none of your concern.”

“I’m guessin’ no then. Too bad for ye.”

Audrey glared at the beauty. “Ethan is not going to die, and I’m not going to stay.”

Marie’s eyes crinkled at the corners as she laughed.

Audrey turned her chair away from Marie. She didn’t want to endure her taunts, at least not to her face. A boy dashed into the chamber and went straight to Gin Jimmy. He handed him a piece of paper and Jimmy opened it immediately. The conversation at the table slowed.

Audrey found herself leaning forward anxiously. She could tell the message was somehow important, given the creases lining Gin Jimmy’s wide forehead.

He stood from the table and gestured to some of the men. Then he addressed the boy who’d brought the note. “Fetch Perkins and Bird. They’re to watch the prisoner, along with the men I leave in this room.”

The boy tore off. Gin Jimmy strode over to where Audrey was sitting and pinned her with a malevolent stare. She clutched the seat of her chair for something solid to hold on to.

“Yer man wants to see me. Seems he’s sorry about everything and wants to resume his place. He says I can do whatever I want with ye.”

Audrey couldn’t keep her jaw from hanging open. Marie’s laughter raked her spine. Gin Jimmy’s eyes twinkled with merriment. “’E did recommend I return ye to yer house, so as not to provoke the upper crust. But I don’t know . . .” He tapped his stubby forefinger against his lips. “Ye’d make an awfully fine addition to me stable, and then Jagger could enjoy ye whenever ’e liked.”

He leaned down and bared his teeth at her. “Except Jagger won’t be here to enjoy ye. I’m going to bury my knife in his gut and pull out ’is entrails. Then I’m going to force ’em down ’is throat. Question is, should I do all of that in front of ye?” He glanced at Marie. “What do ye think?”

Marie smiled at him, but Audrey detected an underlying quiver. “Whatever would please ye most, Jimmy.”

Jimmy nodded. “I’ll have to think on it. In the meantime, ye sit tight, Miss Cheswick. And don’t miss me.” He flashed a smile, revealing a gold tooth. Then he spun around and addressed everyone. “If Miss Cheswick isn’t exactly where I left her when I return, I’ll burn the place down with the lot of ye locked inside.”

He quit the room with more than half of his men trailing behind him.

Audrey slumped in her chair. Every bit of resistance leaked from her frame until she felt like a bag of hollow bones.

Perkins and Bird came into the room. Bird waved at her before joining the men at the table. Audrey strained to hear what they discussed, but only caught intermittent words: Jagger, guards, common room, kill.

Had Ethan really told Jimmy to dispose of Audrey at his own discretion? It was wholly feasible that Jimmy had lied to frighten her. She couldn’t believe Ethan wouldn’t care what became of her.

“I’m sorry for ye,” Marie said softly. “But Jagger doesn’t stay too long with any woman.”

Ethan . . . he wouldn’t cast her aside. Not when he’d declared his love and proposed marriage. She couldn’t contain herself any longer. Maybe she just needed to hear the words, even from her own mouth. “I think it was Shakespeare who said thieves could not be true to one another, but Ethan is true to me. He loves me and we’re going to be married.”

Marie’s mouth gaped open. She snapped it closed and patted Audrey’s knee. “Ye poor dearie. Is that what he told ye to spread yer legs?”

Audrey opened her mouth to retort, but realized he had told her those things before he’d made love to her. But no, that wasn’t the reason he’d said them. It wasn’t. “It’s not like that.”

Marie’s gaze was condescending, and her tone was thick with pity. “Jagger’s not one of yer Society lords. Ye said so yerself—thieves have no honor.”

Audrey didn’t want to hear anymore. She folded her arms across her chest and tucked herself into as small of a silhouette as possible.

She wasn’t sure how long she sat like that, but it seemed an interminable length. A commotion sounded from outside the room. Audrey leapt to her feet in fear.

The door swung open and several men strode inside. They looked similar to the men who’d risen from the table. Every one of them had drawn a pistol or some sort of blade.

“Ho there, lads!”

Audrey recognized that voice, but she almost didn’t realize it was Ethan. He was immaculately garbed, but more flamboyantly than she’d ever seen him. His coat was a vivid blue and his waistcoat a bright green and bronze. His cravat was intricately tied and sported a glimmering diamond within its crisp folds. He carried a walking stick with an ornate handle and his hands were covered in gaudy rings. His ink-black hair was coiffed so perfectly that he would look at ease in any ballroom in London. His gray gaze swept the room with superiority as if he were the king instead of Gin Jimmy.

She lunged forward, intending to protect him, but he shot her a quelling stare. She’d seen him look cold before, but his eyes held a frigidity she hadn’t witnessed. It chilled her to the core.

“Ye got a lot of cheek strollin’ in here so brazen-like,” Perkins said, his pistol pointed at Ethan’s chest.

“Why? I’ve always been welcome at the Cup and Burrow—for far longer than any of you.” He glowered at Perkins and, flanked by two of the burliest men Audrey had ever seen, strolled toward the dais. He climbed the stairs and turned, the men he’d arrived with still clustered about him.

Audrey looked at the men who’d moved out from the table and were now staring at Ethan with their weapons drawn. Why hadn’t anyone shot him? Was it because he’d brought his own soldiers? She looked at them—at least ten men—and wondered where he’d found them. But she knew. They were his soldiers. He was nearly equal to Gin Jimmy in terms of status in this world.

Marie let out a hiss of breath beside her. She’d also risen. “There’s no one like Jagger. In bed or out. Jes’ look at ’im.”

Audrey suppressed an urge to drive a sharp elbow into Marie’s side. She didn’t want to hear about Ethan’s prowess. She couldn’t deny, however, that he was the most attractive man she’d ever met, and that even now amidst the danger and what Marie had said about him, she was drawn to him like no other.

“Listen up, lads.” Ethan’s voice commanded the room. “I don’t know what Jimmy’s told you, but I had to leave London to avoid being arrested.” There were a few murmurs. “Thankfully, there will not be any charges and I am a free man.” He grinned widely and there were cheers from his men—and from a few of Jimmy’s.

Audrey sagged with relief, glad that at least that threat had passed.

Ethan’s smile faded and his features hardened. “But I’m not really. None of us are. As long as Jimmy runs things, none of us are truly free. Tell me, what did he threaten if anything happened to his hostage?”

One of Jimmy’s men stepped forward. “He’d lock us all inside and burn the Cup and Burrow to the ground.”

Ethan studied the jewel-encrusted handle of his walking stick for a long moment. When he looked out at the men once more, he seemed to pierce each of them with a direct stare. “And what do we know of Jimmy’s threats?”

“They always come to pass.” Marie’s voice jarred Audrey.

Ethan glanced in their direction, but he didn’t acknowledge Audrey at all. “Very true, Marie. Why don’t you come up here with me?” He smiled encouragingly.

Audrey’s stomach turned and ice shot to her extremities. She backed her knees against the chair for a modicum of support.

Marie sauntered to the dais. When she climbed up beside him, he pointed to one of the pillows.

She kneeled on a round, purple cushion and sat back on her heels. She looked like a dog doing her master’s bidding. Then she cast Audrey a haughty glance. Audrey felt sick.

“If you prefer Jimmy’s style of dictatorship, then by all means do his bidding,” Ethan arched his brow in challenge, “if you can. Or, if you’d prefer the freedom to choose your own jobs and whether you want to risk your life on any given day, follow me.”

“Does that mean you’re going to be our leader?” a young man asked, his pistol drooping in his grip.

Ethan angled his body toward the criminal who’d spoken. “No. I’ve no wish to lead. I only want to be left alone.”

Audrey’s chest expanded. She’d thought for a moment that he meant to take over Gin Jimmy’s place. He’d marched in here so confidently and the men clearly admired and respected him. She could see his importance and what his position had to mean to him.

One of his men standing at the foot of the dais turned and looked at him. “Ye should be our leader.” He pivoted back and raised his arms. “Who here wants Jagger as our leader?”

All of his men shouted their agreement, and at least three or four of Jimmy’s men joined in. The others looked around, doubt etched in their worn and battered faces.

Marie leaned forward and wrapped her hand around Ethan’s knee. She gazed up at him longingly. Audrey moved forward without thinking.

Bird was at her side in a matter of seconds. He slid his arm around her waist and pulled her toward the door. “I don’t care what anyone says. I’m followin’ Jimmy’s orders.”

Ethan’s face darkened. He strode from the dais toward Audrey and Bird. Bird put a dagger to her throat. “Don’t come any nearer.”

Ethan drew the handle of his walking stick up to reveal a long, vicious blade. He raised his hand to throw it.

Audrey shouted, “Don’t!” She didn’t want him to kill again. Not even for her.

Ethan’s voice ground between his teeth, deceptively soft, but with a rasp that betrayed his emotion. At least to her. “He’s going to kill you, Audrey.”

Audrey craned her neck to look at Bird. “Let me go. There’s no need for anyone to die.”

“Kill ’im!” someone shouted, though it wasn’t clear who the “him” was.

Audrey fought to keep her shaking body still as the tip of the knife pressed into her flesh. “Then he’s no better than Gin Jimmy, is he?”

“I’ll second that!” Boomed a familiar voice. All heads turned to see Gin Jimmy reenter with an even larger band of men than what he’d left with. “Jagger’s no better than me. ’E don’t even come close.” His gaze settled on Ethan with cold fury.

Bird’s grip loosened as he pivoted to look at Gin Jimmy. Audrey took her chance and slipped from his grasp. Ethan reached out and pulled her against him, her chest crashing against his. He wrapped his arm around her and held her tight.

She breathed in the familiar scent of him: spice, sandalwood, and something indescribably Ethan. He was safety. He was shelter. He was home. She snaked her arms about his waist and turned her head to look at Jimmy.

The vicious criminal’s laugh filled the room. “How quaint.” He walked toward Audrey and Ethan, his blue eyes like cold glass. “Tell yer men to hold. Else we’ll have a battle on our ’ands, and I don’t think ye have enough might to win.”

It was true. It might’ve been a balanced fight, but Jimmy had returned with too many men. Ethan and his gang were outnumbered.

Ethan glanced at his men, who’d assumed a battle-ready position with their weapons at the base of the dais. He tightened his grip around Audrey. “There’s only one deal I’ll make.”

Jimmy scrutinized them, his gaze lingering on Audrey. “Aye. I figured as much. Yer men can escort her out. But ye stay.”

“No!” Audrey moved her body so she was shielding Ethan. “Let us both go. We’ll leave London. We’ll leave England!” She’d say or do anything to appease him, though her heart knew he would never agree.

Jimmy smiled at her, but it wasn’t pleasant. “I can’t let Jagger go. He failed me, ye see. And I gave ’im everything I ’ad to give. He was like my son.” His gaze hardened and moved from her to Ethan. “Say yer good-byes then.”

Jimmy stalked toward the dais and motioned to his men. They shadowed Ethan’s gang and drove them toward the door.

Bird grabbed Ethan’s knife out of his hand with a wicked grin. He also took the bottom part of the walking stick and sheathed the blade. Then he tossed the implement to Perkins.

Ethan turned her around in his arms. “Audrey. My love.”

She grabbed the lapels of his coat. “I won’t leave you.” Tears streaked from her eyes.

He wiped at her cheeks with his thumbs while he cupped her face. “You must. It’s the only way you’ll be safe.”

“Don’t ask me to do this.” She could barely speak past the rawness in her throat.

His eyes chilled for the barest moment. “I’m not asking you.” His grip grew fierce and his fingers tangled into her hair. “My beautiful, brave Audrey. The time I spent with you was the happiest of my life. I will cherish every moment forever. Death will not part us. I’ll be with you always.” He touched her chest. “In your heart.”

Audrey clutched at his neck as a sob escaped her.

He leaned down, his mouth against hers “Shhh. Don’t cry for me. I wasn’t meant for more than this. You were my greatest gift, a boon I never deserved, but shall be ever grateful for. Now, kiss me so that I have the taste of you on my lips when I meet my maker.”

He crushed his mouth over hers with sweet savagery. His fingers dug into her scalp and his other hand wrapped around her back to pull her tight against him. She opened for him, meeting his tongue in a frenzied need to have as much of him as she could. But it was bittersweet for she knew it would never be enough.

Something pulled at him, but he resisted. He broke their kiss and pressed his cheek against hers. He whispered beside her ear, “I love you,” and then he was gone from her, dragged away by Bird and another man.

Ethan’s men encircled her. She moved toward Ethan, but one of them grabbed her arm and held her back.

She watched as Ethan was marched to the dais, where Jimmy had taken his throne.

Audrey was pulled toward the doorway. She dug her feet into the floorboards, but it was no use. Two men had her firmly, but gently, by the arms, and hauled her, at last picking her up.

“Ethan!” She couldn’t stop the tears, could barely see his handsome face as he watched her go. His expression was stoic, but his eyes were like thunder.

The men who’d escorted him pushed him to his knees in front of Gin Jimmy. With a final, tortured look, Ethan turned from her.

And then she couldn’t see him anymore, and her heart shattered into jagged, irreparable pieces.

NINETEEN

Pain unlike anything Ethan had ever known ripped through him. And Jimmy hadn’t even touched him yet.

His mind scrambled for a way out of this, but he didn’t see any. Some of the men here supported him, but not enough to go against Gin Jimmy. Like Ethan, they would choose self-preservation above all else. He’d known the plan was a risk and his primary goal had been achieved: Audrey was safe.

Ethan recognized the men in his peripheral vision and registered the apprehension in Marie’s face before looking up at the man who’d guided him these many years.

Jimmy’s familiar blue eyes were sad. He shook his head. “I hate what I must do, my boy.”

Ethan didn’t think there was a point in trying to persuade him otherwise. Jimmy was ruthlessly decisive, never wavering to change his course even if he suspected he should.

Jimmy stood abruptly and flicked a glance at the men who’d dragged Ethan up to the dais. “Bring him.”

Hands roughly grabbed and lifted him and propelled him behind Jimmy into his private chambers that lay behind what he liked to call his “throne room.” Ethan had been in these rooms many times. As a member of Jimmy’s innermost circle, he’d been invited to countless dinners and parties. He even had a favorite seat—his gaze shot to the chestnut-colored wing-backed chair situated near the fireplace.

“Lock ’im up,” Jimmy said, pointing toward the chain that hung from a metal loop on the wall near the fireplace. He went to a sideboard and poured himself a glass of gin, then took his favorite chair, a plush russet companion to Ethan’s.

One of the men picked up the chain. There were two shackles: one for his wrist and another for his ankle. He’d seen Jimmy use them many times. Until today, he’d never imagined being confined in their grasp.

Jimmy waved his hand at Ethan. “Give me that jewel in his neckcloth. And the ones on ’is fingers.”

One of the men pulled the diamond stickpin from his cravat while the other stripped the rings from him. Ethan didn’t care about any of it, save the ring with the L. But he wouldn’t ask for it. While one of the men deposited the jewelry in Jimmy’s outstretched hand, the other removed Ethan’s coat and then his boots, as the first man returned to place the metal cuffs around Ethan’s left wrist and left ankle.

There was enough slack for him to sit against the wall, but he couldn’t get far enough to reach anything that could be used as a weapon, nor could he sit in his chair. It was a humiliating prison, but that was what Jimmy intended. It was also what Ethan had expected.

The men left Ethan and positioned themselves on either side of the door. The only other way out of the apartment was through a doorway that led to a corridor connected to several things, including the outside, which was heavily guarded on the exterior.

Jimmy took a hearty drink of gin. “I knew ye weren’t at the Brazen Bride, but I pretended to go so ye’d make yer move. The letter almost got to me.” His tone carried the barest hint of regret. “Almost.”

Though Ethan hadn’t expected the ruse to work, he’d still hoped for it. “How did you know?”

“You ran with the girl. She’s important to ye. I knew ye’d want to come and get ’er.” His lips lifted, but there was a touch of sadness in his eyes. “I counted on it.”

Hope began to spark in Ethan. Was there a chance he’d show mercy? Ethan nearly laughed. In all the years he’d known Gin Jimmy, he’d never witnessed even a measure of softness.

“I just can’t comprehend why ye turned on me.” Jimmy sounded almost forlorn. He opened his palm. “Look at all the jewels ye have. Ye’re a wealthy man. Didn’t I give ye everything ye could want?”

Perhaps Ethan’s letter had worked. He’d penned words he’d hoped would play to Jimmy’s ego and arrogance—thanking him, appreciating him, even begging him. That part, imploring Jimmy to forgive him, had filled him with gall. He swallowed and tried to appear humble, something he hadn’t attempted in a very long time. “You did, and that’s why I wanted to try to make things right.” There was no use saying he wanted to regain his place, not after he’d obviously come for Audrey and Audrey alone.

Jimmy didn’t seem to register Ethan’s words or the plea in his voice. “I made sure ye found yer way—even at the beginning. I knew ye’d take out Four-Finger Tom if ye were pushed ’ard enough, and if ye thought it was the only way to survive.”

Ethan shouldn’t have been surprised, but the bitterness of realizing how he’d been manipulated by first Davis and then Jimmy burned like acid on his tongue. “You encouraged him to berate me, to target me as weak.”

“I thought ye’d be a better leader than Tom. And I was right.” Jimmy raised his glass and toasted him before taking another drink. “Weren’t ye happy?”

Happy? He was a thief, a predator, a self-serving bastard who not only put his survival above all else, he wasn’t even aware of anything else. Until he was. That’s when it had all changed. “For a time.”

“It was going into Society, wasn’t it? The lure of the prestige was too great.” Jimmy shook his head as he deposited Ethan’s jewelry on a small table beside his chair. “I should’ve recognized that about ye. It’s one of the qualities I liked best in ye—yer drive to have the most respect, the most admiration.”

“Actually it was before that.” Ethan wasn’t sure why he opened himself up, but once he’d started with Audrey, he found it to be a balm for his battered soul. And if there was ever a time to unburden himself, it was now, when his end might be unavoidable.

“I know you wondered why I got the prizefighter. I did it for my father. He used to take me to bouts.” Sponsoring the pugilist had allowed Ethan to reminisce about the life he’d led before he’d been forced into the streets. In turn, that had made him think about the life he might have had.

Add to that his growing discomfort with the things he’d done, and he’d been ripe for a change of heart. He realized he could pinpoint the exact moment his stomach had begun to sour. One of his men, a particularly ruthless bloke called Swan, had kidnapped Lady Philippa. Though Ethan hadn’t been a part of it, he’d felt fully responsible. He’d had Swan abduct her once before—to watch Sevrin’s fight. Swan’s subsequent abduction had made him sick—and it had given him pause.

It wasn’t as if Ethan hadn’t known these things happened. Hell, they happened all around him. You couldn’t walk through St. Giles without seeing a woman selling herself or a man trying to somehow degrade a woman. But with Philippa, Ethan had exposed her to that. Ethan. After that, things began to change for him and he’d started to think about a life where he didn’t steal and he didn’t reside in a flash house.

Jimmy studied him intently. “The prizefighter made ye want to turn against me?”

“I never would’ve turned against you if you would’ve let me go.” When Jimmy had ordered him to take up his identity as Jason’s half-brother to keep an eye on Lady Aldridge and Wolverton, Ethan had suggested he might not want to return to thievery after that. Jimmy had thought he was jesting. He’d laughed, but there’d been a sharpness to his response that Ethan had interpreted as a warning: Ethan had better be joking about such nonsense for his defection would never be tolerated.

Jimmy leaned back and crossed his ankles. “Ye didn’t ask.”

Ethan barked a laugh. “Christ, Jimmy, you’re the most brutal man in London. You don’t suffer anything you perceive as betrayal.” He leaned as far forward as the chain would allow and narrowed his eyes. “Tell me right now that you would’ve allowed me to live my life if I’d never come back to you.” Ethan watched Jimmy’s mouth purse, his chest rise and fall. Ethan settled back against the wall, his lip curling. “I didn’t think so.”

Jimmy shot forward in his chair. “Aye, that’s betrayal. But I shouldn’t have been surprised. I knew I couldn’t trust ye with everything. Ye fancied yerself better than a number of my operations.” His expression turned pained, making him look like what he was—a fifty-year-old man who’d lived a rough life. “Ye were my greatest hope, and my biggest disappointment.”

Though Ethan didn’t want to be the things Jimmy wanted, his criticism still stung. “You’ve chained me up like so many others. Do you have a spectacle planned?”

Ethan thought of the countless times Jimmy had shackled some poor soul to the wall because of an offense—real or otherwise—though he’d never remained long enough to see what had happened. He’d been disgusted by the pleasure some took at another’s degradation. He understood they existed in a brutal world, but there was no need to glorify it. On the contrary, it was nice to find moments when he could imagine things were different, but then he supposed that’s why he’d wanted to leave.

Jimmy studied him, his mouth twisting into a thoughtful pout. It was his thinking expression and Ethan recognized it well. “If yer plan had worked today, I would’ve been taken by Bow Street, tried, and likely hanged. Seems like ye deserve the same.”

Ice settled into Ethan’s veins, sent a chill to every corner of his body. He’d expected it, but hearing it pronounced made him realize just how tenuous his life was at present. So many things could go wrong . . . indeed, so many already had. “You’re going to try me and hang me?”

Jimmy settled back into his chair and lifted a shoulder before tossing back the rest of his gin in a quick gulp. “Provided ye’re found guilty.”

Ethan struggled to find his voice. “When?” The word came out clipped and harsh.

“Tomorrow.” Jimmy looked at one of the men near the door. “Tell White I want a scaffold set up outside by morning. Nothing fancy, but it has to be elevated. I think there’ll be quite a crowd.” The man nodded and left.

Ethan held his breath. “Do you plan to try me out there too?”

Jimmy chortled. “’Course I do! The point is to show them that even the best placed man can fall”—he bared his teeth—“when they try to fuck me. The skirts’ll turn out by the ’undreds to weep over ye. Except the one ye really want. Unless ye want me to send for ’er?”

Ethan pulled at his chain. He wanted to wrap it around Jimmy’s throat and squeeze the life out of him just for referring to Audrey. “Don’t ever speak of her.”

Jimmy stood up and moved closer to him. “I’m sorry it has to end like this. Ye were a good lad, Ethan Jagger.” He kicked Ethan in the stomach, doubling him over as pain radiated outward through his body. Then he pulled Ethan’s head up by his hair. “I’ll speak of whoever I want whenever I want. If I want to fetch yer precious gel and sell ’er to the highest bidder, I will. And ye’ll be too dead to stop me.”

He let go of Ethan roughly, shoving his head toward the wall. “Try to get a little rest, if ye can. But maybe it doesn’t matter. Tomorrow ye’ll get the chance to sleep for all eternity.”

Jimmy turned and quit the room, going back out to his men. Three more guards came in and assumed places about the chamber. Even if Ethan could break free of the shackles, he’d never get past the four men who were armed to their teeth. They were also older, quite set in their ways and methods, and they had absolutely no loyalty to Ethan.

He reclined against the wall, leaning his head back. He loosened his cravat and idly wondered if he could use it as a weapon. He supposed he could slip it around someone’s neck like a noose if they wandered close enough.

A noose.

He massaged his neck and swallowed. A vision of Audrey swam before him and the pain slicing through him made Jimmy’s kick feel like a caress in comparison.

He wondered what torture would await him before he’d be granted the “trial,” but decided it didn’t signify. The waiting and the expectation were torment enough.

He brought his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his calves. Somewhere Audrey was safe and whole, and in the end, that was the only thing that mattered.

Darkness had fallen when Ethan’s men ushered Audrey outside of the flash house and through the rotten streets of St. Giles. They moved quickly, never pausing, and they surrounded her on all sides so that she saw very little. But the stench of filth and decay was impossible to ignore. Still, she barely registered its acridity because she was too distraught over leaving Ethan. Twice she tried to turn back, but his men kept her on the path out of the rookery. When they got to a busy enough thoroughfare, they hailed a hack, and two of them climbed inside with her.

When they asked her for an address, she didn’t even pause before saying, “Lockwood House.” She wasn’t ready to face her grandfather, or even worse, her parents.

The hack moved through the streets, jarring and bouncing her, reminding her of the awful journey to London. She squirmed on the seat, her insides in utter turmoil. She couldn’t breathe, her throat was raw, and her face was hot and puffy from crying. At last, the cab came to a stop outside Lockwood House.

One of the men who’d ridden with her, Eddy, jumped out and helped her descend. The second, Fitzgibbons, followed her and stood staring at her for a long moment.

“Come inside.” Audrey moved up the walk toward the house. “You should be a part of the planning to rescue him.”

“Miss.” Fitzgibbons looked at her pityingly. “He’s probably already dead. I’m sorry to have to say that, but Jimmy’s not one to make empty threats. He does what he says.”

“I’m sorry, Miss,” Eddy added. He tried to offer her a smile, but it was so weak it could only be called a half-smirk.

Audrey couldn’t believe he was dead. She wouldn’t.

A hack drew up behind hers and stopped. Lord Sevrin climbed out. “Miss Cheswick?” Lord Saxton followed him.

“Sevrin!” Audrey bolted toward him. “We have to save Ethan. Gin Jimmy’s going to kill him.” She watched Sevrin look behind her, saw his lips turn down. “Don’t listen to them.” They hadn’t said anything aloud, but based on Sevrin’s reaction, she assumed they’d communicated something.

“Let’s get off the street,” Saxton said, going toward the house.

“Come,” Sevrin said to Eddy and Fitzgibbons.

The two men exchanged looks then nodded.

The door to Lockwood House opened and Audrey allowed herself to be swept through the entry hall and into the drawing room. The last time Audrey had been here had been during Lockwood’s last vice party. The space looked completely different now without its adornment of silks and contingent of masked guests.

Lydia jumped to her feet. “Audrey!” She rushed forward and hugged her friend. Audrey swayed into her embrace. Every muscle in her body sagged.

They stood like that for a moment before Lydia guided her to the settee. “North, please bring some tea.”

Audrey collapsed onto the cushion and let Lydia hold her hand. She felt cold and numb.

Lydia looked up at Sevrin and Saxton. “What happened? Where’s Jason?”

“We weren’t with him,” Saxton said. “We were waiting outside St. Giles for Ethan’s word. One of his men informed us that he’d turned himself over to Jimmy in exchange for Audrey’s release.”

Lydia inhaled sharply. “Then Carlyle wasn’t able to apprehend Jimmy?”

Audrey glanced between all of them. “What do you mean?”

“Ethan sent Jimmy a note to lure him out of his lair,” Lydia said.

That had to have been the message the boy had delivered.

Audrey nodded. “Yes, Jimmy left for a time.” That’s when Ethan had arrived. “But he came back. The plan must not have worked.”

Lydia’s face blanched. “Jason was waiting for him, disguised as Ethan in case Jimmy sent anyone in advance to determine if Ethan was actually there—which he wasn’t.” She looked at Sevrin and Saxton. “Do you think Jason . . . ?”

Audrey felt the tension in her friend’s frame and heard the worry in her question. Had Jimmy gotten to Jason, discovered he wasn’t Ethan and killed him? Audrey didn’t think it was possible to feel any worse. She couldn’t bear it if they lost both Ethan and his brother in the same day.

“I don’t know,” Sevrin said darkly. He turned to Saxton and they spoke in low tones.

“Don’t whisper,” Audrey snapped, unable—and unwilling—to keep her emotions in check. “We have a right to know everything you do.”

Sevrin nodded and came further into the room, though he didn’t sit. “We don’t know anything. We were just wondering if we should go to the Brazen Bride to determine what happened.”

“What’s the Brazen Bride?” Audrey asked.

Sevrin braced his hands on his hips. “The flash house where Ethan met Jimmy. It’s where he asked Jimmy to come. Lord Carlyle went there with several constables to arrest him.”

“Yes, let’s go and see what happened,” Audrey said, half rising from the settee.

The sound of the front door opening carried into the drawing room and was succeeded by heavy footfalls across the marble tiles. Audrey held her breath until Lockwood stepped over the threshold.

Lydia let go of her hand and ran to him. She leapt into his arms and wrapped her hands around his neck. “Jason!”

Lockwood held her tightly and kissed her forehead. Audrey looked away, unable to suffer the tender moment. All she could see was Ethan’s regret-filled gaze, and all she could taste was his bittersweet kiss.

Lord Carlyle came into the drawing room, trailed by a man Audrey recognized as one of Lockwood’s retainers. “A trio of Ethan’s men found us in Portugal Street and told us what happened with Jimmy. Miss Cheswick, I’m so glad you’re safe. It was what he wanted.”

He spoke as if Ethan were already gone. Panic threatened to suffocate her. “He may not be dead. We have to try to rescue him.”

Fitzgibbons removed his hat and clenched it between his massive hands. “There’s likely nothin’ to be done.” He flicked his gaze around the room. “Even if Jagger’s not dead yet, ’e’s ’eavily guarded.”

Audrey’s chest twisted anew and her throat constricted painfully. “We have to try.”

“Yes, we do,” Lockwood said, his gaze finding Audrey’s and giving her a sliver of hope. It was enough to know she wasn’t alone in wanting to try to save Ethan.

Lydia turned in his embrace so she could see Audrey. “Yes, we have to try.”

Carlyle nodded slowly. “We must remember that Ethan is different—to Jimmy. Lockwood, do you know what the letter said? Are there any clues we can use to help us?”

“He appealed to their father-son relationship.”

Father-son? Ethan hadn’t told her anything about that. An ache opened up in her chest as she realized there would be countless things she’d never know about him because he wouldn’t have the chance to tell her.

Carlyle cocked his head to the side. “Then it’s also possible that Jimmy might behave differently in this situation since his emotions are involved.”

“And you think that’s a good thing?” Saxton’s tone was laced with doubt.

“I don’t know what to think. But I’ll find out.” Carlyle turned to the retainer who’d come in with him. “Scot, can you see if you can learn anything through any of your contacts?”

Scot gave a swift nod. “Meet back here in a couple of hours?”

“As quickly as possible. If there’s a chance to pull off a rescue attempt, we’ll need to move fast.”

“Carlyle, do you need any help?” Sevrin asked.

Carlyle frowned. “Ethan didn’t want you getting too involved.”

“He’s not here to argue with me about it. Let’s go.”

Saxton straightened his coat and turned toward the door. “I’ll come with you.”

“Wait,” Lockwood said, releasing Lydia and moving toward them. “You can’t expect me to stay here and do nothing.”

Carlyle inclined his head toward Audrey and Lydia. “I don’t think you’ll be doing ‘nothing.’ We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

They all departed and Lockwood spun about to glare at nothing in particular.

North set the tea service on the table. Audrey had no idea when he’d entered.

“I’ll bring some whisky, my lord.”

Jason dropped himself on the other settee. “Bring the damn bottle.”

Lydia returned to Audrey and took her hand again. “We’re going to save him.” If her declaration lacked certainty, Audrey didn’t comment on it. She had to hold on to whatever hope she could find.

Audrey felt a strip of smoothness on her friend’s finger. She looked down at the wedding band on Lydia’s hand. “You were married,” she said softly, her heart aching because she would likely never know that joy.

Lydia smiled sadly. “Yes. I’m sorry you couldn’t be there.”

North came in with a bottle of whisky and handed a glass of the amber liquid to Lockwood. He raised the glass. “I told Ethan we’d celebrate at your wedding,”

Audrey jumped to her feet, suddenly unable to tolerate company. “Do you mind if I go upstairs?”

“Not at all,” Lydia said. “I’ll have North show you to the yellow room.”

“It’s all right, I know where it is.” Audrey nearly smiled at the shocked look on Lydia’s face.

“Were you actually here that night Wolverton was killed?” Lockwood asked, incredulous. “When Sevrin showed up at Bow Street earlier and said you’d been a witness to the murder, I assumed it was a lie.”

“I may have exaggerated what I saw, but I was here. Dressed as a gentleman.” The familiar blush that should’ve stolen up her neck as she revealed this information didn’t come. Perhaps she was just too emotionally exhausted to care. “I’ve been to four of your vice parties, actually. I’m quite familiar with the layout of the house.” Both Lockwood and Lydia gaped at her. “Don’t look so scandalized, I didn’t partake of any of the offerings, save the gambling.”

Lydia shook her head. “It’s just . . . I’m shocked.”

“I’m not always what I seem.” Her voice cracked. Ethan had known that about her. From their very first waltzing lesson, he’d seen right to her core, had declared she was worth more than anyone had ever realized. She’d fallen half in love with him right then.

She turned to go, but Lydia halted her at the doorway. “Should we notify your grandfather or your parents that you’re here?”

Audrey turned. She’d barely given them a second thought, including her grandfather, which sparked a pang of shame. “Not yet. What do they think happened when I disappeared?”

“Your grandfather insisted you’d been kidnapped by a dark-haired criminal. Ethan, I imagine. But then Bow Street told them a few days later that you seemed to be traveling with him without duress. The whole affair has been kept very quiet.”

“I’m sure no one has even registered my absence.” Audrey forced a weak smile. “Except you.”

Lydia’s gaze was soft, but not quite pitying, thank goodness. They both knew that Society hadn’t ever paid much attention to her and wouldn’t notice if she’d fallen off the face of the earth.

“Please fetch me when they return.” Audrey turned and made her way upstairs on legs that should not have been able to support her. But she wouldn’t crumple. Not yet. She would fight for Ethan until she was certain he was gone. And then she didn’t know what she’d do at all.

TWENTY

Ethan’s warm palm skimmed up her thigh, parting her legs. His bare chest pressed into her side as his lips nibbled the sensitive flesh beneath her ear. Audrey rotated to her back while his fingers played between her legs, coaxing her easy response. She sighed softly. His tongue traced whorls along her neck and licked at her collarbone.

She reached up to guide his head to her breast, but her hand found nothing. Her eyes flew open and she felt a rush of cool air.

She was alone.

With a jerk, she sat up on the bed, surprised she’d managed to doze off. Judging by the length of candle that had burned, she’d slept a long time—longer than she would’ve thought possible. Why hadn’t anyone awakened her?

She jumped up and smoothed her hand over the wrinkles of the dress one of the maids had brought her before she’d lain down. If her gown was that rumpled, her hair had to be a fright, but she didn’t give a whit about her appearance. She practically ran from the room and down the stairs.

The drawing room had been converted once again. Though there still weren’t any silks draping the corners, the round table that sat in the center during vice parties had been moved into place. However, instead of displaying a female in some state of undress, it was surrounded by the men, their heads bent.

Audrey cleared her throat and they all turned. “What’s going on, and why wasn’t I awakened when you all returned?” Anger coursed through her. It felt good after so many hours of despair and helplessness.

Lydia came forward, along with Philippa and Olivia, Saxton’s wife. A fourth woman lingered near the settee. Audrey recognized her as Lady Carlyle.

“I’m sorry, dear.” Lydia said, putting her arm around Audrey and drawing her into the room. “We thought you should sleep as long as possible. We were going to rouse you soon. Would you like a tray of food?”

Her stomach growled, but she didn’t think she could eat. “Something to drink, perhaps.”

Lydia nodded and turned away.

Philippa hugged her. “I’m so sorry. I’m just glad you’re all right. I was so distraught when you disappeared.”

Audrey knew her abduction from Beckwith had to have frightened Philippa to death, especially given her own kidnapping. She hugged Philippa back. “I’m all right. They didn’t hurt me.”

“Thank God.” Philippa stepped back, her eyes glistening.

Audrey shared a sympathetic gaze with Olivia before moving toward the table. “What are you discussing?”

They all turned and blocked whatever they were looking at.

Lockwood came to her side and tried to guide her to the settee. “You should sit down.”

She shook off his arm and welcomed the rush of frustrated fury. “Please don’t patronize me. Tell me what you know.”

He nodded. “The good news is that he’s still alive.”

Relief poured through her, but was short-lived as she realized it couldn’t be that simple. “And the bad news?”

Lockwood exchanged glances with Carlyle, who came to stand before Audrey. He opened his mouth, then shut it again. He clearly didn’t want to tell her, but eventually said, “Jimmy plans to hang him in the morning.”

The world felt as if it were falling away beneath her feet. “Hang him?” He should have escaped that threat when Bow Street had dropped the charges.

Philippa touched her arm. “They’re working on a plan to rescue him.”

“Yes,” Carlyle said. “And we’ll need your help to describe where he is. I’ve been in many places in St. Giles, but never the Cup and Burrow. It’s heavily guarded, because it’s Jimmy’s stronghold.”

Audrey relaxed a little, eager to be helpful and appreciative that they were letting her be. “I know how to get there and where he is inside—or at least where he was. I’m very good at direction.” She’d proven that more than once while she and Ethan were running across southwestern England.

Carlyle smiled at her. “Excellent.” He looked toward the others. “I’m fairly certain we can get in one by one if we’re smart. The challenge will be getting Ethan out of there. We’ll be quite outnumbered, even with Ethan’s loyal followers.”

She’d seen their reactions to Ethan and believed he had more support than they realized. “When Ethan arrived at the Cup and Burrow today, he tried to convince Jimmy’s men that they’d be better off without him. Some of them seemed swayed. If people knew we were attempting a rescue, they might help us.”

Carlyle pressed his lips together. “We don’t have much time to rally troops. It’s already nearing midnight.”

So late? “We have to try.”

Lockwood stepped away from the table. “I agree. We can go back to the Brazen Bride and spread the word from there.”

“It’s risky,” Carlyle said, stroking his chin and staring at the table, which had a hand-drawn map sprawled across its top. “If Jimmy hears that we’re attempting to save Ethan, he may just kill him straightaway.”

Audrey tensed. The situation seemed hopeless. No, she wouldn’t give up. She’d told Ethan she was optimistic, and she would hold on to that—he deserved nothing less.

Scot set his palms on the table and leaned forward, addressing everyone. “We have to target who we tell and instruct them to spread the word at the latest possible moment.”

“Yes, we’ll have to map out a plan for that.” Carlyle went back to the table. He seemed to be in charge. “First, however, we need to determine our entrance strategy. We can’t exactly march in through the front door.”

“I don’t think going in is our best option,” Scot said slowly, glancing around. “Even if we could find a way, getting out would be near impossible. We’d have a better chance out in the open, when they bring Ethan outside to walk him to the scaffold.”

“Unfortunately, I think you’re right,” Carlyle said. He glanced at Audrey, who was listening to their discussion as if they were at the end of a long tunnel. She could hear them, but there was this dark, hollow space separating her from everyone. “It would, however, be helpful if we could get a person or two into the Cup and Burrow in order to do as Audrey suggested and sway some of them to our cause. It would be even better if we could somehow smuggle information, or even a small weapon, in to Ethan so that he can be prepared when we make our move.”

Audrey strode toward the table, suddenly realizing her purpose. “I can do it.” Everyone was staring at her, some of them with widened eyes. “There’s a way to get in—if you’re a . . . prostitute. They take in new girls through a back stairway. I was kept in a room where they put the women after they first arrive. If I disguise myself, I could get in.”

Lydia had come back with a glass of sherry. She moved to Audrey and grabbed her hand. “No, no. That’s far too dangerous.”

Yes, but it was a good plan and she couldn’t sit around Lockwood House waiting for the outcome. She needed to be a part of this. If they weren’t successful, if Ethan died, and she’d done nothing but wring her hands, she’d never be able to live with herself. “I can do this. I remember those who seemed sympathetic.”

“I’ll go with her,” Scot said, drawing everyone’s attention. “I’ll drop her off at the back and then go inside for a pint.”

Sevrin nodded at him. “I could go too. I’m as comfortable in a tavern as I am in a ballroom. More so, actually.”

Philippa sent him a pained gaze. “Ambrose.”

Sevrin went and murmured something in Philippa’s ear, then kissed her cheek.

Audrey wanted these people to help Ethan, but she couldn’t understand why they would offer. His brother, yes, but the rest of them? “Why are you doing this?” she asked of no one in particular.

They all glanced between one another, but it was Lady Carlyle who spoke. “He saved my life. And Daniel’s. I can’t sit by while he’s hanged.”

Sevrin put his arm around Philippa’s shoulders. “I was lucky enough to find someone who had faith in me, who gave me the second chance I needed. I can’t turn my back on Ethan knowing he wants to change.” He looked at Saxton. “I can’t begin to fathom why Sax is helping, but I would venture to say he just doesn’t like being left out.”

Saxton’s pale eyes gleamed. “Just so.”

A surge of emotion welled up in Audrey. “I can’t thank you all enough.” She took the sherry from Lydia’s hand and toasted them all before taking a sustaining drink.

“If I thought Daniel would let me, I’d go with you.” Lady Carlyle cracked a smile. “But I’m certain he would say it’s too dangerous.”

Carlyle went and put his arm around his wife. “St. Giles is no place for any of us, which is why we need to get in and out as quickly as possible. And we need to blend in—that will be the key to our success or failure. If we look like we belong there, we’ll be fine. That is my gravest concern with supporting any of us going. Scot appears to be able to comport himself quite well with the criminal element.” He shot Lockwood’s retainer a speculative glance, to which Scot merely shrugged. “And I daresay Sevrin would be able to make a place for himself. The rest of you lot . . .” He shook his head. “There’s an issue of liability. We need to be focused on getting Ethan and getting out. Only those who can defend themselves should go.” Carlyle’s apologetic gaze settled on Audrey.

She refused to be left behind. “I can shoot. Probably better than some of you.”

“A gun will not protect you for long, Miss Cheswick. I know it will be difficult to remain here, but I think you must.”

All the years of being shoved to the background, of her opinions and desires being ignored, erupted inside of her. She advanced on Carlyle, her lip curling. “Either you include me in your plan or I’ll find a way to get there myself. Wouldn’t it be better if we were all working together?”

Carlyle blinked at her, then exchanged a questioning look with his wife.

“She should go,” Lockwood said, sounding quietly authoritative. Perhaps Carlyle wasn’t in charge after all. “Just as I’m going to go. Ethan saved Lydia from Jimmy, and I mean to return the favor.” His gaze took on a tinge of sadness and regret. “He deserves recompense . . . for so many things.”

Carlyle seemed to understand there was no point in arguing further. He nodded swiftly and turned back to the table. “Then let us prepare ourselves. We need to get moving. Ladies, can you put together an appropriate costume for Miss Cheswick?”

“The clothing from my husband’s parties remains upstairs,” Lydia said. “I haven’t had a chance to clean out all of the rooms. I’m certain we can find something suitable.”

“I believe I know just where to look.” Philippa directed a half-smile at her husband.

“And I can make any necessary alterations,” Olivia said. She was an accomplished seamstress and designer. “Plus, I have some experience with how real prostitutes dress. When I’m finished with Audrey, she will look as though she belongs at the Cup and Burrow.” She’d confided to Audrey that she’d resided next to a brothel before she’d gone to live with Saxton’s aunt, Lady Merriweather.

Lydia, Philippa, and Olivia left while Lady Carlyle moved to stand beside Audrey. She offered an encouraging smile. “What will you do once you get inside?”

Audrey exchanged looks with Lockwood and Carlyle. “There’s a young woman, Nan, who serves as a maid. She’s particularly”—what was the right word?—“grateful to Ethan. She will help me.” Audrey felt certain Nan would participate in a rescue effort, especially when it included her. She resolved to take the young woman with her when they escaped St. Giles.

“Won’t they recognize you from earlier?” Lady Carlyle asked.

“If I make up my face and dress differently, I don’t think they’ll know it’s me.”

“Olivia will ensure Miss Cheswick is beyond recognition,” Saxton said.

“What a peculiar lot of people you are,” Lady Carlyle marveled. “When this is all finished and everything is back to normal, I’m hosting a dinner party so that I can hear every one of your interesting stories.” She smiled warmly at Audrey.

Audrey appreciated Lady Carlyle’s optimism more than she could say.

Carlyle fixed her with a steady stare. “Now, Miss Cheswick, tell us everything you know about the Cup and Burrow.”

That evening Ethan was subjected to the typical humiliations Jimmy inflicted on those who crossed him. Ethan’s dinner was tossed to him in pieces, as if he were a dog, and when he had to relieve himself, he was given a chamber pot and no privacy. Jimmy and the men at his table, meanwhile, enjoyed plenty of food, wine, and ale and threw disparaging comments at Ethan. Marie served them and cast intermittent pitying glances toward Ethan.

Ethan didn’t let the mistreatment get to him. If his plan worked, it would be a small price to pay. He also tried not to think about what would happen if it didn’t work.

Jimmy motioned for one of the guards to come to him. The guard leaned down while Jimmy whispered something in his ear. He nodded and left. Jimmy’s gaze settled on Ethan a moment, as it had frequently throughout the night. This time lasted longer than the others but ended the same, with a regretful headshake.

Ethan wondered what that was about, but reasoned it maybe had nothing to do with him. He leaned his head back against the wall and stared at the ceiling. There was a grayish stain in the nearest corner. He’d spent a good portion of the last several hours trying to determine its cause. It was better than contemplating his future. He wouldn’t let himself think past tomorrow morning.

The guard returned with two other men who came directly to him. Ethan recognized them, but only recalled the name of the smaller man—George. They unshackled him and led him to the other doorway. Ethan glanced over at Jimmy, but he was turned away talking to whoever sat on his right.

Ethan had only been through this door to go outside, but he knew it also led to a room where Jimmy sent men to be beaten. Was Ethan to be punished before he was tried and hanged? His muscles tensed, and he weighed whether he could take out the two men before they subdued him. But Ethan had no weapons—they’d been stripped from him with his boots—and the guards were armed to the teeth.

“What’s going on?” Ethan asked.

George shook his head. “Ye’re a lucky bastard. Jimmy’s sendin’ ye a girl.” He led Ethan down a short corridor to another door.

“I don’t want a girl.” Particularly if she wasn’t going to aid his cause. He certainly didn’t want to shag anyone other than Audrey.

George turned and looked at Ethan as if he were daft. “I’m not tellin’ Jimmy ye don’t want his generosity.”

Why was Jimmy doing this? Was it because he was so drunk? It was when he was most vulnerable—at least emotionally. Was he allowing sentimentality to guide his actions? Perhaps there was still a way Ethan could somehow turn this to his advantage. If he could find a way out of here tonight, he’d save everyone a lot of trouble on the morrow.

George opened the door to a very small room with only a pallet on the floor and a flickering sconce. There was also another ring on the wall to which was affixed a length of chain and a shackle. It seemed Jimmy’s generosity only extended so far.

Ethan turned, hoping there was a way to get past the other guard, but he was huge and filled the doorway. He also gave Ethan an impassive glower that somehow verbalized there was no way to get through him.

But Ethan hadn’t survived as long as he had without taking risks.

He launched himself at the man’s middle, hoping to take him down and somehow clamber over him. If he could get to the doorway in the middle of the short corridor, he could find his way out of the maze that was the Cup and Burrow.

However, the giant didn’t fall. He clasped his arms around Ethan and slammed him into the doorframe. Pain radiated along Ethan’s spine. He wanted to strike out, but his arms were pinned. Instead, he kicked—ineffectively—at the man’s legs.

The brute carried him into the chamber like he was a sack of stolen goods. When Ethan was near enough to the chain, George took his right hand and shackled him to the wall. The man dropped him to the pallet and stepped back. Ethan lunged for him, but the chain kept him from getting close enough.

George had also retreated. “Try anything like that again and I’ll have to tell Jimmy. I always liked ye, Jagger, but ye know where my loyalties must lie. We’ll be right outside so we can let yer girl in. Try to enjoy ’er.” He gave Ethan a final resigned look, then they left, locking the door behind them.

Ethan had no intention of enjoying anything. But perhaps this was the torture Jimmy intended. He knew Ethan loved Audrey, that he was willing to sacrifice his life to save her. So what would be more degrading than to send a woman to entice him, to perhaps even force him?

A shudder wracked his aching frame. He’d endured many long nights, especially in his youth when he’d had to sleep with one eye open in order to preserve himself. This night, however, might just be the longest he’d ever endured.

TWENTY-ONE

Audrey and Scot made their way through St. Giles with only mild looks of interest directed their way. Or, more accurately, her way. Though she wore a cloak to cover the alarming décolletage of her gown, its vivid scarlet hue was still visible at the hem. The lurid color stuck out in the grime of St. Giles like a beacon on a dark night. And despite the bonnet that covered her hair and should’ve provided a bit of shade for her face, every now and then a lantern cast its illumination over her heavily made-up features. At these times, those who caught sight of her stared. Olivia had done a wonderful job making her look . . . different, and in a surprisingly inoffensive way.

They approached the Cup and Burrow. Audrey’s pace quickened as her insides tightened. “Around the back,” she murmured to Scot.

He took her hand and led her down a narrow alley, which boasted a half dozen or so slumbering men. They didn’t stir as Audrey and Scot picked past them. Audrey brought her hand to her nose as they neared the last—he smelled as if he’d soiled himself.

They came to a door and Scot halted. “This has to be it.” He turned to look at her, but his face was barely discernible in the meager light that spilled down the alleyway. “You ready?”

She nodded. She didn’t want to think about it too long. Leaving Scot’s company filled her with fear, but she knew he wouldn’t be far—just in the common room. She also knew that Jason, Sevrin, Carlyle, and Saxton were nearby too, or would be.

Audrey unclasped her cloak and gave it to Scot, who would dispose of it before he went into the Cup and Burrow. “I’ll see you soon,” she said brightly, in an effort to buoy her confidence.

“Aye, and remember, I’ll be only a scream away.” He squeezed her hand and departed down the alley. He lingered at the end while she rapped on the door.

It took several attempts before the door opened. Audrey’s shoulders drooped in relief as she cast a final glance at Scot before stepping inside.

“Wot ye doin’ at this hour?” Mother Dean, the Cup and Burrow’s mistress, blinked at Audrey and rubbed her reddened eyes.

“I came to work. Ye ain’t goin’ to turn me away, are ye?” Audrey had worked on her speech with Olivia, trying to emulate the women Olivia had known in her past. Audrey passed a hand over her bodice and rested it against her hip. She thrust her chest out for good measure.

Mother Dean held up her lantern and scrutinized Audrey for a long moment. Her gaze rested on Audrey’s face, and Audrey held her breath waiting to see if she’d recognize her from their brief meeting the previous day.

After several blinks, Mother Dean nodded. “All right then.” She rang a bell and after a lengthy wait, Nan appeared, carrying a candle.

Audrey suppressed a relieved grin. Her happiness faded as Mother Dean cuffed Nan. “Took ye long enough.”

Nan massaged her ear and murmured an apology.

“Take ’er to the common room.” Mother Dean gave Audrey one last assessing glance. She grinned suddenly. “Aye, ye’re goin’ to make me a pretty penny. Just look at ’er titties, Nan!” She laughed and disappeared the way she’d come.

Nan glanced at Audrey before pivoting away from her. “Come along then. I need to fetch a girl on our way.”

Audrey touched Nan’s shoulder. “Nan, it’s me, Audrey. Jagger’s . . . woman.”

Nan swung around and leaned toward her, scrutinizing Audrey’s face by the light of the sconce flickering a short distance away. Her eyes widened. “I didn’t recognize you.” Her gaze turned appreciative. “Who made up your face?”

“I can trust you to help me, can’t I, Nan?”

Nan’s shoulders arched and her features tightened with fear. She backed up a step. “Please don’t ask me to do nothin’.”

Audrey’s hope was dwindling fast. “Nan, you’d help Jagger if you could, wouldn’t you? We have a plan to rescue him—and you. Wouldn’t you like to leave St. Giles?”

Nan’s shoulders relaxed and she moved closer, until she was barely a hand width away. “I’d like that above all else, but how do you mean to do it?”

“I can’t get into the specifics, but there will be a time, when they take Jagger outside tomorrow morning, for those who support him to come forward and assist with his liberation.” Audrey spoke with as much detachment as she could muster, though discussing his impending execution made her want to toss up her accounts.

Nan raised a hand to her mouth. “Bloody ’ell.”

“Nan, you must only tell people you absolutely trust. We can’t let Gin Jimmy know of this plan.”

After a series of violent nods, Nan lowered her hand. “I understand, and I’ll do what I can What’re you goin’ to do now?”

“I’d like to get to Eth—er, Jagger.” She needed to tell him about their plan and give him the knife stashed in her boot.

Nan shook her head sadly. “I can’t get directly to ’im. ’E’s in the ‘eart o’ Jimmy’s den.” She looked down and fidgeted with the candlestick. “I could get you close. I’m supposed to take a girl to Jimmy.”

Before she could think better of it, Audrey said, “Take me.”

Nan’s head shot up and she gaped at Audrey. “You can’t mean it.”

“Yes, I do. Just get me over there and I’ll figure out a way to get to Ethan.” Armed with a knife in her boot and a pistol against her thigh, she was optimistic about her chances. Perhaps foolishly so, but Ethan’s life was at stake and she wouldn’t let him go without a fight. “Could I beg one more favor of you? There’s a man in the common room. Athletic looking fellow, attractive, dark hair, very nice blue eyes, goes by the name Scot. Could you let him know where I am?”

Loud voices came from the other end of the corridor. Nan jumped. “We should go. I’ll take you the back way.” She led Audrey through a doorway and along a narrow passage. At the end, she slowly opened a door. The hinges creaked their arrival like a warning bell.

“Wot took ye so long?” thundered a deep voice.

“We just got a new girl in. I had to get ’er.” Nan’s voice trembled and Audrey prayed the young woman wouldn’t give her away.

Audrey stepped into a small hallway with several doors leading from it. Filling the close space was a huge man with a mane of dark, scraggly hair, and a chest as wide as two Nans. He raked her with a lustful stare, his focus settling on the too-tight and too-low bodice of her gown. Her fingers itched to grasp the pistol strapped to her thigh.

The man chuckled, a low sound that rumbled in Audrey’s chest. “Lucky prick. Let’s see ’im say no to this one.” He inclined his head toward a door, which was being unlocked by a much smaller man.

Fear and bile rose up Audrey’s throat. She could go into that room to God-knew-what awaited her or she could take on two men and try to find Ethan. She hesitated too long. The hulking brute of a man grabbed her wrist and pulled her forward, propelling her toward the now open door. The smaller man pushed her inside and before she could regain her footing, the door closed behind her. She spun about and tried to push it open, but the lock clicked.

“Audrey?”

Relief poured through her at the sound of her name in that familiar voice. She pivoted and took in the pallet, the chain, and the man. Her heart tripped.

Ethan.

She rushed forward and threw her arms around his neck. His hands came around her back. She felt the chain graze her waist and realized he was shackled to the wall.

She drew back but couldn’t let him go. She clasped his shoulders as she studied his face. He looked untouched, his face as handsome as ever. “You’re all right?”

“No.” The word was low and dark.

She clutched at him, digging her fingers into the silk of his waistcoat. “What have they done to you?” She moved one hand down over his chest, lightly rubbing as she searched for some sign of injury.

His hand came over hers, stilling her movements. “I’m not all right because you’re here. Why the hell have you come back?” He hissed the question at her instead of yelling it, but his fury was evident in the set of his mouth and the glacial tint to his eyes.

“To save you.”

“Keep your voice down!” Again, he spoke quietly but with a clear tone of angry authority. “You can’t save me.”

She touched his face, her heart aching at the sacrifice he’d been ready to make for her. “I’m not alone.”

He ran his hand through his black hair, tousling it and reminding her of what he looked like in the morning. “Blood of Christ. I suppose my brother’s involved. Tell me he isn’t here.”

“No. They’ll come tomorrow”—she refused to think about all the things that could go wrong—“when they take you outside.”

“You came alone?”

She didn’t think he could sound any angrier, but she’d been mistaken. “Jason’s manservant, Scot, escorted me here.”

“I know who Scot is,” he growled. “And he’ll be the first one I thrash if their ridiculous plan works. Though, given that you’ve ended up in here with me, I have to assume it won’t.”

Audrey pressed her lips together. It was a good thing she was used to having enough optimism for the both of them. “I can see how it’s going to be for the rest of our lives. You always seeing how things will fail, and me patiently explaining to you how they will not. How together we can overcome anything.”

His features relaxed a bit as some of the ire dissipated in his eyes. He exhaled. “Audrey, I would dearly love for you to spend the rest of our lives proving me utterly wrongheaded. However, you must accept that may not be possible.”

Where was the man who survived at any cost? “I accept no such thing. You think our plan isn’t working, but I’m here. With you. Just as I intended to be.”

“An utterly foolish move.”

“No. I’m not foolish.” She lifted her skirt and pulled the knife from her boot. Then she flashed the pistol against her thigh. “I’m armed.”

He sucked in air between his teeth. “Holy hell, Audrey.”

“I came to inform you of the plan and to give you a knife. The pistol is for me.” She dropped her skirt and held the blade in her palm. “There will be an uprising of support for you. When they march you outside, we’ll get you away from Gin Jimmy.”

He seemed to relax a bit. “Yes, that is how I hoped it might work. Minus your participation. I’m going to gleefully kill Carlyle.”

She caressed his cheek. “You’ll do no such thing. You’re a new man, remember?”

He took the knife from her. “I doubt there’ll be an ‘uprising’ of any kind.”

She hated his defeatism. “Try to have some faith—I know it’s not something you’re used to. I saw how many of Jimmy’s men were conflicted when you were trying to persuade them to your cause. I’m confident we’ll be able to rouse enough support to free you.”

He cradled the side of her face and leaned in close. “And what if you don’t?” he whispered, so near she could almost taste him. “If the plan fails and I am hanged, what will happen to you, my love? What danger have you put yourself in for me? I don’t deserve your kindness. Or your love.”

Her heart was creaking beneath the weight of his words, but she wouldn’t show it. “Still, you have it. My love—all I have to give is yours.”

“Audrey,” he breathed. “Jimmy isn’t going to let me go without a fight. He’s ruthless on his best day, but to him, my defection—if you want to call it that, and he does—is personal. Is one of you prepared to kill him? Because that’s what it will take to set me free.”

She knew he was asking if she was prepared to kill him. “Why is it so personal?”

Ethan let go of her and backed up against the wall. He turned the knife between his fingers, his movements adept and strangely soothing to watch. “He was the only person who believed in me, even if it was for the wrong reasons. He taught me how to defend myself and how to be a damned good thief. There are many times he saved my life—and I his. He was as much a father to me as my own before he died.”

She heard the pain and also the nostalgia in his voice. How difficult it must be to have loved—or maybe even still love—someone so horrible. But he hadn’t been horrible to Ethan. At least not until now. “You’re certain he wouldn’t have just allowed you to leave?”

“No, and he affirmed that last night. I regret that it took me so long to see that relationship for what it was . . . ” He shook his head, his hand stilled. “Twisted.”

She resisted the urge to touch him, sensing he needed space, if just for a moment. “He was all you had. I understand, Ethan. Stop blaming yourself for past mistakes. What’s important is who you are now.”

“Your faith in me is relentless.” He pierced her with his familiar, provocative stare. “Tell me this plan of yours.”

“I have a helper inside the Cup and Burrow. She’s seeking assistance for us right now.”

He arched a brow at her.

Audrey swatted at his shoulder. “Stop being so skeptical! Will you accept for even a moment that other people might have your best interests at heart and others will rise to the occasion? Or must you believe the worst of everyone?”

His brow climbed even higher. “Since I think you know how I’ll answer that, I’ll just be quiet.” This banter reminded her of their time together after they’d fled London. She didn’t want it to end.

He held up the knife. “The weapon is a nice addition. I do thank you for that. While I appreciate the plan, I should like to launch a surprise attack when they open the door. However, that won’t be for quite some time. I believe you’re supposed to provide an experience that will carry me to my eternal rest.”

“I shall provide a lifetime of them.” She swayed toward him, angling her chest first up and then down to draw his attention. As planned, his eyes locked on her bared flesh. She grazed her breasts against his chest. She curled her hand around his neck and brushed her lips against his jaw.

“Since I am without footwear at present, I’m going to put this back in yours.” He leaned down and hiked her skirt to her knee, then slid the knife between her stocking and the edge of her boot. “Do you know, there’s something quite thrilling about you bedecked in weaponry. It brings to mind your scandalous gentleman’s attire when we first began this adventure. Wholly unexpected yet strangely alluring.” He pressed a soft kiss to her neck.

Need poured through her like a torrent. She curled her fingers around his forearm and brought them down to the cold metal around his wrist. “I don’t suppose there’s any way we can get this off.”

“There’s nothing in this room save the pallet. And while your weapons are helpful—and attractive,” he said with a sultry smile, “they won’t pick the lock.” His smile spread into a wide grin as he fixated on her hair.

She smoothed her hand over the curls, unsurprised that a few had sprung free, as usual. “What?”

“Your lovely, necessary, terribly useful hairpins.”

She withdrew one from her hair and held it out to him.

He slid the hairpin into the lock and worked it around. “They should’ve shackled my left hand because then I probably wouldn’t be able to do this.”

“Because you’re left-handed.” She remembered the first time she noticed that, during their first waltzing lesson. He’d compared himself to the devil. At the time, she’d thought he was merely being flirtatious, but now she knew he’d meant it. Beneath all of his arrogance and showmanship, his true opinion of himself was poor indeed.

The lock clicked and the shackle fell open. He caught it as he looked up at her and smiled, then quickly put his finger to his lips. “We don’t want them knowing I’m no longer confined,” he said extra quietly.

She nodded as she took the metal from his wrist and set it gently on the floor. “It’s a good thing you’re such an expert thief, else you’d still be wearing this.”

“You could argue that if I hadn’t been an expert thief, I wouldn’t be here in the first place.” He took her hand and pulled her against him. His mouth crushed over hers in a fierce kiss.

Her body responded instantly. She twined her arms around his neck and kissed him back, eager for his touch and amazed that she could want him so desperately despite the danger they faced. But maybe that was the source of her need. He gave her strength and courage and made her feel like she could do anything, be anyone.

He spun her about so that her back was against the wall. He dragged his mouth from hers, nipping at her lower lip. “You look so different. Who applied your cosmetics?”

“Olivia—Saxton’s wife. She worked in the theater for a short time.”

“You look rather exotic. Add in the weapons and this gown . . . it’s almost like you’re someone else.” His gaze dipped to her breasts. “You may have to wear this costume for me again.”

Her pulse quickened and warmth suffused her—he was beginning to have hope! “Only in the privacy of our bedroom. I’m not terribly fond of putting myself on public display.”

“Neither am I. Though I am beyond grateful that you would do that for me.” He kissed her throat and stroked his tongue along the underside of her chin. “What happened to my shy, blushing Audrey?”

She tipped her head back against the wall and closed her eyes, giving herself over to the sensations he was igniting. “It seems you’ve changed me.”

He trailed his mouth down her neck and brought his hand beneath her breast. He curved his palm around her and brushed his thumb over the edge of her gown, grazing her flesh. Then his mouth was there, sucking at the top of her breast. She arched forward, offering herself to his attention. But she wanted more. “My gown,” she breathed.

“We can’t disrobe,” he said against her flesh. “We need to be ready. Hell, we probably shouldn’t even be doing this.” He palmed her breast, then dipped his fingers inside of her bodice to find the stiff peak. His mouth, hot and open, was back at her throat while he pulled at her nipple.

Heat streamed to her core. Had he said they shouldn’t be making love? She tugged at his hair as she held his head close to her. “Please, don’t stop.”

“I couldn’t if I wanted to.” His teeth tugged at her ear. “Which I don’t.” His hand left her breast, but for good reason. He hiked her skirt up, baring her calf, her knee, her thigh. “Hold this.”

She complied, clasping her bunched up skirt at her waist while his fingers found her center. She moaned as he stroked her flesh. Already her orgasm was building. “I’m finding it difficult to be quiet.”

“So don’t be. These are the sounds they expect to hear. Let’s give them a show.” He thrust his finger inside of her and she gasped. “Yes, like that, only louder.”

“More.” She let herself go, moaning and encouraging him.

His hand left her and she opened her eyes, afraid that someone had perhaps interrupted them. But no, he was opening his fall and then his hot flesh was nudging against her. He lifted her against the wall. “Wrap your legs around me.”

She braced her hands on his shoulders and did as he bade, encircling his waist with her legs. He positioned himself at her entrance and drove inside of her, pinning her to the wall. She cried out as he filled her.

His hand came up and cupped the back of her neck, his fingers digging into her flesh. “Look at me, Audrey.”

She opened her eyes and saw her own need and desire reflected in his gaze. And love. “I love you,” she whispered.

He kissed her, his lips playing over hers softly at first, and then he thrust his tongue inside of her, mimicking the stroke of his cock. He drove up into her, his flesh rubbing against her, coaxing her release.

Pleasure unfurled within her, slowly at first and then at lightning speed. He tore his mouth from hers and slammed her against the wall with his thrusts. Her orgasm broke over her. All she could see was light. All she felt was ecstasy. All she heard were his moans and the relentless sound of him moving inside of her. He stiffened and shouted his release. Then he buried his face in her neck.

Ethan’s legs quivered as his orgasm subsided. He inhaled Audrey’s delicious scent—a combination of lavender and spice—and was overwhelmed with the gift of her. He wished he could give her the fairy-tale ending she deserved, but he’d settle for just getting her out of St. Giles alive. And if, by some chance, he got out too, he’d choke every one of those pricks who’d put her in danger.

He continued to hold her, as tremors coursed through her body. Or maybe they were his. He wasn’t quite sure where she ended and he began. He kissed her neck as he slowly withdrew from her. Gently, he eased her legs from his waist and guided them to the floor.

She gripped his shoulders until she found her footing, then she kissed him soundly and thoroughly. He couldn’t help but smile into her mouth.

When he drew back, she regarded him with a satisfied gaze. He had nothing to offer her to tidy herself—they’d taken his cravat hours ago. He supposed he could offer his waistcoat. Now that he was unshackled, he could remove it. He rebuttoned his fall. “Do you need anything to clean up?”

She shook her head, and still there was no blush. Not only did she look different, she really was different. “I’m fine. Petticoats can serve multiple purposes.” She sank down to the pallet.

He went to the door and listened. He couldn’t hear anything from the corridor, but knew George and the hulk had to be out there. His mind began to play scenarios where he took on the brute while Audrey attacked George. He glanced back at her and wondered if she could do that.

He joined her on the pallet, tucking her into the crook of his arm as he propped himself back against the wall. She curled beside him, laying her head upon his shoulder and bringing her knees up so they nuzzled his thighs.

She traced her fingertips over the buttons of his waistcoat. “What will we do when this is all behind us?”

How he hoped there would be an opportunity for them to find out. He would expend all of his energy to see her to safety, and if he was somehow saved . . . well, he didn’t expect it. Not that he would say that. She’d made her opinion on his cynicism clear. Instead, he decided to indulge her fantasy. And it wasn’t a trial. Thinking of a future with her, even if it was hopeless, gave him comfort. It was how he’d spent many of the long days since he’d been arrested.

“This may surprise you, but I actually liked Wootton Bassett. Not the town specifically, since we didn’t really see much of it, but I enjoyed the time we spent with Fox and Miranda. Their life is simple and . . . purposeful.”

Her hand stilled, her palm flattening against his chest. “Yes, it is. You liked that?”

He nodded. “What Fox does there with the orphanage is astonishing. He impacts so many lives. Without him, those children would suffer terribly.”

“Like you did.”

“Worse. Many of them are younger than I was. I shudder to think what would’ve happened to me if I’d been orphaned at a younger age.” Because of his pretty face, he undoubtedly would’ve been forced into prostitution. That path had been suggested to him several times.

She tucked her hand beneath his waistcoat and pressed her hand over his heart. “Me too.”

“When we stayed with the hermit, I liked that story.”

“What, me being your sister? I’m afraid I didn’t care for that part.”

He chuckled and kissed her head. “No, I don’t care for that part either. I did, however, enjoy pretending to be a schoolmaster. Do you think . . .” Oh, now he really was fantasizing.

She lifted her head and looked up at him. “Do I think what? That you could teach?” She reached up and touched his cheek, directing his gaze down to hers. “I think you can do anything you put your mind to. Especially if I help you.”

“When you tell me that, I believe it.” He tipped her chin up and kissed her.

A few moments later, she settled back against him with a contented sigh. “Do you envision opening a school at Stipple’s End? I think the Foxcrofts would love that. I know they’d like to enlarge the orphanage, but they need more help. I think Miranda’s invitation for us to stay was genuine.”

“Yes, that’s what I was hoping. Provided they forgive us for lying to them and for taking one of their horses.”

“We only borrowed her. I’m sure Posy returned to Wootton Bassett when she ran off.” Audrey yawned. “And that’s what we’ll do. After we’re married, of course.”

“Of course.” He tucked a wayward curl behind her ear. “Sleep if you want. I’ll be right here.”

A few minutes later he heard the even tone of her breathing as she drifted into slumber. He hated that she’d come back for him, but he couldn’t regret this time he’d had with her.

The sound of the door jarred him awake. Shit, he hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He shook Audrey, then pulled the knife from her boot. “Wake up.”

He jumped to his feet and rushed toward the door, anxious energy pumping through him.

The brute came in first. Ethan didn’t hesitate. He charged forward, knife in hand, but his opponent was viciously strong. He rushed at Ethan and knocked him off balance, sending him crashing backward into the wall. Pain exploded in Ethan’s skull, but he pitched forward in an effort to take the big man down. The man’s fist landed against Ethan’s wrist, and Ethan dropped the knife.

Audrey’s shriek filled the small room. George had her by the hair and was drawing a knife from his belt.

Ethan put up his hands. “Stop! Let her go. She isn’t part of this.”

George dragged her toward the door.

Where the fuck was her pistol?

She tried to reach down—presumably for her gun—but George yanked her hair, pulling her upright. “Ethan!”

The larger man grabbed Ethan’s arm in a vise-like grip.

Ethan tried to pull free to get to Audrey, but it was pointless. “George, she’s just a worthless whore.”

“Then what do ye care if she dies? The Jagger I know would put ’is own survival before anyone else’s, but then she didn’t call ye Jagger jes’ then, did she? I don’t think she’s a worthless whore at all.”

Too late Ethan realized their mistake.

“You’re wrong,” Audrey said, ever his defender. “Jagger would lay down his life for the people he cares about, or for those who can’t help themselves.” Her gaze connected with his. “I know this about him.”

Ethan’s heart warmed at her confidence, but it wasn’t helping their cause at all. The more she said about him, the clearer it became that she wasn’t some indiscriminate prostitute from upstairs. “She doesn’t know shit, George. Just take her back to the common room so she can find another bloke.” He gave her a meaningful stare.

“Ollie, lock ’im up again,” George said. He kept his hand twisted in Audrey’s hair and his knife against her throat. Ethan longed to drive that knife into his heart for daring to touch her.

Ollie tugged him toward the shackle, but Ethan made it hard for him. He kicked out at him and threw his fist into his gut, which felt as though it were made of iron. Ollie slammed him into the wall as he reached down for the shackle. He slapped the metal around Ethan’s wrist. “Damn, ye got a key, George?”

“Reach into my waistcoat pocket there, lovely. That’s right. Now toss the key to Ollie. There’s a girl.”

Ethan couldn’t tell what was happening because Ollie had him shoved against the wall so that all he could see was the corner. He tried to twist his neck, but Ollie only dug his arm harder across his shoulder blades.

“Bitch!” The report of a pistol sounded. Ollie’s hold loosened enough for Ethan to turn around and see Audrey holding her smoking pistol over George who appeared to be bleeding from his hip.

Ethan tried to get to her, but Ollie held him back. Running boots echoed from the corridor and then a pair of faces appeared in the door.

One of them said, “What the ’ell happened?”

“She shot George,” Ollie said.

“Take ’er to Jimmy,” the new arrival said. The second man came into the room and clasped her wrist. She cried out as he easily took the pistol from her fingers. She tried to pull away and her gaze met Ethan’s.

His heart twisted as he watched her dragged from the room. His hope that she’d make it out of the Cup and Burrow withered and died. When Ollie’s fist found his gut once more, he crumpled to the floor and prayed that Audrey wouldn’t suffer.

TWENTY-TWO

Audrey kicked and thrashed at the man who pulled her away from Ethan, but it was no use. As soon as he got her into the corridor, the second man picked up her feet and carried her.

“Keep yer mouth shut.” Another pair of men passed them. “Fetch George. The bitch shot ’im.”

They carried her through another doorway and then dumped her to the floor near a large table. She blinked as she pushed herself up to a sitting position.

“Miss Cheswick?” Jimmy stood from the table and stared at her. “Didn’t I let ye leave?”

“Yes.” She got to her feet on quaking legs.

“Ye should’ve stayed gone. I won’t be so nice a second time.” He scrutinized her appearance. “Particularly when ye look as if ye belong ’ere. Doesn’t she, lads?” He laughed and the rest joined in. When the laughter died down, he nodded at the two men who’d carried her. Each man grabbed one of her arms and held her still.

Jimmy came around the table, his hands clasped behind his back. He stopped just in front of her. “Now, why did ye come back?”

She smelled the gin on his breath and fought not to recoil. “To see Ethan.”

Jimmy’s hand snapped across her cheek so fast, she didn’t see it coming. But the pain lingered, setting her cheek afire. “Don’t make me hit ye again. I really don’t like hurtin’ women.”

Her eyes watered. She struggled to think of what to say. “I came to see him and you.” She cringed, waiting for his hand to strike again and when it didn’t, she rushed onward. “He was like a son to you. I can’t believe you want to hurt him. He only wants to be happy. With me. Can’t you let him do that?”

He squinted at her a long moment. “’E won’t be happy with ye. I’ve seen ’im with women over the years. ’E’ll tire of ye soon enough. Then ’e’ll move on to his next Society conquest. ’E’s fooled ye like ’e fooled me.”

She didn’t believe that for a moment, but wouldn’t try to convince him otherwise. “Fine, then let him do that. Why does he have to be a criminal? Why won’t you just let him be free?”

Jimmy wrapped his hand around her neck and she worried she’d gone too far. He leaned close. “’E is a criminal. ’E’s exactly what I made ’im and that’s all ’e’ll ever be.” Spittle shot from his mouth and landed on her cheek.

He let go of her, shoving her back as he removed his hand. The men tightened their grips on her arms. She swallowed, anxious about what would happen next. She hoped and prayed they still had a chance once they got outside.

Jimmy strolled back to his place at the head of the table and looked down. “I suppose I’m done with my breakfast.” He swept the plate from the table. Because it was metal, it didn’t break, but hit the floor with a loud thud. “Get ’im ready. ’E’s got a trial to attend.”

Several men stood from the table and disappeared through the doorway toward the room where Ethan was being held. Audrey tensed.

“And ye shot one of my best men.” Jimmy shook his head. He came back toward her and didn’t stop until he’d clasped her chin in a firm, painful grip. “Ye’re goin’ to have a front-row seat at Jagger’s trial and hangin’, and then I’m goin’ to work ye upstairs until ye can’t walk. Do ye know how much money I’ll make off Jagger’s lovey?” His gaze dipped to her breasts and he dug his fingers into her flesh. “Let’s hope ye fuck as well as ye look. Eh, it doesn’t matter, does it, lads? They’ll pay for the novelty, not the skill.” He sneered in her face and let her go before turning away from her.

Stark fear like she’d never known turned her limbs to jelly. If not for the men holding her up, she would’ve sagged to the floor.

Long minutes passed during which Jimmy retook his seat. He stared moodily at the table. To Audrey he looked upset, disturbed perhaps. She couldn’t stop herself from trying to persuade him to change his mind.

“Jimmy, it’s not too late to let Ethan go.”

“Shut ’er the fuck up, will you?” He turned to the corner where Marie sat on a small stool. Audrey hadn’t even noticed her. “Find somethin’ to gag ’er.”

Marie pulled a long, white cloth out of her pocket as she came toward Audrey. She didn’t say a word as she put it in Audrey’s mouth and tied it at the back of her head.

Ethan’s scent filled her nostrils and she realized it was his cravat. She heard the sound of boots and turned her head just as Ethan was led into the room. There was a bruise blooming on his cheek and blood trickled from his lip.

“Clean ’im up, Marie, and put ’is boots on.”

Marie went to a washbasin and dampened a cloth, which she used to cleanse Ethan’s lip. He stared stoically at Audrey, his eyes cold and dispassionate. She sensed he was working to mask his emotions and wished she could do the same. But a tear leaked from her eye, and she realized that was hopeless.

Next, Marie fetched his boots from somewhere behind Audrey. She put his feet into them and the act reminded Audrey of when she’d helped him after he’d been wounded.

“Bind ’is hands.”

One of the men came forward with a rope. Ethan stuck his hands out without being asked. The rope was circled around his wrists and bound tightly.

Another tear snaked from Audrey’s eye, and her throat nearly closed with anguish.

Jimmy stood and straightened his coat. “Let’s go. ’Im first.”

The men flanking Ethan grabbed his arms and nudged him forward. He moved toward Audrey. “It’s all right. You’re going to be all right.” He said the last so softly, she had to strain to hear.

Then he turned and walked from the room.

Jimmy jerked his head toward the men holding Audrey and they brought her forward. Jimmy took the place of the man on her right. “I want ye right beside me when we watch ’im swing.”

The doorway wasn’t big enough to allow them all to pass through together, so Jimmy went first and he pulled her over the threshold. They moved through his throne room and into a corridor that emptied into the nearly empty common room. Audrey searched the tables and corners for Scot, but didn’t see anyone save a slattern leaning against one wall and a man passed out across a tabletop. Everyone must have gone outside to watch the hanging.

Emotion gathered in her chest, and she struggled to breathe. Tears came fast now, tracking down her heated cheeks. They moved outside into the late morning. Gray skies and drizzle met them; still, it was much brighter than the interior of the Cup and Burrow, and Audrey had to blink several times.

They moved into the street, which was lined with what looked to be hundreds of people. All of St. Giles’s denizens had turned out. The crowd was thick and raucous, with shouting and singing and the smell of food mingled with decay and impending death.

Audrey looked ahead of her and fixed on Ethan’s back. The dark green and bronze silk of his waistcoat rippled over his back as he walked. Then she caught sight of the scaffold and the rope.

Blackness edged her vision and she fell to the street.

Ethan heard Jimmy swear and turned his head to see Audrey being dragged to her feet. Her eyes rolled back in her head. Jimmy slapped her hard.

Ethan lunged toward him, aching to inflict pain and damage, but the men holding him kept him from moving. “Don’t touch her, Jimmy!”

Jimmy turned and looked at him, his eyes dark and narrowed. “I’ll do whatever I like to ’er. Especially after ye’re dead.” He grabbed Audrey’s chin and shook her until she blinked. “Keep yer wits about ye, gel. The best part’s comin’ up.”

He waved them all forward and the procession continued.

Because he had no choice, Ethan turned and walked toward the scaffold, but he didn’t look at it. Instead, he scanned the crowd in search of Jason or Carlyle or Sevrin or any of the idiots who’d launched this futile plan.

At last his gaze settled on Scot. He was standing in the front of the crowd. As Ethan drew close enough, he mouthed, “Save her.”

Scot nodded imperceptibly, and Ethan had to trust that he would. Next, he caught sight of Sevrin, then Carlyle. Finally, he saw Jason, who was standing very near the scaffold. His familiar gray eyes were impassive. They briefly met Ethan’s, softened slightly, and then moved on.

Love for his brother swelled in Ethan’s chest. At this perhaps eleventh hour of his life, he finally had the family he’d sought. And he’d put all of them in harm’s way.

The sound of a pistol cocking behind Ethan drew the men holding him to turn. Ethan spun with them and things seemed to happen in slow motion. In his peripheral vision, he saw men moving, but his gaze focused on the man holding the gun.

Teague.

And he was pointing it at Jimmy. Other men around him had also drawn pistols, but no one had fired yet.

“You don’t get to hang him.”

Jimmy smiled malevolently. “That yer job, Runner?”

“Damned right it is. And you sure as hell don’t get to brutalize women.”

Ethan kicked at the men holding him and pulled to get free. From the corner of his eye, he saw Jason move and then he heard the report of a pistol as Teague fired his weapon.

“Audrey!” In the ensuing commotion, Ethan got one of his arms free and punched the man still holding him. It was enough to make him release his grip on Ethan.

Ethan watched Audrey go down, but saw that it was Scot who’d knocked her to the ground, not Teague’s bullet, which had appeared to go wide.

Jimmy lifted his pistol and pointed it at Teague. Ethan didn’t think. He tackled the Runner as the gun fired. They both fell.

Burning pain sliced into Ethan’s shoulder. Audrey’s scream rent the air. His head hit the cobblestones and blackness descended.

TWENTY-THREE

Audrey watched the bullet hit Ethan in the shoulder as he tackled Teague to the ground. She pushed at Scot and her hand brushed the hilt of a knife tied to his waist. She unsheathed it, taking it from him as she’d taken the pistol from George back at the Cup and Burrow.

There was fighting all around her, but she looked for the shock of white hair. Rain fell into her eyes and she swiped at her face, pulling the cravat from where it had dislodged from her mouth when she’d fallen. She managed to roll out from under Scot, who was now engaged with one of the men who’d been behind Jimmy.

She struggled to find her feet as she searched for Jimmy. At last, she found him, not far away. He was fighting his way toward where Ethan lay.

She clutched the knife in her hand and wove through the melee. Jimmy spun and saw her, his gaze falling on the blade. His lip curled and he struck fast and sure, knocking the knife from her hand and forcing her backward. He advanced on her, a knife in his own hand.

“Audrey!” Jason called her name from behind Jimmy. He dodged between two men and tossed her a pistol.

She caught it with both hands, cocked the hammer, and fired. At this range, there was no missing and thankfully there was also no misfire. She watched Jimmy’s eyes widen as the bullet slammed into his chest.

He fell back. Jason stood over him and pressed his boot into his neck.

Jimmy sputtered. Blood gurgled from his mouth, came forth in a greater torrent as Jason applied more pressure.

It was more than Audrey needed to see. She dropped the pistol and ran to Ethan.

Teague held him in his lap, his hand pressed to the wound in Ethan’s shoulder. “Help me.”

She squatted down and lifted Ethan by the bicep of his unwounded arm while Teague hefted him. When Teague had gained his footing, he lifted Ethan over his shoulder.

Jason came forward and led them through the throng. Audrey followed Teague, her gaze fixed on Ethan’s ashen face.

Vaguely, she was aware of someone close behind her. A quick look back revealed it was Sevrin.

They wound their way from the crowded street, down a narrow alley to another street. What should have been a difficult passage was surprisingly easy.

“The hack is up there,” Sevrin said close to her ear.

She looked ahead and saw a hackney coach waiting. The Earl of Saxton was standing outside, though he was dressed liked one of St. Giles’ roughest men.

Teague got to the hack and Saxton helped him lay Ethan facedown on one of the seats. However, it wasn’t long enough to hold his entire frame and his legs slumped off the side. Audrey went to climb in after him, but Teague grabbed her arm.

“I’m done. Tell him . . . tell him thank you.”

Audrey nodded and looked at Saxton, who helped her into the hack. She lifted Ethan’s head and shoulders and eased into the corner of the seat, settling his head on her lap. Jason entered behind her. He bent Ethan’s legs so they’d fit onto the seat and then installed himself opposite. He handed Audrey a kerchief, which she pressed to the wound in Ethan’s shoulder.

She looked down at Ethan’s face, so pale against the lurid scarlet of her skirt. With her free hand, she stroked his dark hair back and tried to swallow through the lump in her throat.

His eyes blinked and he looked up at her. “Are you an angel?”

She choked through a laugh. “No. But I think there must be one on your shoulder. The uninjured one.”

Jason leaned forward. “Ethan?”

Ethan closed his eyes again. “Is that my brother?”

She stroked his head. “Yes.”

He flinched from where she held the cloth to his shoulder. “What happened to Jimmy?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“Audrey shot him,” Jason answered. His gaze found hers across the hack and he nodded approvingly, gratefully.

Ethan opened his eyes again and twisted his neck to get a better look at her. “Is he dead?”

“Yes.”

“Are you all right?”

Her heart swelled with love for him. “Yes. I feel . . . unremorseful.”

His lips curved into a smile and his lids shuttered his eyes once more. “Good girl.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence. Once they arrived at Lockwood House, North met them and helped Jason carry Ethan inside. It was then that they realized the bullet must’ve gone straight through, as he was also bleeding from the front of his shoulder.

Jason and North conveyed Ethan upstairs to the bedchamber Audrey had slept in the day before. They sat him on the edge of the bed where Audrey quickly cut his clothing from his torso.

Jason held a cloth to his back while Audrey pressed one to his front and prayed the doctor would arrive soon.

North gave Ethan a glass of whisky, which he downed in one swallow. He thrust it back, his hand shaking. “Another.”

As Ethan finished the second glass only slightly more slowly, the physician arrived with Scot.

He allowed Audrey to assist as he probed the wound, cleansed it, and then sutured both the front and back. The physician proclaimed him lucky since the bullet hadn’t done significant damage and then told them all to pray infection wouldn’t set in. He dispensed laudanum, instructed Audrey on how to bandage the wound, and said he’d return the following day.

Ethan touched the puckered wound on his chest and winced. “I don’t suppose there’s any way to get some of that poultice from the innkeeper’s wife in Hounslow?”

“Unnecessary,” said Sevrin, stepping into the room. “I stopped by the Black Horse and brought some of Tom’s. Works wonders.” He handed it to Audrey.

She accepted the small pot with tears in her eyes. “Thank you.” She looked at each of them in turn—the Carlyles, Saxtons, Sevrins, Scot, North, Lydia, and Jason. “I’ll be forever indebted to you for saving Ethan.”

“We. We’ll be forever indebted.” He held his hand out to her.

She went and took his hand, squeezing his fingers. “We.”

She didn’t look away from him as she heard the room empty. When the door clicked shut, she opened the pot and wrinkled her nose. “What a horrid smell.”

He let go of her hand. “If it’s going to drive you away, leave it off.”

“Never. Now, lean forward a bit.” She set about liberally applying it to his back. “I was surprised to see Teague today.”

“I wasn’t. I asked him to come.”

She paused. “You did?”

He turned his head to look at her. “He was part of my contingency plan.”

“You asked for help. And you put your faith in him.” She didn’t bother masking her surprise—or her delight. “I’m glad. Now I understand why you leapt in front of him. He asked me to tell you ‘thank you.’”

His head drooped forward. “He lost his sister, and he risks his life to do good. He deserved to live.”

“So do you.”

“I’m not quite as certain of that, but I will try.” He did his best to straighten as she applied the ointment to his front. “What I would like to know is how we escaped St. Giles.”

“I’m not quite certain of that, but it did seem remarkably easy. It was as if people helped us along the way. They moved, they ushered us along, they wanted to see you safe.” She wiped her hand on a towel and grabbed the linen North had brought for bandages. It was quite long, so she was able to wrap it around him several times. He sucked in air and cursed under his breath as he lifted his arm to aid her efforts.

When she was finished, she helped him lie back against the pillows. She sat on the edge of the bed facing him. “Do you know what I think?” At his questioning look, she smiled, feeling confident that she was right. “I think you were never really alone. You thought you were without friends, but you’ve always had people who cared about you, even in that world.”

His face darkened. “Like Gin Jimmy.”

“No.” She touched his face and ran her thumb over his lips. “Not like Gin Jimmy. People who genuinely cared about you.” She closed her eyes and swore.

“Audrey, did you just curse?”

She looked at him and gave him a lopsided smile. “Apparently I did. But with good cause. I forgot about Nan. She’s a maid at the Cup and Burrow, and I said I’d take her out of there with us.”

“I remember Nan.”

“Of course you do. You helped her. You showed her kindness and mercy when no one else would. And I’m willing to bet she wasn’t the first one.”

He turned his head and pressed a kiss into her palm. “Your faith in me has made all the difference.”

“Maybe, but I still think you were doing something right all along.”

His eyes found hers. “I don’t know if that’s true, but I definitely got something right now.”

“I would say so.” She leaned forward and brushed her lips over his. He tried to prolong the kiss, but she drew back with a smile. “You need to rest. I don’t even know how you’re conscious after what happened.”

He clutched her hand. “I’ve spent too much time in the dark, my love. I want every moment with you that I can grasp.”

“And you shall have them. I promise to be here when you wake.”

His forehead creased with doubt. “You won’t leave me?”

She brushed his hair back and kissed his forehead. “Ethan, my dearest love, no one is ever going to leave you again.”

EPILOGUE

July 1819, Wootton Bassett

The summer sun beat through the linen of Ethan’s shirt, heating him to the extent that he sought the flagon of water beneath the tree twenty yards distant. As he slaked his thirst, he watched the men dig the foundation for the new school at Stipple’s End.

Pride and excitement mingled in his veins as he thought of the changes he was bringing to the orphanage. Fox had been thrilled to bring Ethan and Audrey into the fold. Together, they’d planned to enlarge Stipple’s End. Within the next two years, they hoped to double the staff as well as the number of beds, in addition to the new school that would prepare the children for futures they might never have dreamed of.

Like the future Ethan was now living.

The investments he’d begun making eight years ago—right after he’d ventured to Lockwood House and fought with Jason—had made him a wealthy man, and he couldn’t spend the funds on anything other than improving the lives of others. He’d been given a second chance and was committed to giving them to as many people as he could.

A child sprinted across the field toward him. Instinctively, he tensed. He’d relaxed since moving to the country, but some reflexes were still ingrained.

It was Hal, a nine-year-old boy from the orphanage. “Ethan!” The panicked tone of his voice did nothing to ease Ethan’s anxiety.

He set the flagon down. “What is it?”

“It’s Mrs. Lockwood.” The children had learned to call Ethan by his given name, as they addressed Fox so intimately, but they still called Audrey Mrs. Lockwood, as they called Miranda Lady Miranda. “She needs you at home!”

The mild sense of apprehension that had struck him upon noticing Hal coming toward him bloomed into full fear. Thank God he had a horse here. “Is she all right?”

Hal was breathing heavily from his run. “I think so?” He didn’t look certain and that was enough to send Ethan dashing for his horse.

A scant ten minutes later, he was riding up the lane to their small house. Nan, whom they’d rescued from the Cup and Burrow and brought to the country with them as their housekeeper, met him at the door. She smiled. “Good afternoon, Mr. Lockwood.”

Ethan blinked at her lack of visible distress. Was there a problem or not? “Where’s Mrs. Lockwood?”

“Upstairs. She’s just—”

Ethan didn’t wait for further explanation. He ran inside and took the stairs two at a time. He went straight for their bedroom in the back corner, but found it empty. Voices from the opposite end of the house drew him to turn and retrace his steps past the stairs to the large guest chamber they’d only recently finished furnishing.

Audrey stood inside, her hand resting on the gentle curve of her increasing belly. She laughed at something Jason said, then her gaze found Ethan’s. “There you are!”

He gestured to his brother as he went into the bedchamber. “This is why you sent for me? I thought there was something wrong. The baby or something.” His voice trailed off as he realized how unjustifiably worried he sounded.

Audrey slid her arm around his waist. “Of course not. The baby’s fine—and not due for another four months as well you know. Lydia, on the other hand, does not have that much time.” She inclined her head to the corner, where Jason’s wife was sitting with her feet propped up. She and Jason had come to the country to birth their child sometime within the next month.

Lydia’s hands rested on her rather swollen midsection. “Hello, Ethan. Thank you for letting us come to stay.”

“You know you’re welcome anytime.” Ethan moved to hug his brother, happy to see him after several months apart.

As they parted, Jason glanced around the newly refurbished room with its warm gold and ivory hues. “The house looks good.”

“Audrey’s been working on it night and day.”

“Someone has to pay attention to our house instead of the orphans’.” She slid a look at Lydia. “I begin to understand some of Miranda’s frustration about the lack of improvements to Bassett Manor. Fox and Ethan spend the majority of their efforts on Stipple’s End.”

Jason slapped Ethan’s back. “And now there’s a school along with it. How’s that coming?”

“We’re just getting started. It’s amazing how quickly it’s all come together. I’ll show it to you—now, if you’re not too tired.”

Jason grinned. “How can I refuse your eager invitation?” He turned to Lydia. “You’ll be all right?”

She waved her hand at them, smiling. “Go.”

Ethan brushed a kiss against Audrey’s cheek and left with Jason.

When they reached the base of the stairs, Jason paused. “Just a moment. I brought something for you.”

Ethan couldn’t imagine what that could be as he followed Jason into the sitting room at the front of the house. A wrapped package stood against the wall. Jason tore the paper away to reveal the painting of their father from his office at Lockwood House.

“I thought you should have it,” Jason said. “You liked him better than I did.”

No mention of whom the viscount had preferred. And Ethan realized it didn’t matter. It had never mattered. What mattered was that he was their father, and it was thanks to him that they had each other. Ethan looked at Jason and nodded. “Thank you.”

As they rode toward the site of the school, Jason asked, “You really are happy out here?”

Ethan cast him a sidelong glance. “It’s shocking.”

“I don’t know if I could do it, at least not full time. I’m happy to visit though, especially since it’s likely to be the only time I’ll see you. Is there any chance you’ll come to London?”

“I’m sure we will—to visit you and Audrey’s grandfather.” Lord Farringdon didn’t entirely approve of Ethan, but he was thrilled to see his granddaughter happily married. Her joy was his, and that was all Ethan cared about.

Her parents, on the other hand, were less pleasant. They’d attended the wedding by special license, but their emotions could only be described as a mingling of disappointment, over her choice, and relief, because she was finally married. Audrey was happy to see them as little as possible, if ever, and Ethan wasn’t inclined to persuade her differently.

“That’s good,” Jason said. “I’m sure the cousins will want to see each other.”

Ethan slowed his horse as they neared the building site. “I’d like them to grow up together.”

They climbed down from their horses, and Jason touched his arm. “I would too.”

Later that night, after a laughter-filled dinner that included Fox and Miranda, as well as the Knotts, Ethan climbed into bed with his wife and drew her into his arms.

She snuggled her backside against his groin as he stroked her belly.

“Are you trying to tempt me, Mrs. Lockwood?”

“Every moment.” She turned her head and pressed a quick kiss to his neck. “It’s good to have Jason and Lydia here. I’m so happy they’re going to have their baby with us.”

They hadn’t wanted to have the baby in London, and Jason’s country seat wasn’t an option since his mother resided there. Her fragile mental condition wouldn’t tolerate the upheaval. He’d discussed with Ethan that it was perhaps time to move her to a dower house, but he had to build one first. He acknowledged it was past time to do that, now that he had his own family to consider.

“Yes, I’m glad they’re here.” The relationship he and Jason had forged over the past several months meant almost as much to Ethan as his marriage to Audrey.

The baby kicked at Ethan’s palm, startling him. He didn’t know if he’d ever become accustomed to that feeling—the jolt of fierce love and possession that overcame him every time he thought of the child he and Audrey had created.

“Our son is glad too,” she said, turning in his arms.

The moonlight filtering through the gap in the curtains illuminated her beloved face, framed by the dark, haphazard curls he loved so well.

“I am not convinced he isn’t a she, but I won’t argue with you. I’ll be happy with whoever it is. I only pray she takes more after you than me.”

Audrey frowned. “Why? You have many wonderful traits. And I’d be quite happy if she had your quicksilver eyes,” she touched his temple, “or your black-as-midnight hair.” She slid her fingers into his hair and pulled his head down to kiss him.

“Fine, I’ll yield my appearance is my best quality.”

“Ha! That’s not true. You’re charming and hardworking and dependable.” She gazed up at him earnestly. “You have to stop thinking of yourself the way you were. You’re not a criminal anymore.”

No, he wasn’t. He’d once thought it impossible to leave that life behind, but now it seemed a distant memory. “Fine, I will also yield my apparent reformation.” He rotated so that he was leaning over her and he untied the top of her gown. “Do you remember how I used to watch you while you undressed when we were running from Bow Street?”

“Yes.” She’d become a bit breathless.

He pulled the neckline of her gown to reveal the swell of her breast. He kissed her soft flesh, loving the taste and feel of her. “That wasn’t very gentlemanly of me, and I’m afraid I still don’t regret it. Those are the qualities I should hope our child will not inherit.”

She tugged at his head. “But those are some of the qualities I like best about you.”

He looked up at her and arched his brow. “Indeed? You like that I’m an unreformed scoundrel?”

Her eyes narrowed as her lips spread into a seductive smile. “Oh yes. I love that scoundrel and you must promise to stay that way.”

He grinned at her as his heart swelled so full of love and joy that he felt it might burst from his chest. “Then I vow to be a scoundrel. Your scoundrel. Ever after.”

The End

THANK YOU!

Thank you so much for reading Scoundrel Ever After. I hope you enjoyed it!

Would you like to know when my next book is available? You can sign up for my new release email list, follow me on Twitter at @darcyburke, or like my Facebook page at http://facebook.com/DarcyBurkeFans.

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Scoundrel Ever After is the sixth and final book in the Secrets and Scandals Series. If you haven’t read the others, you can pick up the first book, Her Wicked Ways free! You can also check out my other historical series, The Untouchables and League of Rogues.

I appreciate my readers so much. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you to the #plotbunnies: Elisabeth Naughton, Rachel Grant, and Joan Swan for their endless help with the Book That Would Not End. Finding just the right way to finish Ethan and Audrey’s story (and the series) took many, many tries and discussions. I couldn’t have done it without you.

A massive thank-you to my writing rock and critique partner extraordinaire, Erica Ridley. She brings the hilarity and the honesty, and I would not want to do this without her.

Thank you to all the wonderful people who help me produce a book: the fabulous Martha Trachtenberg and the uber-talented Trisha Schmitt. I also want to extend a very special thank-you to Jenn LeBlanc and Kati Rodriguez for one of the best weekends ever—who doesn’t want to spend their birthday at a romance novel cover shoot?

Big hugs and kisses to my family who put up with my insane schedule and love me anyway. You make every day a blessing. Thank you.

MORE IN THIS SERIES

Secrets and Scandals

Her Wicked Ways

His Wicked Heart

To Seduce a Scoundrel

To Love a Thief (a novella)

Never Love a Scoundrel

Scoundrel Ever After

ABOUT DARCY BURKE

DARCY BURKE is the USA Today Bestselling Author of hot, action-packed historical and sexy, emotional contemporary romance. Darcy wrote her first book at age 11, a happily ever after about a swan addicted to magic and the female swan who loved him, with exceedingly poor illustrations.

A native Oregonian, Darcy lives on the edge of wine country with her guitar-strumming husband, their two hilarious kids who seem to have inherited the writing gene, and three Bengal cats. In her “spare” time Darcy is a serial volunteer enrolled in a 12-step program where one learns to say “no,” but she keeps having to start over. Her happy places are Disneyland and Labor Day weekend at the Gorge. Visit Darcy online at http://www.darcyburke.com where you can sign up to receive her newsletter, follow her on Twitter at http://twitter.com/darcyburke, or like her Facebook page, http://www.facebook.com/darcyburkefans.

FOREVER BETROTHED, NEVER THE BRIDE

Christi Caldwell

To my two baby girls: I can’t wait to meet you! You have already shown the tremendous strength and power that all great heroines should possess.

To all my friends fighting for their happily ever after. Thank you for being with me on a very long journey. This is going to be your year.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Tremendous thanks to my amazing critique partners who took me under their wings years ago. You have been my cheerleaders not only in my writing pursuits, but also in life. A special thanks to Aileen Fish and Samantha Grace. None of this could have happened without your support.

ONE

1817

London, England

Dearest Lord Drake,

Though you have never directly addressed me by name, I have decided I am far too old to be called Em. I ask you to instead call me Emmaline…that is, if you ever call upon me.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

Two elegant phaetons barreled along Oxford Street, bearing down on an old woman peddling her goods. The merchant paled and tried to shove her cart up on the pavement. It tipped, swayed, and then careened into the street. Both men in their high flyers pulled sharp on the reins. Nearby, a passing gentleman pushed the lady on his arm away from certain calamity.

A vulgar shout and frightened screams split the cacophony of mundane street sounds.

Lady Emmaline Rose Fitzhugh paused on the pavement and raised a hand to shield her eyes against the sun’s brightness. She frowned.

Lord Whitmore and Lord Cavenleigh. Two of Society’s most dandified fops.

Lord Whitmore tugged hard at the reigns and leapt from the still moving conveyance. “You filthy cow!” He raged at the poor woman in the street.

Lord Cavenleigh, jumped down from his carriage and muttered a string of curses.

Emmaline’s skin heated at the rather descriptive obscenities they unleashed on the woman. Having an older brother, she’d heard her fair share of inappropriate words, but Cavenleigh’s litany was rather original even on that score.

As the street erupted with the panicked cries of young ladies, the peddler bowed her head. Stringy gray hair straggled into her eyes. “Oi’m sorry, m-my lord.”

Cavenleigh kicked a tomato at the old woman, and splattered her skirts with the ripened fruit.

Emmaline gasped.

Her maid, Grace, took her by the arm and attempted to steer her away. “Please, come away, my lady.”

Emmaline ignored her efforts and rushed into the fray. “Cease, immediately.” She stepped into the street just as the assailant launched another tomato at the peddler.

The projectile missed its intended mark and splattered onto the embroidered lace edging of Emmaline’s ivory silk skirts.

Hands squared on her hips, she glared at the two men. “How dare you?”

Whitmore, with his slickly oiled and very deliberately curled red hair, stepped around Emmaline to launch a barrage of insults at the quaking woman. He brandished his riding crop. “Sorry? You’re sorry? We could have been killed and for what? Your meaningless life and rotten vegetables?”

Emmaline threw herself in front of the aged peddler. “What manner of gentlemen would torment a defenseless woman?”

“No, my lady,” Grace cried.

A tall figure stepped into the fray and positioned himself between Grace and the two assailants. Society knew the gentleman as the Marquess of Drake.

Emmaline knew him as her betrothed.

Lord Drake wrenched the whip from the cad’s fingers, cracked the instrument in half, and tossed the two pieces aside.

Emmaline swallowed hard. Lord Drake stood more than a head taller than her and possessed the kind of hardened masculine perfection Michelangelo would have ached to memorialize in stone. The harsh angles of his face bespoke power and commanded notice. With rugged cheeks, aquiline nose, and squared jaw, he conveyed raw vitality. The hint of a curl to his unfashionably long golden hair seemed suited to this real life David.

“You clearly have very little value for your life,” Drake said to the two fops who’d moments ago tormented the poor old woman.

Emmaline’s stare collided with Drake’s emerald eyes. The green irises pierced through her with heated intensity; robbed her of breath.

Get a hold of yourself, Em. He is just a man. A gloriously, stunning man—but that was neither here nor there.

She looked toward Whitmore and Cavenleigh. Cavenleigh had the good sense to stagger backwards and scurry from the incident like a rodent discovered by Cook in the kitchens.

Lord Drake returned his focus to the red-haired assailant who’d wielded the weapon. He grabbed him by the wrist and applied such pressure, the man gasped.

A hiss of pain whistled past Whitmore’s lips. “For the love of God, man…” Whitmore pleaded.

“Had your whip hit its mark, you’d be facing me at dawn.” Drake’s voice was a silken promise. “What’s your name, pup?”

Whitmore swallowed, as though he’d been forced to scrape up a rotten tomato from the grimy pavement and swallow it whole. “L-Lord W-Whitmore.”

“Beg the lady’s pardon, Witless.”

A laugh escaped Emmaline.

Whitmore glared at her.

His actions did not escape Drake’s astute gaze. Lord Drake tightened his grip and the dandy whimpered like a naughty child who’d just had a birch rod put to his person by a too stern nursemaid. “Apologize.”

The young lord turned to Emmaline. “I-I’m sorry, my lady. M-my apologies,” he croaked.

She folded her arms across her chest and nodded pointedly at the old woman. “I say, you rather owe the both of us an apology.”

Whitmore’s eyes rounded with shocked indignation. “You’re mad.”

Lord Drake squeezed again.

“M-My apologies, my lady.”

Her betrothed jerked his chin in the peddler’s direction. “Now, the woman.”

Whitmore blinked; his pale white cheeks flamed a crimson red to match the bright hue of his hair. “Stupid old cow and her rotten vegetables nearly killed us.” He motioned down the expanse of his peacock blue satin breeches. “And look at this stain. Why, Brummell himself would have been proud to wear these.” The young man’s whining tone indicated he considered the attack on his wardrobe to be an equally grave affront.

The peddler’s chin fell to her chest as if she tried to make herself as small as possible.

Unable to remain silent any longer, Emmaline took a step toward the young fop. “Stupid, Lord Whitmore?” Passing a cursory glance over his frame, Emmaline shook her head. She nudged a tomato with the tip of her already ruined ivory satin slipper. “First of all, a tomato is a fruit, not a vegetable. Secondly,” it was her turn to gesture at the garment in question. “those breeches were ruined long before this incident.”

Whitmore frowned. “I don’t understand, my lady.”

Lord Drake’s chuckle tugged her attention momentarily in his direction. His lips quirked upward in a devastating smile that quickened her heart’s pace. “I believe that is the lady’s point, Whitmore,” Lord Drake drawled.

Whitmore’s gasp forced Emmaline’s attention away from her betrothed.

Enraged awareness dawned in the dandy’s eyes. “You witch.”

Emmaline took a step closer to Lord Drake.

A single black look from the marquess forced Whitmore to an ignoble halt. Drake leaned down close to the man and whispered something intended solely for the dandy’s ears.

All color leached from the brute’s cheeks. His head tipped up and down like a bobbing ship caught in a squall on the Channel. “M-my a-a-apologies, my lady.”

Drake dropped Whitmore’s wrist and wiped his hands back and forth as though he’d been sullied by the other man’s skin. His lethal glare froze the coward in his spot.

Whitmore cleared his throat. “What I’d intended to say, my lady, is that your rich beauty robbed me of any sense.” He looked to Lord Drake as he recited each word, indicating they were by no means original thoughts belonging to the jackanapes.

“One more thing,” Drake said.

With obvious reluctance, the humiliated dandy reached into the front of his elaborate, violet-hued floral jacket. He withdrew a bag of coins, stared at it forlornly, and then offered it to the peddler. “Here.”

The peddler’s eyes widened.

“Take it,” Drake said. There was an underlying warmth to his gruff tone.

With downcast eyes, the woman reached out and accepted the bag.

Drake returned his steely gaze to Whitmore. “I suggest you leave.”

When the other man continued to eye the bag in the woman’s hands with a blend of longing and bitter rage, Drake added, “Now.”

Whitmore reached down, scooped up the remnants of his short whip, and then clambered into his phaeton. He shot one last black look at the peddler and Emmaline, before striking his white mount with a piece of his crop. His phaeton resumed its reckless path down the street. Emmaline stared after the carriage, glad to be free of Whitmore’s loathsome company.

When Whitmore had gone, she turned back to the peddler. “Are you hurt?”

“No, my lady,” the woman whispered. Fat teardrops filled her eyes and spilled over onto her cheeks. She sniffed and dashed a hand across her nose. “My lady, my lord, oi thank you.”

Drake stepped out into the street. The heels of his gleaming black Hessian boots sank into a pile of rotten produce as he effortlessly righted the upended cart. Then, reaching into his jacket front, he pulled out a bag of coins, and returned to the old woman’s side. “Here.” He gently placed the bag in her dirt-encrusted fingers.

“Oi-Oi, thank you, my lord. Many blessings to you both.” She dipped an awkward curtsy and pushed her nearly emptied cart down the road.

Emmaline watched after her until she’d disappeared from sight.

With the excitement now over, Oxford Street and its passersby returned to their daily humdrum. Lord Drake turned his focus to Emmaline. “Have you been hurt, Lady Emmaline?”

She blinked. Then sighed. Maybe not in that order. Her mind seemed a bit…muddled. Yes, it was muddled. And her heart beat an oddly rapid rhythm in her chest—thumpthumpthumpthump. She tried to catch her breath but failed miserably.

And then realized what had happened. “Oh dear,” she said.

The earlier rage she’d seen in Lord Drake’s jade eyes faded to warm concern. He took a step towards her and Emmaline backed up a step. “My lady?”

“Oh dear,” she muttered beneath her breath. She’d read a fair number of poems and gothic novels to recognize certain telltale signs of that which ailed her. The books all indicated one’s heart would race; one would be at a loss for words, and one would forget to breath. Yes, Emmaline knew what the onslaught of symptoms she’d been besieged by indicated—she’d gone and fallen in love.

“My lady?” Lord Drake and her maid repeated in unison.

Emmaline crashed back down to reality. The first thing she became aware of was that her toes were exceedingly chilly. She glanced down into the muddy puddle her slippers now called home and wrinkled her nose. A rather odd-smelling puddle of filthy water, crushed tomatoes, cabbage, and Lord knew what else.

With the tip of her right foot, she pushed aside the stray purple leaf clinging to her other slipper.

“My lady?” Lord Drake interrupted her musings.

Her head snapped up. What did he say? Her mind tried to drag up his recent question so she might form a suitable reply.

“Just splendid.” There, that seemed like a perfectly, splendid response.

A smile pulled at the corners of his lips. “Uh, well you may find the stench of that puddle splendid but I must insist it is foul. Regardless of who is correct, might I offer you my arm?”

Emmaline wished said puddle were about five-feet-one inch deeper so she could sink beneath its surface.

She stared at his outstretched hand until her maid cleared her throat, and jerked her back to the moment. Emmaline placed her fingers in his. He tucked them into the fold of his elbow and carefully guided her away from the remnants of the cart.

“Thank you, my lord.”

That was the best I could come up with—just thank you? She grimaced and stole a peek from the corner of her eye to gauge his reaction to her less than stimulating repartee. Couldn’t she have offered some witty banter, as so many other ladies would have managed?

His expression may as well have been carved from granite.

Emmaline had never been a flirt, so she settled for honesty. “What you did for that peddler…and me, was—heroic.”

If she hadn’t raised her gaze at that precise moment, she would have missed the way his strong, square jaw tightened.

“I would hardly call it heroic, my lady.” His words sounded curiously flat.

Emmaline dug her heels in, and forced him to stop. She motioned to the sea of preoccupied lords and ladies. “Look around, my lord. Look how busy the street is. There are ladies and gentlemen rushing about, and not one of them stepped forward.”

He gently steered her ahead. “That isn’t quite true.”

Emmaline looked at him askance.

“You placed yourself between the peddler and the dandies,” he said.

She beamed.

“What would possess you to do something so reckless?”

An errant lock of hair escaped her chignon and fell across her eye. She blew it back, but it fell right back into place. Forgetting the recalcitrant strand, she again dug her heels in and forced him to a stop.

Emmaline looked up at Lord Drake. “What would you have had me do? Allow them to beat the poor woman?”

A growl lodged in his throat. “I would rather you hadn’t placed yourself in harm’s way.”

If he hadn’t sounded so surly about it, Emmaline would have sighed like a debutante at her first ball. Instead, “I couldn’t just let them hurt her. What kind of person would I be if I’d allowed that?”

The corner of his lips lifted ever so slightly. He motioned for Emmaline to continue walking. “A safe one.”

“Ahh, but what is safety without honor?”

He looked at a point over her shoulder. “Honor is an oftentimes overestimated word with little meaning, my lady.”

A frisson of distress traveled along Emmaline’s spine, and in spite of the unseasonable warmth of the day, gooseflesh dotted her arms. She hadn’t failed to miss the bleakness in Lord Drake’s distracted stare, and found herself, yet again, at a loss.

“Might I see you home, Lady Emmaline?”

A cowardly sense of relief that she’d been saved from replying to his previous, baleful statement assailed her. Lord Drake wanted to escort her home? Had he asked, she would have taken tea in the muddy puddle he’d rescued her from. Still, it wouldn’t do to come across as too eager. “I would be grateful, my lord.”

They walked along in silence and Emmaline mourned the passing of each block that brought her closer to home.

She caught her lower lip between her teeth and searched her mind for something to discuss. The weather…? What clever young lady would discuss something as mundane as the weather?

“Your earlier actions were brave, Lady Emmaline—and I respect them.”

She blinked. “Well, I really hadn’t been expecting that from you, my lord.”

He continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “But still foolish.”

“Now, that I expected.”

A deep laugh rumbled up from his chest. “I’ve been boorish today. Forgive me.”

“Yes, yes, I say you have,” she said, under her breath.

He raised a single brow. “I beg your pardon?”

Emmaline nodded. “Very well, since you are begging.” His brow furrowed. “I’m teasing, my lord,” she said. She shook her head. “You’ve been nothing but honorable, brave, and heroic—a true gentleman.” The effusive praise spilled from her lips with all sincerity and she willed herself to silence. Alas, she’d never been one to dissemble.

“We’ve arrived,” he said.

Emmaline shook her head, but Lord Drake gave a slight nod.

She looked up at the white finish of her brother’s townhouse and groaned.

Lord Drake’s gaze snapped to her. “Are you certain you were not injured earlier? Did you turn your ankle?”

He had a look as if he were about to draw her skirts back and peek for himself, which sent her heart sputtering wildly.

If she’d been brazen or clever, she would have feigned an injury blocks ago. But alas… “No, no. I assure you, I’m fine.”

Her brother’s aging butler pulled open the front door. Emmaline jumped, and pressed a hand to her breast. Goodness, the man could shock a ghost.

Lord Drake took a step away from her and offered a deep bow. “I am glad you were uninjured. I bid you good day, my lady.”

Without awaiting a response, he turned on his heel and continued down the street. Emmaline stared after him until his figure faded from sight, and then entered the townhouse.

She’d been betrothed to Lord Drake for fifteen years. In that time, their contact had been limited to passing greetings and letters she’d written to him—letters which she’d never bothered sending. This, could therefore, be considered the first real interaction she’d had with him…and in a heroic fashion, he’d come to her aid. Perhaps he’d been so captivated by her act of bravery, as he’d called it, that he, too, had fallen madly in love with her. Even now, he might very well be strolling down the streets, unable to formulate a coherent thought, unable to think about anything other than the sight of her.

Emmaline sniffed. “What is that smell?” She looked down and her nose scrunched at the stench clinging to her skirts. Why, he surely failed to even note the rotten fruit smattered all over her beautiful ivory gown.

Yes, she was certain Lord Drake would begin courting her.

Any day.

TWO

My Dearest Lord Drake,

I am perturbed with you. You should have informed me that once I indulged in Father’s brandy, it would hardly be a secret. I was sick for two whole days….and in no small amount of trouble.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

Drake weaved in and out of the tables at White’s. He didn’t return the waves or greetings thrown his way. His gaze was trained on one particular spot in the far corner.

He drew to a halt in front of Lord Sinclair.

“What do you know about Lord Whitmore?” Drake said in the same commanding voice that had served him well during his time in the military.

Lord Sinclair glanced up. He had the distinction of being the one person Drake considered a friend. “Well, good to see you, too. I’ve only been waiting here an hour for your always agreeable company.”

Without preamble, Drake tugged out a chair and sat. Reaching across the table for the bottle, he poured himself a glass of whiskey, and took a long sip. He relished the trail the hot liquid burned down his throat.

“Whitmore,” Drake repeated. “What do you know of him?”

Sinclair raised a brow. “My, what a foul mood you’re in.”

“Sinclair?”

“Very well. Other than the fact that he dresses like an ass?”

Drake drummed his fingers along the tabletop. “Don’t state the obvious.”

Sin’s brow furrowed. “Overly fond of the gaming tables and rumored to have a hot temper. Also known as something of a mother’s boy. Why?”

Drake stared into the contents of his drink. “What do you know about Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh?” He looked up when Sin remained silent.

Sin blinked. “Uh-I, do you mean your betrothed?”

Drake waved his hand. “Is there another Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Sin answered with a tad too much humor.

Drake kicked him under the table.

“Ouch,” Sin muttered. His lips pulled in a tight grimace. “What is that God awful smell?”

“My boots.”

“Why do—”

“Enough about my boots, Sin. What do you know of her?”

“Rather unremarkable. She’s never been considered a diamond of the first water. She’s barely an inch beyond five feet and is remarkably un-curved in all the areas a lady should be curved.”

Drake opened his mouth to protest but Sin continued. “Her plain, dull brown coloring has never attracted any notice. Her lips are too full for…”

“Enough,” Drake snapped. He fought back an overwhelming urge to drag his friend across the table and plant him a facer.

Sin frowned. “But I thought you wanted to know about her.”

“I know what she bloody well looks like.” Drake heard the frosty bite to his own tone but couldn’t stifle it. Christ, how could Sin and Society be so very wrong about Emmaline? Her brown hair put him in mind of deep chocolate. And she had the most interesting dusting of freckles along the tip of her nose. His lips twitched. He’d never known anyone with dark hair to suffer from the blemishes and found it, well, rather endearing. And her lips, too full for fashion’s dictates put Drake in mind of wicked thoughts.

Sin picked up his drink and downed a long, slow swallow. “So then what would you like to know?” He reached for the bottle, poured himself another, and swirled the contents of the glass. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to know more.”

Drake forced himself to take a casual sip. He thought about his chance encounter with Lady Emmaline. Since he’d returned from the Peninsula three years ago, hailed in the papers as some kind of war hero, he’d gone out of his way to avoid his betrothed. He’d been tied to Lady Emmaline for more than half of his life, and yet knew next to nothing about her. As much as he wanted to find out more about the intriguing creature, he was loathe to show any outward interest, even to his friend. Oh, the fun Sin would have at his expense. “I happened to come upon Lady Emmaline this afternoon.”

Sinclair arched a dark brow. “Oh?”

Since the moment Drake had witnessed Emmaline place herself between the old peddler woman and a gentleman’s riding crop, aside from concern for her well-being, he’d been unable to think of anything but his betrothed. Before that moment, if you’d asked him if a lady of Quality would ever risk her own safety for a common woman on the street, he’d have scoffed at the ludicrousness of such a notion. Now, the image of Lady Emmaline, like some kind of warrior princess defending her keep, would be an image forever emblazoned on his mind.

Drake shifted uncomfortably. “For the last time, what do you know about the lady?”

Sin shrugged. “I don’t know much about her.”

“Not much? You know next to everything about everyone.”

“I know she’s a wallflower.”

Drake sat back in his chair, flummoxed. “Impossible.” A woman whose eyes could blaze with such life while challenging two men could never be a wallflower. Wallflowers were content to be dull creatures seated on the sidelines, escaping any notice. They were not clever young ladies with cheeky retorts.

Sinclair leaned forward in his chair. “Oh?”

Drake’s skin heated. Good God, he couldn’t be embarrassed. He tugged uncomfortably at his cravat. No, surely it was just that his cravat was too tight. “I had an encounter with Lady Emmaline a short while ago.”

When Sinclair’s brows shot up to his hairline, Drake realized his words could be mistaken for something more lascivious in nature.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped.

Like a babe looking for a story from his nursemaid, Sin propped his arms on the table and stared at Drake with impatient eyes.

Drake sighed, and then proceeded to recount the events he’d witnessed. When he concluded his story, Sin sat back heavily in his chair, with arms folded across his chest. “Humph.”

“That’s it? Just ‘humph’?”

Sinclair raised one brow. “What would you have me say? Sounds like a rather dangerous thing for the lady to do.”

Discounting the fact that Drake had the very same reaction with Lady Emmaline, he took a long swallow of whiskey. “You are missing the point, Sin.”

“Oh? And what is the point?”

Drake dragged a hand through his hair. Was the point that his betrothed had bewildered him? Or was the point that he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her since the moment he’d seen her challenging Whitmore and his crony?

The irony wasn’t lost on him. For the past three years, he’d forced thoughts of Lady Emmaline from his mind. He’d ignored the contract between them. If he’d returned from the Peninsula as the same man he’d been before the war, fulfilling his duty to her would have been somewhat easier. Not palatable but an obligation he would have fulfilled, nonetheless.

“If you admire her, perhaps you should claim her.”

Drake grunted.

Sin raised his tumbler in mock salute. “I imagine marriage based on mutual admiration is a good deal more than most unions are built from.”

Drake thought about his feisty intended, her eyes sparkling with flashes of defiance and courage, her rose hued lips made for sinning, pursed tight with fury. He silently tacked desire to Sin’s components of a successful marriage.

Drake picked up his glass and drained the remaining contents. At this rate, he’d be drunk before supper. “There is no mutual admiration.”

His friend scoffed. “No? Are you really so modest to believe she couldn’t admire you?”

Drake set his tumbler down hard enough to rattle the table. “For what? I’m…”

A madman. A monster. A beast. If he were less of a coward he’d come right out and share the truth with Sinclair. Consumed by restive energy, his gaze skimmed the club. Some gentlemen laughed uproariously while others chatted with friends and acquaintances. Once upon a lifetime ago, he’d been at ease around other people, too.

Sin didn’t press his line of questioning, and for that Drake was grateful. Instead, his friend reached for the bottle of whiskey and poured himself another glass. Then, he leaned over and filled Drake’s glass. “I’m assuming it was quite a sight seeing Lady Emmaline challenge a gentleman.” He paused. “As much as one can consider Whitmore a gentleman.”

Drake smiled and toyed with the rim of his glass. “I thought I could no longer be surprised by a woman. I learned otherwise, today.”

“Sounds like marriage to the lady might not be the worst of fates.”

Drake made an impatient sound. “Marriage to me isn’t in her best interest.”

“You are the most honorable man I know,” Sin said.

There it was again. That word he loathed with every fiber of his honorable being. Emmaline had described his actions as honorable, had looked at him as some kind of hero. He managed a half grin for his friend. “That isn’t saying much about the men you know.

Sin shook his head but didn’t press the point. “Sooner or later, you are going to have to do right by the young lady.”

Great. First his father, now his best friend.

But that was the rub of it all. Sin merely spoke the truth. Fact: a betrothal contract had been signed between his family and Emmaline’s. Fact: the young lady was past her twentieth year and required a husband. Fact: Drake just couldn’t bring himself to commit to a wife. He could not subject any woman to the madness that plagued him.

He picked up his glass and rolled it between his fingers, studying the shimmering gold of the brew. The shade reminded him of the glint in her eyes when—he shook his head forcefully. “I need a mistress.”

Sinclair snorted. “You need a wife.”

Drake ignored him. He needed a woman who was safe, a woman who wouldn’t look at him with any kind of adoration, and wouldn’t desire anything from him, other than his prowess in the bedroom. These were the kind of entanglements that were safe, devoid of any emotional connection.

Yet why did the thought of setting up a mistress seem like a chore?

THREE

Dearest Lord Drake,

What I am about to write is exceedingly intimate. I pray you will not judge but I can no longer keep silent.

I must confess my deep, adoring love—for gardening.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

Emmaline couldn’t sleep.

Even if she could, she most assuredly would still be awake. Unlike the majority of the ton, she loved mornings because she appreciated any and all time away from the smug, condescending members of Society.

It had been three weeks since the incident with Lord Whitmore. And in three weeks she hadn’t heard word from Lord Drake. Following the encounter with her betrothed, Emmaline had believed she’d finally garnered his notice and a real courtship was imminent.

She snorted. So much for love.

Or admiration.

Or childish dreams.

With her maid trailing at a distance, Emmaline marched through the western part of Hyde Park, until she came upon Kensington Gardens. The fiery sun peeked just over the horizon, dousing the dawn sky in ethereal hues of burnt flame. She paused to appreciate the light playing off the abundant foliage of the cascading elm. A faint breeze caught hold, stirring the long row of horse chestnut trees. She glanced up and briefly closed her eyes on a smile, as a handful of white leaves sprinkled with red dots fluttered down to the earth. They tickled her skin, and then continued their path to the pavement.

God bless Queen Caroline for having been an avid gardener with the good sense to celebrate the beauty of the land. Men might own the land, but women rejoiced in its splendor.

At last, Grace caught up, her round, girlish cheeks red from her efforts. “My lady, would you like…?”

Emmaline held a hand up. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what, my lady?”

Her ears pricked up. “There. A faint whistling.”

Grace fought back a yawn and lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. “I don’t hear anything, my lady.”

Emmaline cocked her head, and listened. There it was again. Almost like the sound of a whipcord slicing through the air. “That.” She started off in the direction of the odd noise.

Grace groaned. “My lady, can’t we just…” Her words were lost as Emmaline’s quick steps put space between them.

Emmaline’s chest rose and fell from the rapid pace she’d set. She chewed her lip and surveyed the area.

Nothing.

Her maid finally caught up, wheezing slightly. She bent over and placed her hands upon her knees, taking in several deep breaths. “My lady, please, stop. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“Just rest a moment, Grace. I’ll take a short turnabout. I’ll not go far.”

A flash of gratitude lit the maid’s hazel eyes, and she nodded, brushing away a stray lock of brown hair.

Emmaline hurried down the meticulous stone path that emptied out into one of the many private floral gardens. The collective beauty of the bright array brought her up short. For Christmas, her brother had given her the oddest contrivance. A tube containing loose pieces of glass inside and clever little configurations. He’d told her it was called a kaleidoscope; explaining that “kalos” was the Greek word for beautiful and “scopos” for watcher. All winter Emmaline had pointed the apparatus up at the light and peered through the tube, admiring the shifting patterns of color. Kensington Gardens never ceased to stun her with its vital beauty. With the pale pink of the spotted orchid, the effervescent hue of the violet bluebells interspersed with the lilac-white of the cuckooflower; it was like its own kaleidoscope of nature’s beauty.

She searched the area and her gaze settled on a lone gentleman with his back to her, swinging his walking stick. His fluid movements cut a swath through a blanket of pale blue forget-me-nots, as he severed the heads off the buds.

Emmaline gasped. She raced over. “Whatever are you doing?”

Startled, the tall stranger spun around. Lord Avondale.

His ornate stick soared through the air, and landed with a soft thump amidst the blue blooms. He folded his arms across his chest and peered down his long nose. “I assure you, I’ve not come for company.”

If her brother Sebastian, the powerful Duke of Mallen didn’t intimidate her, this reed-thin fellow with his elfin-pointed ears and mottled skin certainly wasn’t going to, either. “And I assure you, sir, the forget-me-nots had far grander hopes than decapitation by your stick on this glorious day.”

The man angled his head. “They’re just plants.”

Emmaline’s eyes slid closed. Whitmore and the fruit. This idiot and flowers. It was a wonder men held the power they did.

“They are flowers,” a deep voice said dryly.

Emmaline spun on her heel so quickly, her foot slid. She fought to maintain her balance.

Lord Drake.

Their gazes caught and held. Emmaline’s heart fluttered in her chest.

Then she remembered Drake’s blatant disregard since their meeting three weeks prior. Her mouth tightened. The bounder had better have some choice words for Avondale’s treatment of the flowers to redeem himself.

Drake shifted his attention to Lord Avondale.

“Avondale.”

“Drake.”

They exchanged bows.

Emmaline folded her arms across her chest and tapped her foot. Drake’s pleasant greeting of Lord I-Kill-Poor-Defenseless-Flowers was certainly not the fierce rebuke she’d hoped. “Ahem.”

Drake sighed. “My apologies. Avondale and I go back to university days. Avondale, may I present Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh? Lady Emmaline, Lord Avondale.”

Her toe ceased tapping mid-movement and hovered a hairsbreadth above the ground. “I don’t want an introduction.”

Avondale straightened the lapels of his maroon jacket. “Well, I say—”

Emmaline spun to face him. “You’ll say what? You had no business destroying the flowers.”

Avondale blinked. “They are just…”

She looked back just in time to see Drake shake his head and realized…he didn’t understand, either.

They weren’t just flowers. Considered small and fragile by most, they were a good deal more resilient and important. They could survive an unexpected frost or chilling deluge and remain unscathed. In spite of their gentle strength, they were viewed as nothing more than a thing of beauty set aside for Society’s pleasure, subject to the whim and fancy of a cruel world that held them in little esteem. When in reality they were so much more. They were the lifeblood of human existence. In that regard, they were not unlike women, which is what made the men’s dismissal so infuriating. It only served as a reminder of Drake’s disinterest, his total lack of caring for her. Why, she was not very different from the bud, trampled beneath man’s place in Society.

Drake said something to Avondale. Her eyes narrowed. She took a step forward. “They are just what?” Emmaline said with lethal calm.

The two men fell silent and eyed her. Avondale had the good sense to be alarmed by her expression. He took a step back and looked to Drake, a helpless gleam in his eyes.

Apparently taking pity on the other man, Drake inserted himself between Emmaline and Lord Avondale. “I’m sure you have pressing business to attend to.”

Avondale nodded vigorously and turned back to the cluster of flowers.

Emmaline gasped. “What do you think you’re doing?”

He scratched his head. “Collecting my cane?”

“Are they really so unimportant that you would grind them beneath the heel of your boots?” Or fail to call for years and years?

“I—”

She pointed a finger at him. “Do not answer that question. You most certainly are not trampling through this garden to retain your weapon.”

A chuckle escaped Drake.

Emmaline speared him with a look, and then returned her attention to Avondale. “I will not allow you to—”

Drake interceded. “Why don’t I purchase you a new walking stick?”

The man gave another tug at his lapels. “That won’t be necessary. I’ve plenty of others.”

Just as Drake most assuredly has other women.

Avondale gave a perfunctory bow and made his good-byes. Leaving her alone with Drake.

“Coward,” she muttered, though the rebuke wasn’t solely reserved for Lord Avondale.

“My lady—”

Emmaline swiveled on her heel and planted her hands on hips. “How could you let him leave after what he did?”

A swift surge of icy fury filled his eyes and an animalistic groan gurgled up from his throat. Emmaline froze. She’d never borne witness to such emotion and her mind numbingly tried to process what words or actions had triggered his response. She took a step back and quickly looked around for the hint of danger that had unleashed this savage creature.

“Did he hurt you?”

His words brought her up short. She cocked her head. “Hurt me? No.” She gestured dumbly to the fragile blue flowers, besieged by a sudden wave of hot embarrassment. “He hurt the forget-me-nots.”

The tension remained in Drake’s stiffly held frame. “He forgot what?”

Emmaline briefly closed her eyes, and shook her head. “The forget-me-nots.”

When he continued to eye her with puzzlement, she dropped her hand, and gestured to the ground. “The flowers.”

Drake laughed and pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead as though he were trying to rid himself of a devilish headache. “What would you have me do? Make Avondale plant new ones?”

This was all a game to him. He would no more do right by those ruined flowers than he would by her. She squared her jaw. “Do you find this amusing?”

“I should think by my reaction you can deduce I’m not amused,” he said.

Emmaline bristled at the condescending edge to his words. “You did just laugh.”

Drake took a step toward her and she retreated. He continued to advance, and this time she held her ground. He leaned down, his lips inches from her ear. The faint hint of coffee lingered on his breath, tickled her senses. The rising sun played with the strands of his flaxen hair, and created a pallet of golden hues and a memory intruded.

He was thirteen and she five. With his blonde crown of curls, he looked like a prince. Her innocent heart had danced with excitement at the prospect, and she had wanted to ask him if it were true. Even back then, his lips had been bent in a serious frown as he ignored her completely, and the question had died on her lips.

“Is this to become commonplace, my lady?”

She gave her head a shake. “I’m sorry?”

“As you should be. Interrupting a gentleman’s solitude.”

She ground her teeth.

Drake touched the line of her jaw. “If you continue to grit your teeth so hard you are going to give yourself a megrim.”

Under most any other circumstances she’d have delighted in her betrothed’s touch. Not, however, on this occasion. His insolence stirred her blood. She removed his finger from her person. “I was not apologizing.”

“You said ‘I’m sorry.’ ”

“For not understanding your question,” she snapped. “You asked if this was to become commonplace.”

A lull of silence descended. Drake eyed her with an unfathomable expression. “Is this to be the rest of my life? Am I to constantly be rescuing you from a series of scrapes?”

Emmaline fought back a wave of indignation. “I didn’t ask or need to be rescued by you.”

“My lady?” a voice called softly.

Emmaline and Drake spun to face her startled maid at the entrance of the gardens.

“We are leaving, Grace.” She gave a toss of her head. “And you, my lord, can return to, whatever consumed your thoughts before you came to my rescue.” She executed a perfectly respectable, deep curtsy. “You clearly need to work toward developing a greater appreciation for all life.”

The air left Drake’s lungs on a sudden exhale. “You are indeed correct, my lady.”

His agreement brought her up short. She quickly recovered. Giving a toss of her head, she nodded. “I bid you good day, my lord.”

FOUR

Dearest Lord Drake,

I attended my first play. I informed my mother and father that if I hadn’t been born the daughter of a duke, I would have had a career on the stage. Of course, that would have required I be a competent actress and singer—which sadly, I am neither. Still, I enjoy the stage tremendously. Perhaps we will one day attend the theatre together.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

One hour and twenty-five minutes, and one long walk later, Emmaline’s fury was still a palpable force with life energy. The rub of it all was that she couldn’t single out what had left her most infuriated.

Drake’s disregard for the flowers.

Or Drake’s disregard for her.

No, that wasn’t true. She knew very well the reason for her upset.

She stomped up the steps of her brother’s townhouse. Carmichael, the family butler with his uncanny ability to know when visitors had arrived, pulled open front doors and she sailed through the entrance.

“My lady, Miss Winters is here. I took the liberty of having her wait in the Yellow Parlor.”

That brought Emmaline up short. She looked at the butler and smiled her first smile since…since…

Two very arrogant males had shattered her attempt at solitude. Her smile fell.

“Thank you, Carmichael.” She marched to the parlor. A visit with Sophie Winters was just the thing she needed.

Emmaline entered the room.

Her friend sat on the sofa, covetously eyeing an array of pastries and various other confections Cook had prepared.

The tray rested beside an unopened copy of the London Times.

“Hullo, Sophie.”

Sophie looked up. A smile wreathed her full, heart-shaped cheeks. “Em, I hope you don’t mind my early….” Her brow furrowed. “What is it?”

Emmaline plopped into the seat beside Sophie. She drummed her fingernails on the arm of the chair. She could say with a great degree of certainty that in her twenty years she’d been wrong on many scores.

At this precise moment, some things stood out more than others.

She’d been confident that upon reaching the advanced age of twenty she would have at least three things settled.

Firstly, she would have a home of her own.

Secondly, there would be a dog to cuddle with on cold days.

And, lastly, a husband to also cuddle with on cold days.

As it was, sitting on the chintz sofa in her brother’s parlor, she did not have a home of her own. Nor, for that matter did she have a dog. And most of all, she unequivocally did not have a husband. What she did have, as she had for the better part of her life, was a betrothed.

“Em?”

Emmaline shook her head. “I came upon a brute cutting the heads off a bed of forget-me-nots.”

Sophie wrinkled her nose. “What cad would do such a thing?”

Finally, a rational person.

“Lord Avondale.” She chose not to mention Lord Drake’s involvement. Giving her fingers something to do, she snapped up the copy of the Times.

“Avondale,” Sophie muttered. “He was one of the gentlemen Mother hoped I’d make a match with in my first Season.”

“Consider yourself spared.” Emmaline scanned the front of the London Times before flipping to the next story. Her eyes snagged on a name at the center of the page and she bolted upright.

It appeared a certain Marquess of D had secured the affections of the recent Opera sensation from Italy, Signora Nicolleli. The papers reported her to be talented, vivacious, and stunningly elegant. etcetera, etcetera…

Emmaline tossed the paper aside, her eyes boring into the offensive sheets.

Thinking on it, she picked up the paper and crushed it into a sloppy ball and threw it to the floor. Since it did not make her feel better, she reached for it again.

Sophie snatched the copy, intercepting Emmaline’s efforts. “I’ll take that.” She unwrinkled the ball and ran a smoothing hand over the surface several times and read for herself. She muttered something a lady of good Quality should never think, let alone breathe aloud. “I’ve seen her. She really isn’t that beautiful.” She smiled unconvincingly at Emmaline.

Emmaline’s eyes narrowed. “Liar.” There was something disheartening in going through life being considered tolerably pleasing, as the papers had labeled Emmaline in her first Season. She waved a hand over herself. “It is no wonder he has no interest in marrying me.” That, and as he’d pointed out, the fact he’d had to rescue her on two separate occasions. She snorted. As though she needed rescuing. Why, with his scandalous pursuits and history, he probably needed rescuing a good deal more than Emmaline ever had or would.

Emmaline sighed. “Thank you for your support, Sophie, but it isn’t necessary. I know what I look like.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Em. You are utterly lovely.” Sophie spoke with such stringent confidence, had Emmaline been anyone else, she might have believed her.

Emmaline pointed her eyes to the ceiling. “Come, Sophie. I’ve already come to terms with the fact I will never be considered a great beauty.”

“Why, you have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”

Leave it to Sophie to remind her of the one attribute she could not find much fault with. For all her plainness, Emmaline’s eyes were pleasing. Her father used to say they were the color of warmed chocolate, and through them, her every emotion could be revealed. As a girl, it had sounded so poetic. Now, grown up, she’d come to find such transparency was anything but positive amidst the gossiping ton.

At thoughts of her father, she sighed. He’d been gone now three years and the pain of that loss still hurt.

As she and Sophie nibbled at their pastries, Emmaline contemplated her circumstances.

Her frustration stemmed from so much more than Lord Drake’s avoidance of her. Somewhere along the way, she had begun to question her late Father’s manipulation of her future. At some moment, a time she couldn’t pinpoint, she’d grown resentful that the decision to marry had been wrested from her hands when she’d been a mere child. And yet, whether Lord Drake had been short with a baldpate or whether he was a specimen of male perfection, Emmaline felt obligated to make a go out of her circumstances. For Father.

“It’s hardly fair he should be so blasted perfect,” Emmaline muttered. “Can’t he have a flaw? A high-forehead, jiggling jowls? A paunch? Something.”

Sophie laughed. “You are the only person to complain that her betrothed is too handsome.”

“You are not helping.”

“He does seem very severe whenever I see him,” Sophie offered obligingly.

Emmaline thought to their recent exchange in Kensington Gardens and sighed. Yes, that was Lord Drake’s flaw. Except it seemed to only garner further notice from the ladies.

“And he’s a war hero to boot, Sophie. What is my great accomplishment?”

“You are a wonder in the gardens.”

Emmaline snorted. Considering Drake’s regard for flowers, that great talent would hardly bring him up to scratch. “You and I both know it’s a skill no one but my family can appreciate.” The only efforts at gardening acceptable for a young lady were the flowers she stitched on the fabric in her embroidery frame.

To the ton, Emmaline remained largely—unremarkable. Which most likely explained the efforts Lord Drake went through to avoid her.

Her betrothed may have had a grand time since he’d returned from the Peninsula three years ago, but he’d consigned her to an odd position in Society. She’d become a bit of a conundrum. Emmaline was attached but unattached, forever betrothed but never married. For these reasons, honor dictated no other gentleman could pay her court.

“Do you know, Sophie, there are times I think I might prefer being wanted by a young lord for the size of my dowry. Then at least I would be wanted for something, which is vastly better, than not being wanted at all.”

Sophie looked up from the wrinkled paper she’d resumed reading. “You’re mad! Your betrothal is the only reason you have not been pursued. Any gentleman would be honored to wed you.”

Emmaline ignored Sophie’s defense. With a sigh, she opened her clenched fist and studied the bisecting lines traversing her palm. She ran a distracted little path over the surface of her skin. She may be betrothed, but she was not unlike Sophie, who also remained unmarried. Emmaline’s betrothal to the Marquess of Drake had always been common knowledge to the ton. Nothing more than a piece of gossip dragged out by old dowagers whenever there was a dearth of more current on dits. Neither Emmaline nor Sophie were truly sought after or cared about by any gentleman. The one difference between them being Emmaline had a scrap of paper saying someone had claims to her.

Well, that was no longer enough.

“Do you know, as much as I resent the Marquess of Drake’s deplorable treatment, I cannot help but empathize with why he’s made the decisions he has?”

Sophie sputtered around a mouthful of tart. “That is far too generous of you, Em.”

Emmaline chose not to respond to Sophie’s unspoken censure and instead grabbed another pastry and nibbled the corner. She couldn’t expect Sophie to understand, and to say as much would merely come across as insulting.

Yet, Emmaline did, to some extent, recognize the reason for Drake’s annoyance. She suspected his decision to enlist had been borne of resentment that his fate had been decided for him when he’d been a mere boy. Perhaps he’d wanted a say in the person he would wed and spend the rest of his days with. Perhaps he’d wanted a great beauty to arouse grand passions—like his opera singer.

Perhaps he’d felt those things because she herself felt them. Well, all those things except for the opera singer, of course.

She yearned for some control in her life, ached to know love and grand passion, too. But it was gauche to even think such thoughts.

Over her long walk home from Kensington Gardens, she’d put a great deal of consideration into her circumstances. In spite of her dreams and wishes, Emmaline had made a commitment to her father. And blast it all, she would try to make something of this betrothal—whether Lord Drake wanted it or not.

“Whatever it is the Marquess of Drake feels, I no longer care. It is time for him to grow up and honor his obligations.” She flinched at thinking of herself as an obligation, and then shoved away any self-pity. The days of woe-is-me were officially at an end. It was time for the Marquess of Drake to be brought up to snuff, and she was just the woman to do it.

“What are you thinking?”

Emmaline’s jaw set. “I am done waiting for the Marquess of Drake. I want a real marriage or nothing at all.” Emmaline ticked on her fingers. “I want to be courted. I want him to take me riding in the park. I want him to escort me to the opera.” She grimaced at the thought of Signora Nicolleli. “Mayhap not the opera, but perhaps Covent Garden for a play,” she amended. “And I want him to waltz with me. That’s not much to ask, is it?”

Sophie shook her head with such force she dislodged a golden curl from her chignon. “Hardly, the man is after all your betrothed.”

Emmaline gave an emphatic nod. “His days of bowing over my hand and beating a hasty retreat are at an end. I’m going to bring him up to scratch and if I can’t…” She paused. “I haven’t determined all the details, but what I do know is I will be speaking to my brother about this farce of a betrothal.”

Sophie gasped.

Emmaline well knew it was one thing to be displeased with the Marquess of Drake’s lack of attention, it was quite another to speak of severing the legal contract between their families. She folded her arms. “I’m not getting any younger. Why I’m already twenty years old.”

Lord Drake may be a war hero, but Emmaline was prepared to fight some battles of her own. She reached over and seized the paper that had pushed her to her limits. Taking great care, she ripped out a neat square and studied it. She clenched her lips into a hard line.

Sophie had been about to take another bite from her tart. The partially bitten pastry dangled, forgotten between her fingers. With her mouth hanging open and her wide, unblinking cornflower eyes, she rather had the look of an owl. She set the treat aside, and leaned forward. “What are you going to do, Em?”

Emmaline smiled, and if her mother had been present she would have known to be alarmed. “Why, we’re going to the opera.”

Sophie blinked. “The opera…” Her mouth widened and her eyes dawned with understanding. “Ohhhh, the opera.”

Emmaline gave a tight nod. “Yes, by God, Lord Drake will notice me whether he likes it or not. There will be no more opera singers, ballet dancers, young widows, none of it. His days of carefree debauchery are officially at an end. He just doesn’t know it yet, but he will, beginning tonight. If your mother will have me, I will be joining your family in their box this evening.”

A laugh bubbled up from Sophie’s throat. “Mother will be thrilled to have the Duke of Mallen’s sister.” It was no secret Sophie’s mother, Viscountess Redbrooke, all but drooled like a pug in summer with any mention of the Mallen title.

Just then, there was only one gentleman whose marital status Emmaline cared about…and it most definitely was not her brother’s.

Sophie nodded. “I will let Mother know upon my return.”

Emmaline’s jaw hardened in anticipation of seeing Drake’s face that evening.

Lord Drake, I hope you haven’t put away your uniform, for you, sir, are headed back into battle.

FIVE

My Dearest Lord Drake,

For the first time in my life, I am grateful you are not here. I spent hours in the gardens and am bright as a beet. I am not a sight fit for good company. At least that is what my brother said.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

Signora Valentina Nicolleli, an accomplished mezzo-soprano, had a voice with a deep, rich sultry tone that twined around each note she sang like a sea nymph clinging to the hull of a ship. The sensual quality could be felt from her soaring E sharp to her A flat, which resonated off the theatre walls. The Italian opera sensation’s musical talents, however, had not been what had attracted Drake’s notice.

Studying her from his theatre box, Drake recalled how they’d spent last evening, and his gaze narrowed. Valentina was an inventive, nubile woman, endowed in all the places a man hoped his woman would be generously curved. And yet, he watched disinterestedly as she pranced about the stage.

“I still don’t see why we have to sit through the blasted show,” Sin muttered. He occupied the seat next to Drake. “It hardly seems fair you’re the one who gets to bed the creature and I’m the one who has to sit through her infernal caterwauling.” His bored gaze surveyed the crowd, then paused, and narrowed ever so imperceptibly.

Drake didn’t bother looking to see what drew his friend’s attention. “Come, come, Sin, you’d have me believe you’d rather be escorting your mother and dear sister to some other infernal event?”

Sin gave a visible shudder. “No, no, you have the right of it. At least when this blasted opera is over I can head to the tables. Will you be joining me later this evening?”

Drake gave a short nod. What else was there to do? Lord knew he didn’t want to return to the damned townhouse and deal with his father. Or the nightmares. Restful sleep did not await him at the Duke of Hawkridge’s townhouse. Peaceful nights had eluded him since…

He shook his head, willing thoughts of war into the deep corners in which they refused to stay banished. When he’d been a young man, war had seemed like the logical escape from the stringent expectations placed on him by the Duke of Hawkridge. Drake’s life had been planned out for him since the moment of his birth. It had been ordained by his father where he would attend school, who he would wed, and Drake had chafed at the rigid order imposed upon him.

His time fighting Boney had proven there was nothing logical about war. The day he’d left the Peninsula, he’d longed to return to normalcy. He’d returned to England with a desperate urgency to slip back into the life he’d been familiar with. Consequently, he’d never given much thought to the impossibility of such a feat.

Three years ago, he’d come back from battle, a returned hero, greeted with parades and lavish balls; the recipient of public praise and countless honors. All of it had meant nothing to him. All the fanfare had served to do was emphasize his despair. It had served as a stark reminder of the lives he’d taken and the horrors that would haunt him for the rest of his days.

The sound of applause interrupted Drake’s dark musings. Act I had concluded.

“Are you certain you wouldn’t prefer to join me in a game of Hazard right now?” Sin asked.

Drake passed an absent gaze over the theatre that swarmed with bodies. The hand of a silent specter gripped his throat and squeezed, making breathing difficult. Vivid, unflappable memories and images of friends in arms swept past the floodgates of his mind, flooded him with their overwhelming intensity.

He jerked as the crowd’s murmurs gave way to the agonized cries of his men as they were cut down around him until he wanted to clamp his hands over his ears and drown out the remembrances. Except there was no escaping his loyal horse, Midnight’s tortured last whinny as the faithful creature was shot out from under him. Or the men, screaming for a God who didn’t exist, as the physician sawed their limbs from their person.

He needed out. Black remembrances of the war had crept in, and if he left the theatre, perhaps he could also leave the memories behind…just for the night, anyway. “Let’s go,” Drake growled.

He bolted from his seat just as the curtains of his box were thrown open.

And a hand slipped through, hitting him in the face. “Oomph!” he barked around a mouthful of the billowing, red velvet fabric. The curtains fell neatly back to their respective place, revealing the identities of the intruders.

“My Lord, how good to see you!” One young lady greeted, her voice dripping with effortful charm, either unmindful, or uncaring, that he had been hit square in the face.

Drake froze, a prickle of unease traveled up his nape. After the weeks he’d spent trying to banish thoughts of the lady’s impressive showing from each corner of his mind, all his efforts were ground to dust in this instant.

Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh stood before him, her spine erect, a determined glint in her eyes.

Emmaline’s smile stretched so taut she thought it might crumple and shatter if somebody didn’t fill the void of silence following her unexpected intrusion of Lord Drake’s private box.

Almost as one, the two gentlemen seemed to remember their manners, bowing deeply. “My Lady, Miss Winters,” Lord Sinclair murmured, claiming first her hand, and then her companion’s for a chaste kiss.

Respectful was the word tantamount to the exchange.

Stiff, formal, respectful deference.

It made Emmaline want to stamp her foot. Drat, the man was her intended. And he hadn’t exchanged so much as a word with her. Well, that was if one didn’t count the startled exclamation he’d let out when she’d hit him in the face with the curtains.

Thank Heavens for Sophie. Sophie dipped a curtsy. “Lord Drake, Lord Sinclair.” She smiled and then proceeded to do one of the things Emmaline dearly loved about her—she filled the awkward silence.

She waved her hand about, like a small hurricane, gesturing animatedly to the crowd milling about the Opera House. “My father’s box is very nearly opposite your box, my lord, and it was of course Lady Emmaline who mentioned this.”

Three sets of eyes swiveled to look at Emmaline.

Loved in the past tense, Sophie’s uncanny ability to fill voids was one of the things she had loved about her.

Emmaline cleared her throat, flushing under the veiled scrutiny she received from her betrothed and the hint of smile his friend, Lord Sinclair favored her with.

“Yes, Viscount Redbrooke’s box is located just over there.” She gestured vaguely; glad when the three sets of eyes in unison moved in the direction she was motioning.

She did not go out of her way to point out that the box in question was in fact situated a good deal farther to the left and significantly lower than Lord Drake’s box.

“But I saw you, my lord, and….and,” Words fled. His jade-black gaze pierced her, probing, as though he knew her every secret. Blast him and his arrogance, she thought, finding the courage to finish her sentence. “Well, I would have been remiss if I failed to greet you.”

Drake blinked and Emmaline knew he recognized that he’d just been delivered a set-down. She rushed on. “I felt compelled to visit your box and discuss your thoughts on the opera. It has come to my attention from the papers that you have a great affinity for the opera, in particular the capable Mezzo-Soprano Signora Nicolleli.” She furrowed her brow, feigning deep contemplation. “In my honest opinion, I have a preference for the light, airy quality of a lyrical soprano.”

She detected Lord Sinclair’s shoulders rising and falling in what, she felt safe to assume, was mirth, while poor Sophie scoured the theatre.

To Lord Drake’s credit, or perhaps the better word would be discredit, he did not so much as flinch. His only telltale reaction was a slight arching of a golden brow as he met her stare. Emmaline glanced away.

“My dear, Lady Emmaline,” In Emmaline’s honest estimation, the words hardly sounded like an endearment. “I hadn’t taken you for a gossip.”

A subtle reproach coated his hard words. Double blast the man. How dare he make her feel uncomfortable? He was after all the one who’d abandoned her for two—approaching three—years. And that wasn’t counting the fifteen years that had lapsed in their near lifelong betrothal.

Her lips set tightly. “La, sir, but how else am I to find out about my betrothed’s likes and dislikes? But I do know you have a preference for mezzo-sopranos, so that is something, no? I look forward to meeting the great Signora Nicolleli and securing an autograph for you. I will be sure to tell her you are an ardent admirer, my lord. We’ll call it something of a wedding gift.”

The lights dimmed and the crowd bustled about, returning to their seats.

Sophie cleared her throat. “Em, I rather think we should return, lest mother worry about our absence.”

Emmaline smiled and favored Lord Drake with an impudent wave. “I’m certain she won’t fret when she learns we were with my intended. You would hardly allow harm to befall us, my lord? I’ve heard such stories of your heroics on the Peninsula, I could hardly feel anything but safe in your company.”

His eyes grew shuttered. “You should never let your guard down regardless of whose company you are in, Lady Emmaline.”

“You are far too modest, my lord. Alas, I must bid you good evening and await our next meeting.” She favored Lord Sinclair with a smile. “A pleasure, my lord.”

“Likewise, Lady Emmaline, Miss Winters.” He bowed and nudged Drake until he followed suit.

“Now we must return to our box,” Emmaline said. “If you’ll excuse us.” She gave a jaunty wave and quite deliberately shoved the curtains back with enough force to send them flapping, and took her leave.

War had been declared.

SIX

Dearest Lord Drake,

My brother has been most stringently critiquing my efforts at painting. He has informed me of the following: I’m terrible at watercolor, awful with pastels, and deplorable with oils. I’ve taken to addressing him as Your Grace. To my amusement, it annoys him quite a bit.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

Drake sputtered around another mouthful of red velvet curtains as Lady Emmaline made her dramatic exit from his opera box. Cursing under his breath, he violently slammed the drapes down, back into place.

He wanted to throttle her. Nay, he was going to throttle her. He counted to three. When he still felt the same way, he counted to ten, and because he couldn’t direct his anger at Lady Emmaline, who’d since taken her leave, he leveled a black glare at Sin, whose broad smile indicated he was far too amused by the turn of events.

“Stuff it,” Drake said.

Sin blinked. “I didn’t say anything.”

“This does not bode well.”

“No, it certainly doesn’t,” Sin concurred.

With the intrusive eyes of the ton on them, Drake and Sin could not comfortably escape the theatre without Society taking note. To do so would only fuel gossip about what had transpired in the box, which would result in a lengthy write up in the gossip columns.

They reclaimed their seats.

Drake fixed his gaze on the stage below. He’d be damned if he fed any more into the rabid curiosity of the ton who continued to stare at him.

The little termagant. How dare she corner him in his box, and call him out for his behavior? They were not married. It made his cravat tighten painfully around his neck just imagining what married life would be like with Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh. Over the years he’d avoided run-ins with his betrothed. He’d taken deliberate pleasure in refusing to attend any and every formal function his father had requested he attend. The last event he’d gone to at his father’s entreaty had been more than seven years ago, when Emmaline had been a bright-eyed girl.

Scanning the crowd for the now bright-eyed woman, he gave thanks for small favors. It had been good for the both of them no one had been privy to the exchange, for the gossip fodders would be reeling with the set down the little imp had delivered. He thought back to the incident with the old peddler three weeks ago. He’d heard the commotion, and then spied Lady Emmaline as she’d jumped into the fray in order to protect the woman. Before the cowardly dandy had even raised his whip, Drake had known with a soldier’s intuition what the man’s next actions would be.

This evening had proved, in addition to being brave, Emmaline was far bolder than he’d ever imagined. Not that he’d had many imaginings of her—that was, until recently.

He continued his search for one particular lady clad in a fashionable emerald green silk piece, trimmed in white Italian lace. He grimaced. Where had that detail come from? Then his gaze landed on his quarry.

His eyes narrowed. “The little liar is hardly opposite this box,” he hissed.

The meddling gazes of the ton swiveled his way.

Sin shoved an elbow into Drake’s side “Shh.”

“Why, she is a good deal to the left and much farther below.” And as though Sin couldn’t ascertain exactly where he meant, he boldly gestured towards his betrothed.

His actions earned a murmur from the crowd and must have captured Emmaline’s attention. She tilted her head up, and rewarded him with a beatific smile and a cheeky wave.

He growled low in his throat, and nodded for the benefit of the watchful crowd. He could imagine tomorrow’s gossip column if he failed to return his betrothed’s salutation in the over-flowing Royal Opera House. The wiser course would be to acknowledge the impertinent bit of baggage, rather than have to deal with the consequences of slighting her.

“You might want to smile. You look bloody terrifying,” Sin said beneath his breath, passing a hand over his mouth to shield his lips. He gave a shake of his head at Drake’s attempt. “Looks more like a grimace.”

Drake ignored his friend and directed his attentions to the stage where Valentina was prancing about. Unbidden, Lady Emmaline’s words came taunting the edges of this thoughts and, God help him, he couldn’t look at his bloody mistress, at least not while knowing Emmaline was there studying him.

He turned his eyes in his betrothed’s direction, expecting to see her teasing brown eyes, but instead found her to be engrossed in the performance on the stage below. Perched at the edge of her seat, her fingertips gripped the edge of the box, her head cocked at an endearing little angle.

He studied her. Normally he preferred women with generous curves, rounded in all the right places, but Drake found Emmaline’s litheness oddly appealing. Unbidden, his eyes fell to her lips. As he was being objective, he could say definitively that those ruby-red, full lips were lips a man dreamt of, imagined suckling, tasting. He could imagine them passing over his body, trailing lower, and swallowing him—all of him.

Christ, where had that thought come from? He gave his head a violent shake and jumped to his feet, startling Sinclair.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Sin’s gaze shifted momentarily to a box a good deal left and much farther below. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to remain.” He acknowledged with a sheepish smile.

Drake spared another glare for the minx who’d upset his plans for the evening and found her watching his exchange with Sin’s; a wide, knowing smile on her face. “Fine,” he grumbled, knowing his tone was more fitting of a small child, but too incensed to care.

Without a backwards glance, he turned on his heel, and set the curtains fluttering.

SEVEN

My Dearest Lord Drake,

Feeling confident you can keep a secret, I can admit my insatiable curiosity. Father and Sebastian are often availing themselves to brandy. I wonder…what is the appeal? I am therefore planning my own secret experiment…

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

“Well, this has been a disaster,” Emmaline groused beneath her breath.

She slipped out of the Viscount Redbrooke’s box. Sophie trailed along at her side. This time a diligent maid followed right on their heels.

The thrum of the orchestra blended with the chorus filled the auditorium. The haunting melody echoed throughout the theatre and lent a dramatic feel to their movements.

The high E belonging to a particular soprano, Emmaline decided, was largely flat. It rent the opera house, muffled only slightly by the chatter of the ton. Her opinion had nothing, absolutely nothing to do with the fact that the high E came from the mouth of her betrothed’s mistress.

Sophie’s brow furrowed. She glanced over her shoulder toward her brother’s box. “Mother is going to be livid.”

The Viscountess had not made one mention of the ladies’ visit to Lord Drake’s box. Her erect form and snapping eyes had conveyed the extent of her displeasure. It also explained why Sophie’s maid dogged their movements.

Beset by an onset of guilt, Emmaline bit the inside of her lip. “She might not have noticed.”

Sophie wrung her hands. “She would be the only one in the theatre, then.”

On the heels of that statement, Emmaline imagined Sebastian and Mother’s displeasure the following morning. She groaned aloud. In the end, it would appear the first battle had been won by Lord Drake.

“I do believe I have lost the first round, Sophie.” It chafed to admit defeat of any kind. To be defeated by Lord Drake, however was not to be countenanced.

Sophie paused and directed her attention to her maid. “Leave us.” The maid’s mouth set in a mutinous line, but one more look from Sophie and she slipped away.

When the maid was no longer in sight, Sophie returned her attention to Emmaline. “You couldn’t have expected it would be easy?”

Emmaline’s gaze wandered to a point over Sophie’s shoulder. “No, I didn’t, but I…I…”

Apparently she took pity on her friend. Sophie claimed Emmaline’s hands in hers and gave a gentle squeeze. “From what you told me, Lord Drake had been so impressed by your showing with Whitmore. I just don’t understand.” Sophie tugged her hand. “Now, come.”

Emmaline allowed her friend to drag her forward. She didn’t understand it, herself. Any of it. She could only speculate as to Lord Drake’s disinterest in her over the years. “Mayhap I was wrong. Mayhap I was ruminating fantasies about what Lord Drake felt that day. He is such a gentleman, he would have come to any lady’s rescue.”

A tall, solid figure stepped into their path. Sophie managed to step out of the way even as Emmaline collided into a hard muscled chest. She gasped. She might as well have hit a wall—a large, immoveable wall.

Emmaline faltered, and would have fallen if Sophie didn’t grab her arm just as the gentleman reached out to steady her.

“My lady, Miss Winters,” Lord Sinclair said.

“Goodness, you startled me, my lord.” Sophie nudged her in the side. Emmaline frowned. “He did startle me.”

Sophie rolled her eyes. “You shouldn’t say as much in front of him.”

The gentleman’s lips twitched with what was assuredly amusement.

Emmaline glanced over his shoulder, seeking out…

“He left,” Lord Sinclair said.

Emmaline’s eyes snapped forward. “I don’t know whom you are talking about,” she said, a touch too quickly.

“I’d say it is rather obvious,” Sophie muttered.

Emmaline gave a pointed nod in Sinclair’s direction. “You still shouldn’t say as much.”

“’Tis no different than you stating how startled you were when Lord Sinclair gracelessly bowled you over.”

Lord Sinclair bristled. “I beg your pardon?”

Emmaline and Sophie promptly fell silent.

“Our apologies,” Emmaline said. This time it was she who nudged Sophie.

“Uh, yes, our apologies, my lord.”

He bowed his head. “Think nothing of it.”

They each dipped a curtsy and made to move around him, but he held up a hand. “Might I beg a word alone with you, my lady?” He extended his arm to Emmaline.

Sophie’s shocked gasp split the awkward silence.

Emmaline traced her lower lip with the tip of her tongue. After a momentary pause, she tucked her hand into the fold of his arm, and allowed him to lead her several paces ahead. Sophie trotted along at a discreet distance, muttering loud enough for the both of them to hear just what she thought about the impropriety of their actions.

“I must admit, my lord, I’m intrigued.” She stole a peek up at him from the corner of her eye.

Sin’s lips twitched. “I would like to speak to you about Lord Drake.”

Emmaline missed a step, and with his assistance, righted her footing.

Sinclair led them to a vacant alcove and drew back the curtain. She hesitated for the slightest moment, and then followed him inside. He dropped the curtain into place and turned to face her.

He spoke without preamble. “I want you to marry Drake.”

She smothered a laugh with her hand. “Well, then that makes two of us, my lord. If only the decision was yours to make.”

The curtains rustled at Lord Sinclair’s back and Emmaline would wager her entire dowry that Sophie had her ear pressed to the fabric.

He folded his arms across his chest. “How well do you know Drake?”

Silence stretched between them. Unbidden, her mind tripped along a forgotten memory. She was five. Seated in her father’s library. An angry little boy had stared mutinously across at her.

Lord Sinclair cleared his throat. “Uh-my lady?”

Emmaline gave her head a shake. “We’ve been betrothed since we were children, my lord,” she said with deliberate vagueness.

His gaze skimmed a path across her face. “Do you know much about him?”

Emmaline arched a brow.

“I am not saying you should not desire a marriage to Lord Drake. I’m…I’m…”

“Just what are you saying?” The recipient of enough discomfort this evening, it was someone else’s turn to grapple with the emotion.

An awkward stretch of silence descended like a funeral pall, but Emmaline wouldn’t feel guilty for it.

She didn’t know Lord Sinclair enough to confess the particular details of her relationship with Drake. Why, Sophie wasn’t even privy to half the memories she’d buried in her heart. Sinclair may be close friends with her intended, it did not, however, grant him carte blanche to ask intimate questions and expect answers. Nor for that matter would she ever reveal just how she’d come by her knowledge of Lord Drake. To do so would open her to pity, and she was not keen on the rather useless sentiment.

“My lady, forgive me. I know this questioning is far from conventional,” he said, filling the void of quiet. He tugged his ear. “Were you aware I’ve been friends with Drake since we were just thirteen?”

She started at the admission. “I wasn’t aware.” She should have known that. How strange to think two of Drake’s most significant relationships had been cemented when he’d been a boy of thirteen.

Sinclair continued. “He’d always been a fun boy, though angry when I met him because…” A dull flush stained his cheeks, “Because….”

“Because?” It didn’t take much to gather thirteen-year-old Drake had assuredly been upset because of his betrothal to her five-year-old self.

Sinclair rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, looking himself like a thirteen-year-old boy who’d been caught pouring ink in his tutor’s tea. “Any young boy would be less than thrilled at being betrothed to a young girl.”

She decided in that moment she liked Lord Sinclair a great deal. He did not feel inclined to mince words, and for that she respected him.

“We don’t have much time, so might I be candid, my lady?”

Emmaline giggled. She raised a hand to muffle the sound. “Oh dear, you haven’t been up to this point?”

Sinclair ignored the question. “May I ask if you are interested in marriage to Lord Drake because he is heir to a dukedom?”

If she weren’t so amused by the question, she was certain she’d have been insulted. “Are you asking whether I am interested in his fortunes? Whether I aspire to the role of duchess?”

He didn’t back down under the directness of her question. “My lady, Drake has been pursued the better part of his life for his title. Forgive me for being leery of any woman’s intentions.”

She sighed. “My lord, my life has been dictated for me since the moment I was born. Yes, Lord Drake was betrothed to me when he was thirteen, but might I remind you, I was only five. A mere babe. I have been as trapped by this betrothal as Lord Drake.” She paused, biting her lower lip. “I don’t aspire to a status, Lord Sinclair, I aspire to happiness.”

Sinclair ran a probing, hazel-green stare over her.

“Do you believe Drake can bring you happiness?” he asked with a bluntness that made her flinch.

Emmaline forced a smile. “I certainly hope so.” All Emmaline knew was she’d waited years for Drake. Had attended more balls and soirees than she could count, and even several masquerades. It had always been known that she was unmarriageable. During her first Season, she’d sat on the fringe watching all the young ladies who’d had their Come Out being courted, the recipients of poetry and flowers. Emmaline had received nary a flower. Not even one sonnet praising the hue of her hair or the glow in her eyes. She would have settled for even a poorly written poem.

Emmaline didn’t long for marriage because she desired a suitable match that would raise her status in Society. She wanted what all young women did, and yet would never admit—to be loved. She ached to know true love. She wanted a man to love her so helplessly, so desperately that he cared for nothing in the world but her.

Was it a fairytale she dreamed of? Perhaps. But it was what she yearned for. If it weren’t for it being her late father’s grandest wish that she wed Lord Drake, Emmaline would have tired of Drake’s disinterest years ago.

Well, the time of waiting for Drake to come up to scratch was at an end. She needed to determine if he was the man who could give her all those things she yearned for…and if not, well then she needed to move on.

Lord Sinclair didn’t say another word. Instead, he reached into the front of his black jacket and fished out a small parchment of paper. He handed the folded sheet to her.

Emmaline took it and opened the note. She glimpsed at it puzzled, and then looked up at him.

“They are the events Lord Drake is planning on attending for the next several nights.”

Emmaline’s mind was slow to process his words. Sinclair couldn’t possibly have known her intentions to pursue Drake. The only soul who knew of her plans was Sophie, and Sophie would never have betrayed her confidence.

“Should you choose to attend the events, I’m sure Lord Drake would be elated to see you.” He proceeded to fill in the details of his plan. “It is my hope that Drake can finally honor your betrothal, my lady. I believe should he take the time to know you, he will then cease….” His philandering ways. The indelicate words did not need to be spoken.

Her gaze dropped to the list. “Why are you doing this?” She raised her eyes to his.

Lord Sinclair’s expression grew veiled. “I can’t imagine you like existing in this suspended universe, my lady. You are neither wed nor pursued.”

Emmaline’s brow wrinkled. It hardly sounded flattering when stated in such a way.

“My lady, I meant no offense. I am simply providing—”

“The reason I should go along with your plans,” she finished for him. “I understand.”

A swell of applause resonated throughout the theatre, and from the other side of the curtain, Sophie nervously cleared her throat.

Lord Sinclair did not seem at all alarmed by the threat of discovery. “Lord Drake is a very different man from the boy you once knew. He has not been the same since…”

“Emmaline,” Sophie said. “Hurry.”

Emmaline wanted to curse at the interruption. Instead she dipped a hasty curtsy. It wouldn’t do to be seen emerging from a hidden alcove with her betrothed’s closest friend. “My lord, I thank you for your assistance.”

He sketched a short bow. “We shall see you tomorrow evening?”

“Emmaline,” Sophie again urged, this time her tone frantic.

She cast one more look down at the scrap in her hands, then folded it and stuffed it into the reticule dangling from her wrist. “You shall.”

He held up a staying hand. “Oh, my lady, one more thing. I thought you should know, Lord Drake was most impressed by your showing with Lord Whitmore.”

Emmaline smiled as she slipped from behind the curtain.

EIGHT

Dear Lord Drake,

I’m beginning to suspect you are avoiding me.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

Drake filled a dish with several pieces of toast from the sideboard, and sat down across from his father at the long dining table. “Good morning,” he murmured.

His father lowered the paper he’d been reading. He appeared startled by the salutation. “Uh-good morning, Drake.”

He raised the paper back into place.

Drake picked up the silver knife beside his plate and proceeded to spread blackberry preserves upon his toast.

He looked up at the shuffling form in the doorway. The old butler, Winchester, who’d been around as long as Drake had been alive, entered. He stopped in front of Drake and held out a small, silver platter.

Drake ignored his father, who had set aside his paper, and now stared at him with blatant curiosity. Drake put his knife down and lifted both the sealed envelope and the blade presented by Winchester.

The faint scent of lemons wafted from the thick ivory envelope. Drake inserted the blade under the seal and withdrew two slips of parchment.

One was an autograph.

The other a note.

Dearest Lord Drake,

What kind of intended would I be if I didn’t keep to my word, honor a promise, and present to you that which I offered—a signature from the great Signora Nicolleli?

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

He laughed.

Who knew? His betrothed had a sense of humor.

NINE

My Dearest Lord Drake,

How odd you are traveling the world when I’ve hardly been anywhere at all. With this in mind, I packed up several dresses and provisions and took a very long journey about our Leeds estate. My parents raised a hue and cry when they discovered I’d gone missing. Needless to say, I have been punished and forbidden from going anywhere for the next five years. I say that seems a rather harsh sentence.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

In May of 1811, at the Battle of Fuentes de Onoro, Marshall Massena had retreated back to Spain to find Wellington had already effectively blockaded Almeida. Though Wellington had been surpassed in manpower, he’d outnumbered the French in artillery. With the French failure at Fuentes de Onoro, Massena had been unwilling to attack because of Wellington’s strong position. Subsequently, Wellington had made the assumption that the French army of Portugal had been sufficiently weakened and discounted his enemy. The end result had been Wellington’s retreat.

Both, Wellington and Drake, had learned something very important at Fuentes de Onoro—never underestimate one’s enemy.

In this case, it wasn’t an enemy per se…but an opponent, whom he happened to be betrothed to.

No place was safe from Lady Emmaline. There was no sanctuary. When staring down the inevitable face of defeat, the only logical option had been retreat.

Drake scanned Lord and Lady Wilcox’ ballroom for the woman who’d occupied his thoughts for the better part of the evening.

From the time their betrothal contract had been signed, Drake had tried his damnedest to avoid any interaction with Lady Emmaline. Instead, he’d relegated her to the role of un-aging child, thus preventing her from becoming a woman to whom he had obligations.

As a result, he knew next to nothing about her. He didn’t know her likes or dislikes. He didn’t know what made her laugh, what she read, or even if she enjoyed reading. He didn’t know if she had a personality. Until now.

Drake discovered Lady Emmaline was called Em by those closest to her. He learned her only real friend was Miss Sophie Winters. He noted Emmaline sat with Miss Winters at most events, smiling and chatting, all the while seeming oblivious to the pitying stares directed her way.

And she had a sense of humor. He thought about the note she’d sent round—the same note that had put an immediate end to his affair with the lovely Signora Valentina Nicolleli. Following the whole peculiar exchange with Emmaline, he would never have been able to carry on with the voluptuous mezzo-soprano without hearing his intended’s teasing voice.

Just then, Drake spied the brown coiffure of a young lady moving through a sea of guests. He held his breath, waiting for her to turn, then realized, upon closer inspection, that her hair did not possess the same deep chocolate hues.

“Are you looking for someone in particular, my lord?” An amused voice drawled over his shoulder.

He started, and swung around.

“Lady Emmaline.”

Emmaline expected to see vexation in her betrothed’s jade eyes, which is why she was struck breathless by the flash of amusement in their fathomless depths.

Her heart quickened.

“I was looking for someone, my lady.” He winked.

Winked! Oh, the insufferable bounder!

Emmaline’s heart resumed its normal cadence.

Her lips formed a moue of displeasure. She glanced around. “I see.” Her gaze locked on the imposing figure striding across the ballroom dance-floor. She cocked her head to the side. “Perhaps it is my brother?”

Drake groaned aloud as her brother, the Duke of Mallen, came to a stop before them. Sebastian’s foreboding black glare teemed with fury.

Sebastian bowed, the gesture a smidgeon shy of disrespect. “Lord Drake, so good to see you.”

Drake returned the bow. “Your Grace,” he said flatly.

She studied them as they eyed one another like small boys fighting over the last pastry.

Over the years, she had learned there was no love lost between her betrothed and brother. She strongly suspected she was the cause of their animosity toward one another.

“Quite the surprise, seeing you with my sister.” A frosty bite underlined Sebastian’s words.

Emmaline wanted to groan at his less than subtle reprimand. Dead. She was going to kill him dead that evening.

Drake’s jaw clenched. “Why should it be a surprise? She is, after all, my betrothed.”

Sebastian’s hand landed with a resounding thud upon his chest. “Shocking you should even remember that detail.”

Drake’s shoulders stiffened. His gaze went positively glacial, and he gave a dismissive nod in her direction. “Not of late. If you’d paid attention to your sister’s goings-on, I think you would have noted we’ve been in each other’s company a great deal.” There was the slightest hint of something suggestive in Drake’s words that seemed to get Sebastian’s hackles up.

Sebastian took another step forward.

Emmaline placed a hand on his shoulder. “Lord Drake has requested the next set. Can you conclude this at a later time?” She removed her fingers and placed them on Drake’s sleeve. The hard muscles of his arm tightened convulsively beneath her touch, and he allowed Emmaline to lead him to the dance-floor.

The current partners were taking their places, and the thrum of the orchestra indicated they were to dance a waltz. Drake brusquely grabbed her hand. He set his other hand at her waist, all the while glaring down at her. “I didn’t need to be rescued from your brother,” he said.

She squared her chin. “What makes you believe I was rescuing you? Perhaps I did it for myself. Do you always believe everything revolves around you?”

His grip tightened on her waist and his words came out on a whisper she had to strain to hear. “I have known since I was a boy the obligations and responsibilities that belong to me as the heir of a dukedom. I do not believe the world revolves around me. I’m relatively powerless in this well-ordered world.”

A harsh sincerity underlined his words; it chilled Emmaline. Drake’s hard coiled muscles bunched tightly beneath the fine line of his expertly tailored black evening coat. “Have you ever considered… others… might feel the same?”

Those emerald eyes passed over her face, penetrating.

Emmaline did not give him an opportunity to respond. “Do you believe this is the life I want for myself? Do you believe I’d rather know this formal aloofness, than…?” love or passion? She bit her lip hard to keep from humiliating herself. Silence stretched between them punctuated by the strings of the orchestra’s violins.

Studying Emmaline’s emotion-laden eyes, Drake was humbled by a dawning realization—he hadn’t been the only one wronged by their childhood betrothal. How odd he’d spent the past fifteen years angry with her, when she’d been just as much the victim. They’d both been robbed of choice and chance and…destiny. Listening to the words she spoke, he found Emmaline, not unlike him, yearned for what he’d been searching for since he was a boy of thirteen—the power of choice.

It felt like he was seeing her for the first time. Truly seeing her. “What do you dream of?”

Emmaline’s gaze skittered off to a point beyond his shoulder. He studied her mouth; the way her teeth worried that plump, lower fleshy fold. She bit her lip when she was concentrating or when she was embarrassed. He found it, with no small measure of surprise, captivating.

She looked back at him. “This is the first time in my entire life anyone has asked me about my dreams and wishes. None of my family asked that question of me. Not even Sophie, my dearest friend in the world. It has seemed since I was a small girl, there was an understanding that I am the privileged daughter of a powerful duke, who wanted for nothing, and therefore could possibly have no need for anything.”

Her words were a mirror into his soul. “The world couldn’t have been more wrong could it, my lady?”

An ironic smile turned her lips. “No, it couldn’t. As silly as it was, I dreamt of more than a cold emotionless entanglement signed by my father to further grow our estates and riches.”

Somewhere along the path of life Emmaline had consigned herself to the obligations thrust upon her as a young, unmarried lady. He didn’t know why that thought should surprise him. Simply put, it was the way of their world. It seemed, however, at odds with the woman who would boldly challenge gentlemen with little regard for her safety.

Guiding her graceful form through the steps of the waltz, he came to find he shared a special connection with Emmaline. Though she’d been born a female, Emmaline’s life had not been very different from his. They were, in a way, kindred spirits.

It didn’t escape his notice that she’d failed to answer his earlier question.

“So then tell me, Emmaline. What do you wish for?” Her name slipped from his lips as easily as the next breath he took.

Emmaline’s gaze dropped to the simple folds of his snowy white cravat. “I want to be loved. I want a family of my own.” The words emerged haltingly.

“You want to be loved?” He couldn’t hold back the derisive question. The word love was so foreign to Society that there was something crass and vulgar in simply thinking it to oneself, let alone speaking it aloud.

Her body stiffened beneath his touch. A dull flush stained her cheeks. “Yes, my lord, I want to be loved.”

Drake’s lips twitched. “Ours is hardly a love match.”

Based on the hurt little expression she wore, he thought she might have preferred his laughter.

“Though we’d hardly know if it could be a love match,” she pointed out.

“If it is love and flowery poems you seek, my lady, be forewarned, you will not find it from me.”

She blinked several times. “You don’t believe in love?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t say that.”

“So, you do believe in love?”

Drake arched a brow. The lady was persistent. “Though never the recipient of such an insipid emotion, I understand my parents were in love. So I do believe some people capable of it.”

Everyone in Society knew the history of Lord Drake’s mother. The Duchess of Hawkridge had died giving birth to her son. He’d never known his mother. Drake wondered if perhaps the absence of a maternal figure in his life had resulted in the jaded man he’d become. That, and the hellish things he’d done on the battlefield, of course.

A liveried servant at the edge of the dance-floor stumbled. His lofty tray of champagne flutes tilted, sending the crystal glasses tumbling to the floor. There were gasps of horror and shrieks of surprise as the guests on the side were sprayed with tiny bits of glass and French vintage champagne.

“Fire towards the ground,” Drake commanded. The 31st Regiment of Foot was low on artillery and had to improvise their canister shot with nails and scrap iron.

The lieutenant loaded the canister into the cannon and prepared to fire at the relentless French army on foot.

The canon failed.

The canister shot did not. The closed cylindrical metal canister intended for the advancing enemy troops skipped a path, twenty-five, thirty-yards, across the ground.

Then an explosion rent the world around them. Shrapnel flew. Men were screaming. His men were screaming…

“But you are not capable of it?” Emmaline’s question interrupted his momentary lapse in sanity.

Drake swallowed convulsively. He would never escape the war. His mind would forever remain on the bloody fields of battle.

“My lord?” she asked, confused eyes studying the lines of his face.

Drake forced himself to relax his tightly clenched jaw. Emmaline clearly couldn’t detect the hell that gripped him. Nor, for that matter, did she seem aware of the drama at the edge of the dance-floor.

“My lady, I’m not certain I’m capable of marriage.”

Emmaline blinked several times. “Well, of course you’ll marry. You have to marry me,” she blurted. Her cheeks turned a bright shade of pink. “Uh, that is, I mean—” She dropped her gaze to his cravat.

Drake grinned. “Do I?” he teased. He applied a subtle pressure to where his hand gripped her waist, encouraging her to look at him. He found something soothing in her brown eyes. They reminded him of deep, rich Belgian chocolate warmed in the hot summer sun.

“So we’ve been told,” she muttered.

A bark of laughter escaped him. It came out rusty from ill use, and appeared to startle her.

She glanced up, their stares locked, and held.

Then she began to study his face. He knew the moment she noted the faint scar that started at his temple and traversed a parallel path to his jaw. Many of the women he’d bedded had assessed the mark with a kind of fascinated horror.

Emmaline reached up a hand as if to touch it, and then seemed to remember where they were. She drew her hand back but her gaze did not leave his scar.

Her interest triggered a vulnerability he’d thought dead. The sight of her; unsullied and pure and him, brutal and vile, made him feel like the devil dancing in church. She’d been untouched by hands of evil, when his had wrought death and destruction.

He waited for her to ask the blunt question most ladies of his acquaintance asked. A kind of perverted glee that they’d dared to touch a blood-thirsty warrior.

Except she didn’t ask the question, didn’t beg to know how he’d come by the mark.

She was different than any other woman he’d ever known…and it scared the hell out of him.

Damn her for making him feel things he didn’t want to feel. A little too forcefully, he angled her body close to his—closer than was fashionably appropriate.

“Do you look at all gentlemen like this?” he asked, his voice hard. His vulnerability robbed him of both reason and the more than twenty-eight years of gentlemanly behavior that had been ingrained into him.

“Like what?”

“Like you have wicked thoughts in your innocent head.”

Emmaline’s breath caught and she opened then shut her mouth several times, as if she were trying to formulate a suitable response to his insult. It would seem Emmaline could be flummoxed.

He was a complete and utter bastard.

And, as though Drake needed further affirmation of that truth, his mind traveled a path of silken kisses and seductive caresses. He became aware of the feel of her delicate waist under his hand. The fine satin russet gown did little to veil the warmth of her skin. He yearned to strip the fabric from her body and run explorative hands along her satiny flesh. He wanted to move his hand lower, tug her skirts up, and caress her.

Emmaline winced and he realized he’d unconsciously gripped her hand too tight. He flexed his fingers, forcing himself to relax his hold. He studied her hand using it as a lifeline back from the path his mind had wandered.

Except…

They really were lovely fingers. He imagined them wrapped about his length, stroking, squeezing, teasing… His breath came hoarse. Where had that thought come from? But it was too late. The forbidden thoughts were there as he held her in his arms.

Had he thought her figureless? Her breasts, though not large, were the size of small, firm apples. God, if he didn’t have a taste for the forbidden fruit. Now he knew the trial Adam had been presented with in that garden of temptation, understood why he’d thrown away Paradise. The curve of her waist flared nicely under his fingers, and he wanted to reach lower, grasp her buttocks, and tug her to his center. Drake gave himself an invisible shake, reminding himself where in hell they were.

Emmaline licked her lower lip. “My lord?” she whispered.

Drake’s eyes fell to those full red lips that haunted his dreams and he dipped his head, a hairsbreadth from capturing them. He was going to kiss her, right there, in the midst of the dance-floor and he gave not one damn that every last peer present would bear witness.

“The dance has ended.” Emmaline brought Drake’s forbidden musings to a staggering halt. He became aware of the fact they were standing in the middle of an emptying dance-floor.

Drake’s body jerked and he set Emmaline from him as though he’d been speared with a bayonet. When had he looked at Emmaline and seen beauty instead of obligation and responsibility? His heart raced with panic.

He dipped a mocking bow and clapped his hands in a deriding fashion. “Brava, my girl. You have gotten what you wanted. How neatly you’ve inserted yourself into my life.” With that, he spun on his heel, and abandoned her amidst the emptied dance floor.

He truly was a bastard.

TEN

Dearest Lord Drake,

I have begun keeping a journal on your efforts on the Peninsula. I am amazed by your bravery and courage. It is an honor being betrothed to such a noble man.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

“What was that about?”

Emmaline started even as Sophie reached out and gripped her arm. She gave silent thanks as her friend steered her from the dance-floor.

Words lodged in Emmaline’s throat. She feared with one wrong word uttered, she might splinter into a thousand shards across the ballroom floor, and disintegrate beneath the heels of the lords and ladies witnessing her humiliation. How, in a matter of minutes had she gone from feeling a sense of connection with Drake to being the recipient of his condescending ire?

She told herself not to look for him, but for the life of her couldn’t prevent her gaze from searching the crowd for a hint of him. It wasn’t difficult to locate his tall, strong figure in the crowded ballroom.

And then wished she hadn’t.

He stood beside a stunningly beautiful woman with midnight black curls artfully arranged in an elegant upsweep. One loose strand, twisted in a clever curl, gave the illusion the silken waves could tumble free at any moment.

A pained sound lodged in Emmaline’s throat. If she couldn’t have been born with the preferred fair coloring, couldn’t she have at least had the other woman’s splendid locks? How terribly unfair.

The woman was none other than Lady Smythe, a notorious widow. In Emmaline’s estimation, Lady Smythe was far too young and far too beautiful to be a widow. Widows were supposed to be old harridans in a perpetual state of sorrow. They were not meant to be clad in indecent dark sapphire gowns with an overlay of French lace, cut scandalously low and displaying an abundant décolletage. And they most certainly were not supposed to have that décolletage one small breath away from exposure.

As if ample attention wasn’t being drawn to her ample endowments, an enormous teardrop sapphire necklace encircled her neck. It was cut in a teardrop design and provocatively pointed down to those attributes. Lady Smythe snapped a fan open and fluttered it flirtatiously in front of her mouth, obscuring her rouged lips from the tons interested eyes. If possible, the lady sidled even closer. She layered her form indecently against Drake. He dipped his head down, and the woman tilted her head up, whispering something.

Then he laughed.

Even with the span of the dance-floor separating them, the deep, rich sound reached Emmaline’s ears. She thought his laughter should have cut her to the quick and braced for the additional bite of pain.

It didn’t come.

During the waltz they’d shared, Emmaline had experienced Drake’s laughter. It had startled both of them. That laugh he’d been unable to contain during their set was different from the practiced one she heard now. The one he spared for the lovely creature at his side was disingenuous and Emmaline found that somehow—soothing.

Drake reached for a flute of champagne from a passing servant.

Seeming to feel Emmaline’s stare, he looked directly at her with a veiled, faintly mocking expression. He raised his glass in her direction and downed the contents, before he again directed his attention to Lady Smythe.

The earlier solace she’d found was crushed in his deliberate attempt to humiliate her. This time, Emmaline couldn’t stifle the ball of anguish that crept steadily up her throat, the pain so overwhelmingly sharp it nearly choked her. She could feel the lords and ladies gawking at her, the snickering harpies, the pitying looks. Suddenly it was too much.

“Get me out,” Emmaline pleaded, fumbling for Sophie’s hand. If she didn’t leave, she thought she would crumple in a heap. How the ton would love that. She wouldn’t give them, or him, the satisfaction.

“Hush, silly! We hardly need His Lordship thinking he’s won this battle.” Sophie’s stern reprimand steadied Emmaline.

“They are watching me,” Emmaline whispered. She stole a quick peek around and noted the stares directed her way.

Her humiliation gave way to blinding rage.

“Yes, they are.” Sophie guided Emmaline from the ballroom to an empty withdrawing room. Closing the door behind them, Sophie directed her attention to Emmaline. “We need to freshen you up.” She pinched Emmaline’s cheeks—hard.

“Ouch!” Emmaline yelped at the firm pressure.

“Sorry, you were looking pale,” Sophie explained, not sounding at all apologetic.

On a sigh, Emmaline dropped unceremoniously into a King Louis gold-painted seat. She stretched her legs out in an undignified fashion, closed her eyes, and wished when she opened them to be anywhere other than where she currently sat. Nay, that wasn’t altogether true…she’d prefer the seclusion of the retiring room to that infernal ballroom. At least in here she was spared from hearing the tons snickering remarks.

Sophie sunk to the floor and rested her cheek on Emmaline’s soft silk skirts. “I think this is going to be more difficult than you or I expected,” Sophie conceded. “I mean, what other peer of the realm would shirk his responsibilities all these years and carry on so under your nose?”

Emmaline flinched. “I don’t want to be his responsibility, Sophie.”

Sophie hesitated. “What do you want, Em?”

And for the second time that night, and in her life, Emmaline had been asked what it was she wanted.

What do you want? A voice silently jeered. Do you want him to love you? Court you? Whyever would he do something so foolish when he could and did have any number of beautiful ladies? No, Emmaline had been a fool on many scores. She couldn’t even speak those words to her dearest friend.

Sophie was kind enough not to press Emmaline. She picked her head up and angled a glance at Emmaline. She spoke haltingly. “You couldn’t believe after just a few exchanges, Lord Drake would change his opinion?”

Emmaline chewed her lip. “No—no. I-I had hoped…” Her words trailed off. Because, naively, that had been what she’d hoped. Hearing it from Sophie’s lips indicated it had been no more than a fairytale constructed from balderdash.

She thought about Drake standing beside Lady Smythe, flirting shamelessly with the voluptuous widow. Emmaline glanced down at her own, less than stellar attributes, and wrinkled her nose. “It’s hardly fair,” she muttered.

“What is?”

“Lady Smythe should be so generously endowed while I, while I…” Emmaline made a vague gesture over her own less than impressive décolletage. Leaning forward, she puffed her chest out and then, realizing how ridiculous she must look, lolled back against the cushions of the chair, throwing a dejected hand across her eyes.

A bark of laughter escaped Sophie. “Ah, here. These are just the thing!”

Emmaline dropped her hand from her eyes and watched her friend reach onto a nearby table for a stack of linens, wrinkle them into a sizeable ball, and thrust them at her.

Emmaline reached for them and made quick work of stuffing them into the front of her gown. The two women glanced down at Emmaline’s new endowments and promptly burst into laughter.

After their giggles had abated, Sophie glanced up. “You know,” she began hesitantly. “It really is a shame you’re hiding in here. He is, after all, the one who has behaved like an absolute cad.”

Emmaline blinked several times. “You know, you are right. Why should I cower behind closed doors while he enjoys a grand evening?”

Sophie shook her head. “You shouldn’t.”

Tugging the balls of linen from the front of her gown, she set them on Lady Wilcox’ table and took to her feet. “I am not going to hide.”

Sophie popped right up beside her. “Brava, my dear!”

The more Emmaline thought about Drake, the more infuriated she became. “His interest in Lady Smythe stemmed from nothing other than his desire to lash out at me.” She lifted her hand up, mimicking her betrothed’s movements. “And his mocking salute with that champagne flute. Why, he may as well have shouted ‘victory’ from across the ballroom.”

Sophie gave a perfunctory nod. “This battle has gone to Lord Drake, but it is just one battle.”

The two women marched arm in arm, through the antechamber, until Sophie placed a staying hand on Emmaline’s arm. She looked at her with somber eyes. “You must promise me something, Em.”

Emmaline inclined her head.

“The moment you feel any sadness in Lady Wilcox’ ballroom, the moment you feel the desire to flee—you simply must think of how outlandish you looked with our hostesses fine linens stuffed in your chemise.”

They erupted into laughter and then prepared to face the elegantly clad pariahs swarming the ballroom with a taste for blood. With heads held high they moved across the ballroom. Emmaline caught sight of her brother weaving through the crowd, his expression thunderous. “Great, my brother,” she muttered. She really didn’t need him to make this evening any more difficult than it had already become. “Come, this way.” She tried steering Sophie to the far left corner of the ballroom.

“I think we’ve lost him,” Sophie said, looking around.

“Lost who?”

Sophie shrieked and dropped Emmaline’s arm. “Y-your Grace.”

Sebastian sketched a bow and claimed Sophie’s hand for an absent, perfunctory kiss.

“I’ll kill him,” he muttered beneath his breath. He obviously wasn’t concerned that Sophie was privy to the conversation. Sebastian knew Sophie’s loyalty to Emmaline and was not inclined to shield his anger. He held out his arm.

Emmaline turned to Sophie, who waved her on. “Go ahead, I’ll be over there.” Sophie hurried off to claim a seat amidst the other wallflowers.

Emmaline returned her attention to Sebastian. “You most certainly will not kill him,” she admonished as he led her into the next set. They took their place in line for the quadrille. The orchestra began playing and they moved through the intricate steps of the lively dance.

“Whatever are you doing fawning over him?” His censure was tangible. “Mother is furious.”

Emmaline’s gaze sought out her mother, engaged in conversation with their hostess. Mother caught Emmaline’s eyes and frowned.

Emmaline tried not to feel hurt at her mother and brother’s obvious disappointment. Emmaline and Sebastian were parted, and she was saved from responding, until they came together.

“I am not fawning. He is my betrothed. What would you have me do? Exist in this false world for the remainder of my life? I am already twenty.”

Sebastian opened his mouth to say something but was prevented from speaking by the steps of the dance that once again separated them.

Her brother remained silent when next they came together in the line; his ducal stare quickly surveyed the room. Emmaline knew beyond a doubt who he sought out. She also knew the moment his gaze collided with Lord Drake beside Lady Perfection.

She tapped Sebastian on the arm. “Do you trust me?”

He appeared startled by the question and redirected his attention to Emmaline.

“Do I trust you?” He seemed bemused by her question. “I must be honest, Em, I’ve never given it much thought. You’ve always been my baby sister. I haven’t really seen you as anyone other than the little girl who used to dog my every step.”

Emmaline rolled her eyes and waited until they came together. “I’m no longer the child who cried in your arms when my pony fell ill and had to be put down.”

There was something melancholy in Sebastian’s eyes, as if he’d just realized Emmaline had grown up, that she was no longer a child, and, in fact, a woman. “Of course I trust you. Now, whether Mother trusts you is another story,” he said teasingly.

“I need you not to interfere, Sebastian.”

She knew if Drake felt compelled where their betrothal was concerned, then nothing would come of it. And foolish as it was, there was a part of her, deep inside that longed for more. She wasn’t willing to let go of the dream that was Lord Drake. Though common sense told her that her pursuit was futile, she could not relinquish the dream she carried in her heart.

The quadrille came to an end, and the dancers clapped. Sebastian raked a frustrated hand through tousled dark locks, and directed one last black look in the Marquess of Drake’s direction. “Just say the word and you shall be freed,” Sebastian promised Emmaline, and then guided her to the seat beside Sophie.

Sebastian sketched a bow for Sophie’s benefit and took his leave.

Any feelings of relief at being alone with Sophie were immediately quashed by an unexpected intrusion.

“My, my, my, how lovely seeing you here, Emmaline.” Except the statement laced with gleeful malice lacked all sincerity.

Emmaline looked up and resisted the urge to shield her eyes from the offensively bright glare of the gentleman’s abundantly greased red hair. With the evening she’d had thus far, why should she be surprised?

She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Witless, I don’t remember giving you leave to address me so familiarly.”

Lord Whitmore closed the small distance between them with a violent lunge. He faltered and seemed to remember where they were. He grasped the lapels of his fuchsia silk embroidered evening coat and preened. He gave a cocky little nod across the room. “Seems your hero has directed his attention elsewhere.”

Sophie gasped and slipped her hand encouragingly in Emmaline’s.

Unwilling to let him see the impact of his words, Emmaline jutted her chin out. “Tell me, Whitmore, are you simply here because you’ve run out of old women to beat and horses to whip this evening?”

Like a setting sun, Whitmore’s brows lowered. “How confident you pretend to be. But tell me, my lady, how confident can you truly be when the man you’re betrothed to is sniffing the skirts of another woman right under your nose? How confident can you be seated with the other wallflowers? Why you,” he paused and gave a cocky smile, “should thank me for merely acknowledging you by name.”

Oh God, forget a whipped horse…Whitmore had landed a solid blow, right in her gut. His victorious expression said he knew it.

Sophie clamored to her feet. “You odious little creature. How dare you come over here? Why, do you know who Lady Emmaline’s brother is?”

Whitmore ignored Sophie.

“What do you want, Whitmore?” Emmaline drawled. She’d run out of patience for the “odious little creature,” as Sophie had dubbed him.

He turned blood-shot eyes to Emmaline. “Why, I would like an apology of course.”

Emmaline blinked. “That is all you want? An apology?”

He nodded like a chicken pecking at feed.

“Well then, sir, if that is what you are waiting for you can hold your hand over your heart until Lord Wellington makes friends with Napoleon himself.”

ELEVEN

Dearest Lord Drake,

My brother has informed me that though I’m no great beauty I’m a woman of character, which is more important than anything else. I solemnly reassured him that even though he is not the most intelligent gentleman, he is certainly the most pompous.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

Drake was bored.

And frustrated.

And annoyed.

With himself, and the woman prattling on and on at his arm. If he’d been paying an iota of attention to whatever she was saying, he was certain there were a number of sexual innuendos buried within her words.

His eyes caught Sin’s form cutting a path through the crowd, and sighed.

He owed Sin.

Sin stopped before them, and bowed to the widow. “Lady Smythe, stunning as always!”

Her ice blue eyes, flashed with annoyance. “My lord.”

Sin smiled, clearly immune to her displeasure. “Lord Thurmond has been looking for you. I did him the courtesy of letting him know where you were. Ahh, here he comes, now,” he said with a wide smile and for good measure, nodded in the direction of the furious gentleman crossing the length of the ballroom.

Withholding any hint of society niceties for Sinclair, Lady Smythe gave him an elegant shoulder, and directed her attention to Drake. “My lord, I’m eager to continue our discussion,” she purred.

Drake offered a non-committal response and sketched a bow. The young widow gave him one last heated look. She shot a black look at Sin, and then sauntered away.

Sin rolled his shoulders in a mock shudder. “Egads, that scowl makes her hideous.”

Drake grinned. “Many thanks.”

Sin waved him off. “Think nothing of it.” He retrieved a champagne flute from a passing tray, and took a long sip. “What you should be thinking about, however, is the gossip you’ve created.”

Drake didn’t pretend to misunderstand. Instead, he surreptitiously watched Emmaline, seated at the outskirts of the dance floor, engrossed in conversation with Miss Winters, her hands spiraling animatedly, like two little tornadoes. All the hurt she’d worn earlier for the world to see, now gone. Instead, she fairly beamed. A vibrant sparkle glimmered in her eyes, like a beacon. The desire to go and bask in her unabashed joy hit him with a physical intensity so strong, he nearly staggered under the weight of it.

Then Drake became aware of certain other things. With any hint of scandal now gone, the ton had lost interest in gawking at Emmaline. And that was when he made the shocking realization—Lady Emmaline had been relegated to the inglorious fate of wallflower.

One month ago, such a revelation would have been no revelation at all. Yet having seen her challenge Whitmore, and then himself being the recipient of her saucy boldness, it baffled him that she was not sought after. The hair he’d once thought mousy was really a pleasing shade of deep, rich brown hues, which made Drake imagine just-melted chocolate cascading in rippling waves. Before the end of each night, one errant strand always managed to escape its coif, as stubborn as the lady herself. He found himself giving a very stern, albeit silent, command to his feet to stay planted and not cross the room so he could brush back that lock.

He took a step forward, then froze.

Sinclair wore a puzzled expression. “Uh…are you all right, Drake?”

Drake ignored the question.

Either he’d been staring so long it was inevitable, or she’d felt his eyes trained on her because, just then, she looked up and the glimmer he’d spied flickered out. The distance separating them could not dim the hurt in those amber depths, and he felt like the worst sort of bastard. She wrenched her gaze away.

“Go to her.”

Drake wasn’t sure whether the words had been uttered aloud by Sinclair or were trapped in his mind. The seductive strands of a waltz teased his consciousness. The urge to close the distance between them, draw her close into the folds of his arms, and breathe of her oddly alluring crisp lemon scent was a tangible force.

He ignored Sinclair’s stare. Though truth be told, the only way he’d be able to move his gaze from her delectable form was if somebody were to move him by sheer force. Emmaline’s sinfully delicious lips turned up at the corners, but oddly, in the course of a short time, he’d come to know what each tilt of her lips meant. He’d come to know her smile enough to know this particular one she wore for the ton was a façade—and knew he was responsible for the false show of joy she put on.

Sinclair seemed to read Drake’s disordered thoughts. “You can make it right,” he said quietly.

“Sin,” he bit out. “I’m not your business.”

Sin bristled. “No, Drake. You aren’t my business. You are my friend. Do you even know what that means?” The stinging words made Drake wince.

It wasn’t the first time that evening Drake had been appalled by his own words and actions. “My apologies,” he said gruffly.

Sin shook his head. “Don’t give it another thought.”

How could he not? Drake wondered at what point he’d lost the veneer of humanity that had once allowed him to fit in this world. What had happened those four years on the Peninsula that he now didn’t know how to be civil to his betrothed or best friend? Emmaline’s and Sin’s glaring disappointment in him was just one more stark reminder that he no longer fit in with civilized society—that he was better with vipers like Lady Smythe.

His gaze swallowed Emmaline. But, if he didn’t crave an emotional entanglement, why couldn’t he look away from her?

She desired love. She spoke of a family. God help him, when she’d spoken of her desires in that far-away husky whisper, she made him want to scale the walls, climb through a window, into the sky and retrieve the moon and a handful of stars for her.

Unlike him, Emmaline remained unscathed by the ugliness of life. The center of her existence was still their betrothal…that hadn’t been the case for him in years and years. At one time the obligations of his betrothal had seemed like the worst fate. What a fool he’d been.

Sin looked from Drake to Emmaline. “Her hair is merely brown, you know?”

Drake gave his head a shake. “It’s like the color of Belgian chocolate, you fool.”

“Same with her eyes, just brown,” Sinclair pointed out.

“They are not brown. Why, they are more of a whiskey hue with a hint of…”

God, what was happening to him?

His friend gave him a triumphant look and with steely determination, Drake resolved to cease staring at his betrothed.

Sin opened his mouth to speak and Drake glared him into silence.

Regardless of the length of their friendship, Drake neither wanted nor needed Sin interfering with his betrothal agreement.

“So you do not have feelings for the young lady?”

Drake sipped his champagne. “None at all.”

“Which would probably mean you wouldn’t care if she has to deal with the likes of Whitmore, again?” Sin dangled.

Drake’s gaze flew across the room. His hands balled into tight fists. Whitmore and Emmaline. Without a word, Drake strode toward his betrothed. By god, that cowardly fop had better not cause her any distress or he’d end him right there with Society as his witness.

“Well, I guess I have my answer,” Sin called after him.

Rage dripped from Lord Whitmore with such ferocity he put Emmaline in mind of one of her brother’s hunting dogs who’d gotten so ill he’d frothed at the mouth. “You little fool,” Whitmore bit out.

Emmaline’s hand flew to her breast at the vulgar declaration.

“Whitmore, as crass as usual.”

She spun around and discovered Drake at her shoulder. The lines of his face were set in a hard mask. A slight tick at the corner of his eye, the only indication of his fury. He offered a perfunctory bow to both her and Sophie, and then turned his attention to Whitmore.

The young dandy’s cheeks turned an unhealthy shade of white.

Throwing an arm around Whitmore with enough force to nearly drop the man to his knees, Drake proceeded to give him a slight shake. To those observing the scene, Drake’s mannerisms could be construed as male jocundity.

A mottled shade of red restored color to Whitmore’s cheeks. “M-my l-lord, I-I’m surprised to find you here. Why Lady Smythe and all, you know?”

Emmaline flinched. Apparently the young dandy had far more temerity than she’d credited him with.

The moments ticked by with an exaggerated slowness. Drake still hadn’t spoken, which added a marked intensity to the exchange.

Stupid as he was, Whitmore had the sense to know he’d said something unpardonable, something which had only served to raise the Marquess of Drake’s ire. He took a step away from Drake.

Her betrothed pinned a glacial stare on Whitmore, his mouth set in a firm, unrelenting line. “Why don’t I join you? But first, make your apologies.” Her betrothed’s words were as silken as the edge of a blade.

“M-my apologies, ladies.” Whitmore bowed so low he nearly toppled over his feet.

“Tsk, tsk…I’m beginning to notice a rather unseemly trend, Whitmore,” Emmaline said.

Drake inclined his head. “I believe the young man needs to inform his mother of how callously he’s been treating young ladies.”

Whitmore sputtered and he gripped Drake’s arm. “Please, I implore you. Do not let my mother know,” he said, his gaze skittered off to land on the rotund, graying woman conversing with the host and hostess.

“What do you think, my lady? Miss Winters? Do you think I should inform Lady Whitmore?” Drake asked.

Whitmore’s eyes bulged. “Have a heart.”

Sophie tapped her chin. “I don’t know. What do you think, Em?”

Drake arched a golden brow in Emmaline’s direction. “Yes, what do you think, my lady?”

What did she think? She actually had very little thought reserved for Lord Whitmore. She was still trying to grapple with the warring personalities Drake presented to her. One moment he was the aloof, indifferent bounder, the next he was a champion charging over on his white steed, defending her from miscreants.

“My lady?” Drake pressed.

Emmaline returned her attention to the matter at hand. She studied the little toad quivering before them. She almost felt bad for him. Until she recalled the old peddler woman and Whitmore’s poor battered horse. “No, I think Lady Whitmore would definitely want to know about her son’s proclivity for rudeness.”

Drake turned to the cowering dandy. “How about a round in the ring, tomorrow, as well, Whitmore?”

Words eluded Whitmore who continued to rapidly shake his head back and forth in a way that nearly made Emmaline ill.

Her gaze locked with Drake’s and it appeared there was something more he wished to say, but the presence of Sophie and Whitmore prevented it. “My apologies, my lady,” he said. “I have a meeting with this pup’s mother, isn’t that right, Whitmore?”

Emmaline watched him go with his pup in tow, knowing there were many layers to that apology.

“Indifferent, Em.” Sophie snorted. “I think not.”

TWELVE

My Dearest Lord Drake,

I begged Sebastian to allow me to accompany him to London Hospital. The visit was nothing short of remarkable.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

Sebastian pulled his watch fob from the front pocket of his jacket and proceeded to check the time. “I am going to visit London Hospital. Are you—?”

Emmaline set aside the book she’d been reading and clambered up from the window-seat that overlooked the gardens below. “I’m coming! Give me a moment.”

Sebastian had been a board member at London Hospital since their father had died. Three years ago, when Sebastian had been planning his first visit to the hospital, a teary-eyed Emmaline had begged to go along with him.

Her brother had insisted London Hospital was no place for a seventeen-year old, genteel, young lady but, Sebastian had eventually been worn down. Ultimately, the older brother of a young grieving sister had been wont to deny her anything.

When Sebastian attended London Hospital’s monthly board meetings, Emmaline accompanied him and visited with the soldiers who’d fought Boney’s forces. In addition, she spent one day each week reading to the soldiers.

“I have a meeting with the Board. I told you to be ready by—”

“Just a moment!” Emmaline grabbed her stack of books, and handed her burden over to him. “Here.” She looped her arm through his and they made their way to the foyer.

A servant assisted Emmaline into her burnt orange taffeta cloak. She smiled. “Did Cook have that basket readied?”

She’d not even finished her question when a maid rushed forward with the basket outstretched. “Here it is, my lady.”

“Thank you,” she murmured as Sebastian relieved the maid of her burden. Emmaline followed Sebastian to the carriage.

After he placed the basket on the opposite seat, he sprawled into the red velvet squabs of the carriage bench.

Emmaline nudged him in the side. “Slide over. You are crowding me.”

“I’m insulted, Em. This carriage is enormous and…”

She rapped his fingers. “Just move over.”

“You’d never know I was a duke,” he muttered and moved over to the other bench.

Emmaline’s lips twitched.

Sebastian reached over and snagged the stack of books she’d brought with her. He shuffled through the pile and then set them aside. “Byron? Coleridge? Blake?” He arched a brow. “Are you certain this is what the men prefer to hear?” He dropped the books down on the opposite seat with a condescending thump.

Emmaline bristled. “Who wouldn’t want to read Byron, Coleridge, or Blake?”

Sebastian gave his head a shake as if to say, I’m more than certain I’m right and you’re wrong. He at least had sense enough not to say as much, aloud.

Instead, he flipped open the lid of the basket. “What do we have?”

Emmaline leaned over and slammed the top down on his fingers. “We have nothing.”

“Ouch.” He popped the smarting digits into his mouth.

“Really, Sebastian,” she chided, and slapped his other hand for good measure. “You can avail yourself to Cook’s pastries any time you want. These are for the soldiers.”

“I wasn’t going to eat anything.”

“Liar.” Emmaline ignored his response and turned her attention out the windowpane as the London scenery passed by.

“So, Em, what’s the story with Drake?”

Her eyes snapped back toward Sebastian and she felt a warm flush climb her neck and heat her cheeks. For the better part of the month, Sebastian had made it clear he did not approve of her efforts to secure Drake’s affections.

“What do you mean?”

Hazel-brown eyes narrowed. “You asked me if I trusted you. I responded yes. I am, however, the Duke of Mallen and your guardian. I need to ensure your protection.”

“What rubbish.” She puffed out her chest and threw her chin back in her best impression of a duke. “I’m the very powerful Duke of Mallen and want to know just what my little sister is up to.”

Sebastian folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t sound like that.”

“No, you sound like that.”

His brow wrinkled as if in annoyance. “Oh, and just what that are you referring to?”

“You sound like my older brother who is trying to find out what I’m up to.”

Sebastian sat back in the squabs of his seat. He drummed a finger on his leg. “Is there something wrong with me wanting to protect you?”

A swell of emotion climbed up Emmaline’s throat and made it difficult for her to reply. For all the responsibilities he’d inherited, and all the obligations that went with being the Duke of Mallen, occasionally there were moments when Sebastian was not the all-powerful peer and simply was her brother.

Emmaline leaned over and took his hand in hers. She gave it a light squeeze. “Of course not. But that is all you needed to say, brother.”

He cleared his throat, noticeably uncomfortable with her show of emotion. “So?” he urged.

He was like a dog with a bone with this one.

She sighed, letting his hand go. “I want a decision from Drake. I want a courtship and a true marriage. He is no longer allowed to run from me.”

Sebastian’s jaw set. “No.”

Emmaline’s lips twitched. “I wasn’t asking you.”

He scowled. “I still feel as though I should tell you how I’m feeling.”

“Fair enough,” she said with mock solemnity.

He opened his mouth to add something when the carriage drew to a halt.

“We’re here!” she called cheerily. Before the groom had even reached the side of the carriage, she leaned across Sebastian and thrust the door open, effectively squashing the remainder of the discussion.

Emmaline accepted the hand from the groom. “Thank you, Charles.”

She accepted Sebastian’s arm and allowed him to escort her up the column of stone steps into London Hospital. The hospital faced White-Chapel Road and was divided by a carriageway. The main entrance led into a receiving room where they were always greeted, before heading to the ward.

Emmaline walked down the stark white halls, and greeted the fifty-five soldiers who now made London Hospital their home.

“My lady, so good to see you,” one soldier called. “Your Grace,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

Emmaline waved to the soldier. She stopped at his bedside. “Lieutenant Woods, how have you been this fine week?”

The burly red-haired soldier grinned a nearly toothless smile. “Better, now, my lady. Better now!”

Emmaline waggled a brow. “I’m certain you are simply referring to my arrival with Cook’s latest creation. Though I must tell you,” she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “it was all I could do to defend the basket from His Grace. I had to slap his fingers in the carriage ride over.”

Woods guffawed with laughter. It blended with the echoing chuckles from the men in nearby hospital beds.

Looking around at her growing audience, she nodded for good measure. “No, truthfully, I gave them a little slap.” She teasingly demonstrated said slap on Sebastian’s fingers, and earned another round of laughter.

Sebastian pointed his eyes towards the ceiling and shook his head. “I will return after my meeting,” he muttered. His response only fueled the soldiers’ amusement. He turned to the nurse who’d followed them into the ward and handed, Emmaline’s books over to her.

Emmaline gave him a quick buss on the check and then he left. She returned her attention to the basket. “Ahh, let us see…what have we here?” She extracted a raspberry scone and handed the confection to Woods.

He accepted it as though he’d been offered the King’s crown. “My lady,” he said in solemn thanks and then took a wide bite of the treat.

Emmaline sat beside him for a short while, reading some of Byron’s work before she moved on down the rows of beds. She stopped to inquire after each of the soldiers, occasionally reading to those who asked her for a poem.

Then she reached the last bed in the ward.

No buoyant grin met her at this particular bedside. No warmth. Nor amusement. As long as Emmaline had been visiting London Hospital, this bed had been devoid of any trace of cheer.

Emmaline turned to the nurse who’d accompanied her. “Nurse Whiting, I will just be reading here. You can see to the other soldiers.”

“You are always so kind, my lady.” Nurse Whiting dropped a curtsy and turned her attention to a soldier at the far end of the room, calling out for assistance.

With the woman gone, Emmaline shifted her focus to the soldier. “Lieutenant Jones,” she greeted with the same smile she had for each man.

Jones, whose bed was situated at one of the back windows, had his eyes closed and his head directed toward the window. It was much the same every time she visited. Sometimes his closed eyes would be pointed to the end of the room and sometimes out the window.

They very rarely fell on her. They were never open.

Lieutenant Jones had lost an arm in the war. He had been gaunt three years ago. A skeleton of a human being. Since then, he’d gained weight, but seemed trapped within the hell of his experience fighting Boney’s forces.

Emmaline had committed to never abandoning Jones.

She waved one of her copies beneath his nose, so close it wafted his skin with the movement of air.

“Coleridge,” she said.

She waved another.

“Byron?”

And a final copy. “Or Blake?”

She waited.

As usual, there was no answer. “You are always so kind to let me decide. I choose…” She thumbed through the volumes, “…Coleridge today.” She scanned several pages. “Would you know, Lieutenant Jones, my brother had the audacity to tell me you are assuredly disappointed in my reading selection. He called poetry frivolous. Can you imagine that?” There was no outward reaction from Jones. “I told him, with utmost confidence, I was sure you approved of my selection. But,” she leaned close and whispered, “upon careful consideration I was forced to wonder if you ignore me because of the poetry.”

For the first time in three years, Lieutenant Jones opened his eyes. They were a startling shade of grey; like a summer sky right before a turbulent lightning storm.

Emmaline gasped, and dropped the volume at his bedside.

Lieutenant Jones continued to stare.

Emmaline smiled. Tears stung her eyes but she blinked them back. The last thing this man needed to see was her weak display of emotion. “Should I take that as a yes or no, Lieutenant? You just let me know. I assure you I shan’t be offended.” Her hand shook as she turned the page and began to read.

A long while later, she glanced up when the soldiers at the front of the ward called out greetings to the Duke of Mallen. She snapped the book of poems closed.

“I must tell you one of my favorite things about you, Lieutenant, is that you are the only gentleman here I am certain isn’t fond of me simply for the treats I bring from Cook.”

She gasped when his hand shot out and wrapped around her wrist. For all his years of confinement and his lack of physical exertion, his hold felt like a weighted chain on her person. Emmaline stared down at the strong hand that gripped hers. She supposed she should feel some sense of alarm—and yet, she didn’t. Deep inside, Emmaline knew he wouldn’t hurt her.

“Why do you persist?” His voice came out rusty from ill use. “Why do you not go away? Why can you not let me be?”

Emmaline met his steely grey-eyed gaze square on. “I don’t think you want me to go away, Lieutenant. I think, whether you’ll admit it or not, you like me. And for whatever reason, I have grown to like you. Though, I must say you have proven far more amicable when you don’t say anything at all.”

His eyes narrowed, passed over her face, as if he sought the answer to some question she wasn’t privy. He abruptly released her wrist. Then, for the first time in three years—smiled.

THIRTEEEN

My Dearest Drake,

After scaling down one of the ancient trees outside my bedroom window, I found my mother and father waiting for me at the bottom. They forbade me from climbing that tree ever again. I solemnly assured them I would respect their orders. So I have taken to climbing the trees far away from view of the house!

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

For the better part of a fortnight, Lady Emmaline had been there. By there Drake meant, in attendance at every event he attended. With her ability to ferret out his plans, she’d have made a hell of a spy for Wellington.

It begged the question why, at that precise moment, as Emmaline, her friend Miss Winters, and a maid snuck into a bookshop on the corner, did he not want to remain hidden in the confines of his black lacquer carriage? He didn’t pause to pay the silent question rolling around his mind much thought. Drake rapped on the roof of the carriage which came to an immediate halt.

Drake jumped down, and crossed the bustling street to the Old Corner Bookshop. He entered through the single door that set a tinny bell a-jingle and did a quick survey of the establishment.

The adage “Old” seemed rather generous. With an overwhelming scent of stale must, the inside of the establishment was ancient…and that too, might have been magnanimous. The rows and rows of books held a pungent odor of aged leather. Drake ruffled his nose and quelled the urge to sneeze. Clearly, the Old Corner Bookshop was not the most thriving of establishments.

“My lady, Miss Winters, so good to see you both.” The boisterous greeting caught Drake’s ear and propelled him deeper into the shop.

The ladies’ murmured response was lost in the rows of shelving.

“Why yes, yes I do in fact have the very novel.” The shopkeeper’s voice had dropped to a clear attempt at conspiratorial whisper, a feat Drake was sure the other man hadn’t exhibited in at least two decades.

Drake’s ears perked up. His betrothed enjoyed literature. What were Emmaline’s reading preferences? Poetry. She struck him as a romantic. The thought summoned a memory from long ago. He was kneeling down beside a five-year-old Emmaline. She’d fallen and he’d helped her to her feet. “Are you a prince?”

He started. He’d all but forgotten that moment in time. It wasn’t particularly something a boy of thirteen would remark upon, let alone remember. But in his mind he could clearly see the five-year old girl’s brown eyes pooled with tears of pain. He remembered the way they’d widened in wonder at the sight of him.

The muffled sound of Emmaline’s whisper brought Drake’s attention back to her circumspect efforts. With a sure-step, he moved deeper into the shop, closer to the voices in discussion, and peered around the edge of the shelf.

Emmaline’s smile stretched wide, as she displayed a row of pearl-white teeth and one slightly angled, yet highly endearing front left tooth. She accepted the work proffered by the rotund little man as gingerly as if the Archbishop of Canterbury had offered her the Holy Grail. Turning it in her hands, she studied the cover, and said something to Miss Winters, who laughed, and accepted a second copy from the shopkeeper.

The man bowed and continued down the aisle, leaving the ladies alone.

The furtive glances his betrothed continued to steal only heightened Drake’s intrigue. What could she be up to?

Battlefield experience had shown him the importance of having the upper hand.

“Lady Emmaline, Miss Winters, what a pleasure seeing you both!” he called out.

A squeal of surprise rent the quiet hum of the empty bookshop followed by a thump as the book Emmaline had been holding fell to the floor. The novel tumbled open, and landed indignantly upon its spine, the title still concealed.

Blast and double blast!

She’d rather have ripped her hair out one strand at a time than have him find her here. After all her chance-meetings with Drake, this would be when he happened upon her.

“Lord Drake, what a pleasure to see you,” she lied.

Emmaline saw his lips moving but didn’t pay attention to his response. All her focus remained on the book at her feet. She peeked out the corner of her eye at Sophie. She dared hope Sophie had formulated a plan to recover the volume without attracting Drake’s notice, for Emmaline was stymied.

In an attempt to distract him, Emmaline favored Drake with her most winning smile and stuck the tip of her satin slipper out as she tried to drag the leather volume toward her.

Drake’s jade eyes fell to her extended foot.

So much for her winningest smile.

“Please, allow me,” he insisted.

Like hell, she silently fumed. She made one last valiant attempt to collect the novel but he bent down to rescue the source of her quandary.

“No need. I have it, my lord.” She bent over just as Drake did. Their heads met with a loud crack.

“Oomph,” Emmaline gasped. The world rocked from under her and she would have splayed in an inelegant heap at his feet, but Drake’s arms were already out. He expertly righted her, rescuing her before she crashed to the floor and cradled her slender frame against his sculpted chest.

Emmaline’s breath caught. The press of his body against hers left her incapable of formulating one coherent thought. All she could comprehend was the absolute and total heat of his touch, the scent of sandalwood clinging to his person, tantalizing her senses.

Sophie sighed.

It would appear Drake heard it, too. As though Emmaline had spiked thorns along her forearms, he set her from him with alacrity.

She hated that her whole body should go on alert the moment he entered the same room, when he remained impervious to her. She might as well be a matronly relative. No…he probably would treat matronly relatives with far more regard than he showed her.

Sophie stammered her pardon and scurried down another aisle. Emmaline wasn’t certain if her friend was either: one, allowing her time alone with her betrothed or whether two, she sought escape before he discovered their scandalous reading habits. Which reminded her…

Emmaline made one more attempt to retrieve the work, but alas her betrothed had the reflexes of a lightning strike. He intercepted her efforts, and rescued the volume, holding it aloft, well beyond her reach.

A single, strand had escaped Emmaline’s neat chignon during her exertions and hung over her brow. She blew the lock back and folded her arms across her chest. “I would like my book back, my lord.”

Her eyes were drawn to the slow smile that quirked one corner of his lips. Drat the man. He seemed far too amused by this exchange. She briefly contemplated snatching the volume from his hand and dismissing him without a further word. Based on his earlier speed, any effort she made to retrieve it would prove ineffectual.

“Hmmm, what have we here?” he wondered, and lowered the book to eye level. His smile widened and he revealed a row of perfectly white even teeth.

Of course he would have perfect teeth, she thought, promptly snapping her mouth shut. She’d not allow him to see her own imperfect row, the way her front left tooth angled slightly over its right counterpart. Her brother had forever teased her over it, and it had always been a source of insecurity. She could only imagine what her betrothed would think about it.

Drake glanced at the title.

At any other place, at any other time, Emmaline would relish the levity of their exchange. Not, however, at this particular moment. Her reading preferences were an exceedingly intimate part of herself that she did not want to share. He very well may be her betrothed, but he was still a veritable stranger.

He blinked several times. “This is what you’re reading?”

Emmaline did not like his emphasis on the word, this. “I’ll take it now, my lord,” she said. She held her hand out, and waited for him to turn it over.

Drake ignored her and opened the front flap of the book. His eyes scanned the words, and then snapped in her direction “This is what you are reading?” There was a measure of haughty disdain in his words.

Annoyance blossomed inside her chest at the way Drake kept repeating himself. “You needn’t sound so…so…incredulous.”

Drake closed the book and shook his head. “Gothic novels. This is where your interests lie.”

Rules of etiquette be demmed, Emmaline snatched the volume from his hands. “I do not appreciate your condescension. Nor do I care for the way you keep repeating yourself.” Somewhere along the way his words had ceased to be a question and had become a statement.

Drake opened his mouth to speak but Emmaline continued before he had the chance. “How terribly stuffy of you, my lord. It is difficult to imagine that you, who’ve had scores of mistresses littering the better part of England, should be so scandalized by a mere piece of literature. Your reaction is simply staggering.”

Drake advanced a step in her direction and Emmaline took a step back. There was something overwhelmingly masculine and at the same time predatory in his hooded expression.

“Stuffy?”

His words washed over her like a silken caress. She told her brain to remind her head to nod. “Yes, stuffy.”

Before she even suspected his intentions, he again relieved her of her copy.

The work under his scrutiny was Glenarvon by Caroline Lamb. Emmaline had always had a love for Gothic novels; however, this one was even more intriguing than most, for it told the story of doomed love between a married Lady Calantha and a dashing Irish Revolutionary. The work was not even a thinly veiled disguise of Lady Caroline Lamb’s own tempestuous love affair with Lord Byron, and that, combined with her rather unflattering satire of leading members of Society, had set the ton abuzz.

“Are you mad, reading this?” His voice was a harsh whisper. He stuffed the volume on the shelf behind him, and cast a glance about as though discovery were imminent.

Emmaline tugged the volume out from the spot where he’d haphazardly deposited it. “First, that is not where this book goes,” she reprimanded. “Second—”

“I don’t care where the bloody book goes as long as it is not in your hands,” he bit out. He wrested it from her grip, returning it yet again to the wrong shelf.

Emmaline directed her eyes to the ceiling. Who’d have imagined Lord Drake would be squeamish when it came to a gothic novel?

“I am purchasing it, my lord.” She snatched it back from the shelf and held it protectively to her chest. She hadn’t had a say in the man she would wed, not one aspect of her future. She would be damned if she would be denied a say in her reading choice.

“I should have expected you would be interested in one of the most controversial novels, and one about a great love affair.” His words fairly dripped with condescending irony.

Her eyes narrowed. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said, you’re filling your head with extreme nonsense. You’d be better served by reading the classics.” He paused. “I do not want to see you suffer, Lady Emmaline.” Drake’s usual jade eyes had lightened to a gentle moss shade, and Emmaline read something warmly protective in his expression.

And she realized—he’s concerned about me. The realization nearly bowled her over. For years he’d been indifferent but now, he seemed utterly panicked on her behalf. Warmth filled her.

“I’m concerned about you,” he said, as if he’d read her thoughts.

There was something seductive about his softly spoken words. Emmaline swayed toward him.

“I say, are you all right?” His hand shot out to steady her.

She gave her head a small shake. “Fine.”

Drake swiftly dropped his hands from her person and redirected his attention to the volume held against her bosom. “Of all the silly, nonsensical things to read.”

So they were back to that, were they? “You sound like my brother.”

A sound caught in his throat. “Don’t ever say that.”

Emmaline crossed her arms at her chest. “Well, you do. He’s so hidebound when it comes to what I read, so very ducal. And you, you aren’t a duke, but…” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “You will step neatly into the role, I imagine.”

“You’re an impertinent thing.” He took another step toward her and her arms fell back to her sides. She took yet another step back. “And I will say just one more time, enough comparing me to Sebastian.”

A palpable tension radiated from his person, as he eyed her with a hard glint in his eyes, and she knew better than to debate the point.

“Have you ever read a Gothic novel, my lord?”

Drake snorted. “I would never waste my time with such drivel.”

His reaction killed any of the earlier warmth she’d felt toward him.

“By your own admission, you’ve never so much as read a Gothic novel.” She clicked her tongue. “Tsk, tsk, I would have never thought you were so stodgy and judgmental to develop such an uninformed opinion.”

Drake’s shoulders drew back. Emmaline wasn’t certain if he had taken particular offense at being called stodgy or judgmental. Or perhaps both.

“Lady Emmaline, that book,” he jabbed a finger in the direction of the offending work, “has set Society on its ear. Every lord and lady named in that work is outraged. They are shunning anyone who reads or supports the cowardly author who wrote it.”

An inelegant snort escaped her. “I assure you, no one gives a fig what novel I’m reading.” Even if it is one of the most scandalous works of the Season, she silently added. “Not to mention, with the exception of you and Sophie, no one else knows.”

“That does not condone it.” His jaw hardened.

And because she knew it would infuriate him…she laughed in his face. “You’re acting like an old, strait-laced gentleman.” She waved her hand. “I would never have taken you as one who feared Society’s ridicule. Nor, for that matter, would I believe you naïve. Do you truly believe the entire ton isn’t scrambling to secure a copy?”

Drake growled low in his throat and for the first time since he’d come upon her in the bookshop, Emmaline became truly nervous. She took a tentative step away from him, having forgotten she’d run out of backward steps, until she collided with the shelving. She sidled to the left of him. Perhaps she had gone a touch too far.

“I’ll just be going,” Emmaline said, as though she’d not just offended a lord who was not used to being offended, insulted, or anything else she’d done to him that day. She would have stepped around Drake but his arm again shot out, and he pulled her close, his lips a hairsbreadth from her own.

“Doddering old man?” His hot, softly spoken words whispered against her lips, tickling them.

Emmaline licked her lips. Even through the silk fabric of her gown, her skin heated where he touched her waist. “I didn’t call you doddering…” Her words trailed off when Drake’s eyes dropped to her lips.

Before she could form another coherent thought, his mouth was on hers, hot, intent, with purpose.

Emmaline froze, stunned by the unexpectedness of her first kiss, then her body weakened as she curled against Drake, and she who had never before been kissed, kissed him back, eagerly.

She had often dreamed of what her first kiss would be like…had always assumed it would be with her betrothed, but this, this she had not been prepared for, nay, could never have prepared for. His lips were firm and when a sigh escaped her, his tongue took advantage and slipped inside, plundering, devouring, tasting.

Emmaline moaned and she reached up to tangle in the silk strands of his longer than fashionable golden mane.

She moaned. “Drake.” The breathy entreaty obviously jolted him; his body jerked as if he’d been struck.

He set her from him with such alacrity she almost lost her footing. Ever the gentleman, his hands shot out to steady her. Drake scanned the area around them, as if to ascertain whether or not they’d been discovered.

Emmaline tried to fight a stab of hurt. “You don’t have to look so relieved,” she said, hating the way her words broke, wishing she could remain composed.

Drake dragged a hand through his hair. What the hell had he done here? Then his eyes took in Emmaline’s swollen lips, the loose brown strands that had come down around her shoulders—and he knew exactly what had overcome him. A sweet fire had glinted in her eyes as she’d challenged him and Drake had needed to taste that passion on her lips. It was vastly easier to focus on the flare of desire between them than on the tumult of emotions that he couldn’t explain.

He cleared his throat. “You should be relieved you haven’t been discovered with that book.”

“So we are back to that again, my lord? Very well, I’d like to issue you a challenge.”

“I’m sorry?”

She sighed. “Perhaps your age has affected your ability to hear, my lord.”

His eyes narrowed. “I’m not old.”

“A challenge, then my lord.”

Drake’s mind went down a whole series of seductive, sexual paths, that all ended with Emmaline on her back, silken waves fanned out upon his pillow, arms outstretched, legs parted…

“A challenge?” His words came out gravelly to his own ears. He shifted to ease the ache that had settled in his groin, praying his betrothed didn’t glance down and see the large bulge at the front of his breeches.

She held the volume of Glenarvon out to Drake.

He took it and she continued. “We will each purchase a copy and read it. Whoever finishes the book first may call in whichever demand they want from the losing party.”

Drake fought down another rush of images; Emmaline on her knees, taking his length between her lips, sucking him…“And what will those terms be, Lady Emmaline?” he asked hoarsely.

She gave a toss of her head, apparently having no idea that her every movement enflamed his passions. “Why, I would like to be taken on a picnic. What do you desire, my lord?”

A sound, very near a groan, lodged in his throat. He gave his head a violent shake.

Emmaline’s brow furrowed. “You must want something.” Her eyes went wide and she up held a finger. “I have it, my lord. If you win, I shall make it a point to avoid whichever event you attend for an entire week.”

Drake froze; his tongue could not move to form words.

If he won this silly wager, she would cease pestering him? He should leap at the opportunity. Why then did the thought of not seeing her rest like a pit in his stomach? He told himself it was because he welcomed the diversion she presented. It was nothing more than that. He’d begun to enjoy their subtle repartee.

“A week,” he said. He hated the sadness that clouded her eyes, and felt like a bastard who’d kicked a kitten. It was on the tip of his tongue to argue the terms were not his, but rather her own. He held out his hand.

Emmaline hesitated, then reached out and placed her small white gloved fingers in his. “How will we know whether the other is being truthful?”

A smile tugged at his lips. “In other words, my lady, how will you know if I’ve actually held my word? Tsk, tsk. I’m insulted. What about a test of sorts? Whoever completes the reading first will have to answer a series of questions about the book.”

Emmaline nodded and gave a slight but firm shake. She had a stronger grip than most gentlemen he knew.

“I bid you good day, my lord. Oh, and one more thing.” She plucked the copy of Glenarvon from his free hand. She turned dismissively to go and pay for her volume.

Drake frowned. “What about my copy?”

Emmaline continued down the long aisle. “That is not my problem.” She tossed over her shoulder, and then disappeared around the shelf at the front of the establishment.

Her victorious giggle echoed throughout the store.

Drake grinned. The little minx.

The gauntlet had been thrown.

FOURTEEN

My Dearest Lord Drake,

I sometimes wonder if we had not been betrothed, would Fate have intervened to see us wed anyway? I like to believe so.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

Drake stared up at the canopy above his bed. Eerie shadows, cast by the small fire in the hearth danced off the fabric and walls of his room.

The memories were worse at night. In the late hours, when the inky black fingers of the evening sky had stolen the last of daylight, Drake heard things; sounds, people. The hum was sometimes so deafening he would clamp his hands tightly over his ears and rock back and forth on the edge of the bed, willing the ghosts of fallen friends to release him, forgive him for living when they remained forever on the battlefields.

The irony didn’t escape him—the decision to enlist had been entirely his own. He’d been motivated by resentment for his father’s high-handed manipulation of his life. Drake hadn’t even been allowed the opportunity to decide which university he would attend. Instead, it had been stated in no uncertain terms he would attend Eton and Oxford, just as his father had, and his father’s father, etcetera, etcetera…

Drake had known early on all the responsibilities that went with being the only son and heir to the powerful Duke of Hawkridge. He’d even had a clear idea he would be expected to one day marry for his title. What Drake had resented was being robbed of the choice as a mere boy.

The day Drake had coolly informed his father of his enlistment, the Duke of Hawkridge had slammed his fist onto his desk and threatened to have the King strip him of his commission. When all was said and done, his father hadn’t interfered.

He’d imagined nothing could be more horrendous than the Duke of Hawkridge’s controlling influence. He shook his head.

The time he’d spent fighting had proven just how naïve he’d been. Amidst the battering cold of icy rain, clad in a mud-drenched uniform, he’d dreamed of the day he’d return to White’s and Brook’s, Gentleman Jackson’s, and all his other frequent haunts.

The day he’d returned from the Peninsula, he’d wanted nothing more than the easy comfort of his former life.

Society had different plans for the returned hero.

The only way Drake had managed to retain his grasp on sanity had been to bury himself in drink, women, and any other mindless pursuits. He’d made it a point to ignore his father’s silent censure.

Drake forced his attention away from dark remembrances and to the novel he’d thrown haphazardly to the bed where it lay untouched…staring mockingly up at him.

Just the thought of his exchange with Emmaline at the Old Corner Bookstore chased away the demons dancing about his haunted mind.

Before she’d taken her leave from the bookshop, Emmaline had wished him luck.

It had turned out he would need it. The shopkeeper had looked visibly distressed that his only two copies of Glenarvon had walked out the door with his two loyal customers, leaving Drake copy-less. So had begun Drake’s quest for the sought after, scandalous novel all the ton was fascinated by.

He’d spent hours scouring bookshops without success. He’d known whom to blame for his inability to attain a copy. At each respective establishment he’d visited, a note had been left with the shopkeeper for Lord Drake. It had contained one line. “Happy Hunting!”

Drake laughed at the memory of it and shook his head. What was it about her? She possessed a buoyant spirit that energized him in a way that reminded him he was very much alive.

In the end, Drake had prevailed and found a copy of the book. To prevent rumor of his reading-search from being bandied about Town, Drake had paid every shopkeeper a small fortune to keep his selection private.

He picked up the volume of Glenarvon and scoffed. What utter rubbish. Why the pages would be better served as kindling for a fire. He thumbed through the book, unable to stifle a smile at the caricatures of some of the tons leading members; Lady Jersey, there, plain for all to see. The patroness of Almack’s fury had been so great, she’d banished the author from the hallowed assembly hall.

Lying down, he dragged another pillow under his head and opened the book.

Only because the minx had a significant lead on him.

Drake gave his head a shake. “I cannot believe I’m reading this.” He fanned the pages, his eyes landing at a random point and read.

“She is even dangerously ill.”

“And pray may I ask of what malady?” he replied, with a smile of scorn.”

“Of one, Lord Glenarvon,” she answered with equal irony,” which will never endanger your health—of a broken heart.”

Drake snorted. “What rubbish.” He intended to tell his betrothed the next time he saw her.

He turned to the first chapter and began to read.

“Wake up, son. Wake up!”

Drake lunged up. Beads of sweat fell from his brow. He threw off his father’s grip and the energy seeped from his tightly coiled body. He studied the room through a clouded haze of horror, as he tried to sort out where his physical body was.

His gaze collided with his father’s. The Duke of Hawkridge said nothing. He never did after Drake recovered from one of his terrors.

Drake raked a hand across his face, and scrubbed it back and forth, with deliberate roughness. “I had a dream,” he said.

The Duke of Hawkridge nodded somberly. “I know.”

None would dare to believe that this man with his dressing gown rucked about his legs, kneeling at Drake’s side with tears in his eyes was in fact the Duke of Hawkridge.

Drake took care to avoid his father’s eyes. “I fell asleep. I shouldn’t have.” The last time he’d awakened from a nightmare to find his father next to him, he’d looked into the duke’s eyes and found them filled with pity, guilt, and regret—it had been too much for Drake.

“You have to sleep.” His father awkwardly patted Drake’s hand.

This is how it went when the nightmares came. Afterwards, neither of them knew what to say.

Hawkridge began slowly. “About your betrothal…”

Drake’s eyes slid closed. He braced for the lecture. His father was choosing this moment to speak to him about his responsibilities?

“I want you to know, I…I want you to be happy. I will…” the Duke of Hawkridge fumbled, seeming to search for the right word, “terminate the terms of the agreement, if that is what you so wish.”

Drake didn’t say anything. The irony of the duke’s offer was not lost on him. If those words had been spoken eight years earlier, how different would his life be? His rash decision to enlist would never have come to pass.

Oddly, the offer now left Drake with a feeling of emptiness inside. Take it, accept his offer and sever the contract. It would be the ultimate victory over his father’s will.

He opened his mouth to speak.

Then tried again.

But the words wouldn’t come.

It may have had something to do with the fact that for the first time since he’d returned from the Peninsula, he felt blessedly alive. Lying in the arms of stunningly beautiful courtesans, playing at the gaming tables, none of it had elicited anything from Drake.

Somehow Lady Emmaline had succeeded where nothing else had—she’d made him feel human again. When he was with her, he laughed, made jests. She made him feel a whole host of emotions he’d never thought to experience again.

And Drake was loath to lose the thin grasp on humanity she provided.

He scrubbed the back of his hand over his eyes. “I’m tired.”

Hawkridge stood a little too quickly, a demonstration of his discomfort with the state of his son’s well-being. “Yes, yes, then. Please think about what I’ve said.” He held a hand up, reached out, and then swiftly dropped it back to his side.

Drake watched him leave, thinking about what his father had said, and even more, thinking about why it was so hard to consider accepting the offer.

FIFTEEN

My Dearest Drake,

I have a confession. I am lonely. How odd, to have a mother, a father, a brother and frequent visitors, and yet still be lonely…I wish you’d come home soon and take me away from it all.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

Somewhere amidst the crush of people who had shown up for the musical event of the Season, Lord Drake was present.

The Earl and Countess of Cranford had all daughters; five of them to be exact, which provided a sufficient number for a whole evening’s worth of musical entertainment. The young ladies, ranging from seventeen to two and twenty, were as gifted musically as they were stunning examples of golden, blue-eyed, English beauty. Each lady possessed a crystal-clear tone and broad range that would make a choir of angels green with envy. And thus, the event had become the only musicale that members of the ton looked forward to.

Emmaline scanned the hall.

Lord Sinclair had sent around a note indicating Lord Drake would be in attendance. She glanced over at her mother, engrossed in conversation with Lady Bloom, who therefore couldn’t notice Emmaline’s pointed search for Lord Drake. It was bad enough Emmaline had to deal with Sebastian’s censure over her pursuit of her betrothed. She didn’t relish the prospect of having to fend off Mother’s disapproval, as well.

Emmaline caught her lower lip between her teeth. Lord Sinclair had insisted Drake would be present and yet…this wasn’t her betrothed’s usual entertainment. No, he’d far prefer balls where he could receive the attentions of scandalous, voluptuous widows. She could not even begin to speculate as to Drake’s motives in attending the annual musicale. There must be some woman in attendance who’d captured his interest.

Her mother touched the small of her back and Emmaline started. She’d not realized Lady Bloom had taken her leave.

“Your brother is speaking to Lord Waxham,” her mother said.

Emmaline followed her mother’s gaze to the opposite end of the hall, to where Sebastian conversed with Lord Waxham. The two men had been close friends for longer than she could remember. The relationship had begun at Eton, and over the years Waxham had been a frequent visitor to their London townhouse.

Of late, Sebastian had begun to mention Lord Waxham with an increasing frequency. Emmaline could only take that to mean Sebastian had despaired of anything truly coming of her betrothal to Drake.

Emmaline sighed. ’Twas a dark day indeed when one’s brother angled to secure a suitor for his still-betrothed sister.

Sebastian slapped Waxham on the back and the two gentlemen started in Emmaline and her mother’s direction.

Emmaline groaned.

Mother’s sharp gaze of disapproval snapped in her direction. Her mouth flattened in a tight line. “Emmaline, be polite,” she reprimanded, and then seemed to remember her own manners, for she presented a smile for anyone who happened to notice.

“I cannot survive Sebastian’s tactless attempt at matchmaking. For the love of God, I’m betrothed, Mother.”

“Don’t be silly. He is not…”

Emmaline didn’t pay attention to what her mother thought Sebastian was up to. Instead she scoured the room for an escape.

As if sensing her daughter’s intentions, she gripped Emmaline’s hand and effectively halted her retreat.

“My dear sister and mother! Don’t they look beautiful?” Sebastian asked loud enough for those around to hear.

Emmaline winced. If she could throttle her brother for his less-than-tactful approach, she’d do it right there.

Her mother’s brows narrowed.

Emmaline dipped a curtsy and greeted him. “Lord Waxham.”

“Two very beautiful ladies,” Waxham said. His deep baritone was both masculine and pleasant. But he was not Drake. He bowed and flashed Emmaline a smile.

A tide of guilt swept over her. It was hardly Waxham’s fault that her brother was…well, her brother. “How are you this evening, my lord?”

He grinned. “Better now.”

A wave of heat flooded her cheeks.

From an objective point of view, she could admit Waxham was a handsome gentleman, even if he was Drake’s counter-opposite. Though both gentlemen stood a good several inches past six feet, Waxham was still a smidgeon shy of Drake’s towering frame. With Waxham’s dark, almost Gypsy-like coloring hinting at his Roman ancestry, he was Lucifer to Drake’s Michael the Archangel. Still, Waxham happened to be in possession of the most magnificent dark curls Emmaline would have traded her left pinky for.

The dark devil captured her hand for a kiss, his eyes sparkling at Emmaline’s perusal and she scrunched her toes in embarrassment at being caught.

“Lady Emmaline, will you be regaling us with a song, following the scheduled performances of Lord Cranford’s daughters?” Waxham asked.

An inelegant snort escaped Emmaline. She covered her mouth with a gloved hand. “I’m not foolish enough to follow such lovely voices, particularly when my pitch is as flat as my—”

Her mother’s eyes shot up to her hairline. “Emmaline, why isn’t that Miss Winters?” Her question emerged as a high-pitched squeak.

Truly, did her mother think Emmaline would be so inappropriate as to mention her attributes in the midst of Lord and Lady Cranford’s music hall? One side glance in her mother’s direction, indicated that very thing.

“I was going to say my fresh pressed gloves.” Emmaline added with a teasing smile. She wiggled a glove about for Waxham’s inspection.

He laughed, earning an audience of curious stares from the surrounding ton.

His unrestrained mirth was infectious. Emmaline joined him laughing. “No, no I don’t see her, Mother.” Her eyes narrowed.

The Marquess of Drake stood conversing with Lord Sinclair and Lady Smythe. The cad didn’t even notice Emmaline standing at the opposite side of the hall.

Literally, the opposite side of the hall. Why, if she held her arm perfectly straight and followed it one hundred paces, she’d jab him in the chest with her fist…which was certainly no less than he deserved.

The audacity of the man, carrying on with that woman right under her nose. Oh, this would not do.

“I do see her after all, Mother. If you will excuse me, Lord Waxham.” She dipped a hasty curtsy and set out to greet Sophie and if along the way she happened to bump into Drake, well, then that couldn’t be helped.

In the end, she settled for running into Lady Smythe, garbed in a gown so fine it was almost sheer, made of the reddest satin and trimmed in black Italian lace. The satin had been purposefully dampened so it clung to each curve of her body. Could she be any more garish? For the love of God, the woman had only recently been widowed. She might as well dance a merry jig on her poor late husband’s grave.

Emmaline raised a hand to her mouth. “Oh, my lady, my deepest apologies. Imagine me stepping where I shouldn’t have. It is just a reminder that one must tread carefully.”

The widow’s mouth fluttered in a way reminiscent of a rainbow trout Emmaline had once caught. The poor thing had flapped about helplessly on the shore, before she’d taken pity on it, removed her hook, and set him free. She still remembered how graceful the fish had been as it leapt into the air, his body twisting, relishing in his release, before disappearing below the water’s surface.

Lady Smythe, however, was no fish. Instead, she was the one with her hook sunk deep where it didn’t belong.

Emmaline directed her attention to Lord Sinclair before the widow could speak. She dipped a deep curtsy and smiled. “Lord Sinclair, ever a pleasure.”

Sinclair bowed, a conspiratorial smile on his lips. “Likewise, my lady.”

“Lady Emmaline,” Lady Smythe said frostily. “I believe your mother is beckoning, my dear.” A mocking edge danced on those words in clear reminder that as a widow she was afforded luxuries that Emmaline herself was not.

Emmaline called on every ladylike lesson that had been drummed into her since birth to keep from slapping the other woman. “I assure you, I’m a woman and don’t need to be beckoned like a child, Lady Smythe. Though I do see Lord Thurmond beckoning you.” Every single member of the ton knew whose bed the indiscreet widow was warming.

An unbecoming red mottled the pale creature’s cheeks. She gave a flounce of her black curls and then left on a huff.

Sinclair coughed, in a clear attempt to cover a laugh. Emmaline gave him a sly wink.

Drake’s glower was black enough to smite a weaker person on the spot.

“I do believe Lord Drake has been delivered a slight by Lady Smythe. His ego is surely smarting from the insult,” she whispered conspiratorially. She looked in the direction of Lady Smythe and Lord Thurmond, and studied the couple in a dramatically overlong fashion. She tapped a finger along her jaw. “I do say they make a striking pair, don’t you agree?”

Fury fairly oozed from Drake’s form. His jaw was set tight at a steely angle. “Have you had your ego bruised, my lord?” She made a pitying sound.

Sinclair leaned close and whispered back. “He does appear bothered.”

Drake took Emmaline’s forearm in a firm grasp and determinedly steered her away. She cast her gaze sideways. With his amicable smile and the seeming gentlemanliness of his arm looped through hers, the crowd would be wont to notice anything untoward in his reaction.

His manacle like hold on her person was unrelenting. He drew to an abrupt stop beside an alcove in the corner of the auditorium, sending Emmaline’s still moving form pitching forward. “Oomph,” she breathed.

His hands came up to steady her shoulders…until he seemed to remember his fury. “Are you done, Lady Emmaline?” he said, his tone frosty.

She schooled her expression. “Whatever do you mean, my lord?” If he’d expected or hoped for a meek debutante, well, he was destined for disappointment. Emmaline hadn’t been a girl for a very long time. It was time he realized that. “I’m sorry. Have I embarrassed you in front of your friends and members of Society? How terribly insensitive.”

Drake’s mouth set in a hard, flat line. “You are making a fool of yourself, Lady Emmaline.”

Her body jerked as though she’d been physically struck, and she felt the color drain from her cheeks. “Perhaps. But you are a fool, my lord.”

His turbulent jade-green stare slid away but not before she detected a trace of something that resembled guilt, in his eyes.

No words he uttered could ever be adequate and yet she silently counted to ten, waiting for his apologies. When she reached fifteen, it became clear that he didn’t intend to break his silence and her hurt gave way to rage. The lout!

She found solace in her anger; it strengthened her, drove away the humiliation. Emmaline shook out her skirts and made to step around him. His arm shot out in front of her. He pressed his hand against the opposite wall, effectively cutting off her escape.

“Move,” she snapped.

Damn him.

Drake looked down at Emmaline through flinty eyes. He leaned close so his lips were scant inches apart from hers. “What is this game you play, Emmaline?”

And because Emmaline couldn’t formulate one suitable response, she leaned up and kissed him.

He stiffened at the feel of her lips pressed to his. But then it was as though he was unable to fight the baser masculine urgency that demanded more. He took Emmaline in his arms and with only a flimsy satin curtain between them and Society, his mouth ravaged hers, his ministrations hard and demanding.

The hot taste of him, tinged with whiskey, sapped the strength from her muscles. Drake guided her hands up around his neck, and then anchored her against the hard wall of his chest. She clung to him. Then his hands were about her, gripping her buttocks, pulling her even closer against the hard length of his shaft.

Her moan was lost in his hot, skillful mouth.

It was that same moan that seemed to pierce Drake’s desire. He jerked away from her with a hoarse groan. Horror flooded his eyes. His arms fell useless to his side.

Emmaline touched her fingers to her lips. In all the dreams she’d carried in her heart, in all her girlish yearnings of her betrothed, she had imagined his kiss. This passion, overwhelming in its power, moved beyond even what they’d shared in the Old Corner Bookshop. It made her ache to know more.

And yet…he was so coolly aloof, she could read nothing in him.

The detachedness of his response threatened to shatter her composure. How could he kiss her with such fever and then withdraw into this shell of a man? Something must have shaped him into a detached person incapable of warmth and affection.

The alcove curtain stirred.

“Emmaline?”

The sound of Emmaline’s name being called from behind the fabric had the same effect as a bucket of freezing Thames water being dumped over her. She went motionless. Her gaze darted around the cloaked alcove, and collided with Drake’s. “My brother,” she mouthed.

He held a finger to his lips.

“Emmaline,” Sebastian called in a faint whisper so as to not risk discovery.

She waited with breath held for him to continue on his way—all the while knowing with one word, one whisper, even so much as a sigh, her and Drake’s intimate position would be revealed, and both of them would be forced into a union.

A marriage based on a compromising position was not what Emmaline dreamed of for herself. Other young ladies might only care about an advantageous match but Emmaline wanted more.

What might have been seconds or minutes felt like an endless stretch of time. They waited. And waited.

The soft tread of Hessian boots moved on and indicated that Sebastian had left.

“Emmaline,” Drake whispered.

She slipped out of his arms and darted out from behind the curtains, leaving him alone.

Drake dropped his head against the wall and shook it back and forth. For one, inexplicable moment he’d wished Mallen had thrown back the curtain and discovered him and Emmaline. It would have meant her ruin and Drake would have been forced to do right by her.

Such senseless thinking would have only resulted in a miserable existence for Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh; uncertainty, fear, danger. Drake had committed enough wrongs in his life that he wasn’t willing to add this unpardonable sin—even if he did desire her and the peace she managed to somehow bring him.

“Emmaline! Where were you?” A voice hissed.

Drake picked his head up.

He strained to hear Emmaline’s muffled response.

“I assured Mother you knew what you were about but you are making a fool of yourself over Drake. You must have some pride,” Mallen chided.

Drake’s hands curled into fists at his side. How dare Mallen speak in that haughty tone to Emmaline? Just once he wanted to plant a left-handed jab into the other man’s face, just bury a fist into his nose.

“This is neither the time nor the place, Sebastian.”

Drake envisioned her with hands planted atop her gently-curved hips, a becoming flush on her cheeks, and all the desire he’d quashed earlier, came rushing back.

“You walked off on Waxham,” Mallen charged. “It was rude of you. He’s always been…”

The wicked trail Drake’s thoughts had been meandering down, meandered right over the edge of a steep cliff. Waxham? What was this about?

“Enough, Sebastian,” she bit out.

For once, Drake wanted Mallen to continue running his mouth because he wanted to know why, exactly, it should matter that Emmaline had walked off on Waxham and what Waxham had always been. Had Waxham always been like a brother to her? In love with her? What the hell had Waxham been? The unspoken words were perhaps worse than the not knowing. They made him gnash his teeth and want to bloody Waxham senseless.

“You need to be prepared, that is all I’m saying. Come. We’ll discuss this on the way to London Hospital tomorrow.” Mallen effectively ended the conversation.

Drake listened to the click of Mallen’s boot steps in harmony with the pad of her soft silk slippers, until they were no more. Long after they’d gone, when the concert had already begun, Drake finally moved out from behind the spot, tormented by the bloody niggling question; what the hell was Emmaline’s relationship with Lord Waxham?

He knew of the other man. Waxham was deep in the pockets, fond of the tables but not overly fond. Kept one mistress but didn’t frequent houses of ill-repute. Had respectable stables of horseflesh, which he bred and raced. Sparred regularly at Gentleman’s Jackson’s and was quite good at it.

In sum, the other man was a bloody paragon.

And suddenly, Drake hated him for it.

He moved into view of the concert, filled with a restless fury. With the exception of a lovely lyrical soprano voice, the auditorium was silent. He spied Sinclair seated at the back of the room, the end seat next to him open and made his way over.

“There you are. Where the hell were you off to?” Sin whispered as Drake slid into the vacant seat. “It’s bad enough I’m attending these events with you, quite another to be abandoned amidst match-making mamas.”

He ignored Sinclair. From his vantage, he could appraise the entire hall. Where the hell was she?

Then he spotted brown tresses he’d recognize amidst any crowd. He pointedly ignored Sin’s knowing chuckle. What had happened this evening? Whatever had transpired had been significant. For the life of him, he was incapable of looking at anyone but her.

He did not know what had compelled him to return her kiss and in nearly full view of the ton. And God help him, he could not rid himself of the taste of her lips or the eager way she’d sought his tutelage.

Drake tried to account for his fascination with Lady Emmaline, a woman he’d steered clear of for the better part of fifteen years. She was unlike every lady of his acquaintance. Those other women had perfected the art of coquetry. They fluttered their fans exactly the same, wore the same serene expressions.

On the contrary, Emmaline possessed a spirit that seemed indomitable. There was no mask where she was concerned. She made it quite clear exactly how she felt and made no apologies for it.

His eyes remained fixed on her.

And he became aware of something else.

“Waxham.”

Sin cast a sideways look in his direction. “What?”

The gentleman seated beside Emmaline leaned down and whispered something into her ear. With a smile, she tipped her head up, and appeared to whisper something back before redirecting her attention to their host’s eldest daughter, who’d just launched into an aria.

Mallen and Emmaline’s discussion a short while ago replayed in Drake’s mind. His gut tightened as an emotion that felt remarkably like jealousy reared its head. Just seeing Waxham seated beside Emmaline did something to Drake; something he did not like at all. He wanted to storm the room, drag Waxham up by the lapels of his jacket, and throw him out of the bloody recital hall.

It felt—primal.

Why should he care that Emmaline’s smile was far too warm or her proximity to Waxham too close? Drake’s hands balled into tight fists as he took in the overt glances the interloper directed toward Emmaline’s too low décolletage.

How dare she flaunt herself so freely under his nose, in front of the ton, no less! His first order of business in the morning would be to pay a call on her and demand more appropriateness when they were amidst Society.

Drake focused on her flagrant display with Waxham and his own indignation at being made a fool of in front of the lords and ladies in attendance. His ferocity had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he’d come to care for Emmaline.

Nothing at all…

Except…

Waxham whispered something else close to Emmaline’s ear.

And the feeling of wanting to tear the man apart did not feel like nothing at all.

SIXTEEN

My Dearest Drake,

When I tend the gardens, I talk to my plants. Do you find that odd? Sebastian does. He teases me mercilessly about it. I told him my plants make for far better company than him.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

“You have a visitor, my lady.”

Emmaline sat back on her heels so abruptly her elbow knocked the collection of gardening equipment she’d set haphazardly against the wrought iron bench. The array of metal shovels and hoes shifted, but managed to remain fixed to their spot.

Emmaline rubbed her injured elbow. “Can you direct my caller here?”

When the servant had left, she tugged the straw bonnet off her head, swiped her forearm across the sheen of perspiration that dampened her brow.

She’d not been expecting Sophie, and had planned on dedicating her day to cleaning up the weeds that had decided to infiltrate her London haven. They both had a mutual love for gardening and Sophie was usually eager to help. Emmaline set her bonnet back on and tied the ribbons underneath her chin.

Emmaline returned her attention to the lilies of the valley. She’d cultivated the sweet-smelling woodland plant several years ago. According to legend, the small, pure white buds represented a return to happiness and therefore, it was one of the flowers she liked to share with the soldiers who resided in London Hospital.

She trimmed back some of the buds, set the delicate ivory bellflowers into the basket next to her, and returned her attention to the next dainty row that needed rescuing from a cluster of weeds.

“I’m sorry I’ve been so neglectful, my dears. I’ve been busy in pursuit of my betrothed, and I feel my efforts in that score have only resulted in my neglect of you. It is unpardonable and I shan’t let it happen again.” She tugged a particularly stubborn weed that had wrapped around the base of the plant. She twisted it first left, then right, before yanking it straight up. “You are a tenacious one,” she muttered.

“I would say the same of you, Lady Emmaline,” a masculine voice drawled.

Emmaline careened backwards and landed in an inelegant heap upon her derriere at Drake’s feet. She stared overly long at the tips of his perfectly shined black Hessian boots and gave thanks for the wide brim of her flat-brimmed hat that shielded the stain of mortification that warmed her cheeks.

Sebastian had forever mocked the bonnet, but now, more than ever, Emmaline had a deep appreciation for it. The brim kept Lord Drake blessedly out of view. When her face had cooled, she tilted it back. “You are not Sophie.” The words came out faintly accusing.

Drake’s firm lips twitched at the corners. “No, I am certainly not Miss Winters.”

Emmaline toyed with the weed she still held in her hand. She could only imagine what Lord Drake thought about his betrothed working in a garden like any common servant. If he’d been scandalized by her preference for a gothic novel, well then this offense was surely tantamount to treason in his pompous eyes.

He continued to study her with that unreadable expression. The man must be a marvel at the gaming tables. She dropped the weed and scooped up a small bit of warm, moist soil, and sifted it through her fingers. A thin, slimy worm became caught between her fingers. She released the creature. It slithered off, deeper into a safe patch of ground away from prying hands—out of sight.

A sigh of envy escaped her. Lucky creature. What she wouldn’t herself give to have the ground open and swallow her deep into its hold of invisibility. She cast a hopeful gaze to the sky, willing the Good Lord to assist with a miracle.

Several moments later, Drake cleared his throat.

Emmaline sighed. Apparently the Lord was attending to more important miracles than rescuing one peculiar young lady from a healthy bout of humiliation.

She dusted her hands together. “Lord Drake.”

Drake held out a hand.

Emmaline glanced down at her mud-spattered fingernails, and then placed it in Drake’s, marveling at the strength of his long fingers wrapped so securely about hers. He effortlessly guided her to her feet, and she wondered that he should be so unaffected by the feel of their joined hands when it had sent her heart racing.

“Thank you, my lord,” she murmured, bemoaning the loss of contact when he removed his hand from her grasp. She dusted off her hands upon the chintz apron she’d donned for gardening. Her small shovel and spade jangled in her front pockets.

“You garden.”

“I am surprised to see you.”

They spoke in unison.

“Yes, I garden.” She frowned at the pile of weeds at their feet. “Though I fear I’ve been neglecting these far too long this Season.”

A full smile turned Drake’s lips. This wasn’t the mocking grin she’d come to expect from him.

Her heart leapt erratically beneath her breast.

“Uh, yes, I overheard that as well,” Drake said.

Her toes curled with mortification. Of course he’d heard that. And of course the day he chose to pay his first visit, she would be less than presentable. She grimaced. With her stained skirts, ‘less than presentable’ was being magnanimous.

To top off this splendidly disastrous day, he’d discovered her talking to plants…about him no less.

“I have a tendency to talk to my plants.”

He said nothing and Emmaline felt all the more humiliated for the admission. Stop talking, Em.

Over Drake’s shoulder, she caught sight of Grace as she entered the gardens. The maid sat on a bench near the entrance of the portcullis.

Emmaline waited for Drake to fill the void. She’d learned over the years; nothing her betrothed did was without careful deliberation. Something had brought him round to visit today…and she didn’t think it had a jot to do with her stimulating company.

“I’ve come by for a reason.”

And direct. Lord Drake was direct.

Well, they may as well get to the heart of it. Oh, but how nice it would have been if he’d merely come for a visit. She sighed. “What brings you here, my lord?”

“About last evening,” he began. “I saw you and I must inquire as to your flirtation last evening.”

In the full light of day, memories of her brazen kiss from the evening prior made her cringe. She toed the ground with the tip of her black boot, kicking aside a soft patch of mud. Oh, if she could just dig a hole and bury herself. “I-ah—it was merely a kiss.” But it hadn’t been just a kiss. In fact, it felt blasphemous to so slight that magical union of their lips.

A vein bulged at the left corner of his neck, the only indication of his tightly suppressed control. “Just a kiss?” he asked silkily.

Now she’d gone and done it. She’d offended his male pride. Emmaline waved her hand breezily, or rather gave her best attempt at breezy. “La, sir. You’ve kissed so many ladies. I cannot imagine my kissing one gentleman would rouse such a stuffy reaction.” She cringed. Had she really just said, La sir?

“You kissed him, too?”

She scratched her forehead. “I kissed who, too?”

“Him,” he growled.

“Do you mean, you?” His convoluted questioning was beginning to give her a megrim. “And I would hardly call it a flirtation,” she added.

His eyes narrowed, the emerald deepening to a jade hue, as they were wont to do when he was irate. Emmaline had come to know Drake enough to recognize that telling reaction.

She placed her hands on her hips and glowered back at him. “How cowardly of you to blame me. I daresay you are of equal blame for what transpired last evening.”

He took a step towards her and she scrambled away from him. She didn’t believe he’d hurt her but still, gentlemen fought duels for lesser charges against one’s character.

Drake’s lip pulled back in a sneer. “Are you saying I’m at fault for what transpired between you and Waxham?”

Emmaline placed her foot on a moist patch of ground and felt her boots sink into the earth. She tried to tug it free, when his words registered. “Waxham?”

“Yes, Waxham,” he bit out.

“Waxham?” Whatever was he talking about?

“You kissed him.”

What?! “I kissed Waxham?”

His nostrils flared, and she realized he’d construed her question as a statement. “You think I kissed him.” Emmaline snorted, and then she howled with laughter, hilarity shaking her frame until she doubled over with a stitch in her side. Tears of mirth smarted from behind her eyes. “A-are you d-daft?” She struggled to breathe. “I didn’t kiss him.”

Drake cocked his head to the side. “You didn’t kiss him?”

She dashed a hand over her eyes. “No, you silly man. I kissed you.”

He made a show of dusting the impeccable sleeve of his sapphire coat. “I saw you tilt your head, whisper, and smile up at him. I daresay I’ve engaged in enough flirtations to know the nuances of one. And I will not allow such flirtations to continue so long as we are betrothed.”

Emmaline shook her head. “Oh, you are daft.”

Had she been made of less stern stuff, the flinty gleam in his eyes would have caused her trepidation. But it would take more than that to make her run.

As if remembering they were not alone, Drake glanced over in Grace’s direction. He lowered his voice to a near whisper. “I saw you with Waxham. After shamelessly kissing me, you hurried over to flirt with him. Mayhap you have set your cap on him if you can’t bring me up to scratch.”

Emmaline’s hand flew out and she slapped him soundly on the cheek.

His head jerked back under the ferocity of the movement. He cradled his sore cheek. “Damn. For one so small, you can deliver quite the wallop.”

He deserved more than that slap and still, guilt filled her at the crimson stain her fingers had left on his scarred cheek. “Uh, why thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment,” he mumbled, his words somewhat muffled by the edge of his palm as he still held his cheek.

She jabbed him in the chest with her pointer finger.

“Ouch!”

“How dare you?” she demanded. “You come here.” Another jab that forced him backwards. “And reprimand, me?” Another jab. This time he flinched. Good! “You, who have forgotten for the better part of fifteen years that I so much as exist,” A fourth jab drove him back another step. “dare to address my behavior?”

“Grace, will you excuse us?” She ordered, not even bothering to look back at her maid.

“Very well, my lady,” Grace called. The young woman’s tone indicated she approved of Emmaline’s outrage.

Emmaline redirected her attention on her betrothed. “How dare…?”

“I will not be subjected to another of your rants,” he muttered.

He kissed her.

Drake tugged the silly, too-large bonnet from Emmaline’s head. The hasty movement unsettled the precarious chignon in which her silken brown tresses had been arranged, and sent the chocolate waves tumbling to her waist. Had he really ever thought the color mousy? He tangled his fingers in the luxurious strands, angling his head to better avail himself to her mouth.

She whimpered, and her body melted against his like a Gunther’s ice on a summer day. He held tight to her so she didn’t dissolve into a puddle at his feet. Filling his hands with her gently rounded buttocks, he anchored her against his center.

“Drake,” she moaned against his lips.

Another groan tore from his chest and he stroked her tongue with his. He ran his hands over her body in an attempt to explore the subtly seductive flare of her hips, the delicate swell of her buttocks.

He cupped her breast in his hand.

“Ohhh,” she gasped.

The husky timbre of her voice drove him wild, and he ached to slide between her moist folds and stroke her with his length.

He wanted to take her here and now, right on the garden floor. He sat down on the bench and adjusted her on his lap which set the gardening tools clattering. That small tinkling of metal meeting metal penetrated his consciousness. Drake pulled away with infinite slowness. He placed one more lingering, kiss upon her swollen lips and rested his brow atop hers. His breathing labored and harsh blended with the loud beat of his heart and made thinking difficult.

What hold did Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh have over him? When he was with her all logic and reason fled. Enough of his life was riddled with bouts of lost control. But she was like a tonic he could not live without, and whether he liked it or not, whether he wanted it or not, he craved her with an intensity that bordered on physical pain.

Emmaline’s breathing settled into a normal cadence. He stroked the small of her back, grateful at the time she took regaining her composure for it afforded him the same opportunity.

She spoke first. “Waxham is a friend of my brother’s.”

Apparently his kiss wasn’t as powerful as he liked to think. She hadn’t forgotten the reason for his earlier upset, the reason he’d kissed her into silence.

She went on. “Waxham has been like a brother to me.”

In spite of her words, Drake felt that awful emotion, he was beginning to recognize all too well as jealousy, rise in his throat, and nearly choke him. Emmaline might view Waxham as a brother but Drake had recognized the very appreciative male gleam in Waxham’s eyes. There had been nothing brotherly in the way he’d eyed Emmaline. “I don’t care about your relationship with him. I worry about how it reflects on our betrothal,” he lied. A bloody pathetic lie.

That callously insensitive remark drove Emmaline from him and replaced all warmth in her eyes with a sheen of coolness. Drake regretted the transformation even as he knew he was the cause of it.

“You’re worried about our betrothal, my lord?” She mocked. “Now? After all these years? After three Seasons? Now, it bothers you who I converse with?”

Drake braced himself for another assault from her finger.

Then the fight seemed to go out of her. The sparks glimmered, flickered, and finally dimmed. She hugged her arms across her stomach. “I am tired of this.”

Drake’s brows dropped.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” she whispered.

“Then stop dogging my every step.”

As soon as the harsh words left his mouth, he wanted to call them back.

The sad, detached expression she wore tugged somewhere in the vicinity of his chest and filled him with panic, a fear that he had said something irrevocable. He fished for another rejoinder, to rouse some other emotion than the defeated one she now wore. He wanted to redirect her thoughts away from… from…

From what?

Giving him exactly what he wanted?

Except of a sudden he realized he didn’t know exactly what it was he wanted anymore. He’d spent nearly fifteen years lashing out over the betrothal he’d been committed to as a child. It had redefined his relationship with his father, had resulted in Drake fleeing to fight on the Peninsula. He’d built up years and years of resentment toward Lady Emmaline, who’d herself been a victim of their circumstances.

In a short span of time, he’d come to the realization that nothing was or had been as it seemed for perhaps, ever—and it left him feeling off-balance. It was as if the world had been flipped upside down and he was hanging on by his fingernails.

Crash!

Drake flung himself on top of Emmaline, and knocked her to the ground, burying her body beneath his.

His breath came fast as he waited for the crack of the gunshots, the ensuing cries and screams. They never came. His mind remained embroiled in the hellish world of roaring cannon fire and the blinding thickness of gunpowder smoke.

“Drake.”

Drake’s heart hammered wildly in his chest and under any other circumstance he would have luxuriated in the feel of Emmaline’s lean, lithe body under his. In that particular moment, however, mind-numbing terror gripped him in a tight vise. It sucked the air from his lungs.

Emmaline wrestled a hand from between them stroked back the hair that had tumbled across his brow. “It was just the tools,” she whispered, as though speaking to a fractious mare. “They fell. All is well,” she assured him.

It wasn’t Emmaline’s words that reached through his tortured remembrances and wrenched him back to reality, but the soft, soothing cadence of her voice that penetrated the devil’s unyielding hold.

She stroked his cheek. Drake leaned into her touch. His eyes slid closed, needing her touch. It was like a balm on his wounded soul.

Please, don’t stop touching me. In Emmaline’s embrace he felt…whole. Drake swallowed painfully and through sheer will forced himself to pick up his head. Emmaline’s troubled eyes caught and lingered on the vivid scar traversing his cheek. He flinched under her scrutiny.

She spoke again. “Are you all right?”

His mind conjured a trail of blood beneath her fingertips as she traced the mark.

“I-I am sorry,” he stuttered and climbed to his feet. He helped her up from the ground. “Have I hurt you?” Of course you hurt her, you bloody monster.

Emmaline shook her head. “No, no, I’m not—”

“Please, forgive me.” In his haste to be free of the nightmare unfolding before him, he stumbled backwards, and tripped over the metal gardening tools.

Emmaline reached for him but he recoiled.

He mustered a hasty, distracted bow and fled.

SEVENTEEN

My Dearest Drake,

I had a nightmare last night. I dreamt the war had ended and you forgot to come home. You were wandering about an empty field. If you forget how, promise you will write me…I will help you.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

Emmaline sat on the window-seat in the Floral Parlor. Her copy of Glenarvon rested haphazardly upon her lap. She surveyed the gardens below.

On any other day, the small patch of nature, awash in the glow of the sun’s bright slanting rays, would have soothed her. She pressed her forehead against the cool pane and stared down. Not this day.

With all of the hurts Drake had unknowingly inflicted, it should be easy for her to go to Sebastian and request he terminate the betrothal contract.

Except this morning in the gardens with Drake changed everything.

Resting her chin on her knees, she rubbed it back and forth over the smooth fabric of her dress. Funny, the greatest concern she’d had upon waking had been the neglect she’d shown toward the gardens.

How could so much change in the span of a few hours? Her earlier concerns about the weeds and her garden sanctuary now seemed so trivial. She didn’t think she would ever be able to see her garden as any sort of refuge again. Not when it had revealed the inner Hell that gripped Drake.

When Drake had been on the Peninsula, she had penned him a note each day he’d been gone. She’d signed every letter. Sealed them. And stuffed them into the bottom of her trunk.

Reflecting back on the contents of the notes, she cringed. In her unsent letters she’d blathered to him about the mundane. She’d gone on and on about her aggravation with her brother and lamented the boredom she felt in the country. There had never been a moment when she’d truly stopped to think about Drake’s time on the Peninsula. She hadn’t stopped to consider that Drake had been a young man who would be irrevocably changed by his experience.

That wasn’t to say she hadn’t worried over his safety or thought about what he was seeing and doing—she had, every day. But she hadn’t thought about war in the graphic sense. Instead, she’d seen it as more of a grand adventure. Why, he’d had the opportunity to travel and see different landscapes and meet exotic individuals, who were most definitely not the prim, proper members of English society.

She hadn’t been able to think about the violence and death that went with war…until she’d confronted the soldiers who’d returned to London Hospital. Still, even visiting the wounded soldiers, Drake had somehow seemed removed from those men who’d lost limbs and eyes. The physical scars they bore were very obvious. Drake however, had returned physically intact and yet, how hard it must be for him to move about Society scarred, but in ways that only he knew. How very lonely for him.

Her fingers distractedly toyed with the copy of Glenarvon in her lap, fanning the pages, and absently thinking about her unsent notes. All those years ago, she’d written letters but had been too much of a coward to send. After all, why would a man who’d sought out a war to avoid her, ever welcome any words from her?

Now she wished she’d sent them. Perhaps she would have made a fool of herself and he would have continued to view her as an empty-minded young child, but it might have brought him some comfort to receive a note from the world he’d left behind. Instead, she’d waited for him to return, so selfishly focused on what his arrival meant for her life and her happiness that she hadn’t thought about his happiness—or worse, his lack of happiness.

She’d only been capable of a girlish self-centeredness. It hadn’t been until mere hours ago that she’d truly understood Drake was no longer the boy who’d sat across from her when their betrothal documents had been signed.

She snorted. No wonder he hadn’t wanted a thing to do with her then, or even now. To Drake, she had been a child with childish interests.

The realization shamed her. She was humbled with the extent of her self-absorption.

Emmaline laid her cheek on her emerald muslin skirts, staring unseeing out the window. The fabric’s deep rich hue bore a similarity to the color of his eyes. She had never before seen eyes as haunted as Drake’s had been that morning—and with the time she’d spent in London Hospital she’d seen her fair share of misery.

A spasm wracked her heart and she took a deep, shuddery breath. She yearned to hold him close, soothe his hurt.

A warm drop landed on her hand, then two, and absently she realized she was crying. She swiped her hand across her cheeks. Emmaline cast a despondent stare up toward the sky. She squinted under the brightness of the sun’s rays that reflected off the glass panels and shot prisms of light around the parlor walls.

If today Drake had walked away from her the same man she’d come to know these many years, detached and indifferent, then it would have been easy to march into Sebastian’s office and request that he dissolve the betrothal contract.

Drake, however, was far more complicated than she’d ever known. He was scarred, hurting, and it surely explained much of his distantness. She could no sooner walk away from her lifelong commitment to him than she could cut off her own arm.

It wasn’t pity that held her to him. It was something more, something deep that defied years of bitterness and resentment. When she’d witnessed him reduced to a near shell of the man he was, she had wanted nothing more than to cradle him in her arms and take away his fear, make it her own.

“You were missed at breakfast, my dear.”

Emmaline started at the intrusion. She sat up and swiped her hand discreetly across her cheeks. “Mother,” she murmured, keeping her eyes averted.

The robin’s-egg blue seat cushion dipped under her mother’s slight weight. “I understand you had a visitor this morning.”

Emmaline again rested her ear upon the cradle of her knees.

“And that he left rather hastily and seemed to be quite upset.”

Emmaline chewed her lip, her heart tripping painfully at the horror Drake had worn blanketed across every crease, every line of his face. The horrified jade pools of his eyes were testament to the fact he’d stared down the bowels of Hell and lived to speak of it.

Except he didn’t speak of it.

Society had no idea that the carefree, elegant lord sought after by every lady, was in fact tortured, and battling demons no one could ever suspect.

“Emmaline, my dear. What happened today?”

Emmaline opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out. This was her mother. The woman who had given her life, who’d cradled her close after numerous scrapes. She wanted to discuss the scene in the gardens, but even as the words were poised on the tip of her tongue, she bit them back. To air Drake’s secrets would be a betrayal. He’d spent these past years cultivating an image of himself for Society, and she’d not rob him of that—not even for her mother.

Her mother wrinkled her brow. “Emmaline?”

Emmaline settled for a meager explanation. “I believe there is more to Lord Drake than anyone truly sees.”

Her mother’s probing stare bore into Emmaline and she resisted the urge to fidget like a little girl who’d been caught sneaking away from her governess.

“Does this—” her mother paused, “more, merit your waiting for him to finally make you his wife?” Her mother continued. “I spoke to Sebastian. He only wants you to be happy. I am of like mind.”

Surely her mother wasn’t saying what she thought she was? “Mother?”

Her mother stroked the crown of her head. “You know my dear, even as I respected your father’s commitment to the betrothal contract, there has always been a part of me that has ached for all the opportunities you missed.”

Emmaline made a dismissive sound. “I haven’t missed anything.” She strove to reassure her mother, but they both knew Emmaline wasn’t being truthful.

Mother went on like Emmaline hadn’t spoken. “Oh, at the time, the arrangement between our families made tremendous sense, and I respected your father’s meticulous planning of your future. It had seemed right at the time, safe…” She paused. A sigh escaped her. “I have watched as the years slipped away, Emmaline. Watched you grow and mature and have felt a longing for you to have a real, un-entangled Season. I’ve wanted the pleasure of seeing you courted, of seeing suitors arrive with bouquets of flowers, and penning sonnets lauding your beauty. How selfish is that of me, my dear?”

A wave of guilt swept over Emmaline for silently agreeing with her mother’s words. Nonetheless, she shook her head emphatically. “You have never been selfish.”

Mother’s throat worked, bobbing up and down.

Oh, please don’t cry. I cannot bear it when you cry.

“I have deprived you of those experiences that by rights should have been yours. And should you so desire them, I will see that they are made available to you.”

In other words—her mother would support a termination of the contract. The thought of her betrothal being severed caused Emmaline’s chest to constrict painfully in a way that made breathing difficult. “Thank you, Mother. I—I am not yet certain.”

Her mind steeped in logic told her to simply state the words her mother had given her leave to speak. Her heart, at that precise moment, called them back, froze them on the tip of her tongue.

Soft hazel eyes caressed her face. “Just say the words. You will be freed.” She pressed a kiss to Emmaline’s brow, stroking back the tendril that had escaped its chignon and dangled over her eye. “Shall I remain with you?” The strand again sprung loose.

Emmaline shook her head, brushing it back behind her ear. “I am fine, Mother.” The last thing she wanted was company.

So of course at that moment Sebastian strolled into the room.

“What’s going on here?” he drawled lazily. He dropped into the mahogany rose-velvet sofa adorned with winged lions and stretched his legs out in front of him.

God, she hated that sofa; those nasty lions were all the rage. The beastly piece of decor rather ruined her favorite room in the house. In fact, she might have sought out another room, if it weren’t for the view of the gardens.

“Are you almost ready? We’ll be late to the hospital.” she asked, desperate for escape. Scrambling to her feet, she tried to hurry him out. “Let’s go.”

“We were discussing Lord Drake,” their mother explained.

Emmaline wanted to stamp her foot. She handled them quite well on her own but when Mother and Sebastian were together, they were quite grating. “Can we do this later?”

Sebastian’s dark green eyes narrowed to unreadable black slits. “What about him? What is there to discuss, other than whether or not you want to end this farce of a betrothal?”

She probably had the only guardian in the entire Kingdom this eager to sever ties with one of the most powerful titles simply because his sister was not happy. Sebastian seemed to take Drake’s disinterest as a personal slight. And Emmaline loved him for that.

Mother’s gaze alternated between Emmaline and Sebastian. “I’ve already spoken with Emmaline on the matter, Sebastian.”

They both ignored her.

“I asked you to trust me,” Emmaline snapped at her brother.

He sprung from his leisurely pose; his spine stiffened as all feigned attempts at nonchalance disappeared. “And I told you yes, but with limits. You have been making a fool of yourself, Em. This is what you expect me to trust? You want me to blindly look away while you arrange your schedule to—”

This time she couldn’t help it…she stamped her foot. “I certainly don’t want you confronting him and trying to force his hand!”

A slight knock and the sudden appearance of a servant at the door cut off Sebastian’s diatribe. Emmaline was never more grateful for the sudden appearance of another person in her life.

A liveried servant came forth with a silver tray bearing an envelope. He cleared his throat. “Pardon, the interruption. You have a note, my lady.”

She accepted the envelope, aware of her mother and brother intently studying the parchment in her hands.

Recognizing the dark, strong scrawl at the front as distinctly different from Sophie’s wide, flowing letters, Emmaline turned the thick ivory envelope over in her hands. She noted the lion-emblazoned gold seal and trailed a fingertip along the raised surface. She hesitated and lifted the blade from the servant’s tray. Her fingers trembled as she slid the tip under the seal and withdrew the note.

My Dear Lady,

I cannot believe you enjoy reading this drivel. I am writing to inquire as to your progress with your copy. And of course, to ask after your well-being.

—Drake

All day she’d been consumed with anxiety of how Drake would address what had transpired in the gardens. Her greatest fear had been that he would humble himself with an apology he need not make.

A burst of relieved laughter escaped her.

Sebastian had been the Duke of Mallen for almost three years, and most of the time epitomized the role to perfection. This time was not one of them. In his haste to sit up, he almost slipped off the sofa. “What does it say?”

Maybe if she’d been weaker she would have given him the information he sought. But this was still the same brother whose steps she’d dogged, the same brother she’d played pranks on as a young girl, and to her, he would always fit that role.

She waved the note in the air. “It says you’re a nosy busy-body who can’t mind his business.”

The Duchess of Mallen looked to Sebastian. “Perhaps he has finally come to his senses?”

Sebastian snorted. “I’ll believe it when she’s marching down the aisle on my arm,” he said.

A smile played about Emmaline’s lips. If she had her way that was just how it would be.

EIGHTEEN

Dearest Drake,

I wonder if you even know my middle name. As my betrothed, I rather feel you should. It is Rose. I’m not much of a rose. Sebastian forever tells me I’m more of a thorn upon the rose. I would like to tell you what I call him, but that wouldn’t be ladylike.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

Drake had convinced himself to send ’round a note to the Earl and Countess of Mooring, offering up his regrets for their annual ball. After what had transpired earlier that morn, coward that he was, Drake had wanted to avoid his betrothed.

He’d sat down to dash a note to the Earl and Countess of Mooring, making his excuses. For the better part of an hour, he’d stared down at a blank piece of parchment. In the end, all he’d done was drip black all over his desk.

Lady Emmaline was some kind of enchantress who’d managed to weave a magical spell over him, depleting him of his wisdom, leaving him well and truly—bewitched. For at that moment, in spite of his intentions to avoid her, Drake stood behind the Earl of Mooring’s pink marble pillars and studied Emmaline.

He’d known Emmaline since she was a small girl and had only ever seen her as a bothersome child, the daughter of his father’s very good friend. Then she had become a responsibility…well, a future responsibility, anyway. But sometime, Drake didn’t know when, she’d changed from the little girl who’d been perched on the chair opposite him in her father’s library to a headily desirable woman.

He hadn’t thought of her as a responsibility in a long time. Instead, she’d become a mischievous young woman who defended those in need of defending, who talked to her plants…and of course, liked a good Gothic novel.

And he had fast become enraptured.

The irony was not lost on him; he’d gone to bloody war to avoid the very woman he now so desperately ached for but couldn’t have. This morning’s episode only cemented that truth.

Someone in the ballroom stepped between Drake and his direct line of vision, temporarily blocking Emmaline from sight. “Move,” he whispered, willing the matron away. Drake sidled to the left and peered around the pillar just in time to see Emmaline throw her head back and laugh at whatever Miss Winters had said.

Her smile transformed her.

Then, as if she felt his gaze caressing her, she froze and surveyed the room, until her eyes landed on the pillar that hid his frame. She tilted her neck to the side and her lips turned up in secretive smile as if she knew he was there.

He needed to see her. Not in this clandestine manner, but up close. Suddenly, of their own volition, his feet were leading him from his spot behind the column and carrying him over to her seat.

All day he’d debated what he would say to explain the incident in the gardens. Even as his long strides carried him across the ballroom and to her, he realized he’d run out of time to come up with excuses, but didn’t care. All he cared about was being with her.

“Lady Emmaline, may I have the next set?”

Emmaline’s mouth formed a small moue of surprise and Miss Winters nudged her in the side.

“Ouch,” Emmaline exclaimed.

Miss Winters colored and grasped her elbow. “Oh, dear. I fear I must have done something to my elbow. It seems to be moving erratically.”

Drake arched an amused brow at the young lady, who must have felt she needed to throw in further proof for good measure, because her elbow jerked again.

“See? Why, there it goes again.”

Emmaline glanced down at the card hanging from a string on her wrist. “Although hesitant to leave Sophie in her present condition, I will make an exception and abandon her to accompany you in the next set, my lord.”

She shivered when his hand touched hers.

They took their place at the dance floor for the next set.

The musicians began to play a waltz.

Now that he held her, Drake, who was usually so urbane, didn’t know what to say.

“My lord, are you well?” she inquired haltingly.

He could have pleaded ignorance to what she actually referenced, but he wasn’t that much of a coward.

“I wanted to apologize for…for what happened,” he fumbled, faltered through the apology. “I do not know what overcame me,” he lied. He did know exactly what had overcome him. “I have worried over your welfare.”

Emmaline caught her lower lip between her teeth and worried the flesh. “There is nothing to apologize for,” she said. “You forget I have an older brother.”

Drake would wager that her older brother had never put his hands on her and if said older brother did, then Drake would beat him within an inch of his life.

Emmaline said nothing else for a moment. “Does…this…happen to you frequently?”

Drake swallowed, and wished for the first time that they’d danced anything other than a waltz, because then there would be a natural separation, and he’d have time to craft a vague response. He fixed his gaze over her shoulder. “It has gotten better, though there are moments when I am…when, it still occurs.” Surprisingly, he felt oddly freed by the admission.

“Do certain things trigger these episodes?”

For the first time in three years, Drake wanted to confide in another human being. He hadn’t shared any part of his transformation with his father or Sin, partly out of embarrassment and partly out of fear that they would realize he had a touch of madness. Something about this small slip of a woman, made him want to share this part of himself with her. “Certain noises startle me. The sound of a gun will sometimes trigger a reminder of the war.” He smiled wryly. “Needless to say, I no longer attend hunting parties.” He shrugged. “That is all.”

That is all.

Oh, Drake. Her heart bled. How had he dealt with this alone for all these years? Why didn’t you come back to me? Why didn’t you let me be your wife, and help you heal?

But he was here before her now. And that was enough. She wanted to remind him life could be uncomplicated and peaceful.

“It is nothing to be ashamed of.”

The muscles beneath his midnight black jacket tightened under her hands. “No, of course not. Every gentleman has bouts of madness,” he replied sardonically, an edge to his words.

“You are not mad,” she said vehemently.

“How do you know? How do you know the man you have made it a point of pursuing this Season, the man who is to be your husband, is not a madman? How can you trust I won’t hurt you?”

“You would never hurt me.”

“Never intentionally. But what if I didn’t realize what I was doing? Like….like…” The incident in the gardens.

Silence descended between them and Emmaline’s mind turned over any possible response that would bring solace, only to find there was nothing she could say. No words could chase away the demons he faced. The reality of it crippled her with a sense of hopelessness.

Emmaline would not allow him to look like this defeated man before her. This was not the time or place for him to bare his soul. “How have you been enjoying your reading?” she asked.

His brow furrowed at the unexpected shift in conversation. “I think you can gather from the note I sent that it leaves much to be desired.”

She gave a little toss of her head. “You should be warned, my lord, I am nearly through my copy. You had better devote some time to your reading if you have any hope of winning our challenge.”

“I fear I have lost already,” he said cryptically.

“Tsk, tsk.” She tapped him with the fan hanging from her wrist. “You so readily admit defeat. I thought you would have put greater effort into your readings, as it would mean I would no longer bother you for a week.”

The chords of the waltz drew to a halt, and they came to a reluctant stop on the dance floor, standing there amidst clapping couples.

Drake’s emerald gaze seared her with its intensity. “How did I ever think you a bother?”

Emmaline blinked. “My lord?”

Drake shook his head. “Uh, I said, I think I see your brother.”

Emmaline followed the direction of Drake’s stare and felt her skin smart with embarrassment. Nothing could kill a romantic moment more than the glowering figure crossing the ballroom, to intercept their movements.

“I think your brother would want to see us make a match of it,” he mumbled under his breath.

Emmaline laughed. “All Sebastian knows is that for the past three years he has had to escort me to more events than he would ever want because I’m unwed. He is therefore a tad resentful where you’re concerned,” she explained, as her brother drew to a halt before them.

Both men sketched respectful bows.

“So good to see you are finally doing the honorable thing and attending your obligations, my lord. Though a waltz is hardly tantamount to a formal declaration for my sister.” For appearances sake, Sebastian at least had the good sense to smile at Drake.

Whatever fleeting connection she’d shared with Drake vanished like a chord struck on the pianoforte.

Drake stiffened at her elbow.

She was going to kill Sebastian for calling out Drake before a crowded ballroom. It was all she could do to keep from throttling her brother there on the spot.

Sebastian took her hand from where it rested on Drake’s elbow and placed it in the crook of his arm.

Drake’s eyes narrowed at the subtle gesture of possessiveness.

Emmaline didn’t answer to anyone. She tugged her hand free.

Her betrothed raised a brow. “I would have never taken you for one to make a public scene. Yet this is the second such time you have attempted to create a scandal. How very un-duke-like of you, Your Grace. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you are attempting to sever the connection between Lady Emmaline and me.” The bite to Drake’s words were belied by the strained, albeit congenial smile he wore.

Emmaline couldn’t help the sound of skepticism that escaped her. She spoke before Sebastian could formulate a response. “That’s preposterous, Drake. Why would my brother want to dissolve the contract?”

A stony, telling silence met Emmaline’s question. Her shoulders stiffened. Mindful of where she was, she plastered a smile to her face and directed her attention to Sebastian. “Tell him that’s foolish.”

Sebastian’s façade of civility slipped and his only response was a flinty-eyed glare for Drake.

Panic caused her heart to speed up. Emmaline wet her lips. He will not end this betrothal. Not now. Not when I’ve finally come to know him. A very thin grasp on reason reminded her of where they were.

Sebastian’s jaw set, he surveyed the room to verify the exchange went unnoticed. He returned his attention to Emmaline and Drake. “I’ve tired of this farce between the two of you. I want a decision soon, Drake.”

“Remember where you are,” Emmaline cautioned. Oh, how the scandal sheets would love to plaster this meeting on their front pages.

Drake folded his arms over the hard-muscled wall of his chest. “My, if you don’t epitomize the role of arrogant, commanding duke.”

Emmaline mustered another weak attempt at a laugh. The sound emitted was more that of a bull-frog who’d downed a stone instead of a fly. She closed her mouth.

Oh dear, this had gone from bad to worse.

“I urge you to remember to whom you are speaking,” Sebastian said between clenched teeth.

Drake squared his shoulders. “Oh? And who am I speaking to?”

Sebastian’s words emerged as a silken threat. “Who am I? Why, I’m the lady’s guardian, of course. One word from me and this,” he gave a wave of his hand, “game you are playing with my sister is at an end.”

Emmaline gasped. Before she could muster a response, Sebastian neatly took her hand, and steered her from the dance-floor.

NINETEEN

My Dearest Drake,

Forgive me for not writing. I fell from a tree and my arm was dislocated. It was dreadfully painful. I now understand why mother said ladies should not climb trees. So, I have climbed my last tree.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

She wished it were raining.

And she hated the rain.

But today the sun’s bright rays were so abundantly, well, bright, and it was making it difficult for her to remain buried in her cocoon of covers, pretending it was still time to be abed.

Anything so she didn’t have to face the inevitable confrontation with her brother.

After the tumultuous exchange between Drake and Sebastian that previous evening, Sebastian had chosen to let the matter rest. Emmaline had been dealt a reprieve. Alas, today was the day she visited London Hospital.

Emmaline sighed.

The last thing she wanted to endure was a closed carriage ride with Sebastian. She considered postponing her trip until tomorrow. That would allow her a brief reprieve from—

“My lady?”

Her maid, Grace, hovered in the doorway.

Emmaline waved her in.

Grace hurried over to Emmaline’s armoire. “His Grace wanted me to remind you of your visit to London Hospital.”

Emmaline scrubbed her hand across her eyes. “Was that all?” If she knew her brother as well as she believed she did, then there was certainly more.

Grace’s hand, which had been ruffling through Emmaline’s row of day gowns, paused. “He also instructed me to tell you—” she cleared her throat, “—that you couldn’t hide in your room forever. His Grace’s, words, of course.”

“Of course.”

Grace returned her focus to her efforts at hand. She apparently would rather choose to ignore Emmaline’s stinging sarcasm.

Oh, he was an insufferable bother.

Tossing the covers aside, she flung her feet over the side of the bed and jumped to the floor. “Help me dress, Grace.”

The ever diligent Grace was already crossing the room with an ivory silk organza creation draped over her arms.

Emmaline allowed her maid to assist her out of her nightgown and into the lovely gown. She stood in front of the floor-length ornate silver mirror, trimmed in roses not really seeing Grace’s final efforts.

What could she possibly say to Sebastian that would make any sense? How could she brush aside his very legitimate concerns of her betrothal, when she herself saw merit in them? In four months she would be one and twenty, and another year would be behind her, leaving her still unwed.

Grace cleared her throat. “My lady?”

Emmaline jumped. “Ah, yes, thank you, Grace.”

And because Sebastian was correct and she couldn’t stay in her room forever, she left the sanctuary of her chambers.

She found him waiting for her at the base of the stairs with a book tucked under one arm, and checking his timepiece.

He spied her coming and slipped the piece back into his jacket. “I took the liberty of selecting your reading selection for the men today,” he said by way of greeting.

He held up the maroon leather volume up for her inspection.

She read the title. “Byron,” she murmured. “I thought you found all poetry to be rubbish.”

She accepted his arm and accompanied him to the carriage. He waved off the groom and handed her up himself.

“I decided to delve a bit deeper to see what it was that so fascinates you…about poetry, that is. I maintain my earlier position. Most of the stuff is useless drivel.” Emmaline was astute enough to detect the subtle nuances of her brother’s casual conversation. She remained silent. “But then there is Byron. Rather smart, if not an odd fellow. Do you know what he once said?” Sebastian didn’t wait for Emmaline to answer. “I do detest everything which is not perfectly mutual.”

Emmaline’s gaze snapped out the window.

Folding her arms, she braced for the onslaught of his lecture. She waited. And waited….

But he didn’t add anything further.

Nary a word.

Somehow that unspoken disappointment was far greater than if he’d come out and reprimanded her.

Sebastian earned points for not making any mention of Lord Drake on their carriage ride to London Hospital. He even dutifully carried the basket and books into the ward without being asked, pausing beside various hospital beds to speak with the soldiers.

He took his leave, and Emmaline finally settled into her comfortable seat beside Lieutenant Jones.

“My lady,” Jones greeted her with a slight inclination of his head. He motioned to the empty spot beside his bed. “What have you brought this day?” He nodded to the bundle in her hands.

Emmaline flashed him a smile. She found peace in being with the men here who were a bit rough around the edges and had the false edge of Society’s veneer dusted free. It was refreshing.

“Byron?” She opened the volume and fanned through several pages before settling on, “The Lady”.

“Are you anyone’s lady, my lady?” Jones interrupted.

The brazen question caused Emmaline to stumble in her recitation.

Jones smiled broadly, displaying a row of crooked teeth. It had been three weeks since he’d first smiled and spoken to her, and yet Emmaline was still startled by the transformation of the soldier she’d known for three years.

“Easy enough question,” he teased.

Emmaline troubled her lower lip. Yes, for most it was an easy enough question. She chose to break with the strictures on what merited appropriate discussion. “I’m betrothed,” she said at last.

His brow wrinkled and he shoved himself up with his only elbow. “So you’ve got yourself a gentleman?”

She managed a small smile. “I’ve got myself a gentleman.” Unused to speaking freely about her betrothal to Lord Drake, she hesitated. “He was a soldier. He also fought on the Peninsula.”

Jones’ eyes widened the same way she imagined they would if she’d proclaimed diamonds were falling from the sky.

“You’re marrying yourself a soldier?”

“I am.” Or she was supposed to. She couldn’t go and explain the complicated aspects of her and Drake’s relationship.

Jones gave an approving nod. It seemed she’d risen even more in the man’s estimation.

He whistled between his teeth. “You found yourself a fancy bloke who fought in the war, too? Not many lords were giving their lives, my lady.”

Not many of them had been running away from a childhood betrothal, either. “No, no they weren’t.”

Sensing Jones was far more curious than any time in the three years she’d known him, she decided to share this personal piece of herself. “He is the Marquess of Drake, he fought—”

The man’s shocked gasp cut into her words. “Lord Drake is your gentleman?”

Emmaline blinked, unprepared that this man should know him. She leaned forward in her chair. “Did you know of him?”

“Know of him? I served under him,” he said, his eyes round with amazement. “My battalion was hit hard. We lost our commanding officer. The captain was given control of our battalion.” His eyes took on a far-off quality that suggested he was seeing things Emmaline didn’t want to see. “He’s a hero.”

Yes, Drake was a hero. She’d read that in every last smattering of articles she’d collected on his accomplishments. How funny this stranger should truly know, firsthand, what Drake had seen and done.

She continued to aggravate her lower lip. “W-what was he like?”

Jones didn’t respond right away. Instead he studied Emmaline with a near overwhelming intensity.

This time it was her turn to try and tamp down the awkwardness brought on by the conversation.

How odd to finally realize the discomfiture she must have caused Jones with her probing questions these past years.

“He’s a good man,” Jones said quietly.

“Yes.” That wasn’t really the bit of undisclosed information she’d been seeking from Lieutenant Jones.

He must have suspected as much. “After the Battle of Salamanca, the French left Madrid and Wellington marched us into the city.” Lieutenant Jones glanced down at his hands. “He left three divisions to guard the capital and then marched the rest of us to Burgos. The captain led us in that march. We came to a scorched field. There was this mangy pup. Emaciated thing. All bones. Whimpering. A step from death. Literally.” He tried to grin but it failed, resembling more of a twisted grimace.

Emmaline thought to the well-nourished, loving hunting dogs and pugs her family had over the years. Then she tried to envision the poor, neglected creature described by Jones. Her heart hurt for the poor little fellow.

“As we marched, that mangy dog followed the captain’s horse until the captain drew his horse to a halt, and scooped up the flea-ridden creature. He nursed that old dog back to health. He would give the dog half of his own rations.” A wry smile turned the man’s lips up at the corners. “That dog even ate from the captain’s plate. Drank his water.” He shook his head, as if still dumbfounded. “I’ve never known a lord who would share food from his own plate with a filthy dog. He named him Valiant. That dog followed him everywhere. There wasn’t much to laugh about then, but we used to laugh about it.”

Emmaline’s heart hitched.

God help her, she loved Drake. She loved him with a desperation that made her want to fling down the book and run out of the hospital and find him.

She tried to imagine Drake riding beside some of the men here in the hospital, bantering back and forth. He was such a proud man. So very serious. Emmaline couldn’t reconcile the Drake she’d come to know with the one being described by Jones. “I imagine Lord Drake was not pleased with the ribbing he received?”

Jones slashed his one hand through the air. “Aww, he took it all in good humor. Men respected him for that. You know, being able to laugh at himself and all.”

Emmaline sat back in her chair. “I don’t understand why he didn’t return with Valiant….” Her words trailed off when Jones looked away.

“Lieutenant?” she asked hesitantly.

Jones remained silent.

Don’t do it, she willed herself. Don’t ask.

She had to know what happened to Valiant. It was a piece that explained what had transformed Drake into the very serious man who was now unable to laugh with ease or sincerity. “What happened to Valiant?”

Jones looked away with a sad shake of his head. “Not a story fit for a lady’s ears.” He also clearly respected Lady Emmaline too much not to share with her what he knew, because he sighed and continued. “After we were forced into retreat, Wellington spent the winter reorganizing the forces. Whenever there was a battle, Captain Drake would find a tree far from the battle, and tie that dog up. Battle of Vitoria was a big one.” It had been the one that ultimately crumpled Napoleon’s forces in Spain. “We were in some serious hand-to-hand combat with the Frenchies. That dog, my lady, must have known his master was going to need him, because he gnawed through those ropes and wandered amidst the battlefield with that chewed rope still bound around his neck, searching everywhere for the Cap’n.”

Emmaline’s eyes slid closed as she battled back a wave of pain. She loathed the question stuck on the tip of her tongue. “Did he find him?”

Intuitively she knew that he had.

Jones nodded again. “Found him fighting two Frenchie bastards. Pardon, my lady,” he hurried. Red infused his cheeks.

“Fine, fine.” She felt the same way about the men who’d tried to kill Drake. She urged him on, needing to hear, needing to know.

Jones went on. “That dog,”

Valiant, she silently corrected. His name was Valiant.

“Launched himself at one of the bas—uh, Frenchies, who had his knife at the captain’s throat. Grabbed onto his leg and bit, tearing at the man’s breeches. It allowed Captain Drake to…, to…take care of the other man. But the other fellow, well, he grabbed that rope and wrenched that dog’s neck. Broke it just like that.” He snapped his fingers.

Emmaline’s eyes slid closed as she imagined Drake standing there, fighting for his life, and seeing his faithful companion killed in front of him.

Just like that.

TWENTY

My Dearest Drake,

I think it unfair I cannot have a dog of my choice. When we are married, you have to promise me we might have a dog and that I may choose its breed. I think I should like a Shetland Sheepdog….perhaps we can even have some sheep.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

Drake strode down the pavement ignoring the curious stares and whispers being directed his way by the lords and ladies who strolled down the street. His Hessian boots drew to an immediate, jarring halt when he reached his destination. With purpose, he stomped up the townhouse steps, and tucked the wriggling bundle of fur into the crook of his left elbow.

He slammed the knocker with his right hand, while holding onto the four-pound devil in his opposite arm. The pup sunk razor like teeth into the flesh of his fingers until Drake winced as a hot trickle of blood dotted his flesh.

Drake raised his fist to again pound the wood panel when the door opened.

He fished a calling card out of his pocket around the squirming mass and handed it to the blank-faced butler. “Lord Drake to see His Grace.”

The staid man studied the card, and then peered down a hawk-like nose at the yapping pup. He wrinkled his nose disapprovingly. “Right this way.” He turned, as if expecting Drake to follow.

Drake was ushered into the Duke of Mallen’s library.

Mallen lifted his eyes from the papers he had been studying but didn’t bother to rise. “Drake, this is a surprise.” His tone said it was not a happy one.

“Mallen.” He set the pup on the floor and the little beast set to work chewing the edge of Drake’s boots. He winced. “Your sister sent me a dog.”

Mallen’s head quirked to the side. “A dog?”

Said dog scrambled up onto one of the two leather-winged chairs facing the Duke of Mallen’s enormous desk, and yapped at the befuddled peer.

“The pup seems to be a good judge of character,” Drake drawled beneath his breath.

Mallen’s brows converged in one, annoyed line. “Your dog is going to destroy my chair.”

Drake glanced down to see the mangy beast was using all his energy to dig a hole through the surface of the leather. “It’s not my dog.”

Mallen shoved his seat back, scraping the dark wood of the floor, and stood. “You barge into my home with…”

The door opened and the Duchess of Mallen sailed into the room which sliced into Mallen’s scathing diatribe. “Lord Drake, how very good to see you.” A smile wreathed her ageless face.

“Always a pleasure and honor.” Drake’s attempt at politeness was ruined by the dog that jumped off the chair and ambled back over to him. The mangy thing stood on hind legs and began to scratch at the fabric of Drake’s breeches.

“If that were true, I’d imagine we’d see you more frequently, Drake.” She glanced down at the puppy and let out a sound of happy surprise. “Oh, you’ve brought your dog.”

Drake sighed. “He’s not my dog.”

She either failed to hear him or chose to ignore his response, for in a very un-duchess-like move, the Duchess of Mallen went down on a knee and called the scruffy black dog over. The puppy yapped, and proceeded to run in circles around her. “My, you are full of energy,” she cooed, occasionally landing a pat.

The pup eventually tired of his game, and instead of sitting for the duchess, returned to Drake and plopped down atop his boots. The creature’s eyes fluttered heavily, before he emitted a contented sigh, and fell into a deep, snoring slumber.

The duchess gracefully rose and crossed over to Drake. She claimed his hands in hers and leaned up to kiss him on each cheek. “It really is wonderful to see you, Drake. How is your father?”

Drake had been raised a gentleman and was therefore able to momentarily forget the four-pound reason for his visit.

“He is well, Your Grace, thank you for asking.”

She rang for refreshments. “I must say, I’m thrilled to see you, but surely there must be some other reason for your visit?” She softened the searching question with a wide smile.

Drake started. It was Emmaline’s smile.

Mallen reclaimed his leather seat and motioned to the puppy. “He’s come to tattle on Emmaline.”

The duchess blinked in confusion, wide hazel eyes moving from her son to Drake.

“I did not come to tattle.” Drake shuffled on his feet, momentarily displacing the pup. The beast was a resolute one, for he climbed right back up onto his perch and gave what Drake swore was a disapproving look. Great now the dog is put out with me as well.

Mallen smiled. “Oh good, then. He came to thank Emmaline.”

Before Drake could disabuse him of the notion, Mallen rang again. “Have Lady Emmaline summoned immediately,” he said to the servant who entered the room.

The servant bowed and hurried to do the duke’s bidding.

“Of all the preposterous things,” Drake said under his breath, shifting the dog from his feet.

The pup’s eyes flew open at being jarred, but then he gave a high-pitched yap and found a renewed burst of energy. He began running circles around Drake, who momentarily followed him with his eyes before getting dizzy, and forced himself to look away from the pup’s display.

“Did you call me preposterous?” Mallen snapped.

“Why yes, I did.”

Mallen’s chest puffed out. “Don’t call me preposterous.”

“I’ll not take orders from…”

The Duchess of Mallen clapped her hands together once, then twice. “Gentlemen, please. Remember you are men.” She focused an overly long, disapproving look on Drake.

He resented being made to feel in the wrong. Noble young ladies did not, under any circumstances, send gifts to unmarried gentlemen—even if they were betrothed to the gentleman. It simply wasn’t done. This, however, hadn’t simply been a gift. Why, she’d sent round a dog.

You didn’t send someone a dog. You just…well, you just didn’t do it.

Emmaline sailed into the room. “You wanted m—” Her glance alighted on Drake and an enchanting smile wreathed her face. “Oh, hello, my lord!”

He bowed. “My lady.”

She wore that same silly, wide brimmed straw hat she had worn in the gardens. The same one he’d torn from her head and tossed to the ground before he…

Her whiskey-colored eyes fell to the black pup. The little devil jumped at Drake’s legs again, clearly asking to be picked up.

“You’ve met him! Isn’t he precious? Aren’t you precious?” she said in a high singsong voice. She gracefully sank to her knees, sending her pale blue skirts fluttering, similar to the way the duchess had moments ago.

Only this time, thank God, the infernal beast went gladly over. Emmaline scooped him up and allowed him to lap her face with his rough, pink tongue. Lucky fellow.

“Aren’t you sweet? Do you like your new master? I’m sure he’s taking wonderful care of you.”

Drake blinked several times. Why did he feel as though he’d stepped on the stage of a great farcical comedy of which he was the lead actor but didn’t know his lines?

“Lord Drake has come to say thank you, Emmaline,” Mallen called from behind his desk. His expression indicated he was enjoying the exchange far more than Drake.

“No, I haven’t. I have come to return him,” Drake bit out. As if understanding those hurtful words, the black puppy whimpered and flipped onto his back, sidling back and forth on the Aubusson carpet.

“Never say you are displeased with the little fellow.” Mallen pressed a hand to his chest in feigned astonishment.

“I wouldn’t say I am pleased with him,” Drake snapped.

Emmaline’s smile faded like the sun dropping from the horizon to usher in the night sky. “You cannot return Sir Faithful. Poor Sir Faithful.” She went over to the crestfallen pup and scratched his tummy. “Mean Lord Drake has hurt your feelings. Nasty, nasty man.”

Just then a tray of refreshments was delivered and set on the table at the corner of the room. Mallen chuckled. “Ahh, perfect! Refreshments to accompany this show.”

Drake glared at the other man and then Emmaline’s words registered. A loud guffaw sprung from his lips. “Sir Faithful? Surely you jest? You have named the creature Sir Faithful?”

Emmaline climbed to her feet and planted her hands on her hips. “There is nothing funny about his name.”

Drake took a step forward. “No, there is nothing funny about his name. There is everything funny about his name.”

Drake rolled his shoulders and looked helplessly to the duchess and Mallen. Finding no help there, he jabbed a finger in Emmaline’s direction. “Nor for that matter can you go about simply naming other people’s dogs.”

“I thought you weren’t keeping him,” Mallen pointed out.

“Be quiet.”

Drake, Emmaline, and the Duchess of Mallen ordered in unison.

Mallen crossed the room and scanned the array of sweets artfully arranged on the tray, before settling on a cherry tart. He took two bites and then popped the remainder into his mouth. “So much for being one of the most powerful peers in the realm. I don’t even have power in my own library,” he muttered around a mouthful of treat.

The duchess folded her hands and looked from Emmaline to Lord Drake, a contemplative gleam in her eyes that Drake didn’t like in the least. Apparently smoothing over conflict was inherent in a mother’s nature.

“Emmaline, my dear, I’m afraid Lord Drake is correct. You cannot simply give him a dog. Especially if he doesn’t want it.”

Emmaline shot a look of hurt betrayal at the duchess, and Drake thought she might stick her tongue out at him.

The duchess turned to Drake. “And you, Lord Drake, it is hardly gentlemanly to return a gift.”

Emmaline’s expression turned victorious, and he gritted his teeth.

Drake could handle one small duchess. He inclined his head, his tone solemn. “Your Grace, you are indeed correct. It is an unpardonable affront to reject any gift. That was never my intention. I simply cannot bring this dog into my home.”

Emmaline and Mallen emitted matching snorts at his flowery speech.

The Duchess glared at the both of her children and returned her attention to Drake. “I’m sure there is a solution so no one’s sensibilities are hurt.”

“Yes, there is. Lord Drake can keep Sir Faithful and say thank you,” Emmaline volunteered. She crossed the room and selected a cherry tart before Mallen could finish off that particular flavor.

“I am not keeping him and that is final.”

Emmaline gave a flounce of her head.

Drake shot a hopeful glance in the duchess’ direction but it would appear her efforts at restoring civility had collapsed.

Carrying the tart on an embroidered napkin, Emmaline crossed to Sir Faithful and offered the pastry to the little black pup.

Drake’s eyes slid closed. “You cannot feed a dog cherry tarts.”

Emmaline paused mid-motion. Sir Faithful scratched at her hand, and she shifted her attention back to the pup. She popped a piece of the treat into his mouth and patted him on the head. “For someone who does not want him, you are fairly well-versed in how to handle his care.”

He took a step in her direction. “Anyone would know not to feed him dessert treats.”

“Anyone would know Sir Faithful is a perfect name for a faithful dog.” She took a step closer to him until they were a hands-length apart, both breathing heavily, the spectators in the room, once again, irrelevant to their exchange.

Emmaline’s lips parted. Drake’s emerald gaze dropped to those lips and he forgot whatever words he’d intended to speak.

He studied Emmaline’s flushed cheeks. She really was—lovely.

Even in her ridiculous, oversized hat.

Especially in that silly bonnet. It put wicked thoughts into Drake’s mind; he and Emmaline in an open field on a hot summer day. He would tug the article from her head and release the luxurious brown locks so they fanned about them…

A stream of something warm and wet snapped him from his reverie.

“Your dog is pissing on my carpet, Drake,” Mallen drawled.

Drake glared at him. “My dog is pissing on my boot.”

“Gentlemen, language,” the duchess scolded.

Emmaline clasped her hands to her chest and favored Drake with a radiant smile. “So, you are keeping him?”

Drake gave his clouded head a shake. He’d never said that.

The duchess gave a little clap of her hands. “Lovely news! Then it is settled!”

And just like that it was settled.

He had a dog.

A dog named Sir Faithful.

Whether he liked it or not.

And since he was only admitting it to himself, he could secretly acknowledge, he wasn’t altogether displeased with Emmaline’s gift.

TWENTY-ONE

My Dearest Drake,

I am never going hunting again. It is cruel and awful. I feel as though I lost the wager after all. Sebastian felt so bad about my tears, he promised never to go hunting again.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

For all intents and purposes, it was late in the evening.

Or early in the morning. Most of the civilized members of the ton had abandoned the evening’s revelries and were safely ensconced in their beds, sleeping away too much drink and overly rich food.

Drake walked at a brisk pace through Hyde Parke, the little black pup admirably keeping stride with his steps.

Sleep—a fickle friend—eluded Drake. He supposed he should be thankful for it. At times like this, when his nerves were frayed, when his mind was exhausted, the nightmares came in their worst form.

In his dreams, he would see things: fallen friends, fellow soldiers, images of men wandering through battlefields dazed, severed limbs held in their hands.

He drew to a sudden halt and fixed his gaze out at the gardens before him. Sir Faithful, tired from his efforts, sat dutifully beside Drake’s feet.

On nights such as these, Drake often walked through the emptied streets and visited an eerily silent Hyde Park. He always managed to find some small measure of solace in the gardens. The smell of the fragrant flowers served as a reminder that he had survived.

But now, they reminded him of more than just that. Now they reminded him of Emmaline. The sight of the flowers and climbing ivy, put him in mind of Emmaline at work in her own garden. This image of her was always in stark contrast to the remembrance of charred, barren wasteland scorched by man and by war.

Sir Faithful scratched his leg and whined at him.

This time, Drake was not alone.

He bent down and scratched Sir Faithful between his ears. “She did you a great disservice, my friend,” he murmured to the black pup. “Sir Faithful, she dubbed thee, and forever you shall be.”

The pup’s tongue lolled out and he gave a happy little yelp, as if in approval of Lady Emmaline’s selection.

Drake stared out at the expanse of night sky as the creeping fingers of dawn’s purple hues edged across the horizon and pushed back the darkness. As lovely as the morning sky was, the beauty was that much greater in the country, where the air wasn’t heavy with dirt and grime.

Drake reflected on Mallen’s growing impatience with Emmaline’s unmarried state.

Mallen had gone so far as to demand Drake commit to Emmaline or else. The duke had issued the command as though it were the simplest thing in the world.

But then, perhaps to the other man, it was.

How could Mallen, or anyone for that matter, ever know what held Drake back? What would Mallen say if he knew Drake would not wed Emmaline for fear of her safety? Mallen certainly wouldn’t want an answer. Instead, he’d end the betrothal without another word and have Emmaline neatly tied to Waxham. His gut clenched at the thought of it.

He thought back to his most recent episode in Emmaline’s garden.

It had been several months since he’d last lost control as he had with Emmaline. He’d begun to believe, nay hope, that he’d put those moments behind him. He’d fooled himself into thinking that he was like any other gentleman. That afternoon with Emmaline, he’d physically assaulted her and proved he was nothing more than an animal better off committed to Bedlam.

It had been his greatest fear realized.

No waltz and a simple apology could pardon such an affront. He was foolish to think it could have.

Drake lived through too many sleepless nights, too many hellish nightmares, and too many bouts of lost self-control to ever trust that he was a good candidate for marriage.

Ultimately he would have to marry. As the only heir to the Duke of Hawkridge, Drake was aware of his obligations. It had, however, been his hope that the demons he continued to battle would diminish over the years; that time would, as they say, heal all wounds.

He now realized he’d clung to foolish optimism. This hell would always enshroud his existence. How could he marry and expose Emmaline to that.

Sir Faithful ears pricked up and he looked around as if he’d detected an interloper. The dog gave an excited barking yelp and bounded off to greet their guest.

“Drake,” Emmaline murmured softly.

Drake started at the unexpectedness of the interruption. Every muscle in his body went tight at the feel of her presence.

He no longer wondered about her uncanny ability to determine his whereabouts.

Drake turned and dipped a respectful bow. “Emmaline.”

Emmaline tapped her copy of Glenarvon against her thigh. “You can leave us, Grace,” she instructed her maid.

Grace nodded and then took her leave.

Emmaline bit the inside of her lower lip, the soft thread of her maid’s footsteps echoed in the quiet until they faded to silence. Emmaline and Drake were left cloaked in the privacy the shrubbery.

She took a deep breath, wishing she were more poised to hide her uncertainty from this man she’d been connected to since she’d been a babe.

Emmaline crouched down and caressed Sir Faithful.

“I’ve finished…”

“You are walking rather…”

They both stumbled to an awkward, halting conclusion, their words unfinished.

He helped her to her feet.

Silence again descended.

Emmaline drew a distracted circle upon the ground with the tip of her slipper.

Drake studied the movement. “Are you visiting the park at this ungodly hour to merely draw artwork with your slipper?” he teased.

Emmaline’s foot paused mid-circle and she grinned. “You’ve found me out, sir. I spend a great deal of time gallivanting over Hyde Park completing very fine slipper-art. It is all the thing.”

His eyes smiled at her inane response. Funny that. She’d never known one could smile with their eyes.

“I must say, completing slipper art in public is not the action befitting a future duchess,” he said solemnly.

Emmaline made an X over her heart. “I pledge to abandon the activity when we are wed, my lord.”

Nothing could kill the shared levity of the moment swifter than mention of their betrothal.

Drake’s eyes darkened and he directed his focus to the book in her hands.

Her heart twisted painfully in her chest as he regarded her the way he might a stranger.

“Have you come here this morning to read?”

She hated that his words came out clipped and cool. Yearned for the light, teasing warmth she’d come to know from him.

She waved her copy of Glenarvon about. “As I started to say, I have finished my copy. I am here to complete our challenge.”

His face, an otherwise blank mask, revealed a flash of surprise. Wordlessly, he held a hand out.

She gave him the novel, and watched as he thumbed through the pages. Neither of them said anything as he perused the copy, searching for his questions.

She resumed her slipper art.

Suddenly his fingers stilled and he looked at Emmaline with piercing jade green eyes.

“Calantha marries one man but is seduced by another. Who is her seducer?”

Emmaline’s foot drew to a sudden halt and she cocked her head to the side. “That is one of your questions?” She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle her laughter. Surely Drake could have found something a good deal more challenging.

“I say, answer the question. That is, if you know it,” he challenged.

“If this is one of your questions, you do not stand a chance.”

He bristled. “If you do not answer the question on a count of three, I will determine that you do not know.”

“Glenarvon,” she answered, a smile twitching at the corner of her lips. “Tsk, tsk, my lord…I’m afraid you are going to have to do better than that, or you are surely going to lose the challenge.”

Drake opened his mouth to speak, but then his eyes dipped to her mouth and whatever he’d been about to say remained unspoken. He groaned.

“Drake, are you all right?”

He cleared his throat. “Fine, fine.”

Drake returned his attention to the book in his hands. He perused a passage. “Calantha speaks of losing all. Who does she blame?”

Emmaline tapped a finger along her jaw. In the work, Calantha was frequently alternating between a sense of guilt and no regrets for her great affair. “Can you read me the passage?”

It was Drake’s turn to issue a tsking sound. “Come, come, my lady. Who does she blame?”

Emmaline thought about it a moment, thought of her relationship with Drake. As a woman, who did she usually blame for Drake’s lack of regard?

“Herself, my lord. She blames herself.”

He nodded, before concentrating his efforts once more on the book. He leafed through the pages.

A loose strand of hair fell across her eyes. She blew it back. “Have you found your next question, my lord?” she pressed after several long moments of silence.

He didn’t bother picking his head up to look at her. “Eager thing, aren’t you?”

She smiled. This light side of Drake was the one Lieutenant Jones had spoken of…and was one she’d come to love. Until just recently, he’d always been the phantom handsome figure who issued her a respectful bow and then beat a hasty retreat. To have him tease her, to furrow his brow as he rustled through a Gothic novel, was something she couldn’t have conjured in her wildest imaginings.

“Ahh,” he said, glancing up. He wore a triumphant expression. “Complete this sentence from the passage—”

“That is hardly fair,” she protested. “A question is far different from memorizing the work.”

“We did not stipulate terms of the questions, my lady.”

Emmaline folded her arms. Drat, if he wasn’t right.

“Fine,” she muttered. “What is the passage?”

“That which causes the tragic end of a woman’s life is often but a moment of amusement and folly in the history of…”

Emmaline’s chest tightened. “A man.”

Drake snapped the work shut, holding it out to her, and took a step forward.

He was so close his breath, laced with a hint of coffee, fanned her lips.

“Calantha argues Glenarvon has seduced her with what?”

Her body swayed closer to him. “The power of attraction,” she whispered.

The book slid from her fingers, to the ground where it fell indignantly open on its spine.

Then he was taking her in his arms, folding her close, covering her mouth with his, parting her lips and tasting her. She moaned, a low, husky purr that sounded wanton to her own ears.

Emmaline twined her hands about his neck and pressed her body close to his. His manhood prodded hard and angry against her belly, and her body flared with the swift, hot flood of desire. It overtook her, nearly brought her to her knees.

“Please, Drake,” she pleaded against his lips.

Drake lowered her to the ground and knelt with her cradled against the hard-muscled wall of his chest. There was something both erotic and yet sweetly beautiful, kneeling in the gardens as though they were Adam and Eve partaking in their first sinful taste of the forbidden fruit.

Through the thick haze of desire, Sir Faithful’s bark cut into their embrace. The dog hurled himself atop them and licked Emmaline’s face.

She turned away from the eager pup and laughed.

Drake paused. “Sit.” He issued the order with the same authority she was sure he had used to command his men in battle. At the brisk tone, Sir Faithful promptly laid down. He lowered his head dejectedly on his paws.

Drake returned his attention to her. “Where was I?” he asked hoarsely.

“You were touching me,” she said breathlessly.

“Was I?” He kissed the corner of her lip.

She moaned. “Yes.”

“Yes, like this or yes, you like it?”

Her head thrashed back and forth. “Stop teasing me.”

Strong fingers traced a knowing path over her body, and grasping her buttocks in his palms, he urged her closer to the length of him.

Emmaline gasped. She was going to catch fire from her need and set Hyde Park ablaze.

Her head fell back when his lips left hers. He nipped the corner of her lips, her cheek, and then he caressed her neck with his lips. The unshaven scruff of his beard tickled her skin. She giggled.

Drake didn’t even break his ministrations, his hands releasing her breasts from the bodice of her gown. The peak of her nipples hardened under his stare. “Is there something that amuses you, my lady?” he asked huskily, not waiting for a reply as his mouth lowered to her breast. With deliberate slowness he drew the ripened bud into his mouth. He gently suckled, laving the peak, and then flicked it teasingly with his tongue.

Emmaline’s head fell back.

Drake switched his attention to the tip of her other, neglected pale white mound.

Emmaline gasped aloud. She twisted her fingers into the silk strands of his golden hair. “Drake, show me more.”

The cool of the morning air slammed into her bare legs, as he slid her skirts up, higher, and higher, to her knees. His fingers skimmed over her belly, and then before she could comprehend what he was doing, his hand delved between her legs.

It was as though every last vestige of energy was sapped from her. Emmaline collapsed in his arms. He sat down, atop a bed of white cerastium, and moved her onto his lap while his expert fingers continued to work her.

Drake slipped another finger into her and began to move them; in, then out, in then out, until she bucked under his hand. “Yes,” she cried softly.

He continued to stroke her, playing with the pliable nub of her center. Emmaline supposed she should feel a sense of shame but couldn’t drum up one single rational thought about the indecency of what they were doing and where they were doing it.

All she knew was him.

She closed her eyes and undulated beneath him, searching for more.

His lips reclaimed hers. “Come for me, love,” he urged, his voice a husky command.

Come? What on earth did he mean? Pressure built inside her, unfurling like a rapidly growing weed, taking over everything. Her cry was lost in his mouth. She frantically arched her hips as he rung every last bit of pleasure from her.

And then she collapsed, replete with the gift he’d given her.

So that was what he’d meant. She laid her cheek alongside his and felt her breath fanning his.

Drake’s fingers played with the tresses that had tumbled from her knot and covered them like a blanket. “So beautiful,” he whispered.

Emmaline’s throat worked. She knew she was no great beauty but when he said it like that, in those emotion-laden words, she believed him.

He kissed the slight birthmark just below her temple.

“What an interesting spot for a birthmark. Rather unique…just like you.”

He brought her skirts down and she finally, reluctantly, pulled back.

She looked at him through heavy eyes. “I won the challenge, my lord,” she reminded him huskily.

He laughed and kissed her once again for good measure. “Yes, my lady. You certainly did win.”

TWENTY-TWO

My Dearest Drake,

Does a man who is betrothed still propose to the lady he is betrothed to? I would imagine it would be more romantic if he did.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

He was going to marry her.

Drake expected to be consumed by anxiety at the thought of relinquishing bachelorhood. He’d always believed marriage symbolized the death of a gentleman’s freedom.

Yet oddly today, he had no reservations. It wasn’t obligation that drove his decision. Nor his responsibilities to the ducal line. Somewhere along the way, it had become about him and Emmaline—as it should have been.

Sir Faithful barked.

He glanced down apologetically at the pup. “No, you cannot come, my friend.” Sir Faithful dropped his head back between his paws and gave him a long, sad look.

“I’ll tell you what, Sir. Soon I’ll bring her back here as your mistress, then you can see the both of us.”

That was apparently too much for the pup to understand. He just cocked his head sideways, tongue lolling out, and continued to study Drake.

Drake returned his attention to his plans for the morning, feeling once again like a soldier about to embark upon a decisive battle. Why had he fought this? He thought of all the time he’d wasted, thought of his leaving to fight on the Peninsula, when what he’d been fleeing had turned out to be a person who made him smile more than he had in years.

He glanced down at the ring resting on the bureau top. The eight carat emerald nestled amidst a cluster of diamonds, glittered in the morning light. It had belonged to his mother, and the duchess before her, and the duchess before her. And it would be Emmaline’s. He picked it up, studied it, and then placed it in the inner fold of his midnight jacket.

His valet appeared in the doorway. “My lord, as requested, your mount has been readied.”

Drake nodded and made his way below stairs, to the foyer.

He was met by the usually staid, butler, Winchester.

This time Winchester’s weathered face was wreathed in a smile that went from one ear to the next. As if he knew Drake’s special business. Which shouldn’t really surprise him. Winchester had always managed to glean Drake’s intentions before he himself even really knew.

“My lord!”

Drake grinned back. “Winchester.”

Since he’d lain Emmaline down on the garden floor and pleasured her, he’d worn a perpetual smile. To be more precise, he’d seemed to be in a state of happiness since she’d come into his life. Emmaline’s joy had been infectious and he’d been her willing victim.

A startled shriek rent the air, punctuated by a resounding metallic crash. Servants seemed to materialize out of nowhere and hurried to the mishap. A two foot silver vase lay on its side amidst a cluster of white flowers. The young maid who’d dropped the floral arrangement wept into her hands.

Her blubbering blended with the cacophony of sound as servants rushed to clean the mess.

Drake’s eyes remained riveted on the glint of the metal urn. The maid’s cries wavered in and out of focus, until they were replaced with the agonizing shouts of his fallen men.

As if slammed by a cannon ball to the stomach, Drake’s body jerked. With a bellowing roar wrenched from deep inside his soul, he dropped to his knees and covered his ears, in an attempt to blot out the deafening sound of grapeshot ricocheting off each corner of his mind.

Drake’s eyes flitted around like that of a cornered animal. His horrified gaze landed on the earth strewn with destroyed flowers, and waited. When no bodies fell, in an attempt to flee, he darted past the horrified men around him. He willed his legs to pump faster, lest he be caught in the thick of the battle.

A powerful hand snaked around Drake’s arm. He cried out. Thrashing violently, he leveled his opponent with an elbow that caught the man in the ribs. The hiss of exhaled breath fired like kindling just about to catch. The man held onto Drake with fierce determination, but Drake refused to surrender because if he did, he’d be at the mercy of the French bastards.

“No, no, no!” Drake roared.

“Drake, I won’t hurt you. Nobody is going to hurt you.”

Drake stilled. When the man’s grip lightened, Drake wrested his arm free, and beat a hasty retreat up the stairwell.

The Frenchie was on him again. He knocked Drake’s knees out from under him, tackling him to the ground. The action knocked the breath from Drake with a powerful whoosh, and something flew out from his jacket front. He heard the soft ping, ping, ping, as it skidded across the white Italian marble floor.

White Italian marble floor?

“Drake? Drake?”

“My lord?”

Drake struggled beneath the weight of the bodies that pressed him down.

Bodies. There were more than two.

Drake? My lord?

His breath was coming hard and fast on deep gulping gasps for air.

Think, Drake. Why would the French be calling me by my name? Think. Where were the echoing shots? He waited for the sounds that never came.

All energy drained from him and he rested his forehead upon the hard cool surface of the marble, which penetrated his haze of horror.

It had struck again.

He blinked down at the floor but his vision blurred, blending the surface. He wanted to cry. A trickle of wetness trailed a path from his cheek and fell upon his lips.

Nay, he was crying.

He became aware of his father helping him up, gathering him in his arms as if he were no more than a boy.

Except he wasn’t a boy. He was a battle-scarred man who would never be normal again.

His whole frame shuddered with the jarring return to reality.

“It’s fine, Drake,” his father whispered. He stroked his back. “You can leave, Winchester.”

It wasn’t fine. In fact, Drake wanted to toss his head back and rail at a non-existent God.

He stiffened and took a staggering step away from his father and remembered. Remembered this humiliation had been witnessed by a host of servants, servants who would surely talk. Then the entire ton would know. She would know. His gut churned. He was going to be ill.

“Not one member of this household will speak on what happened here,” his father said, correctly interpreting the direction of Drake’s thoughts. There was an air of ducal confidence to the promise.

Drake took another step backward, placing much needed distance between them.

His father’s throat bobbed up and down, displaying his unease. He held an outstretched hand toward Drake. “Don’t, Drake. Don’t turn from me.” It was an order. It was not a ducal order, but rather the words of a father demanding his child not shut him out.

Drake ignored him and, without another word, turned on his heel and climbed the last stairwell. He walked at a brisk pace down the long hall and finally reached his chambers. He shoved the door back with an aggravated force and entered, shutting the door behind him with a decisive click.

Drake leaned against the closed hard panels of the oak door, borrowing the strength to stand. The hum of the room’s quiet fell in cadence with the heavy sound of his breathing.

When he thought he could move again without collapsing into a heap of shame, he dropped to the floor and sat with his body flush against the door.

Sir Faithful bounded across the room, and ran excitedly about Drake’s feet. The dog climbed up in his lap, and favored Drake’s face with a coarse, pink-tipped lick.

A bitter laugh escaped Drake, which he buried in Sir Faithful’s neck. “I should have known better.”

Instead, he had deluded himself into believing this defect in him, this tendency to lose control, would not prevent him from finding happiness with Emmaline. The memory of her, the taste of her lips, the sweet sounds he had swallowed within his own mouth, had all allowed him to pretend he could be more than he was. A monster bound for Bedlam.

It hadn’t been enough that he’d lost control in front of her. Hell, that time should have been the first and last he’d allowed himself to be in her presence. But he’d persisted—because he was a selfish, filthy bastard who’d cared more about how she made him feel, how she made him forget.

Drake should be grateful this had happened. Now he could at least spare her hurt. He could take it on as his own. In fact, Drake should be glad for it.

So why wasn’t he? Why did he wish the day had continued along as he’d imagined.

He would have marched up Mallen’s steps with an armful of the white flowers he and Emmaline had lain amidst and then asked for her hand.

Her endless brown eyes would have sparkled with merriment and shock when he told her he wanted to make her his wife.

Mallen would bang his fist on his desk and glower at Drake with displeasure.

Drake dropped his head into his hands and pressed his fingers against throbbing temples, and continued to cradle Sir Faithful close. Excruciating headaches usually followed the episodes. He welcomed the pain this time for it helped dull the agonizing feeling of his heart being ripped piece by piece from his body.

The pain prevented him from thinking about how close he’d come to having it all.

TWENTY-THREE

My Dearest Drake,

Is it silly that, when you return, I want you to court me?

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

Emmaline fairly raced through Hyde Park in a manner that would have earned gasps of disapproval from Society members—if they’d been present, of course. She had sent Drake a note, claiming her picnic as the prize for their Glenarvon challenge.

That had been a week ago. Well, six days to be precise, which to Emmaline may as well have constituted a week.

In that time, there had been no acknowledgement, no return note, no teasing banter, no sudden appearance at a ball or musicale. Nothing. It had been as though everything she’d shared with Drake had been nothing more than a fleeting fantasy.

Emmaline had begun to think he’d never again contact her.

Until yesterday.

At last, Drake had replied to her request.

“My lady, can you please slow down?” her maid called out in a panting gasp. The sound of gravel kicking up furiously punctuated her breathless request.

Emmaline glanced over her shoulder. A twinge of guilt hit her. She sighed and slowed her steps. The ivory drawstring bag dotted with blue beads she held in her right hand swung against her side.

“My lady, would you like to rest soon,” Grace suggested.

Emmaline drew to a full stop on the Serpentine Bridge, which marked the boundary between Hyde Gardens and Kensington Gardens. Her abrupt movements sent Grace stumbling against her.

“Beg pardon, my lady.”

Emmaline glanced down at the parchment in her hands. “Fine, fine,” Emmaline said. She studied the note.

My Dearest Emmaline,

Would you do me the honor of meeting me in Hyde Park at Kensington Gardens? I shall be there at five o’clock in the morning. That is if it isn’t too early.

Yours,

Drake

Emmaline squinted off into the distance. A lone figure stood with his back to her and Grace. Attired entirely in black, there was something ominously dark about him.

Emmaline turned to Grace. “Please, wait here.”

Emmaline didn’t wait to see if Grace did as she was ordered. Instead, she hurried toward her betrothed.

Drake stood with his back to her. His gaze trained on the indigo and pale lavender hues traipsing across the early morning sky.

It was Sir Faithful who gave her a barking greeting. Drake’s broad frame stiffened as she approached but he didn’t so much as turn to look at her.

She fell to her knee. “Hello, Sir Faithful. How have you been, my boy?” She rubbed the spot between his eyes and he leaned into her touch.

“Emmaline,” Drake greeted, his tone deadened.

Emmaline stood, her pale blue muslin day gown rustling on a wisp of wind. “Why have you not returned my notes?” She heard the edge of hurt betrayal underlining her words. “I don’t understand. One moment, you seem to enjoy my company and then you disappear. It is as though you are two people.”

He stiffened.

“I believed you had come to care for me,” she whispered. “Can’t you even look at me?”

Drake spun around; his flat emerald eyes leveled her. She took a faltering step backwards, unprepared for the cold gaze he passed over her. He arched an icy, indifferent brow.

“I really don’t have anything to say to you.” His voice was as frigid as a January freeze.

One hand attempted to smother a gasp wrenched from inside her heart while the other dropped the bag she’d carried with her.

It hit the gravel path with a soft thud.

She angled her chin up and refused to be cowed. She didn’t know where she found the courage for the next words. “I’ve waited fifteen long years for you. I’m no longer a girl. I can’t continue as we are.” She held an outstretched hand towards him. “It’s breaking my heart.” The words stripped her of her remaining pride.

He dragged a hand through his hair and cursed. It was a foul curse she’d only heard uttered by her brother once, and that had been the day their father died.

“Emmaline, I believe you have made too much of—of,” his hand slashed the air, “this.” He motioned between them.

“I believed you had come to care for me, Drake. Would you have me believe that you do not?” She reached for him and he flinched. A laugh that sounded half-mad to her own ears escaped her. “Have I been so wrong about us?”

He didn’t respond.

“You can’t even have the decency to answer me that?” The words were desperate. “What game do you play? Why would you send round a note and ask me to meet you here if—?”

There was a flash of surprise in Drake’s expression. “What note?”

And then she knew. Her breath whistled between her teeth. “Oh God, you didn’t send it.”

A dull, throbbing pain came from somewhere in the vicinity of her heart, a heart she was certain had already withered inside her. Her hand went to her chest. The organ continued to beat. Odd, the rhythm seemed too steady and strong for someone dying.

She dropped to a knee and with fingers that quivered, fished an envelope from the drawstring bag. Her hands shook so badly she clumsily dropped the note. The scrap fluttered forlornly to the ground.

Drake bent down and swiftly rescued it. He perused the note he’d been purported to have written.

His brow furrowed while he scanned the parchment and then his eyes glazed over with a haze of fury. And she had her confirmation.

She wanted to flee, turn on her heel and be spared this humiliation.

Wordlessly, he stuffed the note back into its envelope and handed it back to her. On legs that trembled, she rose without assistance. Dazed eyes remained focused on her name scrawled across the thick ivory vellum, because then she didn’t have to look at the black rage in his expression.

Emmaline was possessed of a violent urge to tear up the piece. She wanted to rail at herself for not recognizing the scrawl as similar to other notes she’d received these past weeks from Lord Sinclair. Hated herself for seeing only that which she’d wanted to see.

“I—I allowed myself to hope.” And hope had clouded her reason.

“Sinclair?” he asked tersely.

Emmaline looked away.

Drake cursed.

He would bloody murder Sinclair.

“Why ever would he send that note?” Then it hit him with all the force of a bayonet to the gut. All along it had been Sinclair. “It all makes sense.”

She blinked at him with soulful brown eyes. “What makes sense?”

A cynical laugh burst from his chest. “Don’t play coy with me. You schemed with Sinclair. It was he who informed you of my whereabouts this Season.” He’d been betrayed by his closest friend and his betrothed.

“I assure you I couldn’t manage coy if I tried,” she snapped.

“But you could manage deceitful.”

Her delicate palms curled into little fists at her side and he thought she might hit him which really would be no less than he deserved.

She sucked in a deep breath. “Really, Drake? Is that how you see me? As some kind of maniacal scheming debutante?”

An image of Sinclair and Emmaline closeted away trickled into his consciousness. He imagined them laughing while they planned to trap him. The idea of them, plotting behind his back, sent rage spiraling. He was besieged by a tumult of emotions and couldn’t sort whether it was jealousy of her closeness with Sin or anger at the good laugh they’d had behind his back.

“What fun you must have had at my expense.” Filled with a restive energy he presented her with his back and stepped away.

“Has it really been so awful being in my company?”

He ran a hand across his face and swung back around. “So you enlisted Sin’s aid to ascertain my plans each evening. I understand your means of conspiring against me. Your intention was to force my hand, but Sinclair?”

“Bah. Why can’t you believe Sin was just trying to help you because he believes we belong together?”

He arched a brow. “I am rather surprised he accepted your appeal for support. Subterfuge is not really one of Sin’s traits.”

Emmaline folded her arms indignantly across her chest. “But it is one of mine? My, what a low opinion you have of me. I suggest you speak to Lord Sinclair for the answers to your questions.” She tilted her chin at a mutinous little angle. “You are a beast,” she spat.

He tipped his head in assent. “Truer words were never spoken.”

A near hysterical hiccough of laughter burst from her lips. “Did you ever really care for me?”

Drake studied Emmaline. The tightness around her mouth, her lips dipped down at the corners indicated that she was wavering between fury and despair. How dare she take on the role of the offended party? She had, after all, been duplicitous. He owed her no apologies.

Yet still…when her lush red lips trembled in that forlorn way, he wanted to knock himself out for being the cause of her pain. He hated himself for hurting her, even if ultimately it would be best for Emmaline. Then all false illusions she carried of him being an honorable gentleman deserving of her love could be at last squashed.

He closed the short distance between them with long, determined strides. Emmaline backed away. “Come Emmaline, am I to believe this plan you crafted was designed out of love for me? That it had nothing to do with your ultimate goal of marriage?”

“How little you think of me,” she snapped and then took a bold step toward him, so only a hand of distance remained between them.

They were toe-to-toe, breath coming fast from the force of their emotions.

“What do you want from me?” The words wrenched from deep within him.

“I want to be your wife,” she whispered.

Drake looked away, unable to see the love pouring from her. God, when she said it like that, he was wont to deny her anything. She at least deserved some element of truth from him. “I am not ready to marry you.”

Her response came out wobbly. “Why?”

He knew how much that question cost her and just added one more thing to the list of all the reasons he hated himself.

“I’m not ready to be a husband.”

There it was. To him, the truth—a silent acknowledgement that he was defective and not good enough for her. She, however, would see it as nothing more than a rejection.

“You’re not ready to be a husband? Or you’re not ready to be my husband?” He said nothing and she squared her shoulders. “I see.”

No, Emmaline. No, you cannot possibly see. Because if you did, then you would know right now I feel as though I’m being run through, over and over with a rusty bayonet.

Drake stared out into the horizon at the fading purple hues rolling back, as they ceded the spot to the full morning sky. “I should never have touched you.” Even if it had felt like the only thing perfect in his life.

Emmaline laughed bitterly. “I don’t imagine many of the ladies you’ve been intimate with have heard those words from the great Lord Drake.” She reached down and rescued the forgotten bag at their feet. She thrust it into his hands. “These were yours. I wrote them, to you…for you…when you were…gone…” She fumbled about, seeming to search for the right words. “I am freeing you,” she breathed the words into existence. She jerked as if startled by her own declaration, but then resolutely met his gaze. “I am no longer your responsibility.”

Drake’s heart thumped, once, twice, then froze. He gave his head a firm shake, in an attempt to make sense of what Emmaline had said but the loud buzzing in his ears overpowered his ability to reason.

Perhaps he had misheard her.

“I am freeing you,” she repeated. “I cannot do this any longer. You don’t love me. Even as I…love you. I cannot bear to be a responsibility you do not want, nor for that matter have ever wanted in your life. I want to be courted. I want someone to bring me flowers and write me poems. More than anything, I want to be loved. And do you know, Drake? I deserve to be loved.”

Yes, she did. Except, Emmaline could walk from one corner of the earth to the next, and never find a man who cared for her as he did. It was that regard for her which allowed him to set her free, in spite of his selfish yearnings. A ball of pain lodge in Drake’s chest.

Odd, he’d been stabbed, had taken more bullets than a living body was ever meant to take and yet the ache of losing Emmaline, was somehow greater than all those hellish wartime moments combined.

God help him. He was a selfish fiend after all. He wasn’t ready to lose her.

“What if I don’t want to be free?” The words ripped from a place deep within his soul, a place where the last vestige of humanity he’d returned from the war with, still resided. If Emmaline walked out of his life; she’d snuff out the sole flicker of light that existed within him.

Emmaline gave him a sad little smile. “Come Drake, you don’t want me. You have never wanted me. Even this Season.” Her hand fluttered about. “I’ve followed you from event to event, but I’ve never really been anything more than a nuisance. So I am freeing you as much for me, as it is for you.”

She stepped close to him. The crisp citrusy scent of lemons tickled his senses. His eyes slid closed. He would never know if it was the scent of her soap or a dash of perfume dabbed behind her ears, because she would be gone to him, and he would lose the right to know all those intimate things he yearned to know.

Through a surreal fog, he was dimly aware of her taking his hands. She gave them a gentle squeeze and picked up her chocolate gaze to meet his. “You have had the opportunity to make at least some decisions of your own. You went to war. I’ve never had that. Let me have this. Let me have my Season.”

Drake’s throat worked painfully. If only he could tell her the decision he’d made, his one reckless grasp at independence, had been the most horrendous mistake he had ever made. It had cost him everything: his sanity, his happiness. Her.

“I have never said I wanted to be freed of you.”

Why couldn’t he call forth the words to keep her?

Because you don’t deserve her, a silent voice jeered.

Emmaline smiled sadly. “But you never said you wanted me either.” She reached out a trembling hand to his jaw and rubbed the cleft there. “When my father died, I was devastated. I never thought I’d smile again.”

Drake tried to slog through the the unexpected shift in conversation.

“I waited for you, but you never came.” Emmaline swallowed, her throat working. “I still remember the chaos. There were so many cries and screams. I still cannot sort whether it was mine, Mother’s, or the maids’.” A small shudder racked her frame and she crossed her arms, as if to ward off a chill. “Countless peers came to pay their respects, but I really only wanted to see one person walk through the door.” Her lips tipped up in a sad rendition of a smile. “You were the only one I longed to see. I waited for you to come to me…but you never came.”

Drake’s stare wandered away from her precious face as his mind tripped down a path of remembrance. In spite of how it had appeared to Emmaline, he had indeed cared about the loss she’d suffered. He had meant to go to her.

It was that moment when he realized with certainty—he could not fight for her. The great hurt she still carried with her, a hurt she was more than entitled to, symbolized a divide that would forever keep him from being worthy of her. He had failed her too many times.

“I am sorrier for that than you can ever know,” he said. He flinched when her soft, delicate fingers caressed his cheek.

Hesitating just a moment, she reached up on tiptoe and placed a sweet, lingering kiss on his lips.

It tasted like good-bye.

Without a word, she turned on her heel, and left.

TWENTY-FOUR

My Dearest Drake,

I have just returned from London, where I found the most delightful straw bonnet for my gardening! I shall never be beet red again!

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

Drake stood rooted to his spot. The scent of Emmaline seemed to linger and he feared if he so much as moved, he’d waft the citrus scent of her off into nothing more than a memory. He stood so still his shoulders ached.

Time passed at an interminable crawl.

Sir Faithful nudged him in the leg until he looked down. The loyal fellow favored Drake with a sad, accusing brown-eyed stare. “I’m a fool, Sir.”

Sir Faithful yapped in agreement.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. He hadn’t felt anything in the three years since he’d returned and now he should feel it all: pain, happiness, despair. He hated the swell of emotion that threatened to carry him away.

Over the past three years Drake had constructed a wall around himself; a barrier against the outside world. In a few short months, Emmaline had taken it down brick by brick until she’d exposed him as a scared and hurt man.

Even as he cared for Emmaline, in that moment, Drake hated her for forcing him to face the lie he’d been living. He’d tried his damnedest to bury himself in empty pursuits, whoring and gaming. And those were no longer enough and would never be enough.

Now the only thing he longed for, craved like air he breathed, was her.

And she was gone.

He wanted to slam his fist into something. There was no one to release his pent up fury on…except…

Drake turned on his heel.

He retrieved his mount and headed to the home of the one person he could direct his wrath upon.

When he arrived at his destination, he flung the reins to a waiting boy and threw him a sovereign and promised another when he returned. Drake strode up the townhouse steps and banged his fist on the door.

A wide-eyed butler opened it. “My lord, I shall…”

Drake stormed past the servant and started up the stairway. “Where is he?”

The graying butler’s skin turned ashen. “My lord,” he squeaked, and hurried up the steps, two at a time. “He is still abed, if you…”

Drake’s long legs had already outdistanced the butler, and the other man’s words trailed off. Drake continued on down the hall.

Having, of course, never visited Sin in his bedchambers, he wasn’t entirely certain which rooms the bastard occupied.

It did, however, give Drake some matter of satisfaction to kick in each closed doorway, sending them bouncing off the wall with a resounding boom.

Half-way down the hall, he kicked in one more door, and heard an answering groan.

“Get up,” Drake thundered, entering the chambers. He crossed over to the bed and tugged down the mound of blankets. He tossed them to the floor.

Sin draped an arm across his eyes seeming to care more about the intrusion of light than his naked form which had been exposed. “What has you in such a foul temper?” he groused, and dragged a pillow over his eyes.

Drake fished the note from his pocket and flung it at his friend. He began to pace. “What is this about? Where are your loyalties, that you would assist Emmaline in her maneuverings?”

Sin tossed aside the pillow and sat up slowly. He reached over the side of the bed and picked up his robe. “Whatever are you talking about?” Sin asked as he jammed his arms within the sleeves. He reached for the note, read it, and set it aside. “Oh, this.”

Drake’s movements were drawn to a jerky halt. He fixed a glare on his traitorous friend. “Oh, this? That is all you have to say?” Anyone else would have been terrified by the bloody calm in Drake’s words.

As if to show Drake how terrified he in fact was, Sin stifled a yawn with the back of his hand. He stood and belted his robe at the waist. “You were in need of a push,” he said matter-of-factly. His bare feet padded across the plush Aubusson carpet.

Unmindful of the early hour, Sin strode over to the drink cart situated against the curtained window, and poured a healthy glass of whiskey. Very deliberately, he swirled the contents of the glass and then took a long, slow swallow, until he’d polished off the brew. He set the empty glass down.

Drake clenched his fists at his side, knowing his friend was trying to stir his ire. He took a deep breath. “It isn’t your place to meddle in my life. I neither want, nor need your interference. I’ve had to deal with my father’s maneuverings. I don’t need yours as well.”

Sinclair picked up his glass and refilled it. He studied Drake almost quizzically. “Are you sure of that?” He took a sip of whiskey. “Can you honestly say you’ve been happy since you returned from the war? For the love of God, Drake, you’ve gamed and whored more than even I can keep up with. And tell me? Has it brought you happiness?”

Drake had to restrain himself from hurting his friend. “What do you know of it?” He seethed. “Who are you to judge and condemn? You carry on as you please.” Drake reached for a glass and the decanter of whiskey and sloshed the brew into his glass.

Sinclair held his glass up in mock salute. “Yes, but I am not betrothed,”

Drake opened his mouth to speak and then promptly shut it. He stared blankly at the gold damask curtains behind Sin’s shoulder.

Except, neither was he. With just a few words, the betrothal contract, which had bound them since childhood, had been snipped like a stray thread on a piece of fabric.

“It still was not your place to assist her. As my friend, you should have come to me the minute she proposed her scheme.” He finished his drink and set the glass down hard on the table.

Drake wanted to be well and truly drunk by the time he left this room.

Sin scratched his forehead. “Proposed…? She did not tell you.” A knowing light flickered to life in Sin’s eyes. “You believe Lady Emmaline approached me? You believe she enlisted my support? She did not tell you it was I who approached her?”

TWENTY-FIVE

My Dearest Drake,

I have learned you are in London. I know it is not ladylike to admit this but… I am excited to see you.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

Emmaline sat on the wrought iron bench in the gardens. She tugged the wide brim of her bonnet lower to conceal the extent of her grief from her maid, and hugged the small spade close to her stomach. She welcomed the sharp sting of the metal biting into her flesh, because it momentarily dulled the pain of her broken heart.

She had ended it.

Even thinking it now, it seemed surreal.

Since she’d been a mere girl her life had been seamlessly entwined with Lord Drake’s. She’d come to know him as her future. After years of waiting for him to finally come up to scratch, she should welcome the liberty of finally being free. Now she would have a real Season, an opportunity to pursue what she yearned for most in life—love.

Yet, why did she feel as though she’d had everything she ever dreamed of and had lost it?

She turned to her maid. “Will you fetch the duke?”

Grace rose and rushed to do Emmaline’s bidding. “Yes, my lady.”

Emmaline stood up from the bench and paced the gardens, failing to see the flowers. Then she made the mistake of stealing a glance at the cerastium covering the ground and it was too much.

She sank to her knees and lovingly stroked the silk of the tiny, fragile bloom. She dropped her face in her hands and shook her head back and forth, trying to tamp out the feel of Drake’s touch, the memories of how he’d made her body unfurl like petals opening up in the early spring.

A shadow fell over her and blotted out the nauseating sweetness of the sun’s rays.

Sebastian’s concerned voice interrupted her musings. “Em? Are you all right?”

She didn’t stand up. Didn’t look at him. “It is done. I have freed him.”

How did she manage to keep her words so steady?

Sebastian fell silent.

Emmaline didn’t know what she’d expected. Perhaps a bit of gloating on his part. After all, how many times over the past months had he insisted she break it off with Drake?

Sebastian sat onto the wrought iron bench. He rested a hand on her shoulder.

She leaned into him much as she had when she’d been a small girl who’d tumbled down the stairs. He’d scooped her up and held her until he’d driven away all the hurt. Oh, why couldn’t she be a small child again, back when life was so very simple?

“You know I just want to see you happy?”

Emmaline gave a jerky nod.

“So why do I feel you are still not?”

She rested her chin on Sebastian’s knee, and looked up at him. “I love him. Of all the mad, foolish, awful things to do…I went and fell in love with him.”

Her brother said nothing for a long moment. Finally, he removed her broad straw bonnet, and gave it his utmost concentration. “Do you know Em, I still remember the day you were born. You were red-faced, screaming. Tears were dripping down your chubby cheeks. The nurse was desperately trying to soothe you. I leaned over the crib, and just like that, miracle of miracles, you ceased crying. I hadn’t given much thought to what being an older brother meant. I realized in that moment I wanted to protect you from any and every hurt.”

“Some things are beyond even your control, Sebastian.”

“Unfortunately, I know that.” He redirected his attention to the hat in his hands. “You know I think this bonnet is ridiculous.”

She wrinkled her nose and swatted him on the arm. “I love that bonnet.”

He spared a disparaging look for the item in question. “I would never, ever pick this hat for you. I have teased you time and time again. But you insist on wearing this one. There’s no explaining it, is there, Em?” He directed his attention to Emmaline. “Simply a matter of…taste, I guess you could say.”

Emmaline swallowed. “It is that,” she whispered.

Sebastian tugged at the fraying blue satin ribbons. “See how it’s fraying here? Even the straw is starting to tear.” He dragged a finger along the areas in question.

“Seb—”

He continued. “Someday you are going to need a new hat. You will find the hat, and it will be perfect for you.”

Emmaline chewed her lip. “I will never, ever feel this way—about another, hat.” Her words were strong with conviction.

“No, no you may not. But nonetheless, you will find one and you will learn to love it. Do you understand?”

She nodded against his knee, again feeling like a little girl.

Sebastian set the hat down on the bench beside him. During her childhood, he used to tease her mercilessly about her concerns over Lord Drake’s devotion. As the years passed and it became clear that there was credence to her fears, he’d ceased tormenting her. He then became the protective one. The brother who assured her that she was, indeed, wanted. Now, he was the brother who was being truthful. She loved him even more for that.

“I’m never going to be happy again,” she said, nearly choking on the words.

A hoarse sound lodged in Sebastian’s throat, and he dragged her unceremoniously off the ground into his arms. He took her by the shoulders and gave her a slight shake. “Listen to me. You are beautiful and kind and smart. Someday you will find a gentlemen deserving of your love and it will be Drake’s loss. He made a foolish mistake and someday I’m certain he’ll realize that.”

Emmaline buried a gasping sob in his jacket front. “For all the consolation that is. Oh God, I’ve become a watering pot.”

He tugged out a kerchief and wiped her nose. “A rather messy one at that.”

She claimed the kerchief and held it to her face while she wept. “He never wanted our betrothal. Why?”

Sebastian cursed and took her by the shoulders. “Look at me. He is flawed.”

Emmaline bit her lip. In spite of what had come to pass between her and Drake, in spite of his unwillingness to commit, not defending him felt like a betrayal. She thought about his loss of control in the gardens and felt an urge to defend him. Sebastian would call her all kinds the fool for trying to disabuse him of his notions.

Yes, Drake was scarred. But that had nothing to do with why he didn’t want her.

Sebastian folded an arm over Emmaline’s shoulders and gave a gentle squeeze. He waited until her tears abated to a watery hiccough. “Better?” he asked.

Oh Sebastian, I’m not a child anymore. One good, healthy cry could not erase the waves of hurt cascading over her. She didn’t have the heart to tell him that she’d never be better, that this hurt would always be there. “Better,” she lied.

Sebastian brightened and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. He picked up her hat and set it atop her head. “I’m serious. I am getting you a new hat, whether you like it or not.”

Emmaline managed a laugh. “Someday you’ll realize, you can’t just find the perfect hat, anywhere.”

Sebastian winked at her. “We shall see about that.”

TWENTY-SIX

Dearest Drake,

Do you ever find it odd we’ve been betrothed for eleven years and yet have only met a handful of times?

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

From where Drake stood at the edge of the ballroom, a sea of dancers swirled by him. A champagne flute dangled between his fingers.

He ignored the merriment; the gay laughter, the ton gossiping about the latest on dit—all of it.

Emmaline occupied every corner of his mind, in the same way she occupied every corner of his heart.

Since he’d stormed out of Sin’s townhouse, Drake could not rid himself of a ravaging guilt over the insults he’d leveled at her.

It turned out she’d not enlisted Sinclair’s aid. In spite of his ugly accusations, Emmaline possessed too much integrity and honor to betray Sin.

Should he really be surprised? She was, after all, the same woman who’d used her own body to shield an old peddler in the streets.

He could live ten lifetimes and never find another woman he’d rather wed.

Drake took a sip of champagne. He had returned home and awaited a summons from the Duke of Mallen. His mouth hardened. He knew the other man would delight in ending the agreement between their families.

He’d spent the day seated in his father’s library, his copy of Glenarvon on his lap. Memories had consumed him; the moment he’d seen her standing in a pile of refuse, the day he’d startled her at the Old Corner Bookshop. Memory after memory filled him, and he forced himself into a painful recollection of each one.

Drake recognized Emmaline’s decision was for the best. And yet, with each tick of the clock, dread had filled him as he awaited a letter from the Duke of Mallen.

The day had come and gone. Strangely, it was as though nothing had changed. Drake even convinced himself that mayhap he’d imagined the whole blasted exchange with Emmaline.

He perused the crowded ballroom, longing for just one glimpse of her impish smile. Except when last she’d left him, she hadn’t been smiling. He remembered the circumstances of their last meeting and lashed himself with the painful memory of her request to be free.

He tossed back the last of his champagne.

She didn’t know which event he was attending and God knew she certainly wouldn’t be approaching him with a smile. Which was the reason he’d taken pains to send a servant around from his household to the Duke of Mallen’s household to ascertain Lady Emmaline’s plans for the evening.

A slight flutter in the doorway caught his attention, and then his breath left on a hiss.

Had there ever been a woman more stunning? A sea-foam silk and organza creation clung to her delicate form. Her suggestive décolletage, trimmed with crystal beading caught the light of the chandeliers and radiated rainbow hues out into the hall. The rich fabric of the gown clung to her hips and swayed with any hint of movement. She was a siren. She beckoned to him.

He willed her to look at him. To forgive him.

Then she did. He knew the moment his presence registered. Her eyes lit with joy that was all too fleeting, only to be replaced by an aching sadness. It tore at his insides.

In a protective manner, the Duke of Mallen’s tall frame moved closer to Emmaline and impinged on Drake’s view of her. The duke leaned down and whispered something in her ear. Emmaline’s lips lifted ever so slightly, in rendition of an amused smile. Drake wondered if he were the only man present who recognized the gesture as forced.

She looped her arm in Mallen’s and discreetly pinched him. If Drake hadn’t been attending so closely, he would have missed the slight movement.

Drake stepped forward. He took two more steps and then had to use sheer will to halt his movements.

Mallen said a quick word to the Duchess of Mallen, and then ushered Emmaline to the opposite side of the room. He deposited her along the wall next to Miss Winters.

Drake cursed blackly, earning curious and shocked stares from the lords and ladies around him. He ignored them. If Drake had a sister, he would do far better. He wouldn’t abandon her amidst a row of wallflowers.

Though was it really Mallen who was responsible for that, a silent voice jeered? Aren’t you the one truly responsible?

A servant came by to relieve Drake of his empty champagne flute. He deposited it on the tray and continued his study of Emmaline. Emmaline’s fair cheeks glowed as she spoke. She gestured wildly with her hands and Drake wondered what the young women discussed.

Sin sidled up next to him. “What’s caught your attention, Drake?” he drawled.

“Stuff it, Sin.” Drake motioned for another flute of champagne and proceeded to ignore his friend.

Not one to be easily intimidated, Sin accepted a flute for himself and looked across the ballroom. “Ahh, Lady Emmaline. Imagine finding her here even though she was unaware of your plans for the evening. How fortuitous for you.”

Drake ignored the mocking edge in Sin’s words.

“She looks rather well, considering.”

Goddamn Sinclair for dangling that last word.

Drake told himself not to give in to the temptation of asking. Forced himself to count to ten.

He got to nine. “Considering what, Sin?”

Sin feigned wide-eyed surprise. “Why, you haven’t heard? There is talk among the ton of a row between you and Lady Emmaline.” Sin lowered his voice so Drake had to strain to hear. “Apparently she was seen running through Hyde Park, in tears. You were seen departing shortly thereafter.”

Drake shuttered his expression, and even though he told himself not to look at her, he could not prevent himself from stealing one more glance. He recognized that forced dazzling smile for what it was; a brittle attempt at lightheartedness. Even with the distance and crowd between them, he could see her fingers curled tightly in her lap, blood-white.

“Mallen looks like he wants your blood,” Sin murmured.

Without a word for Sinclair, Drake started across the room.

“Of all events for him to attend,” Emmaline muttered. She twisted her hands anxiously in her lap, grateful for Sophie’s calming presence. “Now, when I have no desire to see him, this is where he is?”

A frantic laugh bubbled from her throat.

Sophie reached for Emmaline’s hand. “Oh, Em.” She glanced across the ballroom floor. “He is looking this way,” she said in a frantic whisper.

“Who?”

Sophie pointed her eyes toward the ceiling. “Who do you think? The Marquess of Drake.”

Emmaline fought the urge to spin in his direction. She hated that even after his callous dismissal, she still longed to see him. She clasped Sophie’s hand. “I want to leave,” she said.

“Shh, they are staring. What has he done that makes you want to flee?”

Emmaline picked up her fan. She snapped it open in attempt to conceal her lips. “He sent a note requesting I meet him in the park. I showed up like a love-struck fool, and in the end, the note wasn’t even from him, Sophie. It was Lord Sinclair’s ploy to throw us together. Needless to say it ended in disaster.”

Sophie’s eyes went round. “Oh, Em.”

Emmaline snapped her fan shut. “I broke off the betrothal.”

If possible, Sophie’s eyes widened even more. “You what?”

Emmaline scrunched her fingers into the folds of her gown, crushing the lovely sea-foam creation. Madame Touseou would be livid if she saw how callously Emmaline handled one of her finest gowns.

“I ended it. Lord Drake does not care for me. He never did. So in the end, I gave him his freedom.”

Sophie’s brow furrowed. “I have to believe he cares for you, Em.”

A snort escaped Emmaline. “What makes you say that?”

Sophie stole another peek across the room. “He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since the moment you arrived.” She tapped her chin. “And he doesn’t appear disinterested. No man can look at a woman the way he has looked at you all night and not feel something.” Sophie sighed. “I’d give my last eye-tooth to have a man stare at me the way the Marquess of Drake stares at you.”

Emmaline followed Sophie’s focus. Why was Sophie staring at Sebastian? Her friend must have taken note of Sebastian’s lethal black stare.

The urge was even stronger to find Drake in the crowd, but Emmaline continued to resist. “I assure you Drake is merely annoyed by my presence.” Emmaline remembered his detachedness in Hyde Park earlier that day. He might as well have been one of the stone statues that graced her mother’s gardens. Anything else her friend read in his response was fanciful thinking.

“Are you certain of that?” Sophie’s question jerked Emmaline back to the moment.

“I couldn’t be more…”

“Because he is headed this way.”

Against better judgment, she sought him out. Drake cut a swath across the room, right to the seat she occupied.

Oh God, why is he doing this? Didn’t he know she was going to collapse in a heap of despair at the feet of Society?

She and Sophie scrambled to their feet and dipped matching curtsies.

Drake bowed. “Lady Emmaline,” he said without even the pretense of niceties for Sophie’s sake. “I would like to request the next set.”

Emmaline swallowed and attempted to muster her earlier indignation. “I’m afraid my card is full, my lord,” she lied. She clutched her card close so he couldn’t see the void of names.

He held out his arm, as if daring her to refuse. “I am certain some gentleman would be more than willing to forgive my boldness in stealing his set.”

What kind of weak ninny was she that she wanted to take his arm and grant his request? For in spite of what had come to pass, she wanted to be in his arms.

A booming voice laden with false sincerity interrupted Emmaline’s musings. “Lord Drake, so good to see you.”

Emmaline and Drake turned in unison.

Sophie jumped up.

Drake passed a black glare over her brother. “Mallen.”

Sophie shifted on her feet. “Your Grace.” She remembered to dip a curtsy.

Sebastian paused and then seemed to remember the years of gentlemanly behavior drilled into him. He bowed. “How are you this evening, Miss Winters?”

“I’m—.”

He didn’t wait for an answer as he slung an arm around Drake’s shoulder, neatly steering him from Emmaline.

“Well,” Sophie muttered in his wake.

Emmaline hurried after the two gentlemen, fearing they would come to blows.

Drake shrugged off Sebastian good-naturedly and spoke through his teeth. “If you put a hand on me again, Mallen, by God, I swear I will lay you out in front of this entire room.”

“Sebastian, do not cause a scene,” Emmaline hissed.

Sebastian hesitated momentarily, seeming to consider the measure of Drake’s threat and Emmaline’s words. “I want you to stay away from my sister.”

Drake’s jaw hardened. “She is no longer a girl. She hardly needs you to dictate her actions—”

For the tons benefit, she playfully tapped Sebastian on the arm with her fan. “I’m standing right here, gentlemen.”

Sebastian ignored her. “Ahh, but I’m not dictating her actions. I’m dictating yours. I said stay away from her.”

“Mallen, I faced down a squadron of soldiers firing at me. It will take a great deal more than you to intimidate me,” Drake drawled lazily. This time he thumped Sebastian between the shoulder blades. “I bid you good evening, Mallen.” He turned his attention to Emmaline as he favored her with a last, hot, lingering look.

Emmaline’s breath caught. She would always love him.

The moment was shattered by Sebastian. “Oh, Drake, one more thing?”

No, Emmaline screamed silently. She wanted to take back what she’d said to both Drake and Sebastian. She wanted to find a way to start again.

Drake raised a single, insolent golden brow.

“I’d like to request a meeting tomorrow morning, at nine o’clock. I’m sure you have an idea as to what it’s about.”

Emmaline’s eyes slid closed on a wave of pain and when she opened them, Drake had already left.

TWENTY-SEVEN

My Dearest Drake,

I have begun to fear there was merit to my parents’ suspicions that you left because of our betrothal. My brother used to tell me such thoughts were foolish. He has since stopped protesting. Regardless…I hope you do not come to harm because of me.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

Emmaline stood hidden by an enormous Doric column in her brother’s foyer. She rested her forehead against the hard, cool stone and trailed a finger over the ridges. How long had she been waiting? Minutes? Hours? Days? Years?

A loud resounding knock bounced off the front doors. Even though she’d been expecting it, she jumped. Her heart thumped wildly and she folded her arms to her chest, making herself as small as possible.

From her hiding spot, she peeked out from behind the structure.

The expressionless butler, Carmichael, opened the door and admitted an ever regal, handsome Lord Drake. The black flowing fabric of his elegant cloak swirled around his legs.

Drake handed the servant a card. “His Grace is expecting me.”

Carmichael assisted him out of his cloak and handed it to a nearby servant.

The butler motioned for Lord Drake to follow. “Right this way, my lord.” Emmaline watched him go. His boots tapped methodically on the marble floor. Then he froze, and suddenly whipped back around.

She pressed tight against the other side of the column, furtively studying his actions.

His unreadable jade stare quickly panned the foyer, before swiveling back and settling on the column that served as her hiding place.

Emmaline smothered a gasp with her hand, torn between laughter and tears. Drake had a way of doing that. Of somehow, knowing just where she was.

“My lord? This way, if you please,” Carmichael prompted.

He inclined his head and then continued on to Sebastian’s office.

When she was certain he’d gone, Emmaline dashed from behind her hiding place, and raced to her brother’s office.

Once upon a lifetime ago, Emmaline had been a little girl seated in her father’s office swinging her legs to and fro, opposite a young boy. She’d been unaware of the goings on across the room. Fifteen years later, the little girl had been replaced by a woman, now barred from that very same room. Now she stood at the fringe of a closed door.

Unlike that time from her girlhood past, Emmaline knew exactly what was being discussed between the present duke and her betrothed. And found she preferred the not knowing.

The large paneled oak door muted the voices closeted away in the office.

“Come away from that door, Emmaline,” her mother hissed from the hall.

Emmaline ignored her. Even if Emmaline was eavesdropping like a small girl, she was in fact a grown woman.

“Emmaline.”

Emmaline leveled her mother with a forceful stare. “No,” she mouthed silently.

When her mother took several steps closer, Emmaline held up a staying hand.

“By God. Mother, everything has been dictated to me since I was five years old. I’m telling you now, I need to be here. Please go, lest I be discovered.”

For the first time in her entire life, the usually eloquent Duchess of Mallen appeared speechless. With great gentleness, she took Emmaline’s face between her hands and dropped a kiss upon her forehead.

“You are right, my dear. I have imposed enough of my will on your life.” She spared another glance at the door. “Find me when it’s done.”

The seconds ticked by and the muffled sound of speaking grabbed her. “Mother,” Emmaline said urgently.

“Right, right,” she whispered and with obvious hesitancy, left Emmaline alone.

Emmaline shifted her focus to the heavy oak door, wishing it was instead a mere slip of a curtain so the exchange could be unfiltered. On the heels of that thought came a startling realization. It hit her with all the force of an unexpected summer lightning storm; the implication of the momentous proceedings on the other side of the door managed to suck all strength from her limbs.

The stoic force she’d found to face down her mother left her on a silent breath and she realized this would be the last time Drake ever entered her home. Never again would he tease her. Or stroke her body like a virtuoso, who’d been gifted a new instrument. For when Drake exited Sebastian’s library, he would cease to be a part of her life. All they’d shared, from teeth-gritting annoyance to easy companionability would fade into nothing more than a fleeting memory of a brief time she’d been close to complete and utter rapture.

After a copious amount of tears shed for her betrothed, Emmaline had risen that morning certain she couldn’t manage one more salty drop for Drake.

A tear slipped down her cheek and she swiped at it with an aggravated hand. Apparently she’d been wrong.

“A drink?” Mallen offered. He gestured to the open bottle of brandy.

Drake gave a curt shake. “A bit early for a drink, no?”

One of Mallen’s dark brows arched. “Not one for social niceties, are you?”

Drake’s jaw hardened. He forced himself to unfurl his tightly clenched fist.

He would be damned if he gave in to Mallen’s attempt to draw him into a row. He’d caused Emmaline enough hurt and wouldn’t further add to it by beating her brother to a bloody pulp in her home.

Mimicking the pompous duke, Drake arched a cool, mocking brow. “Is this why you asked me here? For a social visit?”

“Sit, sit!” Mallen urged and reclaimed the seat behind his desk.

Drake settled into one of the leather winged-back chairs and stretched his legs out in front of him.

Mallen propped his chin on steepled fingers and drummed them together. “You know why you’re here,” he said at last.

Drake gritted his teeth. “Have out with it already.”

Mallen leaned forward and reached for a leather folio. He pulled out several documents, appeared to review them, and then reached for his pen. The duke dipped it in ink and scratched his signature on a series of pages.

He signed the final document and settled the pen back into its crystal well with a decisive click. “I am severing the contract between you and Emmaline.” Mallen shoved the open portfolio across the surface of his otherwise immaculate desk.

Drake had known this exchange was coming, and yet his stomach twisted with an agonized pain.

A contract.

Over the past few months, Emmaline had become so very much more than a contract. She’d become the sole reason for Drake’s every happiness. She represented all that was courageous and strong. And the bloody scraps of parchment would erase all of that from his life.

His heartbeat increased, forcing him to draw a deep, shaky breath.

Mallen’s eyes narrowed. “Let’s get on with it.”

Drake reached for the damned documents. He proceeded to read them with deliberate slowness. He turned the pages with such jerky movements he ripped one of the sheets. When he finished reading them, he set them aside.

Mallen spoke. “I’m perplexed. Based on your previous sentiments, I should think you’d be very eager to put your signature to the documents.”

Drake growled. “Sod off.”

Still, he didn’t pick up the pen. His gaze wandered off to the sconce of lit candles throughout the room. How easy it would be to cross to one of those small torches and carry it back to the bloody document and set the whole foul piece ablaze.

Mallen leaned across his desk and tapped the parchment. “Your signature, Drake.”

Drake lunged to his feet. He wrenched the pen from its crystal container, held it aloft, so that ink smattered the duke’s desk and paper. He glowered at Mallen. “You are enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Shouldn’t you be enjoying it?” Mallen drawled.

Rage filled Drake. He scribbled his name hastily, and again dipped the pen in the inkwell. “You have never liked me.” He could not bite back the seething hatred he felt for the other man.

“Oh, come. We both know the sentiments have been mutual.”

Drake scratched his signature on another parchment. “Whole-heartedly.”

“Can you answer me this, Drake?”

Drake paused and glanced up.

“You ignored Emmaline for fifteen years. You ran off to fight a war, and left your responsibilities behind. You’ve made it clear to Society how you felt about your betrothal. You returned and carried on with a whole host of women, you drink, you gamble.” Mallen paused, probing eyes, seemed to search out answers. “And yet, you don’t strike me as a man eager to sign the severance document. Why is that?”

Drake set the pen down, and leveling his palms on the desktop, leaned forward. “You are not betrothed to anyone, Your Grace. Why is that?” He didn’t allow Mallen to answer. “It is because you made that choice. Had you been a boy of three and ten and had that very important decision taken away from you, well, then I’m sure then you might understand some of my rationale.”

Mallen inclined his head. “You might be right. That is neither here nor there,” he said with a wave of his hand. “What matters is Emmaline is still my sister, and I would see her cared for.” He motioned to the documents. “Get on with it.”

Drake dropped his stare to the parchment. With the black ink, he’d made a mess of one of the sheets. He wondered if the document would even be considered legal.

“You did not answer my question,” the duke said.

Drake would be damned if he fed the other man’s curiosity. He signed the final sheet. Straightening, he threw the pen onto the desk where it landed with a thunk. “No, no I am not.”

Silence descended.

It is done.

Mallen reached his hand across the desk, and Drake stared at it blankly. He wanted to snarl at him. Tell him to go to the Devil. Sebastian shook his hand. They were after all, gentlemen.

He turned to leave.

“Drake?”

He froze, keeping his back to the other man.

“In spite of what you believe, I don’t hate you.”

Drake managed a dry laugh but didn’t answer; because if he did all he’d end up saying was he couldn’t care less about what Mallen felt for him. Instead he nodded.

“Do you know why we’ve never gotten along, Drake?”

God, the man was a termagant. Tenacious.

Like his sister. Oh God, why did that thought hurt so bloody much? Drake turned around. “You aren’t going to let this go, are you?” he bit out.

Mallen smiled. “We never got along because we resented each other. You resent me because I love her. And I resent you because you do not.”

He measured Mallen’s words for a long moment.

“One more thing.”

Drake froze. Waited.

“Can I ask why you didn’t want to marry her?”

He swallowed once. Twice. Then gave a jerky shake of his head.

“That is not something I’m willing to share with you, Mallen.” With a curt bow, Drake did what he’d been longing to do since he’d gotten there—he left.

He stormed out quickly and nearly stumbled upon the young woman hovering against the wall.

He froze. He eyed her, beset by a range of different emotions; agony, regret, hopelessness. She’d been the last thread holding him to humanity. What am I without you?

The moment seemed to stretch into forever.

“Goodbye, Emmaline,” he said hoarsely. “It was never my intention to hurt you. Please know that.”

Emmaline’s expressive brown eyes pooled with tears. “Goodbye, Drake.”

Then he left, knowing until he drew his last breath, he’d be haunted by the sorrowful image of her standing there.

Emmaline sank against the wall. She pressed a hand against her mouth to stifle a sob.

Sebastian opened the office door and tugged her into the room away from any potential gossipy servants and when he’d closed the door, promptly pulled her into his arms. “Shh,” he murmured against the crown of her hair.

She wept against his shirtfront. She had wanted this. So why did it hurt so much?

“I asked him, Em.”

“I-I know.” She’d heard the whole exchange.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get your answers.”

Not as sorry as I am.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Dearest Lord Drake,

I know young ladies ought to be demure and proper. Yet upon reading your name next to a very notable widow in the scandal sheets, I feel anything but ladylike.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

Drake strode down St. James Street, through the black iron fence, and up the famous steps of White’s. A uniformed butler opened the door, granting him admittance.

News of his broken betrothal had found its way into the scandal sheets not even one day after Drake’s meeting with Mallen. Since then, he’d been plagued with a flea-like tenacity by curious looks and bold questions from the ton.

The bustling activity, the card games in progress all ground to a jarring halt as every pair of eyes swiveled in his direction. Christ, you’d think he was suspected of a bloody murder for all the scrutiny his movements garnered.

Drake’s jaw twitched. Apparently not even his club would serve as a sanctuary. He looked straight ahead, pointedly ignoring the gentlemen who were as eager as the matrons at Almack’s for a juicy morsel of gossip.

His progress across the club was halted by a bold dandy attired in gold breeches and a flamboyant orange jacket. The man stepped into his path, slowing Drake’s path to the empty table in the far, far corner. Drake held up a hand, shielding his eyes from the offending hues. The candlelight flickered and bounced off the shine of the dandy’s satin fabrics. Why, with the seemingly constant rainy days in London, all they needed to do was drag out this fop to brighten the sky.

“My lord—”

“What?”

Drake’s dangerous whisper echoed around the still of the room. The gentlemen seated, drinking their traitorous French brandies and placing bets, drew in a collective, audible breath.

The color blanched from the young man’s cheeks. “Uh-I-uh…p-pardon me.” He scurried off like a rodent being chased by the house cat.

Drake deviated from his path and headed toward the famous betting book. He picked up a pen and scribbled a wager into the infamous log. Slamming the pen into the crystal inkwell, he marched over and at last reached the table furthest from the crowd of gentlemen.

A hesitant majordomo approached. He cleared his throat. “My lord is there something—?”

“A bottle of whiskey,” he growled.

With lightning speed, a bottle was procured, along with a tumbler.

Drake picked up the bottle and proceeded to pour a generous amount of liquor into the glass. He tossed it back and welcomed the fiery trail it burned down the back of his throat. His lips twisted up in a grimace. God, it was a foul brew. He’d hated it when he was in Oxford and he hated it even more now. But he’d be damned if he picked up a bloody bottle of French brandy. All in all, the vile stuff would serve the very same purpose. He again reached for the bottle and sloshed liquid to the rim. Before the night was through, he had every intention of getting mind-numbingly foxed.

Just then, his eyes snagged on the copy of the Times, resting on the table. The corner of his eye ticked, once, then twice. And because he’d developed a taste for self-torture, he reached for the offending paper and proceeded to skim. There it was. On the front page, in dark bold print were two familiar initials.

Lady E. F.

Why didn’t they print the entire bloody names anyways? Every last bugger in the whole bloody kingdom knew each lord or lady mentioned by initials in the scandal sheets. So why stand on ceremony?

They should have out with it already. The paper should come right out and say: The Earl of Waxham has launched a whirlwind courtship of Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh.

With fingers that shook, he poured several more fingerfuls into his empty glass. God, he thought he might be sick. He wanted to blame it on the amber brew, then he tortured himself with the excerpt once again. Nausea roiled and it was all he could do to keep from casting up the accounts of his stomach right there in the middle of White’s.

Waxham hadn’t wasted any time. It had been four bloody days since Drake had signed those damned documents. Four days of regrets. Four days of despair.

In each of the four sleepless nights, he’d railed at himself for signing Mallen’s bloody papers. Why hadn’t he told the other man to go to the devil?

Because of her. Somewhere along the way, it had all become about Emmaline. Drake didn’t merely desire her. He ached for her with a pain-like ferocity. Her happiness and safety meant more to him than even his own. A bitter laugh escaped him. Who would have believed, the emotionless Lord Drake would ever come to care for the same lady he’d spent his life avoiding? Oh, it was the kind of drivel poets wrote about, the kind of nonsense he himself scoffed at.

Until her.

He’d told himself countless times she was better off without him. Sometimes he said the words aloud. Other times he honed in on those words stuck in his mind. Drake willed himself to accept her loss so he could move forward and be free of her sorceress-like hold.

Instead his want for her grew stronger. The feelings swelled each time he read her name.

But this—thoughts of her and Waxham—it was too much. He was strong. He wasn’t that strong. He’d rather face down a line of Boney’s men than confront this horror.

Drake tortured himself with images of her married to Waxham. Waxham lifting up her skirts, pleasuring her, rutting between her thighs—giving her children. He choked on the sip of whiskey that had been sliding down his throat, nearly gagging on it.

“You look like hell.”

Drake didn’t glance up. “I’m not looking for company, Sin.”

Sin waved off the majordomo who hurried over. “Ah-yes, I assumed as much based on your wager in the books.” He hooked his boot around the leg of the chair and tugged it out. “Really, Drake? A wager on which gentlemen would be foolish enough to seek out your company? I took the liberty of having that bet crossed out.”

Drake didn’t give a damn about the wager he’d put in the books. All he cared about was getting inebriated and tamping down images of Emmaline folded in Waxham’s embrace. Emmaline laughing up at the paragon. Emmaline…

Sin snatched the paper from between his tightly clenched fingers. “Ahh, so this is about the lady.”

Drake placed his hands on the tabletop and leaned forward, seething. “By the love of God, if you mention her name I will bloody your face.”

Sin threw back his head and laughed. “I swear, if I didn’t know you since we were mere boys that might alarm me.”

How wonderful that Sin could find amusement when Drake was so bloody miserable. “What do you want?”

Sin’s smile slipped. He made it a point of tugging his chair directly in front of Drake, effectively blocking him from the voyeurs present. “I want to know you are all right.”

“Why, I couldn’t be better.”

His friend cursed beneath his breath. “Enough with the sarcasm. This is me, Drake.”

Drake dragged a hand over his eyes. “What would you have me say? Would you have me lay myself bare before all of Society? It is bad enough having to deal with my father’s recriminations.”

“Is that why you’ve taken up here for the past two nights?”

Drake slashed the air with his hand. “Is everything I do known by all?”

Sin shrugged. “At this moment, you are unfortunately the tons favorite source of gossip.”

Drake threw back the remaining contents in his glass. “To hell with them all.”

A frown marred Sin’s usually affable countenance. “Nonetheless, you can’t go around frightening young pups that have the misfortune of coming near you. It’s hardly their fault you drove Emmaline away.”

That was the rub of it. He was the maker of his own misery.

“I thought you might prefer the termination of the arrangement,” Sin said with quiet honesty.

Drake stared hard at the tabletop. “Damn it to hell, I miss her.”

His friend quirked one brow. “Well, that is quite a revelation to come to at this late point.”

“Of late, I’ve come to a whole host of revelations.”

Sin leaned forward. “Oh, I’m all ears.”

Drake picked up his empty glass and rolled it between his fingers, studying the remaining drops glistening at the bottom of the tumbler and said nothing.

“When you are ready, then.”

Sin was a good friend. Just one more person Drake didn’t deserve. “If it is all the same to you, I’d like to get myself soused and you’re hindering my best attempts.”

Holding a hand up, Sin motioned for a waiter. “Another glass and another bottle of your best whiskey.”

The uniform-clad servant hurried off, and promptly returned with the requested items.

Sin picked up Drake’s bottle and poured two more stiff glasses of whiskey. He raised a tumbler in mock salute. “If you are determined to drink yourself senseless, then as a friend, I must insist on joining you.”

“For the love of God man, you’re heavy,” Sin muttered breathless from the weight of his exertions. He helped guide Drake to the above-floor suites. Drake had flung his arm across Sin’s shoulders. “I must admit I am thrilled you’ve rented rooms here. I don’t think I could have managed carrying you to the duke’s townhouse.”

“Th-that’s anufer thing,” Drake slurred. “II’m faaaar too old to still reside with my father.”

Sin nodded to a gentlemen they passed in the hallway. “That is something easily resolved,” he said helpfully.

Drake paused, and forced Sin to a stop. “You know what is naht so easily resolved?”

“What is—”

“Ehh-mmaline. I rather made a mess of thaat situation.”

Sin looked at him with a sobering expression. “With a bit of effort, that too can be resolved.”

Drake’s gut clenched and he swayed on his feet. “Do you truly believe that?” He felt hopeful for the first time in four days. Had it been four days? The days had marched on, interminable in their duration. He fished around his jacket pocket and withdrew his timepiece. The numbers upon the watch blurred before his eyes. “It doesn’t have the days?”

Confusion flitted over his friend’s face. “Let’s get you to your room.”

He allowed Sin to lead him along. “I-I saay, you seem faaaar too sober.”

Sin snorted. “That is because I didn’t drink an entire bottle, my friend. Here we are.” Sin fished around for the key Drake had handed him downstairs, then opening the door, led Drake inside the quarters. The space was large enough to serve its purpose; a temporary escape for gentlemen in dire need of temporary quarters.

Winding his way around the front room, Sin steered Drake to his bedchambers. With a grunt he heaved Drake over to the bed.

Drake landed hard and then promptly fell backwards. “Oomph.” He blinked up at the ceiling. “The room is spinning. Howww did White’s manage such a feat?”

“We shall ask the majordomo tomorrow,” Sin promised and, good friend that he was, set to work tugging off Drake’s boots.

Drake flung a hand over his eyes. “I don’t deserve her, you know. Came back a madman.”

Sin paused in his efforts. “I couldn’t disagree with you more. But this is not the time to debate the point.” Once both boots had been removed, Sin took a seat at the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight.

“I-I-I’m going to make some changes, maaark my words.”

“I certainly hope so. Your first order should be—”

Drake very much did want some guidance on what his first order should be, but he was so damned drunk that he couldn’t quite string together Sin’s words. And after a bottle of whiskey, he’d at last muted the pain of losing Emmaline to a dull ache.

Closing his eyes, he slid into blessed oblivion.

TWENTY-NINE

My Dearest Drake,

I am a coward. I have not sent you one note in three years. But you haven’t sent me one note either. Are you a coward as well? Or worse, do you just not care?

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

After two weeks sleeping at his club, Drake moved back home. There were no questions from the Duke of Hawkridge, no articulation of displeasure. Father and son had settled back into the same stilted, uneasy arrangement they’d had since Drake returned from the war.

Drake tugged back the curtains that covered his bedroom window and peered out at the night sky. His finger traced a distracted path across the pane of the window. Clouds billowed across the moon and blotted out all stars in the sky.

As usual, sleep eluded him. This time, demons from the Peninsula were not the ghosts that drifted about his consciousness, robbing him of an undeserving peace. Instead he was possessed by memories of a feisty, courageous lady with joyful eyes, and imaginings of her with another man.

Drake slammed his fist into the ivory plaster wall beside the window.

The violent movement sent the seemingly forgotten drawstring sack tumbling from the edge of the nightstand. His eyes snagged the article lying on the wood floor.

Since they’d parted, he’d not allowed himself to read the notes Emmaline had written to him. The cowardly part of him hadn’t wanted to acknowledge there had been a young lady named Emmaline, who’d spent hours of her time writing to him, but had been too shamed to ever send him the notes.

Had he always been an utter bastard where she was concerned?

Drake crossed the few feet separating him from the bag, and snatched it up.

Then with far greater care, he untied the silk sack, and pulled out a large stack of notes that were neatly tied with a blue satin ribbon. The top ivory vellum envelope was addressed to Captain Drake.

Drake returned back to bed and lied down. He propped his head on several pillows. Sir Faithful leapt up onto the bed and claimed the spot next to Drake. He petted the dog. “You, too, want to know what she said, do you, my boy?”

He undid the delicate bow holding the letters together, and pulled out the first envelope. Taking great care, he slipped a finger beneath the fold of the thick vellum and withdrew the note.

He patted Sir Faithful on the head, shook out the parchment, and read her words.

Dearest Lord Drake,

There is something I must share with you. It is dreadful and horrible. And if you were reluctant to wed me before this moment, well then (sigh), I am sure you will never want to wed me now. Are you ready? Dare I even put these words to paper? I cannot dance. There you have it. I tread abominably upon my dance master’s toes. I have overheard him speaking with mother. He said he was one broken toe away from finding another assignment.

Having tired of him as a dance master, I ground my heel quite happily upon his foot.

I am awaiting the arrival of my next dance master.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

Drake dragged a finger along the black ink, tracing the lines she’d made on the page. Odd that such a long time ago, a much younger Emmaline’s hand had stroked the marks on this note.

He set the letter aside and moved to the next. Drake read scores and scores of letters, noting when the tone changed, when the words became the words of a young woman, and no longer a girl who traipsed across the countryside, climbing trees, engaging in mischief with her older brother.

Unlike so many other nights, he willed himself awake. He continued reading until the swell of the bright morning sun appeared on the horizon. Her notes had become a lure he’d been hooked upon, that he didn’t want to be freed of.

He reached for the final remaining note.

My Dearest Drake,

I realize you have not read any of my notes—because I failed to send them. There is so much I’ve yearned to say to you. I’ve longed to ask why you left to fight. I’ve longed to ask what flaws are so inherent in my character that you should never have written me. I wonder if you’ve ever thought of me. Then I wonder if those thoughts are ever pleasant.

I wish you would know I will be a good wife to you. Oh, I might not be biddable and easily controlled, but we will know laughter. When you return, I long to laugh with you.

Since you will never read this, I intend to show you!

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

His eyes slid closed, and he brought the parchment to his nose, inhaling deeply. Except the citrus lemon scent that was hers had long faded.

For fifteen long years he had existed in a world where he was beholden to none, where all he felt, all he knew were his own hurt and disappointments. He had never allowed himself to consider there was any other injured party; a young woman desiring marriage. Instead he had nurtured his anger, kept it close.

He now realized that anger had become a mechanism he’d used to protect himself from the people around him. Emmaline had indeed taught him to laugh again, to feel. She had reminded him he was still human.

It was time he faced life.

He stroked Sir Faithful between the ears and thought about the woman who meant more to him than anyone.

Could he? Should he?

He shoved himself up and rang for his valet to help him into different clothes before starting downstairs. As he walked down the hall, a well-trained Sir Faithful trotted obediently at his heels. The dog came to an immediate stop when Drake halted at one particular room. He rapped on the door and entered his father’s study.

“Father.”

The Duke of Hawkridge set aside the scandal sheet he’d been reading and removed his monocle. “Come in, come in.” He tried to shove an envelope atop the paper.

Drake’s eyes narrowed.

His father didn’t try to prevent him from picking up the offending document.

He scanned the article and made a disapproving sound. “Really, Father? The scandal sheets?” He threw the paper down upon the desk and took a seat.

His father flushed and made a vague motion with his hand. “What is it, son?”

Drake folded one leg at his knee and tapped a staccato rhythm upon the arms of the chair. Sir Faithful yapped once, and Drake leaned down and scratched him between the ears. “I purchased a bachelor’s residence,” he said at last.

His father gave a slight inclination of his head. He propped his chin on steepled fingers, but otherwise showed no outward reaction to Drake’s pronouncement.

“Are you…certain you are—are…interested in being alone?”

Interpretation being; what will you do when I’m not there to help with the nightmares?

He gave his father a long, assessing look.

For the first time, he looked at the Duke of Hawkridge, and realized his strong, powerful father looked—old. A strip of gray peppered the hair at his temples, and the lines of his face, always firm, had softened. He now possessed wrinkles around the lines of his mouth and the corners of his eyes.

That moment, Drake was shamed as he realized he was not the only one who had been scarred by the war. The Duke of Hawkridge had witnessed far too many of his son’s nightmares to remain unaffected by Drake’s transformation from man to monster.

Drake held his father’s gaze. “It’s not your fault, Father,” he said.

His father dragged a hand through his hair. The normally steady fingers shook. “What isn’t my fault, Drake? The war? The broken betrothal? The nightmares?” he asked bitterly.

“Any of it. The decision to enlist was mine and mine alone.”

His father pressed his fingers tight against his forehead and rubbed. “Because of your resentment toward me. I—I am so sorry. More sorry than you can ever know.”

Drake swallowed past a swell of emotion. “I believe at one point I did blame you. For years, in fact. It was wrong of me. Childish.”

The admission, this sudden absolution his father deserved, was freeing. It had not been his father’s fault that Drake had high-tailed it to the Peninsula. Drake had no one to blame but himself. It was also healing to take ownership of the decisions he’d made.

Silence descended upon the room, punctuated by the methodic tick of the clock.

“That blasted betrothal. Seemed like such a good idea at the time,” his father muttered. “What a disaster it turned out to be.”

Drake flinched. It struck somewhere in the vicinity of his heart, to think of the betrothal as a disaster. “Again, Father, it was only because of me. Given all the decisions I made, I could never bring myself to resent the betrothal.” It had given him months of happiness. Filled him with joy.

Sir Faithful nudged Drake’s knee. Drake rewarded him with another affectionate stroke. It had brought him Sir Faithful.

He thought of Emmaline and his gut clenched and unclenched at the pain of loss.

If only he had her…

Go to her, woo her.

“You can pursue her on your own,” the Duke of Hawkridge said into the quiet.

Drake didn’t move. “The nightmares, Father.”

“Maybe she can help you.”

“I cannot place this burden on her.” He had placed enough burdens on Emmaline, he could not, nay would not, add this one. “No matter how much I care for her, no matter how it fills me with rage at the thought of any gentleman courting her, I have to face the reality—I’m a madman.”

His father scoffed. “You are no madman. You were affected by what you saw and did. You’d be a madman if you weren’t affected by those experiences.” He arched a brow. “I made decisions that I felt were in your best interest. How much did you appreciate it? Perhaps you should let Lady Emmaline decide for herself if she would stay and fight these demons alongside you.”

Drake lurched to his feet and paced the width of the room. He’d had the same thought each morning upon reading her name in the scandal sheets. But every time he’d stepped a foot out the door, intending to humble himself at her feet, he stopped.

Could he court her? Drake paused mid-stride.

“I have never taken my son as a quitter,” his father called from behind his desk.

Drake stiffened.

It felt as though the chains of life that had restrained him all these years were at last lifted. A slow smile formed on his lips. His self-imposed exile was at an end.

THIRTY

My Dearest Drake,

You have returned! I long for the day when we would again meet!

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

Emmaline surveyed the crowded ballroom and upon spying Sophie, squeezed her brother’s arm, halting his movements. “I see Sophie.” She gestured subtly in her friend’s direction.

Sebastian’s gaze lingered on Sophie and then he looked back at Emmaline. “You know you do not need to sit with the other wallflowers,” he said, a frown on his lips.

Since Emmaline had severed her betrothal, she’d spent her evenings not very much different than so many others—amidst the other wallflowers.

She pinched her brother’s arm. “Hush. Sophie is not a wallflower.”

He made a non-committal sound. “I’m merely saying—”

“Don’t say anything.”

Sebastian closed his mouth and proceeded to guide her toward Sophie.

Sophie seemed to notice Sebastian first. Her eyes went wide and a small tremulous smile hovered on her lips before her gaze landed on Emmaline. She climbed to her feet and curtsied. “Em. Your Grace.”

Sebastian bowed. “Miss Winters.” He turned a wary look on the hopeful wallflowers, who eyed him with a desperate intensity, and beat a hasty retreat.

“Coward,” Emmaline muttered for Sophie’s ears.

Her friend laughed and claimed Emmaline’s hand. Just then, a swell of eager suitors converged upon them. It had been much the same way since word of her broken betrothal had become fodder for the gossips. Emmaline didn’t delude herself into believing these gentlemen cared about anything beyond her dowry and a connection with the Duke of Mallen. It might not matter to the other wallflowers who smiled almost gratefully in Emmaline’s direction, but it mattered to her.

“May I fetch a glass of punch?” Lord Abbott, one of her more erstwhile suitors, offered a desperate pitch to his voice.

The third Earl of Stanwick puffed out a broad chest, a chest Emmaline highly suspected was compliments of substantial padding provided by his valet. “I said I would fetch the lady punch.”

“Oh dear, this has the makings of an all-out fight,” Sophie murmured beneath her breath. “Why don’t you race and see who brings it back first?” Her suggestion resulted in an exodus of some of the young swains.

Emmaline turned to the expectant crowd of suitors. “Gentlemen, I fear I turned my ankle and will not be dancing any more sets for the remainder of the evening.”

The popinjays groaned in disappointment and shuffled off, earning Emmaline censorious looks from her fellow wallflowers.

“Did we ever truly want this?” Emmaline mused.

Sophie’s lips twitched. “There must be a happy in-between, no?”

A happy in-between? What exactly would that look like? One would have to actually have a care for one or any of the suitors to be happy, no?

Over the years she’d given so much thought to being courted. She’d dreamed of becoming the recipient of a man’s admiration. Oh, she’d hoped it would be her betrothed, but had yearned to know a real courtship. That had been before she’d fallen in love with Drake. Now, every gentleman she met was a pale shadow of his impressive, inspiring figure. Not a single gentleman she’d met had managed to make her heart trip a beat, or set her stomach aflutter with shades of longing.

Only one man thus far had ever prompted such a response in her…and he was gone.

Sophie claimed her hand again. “You look so sad.”

Emmaline swallowed painfully. “I ache for just one sight of him. It is as though he’s disappeared from Society. I wonder what he is doing. Wonder if he ever has any thoughts of me.”

Sophie snorted. “Of course he thinks of you.”

A thrum of whispers rose amidst the crowd. Sophie glanced across the ballroom. Her golden brows shot up to her hairline.

“Sophie?”

“Uh, what would you do if you saw Lord Drake?”

Emmaline cocked her head. “Well, I imagine I’ll eventually have to see him because we do travel in similar circles.”

“Because he’s just arrived.”

Emmaline’s heart quickened and for the first time in weeks, soft joy filled her. She told herself not to search for him, but could no more stop herself from looking about than she could stop breathing.

He stood at the top of the stairwell, greeting Lord and Lady Thompson. Attired in all black and with his halo of golden hair, he may as well have been a fallen angel. He inclined his head in acknowledgement of something Lord Thompson said, before bowing, and pressing ahead. He appeared immune to the hum of whispers, the gaping stares. His intent emerald green gaze swept over the room, searching, searching, searching.

And then finding.

Even with the distance separating them, the hot intensity of his focus as he settled his stare on her scorched her like a noon sun.

“Breathe,” she reminded herself. Sophie nudged her in the arm but Emmaline ignored her.

“There is no way a man can look at you the way the marquess is looking at you and not feel something.”

Aware of the intrusive way in which they were being scrutinized, Emmaline forced herself to look away.

Sophie groaned. “Oh dear, your brother is headed this way.”

Sebastian rapidly crossed the room, even as the crowd parted for Drake. “What do you want me to do?” Sophie urged. “Do you want to see him?”

“I do,” Emmaline whispered. She heard the consternation in her own words.

Sophie hopped up from her seat and crossed the room, intercepting Sebastian. She held her empty dance card up to his inspection. Her boldness was met with scandalous gasps. His brow furrowed with a blend of annoyance and confusion. Sophie jabbed her finger at the card and showed him an invisible mark. Sebastian directed a pointed glare in Emmaline’s direction, before taking Sophie’s arm with seeming reluctance and leading her to the dance-floor.

Oh, Sophie. Emmaline’s eyes slid closed in gratitude.

“She is a good friend,” a quiet voice said, just over her shoulder.

She gasped, a fluttering hand covering her breast, and turned to face her former betrothed.

Drake claimed Emmaline’s hand and bent low over it. He placed a slow, lingering kiss on the top of her knuckles, even as his fingers caressed her inner wrist. What he wouldn’t give to remove the fabric that separated their skin.

“My lord,” she murmured.

With some difficulty, he swallowed around a swell of emotion lodged in his throat. “After all we’ve shared you might call me by my name.”

“You’d have me call you Ashton?” She traced her lips with the tip of her tongue. “In front of a room full of strangers awaiting my misstep?”

“Perhaps not by my given name, then.” He’d always quite abhorred the name. “Nor should you worry after the gossips.” He glanced around the room and pinned the peering lords and ladies with a collective glare. The crowd immediately redirected their attention. “Is that, better, Emmaline?”

Emmaline’s lips twitched but still refused to arc in a full smile. “Would that you could make them all disappear.”

He inclined his head. “I shall work on that.”

An awkward silence descended. They stood there, studying each other, like two strangers meeting for the first time.

“Will you do me the honor of this set?”

I have wanted to hold you in my arms, since the moment I walked out of your home, out of your life.

She went to place her hand in his, and then pulled it back. “I—I,” she stumbled.

His stomach tightened under the bite of rejection. “Forgive me for burdening you,” he said lamely. He should turn away. He should—

“Oh no, no,” she hurried to reassure him. She motioned down to her slippered feet. “You see, I told the gentlemen I turned my ankle and was unable to dance. How would it appear if I were to suddenly strike out the next set with you?”

A wave of relief washed over him. “That is the reason for your hesitancy?” He laughed; the sound burst from him from a place he’d thought had ceased to exist, a place full of unrestrained hope.

Without allowing her another word on the matter, he commandeered her to the ballroom floor for the current dance—a waltz. He settled his hands on her waist.

“My brother is flaying you to ribbons with his eyes.”

Drake arched a brow. “The last person I’m thinking about right now is your brother.”

Emmaline looked toward her brother. A small frown marred her lips. She continued to study the glowering duke as he waltzed Miss Winters across the dance floor. “He is not happy.”

Drake glanced at the duke and then back at Emmaline. “Really? I’m amazed you can tell. That is the only expression I’ve ever seen him wear.”

She giggled.

Drake’s lips twitched at her infectious laughter. “No, really. He must have been born with that terrific glower.”

Another giggle escaped her. “He’s practiced it since he was a young boy,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper.

He nodded somberly. “Of course he has. It is a requisite course for all heirs to dukedoms.” Drake narrowed his eyes and studied Emmaline down the length of his nose in his best impression of Mallen’s expression.

A gurgle of laughter bubbled up past her lips. “That is a rather impressive rendering.”

“Or there is this one.” Drake drummed up the disapproving glower his father had directed his way, many a-times when Drake had been a small boy.

“Please, s-s-stop. It isn’t seemly if I…” The floodgates opened and Emmaline’s giggle became a resounding laugh that earned a multitude of stares from the ton. The full, husky sound was hardly the simpering, stifled laugh required of a lady. Instead it conjured thoughts of naked bodies entwined in silken sheets, sated with pleasure.

“Th-they are s-staring again.”

Drake arched a brow. “Should I attempt one of your brother’s famous ducal scowls?”

Emmaline laughed even harder.

Drake stared down at her. How did I let you go? Sheer madness and rash idiocy were the only answers that made any sense. If he’d searched the world two times over, he’d never find a woman like her. And yet, she’d been his since they were mere children.

“I read your notes.” He caught her as she lost her footing.

Emmaline had given Drake her notes with the expectation he would read them. That had been at a time when she’d thought she would never speak to him again. But knowing he’d read all her private thoughts, left her feeling exposed.

Now that he was here, she could finally have the answer to the question that had haunted her since he’d walked out of her brother’s townhouse and out of her life. “I don’t understand. Why did you push me away?” Why did you give me up?

His hands tightened on her waist, the heat of his skin warming her even through the soft silk fabric. “If I were a better man I would leave you alone.” He nodded towards the eager gentlemen watching from the side of the dance floor. “I would be content to allow you to make a match with one of those more deserving gentlemen. I’m flawed.”

She flinched as she remembered her brother had leveled the same charge against Drake. “Don’t say that.”

He shook his head. A gold strand tumbled across his brow. “No. Listen to me. I need you to understand. The reason—”

“I’d like to dance the remainder of the set with my sister, Drake.” A voice snapped.

Emmaline jerked at the sudden appearance of Sophie and Sebastian. Somehow her brother had managed to steer Sophie across the floor and secured a spot right alongside them.

Sophie’s eyes fairly glimmered with an apology, as if to say she were sorry she’d been unable to keep Sebastian at bay.

Drat it.

With little ceremony, Sebastian handed Sophie over to Drake so that Emmaline was forced to accept her brother’s hand.

Sebastian’s eyes had gone glacial. “Stay away.”

Drake tore his gaze away from the sight of Mallen waltzing Emmaline away.

“You love her,” Miss Winters said, her tone very matter-of-fact.

He blinked. It was one thing for Emmaline to be so brutally direct, it was quite another when it was her dearest friend. “I beg your pardon, Miss Winters?”

Sophie gave a jaunty shake of her curls. “No apologies for loving her. I also love her.”

Drake felt as though he’d been spun in one too many dizzying circles. “Uh, n-no…for…” He let the matter rest.

Miss Winters studied him with wide, blinking cornflower blue eyes. She put him in mind of a night owl.

“You really should tell her, you know. The both of you should just end this façade.”

Of course, Emmaline would be the best of friends with this opinionated, very vocal creature. “Façade, Miss Winters?”

Sophie pointed her eyes toward the ceiling. “One minute you love her. The next you push her away. The next she is weepy. Then happy. It is enough to exhaust a soul.”

“I have never said I loved her,” he blurted.

Sophie gave him a wide, knowing smile. “You didn’t need to, my lord.”

Did he love Emmaline? He cared very much for her. He’d missed her when she’d been out of his life. She had brought him so much happiness. But love? Could Miss Winters be correct?

“I am indeed correct.” Sophie echoed his unspoken thoughts.

Drake was never gladder for the end of a set. He bowed over Miss Winter’s hand. “Will you deliver a message to her? Will you remind her I owe her a picnic?”

With that, he left.

THIRTY-ONE

My Dearest Drake,

Oh, God. My father has died. Where are you? Why have you not come to me?

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

Lord Sinclair perused the long, pale pink marble foyer. “A bachelor’s residence,” Sinclair murmured. He fell into step alongside Drake.

Sir Faithful trotted along at their heels.

Sinclair glanced back. “A dog, as well. My, my, you truly are a bachelor.”

“Stuff it, Sin,” he muttered, leading his friend into his new office.

Drake crossed to the drink cart in the corner of the room and availed himself to a glass of whiskey. He held the bottle up to Sin.

At Sin’s nod, Drake poured a healthy amount into a crystal tumbler.

Sin accepted the glass and he and Drake claimed a seat on the set of leather winged chairs.

They drank in companionable silence. Sin polished off his drink before he spoke. “You do know you have set the ton on its ear?” He didn’t wait for Drake’s response, instead rose, and crossed the room, helping himself to another drink.

Drake sipped his more conservatively and absently eyed Sin’s movements. “To hell with the ton.” He waited until Sin had reclaimed his seat. “I want to court Emmaline.”

Sinclair sputtered around a mouthful of whiskey. “Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh? As in the same young lady you were betrothed to as a child? The same lady you ran off to war to avoid? The same—”

His hackles went up. “I believe you’ve made your point.”

Sin shook his head. “I don’t think I have. After years upon years of complaining about Lady Emmaline, you choose to court her now that she has cut you loose?”

Drake was well aware that courting Emmaline now, after she’d broken off their betrothal, would be met by Society with derision and speculation. The ton only knew Drake to be consumed by his own pursuit of pleasure. What they didn’t know, what he’d kept carefully concealed, was the madness he battled.

Sin sighed. “So when is this courtship to ensue?”

Drake shook his head. “Not right now. Tomorrow. The day after tomorrow.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. Soon.”

Sinclair tapped the edges of his chair.

The rhythmic sound grated until Drake snapped. “You must have something to say.”

“I’m certain Mallen won’t go for it.”

Drake gazed into the depths of his drink wishing he could divine the answers within the swirling amber liquid. “No, no, that is a certainty.”

Sin leaned forward in his chair. “What makes you certain the lady will be amiable to your suit?”

Recent memories of last evening’s waltz filled him. He could still feel the heat of her skin, still see the smile playing on her lush, seductive red lips, hear her laughter. “Last evening at the Thompson ball—”

Sin slashed the air with his hand. “Yes, yes. I heard all about the Thompson ball. Anyone who is anyone has, in fact. A waltz, however, does not a courtship make.” He inched again to the edge of his seat. “As much as I want to see you happy, I don’t want to see you hurt again by Lady Emmaline.”

Drake tossed back the contents of his glass and growled. He didn’t like the way Sin was pinning the state of his unhappiness on Emmaline. “I was the one responsible for Emmaline’s decision to sever the betrothal. Not the young lady.”

Sin cradled his drink between his hands, studying Drake over the edge of the glass. “I understand the lady is entitled to her sense of injury. You, however, are my main concern. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve known enough hurt.”

“You’re mothering me, Sin.”

Sin bristled. “Well, you are in desperate need of mothering.”

Drake glanced at a point just over Sinclair’s shoulder, unable to meet his eyes. How could Sin ever know that the ache of losing Emmaline was far greater than any physical pain? “I need her.”

Sin didn’t say anything for a long moment. “Do you…love her?” The word came out halting. Men didn’t speak of these things.

Drake grimaced. There it was again. That question. Did he love her?

“I don’t know.”

Sin held up his tumbler in mock salute. “You’d better have more of an answer for the lady than that.”

“I will not lie to her. I want there to be honesty between us.”

His friend snorted. “Trust me, when presented with the choice of honesty or love, a lady will always choose love.”

In spite of his friend’s words, Drake had already made up his mind to share with Emmaline the demons that had held him back. He’d confess to her about the affliction that had haunted him since he’d returned from war. He would, as his father suggested, allow her to decide for herself if it was too much of an albatross.

Still the idea that she might reject him…sweat popped up on his brow. What if it were too much for her? What if she wisely decided he was not worth it?

After all, what had he brought her other than heartache?

“What is it you require of me?” Sinclair asked, his tone, uncharacteristically sober. “You know I will do anything to help you.”

Drake reached down and stroked Sir Faithful between the ears. “I need guidance on how to woo a lady.” He sat up and then fished around his front pocket. Drake stared at the parchment a moment and then handed it over to Sinclair.

Sin laughed and accepted the parchment. “And you think I might be able to help you? You, the one recognized throughout Society as being an expert with matrons and debutantes alike?”

Drake shifted in his seat. “That is a gross exaggeration.” He nodded to the paper in Sin’s hands.

Sin glanced down at the heavily marked sheet with extensive cross-outs and too much ink. His brow furrowed.

“It’s a poem.”

“Uh, yes, I see that,” Sin said.

Drake snatched the sheet back and proceeded to study it. “It’s rubbish.”

“I take it the poem is for Lady Emmaline?”

It didn’t escape Drake’s notice that his friend didn’t counter his statement about the quality of the poem.

Drake set the paper aside. “No, it’s for Mallen. Of course it’s for Emmaline.”

Sinclair laughed until tears streamed from his eyes.

“So glad you’re amused,” Drake muttered. “Emmaline wanted to be courted. She deserves to be courted.” His eyes went to the impressive bouquet of flowers he’d had delivered earlier that afternoon…to himself. They rested on his desktop, or rather they sat wilting on his desktop.

Sinclair followed the direction of Drake’s stare. “Uh, they’ve begun to wilt.”

“Yes, yes they have.”

Drake had spent last evening and the better part of the morning laboring over a poem. Then, he’d ordered the flowers. He looked over at the buds again. The dying flowers. The poem, though rubbish, was finally complete. Who’d have figured it would be so bloody difficult to put words to paper?

Sin cleared his throat. “So when you said you intended to court Lady Emmaline, just not today or tomorrow…that wasn’t altogether true.”

Drake surged from his chair and strode across the room. He shoved back the damask curtains and stared out the window into the dark night sky.

“I don’t know how to take the step,” he said.

Sin’s visage reflected back in the glass pane. He remained seated. “You just…do it, Drake. You tell your brain to tell your feet to move one at a time, and march up Mallen’s steps, and demand to see Emmaline. Then you read her your poem.” He picked up the poem in question and grimaced. “Well, maybe not this one, per se.”

Drake pressed his forehead against the cool window.

Could it be that simple? He glanced over his shoulder at the bouquet of cerastium and the poem still held in Sinclair’s hand.

He’d fought a bloody war…how hard could this be? In one of her notes to him, one of the notes that had never been sent, she’d called herself a coward, but it was he who was the coward.

He picked up the dreary looking flowers from his desk.

“You can’t go now,” Sinclair stuttered.

Drake paused. “Whyever not?”

Sinclair blinked several times. His eyes landed on the ormolu clock on the fireplace mantle. “It is nearly eight o’clock in the evening. Mallen is hosting an intimate dinner party with Waxham. Whyever not, indeed?”

A fiery pit of jealousy flared in Drake’s stomach. “Waxham, you say? Why, then I can’t think of a better time to pay a visit.”

“Mallen’s going to give you hell,” Sin predicted with a grin.

Drake smiled. “She’s worth it.” With that, he turned on his heel and marched out of his office. Sir Faithful gave a yap of approval.

Sin hurried after him. “Rude leaving your friend and all. Perhaps you’d like some company along the way? Just to make certain you’ve thought through everything you are going to say when you interrupt the duke’s intimate dinner party.”

Drake growled low in his throat. “Stop calling it an intimate dinner party.” Intimate was the last word he wanted to come to mind when thinking of Waxham and Emmaline.

He flung back the front door and marched down the steps. Sin trailed after him.

“Not the thing, opening your own doors, you know. Your first order of business really should have been to set up at least a butler and housekeeper. Oh, and of course a chef. Not one of those French fellows that seem all the rage—”

Drake paused mid-stride.

It took a moment before Sin, who’d been prattling on, took note. He looked over his shoulder. “Have you forgotten something? Changed your mind?”

“You do know the last thing on my mind right now is assembling a staff for my new residence? You, of course, remember I am heading out to humble myself before the lady who severed our betrothal?”

“Yes, yes,” Sin paused. “In the middle of Mallen’s intimate dinner with Waxham.”

He growled. “Stop referring to it as…”

“I know, I know, an intimate dinner party. Really, you must do your best to hide that nasty sneer when you march into Mallen’s. It will neither win you the lady nor make you a fast friend of the duke.”

“I am not looking to make friends with Mallen.”

Sin quirked a brow. “I might remind you that you require Mallen’s approval just as much as your require the lady’s approval.”

Damn, he hated it when Sin was right. Which meant Drake needed to win over both Emmaline and the foul-tempered Duke of Mallen. He didn’t know which was going to be a greater challenge. And he only had a matter of moments to settle on a course of action.

Sin cleared his throat and motioned to the townhouse in front of them. “Here we are.”

Drake stared up at the white façade. “Already?”

“Already.”

Apparently, he’d run out of time to develop a proper plan of attack to win over Emmaline and Mallen.

Drake stood rooted to the pavement, and continued to stare up at the elegant white townhouse, its windows aglow with soft candlelight. He recalled marching up the very same steps as a boy filled with anxiety. He’d been terrified at the prospect of seeing his betrothed. It would appear, in fifteen years, not much had changed in that regard. Only now he feared rejection at her hands.

He glanced down at the sorely wilted bouquet in his hands, and froze. With his free hand, he frantically felt around his jacket.

His frenzied search was met with a beleaguered sigh from Sin, who brandished a scrap of paper and waved it about. “Here it is. I’d rather hoped you’d forgotten about the poem.”

Drake took it with a word of thanks, re-reading through the terrible attempt. He grimaced. It really was quite horrendous.

“Ahem,” Sin cleared his throat. “I said, ah—”

“I heard you,” Drake bit out. He continued to stand there.

Sin tapped a finger to his chin. “I suppose you could always wait until tomorrow, say after the intimate d—”

Without a word, Drake abandoned his friend to the pavement and took the stone steps two at a time.

He’d be damned if he heard the words intimate dinner party one more time.

THIRTY-TWO

Dearest Lord Drake,

We returned to the countryside. My brother’s friend Waxham joined us. He devoted an entire morning to helping me clear the weeds from a bed of flowers. I teased Sebastian, telling him I wish Waxham were my brother instead of him.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

With sightless eyes, Emmaline stared down at the carrot and ginger soup placed in front of her. She raised her spoon and absently stirred the parsley sprigs. What an odd soup. Who would have thought to cream carrots and…

“My lady?”

She started and dropped her spoon into the fine porcelain bowl. Liquid splattered the tablecloth made of Spanish lace. Apparently the gentleman had asked her a question.

What did he say? What did he say?

Sebastian drummed his fingers on the tabletop and glared at her. “Emmaline, Waxham asked you a question.”

Emmaline fished out the utensil, her gaze fixed on the bowl. Heat stained her neck and flooded her cheeks.

A replacement was quickly brought forward. She cleared her throat and looked over at Waxham. “My apologies, Lord Waxham, I’m afraid my mind was elsewhere.”

Waxham favored her with a rueful smile that said he knew she’d been woolgathering. “How was your visit to the hospital?”

She took a sip of broth. “The soldiers are always full of such stories. In spite of what they’ve seen and done, they still are capable of great laughter.”

“How could they not be joyful when you are around, my lady?”

Why couldn’t Waxham be enough? She’d known him nearly her entire life. He’d toiled alongside her many a summer’s morn in her garden. He knew her likes and dislikes. So that should be enough? But it wasn’t. She wanted the grand passion she knew with Drake. She wanted…wanted…him—the man she’d been betrothed to since she’d been a child. Would it always be this way?

“Perhaps I might join you on a visit?” Waxham’s words pulled the cloud she’d been floating on from under her, and she tumbled back to reality.

The immediate answer that sprung to her lips, which she tamped down, was an emphatic, resounding, no. The soldiers would be livid if this interloper encroached upon Captain Drake’s territory. “Uh-I…”

She dropped her spoon for the second time.

Sebastian caught her gaze and glowered at her. “That would be lovely, is the proper response,” he said.

Emmaline accepted yet another utensil, awash with panic.

“Yes, that would be lovely, wouldn’t it, Emmaline?” Her mother interjected from the head of the table.

She saw the hard determination in Sebastian’s eyes. Noted the silent entreaty in her mother’s stare. Observed Waxham’s hopeful expression. Suddenly the cloying hands of pressure tightened around her throat. Breathing became difficult. Her whole life she’d been inundated with the wants and desires of everyone else. Since the moment she was born, it had never been about her. Her wishes and hopes had never once been considered.

They might not be aware of it, but Sebastian and her mother had continued to place stringent expectations upon her shoulders, even after the severance of her betrothal.

“That would be—”

A commotion sounded beyond the closed door and the butler, Carmichael’s shout filled the hallway and filtered into the dining room. “You must not go in there. I have told you His Grace is not receiving.”

The doors flew open with such force that they bounced hard and hit the plaster of the wall. “I am not here to see His Grace.”

At sight of the imposing, virile figure in the doorway, Emmaline’s spoon clattered again, and this time it plummeted to the floor. She froze. All the breath expelled from her lungs.

Sebastian leapt to his feet. “What is this about, Drake?”

Her mother sat back in her seat and with a wide-eyed stare, took in the tableau.

Drake ignored Sebastian and held up a staying hand as if to stifle her brother’s next words. Then, Drake’s hot, jade gaze found hers, and caressed her like a physical touch.

She forgot everyone else in the room. Oh, God, he was here. He was, wasn’t he? Surely she wasn’t dreaming? Just to be sure, she snuck a hand under the table and gave her leg a little pinch.

No, this was real. Very real. The possessive gleam in his eyes heated her like a hot summer sun. Her entire life, she’d longed for him to look at her as he did now; as though she were the only person in the world.

“You owe me a picnic.” There was something faintly accusatory in his tone.

Three pairs of eyes swiveled to Emmaline. She opened her mouth to speak but no words emerged. She closed it and tried again. Nothing. She shook her head.

“What’s the meaning of this? What is he talking about?”

Emmaline ignored Sebastian’s angry questions.

Her brother in turn directed his attention to Drake. “My sister owes you nothing.”

An immoveable wall of indifference and coolness, the Marquess of Drake kept a narrowed stare fixed on Emmaline.

Emmaline forced her suspicion out past dry lips. “You lied. You finished Glenarvon first, didn’t you?”

Drake’s lips twitched. “Why am I not surprised you know that, Emmaline?”

“Do not call my sister by her given name,” Sebastian said.

Drake took a step forward. “Do you know why you were a wallflower?”

A flood of humiliated heat warmed her cheeks, her chest hitched with pain.

Sebastian kicked his chair backwards with such force it tumbled to the floor. “By God, I will kill you.”

“Sebastian, no,” her mother cried.

Waxham reached a hand out to capture Emmaline’s. He gave it a faint, reassuring squeeze.

Drake’s eyes dropped to where her hand rested, entwined with Waxham’s. “I asked you a question, Emmaline.”

With alacrity in his movements, her brother advanced angrily around the long, wide dining table. “Do not make demands of my sister.”

A bitter little laugh escaped her. “I’m sure you will tell me, my lord.”

Drake moved across the room, closer to her. “Look at me,” he ordered in his Captain’s tone.

Emmaline lifted her chin and met his stare.

Drake’s throat bobbed up and down. “Because of me. It’s because of me that you sat on the bloody sidelines. You are beautiful. And you are vibrant…and the only reason gentlemen didn’t flock to your side was because of me.” His resounding words carried throughout the room and echoed off the walls.

Emmaline had fallen in love with Lord Drake two times in her life: one being when he’d rescued an old peddler woman on the street, the other being this very moment.

He devoured her with his eyes. “You are beautiful. In every way. I’ve never deserved you. I never will. Still knowing that, I have come to ask if I might court you?”

She gasped and dropped Waxham’s hand.

“No,” Sebastian barked.

Drake continued to hold up a single finger to keep an enraged Sebastian in his place.

Emmaline’s gaze fell to the bouquet of cerastium Drake held. Tears flooded her eyes and she blinked them back.

Drake saw the direction of her focus. “These are for you.”

“The poor buds have wilted significantly,” she blurted.

His brow furrowed. “So I’ve been told.”

“They are still beautiful.”

A low, animalistic growl emerged from deep within Sebastian’s chest, and effectively intruded in the moment she’d shared with Drake. “I’ve watched enough of this farcical drama. I am having you physically removed. Carmichael, fetch two servants and have Lord Drake thrown into the street,” Sebastian said.

The butler hurried to do his master’s bidding.

Seeming wholly unaffected by Sebastian’s threat, Drake fished around the front of his jacket. He extracted a folded sheet of parchment, shook it out, and held it out for her to see. “I wrote you a poem.”

Her eyes went to the scrap in his hands.

A dull flush stained Drake’s cheeks. He cleared his throat and began.

“Your eyes and hair are like chocolate.

Warm. Pure. Soothing.

Your smile is like a Christmas morning.

Exciting. Unexpected. Delightful.

Your hand is like…”

Sebastian’s groan interrupted Drake’s recitation. Her brother shook his head piteously. “For the love of God, that is bloody awful. Spare yourself any further embarrassment.”

Tears blinded Emmaline. “Shut up, Sebastian.” She silently pleaded with Drake to continue.

Drake’s eyes skimmed the paper until he found the spot he’d left off on. “Your hand is like salvation. It saved me.”

Warm, salty drops spilled from her lashes and trailed a path down her cheeks. A lifetime ago she’d been a little girl sitting across from a young boy, a prince who’d rescued her from a fall. Years later, when the prince left to fight on the Peninsula, the little girl had been replaced by a whimsical young woman, who’d often ruminated about a moment just like the one she was living in her brother’s dining room.

Carmichael arrived with two burly servants from the kitchen.

Well, all of it except for the servants arriving to throw him from the room.

Emmaline shoved her seat back and jumped to her feet. “Don’t touch him.”

“Remove him,” her brother barked.

Drake had battled soldiers who’d been intent on cutting his throat. It would take more than three of Mallen’s servants to alarm him. He took a step towards Emmaline.

This was it.

In a room full of witnesses, he who had existed in this shell of himself for the past three years was going to bare himself to this woman who’d come to mean more to him than anyone. It terrified him. Seeing the unfiltered love in her eyes, however, gave him the courage to continue.

“I have wronged you. I have never treated you as you deserved. I have made more mistakes in my life than I can count. My greatest regret has been how horribly I have treated you.” He knelt beside her. “You said you wanted a choice. Well, now you have a choice. And I’m asking you to choose me. Choose me, not because you are required to, not because you have no choice. Not because I’m heir to a dukedom. Choose me because you need me as much as I need you.”

He set the bouquet down on the table beside her most likely cold soup and claimed her hands in his. He turned them over and studied them. They were so delicate. And shaking. He traced the intersecting lines of her palm with his pointer finger.

“Get your hands off my sister,” Mallen shouted.

Drake ignored him. “I don’t know if you have it in you to look past all my mistakes, but I ask that you allow me to court you?” He brushed a delicate kiss upon her knuckles. God, he’d missed…

One of Mallen’s burly staff members jerked him backward. Drake cursed. He should have been expecting that.

“Don’t touch him!” Emmaline cried, appealing to the Duchess of Mallen. “Mother?”

The duchess glared at her son. “This show of force really isn’t necessary, Sebastian. For any man to bare his soul, and recite poetry in front of a hostile witness like you speaks volumes of the depth of emotion he has for Emmaline.”

“Traitor,” Mallen mumbled. He nodded to the two servants, who released Drake.

Drake returned his attention to Emmaline. “It was not my intention to interrupt your meal.”

Mallen snorted. “Then what was your intention?”

This time, he did look at Mallen. “My intention is to court your sister.”

Sister and brother spoke in unison.

“Yes.”

“The answer is no.”

THIRTY-THREE

My Dearest Drake,

This will be the last letter I write. It is time for us to meet again.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

Emmaline had hoped with a night of rest that upon waking Sebastian would be amenable to her picnicking with Drake. Standing before her brother’s desk, eyeing his stiffly held form, she now realized she’d been foolishly optimistic.

Sebastian folded his arms across his chest and glared. “I said no.”

Emmaline managed a smile. “That seems to be your new favorite phrase.”

He dropped his pen on his desktop.

Perhaps sarcasm was not her best tactic. “It is merely a picnic,” she reasoned. “There is nothing scandalous about a picnic. Why they are all the rage—”

His snort interrupted her rational explanation. “There is everything scandalous about a picnic when,” he proceeded to tick off on his fingers. “One it is with your former betrothed, two, you throw over a fine, respectable gentleman for—”

Emmaline gasped and marched across the room. “How dare you. I did not throw over Waxham. You were the one attempting to bring us together.”

A telltale vein pulsated along the edge of his temple, indicating he was doing everything within his power to maintain his self-control. “Drake isn’t worth ten Waxham’s.”

Attempting to diffuse the palpable tension emanating from his rigid form, Emmaline sighed. “I will not debate Drake’s worth with you. I love him and more than anything right now, I want to join him in on a picnic. So can’t you please, smile at me, pat me on the head, and tell me to go and have a good time? It is not marriage he is asking for.” Yet. Hopefully in time. “It is a picnic. That is it. Nothing more.”

Sebastian raked a hand through his blonde strands. “Can I think on it?”

“What is there to think about?”

He slashed the air with an agitated hand. “I’m already exerting all my ducal influence to silence as many whispers and speculations as I can. I know you’re unaware of the very public censure your actions have earned, but Mother and I are doing our best to save your reputation.”

A laugh burbled up from her throat, and spilled past her lips. “Really, Sebastian. You are making far more of it than—” He slammed a powerful fist onto the mahogany desk with a resounding boom. Emmaline jumped.

“Are you really so unaware of how you are being perceived by the ton? They say you are fickle. You broke off your betrothal, then allowed Waxham to pay serious court.”

“It is your fault—”

“For the love of God, do not say one more time that what happened with Waxham is my fault,” he bellowed and then took a calming breath. When he spoke, his words emerged more even. “Waxham cares for you, Emmaline.”

All this time she’d assumed Waxham’s interest had been borne of nothing other than the connection they shared through Sebastian. A twinge of remorse ravaged her already guilty conscience.

Sebastian groaned. “Damn it, please don’t give me that sad little look.”

Her chin quavered. “I’m not giving you a sad little—”

“Yes you are. It’s the same one you’ve turned on me since you were a small girl. I’m powerless against it.”

She hadn’t even known she’d had any such look. But since he seemed very aware of it she quietly pressed her advantage. “Please send me on my picnic outing with Lord Drake with your blessings.”

Sebastian cursed softly, obviously noting that he’d tipped his hand. He rubbed his hands over his eyes, agitated. “Fine. The picnic. But do not any time soon, expect me to honor anything else more serious than a picnic.”

Emmaline crossed over to his chair. Bending down, she placed a kiss on his cheek. She gave her words all the solemnity she could muster. “It’s just a picnic.”

“When is this picnic going to take place,” he mumbled clearly uncomfortable with her sisterly show of emotion.

“Uh—”

Someone tapped a perfunctory knock at the door.

“Enter,” Sebastian called, his expression indicating his annoyance at the interruption.

The butler stood framed in the doorway and bowed respectfully. “The Marquess of Drake awaits my lady in the foyer to escort her on,” he wrinkled his nose, “a picnic.”

Sebastian’s narrowed gaze pinned her to the rug. Carmichael scurried off. “A picnic today. Imagine that. Drake must have amazing hearing and speed to have heard my consent.”

Emmaline shifted on her feet, having the sense not to speak.

“What say you, sister?”

She nodded. “His hearing is rather impressive. I shall be off.” Turning on her heel, she tossed a wave over her shoulder.

“Remember just a picnic, Em. That is all I’m consenting to.”

In spite of Sebastian’s earlier protests, Emmaline had been victorious—she had gotten her picnic. Her maid, Grace trailed behind her and Drake as they made their way through Hyde Park. There was something thrilling about turning out the victor in a losing argument against the Duke of Mallen.

“I don’t know what to make of that mischievous smile, sweet.”

“Perhaps I’m just happy,” Emmaline said.

Drake snapped out a blanket and Sir Faithful playfully grabbed a corner and shook it with his teeth. “I know your just-happy smile. That was not it.”

Her maid, Grace, rushed forward to assist with the blanket, but Emmaline waved her off. “Grace, I assure you, Lord Drake can handle both Sir Faithful and seeing to the blanket. Why don’t you take a short walk?” It was more an order than request.

Her words were met with a loud rip.

“Cease,” Drake commanded and the dog immediately sat, and bowed his head.

Grace shot a skeptical look from Drake to Sir Faithful. “As you wish, my lady.”

Sir Faithful made one last attempt at tugging the corner of the blanket, but Drake snapped the palm of his hand to the side of his thigh and the dog, dutifully sat at his master’s heels, watching expectantly as Drake set the basket down upon the blanket and helped Emmaline to the ground.

“He is a troublesome little thing, isn’t he?” She scratched the sensitive spot along the bridge of Sir Faithful’s nose.

“Not very little anymore, either.” Drake looked at the rapidly growing mutt. “He is, however, true to his name. I would have thought you would find me a pug or Shetland sheepdog,” he teased.

Emmaline laughed. “A Shetland sheepdog would have been just the thing. Though after reflecting on the fact you had no sheep, I decided Sir Faithful would do nicely.”

He waggled his brows. “Not yet. Perhaps the sheep will come later. How do you feel about becoming the wife of a sheep farmer?”

The image of Drake galloping about the countryside with a Shetland sheepdog, herding a flock of sheep about, was just so ludicrous that she laughed until she developed a stitch in her side.

Then she processed what he’d said.

She tilted her head back and closed her eyes. “I’m dreaming.”

The blanket rustled as he sat down beside her. “You are so beautiful,” he said. There could be no question of the quiet sincerity of his words.

Never, ever in her life had she before felt beautiful—until that moment. He made her believe she was more than just tolerably pleasing, as the papers had labeled her.

“Do you know where I found Sir Faithful?”

Drake scratched the dog under his belly and waited for her answer.

“I visit the soldiers at London Hospital each week. There is a black dog who lives there and wanders the halls. No one is certain what line of dog she is. The soldiers named her Alice. A few months ago, Alice disappeared for three days. For three whole days, the soldiers and nurses were devastated, no one knowing what had happened to the dog. But she returned, and it wasn’t long until we realized she was with pups. Sir Faithful is one of those pups.” Sir Faithful licked her hand once, twice, and a third time.

“It really should come as no surprise to me that you give your time at the hospital.”

Emmaline shifted under the uncomfortable weight of his praise and gave a tiny shrug in response. “It is not a chore to visit the men. Seeing them fills me with great joy.” She’d always looked forward to sitting with the soldiers who’d courageously dedicated their lives, who’d risked their physical safety for such a noble cause.

“I imagine you bring them great joy as well.” Drake opened the wicker basket and pulled out a thick loaf of bread neatly wrapped in a cloth, along with sliced cheese, and plump red strawberries. He began arranging a dish for her.

Emmaline rested her chin atop her knees and studied his movements. There was something beautifully domestic about his simple actions. She accepted the plate he held out to her with a murmur of thanks. Picking up a piece of bread from her plate, she nibbled at the corner and continued to watch him.

After the way he’d barged in on her brother’s dinner party, she’d been at a loss to understand what exactly was her relationship with Drake. The corner of her heart, where she’d buried the dream of being his wife, stirred to life. A man could not humble himself as Drake had in front of her brother, mother, and Lord Waxham, baring his most intimate thoughts, if marriage was not his intention?

Drake plucked a strawberry. He made to pop it into his mouth.

“When you imagine the future, do you see me as your wife?”

For an infinitesimal moment, he paused, before he finally ate the red berry.

A long stretch of silence met her question.

The fine linen of his shirt did little to conceal the heat of his mother’s emerald and diamond ring, warm against his chest. Since the moment he’d decided to ask Emmaline to wed him, he’d rehearsed any number of poetic, appropriate speeches, grimacing at the lackluster attempts. However, even the paltry efforts he’d managed, fled.

Drake jumped up and began to pace.

Emmaline cocked her head. “Drake?”

“Hmm?” He continued his path. Back and forth. With as close as he’d come to losing her, Drake would imagine he should have found if not the perfect words, then something suitable.

“Are you all right?”

“Uh-, I…fine. Fine.” He stopped abruptly in front of her. With a jerky movement, he leaned down and tugged Emmaline upright.

She pitched forward landing hard against his side. “Oomph.”

Emmaline pulled back and eyed him with a healthy dose of concern. “Uh-are we done with the picnic?”

Drake directed his eyes skyward. He needed Cupid’s intervention to salvage this sorry, sorry proposal.

Sir Faithful chose that moment to sidle over on his belly, effectively wedging himself between Drake and Emmaline.

Apparently Cupid was otherwise busy.

“The moon is in the sky…”

Emmaline looked up in confusion, and shielded her eyes against the glaring sun high in the cloudless blue sky. “It is? Where?”

“Uh-no, not now. That is to say, it is not in the sky at this precise moment. What I intended to say is…” A black curse fell from his lips. Mayhap Sin was right and he should forget all the nonsense with poetry.

Emmaline’s eyes widened the size of saucers.

This was certainly not a proposal for the ages. Frustrated with the debacle he was making out of the moment, he dragged a hand through his hair. “My apologies,” he muttered. “What I meant to say is—”

Except those words also eluded him and Drake was once again left with a dry mouth and incoherent thoughts. Who would have imagined he, the otherwise unflappable Marquess of Drake, should find himself bumbling his way through a marriage proposal?

“I need to speak to you about the day your father died.” He winced. Hardly the stuff a young lady preferred to hear when a gentleman was asking for her hand. Maybe he should go back to the stuff about the moon and the stars.

“Drake?”

Suddenly the prospect of facing down a line of French soldiers seemed vastly less terrifying than sharing the truth with Emmaline and risking rejection at her hands.

Emmaline slid her hand into his and from the gentle squeeze she gave, found strength and courage. “I don’t want to dwell on the past. I—”

As tempted as he was to bury the story that had haunted him since he’d returned from the Peninsula, he would not be able forgive himself if he withheld this truth from her. “No. I need to have out with it.” He drew in a deep fortifying breath. “I was coming to see you. I need you to know that.” The words were guttural, wrenched from somewhere deep inside him. “I became used to walking during the war. When I returned, I walked everywhere. I was coming to your residence that morning. There was a carriage accident. A broken axle, I suspect. I heard shouts and cries. Something happened to me in that moment. I forgot where I was. I came to hours later, in an alley, not knowing what had happened. That is why I did not go to you the day your father died. And I am sorrier for that than you can ever know.”

The only indication Emmaline had heard his confession was the subtle pressure she applied to his hand interlocked with hers. Time crept by. He awaited her rejection, her pity, and what was more, he would understand that rejection.

Her eyes flitted back and forth across his face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

His words emerged on a hoarse whisper. “How could I have shared that with a young lady I barely knew?”

Emmaline rocked back on her heels. “I thought it was because of me. I thought you didn’t want to see me.” It seemed those words were directed more to herself. “I thought…” She shook her head and gave him a sad little smile. “To think, I took your absence as a personal slight. I believed you were too engrossed with your own merriment, that you couldn’t take time to pay your respects. How odd, to now know, you needed me just as much as I needed you.

Drake stared at a point over the crown of her hair. He inhaled the faint scent of lemons, which always clung to her. It represented purity and filled his senses with the heady aphrodisiac of hope. “How many what ifs there are. What if you had sent your letters? What if I had written you? What if I had shown up and paid my respects the day your father passed away? What would our life be like at this moment?”

The amount of regret he carried seemed enough to fill the Thames River.

But he had to tell her the whole of it. He could not offer her marriage without the truth laid out between them. Even if the truth could cost him—her.

“I still have nightmares…and as you witnessed, the episodes.” He studied his hands a moment. “They come less frequently than when I first returned from the Peninsula, but they are still there. I…” He swallowed. “Fear the war turned me into a madman. The day I visited you in your garden, I put my hands on you and it almost killed me. I cannot make you my wife, without you knowing everything there is to know.”

She reached a tremulous hand out and with a fleeting caress, stroked his tense jaw. “I wrote you a note. It was about a dream I’d had. The war was over—”

“I was wandering about a field, lost.”

“I wrote, if you are lost—’”

“I will help you.” He finished and felt his throat bob up and down under the force of his emotion.

Emmaline brushed her lips against his. The soft meeting was like the fluttering whisper of a butterflies wings. It tasted of love.

“I will help you,” she promised and brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen across his brow.

Drake pressed his forehead against hers.

He was so close, his toes peeked over the cliff of possibilities, desperately wanting to leap with her. But he’d held back so long, capitulation was far too hard. “I don’t want you to be hurt.”

Emmaline leaned up on tiptoes and held his gaze. “Oh, you silly man. Don’t you yet know, the only way I’m hurt is when I’m not with you? I love you.”

Drake dropped his attention to where her hand rested in his. Clearing his throat, he reached into the front of his jacket and pulled out the emerald ring that had belonged to his mother; a ring given in love by his father. And now, if she didn’t have the good sense to run the either way, would belong to Emmaline. “Will you marry me?”

Emmaline gasped. “It’s a ring,” she blurted.

A smile played on his lips. “I hope your answer is yes, because I am fairly certain your brother’s answer will be no, and I’d like one yes for the day.”

Drake grunted as Emmaline threw herself into his arms. The unexpected movement sent him tumbling backward. She landed on his chest. The ring landed somewhere alongside them.

Sir Faithful jumped up and ran in circles about them, yapping his excitement.

“Yes, you foolish man. A million times yes!”

THIRTY-FOUR

For the third time in Drake’s life, he crossed into the Duke of Mallen’s office for a meeting that would determine his future. It did not escape his notice how Mallen failed to rise when Drake entered the room. Nor did the stoic man offer any greeting. Instead, he watched Drake with a hawk-like intensity, as if he feared Drake were a thief from the Seven Dials with intentions of absconding with the family jewels.

Which, come to think of it, wasn’t too far from the mark.

When it didn’t seem as though the duke had any intentions of offering him a seat, Drake motioned to the leather-winged chair in front his desk. “May I?”

Mallen rapped distractedly on the desktop, the first indication of the other man’s unease. “As you wish.”

Drake settled into the seat and looped his ankle over his opposite knee. He could easily understand Mallen’s dogged protectiveness of Emmaline. Though Drake had no siblings, he imagined if he did, that the last thing he’d allow was for his sister to wed a rogue like himself; especially after she’d been hurt by said rogue. In fact, in thinking on it, Mallen had been far more magnanimous than he, Drake would have been. Hell, Mallen would have been justified calling him out.

Mallen’s fingers ceased their distracted movements. “Have you come to sit and stare at me all day?” Mallen’s words dripped with heavy sarcasm.

Drake shifted in his seat. “No, not at all, Your Grace.”

Mallen fixed him with a hard stare. “So, of a sudden, it’s Your Grace?”

This wasn’t going as Drake had planned. Might as well come out with it. “I’ve come to discuss your sister,” he said evenly.

A muscle ticked at the corner of the duke’s right eye. He leaned across the desk. “Oh? To discuss my sister?”

He took a fortifying breath. “I want to ask for her hand—”

“You are either mad, arrogant, or both.” Mallen pointed a finger in Drake’s direction. “For fifteen years you haven’t paid Emmaline any notice. Not until she asked me to sever the arrangement did you decide to court her and that is only after the gossips dragged her name through the scandal sheets. Tell me, why would I ever consent to turning the person I love more than anyone else, over to you?”

“Because I…” Drake tried to force out a suitable response.

But no words emerged.

That was the rub of it—Drake couldn’t give one bloody reason Mallen should allow him Emmaline’s hand in marriage. Mallen possessed one of the most revered titles in the kingdom and therefore wouldn’t be impressed by Drake’s status as heir to a dukedom. Nor could Drake drum up one redeeming quality that he possessed to garner the other gentleman’s respect.

Nor could he come here and believe that he might erase fifteen years of neglect.

He did know that his only desire was to spend every minute of the rest of his life married to her. That thought consumed him like a conflagration. He wanted her, nay, needed her, and even if it meant spiriting her off to Gretna Green, he was determined to wed her.

“I’m waiting,” Mallen said.

No argument would ever be sufficient for the other man.

He settled for honesty. “I need her.”

Mallen scoffed. “You need her.”

She had become his sustenance. “Yes, I need her like I need water and air to breathe.”

The Duke groaned. “Please spare me any further of your meager attempts at poetry.”

Drake’s collar grew unbearably tight at mention of his recitation the prior evening, and he gave his cravat a tug. In spite of Mallen’s scornful words, he forced himself to press on. After all, he hadn’t expected to saunter into the Duke’s office, request Emmaline’s hand, and receive the other man’s blessing. He steeled himself. “I’m not being poetic. I need—”

Sebastian swiped the air with an angry hand. “You think I care what you need? I care about what she wants and needs. And as her brother, I can say with great confidence that you sir, are not it.” Mallen’s voice had climbed in volume.

Drake remained quiet. Mallen’s tightly coiled frame indicated he was spoiling for a fight. Drake wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. To do so, would invite Mallen to toss him out.

The duke slammed his fist on the desktop. “Damn it. Say something.”

Uncrossing his leg, Drake leaned forward. He held his palms up. “Listen, Mallen. You don’t like me. Which is fine because I don’t much like myself. With the exception of a handful of moments in my life, I am hardly proud of who I am. I’ve got a surly disposition, I’ve carried on with more widows and opera singers than I can list.” He plowed ahead of the Duke’s black expression. “I can go on and on. But Emmaline makes me wish I were a better person. More than that, she makes me want to be a better man—for her.”

Silence descended, punctuated by the tick of the mantle clock. Mallen scrubbed his hands over his face looking like a man twenty years older. “Damn you and that argument.” He dropped his hands and continued to eye Drake with a hard look. “Do you love her?”

Drake paused, frozen by the other man’s question. There it was, again. The question—did he love her? Did he love her? He couldn’t fathom life without her; knew it would be a desolate existence. Before Emmaline he’d hardly managed a sincere laugh or smile. Having grown up motherless and then living the life of a soldier, he’d never really given much thought to the sentiment.

“That isn’t your business.”

Mallen jumped up from his seat and stormed out from behind his desk, clearly prepared to argue the point with Drake.

Drake walked over to the duke. Only a hairsbreadth separated them. “Let me stop you, Mallen. It is my intention to wed your sister and I assure you it is her intention to wed me. Emmaline wants your blessing and because of that, I’m asking you to accept my suit. But, I’m going to marry her with or without your approval. Is that understood?”

The door opened and both men spun around at the intrusion.

The duchess stood framed in the doorway. “You will most certainly give your blessing, Sebastian.”

“Mother, I am handling this—”

“Poorly,” the Duchess of Mallen cut in. She claimed Drake’s hands. “So you’ve finally come to your senses, I see.”

He nodded solemnly. “Yes, Your Grace. I’ve been bewitched by your daughter.”

It was the truth, but it was also the right thing to say. A smile reminiscent of Emmaline’s played about the duchess’s lips. “I wondered when you would at last realize that.”

Mallen raked an angry hand through his hair. “If it weren’t for my mother and my sister, the answer would be, no.”

Drake strove for graciousness. He knew what the capitulation cost Mallen.

Drake nodded solemnly and stretched out his hand out. “Thank you.”

Finally, Mallen accepted Drake’s hand. “Hurt her and I’ll kill you.”

Emmaline stepped into the room. “Don’t be so melodramatic, Sebastian.”

The sight of her there in a pale pink creation trimmed in delicate lace, her eyes shining with adoring love and joy, caused Drake’s heart to pick up a swift beat.

Mallen threw his arms up. “Lovely, so glad you could join us. Why don’t we call in Carmichael and the entire household staff for this meeting?”

Emmaline ignored her brother and glided into the room, coming to a stop before Drake.

He bowed low. “My lady.”

“My lord.”

He needed to feel her skin against his, needed some kind of assurance that she was real and not the phantom creature who’d visited only in his peaceful dreams. He took her hands in his. “We are to be married.”

Emmaline stepped into Drake’s arms like it was the only place in the world she belonged—and mayhap it was. He held her close. With a hand that trembled, Drake stroked her cheek. He forgot about Mallen. The duchess. The war became a distant memory. He forgot about everyone and everything, but her and the feel of her soft, slim body in his arms. It turned out everyone else had been right after all. He did love her.

Imagine that.

“Get your hands off my sister.” Mallen snarled.

Drake jerked back to reality and placed appropriate distance between him and Emmaline.

“Six months.”

He really should have been paying far closer attention to the duke. “I’m sorry?”

“Not as sorry as I am,” Mallen muttered. “A six month betrothal—”

Emmaline gasped.

“Don’t be absurd,” the Duchess of Mallen said.

“Three,” Drake countered.

Mallen’s jaw set in a hard, unyielding line. “Six months. You waited fifteen years, what is another six months?”

Emmaline set her hands on her hips. “Really, Sebastian?” She looked to her mother for intervention.

“Three weeks,” Drake reiterated over the crown of Emmaline’s chocolate waves.

“You are mad. Absolutely not. Why, why the planning, the preparation, the scandal—”

The duchess took her son’s hand between hers and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I never took you for one to get weighed down with wedding details.”

“Six months is rather a ridiculous length of time, no?” Emmaline argued.

Mallen looked from Emmaline to Drake and then his mother, like something of a caged animal. “I—I…”

THIRTY-FIVE

Ultimately, when faced with the persistent Marquess of Drake, a pestering younger sister, and a displeased mother, the Duke of Mallen had no choice but to agree to speedy nuptials. So it was three weeks later at the Duke of Mallen’s country seat in Leeds, with a special license from the Archbishop of Canterbury, Emmaline, escorted by Sebastian, walked down the intimate aisle of the family church to the man who’d upended her world.

They reached the front of the altar and Sebastian continued to stare with his gaze fixed blankly ahead.

She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “I love you,” she whispered.

Sebastian looked down at his sister, and then shifted his gaze over to the Marquess of Drake, who eyed him with an inscrutable expression. “Hurt her and I’ll kill you.” He placed Emmaline’s hand in Drake’s and claimed his seat at the front pew.

Emmaline turned a smile up at Drake. “I think he handled that rather well,” she whispered.

A startled bark of laughter escaped Drake, causing the select few guests in attendance to erupt into a bevy of curious murmurs.

“If I may?” the vicar inquired, his tone dry. He cleared his throat and continued.

“Wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health: and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her so long as ye both shall live?”

“I will,” Drake vowed.

They were just two words, yet somehow they flowed over Emmaline like the faintest caress.

I’m dreaming, she thought, a smile on her lips.

She didn’t want to ever look away from the green of his eyes and the emotion she saw there. In him she saw her past; the five-year-old girl with dreams of the thirteen-year-old prince, who’d rescued her up from her knees in her father’s office. He represented the hopes she’d carried as a young lady for a love match, dreams that had defied the reality of Society’s cold, calculated unions. And now she saw her future—their future. She—

Drake gave a discreet cough.

The vicar looked at Emmaline, with a dark scowl.

… forgot to speak her vows.

“Oh, I missed it.” If she weren’t standing in a church, in front of her family, a vicar, and the select members who’d been invited to their wedding, she would have cursed. She looked to Drake. His mouth twitched as though he fought back a laugh.

No help there. Emmaline sighed. What had she expected? It wasn’t as though he could reclaim the moment for her.

There was a hum of confusion amongst the small crowd.

He leaned in and whispered, “I assure you, my dear, you can still recite the words. You haven’t lost the opportunity.”

“I will,” Emmaline blurted.

Then just like that, after fifteen long years she became the Marchioness of Drake.

The smattering of applause, the flurry of signatures required of them, and the festive wedding breakfast passed in a whirl. At the conclusion of the festivities, Emmaline and Drake started for the carriage.

Drake waved off the groom who rushed forward to help. He held out his arm to Emmaline. “Shall we?”

She placed her fingers along his coat sleeves but then froze. Her brother cut a path through the small throng of well-wishers and walked over to Emmaline and Drake. He stopped in front of them.

The two men stood there. Her brother and husband locked in some silent match of the wills. Emmaline held her breath. Her brother had assented to a match between her and Drake but she wanted so much more than that. She wanted the two of them to forge a friendship. They were the two most important men in her life.

Drake broke the impasse. He held out a hand to his new brother-in-law.

Sebastian’s jaw set and for a moment, Emmaline thought he might reject the offer of peace. Then, her brother accepted the gesture. Two strong hands united with a commitment for a truce—an uneasy truce perhaps, but a truce nonetheless.

Emmaline waited until they’d finished and went up on tiptoe. She kissed her brother. “I love you.”

Sebastian scratched his jaw, clearly uncomfortable with her public show of emotion. He patted her on the shoulder. “None of that.” Then in his typical fashion, Sebastian glared at Drake. “I meant what I said in the church. Hurt her and I—”

“I heard you and would encourage you to do just that,” Drake interrupted, his tone solemn.

Sebastian, paused appearing startled by Drake’s concession. With a curt nod, he directed his attention to Emmaline. “Here.” He thrust a package at her.

Emmaline looked from him to the oddly shaped gift in her hands.

“It’s a wedding gift.”

Emmaline placed one final kiss on her brother’s cheek and then Drake made a move to hand her up into the carriage.

“I love you, too,” Sebastian blurted.

She winked. “I know.”

The doors to the carriage closed and Emmaline leaned her head out the window. She waved at their guests until they were no longer in sight, and then drew laughingly back inside.

Feeling his eyes on her, Emmaline glanced at him. “What?”

“You are so beautiful,” he murmured, a husky tone underlying his words.

Her cheeks heated and she dipped her head. Though there was an easy sense of comfort in being with Drake, there was also some awkwardness in the dramatic shift that had occurred in their situation. Her lips tipped at the corner.

“Why the catlike smile, love?”

“I was thinking about all the times when I was a girl that I would practice twining my name with yours. And now you’re my husband.”

Emmaline settled into his side, burrowing herself close. She stretched her legs out on the seat in front of them. Her movements upset the forgotten gift. It tumbled to the floor.

Drake reached down and rescued the gift, handing it to Emmaline. “I must admit to some curiosity as to what your brother gifted us.”

“Me, too,” she said, almost hesitant to open the package. With Sebastian one could never be sure. She unwrapped the gift and opened the top of the box to reveal—

A burst of laughter escaped Emmaline.

Drake shook his head in consternation. A bonnet? It seemed a peculiar gift choice.

At that moment, however, he did not want to think of Mallen. Or his rather odd gift habits. Through hooded lids, he studied Emmaline and thoughts of finally making love to her made him harden in anticipation. Playing with the ribbons of her new gift, she seemed impervious to the tension in his tightly coiled body. He reached over and tugged her unceremoniously onto his lap.

A squeak squeezed past her lips.

He tangled his fingers behind her nape, angling her head. “I have been longing to do this all day,” he whispered and then brought her mouth to his. It wasn’t a chaste meeting of lips. This was a kiss without reservations. It was hot. Demanding. Seeking.

Emmaline twined her arms about his neck and tilted her head back to deepen the kiss. She opened her mouth to his and their tongues collided in a violent exchange. Drake’s hands roamed a path over her body, exploring each angle, each curve that had fascinated him since he’d seen her save an old beggar woman in the streets. Aching for more, he held her fast so her center was pressed against his hard shaft.

Emmaline pulled back a little, her eyes clouded with passion. “I want to touch you like you touched me.”

Drake groaned, and kissed her again. He shifted her so she was seated astride one of his hard thighs. The fine silk of her ivory gown, rucked up about her legs, leant her an air of wantonness that thrilled him to the core. Just the sight of her made his shaft ache.

He ran his hands over her creamy white thighs. “You are so soft.” His fingers trailed higher and higher until he found her center drenched with desire. She was hotter than the sun on a summer day.

A hiss escaped Emmaline’s teeth and of their own volition, her hips began undulating.

“Oh, God,” she moaned, arching into him. Her moan became a soft, pleading scream. Her head fell backwards. “Drake,” she begged.

“That’s it,” he whispered, his fingers continued to work her.

She cried out in protest when he eased his fingers out of her hot warmth. He set about undoing the fastidious row of pearl buttons along the back of her dress. He lowered the bodice, exposing her to his eyes. Drake closed a hand over a small round breast, fondling it, until she sagged against him. “Perfect,” he murmured hoarsely into her mouth. He trailed a finger across a turgid red nipple, and then pressed his lips to the bud.

A small scream escaped Emmaline and she threw her head back, sending her chocolate wave cascading around them like a silken curtain. He continued suckling the sensitive tip of her breast until she was whimpering with incoherent desire.

“Please,” she panted.

Drake reached down and released himself from his breeches, at last allowing his aching cock the freedom it craved.

Emmaline’s unrestrained movements ground to a halt at the sight of his erection. She froze. “You’re huge,” she said breathless with passion.

A pained, humorless laugh escaped him. He guided her hand to his shaft and encouraged her to explore the swollen length. A groan escaped him, as she wrapped her delicate fingers about him and moved them up and down.

“It feels like satin,” she said.

Drake’s eyes closed when her emboldened fingers worked him. He couldn’t drum up one rationale thought. A guttural groan emerged low in his throat, escaping from some primitive part deep inside him.

As though enflamed by his desire, she moved up and down on his oaken thigh with a frenzy. Her body stiffened, her finger froze on his shaft, and she was coming in waves upon his thigh. Her keening cry rent the quiet of the carriage as she collapsed atop him, fingers still curled tightly about his length.

Drake placed a kiss at her temple, where a faint sheen of perspiration clung to her.

Emmaline glanced up, her eyes clouded with desire. “I want to pleasure you,” she said huskily. “Show me.” It wasn’t a question.

Drake’s eyes closed. He wanted to wait. Wanted to wait for the moment she was in his bed, under him, and he was thrusting between her sweet thighs.

“Like this,” he instructed hoarsely and showed her the rhythm.

Emmaline watched with wide-eyed fascination as he pumped his hips into her hand, studying the pearly white fluid that leaked from the tip of his shaft.

She squeezed him in her hands, increasing the rhythm, and he sucked in air through his teeth, on a sharp whistle. “God, Emmaline. I’m going to come.”

And then he stiffened, and was coming, a stream of milk white seed poured from him, and Emmaline watched through round eyes.

Replete from his exertions and the power of his orgasm, Drake sunk against the cushions and held Emmaline in his arms. He continued to hold her long after she’d fallen asleep just studying her serene, heart-shaped face until his eyes grew heavy. A yawn escaped him. He’d close his eyes. Just for a short while.

THIRTY-SIX

The carriage wheels ground to a jarring halt. Drake’s eyes flew open. He made a move to dash his hand across his face and clear the haze of slumber but his hand was caught and he remembered…

His head dropped back slowly into the dark leather squabs of the interior of his carriage and he closed his eyes again on a smile. He must look like a lovelorn pup. Mayhap he was.

They’d arrived at their new home. Home. He smiled.

Drake rearranged Emmaline’s gown. He tugged the bodice back into place and made quick work of the intricate row of buttons. He dropped her skirts and through it all, his sated wife continued to sleep.

Taking care not to jostle her, Drake shoved the curtain apart, and peered at his townhouse. At the time he’d purchased it, he hadn’t allowed himself to imagine the simple things that so many gentlemen took for granted—a wife, a home, children—would ever be his. He believed loneliness was to be the penance required of him for the things he’d done in battle.

Drake let the black fabric fall back in place and shifted his attention to Emmaline. Apparently the gods had, if not forgiven him, granted him this undeserved happiness. They’d sent him down an angel.

A harsh, snorting sound slipped from her slack lips.

He smiled. Apparently, an angel who snored.

Her thick eyelashes fluttered open and closed as she negotiated reality with dream state. There was a sleepy moment of joyful recognition, when her gaze found his and she reached her arms high above her head, arching her back in a contented stretch. She yawned loudly, before closing her eyes, and burrowing into his side.

Then she seemed to realize the carriage had ceased its swaying, rhythmic motion. “We’re here, love,” he confirmed.

Like a bolt of lightening had struck, Emmaline’s body jolted forward and she promptly tumbled to the floor. “I’m a mess,” she cried, in a sweetly endearing hoarse morning voice. She glanced down at her rumpled gown and groaned. “It will take just one glance for the staff to know exactly what we’ve been doing in the carriage.”

He didn’t debate the merit of that point, and instead reached out a hand to assist her up. She dropped her head into her hands and shook it back and forth, groaning in embarrassment. “I want to stay here all day, buried away in this carriage,” she moaned. “I can’t meet the staff like this. I look, like, like…”

Drake waited for her to finish her sentence, lips twitching. “Like?”

Emmaline somehow managed to squish his booted foot beneath her slipper. “You are insufferable.”

“And you are quite a shrew in the morning, love.”

“I am not…” At his pointed smile, she snapped her mouth shut.

He took pity on her frayed state, and quickly helped her up from the floor. He set to work righting her hair, adjusting her gown, and briefly shaking out what wrinkles he could. “There, you’re all properly righted. However,” he gave her a lingering kiss, “I far preferred you all rumpled and thoroughly loved.”

Emmaline accepted his kiss. “You are far too familiar with a lady’s ablutions,” she charged prettily.

Beneath the light teasing tone, there was a rebuke buried in that quip. The hurt reached Emmaline’s wide chocolate brown eyes, spearing him in the heart. He damned himself to perdition.

There was a knock on the carriage door. “We’ve arrived, my lord,” the servant stated from the other side.

Drake ignored him. He took Emmaline’s chin between his hands, and urged her to meet his eyes. “I will not lie to you. There were many, many other women.”

Emmaline winced.

He raised her knuckles to his lips, caressing them deliberately and delicately with his lips. “From the moment you boldly marched up to me in the theatre, there has never been another woman for me. And there will never be. I pledge this to you.”

Her lips pursed in a set line. “There most certainly will not be.”

Drake laughed and dropped another kiss on her lips.

A second rap sounded on the carriage door. “My lord, we’ve—”

“Damn it, I heard you.”

Emmaline swatted at his fingers. “Don’t be so surly. What His Lordship meant to say was, thank you, he heard you,” she addressed the poor servant outside the carriage.

“No it wasn’t. I meant exactly what I said,” Drake corrected for the servant’s benefit.

She rolled her eyes and pulled back the curtains. The servant shuffled back and forth on the balls of his feet.

Emmaline dropped the curtain and leveled Drake with a reproachful look. “Do behave.”

“I’ll be on my best behavior, love,” he whispered, loving the pink blush that stained her cheeks.

He rapped once on the roof of the carriage and the footman promptly opened the door. The young man kept his eyes fixed firmly on the ground.

Drake climbed out of the carriage and held a hand up. Emmaline placed her fingers in his and allowed him to help her down. They proceeded to walk up the steps of their new home.

The staff stood in a small, neat row in the foyer. The housekeeper and butler rushed forward.

“My lord, my lady, welcome. I am Mrs. Brown.” The round housekeeper with plump, merry cheeks dropped a small curtsy. “It is an honor, my lady.”

A warm smile wreathed Emmaline’s face, and the housekeeper fairly preened. Yes, Emmaline had that effect on most people. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Brown. It is so nice to meet you.”

The butler cleared his throat and Emmaline directed her attention to the small man. Nearly an inch shorter than Emmaline, he comported himself with stiff, proper decorum. “If we might introduce you to the rest of the staff,” he said, his tone laced with disapproval of Mrs. Brown’s unfiltered emotions.

Mrs. Brown gave him a pert look, and made a disapproving sound. “Grumpy ole’ thing,” she said to Emmaline in a loud whisper that carried around the foyer.

Emmaline laughed.

Mrs. Brown beamed and turned approvingly to Drake. “I like her, my lord.”

Drake winked. “Which is a good thing, Mrs. Brown, as I’ve no intention of returning her.”

Mr. Smith cleared his throat yet again. “Mrs. Brown.”

Mrs. Brown’s response was to give the man another disapproving glance. “I heard you, I heard you. No need to be such a Napoleon.”

At last, Mr. Smith was ruffled. He propped his hands upon his hips and took a step towards the taller Mrs. Brown. “How dare you, you impertinent bit of baggage. The only reason the Captain agreed to hire you was because—”

Drake gave a sharp clap. “That is quite enough.”

Mr. Smith flushed. “My apologies, Cap’n,” he muttered, dropping his head.

Drake leaned close to his wife and whispered for her ears alone. “The staff is largely made up of soldiers and their families. I hope it does not offend you, my lady.” A sudden uncertainty plagued Drake. He wanted Emmaline to be pleased and knew the servants he’d assembled were a good deal less than conventional.

Emmaline glanced down the line at their rather unconventional staff, her expression inscrutable. Her eyes lingered on the stiff, erect form of Mr. Smith, a military man, and then the gregarious Mrs. Brown, who’d followed the drum. She finally looked at Drake. “I think it is brilliant, husband.”

He released a breath.

“Come, my lady, I’m sure you are ready to go above stairs now,” Mrs. Brown interrupted.

“You ain’t to interrupt. It just ain’t done.” Mr. Smith couldn’t contain himself. His deeply lined cheeks went ruddy at his second uncharacteristic loss of control.

The housekeeper favored him with a wink and a cheeky smile. She took Emmaline by the arm. “Come on, luvvie. Let us get you ready for the captain.”

Ten different shades of red colored Emmaline’s cheeks as she looked over her shoulder at Drake, as if she were silently pleading with him to rescue her.

He winked.

Emmaline didn’t have any choice but to be steered up the staircase, to her chambers. When they entered, Emmaline found her maid. Grace stood removing articles of clothing from Emmaline’s trunks.

Grace smiled. “My lady,” she greeted with a curtsy.

“Grace,” she returned and then her eyes fell to the bed behind Grace, where an elaborate white silk peignoir had been laid out. Her eyes traveled over the delicate fabric adorned with a pearl-encrusted bodice and trimmed with intermittent diamonds. It was stunning.

Mrs. Brown shared a look with Grace. “It will be a fine night for His Lordship. And for my lady, I venture,” Mrs. Brown said in a hushed whisper.

Grace laughed, even as Emmaline’s cheeks heated with embarrassment. Her maid rushed forward. “Come, come, let me help ready you!”

Mrs. Brown made an approving sound. “If you have any need of me, just ring.” With that, she left.

Emmaline allowed Grace to assist her out of her wedding gown and into the silk piece. The smooth silk fluttered over her like the velvety petals of a rosebud, and she shivered as cool fabric met her naked skin. Faintly trembling hands ran along the sides of her nightgown.

She felt…

…naked.

“You are stunning, my lady,” Grace murmured. She removed the pins from Emmaline’s hair, and began brushing the long brown locks until they fell freely, loosely about her waist.

Emmaline stared at her reflection in the bevel mirror. For nearly the first time in her life she felt… beautiful.

“Is there anything else you require, my lady?”

Emmaline started. “No, no thank you, Grace. That will be all.”

Grace dipped a curtsy and slipped quietly from the room.

Emmaline continued to stare at the reflection of the silk clad woman in the mirror, hardly daring to believe it was her own visage. She cocked her head, touching a finger to her lips. Would he find her beautiful? A sharp rap on the door interrupted her musings. Emmaline jumped. She pressed a hand to her chest to try and still the rapid-fire beat of her heart.

“Come,” she called, her voice faltering.

Drake filled the open-doorway and a wave of nervousness coursed through her. She made to wipe her damp palms along the sides of her nightgown, but remembered how exquisite the garment was and stopped. “Hullo,” she said, breaking the awkward silence.

Drake leaned against the doorjamb and gave her a reverent smile. “You are stunning.”

Her mouth went dry, words escaped her. Why couldn’t she be seductive and sophisticated, capable of a perfectly naughty smile?

He leveled himself away from the entryway and shoved the door closed with the heel of his boot. “Come, love, you aren’t shy around me of a sudden?”

“No,” she said a touch too quickly. Liar. He makes you feel the same way you did when you had your Come Out at Almack’s…and look what a disaster that had proven to be. She took a breath. Painful awkwardness heightened Emmaline’s sense of inadequacy. She opened her mouth to fill the void that had engulfed the both of them. “The wedding was lovely. And the flowers from the gardens looked so lovely in the church. We were so fortunate to have sun. The day was just…”

Drake folded his arms across his chest. “Lovely?”

Her mouth snapped shut as he sauntered over to her. His chest rose and fell in a steady, calming cadence. The faint scent of sandalwood clung to his skin.

Silence reigned.

And Emmaline decided she’d had enough of it. “Aren’t you going to kiss me?”

Drake’s arms fell to his side and his mouth gaped open. Emboldened by his reaction, she took a deep breath, twined her arms about his neck, and pushed up on her tip-toes. “What no answer? Then I suppose I shall just have to kiss you,” she breathed against his lips, and then kissed him.

Drake groaned. His hands went to her waist and began roving a course over her silk peignoir, caressing her through the silk garment.

Wordlessly, he swept her into his arms and carried her to bed. He took great care as he lowered her gently down onto the soft mattress and then suddenly, he sat back on his haunches. Rolling his shoulders back, he hastily removed his jacket, and threw it haphazardly to the floor. His expertly tied cravat and white lawn shirt followed.

Drake made quick work of his boots and breeches. In moments, he sat naked before her.

Emmaline’s maidenly reservations were replaced with bold curiosity and a woman’s desire. The well-muscled wall of his chest was faintly sprinkled with golden curls. Curious to see if the hair was as soft as it looked, she reached out and caressed him.

Like silk.

His breath caught at her touch.

Emmaline’s gaze dropped lower. She trailed the tip of her finger along his firm, abdominal muscles, and she stiffened. “Oh my God,” she whispered. Thick, jagged scars crisscrossed the lower right side of Drake’s stomach. A similar mark marred the upper portion of his shoulder and disappeared somewhere behind his back.

Under the scrutiny of her gaze, Drake tugged the sheet up to conceal his form. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…I forgot,” he stammered, a wave of humiliated shame fanned out from his stomach. How could he forget? Christ, it was a wonder Emmaline hadn’t stormed screaming from the chambers. “I’m hardly the same gentleman I was before the war.”

His time fighting Napoleon had left him scarred both inside and out. He’d been humbled to return to England and see the hideous fascination the women he’d bedded had with his disfigurements. To them it had seemed he was nothing more than an oddity, a source of perverse entertainment. To have Emmaline look at him with distress in her eyes did something to him that none of the other women’s disgust had ever managed to do. Her horror cleaved him in two.

Emmaline reached out and ran a finger across the scar at his shoulder. She sat up on her knees and she strained to see just exactly where the mark continued; her gaze followed the path all the way across his middle back.

“You are correct, you did not return the same man.” She placed a kiss on his right shoulder and proceeded to trail kisses all the way down until she reached the mark. “You came back a better one.” Emmaline rested her head against his chest.

Drake knew he was fortunate to have lived when so many had sustained greater wounds, so many had lost their lives. And yet… as shallow as it was, it bothered him to face the imperfections that marred his body and mind, day in and day out. Drake cleared his throat. “I am horribly disfigured.”

Emmaline came up on her knees once again, and pressed her form to his. “You are perfection.” She smiled and kissed him. “These scars are part of you,” she said when she’d pulled away. “And I love every part of you, exactly as you are. Make love to me.”

Drake’s eyes grew hot and he swore to himself that it wasn’t tears but rather passion. “With pleasure, my lady.” He proceeded to relieve Emmaline of her gown.

He guided her down so her head met the satiny case of the pillow and trailed a series of kisses along the line of her jaw, down her collarbone, until he found the tip of her breast. He drew the erect tip into his mouth and sucked, alternately sucking and flicking it with his tongue. Emmaline thrashed her head back and forth, her brown, silken waves fanned about them like a curtain.

“Please,” she whispered, as her hips undulated with a wild abandon.

Drake responded by placing a hand between her legs and caressing her hot, moist center. Her lids closed and she smartly she gave herself over to the feeling of his touch.

His aching shaft swelled, fairly begging to at last be sheathed deep inside her. Moving over her, he propped himself on his elbows and parted her thighs.

She froze at the feel of his manhood pressed against the entrance to her center.

“Easy, love,” he whispered into her ear, his words coming out as though he’d run a great distance. “Don’t be afraid.”

Emmaline reached up and twined her fingers in his golden hair. “I could never be afraid of you.”

With that, he slid deeper into her. He closed his eyes and took several, steadying breaths as he willed himself to go slowly. It was bloody torture. He’d longed for this moment since he’d seen her challenge Whitmore in the street with fire in her eyes and outrage on her plump, seductive lips. All he wanted to do was thrust high and deep into her.

She stiffened again and Drake brought a hand between their bodies, fondling her center. Emmaline moaned in response, her head nestling deeper into the feathered pillow beneath her head. Her thighs fell open wider in a sweet invitation.

“That’s it, love,” he breathed and with a sudden thrust, broke past her maidenhead.

Drake’s eyes slid closed as a hiss of breath left his lips. He’d never felt anything like this in his life. Her tightness quivered about his shaft, pulsating, thrumming. She felt like…home.

Emmaline’s eyes slid open and a gasp of pain escaped her.

“Just feel, my love.” He began to move.

He knew the moment Emmaline turned herself over to desire. She lifted her hips experimentally, then grew bolder. A loud, animalistic groan ripped from his throat.

Her hips picked up rhythm. He increased the depth of his strokes. A scream tore from her and she careened out of control. Her release drove Drake over the edge. He let out a triumphant shout, and poured his seed deep inside her. With a groan, he collapsed atop her.

Taking care not to crush her diminutive figure, he braced himself on his elbows, and placed a kiss on her closed lids.

She murmured something inaudible; a pleased smile played about her lips.

“What was that, love?”

“That was wonderful,” she murmured drowsily, and then promptly fell asleep.

Drake rolled beside her, and pulled her into the fold of his arms.

He continued to hold her like that for several hours, not wanting to relinquish this moment of sated peace which had eluded him for years. His eyes grew heavy and he jerked awake as his body tried to pull him into a deep slumber. Drake set her away. He pulled the sheets over her naked form.

Emmaline burrowed into the covers with a contented sigh. He placed one more lingering kiss upon her lips, and went to find his sleep elsewhere.

Drake hovered in the doorway fighting the deep pull to return to her side. He closed his eyes and gripped the sides of the doorway. He could not trust himself to be alone with her—not when he was besieged by nightmares.

With a sigh, he glanced over his shoulder at her, and took his leave.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Emmaline shivered and nestled into the thick blankets, inching to the opposite side of the bed in search of Drake’s warmth. It wasn’t until she had made her way across the entire bed and hovered at the edge did she realize his spot was empty.

She fought back a yawn and rubbed her eyes. Her gaze landed on the rumpled spot beside her. With a frown, she reached out and ran her fingers over the fabric. Empty and cold, she amended.

Where the devil had her husband gone to?

Emmaline pushed herself up on her elbows, and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. A shiver wracked her frame as her feet collided with a thin maroon rug that did little to dull the biting edge of nighttime’s cool spring air.

“Drake?” Her gaze did a quick sweep of the room. She folded her arms across her chest to rub warmth into them and walked over to the windows. Emmaline pulled back the curtains. The stars twinkled up in the dark sky like so many gems thrown onto a black blanket. Emmaline looked at the clock on the fireplace mantle.

Two o’clock in the morning.

She retrieved her rumpled silk nightgown and tugged it over her head, and then searched the room for her robe. Finding it on the floor, she picked it up, and stuffed her arms into the sleeves.

Emmaline sank down onto the edge of her mattress and ran her fingers in circles along the coverlet. A strand of hair fell across her eye and she blew it back. Well, blast and damn, Drake had abandoned her on their wedding night. She considered her husband’s absence, and tried to work out what it meant. Mayhap he’d left because…because…

She tapped her foot in annoyance. Well, damn and blast again, she couldn’t come up with a single, justifiable reason for him to scurry off to….to—wherever it was he’d gone.

And the longer she sat their thinking about it, the more her ire grew. How dare he leave her alone on their wedding night? Emmaline jumped up and with purpose in her steps, crossed to the armoire. She flung the doors open and fished around for a more modest nightgown and wrapper, which she donned in place of the scandalous piece she’d worn for Drake.

Then she set out in search of Drake.

She paused at the door immediately next to her room. Emmaline turned the knob and pushed her way inside. It took her eyes some time to adjust to the darkness of Drake’s chambers. When they finally did, she peered around and noted his untouched bed.

So her husband had not sought out his own bed. Which was only slightly more mollifying.

She closed the door on a soft click and then moved down the hall. Generally, all candles would have been extinguished. Yet here, in Drakes home the lit sconces illuminated her way. Eerie shadows danced and flickered off the walls around her and she frowned as a shiver of nervousness stole along her spine.

“Don’t be a ninny,” she said into the quiet, soothed by the sound of her own voice. Still, she picked up her pace, unsure of her next destination. Emmaline came to a long hall that split into two directions. She paused, chewing her lip.

Well, she wasn’t going to find him standing still. Turning down the hallway that would lead her to the rooms on the left side of the townhouse, she approached the first door and poked her head inside. It was a parlor. She wrinkled her nose. A very dark and dreary parlor devoid of feminine frills and adornment. She would see to that.

Emmaline moved to the next door and found what she assumed was Drake’s office. It too, was empty. Continuing on, she noted a flicker of a light under the crack of one doorway, and made her way over to it.

She gently turned the handle and pushed it forward. Seated in a leather winged back chair, with his legs propped on a table in front of him, Drake stared off into the flickering flames of the lit fireplace, an open book, seemingly forgotten on his lap. Sir Faithful rested soundly at his feet.

“Drake?”

Drake did not give any indication that he’d been startled by her unexpected appearance. Sir Faithful, however, raised his head drowsily to determine who’d intruded on his sleep, before giving a big yawn and resting his head on his paws.

“He is not much of a guard dog,” she said, breaking the thick silence.

He finally spared her a brief glance. “Emmaline.” His tone was flat.

Emmaline wet her lips nervously. “You left me.” She flinched at the hurt little accusatory edge to her words.

Drake looked away, but not before she glimpsed the blankness in his expression. “I’m not tired.”

Was this the same man who’d made sweet love to her mere hours ago? Emmaline cleared her throat. “That isn’t possible. After the wedding? Our travels?” Our lovemaking.

His jaw set stonily. “I slept in the carriage.”

Emmaline sidled closer. “It is past two o’clock in the morning.” The fireplace flame danced off the gold lettering of the book on his lap, pulling her attention to that which had drawn him away from her bed.

She started. And then her lips twitched with gloating amusement. The Castle of Wolfenbach.

Drake saw the direction of her notice and flushed. He shifted in his seat as though he was a naughty child caught pilfering treats from the kitchen.

“Drake?”

“Yes.”

“Are you reading a Gothic novel?”

Drake reached out and before she could anticipate his intentions, he dragged her across his lap and began nuzzling the sensitive spot behind her ear. He trailed his tongue along the skin until she shivered. His skilled fingers inched her modest dressing gown up, higher, and higher, so her naked thighs were exposed to the night air.

She swatted at his fingers. “You didn’t answer me.”

He proceeded to nibble the corner of her lip. “I think you can see I was,” he said on a silken whisper.

She angled her head away from him. “Stop trying to distract me. Apologize.”

“I’m trying not to be offended by your lack of interest in my advances, love,” he drawled.

“Apologize,” she pressed, fighting the allure of his seductive smile.

Drake sighed. “I’m sorry for kissing you…”

Emmaline laughed and took another playful swipe. “Don’t be a great lummox. Tell me I was right, and how wonderful a good Gothic novel is.”

Drake laid his head back on the leather of the chair and shook his head back and forth. “Are we truly having this discussion now?”

She jutted her chin out. “Yes.”

“I still hold your gothic novels are over-dramatic, ridiculous—”

Her gasp quashed his tirade. “You cannot disparage them and then read them clandestinely. It’s—”

“May I finish, my lady?”

Emmaline folded her arms across her chest. “Finish.”

Clearing his throat, Drake continued. “It is true. Since I stumbled upon you at the Old Corner Bookshop and read Glenarvon, I found, to my utter amazement,” he muttered beneath his breath, “they do indeed make for occasionally bloody, interesting reading. So, I offer my most humble apologies, my lady. You were indeed correct. A gothic novel can be very entertaining.”

Emmaline leaned down and placed a long, slow, lingering kiss upon his lips.

His hand resumed its earlier ministrations, climbing the path of her white thigh, higher, higher, just to the juncture of her thighs, when she swiped at him again.

Drake’s hand fell to the arm of the chair. He sighed. “Yes?”

“That isn’t all,” she reminded him.

Drake’s brow furrowed. “It isn’t? He resumed his exploration of her body.

“No, it isn’t. You left me.”

With his fingers, he parted the folds of her womanhood. In spite of her best efforts to the contrary, her body responded eagerly to his touch. With a keening moan, she arched into his hand, writhing helplessly in his lap.

“Stop,” she panted, shimmying away from him. She flung the skirts of her nightgown back down into place.

Drake gave a long-suffering sigh. “Must I?”

“I’m not amused, Drake.”

A single golden brow arched at her words. “Darling, I’m hard and aching. The last thing I want to discuss on our wedding night is my reading preferences or why I left you.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“Emmaline, I don’t think you’ve done a thing wrong in your life.”

Emmaline snorted and roll her eyes. “Oh, I assure you Sebastian would be glad to point out just how wrong you are on that score.”

“And I assure you, the last person I want to think about with you sitting on my lap and my shaft hard for you is your brother.”

Emmaline laughed. “Fair enough.”

Silence fell, and when he didn’t seem eager to fill it, she nudged him in the ribs. “I’m waiting.”

“I don’t sleep well at night, Emmaline.” He moved her off his lap and raked an agitated hand through tousled golden hair. “I have nightmares about the war. Sometimes I am violent. I don’t feel…comfortable knowing you might be unsafe.” The words came out clipped in an emotionless tone. A dry humorless laugh bubbled eerily in his throat. “There you have it. I’m afraid to sleep next to my own wife. What have I become?”

Besieged by a wave of helplessness, Emmaline stood frozen beside Drake’s chair not knowing what to do. Or say. The Drake before her was not one she was familiar with. She knew him as the confident, unflappable gentleman, possessed of a wry wit and single-minded determination. This man before her, humbled and hesitant, made her reassess the façade of invincibility she’d constructed around him. With a delicate touch, she reached out and ran her fingers through his hair. He flinched. “You must know I will not allow you to sleep anywhere but beside me.”

Drake made a sound in his throat and turned into her caress. “Emmaline, please do not ask this of me. That day in your garden, when I knocked you down…I thought I would go mad. I would never forgive myself if I hurt you again.”

She tapped a finger along his chin. “Don’t you see? I’m yours unconditionally. Not only when life is easy.” Sinking beside his chair, she knelt at his feet. “I want to be here for you. It is time you let me in. I need you, all of you.” She framed his face between her hands. “Come to bed.”

An inner battle waged within Drake. The devil in him that only cared about how Emmaline made him feel, urged him to pick her up and carry her to bed. Consequences be damned. The practical part that had ruled him since his return from the Peninsula, paraded every time he’d been awakened by demons from his past, through his memory.

Go with her, the devil urged. Perhaps he was a friend of the devil, after all, because he was the one Drake chose to listen to.

Wordlessly he climbed to his feet and swept Emmaline into his arms. He carried her through the silent household, their rapid breaths the only punctuation in the night quiet. That, and the gentle padding of Sir Faithful’s paws on the soft carpet as Drake weaved his way down the hallway, up the stairs, and to her bedchamber.

Drake kicked the door shut with the tip of his foot and carried Emmaline to the rumpled bed. He lowered her down and Sir Faithful began to bark noisily. “Hush.” The dog sat, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.

Drake returned his attention to Emmaline.

She eyed the dog. “He is watching us,” she said in a hushed whisper.

He didn’t pause from his efforts of removing her nightgown and robe, kissing each spot of flesh he exposed. “I assure you, he cannot understand your words, so there really is no need to whisper,” he murmured between kisses.

He then devoted his attention to her mouth. Kissing the corner of her lips, he claimed the plump lower bud of flesh between his teeth and suckled.

The world, but for the two of them, ceased to exist.

At least for Drake.

Emmaline cast another nervous glance down when Sir Faithful whimpered.

“He is watching.”

In the midst of lowering his head to worship her ruby red nipple, Drake paused. He dropped his head resignedly between her breasts. “He was your gift.” Then, he closed his mouth around her nipple.

She cried out in protest when he stopped. He slid down further and further until his head was at the juncture of her thighs. His breath fanned the dark thatch of curls, the hot, musk of her scent drove him to near delirium. He needed to taste her.

Her hand fell to his head, halting his movements. “Yes he was my gift, but…”

Drake paused yet again. “Emmaline.”

“Yes,” she breathed.

“Be quiet.”

At long last, Emmaline forgot about Sir Faithful.

And somehow, after they’d made love, Drake let peaceful sleep overtake him in his wife’s arms.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Emmaline laughed. She stretched a hand out to play with the cloying blackness; her other hand gripped Drake’s arm as he steered her blindfolded on a winding course through the house. “Are we there yet?”

“Hush,” he said, a playful edge infused into his words.

In the time they’d been married, the hard, cynical look Emmaline had come to expect from Drake, had been replaced with tiny lines that creased the corners of his eyes when he laughed. Oftentimes she would awaken in the middle of the night, to watch him as he slept. In his peaceful slumbering’s, a boy-like quality clung to him. The tightness around Drake’s lips, the firm set to his jaw, disappeared. It was in those stolen moments, she most loved studying him. Arrogant though it was, she loved that she was responsible for his happiness.

Emmaline had expected Drake would continue to go out and visit his clubs. Instead, he’d forsaken all trips to White’s and Brooks’s and insisted they decline the many invitations for the new Marquess and Marchioness of Drake. They alternated their time between reading gothic novels on the library sofa, and making love—oftentimes also on the library sofa.

Drake guided her to a halt. Carefully untying the length of fabric he’d used to cover her eyes, he removed the fabric. “We’re here.”

Emmaline blinked to accustom herself to the unexpected ray of sunshine.

Then blinked again.

The garden, walled off by solid brick, was a tangled mess of shrubs, flowers, and weeds. Branches were all twisted up in overgrown ivy weeds had long ago choked off and overrun the rosebushes throughout the space. The area was so vastly different than her mother’s well-tended, immaculate gardens.

Taking a long, slow look around…her fingers twitched with the urge to work on the space. Her mind conjured strategies of redesign. It was a blank canvas…and it was hers.

Drake rocked on the balls of his feet. “I purchased the home after seeing the garden. I imagined you working here. If it does not suit, if there is too much to be done, I will gladly bring in as many—”

Emmaline turned and threw her arms about his neck, squeezing tightly. “It is the most amazing gift anyone has ever given me.”

Drake took her lips in a slow, lingering kiss. Without a thought for propriety, he scooped Emmaline into his arms and carried her through the gardens, down the hall, up the stairs, down another hall, and into his bedchamber. The bedchamber they’d come to share.

Drake pressed the handle and carried her inside. He shoved the door closed with heel of his boot, and carried her to the bed. His ravaging mouth never broke contact, as he carefully set her down on the edge of the mattress.

Emmaline threw her head back and moaned her disapproval, when Drake pulled his lips away. But he only moved his exploration to her neck, to the line of her bodice. He made quick work of the tiny buttons along the back of her gown. Next, Drake tugged the bodice down, and divested her of her stays and chemise, so that her breasts were exposed to his hot gaze. The cool air, combined with his hungry jade stare made the tips of her breasts tighten painfully.

With breath held, she watched as his lips closed around the bud. A pool of warmth settled at the juncture of her thighs. Drake lowered her to bed, and followed her with his body. His hands expertly worked the hem of her gown up, inching it higher. Her thighs parted for him, urging him closer. He came over her, but Emmaline rolled away. Going up on her knees, she pressed her exposed breasts to the fabric of his blue coat. The rough material against the sensitive skin of her nipples nearly drove her to a fever pitch.

Drake’s emerald eyes darkened the color of onyx, his eyes clouded with passion.

“It seems you are in need of release,” she purred. She reached between them and through the fabric of his riding breeches, stroked his hard shaft.

“Emmaline, free me,” he said his voice scratchy with desire.

“My pleasure, my lord.” Emmaline unfastened the buttons at the front flap of his breeches and shoved him down to the mattress. She looked up at him with heavy eyes. “I’d show you pleasure like you showed me last night.”

Before Drake could fathom her intentions, Emmaline took him in her mouth.

A hiss escaped his lips at the unexpectedness of her ministrations. He labored to open his eyes so he could view her as she pleasured him. His eyes slid closed. God, she was brilliant with her tongue. “Stop,” he commanded. He didn’t know how long he could last. The pull of her lips around his length was near torture.

Drake arched his hips upward. Her delicate tongue worked him and a groan ripped from somewhere deep in his chest.

A jerky hiss slipped from between his tightly clenched teeth when she pulled back, but she rucked her skirts above her knees and straddled him. Of their own volition, his hands went to her hips as she eased upon his hard shaft. A sweet, breathy sigh escaped her as she sheathed herself fully.

Emmaline moved upon him in a slow rhythmic motion at first that built into a frenzied movement as she violently rode him.

Drake stroked his palms over the swell of her buttocks. Her body stiffened and she came in long, rippling waves upon him, coating his shaft. With a little moan, she collapsed atop him.

And then, with a guttural cry wrenched from his throat, he spilled his seed deep inside her.

They continued to lay that way; their limbs entangled like old tree branches. The sound of silence filled the room, occasionally punctuated by the tick of the ormolu clock on the oak mantle of the fireplace.

Their efforts had brought the silken waves of her deep brown hair cascading about them. It fanned over them like a satin sheet.

Drake’s rapid breath began to slow. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to move again.”

Emmaline finally picked up her head from his chest and peered at him through sated, heavy eyes. “Was that—?”

“Do not even ask.” His lips found hers. He smiled at the pleased expression his words resulted in and pinched her right buttocks. “Don’t grow conceited, love.”

Emmaline curled into his side and rested her chin on his chest. He felt her smile against his naked skin.

“It’s been dreary going through life being adequate at everything. It is nice to know there is something I excel at.” She gave a long, exaggerated sigh. “It is unfortunate, others can’t know of my skills.” Drake pinched her on the buttocks again and she squealed.

“Do not even think about sharing your talents,” he growled. He heard the possessive flare in his tone. Just the idea of Emmaline with any other man enraged him to the point that he wanted to find the non-existent bastard and grind his fist into the other man’s face.

“Don’t look like that.”

“Like what?”

Emmaline ran her fingers through his hair. “Like you are capable of murdering a phantom lover. How could I ever desire anyone else?”

Wordlessly he rose over her and gripped her hands within his. He raised them above her head.

Her eyes widened at the feel of his shaft stirring against her belly. “Again?”

“Again.”

He proceeded to show her why she could never desire another man.

THIRTY-NINE

A low mewling sound penetrated the thick fog of sleep that had engulfed Emmaline. Her eyes fluttered open as she tried to make sense of the noise that had penetrated her dreamless state. Sleeping against the hard-muscled wall of Drake’s chest, she was loathe to move from the warm safety of his arms.

The whimpering increased in volume. Emmaline looked around for Sir Faithful. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the lack of light. The ink black of the night sky penetrated the gold gilt curtains which were slightly agape.

Sir Faithful barked.

She peered over the edge of the bed. Sir Faithful paced at her bedside. He emitted a small, quiet moan. “What is it, boy?”

The answering response was a short cry—a very human cry, that sent a shivery trail of bumps shooting up her spine. It jerked her attention back toward the bed.

Drake thrashed his head wildly upon his pillow. The golden strands of his hair glistened with so much sweat it was as though he’d been caught in a rainstorm. “No, no, no!”

The despair etched into each line of his slumbering face struck her like a physical blow. “Shh. I’m here, Drake.” She took his face between her hands and leaned close to him. “Do you hear me? I’m here.” She willed her words to bring him back from the hell that had dragged him by his heels and into this netherworld of horror. But it was unrelenting, unwilling to relinquish its hold.

His body stilled.

A sigh slipped from her lips in the form of a prayer. “Oh thank God, Drake. I—”

“For the love of God, don’t do it, man!” Drake screamed into the night, twisting in the covers, which only seemed to heighten his panic.

Emmaline gripped his arm, shaking him gently at first, and then harder. “Please, Drake, please.” Tears dripped down her cheeks and merged with his salty mementos of despair.

She scrubbed at her cheeks. Her sadness would do him no good. Emmaline found strength in fury. How dare these demons take him from her? She would be damned if this nightmare stole him from her. They were memories. Hideous, horrible, ugly memories. She, however, was real. She was here. She would not relinquish him to a dream. If he could feel her, if he could taste her then maybe she could rescue him from the memories she’d never be able to see.

“Drake, I am not letting you go. Come back to me. Now!”

His eyes flew open and he stared at her with a blank gaze.

Emmaline swallowed. He was still gone to her.

Drake shouted over and over, the piteous sound reverberated off the walls.

She registered the frantic footsteps outside their chamber. The door opened and then closed with a loud slam.

Emmaline looked to the entryway just as Drake roared. He threw his forearm out and elbowed her in the chin. The force of the blow knocked her over and tangled as she was in the sheets, Emmaline went reeling into the side of the nightstand. She fell from the bed; her hip struck the floor.

A blast of stars danced behind her eyes. Emmaline blinked back oblivion.

Sir Faithful whimpered and lapped her cheek with his coarse, pink tongue. It dragged Emmaline back from the edge of blackness.

“My lady? Are you all right?” Drake’s valet’s question came as if he spoke down a long hallway.

She couldn’t muster the appropriate humility over the impropriety of James viewing her en dishabille. Instead, she motioned to Drake. “Help me.” The words came out garbled.

When the valet, rushed to her side, his gaze averted from the sheet draped around her form, Emmaline shook her head. No, not me. Help me, help him. “Help him.” She forced the words out deliberate, one at a time.

Seeming torn, James hesitated, and then directed his attention to Drake.

Drake’s body stilled. Emmaline didn’t know whether the nightmare had run its course or whether her husband responded to the familiarity of James’ presence but his ragged breaths settled into a smooth, even pattern.

James pulled the coverlet over Drake. “May I be of assistance, my lady?” He very deliberately fixed his gaze on her husband.

“That is all,” she assured him. Her head continued to ache, but the dull throb had lessened. “Thank you, James.”

He nodded and made to take his leave and then, paused at the doorway, his back to her. “My lady, he is a good man.”

“I don’t need convincing of Lord Drake’s character,” she said, gently. She knew more about Drake than anyone suspected. She knew about Valiant and the men he’d saved. “I know he is a good man.”

James hesitated, as though there was something more he wished to say, but then bowed. “My lady.” He closed the door behind him with a quiet click.

James’ exit appeared to have a greater impact than all of Emmaline’s pleading.

Drake bolted upright. “Emmaline?”

Drake had to tell his mind that he was safely ensconced in his bedroom and not fighting for his life on the battlefields of the Peninsula.

He looked around the room and frowned. He’d acquiesced to Emmaline’s wishes and agreed to sleep with her. Where had she gone?

As if she’d heard his unspoken question, her voice called up to him. “Here.”

He peered about and then blinked back a fog of confusion. Why in hell was she on the…A surge of bile climbed up his throat and choked him. Knowing intuitively what he’d find, he leaned over. His fingers gripped the edge of the mattress and he clung to the material object, certain it was all that kept him from tumbling off into madness. Nausea roiled in his gut, nearly overwhelming him with its intensity. What have I done?

Drake clenched his eyes tight. He wanted to wail like the beast he was. His greatest fear, a fear now realized, stared up at him.

“Christ,” he hissed.

“I’m fine, Drake,” she whispered. A faint quaver underlined her words.

His gaze did a sweep of her form and settled on the large knot at her temple. The delicate skin had already begun to turn a purpling-black. It matched the bruise that had begun to form on her cheek.

Drake came off the bed in one fluid motion and dropped to his knees. “What have I done?”

With hands that shook, he inspected the damage he’d caused. He gently probed the lump near her temple. She flinched under his touch and his hands fell to his side. He was a monster. Oh, he’d allowed himself to believe in the weeks since they’d married that he’d begun to improve. He’d assured himself that the episodes were coming less frequently, his sleep less interrupted. He’d attributed it to her, she was his beacon. She gave him strength.

Drake now realized he’d deluded himself. What was worse than his self-delusion was that he’d put Emmaline in danger. Good God, he could have killed her. He abruptly fell onto his haunches, putting distance between him and Emmaline—physical and emotional. Wearily, he dropped his head to his hands.

“Look at me,” she said. “Look at me,” she repeated when he still didn’t acknowledge her.

Forcing himself to look at her, his stomach turned at the sight of her bruised face. “Forgive me?” he pleaded.

Emmaline’s lower lip quivered. She reached out a hand and he stared down at her unsteady fingers. “There is nothing to forgive, Drake.”

A hollow, mirthless laugh rang from his chest. “There is everything to forgive. I hurt you. I should have never married you.”

She flinched. “I love you.”

Drake gritted his teeth. “Love is not enough, Emmaline.”

Emmaline gasped and it was all he could do to keep from taking her in his arms. He erected an emotionless wall of indifference.

Drake stood and helped her up. He guided her to the edge of the bed. Her full, red lips that would haunt him for the rest of his days parted, as if she intended to speak. “Not another word. We will finish this tomorrow. I am ringing for supplies to tend your—your…” He couldn’t finish.

“Drake…”

Drake spun on his heels and rang for a servant. Within moments, knuckles brushed the wood panel of the door and Drake yanked the door open. “I need strips of cloth and water.”

The servant bowed and beat a hasty retreat.

Drake took a slow, steadying breath and turned around to face his wife. His body recoiled the same way it had when he’d taken a bullet to the shoulder.

If Mallen could see her, Drake would be a dead man. A black laugh erupted from his lips, the sound eerie to his own ears.

“What are you thinking?” Emmaline whispered.

Drake ignored her. Mayhap that was what he should do. Call for the Duke of Mallen, let the man see his sister, then…his turbulent thoughts were interrupted by a perfunctory knock. In three strides, Drake crossed the room and pulled open the door.

Accepting the items from James without so much as a word of thanks, he shut the door with a quiet click.

Drake closed his eyes momentarily. When he opened them, he trained his gaze on the wood panel of the door. The time of cowardice was at an end. In order to see to her injuries, he had to face her.

Taking a deep breath, he turned around.

With a soft tread, he crossed to the bed and eased the basin of water onto the nightstand. Then, gently, so as to hardly compress the mattress, he sat beside her.

With fingers that shook, he brought the compress to her cheek. He saw her effortful attempts not to flinch and his guilt swelled. “I am so sorry.”

Emmaline caught her lower lip between her teeth. “I am fine.”

A mirthless laugh escaped him. “Yes, that lump and black bruise on your cheek are just fine.” He dipped a cloth into the basin. His jerky movements sent water over the sides of the white porcelain, and sprayed the floor.

“You don’t need to be so cavalier.”

He flung the cloth against the opposite wall and Emmaline flinched. The sopping fabric left a watery trail along the pale blue plaster. “Cavalier? You call me cavalier?” Beset by the hopelessness of it all, he leapt to his feet and began to pace. “This has all been a terrible mistake,” he said.

A flash of fury sparked in her brown eyes. “I understand you feel guilty. It is however, unpardonable for you to say such a thing.” Fury made her chest rise and fall swiftly, it reddened her cheeks. She stormed across the room and planted herself in front of him. “How dare you say that?” She jabbed a finger at his chest.

Drake dragged a hand through his hair and fixed his stare at a point beyond her shoulder, unable to meet her accusing gaze. Fire fairly leapt in her eyes. Emmaline should be furious…but only with the fact that he’d subjected her to a life of dangerous uncertainty.

“We are not discussing this tonight,” he growled. He stepped around her and made his way toward the door. She followed close at his heels.

“You are not to walk away from this discussion,” Emmaline said.

He stopped so abruptly she careened into his back.

His spun around and his arms came up instinctively to right her. He steadied her and then dropped his arms by his side. He wasn’t fit to touch her. Drake swallowed back a wave of despair. “Good night, my lady.”

Drake beat a low, formal bow, and left.

FORTY

The next morning, Emmaline sat on the deep blue velvet sofa in Drake’s office. She’d read and re-read the same sentence of the volume in her hands. With a sigh, she set aside his copy of The Castle of Wolfenbach.

A bright stream of sunlight angled through the narrow opening in the curtains. Emmaline rubbed a hand over her eyes. She’d not been able to think of anything other than the moment Drake had walked out on her last evening. She had longed to go after him but had not wanted to push Drake when he’d been so clearly vulnerable. Instead, she had lain in bed, counting down the evening minutes until she’d eventually fallen into a restless slumber.

For surely the hundredth time since she’d entered his office that morning, Emmaline consulted the grating clock as it tick-tocked away on the fireplace mantle. Ten o’clock.

Where in blazes was he? He could be at Hyde Park? Why hadn’t she thought of the possibility sooner? She should have searched him out. And what, wander over all of London for her new husband? Oh, how the gossips would love that story.

On the heel of that thought came the realization that any hint of scandal where she and Drake were concerned would result in an appearance from her far too-overprotective brother. Therefore it was in her best interest to glean his whereabouts before the speculative ton did. She pressed her fingers along her temple line and then winced at the painful reminder of last evening.

He’d promised her they would speak in the morning. And instead, he’d left her. She battled down the hurt that tugged at her heart and fed the healthy anger that enlivened her. How dare he lie to her? She was not a child. She was his wife. Drake owed her a conversation.

Emmaline jumped to her feet, and rang for a servant. She paced back and forth until a servant arrived.

“My lady?”

“Will you ask Mrs. Brown to come here?”

The maid dipped a curtsy. “Of course, my lady.”

Emmaline rang her hands and walked over to the window. She pulled back the curtain and stared unseeing down into the bustling street below. A fashionably dressed couple caught her notice. With their arms linked, they strolled leisurely down the pavement and seemed unaware of the hurried movements of the strangers around them. The couple wore matching expressions of simple, uncomplicated adoration. An awful niggling of jealousy crept into Emmaline’s mind. How she longed for that. Not just for herself, but for her and Drake.

“My lady!” Mrs. Brown’s booming voice interrupted her musings.

Emmaline startled and turned to face the housekeeper. “Mrs. Brown, good morning to you. I was wondering if you had happened to see His Lordship today?”

Mrs. Brown’s eyes went wide and her big mouth quivered. “I certainly have, my lady.” Tears smarted behind the lady’s eyes and she dashed a hand across her cheeks.

A panicky fear clawed at Emmaline. Her fingers curled into tight balls at her sides, and she dug her nails into the pad of her palm so hard, she nearly drew blood. “What is it, Mrs. Brown? Is he unwell?”

The normally garrulous housekeeper remained silent, only serving to raise Emmaline’s sense of dread. With a determined step, she crossed over to Mrs. Brown and gripped the woman’s arm gently, but firmly.

The servant made a choked sound in her throat which added to Emmaline’s terror. “He is in your chambers, my lady.”

Emmaline dropped Mrs. Brown’s arm and blinked. “My chambers?” Drake had in fact been within the townhouse the entire time? Could she have been so foolish as to have missed his presence all morning?

Before Mrs. Brown could reply, Emmaline set out at a near run and flew abovestairs toward her chambers. She entered the room, nearly out of breath from her exertions and stumbled to a halt at the sight of her trunks out. Drake stood in the center of the bedroom with his hands clasped behind his back, directing the packing of her belongings.

“Where are we going?” she blurted.

Drake didn’t as much as glance at Emmaline. He murmured something to her maid, Grace, who dipped a curtsy and left. It didn’t escape Emmaline’s notice how Grace pointedly avoided making eye contact with her. A frisson of unease worked a path down her spine.

As soon as the door closed behind Grace, Emmaline turned her attention to Drake. His intense emerald gaze was trained on her bruised cheek. “Look at me, Drake.”

“I am,” he said so quietly, she had to strain to hear him.

“I asked, where are we going?” An impenetrable fear kept her frozen, afraid to move from the spot she stood.

“We are not going anywhere. You are going.”

His words cut into her like the sting of salt water as it is tossed upon an open wound. Thoughts of the happy couple she’d witnessed mere moments ago flitted through her mind. How very joyous they’d been; their happiness a stark contrast to Drake’s own detached demeanor.

God, how she hated those young lovers—even more now. How come they were able to know such happiness when her own life was crumbling down around her like an ancient ruin?

She stuck her chin out. “I’m not going anywhere, Drake.” Emmaline hated the quivering timbre of her voice. Damn him for being so indifferent when she read as transparent as a page in a Gothic novel. “How dare you stand before me seeming to be singularly unaffected? You think to send me away like the crumbs on a dinner plate.”

The only indication given that he was affected by their exchange was an imperceptible tightening of his jaw. “This isn’t a discussion. I’ll not have you hurt. As I said last evening, this was a mistake. I have compromised your safety—”

“And as I’ve said…you are a bloody coward, husband.” She spat the curse at him, reveling in the subtle stiffening of his shoulders, the way he flinched at the word. Good, let him be at least somewhat unbalanced.

In the end, he retained his calm. “Either way, you cannot remain here.”

Emmaline shook her head sadly, her eyes sliding closed. Poor Drake. She thought of all the stories she had learned about him at London Hospital. Thought of all the men he’d considered friends, who he’d left behind. His dog, Valiant.

She took a deep breath. “No.”

Unused to having his wishes countermanded, his brow furrowed. “No?

With a cheeky tilt of her chin, she tossed her head. “That’s correct. No, as in I’m not—”

He slammed his fist against the wall, the ferocity of his movement caused reverberations that sent the collection of crystal perfume bottles on the delicate vanity clattering.

“Christ, Emmaline. Why are you doing this?” he rasped. “This is the hardest thing I’ve done—”

“Then don’t do it.”

Emmaline’s words were not a challenge, an entreaty, or demand. Had that utterance been emotional and enraged, it might have fueled his determination to send her packing.

This calm reasoning, however, he was altogether unprepared for. The soft carpet masked her movements and he was unaware of her bridging the distance between them, until he felt her tender touch on the sleeve of his jacket. He couldn’t look at her bruised, delicate visage. Could not stare at the damage he’d inflicted with his monstrous hands.

“As long as I’ve known you, you’ve turned away from me. Please, stop turning away from me.” There was a gentle plea underlying her words, a soft appeal.

Drake pressed the heel of his palms against his forehead. How could he allow her to remain? Pure selfishness made him want to move forward with her in his life. Calm reason and logic, however, urged him to send her away.

She, however, was more tempting than a devil among man. “You are not alone, Drake. You do not have to be. I am here. Let me in. I will help you.”

How desperately he longed for the presence of someone else alongside him, battling the demons that possessed him. Nay, not just anyone. He longed for her. His brave warrior, who didn’t hesitate to put herself in harm’s way to help others. First she’d saved the peddler. Now she was attempting to save him. Yet, if he turned to her, what kind of bastard would that make him?

Staring unseeing out at her armoire, he willed himself to confront the demons that tormented his waking and sleeping moments. The specters visited so frequently, he’d begun to lose sense of his own self. He’d been trying so desperately to push the ghosts to a deep, dark corner, and they refused to stay banished. This time, he didn’t hold back the memories. Vivid reflections of specific men, and then the other nameless men who visited him each night, paraded through his mind.

Then he knew.

It was guilt he carried. A great sense of blameworthiness that he’d lived when so many others had died. A sense of malfeasance that men had been killed and forever maimed because he’d led them to their death. The confrontation of his own culpability robbed him of the ability to stand. The muscle in his legs turned to nothing and he slid down to the floor, borrowing support from the wall.

And in the light of day, in front of his Emmaline, he did what he’d longed to do for seven long years.

He wept.

Openly. Great big, gasping, noisy tears that wrenched from somewhere deep within him. He felt the flutter of Emmaline’s skirts as she dropped to her knees beside him. She took his face between her hands; kissed his tears, kissed his wet lashes.

She stroked a trembling hand across his brow. He leaned into her touch.

Wordlessly, she climbed onto his lap and burrowed deep against his chest.

Drake’s lips caressed her temple. “How did I ever get so fortunate as to find myself betrothed to you?” he whispered, his voice ragged.

She tilted her head up and favored him with a bemused smiled. “I suppose we only have our fathers to thank.”

Drake gave a rueful shake of his head, remembering that fateful day, when they’d signed the official betrothal contract. A memory tickled the corners of his mind. Recollections suddenly came rushing back to him; he was a boy who’d helped a very young girl to her feet. He caught a strand of her silken brown hair between his fingers. “Brown suits you.”

Emmaline’s lips tipped up in a tremulously beautiful smile. “I didn’t think you remembered.”

Drake stroked a hand over her cheek. “I remember it all.”

“I’d ask something of you, Drake.”

He inclined his head.

“I would that you visit London Hospital. The men would be so pleased to see you. And I think it would do you good, as well.”

That was the real motivation behind her request. Somehow, she possessed the insight to know what it had taken him years to realize—in order to be free of the war, he needed to confront it. As long as he ran from the memories, they would continue to haunt him.

The thought of seeing the men who’d shared his hell made him nauseous. His fingers stroked the beloved lines of her face. He was fairly certain there was nothing he could ever deny her. Not even this.

“I will visit with the…men.”

Emmaline’s expression warmed several degrees. She tangled her fingers in his hair and dragged his mouth down to hers. The kiss she gave him was sweet, soft, lingering.

It tasted like…the future.

FORTY-ONE

The prickling ease of nervousness climbed up Drake’s back, around his neck, and nearly overwhelmed him with a cloying panic. He tugged at his cravat.

It did not help.

Where was the nurse who was supposed to meet him? An interminable amount of time had passed since he’d arrived at eleven o’clock. He consulted his timepiece.

Five minutes after eleven.

Mayhap he should leave. He’d simply explain to Emmaline that he’d waited…all of five minutes, and no one had arrived to show him to the respective ward. It might serve him to exaggerate the span of time just a tad. Yes, that was what he’d do. He’d—

A nurse clad in a stark white dress appeared in the main corridor of the hospital. “My lord, it is an honor.” She dipped a formal curtsy. “I’m Nurse Maitland.”

He lurched forward, the fabric of his greatcoat billowed at the alacrity of his movements. He cleared his throat and inclined his head in greeting. “Nurse Maitland.”

Drake reminded himself it was just a visit with men who’d seen and done things not much different than he had. He doffed his hat, and beat the small brim of the article distractedly against his thigh.

“May I show you to the wing Her Ladyship visits?”

He’d rather she show him a way out of the hospital. Drake nodded. “Uh-yes, that would be fine.”

“Her Ladyship is a noble, wonderful woman.” Either unaware or uncaring of Drake’s desire to engage as little as possible in conversation, the woman prattled on and on. “She is always generous and so very kind to the men. They greatly enjoy her visits.”

Drake was certain of it. How could Emmaline bring anyone anything other than joy? She had an inherent goodness and warmth that was a tangible force.

“She visits often, I understand,” he murmured.

“Oh, yes.”

The nurse fell silent; the only sound, the soft click of his boot steps and her serviceable shoes on the hall floor. And yet, now that she’d ceased talking, Drake found himself suddenly eager for more information from the woman. He found a yearning to know more about Emmaline.

Drake cleared his throat. “What—what does the marchioness do on her visits?”

From the corner of his eye, he observed the older woman’s smile. “Why, she reads to the soldiers, tells them stories. Brings them floral arrangements and baskets of treats. My lady has visited each week for many years now. I don’t know another person more steadfast and pure of heart.”

Neither did he.

Where he’d spent the interim years since the war carousing, gambling, and womanizing, she had led a far nobler, far more redeeming life.

“Here we are.” She opened a set of double doors and Drake passed through.

In his imaginings of the hospital for returned soldiers, he’d envisioned a drab, dark place with rows upon rows of beds with soldiers lying in stony silence.

With the exception of the rows of beds, none of the images he’d conjured had been correct.

The room, far brighter than he’d imagined resonated with the chatter of men, sharing stories, laughing at ribald jokes. Fresh cut blooms in white porcelain vases had been placed on nightstands beside a number of the beds.

Nurse Maitland saw the direction of his gaze. “My lady’s doing,” she explained. “The flowers are from her gardens. It does add cheer to the room, wouldn’t you say?”

“It does that.”

All as one, it was as if the men present registered the presence of an interloper. Seemingly endless pairs of eyes turned in his direction, leveling him with curiosity and suspicion. He thought he’d feel uncomfortable among them, that the sense of failure, which weighed on him would make any meetings awkward. He would not have blamed any one of the men who had served under him and fallen on the fields to feel anything but anger toward him. They would be justified in their feelings.

Drake instead felt a greater sense of belonging than he’d ever before experienced at any club or soiree.

“Cap’n Drake!” One man called, unmindful of Drake’s status as lord.

Nurse Maitland made to interject and remind the man of proper address, but Drake silenced her with a brisk wave. “I’m sure there are many other more pressing matters that require your attention. Thank you for showing me to the ward.”

The older woman dipped her head. “Please call if I can be of any further assistance.”

Drake inclined his head in acknowledgement, and then directed his attention to the soldier who’d called his name.

He moved down the hospital floor and murmured a greeting to the soldiers he passed. Some eyed him with wary curiosity. Others, not knowing he’d fought the same bloody fight they’d fought, eyed him with skepticism, suspecting he was nothing more than another lord doing a charitable service by paying them a visit.

The sight of a reed-thin soldier with a shock of red hair brought his movements to an abrupt halt. From the bright orange hue of his closely cropped hair, to the hue of his skin, even having been in London Hospital as long as he had, the man remained, remarkably—red.

“MacGregor,” he called wish a flash of surprise. The young man had fought under him in the Thirty-first Regiment.

“Captain, so very good to see you.”

Drake held out a hand to shake Macgregor’s, before jerking it back, stunned, forgetting.

Macgregor’s gave a shake of his head. “No worries, Cap’n. I forget myself sometimes.”

Words escaped Drake. He couldn’t imagine there’d ever be a day he woke up or moved through the day forgetting he’d lost not one, but both arms on the battlefield.

“How’ve you been, Macgregor?” The question sounded lame to his own ears.

The cheerful solider gave a wide, gap-toothed smile. “I’ve got my hands full, I’m so busy, Cap’n!” He laughed at loudly at his own jest.

Startled by MacGregor’s levity, Drake laughed. It felt, good. Better than good, really.

MacGregor nodded in the direction of a chair. “Have a seat, Cap’n?”

Drake eased a chair over out and sat.

He was reminded of the fact that on the battlefield, in the heat of fighting, or on the long treks across the land, social distinctions fell away. During war, it mattered not if your father was a duke or a servant or whether one’s family was prestigious.

Upon his return from the Peninsula, Drake’s immersion back into Society had battered down all those unchecked relationships he’d forged during war.

When he’d returned to England he’d resumed the life he’d left behind, sometimes wondering if the closeness shared between soldiers had been imagined. This visit to the hospital was testament to a bond that would always be shared.

“I’ve heard about your pursuits in London, Cap’n.”

Drake winced at the reminder of his roguish reputation. Shame filled him. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “I-uh, have since given up my less than noble pursuits.”

MacGregor proceeded to launch into a series of questions. They spoke so long, Drake lost track of the amount of time he sat at MacGregor’s bedside.

Drake leaned forward in his chair, finally asking the question he’d wondered since he’d sat beside the man. “Tell me, MacGregor, have you been visited by my wife, Lady Emmaline, formerly—”

MacGregor’s mouth went slack. “You are married to Lady Emmaline?” A touch of awe underlined the man’s words. “You are married to Lady Emmaline?”

A wry smile twisted Drake’s lips. “No need to sound so surprised.”

MacGregor ignored Drake’s attempt at humor. “My lady’s an angel. She…” and for the first time, the easy-going, light-hearted soldier’s face darkened. He too, had his black place, Drake realized. Of course he did. They all did.

MacGregor’s gaze went vacant. “I actually didn’t lose my right arm ’til I returned, Cap’n? Did you know that?”

Drake shook his head. “I didn’t.” He should have known. There were so many men who’d served with him, served under him. Yet still, he’d owed it to them to know the condition of their welfare.

MacGregor continued. “When I came back, I’d been at my mum’s and da’s. My da was—is, an inn-keeper. I helped him round there, best as I could,” he glanced down at his left arm, “as best as possible with one arm. It was hard at first. I began having pain in my right arm. Mighty painful. An infection set in.” His tone was matter-of-fact. “I nearly died. Turns out a bullet I’d taken in my arm had splintered off. Fragment was still there.” He shook his head, his expression bemused, as if after three years he still couldn’t believe it. “I ended up here. I pleaded with the bloody doctor to leave the arm, to leave the fragment. I told him I’d rather die.”

The images painted by MacGregor transported Drake back to the hellish time when he’d returned from the Peninsula. It had been as though Drake had been on a quest; a search for normalcy in his life—a desire to be the same carefree gentleman who’d first gone off to fight. Yet that normalcy had eluded him. The war had been a constant presence. It had dogged his every thought, his every movement. Men like MacGregor, however, had returned from war with not only horrific memories, but physical loss as well.

Drake folded his hands in his lap and looked down at the intertwined digits. “What made you decide to go on?” Did that raspy, barely there whisper belong to him?

MacGregor swallowed and replied on a near whisper. “It was Her Ladyship. It was the first time she visited the hospital. She was so young. She was with the Duke of Mallen. I’d just learned they were going to take my arm. She saw me arguing with the sawbones and rushed over.” His lips twitched with remembered amusement. “She yelled at the doctor, cursed the bloody bastard. Oh, he was just doing his job. I know that now…but I’d never heard that in my life. A lady yelling at someone over me. I shut my mouth after that and allowed them to take the arm.”

Drake visualized Emmaline at that moment in her life. She would have been seventeen, a girl on the cusp of womanhood. She’d been an avenging angel even then. He could reconcile this story with the brave woman who’d thrown herself between a whip and a peddler woman.

MacGregor interrupted Drake’s musings. “You’re a lucky man, Cap’n.”

“Yes, I certainly am.” For whatever reason, the Lord had deemed him worthy of Emmaline. Drake certainly didn’t understand it. He’d fought it with everything he was worth. He was, nonetheless, aware of his, for want of a better word, good fortune.

MacGregor nodded down the hall. Drake followed the movement. “Jones was under your command, too, Cap’n. Her Ladyship’s very kind to Jones.”

Drake took to his feet and patted MacGregor on the shoulder. “It was good seeing you, MacGregor.” Surprisingly, he found he meant those words.

“Likewise, Cap’n.”

Drake turned down the hall, offering greetings to the men who now watched him with far less suspicion. He heard the murmurs.

“That’s Cap’n Drake.”

Some of the whispers almost reverent.

Drake wanted to shout that he did not deserve their admiration and praise. He’d been no hero. In truth, they had been far braver, far more courageous, as was evidenced by their stalwart strength even lying in this miserable hospital, forever physically scarred.

He paused by the last bed in the room, neatly situated beside a long column of windows. The man, Lieutenant Jones, who occupied the space stared out the window, at the passersby below on the London streets. In that, Jones surely couldn’t help but be confronted by memories of what kept him separated from the world beyond that window pane. Drake suspected he himself would have wanted to be as far away from the window as possible.

Jones shot Drake a sideways glance. “So you married her, finally.” There was a reprimand there.

Drake blinked. He’d have to be deaf to not detect the hard edge in Jones’ tone. Emmaline certainly did not lack for protectors. She’d done much to earn the respect, admiration, and loyalty of these men.

“Unfortunately for her lady, yes.”

A rusty laugh escaped the other man. He motioned to the chair by his bed. Drake slid into it.

“I’ve been telling her to bring you by.” Jones gave him a knowing look.

“Have you?” Drake drummed his fingertips along the edge of his seat. Emmaline hadn’t mentioned that. She’d only told him she’d thought it would do him good to see the men who’d fought Boney’s forces. He was coming to find, that just like in many other regards, Emmaline had been right.

Jones held out a hand. “It’s good seeing you again, Captain.”

Drake stared at it a long moment and then shook it.

Why in the world would Jones or MacGregor or any one of them ever want to see him? He’d been no different than any other man on that field…with the exception of the fact he’d at one point been made captain. He therefore could claim the distinction of being responsible for many of them being in the bloody spot they now rested.

Jones must have seen something in Drake, something he perhaps recognized in himself. “It isn’t your fault, Captain.”

The breath left Drake, and for a moment, a blinding curtain fell across his eyes. He’d seen too much. Taken too many lives. Cost too many men their lives.

His voice came out hoarse when he finally spoke. “How can you forgive me?” He made a slashing gesture with his hand to the spot Jones’ arm should have been. “How is this not my fault?”

“It isn’t your fault a bloody madman took it to his head to try and conquer this world. You were no different than so many of us, Cap’n. You decided to fight for our country. Some of us were luckier than others.”

A bark of laughter devoid of mirth escaped Drake. It was hallow and guilt-ridden. “Are any of us really lucky, Jones?” The question burned in his soul.

Jones shook his head slowly. “No, that’s a fair point. We’ve all been touched by that damn war and I suspect it’ll always be with us.”

Unbidden, Drake’s mind went to the nightmares that frequently plagued him. He thought of Emmaline, who’d been leveled by his own hand, the bruise upon her cheek. In his mind he saw the tears wetting his normally unflappable father’s cheeks. Would there ever be a time he was not plagued by the hellish memories of those years? He’d hoped that as the months passed, he would begin to forget, that the reminders would fall into the background. Oh, even now there were days when the remembrances were not with him, or were less vivid and gripping. Then suddenly something would happen; a face that reminded him of a fellow soldier, or an unexpected sound, and then his hellish time on the Peninsula would come rushing back.

Drake scrubbed the back of his hand over his face. “Do you ever have nightmares, Jones?”

Jones nodded. “Every day. Sometimes it’ll be in the dead of night. Other times I’ll be awake, sitting in this bed in the middle of the day and they’ll come upon me.”

A wave of relief filled him. There was solace in knowing he was not alone—that there were others who shared his struggle. For some time, he’d begun to think he was a madman who belonged in Bedlam. “How do you live with it?” Drake asked on a low whisper.

It was the first time Jones’ grey eyes slid away from Drake, out to that window which had earlier consumed his attention. “I came back from the war without my arm. Upon my return, I learned, while in my absence, my wife and son had died of a fever. I wanted to die.” He looked back at Drake. “Do you know what kept me alive?”

Drake waited for the other man to continue. He tried to imagine the horror of returning from a war missing a limb, only to discover you’d also lost your wife and child. Jones was far braver than Drake. Drake knew he could never have survived the great losses that had been heaped upon Jones’ shoulders.

“Your wife kept me alive. Every week for three years she came and sat beside me. One week I didn’t kill myself because I wondered if she’d come back to visit. I told myself she was just a bored lady with nothing to do. Sure enough she came back. Then I made silent wagers with myself, betting how many weeks before she would disappear. The weeks passed, and by then I forgot about killing myself.”

Drake’s breath caught and lodged in his chest at the realization that this too was a man Emmaline had saved. By her presence alone, she had sustained Jones, pulled him from the precipice of darkness, and given him life. Drake was not very different from Jones. The difference being, Emmaline belonged to him. Her smile, her laughter, filled both his and Jones’ lives and for that they both honored her.

It was Drake however, who had the right to hold her, cherish her, love her.

Love her.

God, why had he not allowed himself to acknowledge that thought until this moment? She, who was so free with her love, with her every emotion, deserved so much more than him. She deserved to be told regularly just how special she was.

“She is a remarkable woman,” Drake managed to say; forcing his thoughts back to Jones.

Jones tipped his head in acknowledgement. “You know Captain? I lost everything and everyone I loved. You have a reason to live. Trust me. You have your nightmares, we all do. And they’re always going to be with us, sir. But as long as you have her you’ve got something to live for.”

Drake felt his throat work. He did have something to live for…rather he had someone to live for. Someone he needed to see desperately in that moment.

Drake came to his feet quickly. “What are your feelings on leaving this behind and coming to work for my staff?”

Jones’ eyes revealed a gleam of desperate hope, which was quickly squashed by a dawning sense of reality.

“I am not altogether sure I’d be much help to your staff.” Jones’ words were tinged with bitterness.

“I beg to differ, Jones. I have a need of help in my household. I recall how capable you were with the horses. I’m certain you’d grow accustomed to adjusting to your changed circumstances.”

That gleam of longing reignited in his eyes. Jones fairly licked his lips, clearly more enticed at the idea of being in the stables, where he’d always been comfortable.

Jones held out his hand. “It would be an honor, Captain. A real honor.”

Drake accepted the hand in a firm shake. “I’ll see the arrangements made and have you sent for.” He cleared his throat, suddenly besieged by a desire to see his wife. “If you will pardon me then, Jones?” He bowed his head.

“Captain,” Jones returned.

Drake took his leave. He needed to see his wife. Emmaline deserved to hear the words he’d withheld from her. She also deserved his thanks for bringing him to this place.

His musings were interrupted by the figure of a man who stepped suddenly into his path.

Drake’s feet ground to a quick halt.

The Duke of Mallen arched a dark brow, his expression stony. “What brings you here?” Mallen drawled.

Drake’s jaw set. He’d be damned if he would share something so personal with this man. He might be Emmaline’s brother but he was no friend of Drake’s, and certainly didn’t deserve such personal information. He could only imagine what the great, powerful duke would say if Drake responded with the truth; Oh, you see, I have frequent nightmares and remembrances of the war. I even occasionally lose control and…

“None of your business, Mallen.” He bit out. “What brings you here?”

Mallen cleared his throat. “I’ve always had a sense of regret I was unable to enlist and fight. I’ve felt guilt about the men who lost their lives, risked their limbs, when I was at home, safe and unaffected. I joined the Hospital Board upon my father’s passing.”

Drake started. He could appreciate what that admission cost Mallen. It would seem he knew his brother-in-law far less than he’d thought. It had never occurred to him the guilt Mallen, and perhaps other lords, would feel for not fighting.

His gaze held Mallen’s. “Trust me, you were better off.”

Mallen rubbed his chin. “Perhaps.”

“Emmaline needed you,” Drake said.

“As she did you.”

Ah, there it was, the subtle thrust and parry. It would be easy to dislike Mallen…if he weren’t so damn loyal to Emmaline. That the other man loved her and hated Drake for having abandoned her all these years, well…it was rather hard to feel any ill-will toward someone who felt that way toward his wife.

“I’m here now, Mallen.” Drake sketched a respectful bow. “If you will excuse me, I have to return home.” I miss my wife.

Drake had nearly reached the entrance.

“Drake,” Mallen called out, halting Drake in mid-stride down the hall.

He turned on his heel and waited for Mallen to speak.

“Tell Emmaline to throw out the bonnet I’d given her. Tell her I said her bonnet is just fine.”

Drake angled his head. Hell, he’d never figure the other man out. “Certainly, Mallen.” With that he left.

There was something he very much needed to tell his wife. Something that had been long over-due—and it wasn’t going to be about her bonnet.

FORTY-TWO

Emmaline sat back on her heels and surveyed the overgrown boxwoods. She chewed her lip thoughtfully, considering the bushes. A trickle of perspiration dripped from her brow. She removed her bonnet and swiped the back of her hand across the moisture.

Emmaline reached into the front pocket of her apron and withdrew a pair of pruning shears when a warm, wet tongue lapped the salty trace of sweat from her hand.

“Oh you loyal, loyal, boy.” Taking a momentary break from her efforts, she sat down with her legs drawn to her chest and proceeded to shower Sir Faithful with some deserved attention.

He made a moaning growl of approval and promptly flipped to his back.

She laughed and scratched the sparse patch of fur on Sir Faithful’s underside. “How do you think your master is doing this afternoon?”

Sir Faithful gave a little yelp in response.

“Good, do you?” she answered for him.

Her brow wrinkled. She hoped Drake’s time at London Hospital didn’t cause him further distress. Emmaline had thought Drake might find kindred spirits in the men who’d come to mean so much to her. She’d prayed Drake might find that which had eluded him for nearly four years—peace.

Emmaline did not delude herself into believing one visit would exact a miraculous transformation over Drake. She worried, however, that he wouldn’t want to return to London Hospital. And she couldn’t ask any more than that from him. She did not presume to know what his life had been like on the Peninsula. It would therefore, be unfair for her to make requests that could very well cause him greater angst.

She gave Sir Faithful one more pat and then returned her attention to the boxwoods. “My poor forgotten, beautiful dears,” she praised them. “You must know you are utter perfection to me. You have not heard that enough, have you?” She clucked her tongue.

“I would say the same to you, my lady.”

Emmaline glanced over her shoulder. Drake stood by the wrought-iron bench. He had a riding crop in one hand and beat it against his muscled thigh.

She placed her pruning shears in her apron pocket, and made to rise.

Drake walked over in three long strides, took her hands in his, and guided her up.

She wet her lips. His inscrutable expression gave her little indication of what he was thinking or about his trip to London Hospital. “Drake. How was—?”

He took her into his arms. His lips, a mere hairsbreadth apart from her own, tickled her skin with the faintest trace of coffee. “I love you.” He kissed her in the gentlest meeting of lips.

Emmaline’s knees went weak, but he caught her to him. His fingers undid the fraying blue satin ribbons of her bonnet. He gave a gentle tug, and then tossed the article aside. It caught a faint spring breeze, and then fell onto a nearby bush.

Emmaline’s heart raced with a giddy sense of joy. Oh, she’d known Drake had come to care a great deal for her. What man, after all, would share his poetry and humble himself before a tableside of strangers?

Tears welled in her eyes, and the elegantly white linen fold of his cravat blurred.

Drake’s finger traced the fullness of her lower lip, careful not to cause further pain to her bruised cheek. “Do you hear me? I—love—you.” He punctuated each word with a kiss.

Emmaline leaned into his caress. “I love you, so much. I think I always have.” She had loved him her entire life. There had been the inquisitive five–year-old girl who had loved the boy of three and ten who’d helped her to her feet. She had loved the man who cared so powerfully for his soldiers and a dog named, Valiant.

Drake drew her closer to him, lowering his cheek against the top of her head. He inhaled deep. “I’ve never deserved it.”

Emmaline wrapped her arms about his waist and held onto him tight.

Drake tilted her chin up. “Do you know when I fell in love with you?”

She shook her head.

“I spent the entire ride from London Hospital trying to figure out that very question. Do you know what I realized?”

“What did you realize?”

“There was no one time, Emmaline. There wasn’t one particular moment. It was a collection of so many memories and moments with you. When I saw you challenge Whitmore and his crony. The night you approached me at the opera, and then that next morning when you sent around that outrageous note. Or the day I spied you purchasing one of the most scandalous Gothic novels from the Old Corner Bookshop.” His throat moved up and down. He fixed his stare at some point beyond her shoulder. “The day I…lost control in your gardens and you just held me…it was the first time I hadn’t felt alone since I’d returned from the Peninsula.”

Emmaline raised a hand between them and stroked the slight cleft in his chin. His eyes slid closed.

“Emmaline, when I spoke to Jones today, I felt a peace I haven’t felt in a number of years. I felt you there with me. Your presence is all over the ward. I fell in love with you as I saw your fresh cut flowers, as I learned of your devotion to the men who’d fought and lost so much.”

He returned his dark, moss-green eyes to Emmaline. “You are deserving of that one spectacular moment, a moment when I fell head over heels in love with you, Emmaline. I cannot give you that.” His eyes charted an intent path over her face. “I can give you the love I feel that was slowly kindled and cultivated, just like the flowers you tend. I can’t—”

She placed her fingers over his lips, silencing him. “Do you think I care how you fell in love with me? It is enough that you love me.” She stretched up on tiptoes and kissed him. “I love you.”

Sir Faithful gave a little bark and scratched a paw on Drake’s tan breeches.

Drake turned his attention to the mangy black dog. He had grown significantly since Emmaline had brought him to his life. In spite of his impressive diet, he still managed to appear reed thin.

“Yes, boy, we both love you, as well.” He fondly pet the dog between his ears.

Emmaline smiled, and leaned down, to also stroke Sir Faithful.

Drake returned his attention to her. “Do you remember what you asked me the day our fathers signed our betrothal documents?”

Emmaline’s mind went wandering down a path fifteen years old. Of course, much of that day had been lost to time but she still remembered so much of it, too. She’d only been a girl of five, after all. Traces of memories had remained with her. She tried to think…

The reminiscence suddenly came to her. “I asked if you wanted to be my husband.”

Drake claimed her hands in his own. He brought them to his mouth and lovingly worshipped her knuckles. “I want you to know, Emmaline, that more than anything, I want to be your husband.”

Emmaline smiled tremulously. “And I want to be your wife.” It was all she’d ever wanted. He was all she’d ever wanted.

He dropped his brow to hers, and rubbed it back and forth. “You are all I ever wanted,” he murmured.

And after a forever betrothal, Emmaline at long last had what she’d always yearned for…a forever marriage.

EPILOGUE

Drake stared at the canopy above their bed, and grinned at the cacophony of noise penetrating the night quiet. His wife’s snoring stirred the tufts of hair upon his chest, mingling with Sir Faithful’s heavy breathing whose chin rested on Drake’s ankle.

This time it wasn’t nightmares of the past that kept Drake awake. It wasn’t even a result of his wife and dog’s snores. No. Now, he reveled in the feel of Emmaline in his arms—he reveled in life.

It had been almost a year since they’d married.

Over the months he’d been wed to Emmaline, the nightmares had lessened. Oh, they would still visit him on occasion; when he least expected it. He suspected Jones had been right when he’d said the memories would always, to some extent, be with them. Yet each day it seemed as though they faded in their vividness, in their intensity.

Drake attributed it Emmaline’s love.

The support from the soldiers he’d taken to visiting at London Hospital.

And of course, the help of a stubborn mangy black dog, that didn’t seem to know his place.

MORE IN THIS SERIES

Scandalous Seasons Series

Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride

Never Courted, Suddenly Wed

Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous

Always a Rogue, Forever Her Love

A Marquess For Christmas

Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love

ABOUT CHRISTI CALDWELL

CHRISTI CALDWELL blames Judith McNaught’s “Whitney, My Love!” for luring her into the world of historical romance. While sitting in her graduate school apartment at the University of Connecticut, Christi decided to set aside her notes and pick up her laptop to try her hand at romance. She believes the most perfect heroes and heroines have imperfections, and she rather enjoys torturing them before crafting them a well-deserved happily ever after!

Christi makes her home in southern Connecticut where she spends her time writing her own enchanting historical romances, teaching history, and being a full-time wife and mother!

DESIRES OF A BARON

Rose Gordon

PROLOGUE

If Giles Goddard, Lord Norcourt, were anyone else he might think he’d had a miserable life. Sent away from Dolsey, his parents’ country estate, at eight years old to be raised by nuns at a convent in Ireland when the baroness had announced she was breeding once again.

At the time, Giles was too young to understand why he needed to leave. Twenty years later, Giles knew why: he’d been unwanted.

Though the firstborn and heir to the barony, Giles had little else to recommend himself to his parents, most notably his father. Born with his life’s cord wrapped around his neck and his skin a pale blue that would match the creek that ran behind his father’s estate, he was slow to cry or scream to announce his presence and later he was slow to walk, slow to talk, and undeniably slow to comprehend. Giles’ aging father couldn’t abide Giles’ presence any more than he could fathom the idea that a simpleton would one day take over his title.

So when Lady Norcourt announced she’d missed her monthly flux three times, the old baron made arrangements that he hoped would be sufficient to allow his second son to become his heir.

During Lady Norcourt’s second gestation period, the baron forbade her to leave her room. The servants were ordered to bring all of her meals and entertainment to her before she had a chance to ask. She was not to be allowed on her feet more than an hour each day and was to be carried from her bed to her chaise if she wished to change locations. And most importantly, she was to have absolutely no association with the child that was robbed of his mind by the devil!

Her body was a vessel. One meant to deliver a smart and healthy heir. She’d failed once, and the baron had seen to it she understood that she was not to fail him again.

However, on the slim possibility that Lady Norcourt proved to be incompetent in her ability to give him a suitable heir once more, the old man with more than seventy years of wisdom between his ears made arrangements to protect his barony if his simple son should inherit.

Unfortunately for the old baron, between his raging excitement to ensure nothing happened to his wife, his vessel, during her confinement and his joy that his simple son wouldn’t inherit, the old man’s heart gave out on him while out celebrating his new plan. His wife, though blackmailed into being unable to communicate with Giles, thwarted the old baron all the same and married another within a month of his passing. Thus, her second son, both healthy and smart, was not eligible to inherit the title through any schemes of the late baron. Which meant that despite his father’s hatred and obvious disdain for his firstborn son, Giles had inherited a barony. The very last thing he ever wanted.

Well, perhaps being a baron wasn’t the last thing he’d wanted. Having a title fell a short second to the situation he’d recently found himself in: face-to-face with his mother. At a house party. In Telford.

Seeing her wasn’t quite so bad.

Listening to her prattle on about nothing of any import, however, was enough to make him, a grown man of eight-and-twenty contemplate pulling out all of his hair. He was this close to doing just that. In fact, the only reason he didn’t was because it might hurt. No, it wouldn’t “might” hurt, it would hurt. Hair pulling hurt. No matter who pulled. And to pull it hard enough for the hair to come out, it’d hurt something fierce. He was certain of it.

Instead, he balled his hands into fists. That didn’t hurt. Much. His nails were a little sharper than they should be and dug into his palms, but the pain in his palms was less than it’d be if he ripped his hair out. It had to be.

“Giles, I’d love to hear more about the time you spent in Spain,” the dowager Lady Norcourt, now Mrs. Appleton, also known to be his mother, said from where she sat perched on a settee not five feet away from him.

Giles squeezed his fingers into a tighter fist, if such a thing were possible. He didn’t wish to talk about his time in Spain. He’d already told her everything she deserved to know: it was good.

“Giles?”

He swallowed. “Yes?”

“Tell me about the bulls, Giles. Did you see them chase the men?” the woman who’d once been so dear to him asked. Her sweet smile only served to make his stomach clench as waves of memories of her running after him as a young lad in leading strings came to mind.

He thrust away the thought. Just like his father, she hadn’t wanted him. If she had, she’d have never sent him away. “They chased me,” he said softly around the lump of emotion—part hurt, part anger—that had formed in his throat and was on the verge of choking the life right out of him.

Lady Norcourt, as he’d taken to referring to her in his mind since the word “mother” not only didn’t fit her, but made his gut ache whenever he heard it, stared at him, her blue eyes wide and her mouth slightly agape.

She snapped her mouth closed and forced a smile. “I suppose I could see that. You always were a fast runner. Why I remember when you were a boy...”

Giles stared at her, but didn’t hear her words. Since arriving at this inane and tedious house party, the last word of which he used very loosely, he’d been driven nearly to tears of frustration by the countless young ladies paraded in front of him. They’d talked of silly things like hair ribbons and reticules. And that was it. The only statement any of them had said that had caught his attention was when one of the young ladies told another to “stuff it”. A slow smile pulled at Giles’ lips. Having grown up in an orphanage run by nuns, he’d never heard such a term before and only assumed it was a less-than-polite way to ask the young lady who was chattering like a bird to stop talking.

But what if she’d really stuffed it? What would she stuff it with? What if Lady Norcourt stuffed it? He started. The dratted woman had been so interested in him these past few days it bordered on annoying. He most definitely would like to see her mouth be stuffed with something. Cotton. Leaves. A ball of yarn. The list was limitless if it’d get her to stop talking to him for any amount of time.

“Are you all right, dear?” Lady Norcourt asked, startling him from his drifting thoughts.

He was spared from having to tell her what he was thinking about, because he could not tell a lie, when the doorknob twisted, drawing both of their attention.

Relieved and glad for any distraction, Giles stared at the door waiting for the intruder to let himself—hopefully it’d be a “him”, he didn’t think he could tolerate much more useless chatting about ribbons and bows—into the room.

His relief didn’t hold, however, when the man revealed himself: Simon Appleton, his younger brother.

“Simon,” Lady Norcourt greeted. “Do come in and join us.”

Mr. Appleton came into the room and quietly closed the door behind him. “Mother.” He turned to look at Giles. “Lord Norcourt.”

“What brings you about?” Lady Norcourt asked.

Simon’s face took on an expression that Giles couldn’t determine. “I’ve come to speak to Lord Norcourt.” When a broad smile took his mother’s lips, Simon added, “Alone.”

Lady Norcourt’s smile faded and she shot a glance to Giles that he couldn’t interpret. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

Irritation bubbled inside of Giles. As much as everyone liked to pretend he was, he wasn’t a child and incapable of having thoughts for himself. They might not always come to him quickly or make sense to others, but he was capable of some things. He scowled at them. “I do.”

“You do what?” Lady Norcourt asked, her eyebrows drawn together.

“We’ll talk alone.”

Lady Norcourt’s lips thinned. “I don’t think—”

“We’ll be fine, Mother. I don’t plan to eat him,” Simon said, opening the door to the library for his mother.

She cast one last glance toward Giles, then gathered her green skirts and made her exit. Giles was a hint jealous that it was her and not him who was escaping.

After she’d crossed the threshold, Simon closed the door. “Have you and my mother become bosom friends yet?”

“She’s my mother, too,” Giles said quietly.

“Indeed.” Simon walked to a high backed chair and gripped the wooden frame of the back until his knuckles turned white.

Giles stared at his half-brother. From where he sat, it was easy to tell that Simon was as tall as Giles, though not as broad. Their hair and eyes were exactly the same shades: chestnut brown and emerald green respectively. That’s where their similarities ended. They’d had breakfast together the other morning and Simon had seen fit to talk endlessly about every subject he knew anything about. Giles preferred to listen. He’d learned, not the easiest way, either, that he was less likely to make a fool of himself if he didn’t speak, or just said very little when necessary.

He swallowed. He hoped he wouldn’t make a fool out of himself in front of Simon right now.

Mindlessly, Giles tapped his foot. What was taking the man so long to speak? “Come to talk?”

“You do know why you were invited here, do you not?”

“Yes.” He didn’t like it, but he understood very well why he’d been coerced into attending Lady Cosgrove’s house party.

“Because Mother thinks to right her wrong by finding you a bride?”

Giles clenched his fists as tightly as he could and commanded his face to stay impassive. He couldn’t let on to the hurt soaring inside him at Simon’s cold, but truthful reminder that he’d been unwanted. “You’re a fortunate man, then.”

“Me?” Simon jabbed a finger at his chest. “She didn’t invite those young ladies here for me to peruse, they’re here for you.”

“Not interested. Have your pick.”

“My pick?” He shook his head. “I don’t need a swarm of ladies to choose from. I’ve already found my bride.”

Giles’ mind raced. Was Simon speaking of Isabelle Knight? He had to be, she was the only female Giles had seen him with at this party. “She’s taken,” he said evenly.

Simon frowned. “Yes, by me.”

“No. She’s Sebastian’s wife,” Giles said quietly. His friend Sebastian, Lord Belgrave had told him that himself. He’d never signed the annulment papers. That meant they were still married, didn’t it?

“Was, Lord Belgrave’s wife,” Simon corrected. His voice an odd mixture of annoyance and frustration, likely at Giles’ arguing.

“Still is,” Giles said flatly.

“No, they had their marriage annulled. That means they were married, but they’re not any longer.”

“No, they’re still married,” Giles said adamantly. Sebastian had told him so. Sebastian was the only friend he’d ever had. He wouldn’t lie to Giles. He never had. If Sebastian said they were still married, Giles had no reason to believe otherwise.

Simon’s green eyes narrowed. “Did Lord Belgrave tell you this?”

Giles nodded slowly and watched silently as a myriad of emotions crossed the younger man’s face. Giles hadn’t any idea what most of them meant, nor did he care to ask.

A moment later, Simon’s face was dark red and his lips were in a thin, tight line that made the edges of his mouth turn white. He looked furious.

Giles just stared at the man as he breathed so hard his nostrils flared. He’d told the truth. He’d done nothing wrong, and yet, he felt as if he’d once again pushed away a potential friend. Not something foreign to Giles.

Then, without so much as a fare-thee-well, Simon spun on his heel and quit the room.

ONE

Shrewsbury

Lucy Whitaker frowned as she climbed the rickety stairs to the apartments above the smithy’s shop on the ever-hustling Flynt Street. She crested the top of the stairs and a chill ran down her spine. Something wasn’t right about this. Her son, Seth, had met her when she’d returned from working at the bakery with a pot of soup that was already made and poured into a carafe for traveling. He’d then told her that there was an ailing man in the village, gave her his direction and begged her to hurry and deliver him the soup.

Only because she loved her son and didn’t want to see him hurting over yet another of his friends dying, just another disappointment he’d face in his short life, she’d reluctantly agreed to go.

Lucy tightened her hold around the handle of the carafe. She’d promised Seth she’d come and deliver the man a bowl of soup and medicine. But that was as far as her Christian charity went. Once she gave him what she’d brought, she’d be on her way.

She found his apartment, 2B, and knocked twice on the door before letting herself inside. She stepped inside and froze. Before her stood a man, virile and young. Decidedly not sick in the least. “Pardon me, I must have the wrong direction,” she rushed to say, taking a step back.

The young man with light blond hair and blue eyes reached for her. His touch made her skin grow cold and turn nearly frigid when he gave her what he might think was an affectionate squeeze. “I don’t think so.”

Panic welled up inside Lucy and she wrenched her arm away from him, taking another step toward the door.

His rich chuckle filled the room. “The boy said you might be upset.” He gestured to the faded blue divan in front of the window. “Come, we’ll talk first.”

Boy? Talk? First? So many partial questions formed in her mind, the least of which was what exactly did Seth have to do with this? “Sir, I think you have the wrong idea. I’m not here for—for—” she waved her hand in a circular motion in the air— “that.”

He frowned and crossed his arms, the sun glinting off his signet ring, filling Lucy with a sense of dread. Not only was he handsome, but he was titled. “But I thought—”

“Yes,” she cut in crisply, doing her best to tamp down her true feelings for men of his ilk. “I’m sure you did and I was led to believe I was coming here to deliver soup and herbs to a man nearing his deathbed.” A bubble of irritation swelled up inside Lucy as the memory of her son’s words that he was so sick came back to her: He’s nearly delirious with fever, Seth said, thrusting the soup in her direction. He could die at any moment, so please go now.

“I see,” the handsome stranger said slowly, pulling her back to present. “I suppose then you’re not interested in...” He trailed off with a lopsided shrug and a wolfish smile.

“No,” she snapped. “I need to get back home to my son.”

“Son?” he echoed, a myriad of emotions passing over his face.

“Yes, the young fellow who suggested this—this—this assignation, is my son,” she confirmed, her face heating.

He had the decency to flush, but only a little. “I see.” He cleared his throat. “You must understand, I don’t usually take recommendations of this sort from young boys, it’s just—”

She waved him off before he could say another word and further mortify them both. “He didn’t know what he was doing.”

The strange man stared at her, then blinked slowly.

“He’s just trying to find himself a father,” Lucy burst out before she could think better of it. Another burning wave of embarrassment came over her.

“Uh—uh—uh,” the young lord stammered, his face turning as violently red as she imagined hers was. “I’m not interested in that. I was just—”

“Yes, I know what you wanted,” she cut in, pursing her lips and narrowing her eyes on him. “Nonetheless, Seth did not know that was your intention.” She sighed as a defeating sadness threatened to overcome her. “He’s just a boy and doesn’t understand the way of the world,” she whispered aloud, more for her own benefit than for the man who was standing before her looking decidedly uncomfortable. Pushing away the feelings of failure and anger that were swiftly overcoming her, she inclined her chin and forced herself to meet the still wide eyes of the man in front of her. “I do hope you have learned a lesson today.”

“Indeed. I shall never again accept the help of a village imp.”

“Perhaps the word never is a bit strong. Surely, you could accept his assistance to hold your lead while you visit a shop or give you directions to the smithy’s without the expectation of soon becoming his father.” At the man’s choked laughter, more choking than laughter, of course, Lucy allowed herself a small smile then excused herself from the room.

Once outside, the emotions came with the force of a team of the king’s finest horses charging at her as if she were the enemy and he must capture her and behead her at once. Anger. Humiliation. Confusion. Sadness. And finally, helplessness. Through the tears that now burned her eyes and blurred her vision, she made her way to the lane that would lead her back to the crumbling stone cottage she rented on the fringes of the village.

She took a deep breath to calm her fraying nerves and steady her uneasy gait. Twelve years ago she’d made a mistake. A mistake that not only would taint her name for the rest of her life, but had ruined the life of an innocent child. Biting back the vile curse that resounded over and over in her head for the man who’d put her into this position, she walked on and directed that curse at herself. She’d been the one who’d believed his lies and given herself to him. She’d also been the one who’d tried her best to protect her son from what he really was: a bastard. A cold sweat came over her and she was only vaguely aware that she was violently shaking when the carafe of soup that was dangling from the crook of her arm hit her in the rib.

“Ooof,” she muttered, not slowing her steps. A million thoughts flew through her mind, but the one that stood out the most was she had no choice but to explain Seth’s parentage to him. The truth. All of it. He was almost twelve now, he deserved to know; and for as painful as it might be for both of them, he might understand why his efforts weren’t appreciated. Her chest constricted, crushing her heart and lungs and making it nearly impossible for her to drag in another breath. He didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve any of it. But that didn’t make it go away. She’d made a horrible mistake and he’d been made to suffer just as much, if not more than, she. She’d always known it, but after her recent conversation with Lord Virile and Primal, it seemed so real and definite. Crushing.

“Mama! Mama! Come quick. I found you a man!” came the excited voice of her son, jarring her to present. He skidded to a halt in front of her, blinking his moss-green eyes at her. “Have you been crying?”

His innocent question made her eyes flood with tears once more. “We’ll talk at home.”

His eyes grew wide and his cheeks pinkened, presumably at realizing his earlier actions were about to lead him into trouble. “Yes, ma’am,” he said solemnly. “But first—”

“No. We’re going home, now.” She reached for his arm to keep him close by, but he pulled away and wildly shook his head, sending his sandy blond hair all over the place.

“Mama, there’s a man who needs help—”

“I’m sure there is,” she retorted, pursing her lips. “But he can get whatever help he needs from someone else.”

“There isn’t anyone else,” he argued.

“Seth,” she said on a sigh. “I cannot—no, will not—help that man with whatever it is that’s ailing him.”

His eyes grew wider if that were possible. “But isn’t it your Christian duty?”

She would have laughed at the absurdity of the situation if that wouldn’t have meant laughing at the innocence of her son in the ways of the world. “Seth, let’s go home. It’s time we talk.”

“All right, Mama. I’ll talk about anything you want to—pastry dough, sewing, flowers, anything—but please help this man first. He’s hurt.”

“Genuinely hurt?”

Seth nodded.

“Physically?”

Seth’s brows knit together and Lucy sighed again.

“What can you tell me about this man, Seth?” Why was she even asking? After her recent experience in the village at the hands of her meddling son, the last thing she wanted to do was to go see another “ailing” man. But something within was stirred. It might have been the panic in her son’s eyes or the way he spoke with such conviction. She didn’t know, but something inside of her she couldn’t make sense of wanted to know more.

“He’s rich,” Seth said simply.

That did it. Lucy steeled her spine and reached for her son’s arm above the elbow. “While I thank you for your efforts, my boy, they are for naught. We are going home. Now.”

He pulled away from her and began running.

“Seth, wait!” she called, dropping her carafe of soup and running off after her son. The sun was already so low in the sky that in an hour or so it’d be completely dark. While she was confident he could find his way home if necessary, she didn’t want him to be out wandering around while a strange man lurked in the woods. Her heart jumped to her throat. What if this man grew angry when Seth didn’t bring Lucy back with him? She ran as fast as she could to keep up. It was hopeless to believe she, a woman of nine-and-twenty, could keep up with a boy of eleven, but as long as she could still see him, she wouldn’t panic. Yet.

He led her through the woods and in the direction of his favorite place: the Old Elm. She should have known. It was his favorite place to go during the day. While most boys his age would have stripped off all the tree’s branches and fashioned swords out of them, Seth preferred to sit under the shade the Old Elm provided and read. She swallowed another round of emotion. Just another way her son was different.

Seth came to an abrupt stop and Lucy almost ran into the back of him, then dropped her eyes to the ground and a strangled sob erupted from her throat at what lay on the ground in front of her.

“I told you he needed help,” Seth said, his voice full of raw emotion.

Lucy fell to her knees at the side of the lifeless, dark haired stranger. Discarding all reservations and decorum, she reached a hand toward his blood-covered face. His skin was still warm. Whether that was a sign of life within or the blood that covered so much of him, she couldn’t know until she examined him better. She moved closer and rolled him over onto his back.

“I thought you said he was rich,” she said, trying to keep herself calm as her eyes scanned over this man’s beaten and bloodied body.

“I presume he was—before he was robbed,” Seth said simply, dropping to his knees next to her.

Lucy couldn’t stop the slim smile that spread her lips. Her boy was clever, he was. He might be a bastard and seemingly unable to fully comprehend what that would mean to him and the things he’d never have because of his bastardy, but he was clever and the only ray of joy in her life these past eleven and a half years.

Not sure if the man who was lying before her was still alive or not, but not wanting to hurt him more if he was, she gingerly touched his wrist and felt for a pulse. She felt one. Barely. Releasing a breath she didn’t know she was holding, she looked up to her son and met his tear-filled eyes.

“He’ll be all right,” she lied. “But I need you to help me.”

He nodded wordlessly.

“We need to carry him back to the house so I can clean him up and examine him better.” She moved to stand at the man’s shoulders. “I’ll lift him under his arms and carry him as best I can. I need you to hold his ankles and make sure we don’t drag him.”

Seth looked at her for a moment in disbelief, then shrugged and grabbed the man’s ankles while Lucy slid her hands under his shoulders and closed her fingers in his armpits. Then, together, they lifted. And grunted. The man was heavy. No, not just heavy. There had to be another word that was more accurate. She just didn’t know what it was.

Fortunately their house was only a quarter mile away.

Even more fortunate, for Lucy, Seth and the man they carried, they only dropped him twice and neither time was on his head!

Of course it did take them thirty minutes to get back to their house, but without those breaks every two to three minutes they might have all been dead.

“Let’s put him on my bed,” Lucy said on a gasp. It’d be a wonder if she didn’t collapse any moment.

Seth grunted as he helped heft the chunk of lead shaped like a human up onto her bed.

When the man was secure on top of her mattress, mother and son exchanged a quick look before Lucy gave her son orders to go fetch a basin of water and an unused sheet from the hall.

“You’d better not die on me,” she whispered to the dark-haired man lying motionless on her bed. “I’m about to rip up my last sheet for you. The least you owe me is to live.”

A moment later Seth entered the room with a white sheet draped over his shoulder and dragging on the ground behind him and a basin of water in his hands so full that with each step he took some splashed over the side.

Normally she’d chastise him for making such a mess, but not today. There was more than enough to chastise him for later. Right now, she needed his help if this man was to have half a chance at life.

Seth set the basin down on the crude table beside her bed and without being told started shredding the sheets. Lucy checked for a pulse again. It was as weak as before, which she took as a good sign. They hadn’t killed him on their way to the house.

Lucy picked up a strip of linen that Seth had pulled from the sheet and soaked it in water. She wrung out the excess and brought it to the man’s face. Exerting a hint of pressure so she could actually clean off his face, but not hurt him, she gently wiped away the blood that surrounded his mouth. The cloth absorbed so much blood she rinsed it out, then made another swath. Then another. Slowly, she cleaned the majority of his face, leaving the water a dirty reddish-brown color. She dropped the rag into the water and took a moment to look him over. Despite the bruises forming on his chin and around his eyes and the cuts that covered his face, he was undoubtedly very handsome. High cheekbones, a strong angular jaw and chestnut brown hair. He looked young, too.

Her eyes traveled down to the rest of him. His clothes, though once undoubtedly among some of the most expensive to be found in London, were tattered and dirty, indicating that his injuries were likely greater than just those on his face. Tentatively, she unfastened the buttons of his light brown waistcoat.

“Are you undressing him?” Seth asked.

“I don’t have a choice,” she murmured, not daring to look up at him.

A moment passed, then his hands joined hers in undressing the good-looking stranger.

Wordlessly, the pair removed his clothing, gasping and shuddering as more painful bruises and abrasions were revealed. It was a miracle the man was still alive.

Seth dropped the man’s torn silk stocking to the floor and looked back to where his mother was unfastening the man’s black trousers.

“You plan to undress him all the way?” The terror in his voice was unmistakable.

Lucy nodded, but couldn’t force herself to meet her son’s eyes. He was reaching an age, if he hadn’t already reached it, where changes would happen. Changes she couldn’t bring herself to talk about with him. A lump formed in her throat. He really did need a father. She blinked back those traitorous tears and said, “I don’t have a choice. He might have been hurt—”

Seth made a sound that would suggest he’d been the one hit or kicked there. “I’ll do that,” he said a moment later, the conviction in his voice stole Lucy’s attention momentarily.

She stilled her hands and looked at her son as he seemed to straighten to his full height of four feet and eight inches.

“I’m a man, like him,” he continued, his face turning crimson. “There’s no need to embarrass you—or him.”

Or him.

The words stole her breath away. Seth did have some concerns. Ones he’d likely never bring to her. She licked her lips, but couldn’t speak and just moved out of the way when he took over unfastening the man’s trousers.

Wordlessly, she made her way out of the room and to the hall where she leaned against the wall, closed her eyes and covered her face with her hands. If the idea of Lucy seeing a man’s naked form caused her son to panic so much, the very idea of just how he came into existence might kill him. Especially since it’d be her who’d have to inform him.

TWO

When she awoke, the sun was already shining in her window, letting her know she was late for her post at the bakery. She scrambled off the settee she’d dragged into Seth’s room to sleep on and after giving the beaten man a very quick once-over, she rushed to work. Mr. Swenson, her employer, wouldn’t be pleased she was late, but she prayed he’d be understanding when she explained the events of the previous evening.

He wasn’t.

Worse yet, she was sacked.

“But I need this post,” she said before she could stop herself. There was nothing worse than begging; but though she detested begging, she did need this position. Without it she and Seth couldn’t afford to stay in their house past the end of the month.

“Then ye shouldn’t be late.”

“But it was only the first time. Surely—”

“No,” he snapped, his lips thinning. “If yer too tired after a night of entertainin’ a strange man in yer bed, then ye don’t need the post that bad.”

Understanding filled her then. Two months after she’d begun working for Mr. Swenson, he’d offered her a proposition that would allow her the freedom of staying home to tend her house and make friends about the village while spending her nights with him. She’d declined. She might be a fallen woman, but she would be no man’s mistress. Ever.

Biting her tongue to keep in a stinging retort that would likely only make her look bad, she bobbed a quick understanding and with a chest filled with dread exited the bakery.

They’d likely have to move.

Once news got out that she’d been sacked from Swenson’s Bakery, and why, she might not be able to get another decent post.

No. She shouldn’t think like that. She’d worked at the bakery for three years. Surely she’d be able to find another position.

Mulling over her other employment options, she took the longer way home. The dark-haired stranger who was still sleeping (and breathing) when she’d left hadn’t been wearing a coat. She wondered if perhaps she’d find it somewhere along the lane or among the sticks and trees.

She saw nothing.

Not even her carafe.

Of course.

“Mama, he’s awake!” Seth hollered just as she’d come into view of the house.

Finally some welcome news, she thought as Seth ran over to her. “That’s wonderful, Seth.” And she meant that. “Has he said anything?”

He nodded and fell in step beside Lucy. “Lots.”

“Oh?”

“Well, he’s from London. He works with his father who does something with a bank so he has pots of money.”

“I see you asked him the important questions,” Lucy said only a fraction sarcastically.

“Indeed,” he chirped, not daunted one jot by her tone. “He’s unattached. Not even a betrothed or anything.”

Lucy wanted to groan, but before she could, her son continued.

“Just think, Mama, you could marry—”

Lucy halted her steps and pulled him to a stop. “Seth,” she began, turning to face him. “I know you’d like a—” she swallowed so she wouldn’t choke on her words— “father, but Mr.—” she waved her hand through the air then frowned. “We don’t even know his name.”

“We could ask him,” he said with a carefree shrug.

Lucy didn’t even want to know why that wasn’t the first thing Seth had thought to ask the man, but neither did she want to. “And we will ask him,” she said matter-of-factly. Then she’d ask who his family was so she could post a letter to have them come collect him so she could stop worrying about him and start looking for another position.

Seth tugged on her hand. “Why are we just standing here?”

Indeed. Why just stand there when there was a naked man in her bed to go interrogate?

Simon Appleton was damned uncomfortable lying in a strange bed with nothing more than a thin sheet covering his naked body from the world. But that was hardly anything compared to the scrapes and bruises that covered his body or the steady tattoo of painful drumming that sounded in his head. Not to mention the never-ending string of questions from a boy who Simon still couldn’t determine if he was real or a figment of his imagination. Perhaps taking the indirect way back to London from Telford wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had. He wanted a chance to wander and think. Instead, he was in pain and had been interrogated.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The boy was real. He might not be present right now, but why on earth would Simon’s mind have made up a story about a young boy and his mother having carried him into their house and disrobing him? He wanted to groan, but didn’t have the energy to. Perhaps that was a figment of his imagination, too.

Oh, hell, he didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t. But if the boy was real, then he’d been robbed, beaten, and then carried here to be cared for by said boy and his mother. This time he did groan. The identity of the boy—and even his existence—was still very foggy to Simon, but the aching of his body declared that he had indeed been beaten quite severely.

A door creaked in the distance and Simon snapped his eyes open. Were those voices?

The voices grew closer. One he recognized right away as that of the boy who’d plagued him with inane questions, presumably to keep him conscious, if he were indeed conscious to begin with, then regaled him with his own heroic tale. The other was new. Perhaps it was the boy’s mother? He closed his eyes to regain his bearings, banishing the voice along with his view of the room.

Suddenly, the boy’s excited voice floated to his ears, and just as suddenly, it was gone.

“Perhaps he went back to sleep,” a decidedly female voice soothed.

Simon’s eyes snapped open as quickly as they could under the circumstances. That voice sounded like that of an angel, and he must see her form to verify. Of a medium height, with raven hair and blue eyes, she stood gracefully near the side of his, no her, bed. She looked younger than he’d expected the boy’s mother to be so she must be a sister or cousin. Or just someone from the village. Not that he cared just what her relation to the boy was she was welcome to his bedside anytime.

Simon cleared his throat and his thoughts simultaneously. “Good afternoon, Miss…”

“Whitaker,” she supplied, tucking a tendril of her long, dark hair behind her ear. “My name is Lucy Whitaker, and you are?”

“Simon Appleton,” he said without hesitation.

“And I’m Seth,” the boy standing near Lucy said.

Simon nodded his understanding of the boy but didn’t take his eyes off Lucy. She was a very beautiful young woman. More beautiful than— He twisted his lips in disgust that his mind had even thought of her. He grimaced in pain.

“Is something wrong?” Lucy asked as she rushed to his side.

He forced a smile and shook his head. “No, not at all.”

She slowly nodded once and gave him a wary, sidelong glance.

Simon nearly cursed himself for his sarcasm and cleared his throat. He looked to the boy to offer him some sort of distraction, and just as quickly jerked his eyes away. That inquisitive young fellow stood down by Simon’s feet, grinning. Simon scowled, then grimaced once again.

“Have another momentary lapse?” Lucy asked, her tone light.

Despite himself, Simon laughed. “Indeed.”

Lucy shook her head; what appeared to be a slight smile pulled on her lips, but didn’t meet her eyes. It was hard to guess her age. She was older than him, but it couldn’t be by much. Not that he could dare ask her. “Other than suffering at your own hands by stretching your lips and contorting your face, are you hurting anywhere else?” she asked, pulling him from his thoughts.

“No, ma’am,” he lied. Truth was, there wasn’t anywhere on his body that didn’t hurt. But that mattered very little. He might be a commoner, but even he knew that any young lady, whether of breeding or not, wouldn’t be inclined to nurse a gentleman beyond fetching him a glass of water or a cool rag.

“That’s good,” Lucy said.

From the corner of his eye, Simon saw Seth making an eating motion with his hands. “I’m ravenous,” Simon burst out.

“Oh,” she said, her face turning a fetching pink. She smoothed her skirts. “Of course, I’ll go start a pot of soup.”

Simon and Seth exchanged a look, but their victory came to an abrupt end when Lucy spoke again. “While it’s cooking, I’ll write a letter to your family to let them know you’re all right.”

A flash of hope sparked in Simon. She’d only said she’d write them to inform them he was all right, she hadn’t said anything about making arrangements for him to return home. Catching sight of her lifted brow, he realized she was waiting for a name. He racked his brain. Who should he have her contact? He had no relations other than his parents. His mother would be on Lucy’s doorstep in a trice, making a fuss that could be rivaled only by a wounded war hero returning home. He shuddered. Of course she’d love the chance to fawn over him and reassure him that the sudden emergence by his half-brother that he never knew he had hadn’t changed the way she felt for Simon.

That was not what he needed. Nor did he wish for his father to come. Simon was injured, but not so severely that he was about to be visited by the Angel of Death. If his father, Walter Appleton, had any reason to believe Simon wasn’t still at that blasted house party in Telford, he’d insist that Simon be the one to go visit Lord Drakely about his investments. Lord Drakely himself was pleasant enough, it was that bewitching, tart-tongued shrew he housed that Simon would rather avoid. Simon shuddered again. His last encounter with one Miss Henrietta Hughes had been more than enough for him to know spending any more time with her was at the bottom of the list of things he wished to do.

“So many relations,” she teased.

“Do you have to contact any of them?”

“Yes,” she said, the same time Seth said, “No.”

Simon and Seth grinned at each other. He had no idea what the connection between Lucy and Seth was, but it would seem that Seth would be a wonderful ally in softening Lucy. “You’ve got a good number of bruises and cuts,” Lucy began. “Though nothing looked too deadly—”

A coughing attack came over Simon. Lucy had seen Simon’s injuries? That’d mean… Lucy was Seth’s mother? No, she couldn’t be. She was too young to be his mother. Through squinted eyes he looked from one to the other. Seth’s eyes were green and his hair sandy blond. Lucy’s eyes were blue and her hair was dark. Seth must favor his father.

“Indeed, he does,” Lucy said in a cool tone, startling Simon. He hadn’t realized he’d said that aloud. Lucy lifted her chin and cleared her throat. “Who is it that I shall be notifying of your whereabouts, Mr. Appleton?”

“My brother,” Simon blurted, distracted. He hadn’t meant to insult her; he was just trying to make sense of who she was. He didn’t care that she was obviously more than just a few years his senior. Nor that she had an imp.

“And just who is your brother and how shall I reach him?”

“He’s currently at Lady Cosgrove’s house party in Telford,” he muttered offhandedly as a slow smile pulled on his lips. Perhaps his connection to Giles might be to some benefit to him after all. Not that he expected Giles to actually come to claim him. The two barely knew each other. Giles wouldn’t come; but Lucy didn’t need to know that. He’d just pretend not to understand why Giles didn’t come for him and enjoy his time with Lucy—mayhap even persuade her that he could be a good husband to her.

“And his name?” her crisp voice sent chills down his spine. Did she have a problem with those nobles who did nothing but attend house parties all season? He flashed her a reassuring smile. He detested those sorts, too. They’d get along nicely.

“Lord Norcourt,” he answered through gritted teeth.

She nodded stiffly and quit the room.

THREE

Telford

Later that day

“A missive for you, my lord,” Clarke, the butler said, holding out a silver salver toward Giles.

Giles snapped up the missive and flipped it over. He frowned. There was no wax seal. Odd. He shrugged and unfolded the note that gave him a reason to ignore his mother’s prattle.

Dear Lord Norcourt,

Your brother has been recovered. He is at my home, but would likely prefer to return to his home to finish recovering. Please come to collect him at your earliest convenience.

Sincerely,

L. Whitaker

Giles frowned at the words written out on the parchment he held in his hand. If his “brother” had been recovered, then why did he need to be taken to his own home to recover? He blinked. No matter. He was intrigued, which was far more than he could say he was at the conversation between his mother and Lady Mary that swirled around him.

“I’m off to—” he looked down at the missive in his hand to the direction scribbled at the bottom— “Shrewsbury.” He gave a quick nod to where his mother and Lady Mary sat staring at him with slack jaws then exited the room.

He went straight to his room and rang for Franks, the valet he’d hired when he’d arrived in London. He had never planned to have such a man. It was silly really to have a man help you dress and shave. He was capable of those things. Why did he need anyone to help him? He didn’t, but it “wasn’t done”, to not have such a man. Or so he’d heard during his second visit to White’s. He shook his head. It still didn’t make any sense to him, but right now, it seemed like just another stroke of good fortune on his part.

When the man arrived, Giles informed him that he would be leaving as soon as Franks could get him packed.

“How long do you plan to be gone for, my lord?”

“Forever.”

“You don’t wish to stay for the duration? It’s only—”

“No,” Giles cut in, grabbing hold of all of his clothes that hung pristinely in his closet. He walked to the bed and carelessly dropped them in a heap. Franks’ sharp gasp startled Giles. They were only clothes.

“I’ll pack your room, my lord,” he said. “Why don’t you go say goodbye to your mother?”

Giles froze. Say another goodbye to his mother? No. That held less appeal than visiting an outdoor privy in the dead of winter. She’d developed this strange fascination with him at some point in the last year and other than manipulating things to force him to return and see her, she was dratted annoying with all of her inquiries and inane chatter. No, he thought as he scanned his bedchamber, saying goodbye to her wasn’t a priority to him.

Now, packing his art supplies was a priority.

He walked over to the desk in the corner where he’d put his pencils and papers upon arrival. With the same care Franks was exercising in packing his clothes, Giles went about packing his drawing materials for his departure.

He placed the tall stack of parchment perfectly upright in the side of his satchel then reached for the smaller case of pencils. He mindlessly flipped open the top of the case and stared at the line of pencils within. They needed to be sharpened. He dropped his eyes to where his knife still lay on the side of the desk. Giles use a knife? Never! He’ll cut his finger off—and only a finger if he’s fortunate.

Giles blinked back the thought and continued packing his supplies. He was a man now. A man. Men weren’t careless with sharp tools. Nor did they care what others thought of them, he reminded himself once again. They just did whatever they wanted—no matter what anyone else thought. He hadn’t spent much time in his father’s presence, but he’d spent enough to know that.

“Where shall I tell McDougal you will be traveling, my lord?”

Giles withdrew the missive from his breast pocket and handed it to Franks.

If the man found his behavior odd, he didn’t show it. Which was for the best. Giles might be a man of few words, but “You’re sacked,” were two he was fairly certain he could string together. He frowned. He’d never really understood the origin of that phrase, either. At least with telling someone to stuff it, there was a literal meaning. The one who said the phrase was implying the offending person stuff their mouth with something to make them unable to say anything more. When someone was sacked, what happened? Did someone pack all of their belongings—including the person being “sacked” into a large bag? He didn’t think so. It would be quite a humorous sight if it did, but it didn’t seem logical.

Then again, logical wasn’t a word many people often used in connection with Giles anyway, so perhaps that is what happened to someone who was sacked. Giles shrugged. He didn’t really care, but neither did he want to see such a fate befall Franks. He rather liked the man.

“Your carriage will be pulling up the drive shortly, my lord,” Franks said, coming up behind Giles.

Giles nodded once to show his understanding. His brother had left early the morning before—presumably to escape having to spend any more time in Giles’ company after the uncomfortable conversation about the state of Sebastian and Isabelle’s marriage. He shrugged again. That was of no consequence to him. The two hadn’t been getting along well before that. In fact, the two hadn’t gotten along very well since the first time they met less than a fortnight earlier.

He scanned the room one last time to make sure he wasn’t leaving anything in his haste then quickly glanced out the window through the break in the curtains. The sun was lower than he remembered it being when he’d come upstairs. It must have taken him longer than he realized to get ready to leave. No matter. It wouldn’t take him long to collect his brother. They could make it back to London around midnight.

Downstairs, his carriage waited for him in the drive. He wasted no time getting inside and rapping on the roof. The last thing he wanted to do was linger and risk being accosted by his mother again. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the blue velvet squabs. She meant well. At least he thought she did. A sudden tightness gripped him. What if she didn’t mean well and she’d manipulated his return to mock him? That’s why most people were kind to him. Then as soon as he trusted them, they did something to hurt him.

His mind traveled back to when he was only twelve and a lad named Charlie Mercer who lived at the orphanage with him had convinced him that he should swim in the pond without any clothes. He’d claimed that was how everyone else swam. Then, after Giles had removed his clothes and started swimming, Charlie left and returned moments later with an angry nun in tow.

The intense cramping that had overcome his hands, arms, shoulders, and chest from clenching his hands so tightly at the memory jarred him back to present.

He forced himself to relax his muscles. His mother wasn’t like that. Or was she? She’d once sent him away with nothing more than a few whispered lies about loving him and seeing him soon. Giles might not have ever received the education for a boy of his station, nor attended university, but even he knew that twenty years wasn’t soon by anyone’s definition. He sighed. He’d been hurt too often to put much stock in his mother’s actions. Or his brother’s for that matter. Which is what made this latest development so interesting. If he took Simon to his house to be cared for, they’d be forced to spend time in each other’s company and maybe they could become friends. He lowered his lashes and swallowed hard. Friends? Not bloody likely. The man positively hated him. And for no good reason. Giles had tried to remember his manners when they shared company.

He sighed again and pressed his forehead against the glass window. He’d always loved to look out the window while in a carriage. It was amazing what was just outside the window: trees, lush fields, occasionally a house, and animals. His heart lifted. Just a few feet from the road was a field with one, two, three, four, no five horses grazing. Four were chestnut and the fifth was black and at least three hands taller than the others. What it might be like to ride him! He licked his lips and admired the animals. But soon they were gone and empty fields filled his view. Then a dense thicket of trees of various heights and outlines came into view.

Suddenly, the horses slowed and Giles leaned back against the squabs and took a deep breath to settle the sudden bout of nerves that had come on when the horses had changed their speed and he realized that they must almost be to their destination.

FOUR

Lucy cupped her hands in the basin of cool water then splashed it on her face. With a sigh, she idly ran her wet hands over her face. That boy—her boy—would be the death of her and he was not yet twelve.

All morning he’d pleaded with her not to send word of Mr. Appleton’s condition to Lord Norcourt.

She ignored his pleas and hummed as she dashed out her missive to his lordship.

He just wants a father, a voice somewhere in the back of her mind reasoned as she stared aimlessly out of the little window in her kitchen.

She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her fists. This was not the way to get one. Well, neither was sending her on “discreet” assignations. Lucy was a fallen woman. Everyone knew it and accepted it. Everyone except the child she conceived and bore out of wedlock, that is.

She clenched her fists. After Lord Norcourt reclaimed his brother, she’d just have to explain the facts to Seth and pray he wouldn’t hate her.

Whether because he realized he couldn’t dissuade her or because he thought to try a different tack, Seth had holed himself up in the room with Mr. Appleton and had refused to speak to her from the moment she’d returned from the village to use the majority of her savings to pay a messenger to take the note to Telford post haste. She needed the money of course, but she needed Mr. Appleton out of her home before Seth had more of a chance to grow a fondness.

The echoing sound of hoofs clopping up the drive stole Lucy’s attention. He’s here. Lord Norcourt, whoever that was, had arrived. She exhaled and steeled her spine. She’d grown up on the estate of a wealthy viscount and knew just how haughty some of those lords could be. She had little doubt this one, though only a baron as Seth had informed her some time ago, would be much different.

Trying not to appear too anxious by meeting him at his coach, she took measured steps and made her way to the parlor, but not without first glancing into her bedchamber and getting a quick peek at Seth and Mr. Appleton having a conversation. Well, perhaps conversation wasn’t entirely accurate. It seemed to her that Seth was doing most of the talking. Explaining what it was like to live out here and asking the man random questions about his life in London.

Likely Mr. Appleton would be just as delighted to leave as she’d be after this was all over. She shook out and smoothed her skirts then went to the parlor.

Just as she entered, the baron’s servant knocked on the door.

Suppressing her disdain for the nobility and forcing a smile, she walked to the door, pulled it open and caught her breath.

Giles instinctively tightened his fingers around the leather strap of his satchel and stared at the woman who stood just across the threshold, unsure what to say.

“Would you like to come in?” she invited.

He bobbed his head once and stepped into the dwelling. Once inside, he continued to stare at her as the scent of honeysuckle surrounded him, calming him. Odd.

She returned his gaze and it was all he could do to hold it. You must look at their eyes, Giles, Sister Catherine had scolded him almost daily. It was easy to do with this woman as she had the most beautiful blue eyes he’d ever seen. Her husband won’t be happy when he comes out and sees you staring at his wife. His body jerked and every muscle in his body tightened painfully. “Mr. Whitaker,” he croaked.

A wide smile came over her face. “I’ve been called many things, my lord, but never that.”

Giles stood motionless. She’d just made a jest, he realized, otherwise she wouldn’t be smiling so broadly. How unfortunate that he didn’t understand it. “Where is he?” he practically barked, flushing.

“Forgive me, my lord,” she murmured softly. “I was only jesting. I didn’t mean to make sport of you.”

He clenched his jaw. Wasn’t jesting and making sport of the same thing? Of course they were. The other boys always “jested” about him and roared with laughter. She wasn’t laughing, though. Not even smiling anymore. Perhaps, it was just a misunderstanding. Exhaling, he repeated, “Where is Mr. Whitaker?”

“Dead.” She covered her mouth with her hand. Her face colored a violent red and she lowered her hand. “I’m Lucy Whitaker, the one who sent you the note. I signed it L. Whitaker because I didn’t think you’d come if you knew I was a single woman. Actually that’s not true,” she amended; her cheeks coloring. She frowned, then cleared her throat, but didn’t say anything further.

Something Giles didn’t recognize twisted in his gut as the word dead echoed in his mind. What a shame that such a fine woman was left to be a widow. Moreover, how unfortunate that she’d been left to care for Simon alone. “I’m sorry.”

She knit her brow. “Whatever for?”

“Your loss.”

“My loss,” she said slowly. A few seconds later the left corner of her lips turned up. “My father has been gone for a while now, but thank you.”

Father? He’d meant her husband. Surely a young woman such as her had had a husband. Any man would be fortunate indeed to have a woman like her as his wife. An uncomfortable and inexplicable lump formed in his throat. He blinked to clear his thoughts and swallowed. He’d spent the majority of his life uncomfortable, but it wasn’t the same feeling of discomfort as he had talking to her. He didn’t feel like running and hiding or wanting the floor to open up beneath him. Rather, his pulse raced and a hot tendril coiled in his gut. It was quite unnerving.

“Would you like to see your brother?”

Giles started. “Of course.” A different sort of tension came over him as he followed Miss Whitaker down the hall. He and Simon might be brothers, but there was absolutely no brotherly love between them. Which still seemed to beg the question of why Simon would have sent for him.

“He’s just through there,” Miss Whitaker said, gesturing to the room.

Giles forced his heavy legs to carry him across the threshold and came to an abrupt halt. Simon lay in the bed, bruises and cuts covering every part of skin exposed—and his eyebrows lifted nearly to his hairline. “Didn’t expect me, did you?”

An unreadable expression came over Simon’s face. “No, I didn’t.”

Giles could accept those words as the truth, though he couldn’t place the softness in Simon’s tone as he said them. He cocked his head to the side and studied his brother, not sure what he was looking for exactly. Perhaps the man felt just as awkward in Giles’ presence as Giles felt in Simon’s and like him, didn’t know what to say.

“Seth, why don’t you go with your mother,” Simon said, bringing Giles to present.

Giles swung his gaze over in the direction of a boy who was sitting in a chair to the left of the bed. Their eyes locked and Giles offered him a smile.

The boy didn’t move, but Giles couldn’t understand why not. He might be two marks past six feet and as thick and solid as an oak tree, but he wasn’t going to hurt the boy. “That’s quite a nasty facer the boy planted you, Simon,” Giles teased merely for the boy’s benefit. Simon, he knew, would see no humor in it.

A wide grin split the boy’s face accompanied by a slight laugh—and a stifled giggle.

Giles turned around and saw Lucy standing behind him. She once again had her delicate fingers covering her mouth, as if to keep from laughing while her eyes sparkled with what looked like tears. Hopefully they were the good kind. Surely his words hadn’t upset her. He opened his mouth to clarify why he’d said that, but confound it all, he couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

“Come, Seth,” she said in a high-pitched tone. “Let’s give Mr. Appleton his privacy while Lord Norcourt attends him.”

A strangled sound erupted from Giles’ throat. “Attend?”

He barely recognized the word, but thankfully Lucy had and said, “He’s scuffed up a good bit, but not so much that he can’t travel, I shouldn’t think.”

Giles nodded slowly and searched Simon’s face, but the younger man gave nothing away. It still made no sense why Simon would have sent for him. Nonetheless, he’d do what he could to help him.

“I can help, if you’d like, my lord,” Seth said quietly.

“Oh?” Giles said, not sure what else to say to that.

“I’m a good help. I helped Mama carry him here and care for his wounds.”

A small measure of pride for the boy flowed through Giles. “You are a good help.”

The boy pushed his chest out and Giles bit back a grin.

“Is there anything you need, Simon?”

The only thing on Simon that moved was his nostrils. They flared. Why was he so angry? It wasn’t Giles who’d beaten him senseless—no matter how much he might like to.

“I’ll go get his clothes off the line. They should be dry by now,” Lucy murmured.

“What are we going to do?” Seth exclaimed as soon as his mother’s footsteps couldn’t be heard any longer.

Simon closed his eyes for an extended blink and groaned. “The plan,” he said between gritted teeth.

“Right,” the boy chirped excitedly.

“What plan?” Giles asked.

Seth said something that Giles couldn’t hear over Simon’s voice. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

Giles pressed his lips together. He’d heard a tone similar to Simon’s often enough to know he’d upset him. But damned if he knew what he’d done. Must be his mere presence. He balled his hands into fists and waited for Miss Whitaker to return. She had a way of diffusing the tension in a room and he preferred it that way.

His gaze traveled around the sparsely decorated room and landed on the boy who was biting his lip and shifting from one foot to the other. Mischief was on his brain, no doubt. Giles schooled his features to appear disinterested, though he was anything but, and continued to wait wordlessly for Miss Whitaker.

“This is all he was wearing,” Miss Whitaker said, blushing. She handed Simon’s clothes to Giles. “I’ll just be—”

Simon cut off her words with a brutal sounding coughing attack that had him bent over. Followed by a series of deep groans.

Giles might have laughed at the absurdity of Simon’s theatrics if he wasn’t so distracted by trying to understand what his goal was.

Miss Whitaker’s eyes widened and she rushed to Simon’s side. “Are you all right?”

He coughed again then promptly moaned.

Seth picked up a metal cup from the bureau and extended it toward Simon who was patting his chest vigorously and groaning.

“Thank you,” Simon gasped. He took the cup from Seth with his free hand and brought it to his lips. He spilled more down his chin than he managed to get into his mouth. When he was finished making a mess of himself, he handed the cup back to Seth, still clutching his chest as if he were having heart palpitations.

“Better?” Miss Whitaker asked tonelessly.

Simon shook his head. “No, ma’am. My chest—it hurts.”

“I’m sure it does. You were slamming it with your palm for no apparent reason.”

Simon’s green eyes widened in response.

“Mr. Appleton, I think you forget that Seth is my son. I’ve borne witness to many of his schemes—” her gaze shifted to her son— “but, this was one of the worst yet.”

Giles bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. Not that he found it funny that Seth was being scolded. He’d been in his position more times than he could count. But there was something rather humorous about seeing Simon receiving a much-needed set down. Although he still didn’t understand what the two had been trying to accomplish. He mentally shrugged. It didn’t matter.

“Sorry, Mama,” the boy said quietly. “I was just—”

“Yes, I know,” she burst out quickly, then sighed. “Perhaps you can join me in the kitchen while Lord Norcourt helps Mr. Appleton get dressed.”

“But I wanted to help.”

“And you can help. Me.” Her voice offered no room for the lad to refuse and with a loud sigh he followed his mother from the room, leaving Giles and Simon alone for only the second time in their entire lives.

“Do you need help?” Giles slightly shook the folded clothes in his hands for emphasis.

Simon groaned. “No. You can wait out in the hall. I’ll dress and be out in a moment.”

With a shrug of acceptance, Giles tossed Simon’s clothes onto the bed and quit the room to wait in the parlor, but not without first peeking into the kitchen where a flush-faced Miss Whitaker was whispering something to her son.

His pulse raced at the sight of her and he forced himself to keep walking.

“My lord,” McDougal, his coachman, said when he entered the room.

“Yes?”

“Can I see ye ou’side?”

Wordlessly, Giles followed.

FIVE

This was not when Lucy wanted to do this, but Seth and his schemes were leaving her little choice. She wasn’t so naïve she didn’t see through the charade he and Mr. Appleton had tried to fool her with. If she didn’t just address it now, those two might never leave and that wouldn’t do.

She gestured for him to sit down in one of the two dining chairs they had. “Seth,” she started, curling her hands into her skirts. How did she say this in a way he’d understand? “I know you mean well, but I can’t marry.” There, that was simple enough.

Seth pressed his lips together. “Yes, you can, and Mr. Appleton seems the perfect sort.”

Lucy tried not to snort. “We barely know him,” she said evasively. That was true enough.

“No, you barely know him.”

Lucy arched a brow.

“I spent the afternoon with him. I know lots of things about him.”

Lucy didn’t even want to know what her son had deemed important enough to ask Mr. Appleton. She released a deep breath. “Seth, I’m sure he’s a nice gentleman, but he has no interest in becoming my husband.”

“How do you know?” Seth retorted. “You have hardly spoken to him.”

“No, I haven’t,” she agreed. “But I don’t need to speak to him to know that he has no interest in marrying me.”

“Perhaps he would if you spent a little time with him.”

Lucy suppressed a groan. “That won’t be happening.”

“I don’t understand why you don’t want to give him a chance,” Seth argued, the color heightening in his cheeks.

“I can’t,” she said more sharply than she’d meant to. “Gentlemen of rank don’t usually have honorable intentions toward unmarried mothers.”

“He doesn’t have a title. His brother does.”

She frowned at Seth’s flippant tone. “I know.” Which was all the more reason not to get tangled up with either of them. She froze. Either of them. Where had that come from? Seth might have found Lord Norcourt’s false compliment about Seth giving Mr. Appleton a nasty facer just as inappropriately humorous as she did, but Seth hadn’t suggested anything about Lord Norcourt. He was still quite taken with Mr. Appleton. Catching sight of the curious expression on Seth’s face, Lucy said, “It doesn’t matter which one has a title. Neither is interested in making a fallen woman his wife,” she said quietly.

Confusion marred her son’s innocent face and Lucy steeled her spine for the questions he might ask. But she deserved them and she’d answer them. He deserved that. She’d shielded him too long.

“Have you met Mr. Appleton and Lord Norcourt before?”

Lucy was taken aback and a little confused by his question. “No.”

“Then how do you know?”

She licked her lips and idly ran the tips of her fingernails into one of the deepest scratches that covered the top of their dining table. “When I was a girl your age, I had two playmates. One was the heir to a viscountcy and the other was his brother.”

“But Lord Norcourt isn’t a viscount,” he interrupted. “He’s just a baron.”

“Indeed, but while he’s just a baron as you put it, he’s still titled and Mr. Appleton is still his brother.”

“Were those boys cruel to you?” Seth asked.

“No, only one,” Lucy said carefully.

“Was it the heir or the spare?”

Lucy sent him a sharp look. “That’s unimportant.” A wave half-filled of sadness and half-filled with bitterness swept over her. Paul Grimes, the younger brother treated her very well and had been genuine. Sam, the heir, however, had not. And foolish girl she was, had made the wrong choice. She pushed away the memories, then met her son’s sad eyes and forced a wobbly smile. “Seth, you need to understand that I made a poor choice many years ago which I can’t explain while they’re still here; but what I can tell you now is that because of that I cannot marry either of those two gentlemen and we need them to leave immediately.” Not that she’d have had a chance to marry either of them had she not had a bastard. She was born the daughter of a servant—not the kind of lady any man of their station would ever consider for a wife.

Seth looked like he wanted to argue but was halted when the tall, imposing form of Lord Norcourt entered the room. “May I borrow a horse?”

Lucy stared at him as if he were addled and bit her tongue to keep from saying something that might be considered disrespectful. “We don’t have one, my lord.”

He stood still, a blank expression on his face. “Can Simon stay?”

Lucy felt her eyes widen. “Wh-what?” She cast a quick glance to her son who was shaking his head. “Why?”

“One of my horses has thrown a shoe,” he said as if that explained everything.

Which it did. It was too late now for Lord Norcourt’s coachman to take the horse to the village to get it shod. “I suppose you’ll want a place to sleep, too.” She tried to hide the unease in her voice, but Seth’s wince told her she’d failed. Lord Norcourt seemed unaffected, however.

“No, ma’am. I’ll walk to the village.”

Lucy blinked. Surely she hadn’t heard him right. “You will?”

“Yes. But Simon won’t make it.”

“I know,” Lucy whispered, still in shock. It had been a long time since she’d been in the company of Sam and Paul, but she remembered well enough that Sam had always believed he deserved special treatment over his brother solely because of his title, even if he hadn’t yet inherited it. Oh, for heaven’s sake, this was completely different. Irritated with where her wayward thoughts kept leading her, she stood and said, “All right. He can stay and so can you.”

SIX

Giles couldn’t think of a more awkward arrangement. It was bad enough that Simon was spending the night here, but he was hurt and it couldn’t be helped. That could be overlooked. But a healthy and virile gentleman staying overnight? It’d have her reputation in tatters within the week. He couldn’t be responsible for that. “Thank you, but no.”

A shadow crossed Miss Whitaker’s face. “Just as well. The village is just a mile or so in the direction your coach was traveling before turning down my drive.”

“I trust you can explain this change to my brother, lad?” Giles asked the boy.

Seth bobbed his head with vigor and instinctively, Giles reached out and tousled the boy’s hair. “When will you return, my lord?”

“Sunup.” And he meant it. He couldn’t explain why, but just the thought of seeing one Miss Lucy Whitaker again tomorrow made his body surge with excitement and he didn’t want to waste a single moment he might be afforded in her company. Preposterous, he thought with a simple shake of his head.

“Are you feeling unwell, my lord?” Lucy asked.

Giles started and instinctively brought his hand to his unsettled stomach. “I’m fine.”

She furrowed her brows and took a step toward him “Are you sure? You look flushed.” She reached up to touch his forehead and he jerked back. But not fast enough, for she skimmed her fingertips just above his eyebrow. “You’re quite warm. Feverish, almost,” she commented, retracting her hand.

Giles choked on his own tongue. Of course he was feverish, his pulse raced like a criminal on the run just by being in her presence. “I’m fine.”

“I don’t think you are.” Lucy reached for him again.

He took an uneasy step back and nearly sighed with relief when she pulled her hand back. “I’m fine,” he repeated, grunting.

“No, you’re stubborn,” she said, crossing her arms.

Giles blinked at her. Nobody had ever called him stubborn before. He’d been called aggravating, dimwitted, and a nuisance before, but never stubborn. “Was that a compliment?” he asked sincerely.

A slow smile spread across her lips and she shook her head. “I suppose it was.”

Giles returned her grin. “Thank you.”

She lowered her head a fraction and touched the fingertips of her right hand to her forehead. “You’re welcome.” A moment later, she looked up and cocked her head to the side, her vivid blue eyes staring right at Giles in a way that made those dratted tingles crawl up his skin anew. “Seth, why don’t you go check on Mr. Appleton,” she murmured.

Giles sidestepped to the left to allow the boy to pass, then turned his attention back to Lucy.

She was smoothing her skirts, a gesture he’d often noticed ladies do when they were uncomfortable. She was uncomfortable. With him. He swallowed and took a step back.

“Lord Norcourt,” she said, licking her lips.

Giles stared unblinkingly at her.

“I have a favor to ask of you,” she said with a swallow.

“A favor?” What the devil kind of favor could he possibly do for her?

“Yes, a favor.” She smiled at him and gripped her hands in front of her. “As you already know, it’s just Seth and me who live here and well, it wasn’t too far away that we found your brother, and…” She made a harsh sound in her throat. “Well, as you saw, he was beaten badly, what if the men who did that come back to find him?”

Giles continued to stare at her. What the blazes did she mean? “If they come back?” he asked though he felt like a fool.

“Yes. What if they come back, looking for him?”

“They’ll find him,” he said automatically. Why is her mouth hanging open? he wondered.

“Lord Norcourt,” she said in a tone he couldn’t place.

“Yes?”

She sighed. “And what shall I do then?”

Let them take him. He pressed his lips together to keep from laughing at the inappropriate response that had come to his mind. Then froze. Since when had his responses—whether appropriate or not—come to his mind so quickly? Never. What had happened? Had he finally been cured of whatever curse had been put on his mind? If he’d known it would take merely the swipe of a beautiful lady’s fingers to free his mind, he’d have been more encouraging of the ladies in Paris. From the recesses of his mind, he heard his name. “Yes?” he said, blinking.

“My lord, I don’t think you understand.”

“I usually don’t,” Giles admitted.

Lucy ran her hands over the front of her skirts again.

Taking pity on her, Giles said, “Ma’am, I am a simple man. If there is something you must say, just say it.”

If ever there were a time to have the floor beneath her open up and swallow her whole, now would be perfect. Why did the dratted man have to play games? It was obvious he’d been quite pleased with her earlier unintentional compliment, but why did he have to make a dramatic production out of accepting her invitation to stay the night? It was obvious that he wasn’t feverish, and even more obvious that he didn’t like the idea of being thought weak, which is why she’d thought of the idea of playing on his male pride to convince him to stay.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t working so well.

She offered Lord Norcourt her best attempt at a shy smile, but the truth was, she’d been smiling at him so much since he’d arrived that he had to either think she was a simpleton or besotted. Which she wasn’t! Clutching her skirts, she steeled her spine and met his green eyes.

“Lord Norcourt,” she tried again. “If those men return, I would be powerless to stop them from taking your brother.”

Lord Norcourt seemed unaffected.

“I suppose he’s not a favorite relation of yours,” she ventured. Memories of the hatred and disdain Sam, the heir, held for his younger brother Paul, the spare, filled her mind and a bitter taste flooded her mouth. Apparently Lord Norcourt was exactly the same and now the idea of him staying in her home—sick or not—was less appealing than it had been before he’d first arrived. “Now that I think about it, I think we’ll be fine. They—”

“Could hurt you,” Lord Norcourt cut in, his eyes as big as saucers. Then, if it were possible, they got larger. “And Seth.”

Now it was Lucy’s turn for her eyes to widen. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

Lord Norcourt shook his head vigorously. “No. I’ll stay.”

“Truly, that’s not necessary. I’m sure they won’t be back,” Lucy said, inwardly cursing herself for ever trying to convince him to stay. She should have just let him go. Damn her caring instinct.

“No,” he said fiercely. “I’m staying.”

SEVEN

“Do you think the house might collapse?” Seth grumbled as he pulled his pillow over his head and repositioned himself on the settee where he’d tried to sleep.

Lucy grinned. “If it hasn’t happened yet, I think we might be safe.” She rolled out of Seth’s bed. “Why don’t you lie in the bed for a while and see if you can sleep?”

Seth grunted and made his way to the bed where he flopped down in an undignified heap.

Lucy tucked the blankets around her son then slipped out of the room and into the hall where she leaned against the wall and said a silent prayer that Lord Norcourt’s coachman would return soon. She was more than ready for her uninvited guests to leave so she could go to town in search of another post. That would be impossible as long as they were still in residence. Not to mention that she’d been unable to sleep last night and it had nothing to do with Simon’s snoring.

“Everyone’s safe,” Lord Norcourt, the reason she’d been unable to sleep, declared.

Lucy opened her eyes to look at him. Standing in the hall and cloaked in shadows he cut a fine figure. She shivered. “Thank you.”

He made a strangled noise, but didn’t say anything. Either he was embarrassed for some unknown reason or perhaps he didn’t know how to graciously accept a thank you. She nearly snorted. He was a lord, so naturally it was the latter reason.

“Would you like some breakfast?”

“Please.”

Lucy made her way to the kitchen, aware he was directly behind her. If his heavy boot falls hadn’t been enough of an indication, the heat his body radiated would have let her know just how close he was. Inside the kitchen, she moved to put some distance between them and went to the window above her worktable and opened the curtains. Taking longer than necessary to move the curtains just so, she racked her brain for what she’d be able to make for breakfast. Nothing she had was acceptable to feed a lord. Sighing, she turned around and gasped.

Quickly, she turned toward the door to her little room where she stored her food.

“Is something wrong?” Lord Norcourt asked.

Yes, you’re carelessly burning the last of my tallow candles! She shook her head, but didn’t look at him. “No, my lord.” She took a deep breath. A gentleman of his station didn’t know what it was like to do without or the struggle of having to make a few meager supplies last until the means could be scraped together to get more. She clenched her hands together to keep them from shaking and took another breath. Just feed them and they’ll go away.

But she had nothing to feed them. Though she worked in a bakery and knew how to make breads and cakes, she couldn’t afford the ingredients necessary to make anything of the like in her own home. “You don’t happen to have a fondness for gruel, do you?” she muttered in a self-mocking tone.

“Don’t mind it,” Lord Norcourt said.

Lucy straightened and chanced a glance over her shoulder at him. He stood with his left shoulder leaning against the wall and his arms crossed, impaling her with his stare.

“I beg your pardon, my lord.”

“What for?”

“My suggestion. I—I—” She swallowed. “Unfortunately, I haven’t been to market recently and I fear I don’t have anything your lordship might enjoy.”

“Gruel.”

She pursed her lips. Was he mocking her? “Perhaps you’d enjoy some kippers and coddled eggs from the inn in Shrewsbury.”

“Gruel will be fine.”

Lucy didn’t know if it was his mocking words or his tone and superior stance, but something in her snapped. “You wish for gruel, and that is exactly what you shall get.”

A blank expression came over his handsome face. “I like gruel.”

“No, you don’t,” she said with a harsh laugh. “Nobody likes gruel. We just eat it when we’re forced to.”

Lord Norcourt’s body went stiff as a fire poker. “Force?” he barked, a stricken look coming over his face.

She put her hand on her hip. What was it about him that made her react this way? “You know what I meant.”

He shook his head. “No, I do not.”

Frowning, she said, “Lord Norcourt, why do I feel that you’re purposely being diffi—” His lowered lashes and slumped stance halted her words. Was it possible that he was being genuine? Shame washed over her. She didn’t know how or why she suddenly understood, but she did. She still didn’t understand completely, but his earlier statement about being a simple man resounded in her head. He was the sort who was very literal and said exactly what he meant. No games. She could see that now and appreciated him more for being that way, for there’d never be any pretenses with him. Noticing his eyes were still downcast and his cheeks still tinged pink, she snapped her fingers to catch his attention. “If gruel is what you like, then gruel is what I shall make for you,” she said, favoring him with her best grin.

Trying to ignore the way she felt like a fool for such an idiotic statement, Lucy reached for the metal water pail that was on the shelf near where Lord Norcourt was standing.

“Allow me,” he said, his hand reaching out and covering her hand that held the handle of the bucket with his.

Lucy started, but didn’t release her grip on the pail. “The well is just behind the house,” she said as easily as she could considering her heart was slamming against her ribcage and a warmth akin to a small fire blazed up her arm.

He nodded his understanding and gave her bucket a slight jerk.

Lucy’s body pulled forward. “I can’t let go,” she whispered. Nor did she want to. Her face flushed at the thought and she jerked at her hand that was still trapped under his.

It all happened so fast, but a second later there was a loud clanging sound reverberating throughout the room as the pail hit the cold stone floor. Lucy brought her hand to her chest.

“Sorry,” he grunted. “I—I—” He closed his mouth and snapped up the bucket then stomped outside.

Lucy buried her head in her hands. No. Not again. Anything but this, she thought as memories of the first time she’d had interest in a gentleman flooded her mind. A lord, no less.

She dropped her hands to her side and went to the pantry to busy herself until he returned with the water. Distance. That’s all it would take to make her heart stop thumping and settle her blood. And she’d have distance soon enough. In fact, sooner than she’d originally thought. She didn’t have to stay here until the coachman returned with their horse. As soon as breakfast was ready, she’d leave to look for another post. They should both be gone by the time she returned.

“Here.” Lord Norcourt plunked the heavy bucket of water on the table so hard a little splashed over the side.

“Thank you.”

He grunted his response.

Doing her best to ignore the imposing figure that watched her, she went about making gruel. When it was finished, she called her son to the room.

“Shall I go wake Mr. Appleton?” Seth asked.

“It’s little wonder he hasn’t woken himself already,” Lucy muttered, nodding her affirmation. From the corner of her eye, she caught Lord Norcourt smiling a little at her jest. “I’m sorry.”

He waved his hand in front of his face. “Don’t.”

A moment later a grinning Seth returned.

“Aren’t you missing someone?” Lucy asked.

“He has to piss,” Seth said offhandedly.

Lucy’s jaw dropped in mortification and she barely registered that Lord Norcourt said something to her son.

“Excuse me,” Seth said to her quietly. “I didn’t mean to be—” he looked to Lord Norcourt who bent and whispered something in his ear— “indelicate.”

Stunned at what had just happened, Lucy mumbled an acceptance and looked to Lord Norcourt who seemed oblivious to her state of surprise.

“I beg your forgiveness for being tardy,” Mr. Appleton said as he entered the room just then. He ran a hand over the top of his combed hair then straightened his collar. “A gentleman must always remember to attend his toilette when in the presence of a fine lady.”

His brother scowled. “You’re missing half of your wardrobe,” he remarked.

Simon shot him what Lucy took to be an annoyed look and ignoring Lord Norcourt, pulled a chair out. “Ma’am.”

“Thank you, but I won’t be eating.”

All eyes swung to her.

“Why not, Mama?”

She gave Seth what she hoped would be a quelling stare.

No such luck.

“You don’t have a post to get to since you were late to work yesterday and got sacked.”

Mortification came over Lucy in overwhelming waves.

“You have new employment now,” Lord Norcourt intoned.

“Pardon me?” Lucy asked, confused. Was he asking her or telling her?

Lord Norcourt clasped his hands behind his back. “I have a post for you.”

Lucy’s face burned with indignation and she pursed her lips. She could only imagine what kind of post he had in mind for her. It wasn’t that she minded being boarded off into the country to do some menial post at his estate. It was the fact of whose estate it’d be. “No, thank you.” She raised her chin. “I will find my own post.”

“Nonsense, my mother will be happy to have help,” Mr. Appleton said with a flick of his wrist.

Giles stiffened at the mention of their mother, but said nothing.

“Again, no, thank you,” Lucy said. “I don’t think I’d be a very good lady’s companion.” That was true enough, she wouldn’t and it had nothing to do with the fact that if she worked for the dowager Lady Norcourt that she’d have to see Lord Norcourt again.

“She doesn’t need one,” Simon said with a somewhat mocking twist of his lips. “My mother remarried after the old Lord Norcourt cocked up his toes and now she runs the lending library in London.”

“The lending library,” Lucy echoed.

Simon nodded. “She’s always saying she could use help.”

The lending library would be a wonderful place to work, but she couldn’t work for Lady Norcourt. That had trouble stamped all over it. “No, thank you. I don’t need anyone’s charity.”

EIGHT

Giles’ heart squeezed. He knew too well what it was like to be offered something solely out of Christian charity. “I apologize,” he said earnestly. He never should have offered her a position. What a stupid, heartless thing for him to do! He tightened his clasped hands past the point of pain and straight to numbness.

“It’s not charity…” Simon’s voice floated to Giles’ ears. “My mother could use the help.” The irritating man continued on, but Giles didn’t bother to listen.

Instead, he thought about how much he might like to flick his brother. She was Giles’ mother, too. Or was she? Biologically, yes, but in every other sense of the word, she was more Simon’s mother than his. He forced himself to release his clenched hands before he snapped the bones in his fingers. “No,” he barked.

“I beg your pardon,” Simon said, crossing his arms.

“She said no,” Giles snapped at his brother.

“Perhaps to your proposal, but I’m offering her respectable employment...”

Respectable employment? Giles didn’t hear the rest of what his brother said over the blood that was suddenly thundering in his ears and the words echoing in his head. His offer was respectable, too. His head snapped in Lucy’s direction. “I—I—I wasn’t—” he blustered not sure how to word what he wanted to convey. The blood in his ears roared louder and he couldn’t make out the faces of anyone in the room as his eyes rapidly darted between the three. A strangled sound emerged from his throat and he tried again, “I didn’t—” He abruptly broke off. It was useless. His broken mind wouldn’t work quickly enough to tell his tongue what to say. Frustrated with his own simple stupidity, he quit the room and went to the ramshackle barn where McDougal had put his horses for the night.

He scowled. There were no saddles and he knew better than to ride a carriage horse bareback. No matter. He’d walk to the village and buy a horse there. Surely someone would be willing to sell his mount if the price was right.

Grunting, he reached into his breast pocket and removed the blank notebook he often carried with him. He flipped past the sketches he often drew when he was disinterested and ripped out a blank sheet from the back before reaching into his breast pocket again and pulling out a broken pencil he used to draw. He placed the sheet of paper on top of his notebook and scribbled, Went home. He set the note on the coachman’s bench then left the barn to walk to the village and put distance between him and his brother. And her. He swallowed the lump in his throat. This was for the best. She’d never want to have anything to do with him. Nobody did. He picked up his pace. She was too fine, too smart for someone like him. It was best to forget about her.

He was to Shrewsbury before he knew it and as he’d predicted, he’d gotten a deal on a horse. Not a good one, mind you. He might be slow, but even he realized he’d overpaid for the horse. Unfortunately, the realization didn’t happen until an hour after he’d left. He shrugged and rode on. He hadn’t really been taken advantage of. He’d have paid just about anything for a mount. The other fellow knew it and just took the opportunity to help himself. Giles couldn’t blame him for that.

Shrewsbury was less than a day’s ride from London and just as it was time to take his evening meal, he was on the steps of his townhouse, perfectly safe from the demeaning attitude of his brother and the spell of the woman who’d so easily captured him completely. He closed his eyes. No. He wouldn’t think of her again. He couldn’t. Not if he wanted to keep what little sanity he possessed, that is.

Lucy was dumbfounded by the exchange between the two brothers. To be honest, though, she had to admit that she didn’t understand about half of it. There certainly had to be more to their disagreement than what she’d just witnessed.

Unsure what to say to break the suffocating silence that had come over them, Lucy eased down into the chair Mr. Appleton had earlier pulled out for her. She should go to town, she reasoned in her mind. She needed to find a new post. But for a reason she couldn’t place, she felt pulled to stay and wait for Lord Norcourt to come back.

But he didn’t come back.

“He must have walked to the village,” Mr. Appleton, or Simon as he’d asked her to call him, deduced with a shrug that made him grimace in pain.

Lucy nodded slowly. “For the best,” she said under her breath.

Simon raked his hand through his hair and cast a quick glance over his shoulder to where the coachman stood by the open door to the Norcourt coach. “Have you reconsidered my earlier offer?”

“No. I’ll find work here.”

“And if you don’t?”

She didn’t want to contemplate that. “I will.”

He pressed his lips together and gave a terse nod. “Well, if you don’t, my mother would be happy for the help.” He patted his chest and frowned. “I wish I had one of my calling cards to give you, but they were in my coat.”

“That’s not necessary,” she said honestly at the same time that Seth said, “No need for a calling card, sir. I gots a good memory. What’s the name and direction?”

Grinning at Seth, Simon spouted off the name and address to the lending library.

Lucy didn’t bother to take note of his words.

A short time later their uninvited guest climbed up into his brother’s coach. As the coach made its way down the lane, Seth surprised her by running after it.

Her heart squeezed at the gesture. She couldn’t really say if Simon had been just as taken with Seth as Seth was with him, but she doubted it. A man might tolerate a lady’s family if it was beneficial to him in some way. Frowning, she went inside her house and readied herself to go to town to find a new post.

Unfortunately, it was futile.

Though nobody would give her a full answer, nor look her in the eye, it was quite obvious she wouldn’t find employment. At least not the respectable kind. She shivered and returned home deflated. They’d have to move—which would devastate Seth since he’d become so comfortable since they’d moved there three years prior.

Or perhaps it wouldn’t devastate him as much as she’d thought.

“That settles it, then,” Seth said with a wide grin. “We’ll have to move to London where you can work for Mrs. Appleton until Simon is ready to marry you.”

Lucy would have laughed at the absurdity of his statement if she weren’t so distraught about the whispers she’d heard about herself in town. Which was preposterous. She’d been the object of whispers for many years. She should be used to it by now. But she wasn’t. Well, she was used to it, but it still bothered her. Which she hated.

Gritting her teeth, she said, “We will not be moving to London for me to work at the lending library.”

“So we are moving to London, then?”

Though she knew he was only teasing, Lucy had the strangest urge to rap her son’s knuckles with a wooden spoon. Instead, she settled for a playful tap on his backside and told him to go outside until it was time to come in for dinner.

NINE

Two days later

Giles had just about worn a hole in the large plush rug in his sparsely decorated study. Ever since he’d returned from Shrewsbury, he’d taken to pacing like he did when he was a young lad who couldn’t make sense of everything. He pulled to a stop and gripped the hearth. Why did it matter so much what she thought of him? Because he hadn’t meant to shame her! He tightened his grip on the edge of the hearth until his knuckles went white and he let out a savage growl. It doesn’t matter. Yes, it does.

With a grunt of vexation, he pushed himself away from the hearth then let out a heavy sigh. Why did he have to say such a stupid thing and then not even be able to say the right thing to clarify? He hated it. Hated himself at times for this…this…idiocy of his.

“Is something troubling you?”

Giles jerked and slowly turned around to face the brown eyes of his longtime friend Sebastian, Lord Belgrave, from where he stood just inside the door. “You startled me.”

“Sorry,” Sebastian murmured. He walked over to one of the wing-backed chairs near Giles’ spotless desk and made himself comfortable. “When did you come back to Town?”

“I left the day after you.” He folded his arms over his chest and leaned his hip against his desk. “Simon was injured.”

“Injured? How?”

“Beaten. Robbers, I suppose.” He shrugged. Simon hadn’t exactly been interested in speaking to him that night in Shrewsbury any more than he had before or since.

“I take it that it’s Simon who’s put that troubled expression on your face.”

Giles instinctively ran his hand over his face. Was it possible for Sebastian to tell he was concerned about something? Could one tell that by looking at someone’s face? He couldn’t. “What do you mean?”

“Most of the time you wear a blank expression, Giles. One that would suggest you’re disinterested. Today you don’t seem quite so tranquil. Your brows are furrowed and your jaw is clenched. If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were worried about something.” He paused. “Are you?”

Giles dropped his gaze to study the floor. He could trust Sebastian. He was one of the only people he’d ever met who hadn’t judged him or treated him harshly. But how did he explain what had happened?

“Giles?”

“Sebastian?”

Sebastian chuckled. “If it makes it any easier for you to know, you’re not the only one who has been affected by these recent events.”

Giles’ head snapped up. What did Sebastian know? Before he could find a way to ask without giving himself and his vulnerability away, Sebastian continued.

“When Simon was trying to court Belle at the house party, he kept getting distracted. By you.”

An odd mixture of relief and irritation coursed through Giles. “I don’t see why.”

“I think you do,” Sebastian said quietly.

Giles shrugged and made his way to a chair on the other side of his desk. “Where is your wife?”

Sebastian bared his teeth in a look Giles had once heard described as a grimace, then lowered his lashes. “I’m not sure. We didn’t part on good terms.”

“And you say I’m troubled.”

Sebastian twisted his lips and nodded. “Indeed. But I do have a plan.” His face went back to normal. “I just hope it works.”

“It will.”

“I appreciate your vote of confidence,” Sebastian said in a low tone. “Now, about you.”

Giles shook his head. Sebastian wouldn’t mock him, but he couldn’t help him, either.

“Is Lord Cosgrove still pushing for you to find a bride?”

Giles stiffened. He’d forgotten all about that. “No.”

“What changed his mind?”

“Don’t know.” He shrugged. “He hasn’t spoken to me about it again.”

A moment of silence engulfed them. “Do you think—” Sebastian cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “We never discussed your past while we were touring the continent.” He scoffed. “Hell, I didn’t even know that you were a lord, let alone that you had a brother. You keep your secrets well, Giles, and this might not be my place to ask, but is it possible that Lord Cosgrove isn’t quite as interested in seeing you married as someone else might be?”

Giles stared at his friend. Who else would care? Nobody. There wasn’t anyone else who’d care. They’d probably rather he not secure an heir so his title could pass to someone else. Which was fine with Giles. He didn’t want to be baron. The only reason he’d even come to London at Lord Cosgrove’s demands was because of his threat to begin selling off anything Giles owned that wasn’t entailed. He didn’t care about losing the assets, but he knew better than to believe he’d be the one who’d receive the funds from the sale of those assets.

“Giles?”

Sebastian’s voice pulled Giles to present. “Yes?”

“I know you like to keep things private, but if you tell me what’s going on, I can help you.”

“With Lord Cosgrove or Lucy?” The words were out before he realized it. At Sebastian’s slow grin, Giles’ face heated.

“Who’s Lucy?”

“No one.” Giles jumped at the sharpness in his own voice. “Just a lady I met.”

“One who seems to have had quite a serious effect on you, I’d wager.”

Giles flushed. “I said something foolish.”

Sebastian didn’t respond right away. “Are you sure it’s irreparable?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“I think it might.”

“She can have Simon.” Just saying the words made his throat constrict as if he might suffocate at any moment. But it didn’t make it any less true. Simon was smarter. He wouldn’t say thoughtless things to shame her. He could say exactly what he wanted to the first time. The sharp pain in his palms drew his attention and he released his fists.

“If she can make someone as calm as you react this way, I believe she’s worth seeking out to make amends.”

“It’s no use.”

“So you say, and yet, it’s turned you into a bundle of nerves.”

Giles frowned. “I’m not a bundle of nerves. I’m made up of cells.”

Sebastian shook his head. “Indeed. What I meant was that you’ve never cared what anyone’s thought about you before and now you do.”

“I shamed her,” Giles burst out, fighting the remorse that was threatening to wash over him.

“You should go to her and try to explain,” Sebastian said in his usual calm voice.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“It won’t matter. She’ll marry Simon.”

“That didn’t take long,” Sebastian muttered. He waved a hand through the air. “Giles, I don’t have all the details and I won’t press you for them, but it’s only been three days since I last saw you and Simon and at that time Simon was still very much trying to court my wife. I cannot imagine that he’s already become engaged to another.”

“I didn’t say he was.”

Sebastian drummed his fingers on the chair and now it was Giles’ turn to shift uncomfortably in his chair. Were he still living with the nuns, either Mother Superior or Father Thomas would have yelled at him by now, or would with their next statement. Sebastian never had, but surely one day his patience would wear thin. Unfortunately, Giles had never been very good at articulating.

“I still think you should clarify what you meant,” Sebastian said a moment later. “Even if you think she might marry your brother, it wouldn’t do for you to have an uncomfortable relationship with your new sister-in-law.”

“Why does it matter?”

“You mean because you don’t even have a relationship with Simon?” At Giles’ nod, Sebastian continued. “That goes back to what I was talking about before. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but since you’re my friend, I want you to know. Belle mentioned that Simon told her that your mother means to make amends by helping you find a bride.”

“I know.”

“But I don’t just mean by asking Lady Cosgrove to host the house party, Giles.” He ran his hand through his dark hair. “Do you think it might be possible that your mother might have asked Lord Cosgrove to help bring you here?”

Giles sat stock-still. His mother had seemed extremely interested in him since his return. She’d agreed to host a dinner party when he’d asked her to a month ago. She’d even gone so far as resuming her title Lady Norcourt for the evening to act as hostess when she’d been content to be styled as Mrs. Appleton for twenty years. Then, at the house party, she’d sought him out whenever she could and had introduced him to some of who she’d considered to be the “finest” unattached young ladies. He’d found them annoying, but apparently she didn’t. She’d even told him that she’d like to help him find a match. But did her desire to find him a match go so far as to issue threats to get him to return? His heart pounded and sweat beaded along his brow. He looked to Sebastian. Sebastian didn’t lie. Not to Giles. He wouldn’t suggest this if he didn’t think it was a real possibility.

Hurt and anger swelled up inside of him, then just as quickly vanished. Just as it had when she’d admitted to having had the house party planned to help Giles find a match. Did it really matter that she’d used deceitful tactics to get him to return to England? He sighed. No. Almost everyone he’d ever met manipulated him. Why should his own mother be any different? “Thank you, Sebastian.”

“For what?”

“The truth,” Giles said simply, standing.

Sebastian leapt to his feet. “Are you going to confront her?”

“No.”

“Then where are you going?”

“You were right.”

“About?”

“Everything.”

Sebastian arched an eyebrow. “I doubt my wife would agree with that statement.”

Giles didn’t know what to say to that. “My mother is quite desperate to have a relationship so I’d better go apologize for what I said to Lucy.”

An expression Giles didn’t understand came over Sebastian’s face, then he stepped to the side and used both of his hands to gesture toward the door while giving a slight bow. Sebastian was a strange friend, to be sure, but many probably thought the same about Giles. Which was likely why they’d gotten along as well as they had in the past six years.

Less than five minutes later Giles found himself standing in front of the tall, light grey stone building that housed the Norcourt Lending Library. Though he was told he owned it, he’d never actually been inside before.

Clenching his hands into fists, he commanded his heavier-than-lead legs to carry him inside. The overwhelming smell of paper and glue filled his nose as soon as he opened the door. A second later he was assailed by a cloud of dust.

“Do forgive me,” chirped a red-haired urchin holding a limp feather duster. “Mrs. Appleton hates it when any dust is visible on the books.” She lowered her voice. “She thinks people will assume the dusty ones are the ones not worth readin’.”

His mother was smart. Very smart. Of course he already knew she was clever and deceitful, but she was also smart. How ironic, those three adjectives often went together. “Is L—er—Miss Whitaker here?”

The girl turned her head to the side. “Who?”

“Miss Whitaker. She’s about this tall—” he lifted his hand to the middle of his chest— “she has black hair and blue eyes.”

“I don’t know if I’ve seen her come in,” the girl said as she spun the feather stick between her hands, making the dust swirl around them.

“She works here,” Giles clarified with a cough.

“Works here?” The girl stopped spinning her duster. “The only person who works here other than me is Mrs. Appleton.”

“I’ll find her.”

He didn’t take three steps away from the girl before his mother appeared in his line of vision.

“Giles?” she called out to him. Her lips stretched into a wide smile. “I’m so glad you came to see me. Come, let’s sit and talk.”

Giles ground his teeth and forced himself to go over to her. “Is Miss Whitaker here?” he asked without ceremony.

“Who?”

Giles frowned. “When Simon returned. Was there—” He broke off. The girl at the front of the store had mentioned a Mrs. Appleton who worked here and now his mother seemed oblivious to who Miss Whitaker was. Was it possible that Simon had already married her? Could he have so quickly? Giles had never paid much attention when people got married except to know there was a short ceremony where they each pledged their lives to each other.

“Giles?”

He tried to swallow the unease in his throat, but couldn’t. “The woman.”

A vertical line formed between his mother’s eyes. “What woman?”

“With Simon.”

“You mean Isabelle Knight?”

Giles shook his head vigorously. “No. Lucy Whitaker.”

“Who?”

A sound of vexation ripped from his throat. Why couldn’t she understand him?

“Calm down, Giles,” his mother said, placing her hand on his forearm.

He shook it off as if her touch burned. “Don’t. I don’t like it.”

She backed away as if he’d stuck her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…” She smoothed her skirts. “I won’t touch you again.”

It wasn’t being touched he didn’t like. It was— It was— He shook his head to dispel the thought he knew wouldn’t form completely until it didn’t matter anymore.

“Tell me what you need, Giles?”

“I need to talk to her.”

“All right. Who?”

“The woman with Simon,” he practically bellowed in frustration.

“Simon didn’t have anyone with him when he returned,” she said calmly as if suddenly she understood everything.

“He didn’t?”

She shook her head. “When I returned from Telford yesterday he told me a little of what happened, but he never mentioned a woman, Giles, and I mean that.” She blinked her eyes rapidly as if she were trying to keep from crying. “Thank you for your kindness. I know the two of you don’t get along, but I was hoping—”

“No,” Giles cut in. “He doesn’t like me.”

“That’s not true,” his mother said immediately. “He just needs time.”

Giles doubted that and just shrugged in response. It didn’t bother him that Simon didn’t care for him.

“Would you like to join us for dinner on Friday night?”

No, he wouldn’t. “No, thank you.”

She dropped her hands to her sides and let out a deep breath. “I’m trying, Giles. I know you haven’t had an easy time of it and that’s partly my fault, but would you please give me a chance?”

“A chance?” A chance for what? To hurt him again? To manipulate him some more? To use his position for her gain? He took another step back. “No.”

She swiped at the tears that had slipped from her blue eyes. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t be more help in your search for Miss Whitaker,” she said, her voice uneven. “Simon never spoke of her, but if you’d like to ask him if he knows of her whereabouts he’s recovering over at my house.”

Giles frowned. “That won’t be necessary.” Surely, if Simon had indeed brought her back, his mother would have known of her existence since Simon was staying with her.

Then, without another word, because there was nothing more to say to her, Giles spun on his heel and left the lending library.

TEN

Lucy wrung her hands together and looked around the almost empty parlor. There wasn’t much left of their meager belongings. Just the dining table and chairs and a faded, threadbare settee she’d found behind the bakery a year ago. It couldn’t possibly be worth more than a half penny, but that’d be a half penny they could use.

“Why do we have to move to York?” Seth demanded of her, his face red and angry.

Lucy’s heart clenched and anger, mostly directed at herself, bubbled up inside of her. “We’re going to start over somewhere we’ve never been,” she said. “It’ll be fun like one of those adventures you like to read about.”

Seth stared at her, unmoved. “I don’t understand it. Can’t you find another post in town or go to London and work for Lady Norcourt?”

“No,” she said a little more sharply than she’d meant to. But the truth was, every business owner she’d gone to seek employment from was only interested in offering her one type of employment. And she wasn’t interested in becoming that kind of woman. Nor did she want to go to London and work for Lady Norcourt.

“I don’t understand why you won’t marry Mr. Appleton.”

“Other than the fact he hasn’t asked?” Lucy said sarcastically.

Seth plopped down on the threadbare settee. “So if he asked—”

“No,” she snapped. She rubbed her hands over her face. “Seth, I’ve already told you, gentlemen like Mr. Appleton do not marry women like me.”

“I think he might. He said he thought you were fetching.”

She was sure he did. “While that is the finest compliment a lady could ask for, that does not mean he wishes to marry me.”

“It could,” Seth said, oblivious to her previous sarcasm.

Lucy sighed. “I know you like him, but it’d be better if you stopped thinking about him.” She swallowed and screwed up her courage. “Gentlemen like him, young, handsome, wealthy, they see women like me as amusements. Not as wives.”

“Amusements?”

Lucy groaned. As much as she didn’t want to prevail upon Paul, Sam’s brother, for support, she might have to bring herself to ask him to explain the things to Seth that she couldn’t. Heat crept up her neck. No. Too much had passed between the three of them that she could never ask that of him. “Seth, I won’t discuss this with you any further. You are not to ever mention Mr. Appleton to me again, do you understand?”

Seth jumped up from the settee. “No, I don’t understand,” he said as he fought back the tears. “I don’t understand you at all and I never will.” Then, without allowing her a chance to explain, he ran from the house, slamming the door as he went.

Lucy started after him as he ran. But she couldn’t keep up and fell to her knees on the ground, silent sobs wracking her body. “I’m trying, Seth,” she cried out quietly into the setting sun. Tears stung the backs of her eyes. Which was ridiculous. She was the one who’d created this mess. Well, not just her, there was a he involved, too. But she should have known better. That familiar bitter taste that always accompanied thoughts of him filled her mouth, making her want to act most unladylike and spit. Which was probably fine since she wasn’t a lady in any sense of the word. Instead, she rose to her feet and went back to her house. Seth would come back soon enough. This wasn’t the first time he’d gotten angry with her and run off. He’d come back.

Twenty minutes later there was a swift, bang, bang, bang at her front door. Lucy stood from where she was packing their remaining clothes into the one trunk they’d have to share with all the personal belongings they’d be able to keep.

“Hello,” she said, opening the door a couple of inches.

Two men were standing outside, both leering at her. She shuddered. The shorter one, Mr. Bronson, she recognized right away. He worked in the livery down the street from the bakery where she’d worked.

“I hear ye have a table,” Mr. Bronson said.

“Yes, most people do.” Her grip on the interior doorknob tightened. She had no desire to let them inside her home.

“I hear it’s for sale,” he continued.

“Not anymore,” she said; then quickly shut the door and slid the lock.

Loud, raucous laughter filled the air. “Come now, Miss Whitaker, we just want to have a quick look-see at it.”

She grimaced. “No. It’s not for sale.”

“We’ll pay a more than fair price,” the other man said. His voice sent a shiver down her spine. “We just want to test the sturdiness of it first.”

More drunken laughter ensued.

Panic built in Lucy’s chest. Perhaps selling her things had been a mistake. Just one more to a long list of many she’d made, she reckoned.

When their laughter died, their shouts began.

“We intend to pay,” one slurred. “We have enough coins.”

Coins jingled. Then more earnest banging began. After a minute, one of them called out to her again.

“Either you can let us in or we’ll come in on our own. But if we have to come in on our own, we might not see to pay you as well.”

Less than a second later, the unmistakable sound of glass shattering rent the air. Glass fell to the wooden floor next to her foot in a cascade of clinks. Lucy dashed to the back of the house. She had to get away and her best chance was to climb out the bedroom window.

Just then, there was a loud crashing sound and the cottage shook. Lucy closed the bedroom door and slid the lock. It wouldn’t keep them out entirely, but it might slow them down just enough to afford her a few extra seconds to get away from here and find Seth.

She froze. Find Seth. She had an idea of where he was: the Old Elm tree. But she wasn’t positive. Had these men already found him? Had they hurt him? She’d never forgive herself if anything had happened to her son. Trying to push thoughts of him in pain out of her mind, she unlatched the window and tried to lift it up. It wouldn’t budge. She tightened her grip and used all the muscles she possessed. It didn’t move and the wooden door behind her splintered and came crashing open.

“There ye are,” said the man she didn’t recognize. Even cloaked in shadows he looked fierce. He reached for her and grabbed onto the top of her pale blue dress, then yanked her toward him. “Yer a feisty one.” He clucked his tongue. “I like that.”

All fight left her body instantly. It was enough that he had her where he wanted her and he would have no resistance in getting his way. The last thing she wanted to give him was any further satisfaction about it. If he enjoyed it when those who he attacked fought and screamed and tried to break loose, she wouldn’t.

“Hmm, docile as a church mousie, are ye now?” he mused, spraying her with his spittle on every word.

She didn’t answer, which seemed to upset him.

“I think I know wot would put that spark back in yer eye.” Then, a second later, he grabbed onto her hair and dragged her to the parlor.

Her heart nearly burst out of her chest. Seth. Mr. Bronson was holding onto him in such a way that Seth stood motionless with his arm pinned behind his back.

“Don’t move, boy,” Mr. Bronson sneered, a self-satisfied smile on his lips. “We’re gwine shew you wot women like yer ma are good fer.”

Mr. Bronson must have tightened his grip or Seth must have realized that Lucy was about to be hurt because tears started to stream down his cheeks. “No!”

Lucy shook her head. “Let him go. I’ll do whatever it is you want, just let him go.”

“I don’t think so,” the stranger said, tightening his grip on Lucy. “I think ye behave much better while he’s here.” He reached forward to grab her breast and she smacked his hand away, making him laugh. “Yes, I do believe I like this better now. The boy will get to see what you really are and I’ll get to have a far more amusing time demonstrating it.”

“Leave her alone,” Seth shouted, kicking backwards at Mr. Bronson’s legs.

The men just laughed at his efforts.

Lucy ached for him all over again. Was what they were doing to her in front of him not bad enough, must they mock him, too? She fisted her hand and swung at the man standing nearest her, hoping to catch him off guard, but he was farther away than she thought and instead of hitting him where she’d intended, she hit just off to the side of his groin.

He instantly sobered and tightened his hold on her hair. “You’ll pay for that,” he growled as he flung her against the stone wall where she hit her head then crumpled to the floor.

Seth shouted something and might have struggled, but Lucy wasn’t sure since she couldn’t see him through the sudden burst of stars and shapes that filled her vision when her head hit the wall.

A second later two firm hands were on her breasts trying to pull her to a standing position. She tried to fight, but felt powerless against him and her screams and cries mingled with the men’s laughter.

Hysteria filled her at the painful chaos that surrounded her. She wanted to be free of this man and make sure her son was safe.

But she couldn’t get free and the more she struggled, the more powerless she became against his strong grip. She was only vaguely aware that he’d ripped the bodice of her gown as she tried to catch a glimpse of Seth as he still fought to get free of his captor’s hold.

Suddenly, a shadow crossed the front door and without warning another large, imposing form came into the room. Lord Norcourt. Without a second’s delay, Lord Norcourt gripped the back of Mr. Bronson, and swung him around with such vigor that he released his hold on Seth, which sent the poor boy to the floor. Before Mr. Bronson could have a chance to put together what was going on, Lord Norcourt’s large fist collided with his face.

The stranger who’d been accosting Lucy snarled and abruptly let her go. Spitting, he stalked over to their new guest and threw a punch that connected with Lord Norcourt’s stomach.

A loud “Oooof” was all Lord Norcourt said before lifting his foot and kicking Lucy’s attacker between his legs.

“Mama.” Seth’s weak voice grabbed her attention and her heart all over again as he inched his way toward her.

She reached for him and pulled him to her, wrapping him in her arms. “It’s all right,” she soothed in his ear, watching as Lord Norcourt lifted her attacker back to a standing position by his hair then proceeded to punch his face and midsection until he fell to a boneless heap on the floor.

In her arms, Seth’s body shook with sobs and she tried her best to console him, but doubted she could when she was just as upset. She couldn’t show it though. She needed to be strong. He needed her.

In the shadows she saw Mr. Bronson stagger to his feet, but with one swift punch to the face that sent him flying backwards into the jagged edge of the window ledge, he was sent back to the ground and silence engulfed the room broken only by Lucy’s heavy breathing and Seth’s silent tears that seemed louder than gunfire to her.

“You all right?” Lord Norcourt’s soft voice startled her more than her attacker’s aggression had.

“I’m fine,” she lied.

He bent down near her and her heart picked up pace. Now that the danger was over, she was able to think straight and the first thing she needed to make sense of was why he was here.

“Why did you come back?”

“To apologize.”

She closed her tired eyes. She couldn’t begin to know what he was apologizing for. “I don’t think I can refuse to accept your apology now,” she teased.

“Yes, you can,” he said quietly.

If she wasn’t in such a state, she’d argue with him and demand to know what he was even talking about, but for as brave of a woman as she’d like to be, she could hardly muster up an ounce of courage right now, let alone any defiance.

He reached for Seth. “Let me help you.”

“Leave her alone,” Seth spat, clinging to Lucy.

“Seth—”

“It’s all right, boy,” Giles interjected in a gentle tone. “I’m not going to hurt you or your mama. Can you stand up so your mama can get up?”

It took some coaxing, but a moment later, Lord Norcourt had Seth on his feet. It was nearly dark in the house now, with only the low glow of the nearly set sun as their source of light. Even still, she could see her son’s tear-stained cheeks and it was all she could do to hold back her own tears.

Lord Norcourt’s strong hands slipped awkwardly under her arms as he helped her to her feet. As soon as she was standing, he removed his hands. “I didn’t mean to look,” he blurted.

Lucy sensed the nervousness in his tone and placed a hand on his forearm. “I know.” With her other hand, she did her best to pull her torn bodice together to cover herself as much as she could. “Thank you for saving us,” she whispered.

“You’re welcome,” he returned. “Will you both come with me to London?”

“I can’t.”

“Can’t?” The disbelief in his voice almost made her laugh. Almost.

“Can’t,” she confirmed, casting a glance over to her unusually quiet son. With how desperate he’d been as of late for her to find another husband, she was rather surprised he wasn’t arguing with her. Then again, he was probably now terrified of men after what he’d witnessed tonight.

“I didn’t mean it,” Lord Norcourt blustered.

Her eyes snapped back to him. “Pardon?”

“Last time. When I said I could get you a post. It wasn’t as my mistress.”

A new sense of understanding came over her, sobering her. “I know that. I didn’t think you had meant that.”

“But when Simon said—”

“Shhh.” She put a finger to his lips. “I know that wasn’t what you’d meant.”

“How?”

Her entire body stilled. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I just did.”

He encircled her wrist with his warm fingers. “Then come to London with me.”

She shouldn’t. Going with him would only lead to trouble. The least of which was what others might think if they spotted them together. No, the fear of that wasn’t nearly as large as the fear of the feelings he evoked in her. “I shouldn’t.”

“But you will?” he asked in a tone that broke down the last of her waning resolve.

She nodded. “Yes.”

ELEVEN

Relief ran through Giles’ being, taking with it all the hard tension that had held him captive for longer than he could remember. He turned to Seth. “Do you think you can help me load the carriage while your mama gets dressed?”

The boy didn’t move.

“They won’t be getting up for a while,” Giles explained softly. If ever. He’d never hurt anyone before, but when he’d happened upon that horrific scene he hadn’t known what else to do.

Seth gave a fleeting glance to the unconscious men lying on the parlor floor, then led Giles down the hall to a moonlit room that resembled a bedroom. Just without the bed. Strange. “Already packed?” Giles asked when his eyes collided with a large, scuffed trunk in the middle of the floor.

“Mama said we were leaving for York in the morning.”

“You’ll go to London tonight.”

“Yes, my lord,” Seth muttered as he flipped the latch on the side of the trunk. He sank to his knees and started emptying the contents without really looking at them.

Giles knelt down beside him. “Seth?”

“I should have done something,” the boy said fiercely before letting out a deep exhale and falling backwards on his bottom.

Giles moved to sit beside him and pulled his knees up to his chest, then rested his elbows on his raised knees. For a moment the two sat that way. Giles wished he had something of any value to say to Seth to make him feel better about everything. But what could he say? Perhaps he should offer to hire the boy a tutor to teach him to fight. He shook his head. No. Lucy might throttle him if he taught her boy to fight. Better not do that.

“Seth, if I’d have been you, I’d have done the same thing.”

“You would have?”

Giles wasn’t sure, but he almost thought the boy sounded surprised. “Yes. When I was a boy at the orphanage and I’d get in trouble, the nuns were instructed to hold me that way. It doesn’t hurt so much, but if you try to move forward even a little, it’ll break your arm.”

“It will?”

Giles nodded and idly rubbed his arm. A sharp, humorous laugh escaped his lips. “It only took one time for my brain to remember that.”

“A nun broke your arm?”

Giles bristled, then made himself relax. Seth didn’t seem the sort to mock him intentionally. Likely he was just curious. “Yes,” he said quietly.

“Was she as big as Berta?”

“Who’s Berta?”

“She works in the butchery. She’s gargantuan. Her arms are wider than trees and I swear she’d kill a man if she sat on him.”

“Unfortunately, no. Sister Mary was about an inch or two shorter than your mother and as thin as a reed.” He was thankful the room was dark enough that Seth couldn’t see him blush at his confession. “That position—it uses a boy’s strength against himself and can break just about anyone’s arm—no matter how big they are, or the person holding them that way.”

“Oh.” Silence filled the air between them again. “So you don’t think my mama thinks I’m weak because I couldn’t help?”

“No,” Giles said automatically. Then for a reason, he couldn’t explain, he added, “And neither do I.”

The tears that Lucy had fought so hard to keep at bay slipped from the sides of her eyes and coursed down her face at Lord Norcourt’s final whispered words to her son as they sat on the floor in what had been Seth’s bedroom. She’d known for a long time now that Seth wished for a father, but she hadn’t truly realized how much.

She peeked around the doorjamb just in time to see Lord Norcourt push to his feet and gesture for Seth to join him.

“Is this what you were looking for?” Lord Norcourt asked, picking up what appeared to be her lavender dress.

“Yes, my lord,” Seth said.

“Here.” Lord Norcourt extended the dress toward Seth. “You take this to her and I’ll carry out the trunk.”

Seth pushed Giles’ hand back then bent to toss their belongings back into the trunk. “No, I’ll carry the trunk.”

Lucy shook her head at Seth’s sudden deep tone and tiptoed down the hall so she’d be out of sight when Seth came through the door.

A moment later, Seth exited the room and walked in the opposite direction of where Lucy was standing.

Lucy peeked back inside the room where Lord Norcourt stood holding her gown in one hand and his other hand gripping his hair.

“Thank you,” she said, walking into the room.

He jumped. “Sorry.” He held her gown out toward her.

She took the dress, her fingers brushing his. Once again, his skin was warm. Perhaps he was always warm, she reasoned as she pulled the gown toward her chest. She remembered when she’d first bought this gown. It was a cast off from Lord Kresson’s eldest daughter. Put on sale in a consignment shop no less than ten years ago in Bath. It had been her favorite; one of the only three gowns she hadn’t sold.

“Do you need help?”

Lord Norcourt’s voice startled her. “N-no. I’ll just need a minute to change then I’ll be out.”

Without another word, he brushed past her, walked to the doorway and stopped.

“Do you plan to just stand there while I change?” she asked his back.

“Yes.”

A shiver ran over her, but then something she didn’t recognize came over her, too. Not wishing to examine it too closely, she quickly shed her ripped gown, praying all the memories attached to it would flee from her the moment it was off.

“Ready now?” he asked just as she finished putting on her gown.

“Almost.”

“Do you need help?”

“No,” she said in a broken whisper.

He turned to face her. “What’s wrong?”

Lucy looked down at the discarded gown. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Leave it.”

“But I need it,” she argued. She’d never had many gowns anyway, but now that she only had so few, she couldn’t afford to easily abandon one just because it was in need of repairs. “I think I can fix it. I’ll just need to sew—”

“No.” He took her cold, clammy hand in his large, warm one. “Leave it.”

The logical side of her wanted to argue with him. She genuinely did need that dratted gown. Unlike him, she couldn’t afford to buy another one just because this one now had a foul memory attached.

As if he could hear the war raging in her head, he said, “It’s not just you who has bad memories of that dress.”

And with that, her will dissolved.

They were nearing the carriage when she realized she was still holding his hand and felt a little bereft when he helped her into the carriage then let go of her to speak to the coachman.

She gazed over to where Seth sat on the opposite side of the carriage. He was looking at the moon through the window. She racked her brain for something to say to him, but couldn’t think of anything that might break the palpable tension that thickened the air between them.

A moment later Lord Norcourt climbed inside the carriage. Lucy watched him in disbelief as he closed the door, lit the sconce, then made himself comfortable beside her as the carriage started to roll down the lane. How was it that being in such close proximity to him, a lord and a peer of the realm, didn’t make her stomach lurch or her skin prickle with discomfort the way just the mention of the titled normally did?

She shook off the thought and looked to her son who seemed to fight his sleep harder with each passing second.

Lucy reached over to the sconce. “Do you mind if I turn this down?”

Lord Norcourt shrugged. “No. I lit it for you.”

“For me?”

He nodded, but didn’t say anything.

“Well, I suppose I shall confess this to you now, I didn’t bring any books or embroidery, so I don’t think I’ll need it.”

Lord Norcourt’s eyes went wide. “I—I didn’t mean for…” He trailed off and let out a deep sigh. Lucy opened her mouth to explain that she was only jesting, when he spoke again. “It’s so you wouldn’t be afraid in the dark.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” she said without thinking. Not that she needed to. She could never explain it, but she knew she was safe with him. “I know you won’t hurt me.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

Giles hadn’t experienced so many gut-wrenching emotions in the course of one evening since the time he was caught drawing in a book in the library by Sister Catherine. He’d been content while drawing, then pleased when he was done, followed by frightened and ashamed when caught, then horrified and confused when she insisted he strip off his clothes and be plunged into an ice bath to banish whatever evil spirit had come inside him and made him act so disrespectfully to a holy book. He shuddered at the memory and pushed away the snatches of memories of that night that hadn’t yet unfolded in his mind. That had been an awful night and while not every aspect of the past few hours had been pleasant for him, his unruly emotions had been a close match. But in a good way. The night of his final ice bath at the hands of Sister Catherine had made his heart pound the same as it was now, but now it left him with a warm, excited feeling, not one of hatred and shame. He much preferred the one Lucy had created. She trusted him. A smile pulled at his lips. With the exception of Sebastian’s wife, Isabelle, no lady had ever trusted him before. He almost snorted. To be honest, other than Isabelle, no other lady had ever given him the chance to earn her trust.

He shifted and tried to tamp down his excitement at his newfound knowledge. Sebastian had been right, seeking her out to talk to her and make things right had been a good idea. They just might be able to be friends. Which would be good for when she married Simon.

He frowned at the dull ache that built in his chest at the thought and tried to shift to get more comfortable again.

“Sorry,” Lucy murmured.

His eyes shot to her direction. It was too dark to see her though. “Pardon?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to keep moving. I just can’t seem to fall asleep.”

“You weren’t bothering me.” He hadn’t even noticed she’d been moving.

She sighed and moved in her seat in a way that brushed her hip along his thigh. He certainly felt that.

“Sorry, I can’t seem to get comfortable.”

Instinctively, he reached for her and pulled her against his body with her right cheek resting on his left shoulder. She didn’t argue and wiggled a little against him, presumably to make herself more comfortable. Unfortunately, that did nothing for his comfort because whether she realized it or not, it drew his attention to where the soft parts of her chest were now touching his.

He closed his eyes and bit the inside of his lip. Pulling her against him might have been a mistake. He moved his right arm to settle across his lap so it’d better conceal his reaction to her nearness. Surely she couldn’t see his trousers in the dark, but he couldn’t be too careful.

Giles leaned his head against the squabs and tried to dredge up what notes made up the musical scale for C major. He hated music. Detested it. Well, listening wasn’t so bad, but playing it was awful. Almost as bad as being made to dance. He couldn’t dance in the carriage and moving his feet might bother Lucy. But he could think of notes and piano keys in his head. Hopefully it’d put a swift end to his current state like it had when this used to happen when he was younger and had gone to Paris for the first time. He’d never seen a woman without a habit on before then and couldn’t help but stare at them all. Fortunately, he’d learned to control himself by thinking of music and hadn’t embarrassed himself in years. He just hoped it’d work just as well this time.

In his mind, he went through all the scales he could remember: C, G, F, and A. There were more, but he couldn’t remember them and it might not matter since his pulse was still racing and there was still a tight, hot coil in his stomach.

Just then, something damp touched his shoulder. He blinked and brought his hand to Lucy’s face. “Lucy?”

She didn’t say anything, but her body trembled. Surely he hadn’t betrayed her trust because of his reaction to her. Panic built in his chest, but he couldn’t think of the right words to make it better. Although, if one were interested in the positive of the situation, his body had cooled completely the moment he felt her tears and everything had settled back to how it should be in the presence of a lady who wasn’t one’s wife.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice hitching on a small sob. “I just can’t get the images of those men out of my mind and when I close my eyes—they’re there.”

Wordlessly, he pulled her onto his lap and wrapped her in his arms. “Cry.”

“I’m sorry,” she repeated with her face pressed into his chest. Less than a minute later her tears had soaked through the front of his shirt.

He glided his open palm up and down her back. “It’s all right,” he said against her hair. “We all have to cry sometimes.”

TWELVE

Lucy was pulled from her dreamless state by the low rumble in Lord Norcourt’s chest.

“If you’ll wait outside the carriage, I’ll show you where to go.”

“Yes, my lord.” She recognized that as Seth’s voice. Why was he awake?

She tried to move and make sense of everything, but her head and body hurt too much.

“It’s all right.” Lord Norcourt’s soft voice was right by her ear. “We’re at my house. I’ll carry you inside.”

Lucy knew she should argue, but she couldn’t. She was too weary to move a muscle on her own.

“Go on inside, Seth.” Lord Norcourt carried her up the front steps, the bottoms of his boots scraping against the stone with each step he took, but never once did it feel like she was slipping in his grip. “At the top of the staircase, go left. You can use the first room on the right.”

“And my mama?”

“She’ll be one room over.”

What felt like seconds later, Lucy was being lowered against a feather mattress, then felt a heavy blanket come over her.

The sun was already high in the sky and flooding in through the break in the curtains by the time Lucy awoke. She sat up and rubbed the stiff skin of her face with her hands. She hadn’t slept so soundly in years. If ever. Dropping her hands, she looked around. There wasn’t a lot of furniture in the room, but what was there was beautifully carved, pristine, and decidedly expensive. She idly ran her fingers over the delicate design etched into the bedpost nearest her. It was lovely and regal.

Once I’m a viscount we’ll have a house full of the finest things money can afford, Sam promised. You deserve no less. She could still see the way the sun glinted off Sam’s light hair as he leaned against the big oak and smiled at her.

She twisted her lips. Sam had made so many broken promises to her that she couldn’t recount them all. Nor did she wish to. She yanked her hand away as if the bedpost had burned her skin then stood. Spotting her chest across the room, she scurried over and changed out of the now crushed gown she’d traveled in and into her final gown. It wasn’t nearly as nice as the purple one, just a plain tan and black dress. It’d be the perfect thing to wear to search for a new post. Which is exactly what she needed to do as soon as Seth returned. Lord Norcourt had been most kind to her and she’d forever be grateful for his generosity, but she needed to leave before his kindness would forever be tainted by memories of the one who’d done her so wrong.

Catching sight of herself in the mirror, she quickly repinned her hair and adjusted her bodice. Satisfied that she looked somewhat presentable, she made her way to the hall in search of her son.

There were only two other rooms upstairs. She knocked, waited a moment, then slowly let herself inside. This room was twice the size of the room she’d been in, but had the same amount of furniture, making it look even emptier. “Seth?”

“No, ma’am,” said a maid who was changing the sheets on the bed. “He and his lordship went out to the bakery to get something special for breakfast.”

Lucy ground her teeth. What more could she say to Seth to make him realize that he couldn’t just go off with anyone? She wanted to groan. Apparently last night hadn’t deterred him from trying to find himself a new father. She’d have to speak to him again. “Could his cook not have made some tarts?” She hadn’t even realized she’d said that aloud until the maid responded.

“No, ma’am. Danes is so blind he can hardly tell the sugar from the salt.” She grimaced. “’Tis better this way, ma’am.”

“How long have they been gone?”

“About three minutes.” The maid fluffed up the sheet then smoothed it down. “You can wait for them in the drawing room, if you’d like.”

If the downstairs were anything like the upstairs had been, she’d need no help finding the drawing room. Just as she’d suspected, she was correct. At the bottom of the stairs was a little room with only a mahogany desk, three chairs, a settee and two floor-to-ceiling bookcases devoid of any books. The room across the hall had a long dining table with five chairs going down each side and one on either end. No decorations were mounted on the wall nor runners on the table. Evidently, he preferred simplicity. She couldn’t argue with that. The next room was locked.

“He always keeps that one locked,” a female voice said behind her, startling her.

“I’m sorry. I was looking for the drawing room,” she murmured, turning around to face the other woman. She immediately froze. The woman who’d spoken to her stood two inches taller than Lucy with her auburn hair piled atop her head with a few wisps of curls framing her smiling face. Her curious blue eyes held no condescension, only questions.

“The drawing room is just over here.” She gestured to the open door behind her. “Won’t you come join me?”

Did Lucy really have a choice? Swallowing her unease, Lucy followed the fancy woman, who could only be Lady Norcourt, across the hall and toward the drawing room.

“Have a seat anywhere you’d like,” Lady Norcourt invited as she stepped into the room.

Lucy walked in behind her and came to a halt. There was only one settee. One short, squat, blue with gold edging settee in the center of the entire room. A small burble of uncontrollable laughter bubbled up inside of Lucy. She fought to hold it back, but couldn’t and a small giggle escaped. He was a baron for goodness’ sake, wasn’t he supposed to have a house bursting with elaborate nonsense?

Lady Norcourt turned to Lucy and lifted a brow, her lips twitching. “Well, which side would you prefer, the left or the right?”

At that, Lucy could hold her mirth no longer and let out peals of giggles until her cheeks and stomach hurt and tears were streaming down her face. “I’m sorry,” she said as she tried to compose herself, but it was of no use because Lady Norcourt was also laughing in the same young, carefree manner. Lucy straightened and tried to put a tight rein on her laughter before one of the servants thought they were cracked. “I’ll take the left.”

“Very well, and I’ll squeeze in on the right.”

Lucy scooted as far to the side as she dared without risking falling off to make enough room for the voluminous skirts of Lady Norcourt’s morning dress.

Lady Norcourt gathered up as much of her skirts as she could hold and tried to put them in her lap. “There, that should afford you another inch or so.”

Lucy didn’t move closer as suddenly the comfort she’d felt in Lady Norcourt’s presence but a moment ago evaporated. What must Lady Norcourt think of her? Did she think she was her son’s mistress, or worse yet, just a woman he’d found only the night before? That seemed more logical since it had been Lady Norcourt who’d had to help her find the drawing room.

Uneasy tension squeezed her throat. Why did Seth have to insist on leaving? Were he here, they could have already been on their way, but now she was stuck—

“I’m venturing a guess that your name is Lucy Whitaker.”

Lucy jerked her gaze to Lady Norcourt. “How did you know?”

“My son told me.”

Lucy’s heart picked up pace. “Which one?”

An amused smile touched Lady Norcourt’s lips. “Actually, both of them.” She adjusted her lacy glove. “Simon mentioned that a young, albeit stubborn, lady had cared for him, but it was Giles who gave me your name.”

Giles? That must be Lord Norcourt’s Christian name. “I take it he came to ask you for employment on my behalf.”

“Giles?” She knit her brows. “No. He’d never do that. He doesn’t ask things of me—” a shadow crossed her face and a sad look filled her eyes— “and for good reason, I suppose.” She shook her head. “No, he came to the lending library yesterday to speak to you about something and I told him you weren’t there.”

“That’s why he came to Shrewsbury,” she whispered to herself, making sense of everything. Of course, he’d probably told her that last night, but she’d been so overwrought she couldn’t remember everything he’d said.

“Yes, he seemed very intent to speak to you.”

Lucy shook her head. “I don’t know why. I know he didn’t intend—” She broke off with a blush.

“Didn’t intend?” Lady Norcourt prompted.

Lucy flushed again and gave Lady Norcourt an abbreviated account of how she’d lost her post because she’d helped Simon and that the two were quite adamant that they’d each find her employment and how Simon had misunderstood what Giles had meant with his vague offer. “I knew he hadn’t meant to insult me that way, but it would seem it weighed heavily on his conscience,” she concluded with a shrug.

“Yes, it would have,” Lady Norcourt agreed. She shifted and bit her lip. “He has a hard time articulating things, but I’m sure you already realized that.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Lady Norcourt cringed. “Yes, ma’am, is sufficient.” She tucked a curly tendril of her hair behind her ear. “I’m one of the few who gave up use of my title when I married Mr. Appleton, so there is no need to ‘my lady’ me.”

“Yes, my—ma’am.”

Lady Norcourt, or Mrs. Appleton, rather, flashed her a smile and a wink. “I’ll let that pass, but be warned, if you slip again, you’ll be in my debt.”

Lucy grinned at her teasing tone. Mrs. Appleton seemed vastly different than either of her sons.

“Nonetheless,” Mrs. Appleton started. “Both of my sons are nothing if not genuine and I’d be most appreciative if you’d consider helping me at the lending library.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Mrs. Appleton gave her a sidelong glance and Lucy prayed the older woman wouldn’t see through her. “Has one of them done something to make you feel uncomfortable?”

“Not at all,” she rushed to say. “They were both perfect gentlemen. You did very well on that score.”

A sad, shuttered look came over Mrs. Appleton’s face. “I’m afraid I cannot claim the credit where Giles is concerned.” The hurt that laced her words pierced Lucy’s heart as a vague memory from last night came to mind. He’d mentioned something to Seth about an orphanage and a nun. Her curiosity was heightened, but it wasn’t her place to ask anything.

“I’m sure you did the best you could, my lady,” Lucy said, offering her what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

Mrs. Appleton returned Lucy’s smile with a watery, wobbly one of her own. “Thank you, but I do believe you are now in my debt.”

Lucy’s eyes widened. Surely Mrs. Appleton hadn’t been sincere in demanding Lucy pay her recompense.

“I should mention that while both of my sons are very genuine and sincere, so am I,” Mrs. Appleton said as if she could read Lucy’s mind. “As it would be, I truly do need some help over at the lending library and think it’d help you remember my name better to spend some time with me there.”

“Thank you, but I—”

“Am in my debt,” Mrs. Appleton reminded her, a sparkle in her blue eyes. She winked. “I can be just as stubborn.”

Lucy released a breath and mindlessly twisted her skirt between her fingers. “I don’t know if either of your sons told you this, but I have a son of my own, ma’am, and I can’t stay in London. He’s eleven and prone to trouble.”

Mrs. Appleton chuckled. “I remember those days.” She waved her hand through the air. “Just bring him with you. We have plenty of books he might enjoy.”

Lucy stared at the woman, dumbfounded. Clearly she didn’t understand Lucy’s situation. “I don’t want to drive your patronage away.” There, that was tactful, wasn’t it?

“Madam, I shan’t drive you to tedium by recounting for you all of the ways I’ve scandalized the ton over the years.” She gave Lucy a pointed look. “I’ll only say, the patronage I have left are the ones who care far less about who they’re borrowing the book from just as long as the book itself is more exciting than their own story. Your presence won’t hinder them any more than we could get a third person on this settee.”

Despite herself, Lucy laughed. “All right. I relent. I shall start working off my debt post haste.”

Mrs. Appleton opened her mouth to say something, but whatever it was, died on her lips when the deep, gravelly voice of Lord Norcourt filled the room, “What debt?”

THIRTEEN

Giles didn’t think it’d be possible to be more surprised and dare he admit excited than he was when he opened the door to his townhouse and heard girlish laughter. But all of his good humor fled when he reached the drawing room to see Lucy sitting next to Lady Norcourt. Not that Lucy sitting and laughing with her had ruined his good humor; it had been her mention of a debt that made bile burn the back of his throat.

Every muscle in his body tensed as he demanded to know what trap his mother had ensnared Lucy into.

“Miss Whitaker has agreed to help me at the library,” Lady Norcourt explained.

Giles searched Lucy’s face but didn’t know what he was looking for. “Do you want to?”

She nodded once. “Yes. Unless you don’t want me there.”

He shrugged. Why would he not want her there? It was his mother he didn’t trust, not her. “In the hall, please?”

Lucy and his mother exchanged a look.

“I’m assuming you’d like to talk to me privately?” Lady Norcourt asked, standing.

Giles nodded and handed the box of tarts and other bakery goods to Seth.

The wide-eyed boy took the food and walked over to his mama while Giles’ mother excused herself from the room and followed Giles into the hall.

Giles clenched his hands into fists. He wanted to know what her game was. Why she was manipulating Lucy this way. It was one thing to manipulate him, but Lucy didn’t deserve to be used. “Why?”

“I came over to see if you ever found who you were looking for,” his mother said with a tone that would suggest she was innocent of any wrong doing.

“Not that,” he said, with a scowl. Though he didn’t like it, he’d grown accustomed to having her come by his house at varied times since he’d come back to London. He should have known she’d come today and warned Lucy.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re asking, then,” she said.

Giles’ face heated. Of course she didn’t. He tried to think of a better way to word what he wanted to know, but all that came out was, “Why?” He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to push away the feeling of embarrassment that was threatening to overtake him.

“Why did I hire her?”

Giles shook his head. “Debt.” The word tasted bitter on his tongue, but nonetheless, he was glad he’d been able to form it.

“It wasn’t a real debt,” she said slowly.

He stared at her. Not a real debt? What did that mean? “She’s not—” He broke off and let out a ragged breath.

“She’s not what, Giles? Your mistress?”

Giles’ eyes widened and he shook his head vigorously. “No.”

“I never thought she was.” She pressed her lips together and a crease formed between her eyes. “Giles, I know you don’t trust me. Or even know me, for that matter. But if nothing else, I want you to know that I don’t think poorly of you or Miss Whitaker for anything.” She reached for him, but before she touched him, she pulled her hands back. “I don’t care what your relationship with Miss Whitaker is or isn’t. She’s in need of employment and I’m in need of help. That’s all there is to it. If she truly doesn’t wish to work there, she doesn’t have to. I’d never force her to or threaten to bring trouble to her doorstep if she didn’t.”

Giles stood silently as he tried to understand everything she had said.

“If you’d prefer I don’t employ her, then I won’t,” she said quietly a moment later.

All of his unease and discontent with her was stolen with those words. She was being genuine. He couldn’t explain how he knew it just then, but something in his heart told him she was. “Where will she live?”

A smile pulled the corner of her pink lips up and a tear ran down her cheek. “There’s a small apartment above the library. It’s been used for storage, but it can be cleared out and she can stay there.” Her smile widened. “That is if this arrangement is acceptable to Lord Norcourt seeing as he’s the one who owns the library and the building.”

“It’s acceptable.”

“Shall we go confirm that this is acceptable to Miss Whitaker?”

It took some convincing, which thankfully Lady Norcourt handled, to persuade Lucy that she didn’t need to rent a room from a boardinghouse and she finally agreed to stay in the apartment, but only in exchange for lower wages. Lady Norcourt immediately agreed with the terms. Seth seemed rather pleased with the arrangement, too. Almost as pleased as he was with the lemon pastry he devoured.

Because it was Thursday and one of the two days each week—the other being Monday—the library was closed, Mrs. Appleton had suggested that Lucy spend the afternoon cleaning up the little apartment and settling in.

There really wasn’t much to settle, but she could use some quiet time.

Unfortunately, her quiet time was cut short with the appearance of one Mr. Simon Appleton. As soon as he arrived, Seth could no longer be subdued.

“Can I go see him?” Seth begged excitedly.

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Lucy hedged.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” He cocked his head to the side. “Shouldn’t we at least see how he’s faring?”

Lucy playfully wagged her finger at him. “You’re a sly one.”

He sent her an impish grin and darted from the room.

Lucy chuckled and followed after him. After her attack she’d been terrified that it would take a while for him to be the carefree lad he’d been. She was glad to be proven wrong.

Downstairs, she made her way over to the pair slowly so not to distract from their conversation.

“What did your mother say?” Seth asked through his laughter.

“She told him he’d better find a new home for his new pet bunny before he ate anymore of it or she’d make stew of him,” Mrs. Appleton supplied with a shudder, leading Simon to join Seth in his laughter.

“What’s that?” Lucy asked.

Simon sobered instantly and removed his felt hat. “M-miss Whitaker,” he stammered. “Just a biology lesson, that’s all.”

“Did you know that rabbits eat their own waste?” Seth asked loudly.

“No.” She looked to a red-faced Simon. “But my day has been made complete now that I’ve been made aware.”

“I knew it would be,” Seth clipped. “Do you know any other fascinating facts I can share with my mother, Mr. Appleton?”

“No.” He glanced up at Lucy. “Why don’t you go find a storybook while I talk to your mama for a minute?”

Disappointment shadowed Seth’s face, but he didn’t voice it and went to search for a novel.

“I’m glad you finally decided to come to London. I’ll have to make a point to come by here more often now that I know I’ll get to see you.”

It was all Lucy could do to keep her face expressionless at his obvious attempt to flirt. It wasn’t that he wasn’t trying. He was, and that was the problem. She was at least eight years his senior. Much too old for him to be pursuing.

“I don’t know if she told you or not, but my mother usually closes the library on Mondays. I’d be honored if I could show you somewhere in London that might be of interest.”

Lucy bit her lip. “I—I don’t know.”

Simon drummed his fingers on the table. “Seth can join us.”

From where Katherine Appleton stood behind a tower of books that needed to be put away, she saw Lucy bristle at Simon’s words. A pang of sympathy for Lucy formed. Of course, most mothers should reserve their sympathy for their own child who was being rebuffed. But after having a child who was only welcome as an afterthought, she couldn’t help but empathize with Lucy.

Likely though, Simon didn’t realize how his words had sounded and this could still be salvaged. She paused. Did she want to salvage this? It was obvious that Simon was quite taken with her from the way he’d reacted the moment she’d told him that Lucy was in London and would be helping her at the library. But what of Lucy? Did she return that interest?

Katherine peered at the duo again. Lucy seemed quiet and reserved, just the way she had around Giles. Perhaps she was wary of both of them and their intentions. Even Katherine didn’t yet know the extent of Giles’ interest. He might be her son, but he hid his feelings well except when he was frustrated. Simon, though the dear boy tried, just couldn’t hide his feelings no matter what they were.

She shook her head ruefully and looked to Lucy again for any sort of clue of her feelings. Nothing. Katherine tapped her toe quietly as she tried to make sense of it. Considering Lucy was an unmarried mother who went by Miss rather than Mrs. she likely had reason to be guarded around both of them.

“Lucy,” she called in a tone louder than necessary. When Lucy looked her way, she continued. “Would you and Seth be interested in joining us at my house for dinner tonight?”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Appleton. I don’t want to be any bother.”

Katherine waved her hand through the air. “It’s no bother. I invited Giles, but he declined so we’ll have more than the three of us can eat.” She watched Lucy’s face to see if she detected any change at the mention of Giles, but was distracted when Simon let out an exaggerated gasp and threw his hands up to his chest as if he was horrified.

“Mother, surely you aren’t implying you think this little slip of a lady could eat near as much as Lord Norcourt, are you?”

Katherine chuckled. “Of course not, but I think that growing boy of hers might.”

“Yes, ma’am, I can,” Seth added from beside her. “Especially if that includes three helpings of dessert.”

FOURTEEN

Lucy scolded herself for wishing that Giles would join them for dinner. Giles? Since when had she started thinking of him as anything other than Lord Norcourt? It’s because that’s what his mother calls him, she reasoned with herself.

If only she believed that.

Seated on the red settee to her left, Seth asked Simon if he’d explain piquet or some other card game to him.

“How about another time?” Simon suggested as he brushed some imaginary dirt or lint from the top of his brown trousers.

Seth shrugged and asked if Simon had ever read a certain book.

Thankfully Simon had and it gave the two of them something to talk about. Lucy, however, could think of nothing to add to the conversation and tried not to notice the way Simon’s eyes kept straying to her every few seconds.

“My husband isn’t usually so late,” Mrs. Appleton commented. “He must have had an important matter come up, but I don’t think he’ll be too much longer.”

Lucy hoped she was right. Otherwise she might go mad.

Lucy was spared such a fate when not two minutes later the front door creaked open and heavy footfalls sounded in the hall. Trying not to appear too eager or nervous, Lucy kept her eyes trained on Seth until she was certain Mr. Appleton was in the room. Then she turned around and gasped.

She coughed quickly to recover her error, but it was too late and Mrs. Appleton watched her with an amused expression on her face. “I told you that my own scandals were more than enough to scare away certain patronage. Perhaps you believe me now?”

Lucy nodded but couldn’t take her eyes off of the solemn-looking Mr. Appleton. She’d thought Giles and Simon had a striking resemblance and just assumed they had to look like their maternal grandfather, but seeing Mr. Appleton, if she didn’t know better she’d say Giles looked identical—but with fewer wrinkles.

“Lucy, I’d like you to meet my husband, Walter Appleton. Walter, this is Lucy Whitaker and her son, Seth. Lucy has agreed to help me down at the library.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lucy,” Mr. Appleton greeted. He flashed a smile in Seth’s direction. “Seth.”

Lucy greeted Mr. Appleton and nudged Seth to do the same.

“Well, now that we’re all acquainted, shall we go down to dinner?” Mrs. Appleton chirped, killing the tension in the room.

“May I?” Simon murmured at Lucy’s elbow.

Lucy placed her hand on the crook of his elbow the way she’d witnessed other ladies doing. From the corner of her eye she noticed the set of his jaw. Was he upset? Did he have some sort of hostility for either of his parents? No. It wasn’t her place to ask.

The dining room was small compared to Giles’. Which was to be expected since Giles was a lord and was expected to have a bigger home. Their table had enough seating for eight rather than twelve. There was a large red runner that went down the center of the table and a large silver vase overflowing with tulips in the middle. Five place settings had been laid out. Mr. Appleton sat on the end with his wife on his right side and Lucy on his left. Mrs. Appleton had asked Seth to sit beside her leaving the chair to Lucy’s left free for Simon.

Dinner was tolerable, if not awkward. Simon eventually started to relax and carried on a conversation with his father about their business, using the words investments, recoup, gain, and other such words she only vaguely understood.

Across the table, Seth sent her fleeting glances. He was disinterested in the conversation. So was she, but he didn’t need to know that. She flashed him her best smile. Perhaps this was what it’d take for him to stop being so darn eager to spend time with every unattached gentleman.

Just then, the only male servant Lucy had seen since arriving excused himself from the room. When he came back a moment later, he set down a folded piece of paper at Mrs. Appleton’s elbow, then went back to serving.

Mrs. Appleton murmured an apology to the table then read the note to herself before passing it to Mr. Appleton. The two exchanged a look, then Mrs. Appleton made her excuses and left. That was the oddest exchange she’d ever seen. Both Simon and his father must have thought so, too, for neither spoke of business again after she left.

Of course that could have been because Seth pounced on the opportunity of momentary silence to engage Simon in another conversation. This time about what it’d be like if carriages had wings and could fly. Simon was clearly stupefied by the very thought, and relied on logic to explain why this could never work.

Lucy pretended to listen and from the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a distant look on Mr. Appleton’s face. She followed his line of vision to the window. Nothing seemed amiss at first glance; then she saw it. Along the far right side of the window, next to a tall wooden pole that supported the awning across the street was a carriage with the Norcourt crest emblazoned on the side. Though she hadn’t been told everything about this family’s history, she knew enough and while Mrs. Appleton was anything but subtle in her feelings for her eldest son, Mr. Appleton clearly felt the same way his wife did.

Her heart ached for him and without realizing it she reached forward and touched his arm comfortingly. She pulled her hand back before either Seth or Simon could see what she’d done, chastising herself for her foolishness.

Slowly, Mr. Appleton turned to look at her. Her face heated to what felt like one thousand degrees. He wouldn’t say anything about her informal action, would he?

He didn’t.

With glistening green eyes, he offered her a half-smile and whispered, “Thank you.”

Giles clenched his fists and exhaled. “I’m sorry.”

A small crease formed in the skin between his mother’s eyes. “For?”

He released another deep exhalation. Then another. “Being cruel.”

“I suppose I deserve some cruelty.” She blinked her eyes rapidly. “I—I want you to know that I never—” She broke off with a sniffle, then sank into the chair nearest her.

Giles remained standing. She appeared to be in need of a hug. But not from him. He’d spent the afternoon trying to form an apology. That was the best he could give. Not that he was too sure she’d want a hug from him anyway. Most didn’t. In fact, the Sisters had scolded him and told him to stop touching the others. That it was inappropriate and made others uncomfortable. He stiffened. He’d hugged Lucy. Had she minded? She didn’t pull away, but neither did she hug him back.

His mother’s voice pulled him from his fog. “Pardon?”

“We’ve already had dinner, but would you care to join us for dessert?”

Giles studied the tops of his black leather boots. Simon wouldn’t like that. Simon didn’t like him. He shook his head. “No.”

“It’s custard,” she said, smiling.

His mouth watered. He loved custard. Always had. Some of his fondest memories with his mother were when they’d picnic together on the grassy hill by their country estate. She’d always let him eat his bowl of custard before the main meal—so it wouldn’t get warm—then she’d complain of being too full after their meal and insist Giles eat her portion.

“Come,” she urged. “Seth said he could eat three bowls—perhaps the two of you could have a race?”

“Seth?” Did that mean Lucy was here, too?

“I invited him and his mother over for dinner. They’re here with Simon and…er—” she cleared her throat— “Mr. Appleton.”

Giles pulled back. “No.”

“Can you give him a chance?”

Not if it meant he had to witness the man paying attention to Lucy.

“Please? If not for me at least for the sake of Seth. The poor boy looks like he’s on the verge of going mad with tedium at any moment.”

Giles cracked a smile. He liked Seth. He was smart, but still needed to have fun. Not to mention, a firm hand. Giles still didn’t like how those men in Shrewsbury had handled Seth, but it hadn’t escaped his notice that the boy could get unruly without boundaries. “All right.”

As soon as he agreed, he wished he could take it back, but couldn’t when his mother clapped her hands, then reached for the blue sleeve of his coat and chirped, “Come along.”

Reminding himself to breathe, Giles followed his mother to the dining room. He could do this. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot. At the door to the dining room he halted.

“It’ll be all right,” his mother whispered, giving his sleeve a gentle tug. She stepped into the threshold. “I wanted to say that I appreciate Lucy and Seth for coming to be our dinner guests, and now we’ll be joined by a dessert guest.”

Even before Mrs. Appleton had finished her statement, Lucy’s heart was hammering out of control. It must have been the older woman’s smile that had given her away to Lucy. Giles was about to join them. Lucy fidgeted, praying that her face didn’t betray her.

Beside her, Simon grew as rigid as a church steeple as he just stared at his mother while Giles lowered himself into the empty chair beside Seth.

“We’re ready for our custard now, Daniel, please bring enough for both Seth and Lord Norcourt to each have three bowls.”

“Whatever for, Mother?” Simon burst out.

“They’re to have a race.” She looked at Lucy and playfully wagged her finger. “He might be eight-and-twenty, but I still have faith my boy can out eat yours when it comes to custard.”

“And what of your boy who is eight-and-forty?” Mr. Appleton asked, a hint of a smile pulling on the corner of his lips. “Does he not get a chance?”

Mrs. Appleton’s sparkling blue eyes widened. “I didn’t think—” She closed her mouth with an audible snap. “Of course.” Looking to Simon, she asked, “Would you like to compete, too?”

Lucy thought he might decline and was shocked when he agreed.

A moment later, the four of them each had three generous bowls of custard in front of them.

“You’ll all be sick tonight,” Mrs. Appleton commented.

“But it’ll be worth it,” Mr. Appleton remarked.

Lucy had a feeling he wasn’t just talking about the sweet taste of the custard, but rather the company.

“All right, gentlemen, the rules state—”

“There are rules posted about this sort of thing?” Simon asked in a stilted tone.

Lucy immediately recognized that was his best attempt at humor for an uncomfortable situation and flashed him an encouraging smile. This was by far, the strangest family she’d ever encountered, and the more she was around them all, the more she realized how unusual it all was and the tension there must be between them all.

“The rules have never actually been penned, no,” Mrs. Appleton allowed. “But they were passed down to me from my mother who heard them from her mother and so forth, so they are just as good as being etched in stone, wouldn’t you say?”

“Oh, but of course, nobody would dare argue with Great Grandmama Beatrix,” Mr. Appleton muttered, garnering him a little swat on the shoulder from his wife.

“All right, every bit of custard must be consumed,” Mrs. Appleton said. “The first to do so will be declared the winner.”

“Is there a prize?” Seth asked.

“’Course there is,” Mr. Appleton said without hesitation. “But you needn’t worry about it, boy, I don’t plan to lose.”

Seth grinned and shook his head. “We’ll see about that.”

Mr. Appleton laughed and winked at Seth then poked his lower lip out. “What of a boon for the winner, boys?”

Simon pursed his lips, but nodded. Giles gave a single nod, his expression impossible to interpret. Seth looked a little disappointed at first, but then just shrugged. Likely, if he were to win, he’d ask for what he would have wanted the prize to be anyway.

“All right, gentlemen, now that that’s settled,” Mrs. Appleton started. “Put your hands in your laps.” She lifted three fingers into the air. “Ready? Three. Two. One. Go!”

Seth was the first to grab his bowl and spoon and start shoveling spoonfuls of the yellow fluff into his mouth. Simon used a similar tactic then used the edge of his spoon to scrape every last glob off the edge of his bowl. Giles had a different approach entirely and lifted the bowl to his lips and scraped its contents into his mouth. Oddly enough Mr. Appleton was doing the same thing and was the first to put his empty bowl down with a loud thud and lift the next.

Giles and Simon each finished their first bowl at the same time with Seth only a second behind.

Lucy couldn’t help herself and laughed at the absurdity of it all.

“Is something funny?” Simon asked her between bites.

“Yes.”

With that, Simon lowered his half-eaten bowl of custard to the table and for what must have been the first time since they’d met, grinned at her. A full, uninhibited grin that made him look exceedingly handsome. She turned her attention away before she inadvertently gave him the wrong idea. His father finished his second bowl and set it down with a much softer tap than the first. The look in his green eyes said he wanted to win in the worst way, but the way his face was turning green to match his eyes, said he was on the verge of being ill from so much sugar.

He picked up his third bowl and only ate two bites before lowering it back to the table and wiping his mouth. Defeat and perhaps disappointment, stamped on his face.

“You’re not going to quit, too, are you, Lord Norcourt?” Seth asked suddenly. “Not that I mind winning, mind you.” He shrugged. “It just doesn’t seem right if it’s only because everyone else quit.”

Giles picked up his last bowl of custard—like Mr. Appleton, he didn’t look like he wanted to torture himself with eating anymore. Lucy was about to suggest everyone agree to a draw when Lord Norcourt spoke again.

“No. I’m not quitting. I just wanted to give you a chance to catch up.” Then, with a quick grin he lifted his bowl of custard back to his lips.

Seth wasn’t far behind. In fact, they both appeared to be quite close and it was nearly impossible to tell who’d put their bowl down a split-second before the other.

“It appears as if we have a tie,” Mrs. Appleton announced.

“No, he won,” Giles said. “I dropped some on the floor.”

Mrs. Appleton looked hesitant almost like she believed his tale about as much as Lucy did, then the look was gone. “Well then, Seth here is our winner, and as such, he may ask for a boon.”

“Can I save it?” Seth asked, surprising Lucy.

“Of course you may.”

“If you’ll excuse me, I am off to see Cook about a tonic to cure the unease from overindulging on custard. Would anyone else like one? Simon? Gi—Norcourt? Seth?”

“Please,” Giles said.

“I don’t need one,” Simon said.

“Neither do I,” Seth agreed, stifling a yawn.

“You’re welcome to go whenever you’re ready, Lucy,” Mrs. Appleton informed her as soon as Mr. Appleton was out of the room. “I know you both have had a tiring day.”

“Thank you. I don’t mean to seem impolite—”

“Nonsense. I didn’t expect you to stay and play parlor games all night.” She smiled. “You can if you’d like, of course, but I won’t be offended if you’re ready to go.”

Giles leapt to his feet. “I’ll take you home.”

Lucy’s skin tingled with something she didn’t recognize—which was silly. She’d traveled all the way to London not just riding in Giles’ carriage, but sitting upon his lap. She fought to keep the blush off her cheeks and didn’t dare chance a glance at him. Or anyone else in the room who might have gotten the wrong impression from his offer. “That’s most kind of you, but we can walk.”

“It’s too far.”

He had a point. The library was three miles from the Appleton home and it was already dark. She really didn’t want to walk that far anyway, but especially not in the dark.

“I can take you, if you’d like,” Simon offered. “Nobody will suspect anything is amiss about seeing my family carriage going to the library at this hour.”

She might have laughed at his logic had Giles not been in the room with them. She’d never been concerned about her own reputation. Being born the daughter of a servant who had a viscount’s bastard at the age of seventeen, there really wasn’t anything that could make it worse. At least not for her. Likely it wouldn’t damage Giles’ reputation to be seen with a woman who might be his mistress, but likely he didn’t realize how much of a pariah she actually was or how it could affect him if someone made her past sins public knowledge. He didn’t deserve that.

Sensing everyone was staring at her, waiting for a decision, she said, “All right, Mr. Appleton, if you insist, I’d be most appreciative if you’d see us back to the library.”

Giles felt like a fool. No, Giles was a fool. He remained in his same frozen stance until Lucy, Seth and Simon were out of the room, too mortified by his earlier blurted offer to do anything other than breathe. And even that had become a struggle. Why had he offered to take her home? Because he wanted to. Well, he shouldn’t. Never mind that he lived less than two blocks down the street from the library. She was interested in Simon and if their smiles and laughter earlier hadn’t been enough to prove it, her accepting his offer over Giles’ was enough to make it as good as chiseled in stone. Or on his heart. Both places would have the same impact.

Beside him, his mother said something about someone not meaning to upset someone else. He couldn’t really hear her words over the blood pounding in his ears.

“Norcourt.” Mr. Appleton’s loud voice penetrated his thoughts more than his mother’s had. “Here’s a tonic.”

“No, thank you.” His stomach was the last thing he was concerned about now. His stupid brain, confounded tongue, and most of all his aching heart all took precedence. He forced his heavy feet to take a step backwards. “Thank you. Custard was good.”

His mother jumped up. “You’re welcome to stay, Giles. We can go to the parlor and talk.”

“No.” He flinched at the roughness in his own tone and the way his already hot face suddenly felt like it was being touched with lava. “I need to go.”

His mother opened her mouth to say something more and thankfully was stopped by Mr. Appleton who didn’t say anything, but just placed a hand on her shoulder.

With a nod of appreciation to the man who had such a striking resemblance to him it was unnerving, he made his way from the room and to his carriage that was still waiting for him on the street.

Lucy climbed inside the Appleton carriage just in time to glimpse Giles emerging from the Appleton’s house. Simon murmured another apology for how long it took for the coachman to be located. Lucy waved him off and watched Giles as he ascended into his waiting carriage that was just in front of them. He was quite handsome with his tall, broad stature and chiseled looks. Most certainly what most would consider a fine catch. She jerked her eyes away from him and took an interest in arranging her skirts.

Paying her no heed, Seth plopped down next to her, pinning her skirt to the satin bench. She lifted her eyebrow at him. In a manner that bespoke his age, he gripped the part of her skirt he was sitting on and yanked it out from under his bottom.

“I’ll just sit over here,” Simon murmured, settling in on the bench across from Lucy and Seth.

“I’ll join you,” Seth said, bouncing off his current seat and joining Simon.

Simon’s eyebrows shot up in surprise and he moved closer to the side to make room.

“Sorry, Mama doesn’t like it when I sit on her skirts,” Seth offered by way of explanation.

Simon nodded. “And does your mama like gardens, I wonder?”

“No,” Seth answered for her though she knew the question wasn’t really directed at him. “She hates to have to pull the weeds and gets fussy when a rodent gets into her vegetables.”

Simon laughed. “I see…” An amused expression came over his face. “What of gardens full of vendors and marvels? Would that better suit the lady?”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” Lucy said, trying to hide her unease at being called a lady. She was anything but.

Simon stretched his legs out in front of himself, accidentally bumping her ankle with his calf as he did so. “Pardon me,” he murmured, moving his leg away. “Have either of you ever heard of Covent Gardens?”

“Yes,” Lucy whispered at the same time Seth said, “No.”

“It’s not to be missed,” Simon said excitedly. “There are entertainers of every kind—jesters, jugglers, men doing tricks with cards, horses, knives, anything you can think of, even actors perform there.” He lowered his voice. “And sometimes they’ll have displays of old war weapons or dinosaur bones. It’s quite a sight.”

Lucy wasn’t so convinced. Sam had once explained Covent Gardens and all of their splendor to her. She’d been so excited at the prospect that one day he’d take her there that she hadn’t been able to sleep for two entire nights. Now she didn’t think it was possible to be any less interested in the fun they boasted.

Seth was interested though and only because of that did she not try to change the subject. Instead she stared out the slim window above Simon and Seth’s heads and mindlessly noted that Giles’ carriage took the same path home as they were taking to the library. Their carriage lurched to a sudden stop, halting Simon’s descriptions and making Seth crane his neck to see what was going on out the window.

“Is that Lord Norcourt’s house?” he asked, presumably when he noticed the same thing Lucy had: Giles getting out of his carriage that was pulled to the side of the street and going inside.

Simon nodded his agreement then continued to describe the food at Covent Gardens.

Thankfully it was only a few more torturous moments until they arrived at the library.

“Seth, why don’t you go on upstairs? I’d like to talk to your mama a moment.”

Seth hesitated.

“It’s all right,” Lucy assured her son.

“Have you given any consideration to my earlier offer?” Simon asked after Seth was gone.

“To go to Covent Gardens?” Lucy ventured hesitantly. Perhaps she should have listened a little more intently in the carriage.

He smiled. “I’d be glad to take you there.”

“I’d rather not go,” she blurted.

“All right,” he said slowly. He drummed his fingertips along the edge of the table. “You’d prefer not to go to Covent Gardens—” he cocked his head to the side— “or anywhere in London?”

Ah, that’s what he’d meant. His offer to show her a few places around London. She exhaled. “Neither.”

“Neither,” he echoed in a tone she couldn’t place as either disappointed or bewildered. “May I ask why?”

There really wasn’t an easy way to say this. “Simon, I know you mean well, but I can’t.”

“Mean well?”

She ran her clammy hands over her skirt. “I understand that you’re appreciative that I was able to attend to you when you were hurt, but your family has already repaid me more than I deserve.” She swallowed. “Far more. Truly, anyone with half a heart would have helped a man in need.”

“You think that’s why I asked you to see London?”

“Well, yes. There’s no other reason…”

“Perhaps I enjoy your company,” Simon rebutted.

Lucy would have fallen to the floor in disbelief if she’d not had one hand resting on the table. “Pardon?”

“Is it so hard to understand? You’re very charming, when you wish to be.”

She arched a brow at him. “When I wish to be?”

He nodded and stepped closer. “You don’t speak often, but when you do it never fails to capture my attention.”

Lucy stared at him, dumbfounded. Was he flirting with her again? A nervous giggle caught in her throat and she coughed to suppress it.

“Is it so hard to believe I might have a genuine interest in you?” he continued.

“Yes.” She covered her mouth with her hand with an echoing pop.

“It shouldn’t be,” he said with a shrug. “I’m not nobility, Lucy. My half-brother might have a title, but I couldn’t care less. Nor does anyone of any importance to me care whom I marry.”

“Marry?” She took a shaky step backward. Marriage was the last thing she was concerned with.

“Perhaps one day, but there needs to be a courtship first,” he said with a grin that confirmed he didn’t understand her reaction. He reached for her, but she didn’t give him her hand. “That didn’t come out right. I didn’t mean to insult you by alluding to your lower station. I just meant that who I marry doesn’t matter to anyone the way it matters who Giles marries.”

Lucy stared at him. He had to have the thickest skull of anyone she’d ever met. “While I’m flattered that you’d find a match with me acceptable, I’m afraid that I must decline.” Then, without giving him a moment to say anything to make either of them any more uncomfortable, she spun around and went up to her apartment.

FIFTEEN

Giles gripped the arms of his chair, let out a deep breath, forced his eyes to the papers in front of him and commanded himself to make sense of it.

No such luck.

He’d been reading the same documents for two days now and couldn’t understand hardly any of it.

“What’s that?”

Giles’ head snapped up and his hands reached out to push the papers away. In his haste, he knocked them to the floor.

Sebastian, his unannounced visitor, came to his desk and knelt down to help Giles gather the papers. “Is something wrong?”

Wordlessly, Giles took the papers from Sebastian and pushed them into a stack. “No.”

“Giles?”

“How is your wife?”

Sebastian smiled and shook his head. “Clever tactic.” He made himself comfortable in a chair. “I don’t know yet. I’ve been invited to the Townsons’ ball tonight and I’m hoping to see her there.”

“See her?”

Sebastian crossed his ankles. “It’s difficult to explain, but right now, I’ll be content to see her and beg for an audience.”

Giles lifted his eyebrows. “Beg?” He could hardly imagine Sebastian on his knees dressed in his dove trousers and blue coat begging anyone for anything. Actually, now that he thought about it, the mental image was quite humorous.

“Laugh if you must, but it might be my only way to get her back.”

“Back? Aren’t you still married to her?”

“I am.” He frowned. “I was. I—” he twisted his lips and sighed— “I signed the annulment papers.”

“You did?”

“It might be the only way to get her back.” Sebastian knocked the sides of his leather boots together. “Now, enough about me, what is it that has caught your fancy and made you not come to White’s for the past five days?” He wagged his eyebrows. “Lucy?”

Giles’ face flushed. It wasn’t that he was embarrassed so much that his friend knew he’d taken a fancy to her, but rather the reminder once again that he could never have her. “No.”

“There are other ladies, Giles,” Sebastian said quietly.

“I don’t care.” Giles picked up the stack of papers he’d earlier tried to make sense of and thrust them at Sebastian. “I can’t make sense of these. Cosgrove said I had to marry and produce an heir within the next two years but I don’t see anything in here that supports it. And I don’t know what to look for.” He scrubbed his face with his hands. “There are twenty-eight pages to that damn document and after reading them over for two days I have no idea what twenty-six of them mean.”

Sebastian read one. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t know what I just read, either.”

In spite of his frustration, Giles allowed a small smile. “I don’t care if that says I have to marry to get my inheritance. I was fine without.”

“So then why are you troubling yourself with trying to read it?”

Giles bit his lip. “The library.”

“You think Lord Cosgrove might sell it?”

“Yes.” Then what would happen to Lucy? Or his mother? As much as he didn’t want to like her, he was starting to and he’d hate for her to lose something she cared so much for. His eye caught Sebastian and he quickly found something of interest in the distance.

“You need to hire a solicitor.”

“I can’t.”

“Do you want me to ask my man to look at this for you? He can be discreet.”

“So can I,” a new voice said from the threshold.

Giles sprang from his chair with so little grace and such great force he sent his chair backward. “Mr. Appleton,” he clipped.

Mr. Walter Appleton, his mother’s husband, bowed. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Your man said it was all right to come inside.”

Giles gave him a single nod and righted his chair. He only employed a skeleton staff as it was and most days he gave them the afternoon off. Very few people ever came to see him. There was no reason to have dozens of servants buzzing about.

Mr. Appleton straightened the cuff on his black coat. “I know we have a very loose acquaintance, but before I began banking and investments, I trained to be a solicitor and would be willing to help you, if you’d like.”

Giles wasn’t sure if he could trust him or not.

As if he sensed Giles’ hesitancy, Mr. Appleton said, “I’ll be more than happy to entrust something of value to me in your care.”

Giles didn’t know what that could possibly be but was relieved all the same at the offer. “A-all right.” He swallowed and nodded for Sebastian to allow Mr. Appleton to take the documents.

“It shouldn’t take me long to read over everything.” He flipped through the pages. “A day. Two at most.”

“Thank you.” He gestured toward the empty chair near Sebastian.

Mr. Appleton sat and exchanged a look with Sebastian. Odd. Did the two of them not like each other— Understanding hit. Mr. Appleton had no reason to like Sebastian. His son, Simon had wanted to marry Sebastian’s wife. A very uncomfortable feeling settled over the room.

“I should probably be going,” Sebastian said, standing.

Giles didn’t want him to go, but understood.

“I know I didn’t win the other night,” Mr. Appleton said a moment after Sebastian was out of the room, “but I was hoping I might still be able to ask a favor of you.”

Giles tensed. A favor? There wasn’t any favor Giles could do for the man. That wasn’t true. Though Giles had been absent from London society for the majority of his life, he did still have a title. Was that why Mr. Appleton was so willing to help him? Did he want to ask Giles to use his nonexistent influence to help him in some way? Without realizing it, he was grinding his teeth so hard they might soon turn to dust. He must have a tattoo on his forehead that said, “Simpleton”. He’d have to check for it later.

“It’s not that kind of a favor.”

Giles penetrated the man with his eyes. “Go on.”

“As you already know, your mother had to clear out the apartment above the library for Miss Whitaker and her son. What you may not know is that your mother refuses to part with any book that’s ever been donated to the library and now that the space has been cleared there is a mountain of books—fortunately contained within the confines of a multitude of wooden crates—that has taken up residence in the back third of the library.”

“Are you wanting my permission to throw them out?”

“Not all of them.” Mr. Appleton idly scratched his neck. “Actually, I thought that only the ones in poor condition should be tossed. Instead, I asked Simon to take over my duties today in hopes that I could organize the books for her and came by to ask if you’d be willing to help.”

“Help?” Giles croaked.

“Of course.” He smiled. “I wouldn’t ask you to do it alone, but I certainly don’t think I could do it alone, either. I just need some help, if you’re willing.”

Giles was speechless. Mr. Appleton wanted his help? “Did my mother ask you—”

“No. She doesn’t know I’m doing it and I wanted to ask you all on my own.”

Giles’ heart squeezed, but he couldn’t say why. “Of course.”

Mr. Appleton stood and gestured toward the door. “Shall we?”

Lucy walked Mrs. Crandall to the door and saw her out. Closing the door, she sighed. There had to be at least another hundred crates full of books to sort through. She’d only gotten through four crates in the past two days and at this rate, it might be autumn before she finished.

With a sigh she gripped the edge of the crate nearest her and pried open the lid.

“Anything worth keeping?”

“L-Lord Norcourt.” Her face flushed and slowly she turned to face him, her eyes widening. Next to him was Mr. Appleton. What were the two of them doing here together? “I don’t know what’s in there yet. I just opened it.”

“Well, then, let’s see.” Giles reached around her, his wrist grazing her abdomen and her skin tingling with excitement.

She cleared her throat, hoping it’d make her body quit responding in such a way to his nearness. It did not. “Mrs. Appleton asked me to put them away with the others…”

Giles didn’t say anything as he lifted out a large stack of books in his big hands. He turned them to the side and read the titles, his brow furrowing. “Where did these come from?”

“Here and there,” Mrs. Appleton explained, coming to join them. She took the books from him, presumably, so he wouldn’t have a chance to declare them to be rubbish and order them thrown out. “People donate books to the library all the time.”

“These books?”

Mrs. Appleton nodded. “Most of the books here were donations.”

“Perhaps it’s time you donate some of these to another library,” Mr. Appleton suggested, taking the books from his wife. “’Boats Afloat’,” he read with a chuckle. ‘Land, Ho!’, ‘Bow and Stern—Not just for the Schoolroom’”. The way he scrunched his nose up as he read the titles in an amused tone, nearly made Lucy giggle. “’Sailing to the Savages’,” he added, shaking his head. He set the stack of books down before reading the other titles. “These seem worthy of donating on their titles alone.”

“Oh, but someone might come in who wants to know all about ships or sailing,” Mrs. Appleton argued.

Mr. Appleton picked up the book on top and flipped it open. “This was printed in 1625, I’d imagine there has to be something newer since then.” He looked to Giles for support.

Giles shrugged.

Sighing, Mrs. Appleton said, “Oh, all right, that one can be donated.” She picked up the others and held them against her chest. “But these are staying.”

“Well, Miss Whitaker, I tried, but all I could manage was to get you one less book to dust.”

Mrs. Appleton shook her head, her lips twitching. “I wondered why you were here.”

“To rid this library of anything published before the pilgrims set sail and I’ve enlisted some help,” he said, clapping Giles on the shoulder.

“I see.” A smile split her face. “Well, then, I suppose I’ll let you two get started. But just so you know, even by your own statutes, this book—” she plucked Boat’s Afloat from Mr. Appleton’s fingers— “still falls into the acceptable years.”

“Very well,” Mr. Appleton agreed with a chuckle. “We’ll call for you when we’re done.” He dropped his voice to a stage whisper. “And we’ve already disposed of all the books we don’t plan to keep.”

Wagging her finger at him, Mrs. Appleton walked away.

“I suppose I’d better go help her,” Lucy said, feeling uncomfortable all of a sudden.

“Why?” Giles asked. “Nobody’s here.”

“He’s right,” Mr. Appleton agreed. “If you promise not to tattle on us and what we throw out, we’d be glad for the help.”

Lucy bit her lip. She shouldn’t. “I don’t think I can help you.”

“Sure you can. You know where everything goes, don’t you?” Giles picked up a large stack of books. “I don’t.” He turned the books over and separated the top two books from the pile. “Embroidery?”

Lucy took the books from him and rushed to put them away. When she came back, there were four more stacks of books for her to put away. Reptiles. Astronomy. Plants. Chess.

She hurried to put each type of book away and came back to find more piles, then repeated the process. It worked wonderfully for the most part, if not a little overwhelming sometimes. But after only five hours, they’d made their way through the majority of the crates.

“Who reads this?” Giles asked, staring down at a thick leather-bound book, his upper lip curling up.

“May I?”

Giles handed her the book. She read the title and giggled. Prim and Proper, the Way to be a Lady. “I know someone who might like to see this.”

“You do?”

His surprised tone and baffled expression made her smile. “Seth.”

“Seth?”

Lucy had the oddest urge to smooth the lines that had formed on his forehead when his eyebrows shot near to his hairline in astonishment. Instead, she nodded and said, “When we were living in Bath, Seth learned to read using etiquette guides.” She shook her head and sat atop a nearby crate. “I have no idea where the ladies who were teaching the group found so many books on the subject, but they used them as reading primers, nonetheless.”

“And he enjoyed them?”

“Perhaps not the books,” Lucy allowed. “I think it was more the ladies who were teaching him.”

“Have a fondness for his tutor, did he?”

Lucy moved her legs to let Mr. Appleton pass with a tall stack of books. Fondness wasn’t near an accurate word to describe Seth’s feelings. Affection was better, but still not quite strong enough. “It was the worst case of calf-love I’ve ever witnessed.”

“Calf-love?”

“Infatuation. Obsession. Undying affection.” Lucy shook her head ruefully. “I think he’d have asked her to marry him if she wasn’t already married to—” She broke off. Suddenly this memory wasn’t quite as sweet as she remembered.

“Did you not like her husband?”

“No, it’s not that I disliked him necessarily.” She noticed a loose thread on her purple cuff and developed an interest in fixing it.

“Lucy?”

She sighed and let go of the little string. “My father worked in the dairy on his father’s estate and when I came of age, I was a dairymaid there.”

“Did he treat you poorly?”

“Poorly?” She shook her head. That wasn’t a fair term to assign to Paul’s treatment of her. He’d always treated her well; it was his brother who hadn’t. Not until they were older and she had something he wanted from her, that is. “Paul was always kind. Even then.”

“Too kind?”

Lucy flushed violently. “Heavens, no!” She reached down into the open crate at her side and removed a stack of books. “Paul wasn’t that way. His brother certainly was, but he wasn’t.” She thumbed through the stack and removed a moldy book followed by one that had no binding left. “What made it so awkward was that Paul had proposed marriage to me when we were younger and I turned him down—for his brother.” She paused. That hadn’t been so hard to confess.

“His brother didn’t return the interest?” Giles asked, his rough voice startling her.

She pressed her lips together. “No.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice was so quiet she almost didn’t hear it.

“It’s of no account,” she said, waving him off. “Not all brothers are the same and neither are their intentions.” She was horrified as soon as she realized what she’d said. And even more so when Giles spoke again.

“No, they’re not.” He hoisted a tall stack of books out of the box and set them in his lap. “You shouldn’t let his actions keep you from making another match.”

Excitement shot through Lucy and she forced her now shaking fingers to pick up another set of books. Giles had a hard time articulating things. She knew this, but was it possible that he felt the same way for her that she did for him? “Are you offering, my lord?”

“No,” he practically shouted, then blushed, presumably at calling attention to himself with his answer. “I meant with Simon.”

Disappointment crashed over her and now her hands shook for an entirely different reason: mortification and dare she admit, devastation at being rejected so coldly. He didn’t mean to cause embarrassment or seem so cold, she reminded herself. It was just his way. “I see…” She divided her stack of books into three little piles of like subjects and placed the unusable books back into the empty crate. “So then you’d approve such a match.”

He looked up and met her eyes. “I’m in favor.” Something was in those green orbs of his that she couldn’t place. Likely the same thing that was in his tone. It wasn’t hesitancy, though, which was a point in her favor should she accept Simon’s offer to court her, she supposed. At the same time, it only served to devastate her more. He truly wasn’t interested.

Chiding herself for wishing that he was even the slightest bit interested, she stood. It was better this way. At least he’d been honest with her about his lack of interest. That was more than she’d received from Sam. She choked on her bitter laughter and lifted two squat stacks of books that needed to be put away and started toward the shelves. Simon was the safer choice. She’d known that all along and now that Giles had all but given her his blessing, there was no reason she shouldn’t encourage Simon were he to be brave enough to approach her again.

Simon was brave enough, it would seem. Determined, too. With just minutes before Mrs. Appleton was to lock up and force her husband and Giles to leave with her, Simon came into the library.

“Can I talk to you for a moment alone?” he asked Lucy, the color heightening in his cheeks.

“I don’t know if it’s proper for us to be alone—even for a moment,” she teased.

His color darkened. “Indeed. I’d just meant—”

Lucy waved him off. “I know what you meant. How about if we go over there?”

He looked to where she was pointing and nodded. When they were to where he might consider a safe distance from the others, he said, “I wanted to apologize about last week. I think I said something that was taken out of context. It would seem that I have been—” He broke off, snorted, and shook his head as if he’d thought of something humorous and perhaps inappropriate to say.

She could almost guess what it was, but had no desire to acknowledge it.

“Nonetheless,” he continued. “I’d like to apologize and ask if you’d reconsider—or consider for the first time—allowing me to take you to see part of London tomorrow.”

Just over Simon’s left shoulder, she caught sight of Giles. He was looking at her. Or at least he had been, until she’d looked at him and caught his eye. Then he immediately turned his attention back to the final crate he was unloading. She forced her gaze back to Mr. Appleton and she considered teasing him that it wouldn’t be proper for the two of them to go anywhere without a chaperone and thought better of it. He didn’t seem the sort to have a sense of humor. Clearing her throat, she said, “Yes, Mr. Appleton, I’d be honored to accompany you tomorrow.”

“Splendid,” he said, grinning. He reached for her hand, lifted it halfway to his mouth, and then gave it a slight squeeze. “I’ll see you here tomorrow at ten o’clock?”

“We’ll be ready,” she said.

Simon grinned. “I’m looking forward to it.”

SIXTEEN

Giles couldn’t help but wonder what he’d said wrong. But something hadn’t been right for whatever it was had caused every inch of him from the top of his throat all the way to his waist to feel as if it was being crushed in an invisible vise.

This horrid sensation had begun just after telling Lucy that she had his favor to make a match with Simon and had left him unable to eat or sleep ever since. To be truthful, he didn’t care what faults she might think followed her. Nor did he care about whatever might have happened between her and the two brothers from before.

His heart squeezed yet again. He shouldn’t—no, couldn’t—tell her so, but it would seem she had an unnatural ability to snare the attention of brothers. She’d done the same with him and Simon. Only she’d made it seem that both of the ones from before had not been genuine and he knew without question his feelings—and Simon’s—were genuine.

Groaning, he grabbed the nearby pillow and pulled it over his face. The sun was shining in through the open curtains of his room, telling him it was past time he should be getting up.

With a snarl, he thrust the pillow aside and threw back the red velvet coverlet. He had to get up and start his day. If he were fortunate, Mr. Appleton would have finished reading through that blasted document and could help him solve the mystery that seemed to be his life.

He rolled to a sitting position and combed his fingers through his hair, yawning. He was tired; there was no doubting that he wanted to sleep. He just couldn’t. Standing, he whipped off his long, white nightshirt and pulled on the clothes Franks had laid out for him. He could just ring for the man, of course, but why bother? He was capable.

An hour later, he’d breakfasted (one bite of a biscuit), read the newspaper (what he deemed important anyway) and paced the floor for a solid forty-five minutes.

With a sigh, he left the room and went across the hall to the room he preferred to keep locked. He’d never been allowed to have many things until recently. As a boy living in the orphanage, he’d shared a room with eleven other boys and each was only allowed to keep only what could fit under his bed. When he’d traveled the continent with Sebastian, they hadn’t had a lot of money nor room to keep things. Now, he had adequate room and a little more money than before. He tried to be temperate though and didn’t decorate his house beyond what was necessary. He also preferred a clean, somewhat empty room rather than one that was crammed full of furniture and cluttered.

But this room, this room was the only such room he’d filled and he kept it locked so everything would stay contained.

The sweet smell of drying paint filled his nostrils when he opened the door. He did a slow sweep of the room, taking in all the canvases he had propped up against the walls, drying. Almost a month ago, he’d agreed to have his mother host a party in his home so Sebastian could carry out some nonsense that involved helping his estranged wife make a match. When his mother had come to see about the decorations, she’d declared this room needed to be cleared and used for entertaining that night. A card room, she’d called it. He had worked diligently since that dinner party to put everything back exactly how he wanted it.

Giles shrugged off his red coat and blue waistcoat, discarded his cravat and turned up his cuffs. He loved to paint. Or draw with pencils. Or even charcoal. He slid open the top drawer in the scratched bureau where he kept his art supplies and scoured over the bottles of paint hoping an idea of something to paint would come to him so he could get lost in his art and forget about the romance budding between Simon and Lucy.

A sudden, incessant knock on his front door put that hope to an abrupt end.

Grumbling, Giles slammed the drawer shut and stalked to the door. He waved the butler off and wrenched open the door.

“Seth?”

Seth grinned, which did nothing to put Giles’ pounding heart at ease. “Can I come in?”

Giles stepped to the side to let the boy in. “Is everything all right?”

“Of course.”

“Then why are you here?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest.

“My mama and Simon went to some museum together and I had nothing to do.”

Giles shoved his hands into his pockets and fisted them tightly to take his mind off the jealousy that was bubbling up inside of him. “I see. They told you to come here so that I could entertain you?”

Seth shook his head vigorously. “No, my lord. It was my idea to come. I thought we should spend some time together.”

Giles raised his eyebrows. “You did?”

“Of course.”

There was no ‘of course’ to it. Something was afoot. “And why is that?”

“Well, don’t all uncles spend time with their favorite nephews?”

Giles choked. “Pardon me?”

“My mama hasn’t married Simon yet, but when she does you’ll be my uncle!” A wide grin split his face. “Isn’t that exciting?”

“Very.”

Seth laughed at his dry tone. “So what is it you planned to do all day?”

“Paint.”

“You paint?” Seth exclaimed, darting around Giles and going into his painting room.

Giles clenched his jaw. He’d never allowed anyone into that room. Not even his mother when she’d insisted on seeing it. He’d just said he’d have it cleared out for her. He stomped into the room, bent on scolding the boy and froze.

“You painted all of these?” he asked, standing in the middle of the room and slowly turning his head to take it all in. “I wish I could paint like that.”

“You should try.” Giles closed his mouth with an audible snap. What the devil was he doing encouraging the boy? “At home,” he added.

Seth frowned. “And where would that be, on top of my bed or Mama’s?”

“Yours.”

Seth pressed his lips together as if he were trying to suppress a chuckle. “That’s not funny.”

“I thought it was.”

“My mama sure won’t,” Seth said with a laugh that softened Giles’ resolve. “Now, will you teach me?

“Teach you what?”

“How to paint?”

“No.”

Seth blinked. “Why not? You said you were going to paint all day anyway. Will it matter so much if I’m here, too?”

“Yes. I don’t teach.”

Shrugging, Seth walked over to the bureau and picked up one of the brushes that were soaking in a cup of water. “All right, you don’t have to teach me anything, but can I stay?”

Giles knit his brows. “And do what?”

“Paint.”

“But you don’t know how,” Giles pointed out.

“That’s because you won’t teach me,” Seth argued, the corner of his mouth tipping up into the smile he usually wore. “But that’s all right. I’m sure I can paint something without any instruction.”

“How about without making it necessary to revarnish the wood?”

“I don’t know.” Seth frowned and lifted his shoulders. “Without anyone telling me what I’m doing right or wrong, I might make a big mess.”

The last of Giles’ resolve and unease about having Seth in the room evaporated. “Well, just see that you do it over there where the carpet runner is.”

“You look fetching today,” Simon commented as they entered a crumbling white building that had the word “Museum” sloppily etched onto the side.

Lucy flushed at his compliment. He was just trying to be kind. She’d been alternating between the two same gowns ever since she’d come to London. They were both in desperate need of a scrubbing or at least a beating. “Thank you.”

Simon guided her to the right. “I hope you like statues.”

“Of course,” Lucy lied. Statues? She’d seen a few when she’d lived in Bath and Shrewsbury, but hadn’t really given them a lot of thought. Especially not going to a museum to see a large number of them. Perhaps Seth got the better end of this bargain—even if he did have to spend the day cooped up at the library with a very sudden stomach affliction.

“Good. A friend of mine owns this museum. It’s more of his private collection, actually.”

“He has a private collection of statues?” Lucy asked around the sudden giggle that had formed in her throat. How unusual.

“Yes, he’s collected more than five hundred of them.”

“Just to display?”

“No. He used to have a large townhouse in London where he had them in the gardens or the conservatory.”

“Did he not think enough people were coming to see them so he decided they needed to be put into a museum?” When Simon didn’t laugh at her attempt at a jest, she sobered. “Sorry,” she murmured.

He started. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t even know what it was you said, but I doubt it was anything to be sorry about.”

Lucy slowly cast a glance over her left shoulder to see what it was that seemed to have caught Simon’s attention, but she was too late and all she’d been able to see was the bottom of a flaring, crimson skirt just before it slipped around the corner.

Simon cleared his throat and offered her a smile. “Shall we?”

Lucy walked where he directed and stopped in front of the first statue. It was about four feet tall of a woman standing with a bowed head and her hands pressed together in front of her as if she was praying. Lucy squinted. “Is her nose chipped off?”

“Yes,” Simon said quietly. “She was one of the Virgin Mary statues that were ordered destroyed when King Henry VIII overthrew the Catholic Church and ordered Catholicism banned and the churches along with their contents destroyed.”

“Someone saved her?”

“Yes. Perhaps someone who thought they could fix her. While in some places all of the statues and other decorations of the church were completely destroyed, in other places, they were merely ruthlessly taken down and damaged. To some that’d have been enough to make them worthless, but likely someone thought he had the skill to repair her.” He shrugged. “Or just didn’t care that she was incomplete.”

Lucy nodded and murmured her understanding. She didn’t intend to be cold toward something he obviously cared a great deal about, but all she saw was a statue of a noseless woman praying. She walked down to the next statue. It was another Mary. Though she appeared as if at one time she’d been identical, or very close, she had not fared nearly as well as the first Mary. This one was missing not only her nose, but her ears, too.

The next Mary was without most of her hair.

The next four Marys were missing different pieces, each one being less complete than the previous one. Lucy had to admit she was a bit unsettled that this man had collected so many broken Mary statues, but behind her, Simon took in each one as if it were the first time he’d seen it and it was some lost treasure he thought he’d never find.

Therefore, Lucy kept her lips pressed firmly together as they walked to the end of the first hall, which was made up entirely of statues of Mary. Twenty-three Marys if one wanted to be precise.

At the end of the hall they turned to the right and Lucy was slightly disappointed that she hadn’t been able to catch another glimpse of the lady who’d caught Simon’s attention earlier.

“These statues you might not find quite so interesting—”

Lucy wanted to groan. If he thought these were less interesting than the ones before, they must be terrible indeed.

“—I’m not sure where he found them, but I can certainly form a theory or two of why someone would be anxious to part with them.”

Lucy walked up to the first one and laughed. “Is that a unicorn?”

Simon scowled. “Yes. Isn’t it hideous?”

Compared to all of the praying Marys they’d seen, she didn’t think it was so bad. “I don’t know if I’d say it’s hideous. I’m sure it could be worse.”

“Ah, then you might enjoy the gargoyle.”

“The what?”

“Gargoyle.” He put his hand on the small of her back and just as quickly pulled it back. Clearing his throat, he pointed further down the hall. “It’s over there.”

Lucy walked to where he pointed, noting the serpents and dragons as she strolled by, then stopped when she reached this image of a half-man, half-beast standing on one hairy foot-claw with the other three raised and poised to attack with splayed fingers tipped with long, pointed nails. His mouth was open and his two dozen sharp teeth bared. His head was slightly cocked to the side with one eye opened wide and the other slightly squinting. He looked fierce. For something carved of stone, that is.

“Yes, I agree, this one is quite hideous.”

“Then I shan’t force you to gaze upon something so ugly for a moment longer. The next hall has more mythical creatures, but they’re nymphs.”

Lucy rounded the corner and cut her eyes just slightly to take in Simon’s reaction to seeing the beautiful young lady in front of them swathed in red. He gave her but a glance then turned back to the statues on their right.

“See, far more fetching than the gargoyle,” he said.

“Depends on who you ask.” She fingered the worn lace on her sleeve. “As a lady, I think I’d much prefer to see fierce men—or beasts—with their muscles bulging than naked young ladies lounging around as if they have nothing more to do than to sun themselves and let men lust after them.”

Simon developed a slight coughing fit. “I’d never thought of it that way.” He ran an open hand over his chin and momentarily flickered his gaze past her shoulder. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to have a fancy for ices, would you?”

“I’ve never had one,” Lucy confessed.

“Never?” Simon asked, his eyes flaring wide. He reached for her hand. “Then we must go find a vendor right now.”

Lucy did her best to keep up as Simon practically dragged her from the museum. She had the strangest feeling it had less to do with wanting to give her an experience she hadn’t had before and was more of his way of escaping past the lady who’d been there. There was something unusual about that, but Lucy couldn’t say what. Nor did she think it was her place to ask him.

Outside, Simon slowed down—but only a fraction and only because if he didn’t they might have been trampled by a horse.

Simon helped her up onto his phaeton before climbing up next to her where he took but a moment to get situated then snapped the reins. “There used to be a vendor two streets over, but I think he was shut down so we’ll have to go to Covent Gardens.”

Covent Gardens? They’d already traveled over an hour together to go to the museum. How much further would it be to go to the Gardens? “We don’t have to—”

“Nonsense.” He flashed her a grin. “I love ices. Besides, we’re only about half a mile away so be thinking of what flavor you might like.”

“What are my choices?”

“Usually lemon or pineapple.”

“Lemon,” Lucy said automatically.

“Lemon, it is.” Simon steered the horses down the street to where the ice vendor was standing with his little cart on the side of the road. “There he is.” Simon quickly found somewhere to park his phaeton and secured the horses before helping her down.

Just as her feet touched the ground, Simon released her and she frantically reached her hand out to grip onto the side of the phaeton to steady herself.

“Sorry,” he murmured, gripping her just above the elbows and trying to steady her. “I got distracted. I thought I saw—” He shook his head. “Never mind.”

“Was it the same lady from the museum?” she asked, allowing him to lead her toward the vendor.

“Miss Hughes?” There was a note of surprise in his voice. He gave his head a shake. “No. She only caught me unawares because I didn’t expect to see her there. Or anywhere to be quite blunt.” He dropped his voice to a stage whisper. “She’s rather an odd one. I thought I’d seen Isabelle just now, but I didn’t.”

“Is Isabelle a lady you should be taking for an ice today instead of me?”

He let out a sharp bark of laughter. “No. I think that might be met with some undesirable consequences.” He twisted his lips into an exaggerated frown. “The most likely being her husband’s fist against my jaw.”

“Her husband?”

Simon nodded and ordered two lemon ices from the vendor. The man took Simon’s coins and handed him their ices. “Is the bench all right or would you prefer to go back to the phaeton?”

“The bench.”

Simon walked beside her to the bench and once she was seated handed her one of the ices then took a seat beside her, but he didn’t start eating his own ice right away.

“At the start of the Season, I met Isabelle and after some convincing, she accepted my plea to court her.” He let out another bitter bark of laughter. “She never told me she was still married.”

“Still?”

Simon ate a spoonful of his ice. “She’d been involved in some sort of scandal a few years ago. Something about her trapping Lord Belgrave into a Gretna Green marriage.” His light tone would suggest that he really didn’t care about the scandal. Her heart warmed. Perhaps he really didn’t care about her past, either. “Rumor had it that as soon as they returned, the marriage was annulled.” His right shoulder went up in a stiff shrug. “I guess that fact was purely a rumor.”

“So they’d never had it annulled?”

“According to Giles, no.”

“And you still care for her,” Lucy concluded.

“No, no, not at all,” Simon rushed to say. “It’s for the best that Lord Belgrave never signed the papers.” He exhaled. “It’s also for the best that Giles told me the truth, for if I hadn’t left the house party when I did, I wouldn’t have been beaten nearly to death and gotten to meet you. Instead, I’d still be trying to woo a married Isabelle.”

Lucy wasn’t sure how much she believed him. She couldn’t argue with his travel timing, of course. But what of his calling his former love interest by her Christian name? If she were still married, she’d be Lady Belgrave, and if he wasn’t so convinced that she was still married, he should continue to call her by her maiden name. Referring to her as Isabelle seemed to belie his claim that his romantic interests toward here were nonexistent. Besides, Seth had found him only a matter of days ago. That didn’t seem like an adequate time for his feelings for Isabelle to have dissolved, which would mean his interest in Lucy was likely perpetuated only by his sense of loss of Isabelle. She stilled and waited for some sort of sadness or bitterness to touch her at the knowledge. But it didn’t. And that only confirmed they were not the right match.

“Is that the reason you and your Lord Norcourt aren’t so close?” she asked, more for a change of topic than out of her own curiosity. Or at least that’s what she told herself.

“You mean because he was such a distraction that I couldn’t properly woo Isabelle?”

Lucy knew by the expression on his face that as soon as he said those words, he wished he hadn’t. She cast him a weak smile. “Is that what happened?”

Simon raked his free hand through his brown hair and heaved a deep sigh. “I don’t know what happened.” He dropped his hand to his spoon and idly poked at his melting ice. “She’d agreed to let me court her before the house party. I thought I’d be able to woo her into agreeing to marry me, but then Giles came and—” He shrugged and released his spoon.

“Did he like Isabelle, too?” She closed her mouth with an audible snap. What had possessed her to ask him that? It wasn’t any of her business who Giles was interested in.

Simon shrugged again. “He might have, but I don’t think so.” He let out a sharp bark of humorless laughter. “Not that it would have mattered. I still think she would have chosen her own husband.”

“Then how did his presence effect your relationship with her?” Again, it wasn’t really her place to ask him such questions, but for some reason she was truly interested in his answer.

“I don’t know what to say to him,” Simon said at last.

“You mean because he doesn’t always understand what’s not spoken?” She prayed that’d be a delicate way to state it.

“That’s only part of it.” Simon kicked at the pebbles below their feet with the side of his leather boot. “We have no common ground, save our...er...mother.”

Lucy took his meaning, like her, he’d noticed the striking resemblance Giles had to Mr. Appleton and though it could never be spoken, had assumed they both had the same parentage. “Have you tried to talk to him? To build a relationship with him?”

Simon snorted. “Isabelle suggested the same thing and when I tried it all came out wrong and ended with both of us uncomfortable and me bound for Shrewsbury.” Though he smiled, it didn’t reach his eyes.

Lucy frowned. “Surely, that’s not the only time you’ve ever spoken to him.”

“Alone, it was.” At what he had to recognize as a doubtful expression on her face, he added, “I didn’t even know he existed until a few weeks ago when my mother insisted I come to some dinner only to find the host not only looked exceedingly familiar, but my mother was acting very friendly toward him and referred to him as her son.” He set his ice down on the bench next to him and folded his hands in his lap. “For the sake of appearances that night, my mother offered me some brief explanation of him being the child I always thought she’d lost while married to Lord Norcourt.”

An overwhelming sense of painful understanding cascaded over Lucy causing her heart to crack. She knew there was more to this family than anyone might have been comfortable to tell her, but now so much made sense. Why the two seemed to be at odds every time they were in a room together. Why Simon’s mood changed when Giles joined them for dessert. He’d tried to act polite, but it was just that: an act. Even why Giles seemed to dislike his mother so much seemed to fall into place. If she’d kept something like this from Simon, likely she’d kept something of equal consequence from Giles.

“Not that I want him dead,” he continued, breaking into her thoughts. “I don’t, so please don’t misunderstand. It’s just distracting. I don’t even know where to start with him.” He pursed his lips and twisted them. “Or with my mother. Giles wasn’t in a position to tell me about his existence, but my mother was.” He closed his eyes then shook his head. “I’m sorry. It really isn’t fair of me to burden you with all of this.”

“It’s not a burden,” Lucy assured him. And truly, it wasn’t.

“Are you ready to go back to the library?”

“I believe so, yes.”

SEVENTEEN

Giles was almost certain he’d spent the last three days sitting on a bed of nails and with each day that passed the points grew sharper and sharper.

He’d half expected on Monday afternoon that Simon would have darkened his door and demanded he not spend any more time with Seth. Not that Giles had done anything for which to be warned away from the boy, but he actually liked Seth and enjoyed his company and that was good enough reason for Giles to suddenly lose something—if history were to repeat itself.

On Tuesday, Mr. Appleton had come by only to assure Giles he was still looking into things, but he’d had to send a formal letter to Lord Cosgrove’s solicitor to request a few missing documents. He’d promised to return with more information when he received the documents and could review them. That was not comforting in the least.

Then on Wednesday, the fears from the two days prior had doubled with a simple line in the announcement section of the newspaper: Lord and Lady Belgrave were still officially married and had reconciled. Giles hated to seem selfish, but this was atrocious timing for him. This news might infuriate Simon or his father and make Mr. Appleton stop helping him, or worse, have Simon confront him and tell him to stay away from Lucy and Seth. Which was his right to do.

Giles closed his eyes while Franks set out his clothes for the day.

Thursday’s grand event came in the form of an eleven-year-old boy who wished to come paint again.

“Did you not get your fill of painting on Monday?”

“No.” Seth pushed his way into his house. “I was just putting the green on the trees when I had to go. I can’t leave them barren, can I?”

“No, I suppose not,” Giles agreed, tousling the boy’s hair. “Go ahead and start. I need to dash off a note to Lord Belgrave then I’ll be in to join you.”

The boy scampered away, making Giles laugh as he went to his study. He sat down and penned a quick missive informing his friend that he wouldn’t be able to meet him at White’s again today. Sebastian wouldn’t mind, of course. He was probably busy enjoying bedsport with his new wife and this only freed him up to do it more. Giles tightened his hold on his quill and counted to ten. He shouldn’t be jealous of Sebastian. His wife loved him. There wasn’t much more a man could ask for and Giles should be happy for him, not jealous that he himself was destined to die a virgin. He nearly snorted. He’d never even kissed a lady.

Giles tossed down his pen and made himself stand. He was not going to dwell on this. He quickly sealed the missive, then handed it to a footman and went to the painting room.

“It looks...nice.”

“You think so?”

No. It looked like the boy just swished the brush around in every which direction. But that might be Seth’s best and Giles wasn’t in a habit of making others feel bad for their shortcomings. “Of course.”

“You’re lying.”

Giles didn’t know how to react to such an accusation and hoped Seth’s smile meant he was only teasing. “Did you draw it out first?” he asked the boy.

“Draw what out?”

“What you’re trying to paint.”

Seth blinked. “No.”

“You should. It’ll help.”

“I’m not very good at drawing.”

Giles chuckled and picked up a pencil. “Sure, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Have you tried?”

His face turned the color of an apple’s peel. “Once.”

Giles sat down on his three-legged stool. “And?”

“It was supposed to be a cactus like the one I’d seen in a book.”

“A cactus?”

“It’s a tall, rounded plant that has thousands of needles poking out all over.”

“Ah, I’ve seen a picture of one of those.” An image of said cactus formed in his mind. “That sounds easy to draw.”

“I thought so, too,” Seth agreed as the color rose in his cheeks again.

“Was it not?”

“No, it was easy to draw,” he admitted. “Unfortunately, I didn’t make the two arms that flanked the trunk on either side thin enough or tall enough and when I showed it to my mama she squealed and asked why I was drawing my private parts.”

A rush of laughter came over Giles, wracking his entire body with mirth. “I’m sorry,” he gasped between fits of laughter. Truly, he didn’t mean to laugh at the boy, it was more the mental image of what the picture must have looked like and the horrified look that had to come over Lucy’s face that made him react so.

“I didn’t mean to,” Seth said adamantly. His quiet tone extinguished all of Giles’ laughter.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I did not mean to laugh at you.”

Seth blew out a breath and studied the thinning fabric in the knees of his black trousers. “I don’t know why she thought it looked like that. It had all those spines all over everything. I was only eight, I didn’t have hair there like Simon does.”

“Like Simon does?” Giles asked in surprise. While he didn’t doubt that Simon had sprouted hair in various places of his body, he wondered how Seth would know such a thing.

“When he was injured, we had to carry him inside and mama, she—” the boy’s face started to gain color at a rapid rate again— “she thought we should take his clothes off to tend his wounds. All of his clothes.” The boy lifted chin. “I wouldn’t let her. There are some things womenfolk don’t need to see.”

A range of emotions came over Giles, the most prominent being sympathy. He shouldn’t have laughed a moment ago. He knew better than anyone what it was like to be mocked about such matters. He’d forever remember the look on Sister Catherine’s face when she’d ordered him an ice bath and made him strip off his clothes. He couldn’t have been much older than Seth was and was humiliated by Sister Catherine’s response when she’d seen his naked body and called all the other Sisters in to see him before prevailing upon Father Thomas to explain to Giles the things she didn’t understand. He hated her for doing that to him.

“I’m sorry for laughing, Seth.” The words were practically ripped from his throat. “I shouldn’t have laughed. Can you forgive me?”

“Yes. I’m not upset, Lord Norcourt.” He bit his lip. “I just don’t understand.”

“About where you went wrong with your picture or the hair?” Though his face burned, he was glad he’d been able to get the words out.

“The latter.”

“You’ll get it,” Giles assured him. “We all do.”

“When?”

“Depends on the boy. Some are ten or eleven and some are fourteen or fifteen.”

“Fourteen or fifteen?” Seth shrieked as if it were an outrage.

Giles chuckled. “There was a boy at the orphanage with me who was fifteen and you’d have thought he’d have just been granted a trust with fifty thousand pounds the way he was celebrating.”

“Celebrating?”

“He didn’t think it’d ever happen.” Giles shrugged. “He was the last one.”

“Oh.” He continued to bite his lip. “So I might be fourteen or fifteen before…”

“Could be. Could be sooner.”

“How old were you?”

Giles idly scratched his neck and commanded himself not to become embarrassed. His conversation with the priest had been far less comfortable and he liked Seth too much to condemn him to such a fate. “Twelve.”

“Lord Norcourt—”

“Giles,” he corrected.

Seth’s face beamed. “Giles, can I ask you something else?”

Giles clenched his teeth together. He didn’t think he could take much more of this conversation. But neither did he want Seth to be forced to ask his mother or just not know. “Of course.”

“Why were you in the orphanage?”

Giles relaxed slightly. That wasn’t so bad. He crossed his ankles. “Well, when I—”

His words were cut off when Tarley, his butler, cleared his throat. “My lord, Mr. Appleton has come to see you. He’s waiting in your study.”

“Thank you,” he murmured to the butler. Standing, he turned to Seth. “This should only take a few minutes. I’ll answer your question when I get back.” He opened the bottom drawer of the bureau and withdrew a sketchbook. “Meanwhile, why don’t you practice your drawing?” He paused and playfully wagged a finger at the boy. “And no tallywags and whirligigs, you understand?”

Shaking his head ruefully at the boy’s laughter, Giles steeled his nerves for what he might hear and went to his study.

EIGHTEEN

“Which would you like to hear first, Lord Norcourt? The good news or the good news?” Mr. Appleton asked as soon as Giles entered the room.

Giles took his seat. “The good news?”

“It’s all good news,” Mr. Appleton assured him with a chuckle. He twisted his lips. “Well, it wasn’t all good news at first, but it is now.”

“What does that mean?”

Mr. Appleton put his booted ankle on top of his knee and ran his thumb along the edge of the papers in his hand. “I’m sure this won’t come as any surprise to you, but Lord Cosgrove meant to take advantage of you.”

A hard knot formed in his stomach and the blood drained from his head. Though why he had any reaction to something he already suspected, he didn’t understand. “I assumed so. He threatened to start selling my properties if I didn’t have a wife and an heir by the thirtieth anniversary of my birth.”

“It appears he’s already tried.”

Giles involuntarily snapped the quill in his hand. “Tried?”

“He was unsuccessful.”

“Unsuccessful,” Giles repeated slowly.

“The other man’s solicitor advised him against the transaction. Which is good or we’d have an entanglement.”

Giles idly picked at the dried paint on his fingers while the man continued. He didn’t want to admit as much, but he wasn’t entirely sure he knew what an entanglement was or how one would respond to it.

“He won’t be able to do so if you’re still unwed on your thirtieth birthday, either.”

“But he told me my father’s will stated that he should use any means necessary, including depleting any asset and accounts not entailed to the barony to make me see reason.”

“That’s because he wanted to bully you into doing what he wanted.” Mr. Appleton’s voice held a stern edge similar to the one Father Thomas used when he was angry. He blew out a breath. “I can’t know this for certain, but from what I’ve surmised he wanted to make a match between you and his daughter Lady Eugenia.”

Giles’ blood turned to ice in an instant. Were Lord and Lady Cosgrove and his mother and Mr. Appleton involved in some sort of scheme to take advantage of him? His mother had told him at that blasted house party she wanted to make amends and help him find a wife. Was her goal all along to have him marry Lady Eugenia? There seemed to be a shortage of air in the room all of a sudden.

“That’d be my reaction if being faced with marriage to her, too,” Mr. Appleton commented.

Gripping the edges of his chair, Giles said, “Thank you. You may go.”

Mr. Appleton froze. “I didn’t realize you had an interest in her. My apologies.”

“I don’t.” He took a deep breath. “But I won’t—” Won’t what? He racked his brain and his mouth moved. He clamped it shut before he could look any more foolish.

“Your mother didn’t know.”

Giles’ reeling mind stilled. “Pardon?”

Mr. Appleton sighed. “Please, forgive me. I’m not always good with words.”

“Neither am I.”

Smiling, Mr. Appleton said, “Then we should both agree not to react until the other has had a chance to make a full explanation.”

“A—All right,” Giles said, idly rubbing his thumbs along the wood of his armrests.

“Your mother.” He pursed his lips. “She means well. She does. And while I agree with you that she shouldn’t have involved herself in your affairs, particularly that of finding you a wife, she fell into Lord Cosgrove’s trap. Nothing more. She just wants to see you happy and treated fairly. She has no reason to see you marry Lady Eugenia. That was solely for Lord Cosgrove’s gain.”

Giles didn’t know why, but for some reason he believed him and it felt like a lead weight was suddenly lifted. “It all was a lie?”

“Yes.” He thumbed through the stack of papers and handed Giles the four on the bottom. “This is the former Lord Norcourt’s will. All of it. It looks more complicated than it is. I’ve read it over and there is nothing in it that states anything about allowing Lord Cosgrove to sell your assets or deplete your accounts.”

Giles scanned the lines. “But he is still the one who manages the funds?”

“No. Yes. That part is a little complicated.”

“It must be if it even makes an educated man like you confused.”

Mr. Appleton chuckled. “In the event of your mother’s inability to produce a suitable heir, Lord Cosgrove was granted limited control of your funds and assets. It would seem Lord Norcourt wasn’t overly trusting of his friend because he was only permitted to use the funds as needed for improvements to the barony in addition to paying your mother a jointure and sending you your designated allowance. That’s all. Anything earned was to be saved for your heir to inherit.”

Giles hoped his disappointment didn’t show. To Mr. Appleton this large sum of money might be good news, but to him, it meant very little if it was tied up in an account to be passed on to his heir. Not that he needed great wealth to be happy, but the meager allowance that the old baron had seen fit to bestow upon him could hardly cover his expenses. He might end up in debtor’s prison in his attempt to get an heir. Were he ever so moved to find a wife. Which he wouldn’t be. At eight-and-twenty only two ladies had ever caught the slightest bit of his interest. The first was already married, and the other… Well, she’d be married soon. And to his brother at that.

“Rather confident I’d have an heir, wasn’t he?” Giles forced.

“Nearly all gentlemen have an heir,” Mr. Appleton said. “It’s just not always a son. But yes, he was confident you’d have a son—” he paused a beat— “and I am, too. That, and your mother are the only two things the old codger and I ever agreed upon.”

Giles frowned and idly played with the plume on the broken quill. Apparently his father had thought with all of the money that would be in Giles’ coffers by the time he was of an age to marry it’d be enough to buy the affections of a lady who wanted to be baroness badly enough. He dropped the now flattened and matted feather. “Thank you for looking into this. I appreciate it.” Though clearly what he and Mr. Appleton considered good news varied.

“Have you an appointment?”

Seth was still here which meant he wouldn’t be going to White’s to meet Sebastian like he normally did. “No.”

“Good, then I’ll finish explaining.” He flashed Giles a smile. “I did promise good news, didn’t I?”

“I thought you already told me.”

Mr. Appleton’s top lip curled up, then transformed into a wide smile. “If that’s what you consider good news, this next part you might consider to be great.” He lifted his stack of papers up to his face and idly tapped the ends against his chin. “Hmmm. Can we make a bargain?”

“For what?” he asked between clenched teeth. Anytime anyone had ever wanted to make a bargain with him before, he’d come out with the rotten end. He tried to remind himself that Mr. Appleton didn’t seem that sort and unclamped his jaw.

“My information for your presence.”

“My presence?” Giles narrowed his eyes on Mr. Appleton, but damned if he knew what he should be looking for in the man’s face to give away that he had bad intentions. “I thought my money was being exchanged for your information.”

Mr. Appleton waved him off. “I’ll accept no coins for this. And—” he met Giles’ gaze— “I’ll still give you the information without your agreement to come to dinner at my house tonight. But if you’d like to, the invitation is there.”

Giles’ body relaxed. Mr. Appleton was sincere. “I’ll consider it.”

“That’s all I’d ask.” He lowered the stack of papers to his lap. “Simon will be there again, but don’t let that deter you. His mother—your mother—she meant well and given the circumstances, I can’t blame her too much for not having told him about you sooner.”

“Too many things to explain, I suppose” Giles said.

“No, too much hurt to relive,” Mr. Appleton said. “She just, well—” He sliced a hand through the air. “It’s probably best we not talk about this now. I’d hate to put a damper on your good news.”

“I thought it was great news,” Giles teased, relieved for the change of topic.

“Right, you are,” Mr. Appleton agreed with a chuckle. “Well, it’s not all great, mind you. Some of it can only be termed as infuriating, but I think everything considered, you’ll be satisfied.”

Giles just stared at him, anxious.

“Norcourt granted Cosgrove the right to act as your guardian and overseer of all of the funds until your twentieth birthday at which time you’d inherit or if a physician deemed you were of unsound mind you’d cease to be heir and the barony and everything Lord Norcourt owned would be transferred to his nephew.”

“He can have it,” Giles muttered.

“No, it’s yours. Well, most of it any way,” he amended. “Unfortunately, the majority of the earnings from anything unentailed over the last eight years have gone to Cosgrove’s coffers, but the rest is in a trust.”

“For my heir?”

“Yes,” Mr. Appleton said quietly. “Everything that has already been earned and deposited in that account is reserved for your heir. In addition anything else your barony continues to earn will be deposited into the trust, minus whatever funds are needed for the upkeep as determined by Mr. Forrester and Mr. Robins who have been appointed to act as the trustees until you are succeeded.” He pursed his lips for a moment. “However, the good—nay, great—news is that any future earnings on anything unentailed are legally yours and will be deposited in your accounts starting next month.”

The air left Giles’ lungs in a whoosh. “Is it more than thirty pounds?”

Mr. Appleton chuckled. “Yes. You’ll be very comfortable.”

“Th-thank you,” Giles said.

“You don’t need to thank me. I was glad to help.” He stood and handed Giles some papers from his satchel. “Keep these locked up for your records. I need to keep these for a few days longer if you don’t mind. I’ll bring them back next week?”

“Is there something unsettled?”

“Not unsettled, just undiscovered.” Mr. Appleton picked up his satchel and started for the door.

Giles followed him into the hall. “Can I ask what?”

“You can ask, but you already know my price.” He grinned and put on his coat. “I’ll be back next week with more details. Until then, if you’re available for dinner, we’d enjoy the company.”

“Thank you,” Giles murmured. He’d go have dinner over there at some point, he was sure of it. Just not anytime soon.

Mr. Appleton’s fingertips fell on Giles’ shoulder, staying him from opening the door. “If you’d rather not dine with all of us, but wish to come by for a game of cards or a drink, I’ll take that, too.”

Giles stared blankly at the man. He honestly couldn’t fathom why Mr. Appleton would want to have a drink or play cards with him. Even Sebastian didn’t invite him over for either of those pursuits. And yet, there was nothing about Mr. Appleton that made him think he was being baited with the invitation. Odd.

“I’ll think about it,” he lied, opening the front door.

Wordlessly, Mr. Appleton took his leave.

A whirlwind of emotions swirled inside Giles as he closed the door then stepped into his painting room.

“Sorry. That took longer than I thought.”

“That’s all right,” Seth said, his pencil moving back and forth across the paper.

Giles walked over behind Seth’s chair to see what he was drawing. “Is that a horse?”

“It’s supposed to be, but I can’t get his front legs right. The first time, they were too short—” he flipped a few pages back in the book— “then they were too long—” he flipped the page again— “and now they look too wide apart.”

“They look fine to me. Extend the lines of the body a little longer before you draw in the back legs.”

Seth made a few quick marks on the paper. “Like that?”

“Exactly.”

A slow smile spread across the boy’s face. “I thought you said you don’t teach.”

“I don’t. It was merely a suggestion,” he said, picking up another of his sketchbooks.

The clock behind him chimed the hour just then.

“I need to go!” Seth frantically tossed down the pad and pencil and scampered toward the door.

Giles reached for him to stay him. “You can take the paper with you if you’d like.”

“I can?”

“Just don’t bring it back filled with naughty drawings.”

“I can come back?”

Giles stilled. “If you want to.”

“I want to. I just thought…”

Giles knew exactly what he’d thought. He’d been left alone many times in a room by an adult who didn’t want to be around him. “Seth, as I said before, that meeting lasted longer than I expected. Next time you come see me I’ll spend the entire day with you.”

“Monday?”

“Monday will be fine. Are you sure you don’t want to spend time with your mama and Simon?”

“They need their privacy,” Seth declared.

“Privacy?” They weren’t even married yet!

“They’re courting. They need time to talk and such.”

“And such?” Giles choked out, heat rising in his face.

Seth twisted his lips. “Ride horses on some Row, sit on benches together, picnic at the park. I don’t want to do any of that.”

“You don’t?”

“No. I’d rather come here, if you don’t mind.”

“No, I don’t mind. I actually like you coming by, but don’t want to get in the way of your friendship with Simon since he’s to be your papa and all.” He hated the way his throat hurt as he said those words.

“Just because you’re not going to be my papa doesn’t mean we can’t be friends, too,” Seth said. “It’s the same as what Mr. Appleton said to you before leaving—he just wants to be your friend even if you don’t want to be friends with Mrs. Appleton or Simon.” He picked up the pad of paper. “I need to be going now. I’ll see you Monday.”

Giles numbly watched the boy walk out the door. Either that boy was extremely perceptive or Giles really should be locked away in an asylum. He hadn’t thought about Mr. Appleton’s attempts to befriend him as anything other than a means to get him to reconcile with his mother—something he was more inclined to do with each passing day anyway—he might be after a friendship.

He idly scratched the side of his pencil with his thumbnail. Would it be so bad to form a friendship with the man? He seemed to be genuine with his efforts to help Giles. Perhaps the next time he offered, Giles would accept his invitation.

NINETEEN

Lucy fingered the white lace that she’d just sewn onto the cuff of the blue dress that Mrs. Appleton had brought her yesterday. Mrs. Appleton had acted nonchalant about bringing her three gowns and even claimed them to be unneeded. Lucy hadn’t wanted to accept such charity, mind you, but her need for suitable gowns had far outweighed her pride and she’d graciously accepted the older woman’s generosity. They’d needed minor adjustments, of course. Some were done with just a needle and thread and others, like this cuff, had required new lace. Which she’d been able to buy and still managed to have a few coins left over that she planned to use to treat Seth.

The poor lad had been on his best behavior for her in the two weeks since they’d come to London and she thought it was time to reward him. It wouldn’t be much, of course, because she couldn’t be wasteful. Not that she had a lot to waste, but he did deserve something.

“How about if we go get an ice,” Lucy said, sitting down in the chair beside him in the corner of the library.

His head snapped up from behind the pad of paper he’d been drawing on constantly for the past two days. “What’s an ice?”

“It’s a treat.” She tugged the pad from his fingers and blinked at the picture he’d drawn. She wasn’t quite sure what it was, but it looked far more appropriate than the last thing she’d seen him draw. “That looks lovely.”

“Really?” he exclaimed, beaming.

“Of course.” She almost wished she hadn’t commented, for if he asked what she liked best about it, she wasn’t sure what she’d say. “Now, go put this upstairs so we can go and get back before dark.”

Thirty seconds later, Seth had deposited the sketchpad he’d found only heaven knew where upstairs and was ready to go. “Are we going to Covent Gardens to get the ice?” he asked as she locked up the library.

“No. There’s a vendor not too far from here.” She took an extra second to test the lock. “It’s just down the street.”

“Really?” The excitement in his voice was contagious and Lucy found herself grinning just the same.

“Really,” she confirmed, wrapping an arm around him. She’d never tell him, or anyone this, but she’d been looking forward to getting another ice since Simon had gotten her one the day of the statue museum. Something about that one had been tainted and made it hard to enjoy. She had every intention to enjoy this one.

“This is the way to Lord Norcourt’s house,” Seth commented.

Lucy nearly tripped. “Is it?” she said as airily as she could manage, though she knew very well that it was.

“Yes. It’s that one.” He pointed to a tall, tan brick house about four houses down.

“And how would you know?” She bit her lip. She shouldn’t have asked that, she should have just changed the subject while she still could.

Seth gave her a sideways glance. “We stayed there.”

Lucy blushed. Indeed, they had, but she hadn’t taken notice of his address then. She’d had too many other things on her mind that day.

“Besides, Simon pointed it out that night he brought us home.”

“Did he now? I don’t remember that.” It was the truth, too. She didn’t remember Simon saying anything about it being Giles’ house. Probably because she was too distracted watching his carriage stop there for him to get out.

“Should we stop and see if he wants to get an ice, too?”

Seth’s words brought her up short. “I’m sure he already has plans for the evening.” He was a lord, a peer of the realm, she could almost guarantee he had more important things to do than go have an ice with her and Seth.

“Oh, there he is—” Seth pulled away from her— “I’ll go ask him.”

Before she could reach out and stop him, he’d gotten away.

Tamping down her mortification, she joined them where they stood at the bottom of the steps that led to his house.

“Mama and me are about to go get ices, would you like to come?”

“Ice?” he clipped; a shadow crossed his face.

“Flavored ice,” Lucy supplied. “From a vendor.”

Giles’ puckered brow didn’t relax, nor did his set jaw. “Flavored ice?”

“To eat,” Seth said helpfully.

“I don’t like ice,” Giles said flatly.

Lucy had no idea how to respond to that.

Seth, however, had no reservation. “That’s all right. You can still come with us. Can’t he, Mama?”

“Seth, Lord Norcourt might have other plans already,” she said softly.

“He doesn’t,” Seth rebutted. “He said he was just on his way out to the park to look at a bird. There’ll be birds there tomorrow, so he can come with us tonight.”

It was on her lips to suggest that just because he didn’t have any pressing matter to attend to that he might not wish to join them, but was cut off when Giles said, “I’ll come.”

“Perhaps there’ll be something else you might enjoy,” Lucy offered.

Giles shrugged as if to say he didn’t care either way and offered her his arm.

Giles didn’t care what the vendor was selling, he’d enjoy the company and that was good enough.

“I think the vendor is just two more blocks up here, by the fabric shop.”

Giles knew where she was talking about. He’d seen the man peddling his goods. The man was dratted annoying, he was. Yelling and hollering to get people’s attention so they’d buy his goods. Had Giles had more coins in his pocket, there had been a time or two when he’d have bought something from the man just to close his mouth. Giles didn’t realize he’d sold ices, however, and might have hesitated before spending his coins on such a thing. He shivered. He hated ice. No, hated was too weak of a word. He detested ice.

“He’s right there,” Lucy said, giving his arm a gentle squeeze that sent fire through his veins.

As if he’d seen them coming from down the block, the vendor started running toward them. “Care to buy yer purdy la’y an ice?”

“Yes,” Giles clipped. “And the boy.”

The man nodded excitedly. “Yes, yes.” He waved them over to his cart. “Lemon or wine flavor?”

“Lemon,” Lucy said automatically.

“Eh, come now, ye’d like the wine flavor,” the vendor urged.

“No, thank you. We’ll take lemon.”

“At least try it,” the vendor encouraged, thrusting a cup full of a red substance into Lucy’s face, missing her nose by a mere half-inch.

“She said lemon,” Giles said, pushing the man’s beefy arm away.

“T’ree lemon ices, den,” the vendor said.

“Two,” Giles corrected with a shiver.

“Two?” The blond-haired vendor stared at them through his grey eyes, then suddenly a smile spread his lips. “Eh, yer gwine share it, aren’t ye?” he asked with a wink at Giles. “Ye’ll wish she’d asked for the wine, fer sure.”

Giles felt his face flush, but didn’t know what to say to assure Lucy he had no such interest in sharing her ice. Not that he thought for an instant she’d want to share her ice with him. That would be…odd.

“Here ye are,” the vendor said, pushing two ices in Giles’ direction.

He took them and handed one to Lucy and the other to Seth before fishing the coins out of his pocket to pay the man his price.

“Shall we go eat these in the park?” Lucy asked.

“You don’t have to come with me to the park,” Giles said.

Lucy swallowed a bite of her ice. “Nonsense. You escorted us to the vendor to get an ice and saved us from having to suffer that obnoxious man alone. We’d like to go with you to the park.” She lowered her spoon. “Unless you’d rather be alone.”

“No.” He cleared his throat. “Absolutely not. It’s just three blocks that way.”

By the time they arrived, Seth had no more than four bites left to his ice. Lucy, who must either not like the food or loved it and wanted to savor it, had eaten hers at a snail’s pace and still had most of hers left.

“Where is best to sit?” she asked, lifting her right hand to her brow and scanning the park.

“This bench.”

Lucy blinked down at the bench in front of her. “But won’t the leaves of this tree be in our way to see the birds?”

“Yes.”

“Then why would we sit there? Wouldn’t it be better if we sat over there under that large tree that’s by the water?”

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t we?”

“Your dress.”

Lucy looked down at her dress. “Pardon?”

“It’ll get dirty.”

“That’s all right,” she said. “Besides, if you were really worried about it, you could always be a true gentleman and remove your coat so I can sit on it.” She must not have meant to say that for as soon as the words were out, her face turned almost as red as that wine flavored ice the vendor had tried to accost her with.

“As you wish, my lady.” He offered her his arm, then led her to the spot she’d indicated and shed his coat. “Here,” he murmured, laying his dark blue coat out on the grass like a blanket.

“I was only teasing,” she said, laughingly.

Giles shrugged and patted the fabric until she relented and sat.

“Can I put my feet in the water?” Seth asked.

“I don’t know if you’re allowed,” his mother said.

“He’s allowed. People do it all the time.”

“Oh, all right, but roll up your trousers and do not go in past your knees, Seth.” She pointed a finger at him. “I mean it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, plopping down next to them and untying the laces on his boots. A moment later, his worn leather boots were off and so were his stockings. Then he was on his feet and racing away from them.

“Thank you for the ice,” Lucy said.

Giles nodded uncomfortably. “You’re welcome.” He stretched his legs out in front of himself and watched Seth roll up the bottom of his trousers and test the water with his toes. “Is it good?”

“Yes. Would you like to try some?”

Giles turned his head to face her. “No. I don’t like ice.”

“They’re a little tart, aren’t they?” she commented, licking her lips.

“You don’t have to finish eating it if you don’t like it.”

“No, I do.” She ate another spoonful as if to prove her point. “I was just saying that for someone who doesn’t like lemons—or wine—an ice might not be very enjoyable.”

“I like lemons,” he commented. “It’s ice I don’t like.”

“You mean actual ice?”

He nodded.

“I don’t like that, either,” she murmured, watching Seth wade into the water. “Though it’s cold, I always think it burns when it touches my skin.”

“When did you have an ice bath?” he demanded a little more angrily than he’d intended. He couldn’t say why, but the thought that anyone had made Lucy take an ice bath made him murderous.

“An ice bath?” she queried, giving him her full attention. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. I just meant when I don’t have suitable gloves or I’m asked to run outside to retrieve something and I bump an icicle with my bare skin. It burns.” She lowered her ice to her lap. “What exactly is an ice bath?”

Tension gripped his entire body. He’d let his incomplete thoughts get ahead of him and he’d spoken too much. “Nothing.”

“Did someone put you into a tub of ice, Giles?”

Whether it was her soft tone or the easy use of his Christian name, he might never know but something about her innocent question broke through the wall he’d tried so hard to erect to protect himself. “Yes.” He let out a deep breath. “But it was a long time ago. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“I’d say that it does if it makes you not be able to enjoy a most delicious treat,” she said. “Is it fair to assume this was done by the nuns at the orphanage?”

How did she know he’d lived at an orphanage? Seth. He’d probably told her. Giles mentally shrugged. “Yes. The Sisters thought it’d help drive out the evil spirits that had inhabited my mind and made me act a fool.” He frowned. “I guess it didn’t work. I still say foolish things.”

“No, you don’t,” she said.

“I assure you, I do.”

She shrugged. “Well, if you do then I must be going deaf because I don’t notice them.”

He knew she was just trying to make him feel better and he’d be lying if he didn’t admit it had worked. Slightly. “Thank you. But spend more time with me and I’m bound to say something you’ll think is foolish.” He clenched his fists. Why had he just suggested she spend more time with him? That was the last thing he needed. Was it not enough he was already attracted to her? Must he make his torment worse by suggesting they spend more time together?

“We all do that.”

He started. “Do what?”

“Say foolish things.”

She laughed, but not in the way she normally did. It sounded like it was forced and not really full of humor. “When I was a girl, I had these two playmates I mentioned before—both boys. One day I was outside looking up at the birds, like I imagine you’d rather do than be chatting with me.” She flashed him a smile. “Anyway, while I was on my back, staring up at the sky, the brothers came over and one asked what I was doing. I told him to be quiet that I was trying to watch for birds and I didn’t want them to know I was there.

“He scoffed and said that if I keep laying there the birds might think I’m dead and make me their next meal. I remember being horrified at the thought and before I could give much thought to my words, I asked if they thought birds made ‘humaning’ a pursuit. I then only made it worse by explaining that while birding is when we humans watch birds, humaning was the bird equivalent and suggested that birds flew around trying to see different varieties humans: tall, short, light hair, dark...” She buried her red face in her hands. “I have never been so mortified in my entire life. Even now, retelling it, I am just as mortified.”

“Don’t be,” he said, his heart on the verge of bursting. Nobody had ever shared such a humbling experience with him—excluding Seth’s confession to having been wrongly accused of drawing his private parts. “I’m sure they forgot soon enough.”

“They didn’t,” she said with a shaky laugh. “About two years later, the younger of the pair invited me to go with them to a menagerie. While there, the older brother asked if I’d come to look at the animals...or if I’d come so they could look at me.”

Giles winced on her behalf. “Boys are cruel.”

“They can be,” she agreed. “They can also be sweet when they want to be.”

He wasn’t so sure of that but didn’t want to argue. “You’d better finish off your ice before it melts.”

Lucy looked down and stirred her spoon around the cup. “There’s only a little left.” She lifted the spoon half-filled with the cold, creamy substance and pointed it in his direction. “Are you sure you don’t want to try a taste?”

Emboldened by her confession and statement about how he seemed to allow the nuns to keep him from enjoying ices, he leaned toward her. “Actually, I think I do.” Then before he—or she—could change his mind, he sucked the offered refreshment off her spoon.

TWENTY

“My lord, you have a visitor.”

Giles opened the drawer under the front of his desk and swept all the papers on top of his desk inside, then shut it. “Send him in.”

A second later Seth strolled through the door of Giles’ study, made his way straight to the pair of empty chairs that faced Giles’ desk and plopped down in the one on the left. “Ouch!”

Giles couldn’t help but grin. “I don’t think they’re meant to be comfortable.”

“Well, they’re not.” He moved his upper lip in a way that exposed the entire front of his teeth and wrinkled his nose.

“Would you like to do something other than paint today?” While he enjoyed painting and drawing, many of the other boys he’d grown up with hadn’t and he thought perhaps Seth might wish to do something else.

“What else do gentlemen do all day?”

Giles shrugged and poked out his lower lip. “Read the newspaper. Answer correspondence. Meet their friends at White’s—”

“What’s White’s?”

“It’s a club for gentlemen.”

“Can we go?” Seth asked, nearly bouncing off his chair.

“No.”

“Please?”

“It’s not for gentlemen your age.”

“Why not?”

“Because they talk about—” he waved his hand in a circle through the air— “things.”

“Things?”

“Things,” Giles confirmed.

“What kinds of things?”

“Gentlemen things.”

Seth’s green eyes nearly quadrupled in size and his jaw dropped. “They talk about their pizzles?”

Giles choked on his own tongue. “No,” he said banging his hand against his chest with so much force he knew he’d have a bruise there later.

“Then what do they talk about?”

Giles regained his breath. “Horse racing, cards, politics. Nothing of interest to a young lad.” He scoffed. “Or me.”

Seth crossed his arms. “You’ve never heard anything there that held your interest?”

“No.” Of course he hadn’t been completely honest when he’d told the boy what was spoken about. Even the pizzle comment was accurate in a way. There were some men, none who Giles wished to make further acquaintances with, who discussed their private parts and those of certain ladies they’d bedded. He’d found their talk and the images it put into his head uncomfortable at first. Now, it was just their talk that made him uneasy. He had no problem with imagining himself and Lucy doing any of the things he’d heard about.

“Giles?”

Giles snapped to present, blinking. “I’m sorry, lad. What did you say?”

“I asked what we’re going to do today.”

“Hmm.” Giles put his feet on the desk and crossed his ankles. “I take it you’ve little desire to read again today?”

Seth’s lips twisted. “No, my lord. I’ve read more in the past fortnight than I have in my entire life.” He looked around the room. “Do you have any games?”

“Yes. I have about a dozen decks of cards around here somewhere and a chess set. Which would you prefer?”

“Chess.”

“Very well.” At least he knew where the chess set was. He didn’t know how to play it, mind you, but he knew where it was. He stood and went to the far corner of the massive bookshelves. He’d stored the blasted chess set on the very top so he wouldn’t have to see the thing and as he came up on his toes, he almost wished he hadn’t. He stretched his fingers until they collided with the hard wood of the edge, then slid it down. “Can you pull that end table over here?”

Seth did as he was bade while Giles moved his wing-backed chairs so one was on either side of the makeshift game table.

Seth took his seat first and started unpacking the pieces. “What are the rules?”

“I don’t know. I thought you did.”

“No. I’ve never played.”

“Neither have I.”

Seth laughed, then froze. “You’re serious?”

Giles nodded, then in unison they both started laughing. “Sorry, lad. I don’t play games.”

“Ever?”

“Not unless I’m forced,” he said with a grimace as a painful memory of the dinner party his mother had hosted popped into his mind.

“But you’re a baron, I thought the lot of you knew how to play all games. That it was taught in the schools you attended.”

“It probably was. But I didn’t attend school,” he reminded Seth.

“That’s right. I’m sorry.” Seth idly spun a chess piece that looked like a horse. “Were you not allowed to play games at the orphanage?”

A sharp bark of laughter escaped Giles’ lips. “No. Father Thomas said if we needed something to occupy ourselves with, we should memorize the Bible.”

Seth’s eyes widened. “Did you?”

“Some.” He drummed his fingers along the edge of the table. “Do you know any games?”

“Draughts.”

“Do we need cards?”

“No, just a board like this one—” he gestured to the chess board— “and two different color circles.”

“Circles?”

Seth shrugged. “I don’t know what they’re called.”

Giles didn’t, either. “These pieces are two different colors.” He pointed to the ivory and onyx chess pieces. “Do you suppose we could use these?”

“I suppose so.” He counted under his breath. “There are too many pieces. We only need twelve of each.”

Giles picked up four of each color and put them back in the wooden box that held the game pieces. “There. Now there’s twelve of each.”

Seth wordlessly started collecting the black pieces.

Giles picked up the white ones and noticed that Seth was only putting his on the black squares so Giles put his on the white ones.

“No, they need to go on the black squares.”

“But mine are white.”

“I know, next time we’ll use the white squares if you want, but this time they all need to be on the four black squares of the first three rows.”

Shrugging, Giles did as Seth instructed, then waited while the boy explained the rules.

Move your piece over the other person’s pieces. That sounded simple enough.

It wasn’t.

At least not at first. Apparently, you could only “jump” your opponent’s piece at a diagonal, not straight forward. Not to mention, moving backward wasn’t allowed.

A half hour later and Giles’ luck had turned around and he was on his way to winning when suddenly Seth caught him unawares again. But not with a new rule this time. No, it was something completely different that came out of his mouth: a question.

“Giles, do you know where babies come from?”

The piece that Giles had decided earlier was shaped like an unnaturally thin phallus slipped from his fingers and hit the board with an echoing pop. “Yes.” He picked up his piece and for the second time wished he’d tossed that one out while ridding them of unneeded pieces. “Do you?”

“No. Not really.” He ran one of his thin fingers along the edge of the chess board. “I have an idea, but I don’t know.”

A sickening tightness formed in the pit of Giles’ stomach. Father Thomas had given him a brief explanation when he was a few years older than Seth. Not too many facts, mind you. Just the mechanics of what went where and what the results would yield. To be honest, he’d learned far more from sitting in White’s waiting for Sebastian to join him than he had from Father Thomas. But he still knew the mechanics at least.

Seth was too young yet to know. Wasn’t he? Perhaps he wasn’t. Father Thomas was loathe to talk about it with Giles and said he was only doing so because someone had to since Giles was still responsible for one day securing an heir. To all the other boys, he’d explained as often as he could how the best thing to do with their lives would be to become monks. Oddly enough, only one did. He blinked to staunch his meandering thoughts. Seth had come to him for an answer. Why he hadn’t gone to Simon, who would one day be his papa, with such an important matter, Giles wasn’t sure, but whatever his reason, Seth had come to him and he couldn’t not help him.

Clearing his throat, he said, “If you’ll tell me what you think you know, I can tell you if you’re right.” It was the best he could offer. The lad was still only eleven and hadn’t started changing yet. His mother might kill Giles if he told Seth everything he knew. At least this way, he was just confirming facts.

Seth hummed and tapped his fingers on the edge of the chessboard as he pondered Giles’ offer. “A—all right.”

“Seth, if you’ve changed your mind and you’d rather ask your mama or Simon, I understand.”

“No.” He bit his lip. “Unless you don’t want to talk to me about this.”

“Of course I do. I was merely surprised that you’d ask me.”

“Oh, well, that’s because I know you won’t lie to me or laugh at my lack of knowledge.”

“No, I won’t.” He moved his piece and took one of Seth’s men. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Seth moved his next piece. “Well, the woman has the babies.”

“Yes.” Giles moved another piece and captured another of Seth’s, leaving him with only two men.

“But there needs to be a man.”

“Yes,” Giles agreed.

“That’s the part I don’t understand.”

Giles shifted uncomfortably. “You mean his role?”

Seth nodded. “When we lived in Bath, one of the ladies I knew started getting bigger.” He held his hands out in front of him to indicate just how she was getting bigger. “When I asked her why her stomach was growing she said she and her husband were expecting a baby.” He picked up one of his pieces, then set it back down and met Giles’ eyes. “My mama’s never been married.”

Giles was at a loss of what to say. Seth was right, of course. Lucy had made it no secret to him that she’d never married. Father Thomas’s warnings of fathering children out of wedlock and awful repercussions resounded in his head. He pushed those thoughts away. That was the last thing Seth needed to hear. “You’re right,” Giles started quietly. “On both scores. A man does need to be present and your mother wasn’t married.”

“Then how—” He broke off with a sigh. “I suppose not every woman I’ve ever known who’s had a baby was married.” His voice was low and quiet as if he were trying to make sense of everything he knew.

Giles swallowed hard, praying the right words would come to him so Lucy—or even Simon—wouldn’t murder him for having this conversation. “Sometimes there is more to a situation or someone’s reasoning than we might know.”

“I know, but—” He shook his blond head. “I still don’t understand. Even if she never married, but a man had to be present. Then who is the man?”

“I don’t know.” Fortunately, it was the truth. For if Giles had known, he might have been tempted to tell Seth.

Seth twisted his lips, put his elbows on his knees, then leaned his chin against his palms as if he were about to get lost in deep contemplation. A moment later, he sat straight up. “Do you think it could be a lord?”

Giles wasn’t sure whether he should admire or be irritated at the lad’s obvious longing to be a nobleman’s bastard. “I don’t know.”

Seth took to his feet and started walking around the room. “It makes sense now.”

“What makes sense?”

“Why Mama doesn’t like lords.”

Giles frowned. “She doesn’t?”

“No. She usually snarls when she sees or hears of one.”

No wonder she’d chosen Simon. Giles never had a chance. “Did she ever say why she detests them so?”

“No. But if one is my father and he didn’t marry her, then it would make sense, wouldn’t it?”

Indeed it would. “I suppose,” he forced carelessly. Or as carelessly as he could, considering he wished there was a way to prove to her he was different before she married his brother.

“Now, I just need to find out which one.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

Seth stopped his pacing. “Because I want to know.”

Giles couldn’t argue with that logic, feeble and petty as it might be. “Why don’t you ask your mother?”

A loud snort rent the air. “She won’t tell me any more than she’ll tell me how a man puts a baby in a woman.”

“Perhaps when you’re older...”

“I suppose,” Seth muttered, falling back into his chair. “Was it my turn or yours?”

“Seth, have you ever asked her?”

“Not exactly. I tried to help her find a husband before she told me to stop because no respectable man would want her.”

That wasn’t true. Giles wanted her. Then again, was he really considered respectable? “Did you stop?”

“Yes.” He lowered his lashes. “You don’t think my father is like those men from Shrewsbury do you?’

It took Giles only a second to take his meaning. “No.” Honestly, he didn’t know, but it was bad enough not knowing who his father was, painting him as a rapist only made it worse.

Seth moved his piece.

“Is your curiosity satisfied, then?”

“Not completely, but well enough for today, I suppose.”

TWENTY-ONE

Three Days Later

Lucy was beside herself with worry. She’d gone out in the morning to purchase provisions and the last of the fabric for her new gown with the wages she’d been paid only to return to a vacant apartment. A quick search of the library that was closed for the day filled her chest with panic. Seth wasn’t there, either.

She didn’t even know where to begin to look nor did she know what danger might be out there waiting for him. In the weeks they’d been living in London, they’d either been in the library or with one of the Appletons. Never alone. No matter. She needed to find him and assure herself that he was all right. Who knows what kind of trouble a boy of his age might find for himself.

She rushed out the door of the library and locked it behind her, then dashed down the street to Giles’ house. She was only going to find him because he lived the closest, she assured herself, although deep in her heart she knew that wasn’t the only reason.

Heedless to the angry shouts of the carriage drivers and riders in the streets, Lucy tore down the street and straight to Giles’ house where she flew up the steps and pounded on his bright red door.

A moment later, the door swung open, revealing not a stodgy, greying butler as she’d expected, but Giles himself.

“I need help,” she exclaimed without preamble.

Giles’ strong hands closed around her upper arms and guided her inside his house. “What’s wrong?” he asked, wiping away a tear on her right cheek she didn’t even know she’d shed.

“Seth,” she cried. “He’s gone.”

Something flickered over Giles’ face that she couldn’t recognize and just as soon as it was gone, his hand was at the small of her back, and guiding her forward. Were she not worried about her son she might have melted at the natural feeling of his touch. Instead, it soothed her in a way she didn’t think was possible at the moment. On her back, his hand moved up and down rhythmically. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. His touch alone was enough to calm her.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered at last, steering her into the room his mother said he kept locked. “I thought you knew.”

Before she could ask what he meant her eyes fell on her son’s form as he sat on a stool in front of a canvas.

She was overcome with emotion and ran to him, not sure whether she should hug him or beat him. “What are you doing here?”

“Painting.”

Lucy blinked back her tears and looked to the white canvas he’d gestured to. “Is it a cloud?” she suggested with a sniffle.

“No. I’m not sure what I’ll paint on this one.” He jerked his thumb behind him. “I tried to do an estate with rolling hills and trees with the last one, but it doesn’t look right.”

Lucy squinted at the unrecognizable picture he’d indicated and pursed her lips. “Just how many times have you come here to paint?”

“Two,” Seth admitted with a visible swallow. “I mean this is my second. I came the first time you went with Simon, too.”

“First time,” she mindlessly repeated. Now she knew what he’d done all day when he’d claimed not to feel well and said he didn’t wish to go to the museum with her and Simon. “You’ve been coming here every Monday and Thursday, then?” So much was now making sense in her mind. He always seemed breathless when she returned from her morning errands. He was probably tired from having run back to the library to beat her. She glanced around the room at all of the paintings and drawings. Now the emergence of the sketchbook made sense, too.

“I’m sorry,” Giles said from behind her, his voice so soft and quiet she almost didn’t hear him. “I thought you knew he was coming here.”

She whirled around. “Well, I did not.” Flushing with shame at her outburst, she ran her open palms over her face. “I’m sorry, you didn’t deserve that. You did no wrong.”

Giles’ face remained expressionless. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I should have asked him if you knew.”

“No,” Lucy corrected. “He should have asked before coming instead of lying to me.” She turned toward Seth, her anger with him firmly in place now that she knew he was safe. “Why did you come here anyway?”

“When? The first time?”

Or any time? “You can start with that time.”

“Simon said he planned to take you to a museum and that I probably wouldn’t like to go.”

She could accept that. Given the choice she’d have rather spent the day with Giles, too. “And the other times?”

“Because you were gone. I just thought—” He broke off with a shrug.

“That you’d come prevail upon Lord Norcourt to entertain you?”

Seth blushed. “I wasn’t bothering him.”

Lucy snorted. “I’m sure you weren’t.”

“He wasn’t,” Giles said, shocking her to the toes and stealing her breath.

“Surely you’re just being kind,” she said once she’d recovered.

“No. He’s no bother.”

Lucy searched his face for some hint that he was hiding something, but if he was, he’d mastered a way to hide it. Her eyes traveled down to his white shirt and noticed the top button was undone and his coat, waistcoat, and cravat were all discarded with his cuffs rolled up around his elbows, revealing his strong forearms. He was quite dashing in a strangely disheveled sort of way. She blushed. “Thank you for allowing him to spend time here and being kind about it, but I know you have other things to do and I’ll make sure he doesn’t trouble you again.”

“It’s no trouble,” Giles said, his tone even and calm like it usually was. “He’s welcome to stay—and so are you.”

Lucy’s mouth went dry. Stay? She couldn’t stay. “Oh, I couldn’t,” she stammered. “I mean, I shouldn’t.” She squeezed her eyes shut. She’d do well to stop talking. “I can’t.”

“All right, then you go home and I’ll stay,” Seth said casually.

Frowning, Lucy said, “That won’t be happening.”

“Then stay,” Seth said, a hint of a plea in his voice.

Lucy looked to Giles. He shrugged. Which, was tremendously unhelpful, because it told her absolutely nothing about how he really felt. “We should go home,” Lucy stated firmly.

“You don’t have to.”

Lucy didn’t know who was more surprised by his words, her or Giles whose wide eyes and raised eyebrows gave away that he hadn’t meant to voice them. “It’s all right,” she said. “I appreciate your generosity toward Seth, but we can’t trouble you any further.”

His hand reached out to stop her. “It’s no trouble.” This time his voice was solid and sure. “Stay.”

“Yes, let’s stay.”

She barely heard Seth’s voice as he continued on about learning to paint over the loud thump of her beating heart.

“All right,” she whispered.

A grin wider than she’d ever seen split Giles’ face and his hand tightened a fraction. Blushing, he released her. “Do you paint?”

“No.”

“That’s all right.” He walked over to a scuffed up oak bureau that was positioned just a few feet away from where Lucy stood. “I’ll show you.”

An excited shiver skated up Lucy’s spine.

“You never showed me,” she heard Seth say followed immediately by Giles replying, “You’re not a lady.”

Giles could no more believe he’d invited her to stay than he could believe she’d agreed. “Brushes,” he barked. He cleared his throat and retrieved a small metal palate from the drawer. He gripped the material in one hand and snatched an empty cup from the top with the other. “Over here.”

Lucy followed him to the easel he’d positioned in front of the window. It was his favorite. He’d always liked open windows. It had been too dark in the boys’ room at the orphanage. He shuddered and set the brushes and cup down with an indelicate tap.

Grabbing the dry canvas on top of the easel with his right hand, he tapped the fingertips on his left hand on top of the stool. “Sit here.”

Lucy sat and repositioned her skirts while he turned to snatch her a fresh canvas. He caught Seth’s eye, but the amused boy didn’t say anything, just wagged his eyebrows. Giles couldn’t begin to understand why and continued about his business.

“What would you like to paint?”

“I don’t know.” Lucy tucked a tendril of her dark hair behind her ear and looked around the room at all the different portraits he had lining the room. He really should get rid of some of them. “I never thought about it before.” She met his eyes. “Apparently subjects never seem to elude your mind.”

Giles reached for the last unoccupied stool and dragged it over toward her and sat down. “Sometimes I have more ideas than I could possibly paint in a lifetime.” He reached for her hand and began removing her gloves so she wouldn’t soil them. “Other days my mind is as dry as the bottom of a paint jar that was left out without the cap.” A giggle passed her lips, doing odd things to his insides. He released her hand and cleared his throat. “Have you a fondness for—” he scanned the room to see what he’d painted that she might like— “sunsets or horses, rivers or mountains, farms or buckets—”

“Buckets?” she asked, craning her neck.

He pointed to the far end of the room where a canvas with a watering pail sitting atop a chipped and scratched wooden table was resting against the wall.

“Why a bucket?”

Her voice held no condemnation, so he answered truthfully. “I painted that the day I came back from your house in Shrewsbury. You’d asked me to fetch some water…” He trailed off unable to voice the rest.

“I see.”

Giles busied himself with opening jars of paints before she could see anything else.

“Have you ever painted a human form?” she wondered.

“No. I tried once, but I find it difficult.” He reached for the tan jar and removed the top. “You might do fine though.”

“I doubt it,” she said with a little giggle.

“You’ll only know if you try.” Another lock of her dark hair had fallen across her face. He carefully pushed it behind her ear. “Who would you like to paint? Simon?” he croaked, praying she wouldn’t agree to wasting his materials in such a way.

“No.” She pursed her lips and cocked her head to the left. “I think I’d rather paint you.”

All the air left his lungs in one swift whoosh. Him. She wanted to paint him. Unable to form the words to ask her why, he sat still and watched her go about selecting which brush she thought she might need.

“Are you going to give me instruction, or will I have to ask Seth how to paint with such splendor.”

“Pencil,” he croaked. Clumsily, he reached for the pencil that was near the paints. “Draw it first.”

Lucy took the pencil from him and brought the point to the canvas, a small smile curving her lips as she glided her pencil around to make a perfect oval. “I think I should start with faces before attempting anything more complex.”

Giles didn’t care what she started with—even cacti that resembled unmentionables if that’s what she wanted. He just enjoyed sitting next to her as she did it.

She tapped the end of the pencil against her lips as if she were trying to remember where facial features were located.

“I’m right here, if you need to cheat,” he whispered.

Her cheeks grew a fetching pink and she turned to look at him. He stayed still while she studied his face. “May I?”

Giles bit the inside of his mouth. He had no idea what she was asking, but not wanting to make a fool of himself by asking, nodded.

A second later, she lifted her delicate fingers to his skin. With her fingertips, she traced the contours of his face. His cheekbones, chin and jaw. She turned to the canvas and drew lines inside the oval. They were a little darker than he might have made them, but he couldn’t bring himself to correct her. He’d just have to mention something about using more paint to cover them when she was ready.

She turned back to him and tentatively touched him again. This time she felt his eyebrows and around his eye socket, then down his nose. Who knew being touched thus could excite him so. When she’d finished drawing in the outline of his eyes and nose, she brought her fingers to his lips, inflicting the worst torture imaginable on him as her fingers brushed over them then traced the outside edge. His groin hardened instantly and his lips ached to kiss her fingers—even just ever-so-lightly, but he didn’t dare. Instead, he shifted just enough to hide the way his erection tented his trousers and he trained his eyes on the canvas.

Without touching him again, she drew two flaring swoops down from either side of his chin, which he presumed was to be his neck, then she set the pencil down and reached toward the brushes that were in the water.

“Which am I supposed to use.”

“Any.” He coughed. “Excuse me,” he said, patting his chest. “Any of them will work. But I prefer this one—” he pulled out a brush with a medium-sized tip and handed it to her— “it’s easier to use for a painting such as this.”

“I thought you never painted people,” she said, dipping the bristles into the orange paint.

“I don’t.” He reached for the palate and the white paint. “You’d better mix these or I might look like a deformed carrot.”

She giggled and took the white paint from him. “Do I just pour it?”

“You could, but—” he snatched a large paintbrush from the water— “I prefer to just take a scoop from each color. He dipped his larger brush into the white paint and scooped a blob onto the palate, then did the same with the orange, putting that blob on top of the white one, then swirling them around.

“Thank you.” She took the palate from him and dipped her brush into the mixed colors, then brought her brush to the canvas. “Urp,” she squealed, moving her brush hurriedly down the canvas to keep up with the large drip that had slid off the end. “I told you I wasn’t good at this,” she said on a sigh.

“Nonsense.” Giles took the brush from her and smoothed out her strokes. “Less paint.” He dipped her brush into the mixture, then wiped a little off the side and handed it back to her.

Lucy brought the brush back to the top of where the coloring was on the canvas and started brushing this way and that way, right and left.

Giles covered her hand with his. “This way,” he whispered against her hair, leaning forward and helping guide her hand smooth and slow along the canvas.

If Lucy’s skin heated another degree she just might disintegrate into a pile of ashes. Thankfully, Giles seemed oblivious to her body’s heated reaction to him as he repositioned himself behind her and helped guide her hand’s brushstroke. He moved their hands down to the pool of paint and refilled her brush before guiding her hand back to the canvas and helping her move it.

“That’s it.” He abruptly let go of her hand, leaving Lucy to feel bereft at the loss of his warmth and a fool for feeling that way. “I’ll be right back. Keep doing that. It looks good.”

Behind her, she heard him and Seth exchange a few words about dragons or some such creature. She shuddered. Dragons made her think of that museum she’d visited with Simon. She stilled her brush. Simon. He’d come to see her the day before at the library to ask if she’d be willing to go to Covent Gardens with him. She’d declined. Politely, of course. She truly did need to spend the day working on her sewing, she’d even intended to repair the holes that were in knees of three of Seth’s five pair of trousers. She lowered her lashes and put more paint on her brush. Truly, she shouldn’t enjoy being in his company this much. He was just being polite to her, she reminded herself as she finished filling in his face.

“Ready to do the eyes?” Giles asked, resuming his seat next to her.

Lucy reached for a thinner brush and twisted her lips. The jar of green resembled a lime’s peel. Certainly not a hue that would do justice to his emerald eyes. “Is this the only green you have?”

“I had another, but it’s covering that canvas.” He gestured to Seth’s rolling hillside mixed with dense forest. “Perhaps you can find a thick blob that’s still drying from last week to use,” he suggested, grinning.

“Traitor,” Seth called in mock indignation. “First you help her, then you let her steal from my masterpiece.”

“Cool your heels,” Giles soothed. “That paint is so thick there’d be no way she’d get any off now.” He handed her both the white and the brown. “Mix that green with either of these until you get the color you’d like.”

“Hmm.” Lucy’s bold fingers reached up toward his face and brushed back the hair that had fallen into his eyes. Of course she already knew he had eyes the most beautiful shade of green she’d ever seen a gentleman have, but she couldn’t very well pass up this opportunity to study them, could she? They were an unusual shade of green, almost both light and dark at the same time. Overall, they appeared dark, but a light shade of dark. She frowned. That really wasn’t an adequate way to describe them. She’d seen light green eyes before, so light they almost looked hazel in some light or blue in others. Seth had eyes that color. So had his father. She swallowed. Giles’ were different. They were darker. But not so dark that it’d be easy to confuse them for brown at a distance. They were very distinctively green. Like an emerald.

She pursed her lips together, debating how she’d manage to mix such a color. First, brown and green, then she’d add white, she thought. She should turn back to the colors, but she couldn’t. Not yet. She started. Why not? Unease came over her. She was attracted to him.

Pulling her hands away, she turned back to the paint. Of course she already knew she was attracted to him. But now there was no way she could deny it. Taking a deep breath, she mixed the colors in a fruitless effort to make the color of the eyes that held her captive today and likely always would, then began painting. Though she knew she shouldn’t, she’d allow herself this one day to enjoy his presence and nearness and hoped it’d be enough to last a lifetime.

Giles idly picked at the hangnail on his thumb with his index finger. He could sit and watch Lucy paint all day. He practically already had and he enjoyed every blissful moment of seeing her delicate profile, complete with a slight smile that pulled at the corner of her lips. That smile, as small as it might be, was enough to make a man fall to his knees, try to move mountains, or do anything else she might ask of him.

Including wave off his butler no less than three times before he could announce that the midday meal had been served. Which is exactly what Giles had done.

As three o’clock neared, Lucy’s painting was almost complete. Well, almost as complete as it could be. She’d mastered his image perfectly. Perfectly, that is, to him. He didn’t think it was possible to care less that the image she’d painted teetered on the edge of being frightening—especially to those of a young age. He was far too distracted by the bright smile that filled her face and the tingling and burning sensation it set off inside him.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Tarley enter the room, presumably to inform him again that the midday meal was ready. If the grumbles of Seth’s stomach were any indication, he’d better not turn the man away again.

“Give us but a moment,” Giles said before taking a look at the portrait on the canvas. “You did well.”

“Yes, he looks like he belongs in a fable, Mama,” Seth commented, coming up behind them.

A crease formed between Lucy’s bright blue eyes. “You think so?”

“Yes, ma’am. He makes the perfect villain with the long crooked nose, snarling lips and bulging eyes.”

Giles opened his mouth to chastise the boy for mocking his mother’s efforts when suddenly a peal of infectious laughter filled the room as Lucy clutched her stomach with one hand and covered her mouth with the other.

“I’m sorry,” she choked out between giggles. “I—I—I—” She broke off in another wave of laughter. This time Giles was unable to hold back and joined her and Seth in their merriment.

“The only thing he’s missing is a hairy wart on the end of his nose,” a masculine voice said from the door.

Lucy’s laughter halted instantly. She bounced off her seat, her knees hitting the bottom edge of the canvas as she did so. Paying no mind to the wet paint she’d just gotten on her dress, she faced the man who’d just spoken, the delicate column of her throat working convulsively.

“Sebastian.” Giles took to his feet and impulsively reached for Lucy’s hand. He gave her a reassuring squeeze. “I didn’t expect to see you today.”

“No, I guess not,” Sebastian said, his lips twitching. “I received your note earlier and thought I’d come by to invite you to join us for dinner tonight.”

“We haven’t even had lunch yet,” Seth informed him.

Sebastian chuckled. “You haven’t? Then perhaps all three of you ought to come over to my house for dinner. Belle would enjoy some female companionship, I’d wager,” he added with a pointed look at Lucy.

Lucy’s delicate hand grew stiff in Giles’ grasp. “I—I—We—” She licked her lips.

“Only need to arrive at six o’clock with nothing more than an appetite.” He winked. “But if you insist I allow you to paint my portrait before dining with us, I shall order all the necessary materials brought to the drawing room so you and Belle can poke fun at me together.” Then, without letting Lucy accept or reject his invitation, he slipped from the room.

“We must go,” Lucy breathed as soon as the front door closed behind Sebastian.

“There’s no argument from me on that score,” Giles said. He lifted an eyebrow toward Seth. “You?”

“No. I’d love to have dinner with whoever that was.”

“Absolutely not,” Lucy said, pulling her hand from Giles’. “You know what I meant. Seth, gather your things so we can go home. I think we’ve imposed upon Lord Norcourt long enough for one day.”

Giles’ throat constricted. What had he done wrong? “Lucy,” he rasped, reaching for her.

She moved away.

“Don’t go.” He raked his hand through his thick hair and pulled. It did nothing to help him find the right words to stay. “We don’t have to go to dinner with Sebastian and Isabelle, but you don’t have to leave.”

“Isabelle?” He wasn’t entirely certain but it seemed that her voice faltered.

“Sebastian’s wife. He calls her Belle, but her name is Isabelle.” He closed his mouth with a snap. There was no need for him to prattle. Surely she had already made the connection.

“If your friend married Isabelle, then I certainly don’t think it’s wise we go.”

He jammed his fisted hands into his pockets. “Why not?”

TWENTY-TWO

Why not? There were dozens of reasons she and Seth shouldn’t go with Giles to his friends’ house for dinner. The least of which being that it would be highly improper considering she and Giles were not wed. Her heart squeezed painfully, but it didn’t make it any less true. She hadn’t had any business spending the day with him even and less enjoying herself so much. Joining him at his friends’ house for dinner made the impropriety of it all scores worse than it already was.

“Do be serious,” Lucy said, forcing a laugh and unable to meet his eyes. “I’m the daughter of a servant who used to work for nobility, I have no place at a lord’s dining table.” Unless seated there in the role of his mistress. The sting of Sam’s cruel words to her the day she’d informed him that she’d conceived sounded in her head, and she winced.

“Lucy?” Giles’ warm hands framed her face, an amused expression on his own and a hint of laughter in his eyes. “I’m the only one around here allowed to woolgather.”

A nervous burble of laughter lodged in her throat and she pulled back. “My apologies, but we need to be going.”

He dropped his hands, his face falling simultaneously. “What have I done wrong?” His ragged tone tore at her heart.

“Nothing.”

“Remember, Mama doesn’t like the titled,” Seth whispered, then added, “Not to worry, I do.”

“Seth,” Lucy practically hissed. If the floor were to suddenly open and swallow her at this exact moment, she wouldn’t voice a word of protest.

“Thank you, Seth,” Giles said, his tone impossible to decipher. “As for your mama—” his green eyes sought hers— “perhaps she might grow a fondness for one if she spent enough time in his presence.”

Lucy’s breath hitched at the implication of his words. He’d said something similar to that the other day when they were at the park. She’d done her best to ignore it then, but she couldn’t ignore it now. Did Giles have a romantic interest in her or was he being inarticulate again? She moistened her lips, unsure what to say.

“Sebastian is my closest friend,” he continued. “He’s always been most kind to me—even before he knew I had a title. His wife, Isabelle or Lady Belgrave now, is just as genuine. They won’t judge either of you for anything. They have no reason to.”

Lucy nodded her head numbly. Here she thought he’d been expressing an interest for her to spend more time with him and he’d just been trying to persuade her to join him for dinner with his friends. She pushed away the sadness and disappointment that threatened to creep over her. “I really shouldn’t,” she protested. She gestured to her gown. It was still the best one she owned. “I’m really not dressed for such an occasion.”

“Neither am I.” He threw a glance over his shoulder. “Neither is Seth.”

Despite herself, she smiled at his logic. “But you have something you can change into that would be appropriate, I do not.” It wasn’t a lie. She’d worn her favorite purple gown today, the cast off from Lord Kresson’s daughter, and though the gowns his mother had given to her were nice, they weren’t what most would consider dinner attire.

“I don’t think they invited us so they could scrutinize your clothes,” Giles said, his tone not giving anything away.

“All the same, they are your friends and they’d like to visit with you, not us.”

“Not at all. I’m tedious.” He traced one of his long, blunt-tipped fingers down the length of her nose at the pace of a feather floating from the sky. “You’re not.”

A hard, inexplicable knot formed in Lucy’s throat, either from his words or gesture, she didn’t know. “You’re not tedious,” she whispered. “You’re anything but.”

Something unnameable flashed across his face and Lucy wished she could take back the words. But it was too late, she’d just let on to how much she already thought of him “So will you join us tonight?”

“I can—”

He pressed his fingers to her lips, halting the rest of her protest. “I just heard an agreement. Didn’t you, Seth?”

“Yes, I did, my lord.”

Reluctantly, Lucy pushed Giles’ fingers away from her lips. “That doesn’t count. Besides, I’m serious, I cannot attend any dinner dressed like this.”

“Are you saying that if you were wearing a different gown, you’d go?”

She narrowed her eyes on him. He had something in mind. But what, she didn’t know. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t deny it, either,” he murmured. He swallowed in a way that made his Adam’s apple bob. He was nervous. And yet, seemed to be pressing forward.

Lucy’s resolve crumbled to dust. For a reason she couldn’t begin to comprehend, he genuinely wanted her to go with him to his friends’ house. “No, I didn’t,” she agreed. “But I can’t wear…”

“Dinner is not for—” he withdrew his timepiece and bit down on his bottom lip with his white teeth— “three-and-a-half hours. Surely we can find you a suitable gown in that amount of time.”

Lucy would have argued at the impossibility, but couldn’t bring herself to dash his hopes so cruelly. Instead, she flashed him her best smile and said, “If you can find a suitable gown in time, then I’d be delighted to go.”

A sparkle lit in his green eyes that bespoke of all sorts of mischief. Mischief she didn’t understand, but made her giddy nonetheless. “Seth, ring for Tarley.”

A moment later the butler arrived.

“Tarley, have all of the chests retrieved from the attics and brought into the drawing room post haste.”

“Yes, my lord.” The butler bowed and left the room.

A sinking feeling settled in the pit of Lucy’s stomach. “I don’t mean to be rude—”

“Then don’t be,” Giles broke in. He wagged a playful finger at her. “You said you’d go if I found you suitable attire.”

“Yes, I did.” She idly picked at the cuff of her gown and twisted her lips. How did she tell him this without demeaning or belittling him? She took a deep breath. “None of those will fit right.”

“With alterations they might.”

A snort rent the air. Followed by a loud, echoing pop as Lucy’s hand covered her mouth and nose when she realized it’d been her who’d made such a rude noise. “Forgive me,” she murmured, removing her hand. Flames licked her face. “I appreciate your efforts, but there won’t be enough time to make the alterations those gowns might need to fit me.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you having all the chests brought down?”

“To find something suitable.”

She wanted to groan in frustration. He wasn’t making any sense. She clutched her hands into her skirts and stepped aside so he could brush past her, Seth right behind him.

She followed.

Across the hall in the drawing room, a footman set a large chest on the floor, and turned to go back after another.

Giles lifted the lid of the chest and untied the ribbon that held the large cloth in place that wrapped the clothes to keep them fresh. He peeled back the blanket and frowned. The gown on top looked as if it had been made for royalty. It was a dark, shimmery purple with a vibrant gold trim around the bodice and cuffs with intricate needlework covering the bodice. “Not in here,” he muttered, dropping the lid with a bang.

No, Lucy agreed in her mind, there was likely nothing in that box that would be fitting for her to wear. Ever.

The footman brought in another box and paused a moment to wipe his sweaty brow.

Giles scowled as he made quick work of picking through the next chest. He slammed the lid on that one and stood, just in time to make way for the footman. When the man put down his chest, he gripped him above the elbow and walked with him into the hall where they spoke in whispered tones.

“I suppose this means we’re going back to the library,” Seth stated flatly.

Lucy did her best to ignore the sadness in his voice. “Is it so bad to dine with me, then?” she teased.

“Not at all,” Giles said from the door. He flashed her a smile. “Can you come here a moment.”

Hesitantly, she crossed the threshold and came to an abrupt stop when she nearly collided with a maid. “Yes?”

“Millie here will help with your hair and anything else you require.”

Lucy blinked at him. “Pardon?”

“I know I’m a chambermaid, but I used to do my sister’s hair when we were girls,” Millie said, her round, red face beaming with pride.

“It’s not that,” Lucy assured the greying woman. “I don’t have a gown.”

Giles seemed to have developed a sudden deafness because he stepped past her as if he hadn’t heard her and went back to the trunks. He knelt down and fiddled with the lock of the next one and made a flicking gesture with his free hand.

“This way, ma’am,” Millie clucked.

Lucy should protest. This had gone far enough. It wasn’t possible for him to find her a suitable dress in the under three hours they had left before the dinner was to start. Instead, she found herself being led up the stairs to the sparse bedroom she’d occupied only a few weeks before.

A sense of warmth came over her when she walked inside. She couldn’t say why she liked being in the room, but she did and the thought unsettled her.

“It looks like you only got a little paint on the front of your gown,” Millie commented, pointing at the front of her purple skirts.

Lucy looked down and gasped. How had that gotten there? She lifted her skirt and tried to wipe it off. But it was dry. Changing tactics, she used her thumbnail to try to pick it off.

“Don’t fuss with it,” Millie said, pulling at her skirt. “Lord Norcourt stains his clothes with paint all the time. I’ll just take this down to the kitchens to scrub the stain while you bathe.”

“Bathe?”

“It won’t be a full bath, I’m afraid,” she confessed, blushing. “It’d take too long to heat up enough buckets, so you’ll just have to use a basin. I hope that’s all right.”

No. It wasn’t all right. It wasn’t all right at all. It was nonsense. This whole dinner invitation and expectation that she could attend with him was nonsense. “Thank you, but I really don’t see—”

“I know.” Millie’s soft voice brought her up short. “Sometimes Lord Norcourt doesn’t make sense, and sometimes he does,” she allowed. “I’ve only been in his employ a short time—about a month or so, to be honest—but it’s been long enough to learn two things about him. First, he’s odd. I’m sorry to say it, and I know I’d get sacked if anyone else heard me say it, but it doesn’t make it any less true. He’s odd and his brain…” She shrugged. “Well, it works differently than others, I’ve noticed.”

Lucy had noticed that, too. Not that it was a bad thing, it wasn’t. Not at all. It just made it hard to know what to say or do sometimes. “The second thing?”

Millie chuckled. “That fella always has a plan. No matter how strange, obvious, or unimaginable by anyone else it might be, he always has a plan. Always. I believe this trait is actually part of the first, but you can’t fight him, you just have to trust him.”

Lucy blinked at the older woman. If she didn’t know any better she might think this lady had formed an affection for Giles. Not a romantic one, mind you. It was more a motherly type of affection. “All right. I’ll trust him.”

Giles had a suspicion that she didn’t think it would be possible for him to find her adequate attire. But perhaps that was only because she didn’t know how badly he wanted to spend more time with her—selfish ingrate that he was. He stiffened and lowered his lashes to stare down at the chest that had just been placed at his feet. She was Simon’s lady. He had no right to coerce her into going to dinner with him. Her spending the day with him was far more than he could have ever asked for. But oh how he wanted just a little more time with her and Seth.

Falling to his knees, he flipped open the top on the fifth chest that had been brought down. Who knew his mother had packed away so many of her gowns and those of her mother and the Lady Norcourt before her. One thing was certain, if he ever married, his wife wouldn’t lack for gowns if any of these ever came back into fashion. Even if they didn’t, surely they could be altered to fit if she desired it.

He released a breath. His wife? Likely he’d never have one of those. He tightened his grip on the lid of the chest and mindlessly untied the chord. Even if his father’s will demanded he marry or be disinherited, he wouldn’t. He couldn’t possibly imagine marrying anyone but Lucy. An iron weight lowered onto his chest. It wasn’t fair to her or him or even Simon for him to think of her that way. He freed the knot in the string and then pulled the blankets apart.

“I don’t think these will work, either, my lord,” Seth said on a sigh. “They’re not even gowns.”

Giles grinned with excitement. “I know.” He released his hold on the lid of the chest and used both hands to sort the clothing. Memories of when he’d last seen them filled his mind. He might have been the simple son of a baron, but he was still of nobility and on the occasion that the Sisters would take the boys to a village, he was always to be dressed in finery. He hated it. Rather than making him feel important, it made him more uncomfortable. As if everyone was staring at him and laughing at his plight. He despised the clothes and refused to wear them when not forced to. As he outgrew them, they’d been returned to London. He hadn’t cared one way or the other what had happened to them at the time, but they’d be perfect for Seth.

Giles withdrew a white shirt, green coat, yellow waistcoat, dove trousers and even a pair of black shoes with a hideous silver buckle across the top and tossed them into a pile at his feet. “This is it. You can take these chests back up, now,” he said to the footman who’d just come back into the room. “Take these clothes to the kitchen and see if Franks can work some of the wrinkles out, then have him bring them up to my room.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Seth?”

“My lord?”

“I thought I heard you call me Giles earlier.”

“I did.”

“Good, then I shouldn’t have to ask you to do it again.” He crossed his arms over his chest and cocked his head to the side. “How old did you say you were again?”

“Eleven.”

“Hmm.” Giles leaned forward and made a show of squinting as he assessed Seth’s face.

“What are you doing?”

“Counting the hairs.”

Seth’s hand flew to his face. “What hair?”

“Those hairs.” Giles tapped Seth’s hairless jaw an inch away from his ear then straightened. “Well, boy, it looks like you might be in need of a shave.”

TWENTY-THREE

Lucy dunked the cloth to the basin, lifted it and stilled. Was that laughter she heard from next door. Setting the cloth back into the bowl, she padded over to the connecting door and pressed her ear against it. A smile pulled at her lips. She’d been correct. It had been laughter, loud, rich masculine laughter. Both Seth and Giles seemed to be laughing. Her heart warmed. What could possibly be so humorous?

She pressed her ear harder against the door, but it did no good. She wondered if it’d be possible to open the door a crack and peek in. She bit her lip. She was in her chemise and most definitely didn’t wish for them to see her thus; likely they were in a similar state of undress and wouldn’t want her to see them, either.

What if she peeked just a little? She pressed her forehead against the door. Peek a little? Weren’t those the same thing? Shaking off the thought, she pressed her palms to the door and willed herself to push away. But when another round of laughter filled the air, she couldn’t move.

With a promise to herself that she’d try to only look at their faces and if she saw anything, she oughtn’t, she’d immediately close the door, she gripped the doorknob and slowly twisted it. She slowly eased the door open a crack and peered in with one eye.

Her eye landed instantly on the pair. Giles stood with his back to her, and Seth faced him. He was rubbing his face. She squinted. They both were. She couldn’t make out why though. She opened the door just a fraction more to give her a better view. Her heart slammed in her chest. Shaving lotion. Closing her eyes, she shut the door. Seth was too young to need to be concerned with shaving for a few more years. But that mattered very little. Giles had made him feel special and important and if she wasn’t already convinced of it, there was no denying it now, she was in love with Giles.

“Is something wrong, ma’am?”

She whipped around to face an inquisitive Millie, blushing. “No.” She licked her lips. “I was just…er…” She broke off and plucked at her chemise. “Is my dress done?’

“Almost. I got the stain out easy ‘nough. Now it needs to dry.” She walked over to the vanity and removed a silver brush from her apron. “Now, about yer hair…”

A half hour later Lucy was in need of a tonic for a headache. Her hair looked nice though. All pinned up on top of her head in a tight bun with two circles of curls pinned around it. Millie wasn’t the gentlest, but she was talented.

“Wait here and I’ll be back with yer gown.”

Lucy wouldn’t argue with that. There wasn’t anywhere else she could go clad in only a chemise. A few minutes later Millie returned with the same gown she’d been wearing for over a week. “I take it he didn’t have any other gown?”

A strange look came over Millie’s face. “No. You can wear this one.”

No, she couldn’t. It was too plain to wear even for a simple dinner. She wasn’t overly familiar with nobility, but she did remember the lady referring to the gown as a morning gown when she’d purchased it. “I don’t think—”

Millie cleared her throat. “Remember what I said earlier?”

Right. Giles always had a plan. Even if it seemed impossible to others. She sighed. Even if she had to wear this gown, she couldn’t refuse to go now, both Giles and Seth were anxious to attend. “All right.”

“Very good,” Millie chirped.

Careful not to muss a single hair and chance Millie insisting she fix it, Lucy put on her gown while Millie went to fetch something else.

She fastened the last button and slid her feet into her slippers, taking a moment to appraise herself.

“Lovely.”

Tingles ran up her spine. “Lord Norcourt.” It was only by a miracle that she’d remembered to address him so formally.

Giles walked up behind her and looked at her in the mirror. Not to be denied the same privilege, she took a moment to look him over, too. Clean shaven, dark blue jacket over a red waistcoat and white shirt, his cravat was tied into a perfect mathematical knot with an emerald stickpin that was a perfect complement to his eyes in the middle.

She caught his eye in the mirror and blushed. “Is it time to go?”

“Not yet.” He trailed his fingertips down the slope of her neck, then pulled them back when he reached her collar bone, his face turning crimson. “I’ve something for you.”

She moved to face him. “Oh, no, I cannot accept anything.”

“That’s good. This isn’t mine to give. It’s borrowed.” He lifted his right hand and there resting on his open palm was a beautiful silver butterfly brooch.

Lucy’s eyes widened at the sight of all those beautiful rubies and emeralds encrusted in the outlines of the wings. If she wasn’t mistaken a solid piece of pale green jade was the body. “That’s beautiful,” she breathed. “But I cannot wear it.”

“Yes, you can.”

She took a step back. “No. I can’t.”

He blinked his eyes twice. “Why not?”

“It’s too nice.”

“It is nice,” he agreed. He flipped it over and unfastened it. “But not too nice. Here. You’d better put it on yourself or I’ll prick you.”

Hesitantly, she took the brooch from him and turned to the mirror to put it on. When she was finished, she turned around to see him holding out a purple shawl.

“It’s not the same hue, but it should match nicely,” he murmured, carrying it toward her. He wrapped it around her and winked. “I told you that you’d have suitable attire for tonight.”

“Indeed you did.”

And not only had he seen to her attire, but her prince disguised as a baron had seen to Seth’s as well. Swathed in sharply pressed fabrics of green, yellow and dove (and a freshly shaven face, of course), he cut a dashing figure himself. Lucy’s heart squeezed as she took him in and it was all she could do not to kiss Giles for the kindness he’d shown to both her and her son.

Sebastian didn’t live far from him and usually he walked, but he’d insisted on the carriage tonight for Lucy’s privacy. Not that it’d matter so much. Nobody knew who she was and only a fool would be daring enough to call upon either Sebastian or Giles to inquire about her identity.

Giles shoved his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching for one of Lucy’s as they climbed the steps to Sebastian’s townhouse. He’d tried to reassure her that she’d have a good time tonight. Openly touching her might put her back on edge rather than reassure her. He didn’t want that.

“Can I bang the knocker?” Seth asked.

Giles’ mind went back to the incessant knocking Seth had rendered on his door the first time he’d come over. “Twice.”

Seth immediately gave the brass knocker two hearty bangs.

Goosey, Sebastian’s butler greeted them stiffly. Goosey didn’t think too highly of Giles as it was, he could only imagine what the man must think now. No matter. He’d never put much stock in the opinions of others. Usually, they were unkind where he was concerned so he found no reason to care.

The butler showed them to the drawing room and paused to ask Lucy for her name.

She froze. “I can’t,” she whispered.

Goosey remained impassive for a moment then lifted a haughty brow. “And what is your name, young man.”

Giles lifted a hand toward the butler. “Give us a moment.”

Pursing his lips, the man took a step back.

“Lucy?” Giles searched her pale face. “What’s wrong?”

“This.” She swallowed visibly. “I shouldn’t be here.”

Giles knew that feeling better than she might think. He reached for her hand and led her a few feet down the hall so they could whisper in privacy. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have forced you to come.” He clenched his fists. “I just wanted—” He broke off, unable to tell her how he felt without making a fool of himself.

“What?” Her silky tone was like a balm to a fresh cut. “What is it you wanted, Giles?”

Blood pounded in his ears at hearing his name on her lips and all logic and restraint went with it. He instinctively framed her face with his hands. “You.”

“Me?”

Gulping down his unease, he nodded. “You. I want you.”

She lowered her lashes and lifted her trembling fingers to his wrists. “I can’t.”

“I know,” he admitted though it broke his heart to do so. She was Simon’s. Not his. He released a shaky breath and lowered his hands. “I’ll take you home.”

Lucy felt like such a fool. She should have never allowed herself to be talked into coming here. She wasn’t of the same class as Giles. He might not be the kind to make a display of his money or power, but he was still a lord and she was still but a poor, fallen commoner. Their worlds were very far apart.

“Thank you. I appreciate it.” She reached for him. “I—I didn’t mean to make a fool of you by taking me here only to leave this way.” She didn’t know why she wanted to assure him of that, but she did.

He pulled away and straightened, his movements jerky and uneven. “It’s all right.” The hurt in his voice was unmistakable. “Let’s tell Seth and—” He broke off, his green eyes widening.

Lucy whirled around to see what he was looking at and her heart plummeted. “Did he?” she choked, unable to finish her question.

Giles nodded once. “I didn’t see him do it, but I don’t know where else he’d be.”

Just then, Lord Belgrave poked his head out of the drawing room. “Do the two of you plan to join us or will Belle and I have the privilege of dining with this fascinating young man alone?”

Lucy could have dissolved on the spot. Who knew what Seth had said to Lord and Lady Belgrave to get him styled as “fascinating”? Frankly, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

“We’re not staying,” Giles said.

Lord Belgrave’s face gave nothing away. “I mean no disrespect, I’m sure he’s a good lad, but I don’t think there is much more for the three of us to discuss. As it is, he just finished telling us all about how you showed him how to attend his toilette.”

A giggle borne of equal parts nervousness, discomfort, and mortification escaped Lucy’s lips.

“Sebastian, don’t be so dismissive. You could use a lesson or two on the matter,” a petite red-haired, green-eyed lady teased, joining Lord Belgrave in the threshold of the drawing room and completing Lucy’s mortification. Smiling, the lady, who Lucy could only presume was Lady Belgrave or Isabelle as everyone else called her, scooted past her husband. “Are we already walking to dinner?”

“No, Giles thought to make a quick escape and might have had I not come to check on him,” Lord Belgrave said playfully.

Lady Belgrave’s eyes softened and she shifted her gaze between Lucy and Giles as if she was trying to puzzle out the reason. Finally, she settled on Lucy. “This is all most improper, isn’t it?” She clasped her hands together. “Why, we haven’t even been properly introduced. I mentioned to my husband that little fact might pose a large problem with you wishing to join us, but he didn’t seem to think so.” She shook her head and sighed. “He didn’t think so, of course. But then again—” she brushed her gloved fingertip over her lips and dropped her voice to a loud whisper— “he also thinks it’s perfectly acceptable behavior to enter rooms through the windows rather than using doors.”

Another burble of laughter escaped Lucy’s lips, then yet another when her husband added, “And did you expect me to use the door in the dead of night and chance being seen? We’d have been forced to marry in a trice.”

“Apparently, we already were,” Lady Belgrave parried, winking at Lucy. “Only I didn’t know it.”

Her husband placed his hand on the small of her back. “You do now and so does the rest of London.”

A slight blush Lucy couldn’t place stained Lady Belgrave’s cheeks. She cleared her throat. “Well, now that my scandals have been aired, shall we have a proper introduction then go to dinner?”

Giles caught Lucy’s eye, a silent question in his. “I’d be honored to,” she said with as much bravado as she could muster.

The meal was a grand affair—at least to Lucy—with six courses, including custard for dessert. Thankfully, Seth was allowed to dine with them. If he hadn’t been, it might have been a very uncomfortable dinner for all as Lucy struggled to keep her mind on anything other than the broad form next to her and the excitement he created by just being in the room.

When the meal was over, the men invited Seth to join them in Lord Belgrave’s study for whatever it is that men did in there while Lucy and Lady Belgrave went to the drawing room.

“I wanted to apologize again for Sebastian’s tricks this afternoon. He means well, but sometimes I think he was on the continent too long to know what proper manners are.”

“It’s partly my own doing,” Lucy admitted. “If I hadn’t been over at Lord Norcourt’s house today, he wouldn’t have seen me and expected that I was his mistress.” Though why his friend would want to invite his friend and his mistress over to dine, she’d never understand.

“Is that what you think?” Lady Belgrave burst out laughingly. She shook her head. “Sebastian thought no such thing. As far as I know, Giles has never had a mistress.”

“He hasn’t?” The words were past her lips before she realized it.

“I don’t think so.” Lady Belgrave popped the back of her slipper off her heel and shook her foot a little to each side. “I don’t know him well, mind you. We only met less than two months ago actually, but from what Sebastian has said about the more than five years they toured the continent together, I don’t think he has.”

“They toured the continent together for more than five years?”

“I suppose there was a lot to see,” Lady Belgrave said with a shrug. She pushed her foot back into her slipper. “Sebastian never told me why Giles was touring for so long, likely because he doesn’t know.” She snorted. “He says he didn’t even know that Giles had a title until the night Mrs. Appleton, the former Lady Norcourt, hosted a dinner party.”

“Do you mind if I ask why your husband toured for so long?” Lucy asked just to make conversation and stave off the impending uncomfortable silence that was threatening to engulf them at any second.

“I’ll be glad to tell you, but you owe me an answer in return,” she said with a grin. Then, before Lucy could retract her question, Lady Belgrave continued. “Surely you’ve read in the scandal sheets about the young lady of common birth who trapped a lord into marriage by posing as her sister during their assignation? I am that young lady and my husband was the lord. The scandal sheets embellished the story a little, but the gist of it is accurate enough. On our return from Scotland, our carriage was in an accident that left me abed for a long while, and spurred by some bullying by both of our fathers, he fled the country.”

“Your father must be quite terrifying to make a man flee so long,” Lucy murmured, tamping down a pang of jealousy. Her father hadn’t even tried to confront or appeal to the man who’d done Lucy wrong. He’d condemned her for her own stupidity and barely spoke to her again.

Lady Belgrave smiled ruefully. “Actually, he is. But I think there was more to it than that. Have you ever done something wrong, and you want to make it right, but so much time has passed that you just don’t know where to begin to make amends? That’s the real reason Sebastian took so long to return. He didn’t know where to start to repair what he’d broken.”

“What brought him back?”

“I came to London to find a new husband. Only I couldn’t marry since he’d never signed the papers. My turn.”

Lucy’s palms grew damp in a second’s time. Lady Belgrave might be a commoner with a few scandals attached to her name, but none were as damning as Lucy’s.

“How do you know Giles?”

The question caught her unawares. She thought Lady Belgrave might ask about Seth’s parentage, not how she knew Giles. Lucy eyed her askance. Why was Lady Belgrave so interested? Did she think Lucy was Giles’ mistress? Suddenly uncomfortable, she quickly explained about Simon’s injuries and sending for Giles.

“Simon asked you to send for Giles?” Lady Belgrave said, her mouth slightly agape.

“He is his brother,” Lucy supplied. She hoped that didn’t sound nearly as unkind to Lady Belgrave’s ears as it had to her own.

Lady Belgrave nodded slowly, her jaw still unhinged. “I’m just surprised that’s all.” She lifted her hand to her hair and idly twisted a fallen lock around her fingers. “I knew Giles had left the house party the day after Simon and Sebastian did, but nobody knew why he left.” She released her hair. “I expected it to be because his mother was driving him mad, not that they’d made amends and were suddenly claiming a relation.”

So much of her last statement echoed Lucy’s perceptions of Giles and his family. Giles and his mother did have a stilted relationship, but it was far more loving than the one he had with Simon. The two didn’t hardly utter a word between them, and looked at the other even less. She bit her lip. Should she ask Lady Belgrave what she knew about this? It was obvious she knew something of the pair. She might also know why Giles was wont to evade his mother, which presumably was the reason Lady Belgrave thought she’d drive Giles to leave the party early.

Loud footfalls coming down the hall ended her chance to ask. Which was probably for the best.

“Ladies,” Lord Belgrave greeted with an overdone yawn and a wink in Lucy’s direction.

“Ready to go?” Giles asked without ceremony.

Lucy and Lady Belgrave exchanged a look. “Of course,” Lucy said, standing.

Lord and Lady Belgrave walked them to the door where Giles’ carriage was already waiting for them. With a quick goodbye and an expression of gratitude for the meal, Lucy hurried to Giles’ carriage. It was silly, she knew, for it was too dark outside for anyone to see and if someone did, they’d never recognize her. Still, deep inside, she felt like a fraud for attending such a dinner with Giles and his friends tonight. Pushing away the thought, she made herself comfortable inside the carriage.

Seth climbed in next and automatically found a seat across from her. Then Giles climbed up and sat next to her, his body touching hers from her shoulder to her knee.

The carriage lurched forward and Giles struck a match. He lit the sconce then blew out the match, a companionable silence engulfing them all.

In the low light, she saw a flash of silver in Seth’s hand. She strained to see. “Seth, is that a flask?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And why do you have it?”

“It’s for drinking.”

“Yes, I know that.” She fought to keep her voice even. “But why do you have one?”

“To drink from.”

Lucy ground her teeth, irritation swelling in her chest. Letting him shave his nonexistent beard was one thing, allowing him to drink whiskey was quite another. “Did you drink from that?”

“The whole thing,” he said proudly.

On the verge of hysteria, she looked at Giles. “You let him drink that whole thing.”

He nodded slowly then leaned close to her. “Don’t tell him, but I filled it with lemonade.”

His words took all the anger right from her being, the air from her lungs, and the resistance of him from her marrow and with nothing holding her back she did the one thing she’d never thought she’d do: she kissed him.

TWENTY-FOUR

Giles went rigid. In every way possible. Lucy was kissing him. It wasn’t one of those long, lippy kisses he’d witnessed while walking down a back alley in Paris. In fact, it wasn’t even on his lips, but rather on his cheek. His cheek that now burned as if she’d touched it with a branding iron.

Her hand found his and she gave him a gentle squeeze. “Thank you.”

He didn’t know what she was thanking him for, but whatever it was, he’d have to do it again if it made her react this way.

The carriage bounced, jarring him from his trance. “Can I come inside?”

Lucy’s hand stiffened briefly in his, then relaxed. “You wish to talk to me?”

“Yes, please.” He squeezed her hand, a memory of the night he’d walked in on her being attacked flashed in his mind. “Only to talk. Don’t be afraid of me.”

“I’m not.”

He held her hand until they reached the library then tried to help her down. He’d had no problem helping her in and out of the carriage before, but this time it was different. In his study, Sebastian had encouraged Giles to tell Lucy exactly how he felt about her. He’d even claimed that he suspected she might feel the same. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t have spent the day with him or agreed to go to his friends’ for dinner—even if she’d tried to leave as soon as they arrived. Her kissing him could only be further proof. Now, he just needed to find some way to put his feelings for her into the right words.

Lucy handed Seth the keys and he ran inside, clutching tightly to the trinket Sebastian had allowed him to keep. Giles opened the door for Lucy and followed her inside.

“Thank you for today,” she said, lighting the candles in the candelabra.

“You’re welcome.” He raked his hand through his hair and took a deep, calming breath. Words swirled in his head. “What about tonight?” He cringed. That wasn’t what he’d wanted to say to her.

“You mean having dinner with your friends?” She slid the shawl off her shoulders and started to fold it. “It was enjoyable, too.”

“Enjoyable.”

Her throat worked. “They were very kind to me.”

Something was off. But what could it be? He racked his brain. She’d been uncomfortable when they’d first arrived, but she’d seemed fine at dinner. In the carriage she’d seemed fine, too. More than fine, even. Otherwise she wouldn’t have been so intimate with him. Had something happened when he’d been away from her? Isabelle had been nothing but kind to him. He couldn’t fathom her being cold to Lucy. “Was Isabelle?”

She made the last fold on the shawl, then removed the brooch and handed them both back to him. “Of course she was. We had a lovely discussion. It’s easy to see why Simon was so upset about losing her.”

Her words were the equivalent of a fist to the gut. Had she been thinking of Simon the entire time they’d been there? Paralyzing embarrassment overcame him, rooting him to the floor. Around him, the room spun. Lucy said something, but he couldn’t make it out. He was a fool. Fire burned in his gut ten times stronger than it had when he was mocked as a boy. He had to leave. Go home. Hide. If only his bloody legs hadn’t turned to lead. He commanded his leg to move and it did. And then his knee buckled and he dropped to the floor.

Or would have if not for Lucy’s arms wrapping around his midsection, holding him up.

“Easy,” she whispered, easing him onto a nearby stool.

He could feel her soft chest pushing against his and almost groaned in aggravation. It wasn’t fair to have such a strong attraction to her. “Thank you,” he grunted, pulling back from her.

“Are you all right? Do you need some water?”

“I’m fine.” He stood and was greeted by her palm meeting his chest. “I need to go home,” he mumbled, encircling her wrist with his fingers and trying to push her arm away as gently as he could.

She didn’t budge. “No.”

“No?”

“No. You said you wanted to talk to me. Surely it wasn’t to ask me what I talked to Lady Belgrave about.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I think it does.” She lowered her hand from his chest and sighed. “Even if it’s not that significant, I think you need to tell me what I said just a moment ago to upset you and make you wish to leave so quickly.”

“I’m not upset.”

She quirked a brow at him. “You have the same expression on your face as you did before you left my cottage in Shrewsbury without breakfast.”

He bridled. She must think him a petulant child. “I was embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed? Whatever for?”

She wouldn’t understand and there was no way he could explain it to her without making it worse. “I need to—”

She pressed her lips to his. “Kiss me,” she murmured against his mouth.

Yes, he needed to kiss her.

And he did.

At first, he merely brushed his lips over hers. Then again. Risking her reaction and his heart, he cupped her face and moved his lips over the top of hers, parting his and surrounding hers. Her lips were soft against his. Smaller and gentle. He liked the feel of her lips against his. Perhaps a little too much. He pulled back, flushing.

If she noticed his erection, she didn’t let on.

“Was there something you wanted to say?”

“I don’t think Simon will like it that I kissed you.”

“No,” she agreed. “He probably won’t, but I don’t plan to tell him.”

Giles stood from where he sat on the stool and took an unsure step back. “I shouldn’t have.”

“I kissed you first,” she reminded him.

“I know, but if you’re to marry Simon—”

Her brow puckered. “Who said I was going to marry Simon?”

“Seth. That’s why he comes to my house. So you and Simon can go to the park or ride horses or go on picnics and such together.”

“I haven’t done any of that with Simon. I went with him once to a museum, that was it.”

“It was?”

She nodded. “When he came to see me after the first time, I declined his offer to take me to the park and told him that we didn’t suit.”

“You did? You don’t?” He had no idea which of those questions he wanted answered more, but was pleasantly surprised when Lucy wrapped her arms around his neck and brought his head down toward her as she came up on her toes.

“I did,” she murmured, brushing her lips over his. “And no, we don’t,” she murmured again, kissing him once again.

Elation that she wasn’t in love with his brother as he’d feared shot through him and he placed his hands on her cheeks and kissed her back. Full and thorough this time. Taking time to explore her lips with his.

“I like kissing you,” he blurted when their kiss ended.

She ran the back of her finger across his cheek. “I like kissing you, too.”

His heart slammed against his ribs. “You do?”

“I do.”

“I’d like to do more than kiss,” he admitted. He was certain she’d said something akin to, “I can tell,” in response, but didn’t want to ruin the moment by asking. “Now, isn’t the time though.” It took almost all of the strength he possessed to say that, then the last ounce to step back and separate them.

“No, it’s not,” she agreed, biting her lip. “Giles, I can’t…” She cleared her throat. “I can’t be your mistress.”

“I never asked you to,” he choked out.

“I know you didn’t. But I just wanted to let you know. I can’t. I—I made a mistake in the past and it’s affected my entire life.” She closed her eyes. “And Seth’s.”

His hand found hers and he gave her a gentle tug in the direction of the settee his mother had set out for the comfort of her patrons. He waited for her to sit down, then he joined her. “What happened?” he asked, interlacing their fingers.

“Not a lot. He talked of marriage and even promised he’d formally ask my father. I believed him and allowed him liberties, but he never asked.”

“What did he say about Seth?”

“That I needed to find a new post. He had no wish to glimpse the bastard.” The hitch in her voice tore at his heart.

He brushed a kiss above her brow. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I was the one foolish enough to trust him when I knew I shouldn’t. Unfortunately, I was the only one to suffer the consequences.”

“He never relented?”

“No. His brother did though. Before I’d gotten in so far with Seth’s father, his younger brother had asked if I’d marry him since he was soon to be a vicar and thought a wife would be useful, and well, because he’d always loved me. And yes, those were his exact words. Anyway, I’d refused in favor of his brother who I was led to believe loved me in a different way. The real way, the right way, not just as a friend the way I believe Paul loved me.

“After I realized I’d been fooled and understood the extent of the damage I’d done to myself I panicked and in a moment of desperation, I begged Paul to take me back.” She released his hand and buried her face in her palms. A moment later she dropped her hands to her lap and continued. “He refused—which was for the best, but for several years he showed me a greater kindness than I deserved by sending me funds and gifts for Seth.”

“Did he have expectations?”

She released a laugh that held no humor. “No.”

“Then why did he stop?”

“I asked him to. Remember the other day when I mentioned the lady who taught Seth to read with propriety books? She was his wife. Between Seth’s growing tendre for her, the rumors that circulated around the town that suggested her husband was Seth’s father, and Seth’s own curiosity, I realized I couldn’t stay there and I certainly couldn’t allow Paul to keep helping me. That’s how I ended up in Shrewsbury.” She let out a deep exhalation. “I’m sorry, that was far more than you asked about.”

“I’m glad you told me.” And he was.

“Giles?”

He loved the way his name sounded on her lips. “Yes?”

“It’s been a while since we arrived. You should probably go.”

Giles pulled out his pocket watch. They’d been talking—and kissing—for more than an hour. “Did you mean what you said earlier?”

“About?”

He flushed. “Kissing me.”

Without warning, she leaned in and kissed him yet again. “What do you think?”

That I love you. He swallowed. Hard. “Yes,” he rasped.

“You’re right,” she said, kissing him again. “But you need to go.”

“Right.” He gained his feet and helped her up. “I meant what I said earlier, too.”

“That you like to kiss me?”

“That, too.” He clasped her hands in his. “That you trusted me enough to tell me your past.” He brought their hands up to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “I will not ask you for such liberties before marriage.”

“I know.”

TWENTY-FIVE

It had been three days since Lucy had spent the day with Giles and she secretly hoped he’d invite her to do the same again tomorrow, her next day off. Both Friday and Saturday, she’d allowed Seth to leave at one o’clock and spend the afternoon with Giles as long as Giles didn’t have anything else he needed to accomplish.

Both days, she’d taken it upon herself to go collect her son when she finished with work and both days, Giles had invited her in and stolen a kiss from her in the entryway of his townhouse.

She loved those moments with him, even if the whole encounter only lasted a few moments. It was five moments of bliss she’d gotten to enjoy in two days and with any luck she’d have a similar moment of bliss in a mere—she glanced at the clock—eight hours. She sighed and turned her attention back to the stack of books that had been turned in and needed to be put away.

Around her, Mrs. Appleton hummed as she acted as if she were putting away books when really she was just moving them from one place to another, probably without even looking at the titles. She was clearly distracted. And excited. She’d been in this very same cheery mood for several days now. Whatever had happened to Mrs. Appleton during her last day off had to have been just as thrilling to her as spending so much time with Giles was to Lucy.

Shaking her head at whatever strange event had transpired that made Mrs. Appleton so excited, Lucy went about her business.

A loud hissing sound broke into her thoughts. She turned around and frowned. “Not yet,” she whispered to Seth.

He slumped his shoulders and went back to the corner where he’d left his newspaper—a habit she could only thank Giles for instilling in her son. Never before had her son had an active interest in reading the newspaper, but ever since last Tuesday, he’d become enthralled. At first she’d assumed he was just looking for something to do—in the form of finding trouble. But now that he could freely admit to sneaking away to Giles’ house when she wasn’t around, he’d informed her that reading the newspaper was a gentlemanly pursuit and since neither she nor Giles would take him to White’s, he’d read his paper in the corner and pretended he was at his club.

The door to the library creaked open. “I’ll be with you in just a moment,” she called to their guest.

“No need, I know where to look for what I came for,” said a familiar voice. Simon.

He walked over and greeted Seth by pressing his finger to his lips and slipping the boy what appeared to be a handful of some sort of candy, then came to Lucy. Truly, he wasn’t a bad sort. Just not her sort. She couldn’t explain it. He was kind enough, and seemed to be genuine. But there was something missing. She didn’t feel the same excitement at the thought of seeing him or kissing him that she did with Giles and if she didn’t know any better, she’d assume the same was true for him. It would seem that he wasn’t truly past Isabelle and perhaps that was why he didn’t seem to have excitement or evoke it.

Overall, he’d taken her reasons for not wishing to continue a courtship with him well enough.

“Woolgathering again?” he teased, jarring Lucy from her thoughts.

She pushed the three books in her hands to their spot on the shelf then turned back to the stack of books she’d piled up on the table. “Just trying to place what’s happened to your mother,” she said, hoping to keep the subject off her.

Simon looked over at his mother and shook his head ruefully, a small smile playing across his lips. “Can I trust you with a secret?”

“Of course.” She placed her elbows on the table and leaned forward to rest her chin on her hands.

He matched her stance to where he was facing her and whispered, “It’s Giles.”

Chills ran up Lucy’s spine. What did he know? More importantly, what did Giles’ mother know? “What’s Giles?” she asked, straining to keep her voice level.

“It appears he’s found a lady who has struck his fancy,” Simon said, waggling his eyebrows at her.

A small, strangled squeak emerged from her lips.

“That was my response, too,” Simon quipped, his green eyes dancing with what appeared to be good-natured humor. He straightened and nodded toward his mother as she passed by them. “Nobody knows who she is, though.”

“Then how do you know she exists?” Not that she wanted to cast doubt on Giles’ ability to find a lady who “struck his fancy”, as Simon put it. But neither did she think it would be for the best for his entire family to know it was her. Perhaps she’d better stop going to his house to retrieve Seth. Which also meant she should probably stop allowing Seth to go.

“You’re about as distracted as she is,” Simon commented, making Lucy blush. Had he puzzled it out? “Anyway, a few nights back, Giles sent a note to Mother requesting to borrow her best shawl and brooch—” he lifted his brows and dropped his voice— “and apparently these items have yet to be returned.”

“Because of this your mother thinks he gave them to a young lady he’s interested in?” She’d wondered whom he’d borrowed the shawl and brooch from. She’d even considered that he’d found them in one of those chests and didn’t want her to feel bad for wearing them.

“Indeed she does, but I’m not quite so convinced.”

“Well, you can take yourself and all of your negativity right back out the same way you came in,” Mrs. Appleton scolded playfully. “I think it’s wonderful he’s found someone.”

“I’m sure you do—especially since this attempt only required you to send him your best brooch and shawl, not request a favor of a friend to host a house party swarming with debutantes for him to pick from,” Simon muttered, not unkindly.

Mrs. Appleton frowned. “Ophelia invited someone for you, too.”

“Yes, one lady. And she still had a husband.”

“To be fair to her, she didn’t know that,” Mrs. Appleton said softly when an uncomfortable silence had overtaken them.

“It doesn’t matter,” Simon said with a flick of his wrist.

Lucy’s gaze shot to him. A few weeks ago, it seemed he was still smarting over what had happened between him and Isabelle and now he seemed so dismissive. Why? What had changed? Actually, it was best she didn’t know.

“All I was trying to say is that you shouldn’t be so sure he’s found a lady just because he asked to borrow your items, Mother,” Simon continued.

“I’d like to think so,” Mrs. Appleton said with a sniff. “And if not, then at least he’s warming up to me if he asked for my help.” She clucked her tongue. “But I still think he’s found a young lady.”

“Think so all you’d like, but I seem to remember that he could hardly get a young lady to sit with him at a meal unless she was foisted on him by you or Lady Cosgrove.”

Mrs. Appleton pursed her lips and stared at her son. “You’re jealous.”

“Am not,” he said quickly. Too quickly. He was jealous.

Lucy could understand that and might have offered him some sort of reassuring gesture if she weren’t afraid he’d take it as encouragement to pursue her again.

“I just think that you should wait until you know all the facts,” Simon said.

“All what facts? An announcement in the paper?” At Simon’s grimace, Mrs. Appleton offered an apology. Lucy had heard rumor that while Giles had told Simon the truth of Sebastian’s and Isabelle’s marriage, the only confirmation Simon had received had come in the form of an announcement in the newspaper that Lord and Lady Belgrave had reconciled. “The fact remains,” Mrs. Appleton went on. “He has to have someone special or he wouldn’t have asked me for help in the way of my finest.”

She had a point. Giles and his mother weren’t close by anyone’s standards and if he’d asked to borrow something from her, he had to have had a reason. Lucy’s heart squeezed in both a good way and a terrible way at the same time. Giles truly cared for her and had for a while otherwise he wouldn’t have done that. But was it too much? Were his feelings too deep for her? Was she being fair to him by kissing him and accepting his kisses in return?

No. She was only hurting him more. Shame flooded her and made her gut tighten into one hard, painful knot.

“Well, if he does have a lady he’s wooing, I’m sure he’ll do something soon to secure her hand in marriage and a brooch and a shawl isn’t what I mean.”

Lucy had no idea what to make of his statement when Seth appeared at her side and shoved the newspaper in her face with his left hand while hitting the paper mercilessly with the index finger of his right.

Carefully, Lucy took the paper from him, laid it out on the table, read the words he’d pointed out, then felt her knees give way under her as her mind—and body—fell into the black abyss in an action many fancy ladies termed a “swoon”.

The burning, pungent aroma of a horrid mix of flowers and spices filled Lucy’s nostrils. She groaned and waved her hand in the air in front of her in an attempt to banish the nauseating stench.

It didn’t go anywhere.

In fact, it seemed to get stronger!

“I think it’s working,” said a man’s voice.

“I’ve never had to use them before, but I think you’re right,” came a feminine reply.

“Perhaps you should put them closer to her nose and she’ll come to faster.”

No! Move them away.

Bullish man didn’t heed the demands of her mind and pushed those dratted things closer and when Lucy inhaled again, she got a nose full of foul-smelling smelling salts.

She coughed then blinked her eyes. Her nose itched. Bad. Batting her left hand in the air to clear the space in front of her, she sat forward and gave a hearty sneeze.

“Excuse—” achoo— “me.”

Mrs. Appleton handed Lucy her handkerchief. “Are you all right, dear?”

Lucy took to her unsteady feet. When had she moved to a settee? Never mind. She’d rather not know. From the corner of her eye she glimpsed that dratted newspaper in Simon’s hand. Had he been fanning her with that blasted thing? She closed her eyes and repressed a groan or some other sound of vexation. “I’m fine now, thank you. May I see that again?”

All eyes went to the newspaper in Simon’s hand. “You read it right.” He raked a hand through his dark hair. “I have no idea where he got such a notion you’d marry him, but I’ll go speak to him, if you’d like.”

“No!” Simon speaking to Giles would only make matters worse. She was certain of it.

“Are you sure?” He tossed the paper down onto the settee Lucy had just vacated. “He’s taking advantage of you.”

“Taking advantage? Of me?” she choked. Most would say it was the other way around. That she didn’t deserve him. And they’d be right.

Simon nodded. “He needs a wife and for whatever reason he’s set his mind on you to fill that role for him.”

“That’s enough, Simon,” Mrs. Appleton snapped.

Lucy bit the inside of her lip. Hard. She didn’t dare tell them that she might have given him reasons to assume she might be interested in making a match with him, but she needed to tell them something. “Mrs. Appleton, I—”

“Need to make no explanation,” Mrs. Appleton cut in. She turned to her son. “You, however, need to apologize.”

“Apologize?” Simon and Lucy said in disbelieving unison.

“Apologize,” Mrs. Appleton confirmed, then sighed. “Lucy dear, you’ll have to forgive Simon’s sour mood today, he’s been having some lady troubles of his own as of late.”

Lucy nearly choked. Already? It had barely been two weeks since she’d told him she didn’t return his affection. Either he had no standards or he’d already had a lady in mind... She cocked her head to the side and nearly laughed at his grimace.

“I wouldn’t call them lady troubles,” he muttered with a sour twist of his lips. “If that blasted woman had the good sense to listen to reason—” He broke off with a huff. “Never mind that. We’re not talking about her.”

“No, we’re not—you are,” his mother teased, winking at Lucy.

Casting his mother what had to be the most pathetic attempt at a scowl Lucy had ever borne witness to, Simon said, “Lucy, you don’t have to marry Giles if you don’t wish. He needs to learn he cannot manipulate people this way.”

“Manipulate?” He wasn’t manipulating her, exactly. She’d kissed him. A lot. If anything, he had to have taken that as encouragement. Though, she would have liked it had he even bothered to ask her to marry him before just assuming she would. She stilled. Would she have said yes? Before she could have a chance to think about that any deeper, Simon’s words broke into her thoughts.

“...he should have gone about finding a bride the right way by attending balls and such to find a suitable match. Instead, he’s decided to be highhanded about it and foisted his suit upon someone unsuspecting who cannot refuse him. But you can if you don’t wish to marry him. We’ll find a way to help you.”

Lucy let his final words sink in and ignored Mrs. Appleton’s agreement with Simon’s offer of help and question of if Lucy cared for Giles that way. All she could do was wonder if it was true. Had Giles been manipulating her this entire time? Was that why he’d been so kind to her and Seth? Was it all a ploy to get his much-needed wife to produce his much-needed heir without having to court a debutante? Another dizzying sensation overtook her and she gripped the edge of the table to keep from swooning again. While it was clear Giles intended to marry her, she couldn’t say that it was any different than the way Sam had treated her.

Had she chosen the wrong brother? Again?

TWENTY-SIX

Giles rhythmically tapped the nib of his quill against the inkpot for no other reason than it gave him something to do to occupy himself. The announcement had run in the paper today and he was certain Simon would darken his door with plenty to say about it.

He’d better hurry and come by, Giles thought. Seth had made it a habit for the past two days to come by after lunch and Giles would be damned if he’d discuss anything with Simon while Seth was in his home. It might not be good for their already unsteady relationship if Giles were to throw the man out of his house in front of his soon-to-be nephew.

But Giles would do it.

Then it happened. No sooner had he finished his thought, a series of four loud bangs rattled his front door.

Tension knotted his muscles as he waited for Tarley to show the man into Giles’ study.

A moment later, a red-faced Lucy crossed the threshold.

Giles jumped to his feet, or tried to. Biting back a curse at hitting both of his knees on the underside of his desk, he stood.

“What’s wrong?” he unintentionally barked. He wasn’t too familiar with ladies, but assumed something had to be wrong or her cheeks wouldn’t be so red or shimmer with tears.

“You used me,” she spat.

Used her? How had he done that? “How?” he choked.

She pulled out a copy of the newspaper and tossed it down on his desk. “It was all a game to you, wasn’t it?”

“A game?” he repeated. His mind raced to make sense of what she’d meant by a game. He didn’t even like games.

“You...you...were kind to me and Seth and got me to trust you,” she said, swiping at the tears streaming down her face. “But it was all a game.”

“A game?” he repeated again, feeling even more like a fool. “I don’t understand.”

“An act. You were just pretending.”

“I wasn’t pretending. I like spending time with you and Seth.” He took a step toward her. “I like kissing you.”

The way she pulled back at his words as if he’d slapped her stopped him cold. That had been the wrong thing to say.

“Lucy,” he rasped, his heart twisting in his chest. He clenched his jaw to keep it steady and fought the urge to take her in his arms. That might only make her angrier with him. He swallowed convulsively. “I’m sorry.” For what he didn’t know. It just seemed the right thing to say.

“How could you do this? I trusted you.”

“What did I do?” He knew it was a stupid question. He should already know. Unfortunately, he didn’t.

“Used me.” She blinked her eyes rapidly as if she were trying to hold back another round of tears. The gesture only made him weaker in the knees.

“How?” It would seem they’d just had these same words, but he still couldn’t understand what she’d meant. “How did I use you?” he clarified.

“You don’t care about me, you just need a wife and any wife will do.”

Now it was Giles’ turn to pull back as if he’d been struck. “No, I don’t.” He crossed his arms. “I don’t need any wife.”

“But your heir?”

He shrugged. “I have a cousin.”

“I’m sure you do, but I’m sure you’d rather it be your own seed who inherits.”

“I don’t care.” He crossed his arms. “I’d never given much thought to actually marrying anyone until recently, and even then, I wasn’t so convinced.”

“Then why did you put our marriage announcement in the paper?”

“Because I’d finally found someone I wanted to marry.”

An expression he couldn’t interpret came over her face. “Wanted?”

He nodded slowly. “I wanted to marry you.” He took a deep breath. “I still do, too.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you want to marry me?”

Didn’t she already know? Had he not made it clear to her?

She lifted her hand to her eye and wiped away her tears, imploring him with her eyes as she waited for his answer.

He had a crippling feeling his answer meant a lot to her. The knowledge terrified him. “I like kissing you. I’d like to do more than kiss you.” Though flames licked his face at his admission, it didn’t make it any less true. “I want to live with you and see you every day. I want you to be the one who grows heavy with my heir—if I’m to have one. And if not, I’ll be content with that because it’ll be you who I wake up next to and go to sleep with at night.”

There, he’d said it. He felt like a complete fool, but he’d said it.

“Me?” she squeaked.

“Yes, you.” He pulled her to him. “My mother tried to help me find a match. But I didn’t want any of them.”

“Why not?”

“They didn’t drive me to distraction with their mere presence.” He framed her face and brushed his lips over hers. “They didn’t make me wonder what it’d be like to kiss them. And they certainly didn’t make me mad with the desire to discover every inch of them and claim them as mine forever.”

A dark shadow came over her face and something flickered in her eyes. “I can’t,” she choked, pulling away.

“Can’t what?”

“I can’t marry you, Giles.”

He stared at her unblinkingly. “Why?”

“I’m not good enough.”

“Good enough?” What did that mean? Of course she was good enough. She was scores better than any of the ladies his mother had tried to introduce him to.

“My past is riddled with reasons why I’m not a good match for you.”

“I don’t see them,” he said honestly. He reached for her again, but she didn’t budge. “To me, you’re perfect.”

“No, I’m not,” she said on a shaky laugh.

He moved toward her. “Neither am I.”

“But it’s all right for you. You have a title.”

He’d never thought of that as an excuse before. “You will, too. You’ll be a baroness.”

“I don’t even know how a baroness should behave,” she burst out, her voice uneven and three pitches higher than usual.

He squeezed her hand to reassure her. “My mother and Isabelle can help you.”

Lucy shook her head. “I don’t think I can be your baroness.”

“Then, don’t,” he countered, dropping a kiss on her lips. “Just be my wife.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

The wedding could not come soon enough for Giles’ liking. Until it did, he’d have to settle for making up excuses to go see Lucy at the library and sneak kisses from her whenever possible. Someone—most likely his mother—had informed her that young ladies who are soon to be a baroness shouldn’t go to a gentleman’s lodgings. Not even with a chaperone. And not even to collect her child.

She’d also been advised to stop working in the library. Fortunately for Giles she hadn’t heeded that advice completely. She only “helped”, without wages so it wasn’t considered work.

He drummed his fingers on the edge of his desk and mentally counted the days until the wedding. Ten. He’d survive that, wouldn’t he?

“My lord, Mr. Appleton is here to see you.”

Giles’ skin prickled. Which Mr. Appleton had come to see him? Surely it wouldn’t actually be Simon.

It wasn’t.

Mr. Walter Appleton came in and removed his grey felt hat before taking a seat opposite Giles. “Forgive me for not coming by sooner to offer my felicitations. I thought you might be occupied and wanted to come back when I had news on the other matter.”

Right, the other matter. “Do you?”

“Of course.” He straightened the cuff on his brown coat then bent to retrieve a slim stack of documents from his satchel.

“And?” Giles burst out when it would appear Mr. Appleton wasn’t on the verge of speaking.

“There’s a way you can regain control of the barony and have access to the trust,” Mr. Appleton said.

“The trust for my heir?” Giles asked for clarification.

Mr. Appleton nodded.

Giles wouldn’t tell the man this because it was quite clear he’d spent a lot of his time and resources to pursue this, but he was a little disappointed this was all Mr. Appleton wanted to speak to him about. “I won’t need it, will I?”

“No. You certainly will not be lacking in funds. But don’t you want it?”

Giles blinked. “No. Why would I?”

“Because it was unjustly denied to you.”

Unjustly? He didn’t think so. His father could do with his money as he wished, couldn’t he? Frankly, he was relieved that the man had seen fit to allow Giles to inherit his assets and their earnings after his twentieth birthday. He didn’t need the trust. “That’s all right, I don’t need it.”

“No, it’s not all right,” Mr. Appleton snapped. He covered his face with his hands, then exhaled and dropped his hands back to his lap. “Giles, this is yours. You deserve it.”

“No, I don’t. He wanted the funds and rule of the barony to go to my heir and it will.”

“Yes, but will it be your legacy to pass to your heir...or his?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Mr. Appleton lifted his right hand to his forehead and idly rubbed the bridge of his nose. “As it stands now, you are just a baron in name. None of the responsibility of it is yours. You’re a symbol, if you will. The same goes for the trust. Both will pass to your son as if it were left to him by your father. Not you. If the responsibility and trust is yours, you can be the one to pass it to your son.”

Giles wasn’t sure he understood the difference.

“Simon isn’t my only son,” Mr. Appleton said quietly. “I have one other, but he... Well, he doesn’t bear my name and will not inherit my legacy—but the stingy leavings from another man. Don’t misunderstand, I was blessed that I have Simon to carry on my name and inherit. But sometimes I feel cheated that it isn’t my eldest son who will inherit my business and modest fortune. I don’t want you to face the same heartbreak.”

Giles could understand that. He did want to be the one to pass down his title and money to his son. Not just act as a formality between the two. “What do I need to do?”

“Prove to the court that you are of a sound mind,” Mr. Appleton said as if he were discussing the weather.

Giles, however, didn’t take his statement so lightly. “That’s impossible.”

Mr. Appleton lifted his right foot and rested it on his left knee. “Can I ask for an indulgence?”

“For?”

“I’m about to speak very bluntly about your mother and your father.”

Giles nodded, not sure what to make of the way he’d spoken his last word.

“I think your plight had less to do with your life’s cord being wrapped around your neck and more to do with a way to punish your mother.”

“Because she loved you?”

“And you.” Mr. Appleton lowered his voice the way Sebastian often did when he was about to say something that Giles might not like to hear. “I never knew you as a boy since you were confined to the country, but when your mother was allowed to come to town—” he coughed— “well, she’d talk about you.

“For a long time, she fretted that you’d never talk or be able to obey simple commands. She feared leaving you alone with anyone and would plead for Norcourt to take her back to Dolsey. He’d relent, but with stipulations.” His expression darkened. “He didn’t think she’d provided him with a suitable heir and insisted she give him another. But she couldn’t.” He grew quiet for a moment. “She tried for several years, and wasn’t able to conceive.

“When you got a little older, about four or five, things changed. He still wanted another son, of course, but when he’d bring her to London, instead of being uneasy and forlorn, she was full of the same excitement she’d had before she’d married.” A faint smile touched his lips. “She was excited about you. When we’d dance at a ball, she’d only speak of you and whatever things you’d begun doing or found of interest.” He guffawed. “She even detailed the slimy coating of a slug for me. I loved seeing her like that.

“It didn’t last, though. I didn’t see her again for two Seasons and when I did that sparkle in her eye was gone again. I heard a rumor at my club that Norcourt was on the verge of petitioning her for a parliamentary divorce on the grounds of adultery and a list of other claims that would leave you both pariahs. I couldn’t see that happen to her and I convinced her to let me help her meet his demands.”

“Why?”

“Why did I try to help her give him another son?”

“Yes.” It was the oddest thing he’d ever heard.

“Because I loved her.” White lines formed around the edges of Mr. Appleton’s mouth as if he wanted to say more, but couldn’t.

Giles wasn’t sure what to make of that or of Mr. Appleton for his role. What would have become of Giles had the old baron not died? Was being sent away and unable to inherit what was lawfully his the better fate?

“I didn’t know my interference would result in so much harm to either of you or I might have convinced her to let him divorce her.” Mr. Appleton’s whispered confession hit Giles squarely in the heart. “We both agreed when he died to marry immediately. It didn’t mean everything would be fair to you, but far fairer than it might have been if she’d delivered Simon as Norcourt’s unmarried widow.”

“Fairer,” Giles repeated in disbelief. “To me?”

“Yes,” Mr. Appleton said softly. “I know that it doesn’t seem very fair at all. But, please understand, the alternative would have been far less favorable for you.”

“Being treated as an orphan is fair?” Giles tried to reason.

“No, but living as an orphan under the protection of a title you might one day inherit is far better than being publicly branded mentally unfit and cast aside to allow your brother to inherit what was rightfully yours.” Mr. Appleton rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Had Norcourt lived or had your mother delivered Simon as his widow, Lord Norcourt had everything arranged that would leave you disinherited. That’s why we married so soon.”

“But the orphanage,” Giles persisted. Not that it mattered it was already done. Nothing could change it now.

“Perhaps she’d be the one better to explain that.”

Giles shook his head adamantly. “No. You.”

Mr. Appleton looked him over as if he were trying to decide if he should tell Giles what he knew or not. Giles hoped he would. He wanted to know now, not wait for his mother to decide it was time.

“Your mother only spoke to me about it once,” Mr. Appleton began slowly. “Right after you were sent away, she was informed you were not to come back until you were of an age to inherit—and only then if she didn’t produce a capable son. If she called you back before then, he’d petition for divorce on the grounds of adultery and have her banished.”

“Just her?”

Mr. Appleton nodded. “Just her. I don’t know what he planned to do with you since claiming you were a bastard might also bring questions about Simon’s legitimacy, but somehow he threatened to make sure she’d never see either of you again.”

“And she chose Simon,” Giles said somewhat bitterly. Not that he could blame her necessarily. Simon was a son who could make any mother proud. Giles was not.

“No, she chose you both,” Mr. Appleton contradicted. “It was just the only way she could have you both. She might not have been able to be there for you as a boy, but she can now.” He swallowed. “That might not have been possible had she not abided by his rules.”

“But after he died. Why not then?”

“She was scared. She tried once after his death, but was notified by the orphanage that only Lord Norcourt could order you released. When she tried to petition the courts, Lord Cosgrove warned her to stop and gave her the same warning Norcourt had that if she didn’t heed his warning, he’d be forced to uphold Norcourt’s former plan and have you disinherited.” He puffed up his cheeks and blew out a deep breath. “Perhaps it was the wrong choice. I don’t know. But neither do I know by which means Lord Norcourt would have ordered for you to be disinherited. Proving bastardy or mental unsoundness might have been difficult and I don’t doubt—” his voice hitched— “he might have sought other means if necessary. Nor did your mother, or I, wish to find out.”

Giles sat still for a few minutes, his mind trying to make sense of everything he’d been told. He didn’t know the legalities of many things. Nor did he fully understand Appleton’s connection with his mother. But he understood enough. They’d married so quickly following the old baron’s death so there couldn’t be a way for Simon to usurp him as baron. He understood that though he wasn’t sure whether that was actually a good thing or not. Simon would have made a better baron. He understood things the first time they were said and didn’t get frustrated with his own inabilities to put into words what he wanted to say. But what of the rest? Did Mr. Appleton mean that Giles had been left there at the orphanage as a means of protection? He shivered at the thought.

“Giles, did you hear me?”

“Er…no.”

“I said, you were done a great injustice by being sent away and having this trust and the privilege of running your barony tied up out of your grasp. I know that, and I even accept responsibility for it, but you don’t have to continue to live with it. You just need to do something about it.”

“Don’t you understand that I can’t?”

“No, I don’t understand that. What is it you cannot do?”

“Think.”

“Everyone thinks, Giles. Try again.”

He clenched his jaw. “Speak.”

“Another ability I think you have a firm grasp of. Why, you’ve been arguing rather well with me for about the past hour or so.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, he willed the man to leave. He opened them. No such luck.

“Are you worried they’ll ask you an academic question?”

No, he was worried about being asked any question. Alone, in his home, where everything around him was familiar and tranquil, he wasn’t so distracted or overwhelmed. Everywhere else he was reduced to a bumbling fool who either couldn’t speak or said the wrong thing.

“Your lack of formal schooling will not be a strike against you,” Mr. Appleton said softly. “They just want to know that you’re of sound mind and are not in need of being locked away at an asylum.”

“An asylum?” Giles choked. He knew he was considered odd and a little simple. But he’d never thought that would make him a candidate for Bedlam.

“Giles, that’s my point. You won’t be denied. You just need to go answer their questions so they can determine you’re of sound mind and should have access to your trust.”

“No.” Giles stared down at his broken quill. “There is no need. I’m not a smart man, Mr. Appleton. They’ll never agree that I’m competent enough to let me run the barony.”

“Who said that?”

“Nobody had to say it, I just know.”

“You seem to know a lot for not being very smart,” Mr. Appleton’s tone was hard to place.

Giles forced a stiff shrug. “It doesn’t take a smart man to know that.”

“There’s more than one way to be intelligent.”

“Sir, I drove Sister Catherine to smuggle the communion wine. Said she needed it after spending a day trying to get me to understand sums—and not because she felt like a saint and was in need of an extra blessing.”

Mr. Appleton’s laughter echoed through the room. “Have trouble understanding what to do with that extra one?”

Giles felt his eyes widen in surprise. “How did you know?”

“I had the same problem as a boy. I think Simon may have, too.” His face went still almost as if he were afraid of what he’d revealed. Giles didn’t know why he’d be afraid of admitting that Simon wasn’t perfect at anything. Mayhap Simon would be upset if Giles knew of his imperfection.

“I won’t tell him,” Giles offered. That wasn’t a hard promise to keep since Simon’s interest in talking to him rivaled his interest in speaking to Simon.

Mr. Appleton pressed his lips together. “Right. As for the matter at hand, whether you marry or not, I think you should petition the court to acknowledge you are of sound and able mind.”

“No.” Giles wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers. “They’ll mock me.”

“Who?”

“Everyone,” he burst out, banging his open palm on the smooth surface of his desk.

“I won’t. And neither will anyone else.”

“Yes, they will. They always do.” Giles released a harsh laugh. “I still don’t know what to do with that extra one.”

“You add it to the next column on the left,” Mr. Appleton said quietly. “Or rather, your trusted estate manager does.” He dropped his booted foot back to the floor with an indelicate tap. “You don’t have to decide today what you want to do. I’m just asking that you give it some thought.”

“Why is it that you care so much?”

“As I said, I know what it’s like to live my life knowing that my eldest won’t inherit my legacy, but rather one that was given to him by someone else.”

Something about how he said those words gave Giles a chill. “How long do I have before I have to let you know?”

“Until my death, I suppose,” Mr. Appleton said, tucking the papers back into his satchel. “It won’t be too late then, of course, but you’ll have to ask Simon to help, though.”

Giles shuddered. “I’ll be sure to decide something before then.”

“Very well.” Mr. Appleton stood and plucked his satchel from the floor. “I look forward to seeing you at the wedding, but just so you know, you’re welcome to come over to have dinner any time you’d like.”

That wasn’t likely to happen. It had been uncomfortable before; he couldn’t imagine Simon’s reaction to him now. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” Mr. Appleton said, putting his hat on his head. “Come over and have a drink with me.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

Ten Days Later

Lucy could hardly believe she was actually walking down the aisle to her waiting bridegroom. Fortunately it was a short walk across his mother’s drawing room or her knees might have buckled beneath her at the way Giles grinned at her from the moment she entered the room. Actually, that wasn’t true. If her knees were to buckle, Seth was right there to help hold her up. For he’d insisted she needed an escort down the aisle and there was no one else she’d rather it be but him.

Next to Giles who was cloaked in blue and gold stood Sebastian dressed in various shades of red. In the spot where the bride’s attendant was to stand stood Isabelle. When Lucy had admitted she didn’t have anyone to ask to be her attendant, save perhaps Giles’ mother, Giles had suggested Isabelle. Though she and Isabelle weren’t close, Lucy agreed it’d make the most sense to ask her and was somewhat relieved when Giles volunteered to be the one to talk to them both about standing up with them. Lucy should have done it, she knew, but Giles was more their friend than she was. Isabelle had graciously accepted and now she was at their wedding with a slightly uneasy expression, beautiful but uneasy. Like her husband, she was dressed in red. A beautiful ruby-colored gown with a gold and silver embroidery pattern on the bodice and gold edging around the sleeves that matched the most beautiful gold flounces at the bottom of her skirts.

For her part, Lucy had worn a silver gown that Mrs. Appleton had helped her choose from a fashion plate. The fabric shone in the light and made a soft whispering rustle every time she moved. The gown itself was plain, devoid of embellished embroidering or yards of lace. Its elegance came in the cut. High on the waist, full, billowing skirts, high capped sleeves and a rounded bodice that gave an onlooker a generous view of the top of her bosoms. Of course that would not do during a wedding (only after it, when alone with the groom), and she’d elected to wear a crushed velvet shawl over top that was a near perfect match to the color of Giles’ emerald eyes.

Lost in her thoughts of love for the man standing before her, the other occupants of the room, comprised of the three Appletons, Seth, and Isabelle and Sebastian, faded away as she heard the minister speak of loving and cherishing, two things she knew she’d be able to do without question. Then the vows were repeated and before she knew it, Giles’ lips were upon hers, sealing their union with a kiss that seared her heart and body solely to him.

After the ceremony, the small group made their way to the dining room for a wedding breakfast. All around Lucy, conversation buzzed, but she heard none of it through the excitement that hummed through her.

Isabelle gave her a knowing look and she blushed. Was she that obvious? The sparkle in Isabelle’s eye confirmed she had been.

Lucy pulled her attention away from Isabelle and looked down the table to where Simon and Seth were chatting about something. Lucy bit her lip. She’d been worried how Simon would respond to the announcement that Lucy was indeed going to marry Giles. Oddly enough, he hadn’t said a single cross word about it. Then again, he’d mysteriously been absent, something about a trip to some country estate. Lucy wasn’t too sure on the details, nor had she inquired.

“Are you ready to go?” Giles whispered in her ear.

Her skin tingled. “Whenever you are.”

“I’ve been ready since the kiss,” he admitted quietly.

Her blush elicited a few chuckles around them.

Giles reached for her hand and stood. “Thank you all for coming, but we’re leaving.”

Though she’d never actually attended a wedding before, she was fairly certain that wasn’t how one announced they were leaving.

However, nobody seemed to mind. And if they did, they kept their lips firmly closed.

Quickly all the others stood and formed a line to congratulate them and wish them well.

First was Sebastian who gave Lucy a quick hug, then shook Giles’ hand while Isabelle hugged Lucy and whispered something to her about coming to call on her soon. Lucy smiled at the lady’s pleasantries and her smile grew genuine when Isabelle hugged and congratulated Giles. Next was Mr. and Mrs. Appleton. Similarly to Lord and Lady Belgrave, Mr. Appleton hugged Lucy and shook Giles’ hand while Mrs. Appleton hugged—and kissed—them both. Next was a very energetic Seth who seemed to have little interest in hugging either of them but wished them well and pumped Giles’ hand with so much vigor Lucy wondered if he were trying to draw water from a well.

“You’ll be on your best behavior and remember your manners, won’t you?” Lucy said as a gentle warning to Seth. The Appletons had been kind enough to offer to let him stay there for the next two nights.

“Of course he will,” Simon said for him, clapping Seth on the shoulders with both hands. “I plan to keep him so busy during the day he won’t have time to get into trouble and at night he’ll be too exhausted to do anything other than sleep.”

Seth grin’s was contagious and soon both Lucy and Giles were grinning at Simon’s words. “Thank you,” she said, meeting Simon’s eyes. There was something in them she hadn’t glimpsed before.

Simon smiled at Lucy then turned to Giles. “Congratulations to you both.” He released Seth’s shoulders and dug his hands into his pockets. “I think you two suit each other perfectly.” Then, without another word or waiting for a response, he touched Seth’s shoulder and guided him off.

Giles turned to Lucy, his eyebrows lifted and his eyes wide.

Lucy grinned. Even when he was confused, Giles was still handsome. “He doesn’t know what to say to us,” she said in hushed tones, reaching for his hand. “But he’s certainly trying.”

Giles interlaced their fingers. “I suppose he is.”

“He is,” Lucy assured him as Giles led her down the stairs and to the waiting carriage.

The carriage ride to her new residence seemed to go faster than she thought it would. Perhaps that was because she was going to Giles’ townhouse not as the fallen Lucy Whitaker, but as Lady Norcourt—Giles’ wife.

She peered up at her still grinning bridegroom as he helped her descend the carriage in front of his house and intertwined their fingers together again. The past week had been a whirlwind filled with fittings and making plans for this wedding. Mrs. Appleton had been a wonderful help to her navigating the shops and placing orders, but it had certainly interfered with any time Lucy might have gotten to spend with Giles. That was about to be rectified, now and forever, though.

“Nervous?” Giles whispered in her ear when she was safely off the bottom step.

“Just a bit,” she admitted. It had been a long time since she’d been alone with a man who had the gleam in his eyes that Giles did. It had only been the once, but she did remember the activity well enough. What she didn’t remember was being excited about it.

“Don’t be.” He unlocked the front door, then put one arm about her shoulders and hooked the other under her knees and lifted her.

Lucy looped her arms around his neck as he carried her across the threshold and kicked the front door shut before carrying her upstairs. This time, instead of taking her to the room she’d assumed was meant for the baroness, he carried her to his room. He paused just inside the threshold to kick that door closed. “Can’t have anyone peeking in on the new Lady Norcourt. It wouldn’t be proper.”

She giggled and brought her lips to his. It had been five days since they’d last been able to sneak a kiss, which had been nothing worse than torture, but made this one that much more exciting.

Giles carried her across the room and to the bed. Then slowly, almost reverently, he lowered her to the thick feather mattress. “You’re beautiful.”

She kissed him. “Thank you. You’re quite handsome, yourself.”

“Am I now?” He asked between kisses.

It was on the tip of Lucy’s tongue to confirm, but all words and thoughts of them faded away when his lips left hers and started to kiss a slow path across her cheek and down to her jaw.

She lolled her head to the opposite side to give him better access. Which, of course, he took.

His hands released their hold on her from when he’d carried her into the room and moved to the bottom of her throat to untie the velvet emerald cape she had draped over her shoulders to match her silver gown. Freeing the knot, he pushed the thick fabric away from her skin and moved his lips down to where he’d just exposed.

Lucy’s skin tingled beneath his lips. “Giles,” she whispered, digging her fingers into the back of his thick, silky hair.

Giles murmured her name against her collarbone then moved his lips back up to hers, his hands sliding underneath her body. He slowly guided her up to a sitting position with her legs hanging off the end of the bed. Satisfied, he sank to his knees in front of her, bringing his face just two inches above hers.

Lucy lowered her hands from his hair to rest on his broad shoulders. He really was a handsome man. And now he was all hers.

Neither spoke, the only sound between them was their heavy breathing and pounding hearts.

Tentatively, she ran her hands down his shoulders and to the V of his coat. She slipped her hands inside and slid her fingers under the top of his waistcoat, then moved them up to his shoulders. She could feel so much more now with only his thin lawn shirt separating their skin.

“May I?” His rasped words made her skin tingle with excitement at what he might do. Where he might touch her.

She nodded and began kneading the thick muscles in his shoulders.

He skimmed his fingers from her shoulder blades halfway down her spine then across her ribs before lifting them to the silver chord that held her bodice closed. With an audible swallow, he tugged both ends of the chord until the bow was gone and the knot slipped loose.

Lucy didn’t know whose body became more frozen at that moment, his or hers. She was nearly thirty and had a child. Would he be satisfied with what he saw?

With another swallow that resembled a gulp, Giles released the ends of the silver chord and began to loosen her bodice. It wouldn’t reveal everything to him, but it’d be enough for him to be able to imagine the rest.

After loosening the top two crosses, he moved his hand lower and brushed her breast with his palm. His fingers stilled, his palm pressing ever-so-lightly against her breast, leading them both to swell in a way she’d never expected.

A boldness, she didn’t recognize came over her and prompted her to remove her hands from his shoulders and take hold of his wrists. She guided his hands away from the center of her chest and placed them directly on her breasts. “Touch me.”

As if he’d been waiting for that sort of an invitation for a decade, he did just that. His touch was slow and tentative at first as he moved his palms over the curve of her breasts, from the top to the bottom then back and forth across the sides. “They’re soft,” he commented before cupping them. He gave them a gentle squeeze, looking at her face as he did so.

She didn’t realize her hands were still on his wrists and gave him what she hoped he’d understand to be an encouraging squeeze.

He did.

His touches and caresses became bolder and more intense as he massaged and kneaded every inch of her breasts until she was almost certain they were going to burst right out of her bodice.

“Would you like to see them?”

“Of course,” he said automatically, frantically moving his hands back to the ties that ran down the front of her bodice. Jerkily, he tugged on the ties, loosening them only marginally.

Lucy touched his wrists again, staying him. Releasing his hands, she stood and turned her back to him.

It took him only a moment to start slipping the buttons that ran down the back of her gown. With every one he slipped Lucy’s pulse sped up just a little more until he reached her waist. Pushing her gown open just enough in the back, he began loosening the ties on that blasted corset she was made to wear.

With a grunt, he untied the last one. He gripped the edge of the thick fabric of both her gown and her corset and between his pushing and her maneuvering, the offending garments were off her shoulders and in a heap on the floor.

Lucy spun around to face her groom wearing nothing but a thin chemise and stockings as coverings.

“Beautiful,” he rasped.

“I believe you’ve already said that,” she teased.

“Doesn’t make it any less true.” His eyes drifted down her body, settling on her thinly covered breasts.

Taking a deep breath, Lucy reached her trembling fingers up to the thin straps of her chemise, gripped them tightly, then dragged them across her shoulders to the ends and without giving herself time to change her course, let them drop.

Every last muscle in Giles’ body went rigid.

He’d heard talk of women’s bodies and what men did to them between their legs, but he’d never given much thought to what Lucy would look like unclothed.

She was beautiful. Nay, she was magnificent. He released a pent up breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. She’d allowed him to touch her soft parts earlier, would she again now that she was naked?

He dropped back down to his knees in front of her and hesitantly, brought both of his hands to her bare shoulder and locking eyes with her, trailed his fingers down her soft, pale skin. Excitement built within him as his fingertips moved over the softness of her chest. He reached the peak and she sucked in a breath, making his own catch. She must like that. He brushed his thumbs over her nipples again then brought his hands down to the under-curve and tested their weight.

Reluctantly, he released them. With his hands at least. There was little hope of him ever removing his eyes from those two perfect globes.

He moved his hands down her abdomen until his thumb brushed the patch of curly hair just below her waist. He flushed and moved his hands back up her body with a slowness that almost drove him insane as he neared her chest.

With a sureness he didn’t feel, he cupped her perfect mounds of flesh and gave them another gentle squeeze.

She arched her back, pushing them more firmly into his hands. His eyes shot to her face.

She was biting the edge of her lip, her skin flushed.

He squeezed them again, a fraction harder.

Her hands flew to his shoulders, the tips of her fingers digging in. Blood pounding in his ears, he released his hold on her and brought his fingers to the hardened tips. He closed his fingers firmly around the tips, eliciting a gasp from her. He did it again, with a little more pressure and a strangled gasp was her response, her hands gripping his shoulders tighter if such a thing were possible.

Giles released her body and covered her hands with his as he took to his feet. He was considerably taller than her and at his full height her face was somewhere in his chest. For but a moment he wished it was the other way around. Pushing away the thought, he brought his hands back to her chest and idly brushed the tips with his thumbs.

“Do you like it when I touch you here?” He couldn’t say why, but her answer was important to him.

She relinquished her teeth’s hold on her lip. “Yes, Giles. I like it when you touch my breasts.”

Her words were almost his undoing. He gave her breasts one final squeeze before letting go and taking a step back to regather his wits or this would be over too fast and as one fellow had mentioned at White’s that left the woman disappointed. He didn’t want Lucy disappointed.

Just the idea of disappointing Lucy cooled his ardor. But not too much.

Closing the space between them again, he brought his lips to hers and kissed her mouth. Then her chin. Then her throat. Then he dropped to his knees again and kissed the top of her chest. Then scattered kisses down her sternum. When he reached the bottom, he turned his head just slightly to the left and scattered kisses below her left breast. He turned the other way and this time used his parted lips to press open-mouthed kisses to the skin under her right one.

She nearly melted in his hands.

Without removing his lips from her skin, he gripped her hips, stood and carried her to the bed and pulled away from her just long enough to divest himself of his clothing, then came back to join her. Settling himself between her parted thighs, he brought his mouth back to her chest and pressed open-mouthed kisses over and around her left breast while using his hand to explore the right. He’d squeezed and held, tested the firmness, then circled and rolled her budded nipple.

Beneath him, Lucy bucked and arched her back, offering him more. Greedy man he was, he took what was offered and kissed and touched every inch he could until he couldn’t take it any longer. It was time. He couldn’t wait a moment longer to be inside her. To join with her in a way that no other ever would.

Kissing his way back up to her mouth, he repositioned his lower body and moved the tip of his erection over her soft, warm, womanly flesh. He stilled and bit the inside of his lip. It was too soon. He released a breath and mentally recounted the scale of C Major, then resumed his pursuit of her opening.

When he found it, he was on the brink of spending and shoved inside as fast as he could, then stilled and fought to regain his breath and composure.

Lucy’s once labored breathing had slowed, presumably due to his lack of attention on her breasts. He’d have to rectify that.

Keeping himself still buried inside her, he kissed and nipped and licked and tasted her until she was writhing beneath him once more.

“Ready?” he whispered.

Her only response was to clutch his shoulders.

He accepted that as a yes, and began to move inside her.

The feeling was like nothing he’d ever experienced before. It was a mixture of pleasure coupled with an intense pressure that drove him to move faster and harder in hopes of relieving it.

Then suddenly everything from the painful coil of pressure just above his waist to the images in his mind exploded as his muscles tightened and released in waves of numbing ecstasy.

TWENTY-NINE

Lucy twisted her fingers into the counterpane and tried to regain control of her breathing.

She’d known that Giles would touch her breasts.

What she hadn’t known was that she’d enjoy it.

She hadn’t the first time she was touched there. It had felt cold and mechanical. Forced and humiliating. Sam had just tugged her bodice down until her small, pert breasts were exposed, made some glib remark about how “they’d do”, then groped and pinched at them until they hurt.

Then he’d flipped up her skirt and poked around between her legs for a few seconds before he’d found what he was looking for then pushed into her like she was some tried tavern wench and moved in and out, grunting for what felt like an eternity before letting out something akin to a battle cry directly in her ear.

Giles hadn’t done any of that. His touch had been far more gentle and his kiss... She already knew it had the power to make her knees buckle with the mere brush of his lips. She’d never have imagined that she’d buck and twist and writhe like a madwoman under him, though!

Surely, he must think her a wanton.

The object of her thoughts sweetly kissed her cheek then separated their bodies. She immediately felt at a loss without him there.

He stood next to the bed and lifted the counterpane just a little higher than his waist. Taking his cue, she quickly crawled under the covers and waited for him to join her.

A moment later he was at her side and she rested her cheek on his broad chest.

She hadn’t been afforded the same opportunity to look at his body and under lowered lashes, she let her gaze travel over what was uncovered.

Just as she’d imagined from his stature, his shoulders and upper arms were thick with hard, rounded muscles. As were his lower arms, his abdomen and chest. In fact, everything she could see of his that was exposed above the covers pooled at his waist looked like it had been sculpted from marble. Except perhaps the thick mat of curling hair that covered the center of his chest and made a line down his stomach.

Her fingers itched to touch it. Would it be as crisp and coarse as it looked? Or would it be soft and silky like the hair that covered his head?

“Something wrong?”

She jerked. Had he been watching her? “No. Should there be?”

“Your eyes are open.” He reached down to the covers that were resting at his waist and pulled them up to cover the exposed skin of his abdomen and chest.

“Sorry,” she murmured, closing her eyes.

“Don’t be sorry.” He lifted his right hand up to cup her cheek and idly rubbed his fingertips along the edge of her jaw. “Did you enjoy it?”

Was he talking about the view she had been enjoying until he covered himself or what they’d been doing before? She nearly laughed. He was a man. He’d meant their former activity. “Of course.”

His fingers stilled. “Are you sure? You didn’t call out my name and jerk my hair like the other ladies do.”

She went rigid. Other ladies? She’d never pinned him as one who frequented other ladies’ bedchambers. Perhaps she’d been wrong on that score. Somehow his hold didn’t feel quite as comforting as before and she moved to free herself.

He let her go.

Lucy pulled her arms out from under the covers and moved them on the top of the counterpane, trapping her safely under its shield.

Seemingly oblivious to her rapidly fading joy, Giles rolled onto his side and ran the back of a single finger the length of her arm, starting at her wrist and ending at her shoulder. “Lucy?”

“Hmm?”

He lowered his hand to the bed. “Was it that unenjoyable?”

It hadn’t been until he’d mentioned other ladies. Which was ridiculous for her to even be upset over. Gentlemen were expected to be experienced in such matters before marriage. She’d just thought he was different for some reason. “It was all right.”

“All right?” he echoed quietly. “Can I have another chance?”

A cutting retort was on the tip of her tongue. She repressed it. “How about tomorrow, instead?”

He blanched. “Did I bungle it that badly?”

“No. You did just fine until you mentioned your other lovers.” She couldn’t believe she’d just said that, but since she had, she felt relieved. It was better to just say it than to hold onto it and let it fester, wasn’t it?

If Giles’ slack jaw was any indication, he couldn’t believe she’d put voice to her feelings, either. “My other what?”

Lucy closed her eyes and covered her face with her hands. “Please forgive me for saying anything. Can we just go to sleep?”

He pulled her right hand away from her face. When she didn’t immediately open her newly uncovered eye to look at him, he pretended to pry it open. “There aren’t... I haven’t...” He cleared his throat. “You’re it.”

“But you just said that the other ladies call your name and pull at your hair while...” she waved a hand through the air— “you know.”

“Not mine,” he burst out, his already wide eyes nearly bulging.

Lucy furrowed her brow. “Then whose?” And how did he know of such?

Giles rolled onto his back with a groan. “At White’s. The men... They speak of relations with the women they bed.”

“They do?” she practically squealed.

He nodded, then reached for her hand. “I won’t.”

She squeezed his in return, her heart slamming in her chest at his declaration that he’d never talk to others about their private moments. “I know you won’t.” Without relinquishing his hand, she rolled onto her side to face him. “I’m sorry that I misunderstood.”

“Don’t be,” he mumbled. “I’m the one who said it and ruined everything.”

“You didn’t ruin everything,” she assured him, although it had certainly tainted the moment. There was no need to mention that, though. She moved closer to him and kissed his cheek. “I enjoyed it very much,” she whispered in his ear.

“Are you sure?” He let go of her hand and rolled on his side to face her. “There are other things I can try... Things you might like better.”

She had no idea what those could possibly be. “Giles, I said it was enjoyable and I meant that.”

“Yes, but you didn’t—”

She cut him off with a kiss.

A kiss that he quickly took control of.

Framing her face with his right hand, he held her mouth to his and parted his lips. He drew her bottom lip into his mouth and gently raked his teeth over it. He ran his tongue over the place he’d just nipped and she gasped his name.

Without warning, he rolled her onto her back and settled on top of her before sliding his hands down to her swollen breasts.

She loved having his hands touch her thus and pushed her breasts into his palms, her nipples tightening to hard points against his palms.

Giles released her bottom lip and kissed down to her ear. “Trust me?”

“Yes,” she breathed. “Always.”

Dropping kisses along the edge of her jawline, he released her left breast and brought his hand between her legs.

Surely he didn’t plan to touch her there. She tensed slightly at the thought.

“Relax,” he murmured between openmouthed kisses.

She tried. Unsuccessfully. “Can you just...”

“No. Not yet.”

She wanted to groan. She hadn’t minded his earlier invasion. In fact, that part had been surprisingly more enjoyable than she remembered. But having him aimlessly touch her there was sure to be uncomfortable.

She forced herself to focus on his caress of her breast and push away the thought of what he was about to do. He was her husband after all, it was his right to do with her body whatever he wished without complaint from her.

So focused on trying to enjoy his touch to her breast she didn’t realize he’d touched her most intimate area until one long, blunt-tipped finger hit something deep inside of her.

She gasped at the intrusion.

It hadn’t been uncomfortable, far from it, actually.

He did it again. This time she was more prepared and noted the way a small shower of hot sparks flew through her midsection.

He thrust again and again and each time the spray of sparks was hotter and traveled further. He paused a moment and added a second finger before resuming his movements.

Lucy’s hands flew to his shoulders for purchase as her body bucked and her hips moved to match his quickening thrusts. Hot, thick tension coiled in her midsection, growing tighter with each movement.

Giles murmured her name against the side of her breast and she gasped her response, moving her hands to the back of his head to hold him there as whatever this pressure was only intensified and pushed her higher and higher, closer to the edge of an unknown that seemed to linger just beyond her reach. A moment later, he stilled for a brief second and when he thrust in again it was with his erection.

He gripped her shoulders tightly and rocked his hips, finding a steady rhythm that only intensified the dizzying sensation inside her as he pushed further inside of her than he had a moment before.

Then suddenly with one swift, deep thrust a dam burst and she was pushed over that edge as her breath hitched on his name and hot euphoria rushed over her from head to toe.

Gasping for breath and clutching Giles as if he were a lifeline tossed to a drowning woman in the Thames, she had just enough wherewithal to realize he, too, was in the throes of experiencing whatever pleasure had just overtaken her and took delight that it was her body that could bring him to completion.

“I love you,” he panted between gasps for air.

“I love you, too,” she choked.

“You do?” he rasped, lowering himself to rest just above her with his elbows on either side of her.

“Of course I do,” she said with a shaky laugh. “Wasn’t it obvious earlier when I got so upset at the thought of having to share you?”

Giles pressed his forehead to hers. “You’ll never have to share me, and if anyone tells you otherwise, you be sure to tell them that I’m taken.”

“And so am I.”

THIRTY

The week that followed their wedding had to be filled with the most fun and love Lucy had ever experienced.

During the day the three of them would paint together or go on walks and talk, and at night (or whenever they could sneak away from Seth during daylight hours), their bed was alight with heated passion.

“Are you sure you and Seth don’t mind spending all day here alone?” Giles asked, straightening his cravat for no less than the fifteenth time.

Lucy rose up on her knees and holding the sheet against her naked skin, walked across the bed toward him on her knees. “Yes. Mrs. Plum mentioned yesterday that as the mistress of the house I need to come up with a menu for the week. I think it might be rather fun to do.” She pressed herself against him and looped her arms around his neck. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to, you know.”

He swallowed audibly. “Yes, I do. If I’m to be an effective nobleman I need to resume my seat in parliament. No matter how painfully dull the meetings might be.”

Lucy pulled back and smoothed down his coat. For as unprepared to be a baroness as she felt she was, she felt an overwhelming amount of pride for him pushing past his fears and taking up his seat in the House of Lords. It was his right to be there and he shouldn’t let anyone or anything keep him from it if he wanted to go. Even her and her past.

She sat back on her heels and nervously chewed her lower lip. “Giles, can I tell you something before you go?”

“Of course.”

She’d known this moment was coming since she’d agreed to marry him. He had every right to know. She knew that and even planned to tell him. She didn’t realize it’d be so soon though and was only made more urgent when he’d announced that he intended to attend session today upon waking.

“Do you not think I should go?”

Lucy started. “No, not at all.” She licked her lips. “I think you should go—but only if you want to. I’m sure there are others who don’t always attend.”

“I know, and I might become one of those, but I think I should give it a try. I owe it to my barony, don’t I?”

“Yes, you do.” She offered him a slim smile. “But I need to tell you something.”

“All right.”

She blinked back hot tears. If this kept him from going, she’d be devastated. Still, he had a right to know from her, not from anyone else. “Giles, there’s a good chance that Seth’s father will be there today.”

“I know,” he said simply.

“You do?” she croaked.

He nodded. “I already thought about it and if he says something to me about it, I’ll just inform him that he’s the most unfortunate man in existence because of his overwhelming stupidity.”

Lucy would be touched at his words if she weren’t still in shock that he knew the identity of Seth’s father. She’d always been careful not to say his name or Paul’s last name. “How did you know that Lord Bonnington was Seth’s father?”

“I didn’t.” He shrugged. “I just knew he had a title.”

Her skin turned to gooseflesh. Had he hired a Runner to investigate her? “How did you know?”

“Seth.”

“Seth told you that his father was a lord?” she breathed, dumbfounded.

“Not exactly. He just speculated as much.”

“Speculated?” She ignored the shrillness in her voice and clutched the sheet more tightly against herself. “The two of you spent time speculating on this together?”

“No. Just him.”

“And what did he say?”

“Nothing.”

She leaned her head to the side. “It couldn’t have been nothing if he speculated on who his father was.”

“He asked if I knew how babies were made—”

“He did?” He was only eleven, surely he didn’t need to know the details about that yet. “What did you tell him?”

“Nothing.”

She narrowed her eyes on him. “Nothing?”

“Nothing.” He walked over to her and put his large hands on her shoulders. “It was when I still thought you’d marry Simon. I thought he should be the one to explain it to him, so I just let Seth tell me what he thought he knew and said I’d only confirm if he were right or wrong.”

Lucy’s mind swam with all the information she’d just been told. “You could have told him,” she whispered. Heaven knows Seth would never come to her for the answer to that.

“I didn’t know that at the time. I thought you’d want to be the one to tell him or would have Simon do it.”

She could understand his position. “Well, if he asks you again, or about anything else, I’d appreciate it if you’d answer his questions.”

Giles nodded. “I will.”

Taking a deep breath, she said, “May I ask what he already knows?”

“That there needs to be a man and a woman involved...”

Lucy wanted to bury her face in her hands to stave off the embarrassment of what her son must know she and Giles had been doing together at night.

“...Then he said he thought his father might be a lord.”

Lucy snapped her head up. “And that’s all he knows? Or all he thinks he knows, rather?”

Giles frowned. “Do you not intend to tell him?”

“No. Never.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want that vile man around Seth.”

“I didn’t suggest we invite him over for dinner, but don’t you think that Seth has a right to know?”

“No.”

Giles moved toward the door. “Very well.”

“Very well?” What did that mean? “Giles, you aren’t intending to tell him, are you?”

“Right now? No. But if he asks me again—” he shrugged— “probably.”

Lucy’s face heated with anger. “It’s not your place to tell him that.”

“You just gave me leave to explain anything to him that he might have questions about. I won’t bring it up with him, but if he asks me, I won’t lie to him.”

“You have no right,” she seethed as Giles walked to the threshold. “This isn’t your secret to tell.”

Giles paused in the threshold of their room and without looking back at her, said. “Nor is it yours to keep.”

Lucy wiped her sweaty hands on the front of her gown as she waited for Goosey, Lord Belgrave’s aging butler, to answer the door.

“Lord Belgrave is not accepting callers,” he said with a slight snarl.

Lucy’s face flushed at the words that hung between them. He must think she’s a doxy coming to use her charms on a married man. Well, she was not. She handed him one of Giles’ calling cards. “Even to Lady Norcourt?”

The butler looked unmoved.

Fortunately, Lady Belgrave was in need of Goosey’s services at that moment and was there to spare her any further embarrassment. “Lucy?”

“Lady Belgrave.”

“Isabelle,” she corrected. “Do come in. I was just finishing up the guest list for a dinner party we’re hosting next week when I heard Goosey being beastly.” She paused. “Having been on the other side of his condescending looks once myself, I try to spare as many visitors as possible the same fate until I can convince Sebastian to sack the man.” She led Lucy into the drawing room and offered her a smile. “I’m glad you came by.”

“You are?”

Isabelle nodded. “When you didn’t come back again after your first visit here, I was afraid I’d made you uncomfortable.”

“No, not at all,” Lucy rushed to say. “Between the library and wedding, I just haven’t had a lot of time for social calls.”

Isabelle’s laughter filled the room. “Mrs. Appleton has trained you well. Here, sit.”

Lucy sat on the pale yellow settee Isabelle had indicated. Isabelle, was correct. Mrs. Appleton had trained her well with what to say to other ladies. Unfortunately, she’d neglected to mention what one should say to their husband when disagreeing.

“Now, that I know our first encounter wasn’t so miserable that it has frightened you away from my home forever, may I ask what has brought you by?”

Lucy’s hands grew damp again. “I’d actually hoped to speak to your husband,” she admitted.

“Oh,” she said quietly. “He left about an hour ago to go to Session. You can wait here for him to return, if you’d like.”

If it were possible for Lucy to be any more uncomfortable, it would have happened just then. “No, I should be going home.” Well, not immediately since Seth had agreed to wait for her at the library while she ran errands. She’d need to collect him first.

Isabelle heaved an exaggerated sigh just as Lucy stood to go. “It’s my needlework, isn’t it?”

Lucy froze. “Pardon?”

Isabelle picked up an embroidery hoop that held a large piece of white fabric half covered with red and gold thread. “My addiction to embroidery. It always seems to drive people away, my husband notwithstanding. Sebastian has warned me every day since we reconciled that I should hide it when callers come by, but I can’t. Just the thought of having to put it out of view makes my skin crawl and my sore fingers itch.” She shrugged. “That must be why I can’t seem to make friends.”

Lucy stared at her. Was the lady addled? Isabelle was beautiful and clever, besides. Surely, she had more friends than a person needed. She quickly scanned the room for more hoops, fabric and needles. “You hate embroidery, don’t you?”

“How’d you guess?” Isabelle asked before carelessly tossing her hoop on the settee next to herself.

“Then why do you do it?”

“Because I have no friends,” Isabelle said, her lips twitching. She sighed. “I grew up with two playmates: my sister and the boy who is now my husband. When I came to London for a Season I was pursued only by a handful of gentlemen who were interested, but didn’t have any female companions—except the octogenarian who I was a paid companion to.” She plucked at her green muslin skirt. “I’ve never had friends before, Lucy. I don’t know how to make them and I fear that after our conversation that night you came for dinner that you’ll only be my friend because of our husbands and be cordial to me when we see each other in Society.”

Lucy was taken aback. Isabelle didn’t have any friends? And more odd, she thought she’d put Lucy off. She couldn’t be further from the truth. “Isabelle, I haven’t had many friends, either.” She snorted. “Actually, we’re a lot alike in that respect. I only had two playmates as a girl, as well. Both were boys and I didn’t marry either of them.” And what a blessing that was. “I know you told me about your scandal the first time I came, but it’s not the same as mine. The circumstances surrounding our first meeting were unusual and I thought you were just being friendly for Giles’ sake. And I appreciated that. I didn’t realize... That is, I never considered that we could actually be friends.”

“Well, we can,” Isabelle informed her, grinning. “And we should since our husbands are such good friends.”

Indeed. Perhaps it was best that Lord Belgrave hadn’t been home after all. It might have been because Giles and Lord Belgrave suspected Lucy and Isabelle hadn’t formed an immediate friendship that they hadn’t made a point to visit the other recently. She’d have to assure Giles that he could invite his friends over anytime he’d like.

“Now, that we’ve officially agreed to be friends, and save the other from a miserable fate of a life subjected to feeding an unnatural embroidery addiction, can I plead with you to tell me what brought you by to see my husband?” She lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “To feed the rumor mill consisting of my needles and spools of thread once you’re gone, of course.”

Lucy smiled weakly at her jest and said, “Giles.”

“I thought it might be.” She repositioned herself on the settee. “Well, him or Simon.”

Lucy lifted a hand to stay Isabelle’s line of thought. “Just Giles.” She dropped her hand. “We had a disagreement.”

“That’s bound to happen,” Isabelle said, her voice devoid of blame or condescension.

“I know. We’ve actually had a few of them now. Mainly misunderstandings. But this one—” she worried her bottom lip— “it’s different.”

“How so?”

Lucy quickly informed Isabelle of her conversation with Giles earlier in the morning. “I don’t want him to tell Seth. I think it’ll just stir up more questions and hurt and I wanted to ask your husband if he’d help me find a way to convince Giles to change his mind.”

Isabelle sat quiet for a few moments. “This strikes a little close to the heart for Giles, doesn’t it?” she mused.

“How so?”

“You have met Mr. Appleton, have you not?”

“Of course I have. But what does that have to do with anything?”

“Quite a lot, I’d say. Have you ever seen him in the same room as Giles?”

“Yes, they look just alike.” And for good reason if Mrs. Appleton’s cryptic confession was anything to rely on.

“Have you ever considered...”

Lucy flushed. “For all of a second before Mrs. Appleton hinted that my thoughts were indeed correct.”

“Hinted,” Isabelle said. “She didn’t come out and say it, did she?”

“Well, no. I don’t think it’s something she’d want made public.”

“Likely not, but if you think about it from Giles’ perspective, it might make more sense why he feels that Seth has a right to know.”

All arguments left Lucy’s mind and her body went numb. Giles wasn’t good at interpreting hints. Either he assumed they meant the wrong thing, such as taking her confession for liking to kiss him as an agreement to marry him; or he just didn’t understand them at all. If he believed that Mr. Appleton was his father, he’d never said anything to her about it. Which could only mean he was completely oblivious to their resemblance, which wasn’t likely or he didn’t know what to believe and longed for the same information about his parentage that he claimed Seth did.

“Thank you, Isabelle,” she breathed. “I was so caught up in my own feelings and protecting Seth that I didn’t consider Giles.”

Isabelle reached forward and patted her hand. “You’re welcome. I think this is what friends are for.”

“Yes, and saving each other from a life filled with embroidery.”

THIRTY-ONE

Giles couldn’t go to Session and it had nothing to do with the potential of being in the same room with the man who had once been intimate with his wife.

Instead, he rode around London trying to make sense of why Lucy was being so stubborn. Didn’t Seth have a right to know who his own father was? If he weren’t curious, then Giles could understand not telling him. But he was curious.

Eight hours later he turned Thor, his stallion, down his street and sighed. He was no closer to drawing a conclusion than he had been when he’d left.

Lucy was right, though, it wasn’t his place to tell Seth the truth. Only she could do that and no matter how much Seth might beg him to, Giles wouldn’t betray Lucy’s trust that way.

Arriving at home, he slid his tired and sore body from the saddle and tied Thor to the post for a groom to come attend him then went inside to assure his wife that he wouldn’t say anything to Seth. Even though he disagreed with her decision. He should probably leave that part off if he didn’t wish to get into another quarrel.

“Where’s Lady Norcourt?” Giles asked Millie when he didn’t see Lucy in any of the common rooms or their bedchamber.

“She left not long after you did, my lord.”

Giles’ stomach lurched. “Left? To where?”

Millie ran her duster in the crack between the wall sconce and the wall. “Didn’t say, my lord.”

“Did she say when she’d be back?”

“No, my lord.”

Giles frowned. “And Seth?”

“He went with her.”

His blood turned to ice. She’d left in a carriage more than nine hours ago without telling anyone where she’d gone, when she’d be back and Seth was with her. Why? Without another word to the maid, he ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time to go check Seth’s room. He flung open the door and his heart sank. The sketchbook he’d given him was gone.

That could only mean one thing: Seth and Lucy were gone, too.

Lucy was exhausted. After spending the majority of her day chatting with Isabelle in her drawing room, she’d had to run by the library to collect Seth. Thankfully, he’d stayed there as he’d promised he would when given the choice to go spend the day there or go on errands with her.

Another point to her good fortune was going to the library had allowed Lucy a chance to have a much-needed discussion with Mrs. Appleton that yielded satisfactory results.

Then finally, it was back to the townhouse. With any luck, she’d get back before Giles. Isabelle had received a note from Sebastian mid-afternoon telling her that it could be late into the night before he’d return.

“Can I help you down?”

She looked at her son and smiled. Giles had been a good influence on him. “I’d be honored.” She put her hand in his and allowed him to help her descend the carriage.

He immediately released her hand as soon as both of her feet were on the ground. Perhaps Giles still had more work yet to do, she thought as she wrapped her arm around his shoulders and walked up the stairs with him.

“I’m hungry. Can I go see if Cook has anything she’ll let me eat before dinner?”

“Yes.” Lucy untied her bonnet and set it down on the chair by the door. “But nothing sweet.”

With a grumble, Seth walked off.

Lucy shook her head ruefully and went upstairs to change her gown for dinner. Humming, she strolled to her bedchamber door, gripped the knob and twisted.

It didn’t budge.

She frowned and tried again. Locked.

An eerie feeling came over her. Lucy hadn’t locked their room. She didn’t even have a key!

Cautiously, she pressed her ear to the door.

Nothing.

Curiosity warred with unease. Someone had to be in there, or at least had been in there. She should go get Mrs. Plum, the housekeeper, and have her unlock it with one of the dozens of keys she had on the giant iron hoop she wore around her wrist.

Lucy turned to go find Mrs. Plum when she noticed that the door to the room Giles had put her in that first night he’d brought her to London was open. It was the baroness’ suite, or so Mrs. Plum had informed her. Giles preferred to refer to it as just another bedchamber, because the baroness’ bed was the same as the baron’s.

A small smile tugged her lips and she let herself into the unused room. It had an adjoining door, perhaps the locked door was a mistake and she could gain entry that way.

Her smile widened, just as she’d suspected, the adjoining door was not only unlocked, it was ajar. Idly tightening one of the pins in her hair, she went to the door and pulled it open.

Then froze.

“Giles?”

Giles, who’d been sitting in a chair with his elbows on his knees, head in his hands, and shoulders slumped, jerked to a straight sitting position and blinked at her as if he didn’t believe what he was seeing.

“What’s happened?” she gasped taking note of his red-rimmed eyes and the tear stains on his cheeks.

“You left.”

Lucy walked over toward him and he slowly took to his feet. “I left?” she repeated.

“I came home and you were gone. I thought...thought...”

“I wasn’t coming back?” she ventured.

He nodded slowly.

“Why would I leave you?”

“We quarreled.”

Lucy closed her eyes for an extended blink. “Giles, I love you, I wouldn’t leave you.”

His facial expression didn’t change.

“Do you not believe me?”

“I don’t know.” His words, spoken in a broken whisper, took all the starch out of her knees.

“How can you not know that I’d never leave you?”

He recoiled at her words, sending a wave of remorse over her. She should have been more careful with her words.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “That wasn’t a fair question. I just don’t understand why you think I’d leave you. I love you.”

“So said my mother.”

Another wave of understanding overcame her. It was becoming quite evident she didn’t know her husband and his pain as well as she’d thought she had. “I’m not her, Giles. I won’t leave you. Ever.” She reached for both of his chilled hands and interlaced their fingers. “Just because we disagree, doesn’t mean that I won’t still be here.” She released his hands and slipped free the buttons on the front of his waistcoat then pulled his shirt from his trousers. “I love you, Giles. Everything about you.”

“Even the ugly parts?”

She couldn’t tell if he was attempting to jest or being serious. “There are no ugly parts.”

“There are. You just haven’t seen them.”

She didn’t believe that. Well, the part about her not seeing all of him, she did. He always seemed to take extra caution in keeping as much of himself covered as he could; therefore, she really hadn’t seen much of him at all. But she highly doubted there was anything ugly about him. She boldly cupped his groin for the first time, feeling like a new bride on her wedding night all over again as she did so. She took a measure of pride in how he hardened instantly under her fingers. “All of you.” She punctuated those words with a gentle squeeze.

He groaned.

Emboldened, she walked her fingers up to the fastenings of his trousers.

He covered her hand with his, staying her.

“Am I not allowed to see my husband, then?”

“See me?”

She nodded. “You’ve seen me without my clothing. Am I not to have the same privilege?”

“Privilege?”

“Don’t scoff. Have you forgotten that I’m a scandal-ridden baroness? It might not be acceptable in these new circles I’ve entered into, but I’d like very much to see my husband. All of my husband.”

“You would?” The surprise in his voice made her smile.

“Of course.” She released the fastenings of his trousers and slid both of her hands under his shirt and up to his chest where her fingers tangled in his mat of chest hair. “I’ve been very curious about the texture of this.”

“You have?”

She’d have laughed at the surprise in his tone, if she weren’t so nervous. “Of course I have. Did you think it was only your sex who liked to look and touch?”

“Yes.”

This time she did laugh at his automatic answer. “Well, that’s not true.” She pressed her hands flat against his broad chest and used her fingers to explore all the curves and dips his muscles created. “Just because ladies don’t want to admit it, doesn’t dim their curiosity any.” She swallowed. “At least not this lady.”

“You don’t think it’s unsightly?”

Lucy stilled. “What, your body?” At his nod, she said, “No. Not at all.” Reluctantly, she withdrew her hands from under his shirt and smoothed down his coat. “If someone told you that it was, they were wrong. I’ve only glimpsed pieces here and there, so it’s possible that I’m the one wrong, but I refuse to believe it.” She heaved a deep sigh and said a silent prayer she wasn’t wrong to push him in this way. “Unfortunately, I might never be able to make an informed decision as long as you’re still wearing all of these clothes.”

He hesitated but a moment, then took two steps back before kicking off his boots and shrugging out of his coat and waistcoat. Without a word, he removed his cravat and pulled his shirt over his head.

She’d seen his chest before, but this time she looked her fill without the threat of him covering himself at any moment. Her eyes did a slow sweep of him, drinking everything in down to his waistband where he was working to finish where she’d left off unfastening his trousers. He slipped the last button, then gripped the sides and lowered them, revealing his long, thick erection and the large patch of curling, dark hair that surrounded it in the middle of his muscled thighs. He blocked her view momentarily to bend down and remove his trousers and stockings, exposing his muscled calves and broad bare feet to her.

He straightened and stood silent as she took in every inch of his front before circling him to see him at every angle. Tall, and both broad and lean in the right places, he was breathtaking, if a man could be termed in such a way.

She resumed her former position in front of him, meeting his green eyes.

“And?”

“You’re magnificent.”

He cocked his head to the side, his lips pulling up at the corner. “That’s the same word I thought when you dropped your chemise on our wedding night.”

She blushed. “Is that so?”

He nodded then let out a hollow bark of laughter. “Ironic we can think the same thing about the other, but cannot communicate well.”

“Indeed. But those are just mere misunderstandings. I’d wager every newly married couple has had them.” She closed the area between them and looped her arms around his neck. “I’d also wager we might have another, but—” she came up on her toes as far as they’d allowed, bringing her lips within an inch of his— “I want to make one thing perfectly clear to you.” She kissed his lips. “I—” kiss— “will—” kiss— “never—” kiss— “leave—” kiss— “you.”

“Never?”

“Never,” she confirmed. “However, just to make sure we’re both in agreement, I’d be happy to communicate it to you in another way. One that involves a bed.”

“And your dress on the floor?”

“We’d better be careful we’re having the same thought again,” she teased, pressing her midsection against his erection.

Something flashed in his eyes and his hands found her waist, and in a second he had her on the bed where she was free to touch and explore every inch of him.

Which garnered no protest from her.

Or him.

THIRTY-TWO

An hour later

Giles combed his fingers through Lucy’s hair, relishing the way her long, silky strands felt surrounding them. It felt almost as wonderful as having her naked body draped over his. Almost. He snorted. That was a lie. There was no comparison between the two.

He peered down at her from beneath his lowered lashes and watched her slender fingers move in mindless patterns across his chest. Why had he never considered that she might like to see and touch his body? He knew the answer to that and thrust the thought from his mind immediately. He had no call to relive the coldness of his adolescence. He wasn’t a boy in an orphanage any longer. He was a husband. A father.

His chest tightened. Seth wasn’t his child by nature, but he was his son in every other sense of the word. He closed his eyes. Earlier he and Lucy had only spoken of their misunderstanding, not their actual disagreement.

“Giles?”

His eyes snapped open. “Yes?”

Lucy rolled over to prop herself up on her elbow. “What’s the matter?”

“Matter?”

“Every muscle from your neck to your waist just went rigid,” she said as if that explained anything. “What were you thinking about?”

“This morning.”

“About Seth?”

He gave her a nod. “I won’t tell him.”

She licked her lips. “Thank—”

A loud commotion at the bottom of the stairs cut her off, followed only a moment later by a discreet scratching at the door.

“Yes?” Giles barked in the general direction of the door.

Millie said something, the only part of which Giles heard was “Lady Norcourt”.

“I’ll be right back,” Lucy said, grabbing the sheet and running for the door. She opened the door just enough to poke her head out, treating Giles to an unobstructed view of her backside.

She closed the door with a soft click and held her turned position.

“Lucy?” When she didn’t respond, he padded over to her. “What’s going on?”

“We have guests,” she said a slight waver in her voice.

“Guests?”

She lowered her sheet. “Your mother and Mr. Appleton have come to dinner.”

“They have?” He didn’t know why he was surprised that they’d come. They seemed the sort who had no qualms about last minute dinner invitations.

“They’re waiting in the drawing room so we’d better hurry.”

Giles cupped her face with his large hands. “Lucy, you’re the baroness and they’ve come without an invitation. You don’t have to see them.” At least that’s how he understood the term “not at home” when making social calls.

“No, I think we should see them. It’s just another misunderstanding. That’s all.”

“Misunderstanding?”

“Between me and your mother.” She turned her face and pressed a kiss on the side of his palm. “It’ll be all right.”

While he was relieved that this particular misunderstanding wasn’t any fault of his own, he wondered what had happened between the two that had made her so uneasy.

Stubborn woman that she was, she didn’t feel so inclined to explain anything to him as she donned that simple gown she’d been working on before he’d officially asked her to marry him.

Dinner was awkward. And if Giles thought so, everyone else must have been absolutely miserable.

Except Seth who seemed to have the never-ending appetite of a growing boy and a wish to talk to everyone about anything. It was only due to his mother’s agreement to allow him to eat as much custard as he could manage while the four adults talked in the drawing room that he didn’t follow them in there.

“I’m sorry,” Lucy whispered to him as they followed their guests to the drawing room.

“For Seth?”

She nodded. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

Giles pulled them to a stop. “Not to banish him to his room for meals, I hope.” He might have been young, but he remembered that aspect of being nobility well enough.

“I know he can be a little impolite at times.”

“He’s an eleven-year-old boy. I think that’s his right.” He smiled at her. “Don’t banish him because of it.”

“I won’t.” She kissed his cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Good. Just don’t forget that in a minute.”

That would have piqued his curiosity if it wasn’t already.

“Shall we?” she said with a pointed look at the open door to the drawing room.

As instructed, a footman had moved some chairs into the drawing room. Two chairs to be exact. Both of which were being occupied, leaving only the settee available for Giles and Lucy.

Letting his wife get arranged he waited to join her. When he did, his hand automatically sought hers.

If dinner had been uncomfortable, this tension-filled silence that had engulfed them was nothing short of torture.

“Have you given any further consideration to what we talked about last week?” Mr. Appleton asked abruptly.

Actually, he had. Mr. Appleton had been right. He wanted to be the one to pass on his legacy to his heir. And to Seth. Obviously the title would have to pass on to his oldest son with Lucy, but Seth was his son, too, and shouldn’t be forgotten. “Yes.”

“And?”

“I’d like to try.”

A smile so wide that his eyes crinkled split the older man’s face. “I’ll start working on it immediately.”

“Thank you.”

“Have you thought any more about anything else I said that day?”

Giles wasn’t sure what the man was alluding to. Mr. Appleton had told him many things that day. “Which part?”

“The part I shouldn’t have told you.”

“The part about Simon not knowing how to carry his sums, either?”

At that, Mr. Appleton chuckled. “Yes, it’s best to keep that secret contained to this house, but there’s a reason for that.”

“Because nobody can properly explain it?”

“No. I don’t think that’s what it is.” He fidgeted with his snowy white cravat. “I think I told you I had the same trouble.”

“Yes.”

“And that I loved your mother for quite some time and...er...helped her in a way that defies convention.”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember anything else?”

“Yes,” he said, his throat hoarse with raw emotion. Mr. Appleton had mentioned having another son. An older one who’d received his inheritance from another. Giles couldn’t have forgotten that admission with anything less than brain fever. But that’s as far as it went. He didn’t dare try to draw connections between any of the secrets Mr. Appleton had entrusted him with or his growing curiosity as to why the man was helping him, lest he draw the wrong conclusion and be made a fool.

“Can I trust you with another secret that cannot leave this house?”

Giles’ heart pounded in his chest. “Yes.”

“I convinced your mother to defy convention one other time.” He reached over and took his wife’s hand in his, much the same way Giles held Lucy’s hand. “I knew the moment I met her that I had to marry her. Unfortunately, she’d been married by proxy to Norcourt. That did nothing to deter me and I did everything short of abducting her to spend time with her.

“When not wooing her, I studied the law to find some means for her to escape her marriage. There wasn’t any. So when she told me that Norcourt was returning from abroad within the fortnight, we agreed to one night together then to go our separate ways.”

“What are you saying?” Giles choked around the lump in his throat.

“I’m not saying anything is absolute,” Mr. Appleton said carefully. “But you were born only eight and a half months after your mother’s wedding to Lord Norcourt.”

“Thank you.”

“For what? Being the reason you were mistreated and separated from your mother?” Mr. Appleton burst out unevenly.

“No. For telling me the truth.”

“He’s always wanted to tell you, Giles,” his mother said softly. “I thought it was best for everyone if it was never actually spoken of. Once again I was wrong and beg your forgiveness. I didn’t want you to be hurt or to ruin any friendship that might have formed between the two of you. I’ve accepted that you might never forgive me. I didn’t want to ruin this relationship, too.”

He’d softened marginally toward his mother over the past few weeks, but her final words made every wall he’d erected around his heart toward her turn to dust. “What changed?”

“Lucy.”

“Lucy?”

“She came to see me at the library today,” Mother said. “She mentioned that she thought it might be important to tell you the truth.” She dried her eyes and cast him a watery smile. “She asked if the two of you could come to dinner sometime later in the week, but when I mentioned it to Walter, well, as you can see he didn’t want to wait.”

Giles turned to his wife, unsure what to say.

“You were right this morning,” she said softly.

“I was?”

She laughed. “Don’t act so surprised.”

“I am surprised. I’m never right.”

“You were this time. I just didn’t—” she frowned— “no couldn’t realize it at first.”

“What changed your mind?”

She used her free hand to gesture to the room. “This.” She cleared her throat. “While I’d like to accept everyone’s thanks, I can’t. It wasn’t me who realized this needed to be said, or at least acknowledged. Lady Belgrave pointed it out to me.”

“Isabelle?” everyone asked in unison.

Lucy nodded. “I hope none of you are angry with me for talking to her about it.” She angled her body so she was looking only at Giles. “When I went to see her today instead of helping me find ways to convince you to agree with me, she made me realize how important the very same thing was to you.”

“Does that mean?” He hoped she could share the rest of this particular thought so he wouldn’t have to embarrass her by putting voice to it.

She squeezed his hands in response, and whispered, “Yes, I’ll tell him when he asks.”

Heedless to the fact that his mother—and father—were in the room watching them, Giles lifted Lucy’s left hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “Thank you.”

“Perhaps I’ll have to go see Isabelle tomorrow and offer her my thanks, as well,” Mother mused a moment later after Giles and Lucy had turned back to join their conversation. She twisted her lips and puckered her brow as if she were in deep contemplation. “She might even be able to offer me a suggestion or two on how to get Giles and Simon on friendly terms.”

“She just might be willing to help if only to spare herself from having to spend the day embroidering something,” Lucy murmured, then took an uncomfortable swallow. “But if you’d like my suggestion, I think it might help the most to have a candid conversation with Simon similar to this one.”

Silence fell over the room for a moment or two, broken only when Giles’ mother released a deep, uneven breath and said, “You’re likely, no you are right and that’s just what we’ll have to do as soon as we get home.”

When they were gone and Lucy and Giles were alone again, Giles pulled her into his arms and pressed his forehead to hers. “Thank you,” he whispered, cupping her face with his large hands.

“You’re welcome. Hopefully, after they go home and offer some explanations to Simon things will improve for everyone’s relationship.”

He hoped so, too. It would actually be rather nice to have a brother, or at least another friend. In the meantime, however, he’d much rather show his wife, and closest friend, just how much she meant to him now and always would.

EPILOGUE

August 1818

Devon

“We don’t have to go today, if you don’t wish to,” Lucy said to Giles when he walked up behind where she was looking at herself in the mirror of the guest bedchamber they shared at Briar Creek.

“And disappoint Simon by missing his wedding?” Giles asked. “I think not.”

Lucy laughed and bent to retrieve her shawl. “All right, then we’d best be going.”

“Wait.”

She stilled. “Yes?”

“If you’re not comfortable, we won’t go.”

“Me?”

Giles pushed a lock of her fallen hair behind her ear. “Did Mother tell you who was presiding?”

“Yes, Paul, Sam’s brother.” Lucy waited for unease to overcome her. It didn’t. That’s all Paul was to her: Sam’s brother. Not the boy who’d been her playmate and had defended her when his brother was being beastly. Not the brother whose intentions had been genuine when they’d gotten older. Not the man who’d offered to support her and Seth out of invisible chains of morality or duty. He was just Paul, the younger son of a viscount who’d chosen the life of a vicar.

“Does Seth know?”

“That I bear a strong resemblance to the minister?” Seth asked candidly, coming into their room.

Giles choked on his surprise.

“But he’s not really my uncle,” Seth continued.

“Not legally, no,” Lucy agreed carefully. She’d had to be careful in how she explained their connection to Paul and Liberty and that he could never refer to them publicly as anything other than Mr. and Mrs. Grimes. To the world, they were not a relation.

“I know. But not in any other way, either. Not like Uncle Simon.”

Lucy smiled at her son. Seth and Simon must have had an exceptional two days together when Seth stayed with the Appletons after the wedding because there hadn’t been a single week that had gone by since then when Simon hadn’t come by to fulfill his role as “favorite uncle”, bearing candy or other trinkets and playing cards or taking him somewhere. Presumably not to the Statue Museum, she thought wryly. Of course, when Simon came, he took a few minutes to seek out Giles. When asked, Giles always shrugged and said they didn’t talk about anything of consequence, but to her, that was of the most consequence: at least they were speaking.

“Just like Lord Bonnington,” Seth said suddenly, pulling Lucy from her thoughts. “He’s not really my father.”

A stillness fell over the room.

“Not like you are,” he continued, looking at Giles. He idly rubbed his fingers together at his sides and took a hard swallow. “Giles, c-can I— That is...er...”

Lucy’s heart pounded on her son’s behalf. She knew what he wanted to ask. He’d confided his secret in her last night when she’d told him the identity of his father. What she didn’t tell him was Giles had confided the same wish some time ago, but didn’t want to ask Seth and have him agree because of obligation or for his mother’s benefit. He wanted it to be genuine.

“...would it be all right with you if I—” he fidgeted and balled his hands into fists.

“Called me Papa?” Giles ventured, a question, and perhaps his heart, in his tone.

“Yes, sir. But only if—”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, son,” Giles cut in with a face-splitting grin that made Lucy’s heart swell with love for the two people she loved the most in this world.

For the next six months anyway—then there’d be a third...

MORE IN THIS SERIES

Gentlemen of Honor Series

Secrets of a Viscount

Desires of a Baron

Passions of a Gentleman

ABOUT ROSE GORDON

USA Today Bestselling and Award Winning Author ROSE GORDON writes unusually unusual historical romances that have been known to include scarred heroes, feisty heroines, marriage-producing scandals, far too much scheming, naughty literature and always a sweet happily-ever-after. When not escaping to another world via reading or writing a book, she spends her time chasing two young boys around the house, being hunted by wild animals, or sitting on the swing in the backyard where she has to use her arms as shields to deflect projectiles AKA: balls, water balloons, sticks, pinecones, and anything else one of her boys picks up to hurl at his brother who just happens to be hiding behind her.

She can be found somewhere in cyberspace at: http://www.rosegordon.net.

Or blogging about something inappropriate at: http://rosesromanceramblings.wordpress.com.

Rose would love to hear from her readers and you can e-mail her at rose.gordon@hotmail.com.

You can also find her on Facebook, Goodreads, and Twitter.

If you never want to miss a new release, visit her website to subscribe to her New Release list and you'll be notified each time a new book becomes available.

ATHENA’S ORDEAL

Sue London

For my mom, who made me a Haberdasher at heart. Strong women raise strong girls.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Tremendous thanks to my editors Kris Silva (@gravewriter71 on Twitter) and Jen Driver-Sylvia (www.thinkjenthink.com). The Haberdashers wouldn't be nearly as engaging (or well-written) without your influence. You went above and beyond.

Thanks to all of the people in the romance writing circle who have made me feel welcome. Especially thanks to Courtney Milan and Rose Gordon for their advice and support. You guys are awesome.

Thank you to my husband who helped to make sure that Quince and Sabre made their debut with love, support, nagging, taking on extra chores, and all those other things that authors need when they hear deadlines whooshing by.

And a huge thanks to the fans of the Haberdashers! Oh my gosh, you guys, my heart has grown at least three sizes from how much you have enjoyed Jack and Giddy's story. Back in the spring I was just a girl with a dream and now you've made that dream come true. Thank you so much for your support! I hope that you find Quince and Sabre's story to be as much fun.

And thanks again to all the people I mentioned in Trials of Artemis – my “friends and family” both in person and online. You guys are awesome and help me make it through every day.

"The hardest thing of all for a soldier is to retreat." ~ Duke of Wellington

"The essence of fencing is to give, but by no means to receive." ~ Moliere

"A day can press down all human things, and a day can raise them up. But the gods embrace men of sense and abhor the evil." ~ Athena to Odysseus

ONE

May 1815, London

Quincy Telford, Duke of Beloin, knew the importance of discretion. Even a duke's power wasn't absolute and at such delicate times as these, a man of discretion was invaluable. That was why, if anyone had been attentive enough to notice, the duke would have been found on the doorstep of Robert Bittlesworth this fine spring morning, knocking lightly but politely, without a servant in sight. Even the best servants might not be trusted to be circumspect and on this occasion he could not risk any talk of what he was about. The door was opened promptly by a manservant too young and burly to be a proper English butler. Since Quince didn't want to present a card he simply drew himself up in his best ducal stance and said, "I am here to see Mr. Bittlesworth."

The manservant, noting the overall look of refinement that the duke cultivated, bowed him into the hallway and asked him to wait a moment while it was seen whether Mr. Bittlesworth might, indeed, be in to receive him. As the hallway was better than the street Quince was content to cool his heels looking at the paintings on display. Hearing footsteps on the stairs he turned, expecting to see Bittlesworth, but instead saw a vision that made him catch his breath. A young woman was just at the landing, perfectly highlighted in a beam of light from the second story window. Her hair was the deep, warm sable of a mink and had been gathered at the crown to cascade in a riot of curls down her back. She was petite in stature, her figure a perfect hourglass emphasized by the low cut red dress that hugged her curves. The dress was Italian in design if he wasn't mistaken. Expensive, no doubt, but worth every penny to any man who was fortunate enough to look upon her. Bittlesworth was a lucky man indeed, and brazen to have given his Cyprian free access to his home. As he stared up at her she glanced down and saw him, stopping with a startled "Oh!" She took the remaining steps slowly, and watching those hips coming toward him he had to admit that he would probably give her free rein of his home, as well.

"Good morning," she said after a moment, obviously entertained that they stood in the front hall staring at one another longer than was considered appropriate in polite company.

He had to admit that he was well pleased that this wasn't entirely polite company. Taking her hand to bow over he kissed her finger tips and, looking up, enjoyed another quite spectacular angle of her cleavage. For such a tiny thing she had simply acres of creamy white skin to admire, from her barely covered breasts to her shoulders, teasingly exposed by the drop sleeves of the gown.

"Good morning," he responded in as silky a tone as he could muster. As he straightened he saw that it had the desired effect, as she seemed to preen under his attentions. Her eyes were the color of bright sapphires and light danced in them from her good humor.

"You have me at a disadvantage, sir," she said, "as Bobbins has been derelict in his duties again and not announced you."

Still holding her hand and staring down into her beautiful face he came to an impulsive decision. He would have her, at any price. He had never wanted a woman, or really anything, quite like this. As though leaving without her was impossible, unconscionable. He rushed to claim her before his own fear, his inexperience in bargaining for such a woman, could stop him.

"Whatever Bittlesworth is paying you, I'll double it. Triple it. You'll never want for anything again in your life."

The change in her expression was so sudden it was almost shocking. The humor was gone and she was so expressionless as to be carved from stone.

"Pardon me?" she asked.

As Quince searched his mind for what to say to bring back the delightful fairy queen she had been and, better yet, to convince her to leave with him, his thoughts were interrupted.

"Your grace, I didn't realize it was you."

The Duke of Beloin released the young woman's hand and turned to see Robert Bittlesworth, who had apparently emerged from some room here on the first floor while Quince hadn't been paying attention. "That's rather the idea, old boy," his normal hauteur having returned to his tone.

Bittlesworth paused and then said, "Quite." He looked from the young woman and then back to the duke. "I trust my sister hasn't been too tiresome?"

The last time Quince remembered being this lightheaded was when he let his friend Giddy talk him into going three rounds with Gentleman Jackson. Apparently a sharp uppercut from a man nearly twice your size had exactly the same effect as deeply insulting the younger sister of a gentleman that you had hoped could save you. But just as he had borne up under Jackson's pounding as best he could, the duke barely faltered in his response now. "She has been delightful." Quince's eyes swung back to the dark-haired beauty who remained expressionless. Holding her gaze he said, "And I trust she can be discreet as well?"

The young woman raised her chin a notch as though accepting his challenge while her brother said, "Of course. Perhaps you would be more comfortable in my study?"

"Indeed," Quince said. Nodding to the young woman he said, "Miss Bittlesworth."

Bowing into a low curtsy she said, "Your grace."

Quince doubted that he had escaped so easily after such an insult, but beggars couldn't be choosers so he let Robert Bittlesworth lead the way to a small but well-appointed study so that he could explain his issue to the Hero of the Home Office.

Sabre, or as she was more formally known Sabrina Bittlesworth, stood quite still in the hallway for a few moments after Robert and his guest had left. She had heard of having your blood run cold before but had never experienced it herself. Until today. Until this supposed duke had mistaken her for some sort of... some trollop. When Bobbins returned to the front hall she proceeded with her original plan to call on her friend Jack, who, as of earlier this spring, was now Jacqueline Wolfe, Countess of Harrington. As she rather precisely put on her gloves, bonnet, and pelisse, she thought that's what one's oldest and dearest friends were for, someone to take comfort in when the day wasn't going quite as planned, and Jack would certainly be comforting. Looking down the hallway toward Robert's study, Sabre wondered when her other oldest, dearest friend Georgiana would come home from Scotland. Rather than comfort, George would just sneak down the hallway and poison the dratted duke's tea. Or at least threaten to, and that would be heartening. With a final tug to tighten her bonnet strings Sabre sailed out the front door of her brother's house and into the waiting carriage.

Having shut the study door, Bittlesworth wasted no time on pleasantries. "How can I help you, sir?"

"You've gathered this isn't a social call?"

Bittlesworth remained silent at that, waiting politely.

Quince realized he was glancing around the room and being in general more awkward than was his usual mien. Taking a deep breath he consciously forced himself to relax. "I'm being blackmailed."

"I see," Bittlesworth said, pausing. "Brandy?"

"That would be lovely," Quince agreed. Bittlesworth indicated a comfortable set of matching leather chairs near the fireplace and Quince sat while the drinks were prepared. Shortly, Bittlesworth sat next to him, handing him the glass of sweet liquor.

"Sir, you can tell me as much or as little as you're comfortable saying and I will help you in any way that I can."

It was then that Quince became clear on why Bittlesworth was so valued in his position. Bittlesworth was seated there, polite, attentive, and giving the impression that no matter the trouble that he was the man to solve it. That combined with the fact that he was set to inherit a viscountancy, and therefore implicitly trustworthy to any lord of the empire, was enough to give anyone in Quince's position a profound sense of relief. Perhaps he really had found someone who could help him with this most delicate of problems. He found himself relaxing more naturally into the chair. "Well, as you might imagine, it started with my father..."

Sabre marched on the front door of the Harrington townhouse but was deprived of giving the door a solid, satisfying rap by the butler, Dibbs, opening it before she had even gained the last step. The austere butler bowed her in, gathered her bonnet, gloves, and pelisse, and then silently led her to Jack's morning room. With Jack in the morning room that meant her husband Gideon was already at his office. The Harringtons had only been in Town for just over a week and it seemed to Sabre that Gideon was always at the office, sunrise to long after dark. The fact that her best friend was still misty-eyed over the new husband that was obviously ignoring her struck Sabre as ridiculous.

"Miss Bittlesworth," Dibbs announced in a quiet tone, then withdrew from the room. Jack rose from her settle with a delighted smile that faded rapidly. The countess was gowned in a pale green muslin that set off her dark golden hair well, and the empire waist served to make her appear even taller than she was. Since she towered over Sabre by better than a head, it wasn't an effect that the darker-haired girl appreciated.

"Oh my," the countess said. "Who did what, and what are we going to do with them?"

Sabre held the sides of her skirt out, like a fashion plate. "How do you like my dress?"

Jack smiled carefully, "I like it quite a lot. Just as much as I did when we looked at all your new dresses the day after I came to London."

Sabre turned once and then settled the skirts again, twitching them into place. "Then you wouldn't look at me and perhaps offer to make me your private whore?"

"Oh." Jack's expression sobered considerably. "Well, now we have the what, I assume what we are going to do with them will be horrible indeed. So who was it?"

Sabre stalked over to a tiny damask chair and sat. She fingered the red silk of her skirts as she smoothed them out. "I don't know."

"Well that's certainly-"

Jack's voice was interrupted by the door clicking open again as the countess's young companion Emmy Hobbes stepped in. No more than eleven, the young Miss Hobbes was Jack's current project. "Miss Bittlesworth," the girl said, dropping a passable curtsy.

"Emmy," Sabre said with a polite nod.

Jack sighed. "Emmy, I'm afraid that today is not a social call. Sabre and I will need some privacy."

"Oh!" the young girl said, backing away. "My apologies, I didn't mean to intrude."

"Not at all," Sabre said, relenting her bad humor over the girl's apparent concern. "You know I adore you. Who couldn't love a child that takes to the sword so quickly? But this is... family business, and likely to be quite boring to you."

Jack nodded. "It's all right. Take a free morning. Perhaps practice your French?"

As Emmy nodded and pulled the door closed behind her Sabre leaned back in the chair. "Luds, Jack, do you even know what a free morning is?"

Jack's brow furrowed. "That's what I would do on my free mornings as a child."

Sabre laughed. "You were never a child. You were once smaller and you knew less, thank God, but a child? No."

"Tea?"

"You don't have anything stronger?"

Her friend raised a questioning brow and Sabre blew out her breath in a huff. "Yes, tea would be lovely."

Jack pulled the bell and then seated herself on the small couch that faced toward the chair Sabre was in. "And?" she prompted.

Sabre sat up straight again. "I need your promise, your vow as a Haberdasher, that you will not share this information with anyone."

"Except George, I assume."

"Yes, you may share it among the Haberdashers. If George should finally get herself back from Scotland you can certainly discuss it with her."

"But not with Gideon." Jack said it more as a statement than a question.

"No, not with Gideon." Sabre agreed.

Jack grimaced but nodded. "You have my pledge."

Sabre nodded just as a discreet knock announced a maid. The girls didn't speak again until the tea had been settled and Jack was prepared to pour.

"I assume three sugars today?" the countess asked.

Sabre smiled again. This was the comfort that she knew old friends could provide. Someone who knew that stress made her want sweets. Sweets that she regularly avoided since so much as an extra lump of sugar seemed to go straight to her hips. With her tiny stature it took diligence to maintain her figure. "Yes, three sugars today. And that tart if you don't mind."

Jack smiled sardonically. "I wouldn't think you would want to be seen consorting with tarts."

Sabre merely snorted. That was the other thing about old friends. They had absolutely no respect.

"So," Jack ventured, after handing Sabre the cup and saucer. "Where did you meet this man? In the street?"

Sabre nibbled at the tart. "I'd rather not say."

"Well, how are we supposed to find him?"

"He's a duke," Sabre ventured.

"Oh. Well. That certainly cuts the list down substantially. Are you sure he's a duke?"

"I have it on the utmost authority."

Jack narrowed her eyes, obviously wanting to question her friend further in a direction that Sabre didn't want to go.

Sabre sipped her tea and said, "Let's start with what we do know. He's a duke, about your height I would say."

"Many men are," Jack noted drily.

"Robert's age or a little bit older. Fair haired, almost as light as Charlie's," Sabre said, referring to her second oldest brother, the ever affable and horse-mad Charles Bittlesworth. "Cut in that fashionably tousled style. And his eyes are green. A very light green, a spring green George would probably call them. You would expect such innocently colored eyes to house a more wholesome soul." Sabre realized Jack had become suspiciously quiet and looked over at her friend. The countess had one hand clasped over her mouth, eyes wide with horror.

"You know who it is," Sabre accused.

Jack closed her eyes and let the hand fall away. "Oh Quince, what did you do?"

Sabre slammed down her teacup with a crack and jumped to her feet. "You're telling me the obnoxious toad that propositioned me this morning is the Duke of Beloin?"

Jack nodded, "I think so, yes."

"The same Duke of Beloin you have been raving about since I came back from Italy? That you have been bragging I will meet at your ball?"

Jack shrugged helplessly, "Are you sure you didn't misinterpret what he said?"

Sabre loomed over her seated friend and hissed, "Do you want to know what he said? It was, 'Whatever he's paying you, I'll double it. Triple it. You'll never want for anything again in your life.' Do you think I misinterpreted that Jack? Really?"

Her friend gasped in shock. "That's terrible! I can't believe he would say that."

Sabre stalked off to stare out the window. "Either it was the Duke of Beloin or he has a twin. Who is also a duke."

"And who was the 'he' that the duke was referring to? I'm confused, Sabre. Did this happen this morning? Where?"

Sabre turned back to her friend. "I've said all I'm going to say on that matter. Thank you for providing the information I needed."

Jack launched to her feet as well. "Sabre, I don't like that look. What are you planning to do?"

Sabre tilted her chin up. "I'm planning to defend my honor."

TWO

Quince felt surprisingly good after sharing his burden with Robert Bittlesworth. Enough so that his step was lighter as he headed toward the front door to exit the house, but then the scene of his meeting with Bittlesworth's sister stopped him short. Gods, how could he have been so stupid? With one impulsive offer he had insulted a young lady and perhaps, if she decided to confide in her brother, ruined the chance that Bittlesworth would help him with this issue. Yet, glancing up the stairs to the landing where he first saw her, he had to admit that the vision of her in that dress would be with him for the rest of his life. Knowing that simply seeing him again would probably cause more offense to the lady, he accepted his coat from the doorman and departed.

"Oh Sabre..." Jack said. "Surely you don't mean to challenge Quince to a duel?"

Sabre nodded. "Of course I do. It's his just desserts. And didn't you say that he believes in women's rights? Why shouldn't it be my right to defend my own honor?"

Jack sighed. "There is a sad symmetry to it."

"You'll be my second?"

Jack scowled but nodded. "Of course."

Sabre nodded again. "Good, that's settled. I shall send a message to the duke informing him that his second can meet mine." Sabre searched her mind for an appropriate location that wasn't a men's club. "At the private room in the back of the George and Vulture?"

"The George and Vulture?" Jack asked. "Are you sure you can stand the idea of me wearing breeches and having Welsh rarebit without you?"

Sabre pouted. "You have a point. Perhaps I could come with you?"

"Don't be ridiculous, you know that's not how it's done. Perhaps Twinings would be a better option?"

"The tea and coffee house? Now who's being ridiculous? The duke's second would laugh all the way home." Sabre looked up at her friend with a bit of disgust. "Stop thinking like such a girl."

Jack just laughed and shook her head. "Considering there's more than a fair chance that the person I'll be meeting is my husband I am simply trying to head off his complaints."

Sabre knew she was frowning as she felt a shudder of disapproval run through her. She had been at first delighted that her prudish, intellectual friend had married Lord Lucifer. Based on the stories from Robert and Charlie she had expected the earl to help Jack loosen up a bit. Instead it seemed the lord was even more reserved than Jack herself. Meanwhile, the freedom-loving and headstrong woman Sabre thought she had known was now content to submit to her overbearing husband. It was enough to make Sabre swear off the idea of marriage forever. "No," she said, "I think the George and Vulture. I don't wish to tip our hand too early."

"Tip our hand?"

"He has to believe the challenge comes from my brother or he won't even show up to the field."

"Won't the game be up when Giddy sees that I'm the second?"

"Not if you convince him to help us."

"Sabre, that's not very likely."

"I have every faith in you."

A full day had passed since Quince had visited Bittlesworth. He hadn't expected immediate results, of course, but now that he had initiated a solution he found himself impatient to get on with it. Instead, he was spending his mid-morning reviewing correspondence. One of his least favorite activities. None of the duties of a duke were particularly appealing to him, but reading all these invitations and solicitations ranked lower than low. And these were only the remaining letters after his secretary had already parsed through the majority. Blessedly it seemed the torture was coming to the end for today. There was only one, small missive left on the tray. Cream colored heavy stock. When he turned it over he saw "Duke of Beloin" in a heavy, flowing script and a blank seal that had been broken, he assumed, by his secretary. Something about the letter made him uneasy and he regretted that his man had opened it first. Unfolding the paper he saw the dark script inside.

Your proposition yesterday was unconscionable. I will have satisfaction. Your second shall meet mine this evening before nine at a private room of the George and Vulture. – Bittlesworth

Quince felt his body go cold. Not only would Bittlesworth not aid him, the insult to his sister had driven the man to challenge a duke to duel. Apparently even a man with a reputation for reserve could be pushed too far. Numbly pulling out a blank sheet of paper the duke considered how to best phrase the request to his second.

Sabre had been pacing in the front hall much of the morning, waiting for Jack. Finally hearing a familiar knock on the front door she schooled her expression and opened it. Jack stood on the steps, eyeing her friend critically.

"I don't like that look," the countess finally announced.

"What do you mean?" Sabre countered, but she could feel the grin beginning to tease at the side of her mouth.

"You did it. You sent the challenge."

At that, Sabre's eyebrows drew down. "Shh!" she admonished. She pulled her friend into the front hall and looked around to see if any servants were present to have overheard them. Not seeing anyone she hustled Jack up the steps to the sitting room.

"Sabre!" Jack admonished in a fierce whisper. "If we can't talk here then perhaps we should go elsewhere?"

"We've had a predictable pattern since you've been back to Town," Sabre responded, also in a whisper, "changing it now could be disastrous.”

Jack settled herself onto a love seat and smoothed her skirts. "Your definition of a disaster might be quite different from mine," she said, but still kept her voice low.

"No, I'm sure that inspiring my brother's suspicion rates fairly high on your list of disasters."

Jack raised a brow but remained silent.

Sabre sat in the chair opposite her friend and spent some time fussing with her own skirts.

"And?" Jack finally prompted.

"And what?" Sabre asked calmly.

"And what? And everything. What did you send? Did he send anything back? What is the plan?"

Sabre could feel the frown tugging at her lips. "I sent a short letter this morning. Of course he hasn't sent anything back. The plan continues with you at the George and Vulture tonight, as we already discussed."

"Then why am I here?"

"Because every other morning you and I have a mid-morning chat in this sitting room."

Jack threw her hands up in the air in exasperation. "So you're going to leave it all to me to explain this to my husband?"

Sabre knew a true frown was marring her expression now. "Do I need to be concerned? You act like you're afraid of him. You've never been afraid of anything."

A poignant stillness enveloped the room as the two young women eyed one another. Jack finally set her jaw in a mulish expression that Sabre recognized and quite honestly, it was a welcome relief.

"Of course I'm not afraid of him," the countess said vehemently. She looked down and traced the pattern on the arm of the love seat and after a pause added more softly, "Some things are just not worth the trouble of arguing about."

Sabre felt a rush of blood that made her head swim. She stood up abruptly. "Well, if my honor isn't worth the trouble then I can certainly look elsewhere for a second."

Jack looked stricken. "Oh, Sabre, no! That's not what I meant! Not at all. It's just, well…" Her friend looked up at her with tears in her green eyes. Jack was never scared and she never, ever cried. Now Sabre didn't know whether to be angry or frightened herself.

"It's just what?" she prompted.

After a moment Jack bit her lip and gave a watery chuckle. "Oh, never mind," she said, shaking her head. "You'll find out for yourself one day. Or you won't. I'm not sure you're the type who will marry for love."

"You didn't marry for love."

"Yet I found it all the same. Funny that." Jack shrugged. "And I must apologize once again for letting my pregnancy get the best of me. My moods of late have been quite abominable. Of course I will be your second. I will handle Giddy."

Sabre didn't know whether it was the pregnancy or the husband that was having the worse effect on her friend. All she knew was that she wanted neither affliction for herself.

Quince heard heavy boots in the hallway and knew the earl had arrived. He hadn't asked Giddy to come in his letter. Had asked him quite specifically to appear at the G&V at the appointed hour, in fact. But that was Giddy for you. Managing. Had to come see everything for himself.

"The Earl of Harrington," Larkins intoned from the door.

Harrington strode across the room with his usual air of purpose and then stood looming over the duke's chair as though a question had already been asked and he was impatiently waiting for the answer. Unlike the duke's own impeccable appearance, the earl looked as though he had been out riding in a stiff wind.

"Hullo, Giddy," Quince said softly, swirling wine in the bottom of the glass he was holding. "Feel free to make yourself a drink. Not too many, though. We must be sharp in the morning."

"What on God's green earth have you gotten yourself into, Quince? Your letter said to expect Charlie Bittlesworth as a second?"

Quince nodded. "That seems most likely."

"So you and Robert are at crossed swords? What on earth do you have to duel about?"

"He perceives that I insulted his sister."

At that Gideon looked thoughtful, then did turn to the sidebar to fix himself a drink. "Little Sabre?" he mused. "Doubtful. She would have run you through herself if you had."

Quince gave his friend a questioning look. "Little Sabre?"

Gideon sat in the chair opposite his friend. "Certainly I've told you that Miss Sabrina Bittlesworth is my wife's best friend."

"No, I don't remember it coming up."

"What did you say about her?"

"Say about her?" Quince asked.

"That she or Robert took as an insult."

"I haven't said anything about her."

"Then what was the nature of this supposed insult?"

"I may have, inadvertently… asked her to be my mistress."

Gideon choked a bit on his swallow of wine. "I'm sorry, you may have what?"

"Asked her to be my mistress."

"I don't know who it was you asked to be your mistress, but as you are devoid of wounds I have to guess that it wasn't actually Sabrina Bittlesworth."

"I'm quite certain it was."

"How do you know?"

"Robert referred to her as his sister mere moments later."

"You made this proposition in front of him?"

"No, shortly before he entered the room. I assume she told him about it later."

Gideon set his glass down and sat back, crossing his arms. "Well. Aren't you a piece of work?"

"Whatever do you mean?"

"You still look as saintly as ever, yet there you were. Propositioning a young lady of Quality. Even I never did that."

"In my oh-so-slender defense, I did think she was Robert's mistress at the time."

"What? Why on earth would you think that?"

"If you'd seen the dress she was wearing you'd think it, too."

Gideon merely raised a brow in that way he had that made you know he was questioning your sanity.

Quince frowned into his glass. "The particulars of the matter don't really signify now, do they? Tonight you meet his second and in the morning there will be a duel."

"Tonight Charlie and I commiserate over what half-wits you both are, and in the morning we get to watch you be idiots. Shall I advocate for swords?"

"The choice is Robert's, of course."

"Yes, but if he chooses pistols and if he's angry... Well, you might not make it through the morning."

"There are any number of reasons we might not make it through the morning, Robert Bittlesworth's pistols notwithstanding. If he wants pistols, then pistols it shall be."

"There's likely another way to solve this, you know."

"Don't say it, Giddy."

"Offer for her."

"No."

"Why does everyone say no when I propose marriage? You know the idea is valid. Expected even."

"No. I shall not marry a Bittlesworth."

"The current viscount can't live forever, and Robert is a good enough sort."

"This isn't a topic open for discussion, Giddy."

"You would rather die than marry her?"

"If need be."

Gideon sighed. "Well, old boy, I propose that in the future you be more careful about whom you invite to be your mistress."

THREE

At precisely half past eight Gideon was informed that his horse was ready. The earl considered going up to check on his wife before leaving. She had been quiet and distracted at supper, not quite her usual self, and had retired early. But if trouble was brewing in her mind it might be best to get this foolish duel out of the way first. He paused at the door and looked up the steps. He had promised himself that he wouldn't avoid confrontations with her but certainly this was a special case. And, he thought to himself with the beginnings of a smile, if he told her what he was off to do then she would undoubtedly want to come along.

Jack kept her head down with the brim of her cap low, sipping at a bitter beer. It was ridiculously easy to pass for a young man in her loose-fitting trousers and vest. The barman had been busy and rushed when she came in and hadn't looked twice at her. He had taken coin at her mumbled request to hold a private room for her master, leaving her here with the door open for the supposed master's imminent arrival. Now she just had to wait for what she still assumed would be Gideon. If not, he would soon find her missing at home and she could just imagine what sort of trouble that could cause. Lara, her maid, was sworn to secrecy… unless the earl started forming a search party or some other silly, overwrought thing. There was no reason to upset the entire household for what was essentially a short ride and meeting a friend at an alehouse. Not that women in her station were allowed to do such things. She ran her finger over the grain in the heavy wooden table and grinned.

The tiny room she had secured held only a table and four chairs, but it did have the advantage of a small fireplace and a lantern. There was enough light to read, if she had only thought to bring a book.

She heard the heavy stomp of boots approaching and schooled her features into the discontented scowl that was as much a part of her disguise as the ratty old cap that she wore. Keeping her chin low she looked over as the boots stopped in the doorway. Black Hessians. She recognized those boots.

"Boy, who else is here?" The earl's voice was brusque, impatient. "I'm expecting Charlie Bittlesworth."

"You can expect him," Jack replied, "but I haven't seen him since we've been back to Town."

After a deathly still pause the earl said, "Jacqueline?"

She looked up at him and smiled. "Hullo, Giddy. Fancy meeting you here."

Shock gave way to irritation as he saw that it truly was his wife. He closed the door to the room with a thump and strode over to the table. "Bloody hell, what are you doing here?"

"The same thing you're doing here, unless I miss my guess."

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Then it is Sabre who took exception to Quince's misstatement."

"Misstatement? Is that how he put it? And of course Sabre took exception to it. I believe we have some terms to discuss."

"Why didn't you tell me about this? Why the subterfuge? We could have discussed this at home."

"I couldn't be entirely sure that Quince would choose you as his second. Why didn't you tell me that you were to be involved in a duel in the morning?"

Gideon crossed his arms and stared down at her. She could tell that he desperately wanted to demand that she leave off this pursuit. He changed tacks instead.

"There's no point in this since Quince would never fight her."

"We choose swords. Sabres, in fact."

"Again, he won't fight her. And the last thing you want to do with Quince is choose swords."

Jack arched a brow. "The last thing you want to do with Sabre is choose swords. But she wants swords."

"I'm sure she's quite accomplished for a woman."

"She's quite accomplished for anyone. Our terms are to the blood."

"There's no point in arguing about this because there will be no duel!"

"Sabre and I assumed you would have that perspective," Jack said primly.

"Well, that was bloody brilliant of you."

"I have one point for you to consider."

"And that is?"

"Your friend Quincy Telford, Duke of Beloin, has been plaguing you for years about rights for women. Isn't it time that you make him pay up by proving he's capable of treating a woman as though she has equal rights to a man?"

Gideon slowly uncrossed his arms and put them on the table to lean toward her. Once he was scant inches away he finally spoke. "You, my love, are diabolical."

She grinned. "I thought you might find that line of thinking appealing."

"Irresistible. Quince will have to admit that he does see differences between men and women. That actually is quite brilliant. Can we go home now?"

"Silly man, you haven't even had a drink yet and you want to go home to your wife and cozy bed at the unfashionably early hour of ten o'clock? What will your friends think?"

"Lucky man? Although perhaps not if they saw how you were currently dressed."

She lifted her nose in the air haughtily. "I'll have you know that this is the stare of fashion among street rats."

"Undoubtedly. Can it be hoped that you rode a horse here this evening?"

"Of course. And," she added in a conspiratorial whisper, "I had a groom ride with me."

"Really?"

"Yes. If I don't bring a groom on my rides my husband gets very upset with me."

"He sounds like an ogre."

"You have no idea. Overbearing doesn't begin to describe him."

"I don't know how you stand it."

She fluttered her lashes at him. "He only worries about me because he loves me."

He pinched her chin. "We'd best go before someone comes in and finds me kissing what appears to be a stable boy."

"Indeed. That might be the only way to darken the reputation of Lord Lucifer."

FOUR

As the carriage rolled through the streets before dawn Sabre had to admit to herself that she was nervous. Jack sat to her right, quiet in the gloom. They had hardly spoken this morning, just confirming the timing and weapons as Sabre had boarded. Jack had been waiting with the carriage a few blocks from Robert's house so that he would be none the wiser about their plans, provided Sabre had slipped away as silently as she thought she had. It wasn't uncommon for her to sleep until noon, so she should be able to sneak back into the household before anyone noted her absence.

She gave herself the satisfaction of a small smile. It reminded her of the shenanigans from their childhood. Sneaking out to hold mock duels at dawn. But this wasn't a game and Jack had shared the warning that the duke was quite proficient with a sword. Instead of the exhilaration that she had always felt when meeting her friends on the dueling fields, Sabre was overcome with a sense of dread. A sense of foreboding. Just nerves, she reassured herself. It wasn't often she faced an unknown opponent. She hadn't had an opportunity to study him, to see what his strengths and weaknesses were. She would be coming into a high-stakes combat essentially blind.

"What are you thinking?" Jack had spoken quietly into the velvety silence and the words hung there, almost tangible.

"About how I will humiliate the duke, of course," Sabre answered with a grin.

Jack laughed. "That's our Sabre. Sometimes I think Napoleon has only half your confidence."

"He should be so lucky."

Quince realized he was staring at Gideon's profile as the earl gazed out the carriage window into the darkness from the seat opposite. Gideon was far too pleased with himself this morning, making Quince wonder what he and Charlie had discussed the night before. Not that Gideon had said much as yet. But Quince knew the earl. Something was afoot.

"You say they asked for swords?" Quince said, breaking the silence.

Gideon returned his attention to the duke. "Indeed. I could not have been more surprised."

"And how did you influence that?"

"I guarantee you that it was not my suggestion."

"That isn't the question that I asked."

Gideon grinned. "You're splitting hairs, Quince. Does this duel have you nervous?"

Quince shifted his gaze to the dim light outside the carriage. Nervous? Not precisely. But he could think of no name for what he was feeling.

Now that he had begun talking the earl didn't seem inclined to stop. "You know no one can equal you at swords and it's only to the blood. It should be short work and an early breakfast." As the duke maintained his silence Gideon continued. "Come now, Quince. If you were any more dour I would put you up for abbot. Is something else amiss? Not just this duel?"

His gaze flicked back to the earl. Gideon usually wasn't one to notice things. At least not about people. Thank God the man had married a forthright woman, any other creature would have been doomed to a lifetime of misery. "Nothing to speak of, Giddy," he finally replied.

The earl's brow furrowed, indicating that he didn't quite believe the duke, but the carriage was pulling to a halt. They had arrived at the dueling field.

As Quince stepped out of the carriage he saw that they were the first ones at the clearing. Perhaps Robert and Charlie wouldn't arrive and this could all become an unpleasant memory. Certainly it couldn't be too hard to avoid one family among all those in the ton? He would just spend more time at his country estates and wait for tempers to settle. Then he heard the rattle of carriage wheels approaching and had to admit that this duel was going forward. His eyes narrowed at the conveyance. "Gideon, isn't that one of your carriages?"

"Gracious, old boy, even I don't recognize all of my equipage, but I suppose it is."

The carriage rolled to a stop and a small figure jumped out almost immediately. Too small to be Robert or Charlie. Why would they bring a boy with them? Then the boy turned to accept a package handed down from inside the carriage and Quince realized it was no boy. Even in the dim light of dawn he could tell it was a woman. Sabrina Bittlesworth. He turned his glare on Gideon.

"You knew about this."

Gideon shrugged. "Of course I did. I met with the second last night, remember?"

"You knew about this and didn't tell me? What happened to you being my second?"

"You don't think she should have a chance to defend her honor? That was quite an insult, after all."

"You let me stew all morning about whether Robert would try to kill me."

Gideon's brows drew down. "You said you weren't worried about that."

"And Napoleon said he would stay at Elba. Gods, man, even you can't be so thick."

Now Gideon was truly scowling. "Why would you even think that Robert would try to kill you?"

Quince snorted. "It's obvious that you don't have sisters."

"Neither do you."

Quince let the comment pass and went back to watching the women ready themselves. It was apparent that Miss Bittlesworth's second was Gideon's own wife, Jacqueline. Even if Gideon was perverse enough to play this game it shocked the duke that Jack hadn't told him what was afoot. He turned back to the earl. "As my second, it is your duty to go tell them that this sham of a duel is off."

"I'm sorry, come again?"

Quince looked over to where the young Miss Bittlesworth was warming up her arm with a light sabre. "It's off. And please note that I don't appreciate being played the fool."

"Well, my reaction was of course that it was ridiculous that the lady fight you. But my wife was insistent that you would want to grant her the same rights than any man would have."

Quince looked at his friend. The earl was downright gloating. "Gideon, this is petty and vindictive. Honestly, I expected better of you."

The earl cocked his head to the side. "So you're admitting that a woman shouldn't have the same rights as a man?"

"That's not what I'm saying at all! It just doesn't make sense to partake of a contest against a smaller, less trained opponent. It would be cruel."

"Odd. If Robert had arrived with his pistols that description would have fit you. Yet you were more than willing to do it. Considered it a point of honor, I think, with all that broody talk of dying rather than marrying the girl. Well, she's here to claim the same right."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then as your second it falls to me to fight for you." The thought seemed to sober the earl. "If Sabre steps aside as well and makes me fight my pregnant wife I can assure you I will take that debt out of your hide."

Quince frowned again. Then he heard the dratted woman's voice come across the field. "If we could get started, your grace, I have appointments to keep."

Gideon held out the duke's sword, obviously fighting the desire to smile over what he no doubt considered to be a fabulous joke.

FIVE

Quince withdrew his sword from its scabbard and turned to stomp across the field toward the small woman who had duped him with a forged note. This morning she was garbed in a loose white shirt overlaid with a tailored vest that showed off her curves. The buff colored trousers did nothing to disguise her gender either, highlighting the flare of her hips. This at least made it clear that it wasn't just the dress that had attracted him. She saluted with her sword as he approached but he kept his own sword low. Stopping a few feet away from her he gave a small bow. "My deepest apologies for the insult to you, my lady. It was not my intention to upset you or to besmirch your honor." With that he brought his sword up high enough to slash across his left palm. Holding the hand up to her he said, "First blood. The terms of our agreement are met."

He turned to walk away, but her voice flowed over him again. "That is not acceptable to me, your grace."

He turned back. "Deception was not acceptable to me."

"In which way did I deceive you?"

"Impersonating your brother in order to draw me out to this duel?"

"I in no way impersonated my brother. I did not use his seal, I did not disguise my handwriting, and my name is, in fact, Bittlesworth. It is unfortunate that you mistook the information you had to assume the letter was from my brother."

"That you can enumerate those items so quickly indicates that you knew exactly what you were up to, and exactly what my assumptions would be. It is intention that underlies deception, my lady. Arguing the facts of the case will in no way alleviate you from the responsibility of intending to deceive."

"Is that how you justify your insult to me as well? By dressing a certain way it was my intention to seduce you, and therefore you bear no responsibility for asking me to be your mistress?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I had no idea Robert had a sister. But I do know Robert, and it takes no stretch of the imagination to assume a beautiful woman wandering his house to be his mistress."

"Now you insult my brother as well?"

"I doubt that he would consider it an insult. Perhaps even a compliment."

"Well, I do not take your walking off this field of honor as a compliment, I take it as an insult. But I suppose we can just add it to the insults you have already done me."

"I do not mean to insult you."

"First you dishonor me by calling me a Cyprian and now you disrespect me by not allowing me to defend that honor. In what way are you not insulting me?"

Quince set his jaw. "This has all been entertaining, I'm sure, but I will not be dueling you this morning."

"Oh, wait," she said, her eyes widening. "Are you… are you afraid that I might best you?"

"Of course not."

She looked contemplative. "No, that makes sense. My reputation is very good among certain circles. The Little Dervish and all."

"You're the Little Dervish?"

"You've heard of me?" She looked pleased.

Quince narrowed his eyes. He had indeed heard of the Little Dervish from some of his fencing partners but none had indicated that it was a woman. They had, in fact, said boy and there was nothing boyish about Miss Bittlesworth in these clothes. "Are you deceiving me again, my lady? So soon?"

"No deception here, your grace," she said, offended.

He walked around her, looking her up and down. "You aren't built for fencing. Too many curves and no length."

She sneered at him. "And now you plan to dismiss me out of hand, justifying your decision with yet more insults?"

"Well, then show me what you can do."

"Salute and fight me."

"No, show me your practice drills." He stood back, watching her keenly.

"I will not dance for you like a pet monkey. Fight me or the Little Dervish will spread word of how the Duke of Beloin was afraid to take up the sword."

Quince glowered. "That's ridiculous. And no one would believe you. Provided you are the Little Dervish after all, which I highly doubt."

"I am, and I refuse to fight a man who won't defend himself."

"You assume I won't defend myself?"

"You're still holding your sword behind your back."

He smiled at her. "And?"

She paused for a moment, then nodded. "I see. As you wish." She saluted again and slid into prime position for attack so quickly that he barely had time to step back and raise his own sword in parry. Within seconds it was clear that she had trained. Quickly thereafter it was clear she was among the best he had faced. After that he was absorbed in the dance. Footwork. The flash of the swords. The sound of steel on steel. What the Little Dervish lacked in reach or strength she more than made up for in speed.

Sabre could see the moment when the duke transitioned from arrogance to concentrating on the duel. Knowing that he was fully engaged she pressed harder, faster. Attack, parry, counter-attack. While the duke's attention narrowed into the focus of a master, Sabre found it difficult to concentrate. His form was flawless. She wished she could be watching this match, could behold the beauty of it. She knew that her own style was frenetic, capitalizing on her speed and energy. The duke, in comparison, was grace personified. He was slower but anticipated every move she made well in advance. She did a flurry of attacks that always conquered her opponent's guard and he parried her as though they had practiced this particular exchange a thousand times.

She misjudged his coupé and was open on the left side for mere moments. But those moments were all the time he needed to get past her guard with a simple extension. She felt the steel bite into her arm with the gentleness of a mere brush. But she knew that an injury from a sharpened edge could be deceptively painless. It was clear that the duke's blade had scored true because of his reaction. As she drew back into salute position again he threw his own blade down and stepped forward to inspect her arm.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

She looked up and saw the concern in his eyes as he gently peeled back the edges of her rent shirtsleeve to evaluate the wound. "I'm not," she said. "Tis not but a flesh wound."

"Gideon!" he called out in a demanding tone. "Why do we not have a doctor in attendance?"

The earl had bent to retrieve the duke's sword as he approached them. "I wasn't expecting anyone to get hurt."

Sabre laughed. "That was rather dense of you."

The earl looked affronted but the duke chuckled, unexpected amusement crinkling his eyes at the corners. "She has you there, Giddy."

Jack had joined them, unwinding a bandage. "Don't worry, Quince. She's had worse."

SIX

Although the cut to Sabre's arm was shallow, Jack thought her friend seemed to be in shock. As such, she bundled her into the carriage to take her to the Harrington townhouse.

"This certainly won't look good with your new gowns," the countess commented.

Sabre was looking out the window as the carriage set into motion. "I can wear shawls," she murmured.

Jack wasn't quite sure what to think about her friend's distracted behavior, but as the carriage rolled forward, Sabre knelt on the carriage seat to look out the back window. Jack joined her to see that the only thing she could be looking at were Quince and Giddy, still standing in the field and apparently arguing.

"Isn't he wondrous?" Sabre whispered.

Jack looked at her friend and realized that what she had thought to be shock might actually be the rapt absorption that Sabre rarely displayed, but usually signaled the beginning of a grand obsession. Fortunately her obsessions were usually confined to objects and experiences, such as shoes and being allowed to do a tour of the continent. The idea of her developing an obsession over a person worried Jack immediately.

"Who are we talking about?" the countess asked cautiously.

"The duke, of course. You saw the duel. He was magnificent."

"He's certainly among the best you've fought."

As they had lost sight of the men Sabre turned and flopped onto the bench and Jack seated herself opposite.

"Not among the best, he is the best. I'm going to marry him."

"What?" Jack felt her heart still in her chest.

"I shall marry him. Then I will be a duchess. And I will be able to watch him any time that I want. Duel him any time I want."

"Sabre, these don't sound like reasons to marry," Jack cautioned.

Her friend gave her a speaking look. "Says the woman who married for no reasons whatsoever."

"My reputation! You know what could have happened to Sam and my mother if it had turned into a true scandal."

"Of course I do. I'm just saying that other than that you had no reason to marry the earl. You didn't admire him. Quite the opposite. And you had never shown any interest in marrying for a title."

"That's true," Jack said carefully.

"At least I have reasons."

Jack recognized the look in her friend's eyes. Sabre would have the duke at any cost. God save Quince.

Sabre pinned Jack with a shrewd look. “I assume that I can count on your assistance with this?”

“Well, what do you need?”

Her dark haired friend looked out the window again. “This isn’t a war, it’s a hunt.” She smiled. “That’s your providence, Artemis.”

Jack thought she had best tread carefully. “When Gideon and I met he suggested seeing seduction as a war. That’s your expertise, Athena.”

Sabre returned her attention to Jack. “Really? Well, I suppose who would know more about seduction than Lord Lucifer?”

Quince and the earl faced off in the middle of the field after the ladies left. The duke didn't know the last time he had been so angry. Wait, yes he did. And Gideon Wolfe had been the cause of that, as well. He couldn’t decide if this was better or worse than the earl undermining the first bill Quince had tried to raise in Parliament. "Gideon, what on earth were you thinking, allowing this to happen?"

Gideon, wiping down the duke's sword as part of his duties as second, asked, "What do you mean allowing?"

"I asked you to stand for me here because I trust you. I can see that is yet again a mistake."

"About that, I've been meaning to tell you that you were right."

"I…" Quince realized what Gideon had actually said and it pulled him up short. "What do you mean I was right? About what?"

"If you calm down a bit perhaps I will tell you."

Quince stopped and focused on his breathing. He could feel the tension throughout his body, irritation prickling under his skin. But what was done couldn't be undone. And short of wresting the sword from Giddy, who seemed intent on polishing it to death, in order to run his irritating friend through with it, there wasn't much he could think of that would satisfy his unease.

"Feeling better?" the earl ventured.

"Just a moment," Quince said, closing his eyes. He could hear the horses shifting in their gear as they and his coachman patiently waited. Birds were singing in the nearby trees, content with the early morning Spring sunshine. The scent of blooming flowers carried on the light breeze. Bluebells, if he wasn't mistaken. That made Quince smile. He had sent Gideon's wife a bouquet of bluebells once, as a sign of gratitude when she had made him laugh. Few people were capable of that anymore, it seemed. Feeling calmer he opened his eyes and saw that he had been correct. A blanket of bluebells bloomed under the trees that bordered the clearing.

Gideon cleared his throat and Quince glanced over to see that the earl had finally finished polishing the sword, having sheathed it to hold loosely in his off hand.

"Would you like to go?" Gideon asked.

"I recall there being a mention of an early breakfast," Quince looked up at the sky. "Perhaps not so early, but there is certain to be plenty at my sideboard if you care to join me."

Gideon grinned at him. "Angry as you were, I thought you would shake me loose at the earliest opportunity."

Quince grabbed the sword from Gideon and started toward the carriage. "Then you started telling me how right I am about everything."

"I didn't say everything."

"Hmm. I definitely heard everything."

"Yes, I've noticed you tend to hear what you want."

"Better than you and never hearing anything at all."

"I'm sorry, what was that, old boy? I didn't hear you."

Quince grinned to himself as they boarded. Perhaps everything would turn out all right after all. But his grin faded as he thought about the blood on young Miss Bittlesworth's sleeve.

SEVEN

Gideon looked across the breakfast table at the duke and could tell that although Quince was attempting to behave normally, something was still a bit off. His motions were stiff, his reactions delayed as though his mind were elsewhere. Although Gideon preferred to deal with things straight on, he knew Quince was quite different. The duke had been his friend for twenty years, since long before either of them had ascended to their titles. In all that time he had only seen Quince truly upset three times. The day they had met, again when Quince's father died, and today. As much as Quince liked to tease that Gideon was dense and unobservant, and Gideon would admit that there were many vagaries of daily life that he considered beneath notice, no one knew Quincy Telford, Duke of Beloin, like Gideon did. And based on what he knew, Quince's behavior had him worried.

"So," Gideon asked with a grin, "did you still think Sabrina Bittlesworth was mistress material after seeing her in breeches with a sword?"

That sufficed to rouse Quince from his distraction. "Seeing her in that clothing was… intriguing. She filled it out in a most fascinating way."

Having Quince actually talk about a woman was intriguing. The duke was usually more pious than a vicar on the subject of women. This one he had propositioned to be his mistress and now thought she looked well in men's clothing. "But," Gideon said, "with a figure like that she's like as not to run to fat."

Quince shrugged. "I can't see any danger of that, considering her interest in fencing."

"Jack is very strict about what can and cannot be served with tea when Sabre is in attendance."

"I notice you speak of Miss Bittlesworth very familiarly."

"She stayed with us for almost a fortnight at Kellington. As she and my wife are always in each other's pockets, if I wanted to spend any time with Jack it was a surety that Miss Bittlesworth would be there. Well, unless we were in the bedroom, of course."

Quince stopped buttering his toast. "You're not going to use this as an opportunity to tell me about your bed sport, are you? This is the breakfast table."

"Worry not that I will spoil your digestion, Quince. I don't want you thinking of my wife in that way."

The table lapsed into an awkward silence again and Gideon began to wonder if he should press his friend to find out what was wrong. Although Quince was obviously upset over hurting the girl, it seemed a bit much to be this put out over it. But if it was something else then Gideon didn't know what it could be. There had been some rough times getting the duchy put to rights after the elder duke had died, but things seemed to be going well now. Gideon himself reviewed the books at least quarterly to make sure of that. Quince had no vices to speak of. If it wasn't money then Gideon didn't know what the issue might be.

The one thing he did know was that Quince had to be handled very carefully or he would withdraw into himself, refusing to talk about what was bothering him. Gideon found himself wishing Jack were here. Jack, who had a finer sense of people, and who seemed to have a bit of a talent for drawing Quince out. They shared a quick wit, something he laid no claim to for himself. Quince stared vacantly at his plate, pushing food around with a fork and distracted by his own thoughts, as Gideon contemplated what to say. If Gideon couldn't ask directly and couldn't cajole an answer out of the duke, then he wasn't quite sure what to do.

Quince finally said, "I plan to go out to the country for a few weeks."

"Do you need company?"

The duke looked up in surprise. "You would leave London while Parliament is in session? Surely you jest."

Gideon shrugged in what he hoped was a casual manner. "We spent the better part of March at Kellington."

"The countess spent March at Kellington. I happen to remember you were in London a good bit of that time."

"How was I to know that coming into Town for the vote on the Corn Laws would trap me here? I certainly couldn't anticipate Napoleon's escape."

Quince looked as though he were going to say something and thought better of it. Gideon felt his worry edge into mild panic. Where was the sarcasm, where was the arrogance? Even at eight years old, Quincy Telford had always had a way of looking down his nose at everyone. It was, in a roundabout way, how they had met. But at the moment the duke was lacking his usual pomp. He seemed sad, hollow. Quince was probably right, he needed time out in the country to clear his head. Gideon would just wait until the duke mentioned something that could be done. The earl knew himself to be at his best when he could do something.

Not knowing what else to say, Gideon ventured, "If you do want company, just send us an invitation, old boy."

"You would die of boredom within a day."

"That's not true."

"When is the last time you spent a whole day doing absolutely nothing?"

Gideon smiled and Quince held up his hand. "Spending all day in bed with a woman doesn't count."

"True enough, probably not."

"The answer, which you are trying to avoid giving me, is never. You have never done so. But that is precisely what I'm going to be doing. Nothing. Most likely for an extended period. So no, you are not invited. I do not wish to interrupt my nothing in order to entertain you."

Not sarcasm or wit, but a harsh and direct set down. If anyone else had taken such a tone with him, Gideon would have laid him out on the floor, duke or no. But this was Quince. And more importantly, this was Quince not acting like Quince at all.

The men finished their meal in silence.

EIGHT

Quince stared out the window as his carriage sped toward his estate closest to London, Belle Fleur. When he had gone into his bedroom at the townhouse there had been another letter. On his bed, as though perhaps he himself had tossed it aside earlier in the day. Innocent eggshell colored paper. Folded over and unsealed. But he had recognized it immediately because the first letter had been delivered in just such a way. It inferred that someone in his household was delivering them, which was both disheartening and vaguely threatening. Rather than read it he had tucked it into his coat pocket and set his staff to packing for the country. Now he could hear the paper crinkle in his pocket whenever he shifted in his seat. It didn't really matter what the latest letter said, did it? He could still recall the first missive, word for word.

My dearest duke,

I hope that this letter finds you well. It has come to my attention that you are in possession of papers from your father that you have been discussing with others. If you surrender those papers to me then I will not find it necessary to share some interesting facts that I have discovered about your mother. I will give you a fortnight to gather them. Await instructions in my next letter.

Sincerely,

Your father's friend

That first letter had gone into the fire the night he had received it. No need for the information to get into the wrong hands. Now he had the second letter. Part of his reluctance to open it was that whatever instructions were contained, he could not follow them. He had no idea what papers from his father he supposedly had in his possession. He, of course, had many papers from his father. But nothing incriminating. Nothing that would inspire this veiled but menacing threat. Everything he did have was related to the running of the estates, so unless something was in code it was hard to believe that any of it was causing this reaction. It was beyond low to be threatening his mother, but he knew the former duke had run with an unsavory crowd, men who would not hesitate to threaten even the most innocent and unprotected. The stories that his father would tell over the supper table had made Quince cringe. Honestly, if his father had documented his group's exploits half as well as the forty years of grain reports, then it was no wonder why someone would want to ensure that those papers never saw the light of day. But he had never seen evidence that such was the case. Not one note, one letter, one piece of paper hinted that his father had written down the salacious tales he had enjoyed telling. Even in the stories the elder duke had told names had never been used. Quince had very few clues about the identities of the men his father had run consorted with, save for one whose identity he had learned by accident. For the rest he only knew that they were of an age with his father, were lords, and seemed capable of almost anything.

Perhaps he should send a note to his mother, warning her of the potential outcome of this threat. Not that he was entirely sure what the anonymous blackmailer thought they had to exploit. Certainly his mother had her eccentricities, but it was hard to see where any of them would be earthshaking if revealed. She was a bluestocking, a freethinker, but she was hardly shy about it. On the other hand, attacks to one’s reputation were rarely pleasant and often had long-reaching effects. Even Harrington had kept a relatively low profile since the scandal that had led to his marriage.

But regardless of how many times he turned it over in his mind, Quince came to the same conclusion. At present there was nothing he could do. Nothing but wait to see what Robert Bittlesworth came up with. If he had any faith that there was some cache of documents as yet uncovered he would look for them, but he had little hope of that. Most of the non-entailed estates had been sold years ago, with all relevant papers reviewed by his stewards. It was possible, of course, that one of his staff had found the papers and was currently attempting to use them to their own benefit. But the letter had clearly indicated that the person talking about the papers had been Quince himself. Had he made some offhand comment that had been misinterpreted? That certainly bore looking into. But that would be more Robert's talent than Quince's.

Quince sighed and moved, the paper in his pocket crinkling again. If there was a solution he wasn't seeing it yet.

Once he reached the estate he tossed the letter into a bedside drawer and prepared for bed. It was not yet four in the afternoon but he could think of no better alternative than to escape into sleep.

Three nights passed in relative quiet while Quince stayed ensconced in his rooms. The ducal suite at Belle Fleur was one of the few that he had gone to the expense to update, and it was by far his favorite. Maple furnishings, swaths of dark gold fabric, and all of it offset by jewel-colored flowers, painted and embroidered, to echo the gardens outside. He had some of his favorite artwork displayed here and could spend hours staring at a particular piece and letting his mind wander. Works from Goya, Friedrich, and Turner were all visible from where he lay on the bed. Selling artwork had been among the hardest decisions when setting the estate to rights, but he had been determined not to accept Gideon's insistent offers to bolster the duchy's coffers until the books were balanced. His friend had done enough as it was. The only time he had considered countering that decision was when he had unwisely, and without thought, made an outrageous offer for a mistress.

On the third morning, however, the door to his bedchamber was opened with a good deal more force than usual. Still half-asleep, he roused himself to look at the doorway, anticipating that Giddy had decided to insert himself into affairs. As usual. But instead of the overbearing earl, Miss Bittlesworth glided into the room as though entering a ball. Her smile was sweet and dimpled while her words slashed as quick and true as her sword.

"I wouldn't have expected you to be a slugabed, your grace. Yet I see your butler was correct. Have you really been in here for days?"

Quince cleared his throat. "My former butler."

Miss Bittlesworth went to the window and wrenched back the curtains, allowing a stream of sunlight in. Although horribly bright, it also served to highlight her figure under the flowing muslin gown. "I'm sorry, your grace?" she asked.

"My former butler. If my man can't stop one tiny woman from disturbing me then he shall have to find employment elsewhere."

She turned and sailed toward him with that pleasant smile firmly in place, stopping mere inches from the edge of the bed. "Don't blame him for meeting a woman who always gets what she wants."

"Do you?" Quince asked. He could tell his voice was still husky from sleep. He had obstinately not pulled the coverings up since she had chosen to intrude, and remained bare to the waist. "Do you always get what you want?"

She looked at him appraisingly. "You seem skeptical, but I can assure you that I do."

"What do you want right now?"

That seemed to make her reflective and she sat down on the edge of the bed and worried the edges of her shawl where they fell across her lap. "To help you."

"To help me? What sort of help do you fancy I need?"

She gave him a lopsided grin. "I'm not sure. Robert wouldn't tell me."

"Yet you assume that I do need help?"

"Why else would you come to see my brother? Early in the morning, unannounced, with not so much as a footman or coach in sight? It doesn't take a great deal of deductive reasoning to arrive at that conclusion. You need help with something."

"I'm sure your brother has whatever I need well in hand."

She frowned. "While I'm sure my brother has the best of intentions, his energies are spread across any number of issues. I, on the other hand," she said, replacing the frown with a smile again, "can provide you with my undivided attentions."

Her emphasis on the word attentions gave Quince all manner of unreasonable ideas. He had never recovered from their first meeting and thought often of what it would be like to touch her. Would her skin be as soft, her hair as fine, as he thought? Sitting there in the sunshine from the window, with her cream colored gown, she was the brightest spot in the room. He realized he was staring at her as he often did at his paintings. Barely breathing, trying to absorb every detail. Her skin was a flawless cream and her eyes sparkled again with the amusement that had drawn him into that most unwise proposition in the first place. Ringlets of dark hair brushed over her shoulders and fell down her back. He wanted to feel those curls, tangle his fingers in them. If she didn't leave the room soon he would do something untoward. Something that actually would deserve to have Robert fetch his pistols.

His extended silence drained away her smile until she was looking at him curiously. While she had spoken she had set one of her hands on the coverlet to lean closer to him. Now he couldn't resist running a finger over the skin on the back of her hand. Yes, it was soft. Soft and warm like a rose petal in the sunlight. She didn't resist or pull away, just looked at where their hands met with a ghost of her smile returning.

"Would you like to hear a secret?" she asked softly.

"Of course," he replied.

She leaned forward until her lips neared his ear, her cheek warm against his own. A curl of her hair tickled his nose, ripe with an exotic floral scent he didn't recognize. "What I really want?" Her breath fanned hot against his neck as she whispered. "Is you."

Her heart beat erratically from a boldness that even Sabre hadn't realized she possessed. She tried to draw back but the duke had tightened a hand on her upper arm, holding her in place against him. Her cheek and temple were heated from contact with his skin. He smelled, she thought, as a duke should. Like lemongrass soap and sunshine. How anyone could lounge about for three days and smell so compelling was beyond her. Nor had he looked lazy and dissolute, lying here in this bed. She had, in her time, seen any number of men without their shirts on. She had grown up in the country with brothers, after all. But the duke seemed different somehow. He was no taller nor more muscular than her own brothers, but he had a sense of presence that drew her. If she weren't afraid of the consequences, she would touch all that warm skin he had so casually left revealed even after she entered the room. What would his chest feel like? His arms? His stomach? She began to feel lightheaded from the shallow, gasping breaths she was taking and knew that she had edged toward panic. Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves meant that her senses were flooded in the duke's scent. She felt trapped between panic and surrender, and the better part of her just wanted to sink against him. To bury her nose in his hair, to feel the heat of his skin against every inch of her own. She felt him shudder against her, a moan low in his throat, as though he were considering the same things. She struggled to sit up and he released her. They stared at one another for a moment. His fair skin was flushed as she was sure her own was, and his eyes dark with intensity.

He closed his eyes and said tightly, "You must leave this room."

She hesitated, "I..."

His eyes snapped open again and the gaze he gave her was both intense and tortured. "You must leave this room. Now."

With that Sabre did something she had never done before, had not known she was capable of doing. She quit the field. The door to the room closed with a very quiet click behind her.

NINE

As she had expected, Sabre found servants haunting the hallway waiting to find out how their master would treat this interloper in his home. She took a deep breath to settle herself before trying to address them. Most of them melted away as soon as she gained the hallway but she caught one of the slower ones.

"Girl. Show me the duchess's quarters."

"Oh Miss," the young woman said, holding her apron up to her face. "I'm sure I shouldn't."

"Where is the housekeeper?"

"I'm here, Miss," came a voice from the stairwell. Sabre saw an older woman, tall and severe. She wore a dark gray, unadorned dress. "Mrs. Caldwell, if you please. Havers warned me about you."

Sabre watched as the housekeeper drew near. Controlled, no-nonsense. A slight limp on the right side, which Sabre found intriguing. With her height, plainness, and dour disposition Mrs. Caldwell could easily dress to pass as a man. Sabre wondered if she ever had. The butler Havers had been more feminine with his snowy white hair and delicate pink skin. What a fascinating household the duke had. She wondered if he noticed or simply spent all of his time locked in his rooms while he was here. Whereas Havers had been easy enough to run roughshod over it was clear that Mrs. Caldwell would resist such an approach.

Dropping into as deep a curtsy as was appropriate to give one's housekeeper, Sabre dimpled into a smile. "Miss Bittlesworth, if you please. Daughter of the Viscount Bittlesworth. Now that I have ensured that the duke is as well as can be expected, I could use some help settling into a room and would be oh, so grateful for the hospitality of a light repast. And a maid."

Mrs. Caldwell narrowed her eyes suspiciously at Sabre's apparent friendliness. "And why do you ask after the duchess's chambers?"

Sabre followed the unintentional shift of the housekeeper's gaze to the door across the hall from the duke's own rooms. People always betrayed themselves if you watched for it. She had found the duke's room in the first place by testing which door Havers absolutely didn't want her to go through. Being equipped with significantly less steel than the housekeeper seemed to possess, the butler had fled at that point. Sabre shrugged. "It seemed logical to stay as close to the duke as possible while helping him." With that she turned and went through the door the housekeeper had accidentally betrayed.

All of the drapes in this room were closed tightly against the sunshine outside, the air stale and heavy. Within two steps Sabre had sneezed from the dust kicked up from the carpets.

Mrs. Caldwell's voice was heavy with reproach, "This wouldn't be the best room for you to stay in, my lady."

Sabre held the end of her shawl over the nose and went to the window to wrest back the draperies. More dust motes danced in the air, falling on her hair and dress. With the light from the window she could see the truth of the room. It had remained untouched for years upon years. A thick coating of dust lay over everything.

Sabre coughed and looked to where the housekeeper and maid hovered at the doorway. "Why on earth has this room not been cleaned?"

The housekeeper raised her chin. "At his grace's insistence, of course."

"Some of this dust is older than him. Why would he care?"

"Not the present duke, his father," Mrs. Caldwell corrected.

Sabre scanned the contents of the room. A dainty four-poster bed was across from a bank of windows that, if Sabre didn't miss her guess, faced east for a lovely view of the sunrise. The style of the furnishings seemed years out of date. If Jack were here she would know what style this was. Tiny bottles were still on the vanity. What looked to be a robe was cast over the foot of the bed. It was as though someone had walked out of the room expecting to return many years ago and had never come back.

"How long has the duke's mother been dead?" she asked the housekeeper.

Mrs. Caldwell responded in a neutral tone. "I have never met the duchess, but she is not dead."

Sabre frowned. "Then whose room was this?"

"The duke's first wife. She passed without issue."

"When?"

"Nigh on forty years ago now."

"Forty years is more than long enough for a room to be a mausoleum." Sabre wrenched the window casing open and turned back to where the servants still stood in the doorway. "Well? Are you going to help me? Or do I need to clean this room by myself?"

After hesitating in the doorway a moment longer, Mrs. Caldwell turned to the maid. "Fetch Molly and Sarah. And Owen and Hugh as well. We'll be needing to take all these fabrics outside for a good beating."

Sabre was wrestling open the third window, most likely marring her gown beyond repair with dirt and grime.

"I thought you were hungry," Mrs. Caldwell said.

"Yes, but I can't rest while there is work to be done."

That appeared to be the right thing to say because the housekeeper helped Sabre open the remaining windows without comment.

While bathing and dressing Quince noted that his household was alive with more noise than usual. Heavy footsteps up and down the steps. Banging and rattling in some room nearby. He couldn't decide if he wanted to demand that all the uncharacteristic noise stop, or just be happy that, while entertained with whatever she was doing, the estimable Miss Bittlesworth wasn't personally torturing him. When she had leaned down and whispered in his ear… And what she has whispered. Gods, a woman had never affected him like this before! But, he cautioned himself, her actions seemed far too practiced. Far too smooth and clever. He hadn't been far wrong, he didn't think, to suppose she was some man's mistress. Perhaps she was. Or had been. The Viscount Bittlesworth was a man of low morals and his two sons had run wild through London for years. Why wouldn't the youngest of the Bittlesworths have a similar character? Well, the Bittlesworth bastard Justin Miller, whom Gideon had taken on as a clerk recently, seemed of a solid character. But that was more likely due to his common blood than any association with the Bittlesworths.

Now dressed, Quince went downstairs for his meal, barely dodging a footman with an armload of fabrics that had been coming up. The man, whose vision had been blocked by the stack, dropped them when he realized he had almost plowed through his grace, bowing and apologizing so many times that Quince almost ran in retreat. Gaining the dining room Quince saw his staff scrambling to fill the sideboard for his breakfast. It seemed quite possible that Miss Bittlesworth had disturbed the entire household, not just himself. Once he was settled he waved over a footman. "Tell my guest that I would be pleased for her to join me."

He had only just buttered his toast when the footman returned. The man bowed and said hesitantly, "She respectfully submits, your grace, that she is busy."

Quince narrowed his eyes. He wasn't one to enjoy contests of wills. But he wasn't going to let one tiny, pushy woman to run over his household. "Please inform Miss Bittlesworth that it was not an invitation. It is an order."

The footman looked stricken but bowed again before retreating. "Yes, your grace."

Moments later the girl herself appeared at the doorway, but not as he had been expecting her. He rose to acknowledge her presence, as a gentleman should, his action slowed by his confusion. "Miss Bittlesworth?"

She gave the most cursory of curtsies. "You needed me, your grace?"

Her hair was tied back under a kerchief now, her gown covered in a large apron. Every inch of her, garbed or bare, was coated in some variety of dirt. If he didn't know better he would assume she had been wrestling someone in the yard. "What on earth have you been doing?"

"Cleaning, your grace."

"You feared we didn't have a sufficient number of maids?"

She smiled. "On the contrary. I feared you had far too many without enough to do."

"What did you find for them to do?"

"We've started with cleaning the unused bedrooms."

"I don't know what to say."

"I'm sorry that I'm not dressed to join you in your repast. I'm famished."

He looked down at his plate full of food. "I could wait until you're available."

She sauntered closer. "No need. Although a piece of ham would be heavenly."

She had come close enough to be within reach and opened her mouth. Quince found himself placing a morsel of ham on her tongue, her lips closing over his fingers before he withdrew them. She closed her eyes as she chewed and gave a tiny sigh of appreciation. No, it hadn't been the dress that first time he had seen her. It was her. Here she stood dirty, tired, and hungry, yet all he wanted was to push the food out of the way and take her on this very table. He was shocked by his own thoughts and gripped the back of his chair to keep himself from reaching for her. Then he noticed the red marks under the grime on her left arm.

"You needed stitches?"

The young woman turned her arm to look at where his sword has scarred her. "Probably not, but Jack can be overly cautious. And she has a fine stitch so it wasn't a bother."

Quince cradled her arm and ran a finger over the puckered flesh. "I'm sorry. It was never my intention to hurt you."

"Well, I did goad you into it."

"That's no excuse for my behavior."

"Come now, your grace. I wanted you to fight me and I've told you that I always get what I want."

That only served to remind him of what she had most recently said she wanted. Would she let him pull her down onto this table as he wanted to? Would she raise her skirts for him?

She must have sensed his desire because she blushed and drew back. "If I may be excused, your grace?"

"Of course," he said thickly.

He sat back at the table and picked at his breakfast while the household continued to buzz with activity around him.

TEN

Sabre was sure that her plan would work with the duke. Twice now he had looked at her in a way that made her heart race, as though he had found her naked. Any gentleman would offer for a lady after he had Compromised her. That was how mama had always made it sound, as though it should be capitalized. Compromised. It was exactly how Jack and Gideon had ended up married. They had barely kissed in the library before Lord and Lady Wynders had found them. Gideon had covered the awkward discovery by announcing their engagement. And Gideon was hardly a prime example of an English gentleman. His nickname was Lord Lucifer, for the love of goodness. Sabre wondered if the Duke of Beloin had a nickname. If so, she had never heard it. She was tempted to call him Lord Primandproper. But there was another side to him, too. The side that was succumbing to her flirtation.

After spending most of the day at it, she and the maids had set the bedroom to rights. The fabrics were freshened, the wood polished, and all of the glass glistening. Having investigated the layout she found that the suite had its own dressing and bathing rooms, and adjoined the duke's bedroom through a sitting room that also had its own double-doors into the hall. The staff had apparently stopped questioning her place in the household and seemed content to let her decide where she should be and what she should be doing. She had her luggage brought up to the newly freshened room and ordered a bath so she could be presentable for supper. While waiting for the bathwater to be brought up, she checked to ensure her coachman was being treated properly and went over the evening menu with Mrs. Caldwell, an activity that the housekeeper seemed surprised that anyone would be interested in. It made Sabre wonder if the duke was often in residence at this estate at all.

Finally, after hours of dirty, grueling labor, she was able to sink into hot water scented with her special oils. She started thinking of the things that would need to be done tomorrow, not the least of which was to express her gratitude again to the servants who had helped with this suite. It had ultimately been four maids, three footmen, and Mrs. Caldwell herself. They had all swept, dusted, polished, mopped, and straightened until the room was habitable. She had left the drapes down for now, the tall windows with their view of the gardens that circled the house were too beautiful to cover again just yet. In the morning, when the sunrise brightened and woke her up early she might regret it. But the room needed the light and air.

She heard a bump in the next room, followed by a knock at the door.

"I'm not ready yet," she called out.

The door pushed open, revealing the duke. "Then that is poor planning on your part," he said.

With a gasp she crossed her arms over her bosom. "Your grace!" she exclaimed.

He ignored her at first, intent on inspecting the bathing room. "I've never been in here before," he finally commented.

She huddled down into the tub as best she could to avoid the gaze that he periodically passed over her.

At last he seemed to have completed his review of the room and stood over her, hand clasped behind his back. "When I inquired after what rooms were being cleaned, Mrs. Caldwell informed me that you were having the duchess's suite cleaned for your own use. That seems presumptuous, don't you think?"

"I assumed you would want me to feel comfortable."

He laughed and looked up at the ceiling for a moment. "Miss Bittlesworth, whatever am I to do with you?"

"Let me finish my bath in peace would be my suggestion."

"I will be as clear as I possibly can. It is unseemly for you to reside in the duchess's quarters as they adjoin my own. If you have only the slightest care for your reputation certainly you understand that."

"You lecture me as though I don't have a mother."

"Your actions indicate you have a neglectful one. You arrived here without so much as the protection of a maid, tried to seduce a man in his own bed, and have now taken up residence in a room that adjoins his. Were you my daughter I would lock you away until you started to show some sense."

"How fortunate for me that you're not my father."

"Indeed, I am not. However, I am your host and with such authority shall be moving you to the south wing. Before you think to argue with me, do know that it could be my preference to have you board your carriage and return to London this evening instead."

"As you wish, your grace."

The duke paused, looking at her shrewdly. "I do not trust your acquiescence."

"I'm likely to say anything to get you to leave the room," she admitted.

At that he nodded and left without further comment.

Sabre sighed. The water had gone cold during her exchange with the duke. No matter, it was time to dress for supper. And prepare her items to be taken to the south wing.

Quince only made it to the shared sitting room before he needed to sit down. Gods, what had possessed him to do that? Yes, he had been angry when he had heard of her presumption. She seemed bent on being intrusive, bossy, and managing. But to intrude on the girl's bath was beyond the pale. Not only was it untoward, it had been very dangerous. If she had been bold enough to stand up when he had entered, he would even now be making love to her on the floor of that room. It had been distracting enough to see her bared shoulders, the globes of her breasts barely covered by her small hands, the hint of dark hair at the juncture of her thighs beneath the soapy water. That was why they absolutely could not share this suite. Tonight he would be thinking about what he had seen, what she might yet let him see. To know that she was barely a room away would drive him to distraction. If she were any other woman he would consider it. But Bittlesworth's daughter? Never. No matter her attraction. No matter her willingness. That she was the only woman he had ever felt this attracted to seemed a petty and cruel joke by a vindictive god.

ELEVEN

Sabre set herself to being the ideal guest after settling into the south wing. She was always timely to meals, always pleasant, always smiling. The duke did not require much in the way of entertainment and she ended up with a great deal of time on her hands. As it seemed the duke primarily ignored his staff, she began to see to their needs. Nothing significant, of course. Nothing, heaven forbid, presumptuous. But it was apparent that it had been some time since anyone of the Quality had taken an interest in their welfare. She listened with interest to their stories and helped them with their chores as was appropriate, such as washing and slicing fruit in the kitchen. She insisted that Mrs. Caldwell take an afternoon off since it was something the older woman did with such infrequency that no one on the staff could remember the last time she had done so. By the end of the third day, acting as the de facto housekeeper while Mrs. Caldwell was in the village, Sabre felt she had made sufficient progress with the staff. Having always looked forward to running a household, she was relieved to know that the servants here were as likeable as the ones at home, if perhaps a bit more peculiar. But she had made a place with them where they looked to her as both lady of the manor and friend.

If only it were so easy to sway the duke.

After three days of observing him in close quarters it was clear to her that Quincy Telford, Duke of Beloin, was not one to share much of himself with others. He was a loner, preferring to spend long stretches of time in solitude. Although he did possess the wit that her friend Jack had complimented him on, it was apparent that he primarily used it to push others away rather than to entertain or commiserate as some do. Perhaps that was because he wished to rid himself of his current company, but she didn't believe so. Honestly, she was surprised that he had not yet insisted that she pack up her carriage and leave his home. It made her think that although he seemed to prefer solitude, he was lonely. Even an unwelcome guest could be better than no guest at all.

But she did not see where she was making progress engaging his affections. She could go that most direct route to her goal by depositing herself naked in his bed. She didn't think he would resist such an advance. However, her lesson from the first day here was that even her boldness had its limits. Merely considering such a thought had her heartbeat racing again painfully in her chest.

She was also surprised that for a man who used the sword so proficiently he did not seem to practice. On the third day she asked if he would like to practice together and received a scowl and polite refusal. His eyes had strayed to her injured arm shortly after that and she knew that he was still bothered by the fact that he had hurt her.

Plagued by all these thoughts, on the morning of her fourth day at Belle Fleur, she decided to go for a ride and clear her head.

As breakfast wasn't a formal affair, Quince didn't feel that he needed to wait for Miss Bittlesworth to arrive before eating. But when she still hadn't arrived thirty minutes later he found himself concerned. She seemed to be an earlier riser than himself, not that it was difficult to be, but for the last two mornings had taken breakfast with him. She had seemed bent on being an affable guest, though why she thought he would believe her to be anything other than the domineering harridan she had exposed herself to be on the first day, he had no idea. He waved over a footman. "Did our guest already eat earlier this morning?"

"No, your grace. She left for a ride earlier this morning and has not yet returned."

Although happy to have his question answered so quickly and completely, he wondered why the dining room footman already had that information. Belle Fleur was far from his largest estate but it had a fairly large complement of staff. At least fifty, he thought, though he wasn't quite sure. Had the staff already been talking among themselves about her absence?

At luncheon she still hadn't arrived and Quince found himself a bit perturbed, but refused to worry about it overly. He allowed her to stay here because in his opinion people ought to be able to do as they liked. Surely he had to allow her the latitude to do as she wished with her time. In the afternoon as he sat in the library staring at a book but not reading a single page, Havers came to him.

"Your grace, the lady has still not returned from her ride."

"I see." Quince had known that the Bittlesworth girl hadn't returned yet due to the deathly silence of the house. What had seemed a peaceful quiet before her arrival now seemed dull. As though the entire household awaited her return to breathe life back into it again.

"The men would like to search for her. With your permission, of course."

"Of course. It would not be seemly to lose a viscount's daughter. Have them search."

"Very good, your grace," the butler responded, withdrawing quietly from the room. Quince returned to staring at a book he had yet to read a word in.

Sabre reared back from the sharp scent that assaulted her nose. As she shook her head to clear it she heard scuffing on a wooden floor and the creak of someone sitting in a chair. She was sitting as well. Tied to a chair, in fact. She struggled with the ropes on her wrists while tossing the hair out of her eyes to identify her captor. Who she saw made her stop struggling immediately.

"Robert, what is this meaning of this?" She looked around the room, which appeared to be a cellar in a run-down house.

"Hullo, little sister. Shouldn't I be asking you that? I thought you were going to Jack's house."

Her brother had seated himself on a wooden chair a yard away. Just far enough away to avoid any kicks if she should manage to get her foot free. His chair was turned around and he rested his folded hands and chin on the chair-back as he studied her. She began to struggle against the ropes again and he held up a finger.

"Ah-ah. How will you explain rope burns to your lover?"

Sabre blew out a frustrated breath. "He's not my lover."

"Really? Then why have you been at his house for three nights? The house where his father planned all his trysts?"

"Trysts? I find that hard to believe. There was a veritable shrine to the former duchess there."

"Be that as it may, why were you there? If you hadn't come out soon I was going to come in after you."

"I wanted to... to help him. How did you figure out where I was?"

"I always know where you are, Sabrina."

Sabre felt her eyes widen. "You knew about the duel?"

After a short pause, one too brief for anyone who didn't know him to notice, he said, "Of course." She knew her brother well enough to know that his pause and lack of reaction was an indication that in fact he hadn't known, but had decided to gamble on appearing omniscient. She was glad that her riding habit hid the healing scar she still carried from where the duke's sword had sliced her arm.

Knowing that she had gone down a path that needed a story before he decided to dig and find the real one she said, "I know it was foolish of Jack and me to duel, especially while in London, but she had made me so angry. And, well, once a challenge is issued..."

"It cannot be withdrawn," he answered.

She nodded.

"However, you still haven't answered my question."

"Yes, I did. I want to help him."

Robert sighed. "Don't play games with me, Sabrina, I know you're not obtuse. Why do you want to help him?"

"Perhaps I like him."

"Not good enough."

"Fine," she said, tossing her chin up in the air. "I plan to marry him."

Her brother stared at her and she could tell that his mind had engaged the possibilities. "Does he plan to marry you?"

She smiled. "He's made no mention of it as of yet, but you know I can be very convincing."

He sat up and continued staring at her. "There are complications," he finally said.

"Like what?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.

"We won't discuss them as yet. How do you rate your chances?"

"Good." She mused a bit and smiled. "Very good."

Now it was Robert's turn to narrow his eyes. "This is a dangerous game you're playing, Sabrina. What makes you think you will win?"

"I always win."

That made him smile in return. "Always?"

"Almost always," she corrected.

He shook his head. "Sabre, although I know you would adore being a duchess, I'm not sure I can recommend that you marry the first duke you can talk into the idea. You will need more challenge than that."

Putting her nose in the air she said, "Once I'm a duchess I will outrank you and you won't be able to say such hateful things to me."

Robert laughed. "In your dreams."

Sabre chuckled as well. After a moment she sobered and said, "Robert, I really do care for him quite a bit."

"You mean you care for Quincy Telford, not just the fact that he's the Duke of Beloin?"

She looked down at the floor, furrowing her brow, and nodded.

"Well," her brother finally said. "Will wonders never cease?"

She looked back up at him with a questioning look.

He shook his head. "Never mind. If I let you go back to Beloin-"

"Let?" she asked acidly.

"Indeed, if I let you. Note that I ensured you were well secured before we had this conversation. If I let you then you must promise me two things."

"Perhaps."

"First, if anything seems dangerous you will leave."

"Why would things be dangerous?"

"Just promise me."

Sabre blew out a frustrated breath. "Very well."

"Second, if anything interesting happens you will tell me about it."

She looked at her brother for a long moment and realized that although the Duke of Beloin thought that he had engaged Robert's help, there was something else afoot entirely. "Of course," she finally said.

In her own mind she reassured herself that she was to determine what rated as dangerous or interesting. It might not be the things that Robert would hope for.

TWELVE

Late in the afternoon the house began to buzz again. Quince set aside the correspondence he was essentially ignoring anyway and went out to the front hall. Miss Bittlesworth was there, surrounded by well-meaning staff who fluttered around her like butterflies over a flowering bush. The young miss was a bit the worse for wear. Tired, dirty, and disheveled. When she saw him she dropped a curtsy and his staff followed her lead.

"Your grace," she said.

"You have been returned to us at last."

She nodded. "I'm very sorry to have caused trouble, your grace. My horse had a stone in his shoe and I needed to walk him. I assumed he would know his way but I think we ended up walking in circles for hours. We would most likely still be out there if John hadn't found us and brought us home."

Quince nodded his understanding, although he had no idea who John was. Perhaps a footman or stable boy. It was also a bit troubling to have Miss Bittlesworth referring to Belle Fleur as home, but after a long, hot day walking in a velvet riding habit she would probably be content to call a dirt-floored hovel home. She seemed close to tears. "Perhaps after a bath you would like to take supper in your room to rest?"

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble, your grace."

"Think nothing of it," he reassured.

She turned to ascend the steps, her bevy of maids still around her, and then turned back to him. At first it looked as though she was going to say something, then she simply dashed forward and burrowed against his chest, wrapping her arms at his waist. He hadn't been expecting that and his arms reflexively came around her. She didn't sob, just gave a shuddering sigh as she clung to him. After a few moments she backed away, damp-eyed and miserable. They stood there, hands joined and staring at one another for a moment. Then she turned and slowly trudged up the steps.

Quince finally admitted to himself that he was, in fact, relieved that she was home.

Sabre sent all of the maids away and sank down into the warm water, wrapping her arms around herself and leaning her forehead on her drawn-up knees. Robert had blindfolded her before leading her out of the house she had been held in. Then he and his men, men she hadn't recognized, had left her in the woods after ensuring her horse did, in fact, have a stone in his shoe. That last part was a bit cruel, she thought. She had tried to dig it out with her hatpin but was afraid of causing the animal more pain than good and had given up. With the stone in the gelding's shoe she had only walked a bit, not nearly as far as she had pretended in order to account for her absence. While walking she had practiced in her mind what she would say when arriving back to Belle Fleur. It had to be believable and she needed to seem distraught enough that they wouldn't question her too closely.

Then he had walked into the foyer and she actually had felt distraught. Terribly so. Until that moment she hadn't even realized that her confrontation with Robert bothered her. Robert was just being Robert. Controlling and manipulative. She loved her brother, but as she had grown older she had come to know his flaws. She worried that she shared many of them. But if she was honest with herself, Robert had scared her this time. Her abductor had pulled her from her horse and covered her head with a black sack. She had struggled and fought, but with the close air inside the bag she had passed out after a few minutes. Then to awaken tied to a chair in a cellar? Under those circumstances finding her brother there had only added to her unease. She might try to talk her way around a common cutthroat, try to trick or beguile a thug, but Robert? No, her brother was more than her match.

She believed Robert cared about her, and it seemed obvious to her that he was as, or even more, interested in keeping her away from the duke rather than the reverse. It made her wonder what sort of trouble the duke might be in and how, exactly, it had occurred to Robert to use her to advance his own aims. Or what those aims might be.

But those few moments in the hallway, when she hadn't been able to control herself and had flung herself into the duke's arms? She had felt uncharacteristically comforted. Safe. In a way that perhaps she never had before. Her friends had certainly always been a comfort to her. And her brother Charlie. But something always made her push them away. To insist she could do everything on her own. But the duke... he didn't seem bent on telling her what she should do. He wasn't patronizing or judgmental. At least he hadn't been with her. She sniffled. Perhaps she was just being maudlin and reading more into the situation than it warranted. Perhaps the duke didn't care about her at all, making it quite easy to keep from telling her what to do. It seemed a bit more likely that she was just a lonely girl crying in a bathtub, wishing someone cared about her.

She finally pulled herself together and finished her bath. Returning to her room she found a note that made her heart leap.

If you would care for company we could dine in the north sitting room.

- Q

Smiling, she rang for her maid and sent a reply for him to read while she dressed.

That sounds lovely, but wouldn't it have been easier if I were still in the adjoining room?

- S

She was, she thought, even closer to being a duchess than she had realized.

Quince drummed his fingers on the small, round table in the sitting room that would serve as their dining room table this evening. He wasn't usually an impatient man but he could feel that he was on edge now. Too many pressures building up, both large and small. And he imagined Miss Bittlesworth was taking her sweet time arriving just to put a point upon the idea that if she had still been in the duchess's quarters she could have arrived sooner.

The light outside had gone to dusk but the sitting room was lit up with enough candles to hold a ball. The double doors to the hallway were wide open, the hallway lit as well. When he first saw her she was hurrying, almost running in her haste. Then she saw him and slowed her gait. He felt his heart race at the sight of her. What he thought had been general impatience was clearly just a need to see her, as his attention focused almost acutely. He rose to wait for her.

For a moment he thought she was wearing that dress again. The red one that had so distracted him when they met. But this one was darker, more modestly cut. If the previous gown had made her look a courtesan, this one made her look, he conceded, like a duchess. And he supposed that was exactly what she wanted it to convey. Women were transparent in their desire to marry up and he couldn't blame her for that. If she weren’t Bittlesworth's daughter he would consider it. He might more than consider it.

As she entered the room she smiled and held her hands out to him. "Thank you, your grace, for understanding that I would like some company, if not the formality of a meal in the dining room."

He bowed over her hand and kissed it. "You've had a tiring day."

She seemed loathe to release his hands and as he enjoyed the feel of her fingers clasped in his own, he did not pull away either.

Havers' voice gently intruded. "Would you like for me to serve, your grace?"

"Yes," Quince answered automatically, still not taking his eyes off her. The butler and footmen organized the table and pulled out chairs for the duke and his guest. Quince finally released her after seeing that she was properly seated. He watched her as she settled into her seat, smoothing her skirts and fidgeting with the silverware.

"What?" she asked, smiling and looking at him from under her lashes.

"Nothing," he answered, but still didn't look away. She riveted him. Like a living, breathing painting that he couldn't get enough of studying. This evening she had pinned her hair up, highlighting the delicate curve of her neck and jaw. The curls were not in evidence so they must be more artifice than natural. The candlelight softened her features, lending her a gentleness that he hadn't previously noticed. She seemed more reticent than usual, but he supposed it was her tiring day of hiking around the countryside.

After the wine was poured he asked, "Are your rooms comfortable?"

She nodded. "Indeed. It's a beautiful estate."

"Thank you. Keeping Belle Fleur was one of my few vanities."

She gave him a confused look. “What does that mean, your grace?”

"For all that you lived in Giddy's pockets for a fortnight he didn't speak of me?"

At that she rolled her eyes. "Oh yes, they spoke of you."

Quince couldn't help the burst of laughter. "Then what did they say that earned your disdain?"

"They made you sound boring and saintly."

"Boring and saintly?" he mused. "When you add poor to that list it does make me sound rather like a vicar."

"Poor?" she asked, looking around the room.

"Perhaps not compared to most, but for a duke? I am veritably in the poor house."

"But..." she trailed off, obviously at a loss.

"Worry not. Gideon has taken it on as his mission to ensure that all is straightened out."

"I thought... I thought that you and earl had been at odds for some time."

Quince smiled. "If you think something like a political feud would keep Gideon Wolfe from helping his friends then I submit that you don't know him."

"That's very odd."

"There are some weeks where we spend all Monday shouting at each other across the House, but on Friday he still pesters my man of business to review the books. Perhaps some weeks he won't talk to me, but he will always talk to my man of business."

"Why do you even let him have such access to your accounts?"

"Why wouldn't I? I detest paperwork. Gideon loves it."

She looked puzzled.

"I've disappointed you now, haven't I?"

"I'm just confused over why you wouldn't want to have control over your own interests."

He shrugged. "Ultimately I do."

"If I were you, I wouldn't be satisfied with that."

He tapped his finger on his wineglass. "Yes, I think we may not be much alike, you and I."'

"How boring would the world be if everyone were alike?"

Quince smiled, finding himself amused by her observation.

"Do you need me to look at your papers?" she pressed.

He cocked a brow at her. "What would you do with them?"

"That depends on what I find in them. But certainly some attention to the goings-on of your estates is better than none."

Quince waved a hand. "I have men for that."

"And the earl is their only oversight?"

"Why does this bother you so?"

"I'm hopeful that it bothers you."

"Not in the least."

She frowned. "You want to complain that you're poor, but you don't want to do anything about it?"

"Why do you think I'm not doing anything about it?"

"It seems evident. Do you have any idea how much the candles burning in this room cost?"

"Do you?"

She scanned the room, turning in her chair to see all of the candles that were burning. "Four pounds, provided that you burn them all down tonight."

"Your talents run to pricing candles?"

"I was raised to run a household. Awareness of household expenses is a key component of that."

"Somehow I doubt that a viscount's daughter will need to run a household that scrimps on candlewax."

She gave him a speaking look. "Well, I suppose one never knows."

"I share these insights about my financial condition so that you may know how unsuitable a match that I am."

"As though I couldn't figure that out for myself?"'

"You seem a bit slow on the subject, yes."

"You think that's why I'm still here, to convince you of the suitability of our match?"

"I know that's why you're still here."

"Really? It couldn't be, as I originally said, to help you?"

"There has been nothing said on that front for three full days. Certainly you would have tired of waiting and taken yourself elsewhere by now if that were your only goal."

"I thought you needed time to decide if you trusted me before you would share your issue with me."

"And why should I trust you?"

"Why shouldn't you?"

That was the question. She was Bittlesworth's daughter, but seemed to have no particular affinity for her sire. And she was Jack's best friend. Perhaps he could trust her. But she was still holding something back of herself. He could sense it.

She fidgeted. "You're staring at me again."

"My apologies."

"Where do you go when you look like that?"

"Go?"

"You're obviously not fully here, but somewhere in your mind."

"I was just thinking about why I shouldn't trust you."

"It was a rhetorical question."

He smiled and took another sip of wine. "Even rhetorical questions should be entertained for their potential truth."

"And what potential truth might that be?"

"I shouldn't trust you because you're keeping something from me."

THIRTEEN

Sabre set her wine down. "What makes you say that?"

The duke shrugged. "Just a feeling I have."

"Is that how you run your duchy, then? On feelings?"

"Primarily."

"That's ridiculous."

He shrugged again. "Be that as it may, I feel we are at an impasse."

"Do you want me to tell you my entire life history in hopes of uncovering what is giving you this feeling?"

"No. Whatever it is, it's bothering you. Otherwise I wouldn't be aware of it."

Sabre paused. Was the duke as keen an observer as she knew herself to be? It was hard to feature since he was often not paying any attention at all. But he seemed quite confident in his assertion. She quickly thought through her options. "Well," she said, "it is true that my goal is to be your duchess."

He was quiet for a long time, absently swirling the wine in his glass as he looked at her. "That's unfortunate," he finally said.

His choice of words made her choke out a laugh. "Unfortunate? In what way is that unfortunate?"

"You're a lovely woman of many fine qualities. But I will never marry Blaise Bittlesworth's daughter."

The duke used such a tone of finality that for just a moment Sabre faltered. But, she reminded herself, she always persevered and won out in the end. This would be no different. "Well," she said. "I suppose we will see about that."

He smiled at that, gazing at her as though he was considering something. "I suppose we will," he said.

He turned his attention to cutting his roast and the conversation flagged for a moment. Sabre was contemplating what general topic to converse on when he spoke again.

"I went to see your brother because I'm being blackmailed."

She was surprised, both at his revelation and the fact that he'd shared it, but tried not so show it. "I see I'm not the only one uninformed about your poverty."

"Not over money. Over papers they believe I have."

"That you do not?"

At that he paused to stare at the dark windows. "No," he said quietly. "I don't believe that I do."

"Based on your interest in paperwork I have a hard time believing you know that conclusively."

Her acerbic comment brought his attention back to her. His habit of looking at her intently was becoming unsettling. "Here is a thing I wonder," he said.

"What?"

"How did you and Giddy spend a fortnight together without killing each other?”

Sabre flashed a knowing smile. "My incredible forbearance."

"Yes, I'm quite sure that was it," the duke said drily.

"What papers do they believe you have?"

"Something of my father's. Unfortunately they were not specific enough for me to be sure what the papers might be about."

"Was this threat in a letter then?"

"Yes."

"Let me see it."

"That's not possible."

"Why?"

"I burned it."

"You... Why did you burn it?"

"It is one thing for a duke to be blackmailed. It is quite another for it to be known that a duke is being blackmailed."

"Well, what did it say?"

The duke stared at her again for a bit. Finally he said, "It simply said 'It has come to my attention that you are in possession of papers from your father that you have been discussing with others. I will give you a fortnight to gather them.'"

"What did he threaten?"

"I would rather not discuss it."

"How am I supposed to help you if you won't share the details with me? Did you tell Robert all the details?"

"I did share the full text with Robert. He has a bit more of a reputation with this sort of issue than you do."

"You have no idea about my reputation."

He raised one golden brow. "Since you don't balk at eating alone with a man in his quarters I can only imagine."

"Not with just any man. With a duke."

"I see. So at least you have standards."

She sniffed. "I was far more impressed with your fighting skill than your title, if you must know."

"Your skill was impressive as well."

"Thank you very much. I will admit to being confused that you do not appear to be practicing. Certainly you don't go more than a few days in order to maintain your proficiency."

He smiled. "Sometimes more than a few days. But yes, I do practice often."

"As do I. Perhaps, as I said before, we could practice together."

"Perhaps."

Perhaps was better than no. Sabre realized that with the wine, food, and company that she was finally recovering from her confrontation with Robert. What would the duke do, she wondered, if she told him about her morning? Would he remain as placid as he typically seemed to be? Would he demand that she leave because there was obviously more afoot with her brother? She had yet to fully deduce what motivated the duke. He did not appear to fit the mold of anyone she had known before.

His voice called her back from her distraction. "Shall we snuff some of the candles and save the duchy's coffers for another extravagance?"

Thinking that it was a gently placed ducal command, Sabre rose to do his bidding. However, the duke rose as well.

"I could ring for a servant, your grace," Sabre said.

"No need." The duke shook his head. "It becomes tiresome having someone hover over you."

Once they had both located snuffers they began dousing the lights in the room

"How long has it been since you received that letter, your grace?"

"Almost a fortnight."

"Oh!" Sabre said, pausing in her work. "You could receive the second letter any day."

"I already have."

"What does it say?"

Now the duke paused. "I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?"

"I haven't read it."

Sabre was fairly sure she stood there with her mouth open for a full minute. "How could you not have read it?"

"How will reading it help me? I don't have the papers. I have no clue as to what the papers are or where they would be."

"But... if you don't read it then you have no additional clues whatsoever!"

The look the duke directed at her was nothing short of obstinate. Well, she knew how to deal with that. She walked over and put a hand on his arm, schooled her mouth into a sympathetic moue, and said in her most compassionate tone, "I'm only concerned that you be able to navigate this, your grace."

Rather than look mollified he seemed intrigued. The last time she had seen such a keen eye turned on a subject was the summer George had become enamored of bugs. The entire hot, disgusting summer every time they came across a fallen log her friend had turned it over and dug around, investigating every crawling, rolling, flying insect she could find. It had been disturbing. But far more disturbing was the intense silence as the duke stared at her.

He finally broke the silence by murmuring, "Aren't you an interesting little chameleon?"

She drew back a bit. "What do you mean?"

"Most people… How can I explain this?" He looked off towards the dark windows for a moment, and then brought his attention back to her. "Most people are consistent. Predictable. Enslaved to the habits of their own minds. The only thing predictable about you is that you will change your tactics."

"I…" Sabre didn't really know what to say to that.

"Don't worry," he said with a glimmer of a genuine smile. "It's something of a compliment."

Her expression must have amused him because the small smile broke into a grin. All of the reserve and hauteur cleared away like clouds parting to let the sun shine down. As she gazed up into his spring green eyes she felt an odd sensation, like a tiny bubble bursting in her chest. Part of her wanted to reach toward him. To trace the dimple revealed in his cheek. Another part, perhaps even a greater part, wanted to run away. It was a moment of indecision and near-panic like she had never experienced before.

"Your grace, I-"

He interrupted. "Do you like the stars?"

Her mind was surprisingly slow to track his change in topic. "I suppose?"

He took her hand and began leading her to French doors that opened to the balcony. "When I dine here, which I do often, if the night is clear I spend part of the evening stargazing."

Stepping outside she discovered that the evening had cooled off nicely. Of course, she thought, being left to walk home in a heavy velvet riding habit in the afternoon had altered her perception of the heat of the day. The balcony was stone with a semi-circle overlook to the garden. He led her to the balustrade and released her hand to grip the railing, breathing deeply of the fragrant air from the gardens below. It was indeed quite lovely here, with the stars sparkling above them and the warm glow of the candlelight in the room behind. It was charming. Intimate.

"Thank you for a lovely evening, your grace."

That turned his attention to her again. After a pause he said, "Quince."

She couldn't help the smile that bloomed on her face. "Thank you for a lovely evening, Quince."

FOURTEEN

When she smiled up at him, said his name in her light, musical voice, Quince felt himself physically sway toward her. As though his body refused to follow the orders issued by his mind. She was, to put it simply, trouble that he didn't need in his life right now. But every time he told himself to send her on her way, to have her carriage packed and ordered off his estate, he found himself hesitating. Found himself wanting to hear her voice one more time. To see her. To watch how her facile mind leapt from topic to topic. She perpetually intrigued him. Endlessly attracted him. Just now he was almost dizzy with his desire to kiss her. She would let him, he knew, still convinced that she was to be his duchess. Every moment she spent alone at his estate with him she risked her reputation. With his position and power he could undoubtedly ruin her, in fact, without fear of repercussion. It frightened him to know what he could do to this girl. What she seemed bent on inviting him to do. He broke eye contact before his instinct to lean down and cover her lips with his own overwhelmed him.

"Which is your favorite constellation?" he asked. The huskiness of his own voice surprised him.

She looked out across the horizon. "A favorite? I'm not sure I have one." She wrapped her arm around his, leaning into him. "Which is your favorite?"

Even though he knew that everything she did was calculated, she was having what was undoubtedly her desired affect on him. His thoughts were evaporating faster than he could form them, his being focused instead on the warmth of her twined against him, her soft breast pressing against his arm. He cleared his throat. "I suppose your education didn't run to astronomy." Although he regretted saying it almost immediately, he knew that most likely nothing would push her from him as quickly as questioning her intelligence. And right now pushing her away seemed imminently wise.

She surprised him by laughing. "My education runs to anything that Jack could get her hands on when we were children. The only thing that she enjoys more than learning something new is explaining it to someone else. Sadly, much of it has remained resident up here." She tapped her forehead with her free hand.

He chuckled. "So that included astronomy?"

"And associated mythology lessons in Greek." She looked out at the blanket of stars. “Jack teases me by calling me Athena, so she says I should understand all the poor souls I cast into the sky.”

"It sounds as though you were enthralled."

Sabre shrugged. "Some of it was interesting. Like Auriga there on the horizon, to symbolize the four-wheeled chariot that Erichthonius used to become King of Athens."

"Why is that interesting?"

"Erichthonius used his lameness as a motivation to create a superior weapon and take over a kingdom. How many of us use our weaknesses in such a way?"

Quince looked down into her eyes again. She seemed so earnest in that moment. So pure.

"And," she said, smiling again, "now that I've identified a constellation, hopefully to your satisfaction, what is your favorite, your grace?"

"Quince."

"Quince," she said lightly enough that it was almost a whisper.

"Do you know Lynx?"

She shook her head, looking back out to the sky. "No, I don't believe so."

"It's very faint. Identified relatively recently. It wouldn't have been one that Jack could have lectured in Greek. It's a line there," he said, pointing, "between Ursa Major and Auriga."

"How many stars is it?"

"The line is drawn with eight stars." He traced it with his finger, showing her the pattern.

She shook her head and squinted. "I'm not sure I see it."

He shifted behind her, leaning down so that his face was near hers, and sighted down his arm. "From Ursa Major if you look to the left that is the brightest star of Lynx. Right now it cascades down over Auriga, toward Camelopardalis. I can show it to you on a star map in the library."

"You may have to because I'm still not sure I see it."

Leaning so close to her, he was enveloped in her scent and heat. Her hair smelled heavenly and was still damp from her bath. Noticing that only succeeded in making him think of that damnable tub in the duchess's rooms. He had interrupted her bath that day in order to discomfit her as she had already managed to discomfit him in his own home. Instead he had only fueled his attraction to her. He hadn't really seen much, but knowing that she was naked in the tub… It had led to him thinking often of how the exchange could have progressed far differently. How it would have progressed far differently if he were more like his friend Gideon. Lord Lucifer.

Quince straightened away from her but set his hands lightly on her shoulders, knowing it would keep her in place while he gathered himself. He was not, nor would he ever want to be, a man that others would feel inspired to call Lord Lucifer.

She looked over her shoulder at him. "Somehow this entertains you? Spending nights standing on the balcony studying the stars?"

Her tone was teasing but he could tell that she truly could not feature such an activity as entertainment. "Well," he said, "I usually lounge on the balcony rather than stand, but yes. Essentially."

She looked around and spotted the chaise lounge near the windows. "I see," she said, walking towards it. She settled onto the chair and stretched out. "What you really like to do is daydream while staring at the stars." She wriggled once to find a more comfortable position. "Yes, this has distinct possibilities."

His hands felt achingly empty so he folded them together as he leaned on the railing to watch her. She was beautiful. He could stare at her in that pose for hours. If only she weren't her father's daughter. But if she weren’t Blaise Bittlesworth’s daughter, then what would he do? He had felt no desire to marry before now. Would he change everything in order to bring her into his life? Make her his duchess to keep her by his side?

She sat up again. "It's not fair of me to monopolize the chair. Come," she said, patting the cushion next to her. "Show me how to daydream under the stars."

Quince was moving to do her bidding before he had a chance to think about it. Dangerous girl, he thought, made all the more dangerous by knowledge of her own power. She stood up as he approached and waved her hand to indicate that he should lie down in the chair. He did so while knowing it was among the riskier things he had ever done. She smiled down at him before turning and seating herself to lie along his front. Shortly she seemed to have everything arranged to her satisfaction although the two of them barely fit on the lounge together. Her head was tucked under his chin, her shoulders nestled into his chest, and she had wrapped his arms around her waist. Her bottom was pressed so intimately against him that he was afraid he wouldn't be able to breathe.

"So," she said quietly, as though she felt a more somber note was appropriate for entering into his pastime with him. "What do you see?"

At the moment his vision wasn't the sense he was most focused on. Scent, yes. Touch, God yes. And he craved tasting her like a man dying in the desert craves water. But she wanted to know what he saw. He cleared his throat and focused on the night sky above.

"One of the clues that I have is up there, if I can just figure it out."

"Really? How is that?"

"My father had a group he ran with when he was younger. He would tell me stories about them. They did some quite… inappropriate things in their time. And when he would talk about them it was never by name, he would refer to them with an animal. It took me a long time before I realized what I was seeing in the late spring. All four of them, lined up." He raised a hand to point at the stars above. "Leo, the Lion. That was my father. Ursa, the Bear. Draco, the Dragon. And Cygnus, the Swan. If someone has reason to be concerned about papers my father kept, it is probably one of them."

"If your father was the Lion, who are the rest of them?"

"I don't know." Quince paused for a moment, wondering how Miss Bittlesworth would take his next bit of insight. Or if she might already know. "I only know that one of them is your father. But not which one."

She was silent so long he feared he had indeed offended her. But she hadn’t moved, not even an inch. They were both silent for long minutes, pressed together in a delicious intimacy of touch.

Finally Miss Bittlesworth spoke again, her tone remote. "Tell me some of the stories and I can tell you which one is my father."

Quince made a noise somewhere between a snort and a chuckle. "They are hardly stories fit for a young lady."

She curled her fingers around his hand and squeezed. "Yes," she said drily. "I'm obviously easily shocked."

Bold as she thought she was, he didn't want to give her the details of the group's sordid excursions. Instead he thought to sketch their characters. "Leo, the Lion, was their leader. At least that was how he told it. As I've never heard any of the stories from the others I don't know for certain they felt that way. But to hear my father, he was their inspiration and their organizer. If you had met him you would know it would be a role he would relish. He enjoyed control. In his final years he lost his iron grasp on affairs, but his pride kept him from admitting that. Something from which the duchy is still recovering." He pointed to the sky above. "Next is Ursa, the Bear. He sounded a brute of a man. Arrogant, entirely self-concerned. Then Draco. Cruel and vindictive. And lastly Cygnus. Vain and secretive."

They were quiet for awhile, staring up at the stars, and finally Miss Bittlesworth asked, "Is that all?"

"All that I want to say."

She gave an unladylike groan. "You've described over half the men at the George and Vulture on any particular night."

"What do you know about the men at the George and Vulture?"

"Society events get quite boring, but there is always a conversation of interest at the G and V."

"I find myself shocked at you, Miss Bittlesworth."

"Sabre," she corrected. "And if you find yourself shocked then you obviously haven't been paying attention."

"How often do you find yourself at the George and Vulture?"

"As often as I can slip away. Which has been not at all since my return from Italy. My only regret of staying with my brother is that he keeps a closer eye on me than my parents do."

"Yes, he's obviously been very diligent, seeing as how his sister has hied off to a man's house for a seduction."

She was quiet longer than he expected her to be. "He thinks I'm at Jack's."

"Well, at least you didn't try to convince me that you aren't here to seduce me."

She wriggled until she had turned over, propping herself up on an elbow to look down at him. The candlelight from their dining table cast a warm glow through the window and he could see the sincerity in her eyes. "You'll find I'm not one to be coy."

He stroked her cheek. Softer than rose petals. "I don't think that's true."

She gave him a guarded look. "What makes you say that?"

He smiled. "Because, my little chameleon, I think you would do, or say, whatever is needed to achieve your goals."

"You make me sound woefully untrustworthy."

"That depends on your motivation."

She gave him an angelic smile. "I have only the best of motivations, I assure you." She turned over again, nestling back into his embrace. "Now, really tell me about these men, if you please. I can't help you without facts, information."

“From that sketch you can’t tell which one was your father?”

She was silent for a moment. “He could be any of them,” she said solemnly.

Quince could sense the gravity of her statement. The viscount was as unpleasant a man to his daughter as he was to others. "I don't want to tell you about them,” he said. “I don't like to think about them myself."

"Yes, you seem able to avoid most everything you don't want to think about."

"You don't approve."

"Not in the least. We'll open that letter before the night is out. But first, tell me some of these stories."

He laced his fingers through hers as he thought. He didn't want to tell her, but it was also true that he hadn't yet figured out the connection on his own. For years his father had regaled him with those tales at the supper table. Stories that Quince had never wanted to hear, and that he certainly had never thought would be significant. He had done his best not to listen, to forget. But now it was time to try to remember, if only to divine which of his father's friends would be the most alarmed at the idea of documents surfacing. Which one would not hesitate to use blackmail as a means to an end. The vindictive dragon? The self-centered bear? Or the secretive swan?

"Don't say I didn't warn you," he began. He paused for a moment to gather his thoughts, his fingers playing over the velvety softness of the back of her hand. "The stories that my father particularly liked to tell concerned the parties that he hosted for The Four. That's what they called themselves, The Four. He would load them up into a windowless carriage that he drove himself, never taking the same route, and bring them to a special cellar out in the woods. They would bring all the food and drink themselves because no servants were allowed to know the location. And they would bring women. Whores. Blindfolded and bound." He stopped stroking her hand for a moment, lost in the disgust of the memory. "That was his favorite part, I think. That the women were bound. He liked it if they fought of if they begged, so long as they were bound and unable to... unable to stop him."

Miss Bittlesworth's voice was subdued but steady as she asked, "What of the other lords?"

"Draco... Once he started drinking he would beat the girls. He enjoyed making them scream. Choking them." He sighed. Remembering the stories was painful. And he certainly couldn't tell Miss Bittlesworth the sort of details that his father had thought nothing of sharing. "Cygnus was... probably the least offensive of The Four. He only liked to... engage multiple women at once. Ursa, the Bear, was brutal and enjoyed some very distasteful acts. Often with women but also boys and young girls. He sounded beastly.” Quince tried to repress the details that flitted through his mind, far worse than anything he had hinted at. “Are there any you would rule out as your father?"

Miss Bittlesworth was silent for a long moment and finally said, "No. And it sounds like a Hellfire Club."

Quince was disquieted that she found none of the descriptions to be out of character for her own sire. What had she seen of the man? And her knowledge of these activities was also disturbing. "What do you know of Hellfire Clubs?"

"I go to the G and V to hear the soldiers talk of battles in the war. But I hear other things. Horrible things. It makes me wonder why men have one face they show ladies and another that they only show in a place like that."

"You would prefer that they consistently show their baser nature?"

"No, indeed. It's not even something I would expect to change. But it makes me curious. It also makes me wonder how difficult it might be for us to reconcile your stories with the men as we know them in Society."

"In Society, yes, but it's apparent they can't hope to step foot in the G and V without you knowing of it."

She giggled. "It's not quite that bad, I assure you."

"I feel certain that at any moment you will tell me you are the proprietor."

"No. But the man knows me. Or at least knows me as the little fat boy, Gaston."

Quince laughed. "Little fat boy?"

"Yes, if I wear enough padding to disguise myself I'm quite the chubby little boy. The loose clothes of the serving class don't help at all, may I add."

"You didn't seem particularly masculine at the duel."

"No, those are the clothes that I wear when we duel at home. Out in the country."

"Your parents truly do not pay attention to your whereabouts, do they?"

"So long as I arrive at supper on time there aren't any issues."

"Even I am starting to worry about how you spend your time."

"Fear not. I'm usually with the other Haberdashers and we look out for one another."

"Haberdashers?"

"Our club. Jack and George and myself."

Quince felt an unfamiliar and fierce twinge. "Who is George?"

"George Lockhart. We all grew up together in Staffordshire." Miss Bittlesworth sighed. "Now Jack is married and George is off to care for her ailing aunt in Scotland."

At the hint that George was a girl after all, he felt the pain in his chest subside. He hugged Miss Bittlesworth closer. "And now you're lonely?"

He felt her stiffen in reaction. "No, I'm not saying that. It's simply different." She sighed again, relaxing back into him. "I was gone for eight months and when I came back everything was just different." Her tone had become a bit forlorn at the end.

"It's the nature of growing up," he said.

"Don't patronize me," she warned.

Quince smiled to himself. "Like it or not, I have a few years on you. Perhaps I know what I'm talking about."

That made Miss Bittlesworth wriggle to turn around again. He was fairly sure that her skirt was becoming woefully tangled by this point.

"I'm not arguing whether you are correct," she said. "I'm saying that you're being patronizing."

"And you don't care for that?"

"Not at all."

A lock of her hair had come free from its pins and curled down along her jaw. He smoothed it back behind her ear. As he watched, her expression changed from mild irritation to speculation, and then to a wicked delight.

"What?" he asked.

"It just occurred to me that I have the high ground. A strategically superior position."

Quince ran his thumb over her jaw. "Really? And what do you plan to do with that?"

"Conquer," she whispered before lowering to cover his mouth with her own.

FIFTEEN

Sabre could feel her own heartbeat increase as she leaned down to kiss the duke. When she pressed her lips to his she felt him tense. He gripped her arms and for a moment she was afraid he was going to push her away. Then he succumbed and pulled her closer. Their lips slid and clung in a dance similar in tempo to their duel. Sabre's skin flushed and her breathing became uneven. She had been kissed many times, but never to this effect. She had made a study of kissing, actually. It had started when she was six years old and convinced one of the stable lads to teach her. He had been only eight and more than happy to comply. She had continued this tutelage with the local boys until she was ten and her mother had found out. It had led to the most severe punishments she had ever known in her life, followed by years of lectures about her Reputation. And how her Reputation could be Compromised. But Sabre was nothing if not determined and had resumed her education on kissing as soon as she began to attend dances. All of that effort had seemed for naught now. Here was the man she was meant to kiss. No one else had ever made her feel like this.

Lying on his chest she threaded her fingers into his tousled hair and heard him moan low in his throat. His arms circled her and his hand fastened at the nape of her neck, holding her close. They deepened the kiss, mouths open and searching. Even this didn't seem enough and she found herself overwhelmed with a desperate hunger. He moved his hands to the sides of her face and gently held her still while pulling his own mouth away. She heard herself huff in protest.

His breathing was as labored as her own. "A moment, please," he said between gasps.

She nodded and, once he released her, nuzzled her face into his neck. His pulse was speeding in his veins, further testament that she wasn't the only one affected. He put his arms around her again, stroking her back. Lower, she could feel his manhood jutting against her thigh. Some of the serving girls back home had been willing to tell her about what happened between a man and a woman. Opinions seemed to vary on how enjoyable the act was, and before now Sabre had wondered how it could be quite as transcendent as some girls as had described it. But that had been before his kiss. Before being pressed up against him in an intimate embrace. The only thing she wanted was to be closer to him. To feel his skin under her hands. She started to unbutton his shirt but by the second button he had captured her hand.

"Sabrina," he said in a chiding tone. But he moved her captured hand to his mouth and kissed her fingertips, her palm, her wrist.

"Quince," she responded in a whisper, kissing his throat where his pulse still beat fast and steady.

"This is--" he paused to kiss her palm again, sending shivers through her. "Unwise."

"Is it?" she asked.

"Most unwise," he assured her before gripping her arms and pulling her up for another kiss.

The friction of sliding against him made her skin tingle. And then his kiss. Where their first kiss had quickly led to a driving hunger, this time it was sweet. Sacred. She felt she could go on kissing him like this for hours. Forever. Finally, her lips swollen and tingling, she gave a small sigh and rested her head on his shoulder. Her heart felt whole. Nothing existed outside the sweet cocoon of his touch. Weary from her day, she slept.

Quince awoke with a hot, heavy blanket on him. Shortly before he was going to toss it to the floor he realized it wasn't a blanket but Miss Bittlesworth. Sabrina. Sabre. They had slept the whole night on a silly chaise lounge on his balcony. He felt foolish. And delighted. And rather intensely wanted to take her into his bedroom to finish what they had started. She was so warm and soft. Rounded in all the perfect places that a lady should be. He caressed his hands over her hips and derriere. Were that she could be his mistress, he would feel no need to leave his chambers for the foreseeable future. He had never felt that way about any woman before, but she seemed to incite all of his carnal desires. She had from the first moment he saw her.

She stirred and he moved his hands from their intimate wanderings back up to her shoulders. She raised her head and smiled at him. "Good morning."

His fairy queen was rumpled, hair fallen from pins. Her voice was scratchy from sleep. He had never seen anything more beautiful. "Good morning," he whispered, cupping her cheek. She leaned into his touch, closing her eyes. He couldn't stop himself from kissing her again. She giggled in surprise but enthusiastically returned his kiss. She twined her fingers into his hair. Shortly, what had started as a morning greeting changed to exploration. Changed to seduction. He moved his hands to her hips, anchoring her against himself. Wanting so desperately to remove the clothes that separated them. He felt something that was beyond desire. Beyond seduction. He wanted to push her down on the floor and raise her skirts. Wanted to drive into her relentlessly and hear her screaming his name.

If asked, he wouldn't have thought himself capable of rising from the chaise that quickly and setting her bodily aside. She looked confused and swayed a bit on her feet.

"I…" Quince stopped, unable to say anything. He couldn't even meet her eyes. He had always prided himself on being better than his father. Better than Gideon. They had given in to their desires, used women as nothing more than objects for satisfaction. Now he found that with the right temptation his willpower was no stronger than theirs.

Her voice subdued, she said, "If you could excuse me, your grace, I need to refresh myself."

Now he did look at her to see that she gave him a brilliant smile, her eyes sparkling. "Quince," he reminded softly.

"Quince," she agreed, her tone that of someone sharing a secret. She curtsied and left the room as though everything were perfectly normal. As though she woke up every morning lying on top of a duke. What did he know, perhaps she did. He tapped his fist against his thigh, not sure where to put his conflicted feelings. A large part of him wanted to pursue her. While they were kissing he had been afraid he would demand her favors. Now he was afraid he would beg for them. She was a complication he didn't need.

Once she was out of sight of the duke, Sabre put a hand to the wall of the hallway and took a moment to balance herself. For all that she had followed her curiosity over the years to discover what there was to know about kissing and lovemaking, everything from last night and this morning was outside of her experience. She had never felt like this before. In fact, feelings weren't something that she equated with any of her previous encounters. Unless curiosity, discovery, and, at times, disgust counted as feelings. But this had been different. The duke had been different. Quince. Just thinking his name she found her skin burning. When he had gripped her and held her tight against his manhood, her body had responded with a searing ache low in her belly and a wetness that she could still feel. Then he had set her aside. It was like being cast down from heaven.

But she had seen the panic in his eyes, the tension in his body where only moments before there had been a languid pleasure. Regardless of her own desire to protest, to argue, to seduce, she could see that he was very much on the edge of ordering her away. And thus she had used the only strategy that occurred to her to set things to rights. Pretended nothing was wrong. Pretended everything was normal. But leaning here on the wall she knew nothing was normal at all.

And drat the man, she had forgotten to badger him until he produced that letter. What had she been thinking? Nothing at all, was the answer. After he had started kissing her she didn't remember having any thoughts of substance. Well, she would march back in there and make him show the letter to her. In a moment. Perhaps after she had an opportunity to straighten herself and change into fresh clothing. Pushing away from the wall she made her way back to her room.

Not sure what else to do with himself and too restless to sit still, Quince had repaired to the ballroom to practice his fencing forms. He had no fencing master in residence, something he would consider changing since he found himself at Belle Fleur more often. For today he certainly didn't want to invite Miss Bittlesworth to partner him as a good deal of what he needed to do was get away from her to think. Or not to think. He wasn't really certain anymore. But now he was tired, slick with sweat, and looking forward to some repose before luncheon.

What he didn't want was to find his intrusive guest up to her elbows in the bottom drawer of his bureau.

"Is there something I can help you find, Miss Bittlesworth?"

She startled a bit but then addressed him over her shoulder while reaching even deeper into the drawer. "I'm trying to find that bloody letter."

"You won't find it there."

"So I've noticed." She slid the drawer shut and turned to face him while still on her knees. "Well?" she asked.

"Well what?"

"Where is it?"

"What makes you think I'll tell you?"

She shook her head, sighed gustily, and folded her hands together like a forbearing governess. "I'm only trying to help you, your grace."

He couldn't help but to laugh at her overly dramatic mien. She rewarded him with a smile and held out her hands to be helped up from the floor.

At sight of the duke Sabre had felt a little lurch in her heart. He had obviously been doing something vigorous, seeing as his white shirt was damp and clung to his form. His hair, usually artfully tousled in keeping with the modern style, was instead slicked back from his face. She had wondered how he kept his physique since the last creature she had known as apparently lazy had been an old cow on the Bittlesworth estate. But evidently he was willing to engage in physical activity from time to time.

As he walked toward her his posture was more relaxed, looser, than she had seen before. Best of all, he was smiling down at her as he grasped her hands to raise her to her feet. She realized, with a small frisson of worry, that she would do a lot to see that smile. Part of her heart was clamoring 'look at me, smile at me, I will do anything.' She tried not to let the worry over her own weakness be reflected in her eyes.

"Where is it?" she asked again, still smiling. But her heart was saying, 'touch me, kiss me.' Treacherous thing, her heart. Best not to be trusted no matter how fast it beat or strongly it yearned.

He stared down at her a few moments, as though considering her request. Their hands were still joined and his thumb absently stroked over her fingers. She wanted to step into his embrace. To lift her lips for another kiss. But she didn't know what had disturbed him this morning. And not knowing she didn't want to risk his rejection.

He squeezed her fingers and turned to walk towards the bed. Her heart sped again, wondering his intentions. But he merely slid open the drawer of the bedside table and drew out a folded paper. Her startlement pushed aside the distracting intentions of her heart.

"You had it there? Anyone could have found it!"

He grinned. "You didn't."

"I obviously thought too highly of you! The next time I have to find your important papers I shall start by looking in the middle of the floor."

He shook his head in amusement, still smiling. Then looking down at the paper in his hands his smile slowly faded.

Sabre bustled across the room and held her hand out. "Unpleasant things are best dealt with quickly. Let me open it if you don't want to."

The duke frowned but handed the paper over to her. She inspected it closely. Fine, heavy paper. Unsealed and a bit crumpled. Sabre couldn't imagine resisting simply unfolding the paper to discover what it said. She glanced at the duke and saw that his attention was focused on the paper in her hand, the frown still on his face. She opened the letter and the first line after the salutation chilled her heart through.

My dearest duke,

Your mother is doing quite well. I'm sure she would send her love if she knew I was writing to you. Sadly I must leave her soon for my rendezvous with you in London. I say rendezvous but it is best if we don't meet. Leave the papers on the sideboard of the anteroom at White’s at precisely eleven o'clock in the evening on the eleventh. Leave the building and don't look back.

Sincerely,

Your father's friend

SIXTEEN

"He's threatening your mother?" Sabre asked, shocked.

The duke turned and walked towards the window, hands clasped behind his back. "So it seemed from the first letter. What does he say now?"

Sabre knew she would have been able to read the text upside down from where he had been standing, but perhaps his talents didn't lie in the same direction hers did. Or he didn't want to read it.

When she read off the first sentence he spun to face her again, his expression frighteningly remote. As she continued reading he walked back to where she stood, his attention still on the paper. She was beginning to think it quite probable that he had burned the first letter with his gaze alone. Between the cold threat of the blackmailer's words and the banked fury she sensed from the duke she felt, for the first time in her life, out of her depth.

He pulled the letter from her fingers. "Thank you, that will be all."

Being dismissed like a common servant brought her chin up. "I beg your pardon?"

"You may leave."

"I will not. I came here to help you and I will."

She realized her mistake when his icy demeanor cracked a bit and rage poured out. "Really? You know where the papers are that this madman wants? You can protect my mother? You need to stop offering things that you cannot supply!"

But she wasn’t one to be easily cowed. "You might not be in this bind if you'd done more than lounge about for the past week! In case it had escaped your notice, tomorrow is the eleventh!"

"Of course I know that!" Crumpling the letter in his fist he strode back to the window. He braced his hands on the casing and stared out at the gardens. After a few moments he hung his head and said more quietly, "What is it you would have me do? There are no papers. To the best of my knowledge there never were."

Sabre joined him at the window. "He believes there are papers? Give him some."

Quince looked at her, tension clear in his expression. "Forgeries?"

Sabre shrugged. "Forgeries, or better yet some of your father's papers that, with a stretch of the imagination, could be misconstrued to be damning. Can you think of anything like that?"

He shook his head but had a distracted look as though he were running through the options in his mind.

"Now may I look at your father's papers?" she asked.

He glared down at her. "Why?"

"It is only a hunch, but I believe I may be far more devious than you. There are probably things we could use that you just aren't seeing."

He considered it for a moment, jaw tensing, then finally nodded. "I'll take you downstairs shortly. You may spend the afternoon looking, but we will need to decide on something quickly." At that he strode to the fireplace and pulled out a match.

"No!" she cried, snatching the paper from him.

"There's no reason to keep it," he argued, reaching for the letter again.

"How can you say that?" she asked.

"We already know what it says."

"But we might forget or mix up the wording."

He recited the letter to her word for word as she reviewed the paper incredulously. She wasn't sure which was more disturbing, his precision or the detached monotone he used. This was his mother. He had obviously known she was at risk since the first letter, yet he had done nothing. But Sabre didn't resist when he took the paper away again. He set fire to it and dropped it in the fireplace. They watched it burn in silence. Once it was ash he broke it apart with the poker to ensure that no trace remained.

He looked at her again, still remote and tense. "I'll show you to the study and have luncheon sent in to you."

"Yes, your grace," she said quietly. He preceded her without looking back and she followed. She noted that he hadn't corrected her that time to use his name rather than his honorific.

Quince had conducted Miss Bittlesworth downstairs, had eaten, bathed, dressed, and now found himself staring down at the gardens again. Hours had passed and he found he was still furious. How dare that odious monster intimate an association with his mother? Was the swine courting her? Attending her salon? Now, since he had put off opening the letter, he didn't have the time to visit her and reassure himself that she was safe. Try to ascertain whether anyone new had joined her circles. Warn her that any such person might try to do her harm. He was, to put it bluntly, exactly the idiot that Miss Bittlesworth had accused him of being.

And as for Miss Bittlesworth, she was perhaps in a good deal more trouble than she realized. When she had insisted that she wanted to help, his first thought was that she could help by spreading her legs for him. He had never thought that rage and passion could be so closely intertwined, but the desire to lose himself in her, distract himself from the realities of these blackmail threats by burying himself in her scent and heat was almost too much to bear. Knowing she would let him, would be enthusiastic, made the temptation all that much more staggering. Even if she weren't a virgin, and he increasingly doubted that she was, it was beyond the pale to treat her like a doxy. She was still a woman of the Quality, no matter what seductions she attempted to use on him in pursuit of a title. It was best for both of them that he ensure she didn't remain here at Belle Fleur.

He heard a knock at his open door and, turning, he saw her, as though conjured up from his thoughts. Her gown today was a cream muslin decorated with subtle gold embroidery. Fetching, and certainly appropriate for a girl of her age and station. Nothing that should inflame his desire. She had left off with covering the scar on her arm with a shawl. All things he had noted earlier but filed away as facts. Now they seemed like something more. As he scanned his gaze down her body he saw that she was carrying a sheaf of papers. Sadly, she had not come with seduction on her mind. She seemed hesitant at the doorway. Hesitancy was not something he had heretofore associated with her. He strolled toward her. Prowled, actually.

She still hadn't said anything so he supposed there was something in his demeanor that didn't invite conversation. He pulled the papers from her hand and set them on a nearby table. Circling her wrist with his fingers he pulled her into the room and closed the door. He backed her against the wall and nuzzled her throat.

"If you want to leave," he warned in a whisper, "you should run away now."

Her only response was to grip his arms and pull him closer.

He knew it was wrong, but he was tired of fighting this attraction. "I won't marry you," he said.

"We'll see about that," she replied.

He cupped her breast and heard her quick gasp of breath. As he met her lips he moaned low in his throat. This was all he wanted. She was all he wanted. Everything from the first moment he had seen her had been leading to this. His hand continued to stroke and fondle her breast. He couldn't wait to lay her down on his bed. To strip her clothes so that she laid nude before him, all softness and curves and needy desire. She surged against him, suckling his lips and tongue even more desperately. After a few moments he pulled away.

"Sabrina."

"Don't worry," she whispered, "I know what to do."

She pulled her skirts up her thighs. He thought his heart might burst from his chest it started galloping so fast. If she wanted their first time to be against the wall with their clothes on, who was he to argue? He unbuttoned the flap of his breeches with shaking fingers and she wrapped her leg around his hip. His first thrust slid along her wet folds and he groaned with the intimate contact, but it wasn't penetration. Gripping her hips he lifted her against the wall and adjusted the angle. With a shallow thrust he felt the entrance to her channel, so hot and wet and tight. Instinct made him buck into her. As his cock slid in he felt a momentary barrier and then he was buried to his root. The sheer pleasure of joining with her for the first time brought him to completion. It might have been the greatest moment of his life if she hadn't screamed.

Sabre had known that joining the first time could be painful but nothing had prepared her for this. In her time she had been shot, stabbed, and broken more than one bone. She had been thrown from horses and brawled with her friends more times than she could count. She had experienced pain but had never been particularly intimidated by it. Perhaps it was the surprise. Perhaps it was the intimacy of this particular pain. But it had shocked a scream from her and she could feel tears at the corners of her eyes.

The duke set her on her feet, cradling her face and tipping her chin up. She could see his concern and worry. "Sabre, I'm so sorry. I didn't know. You acted as though... I didn't think you were a virgin."

For some reason that made her want to cry all the more. She turned her face away and smoothed her skirts down. "If I may be excused, your grace," she said in a toneless voice.

"Quince," he corrected miserably.

She nodded and slipped through the door out into the hallway.

SEVENTEEN

Quince leaned his head on the wall. He felt like crying. This was like the duel, but worse. He had hurt her. Again. He had no excuse for allowing her to incite him. Again. If his intention were to marry her then he could at least feel that this was some challenge on the road to their happy union. But he could not ally himself with Blaise Bittlesworth any more than he could fly. Every fiber of his being rebelled at the thought. He had been clear with her that there would be no marriage and she had offered herself freely. But it would always be a weight on his soul now, knowing that he had ruined her. And hurt her while doing so. If she had experienced some pleasure in the joining it might have been a balm, but it was clear she had not. Standing straight again he set to putting himself to rights and buttoning his breeches. A sticky wetness made him look at his hand. The blood he saw made him dizzy.

"Sabrina," he choked out. He turned to the door to find her, to soothe her somehow, though he didn't know how. Then he realized that his first order of business was to clean himself so that he didn't terrorize her by being a bloody mess.

Sabre let herself into the sunny, rose-colored room she had been assigned at the estate and closed the door. The day seemed too bright and she went from window to window, drawing the curtains closed. Even with the dimmer light the room felt too open, too exposed. She went into the dressing room. It was better here. Darker. Quieter. She sat in the corner, pressing her forehead into her drawn up knees. She didn't cry or keen, even though she wanted to. She didn't even think. Just breathed and tried to let her body settle. She wasn't sure how long she had been there when she heard the duke's voice calling her name. She lifted her head to listen. It sounded as though he was opening all the doors in the hallway calling for her. She heard the door to the Rose Room open.

"Sabrina?"

He sounded worried. She wanted to call out to him, to go to him, but she found herself still immobilized and huddled into the corner. This wasn't like her. She didn't even have the energy to be angry with herself for being such a wilting flower. Something in the room must have hinted of her residence and she heard him walk inside.

"Sabrina?" he called more softly.

She whimpered. Quietly, involuntarily. But he heard it because his footsteps came towards her more quickly. He pushed the door to the dressing room the rest of the way open.

"Sabrina?" he said again, this time his voice choked with emotion. Something in his voice, his presence, broke the spell holding her trapped and, standing, she launched herself into his arms. He held her close.

"I'm so sorry," he said.

She shook her head. He had done no more than she had asked. She burrowed into his warmth. Even if she didn't enjoy joining with him, his touch did more to feed her soul than anything she had ever known. His scent gave her comfort. When she had come to his room to show him the papers he had been freshly shaved and perfect, from his artfully tousled hair to his brown top boots. She wasn't sure which she preferred, the perfectly turned out duke, the lazy man who could lounge in bed for all hours and make her want to join him, or the sword master who seemed made of concentration, talent, and sweat.

She pulled his face down for a kiss. She felt empty and she needed him to fill her. He was hesitant at first, but surrendered to her avid lips. She moved her hands down to curl in the silk of his vest, holding herself tight against him.

Quince had felt his heart break to find her huddled in the corner of what was essentially a closet. And now she was wrapped against him like a vine. It was a more extreme version of the hug she had given him yesterday after her horse had gone lame. He was unreasonably pleased that he could offer her comfort, even if dismayed that the comfort she needed was for his treatment of her. If what she wanted was his kiss, his touch, he would give them to her gladly. After some time her desperation eased and she laid her head against his shoulder. He caressed her back and waited to see if she had anything to say. She was silent so long that he felt sure the sun was setting.

"Shall I send up a bath?" he asked gently.

She gave a gusty sigh and nodded.

"Will you need help cleaning up?"

She looked up at him, confused. "Why?"

Quince found himself too embarrassed to speak of it. "I'll send up a maid. And supper."

"Will you stay?"

"I..."

"You've already seen me at my bath," she pressed. He found that she didn't seem inclined to let him go even though he was trying to extricate himself in order to ring for the maid. He finally gave up and instead pulled her to his side to walk across the room with him. After the maids came and the footmen carried up the bath he was finally able to convince her to let him leave to attend to some things before they ate. He managed to escape while a table and chairs were brought in. The servants fluttered around her, paying more attention to her than they ever had to him.

Sabre was still terribly sore. When she removed her dress she discovered why Quince had asked her if she needed help cleaning up. There was blood on her dress and on her thighs. She had supposed the wetness to be the same as the night before, a clear, slick liquid her body produced as part of her attraction to him, but it hadn't been. It was like having her menses. Women had told her that losing her virginity could make her bleed a bit, but this was far more blood than she had expected. She washed carefully and prepared for further bleeding just in case.

When she returned to her room she found that Quince was already seated at the impromptu table with a glass of red wine. He rose when he saw her, setting the wine aside.

"Miss Bittlesworth."

She raised up on her tiptoes to kiss him. "Sabre."

He smiled and kissed her again. "Sabre." He tasted of wine and lazy afternoons. She thought she could happily kiss him forever. Drawing back he ran a finger over her cheek and looked at her keenly. "Are you feeling better?"

She nodded. She could tell he wanted to apologize again and set her finger against his lips. "Shh. You only did what I asked. What I wanted."

That earned her one of his wry grins. "You did say that what you wanted was me." He leaned in to nuzzle at her ear. "And that you always get what you want."

She laughed. "It would do well for you to remember that."

"Then I can't say you didn't warn me."

"No you can't."

"Are you hungry?"

"I'm not sure."

"How can you not be sure?"

"My thinking gets muddled when you're touching me."

"Interesting. Noted. Then let me assure you that you are hungry."

"How can I argue with a duke?"

"Generally not recommended, but you seem quite good at it." He kissed the top of her head and pulled her chair out for her.

She seated herself gingerly and waited for him to settle in. He poured more wine for both of them and made sure that she had what she wanted on her plate. "You sent the staff away?" she asked.

"I thought that we might need to discuss tomorrow's meeting."

She nodded. "Did you look at the papers I brought upstairs?"

"I was otherwise occupied," he said drily. "Why don't you tell me about them?"

"There are three items. The first is from some investments that your father executed in 1810, which I think was shortly before he died."

Quince nodded, his eyes narrowed in thought. "Yes, he passed in early ’eleven. Why were those investments relevant?"

"I think they were false."

He sat back in surprise. "What makes you think that?"

She thought back to the quick assessment she had made as she flipped through the papers in the study. It had been evident that many of the older ducal papers were housed here at Belle Fleur, which she found odd. Why not at the London townhouse? Or at the ducal seat? Had the elder duke spent the majority of his time at Belle Fleur? "All of the other investments over the years had gone through a man of business in London, but there was a series of investments directly with a private company over five years. The first four years showed incredible returns, at least on paper. Rather than being paid out, those returns were being reinvested and your father was putting in even more funds. Then in the fifth year, when your father doubled his original investment in this company and it was almost his sole financial commitment, the company dissolved and he received a statement that all funds had been lost."

Quince gave her a startled look. "How did you find that in an afternoon? Gideon never mentioned anything like that."

Sabre felt herself smile smugly. "The papers were not well organized but I am excellent at seeing patterns. At any rate, the first item is that final statement. I made a copy of the information so that we still have documentation. But it occurred to me that one of his cronies might have recommended the investment, supposedly objectively, when in actuality it was a front for draining the ducal coffers. Perhaps one of The Four."

"I see,” Quince said, somber while considering that the losses to the duchy might have been by design. “What is the second item?"

"The second item, also potentially damning, is a letter that mentioned 'ursine cuckoos' and suggested they might be useful. The letter was addressed to your father, dated in early ‘eleven, and unsigned. He may never have seen it."

"Ursine cuckoos?"

"A suggestion that the Bear may have cuckolded someone, though why those children could be useful I have no idea."

"Perhaps for blackmail?"

"Perhaps. But it suggests that the letter writer was either Draco or Cygnus."

"What else did the letter say?"

"Everything else was pleasantry."

"And the handwriting didn't match the note that I received?"

"No, but I did recognize it. That letter is from my father."

Quince set down his wine. "So you strike your father from the list of suspects for this blackmail since my note is not in his handwriting?"

"Not necessarily. If the history of The Four is as unsavory as you suspect then it may be that more than one of them involved. Most likely all of them have something to lose."

The duke nodded and looked down at his folded hands. Sabre's heart ached to see him despondent. He had barely touched his supper. She reached a hand out to him across the table and waited until he stirred himself to join hands with her. "We'll get through this," she promised. "All will be well."

His grip was strong and the look he gave her was full of grief and pain. She felt an instinct to soothe him. Care for him. Not sure what else to do she stood to move towards him. Courtesy made the duke rise as well, though he looked confused. She put her hands on his shoulders and pushed gently, encouraging him to sit again. Once he had she seated herself on his lap, one arm curled around his shoulders. They began kissing as though it were something they did every night. A combination of desire and familiarity. His hand stroked down to her hip and anchored there. She felt a tension low in her belly, an ache. She regretted that joining was so painful and knew that it would be some time before she wanted to try it again. But if her heart was treacherous then her body was doubly so, yearning for a greater intimacy with this man. She pulled her lips away and tried to change her focus to the other reason she had come to sit in his lap. Picking up his fork she speared a bite of fish and offered it to him.

"Sabre," he said in a warning tone.

"Eat," she insisted.

After a few bites he relaxed back into the chair and seemed to enjoy her ministering to him. He was stroking over her hip, which she found terribly distracting, and the ache in her belly had progressed to a throb. She felt overheated and awkward.

"What are thinking?" he asked.

"Nothing, why?"

"You have a blush that has started here," he traced a finger in the valley between her breasts in the low décolletage of her dress, "and I assume travels to some interesting places." Sabre felt her cheeks heat and the duke chuckled. "Now it travels up as well as down."

She wasn't sure what to do. Her breasts felt tight and heavy. She wanted him to caress them, squeeze them. Better yet, to kiss the bare flesh. But if she encouraged him to do so it was tantamount to inviting another joining and that she could not do. Suddenly she remembered advice on what could be done when one didn't want to join. She slid off his lap to her knees on the floor.

The duke looked surprised. "I am beginning to wonder about your education."

Sabre smiled and began unbuttoning the front flap of his trousers. "I will warn you that I haven't done this before, either. Hopefully it will go better."

"Were you raised in a whore house?"

She laughed. "If you ever talked to your servants they would obviously shock you."

"You learned this here?"

She shook her head. "No, but I'm sure that there are one or two who have a great deal of knowledge. There always are."

Removing the last button, she revealed his manhood, the first time she had seen one erect or so close. Wrapping her hand at the base she heard him groan and smiled to herself. It felt like silk wrapped steel. She licked the tip and the duke hissed, his hips bucking slightly toward her. Encouraged, she closed her mouth over him and his fingers dug into her shoulders.

He called her name in a choked whisper, "Sabre."

After a few moments they found a rhythm with his shallow hip thrusts, her stroking hand, and her mouth. She felt his shaft grow even larger, thicker, as his breathing became harsher. She used her other hand to stroke under his sack as one serving girl had advised and heard him shout. Her mouth filled with his hot, salty seed as she had been warned and she swallowed as quickly as she could.

He pulled her back up into his lap and hugged her tightly, his face buried against her neck. She ran her fingers through his hair as she waited for him to settle.

By the gods, Quince thought, how had she managed that? It had been the most intense pleasure of his life. Yet he was already growing hard again, his cock wanting desperately to be inside her. He would need to wait a few days considering how badly she had bled with her first joining. But oh, how he wanted her. She was his Venus. His Helen of Troy. He would gladly fight a nation to lie with her. He ran a palm over her breast, the ripe curve and turgid tip, and heard her soft moan of pleasure. Needing no other encouragement he pulled her dress down to expose the globe and suckled on her velvet skin.

"Quince!" she cried, gasping and writhing. He lifted her in his arms, knocking the chair over in his haste. In a few short steps he laid her on the bed. She bit her lip and looked up at him. "Quince, I can't..."

"Shh, I know." He lay down half on top of her and set to laving her nipple again, his hand caressing her other breast still covered by muslin.

"Oh, Quince..." She ploughed her fingers into his hair, gripping handfuls as she gasped in pleasure. He thought he might spill his seed again just listening to her exclamations of passion. He would do anything to make her feel as he had felt with her mouth closed around him during his release.

Sabre ran her fingers lightly over the duke's shoulder. She had convinced him to shed his jacket, vest, and shirt to lie with her flesh to flesh. After a lifetime of excellent ideas she felt this had been one of her best. Feeling his skin against her own was both thrilling and comforting. He had wrapped his arms around her and after some time drifted off to sleep and now snored softly in her ear. The last candle in her room had almost burned down and flickered with the dancing light that often came before guttering. She took those remaining minutes of light to study his face. The curve of his jaw, the straight line of his nose. If she had to choose between time like this with him and being a duchess she thought she would choose him. But he needn't know that.

EIGHTEEN

When Sabre awoke in the morning she was covered by a light blanket and found a note on the pillow next to her.

No, you are not going to London.

- Q

She laughed. He had expected her to argue about it but that had been the furthest thing from her mind. Running into her friends or family in London and having to explain herself would just be a complication. Hopefully he would return soon. But until then she could continue her mission to set Belle Fleur to rights. The staff did as well as they could, but certain things required decisions that no servant would feel comfortable taking upon themselves. And Sabre had never had any difficulty making decisions for others.

Quince hoped Robert would be in residence. Ten in the morning was something of an awkward time in the ton. Most of the beau monde wouldn't even be up yet, while others such as Robert, who had more productive lives, might already be downtown in their office. Having waited so long to open the second letter he had hardly given time for Robert to be involved in thinking through strategies. At last Robert's doorman opened to his knock and, seeing who it was, waved him in. "If you could wait in the study, please, sir. Mr. Bittlesworth is otherwise engaged for the moment but will want to see you."

The doorman led him to the study where he and Robert had met before, offered him a drink, which he declined, and left him to his own devices for the nonce. Although he was near vibrating with impatience no one who looked upon him would have guessed. He studied the hunting prints in Robert's office as though he had all the time in the world. Finally, at what he would guess was better than a quarter hour later, the door opened and Robert appeared.

"I received instructions," Quince said abruptly.

"I see. Drink?"

He didn't really want one but didn't want to alienate his host. "Whatever you're having."

Robert poured two tumblers of scotch and offered one to the duke. Quince was surprised at such strong spirits at this time in the morning but took the tumbler readily enough. Robert grinned as he sat down, indicating that Quince should take the chair opposite him. To treat a duke in such a casual way indicated either long-standing friendship or a great deal of disrespect. Quince wasn't sure which Robert thought he was exhibiting but they had never been particularly close.

"I suppose you know," Robert said without preamble, "the nickname we used for Gideon?"

"Of course. Lord Lucifer."

"Do you know the one we used for you?"

Quince frowned. He had hardly spent any time with the Bittlesworth boys and had a difficult time imagining he had earned a nickname with them. At his silence Robert continued.

"We called you Gideon's Angel." The younger man tossed back his scotch in one go. Then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the empty tumbler dangling loosely in his fingers. Robert had dark eyes and sometimes, such as now, his gaze could be more intense than a hawk's. "You were so fucking self-righteous all the time. As if you were averse to fun and couldn't even stand anyone else having it. But every time Gideon had a problem you were right there. Always cleaning it up for him."

Quince was surprised Robert bore such anger for him. For the most part he had stayed out of the way while the three of them had run wild all those years. Yes, when push came to shove he had always been there for Gideon, as Gideon had always been there for him.

Not sure what Robert was getting at, Quince relied on the iciness and hauteur that had seen him through many other unpleasant encounters. "I don't see what this has to do with the case at hand."

Robert laughed. A world-weary laugh without humor, too aged for his actual years. "No, you wouldn't."

Indicating that there was, somehow, a connection. Quince felt himself become confused, knocked off his balance. He had enough to worry about without this. He looked at Robert, truly inspected him. The young man seemed tired, haggard. Were this four, even two, years ago he would have assumed that Robert had spent the night carousing. But he didn't have the look of a man who had spent his evening in dissolute pleasures. This was the look of a man with too many cares, a man who had either worked or worried all night, probably both. For a brief moment Quince felt guilty for adding more weight to Robert's concerns by thrusting his own problems into the mix. Perhaps Sabrina had the right of it. Robert had too much to worry about whereas she had made Quince's issue her sole concern. The packet of papers she had given him pressed against his ribcage where he had stowed it in an inner pocket of his coat. He could take his leave of Robert and proceed with the plan that Sabre had outlined for him.

Robert set aside his tumbler and rubbed a hand over his head. "What I'm attempting to say is that even annoying little angels can be useful sometimes."

Not sure how to respond, Quince waited.

"Useful because they can be trusted to do the right thing."

For a brief, panicked moment Quince wondered if Robert knew precisely where his sister was.

Apparently past whatever maudlin mood had struck him, Robert held out his hand. "Show me the note."

"I burned it."

Robert narrowed his eyes at the news and Quince was struck with how the expression was exactly like Sabre’s.

"What do you mean you burned it?"

"I don't like the idea of someone finding out about it, so I store all of that information," Quince tapped his head, "in here."

"Fine. Recite it for me, then."

Robert closed his eyes as he listened, asking the duke to repeat it twice more. Finally satisfied, he nodded. "If you get another note, keep it. I would like to examine the handwriting."

Although uncomfortable with the suggestion, Quince nodded.

The younger man continued. "I don't like the idea that he has insinuated himself with your mother. I would like to dispatch two of my men to check on her."

Quince nodded again. "That would be something of a relief as I can't go to Bath immediately myself. And I can trust your discretion regarding my mother's household?"

"Of course," he confirmed. "My entire career is built on discretion. Now, as for the deadline for papers tonight..."

Quince pulled out the packet. "The plan is to provide him something, but also stall for time."

Robert nodded. "Good. What do you have?"

"A letter and three items." Quince tucked the single sheet with Sabre's instructions back in his coat pocket and handed the rest of the papers to Robert. The young man took them and looked through them. The letter was simple enough.

To my father's friend,

I find the most interesting things in my father's papers and thought you might like to see these. Perhaps if we meet at the Harrington ball we can discuss this topic further?

Your friend's son

Having looked at the items Robert said, "I understand why the invitation to the ball is in here, but what do the other items mean?"

"The first item is the last document in a trail of investments that smack of fraud which leads one to suspect that one of my father's friends may have duped him. The second indicates a mutual friend cuckolded someone and the children may be useful. In what way, I don't know, but suspect that the mere knowledge of it is somewhat incendiary."

Robert frowned at the second item and Quince knew he recognized the writing, just as Sabre had. "Were either of the notes in the same handwriting as these?"

"No."

He nodded and handed the packet back to the duke. "Unless you want us to deliver it?"

"I doubt that would go over well."

"Your plan seems a good one. We will watch White’s."

"Is that wise?"

Robert gave him a wolfish grin. "It would only be unwise if we were caught."

"One other thing," Quince said. "How I have received the blackmail letters disturbs me."

After he described how the letters would appear Robert said, "We will investigate your townhouse staff."

At that, Robert stood up, indicating that the meeting was over. He picked up Quince's tumbler where it had sat untouched on the table and downed that one as well. "Be careful tonight," he said. "The language this man uses... I believe him to be truly dangerous."

Quince nodded and followed the younger man to the front door. Once outside he let himself contemplate two things. First, Robert asked far fewer questions than Sabre did about the circumstances of the case. He hadn't noticed the first time because he had still been overwhelmed, and relieved that someone could help him. Second, he had felt no desire to tell Robert about The Four. During their first meeting he had only vaguely mentioned that his father had a number of dissolute cronies whose names he wasn't sure about. Now, when he was more certain that The Four were involved, he was also more circumspect in the information he gave Robert. His instincts had held him in good stead before so he didn't wish to betray them now. But if he couldn't trust Robert then what would he do?

The thud of a door and light from a lantern woke Sabre up.

"I should have known you would be in here when I didn't find you in your room." The duke's voice sounded... odd. It had to be the middle of the night. She shoved aside the bedclothes to sit up in his bed.

"What happened?"

He set the lantern on the table next to her and pulled a paper from his greatcoat. After shoving the paper in her hand he walked to the window, his steps stiff, jerky. She studied his silhouette. Had he been drinking? Or was this the expression of some emotion? She unfolded the paper and tilted it toward the light.

If you think to toy with me you have made a grave mistake. If you anger me further then perhaps I will need to share that anger with a sweet little girl I have seen at Miss Filbert's School. Do you think she would spread her legs for me? Do you think she would scream for me? I accept your invitation to the Harrington Ball and if you do not surrender the papers at that time, just know what may happen.

Sabre folded the paper up again. This time she wanted to burn the letter herself.

"Your daughter?" she asked.

Quince turned and stared at her for long moments but she was unable to see his expression in the darkness. "My sister," he finally said. His voice rose as he continued. "She's twelve years old. What sort of monster threatens to do that to a twelve year old girl?"

"When did you receive this?"

"It was on my bed in London when I returned to the townhouse at midnight. I had planned to stay there tonight, but after I found this..." He ran his hands through his hair. "I just couldn't."

Sabre slipped from the bed and padded over to him. She pulled the greatcoat from his shoulders and laid it aside. Then she took off his jacket, cravat, and vest. He stood quietly, watching her but not interacting.

She indicated a side chair. "Sit."

He did so and she removed his brown top boots and stockings. Standing up again she offered her hand to him and he took it as he rose. She led him to his bed and lay down with him, pulling the covers up securely around them. Nothing more could be done tonight but she could offer him the comfort of her touch.

Quince jolted awake from a dream. He couldn't remember most of it, only that it had been disturbing. Shortly before he awoke, he had been running down an endless hallway. He didn't know why he was running, just recalled the abject panic and anxiety that fueled his flight. It was a deeper and more intense emotion than any he had ever experienced in his waking life.

But he was awake now and Sabrina Bittlesworth was lying half on top of him in sleep. Her arm was curled over his chest, her leg wrapped over one of his. Feeling her warm skin, smelling that delightful scent she wore that he still hadn't identified, his heart rate slowed to a normal pace. He wanted nothing more than to kiss her awake and make love to her. But the memory of the brutal pain she had experienced in their first encounter was more than enough to stop him. He could wait.

Running his fingers lightly over her arm he encountered the healing scar from his blade. At first he frowned, remembering the moment when he had slipped past her guard and followed his instincts to score the win. Then after a moment he smiled. There was more than one way to work off the energy of their passion. He rolled her onto her back and she made a protesting sound. He took her lips in a swift kiss, then moved to kissing her throat.

"Quince!" She managed to sound both grumpy and pleased at the same time.

Her nightgown tied in the front and he set to opening it, revealing her beautiful bosoms. He suckled first one, then the other as she squirmed beneath him.

"Quince!" Now she was breathless. How he loved thrilling her. Cupping her breast in his hand, he moved his lips back to hers. They settled into a comfortable but passionate mating of lips and tongues. He was so hard he feared he might burst from his breeches. What he had hoped to be a simple awakening for a lover had turned into something too heated. Perhaps she would join with him. Certainly they had to do it again in order for it to get better. He pulled up the hem of her nightgown and ran his hand underneath, stroking the outside of her bare thigh. He felt her tilt her hips beneath him and the motion made him want to couple with frenzied thrusts.

Gods, he had to stop this before he was hammering into her whether she wanted it or not. He tore his lips from hers.

"I thought today we could practice." His voice sounded breathless and hollow, even to himself.

She looked at him blankly, clearly not understanding. Then he saw the light dawn in her eyes. "Really? When? Now? I need to go get dressed."

She wriggled and bucked, no longer with sexual desire but in order to dislodge him and escape the bed. Quince laughed. He saw now where he rated in her estimation. He rolled away and flopped onto his back. Once she was gone he could deal with the unrequited lust she left behind. But she surprised him by leaning over and cupping his manhood through his trousers.

"We'd best polish this sword first." She unbuttoned his flap and set to licking and sucking as though he were her favorite treat. He didn't know why he had caught Sabrina Bittlesworth's eye, but he could no longer regret it. As he had known intuitively the first moment he saw her, she was the only woman for him. Perhaps her lineage didn’t matter. Perhaps nothing mattered but being with her.

NINETEEN

They practiced with tipped foils. The first quarter hour was spent in essentially play. Showing off, observing each other's style. After that they focused more seriously on form and technique. Sabre was willing to admit that Quince knew far more than she did on the subject, her humility at least partially because it was so rare to find someone who did. He had not only studied in France, Italy, and Spain, but Hungary as well. She had a special interest in Hungarian sabre fighting. Its focus on the wrist and speed appealed to her, but she had not met a practitioner. The duke promised to teach her everything he knew.

As she smiled up at him she thought that her prediction to Jack was already coming true. She could fence with him any time she wanted. Watch him any time she wanted. Now all that was left was to become his duchess. He stopped what he was saying to grin back at her, looking baffled at her brilliant smile. She kissed him and encouraged him to continue what he was saying.

That night as they snuggled on the balcony Quince said, "I'm not sure what to do about Jessica."

"Jessica?"

"My sister. I know bringing her here would not protect her any better than being at the school."

Sabre sat up and looked down at him. "Robert could dispatch men to protect her. Have you told him of this note yet?"

Quince skimmed his fingers over her arm. "I'm not sure I trust Robert."

Sabre seemed suspiciously quiet and Quince looked into her eyes. Her brows were furrowed and she seemed to be struggling to say something. "That is probably wise," she allowed.

His senses went on alert. There was a truth here. He could sense it. "He wants to see the handwriting. I suspect he will know who it is based on that alone. I also suspect he won't tell me, and that concerns me."

Sabre looked out at the starry night. "That wouldn't surprise me. I've thought for awhile that he's playing a deeper game here."

Quince asked the question he had loathed considering. "Did he send you here to Belle Fleur?"

She turned her attention back to him, smiling sadly. "No. But he does know that I'm here." She looked at the sky again. "That day my horse had a stone in his shoe? Robert had his men seize me so that he could speak with me."

"He did what?" Quince could feel his heart stutter with worry about how she had been treated. He didn't take her as a woman who would use a word like "seize" lightly. No wonder she had hugged him as she had upon return to Belle Fleur.

"It's all right. I'm quite used to Robert and his ways. He's worried about me. But there is something more afoot."

"As much as I love having your here, how could he stand to let you return?"

She raised a brow at him. "That's the term he used. Let. That indicates a level of authority I don't allow others to have over me."

He chuckled. "Really? Saying that was a strategic mistake."

She became very still. "What do you mean?"

"That's hardly a statement to attract a husband."

She laughed and gave him her most flirtatious smile, leaning down until her breasts pressed up against his chest. "Perhaps not for a typical man, but you are not a typical man."

Prior to meeting her he might have agreed with her statement. But now he knew himself to be far more typical than he had ever hoped. He struggled daily to keep himself from using her for his own pleasure, and hearing her so clearly state her independence both irked and frightened him. How could he keep her safe if she would not submit to protection? Which only served as a reminder that Jessica needed protection as well.

His distraction must have reminded Sabre of their original conversation. "If you won't trust her to Robert, then who would you trust?"

He put his arms around her. "I only trust two people and the most logical candidate, Gideon, is far too wrapped up in Parliament to send off to Chippenham."

"Well, then who is the other one?"

He looked at her to confirm that she truly, innocently did not know. "Yes, that's an excellent question, isn't it?" he asked.

Rather than take his bait she sulked and said, "I've been meaning to ask you about Gideon."

"Ask what about him?"

"I don't like the way he treats Jack. He's so high-handed and authoritarian. And that's when he even bothers to be around, which isn't often. I don't understand why Jack puts up with it at all."

Rather than defend his friend, which was very tempting, Quince mildly asked, "Was there a question in there somewhere?"

"Yes! Why does he act like that? Why does she put up with it?" She seemed genuinely upset so he refrained from chuckling at her.

"Attraction does funny things to people."

She gave him a sour look. "Attraction makes him an overbearing ass? I argue he was already that way."

Now he did chuckle. "Yes, Gideon has always been an overbearing ass. He's actually less so with Jack's influence."

"Small miracles," she muttered. She plucked at the front of his shirt, obviously discontent.

"I saw it the first time he introduced me to her," he said.

"Saw what?" she asked, looking up with curiosity.

"How right they were together. It's like studying a painting, watching how people are together. It's all about balance."

The look she gave him was skeptical at best. "That makes no sense to me."

"What I'm saying is of course Gideon annoys you. The two of you wouldn't balance out at all."

"But Jack has changed! She used to be independent. She valued her freedom. Now she won't do anything without checking with Gideon."

"Are you upset for her or for yourself?"

"Beyond my annoyance, yes, I am upset for her. Why would I want her to become a shadow of what she once was?"

"Have you asked her if that's how she feels?"

"I don't need to ask her, I can see it!"

Quince was quiet for a moment. "You are disturbed that she surrenders some of her freedom and independence to please Gideon? Has it ever occurred to you that she exercised her freedom and independence to please you?"

Sabre's mouth dropped open. "That's not... That's silly! Of course she didn't..."

But he saw that her mind was considering it, turning the thought around and about to see what flaws it held. Rather than argue further she laid her head on his shoulder. After a few minutes of silence she petulantly said, "That's poppycock.”

"Me for suggesting it or Jack for doing it?"

She raised her head again and gave him the most autocratic look he had seen from her to date. "I don't want to talk about that anymore. How shall we protect Jessica? Who is this sainted second person who has managed to earn your trust?"

He stroked the corner of her mouth. "I can certainly see how we balance. The things I see most clearly are where you have blind spots."

That only served to make her frown more fiercely. "I'm not particularly known for my blind spots."

He smiled at her. "It's you, Sabre. The second person is you."

Only moments earlier Sabre had thought to herself Quincy Telford can be annoying. And he was, certainly. Quite annoying. The smile he had given her after announcing she had blind spots had been downright patronizing. She hated patronizing men. Then he had said, "It's you, Sabre." Simple. Direct. That he trusted her more than almost anyone in the world. As though it were blindingly obvious. As though it were a given. She heard the blood rush in her ears, felt her heart squeeze in her chest. She was a bit dizzy and glad they were already lying down. She had discovered that her heart was quite willing to do foolish things to make him smile at her. But for his trust? She would do irrational things. Unwise things. She felt both invincible and fragile.

Not sure how to respond she laid her head on his shoulder and waited for the dizziness to pass.

Later that evening Quince watched Sabre brush her hair. This would be their fourth night sleeping in the same bed. Before they left the balcony he had asked her if she would like to stay with him. She had enthusiastically agreed and gone to retrieve her nightgown. Now she was seated in a chair and brushing the curls out of her hair. He lounged on the bed watching her. He had a moment of clarity that this was what the rest of his life held. That in forty years he would be here on this bed watching her brush her hair. It filled his heart with a warmth he had never known before.

When she set her brush down she saw that he was watching her. "What?" she asked.

He held a hand out and she came to him, crawling up on the bed to join him.

"What?" she asked again, more softly.

He cradled her face in his hands and drank his fill of her beauty. He realized he had yet to see her, all of her, as he had dreamt about.

"May I take off your nightgown?"

He saw her brow furrow in worry. "Quince, I'm not sure-"

"We won't. I just want to see you."

She nodded hesitantly. He pulled the hem of her gown up, kissing her briefly, sweetly. She raised her hips as he continued to pool the fabric up at her waist, then sat up so that he could pull the voluminous fabric over her head. He sat back on his heels, stunned. She was even more beautiful than he had dreamt. Her proportions were perfect. He couldn't decide whether he wanted her portrait just like this, nude and lounging back against her arm, or if the idea of anyone else seeing her like this would kill him.

"Quince, what are you thinking?"

"You're perfect," he said in a strangled whisper.

She gave him the sweetest smile he had ever seen. "Now let me see you."

"Sabre, I'm endeavoring to keep my promise not to touch you."

She tilted her head as though considering his words. "I want you to touch me. I want to see you."

He nearly tore his shirt in his haste to remove it.

Seeing him, all golden muscle, long and sleek, lying with him skin to skin, Sabre had wanted him so desperately. She begged him to join with her. He seemed torn between his desire and his need to protect her. At last he had given in to her begging but on his first thrust she knew she had made a terrible mistake. It hurt almost as much as the first time, although it didn't surprise a scream out of her. She bit her lip and held onto his shoulders as he thrust into her over and over. The pain subsided a bit but she never experienced the pleasure she had been led to believe would occur. That her own body seemed to promise her every time he touched her, kissed her.

When he grunted her name on his final thrust she hugged him and kissed his shoulder.

He cradled her face. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

"Was it any better?"

"Some." She kissed his shoulder again. "It will get better. Did you enjoy it?"

"Beyond all things."

She felt a warm glow. "Then that makes me happy."

But he still looked worried.

TWENTY

When Quince awoke, Sabre was no longer in their bed. His first instinct was to jump up and prowl around until he found her. After lying in bed for a quarter hour trying to control the impulse he finally gave in and pulled on trousers and a simple shirt. Hopefully she hadn't gone far. She wasn't in their sitting room or the duchess's quarters. She wasn't in the rose-colored guest room. He went downstairs and didn't find her in the dining room or study. He finally stopped to address a footman.

"Where is my... guest?"

"Miss Bittlesworth is in the kitchen, your grace."

Quince cocked his head to the side. "Indeed? And... where would I find the kitchen?"

"This way, your grace," the footman said, leading him past the dining room and down a narrow hallway. They descended a short flight of stone steps and as they approached the kitchen Quince could hear chatter and laughter. He could hear Sabre's laughter.

When he entered the room one of the maids spotted him and exclaimed, "Your grace!" and dropped into a deep curtsy. The chatter and laughter stopped, with all of the servants addressing him as "your grace" and bowing or curtsying as though he were on parade. Sabre had been rolling out piecrust on the center table and didn't curtsy, but did give him a blindingly happy smile. She wiped her hands on her apron and walked over to him.

"Good morning, love," she said, pulling his face down for a kiss.

"Good morning." He felt foolish for charging around the house looking for her. Doubly foolish for interfering in the work of the kitchens. Work that he hadn't realized she involved herself in. And to be kissing in full view of the servants? He was behaving like a man who had no care for her reputation at all.

"We thought you might fancy a kidney pie for lunch. Havers assures us it's a particular favorite of yours."

It was a particular favorite of his but he didn't remember ever expressing a preference. Apparently the old butler paid attention to which dishes went back barely touched and which earned a clean plate. He looked at all the expectant faces peering at him, awaiting his slightest sign of pleasure or discontent and realized what a horrifying employer he had been. They wanted to please him and all he had wanted to do was avoid them. He looked back at Sabre. "I've never had a bad meal at Belle Fleur," he assured her. "But yes, kidney pie is a favorite."

She looked as pleased as a mother whose child had won a prize, and he found himself unreasonably delighted. "I've told them that the kitchen is exceptional," she said, "but I'm sure they are happiest to hear it from you."

In that moment he realized he had found his chiaroscuro, the light that balanced his darkness. "I'll leave you to it, then," he said. "And perhaps track down my valet so that I may be presentable for the breakfast table."

As he left he heard the excited chatter start again, first in a hushed tone and growing louder as he made his way up the steps and into the hallway.

Sabre sat across from the duke and admired him. He was more than presentable for breakfast. Other than the fact that he was wearing a morning jacket, he was polished enough to attend any ball in the ton. She had a hard time concentrating on her breakfast while thinking about how he must smell like lemongrass.

He paused in picking up his glass. "Are you all right?"

"Yes." She moved her eyes to her plate in hopes that she could get some breakfast down and deal with the pressing matters at hand well. "My thought is that I should fetch Jessica and take her to Gideon and Jack. It's hard to imagine anyone breaching the Wolfe household when they are on alert."

Quince was silent for too long and Sabre looked at him again. He looked troubled. "Gideon doesn't know about my siblings. He would hardly take it well to have one of them thrust upon him without warning."

"What do you mean Gideon doesn't know? I thought you were friends."

"We are friends. I didn't find out about these siblings until after my father died."

"That was four years ago. What did you do, shove them into a bedside drawer?"

"I suppose you would look at it that way," the duke said testily.

"I'm beginning to have some sympathy for poor Gideon."

"He's not the easiest person to talk to."

Sabre gave a frustrated sigh but realized this line of discussion wouldn't be fruitful. "All of this aside, what will we do for Jessica? And your mother?"

"Robert did send men to check on my mother."

"And you trust that, yet do not trust him to have his men fetch Jessica?"

"It's just a feeling. That I shouldn't show him this most recent note from the blackmailer. That I shouldn’t involve him any more deeply. Not yet."

Sabre blew out a frustrated breath and sat back in her chair. "At least half of your problems are of your own making."

"You were the one who said you wanted to help."

"And I have helped! If it weren't for me you would have missed your meeting at White’s and most likely wouldn't have had any papers to string him along with at all."

"For all the good it's done us! In case you have forgotten, he is threatening my sister."

She folded her arms. "Something he was already planning to do if he could respond like that in under an hour. If I asked Robert to have Jessica protected, even without revealing her true identity, he would do it, no questions asked."

"He might not ask you any questions but I'm sure it would raise his curiosity."

Sabre had to admit that he was right about that. "Well, then we are at an impasse."

They sat in an angry silence, picking at their food. Sabre finally made another suggestion. "I could send John and either Laura or Lizzy. Perhaps both. Having servants pick up Jessica may actually be much less notable."

"Who are John, Laura, and Lizzy?"

"John is my coachman. Laura and Lizzy are two of your maids. They seem levelheaded enough to be up to the task. The only question after that is where on earth we can put Jessica that she would be safe."

Quince closed his eyes, putting his fingers to his temples.

"Are you all right?"

"Shh, I'm thinking."

Sabre sat back in her chair again. Yes, Quincy Telford was quite annoying.

When he finally opened his eyes again he gave her such a brilliant smile that she almost forgot how to breathe.

"I've got it," he said. "I don't send her to Gideon. You send her to Jack."

Sabre frowned. "Doesn't that accomplish the same thing?"

"No, because Giddy would never question anything Jack would want to do. And Jack would never question anything you would ask of her."

Sabre smiled. "I stand corrected. You can be devious."

"I have my moments. Now, I just need to write a letter to Jessica asking her to conceal her identity while with the countess. And you need to write a letter of introduction for Jessica to Jack."

"If she can't go by Jessica then what name should we use?"

Quince thought for a moment. "Celia Frederick."

Sabre smiled. "When in doubt quote the Bard?"

"Always."

"And while Jack is quite likely to pick up on the implications of the name, Gideon is not."

"Most likely not."

She felt better knowing they had a plan, even though the stress of the situation seemed to be wearing on both of them. At least she knew she could trust John implicitly. He had been the boy who had taught her to kiss all those years ago. What was it? Thirteen years now. He had never been untoward but it had been clear that he had a soft spot for her ever since. And if she invoked the Haberdashers code to ask Jack to look after Jessica, then there would be no question of it being done. Yes, this plan would work. She would write the necessary letters this very morning and send John and the girls on their way. Quince would need to write the letter to Jessica. She looked over at him, resplendent in a soft gray morning coat and snowy white cravat, rather precisely cutting his meat. Certainly she could count on him to be hasty in writing a letter that ensured his sister's safety. Certainly.

Quince sat at his desk, pen in hand, thinking about what to write to Jessica. Sabre ostensibly browsed his book collection, but nearly vibrated with energy in her interest to get their plan underway. She had already brought him all of the items she had drafted so that he could review them. A letter to her friend the countess, rather carefully worded, and letters of reference for each of the servants that would be traveling for him to sign. She was, in short, even more managing than Gideon. He was sure that if he sat here long enough she would seize the pen from him and draft this letter as well. It was tempting to find out how long that might take. But tempting as it was to torment her, Jessica would be most receptive to something written in his own hand. He bent to finish his task.

Dearest Jessica,

It is not something I can explain at present, but I need you to go with the three servants who bear this letter and stay with my good friend, the Countess of Harrington. Please remain there and be attentive to her instruction until I fetch you. Keep the maids with you at all times you are not directly with the countess and do not speak to any strangers. You are not to tell anyone who you are and travel under the name Celia Frederick. Please burn this letter before you leave the school, so that no trace remains.

With deepest love,

Your brother Quincy, Duke of Beloin

It was hard to imagine that the letter itself wouldn't panic her, but what else was there to do? He could only hope she would be a sensible girl and do as instructed. It was difficult not to just take the ducal carriage and sweep through the countryside to gather all of his family. If he thought he could keep them safe, he would. But he strongly doubted that the safest place was near him. The way the blackmail letters had been delivered indicated at least one person in his employ was not to be trusted. And where there was one there could be many. Was he wrong to trust these maids, Laura and Lizzy? He looked over to where Sabre was reading a small book of sonnets, stolidly demonstrating a patience she obviously didn't feel. He trusted Sabre. Not that he could exactly explain why, but that was often the case with things that were important. He just knew them. He trusted Sabre and she spent far more time with the servants than he did, and she had recommended these girls to protect his sister. He would try to be at peace with that.

He saw her slide her gaze over to his desk and quickly folded the letter and set to sealing it before she could offer any suggestions for revisions. Managing girl.

TWENTY-ONE

By mid-morning Sabre had seen John, Laura, and Lizzy off for their mission. The carriage included a good number of items to be of comfort for a young lady. She gave stern instructions to the staff that they should do their best to conceal the girl’s identity when she left the school, covering her with a shawl and keeping the curtains on the carriage drawn. It wasn’t certain, but most likely the blackmailer was having the school watched and any edge they could gain against him would be helpful.

Undoubtedly Jack would spoil the girl to no end, even without knowing that she was Quince's sister. Now, after a flurry of activity, there was nothing to do but wait. Worry. To Sabre the whole blackmail affair felt like trying to play a game of chess with at least half the board obscured. Who were the remaining lords of The Four? What were they really capable of? What sort of resources did they have?

Unfortunately, due to Quince's own stubbornness, the pieces he did have available to him were not yet in play. Gideon Wolfe could undoubtedly be useful but Quince had yet to confide in him. Although originally involving Robert, Quince was now withholding information from him as well. This morning, when Quince had folded up the letter to his sister without inviting her to read it, Sabre had realized that Quince was perfectly fine concealing information from her. Not that she expected him to allow her to review everything, but she had shown him all of her letters. He had said he trusted her. He had said he trusted both she and Gideon. Yet if she were to judge by his actions, that wasn't the conclusion she would draw. So here they were, with sparse defense and no movement, waiting for a move from an obscure but potentially powerful enemy. Potentially deadly enemy.

The duke's lack of action might drive her insane.

One of Sabre's favorite games as a child had been War. She had made up most of the rules herself and would play it with anyone who would indulge her. War was far more complicated to set up and play than chess, and included the element of chance. It entailed setting toy soldiers on a terrain, declaring troop movements, and rolling Crown and Anchor dice to determine outcomes. They had reenacted many famous battles from history over the years, those being a particular favorite for Jack. They had also created wars whole cloth, with made up nations and generals.

If she were to compare this to a battle in War, it was as though she and the duke were in a valley, knowing that the enemy was over the next rise but unaware of whom it was, how many they numbered, or how they were equipped. The logical move was to fall back and send a scout or two ahead. But how were they to gauge the enemy’s strength without even knowing precisely where to search? Mulling over their potential resources she kept coming back to the people they knew. She kept coming back to Robert and Gideon.

The only one who could ever beat her at War was Robert. Clever, ruthless Robert. It would be helpful to have him on their side. Especially if this enemy turned out to be even half as clever and ruthless as Robert could be. But she couldn't discount Quince's unease about her brother because she shared it. No, as powerful a resource as Robert might be in this instance, it would be a mistake to involve him in their movements. It was too much of a risk until they knew more.

That left Gideon Wolfe, Earl of Harrington. The duke's best friend. He was recognized as a powerful presence in the House of Lords and rumored to be wealthier than Croesus. Using him to protect Jessica was wise, but most likely an underutilization. Certainly there was any number of things that he could do to help Quince if he desired. If he knew what there was to be done.

All that brought her back to Quince. If she weren't here he would be in this valley by himself. Refusing to take action, refusing to enlist the help of his friends. If she were to help him, it would be to get him out of this valley before his enemy descended upon him. No matter how she turned it about in her mind she didn't see any path that he would want to take. Which left her to figure out which path he would find least offensive and convince him to take it.

She needed to think.

As she didn't trust that a horseback ride wouldn't be circumvented with another abduction, she settled for walking the gardens of Belle Fleur.

TWENTY-TWO

Quince had been in his study for some time, lying on the couch and thinking, when he realized that the house seemed strangely quiet. Still. Perhaps even lifeless. He sat up and concentrated on listening. No sound but the longcase clock in the front hall. He swiftly rose to investigate. Before long he discovered staff quietly employed at their chores. But no Sabre. He checked her room. His room. The duchess's quarters. Not sure where else to look he ventured out onto the suite's balcony. And that was when he saw her. Wandering among the flowers, her fingers reaching to touch a bloom here and there.

The house was quiet because she was quiet. A rare contemplative mood. In her pale blue dress and straw bonnet she was the ideal of a young English girl admiring the gardens. Resting his elbows on the balustrade he settled in to watch her. After some time she seemed to sense his gaze and looked up at him. She smiled and moved more directly below the balcony.

She called up, "But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks?"

Quince laughed. "Aren't those my lines?"

"You're the one on the balcony." She shaded her eyes against the bright sunlight as she continued to look up. "Is it time for luncheon yet?"

"I suppose that it is. Would you like to dine in the gardens?"

"Dine al fresco? How positively continental of you."

"I beg to differ. Nothing could be more English than taking more time to admire the gardens."

"For either reason, I accept."

He smiled down at her. "Then I shall be down presently."

He barely had the patience to order their luncheon served before joining her outside. As they ate Quince knew this would be a memory he would treasure all of his life. They dined in a spot of shade on the side of the manor. A breeze blew periodically, wafting the scent of the flowers over them and ruffling the lace edging on Sabre's dress. Cook had outdone himself with the kidney pie. The conversation was filled with nonsense and laughter. If there were an hour that he could preserve forever, it would be this one. With Sabre's eyes full of mirth and his heart full of love for her. His fairy queen.

He kissed her hand and twined his fingers in hers. "Hear my soul speak. Of the very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly at your service.”

She smiled. "The Tempest."

He could tell by her easy acceptance that she thought he had only found a quote to recite to her. Not that he was telling her of his heart, of his love. If they were lucky he would have time to convince her of that love later. But for now he was content to have this short, idyllic break in the otherwise consuming task of out-thinking his opponents.

Sabre thought that luncheon was an excellent example of how she could be charming without being mentally present at all. She still worried over what the best next action would be to remove Quincy from danger. Meanwhile, he chatted and flirted with her as though they were in the bosom of the ton without a care in the world. She was beginning to think that he could fiddle while Rome burned.

Not that she wouldn't enjoy his company immensely if there weren't some horrid blackmail plot hanging over their heads. A plot her father was likely involved in. A plot that she had yet to divine her brother Robert's role in. Not that she thought Robert would do anything at their father's behest. To say that the viscount had a strained relationship with his eldest son would be a vast and laughable understatement. Sabre didn't know the exact source of the discord, but it seemed very obvious. The two could be in the same house, the same room, and it was as though the other didn't exist. She hadn't seen the two of them exchange a word in at least ten years. Robert doted on his two siblings. Even, to a lesser degree, their bastard brother Justin. He was unfailingly polite with her mother, their father’s second wife and Robert’s step-mother of these past twenty years. But it was as though he could neither see nor hear Father. And Father treated him exactly the same way. It was left to Charlie to ferry messages if anything of import needed to be communicated.

The greatest question in Sabre's mind was what sort of resources this blackmailer had. His letter had intimated that he was in contact with Quince's mother. That was either hubris on the part of the blackmailer, or an indication that he didn't have the funds to hire someone to watch her rather than do it himself. The letter about Jessica, however, hadn't directly indicated he had seen her or visited her school. Of course, he could have acquired at least the school name from her mother if they were on friendly social terms. It came back, however, to a suspicion that he wasn't so well off that he could hire men to do his bidding. Perhaps. Again, it could be ego. And if it was ego, that was a weakness to exploit.

While that debate chased its tail in her head she also considered what they knew, or thought they knew, about The Four. It would be easier for her to put the pieces together if Quince would give her more information, but based on what he had told her she didn't know that she wanted to hear any more about the group. Further, as they had already discussed, hearing about the depravity they were capable of while out of the light of Society didn't particularly help to know what they acted like while they were in Society.

Honestly, it would be easier if there were some papers that his father had left behind describing these men. Giving some clue to their identities. She had hoped the business papers she had pored through would reveal some business partnerships his father had made that could give them a list of suspects. Far from it.

Everything his father did had been handled at an arm's length and the list of businesses and solicitors she had made would only help if she could run down the connections. That would only be possible in London. Since she was wary of giving Robert more information, she had to hope that Justin, in his new role as Harrington's clerk, would be able to find the information. She did find, however, that although Quince didn't seem to keep the bulk of his papers here, it was readily apparent that he had a business partnership with Harrington. One that yielded a hefty return based on the one statement she had run across. If this was ducal poverty she had no idea what he thought his holdings should be worth. But if the duke was cash poor then that was also a consideration for any strategy they might employ.

Thus her mind spun round and round over the central concern; how do you conquer an unknown enemy? How do you judge his strength? How do you anticipate his next move?

She smiled indulgently at Quince while thinking she might throttle him if he didn't become more serious about the trouble that he was in.

Sabre wasn't quite sure where Quincy had disappeared off to after lunch but as she had wanted to spend more time reviewing his father's papers she decided not to worry about it overly. She had sufficiently cowed his steward to be granted free access to the study and took the opportunity to dig deep into the drawers and cabinets. Surely there was something here that would help. She was so bent on her task that she barely noticed a supper tray had been brought for her. Eating from it absently, she continued to read and organize the papers. Quincy hadn't been facetious in saying that his father kept detailed journals about everything including the growth rate of crops. There was a journal regarding the gardens of Belle Fleur that spanned more than fifty years. Journals that related to the profitable business of the lands had been maintained, if sporadically, after the older duke's death. This journal for the gardens ended abruptly with the autumn entry for 1810. Early in the book the duke's crabbed and angular handwriting had been interspersed with a more flowing and rounded hand that Sabre suspected was the first duchess. It made her unaccountably sad to see the journal not kept up. As she had spent all morning walking through the gardens and was quite familiar with them now, she took up the steward's ink and set to creating the entry for spring 1815. She was just completing notes for the early roses when she heard the door open again. Expecting it was a servant returning to remove the tray, she hadn't even looked up yet when she heard the duke's voice.

"I wondered where you'd wandered off to. Don't we have a steward to see to that? Whatever it is?"

He sauntered closer, raising a brow as he looked down at the journal she was still holding open. Sabre felt herself flush to the tips of her toes. Partially because it felt a bit naughty to not only be looking through, but updating, the duchy's papers. But mostly because he didn't ask if he had a steward. He had said we. Flirting and quoting the bard struck her as meaninglessly romantic. But saying we when referring to the household? When the only possible we would be the two of them? That was very meaningfully romantic. She finally realized what else he had said.

"I thought you knew where I was since you sent in a supper tray."

He sat in the chair opposite from her. "Indeed I did not. The staff informed me that you were taking a tray and I assumed you had requested it." He tilted his head as he considered her. "I couldn't ascertain why you would want to avoid dining together."

Sabre busied herself with cleaning the quill before setting it aside. "I didn't mean to, I just got caught up in reviewing the papers here and then wanted to update this journal. It's about the gardens at Belle Fleur."

"Yes, I know what that journal is about."

She glanced up at him through her lashes. He wasn't precisely angry, but whatever he was feeling was in the neighborhood of it. A blackmailer was threatening his family and he chose to be testy about whether or not she came to the dining room?

"My apologies that I lost track of time, your grace."

He sighed and looked off to the windows where the pink streaks of the sunset glimmered against the darkening sky. "I wasn't looking for an apology, Sabrina."

She felt his emotional withdrawal as an almost physical pain. Not naturally being a creature of emotion she hadn't noticed the attachment growing between them. Hadn't noticed how she immediately turned her attention to him when he entered the room. Hadn't noticed that she hung on the slightest sign of attention and affection from him. He had arrived irritated but curious. Now his tone and posture communicated that he had shut her out. Sabre felt a completely unexpected surge of panic. But fear always had the peculiar effect of stiffening her spine.

"I find that I'm looking for one, your grace," she said in a prim voice.

That bold statement proved sufficient to return his regard to her. "Beg pardon?"

"That hardly sounds like a sincere apology," she admonished.

The irritation had returned. "What am I apologizing for, exactly?"

She gave him her most grave and imperious stare. "If I have to explain it to you that somewhat reduces the effect of the apology, doesn't it?"

His features settled into a neutral, haughty expression. Raised to be a duke, he would be her match at this game. "Then you shall have to suffer through a reduced apology. Explain."

Although she tried to keep her face impassive she felt her lips quirk at the corners. It wasn't her fault that the man was so damned adorable. Especially when he was being The Duke. Now it was Sabre's turn to tilt her head with some curiosity. He did treat his title more as a role to be played than an essential part of who he was.

He raised a brow. "As enchanting as your Mona Lisa expression is, I am waiting to be educated on what you think it is I need to apologize for."

"You have left me on my own for hours without so much as a kiss."

Now his brows both flew up. "Would you rather have an apology or a remedy?"

She smiled and pretended to consider his question, staring at the ceiling. "Perhaps the latter."

He stood and leaned over the desk to cup the back of her head, lowering his lips to hers. The kiss was sweet, surprisingly sweet after such cross words. She sighed and leaned into him, grasping the lapels of his jacket. He took hold of her arms and hauled her onto the desk.

"Quincy! The ink!"

He pushed it aside and set to kissing her again. Her lips, her throat, nibbling on her earlobe. His hand caressed up and down her ribcage, brushing the side of her breast. She wanted desperately for him to cup his hand over her breast. Or better yet, for him to kiss her there.

"Quince," she panted, "please touch me."

Finally his hand was fully on her breast, stroking her nipple. She felt her body catch fire. Surely if they joined it would be better this time? It had to be better. Her body insisted that it would not only be better, it would be glorious.

"Take me to bed?"

He cupped her face in his hands and pulled back to look at her. His eyes were shadowed with worry. "It's not just about that. You know this, yes?”

"It's not about that all the time, but right now..."

He laughed and kissed her forehead, then drew her into a hug. She nestled into his shoulder. It should probably worry her, she thought, that his touch could rule her emotions so easily. That he could make her want, could soothe her. She gave a sigh of contentment. His arms were strong and warm around her. His scent of lemongrass and male were like a tonic that made her forget her worries. She wanted all the rest of it to be over. For there to be just this, just him.

“Are you ready for bed?” His voice was a soft rumble.

“Yes.”

TWENTY-THREE

Quince watched Sabre in the pale lamplight and thought that perhaps it was fear of loss that made everything more poignant, more perfect. Even though his soul told him that there would be many more nights like this in their bedroom, nights to touch and love her, logic dictated that it couldn't be true. Usually he trusted his instincts but he found that any possibility of losing Sabre seemed like too much of a risk. The fear preyed upon his mind. But it also made every moment that much more precious.

He met her in the middle of the room. She looked up at him, confused and curious, but didn't speak. He untied the sash of her white silk robe and pushed it off her shoulders to pool on the floor. That earned him one of her smiles. He ran a finger over her cheek, along her jaw. His fairy queen. His beautiful, beautiful fairy queen.

Untying the ribbons on her lace nightgown, he sent that to the floor as well. She stood before him nude and lovely in the candlelight. Her nipples had hardened, begging to be suckled. In that moment he thought he finally understood all the poets. She was everything. The only thing greater than his want of her was his love. She could have him on his knees. She could make him beg. He would do anything to protect her. To please her. Rather than frighten him, these thoughts, these feelings, only made him feel stronger. Made him more certain. He had spent his life searching for meaning and somehow, unexpectedly, he had found it in her.

She lost patience and reached out to untie the sash to his robe. He wore nothing beneath and she stepped closer to wrap her hand around him. Her small, warm hand stroking him felt like heaven. She moved closer still to kiss his chest, his throat. He tilted her face back and kissed her with all of his passion, all of his love. She returned the kiss eagerly. He backed toward the bed and she followed, bumping into him in their haste.

By the time they fell onto the mattress they were both laughing from the awkwardness. Their laughter slowed as they stared at one another. Stretched out next to her he ran his hand over her side and down her hip. As he caressed the top of her thigh she raised her leg to hook over his. They began kissing again. Slowly. Leisurely. He pulled her closer, his hand curving over her bottom and squeezing. It was tempting to believe that they would have forever, that nights like this would stretch out in their future endlessly. But that wasn't possible. For all he knew they might only have tonight. And if it were only tonight then he would do his best to please her.

He kissed his way down her throat, cherishing every mewl and shiver he wrought from her. As his kisses descended to her breast she rolled onto her back, arching toward him. She clutched at his hair as his suckled first one turgid tip and then the other. He wished that joining gave her the same impossible pleasure that it gave him, but as it didn't he would concentrate on what did give her pleasure, and his suckling and nibbling on her breasts made her moan breathlessly. Certainly that was a good sign. Her hand moved to clasp at his waist, pulling on him.

"Quince, please."

"Please what?"

"Make love to me."

"I am making love to you."

She huffed in frustration. "You know what I mean."

He raised his head to look at her. "Not tonight. I don't want to hurt you."

"I know it could hurt, but I want to."

He shook his head. "No, my love."

"I don't like that word."

"Which one?"

"No. It's a beastly word. It only means someone is going to try to stop me from doing something I want to do." The testiness of her words was undermined by the delighted gasp she gave at the end when he brushed his palm over her nipple.

"I would stop anyone from hurting you, Sabrina. Even you. And especially me."

"I thought you believed in a woman's right to make her own choices."

He chuckled. "You're in my bed, aren't you? Right where you chose to be."

"Almost," she whispered. "Almost right where I choose to be." She wrapped her fist around his cock again. He was so hard and ready that his hips instinctively rocked against her touch. She slid her hand up and down in a gentle rhythm that made his whole body tighten with need. She was such an amazing blend of innocent and knowledgeable.

He pressed his cheek into her shoulder. "Sabre, please stop."

"Wouldn't you rather be inside me?" she whispered.

God's teeth, yes! But he wouldn't hurt her again. Instead he focused on the intense pleasure of her hand caressing him and spilled his seed onto her thigh while grunting her name. When he raised his head to look at her she gave him a wry smile and pulled him down for another kiss. He sank into the delight of her lips. She was all he wanted. All he would ever want.

Still intent on giving her at least a portion of the pleasure she gave him so effortlessly, he trailed kisses down her neck again on his way to her lush bosom. It was certainly no sacrifice bringing her pleasure by suckling on those beautiful breasts. He could feel his cock already twitching to life just thinking about getting his mouth on her nipple again.

"Quince?"

"Yes, love?" This time, instead of going directly to the nipple, he kissed around the side and underneath. She shivered and dug her nails into his shoulders.

"Shouldn't we talk about what we're going to do about the blackmailer?"

He stopped kissing her and drew back to rest on his elbow, looking down on her. "Beg pardon?"

"We haven't discussed it all day. At lunch you were silly and tonight you've been thoroughly distracting."

He considered distracting her further. Squeezing and kissing her breasts until she writhed in pleasure. Finally sliding into her as she had already begged him to do this evening. He didn't want to talk about the blackmailer, think about the blackmailer. He wanted to be submerged in the pleasure of his... whatever she was. Mistress wasn't a fine enough word for her. Consort? The word wife crossed his mind. He looked down to see her brow furrowed while awaiting his answer, her skin flushed and rosy from their bed sport. He felt himself frowning.

Most likely frustrated by his silence, she said, "I've been thinking about it all day and we don't have enough information to plan an effective strategy."

"I agree. That's why I've decided to send a letter to your father."

"What? Why?" She sounded alarmed.

"He's the only one I know who is in The Four. Receiving something directly from me will make him contact the others. It will cause some sort of movement outside the original plan."

"No," she said, shaking her head. "That is too dangerous."

"How is it more dangerous than what we're already facing?"

"This could be suicide. I forbid it."

"I'm sorry, did you say that you forbid it?"

She pulled the sheets over to cover herself. "Yes, I forbid it." Her skin had paled and her eyes looked huge and dark in her face. She looked far too upset for him to argue with her, even if her choice of words had left him irritated.

"Don't worry so much, love," he said.

Sabre moved from worry to outright panic with Quince's announcement that he was going to contact her father. She understood the strategic possibilities. It could flush out The Four. She could ask her most trusted friends among the servants to tell her who her father spoke to after such a threat, what was said. But no. All day she had been trying to figure out how to get him out of the figurative valley he was in. Now, instead of retreating, he wanted to charge over the hill toward the enemy. Her entire body felt chilled. Her heart felt brittle in her chest. All she wanted to do was wrap herself around him and beg him to never, ever let himself get hurt. The realization was humbling. Frightening.

When playing War while growing up, Jacqueline had always been frustrated that Sabre won all the wars. Sometimes it would seem that Jack was winning all the key battles, but inevitably the tide would turn and Sabre would win. Although they would discuss strategy at length, Sabre had never told her friend why she was really winning. It had to do with Jack's heart. Jack would always form an attachment to some of the "characters" in the war. It might be a historical general she particularly admired, or a soldier that had survived long odds in the present game. But Jack formed an emotional bond and would alter her play to protect the figures she had become attached to. It made her predictable. It made her weak. It made her easy to defeat.

Now Sabre had an attachment. But this was no game. If she thought Quince would listen to her counsel she wouldn't feel quite so helpless, but she could tell by the look in his eye, the tone of his voice, he had made up his mind and wouldn't be dissuaded. If he had only confided in her while he had been thinking of this plan then she might have convinced him otherwise. But now he was committed and she was sure that it was the most dangerous thing he could choose to do. If it were just a game she might consider it. At times risky decision paid off. But this wasn’t a game, this was Quince. The man she loved. The man she couldn’t live without.

She couldn't let him continue without at least trying to help. "Certainly..." Her voice sounded dry and raspy. She swallowed and tried again. "Certainly there are some other alternatives. We should discuss them before you commit to this course."

He curled his arm over her waist and settled against her side. As though this were just a friendly conversation. As though he weren't trying to break her heart. "I've thought about it quite a bit. Almost exclusively since I received the first note. With some," he smiled at her, "notable distraction."

"I believe it unwise to contact my father."

He narrowed his eyes at her, drawing back from the cozy posture. "So you've said already. Is there some reason you don't want me contacting him? Are you and Robert planning something? Would contacting the viscount give me information you don't want me to have?"

Sabre's lips felt stiff and cold but she forced them to continue speaking. "No. If Robert is planning anything I'm not privy to it. As for my father," she paused and sighed. "There are stories. People who have disappeared. People who inconvenienced him."

"It's hard to make a duke disappear, love."

She wanted to throttle him. He seemed to have no regard for the danger the situation presented. She scooted away from him and stumbled out of the bed. Searching the floor she found her nightgown and robe. He stayed on the bed watching her. Ever patient. Ever willing to let her do as she liked. She almost sobbed as she pulled the nightgown over her head. She tied the sash with a double knot.

Looking at him one last time she raised her chin and said, "You're making a terrible mistake." With that she left the room. If he wanted to kill himself she didn’t think she had the heart to watch.

Quince watched her go, fighting every impulse to follow her, argue with her, make love to her, kiss and tease her until she admitted her feelings for him. He fisted his hand in the bedclothes, frustrated with how the evening had ended. But she had been upset with his plan to contact her father, much more so than he would have predicted. It was best to let her go back to the Rose Room and cool down. He would see how she fared at breakfast.

TWENTY-FOUR

Even though he hadn't slept well, Quince awoke earlier than usual. Something was wrong. There was a terrible silence again. He checked the pillow beside him to make sure he wasn't imagining it. He was alone in bed. Rising from the sheets, he stood in the middle of the room and warred with himself. Should he ring his valet and prepare for the day? That would be the logical course, as surely he was only imagining that Sabre was gone. He was only upset that she hadn't been there, at arm's reach, upon awakening.

Or should he follow his instincts and search for her now? After another moment of indecision he found himself once again putting on the simplest of clothing to go searching for his love. At this rate he thought he would soon earn a reputation as the mad, barefoot duke. He didn't find her anywhere upstairs. Jogging down the steps he found Havers to greet him at the bottom. The butler seemed anxious.

"Where is she?" Quince asked without preamble.

"The Miss left this morning. In the wee hours." Havers was literally wringing his hands. "We didn't know if we should wake you."

Quince felt himself go cold. "If it has to do with Miss Bittlesworth you should always wake me."

The butler nodded, looking close to tears. "She went to the barn and had a horse saddled. She didn't want anyone to go with her but Bill, the groomsman, followed her to make sure she was safe-"

"And?" Quince prompted, impatient to hear the conclusion of the story.

"He returned not thirty minutes ago, your grace. She's... she's gone to London."

Quince nodded and looked down at the floor, hands clenched. He understood now how dangerous a job it was to be a messenger. He wanted to rage. He wanted to hurt someone, anyone who stood in his way. He wanted to curl into a ball on the floor and weep. She had left. She had left him. Was she so frightened about him writing to her father? Was it something else? How had he misread her so completely that he hadn’t expected her to leave? He realized he was still staring blankly at the floor and lifted his chin.

"Have my horse saddled."

"Yes, your grace. Do you want any outriders?"

Quince had already turned to take the stairs two at a time. "I don't bloody care!”

In short order he was dressed, mounted, and on his way to London with four riders trailing him. Bill the groomsman had received the shock of his life when the duke asked for him, then gave him a hug in thanks for ensuring Miss Bittlesworth's safe arrival at her destination. Bill's description of the house meant she had headed directly where he thought she would.

It had been near dawn when Sabre arrived at Robert's townhouse. She had felt slightly guilty rousing his groomsmen to take her horse. She made sure to tell them it was the property of the Duke of Beloin and that she would eversomuch appreciate it if someone could take it to the duke's London stable soon. Sneaking into the house, she made her way quietly up to her room.

This was one of the times when she particularly appreciated her brother. Shortly after he had purchased the townhome one of the first things he had done was bring her and Charlie here to show them where their rooms were. To tell them that they would never, ever be guests. They were family and would always have a place with him. Only being fourteen at the time she had, of course, asked where Justin's room was. Robert had explained that however much he cared about their half-brother, it wouldn't be appropriate for him to have such an open door policy with a bastard brother, especially as their father had not made provisions for him to be acknowledged in Society. When she had fussed and stomped her foot Robert had promised that Justin could always come to him for anything he needed. Although Charlie had maintained his bachelor's quarters and hadn't, to her knowledge, made much use of his room here, she, on the other hand, had come to see the room as a sanctuary, her personal haven over the past year.

Quietly opening the door and slipping inside, she smelled the lingering scent of her perfume. It reminded her of innocence, youth, and her own strong-willed nature. But it didn't smell like lemongrass and the duke. For a frantic moment she wished she had taken his shirt or cravat. But wouldn't that make it worse? It felt like there was a band tightening around her chest and her throat was choked with unshed tears. She didn't take off so much as the jacket of her riding habit, just walked straight to the bed and burrowed face down in the pillows. Pillows that didn't smell like Quincy. She finally shed the bitter tears she had been holding back. How had she fallen in love with a man who had no sense? A man who would most likely be dead before the month was out.

Within an hour Sabre heard a knock on her door. "Go away!" she protested.

The door opened and she knew it must be Robert. It sounded as though he lingered in the doorway.

"The staff said you had arrived." His voice was soft. Perhaps out of deference to the early hour, perhaps because he sensed from her posture that something was amiss. When she didn't respond he prompted her. "Sabre?"

"I heard you," she said, her voice still thick from her crying jag. "I have arrived."

She heard his footsteps come closer, then felt the bed tilt slightly as he sat on the edge. He placed his hand on her back. "Sabre, what is wrong?"

His voice was clear, calm. Kindly, even. She recognized it as his first stage of extracting the information he wanted. "Nothing is wrong, Robert."

That received a wry laugh. "We both know that's not true. What did he do?"

"Nothing. And we both know that I have no patience for a person who won't do anything."

"So he didn't do... anything?"

Sabre knew what Robert was asking. And knew that she couldn't answer honestly. But thinking about what they had done only caused her a new batch of tears. She missed him already. They had been together only hours before but she missed him as though it had been days. Months. She wanted to answer her brother, but couldn't through her sobs.

"Sabre?" Robert moved to kneel beside the bed near where she had buried her face in her pillows. His voice had an edge of panic. "Sabre, please look at me."

She didn't want to, but knew that a contest of wills between them would quickly make an unpleasant situation worse. She wiped her eyes and nose on her sleeve and looked over to him in the pale light of the early morning. His expression of concern hardened into something more dangerous.

She grabbed his hand where it rested on the edge of the bed. "Please don't hurt him," she said. "Please? Swear to me."

He looked at her for a long, silent moment. She knew that tears continued to leak at the corners of her eyes. His hand was warm but tense in her own.

"Please, Robert. Don't hurt him. And if it must be said, don't have anyone else hurt him." She furrowed her brow and held back another sob. With a small voice she added. "If possible, don't let anyone hurt him at all."

He rose and tried to extract his hand from hers. "I'll let you rest."

"No!" she said, clinging to his hand tenaciously. She could hear hysteria in her own tone. "Promise!"

He sighed, using his free hand to smooth her hair. "I promise," he said softly.

"Don't let him be harmed," she insisted.

"I'll do my best," he agreed.

She finally let his hand go. He leaned down to kiss the top of her head. "Get some rest, Sabre."

She nodded and burrowed into the pillows again. Pillows she wished smelled of lemongrass.

Quince arrived at Robert Bittlesworth's townhouse shortly after dawn. While his men milled in the street he sprinted up the steps and pounded on the door. It was promptly opened by none other than Robert himself. The younger man did a credible job of looming in the doorway considering that they were of a size.

Quince tried to push through anyway. "Is she-"

"She won't see you. You aren't welcome here." Bittlesworth's stance was solid. His stare flat and implacable. The stare of a predator.

The duke blinked. "I don't understand."

"That's hardly my problem." Bittlesworth began to close the door.

"Wait, stop! What happened? I don't even know why she left!"

Robert planted a hand on the duke's chest and pushed him back. "That's hardly my problem," he said again, closing the door with a solid snap.

Quince pounded on the door for a good five minutes but there was no other response from the occupants. Backing up he stared at the second floor, wondering if any of the windows were to Sabre's room. Realizing he was being a good deal more foolish than he should be, especially for a public street, he rejoined his men to lead them to the ducal London home. His gaze stayed on the Bittlesworth townhouse until it was out of sight.

TWENTY-FIVE

After spending the morning pacing restlessly, Quince sat down to write a note to his friend Gideon Wolfe, Earl of Harrington. He knew he needed to calm his mind to ensure that what he wrote would make any sort of sense. Lord knew if he wrote anything while in an agitated state it would lead Giddy to descend upon him like a mother hen. He'd made that mistake when his father died and it had taken a fortnight before Giddy had left him alone. So now he cleared his thoughts and set to writing.

G,

Returned to London and fancy a drink. Will you be At Home this evening?

Q

Simple. Certainly nothing that would alarm the earl. Quince dispatched a footman with the note to track down Gideon, whether at Parliament or home, and return with a reply. Exhausted, he took to bed. And spent a long time staring at the empty pillow next to him.

Sabre had fallen into a half-sleep but roused when she heard footsteps in the hall. After a lifetime of hearing it, the knock at the door was familiar.

"Go away, Jack," she said waspishly. "I don't want to talk to you."

"Sabre, what happened?" her friend called through the door. At her silence Jack continued. "Robert called me over here because he's worried about you. Is it," her voice became hushed. "Is it Quince?"

Sabre pushed herself from the bed and stomped over to the door, flinging it open. "I don't want to talk to you because you didn't tell me it would be like this. All your talk of love. Love doesn't make you happy. It makes you weak. It makes you powerless."

Jack had drawn back with a hand over her mouth, eyes wide. Sabre slammed the door again. And locked it.

Jack stood in the hallway, shocked. She had never seen her friend in such a state. Hair falling from its pins, eyes red and swollen, clothing mussed. Sabre wasn't like that. Sabre was steady, determined. Remembering what she herself had gone through with Gideon, she wondered what on earth Quince could have done.

Quince wasn't like her husband. The duke was, well, mild-mannered. Clever. Perhaps he had rejected Sabre's suit. Her friend usually didn't allow anyone to thwart her plans. Then again, she had never tried to ensnare a duke before. Or fallen in love. Jack touched the door, wishing she knew what to do for her friend.

"She won't let you in?"

Jack's heart tripped to hear Robert's voice so close behind her when she hadn't heard him approach.

"Indeed not."

"I don't know what happened." He looked frustrated and Jack knew that he hoped she would be able to draw the story out of his sister.

Jack sighed. "Love."

Robert raised a brow at her. "What do you mean?"

"It does funny things."

He looked at the door again, still irritated. "Last week she said she wanted to marry him. She didn't say anything about falling in love with him."

"She told you? You approved?"

"I thought I did."

Sabre's voice came from the other side of the door. "Stop talking out there as though I can't hear you."

Robert tried the handle and found it locked. "Sabre, open this door."

"No!"

"Sabre, open this door before I open it for you."

Jack heard the soft click of the door unlocking again. The door remained closed and after a few moments Robert opened it. They found Sabre looking out her window over the back garden. She had taken some time to smooth her hair and skirt, and had removed the jacket of her riding habit to lay it on the bed.

"Sabre," Robert said. "We don't know what to do for you unless you talk to us."

"There's nothing you can do," she answered, her voice sounding hollow.

He stepped toward her. "Sabre, you don't know-"

She spun to look at him, hand clasped into fists at her sides, eyes dark with anger. "You needn't tell me what I don't know! I don't even know if you're part of why he's in danger. Why would I tell you anything?"

"Quince is in danger?" Jack had asked the question without thinking and now had both Bittlesworth siblings staring at her coldly. She heard boots in the hallway and turned to look over her shoulder. She didn't think she had ever been happier to see Charlie Bittlesworth in her life. She hadn't seen him in at least a year, but he was still as lanky as she remembered. He'd let his blonde hair grow a bit longer and it fell into his eyes like it had when he was a child. And as she caught his eye he smiled at her. Thank God for Charlie. The only sweet-natured Bittlesworth in the lot.

He paused in the doorway to take in the tableau. His two dark haired siblings looked ready to fight one another. Jack appeared, she knew, somewhat lost and out of place.

"Hullo, Jack," he said. "Robert."

The two brothers nodded to one another.

Stepping into the room he said more softly, "Hullo, little bird."

The fight seemed to drain out of Sabre. She sobbed and dashed across the room into his embrace.

Jack linked her arm in Robert's and pulled him from the room. When they descended the steps she realized it now felt rather odd to walk again with someone closer to her own height. If he was taller it was only by the merest inch or two. She looked over at him and he seemed deep in thought.

"How is Quince in trouble?"

Her question pulled him from his rumination. "I'm sure that's something the duke would prefer I didn't tell you."

"What makes you think that?"

"Because otherwise you would already know."

"Does Giddy know?"

He shrugged.

"Robert, you're not being very helpful."

He gave her a frosty smile.

She told him sternly, "Well, I shall have to tell Gideon about this, so don't be surprised if he comes here demanding answers."

"He can do as he wishes."

Jack scowled. Robert was being vague and willful. "Why does Sabre believe you could be involved in Quince's troubles?"

He leaned closer, his lips almost to her ear and she felt his warm breath as he whispered. "Because she is very, very smart." At that he drew away from her. "I have work. I'm sure you know how to let yourself out."

Jack shuddered. She had grown up with Robert. Idolized him. Adored him. He had been her first crush. But just now she realized that perhaps she didn't know him at all. She let herself out of the townhouse and fled for home.

TWENTY-SIX

"What are you doing abed at two in the afternoon?" The earl sounded testy. Well, Quince thought, the note hadn't been as casual as he'd thought, then. Somehow he needed to severely curb the number of people who felt comfortable storming his room while he was trying to rest.

"It seemed wise as I didn't sleep last night and had an engagement scheduled with the Earl of Harrington this evening."

Gideon loomed over the bed and frowned. "You look like death. Are you ill?"

The duke sat up and scrubbed his face with his hands. "Get out of my room, Gideon. Wait in the parlor. Or in the kitchen for all I care. I can't stand your hovering when I'm not yet awake."

The earl looked displeased but nodded. "Downstairs, then. I'll be in the study."

Quince sighed as his friend left the room. He might yet regret seeking Gideon's counsel, but what else was he to do? Sabre had deserted him. He didn't trust Robert. His own household staff was suspect after the way the notes had been delivered.

Once downstairs he did, indeed, find Gideon in his study poring over his journals. Perhaps the earl and Sabre would enjoy a party wherein they did nothing but read from the ducal accounts. Just the thought of trying to do that gave him a headache. The earl's eyes tracked him as he crossed the room to flop down in one of the side chairs along the wall.

"You don't look like yourself," Gideon said.

"Oh really? Then who, pray tell, do I look like?"

"A scoundrel who has stolen the duke's cast off clothes. Even your hair is disorderly."

Quince ran his hand through the mop. "I thought you knew that artfully mussed hair was all the rage."

"Yes, and usually you are a model of the fashion. But right now you just look untidy."

The duke scowled and steepled his hands across his abdomen while he slouched in the chair. "Egads," he said drily. "We all know that the worst sin is to be untidy."

Gideon came around the desk and sat in the chair opposite. "All right, out with it."

Quince sat forward, elbows on knees. "You're going to wish you had waited until a more reasonable hour for drinking."

Gideon gave the duke an appraising look, then crossed his legs and settled in to wait for the story.

Quince rubbed his face again and looked at the desk, the carpet. Most anywhere but at Gideon. "I have things to tell you and some of them have been a long time in the telling." As the earl remained quiet, Quince continued. "The most pressing concern is fairly recent."

There was a long pause as Quince forced himself to look at his friend. Gideon's expression was still impassive. Patient.

"I'm being blackmailed."

"By whom?"

"I'm not sure."

"When did this start?"

"Almost three weeks ago."

"What steps have you taken?"

"I asked Robert for his help."

Quince saw a muscle in Gideon's jaw flex but all he said was, "That seems wise."

"Actually I'm not sure it was. I've begun to suspect that he's somehow involved."

Now Gideon leaned forward. "I know that you don't like Robert, but-"

"It's not about that, believe me. And I don't dislike him precisely. In fact," now he smiled down at his clasped hands, "I'm under the impression that he has a far greater dislike for me than I ever entertained for him."

"What makes you say that?"

"Among other things, the nickname. Although I presume you know it."

"If Robert has a nickname for you, I'm not aware of it."

"Interesting. He called me Gideon's Angel. He seemed quite offended by all the times I dragged you out of the gutter. I think he stopped just short of calling me a fishwife."

Gideon snorted. "It's nothing that Robert or Charlie wouldn't have done for each other if they hadn't both been face down in that same gutter together. But Robert aside, you still haven't told me what the nature of this blackmail is."

"There's something else I have to tell you first."

"Something worse than blackmail and having the Hero of the Home Office irritated with you?"

"You recall, of course, that I hadn't been aware that my mother was still alive until after my father's death?"

"Yes," Gideon chuckled. "She detested me, if I'm not mistaken."

"She doesn't care for overbearing men, and after my father I can't entirely blame her. When he realized how headstrong she was he banished her to a townhouse in Bath and forbade her to have any contact with me. He would still visit her from time to time, though. Hoping that along with his heir, he could have a spare."

"It's good to know that your father was as charming in his personal life as he was on the floor of the Parliament."

"She managed to conceal three children from him. She was afraid he would take them all away as he had me."

Gideon sat up, alert. "Wait, you have siblings? How long have you known?"

"Two years. It took awhile for her to even confide in me."

Gideon strode to the side table and poured drinks. Handing one to Quince he said, "So I suppose the correct term is congratulations? It isn't often that one finds an entire family."

"Thank you. It has been interesting, to say the least."

Gideon resumed his seat. "Although I knew we had our differences I will admit to being surprised you haven't told me about them before this."

"Don't take it too hard, Gideon. There were a lot of things I needed to work out for myself." He saw the muscle tense in Gideon's jaw again, but the earl didn't say anything so Quince continued. "Then I quietly set about ensuring that my brother, Jeremy, is in line for the succession. As my father hadn't been aware of him, it posed something of a legal challenge but I think it's resolved now."

Gideon squinted, thinking. "And that means your cousin Lionel is no longer a marquess. Is he aware of that?"

"Not yet. But soon." Quince turned the glass in his hands as he saw Gideon start drinking from his own. "And that is part of why I'm coming to you now. What I'm involved in could be dangerous. If anything should happen to me I would look to you to ensure that Jeremy is granted his title. That he has someone who can help him in taking on his new duties."

"Why do you think this is dangerous?"

"We'll get to that momentarily. Do I have your pledge to look after Jeremy?"

"Of course. You needn't even ask."

"That is a weight from my mind."

"How old is he?"

"Sixteen."

Gideon considered it. "Is he more like you at sixteen or me at sixteen?"

Quince laughed. "Somewhere between, I think." He watched Gideon mull the implications of that statement.

The earl finally said, "I still should hope he wouldn't have to ascend at such a young age."

"Nor would I, particularly."

"And why are we concerned that he might need to?"

"The blackmailer is unknown to me but the only person that I'm fairly sure is involved to some degree is Viscount Bittlesworth. I plan to bait the bear in his den to see if I can gain more information."

Gideon frowned. "Blaise Bittlesworth?"

"Indeed."

"He is... unsavory, to say the least. But tell me more about this blackmailer."

Quince recited the text of the notes, including how they were delivered. Upon recitation of the third one Gideon rose from his chair.

"Dammit man, how can you be here if your sister is being threatened?"

"I thought being near me, or even mother, wouldn't be the safest place for her. As such, I'm having her sent to the safest place I can think of."

"Where would that be?"

Quince sipped his wine and grinned. "Your house, of course. Although she will be delivered to your wife, with instructions from Miss Bittlesworth. As I wasn't sure we would have this conversation in advance of her arrival we thought it best it be between the two of them."

Gideon had begun to pace but stopped to stare at the duke. "You were going to tell my wife about your sister before you told me?"

"Not really. There was no indication of the relationship. Simply one Haberdasher asking another to look after a young girl."

"And how, exactly, did Miss Bittlesworth get involved in this affair?"

"By inserting herself. She has been at Belle Fleur for almost a fortnight."

Gideon's frown became fiercer. "You've had the girl at your estate? Was she chaperoned?"

"No. Although apparently Robert knew where she was."

Gideon poured himself more brandy. "Then I suppose more congratulations are in order."

"I'm not going to marry her."

"The hell you aren't."

"I'd rather hang than see Blaise Bittlesworth have the satisfaction of his daughter becoming a duchess."

"You should have thought of that before you let her reside at your estate!"

"I love Sabrina, and I will do right by her as far as I am able. But it won't include a title."

"What do you mean you love her? You barely even know her."

"Really? How long did you know your wife before you fell in love with her?"

Gideon resumed his seat and looked at the ceiling, calculating. "Well..." he said. "It seemed like a long time."

Quince smirked into his wine. "I'm sure it did."

"It took more than a fortnight."

"No surprise. You never were the sharpest knife in the drawer."

"And it certainly didn't happen before we had achieved a certain level of intimacy." Gideon was silent for a long moment as Quince took another sip of wine. The earl narrowed his eyes. "If you've touched that girl I'll drag you into the church myself."

"Sabrina was most persuasive on the subject of intimacy."

"You're marrying her. This isn't negotiable."

"As much as you like to act like my older brother you, in fact, are not. I'll do as I please in this matter."

Gideon sat forward. "Quince, the blackmailers are the least of your concern. When Robert figures out what you've done, what you're doing, Jeremy will ascend in short order. Unless you marry the girl."

"I saw Robert this morning and I believe he knows. Yet here I sit, still among the living."

"The man trains spies and assassins. You're most likely one convenient accident from death."

Quince felt a chill and instinctively knew Gideon had the right of it. "Surely not."

The earl sat back again. "An accident would be the only way to rid oneself of an intractable duke. Meanwhile, I'm sure he'll see Miss Bittlesworth married off to whoever will have her."

"She wouldn't stand for it."

"She won't have a choice."

"You speak as thought Robert is head of the family."

"In many ways he is. His father is a selfish, arrogant snake and rarely pays attention to the true work of running a household."

Quince grimaced and took a sip of his wine. Snakes were similar to dragons in many ways. "I'm not sure she would have me at this point, in any case."

"Why do you think that?"

"She left. Last night. Thus why she's presently at Robert's."

"What did you do?"

Quince sighed. "Told her I planned to write to her father about the blackmail. Although at this point I think it would be better to visit him. And thank you for the vote of confidence, old boy, assuming that I had done something."

"That will be my first piece of marriage advice to you. Always assume you've done something, even if you think you haven't."

"Yes, I can see why you're inclined for me to marry. You want someone to commiserate with."

"Don't get me wrong, marriage also has much to recommend it."

"Such as?"

Gideon gave him a wolfish grin. "I told you, I don't want you thinking of my wife that way."

Quince snorted.

"But there are other things, too." Gideon stared down into his glass. "Everything I see, I ask myself 'Would Jack like that?' Or if I hear a bit of news I wonder what she will think of it. And there is a... peace of mind that comes from knowing she's there."

Quince nodded. "Then perhaps you understand how I feel about Sabre leaving last night."

Gideon looked at him keenly for a moment. "What are you doing here rather than knocking Robert's door down to get her back?"

"I wanted to this morning. But as I've thought about it, much as I'm sending Jessica to you for safekeeping, I should let Sabre stay with Robert. I would not want her put in harm's way if there is any danger."

Gideon smiled ruefully. "If she's anything like Jack, it's danger that will bring her running." He paused, considering. "If she loves you. She does love you?"

Quince shrugged. "She hasn't said so. It's possible that she loves the title. I was very clear there was no money to speak of."

"We're working on that."

"But the duchy will never, in my lifetime, have the funds one would expect of it."

"Especially as Robert will have you killed before the week is out."

Quince laughed, raising his glass. "Especially because of that."

"I'm not entirely joking."

Quince took a hard swallow of the wine. "Yes, I know."

TWENTY-SEVEN

Sabre was back to staring moodily out the window of her bedroom. It had taken to raining this afternoon, which suited her mood perfectly. She had cried all over Charlie but refused to talk. Safe, familiar Charlie. As usual he had cuts and bruises from the rough work he did in the stables and entertained her with stories of this year's batch of colts and fillies. Rather than press her for what made her sad, he contented himself with making her smile and laugh. Thank God for Charlie.

Later she had heard Robert downstairs grilling her poor middle brother about what he had learned. To Charlie's credit, she heard him defend her right to puzzle through her own feelings. Which left her considering that, for the most part, she had lived a life relatively free of strong feelings. She had thought she had feelings before, but now she recognized that they were really ideas and principles. She had never before made a decision based purely on emotion. Knowing the duke could get hurt had terrified her. Knowing that she was powerless to change his course from what she saw as disastrous had made her feel weak. And that he could die? She knew it could destroy her. She truly was angry at Jack for not telling her that love could wound so deeply.

On his second glass of wine Quince decided he had imbibed enough to broach one last item with his friend. "Gideon, I would like for your advice on something else."

The earl grunted. "If it is whether or not to redo this room, then I wholeheartedly support it."

Quince looked around at the antiquated gilt-covered chairs. "It is bloody awful. But as I don't spend much time in here it isn't high on my list of priorities."

"Then perhaps you won't notice if I replace everything wholesale."

"Perhaps not."

"If you don't want my advice on decorating then what, pray tell, is there beyond what we have already been discussing?"

Quince poured a third glass and thought that he may have started the conversation too soon. "Something you are very qualified to advise on and hopefully something I will live long enough to use."

"I already manage your money, we rarely agree on politics, and that only leaves one thing." At Quince's uncomfortable silence Gideon said. "No. Certainly you don't mean that."

"You'll have to admit you've made rather a study of, you know," Quince waved his hand, " how to please a woman."

"We're practically the same age, you could have been doing the same studying. Will this be like school all over again with me doing all your readings?"

Quince laughed. "As long as you don't take the test."

"We've been to the same whorehouses. Did they teach you nothing?"

Quince looked up sheepishly. "About that."

Gideon leaned forward. "What do you mean 'about that'?"

"It has never been my interest to be with a woman who has lain with many men."

"What did you do? Play whist?"

That forced a small smile that Quince covered with a swallow of wine. "At times. I'm sure they thought that I had... other interests."

"You didn't sleep with any of them?"

Quince gave an involuntary shudder. "No."

"You propositioned Miss Bittlesworth when you thought she was Robert's mistress. Why would you do that if... Why would you do that?"

"Curious, isn't it? I surprised even myself that day. As is typical, my soul knew things that my mind had not yet comprehended."

Gideon sat back with a frustrated look and downed the brandy in his glass. "You don't even like to talk about sex. You say it disturbs your digestion."

"As we're drinking our luncheon I'm sure I'll be fine. If it makes you feel any better, imagine I'm Charlie."

Gideon snorted. "Charlie would have the good sense to visit the whores and find out for himself."

Quince smiled down into his empty glass, not quite sure when he'd drunk it. "Very well. Don't worry about it."

But Gideon was intrigued now. "How many women have you slept with, then? Have you been preying on the virgins of the ton and I've somehow missed it?"

"Sabrina Bittlesworth is the only woman I've ever been intimate with."

Gideon stared at him. After a long moment of silence the earl rose to fetch the brandy bottle and brought it back to his chair. He refilled his glass a generous amount and downed more than half of it in one go. "All right, then. What do you want to know?"

"She experienced a great deal of pain the first time, which I'm given to understand is common?"

"It can be, although there are ways to reduce the pain."

"I wish I had known them. There was a good deal of blood."

"Ah. There may not have been much you could have done then."

"That, at least, is reassuring in a way." Quince thought for a moment. "Although could the position have caused greater pain?"

"I'm baffled to consider what position two virgins could start with that might do so."

"Standing up, with her back to the wall."

Gideon's eyebrows rose. "I'm impressed."

Quince chuckled. "It was her idea. She said 'don't worry, I know what to do.' I didn't have the heart to tell her that I was glad one of us did."

"Are you sure she was a virgin? The blood could have been her menses."

"There was resistance. I definitely felt something break or tear."

Gideon nodded. "All right, then. Jack didn't bleed as much but I have no other experience with virgins. Women are different in other ways, so it would make sense they are different in this."

"The second time she still had pain. She was sweet about it, but I could tell I had hurt her. Is that normal?"

Gideon sighed. "Again, I have limited experience with virgins. How much time had passed?"

"Two days."

"As she bled more than Jack it would make sense that she had more of a wound and would need longer to heal."

"How long did you wait with Jack?"

Gideon smiled at the memory. "I had planned to wait two days. I think she only waited about two minutes."

Quince chuckled. "What interesting women we find ourselves in company with."

"Indeed." Gideon poured more brandy into his glass. "Were those all your questions?"

"No."

Gideon waited a moment, then prompted. "And?"

"I want to be able to please her, and I think I do somewhat, but,” Quince trailed off, unsure how to continue.

"What have you done that seemed to please her?"

Quince could feel himself blushing. Better to finish this now than have to start the conversation again some day. "She enjoys kissing very much. And she enjoys when I kiss or fondle her bosom."

"And have you kissed her below?"

"You mean on her...? Ah, no."

"It's rare for a woman not to enjoy that. Although it is an acquired taste, I will grant you. Bring marmalade to bed if you need to."

"I suppose it would only be fair."

"She...? Bloody hell, how did she know how to do that?"

"She claims you can learn all manner of things from the servant girls."

Gideon shook his head. "I suppose that's true. Especially at her father's house."

That thought sobered him significantly. "I can't marry her, Giddy. I can't be that man's son-in-law."

"You have to, Quince." After a few moments of moody silence between them Gideon said, "All right, pay attention. It may take me the rest of this bottle of brandy, but I'm going to tell you everything I know about pleasing a woman. And, God willing, I won't remember this come morning. Should I become senseless, promise me you will deliver me unto my wife before she becomes frantic as to my whereabouts."

"Why would she do that? Sabre said you're hardly ever home."

Gideon looked offended. "I dine and sleep with my wife every night. We ride together almost every morning. Although in her condition I hope to curtail that soon. The only time I am not at home is if we have a social engagement together."

"You never go to White's anymore?"

"If there is a conversation I need to have for Parliament I will go there between supper and bed, but I don't stay out carousing."

Quince looked at the brandy bottle that Gideon had been steadily consuming. "I suddenly feel like a horrible influence."

"Come to think of it, the last time I drank better than a half bottle of brandy it was your doing. Perhaps a fallen angel, then."

"Before your wedding? If I hadn't been there you would have had a full bottle."

Gideon thought for a moment. "That's probably true."

"I suppose the hangover wasn't helpful for your wedding night."

The earl smirked. "Not only did I not anticipate my vows, something which probably shocks you to no end, I also did not enforce my conjugal rights that night. It was near a fortnight after the wedding before we became intimate."

"You're right, I am shocked." Quince grinned. "And it makes me think you're not as skilled at seduction as I had thought."

"See here, man, I will not be so insulted. As I said, listen closely and I will illuminate you."

"I'm hearing nothing yet."

"The first thing is to know what she likes. What she wants."

Quince poured some more wine for himself. "Yes, you're being so helpful."

Gideon raised a brow but continued, slouching down more comfortably in his seat with the brandy bottle propped on one knee and his glass on the other. "Your first encounter tells me she's adventurous. The type who would probably enjoy a change in location. In a field on a summer day, some closeted room at a ball. And her personality tells me that she might enjoy dominance games."

"Beg pardon?"

"Oh, you know, hold her down. Tie her up."

Quince shuddered. "No, I don't believe I'll be doing that."

"You didn't ask me advice on how to seduce you, now did you? But let her tie you up, then. See how she likes it."

The duke raised his own brow in return but didn't say anything, content to sip his wine and let Gideon continue.

"As you are a complete novice I will assume you need some instruction on a woman's body. You are already familiar with the appeal of lips and breasts. After all, who could miss them? But there are any number of places that both you and she may find erotic. The nape of the neck. The back of the knee. The important thing is to explore and see what she responds to. And know that it's not just where you touch her, but how you touch her. She may enjoy a feather light caress, or she may want a masterful grip. She might like both at different times or in different places."

"You approach women as you do billiards. All strategy and finesse."

Gideon looked contemplative. "Interesting analogy." He sipped his brandy. "Most likely accurate. At least until now."

"It's different now?"

"I lose my head with Jack. I don't focus on it as... as an event." He smiled a bit blearily, the brandy taking effect. "But I have a sufficient amount of practice that I can do that without losing sight of her satisfaction. I assume that you, my friend, do not have that luxury."

"How do you know when she's satisfied?"

"You know, I have a book to share with you, but you must promise to return it or Jack will be heartbroken."

"Of course."

"It usually takes longer for a woman to reach her peak, but when she does it is a beautiful sight to behold. Especially when it's the woman you love. God, I hope I don't remember this conversation in the morning."

Quince chuckled. "Have sympathy for me, then. It's in my best interest if I do."

"Tell me, how did you make it to this age without taking a woman to bed at least once?"

"That's a story for another time. I don't want to interrupt you now that it's getting interesting."

"What was I saying?"

"What a woman looks like when she reaches her peak."

Gideon smiled, his words beginning to slur lightly. "Oh, yes. Well. Different things bring them to completion and they express it differently. Some moan or scream. Others are quiet. Some scratch.” He frowned. “That can get bothersome at times. But the best part is when they look at you as though you've discovered something about their body that they never suspected."

"Bloody hell, you are full of yourself, aren't you? How does Jack stand you?"

"She likes me quite well, thank you."

"If you're just going to sit there looking self-satisfied then I'm taking you home."

"I thought you wanted the advantage of my gathered wisdom."

Rather than reply, Quince stood and put out a hand to haul the earl to his feet.

Gideon finished the brandy straight from the bottle before standing. "I may be sufficiently drunk enough now to tell you what I would do were I to find myself in your position."

After steadying Gideon on his feet Quince said, "Then I suggest you use small words. The larger ones seem something of a challenge." He set the empty brandy decanter aside before the heavy crystal could get broken.

As Quince helped Gideon up the steps of the earl's townhome he had to admit that some of the insights shared on the carriage ride could prove useful. Provided that he had the opportunity to try them.

"But we are brothers, aren't we?" the earl asked again.

"Of course, Giddy. You can be sure that if Charlie had the ability to disavow Robert as his older brother, at times he would."

Dibbs opened the door before they gained the last step. "Good evening, your grace."

"Just like old times, eh Dibbs?"

"Indeed, your grace."

"Give my apologies to the countess for returning the earl in such a state."

"As you wish, your grace." The butler bowed deferentially to the duke as two footmen materialized to help Gideon into the house.

Quince decided that, as he was already out and about, there was no time like the present to pay a visit to Blaise Bittlesworth.

TWENTY-EIGHT

"Dammit, Sabrina, you need to eat." Robert was prowling around her room as though he expected to find some source of worry hidden in the corners.

"I'm not hungry."

"The staff said you sent everything back today untouched. When was the last time you ate?"

She thought about the tray she had nibbled from the night before. "I had supper last night." She sighed. "It's late. I just want to go to sleep."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "It's only eight o'clock and you've slept a good portion of the day."

"Robert, you're being tiresome."

"And you're not acting like the sister I know. It's well within my purview to be concerned about you."

There was a polite knock at the open door and Sabre turned to see one of Robert's footmen hovering impatiently. Robert went to talk to the man in hushed tones. When he turned back to her his face was an impassive mask but his eyes burned with a dark fire. "Get some rest. I have to go out."

She nodded and rubbed her forehead. All the men in her life were tiresome.

Quince had never set foot in Blaise Bittlesworth's house before but somehow the staff seemed to be very much aware of who he was. Even though he had walked up the street alone, looking easily the most disreputable he ever had in his life, the butler had bowed him in with murmurs of "your grace" and he had been installed in what was a really quite lovely parlor on the second floor.

When he heard the door open he considered rudely remaining in his seat but what he saw made him shoot to his feet with alacrity. For a brief moment he thought it was Sabrina and his heart started pounding painfully in his chest. The petite, dark-haired woman glided toward him and curtsied.

"Your grace," she said with a slight accent he couldn't place. She was even smaller than Sabrina, like a lovely little doll.

He bowed over her hand. "Lady Bittlesworth."

She settled onto a silk loveseat and he sat in the chair opposite her. He couldn't stop staring. She looked so much like Sabrina that it hurt. So much that he thought he might already love her, too.

She smiled at him as though the hour and his appearance didn't make the situation awkward. "We are pleased to receive you, your grace. I have asked for tea to be brought in and hope that is acceptable to you?"

Surely tea would help to clear the fogginess of his brain after the four glasses of wine he had drunk with Gideon. "Thank you for your hospitality, Lady Bittlesworth."

Just then the staff brought in the tea tray and arranged it on the low table in front of the viscountess.

"How do you take your tea, your grace?"

"Two lumps, please."

She prepared his tea with a delicacy and grace he couldn't imagine Sabrina using. He wondered at the relationship between mother and daughter. Sabre had never mentioned anything about her. Once he had tea and two lemon biscuits he realized the evening wasn't at all going in the direction that he had imagined it would.

"I was hoping to speak to the viscount."

She almost arched a brow, but didn't quite. As though she were controlling her reaction. "I'm afraid he is at his club for supper. As usual."

"Ah."

With another smile she said, "Are you here to ask him for Sabrina's hand?"

The shock of the question made him swallow his tea the wrong way and he started a coughing fit. The viscountess fluttered over him. "Your grace, are you all right?"

He held a hand up to ward her off and nodded as he worked to control his breathing.

"My apologies, your grace. I just thought... I mean a young man such as yourself..."

"You have nothing to apologize for, Lady Bittlesworth."

She resumed her seat again, taking her teacup in hand. Her hair was as dark as Sabrina's but her eyes were a lighter blue, like aquamarines. He realized he was staring again and struggled to find something to say. "Your husband was a friend of my father's and I found some documents that he should find interesting." Might as well plant the seed however he could.

The door opened again and the butler announced. "Mr. Bittlesworth."

Robert strolled into the room as though it were an appointed visit. Lady Bittlesworth rose to greet him and Quince rose as well to accommodate the lady.

"Robert!" she said happily, holding out her hands to him.

"Maman," he said, kissing her hand and escorting her back to her seat. Nodding briefly at Quince he said, "Telford."

There it was again, that familiarity that might be insult. "Robert," he responded coolly. Two could certainly play this game.

Robert took the chair next to Quince, which had him sitting so close the two were almost touching. Lady Bittlesworth set to making her stepson a cup of tea, obviously acquainted with his tastes. Settled with his refreshments Robert asked, "So what brings you to visit our maman?"

There was an edge to his voice. Subtle, but clear. Quince was trespassing in an area that Robert called his own.

The lady replied for him. "I'm delighted to receive a visit from his grace."

"Had I known of your beauty and charm," Quince said to her, "I would have visited far earlier."

She smiled prettily at him but Quince was fairly sure that Robert would have growled if he had thought it socially acceptable. They passed a half hour in somewhat convivial company. It was to Lady Bittlesworth's credit that she kept the conversation lively. At last Quince surrendered on the point of waiting for the viscount to appear and made his farewells to the lady.

"I'll walk you out," Robert offered. Quince knew it was more threat than hospitality. His assumption was borne out in the first shadowed length of hallway when Robert pushed him against the wall. "What are you thinking, coming here?" the younger man hissed.

"Let go of me or we shall come to blows."

Robert obviously didn't believe him because he continued to push the duke against the wall. And didn't protect himself against the first undercut punch. The two fell to brawling as though they were in a tavern instead of a Mayfair townhome.

"Robert!" Lady Bittlesworth's outraged voice split them apart faster than a douse of cold water. She walked up to her stepson. "That is outside of enough." She surveyed him in the dim light. "You may go home now. Tell Sabrina that I shall see her tomorrow."

"She may not receive you."

Now Lady Bittlesworth did arch a graceful brow. "Tell her I shall see her tomorrow." Although covered over with a great deal more grace and charm in Lady Bittlesworth, it was clear that a good portion of Sabre's steel in fact came from her mother.

"Yes, maman." He slid his gaze to Quince. "I must give the duke a ride home as he arrived without a carriage."

"Then wait outside."

"Yes, maman."

Once Robert proceeded down the steps Lady Bittlesworth said, "I must apologize for my son, your grace."

"Think nothing of it. That fight has been brewing for six years at least. My only regret is that you had to see it."

"Why did you come here today, your grace?"

"I hoped your husband could help me."

She smiled sadly. "Then I can assure you it was a wasted trip."

"You will tell him that I was here, though?"

"If you wish."

"Indeed I do."

She nodded and he bowed over her hand again before taking his leave.

When Quince boarded the carriage Robert was already seated in the far corner.

"This seems a bit cramped for a second round," the duke said, "but I'm game if you are.".

"That would be counterproductive."

Quince frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I'm only here because I promised Sabre I wouldn't let anyone hurt you."

The duke took a moment to digest that information. "How is she?" he asked softly.

Robert huffed out a breath and turned to watch the oil streetlamps they passed. "I don't know," he finally answered. "She's not herself."

"I see. However, I'm glad," Quince paused, finding it painful to say. "I'm glad she has a place with you where she will be safe. I fear that resolving this blackmail will be difficult." He wished that her place were by his side. He wished that he could keep her safe.

Robert turned his attention back to the duke and watched him for a long, silent moment. "I will keep her safe. Whether she cares for it or not."

Quince nodded. "Thank you. That is what is important."

"You mustn't approach my father again. It is counterproductive. And not at all safe."

"Counterproductive?"

"I have found some interesting information. Things I might have told you earlier today if I hadn't wanted to beat you senseless for upsetting my sister."

Quince was quiet. Robert had found some interesting information? Or was finally ready to release some interesting information?

Robert spoke again. "My only consolation is that you seem no better off than she."

Now Quince turned his attention to the window. He didn't want Sabrina to be hurting, but if she was then it meant she at least cared for him a bit. Didn't it?

They spent the rest of the carriage ride in silence. Quince didn't ask after Robert's supposedly interesting information. He didn’t feel he could trust anything the Bittlesworth scion had to say.

Jack poked her husband. "Gideon, wake up."

He grunted and wrapped the pillow around his head.

"No, you've had long enough to sleep it off. Wake up. I think Quince is in trouble."

Gideon sat up suddenly and then gripped his head as though it might fall off. "Oh bloody hell. Quince."

"Yes, Quince. Are you awake?"

Rather than respond he reached over and pulled her into his lap, wrapping his arms around her in a ferocious hug.

"Gideon, you're crushing me."

"Quiet, woman, you're louder than church bells."

She surrendered, simply enjoying his warmth. He had loosened his grip a bit, but still held her quite tightly. She could feel his breath on her neck and it tickled. Oh, how she loved him. If she had tried to dream up her perfect husband she would have guessed completely wrong.

"Giddy?" she said softly while idly tracing patterns on his warm bare arm. "Robert frightened me yesterday."

He pulled back to look at her. "What do you mean he frightened you? When did you see him?"

"I received a note from him that Sabre was upset and could I please come see her."

Gideon stared at her intently as though willing the rest of the story out of her.

"She was quite upset and accused Robert of putting Quince in danger. Later when I asked him why she would say that, he said it was because she was smart." Jack gave an involuntary shiver. "The way he said it, Gideon, it sounded like a warning."

The earl narrowed his eyes. "It sounds like it is time for me to pay Robert Bittlesworth a visit."

"I've known Robert my whole life, Giddy, and he's never unsettled me before. What is going on? Did Quince tell you?"

Gideon put his forehead to hers and sighed. "Quince told me a good number of things last night. For one we will be hosting his sister for a time."

"Quince has a sister?"

"He apparently has a number of siblings I was unaware of. It is not common knowledge and we are not to share it. But she needs our protection."

Jack felt herself frown. "She shall, of course, have it."

Gideon smiled at her staunch support, then scowled before he said, "And for another, Quince is being blackmailed."

Jack gasped.

"That is also not common knowledge and not to be shared."

"But Sabre knows?"

Gideon shrugged. "One assumes?"

"I never should have let her go to him."

"You knew?"

"Of course I knew. Who else would she depend on to cover for her absence here in London?"

"Why didn't you try to stop her?"

"I didn't say I didn't try. But Sabre is notoriously headstrong."

Gideon chuckled. "As are you, my sweet."

"Oh, Sabre makes me look docile by comparison. We should all be happy she didn't set her sights on a prince or she would be running a country in short order."

"She set her cap for him?"

Jack sighed. "Yes. She's probably the only woman in England who would fall in love over someone getting past her guard."

"She fell in love with him at the duel?"

"Not love, perhaps, but she was intrigued. Obsessed. One of the first things she said after we got in the carriage was that she would marry him."

"Quince doesn't want to marry her."

"Good luck to him on that. But why?"

"Her father. I've never know the exact conflict between Quince and the viscount, but it has been enduring."

"Ah. Well, you know what they say. Omnia vincit amor. Love conquers all."

"It has yet to conquer this hangover."

"Oh, my poor husband." She laughed but rubbed his temples. "Why did you drink so much?"

"There were reasons, believe me. But it didn't seem to have the desired effect." He sighed and leaned into her hands. "That feels good. Please don't stop."

TWENTY-NINE

Quince tried thrice more to intercept the viscount: once at Parliament and twice at White’s. He finally heard that Bittlesworth had withdrawn to the country. It was hard to determine whether the seed he had planted had already taken root and caused Bittlesworth to withdraw from his regular routine, or if the viscount was simply continuing on with whatever plans he already had. Left without any further options for influencing his supposed blackmailers, Quince completed his parliamentary work and left for the country himself. Belle Fleur, of course, as it was convenient to London. His seat in Northampton was two full days away and he didn't feel that being so far from London would be wise.

Shortly after arriving at the estate he received a letter from Gideon that seemed primarily about their shared investments but cleverly mentioned a fruitless conversation with a mutual friend and the happy arrival of Jack's guest. Robert wasn't being helpful and Quince’s sister was safe.

Meanwhile, he missed Sabre every day. He mooned about in the Rose Room for much of the first day he was home, and then requested that all of her items be moved to the duchess's suite. Except for the shawl she had been wearing when she arrived, which he kept in his own room. It still smelled lightly of her scent. When he awoke each morning he looked for her before remembering she was gone. At night he would lie on the balcony staring at the stars and wish she was with him. If this was love, it was damned inconvenient.

He was beginning not to care much at all about the blackmailer. His sister was safe with Gideon. As for his mother, it was most likely the secret of her additional children the blackmailer was hoping to use, and that was something that would become public in accordance to his own plans. Whatever role Robert had in the affair was unfortunate, but he found he simply couldn't care about it anymore. His lassitude was such that he had to force himself to prepare for the trip back to London for the Harrington ball. The ball where he had invited the blackmailer to make further contact. As the news of his brother's existence was already being fed to the papers this week, the threat of the letters didn't seem as great. Without a great deal of enthusiasm, he was packed and prepared for the trip to London two days before the ball was to occur.

"Miss Bittlesworth, may I present Miss Frederick. Miss Frederick, my good friend Miss Bittlesworth."

Sabre looked at the young girl curtsying to her and felt longing pierce through her. The child looked so much like Quince it was hard not to leave off from curtsying and simply hug her. She must be frightened. Confused. But she had enough of her brother's backbone to look reserved instead.

"It is good to meet you, Miss Bittlesworth."

Really, any moment now she would hug the girl and be done with it. Oh, sweet Lord, was she not going to be able to say anything without being choked up? This would never do. She took a deep breath before saying, "And you, Miss Frederick."

Jack was looking back and forth between them and said, "Miss Frederick, Sabre, rather, Miss Bittlesworth and I will be doing some shopping this morning so Emmy will be your companion for today. You will, of course, both stay inside?” Jack looked at the girls until they both nodded agreement. “Perhaps you two would like for us to bring you some ribbons?"

Emmy's eyes lit up. "Oh, yes, my lady. Green, if you please."

"What color do you prefer?" Jack asked the girl.

The young 'Miss Frederick' seemed to consider it as a very serious question.

"Celestial blue," Sabre announced. She stepped forward to tip the girl's chin. "To bring out those lovely eyes."

That succeeded in making the girl smile. "If you're sure."

Jack laughed. "Sabre is always sure."

Sabre felt her lip quiver. No, she was not always sure. Right now she was hardly sure of anything. She had thought that washing her hands of Quince's plans would lead to an eventual lessening of her concern for him. Nothing could be further than the truth. She missed him constantly, as though a splinter had buried deep into her heart and was festering. Leaving him was supposed to lessen her concerns, not increase them! Would she never be free of him? Would she never stop missing him? Worrying about him? It had been the better part of a fortnight and she still felt hollow, bereft. Perhaps she could convince Jack to visit Floris, the perfumery. Surely they would have some lemongrass scent on hand that she could purchase. But would that only prolong the agony? No, she wasn't sure of anything anymore.

The morning was clear and warm, as good a day for travel as one could hope. Quince's staff had fussed over him a bit. He had not only had a good breakfast before he left, but a basket of treats tucked under the carriage seat. His driver and footman were up top, while three outriders were arrayed around the carriage. Hopefully in two hours he would be at his London townhouse. Within twenty minutes he had started to doze when he heard rapid hoof beats riding off to the west. A moment after that the carriage rattled onto the short bridge that spanned a creek. He was drowsy and slightly irritated by being awakened.

A loud explosion rocked the carriage violently. He heard splintering wood and a horse screaming. His conveyance surged forward, and then tipped over as more explosions erupted. He tried to brace himself but was flung forcibly against the opposite seat as the carriage crashed on its side and he was unable to keep himself from falling backwards through the air. He heard glass breaking, men shouting, and suddenly all was darkness.

"Your grace? Your grace?" He felt someone shaking his arm and wondered who had decided to invade his bedroom this time. Then he noticed the noise. Men shouting, horses stomping. A shot rang out close by and he sat up abruptly. His footman, Averton he thought, backed away quickly. Light streamed in above him where the door to the carriage was open. There was a stabbing pain in his head and he felt so horrible he thought he might cast up his accounts.

"Who is shooting at us?" the duke demanded.

Averton glanced toward the front of the carriage. "They had to put down the second carriage horse. Can you stand, your grace?"

Although moving quickly seemed unwise, Quince put a hand out and pushed himself to his feet. He stood, dizzy and trembling.

Averton looked him over. "How do you feel, your grace?"

"Furious."

He jumped up to grab the sides of the door and pulled himself out. Sitting on the carriage he surveyed the scene. It was grim. Both carriage horses appeared dead, the first most likely not surviving the explosion. The driver was on the ground, bloody, with one of the men seeing to him. Quince looked back over his shoulder at the bridge. A good portion of it had been shredded apart by the explosion and spikes of jagged wood were everywhere. It looked as though the first explosion had been under the front left wheel and left horse. It was quite likely that the second horse bolting in terror had saved his life.

"Can I help you, your grace?" Averton called up from below.

"No," Quince said, then added in a murmur, "it seems no one can."

He jumped to the ground, which jarred his aching head. But he drew himself up and approached the man crouched over the driver. "How is he?"

"He'll be fine, your grace," the outrider said, but his eyes gave a different story and encouraged no more questions. "Stanford went to fetch the doctor. Hopefully they'll be back soon."

"Averton," Quince called.

"Yes, your grace?" the young man said, having extracted himself from the carriage.

"In my trunk, there should be some laudanum. Bring it for the driver."

"Yes, your grace."

Quince looked down at the outrider. "I'm sorry, but I've forgotten your name."

"Cosgrove, your grace."

"Cosgrove, as you seem to know what you're about I will leave you here to care for him as you are able. Averton will be here to assist you. Where is the other outrider?"

"Platts is trying to track down the rider we heard running off before the explosion."

"When he returns tell him to follow me to London."

Cosgrove stood. "Your grace, you shouldn't go alone."

Quince gave him a quelling stare and would grant that the man didn't back down easily. His familiarity with treating wounds made Quince assume he was a soldier, now it seemed likely he had been an officer.

"You're bleeding, your grace. At least let me see to that first."

A delay tactic, but a good one. "It doesn't signify," Quince said and turned to gather the reins of Cosgrove's mount. At least the time to London would be shorter as a single rider. He jumped into the saddle, gritted his teeth against the pain still throbbing in his head, and set the horse to a canter.

THIRTY

Quince made good time and sailed through the front doors of the Home Office in under an hour. He presented his card and asked to be escorted to Robert Bittlesworth. The staff, a bit overwhelmed by both his title and rough appearance, scrambled to do his bidding. Within moments they had taken him upstairs and bowed him into a well-appointed room where Robert was speaking with another man. They both rose to greet the duke as he was announced.

Sparing not a glance at the other man, Quince focused on Robert. "I need to talk to you. Alone."

"The ambassador-"

"I don't care if he's the bloody King of Prussia." Finally looking at the second man, who seemed a bit shocked, Quince said to him, "Get out."

The ambassador and staff exited hastily. Robert frowned and came around the desk toward him. "Telford, I'm not sure what you're about-"

Quince shoved the younger man against the wall and held him there, forearm braced across Robert’s throat. "The correct address is 'your grace.' I wouldn't think that would be hard to remember. You know more of my case than you have divulged. You will tell me all or I will see to it that you are hanged." He didn't see fear in Robert's eyes, but he did see calculation.

"Yes, your grace."

There was a knock at the door of an unusual cadence and Robert said, "That is one of my agents. The knock signals that it will pertain to you. Shall I let him in?"

Quince released him and backed away. "Yes. I'll be curious to hear what he has to say."

Robert straightened his jacket and called, "Enter."

A small, nondescript man slipped in the door. He seemed shocked to see Quince and bowed low. "Your grace."

"Report," Robert said sharply.

The man's glance flicked back and forth between them. "There was an attempt on the duke's life this morning, sir. I didn't know he'd survived until now."

"What sort of an attempt?"

"At the bridge crossing on the Mimmshall, m'lord. I was following at a distance when there was an explosion at the bridge. Saw a rider galloping away. The duke’s man chased him and I followed at a distance, sir, but was unable to catch up to them. Came here to report, sir."

Robert looked appraisingly at Quince then turned back to his agent. "Anything else?"

"No, sir."

"You are dismissed."

The man nodded and slipped through the door as quietly as he had come, leaving Quince and Robert to stare at each other. Robert finally turned to his sideboard and prepared drinks.

"Hell of a morning for you then, your grace." He handed the duke a tumbler of scotch. "How can I assist you?"

Quince swallowed a hearty amount of the liquor and took a seat. "You know how you can assist me. So out with it."

Robert sat across from the duke and rolled his own tumbler between his hands, having not yet taken a drink. Staring down into his scotch he said, "Sometimes I wonder, in God's accounting for your soul, what matters most. Intention, action, or result?"

"What do you mean?" Quince asked.

"Any of those things can be good or evil. A good intention can lead to an evil action. How many have murdered in the name of the church? An evil action may lead to a good result. What if a murder saved hundreds of other lives? So which matters most? That you meant to cause harm? Or that you caused harm? That you meant to ease suffering? Or that you eased suffering?"

"Admittedly this isn't something that I've thought about a great deal."

"Of course you haven't," Robert said with a ghost of a smile. "Angels have no need for redemption."

"Explain to me how this is salient."

"Although this affects you, it was never about you. And I certainly never intended for someone to make an attempt on your life. Especially now." He frowned down into the glass. "Especially now that Sabre's feelings are engaged."

"If it isn't about me, then who is it about, Robert?" Quince was feeling the warm pressure in his gut that told him an important truth was in the offing. "What is going on?"

Robert finally looked up at him and his expression was one that Quince couldn't place. "It's about my father."

Quince sat forward. He was beginning to wonder if he would have to physically pull the story out. "In what way?"

Robert looked down into his drink again. "He's not a good man, my father." That made him smirk. "Of course, there are people who would say that about me."

"If you want the viscountancy there should be easier ways to go about getting it than this."

The younger man's expression became hardened, vicious. "If I wanted him dead he would be dead, have no doubt about that. I want him to suffer. I want all of his friends to turn away from him. I want the remainder of his life to be as mean and desperate as he deserves." Robert finally took a drink, schooling his expression back to the calm neutrality he usually displayed. "I want him exiled. And that is where you, my dear duke, come in."

Quince leaned back in the chair. "In what way?"

"You were uniquely qualified to carry this out." Robert frowned, seeming to draw into himself as though contemplating. "You have the power and authority of your title, and I knew that whatever you lacked in political clout, Gideon would be willing to lend you. It is rumored that you are one of the Prince Regeant's favorites although you eschew his company as much as you do anyone else's. It is also fairly well known that you abhor my father. Although I'm not sure why, I assume it is for many of the same reasons I do. Among them, because of The Four."

Now Quince felt a tingling along his extremities. There was both truth and danger here. "Who are the others?"

Robert shook his head. "I have only divined our fathers from the group. They were wearing masks when I saw them."

"You saw them?" It came out in a near whisper as Quince felt a dread come over himself. To hear the stories was torture enough. But to be there?

"Only the once. My father had hoped to induct me, as Draco had been inducted by his father."

"Your father isn't Draco?"

Robert shook his head. "My father is Cygnus. But he is the only one I knew by name. I suspect your father was either Ursa or Leo?"

"Leo."

Robert nodded, considering.

"So you went to one of their..." Quince repressed his need to shudder, “parties."

The younger man looked at him keenly. "You did not?"

"No. Undoubtedly my father realized that it would not be the best fit for me to participate. When did you go?"

Robert's brow furrowed. "Ten years ago now."

"And you saw such acts of degradation that you planned for ten years to rid yourself of him?"

"Not exactly, I had decided that long before." He finished his scotch. "But seeing what The Four were doing made it clear exactly what kind of man my father was. And gave me ideas on how to punish him."

Quince contemplated Robert's choice of words. Punish. "And it took this long to start your plot?"

Robert smiled. "It took this long to put together the pieces of my plot. To find the key that would unlock this solution."

"The key?"

"You. I finally uncovered a second member of The Four, your father, and that led me to you. Who better to mete out judgment than an angel?"

"And rather than ask for my help you conspired a plot against me."

"I'm usually quite good at this. It's possible that in my fervor to see this done I made mistakes. But the motivations of all the players was evident. The outcome inevitable."

"Unless they had managed to kill me this morning."

"Unless that," Robert conceded. "I was concerned how Father would react to the more direct threat of you visiting his home. Whispers, innuendos, anonymous letters. Those are easily handled at a distance. Not that I know this morning's incident was my father's doing. But it could have been."

"But we know the letters are not from your father. You wanted to see them because you think you can identify the handwriting."

This caused Robert to pause for a moment. "Yes, I know the handwriting of every lord in the realm. If one of the other Four wrote it himself I would be able to identify him."

"And so you started all this? With whispers and innuendos?"

"What could a group such as they fear more than evidence of their deeds? They were ripe for influence. I knew that fearing exposure by you would make them react. I knew that pressure from them would make you retaliate. Again, the outcome seems inevitable. My next gambit was to tip the identity of my father as one of The Four. But you already knew."

It was Quince's turn to frown and consider. "If you had told me what you wanted to do then we could have found a solution together."

Robert sneered. "Yes, I'm sure that you would have stepped up to do so."

"Most likely. Especially if you had convinced Gideon first."

"I judged that too much a risk. Sometimes you will refuse to do things just to annoy Gideon."

"Not if it's important. Whatever Charlie would do for you, I would do for Gideon. Why do you think I fished him out of the gutter so many times?"

Robert shrugged. "I couldn't be sure of that path. And certainty is something I value."

"Well," Quince continued, "as you did not involve me or speak to Gideon, we will negotiate. You want your father exiled? I want some things in return."

"Such as?"

"Your sister."

"That's acceptable."

Quince tossed back the remainder of his scotch. "I don't plan to marry her."

The younger man narrowed his eyes but only said, "I'm sure she'll learn to adjust. What else?"

"I lost two carriage horses this morning. Perhaps two of Charlie's finest?"

"Done. What else?"

"What else would you give me?"

"Anything within reason."

Quince gained his feet and leaned over Robert's chair. "Keep your horses and know this. Giving away your sister to be kept as some man's mistress is not within reason. Even should I not survive today I can guarantee you that any attempt to give her to a man in such a way will be met with fitting punishment. It is best for you to remember that when God wants to punish the wicked he doesn't hire an assassin." He slammed his empty tumbler down on the table next to Robert, making the younger man jump. "He sends an angel."

THIRTY-ONE

"Are you sure it's all right? It's not too revealing?"

Jack watched her friend turn in the mirror, trying to catch the dress from all angles. Sabre had lost weight and looked wan. If Jack didn't know better, she would assume recovery from a long illness. Thank goodness they had come in for a final fitting because the dress needed to be taken in again.

"It's lovely and perfect for you. No one can wear coquelicot quite like you can." The poppy red color did indeed help to put some brightness in Sabre's cheeks. Jack wished that Sabre would talk about Quince but she had been obstinately silent to date. Considering the anxiety with which she studied her gown, Jack knew that her friend both hoped and dreaded that the duke would make an appearance at the ball.

Jack couldn't stand the tension. "We can't even be sure that he'll be there."

Sabre became completely still, pausing in smoothing down her bodice. "He'll be there," she said softly.

Jack wasn't sure whether she would rather shake Sabre for not being herself, or throttle Quince for whatever it was he had done. Instead she took a deep, calming breath and turned to the modiste. "Do you think it needs to be pinched in at the waist a bit more?"

"Oui, madame." The modiste stepped in to pin the adjustment.

"Do we have time?" Sabre asked. "The ball is the night after tomorrow."

Jack looked at the modiste beseechingly. Certainly adjustments for her new gown were a much better thing for Sabre to focus on than when and if she would see Quince.

"Oui, madamoiselle, there is still time. We can deliver it to you in two days? Oui?"

"Oui," Sabre agreed.

The modiste continued her pinning and Jack sighed. Now what else could she distract Sabre with before the ball? It also helped to divert herself from the fact that she was hosting her first London ball and wanted terribly much to make a good impression. Perhaps she could convince Sabre to eat by tempting her with her favorite treats.

Quince entered Gideon's office at the Parliament and received yet another reminder of how his life had already intertwined with Sabrina's when the earl's clerk looked up and then stood to receive him. The clerk who just happened to be Sabre's younger, bastard brother.

"Your grace," Justin said, bowing low.

"Mr. Miller," Quince said. The boy already stood taller than himself and looked well on his way to outgrowing even Gideon. "Is Giddy about?"

The boy took out his pocket watch. "He's currently on the floor, your grace, but should return shortly. Can I get you some refreshment?"

Quince considered that he had already had a tot of scotch this morning. "Tea, if you please."

"As you wish. Would you like to wait in the my lord's office?"

"Don't mind if I do."

Once inside the office Quince found that he couldn't settle into a chair. He paced, fussed with the gewgaws Giddy had set around the place, and generally felt like a nuisance.  He wanted to be practicing his sword, or at least out riding, or... He stopped short. Was this the source of Gideon's ceaseless energy? Was he furious a good portion of the time? What a curious thought.

The efficient Mr. Miller delivered not only tea and a light repast, but provided a mirror, towel, and basin. Quince finally took stock of his injuries. A small gash on his jaw that had bled onto his cravat. A scrape above his right eye. Based on his aches there were undoubtedly bruises yet discovered. But all in all he was in surprisingly good shape for a man who had just survived a personal Gunpowder Plot.

"Hullo Quince, Justin said you weren't feeling quite..." Gideon trailed off. "What happened to you?"

"When you get to the bottom of it, it turns out the answer is Robert Bittlesworth."

"What do you mean?"

Quince sighed. He had never told Gideon of The Four. Of what his father, the elder duke, was truly like. What he knew of Viscount Bittlesworth. Although it would give a greater context for what had occurred, he still couldn’t find the words to admit what he had come from. What he had grown up seeing, hearing. “Robert wants his father exiled. He thought the easiest path to that was causing a friction that made me want to use my power, and if necessary, yours, against the viscount. His miscalculation was that I approached the viscount directly to address it. And that the viscount reacted with violence.”

The earl's expression turned progressively grimmer as the duke spoke.

"I'm sorry, Quince. I always thought of Robert as a friend and never would have expected this of him."

"It's all right, Gideon. I can respect it, in a way.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

Quince felt torn between rage and despair. He looked down, unable to meet the earl’s eyes. “Our fathers were friends, Gideon. Robert’s and mine. They ran with a group that made anything you’ve done look tame in comparison. Depravity you’ve never conceived of.” Quince finally looked up again, seeing that the earl was solemn but not judgmental. “Robert wants them, especially his father, to be punished. They are terrible men who did terrible things." Quince scowled down into his empty teacup. "My fear, when you ran with the Bittlesworth boys, was that your path would lead you to something like that, and that they were a bad influence that would take you there. However, I suppose if Robert were that way then he would have been inducted in their group and not had time to go drinking with you."

"Are you sure he's telling you the truth that he didn't join them? We have no reason to believe much of what he says at this point."

Quince shrugged. "It's difficult to say for certain, of course, but I do believe him."

Gideon nodded. "Very well. What do we do now?"

How very like Gideon to want to focus on what could be done. In an odd way it made Quince miss Sabre all the more keenly because she would want to examine all the options and discuss the potential effect of any actions.

"I think there's nothing we can do but wait for the ball. Whomever the original blackmailer was, they will be expecting to contact me there."

"May I say, I'm delighted you invited them to my home," the earl said in a dry tone.

"They are lords. You most likely invited them yourself."

"Speaking of invitees, I'm sure Robert is on the list. Would you like for me to ask him not to come?"

Quince sighed. "Angry as I am at him, he will most likely be useful. You know what they say. The enemy of my enemy is my friend."

"Friend isn't something I can imagine calling Robert ever again."

Quince spent the majority of his time waiting for the ball in practice with his London sword master. The exercise kept him from doing something unwise, like going to Robert's house to start in on fisticuffs again. Or trying to see Sabre. It also gave him time to think. It sounded like Robert had made up the idea of papers as a whole-cloth lie to fit the fears of The Four. But it was an effective lie precisely because it was so believable.

When he took over the duchy he, Gideon, and an army of stewards had gone through piles of papers in setting the estate to rights and nothing in those papers had even hinted at what Robert was suggesting, at least nothing that had come to his attention. But as he thought about it more deeply, he realized his father was a man who had concealed the location of a cellar where he held debauched parties for decades. Had delighted in doing so. As far as Quince knew the secret of that cellar's location had died with him. If his father had kept papers regarding the activities of The Four, they were most likely hidden. Although it was possible they were secreted somewhere at the ducal seat, it still seemed far more likely that they were at Belle Fleur. It was where his father had spent a large portion of his time. Alone. Well, alone save for the staff.

Quince had never been particularly close with any of his staff, but Sabre had developed something of a relationship with the ones at Belle Fleur. Could he capitalize on that to find out if any of them knew anything? Suspected anything? It would be easier if Sabre could just come back with him to speak to the staff, but no. He couldn't put her in harm's way. Thanks to Robert's machinations, The Four were squarely focused on him and, obviously, at least one of them was willing to use deadly force.

THIRTY-TWO

Sabre had never felt so awkward at a social event in her life. She forced herself not to pick at wrinkles in her dress or pat at her hair. It wasn't like her. Usually she would wander and flirt, never self-conscious, always at ease. Tonight she felt like, well, she felt like she imagined her friend Jack usually did. Yet there was Jack, veritably glowing while standing next to her husband receiving guests. They made a handsome couple, both towering above the average attendee. It was like arriving at a ball to be received by two gods. Sabre had arrived with Robert but her brother had disappeared. She had yet to see Charlie. Or... him.

It would be best not to think about the duke. He would undoubtedly be in attendance, if for no other reason it was Jack's first London ball and he would lend his title to the guest list. For Gideon's success. She would never understand his relationship to Gideon, which seemed both loyal and rife with animosity. Her best friends were just that. Best friends. They didn't keep secrets or harbor resentments. She couldn't dream of discovering siblings and not immediately telling Jack and George about it. Then again it seemed there were many things the duke would do that she would never dream of doing. It was undoubtedly best to continue her plan of removing him from her thoughts.

"Are there any dances left for me?"

His voice made her heart race in her chest. She looked over her shoulder to see that he had come in from the receiving line while her mind had wandered. He looked perfect. The very image of an English aristocrat. From his artfully tousled hair, to his fitted black jacket with snowy white cravat, and down to his dancing shoes. But seeing him she only wanted the unshaven, drowsy man in an open shirt who would want to lie in bed with her all day. If she wasn't careful she would make herself cry or, worse yet, beg.

With a half-smile she lifted her wrist so that he could inspect her dance card. Save for the first dance claimed by her brother, it was empty.

"It is obviously my lucky day." He set to scribbling his name on two dances.

Standing so close she could smell his cologne. It was difficult not to lean in with her eyes closed to enjoy the scent. Then she noticed his jaw.

"What happened?" she asked, lifting her hand to hover over the healing wound.

"Robert didn't tell you?"

"No, did he...?"

The duke smiled vaguely. "Indirectly, perhaps." He bowed over her hand. "Until our dances, Miss Bittlesworth."

As he walked away she checked her dance card. Both waltzes. It would be torture. A most delightful and terrible torture. It was somewhat inappropriate to dance both waltzes with the same man, but she didn't care. Perhaps she would pretend that all was well, just for this evening. That he had asked her to be his duchess. That she didn't worry constantly that his enemies were closing in on him. Those enemies would be here tonight, she was sure of it. She realized that if nothing else she could observe the attendees in the hopes of finding some clues. Watching people always provided an entertaining diversion anyway.

Quince knew Gideon's townhouse as well as he knew his own. The staff didn't interrupt him as he ducked through a side door and up a set of back steps to the hallway with the bedrooms. Once there he set his hands on the wall to brace himself and just breathed. After a few moments the band of pain that had trapped his chest eased a bit and the rapid beat of his heart slowed. Sabre had looked fragile, like a pale and saddened shadow of herself. And she had been so quiet. If another man had done this to her he would have killed the bastard without remorse. But it hadn't been another man. Somehow he had done this. And he knew that he would do anything to set it to rights. There was no room for pride. He would do anything for her, give anything to her. By God, give up anything for her. He felt tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. No, no. There was too much at stake tonight to spend it weeping in a darkened hallway. He straightened his impeccably tidy jacket and returned to the party.

Sabre had a completely full dance card by the time the music began. In her first dance with Robert she attempted to ask about the duke's wound but her brother had been even more mulish than usual. Her dance with Charlie had been full of laughter and teasing, which she enjoyed even though she regretted how it interrupted her focus on cataloging the attendees of the ball. And cataloging she was, now that she had put her mind to it. Names, faces, clothes, mannerisms. It was a challenge but, as she already knew many of the attendees, it wasn't unachievable. She also tried to track who spoke to whom, who danced with whom.

Then it was time for the waltz to start and she knew that she wouldn't be paying any attention to the other guests. If the duke ever appeared to dance with her. She hadn't seen him since he signed her dance card. But there he was now, making his way across the room to her as the first notes were being played. Arriving at her side he bowed and she curtsied.

"Shall we?" he asked.

She nodded and he swept her up into the steps of the dance. They hadn't danced before and it only served to remind her of fencing with him. Or, if she were to let her mind wander into dangerous territory, being intimate with him. She trained her gaze on his left shoulder and tried to focus on having pure thoughts. It was difficult to do while feeling the warmth of him, smelling his cologne. All she wanted was to step forward and burrow into his embrace. But he was getting ever closer to danger, she was sure of it. He didn't even want to marry her. Why torture herself with what could never be?

They didn't speak. She didn't even look into his eyes. When the music ended he bowed over her hand and then he was gone. She felt her throat close tight in despair, tears pricking the edges of her eyes. Her heart shuddered in an irregular beat, yearning for what could never be. Damn him. Damn her treacherous heart.

After a few moments, collected, she went back to observing all the attendees.

Quince was usually quite good at waiting. Too good at it, perhaps. He had oceans of patience that could sometimes lapse into downright laziness. But not tonight. Tonight two important things were to happen. The blackmailer would contact him. And he would get to dance with Sabre again. He finished his third glass of wine and continued to argue with himself about whether to approach Jack and demand to know why Sabre was so withdrawn. But he would probably hear something about himself that he didn't want to hear. Although he would like to point out that she left him. There was no good reason for her to be moping about it.

"You broke her heart, you know."

The duke almost jumped. He hadn't heard Robert approach, but now the younger man stood beside him to look out on the dancers in the ballroom.

"She kept throwing it in front of me. I was bound to trip over it eventually."

"I don't think I care for your cavalier tone in regards to my sister."

"Two days ago you were willing to trade her for cooperation and now you don't like my tone? Pardon me if I consider your fraternal rights a bit curtailed as you don't have her best interests at heart."

"You can ask either of my siblings, I don't have a heart. I do, however, have eyes and it is perfectly clear that what she wants is you. Why shouldn't I try to gain your cooperation while also giving my sister what she so desperately wants to have?"

Quince's voice was rough as he said, "If she wanted me she could have me. She's the one who walked away."

Robert was quiet for a long moment and when he spoke again it was to change the subject. "Any contact from our friends yet?"

"No. I've expected at any moment to receive a note, since I doubt they would be so bold as to approach me on the ballroom floor. Unless," Quince added with suspicion, "you are my contact?"

"Although I instigated their actions, I can assure you that I am not involved with them."

"Perhaps I should warn you that Gideon is displeased with you."

Robert smiled. "That became clear earlier when he shook my hand and nearly crushed it."

"You should be delighted that he still considers you a good enough friend to shake your hand," Quince mused.

"Perhaps I should, your grace."

"Now if you'll excuse me, I believe the second waltz is about to start." Quince handed Robert his empty glass and set out across the floor to find Sabre.

He found her in conversation with her other brother, Charlie. She was laughing and swatting Charlie on the arm with her fan. The young man teasingly stumbled back as though she had dealt him a mighty blow. Then he caught sight of the duke and his demeanor changed. His eyes glinted with challenge and he straightened to his full height.

Quince slowed his step. Whereas Robert seemed frustrated and at a loss over his sister's behavior, Charlie was furious and protective. Sabre looked over her shoulder to see what had caught Charlie's attention, and then went up on her tiptoes to whisper in her brother's ear. Whatever she said made him look down on her with an affectionate smile.

Quince bowed to them. "Miss Bittlesworth, Mr. Bittlesworth."

With the slightest of bows Charlie said, "Your grace. What brings you to this side of the ballroom?" He had put a possessive arm over Sabre's shoulders.

"A dance with your lovely sister, Mr. Bittlesworth."

Charlie looked down at her in mock confusion. "Did you not promise the second waltz to me?"

"I didn't and you know I didn't."

He rubbed his chin with his free hand. "No, I am fairly certain you promised it to me. Unless, of course, you would prefer to dance it with his grace?"

"He is far less likely to step on my toes on purpose."

Charlie chuckled. "Come now, I only did that once."

"And the bruise lasted for a week."

"How was I to know you were such a delicate little flower?"

Sabre elbowed him in the stomach. "You already knew you were a big clumsy oaf. Now let go of me."

"So you chose him over me? As you wish, my martial little sister. But do tell me if he steps on your toes and I will have words with him. If you leave anything of him after your own retribution."

It was a relief to see Sabre with some of her spark back. And Charlie Bittlesworth was making it very clear he would do anything for his little sister. It was good to know that at least one of her brothers would.

Quince bowed over Sabre's hand and, with a nod to Charlie, led her out to the dance floor.

"Your grace, I'm sorry my brother is..."

"Protective?"

She laughed. "I was thinking rude."

"Manners take the hindmost when one is protecting one's family."

She sobered. "Have you seen your sister yet?"

"I thought it best not to emphasize the connection as it could be a danger to her. Hopefully Jacqueline is keeping her cloistered. Have you seen her?" He could hear his own voice roughen at the end.

Sabre smiled. "Indeed I have. She's a lovely girl, but a bit shy."

"Do you consider that a cardinal sin?"

"Cardinal, no, but a pity."

"I was shy as a child so she may yet grow out of it."

"That's no measure, you're still shy now."

Quince was surprised. "I am not."

Sabre arched her eyebrow at him. "No? Excellent. Then I have a great number of people I would like to introduce you to this evening."

He frowned and looked out across the ballroom floor at the other dancers. "Don't mistake misanthropy for shyness."

"Hmph!" she said, as though that were her final word on the subject.

He looked down at her and she still had an arch look on her face. He found himself speaking before he could stop it. "I miss you."

She blushed bright as her dress and lowered her gaze to his cravat. He hoped she wouldn't withdraw as she had during their first dance. Suddenly he realized he couldn't stand it if she were to withdraw again. He maneuvered them through the dancers and to the hallway. Grabbing her hand he led her deeper into the house.

"Where are we going?" she asked with a laugh.

Perhaps Gideon was right. Perhaps what she wanted was a little adventure. "I've heard a great deal about the seductive properties of libraries."

"Quince!"

Oh thank God, she had used his name again. They were already in the unlit portion of the house, kept dark to discourage the guests from wandering. Backing to the wall he pulled her against him, lowering his head to capture her lips. The sweetness of kissing her almost brought him to his knees. His beautiful, bold Sabrina. She wrapped her hands in the lapels of his jacket and he heard her whimper.

Breaking the kiss he said, "We're almost there."

He took her hand and led her to the library. The heavy oak door was already open, the room dark. Pulling her inside he shut the door and backed her against it. He wanted her desperately. Perhaps this memory could replace their first, somewhat disastrous, encounter. As he kissed her he thought perhaps the leather couch would be better. He kissed her throat, her lovely shoulder.

"Quince?"

He could tell from her tone that something was wrong. As much as he was loath to, he took a half step back. "Yes, love?"

"We... I need to stop. I..." there was a catch in her voice and she finished in a whisper. "I'm trying to recover from you."

It was as though icy water had been poured down his back. He released her and took another step backwards. "Beg pardon?" he asked dumbly.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, then opened the door just far enough to slip through and away. The opening at the door let in a sliver of dim light from the hallway. Even that, he thought, was brighter than what was in his heart.

THIRTY-THREE

Quince couldn’t believe that Sabre had left him again.

"Sorry, old boy, but maidens are notoriously fickle."

The voice came from behind him. It was a mild voice, plain, but there was an undercurrent of bitterness that carried across the room like a fetid wind. Quince had never heard this voice before, but somehow he knew, without doubt, that it was the blackmailer.

Regardless of how little he felt up to it, the duke knew this exchange would be vital. He could show no fear, no weakness. "Fortunately there are a good deal of them out there on the dance floor. Like fishing from a stocked pond, really."

"Yes, but remarkably few of them are Bittlesworth's headstrong daughter. I imagine bedding her would give you a great deal of pleasure. You've made no secret of how much you detest him."

Quince suppressed his need to defend Sabrina and focused on divining where the accursed man was in the room. "All pleasures are short lived, my lord. What I seek is satisfaction."

The blackmailer chuckled. "A quicker wit than your father, I see."

Quince was fairly sure that the man was standing across the room near the windows. Had he entered from outside? Or from the hallway? The door had been open when they came in. "My father was not slow witted, he simply didn't have as much levity as a typical hedgehog."

"Is that how you see yourself? As a hedgehog? Are you rooting about in my garden, Leo?"

The duke felt his blood run cold. "I have no right to that name. You may address me as Beloin, or your grace. Or hedgehog, if you like. I'm sure there are some pests in your garden for me to devour."

The blackmailer was quiet far too long for Quince's comfort. When he spoke again he had moved across the room. "You don't have any papers, do you?"

"No. But I do have a determination to see Bittlesworth suffer, you're correct about that. And I will keep digging, turning over rocks to find the crawling nastiness beneath, until I am able to punish him."

"Punish him?"

"With exile at the very least."

"Odd that he has been the one to raise your ire. But no matter. Is that your only demand? Bittlesworth?"

"Yes." Quince was intrigued that the blackmailer seemed to indicate that one of the other members had been more detrimental to him than Bittlesworth. But at this point the duke only wanted to play out Robert’s goal and bring an end to this debacle.

"And you have no papers or evidence?"

"No."

The blackmailer gave a contemplative sigh. "With his attempt on your life I feel that he has shown a shocking lack of judgment. I will give you the evidence you need, provided that you guarantee me that you will stop... digging in my garden."

"You have my word."

"I'd best. Surely I don't have to explain to you that I would not bumble like him. That lovely child upstairs would suffer, for instance. Meanwhile, I shall have a packet delivered to your man of business before the week is out. Do with Bittlesworth as you wish."

Then there was silence.

Quince called out, "My lord?" He pushed the library door open to allow what dim light was available to pool in the room. He heard nothing. Saw nothing. Had the damn man vanished?

After leaving the library Sabre stumbled up the steps to Jack's sitting room. She just wanted to get away. How could it hurt this much? It felt like she had a knife in her heart. But surely if she stayed, if she allowed herself to love him, it would be worse. He was playing a dangerous game with ruthless men. He could be hurt or killed and didn't seem to care. Staying with him would drive her mad. And, if she were being honest with herself, she feared the power he had over her. She would refuse him nothing. It humbled her to know that he could ask anything of her and she would not have it in her heart to refuse him. She curled up on the settee, weeping.

"Miss Bittlesworth?" a small voice called.

Sabre sat up, dashing at her eyes with her knuckles. "Is that you, Emmy?"

"Yes, and Cici."

She gave a watery laugh. "Oh, it's Cici now, is it?"

Emmy and Cici sat on either side of her. Emmy took her hand. "Why are you crying?"

Cici, really Jessica Telford, leaned forward to tell her new friend, "You can't ask someone why they're crying, that's rude."

Emmy gasped. "I'm sorry, Sabre, I didn't mean to be rude."

Now Sabre laughed in truth, and pulled each girl to her to kiss on top of the head. "You can, in fact, ask friends why they are crying. Especially good friends."

"Are we good friends?" Emmy asked softly. Raised most of her life on a farm, she was still a bit hesitant in her role as companion to a countess.

Sabre joined hands with both of the girls, lacing her fingers with theirs. "We are the best of friends."

"Then why are you crying?"

"I'm very sad."

"Why?"

"Because my heart has betrayed me. It insists on loving a man that it shouldn't."

Cici finally spoke again. "That doesn't make sense."

"Nothing about the heart has ever made sense to me, I'm afraid."

"No, I'm saying that you should trust your heart."

Sabre sniffed and smoothed the girl’s hair back. It was even lighter and silkier than Quince’s. "What makes you say that?"

"My heart has never led me astray, but many times I have thought myself into trouble."

Sabre resisted the impulse to tell the girl that at her age she had hardly seen enough to make such a determination. She didn't want to ruin the coze that was making her feel better. Perhaps it wasn't her Haberdashers, but sitting here with the young ladies had a familiarity that comforted her. Instead she asked, "What sort of trouble have you thought yourself into, love?"

"When I was a little girl I became convinced that our father hated us, and that was why he never came to see us."

"What did your heart tell you?"

"It remained stubbornly silent on the subject. That's why my mind made up stories. Then one day an older brother I had never met came and my heart knew him. He was as familiar to me as my other siblings. When my brother told me that I was lucky to have never known my father, lucky that mother had hidden us away, I believed him."

Jessica spoke with a calm, clear confidence that Sabre had rarely heard. After a moment she realized where she had heard the tone before. Herself. But whereas Jessica derived her greatest confidence from her heart, Sabre had only ever trusted her mind. Trusting her heart would be a tremendous leap of faith that she wasn't sure she was capable of. However, one of Jessica's statements kept ringing in her head. My heart knew him. My heart knew him. Sabre's heart knew him. Right now, considering for the briefest moment that she go running back into his arms, she felt her heart burbling with happiness. Which was the greater risk? The possibility of losing him to danger? Or the surety of losing him by turning away as she had for the past fortnight? Even as she tried to free herself of him, she continued to worry about him. Just this evening she had taken on the task of observing all the guests in the hopes of identifying the blackmailer among them. In the hopes of helping Quince. She ran back through the assortment of facts she had put together this evening about the attendees of the ball and suddenly gasped. "Oh no! I saw him!"

"Saw who?" Emmy and Jessica said together.

She stood up. "I need to find Quince."

They heard a door close in the hallway. "Emmy? Cecilia?" It was Jack's voice. Followed closely after by Quince. "Jessica?"

The girl looked at Sabre with a knowing smile. "Ask and ye shall receive."

"We're in here," Sabre called. A light filled the doorway as the ever-practical Jack had actually brought a candle. But Quince preceded her into the room.

THIRTY-FOUR

The blackmailer's threats had left Quince in a panic over his sister and Sabre. He had collected Gideon, Robert, and Charlie to scour the downstairs looking for the blackguard and asked Jacqueline to take him to his sister. But upon checking both her room and Emmy's they had been missing. Unable to find either Sabre or Jessica at that point he had been ready to tear London apart, if necessary. Now here they were. Both girls were taller than Sabre, yet somehow she managed to have them safely under her wings. Not trusting himself to speak, Quince walked forward and hugged Jessica. Sabre leaned into him and he put his arm around her as well.

"Quince," she said. "I think I saw him."

He drew back to look down at her. "Who?"

"Draco."

"How do you know?"

"His own arrogance. He was wearing a pin. Jack, what's that symbol called? Where the serpent is eating its own tail?"

"Ouroboros," Jack supplied.

"Right. Ouroboros was also called a dragon. And there was a gem in the middle of it. Red tigerseye. Also known as dragonseye."

Quince mulled that, fighting his need to pull her to him. "Perhaps. What did he look like?"

Sabre closed her eyes. "He wasn't very tall. Older, perhaps the same age as Jack's father. Light brown hair going to gray. He wasn't particularly notable other than his dark green jacket and that pin."

Quince looked over at Jack and she nodded. "I'll go tell them."

"Tell who what?" Sabre asked.

"Someone was in the library," Quince said. "He spoke to me after you left and then he seemed to disappear. Gideon and your brothers are looking for him. If the man you saw was the same one who spoke to me, then the description will be helpful to them."

Sabre looked worried but after a moment she merely leaned against him again, resting her head on his shoulder. He held both her and Jessica close.

Quince had left his sister upstairs with additional footmen posted outside her door but had to repress the instinct to go check on her again. The search of the house had turned up nothing. After the earl and countess bid their last guests a good evening they joined the group gathered in the library. Both Bittlesworth brothers were present, as well as Sabre. The duke looked at Robert, wondering what he would be willing to say in mixed company. The younger man seemed to take that as a signal and rose to speak.

"I am afraid that I have caused his grace, and all of you, a great deal of trouble. His grace has received threats over the past month because I spread rumors that he was in possession of some papers that he was not."

Gideon spoke up. "That was a damn sight more than threats, Robert."

"What do you mean?" Sabre looked at Quince. "What does he mean?"

The duke shook his head. "It doesn't signify."

Sabre jumped to her feet. "Don't you dare! This is exactly what I was afraid would happen."

She tried to reach out and touch his jaw near his wound again, but he captured her hands. Frowning, he said, "I'm fine."

The earl spoke again. "The greater question to me is whether you are still in danger."

Quince shrugged. "The man I spoke to tonight seemed to indicate no. He has offered to provide the evidence that Robert needs on his original target."

Robert, now leaning against a table with his arms crossed, considered that information. "In exchange for what?"

"Leaving him alone. He was very clear that the threats to my mother and sister remain should we do anything to discomfort him."

"I don't trust him," Gideon said.

"Nor do I," Quince agreed. "He blamed the incident the other day on our original target, but I'm not sure I believe him."

"Agreed," Robert said. "The style isn't fitting. Although one can never account for the creativity of employees."

Charlie finally spoke up. "It's quite obvious that some of you know a few things the rest of us don't. Is that how this conversation is going to go?"

Quince and Robert eyed each other and the duke finally nodded that it was Robert's call on what to say.

Robert stepped forward again. "My original target was our father. I seek to get him exiled."

Charlie's eyebrows shot up and then he nodded, considering. "I can understand that."

"Oh, Robert, I’m not that mad at him." Sabre said, referring to her fury over their father not allowing Justin to go on Tour. The reason she had retreated to Robert’s house.

He gave his sister an indulgent smile. "I know, poppet. But I am."

She looked confused and shifted her gaze from Robert to Quince. The duke shrugged. As if he knew what went through Robert Bittlesworth's mind. It was interesting, however, that Charlie accepted the news so easily.

"So who is the other man?" Charlie asked.

Quince and Robert looked at each other again. "We don't know."

"He threatens your family, makes an attempt on your life, and you're just going to let this lie?" Charlie pressed.

"What else would you have me do?"

"Find him. Make him pay."

"And any misstep in finding him will alert him that we have not left him alone, therefore putting my family in even more jeopardy."

"I agree with Charlie," Gideon said. "We need to do something."

"It's my family and I say it is too dangerous to pursue."

Charlie stepped forward. "Considering your relationship with our sister, I would say it affects our family as well. What if there is another attempt on your life and we lose her?"

"Robert, I was hoping that Sabre could continue staying with you. Fortunately, when he saw us in the library he suspected that I was attempting to seduce her as a jab at your father."

Robert gave a dry laugh. "He ascribed his own motivations to you. Obviously he has not studied you at all."

Charlie glared at Sabre. "What were you doing in the library with the duke?"

She patted her brother's arm. "It doesn't signify."

Her light-haired brother glowered at Quince, obviously not satisfied with her answer.

Jack finally spoke. "Sabre? What do you think the right thing to do is?"

She pursed her lips and looked thoughtful. "We can't do anything until we've assessed his strength, and that means we have to find out who he is. Without him realizing that is what we're doing."

Quince felt a pain in his heart as he thought of how his sister could be affected. "It's too risky."

"Which is the greater risk? Trying to defeat him or living with an axe hovering over your head?"

Robert added, "With a man like that, he will start using his power over you to extract favors."

"You would know, wouldn't you?" Quince asked acidly. Turning to Sabre he said, "Any risk to my sister is unacceptable."

"Quince, she is at risk so long as this man is free to do what he likes. And he won't know what we're doing, not if we're careful. Let's start with what we know. I think that I saw him. Although I'm sure I would recognize him again, his looks are too pedestrian to be notable. It would be difficult for me to describe him to someone else in a useful way."

"I didn't recognize his voice," Quince said. "And that means he's not active in the House of Lords."

"Good," Sabre said, nodding. "Any other thoughts?"

Robert spoke up. "Based on the details from his second letter he may be on speaking terms with your mother, which may mean that she would have further information if supplied with his description. We might get a name that way. Even if a false one, it could prove useful."

"Good," Sabre said again. "And we can probably get that information from her without alerting her to why we need it. To ensure she doesn't accidentally tip him to what we are doing. What else?"

"We know..." Quince paused and looked at Robert. "We know he has two unsavory friends, one of whom he is willing to condemn in order to save himself. So there is an additional person to be on the lookout for."

"And we don't know what that person's motivations might be," Robert added. "The group seemed solid for years, but with one turning on another? Anything could happen."

"We also know," Gideon added with a frown, "that the man has bought his way in, or otherwise infiltrated, at least two houses. Between the way Quince's notes were delivered and how he managed to disappear here."

"And knowing that my sister was here."

"Could that have been a good guess on his part?" Sabre mused. "Rather than actual intelligence?"

"What do you mean?" Quince asked.

She shrugged. "It's a classic chess move. When the king is threatened he withdraws into his castle. Anyone with a sufficient knowledge of how your household is run could surmise that you would remand your sister to Gideon for protection."

"But it seemed rather specific knowledge," Robert countered. "Describing her as being upstairs when she could just as easily be at Kellington or somewhere else. Typically someone who is guessing will hedge their bets with a more general description in the hopes of being nearly right rather than completely wrong."

"On the other hand," Quince said, "if this is the dragon, my impression is that he is more of a gambler than most. He might make a bold statement at high risk."

"I'm sorry," Charlie said, "the dragon?"

As Quince and Robert exchanged another look, Sabre said, "Do you know what a Hellfire Club is?"

Charlie nodded. "Yes."

"That's essentially what this group of men was, a Hellfire Club."

Jack raised a brow. "Demon worship?"

"We haven't seen any evidence of that." Robert said, then sighed. “Yet.”

Quince nodded. "And we say the dragon because the four of them took nicknames from constellations in the spring sky. Leo, Ursa, Draco, and Cygnus.”

"And do we know who any of them are?" Charlie asked.

"Our fathers," Quince answered, indicating himself and the Bittlesworth siblings.

Gideon snorted. "Your fathers were in a Hellfire Club, yet somehow I got the nickname Lord Lucifer?"

"I don't like the sound of this," Jack said, moving closer to Gideon. "Robert, isn't there anything the government can do?"

"Not without evidence."

"Which, if I'm following correctly," Charlie said, "the dragon is willing to provide against our father?"

"Correct," Robert said.

"And which one is our father?"

"Cygnus. The swan."

Charlie turned to Quince. "And your father was?"

"Leo. The lion."

"Which," Jack said, "leaves Ursa the bear completely unaccounted for, so far."

Charlie shrugged. "Perhaps he passed on, like his grace's father did."

Quince and Robert had another pregnant pause that prompted Jack to say, "What?"

"Draco," Quince said, "is a second generation member."

Charlie frowned. "How does that work?"

"His father inducted him into the group,” Robert said. “For some years they were referred to as Draco Senior and Draco Junior. Until the elder Draco passed on."

Charlie's eyes widened. "Did father....?"

Robert nodded. "He took me to a meeting some years ago. It did not hold the appeal to me that he had expected."

Sabre turned to look at him. "That's why you don't speak to him."

"I have not spoken to him directly since that night, no."

An uncomfortable silence descended on the room.

"Is there anything more we can do this night?" Jack asked.

Quince shook his head. "I think not."

"Jack, can I stay here?" Sabre asked. "I can help you keep an eye on Jessica."

"Of course."

"It might be best," Gideon said, "if we continue to refer to her by her alias."

"Agreed," Quince said. "If he isn't certain she is here then there is no reason to verify his assumptions by having her name commonly enough used for the information to be bought off the servants."

Gideon looked affronted at the insult to his staff but didn't say anything.

"Come on, Charlie," Robert said, clapping his brother on the shoulder. "I'll give you a ride home."

Quince bowed to Jack. "It was a lovely ball, Lady Harrington. My apologies that this drama has shadowed it."

"Don't worry," Sabre said. "Jack loves mysteries ever so much more than balls."

Quince bowed to Sabre as well. "Miss Bittlesworth."

She curtsied. "Your grace."

Quince turned to Gideon to bid him good evening but was cut short by the earl saying, "I'll walk you out."

Once they gained the hallway, Gideon stopped him with a hand to the shoulder. "Are you all right?"

"Of course I am."

His friend gave him a grim look. "No one knows you better than I do, Quince, and I know that you are not all right. That was simply an invitation to tell me why."

"It's perfectly obvious why."

Gideon blew out a breath. "Much as I'm loathe to admit it, talking about it might help. I now wish I'd forced you to talk to me last month after the duel. I knew then that something was wrong."

Quince was irritated by Gideon's assumption that he could make him talk about anything. Besides, if it were true that talking about it would make him feel better, he knew there was only one person he wanted to speak with. And she would be here helping to protect his sister. "Don't worry about it, old man. When I need your help I'll ask for it."

Although he didn't look pleased, the earl let him leave without much further comment. Quince rode back to his townhouse in dark silence.

THIRTY-FIVE

After the men had taken their leave, Jack crossed her arms and looked at her friend. "Well, are you going to ask for the use of a carriage, or will you endeavor to sneak out without me seeing you?"

"I'm that transparent, am I?"

"As glass."

"I need to find out about the attempt on his life."

Jack nodded. "I understand that."

"Do you know anything about it?"

"No. I'm sure they think they are protecting us somehow, but it's more than a little irritating."

Sabre nodded. "More than a little."

"How do you feel about Robert's plan to have your father exiled?"

"Strange. I've never been close to father but I've also never had the issues with him that my brothers do. Apparently I didn’t know him as well as they."

"Charlie has issues with him as well? I've never seen that."

"It's a look Charlie gets when talking to him. Hard to explain but... Yes, Charlie has issues with him."

Not sure what else to do for her friend, Jack simply hugged her. "Please be careful."

"I'll try. But as you know, sometimes fortune favors the bold."

Jack shook her head. "Sometimes, Sabre. Just use the wisdom that I know you possess."

Quince stared at his bed. This was where the blackmail notes had been delivered. Someone had come into his home, his room, to leave messages of promised violence. It was a violation. Sabre was right that the threat would remain, like an axe over his head, until they found some way to neutralize it. What could be better than having a duke on a string? A duke liked by both the Prince and one of the most powerful men in the House of Lords. He had to find evidence against this man, this monster known as Draco. It wasn't too much to consider killing him outright. That wasn't something he had ever considered himself capable of doing, but now it seemed far more likely.

Was this how it started, though? Evil that could be justified? Certainly it seemed the greater good to simply remove a terrible person from society. By brute force, if necessary. But if he could consider such a thing, then perhaps he was more in need of Robert's ruminations on redemption than he previously thought. He had sinned already, taking a woman to his bed before marriage. He was considering a second sin so soon? And murder, no less.

He heard a light tap at the door before it opened.

"Your grace," Larkins said softly.

Quince turned to see his butler looking a bit out of sorts. He felt a thrum of anticipation. "Yes, Larkins?"

"There is a young woman here insisting to see you, your grace. She would not accept being turned out."

"Is she about," Quince held his hand level to his chin, "this tall?"

"Yes, your grace."

"Where is she?"

"I put her in the front parlor, your grace, I wasn't sure what else-"

Larkins stopped speaking as Quince pushed past on his way to dash down the stairs. His heart beat painfully strong in his chest. It had to be her. Please let it be her. He paused outside the oak door to the parlor, trying to gird himself for the disappointment if it wasn't her. If it wasn't Sabre.

Pushing the door open he saw a figure standing in the middle of the room, turned away from him, and covered head to foot in a dark cloak. She appeared to be studying the large portrait over the fireplace.

Leaning against the door frame he tried to discern from her height, the way she shifted her body... But was it just wishful thinking? "The portrait is of my father's first wife," he said.

"Quince!" She turned and hurried to him.

Oh, thank God. It was her. She was here. She wrapped her arms around his waist and burrowed against his chest. He embraced her and felt the burn of unshed tears in his throat. But she shouldn't be here. It wasn't proper. It wasn't safe.

"Sabre, I thought you were going to stay at the Harrington's."

She tipped her head back to look at him, the cloak's hood sliding off her hair. "No one believed that."

He laughed. "I believed it."

"Then you're gullible."

"Don't be rude. I might have you thrown out."

She raised a brow at him. "I, on the other hand, am not gullible and I don't believe that in the least."

He couldn't stop himself. He had to kiss her. Had to taste that sweet, saucy mouth. He stroked her jaw and ran his fingers into the hair at her nape as he sank into the kiss. Lord, how he had missed her. Missed this. He knew that for her own safety he should send her back to Robert's or the Harrington's. If Draco were to discover what she was, how much she was worth to him... It didn't bear thinking. He would handle Draco. He must.

She broke the kiss and his heart plummeted as he thought that perhaps she was once again pulling away. Leaving. It had only been earlier this evening she had said she wanted to purge all memory of him and perhaps she really did mean it.

Sabre smiled up at him. "Isn't there some place more comfortable we could be doing this?"

Relief washed over him. "Perhaps I could find a place." He held his elbow out to her and as she wrapped her arm around his and he looked down into her smiling face he realized that even the poorest, most common man must feel like a king when the woman he loves looks at him adoringly.

He took up a candle as they walked through the hallway and led her up the grand steps to the ducal suites. He opened a door that he hadn't opened in a long time and indicated that she should precede him. She entered, looking about her with interest in the limited light.

"This isn't your room, I take it?"

He set the candle on a table. "No, this would be the duchesses' suite."

"Thank goodness it's in far better shape than the one at Belle Fleur was."

Quince smiled, remembering the amusing picture she had made with an oversized apron tied around her waist, her hair in a kerchief, and covered in dust. When had he started loving her, he wondered. Had he loved her since the first moment he saw her and everything else had only helped to reveal that to him? He wasn't sure. It didn't even matter. She was here. She was his.

Looking at him again, she tilted her head. "Why are you so quiet?"

He smiled and walked towards her to take her hands. "Aren't I always quiet?"

"Not always. Sometimes. When you're thinking. What are you thinking about?"

He kissed her hand. "You."

She smiled but said, "What else?"

"There is nothing else. There may never again be anything else."

She giggled but drew back from him as he bent to kiss her neck. "No, there is something else."

Quince looked around the room for a brief moment. "It's just been a long time since I've been in here. I'm sure we can find something more interesting to talk about." He laced his fingers through hers and led her towards the bed. "Or do."

"Why did you come in here at all before?"

He sighed and began unbuttoning the cloak. "I never knew my mother. As a child I assumed she was dead, so I would visit her rooms to try to get a sense of her. To feel closer to her."

"That sounds lonely."

He paused in his work, looking at her. "I suppose it was, but it didn't occur to me to think that at the time." He gave her a self-deprecating smile. "And I don't think I have the need to be with others like some do. I don't interpret solitude as loneliness."

Sabre chuckled. "I suppose I don't know much of solitude."

"No, I suppose you wouldn't. My father often wasn't home as I was growing up and I was actively discouraged from playing with the staff. By the time I got to school I wasn't much for playing, really. I was like a very small sixty year old man." He laughed, and then furrowed his brow. "Although I didn't... approve of my father, I did love him in my way. He was all I knew of a parent. When he passed I was more distraught than I expected. I still remember being out in the country and sending Gideon a letter to announce my father's passing, desperately hoping that he would see the inherent invitation and come."

"Did he?"

"Of course. But before he arrived, within a day of father's passing, there was a tremendous disturbance in the front hall. I had been in the study at the time, wondering what on earth I was supposed to do. And I heard a woman's voice, clear and distinct as a bell. I will never forget what she said. 'No one will keep me from my son now that the old bastard is dead.' I couldn't believe it."

Sabre grabbed his hands. "Oh, Quince."

"When I came out to the hallway I found her and ten of her footmen. They seemed ready to do battle. As soon as I saw her it was clear that she was my mother. We look too much alike for there to be any doubt. I felt all my blood rush to my head and it's a wonder that I didn't pass out from the shock. She must have just as easily recognized me and pushed through the staff to get to me. I can't tell you what that felt like, Sabre, to think that I had lost everything and then there she was. To me, back from the dead. She wrapped her arms around me and kept saying 'my baby' over and over. I was too numb to do anything."

Sabre wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close without saying anything.

Quince sighed, embracing her. "I don't know why I'm telling you this."

"Because I asked."

"You asked me what I was thinking, and I wasn't thinking about that. I really was thinking of you."

She pulled him over to the bed and encouraged him to sit. "Was that all of the story?"

He shrugged. "Mostly. She spent some time with me there. After Gideon arrived it soon became clear that I needed to keep the two of them separated. Once Gideon and I had the ducal accounts mostly settled I went out to Bath to see her again. She has a lovely townhouse and holds a salon for freethinkers and intellectuals."

Smiling as she removed the cloak from her shoulders, Sabre said, "She doesn't like Gideon and holds salons? I think I'm starting to like your mother already."

Quince leaned back on his hands, admiring again how the poppy red ball gown complimented her figure and coloring. "Yes, I'm sure you would get along."

"Is the townhouse hers or do you own it?"

"It's hers. I'm somewhat shocked that my father made that concession."

She paused in folding her cloak. "You consider that a concession?"

"For him, yes. It would not only bother him on a moral front, it's actually legally complicated to give a married woman property of her own. The rights to the property were much clearer with his death."

"I was," she said softly, and then steeled her voice. "I was hoping you would gift me with Belle Fleur."

THIRTY-SIX

Quince felt a frisson of worry go through him. "Are we discussing terms?"

Sabre lifted a chin a notch, looking both ferocious and vulnerable. She clutched the cloak to her midsection in an unconscious gesture of defense. "Yes."

"That doesn't align with my plans for Belle Fleur," he said. He saw her expression go blank and knew that perhaps he should rush to explain. "I had been thinking to foist the title on my brother and ask him to give us Belle Fleur."

She frowned. "Can you even do that? Give up your title?"

"Just because something hasn't been done doesn't mean it can't be done. And then," he reached out to take her left hand and caressed his thumb over her ring finger, "there would be no impediment to us being married."

She became brisk, pulling her hand away and setting the folded cloak on a chair. "Don't be ridiculous, your grace."

"Quince," he said.

"When you are being ridiculous it will always be 'your grace'."

"So you do not wish for me to give up my title to marry you?"

She crossed her arms and shook her head. "No. You shouldn’t give up your title for anything."

"And to be my mistress you would only ask for Belle Fleur?"

Her lower lip quivered and she caught it between her teeth. Looking down at the floor she finally said, "I would ask for nothing."

"You're a bit worse at negotiation than I would expect."

Her eyes flashed as she looked back up at him again. "This isn't a negotiation! Don't sully it like that."

Stubborn as she was he suspected this was as close as he would get to her revealing her feelings for him. There she stood, prickly and proud, and oddly that endeared her to him even more. He sighed.

"I love you, Sabre. I would gladly give you everything I have if I could. That was true from the first moment I saw you. But as Belle Fleur is the only unentailed property left, yes, you may have it. You have only to tell me what you want and I will get it for you. Even if I have to beg, borrow, or steal it."

She had wrapped her arms around her middle while listening and he heard her make a muffled sob. He rose to embrace her.

"Quince," she whispered, "all I want is you."

He kissed her temple. "I guess you did warn me of that in the beginning."

She gave a watery laugh and he hugged her close, pulling her to sit in his lap on the bed. The passion from earlier had settled into an intimate closeness that he wasn't sure he wanted to disturb.

After a few moments she shifted. "Quince?"

"Yes, my beloved?"

"I could use some help getting out of this dress."

His body reacted instantly to her suggestion. "Yes, that is help I will always be willing to give you."

She stood and he followed her, hands on her hips as he couldn't keep himself from touching her.

"And..." she added softly, "could we go to your room?"

"Yes," he said, surprised, "but why? I thought your goal had been to claim the duchesses' suites."

"I like it when my pillow smells of you."

He ran his hand over her hip in an intimate, possessive caress and pulled her closer. "You could solve that by sleeping on top of me."

She giggled and kissed his chin. "You aren't nearly as soft."

He sighed, took her hand, and picked up the candle, leading her to the connecting door. "It will be as my lady wishes."

"You make me feel demanding."

"No, you are demanding and I'm just not polite enough to avoid pointing it out."

She laughed and said, "You are the rudest man I know!"

"That may well be true. But a duke is privileged with being able to say what he likes and you have missed your chance to change that."

Once in the ducal bedroom he set the candle on his bedside and began removing her dress. Within moments she was in her shift and slippers, the red dress laid aside on a settee. "I do love you in red," he said, kissing her shoulder.

She shivered in response to his light kisses. "Then perhaps we shouldn't have removed it."

He pushed the shoulder of the shift down, stroking his hand over her skin and then nibbling where the side of her throat met her shoulder. "I love you even more in nothing at all."

She gave a soft moan and tried to push his jacket off his shoulders. The tight evening jacket barely budged.

Laughing he said, "This may be significantly more difficult to remove than your dress. Shall I summon my valet?"

"No," she said with determination. She walked behind him and, placing her hands just so, peeled the jacket back off his shoulders.

"You would make a more than reasonable batman. Should I be concerned that you know how to get men out of their clothes?"

"Brothers," she said simply, tossing the jacket aside to join her dress.

He knelt to remove her shoes, pausing to kiss the side of her knee. Once standing again he kicked off his own shoes and unfastened his cuffs as she removed his cravat. He leaned forward to kiss her briefly. "We have too damn many clothes."

"You had at least a full hour before I arrived," she sniffed, "you could have undressed then."

He pulled his shirt off without unbuttoning it, throwing it aside.

She gasped. "Oh, Quince!"

He had honestly forgotten how horrid the bruises looked. "Not now," he said. "Please? I need you."

She nodded but he could see tears at the corners of her eyes. He pulled her close and began kissing her again. She relaxed into his embrace and kissed him avidly, but seemed afraid to put her hands on him.

Breaking the kiss he cupped her face in his hands. "Sabre, please touch me. I need you to touch me."

She tentatively stroked over his arms and shoulders. He set his forehead to hers with a contented sigh. "Thank you."

As he expected, her touch became bolder. She tipped her head to resume their kiss and he sank into the sweet pleasure of her lips. He broke the kiss again for a moment to remove her shift and reveled in the feeling of her soft skin pressed against his. As he caressed her back and sides, her questing fingers went to work on unbuttoning his breeches.

"Impatient," he murmured in her ear before trailing kisses down the side of her neck.

"Yes," she admitted.

He scooped her up, making her laugh in surprise, and deposited her on the bed. He stood watching her, enjoying her flushed cheeks and bright smile. "Are the pillows to your liking?"

She pulled one to her nose and breathed deeply. "Perfect." She waved her hand at him. "You still have on too many clothes."

He shucked off his breeches and knelt over her on the bed. Running his hand down her body he echoed her word. "Perfect."

She twined her fingers in his hair and tugged him forward for a kiss. He braced himself above her on an elbow as his free hand continued its journey over her body. She would shudder and clutch at him when his touch turned hard and possessive.

Kissing her throat he asked, "Are you ready?"

She nodded, "Yes."

But he knew from the tension in her body, the tone of her voice, that she feared it would hurt again. He smiled into her hair, knowing that he would surprise her. His hand skimmed down over her, coming to rest over her core. He cupped her there, gently, and then gave her mound a hard and possessive rub. She gasped against his throat, her hips shifting in her surprise. His thumb found her pearl as his first two fingers stroked inside her.

"Quince?" she said uncertainly.

He kissed her again, harsh and demanding. Her grip tightened in his hair and she met his assault with the same vigor. As he rubbed and teased her, she became impossibly wet and slick, his fingers losing purchase as she began to buck and writhe. He tightened his other hand in her hair to hold her head as he broke the kiss and moved to suckle her nipple. She gave a few gasping breaths and then her body bowed up from the bed on a sharp cry.

His touch turned soothing and soft, kissing her shoulder, her lips. He looked down to see that she was crying. "Are you all right?"

She nodded and gave him a trembling smile. "Why didn't we do that the first time?"

He chuckled and kissed her shoulder again. "You said you knew what to do."

She sighed happily and ran her fingers through his hair.

Damned if Gideon wasn't right. Having Sabre look at him as though he had discovered a great secret about her body made him feel like a mythic hero.

At last her body had fulfilled the promise of all the whispered secrets she had heard from the serving girls. Beyond that, really. She felt luxurious, cherished. Quince was skimming his hand over her flesh, kissing her softly in delicate spots that made her shiver. The inside of her elbow. Along her ribs. She felt as though she were floating on a sensual cloud made entirely of his touch, his smell. She never wanted anything other than this. Complete intimacy with the man she loved.

He shifted his weight on top of her and she felt his cock against her thigh. She still feared that joining would cause pain, but she wanted him. Pain was nothing, fear was nothing, as long as they could be together. She opened her legs wider in silent invitation, and while he nibbled on her ear he slipped inside her.

Oh, it wasn't like the previous times at all! It felt right. It felt good. Like welcoming him home after a long absence.

"Are you all right?" he asked softly.

She rubbed her cheek against his. "I'm wonderful. You're wonderful. Please, more."

He began to rock against her and she felt the fire kindle low in her belly again. Oh God, would joining lead to that intense pleasure she had felt under his hand? Her hips began to buck and thrust against him of their own accord and the more she moved in counterpoint to his rhythm the more her body tightened in response. This time the petals of sensation that unfurled in her center were slower to bloom, but deeper, more primal. She clung to him and encouraged him to go faster, panting his name. Then the knot of sensation broke apart and she was flooded with wave after wave of pleasure. She didn't know time or place or thought, only feeling. She heard him call her name. Hoarse, desperate, tender. She wrapped her arms around him. How had she ever thought that she could leave him, could get over him?

She would gladly be his mistress. It didn't matter what anyone thought. It didn't matter that she could no longer go out in Society, that her own parents might disown her. That even her brothers and friends might shun her. She, who had never done anything without weighing the risks and rewards first, knew that no risk could outweigh the reward of Quince's love to her. The only risk was losing him. She couldn't let that happen. Wouldn't let that happen. As he dozed next to her she lay awake in the coming dawn, planning how to keep him safe.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Sabre had dozed off herself because a knock at the door awoke her.

The duke called out without even raising his head from the pillow. "Not now, Larkins!"

"Your grace, I - no, sir, you cannot do that!"

The door opened and it sounded like a scuffle. Quince sat up, shielding Sabre and she couldn't see who it was.

The duke sounded furious. "Good God, Robert, have you no decency?"

She peeked around Quince to see her brother standing in the open doorway, shaking off the butler, holding a bundle of clothing. He looked unusually pale and haggard.

"I need Sabre to come with me."

"No." Quince's voice rang with a final authority. His ducal voice.

"My men report that Viscount Bittlesworth left for the coast this morning." His gaze shifted to Sabre. "And he took the viscountess with him. Against her will."

Sabre felt her heart stutter in her chest. Mother was usually too clever to openly defy father. His temper was short and at times violent.

"Thank you for bringing us the news," Quince said, still using his austere, commanding tone. He managed a surprising amount of poise for a man dressed only in a sheet. "I assume you and your men will handle it."

"I need Sabre with me."

"Why on earth would you take your sister into that?"

"Because she's the best shot, and perhaps the best fighter, among us. Further, she's the only one that father isn't likely to fire upon."

Even with the dire news, Sabre's heart glowed to hear her brother's compliment. But she knew he was gilding the lily to sway Quince to his plan.

"Are you sure that the viscount wouldn't shoot her?" Quince sounded both cynical and suspicious.

"Of course. He's not a complete monster."

But Sabre, who knew Robert so well, saw the truth. He had no such confidence that their father wouldn't be vicious to them if cornered. Yet they needed to try. And Robert, who had shouldered so much responsibility for seeing to her and her mother all these years was asking for her help.

"Don't be silly," she said to Quince, patting him on the arm. "I'll be fine. It's speed that is of the essence. We must catch them and ensure my mother doesn't get packed off in a boat. Then it would be so much harder to find her."

She determinedly kept her voice even and calm, to communicate that she wasn't worried at all about this mission. Inside, however, she was worried intensely. The fact that Robert seemed concerned was sobering. He dealt with vital international affairs with a steadier demeanor. What could his men have reported to him?

Quince finally turned to look at her. "I can't stand the thought of you being in danger."

"Don't be silly. I'm the one person who can do this and not be in danger. Pray for Robert and Charlie, father is much more likely to strike them." She looked back to her brother. "Thank you for bringing my riding clothes. Just leave them on that chair and I'll be dressed in a trice."

Robert set down the clothes, nodded, and withdrew.

Quince wrapped his arms around her. "I'm going with you."

She laughed. "No you're not. Father would definitely be happy to shoot you. I don't want you anywhere near him."

"You can't expect me to sit here and wait for you."

"No, I expect you to do something productive. Certainly you can think of something."

He held onto her tighter. "I don't want you to go."

She bit her lip to keep from expressing her true feelings. Her fear and helpless rage. "It's my mother, Quince. I have to go."

He looked down at her and nodded, rubbing her arms. "All right, then."

She was reminded of one of the first reasons she had fallen in love with him. His capacity to give others their freedom. No strings, no promises extracted. He offered an intoxicating blend of freedom and security. She had something she had to tell him, just in case.

"Quince?"

"Yes, love?"

She looked up into his spring green eyes, shadowed with worry for her. His blonde hair was tousled from sleep, his jaw rough with stubble. She cupped his face in her hands, careful to avoid the healing gash she had yet to learn more about. "I love you," she whispered.

He smiled and leaned his forehead on hers. "I know."

She laughed. "Rude!"

He caught her against himself and kissed her. Kissed her as though this could be their last kiss. Then he broke away, breathing hard. "You need to get dressed."

She nodded and ran to the pile of clothing that Robert had left. "So what will you do to be productive while I'm gone?"

He helped her on with her riding habit. "I have some things that I need to do at Belle Fleur." The answer was evasive, but she didn't have time to question him further.

"Perfect! Then I will meet you there after I have mother settled."

"You sound very confident."

"Of course. I always get what I want, remember?"

He chuckled. "How could I forget?"

She was ready and he had pulled on his breeches and shirt from the night before. Honestly, if everyone looked as good in dishabille as the duke it would set a fashion. He held out his elbow to her. "Let's get you downstairs before Robert wears a hole pacing on my carpets."

By the time she came downstairs Charlie had arrived with his best horses and there was a sweep of activity that had her mounted and riding out much faster than she would have wanted. She looked back over her shoulder to see Quince standing on the steps, arms crossed and lips drawn in a worried line. Not wanting to see him so grim she smiled and blew him a kiss. He gave her a half-smile in return, pretending to catch the kiss and hold it against his heart. The scene made her own heart trip and she faced forward again before she turned into a complete ninny and started crying. At least he would be safe from this confrontation.

"How did you convince his grace not to come with us?" Robert asked over the sound of trotting hooves.

"He trusts me."

"Well. I guess he'll learn better than that."

She glowered at her brother. "No, he won't."

Robert laughed. "At least you sound more like yourself again."

Quince wasn't able to settle himself for worry about Sabre after she left. Rather than continue to pace and climb the walls in London he called for his horse to be readied for a trip to Belle Fleur. He didn't fancy a carriage ride just now. It might be some time until he could enjoy travel by carriage again. Before he left town, however, he realized he should call on the Harringtons. They were as involved in all this mess as anyone now, and would appreciate an update. He dressed to be at least respectable enough to call on an earl and countess.

Dibbs took him in at once, of course, then intoned that he would see if his lord and lady were in for receiving. Quince waited in the front parlor. There were three paintings here that Gideon had purchased on his recommendation, so he did his best to focus on them despite his unsettled stomach. As well as being lovely to behold they would hopefully prove to be a worthwhile investment.

"Hullo, Quince. My apologies you had to wait." Gideon entered the room and slapped the duke on the shoulder, turning to look at the same painting Quince had just been studying. "I will never entirely understand the appeal art has for you."

"Undoubtedly."

Jack entered the room and held out her hands to him. "Quince!"

"How is Miss Frederick?"

"She's fine, would you like to see her?"

The duke shook his head. "I only wanted to give you both an update before I ride on to Belle Fleur."

"Has something happened?" Jack asked, betraying some tension.

"The Bittlesworth siblings have ridden out this morning in pursuit of the viscount. He has decided to flee and is taking the viscountess with him under duress."

Jack covered her mouth in shock. "Oh no!"

Quince gave voice to what was bothering him. "Of course, I didn't want Sabrina to go, but Robert insisted she was needed."

Gideon frowned. "Why?"

The duke frowned. "He said she was the best shot and further, the viscount is least likely to turn his anger against her."

Gideon raised a brow at his wife, "Oh?"

Jack caught her breath but said, "Yes, I can understand that."

There was something in the countess's reaction that made Quince worry but the earl distracted his attention before he could focus on it.

"Why didn't you go with them?" Gideon demanded.

Quince felt himself withdraw into a cool hauteur. "I have things to attend to at Belle Fleur."

The earl looked offended. "Things more important than keeping your wife safe?"

"They aren't married," Jack pointed out.

"They will be," Gideon insisted.

"As charming as this visit has turned out to be," the duke drawled, "I find I must be going."

“The hell you are. Explain to me how you’ll live with yourself if something happens to her while you’re spending your leisure at Belle Fleur?”

“Is that what you think I’ll be doing?” Quince felt all the tension and worry bleed into fury instead. “Wiling away my time? Regardless of what you may think, Giddy, it was no easier for me to let her go this morning than it would be for you. The only difference is that I respect her enough for her to make her own decisions. And I am trying to keep her safe. Draco is more of a threat than Cygnus. I must find a way to neutralize the dragon and I think the key is at Belle Fleur.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because it has to be. If it isn’t… The other alternative is less pleasant.”

“What other alternative?”

“I will remove the threat in whatever way necessary.”

Gideon paused. “Do you need help at Belle Fleur?”

“No, I need you to protect my sister.”

The earl nodded in understanding.

“And if you could…” Quince swallowed and set his jaw. “If you could send word when the Bittlesworths return. Whether… whether Sabrina is all right.”

“Of course.”

After the duke left, Jack sat down heavily in one of the plush side chairs along the parlor wall. Gideon immediately came to kneel before her. "What's wrong? Are you feeling ill?"

She shook her head. "They lied to him. I don't know why they lied to him."

"What do you mean?"

"Sabre is a crack shot, but she's rarely bested Robert. She and I are about even with pistols."

"Why didn't you tell Quince that?"

"Because I'm sure Robert said it for a reason, I just don't know what that reason might be. Unless..."

"Unless what?"

She worried her fingernail for a moment. "One of the games we played as children was 'Rob the Coach'. It's possible Robert is thinking to use those tactics here. Since Quince didn't play he wouldn't know what to do, so they would discourage him from going with them."

"So you're telling me that the Bittlesworth siblings are considering using a children's game to save their mother?"

"Sabre's mother. Robert and Charlie’s mother was the first viscountess. And we were all fairly serious about our games, thank you very much. Unfortunately for them, I was always in charge of 'Rob the Coach' because I wanted to be Robin Hood."

Gideon gave a wry laugh and took her hands, resting his forehead against them. "Of course you did. And you are not going after them to reprise the role."

"No. I wouldn't even know where to start looking for them."

He looked up at her, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Promise me you're not going after them."

"Of course not. Why would I?"

He continued to stare at her until she fidgeted.

"All right, I promise."

He kissed her hand. "Thank you. One daring rescue is all that the future earl should engage in before his actual birth."

"It could be a girl, you know." She patted her stomach.

He stood and offered to help her up. "I shudder to think."

THIRTY-EIGHT

"Well?" Sabre demanded as soon as Charlie was in earshot. A drizzle had been falling since they left London and she didn't want to simply stand around in it any longer than she had to. Her brother shifted his gaze around the stable yard of the inn before responding.

"It sounds like they came through here less than an hour ago."

Robert kept his head down as he adjusted the saddle on his horse. "They are headed for King's Lynn, then."

Sabre nodded. "Most likely. Do you think your men will be in place in time?"

Robert squinted up at the sky. "It doesn't really matter, does it? We're going to try anyway."

The siblings were solemn as they mounted their horses and rode out in pursuit of the viscount.

Quince allowed Havers to take his dripping greatcoat. The butler murmured, "We're happy to have you returned to us, your grace."

"Thank you. Please ensure that my riders have a hot meal, it's been miserable outside. How does my coachman fare?"

Havers paused for moment. "Not well, your grace," he finally said gravely. "The doctor has made him as comfortable as possible."

"Is he... Will he live?"

Havers' normally pleasant expression was etched into a deep frown. "That is not certain, your grace. The doctor believes his leg may need to be amputated and, well..."

The duke nodded. "I would like to see him now, please. And afterwards I will need to talk to you."

"Yes, your grace."

As Quince followed Havers to the servant's quarters he thought it was only by the narrowest chance of timing that it wasn't him lying in bed, broken and dying. How many people were going to suffer for this vendetta? The dragon needed to be stopped. And Robert had much answer for.

Sabre recognized the carriage immediately, even through the rain. Father had ten outriders, large brutes of men, which meant he had been expecting trouble. The bridge where Robert's men waited in ambush could be no more than a mile away. She looked over at Robert and he nodded at her. She spurred her horse ahead as her brothers pulled to the sides of the road. Once she had drawn close enough that she could be heard, she started shouting.

"Mama! Mama!" She tried to infuse her voice with the proper amount of feminine distress. As she truly was terrified both for herself and her mother, it didn't require much acting.

The outriders reacted as they had expected, with a few drawing together to face her as the others stayed with the carriage. The carriage itself sped up as she drew near. The first of her tasks done, alerting her mother to their presence, Sabre didn't try too hard to get around the outriders. The last thing she needed was for one of them to grab her reins or start a true confrontation at this point. Now she would move on to her second task and try to keep these four riders occupied as the carriage rolled ever closer to their trap.

She recognized one of the riders and addressed herself to him. "Gavin, you can't keep me from my mother!"

"I'm sorry, Miss Bittlesworth, but your father's orders were clear. Nothing is to stop them."

She swiped at her cheek as though wiping away tears, although the rain made it unnecessary to shed any. "How can he do this to me?" She gave a choking sob. "They say he is planning to stay on the continent. I don't know if I will ever see her again!"

The rider looked uneasily at one of his compatriots. "I'm sure you'll see her again, Miss Bittlesworth."

She sniffed. "How can you say that, Gavin? You know what he's like."

One of the riders narrowed his eyes at her. He had a hardened look that concerned her. "We don't have time for this little bitch's whining."

With his words she could see the attitude of the group shift. He had reminded them that they were not here to listen to the weeping concern of a daughter, but to protect the lord who paid them. This man had no sympathy in his eyes, no softness. Within a few moments he would shift the entire tenor of the group, most likely leaving one rider to control her while the other three rejoined the carriage. As her job was to help draw riders off the carriage, his influence was counterproductive. She drew and fired on him point blank before any of them knew what she was about.

Fortunately her powder was still dry, even with the rain, and her aim true. The rider reeled back, falling off his horse. The poor beast panicked and danced in the mud, stomping on the fallen rider while he writhed and groaned. Sabre held her gun hand up in a neutral position while the remaining outriders drew their pistols on her.

Her demeanor had changed as she said in a deathly still monotone, "We will be retrieving my mother, Gavin. If you try to stop us you will end up like him."

At her use of "we" the riders started looking around frantically, turning their horses in the squelching mud. The carriage was almost out of sight, but one of the outriders that had stayed with it was riding toward them, most likely in response to the sound of gunfire. She had drawn five of them now and hoped that helped. This was far more complicated and nerve-wracking than any game they had ever played. The dying man continued to moan and twitch on the ground as the riders surrounded her, still watching the trees with their guns on her.

The approaching rider called out, "What happened? Did you shoot the girl?"

Gavin called back. "She shot Pinsmail."

Sabre recognized the approaching rider as one of the more senior of her father's guards. "Hullo, Waghorn," she called.

Waghorn swung from his saddle and pushed the loose horse out of the way to check on the fallen rider. Standing he said, "Did you do this, Miss Bittlesworth?"

She found that she couldn't quite make her gaze lower to look at the man she had shot. "I'm here for my mother, Waghorn."

He gave a surprised laugh. "I don't think so, my lady."

She raised a brow at him. "How do you plan to stop me? Would you shoot a nobleman's daughter?"

"Aren't you a cold thing? And here I always thought you took more after m'lady than m'lord."

"An even better question," she said, leaning forward and lowering her voice, "is how do you plan to stop my brother?"

He looked at her, considering. "Well, which brother would that be, miss?"

She smirked. "Either of them. They’re both here."

Waghorn took up his reins and made to mount. "Leave her," he ordered, "we need to get back to the carriage."

But the sound of gunfire made it clear that they were too late. The four of them set off at a gallop, leaving her with the dead man. Charlie came trotting out from the cover of the trees. "Are you all right, little bird?"

She nodded and blew out an unsteady breath. "We should go help Robert."

Charlie dismounted to catch the loose horse. "No, I'm charged with ensuring you stay alive. Something, I would like to point out, that you were making fairly difficult. They were too close on you for me to even attempt a shot from any distance." He smiled up at her. "And I didn't have the advantage of your fair sex if I were to close with them."

"They wouldn't want to shoot any of their lord's children."

Charlie laughed. "Second sons are merely inconvenient. Inconvenient to have and inconvenient to lose. You don't fire a servant over an inconvenience."

"Charlie!"

He patted her knee and looked up at her with a smile. "Are you sure you're all right?"

She looked at the horse he was leading. "I will be. Eventually." She looked back in the direction the coach had gone. "Are you sure Robert doesn't need us?"

"It's Robert, dearest. Stop worrying." He mounted his horse and tied the stray to his saddle. "He will send for us when he needs us. But we can walk in that direction if it makes you feel better."

She nodded and started off at a faster pace than Charlie. Then a thought struck her and she looked back. "Do you know what happened to Quince?"

"Quince?" he asked. "Do you mean his grace, Beloin?"

"Yes, the duke. How did he get those cuts and bruises?"

Charlie narrowed his eyes. "What bruises?"

Sabre huffed. "Charlie, just answer the question!"

"I am given to understand that his grace stumbled into a gunpowder plot. A bridge was blown out underneath his carriage."

She gasped. "Was anyone hurt?"

"Two fine greys died, which was quite careless of him. Other than that, not that I've heard of."

As she sat still, silent and frowning, he caught up to her.

"What is it between you and Beloin, then?" he asked.

"I love him, Charlie."

"Any idiot could figure that out. What are his plans?"

"I couldn't say."

"He'll not make you his doxy," he warned.

She smiled at him a bit sadly. "I love him, Charlie," she repeated.

His normally affable expression changed to something colder. "That's how it is, then? If these horses weren't so tired I would ride back to London now to beat him."

"Don't be like that Charlie."

"How do you want me to be, Sabre? You're my sister."

"I know, Charlie, and I hope that as my brother you will stand by my decision, whatever that might be."

He stared ahead, his jaw rigid. "Don't try to manipulate me into your way of thinking. It's wrong and you know it."

"Last month I would have agreed with you. Now..." She lapsed into silence, not sure how to explain her change of heart to her brother. She gave him a rueful smile. "I hope that when you fall in love it isn't so complicated."

"How can you love a man who would treat you like this?" he insisted.

Sabre realized she heard her own judgments of Jack reflected in Charlie's question. "I knew that I was in love with him when I couldn't stand the thought of him being hurt. I left him, thinking that if I broke it off then I would stop caring so much."

"Perhaps you didn't stay away from him long enough."

"It felt like a thousand years." She sighed. "I don't know how to explain it, Charlie. I have to be with him. No matter what."

They heard the sound of hooves in mud and tensed, worried that it might be their father's outriders again. Instead, Robert and his group of men rode into view. The viscountess was seated safely in front of her brother, and her mother's maid was astride a horse with one of his men. Sabre's heart sped in her chest. One small victory out of all the challenges they faced, but such a relief. "Mama!" she said, and heard her own voice break on the word.

"Sabrina! When I heard that shot I was so worried! Your father wouldn't stop the carriage but he sent his man back to check on you."

"I'm fine, mama." She hesitated. “Where is papa?”

Robert answered. “He has gone on to his ship.”

"Sabrina and I have procured a horse for you, maman," Charlie said.

Robert raised an eyebrow at his brother and Charlie tipped his head in the direction of the original rider. Robert signaled two of his men to check on the fallen man.

"You know I'm not much for riding, Charlie," the viscountess said.

"Perhaps Sabre will let you double up with her, maman," Robert said. "Even the two of you together are hardly a load for any horse."

"Of course," Sabre said.

Robert dismounted to transfer the viscountess onto the back of Sabre's horse. "Take her to my house," he said. "Charlie, stay with them."

"Of course," his brother replied. He turned the reins of the stray horse over to one of Robert's men. Although some of the men nursed injuries it didn’t look like Robert had lost any of them.

Sabre was happy to have her mother secured, but very much wanted to leave for Belle Fleur. Hopefully tomorrow she would be able to get away.

THIRTY-NINE

Quince took a moment after visiting with his coachman, staring out the window of his study. The man had been delirious from pain and laudanum. It was impossible to know, even with the best care, if he would survive. It was sobering. Infuriating. Frightening.

“You wanted to speak with me, your grace?” Havers asked quietly.

“Yes,” Quince said, turning his attention to the butler. “There is something I need to find and I believe it to be here. It is very important. If I don’t find it then… Then I may not be able to keep Miss Bittlesworth and some other people safe.”

Havers grew quite attentive when Sabre was mentioned, as Quince had expected. “How may I be of assistance, your grace?”

“I need you to answer some questions about my father.”

Quince proceeded to query the butler and the rest of the staff about his father's behavior while in residence at Belle Fleur. It seemed that his father's habits weren't much different than his own. The elder duke would cloister himself in his rooms for hours, sometimes days on end. The only difference was that sometimes when the staff was fairly certain that he was in his room... he wasn't. Not that they had checked under the bed or in the closets. It was frankly odd at times to deliver a tray or some such and find his grace missing.

Although Quince had redecorated the room there had been no reconstruction. If there happened to be a concealed door in the room, it should still exist. He began to search.

After two days of searching Quince doubted his theory. He wasn't sure the last time he had eaten or slept. His only interruption had been to read letters he received from Gideon, letters reassuring him that both Jessica and Sabre were safe in London. He wished that Sabre were here because she would make this mystery solving bearable. But he couldn't have her here if she would be in danger. And that meant he needed to find the evidence that the dragon feared.

His frustration was such that he almost didn't hear the soft click when he pushed on yet another carved wall panel. He stopped and inspected it. Nothing seemed different. Putting both hands on it and attempting to push or slide didn't seem to affect it. He moved his hand down to where it had been the first time he had heard the click and pushed harder. When he released it the panel swung open on silent, hidden hinges. For a moment he just stared at the dark, dusty opening in shock. Then he lit a candle and stepped in.

Sabre loved her family, she really did, but their attempts to keep her from leaving for Belle Fleur almost drove her mad. On the third morning she simply arose early and left as though for a ride in the park. It was a risk traveling alone. However, she made good time and was at the duke's estate before luncheon. She hadn’t seen anyone following her from her brother’s house, but honestly she didn’t really care. Havers opened the door for her and gave her a deep bow.

"Miss Bittlesworth, it is good to have you with us again."

Once over the threshold she couldn't help herself and hugged the old servant. "Thank you, Havers, it's good to be back. Is his grace in residence?"

The old man blushed pink to the tips of his ears but seemed well pleased. "Yes, my lady, he is. In his rooms."

"Very good," she said, and happily trotted up the stairs. She thought to stop in her room first to refresh herself, but after looking through the Rose Room she didn't find any trace of her previous residence. Had Quince sent her things back?

She walked to his suites. It seemed polite to knock, but it would be more fun to reenact that first morning when she had burst into his room and awakened him. This time if he were lying naked to the waist in bed she could do more than just flirt with him. Her mouth watered thinking about what they could do with that scene to play over again.

She opened the door, a smile on her face, but it was immediately evident that the duke was not in bed. The bed didn't even look slept in. She felt warmth in her chest when she saw that her shawl was folded at the foot of it. Then she heard a sob and the sound tore at her heart.

"Quince?" she called, feeling slightly panicked. She entered the room looking for him. She heard another sob and found him opposite the bed, sitting against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest, head down. She knelt down in front of him, rubbing his arms. "Quince, what happened?"

When he looked up at her his green eyes were shockingly bright in their red rims. He shook his head, then straightened his legs to pull her into his lap and buried his face against her shoulder. He held her tightly and she stroked his hair, trying to soothe him. After a few minutes of holding her close his sobs seemed to subside and he loosened his hold a bit. He lifted his head again to press his forehead against hers.

She framed his face in her hands. "What has happened, Quince?"

He shook his head. She wrapped her arms around him and tried to be patient while waiting for him to talk.

Finally, after long minutes, he cleared his throat and said in a husky voice, "I found the papers."

For a moment she was elated that another of their goals had been met. But why, then, was he so upset? She knew that he wasn't one to be rushed and tried to think of the best way to prompt him to give her more information. Before she could settle on a strategy he sat back against the wall, looking at her. He skimmed his fingers lightly over her cheek and jaw.

"You came back to me."

"I told you I would meet you here."

He kissed her hand. "How did your mission fare? Gideon wrote to confirm you made it back to London, but he didn’t have details."

"Mama is safe at Robert's house. Papa should be somewhere on the continent now."

"No one was injured?"

She frowned. "No one in our party."

He was quiet for some time, just staring at her and running his fingers along her skin. His expression was bleak.

"Quince, what happened?"

He looked over at the wall as though something was there, but it just looked like a wall to her. "I really don't want you to read them, but I'm not sure I can read any more."

She scooted out of his lap and stood up. "Show them to me."

His eyes looked haunted. "You don't want to see them."

"I do. Where are they?"

He seemed to mull her request another moment, pulling his knees up to his chest again. "I'll let you read one or two. So that you can see what we're dealing with. And we can discuss what we want to do next."

With his title and connections Quince had the right to feel like one of the most powerful men in England but he seemed ill at ease. What on earth had he found in those papers? "Quince, you're worrying me."

He sighed and finally stood up. She followed him to the door she had left open, thinking that he was leading her out, but he simply closed it. She bumped into him in surprise. He reached out to steady her and they stood there for a moment, his hand lingering on her arm as he looked down on her solemnly. She stepped forward to wrap her arms around his waist, to feel his arms around her shoulders. He rested his cheek on top of her head and she finally felt him relax a bit.

"It's probably better if we get this over with and you just show me," she said, her voice muffled against his chest. He gave a short, bitter laugh and released her, walking back over to the wall she had seem him staring at earlier. He pushed on the panel and it sprung open. It surprised a short laugh from her. "A secret door!"

The smile he gave her was anything but mirthful. A grimace, really. She regretted her playful outburst and schooled her expression to be more somber. He lit a candle and gestured for her to precede him into the dark space. She stepped in, not even having to stoop, and in the dim light could see that it was a small but tidy office space. There was a desk and bookcases, all covered with a fine film of dust. A portion of the desk had been disturbed and had a disorganized stack of papers on it. She walked over to read them, but couldn't see the handwriting for lack of light.

"Bring the candle over," she murmured. Quince pulled the panel shut behind them, making it even dimmer yet, then came to set the candle on the desk next to the papers. Sabre's first impression was how much the document reminded her of the gardening journal she had updated. She recognized his father's handwriting and the template of date followed by short observations. But the subject matter was far different from gardening. She dug through the papers, stopping every third or fourth sheet to see that it was more of the same. Dark, disturbing information jotted down like observations about how the roses had wintered. She could feel the air backing up in her lungs. "My heavens, do you think this is all true?"

Quince had withdrawn to lean against the wall, arms folded. "If it is, if we can verify enough of it. They will all hang."

Sabre felt her heart beat heavily in her chest. Her father had escaped the country just in time. "How much of this did you read?"

"Not much. Enough. Murder, treason, stealing from the Crown..."

She looked around the room. "We need to go through it all. We need to know-"

"No!” Quince pushed away from the wall. “We don't need to know! Our fathers were monsters. Their friends were monsters. The only use we have for this is ridding ourselves of the dragon."

"But Quince-"

"No." His voice rang with finality. He picked up the candle, opened the panel, and signaled her to exit. She stepped back out into the bright mid-day light of his bedroom. The mood between them was tense, but she preferred his anger to the misery she had seen when she arrived.

"Have you had luncheon?" he asked, obviously grasping for the comfort of the mundane in polite exchange.

She shook her head. "I haven't even breakfasted."

He checked his pocket watch. "It should be served shortly if you would like for me to escort you downstairs."

"I was hoping to change but my clothing was no longer in my room."

He gave her an odd smile. "Of course your clothing is in your room."

She frowned at him. "I went there first and couldn't find anything."

"I suppose we should check again." He took her hand and rather than leading her to the hallway he led her through the sitting room and to the duchess's suite.

She poked his ribs. "You could have said something."

He raised a brow at her. "This wasn't the room you checked?"

"You know it wasn't."

He settled his arms loosely around her. "I was fairly certain you had claimed it the first day you were here."

Rather than answer she leaned into him and kissed his neck.

He sighed, relaxing a bit in her embrace. "Strange, but at the time I thought this room would mean you were too close. Now I think it is too far away. A shared sitting room is charming, but I would want you closer. At least our rooms in London are side by side."

Sabre looked up at him. His wit had returned, but his eyes were still shadowed and reddened. Although she was content breathing in his scent, warming under his touch, she truly was hungry. "I need to change," she said. He took a step back and began unbuttoning her riding jacket. Once he had removed it his fingers were slower in unbuttoning her shirtwaist. Although she could tell from his eyes, his breathing, that he wanted her, he simply removed all of her dusty riding apparel and set it aside, leaving her standing in her undergarments. Taking her hand he led her to the dressing room and the limited number of dresses she had to choose from.

"Which would you prefer?" she asked softly.

"Today? Perhaps the blue. Today needs as much innocence as we can give it."

He helped her don the dress with the same gentle patience he had used to undress her. She found that his sweet and loving care was undoing her more than any seduction could. Once she was dressed they walked hand in hand down to the dining room.

FORTY

Although there were still many dangers, Sabre felt overall better about their strategic position. When she had quit Belle Fleur, it had been in fear that Quince was going to get himself killed, that he wasn't even using the resources they had available. Now they had a good number of allies in play with the Harringtons and her brothers. They had in hand the evidence that The Four seemed so anxious to keep from emerging into the light of day. Cygnus, her father, had left the country so his influence was at the very least severely diminished. The only thing left to discover, and it did give her pause to not know it yet, was who Draco was and what resources he had.

She hoped that going through the papers would yield some clue. Everything she had seen continued the tradition of only listing them by their names in The Four, but certainly there would be something. A reference to a location, a personality quirk, a physical trait. Something. Anything that would help them to identify Draco and Ursa.

Quince watched Sabre as she picked through the offerings on her plate. She seemed relatively undisturbed by the documents he had uncovered. He, however, was still disturbed. Deeply disturbed. He was, in fact, already on his second glass of wine with luncheon and strongly considering finishing off the bottle before trying to do anything else.

Sabre had opted for lemonade and seemed absorbed in her own thoughts. Should it bother him, he wondered, that she seemed unaffected by the morbid nature of the documents they had reviewed? The details were listed with the same detachment as a grain report, but in some ways that made it all the more horrifying.

29 April, 1794 ~ Draco brought a girl child he found in the London streets. He wanted to keep her at the Cellar but I said no.

What on earth had happened to that child? There had been no further mention of her that he had seen. He didn't want to think about the other entries where the disposition of women and children were much clearer. The Four's disregard for human life, for basic humanity, was staggering.

His father had always criticized him for being too sensitive, too gentle. And perhaps that was true. Because as he steadily made his way though this wine to dull his senses, a girl barely out of the schoolroom sat across from him without a seeming worry in the world.

"How old are you?" Quince asked.

Sabre looked at him and raised a brow. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I'm curious." He could hear the edge to his own voice and almost winced at it himself.

She stared at him a moment more. "Nineteen," she finally answered.

Nineteen? God's teeth, she was so young. He remembered himself at that age. Naive. Idealistic. Were the tables turned and his attraction had been to an older woman when he himself had been nineteen, he would have been a slave. He had to respect her firmness of mind in comparison.

"What's wrong, Quince?" she prompted.

"I didn't realize you were so young."

She gave him a flirtatious smile. "I thought men liked younger women."

"I can't speak for all men. For myself, I find a variety of women beautiful. But I have only ever wanted you."

That made her smile, but she was also looking progressively worried. "Quince, why are you being so serious?"

"Is there not enough to be serious about?"

"I've thought so for some time, but it didn't seem to matter to you before."

He stared at her and she returned his regard. He finally answered, "This is a very serious game and I don't want to lose any of you."

She cocked her head to one side. "It's a game?"

"It is to Draco. A game where the prize is more power and wealth. He thinks that his most recent winnings include the obedience of a duke." Quince could feel a cold fury even contemplating that. "But having played so deep he has set himself up with much to lose."

"If we can identify him."

"We will identify him. Then the question becomes what we do with him."

"After what we know he has done? Turn him over to the Crown for punishment. He'll be hanged in a fortnight."

"Giving him a fortnight to exact revenge. Even the most closely held prisoner can't be kept from everyone. He would find a way to plan what he would consider a fitting retribution. I shudder to think what that might be."

Sabre was quiet for a moment. "We could kill him outright."

Quince studied her. She had withdrawn to a blank, unreadable expression again. His little chameleon could be so good at only showing others what she wanted them to see. Did even he really know her? It would do well to remember that fairy queens were not known for their sympathy with the troubles of mortal men. Yet their wisdom often transcended that of the material world, as well. "I've considered it. But I don't think I want that on my conscience."

"Then that leaves us at something of an impasse."

Quince nodded. "And one we must resolve immediately. I plan to leave for Bath in the morning to see if Mother can help us to identify him."

Sabre looked down at her plate for a moment, pushing peas around with her fork. "One concern I have is that, with all the documents in one place, it is that much easier to destroy the evidence. If he has infiltrated the other houses, why not this one? And if he has an agent here we need to act quickly to secure what evidence we have."

"What do you suggest?"

"We have such a great deal of it that we should parse it out to a number of people for safekeeping. At least Robert and Gideon should be asked to hold enough of it to condemn him. Is there anyone else you trust to hold some as well?"

"It is of no use until we can prove a connection between their code names and real names, so couldn't anyone hold the papers?"

"Perhaps, but I would keep it fairly close if you are able."

"Then an additional packet to my man of business in London, with instruction to secure it in his vault and not open it unless he receives notice from one of us."

Sabre nodded, seeming pleased with the plan. "Shall I compile a suitable packet for each of them?"

The duke stared at her for a moment. Should he be worried that she remained unconcerned about the nature of the papers? The atrocities that they held? Of should he just be relieved that someone he trusted was willing to handle a job he wasn't sure he could accomplish himself? He entertained the thought of letting her take control of the issue and felt himself relax. He even found he didn't care for any more wine.

"Yes, if you wouldn't mind doing that it would be very helpful."

She smiled and gave him a brisk nod. "Would you like for me to select the messengers?"

"As you seem to know the staff better than I do, that would be appreciated."

"Then if you will excuse me, I will get started so that everything will be ready before you leave in the morning as I will need you to seal the cover letters."

"Of course." He rose when she did, as a gentleman should. Then she was gone.

Sabre diligently worked at creating four stacks of papers. She wanted to ensure that each had at least one example of each type of crimes for which Draco and Ursa were accountable. She worked to minimize the evidence against her father except in the stack she designated as being bound for Robert. If anyone were to pass judgment on him, let it be his son. She also tried to minimize any information about Leo himself. If the evidence were to come to light it wouldn't do to embarrass the duchy any more than necessary. However, she noted, his sins were either lighter than that of his companions, or he had been clever enough not to document all of his own perfidy.

Some of the details in the papers were unimaginably gruesome. She couldn't decide if they were more or less breathtakingly horrible because of the cold, detached way in which they were recorded. The complete lack of compassion inherent in the former duke's writing was startling. He documented Draco strangling a young woman with the same tone as he might have a killing frost on the rose garden.

She had become so engrossed in her work that she startled when there was a knock at the panel. Almost calling out, she realized that if it wasn't Quince she shouldn't betray the location of this room. She waited until she heard his voice.

"Sabre? Are you in there?"

"Yes. Do you need me to open the panel?"

Rather than respond he simply opened it and stepped in, closing it behind himself. As there was only the one chair she was sitting in, he sat on the floor next to her with his back to the desk. "Are you doing all right?"

She bit her lip but gave him a determined smile. "Well enough."

He rested his hand on her knee, caressing her through the light muslin. "Thank you for doing this."

"Of course." His simple touch lightened her mood immensely. Perhaps no task was too horrible as long as she had Quince. She leaned down and kissed the top of his head.

He gave her a wan smile. "What was that for?"

"Being here. It's easier when you're here."

His fingers stopped their idle stroking for a moment and he looked up at her curiously. "This does bother you?"

"The only person it wouldn't bother is someone capable of doing such things as are described." She gave a delicate shudder. "It's hard for me to even imagine that we are related to two of them. Conversations between you and your father must have been strange indeed."

He smiled sadly. "We certainly didn't speak the same language. What of you and your father?"

"I know as well as anyone how to handle him. But I never would have suspected..." she made a sweeping motion to include the papers, "this. It would have made me much more circumspect in my dealings with him."

Quince nodded. "I imagine so."

Sabre went back to her work but after a few moments the duke spoke again. "Do you think we should consider sending something to the Prime Minister? Or the Prince Reagent?"

"At this stage? We might just elicit questions we wouldn't want to answer.”

Quince frowned but nodded again.

"What are you worried about?"

"These are extraordinarily dangerous men and one of them has directly threatened my mother and sister." More soberly he added, "And I must be careful revealing my attachment to you or you will be in danger as well. Otherwise I would take you to Bath with me."

Sabre felt her heart warm at his suggestion that he would take her with him. It had hurt when he had said 'I plan to leave for Bath,' making it clear with his tone and words that she wasn't to go. Her fear was that he didn't want to introduce his mistress to his mother. But it was because he was trying to protect her. Silly man. "Well, he already thinks he knows your intentions towards me. If he is there, he will only be vastly entertained to see that you have landed me. And," she said, preparing to deliver her coup de grâce, "if he is there, I am the only one who can recognize him on sight. And he doesn't know that. What a tremendous strategic advantage you're wasting."

He stared at her for a moment, then took her hand and kissed it. "Sabre, would you like to go to Bath with me?"

"Why yes, Quince, I would."

His expression turned somber in the flickering candlelight. "Promise me that you won't get hurt."

"If I thought we had control over that I would make you promise me the same."

"Well, I suppose there is that." He sighed. "Would you agree to have supper with me? I had planned a special meal for what might be our last evening together."

"You thought to salve leaving me with a fancy meal?"

"Indeed. You were to be swept away with the romance and grandeur of it. Actually, I've asked them to set the table in our sitting room again. Certainly you can't say no to that."

"Yes, Quince, I would love to sup with you."

Sabre was once again surprised at Quince's ability to set aside his worries and enjoy the moment. At first she resisted the idea of simply enjoying herself. But they were in an immensely better position, strategically, than they had been before. In the parlance of her old game War, they occupied their own hill now, and were fortified with troops and artillery. Certainly she could take a few hours to focus on her beloved. And he was correct, everything could go horribly wrong on the morrow and this could be their last evening together. What if another attempt was made on Quince's life? Since she was traveling with him she was equally at risk. Any such attempt could kill one or both of them.

If ever there was a time to simply appreciate being with the man she loved, it was now.

She looked at him across the candlelit table and wondered at the love she felt for him. Today he wasn't the dapper and perfectly turned out duke, but the casual country gentleman that had become her favorite version of him. His eyes sparkled as he told her amusing anecdotes from the various ton events he had attended over the years. Everything about him drew her. His wit, his gentleness, his confidence in his own authority. She would never regret this, she knew. She would never regret being with him any way she could be. Reputation and Society be damned. She might never again socialize at a ball, but he would tell her stories about it that would make her feel like she had been there. And certainly Jack and George would never desert her. She hoped.

He stood and held out his hand to her. "Would you care to repair to the balcony?"

She nodded and took his hand. The warmth of his touch was both comforting and thrilling. He led her to the balustrade and trapped her between the railing and himself. She could feel the heat of him against her back as she looked out at the stars.

"Do you have a favorite star?" he asked, his voice low and intimate.

She laughed. "Not particularly."

"All right, then which one do you think is the prettiest?"

She looked out at the blanket of stars. "Hmm. That one," she said, pointing. "The brightest star in Lynx."

"You mean this one?" He reached past her pointing hand and made a plucking motion. When he brought his hand back he presented a ring to her.

Even in the dim light she could see that it was an outrageously lovely ring. A large light-colored stone surrounded by smaller stones. She wasn't sure what it meant. It could mean everything. It could mean nothing. "Thank you," she said, making sure to infuse her voice with delight. But she wasn't feeling delight, it was something more like panic as her mind warred over whether it was a gift to a beloved mistress... or something more.

"You aren't very good at hints, are you?"

She refused to permit her hopes to rise. Refused. But she could feel a bubble of hope already. "What do you mean?"

He sighed and moved so that he was standing next to her. He still held onto the ring. "What is your middle name?"

Now she was confused. "What?"

"What is your middle name?" he repeated patiently.

"Tündér."

"I'm sorry, it's what?"

"Tündér. It was one of my grandmother's names." When he raised a brow at her she said, "It's Hungarian. It means fairy."

He chuckled, apparently amused. "Of course it does." She wasn't sure whether or not to be offended.

Then he gently took her left hand in his and sank to one knee. She felt her heart start to race, her breathing quicken.

"Sabrina Tündér Bittlesworth, would you do me the great honor of being my wife? My duchess?"

She felt lightheaded and her throat was choked with impending tears of joy. She wasn't sure she could speak.

"It's customary to give an answer," Quince prompted.

"Yes," she whispered. He slipped the ring onto her finger with a smile and then rose to kiss her.

FORTY-ONE

Quince awoke with something tickling his nose. Sabre was sleeping with her back pressed against him. He smoothed her hair and then let his hand wander over her shoulder to the dip of her waist and on to the flare of her hip. His beautiful, beautiful fiancée. He should make it official by talking to Robert. But then again they had already negotiated. If he wasn't mistaken he should get two of Charlie's best carriage horses, as well. Of course, that was if he took her as his mistress. As a wife there was most likely a dowry. Hopefully it would be enough to give her some spending money. One of his greatest fears for their marriage was not being able to provide for her in the style she was accustomed to. Although she seemed more than capable of making do when necessary, what he had seen of her wardrobe indicated a wealth that he did not currently possess.

She stirred in her sleep, rolling over to snuggle against him. He wasn’t sure if she was truly awake until she kissed his chest and gave a contented sigh.

He kissed her temple. “Good morning, love.”

Her lips turned up in a smile although her eyes were still closed. “Good morning, love.”

“Will you be ready to travel today?”

“Of course.”

He trailed a finger over the silken skin on her arm. “Would you mind...”

She opened her eyes and gave him a saucy smile. “Probably not.”

He chuckled. “I was going to ask if you would draft letters for me to sign, but perhaps your idea is more interesting.”

She sat up. “I would be happy to. What time is it? Should we do that now?”

“You realize you’re rather exhaustingly industrious, don’t you?”

She poked him in the ribs. “And we’re lucky I am if you can’t even be bothered to draft your own letters.”

He caught her hand to keep her from poking at him again and raised her fingers to his lips for a kiss. He frowned briefly. “If we want to leave today it would be best to leave the writing to you.”

She teased, “Do you sit waiting for your Muse to whisper in your ear?”

“No. I…” Quince paused. It was difficult to talk about. “I’ve never written or read very well. It’s odd. I’m much better off hearing information than reading it. Sad, because I happen to adore poetry.”

Her brows drew down. “But you left me a note once. It seemed to be in a fine hand.”

He smiled briefly. “I didn’t want to wake you for fear that you would insist on going with me. But what you could have dashed off in mere seconds took me almost five minutes.”

She frowned. “Oh. That’s why you have Gideon oversee your accounts, isn’t it?”

“Part of the reason. He’s also brilliant at it. Why struggle with something for hours that he can do ten times as well in mere moments?”

“Is that fair to him, though?”

“Beg pardon?”

“I’ve stayed with them. Gideon works endlessly. Are you sure he has time to oversee your accounts?”

Quince frowned. “He’s never complained about it.”

Sabre sighed. “Yes, your grace.”

“That is becoming horribly effective. If you think I’m being ridiculous what do you suggest I do?”

“Obviously I will need to work toward taking over the role from Gideon. You need do very little other than support your wife’s authority over the estates and accounts.”

He squeezed her hand. “Thank you, Sabrina.”

That made her beam at him again. “I will most likely enjoy it.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“But this morning we have letters to write, packets to prepare, and trunks to pack. That means you need to get up.”

“Exhaustingly industrious,” he repeated.

“Your insults will find no purchase on me. Arise before I decide to do something dire.”

It had been some time since Sabre had experienced butterflies, but apparently the thought of meeting Quince’s mother made her nervous. As soon as the carriage had rolled to a stop she had felt tightness in her chest and jumpiness in her belly. Quince was understandably distracted by his need to check on his family, but he did take a moment to squeeze her hand as he helped her down from the carriage. She gave him a smile that she hoped was as bright and supportive as she meant it to be.

The front door opened before they had gained the top step and a butler bowed them into the foyer. Almost immediately a boy raced out from the hallway.

“Quince!”

The duke caught the lad up in a hug. “Hullo, Thomas.”

“Hullo, Quince. I told them it was you, but they didn’t believe me.”

Sabre saw movement in the hallway and a woman and young man emerged. There was indeed no denying that this was Quincy Telford’s mother. Their hair was almost precisely the same shade. The shape of the face, the arch of their eyebrows. She even moved in a similar way.

The look she gave her son was one of pure adoration. “Quincy! You weren’t expected. What a lovely surprise.” She kissed his cheek.

If Quincy looked exactly like his mother, then the young man next to her must look more like their father. He was broader of face with a more saturnine countenance. The duke extended a hand to him. “Jeremy.”

“Quince,” he said, shaking hands with his brother, “so good to see you.” His voice was surprisingly melodious, especially for his age. Her younger brother Justin struggled to keep his voice from cracking at inopportune times.

Then the duke was looking at her and holding out his hand for her to step forward. Once she had, he said, “Mother, I would like for you to meet Miss Sabrina Bittlesworth, my fiancée. Sabre, my mother, the Duchess of Beloin.”

Sabre curtsied. “Your grace.”

Quince stifled a snort and his mother looked at him curiously for a moment before turning her attention back to Sabre. “It’s lovely to meet you, dear. These are my other sons, Jeremy and Thomas.”

Both of them bowed and Sabre curtsied again in return.

“Quince,” his mother said, “I’m sure the boys would love to show you the model of Bath they have been building.”

Jeremy rolled his eyes, clearly indicating that he was far too mature to have found model building interesting. But Thomas lit up with enthusiasm and started pulling on Quince’s hand. “Oh yes! You should see it! Jeremy has done all the fine bits, but I’ll show you the parts I did.”

Within seconds Sabre was alone in the foyer with the duchess.

“We can have a nice coze,” the older woman said, threading her arm through Sabre’s and leading her down the hallway at a leisurely pace. “How was your journey? Did you come from London?”

Sabre wasn’t sure if the duchess was just being idly friendly or hoping to elicit some desired information. Perhaps both. “The weather was lovely for our drive, although it is hard to leave London this time of year. So many social obligations.”

The duchess sighed and patted Sabre’s arm. “Is your mother in residence then? I should call on her for congratulations.”

“She… She isn’t receiving callers just now.” Having spent so much time with Quince, Sabre was able to see the subtle signs of the duchess’s withdrawal.

“Of course. I don’t go to London often at any rate.”

Sabre stopped and turned to the duchess, taking both of her hands. “Please, your grace, don’t think it is you.” She looked up and down the hallway, and then leaned in to whisper conspiratorially. “Would you like to hear a secret?”

The duchess seemed amused, with a furrowed brow and curious smile. She nodded.

Still whispering Sabre said, “My family doesn’t know I’m engaged yet.”

“But…” The duchess, realizing she was using a normal tone also dropped her voice to a whisper. “But then you aren’t really engaged.”

Sabre arched her brow. “My father has fled to the continent pending legal issues and my older brother knows that if he tries to deny me this that I will run him through. There are no other formalities to consider.”

The duchess burst out with a delighted laugh.

“However,” Sabre said, “I do think that my mother would take the news best directly from me. Even though she has been expecting it.”

“I think you and I shall get along splendidly. And I will wait until you tell me I can call on your mother.”

“Thank you. I just… I knew that you had been a bit isolated here and didn’t want you think…”

“That was very kind of you, dearest,” the duchess said, continuing to lead her down the hallway. They entered a lovely and intimate parlor. The house wasn’t particularly large, but had a comfort and grace to be envied. “Perhaps a spot of tea?”

“Thank you, that would be wonderful.”

Sabre sat and continued to look around the room. It was filled with art, soft fabrics, and furniture that one could sink into. The colors were muted and blended together in a gentle palette. Not at all a typical modern English parlor. It reminded her of the subtle grandeur she had once seen at a castle she had visited.

The duchess smiled. “This is where our family hides away from the world when we can.”

“I like it,” Sabre said. “Very much.”

“Tell me about yourself, Miss Bittlesworth.”

“What would you like to know?”

The duchess thanked the young woman who brought in their tea and then began to pour. “Oh, I don’t know. What are your hobbies and interests? What is your family like?”

Sabre accepted her cup. “You probably deserve a more candid answer than the one I would give most of the ton.”

“I might appreciate that, yes.”

“Quince and I came to know each other over our shared love of fencing.”

“Oh! That’s an unusual sport for a lady. Bravo to you, dear!”

“Thank you.”

“Do you practice it or only admire the sport?”

“I practice it. Although of late I have not been spending the time on it as I should.”

“No? What have you been doing instead?”

Sabre realized the trap she had accidentally designed for herself and thought quickly to keep from admitting that Quince had been her primary diversion. “Traveling. My brother was indulgent enough to take me on his Tour with him and we spent eight months on the continent.”

“How unusual. Was it just the two of you?”

“My mother went as well.” Sabre laughed as she recalled, “Charlie, my brother, said she was all that stood between me and conquering at least one small nation on our travels.”

The duchess laughed again. “Quince told you just what to say to entertain me, didn’t he?”

“No, but he did say that he thought we would find an accord.”

“Indeed! I wish that I’d had half your confidence and experience at your age.”

Sabre frowned. “It couldn’t have been easy, being married to the duke.”

The duchess paused. “No, of course not. But we shan’t dwell on it.”

“Quince tells me that you hold a salon.”

“Yes, each week. It will be tomorrow night.”

“How fortuitous! He also told me that you dislike Gideon Wolfe, something I must approve of. Although I find that Gideon is growing on me.”

The duchess scowled. “Probably for the best, since I find Quincy to be immovable on the subject of his friend.”

“Gideon happens to have married my best friend. As Jack is also stubborn on the subject of her husband, it does seem that my best course of action is to make do.”

“I wish you the best of luck on that, dear, as I find him to be odiously overbearing. Is that how you met Quincy, then, through your friends?”

“Strangely, no. They had planned to introduce us at their ball but we met at my brother’s house before that.”

“Then I suppose it was meant to be.”

“You believe in fate?”

The duchess’s fingers worried the corner of the throw pillow next to her. “Not necessarily. But as I’ve aged I’ve begun to wonder. There is often more afoot in the world than I can account for.”

The boys came tumbling in at that point. Thomas had to tell his mother every detail of what Quince had asked about the model and how it had been answered. The duchess was finally able to distract him with tea and biscuits. Jeremy asked polite questions such as one expected at a tea, to which Sabre gave her more usual answers. The duke was quiet but seemed to be enjoying the intimate family scene. It reminded Sabre of spending time with the Walters. Jack’s family had been her model of what a close, loving family looked like.

As their light repast wound to a close and the duchess set to ensuring that her guests were housed, Sabre was reminded that she would be spending the nights here without Quince’s company. This would need to be a short engagement, she thought. Being constantly separated from him for propriety would shortly become tiresome.

FORTY-TWO

Quince waved away his valet. It wasn’t like this was a formal London ball, just his mother’s salon of bluestockings from the region. Sabre had convinced him that they shouldn’t talk to his mother about Draco’s identity yet, lest it should make her nervous and tip their hand if he should be there tonight. His fiancée remained convinced that she could recognize him. And Quince himself was convinced that he would recognize the voice again.

“Aren’t you ready yet?” his brother asked.

Quince looked over to where Jeremy was sitting in a chair near the window, holding a book he had been reading until he lost patience. The most entertaining part of staying at his mother’s house was that she didn’t particularly treat him as a duke. While here he roomed with his brother and received very little special treatment, but a lot of familial affection. As much as he enjoyed spending time with his family, he missed being alone with his fiancée. Last night Sabre was in Jessica’s room. It had been difficult not to go to her, but he couldn’t imagine anything more beastly than making love in his sister’s bed. And no matter his intentions he was sure that if he went to her that is exactly what they would end up doing. Of course, he didn’t have to imagine more beastly things, he had read about them. Had some of that documentation with him now.

“Perhaps,” he replied drily. In some ways his relationship with Jeremy was strained. The young man had grown up as the oldest brother, the man of the house. Having an older brother appear, and a duke no less, after all those years seemed to be a source of some frustration. But he would grant Jeremy that the young man was generally respectful. “You could go down without me, you know.”

“Then they would only ask me where you are. Why invite that?”

“Why indeed? Fortunately I find myself ready.”

Jeremy set his book aside and rose.

“One thing,” Quince said.

Jeremy stopped and waited with an expectant look on his face.

The duke took a deep breath. It was hard to know exactly how much information to trust Jeremy with. But as of the prior week he was Quince’s heir. It was possible that Quince owed him all the details. If not now, then later. “There could be unpleasantness this evening. It would mean a great deal to me if you would ensure that mother and Sabre are safe.”

Jeremy narrowed his eyes. “What sort of unpleasantness?”

“That’s difficult to say. But if a certain person is here, there will be a confrontation. May I rely on you to see to the ladies?”

“Of course.”

Quince nodded and walked to the door.

“What sort of name is Sabre, anyway?” Jeremy asked.

The duke chuckled and put an arm over his brother’s shoulders. “The name of your soon to be sister-in-law.”

When Sabre saw Quince on the stairs she stepped up to him to whisper in his ear as Jeremy moved past her and into the room. “He’s here.”

The duke looked worried. “If anything should happen, if there is a confrontation, will you ensure that my mother and brothers are safe?”

“Of course.” She stood near him for a moment more. He smelled heavenly.

He leaned closer and whispered, his warm breath tickling her ear and neck. “Which one is he?”

“Brown jacket, buff breeches. He’s exceptionally unexceptional tonight.”

Quince risked a quick kiss on her ear. “I love you. Please be careful this evening.”

“You as well,” she admonished.

He squeezed her hand and then stepped away to enter the drawing room.

Sabre stayed on the steps for a moment longer. She still wasn’t entirely sure what Quince planned to do with Draco.

The evenings of his mother’s salons were, by ton standards, extraordinarily casual affairs. A few select guests were invited to arrive early and enjoy some drawing room conversation followed by a meal. After that, more guests would arrive and the topic for evening debate would be raised. He had attended her salons twice before. They were interesting, but required a level of interaction with others that he generally didn’t prefer.

The evenings were so casual, in fact, that guests weren’t even announced at the door. He simply strolled into the drawing room and over to his mother’s side.

“Hullo, mum,” he said, kissing her hand.

“Hullo, Quince. I would like to introduce you to my gentleman friend.” She turned to the man standing near her and the duke felt a chill go through him at what her words might mean. If Robert were correct and the dragon ascribed his own motivations to Quince’s relationship with Sabre, and if this truly were the dragon as Sabre suspected it was… The conclusion sent a flare of anger burning through him so terrible he was surprised fire didn’t spit from his eyes. His mother continued the introduction with an indulgent smile at her ‘gentleman friend’. “Quince, may I introduce Lord Granby, Baron of Glenmar. Lord Granby, my son Quincy Telford, Duke of Beloin.”

Glenmar bowed but Quince said sharply. “We’ve met, mother.”

The baron straightened with a look of mild surprise. “Oh, your grace?”

The baron was a man of middling height and unremarkable style. His features, his manner of dress, even his body language, all spoke of being quite ordinary. If Sabre hadn’t identified him, hadn’t said that Draco was exceptionally unexceptional tonight, then Quince would not have suspected this man of anything.

“Yes,” Quince said with a forced smile, “don’t you recall? At the Harrington affair. We spoke about gardens.”

Quince saw the barest narrowing of the baron’s eyes. “Perhaps you’ve mistaken me for someone else, your grace.”

No, it was the same voice. Pitched differently for current company, but the same voice. “Do you think?” Quince asked. “That’s unfortunate because I have recently received the most excellent advice on how to get rid of snakes that are in one’s garden. If I could find the man I was speaking to that night it would be very important information for him to have.”

“Would it indeed?”

The dragon had an enormous amount of control. He barely betrayed himself by a twitch. But Quince knew the man had to be furious. Undoubtedly he had come here to gloat over the control he had gained by threatening the family of a duke. Now Quince was here to throw it all back in his face. It would do well to remember that there was nothing, literally nothing, that this man was not capable of.

Across the room Sabre saw Quince staring down Draco. This couldn’t be good, she thought. Starting a conflict with the man when there were so many innocents on the field? And who knew what lackeys Draco had, either in the room or nearby? It was a recipe for collateral disaster. But she wasn’t quite sure how to mitigate the damage as of yet. Trying to make the other guests leave when they saw no potential danger would be difficult to say the least.

At this point the best she could do was watch and look for opportunities. If Quince pointed himself at the vanguard then she would need to guard his flank and rear. And his family, as he had asked. With a small sigh she wished they had brought their swords down to supper.

FORTY-THREE

Quince clutched his wine glass with such tension he was almost afraid of breaking it. The dragon had thus far refused to be baited, and now they sat at the table across from one another. The dining room was cozy compared to most of the ducal properties. The table only seated ten and the fireplace was so close to his back that he was glad it wasn’t winter, when a crackling fire would most likely be unpleasantly hot behind him.

It was customary to spend more time speaking to the guests on your right and left than across the table, so he had yet to speak to the dragon since sitting down. Sabre sat to Quince’s right, but was currently entertaining the guest to her other side. Jeremy was across the table and to Draco’s left. It gave Quince some pause to have his brother so close to the man. Baron Granby.

Now that knowledge of Draco’s identity had been revealed it wasn’t possible to let him leave this evening without a resolution. Hopefully a resolution that included the baron leaving England and never coming back. Or, better yet, one where the baron died from some tragic accident and was never able to harm anyone else again. Quince wasn’t at peace with simply exiling the man since it was clear he would continue to hurt others. It was how the man was made, it was a sickness. But the duke wasn’t willing to risk the safety of his family and he had no doubt that turning the baron over to the Crown for punishment would only lead to unpleasant retribution. And try as he might, Quince wasn’t comfortable electing to pass judgment and kill the man outright. Or even by proxy, as he knew Robert would see the job done. That only left him with the option of driving the baron away. Convincing the dragon that leaving the duke’s loved ones alone was the safest course of action. That for the dragon to do otherwise was to risk his own life.

Now was not a time to wait. Not a time to observe. It was a time to act. Before the dragon could do more harm to his loved ones. A thought that only made him wonder what sort of relationship the baron had with his mother. Quince glanced down the table to where his mother sat at one end. It was another point to her egalitarianism that she had seated her son, the duke, mid-table rather than at the head. How friendly had she been with the dragon? Had the bastard touched her? More? Even contemplating such a thing made his blood boil again. He took a deep breath. Rage, although justified, could be deadly when confronting such a cold and vicious opponent. He took a moment to center himself, absorbing the buzzing voices at the table. Listening to Sabre chatting with her neighbor. Listening to his brother talk with the dragon.

“Lord Granby,” Quince called across the table. “Who else have you decided is a mark from the present company? I’m sure you aren’t wasting your time here. Or perhaps you are. Intellectuals aren’t known for their wealth as a general rule.”

Quince saw Jeremy furrow his brow. The baron, however, remained calm. But that calm had now iced over a bit. “I think perhaps you have had too much of that wine, your grace.”

“I doubt that I’ve had quite enough. Driving snakes from one’s garden is thirsty work.”

“Quincy,” his mother’s voice came from her end of the table. “What are you doing?”

“Dealing with a pest, mother. Don’t worry yourself.”

The rest of the company had fallen silent and watched uneasily and the baron finally spoke again. “What are you hoping to gain, your grace?”

“I have nothing to gain,” Quince corrected. “I’m only going to point out what you have to lose. I haven’t gone digging in your garden, you see. But I did go digging in my own. And the things I have found there, the papers, are shocking.”

At last. The dragon’s eyes narrowed to slits. His expression changed from bland insouciance to repressed rage. A dark flush stained his cheeks.

“The rest of you may be excused,” Quince said, relying on the authority of his station to be granted their compliance. “Baron Granby and I have some things to discuss.”

The guests rose. Granby lurched from his seat and snaked an arm around Jeremy’s throat, pressing a knife under the boy’s chin. “You have made a terrible mistake, little hedgehog.”

The duchess screamed, “Jeremy!”

Quince seized an iron poker from the fireplace and leapt on top of the table, knocking over wine glasses and crushing them under his feet, the red liquid spreading out under his boots and staining the tablecloth crimson. He pointed the poker at Draco’s head. “If you harm my brother I can guarantee you will not survive this evening. That’s ultimately what you want, isn’t it Granby? To survive? If so, there is only one way you will be permitted to do that.”

The dragon spit towards Quince’s boots. “How dare you threaten me? You are weak. Soft. You were a disappointment to your father.”

“My father never understood me. And luckily for him, I never understood him either. Had I known what you all were truly capable of then this day of judgment would have come much sooner.” He took another step forward, crunching broken glass and china underfoot. “Because believe me when I say that you have been judged. And found guilty. The only way that you will continue your miserable, execrable life is, like all pests, by scuttling into the darkness. By leaving England and never darkening our shores again, either in person or by your influence. Should any harm come to me and mine I will kill you. Should I die, the men, powerful men, who hold documentation of your murder and treason are instructed to take it to the Crown and you can rest assured that your deeds will find you hanged. Certainly you know that Cygnus’ son hates you as much as I do and would not hesitate to see you ended.”

“Why should I even believe that you have found papers? That there are any papers?”

Quince used his off hand to reach into his vest pocket, withdrawing one piece of paper. “I brought this just for you.” He tossed the paper onto Granby’s place setting. He could see indecision flicker briefly in the dragon’s eyes. It was something of a risk to take the knife from Jeremy’s throat since it was the primary leverage that was keeping the damned man uninjured at the moment. But they were all currently at a stalemate. From the corner of his eye Quince saw his mother drawing closer, a silver candlestick clutched in her hands. The last thing he needed was for the dragon to have two of his family at his mercy. He heard a thump and crunch behind him, and then saw another poker extended toward the baron.

“You had best heed the duke’s advice,” Sabre said. “it were left for me to decide, you would already be dead.”

The dragon sneered. “A weak boy and a woman? I don’t find myself intimidated.”

Quince arched a brow. “Would you prefer that I call in the Home Office agents that are outside? You don't believe I left my mother unprotected after your threats, do you?”

The dragon looked up and Quince could tell that the man was measuring him, calculating how possible it was that agents were outside. And whether Quince was capable of killing him outright if the situation were pushed any further.

Sabre chimed in, almost gloating. “As it was in service to a duke I’m sure Robert sent some of his best men.”

“Jeremy,” the baron said sharply, “pick up that paper so that I may read it.”

Jeremy nodded slightly. He had to lean forward to pick up the paper, making the dragon loosen his grip for a moment. The duchess took that opportunity to strike, bringing the heavy silver candlestick down on the back of his head. Quince jabbed the poker into the dragon’s chest, pushing him backward while Jeremy managed to twist away. Quince followed through, continuing to drive the man before him by force alone as he stepped off the table, and slammed the baron into the wall, rending a sharp exclamation of pain from the man. The dragon raised the hand with a knife in it and Quince knocked it from him with the poker as though it had been a stick held by a child, hearing the snap of bone from the strike, then settled the cold, pointed iron under the baron’s throat.

Sabre jumped down from the table to herd Jeremy and the duchess behind herself. She still held up the iron poker, even though it seemed Quince had the dragon in hand. She scanned the room again looking for anyone who seemed inclined to help the baron. It was hard for her to believe that he would travel without some sort of reinforcements, but she had yet to see any of the guests or servants lift so much as a finger to aid the man.

Quince spoke again, his voice cold and sharp as a sword. “Have you decided yet? Will it be death now, death by hanging, or a quiet life somewhere that I will never hear of?”

The dragon’s eyes blazed with rage. Sabre recognized that, even through his fury, the baron was still calculating. Quince had obviously surprised the dragon with both his strength of purpose and skill. The duke’s righteousness was something to behold. But that would only be a minor consideration in whatever tactic the dragon chose next.

Sabre heard a commotion from the front hallway and edged herself in that direction, just in case the dragon’s men were finally riding to his rescue. Then she heard a voice rise in irritation.

“I don’t bloody care if the Prince himself is in there. Let me pass before I throw you out of the way.”

Sabre almost laughed. Gideon. Of course. Apparently receiving a packet of papers had sent the earl into action again.

Quince pressed the poker more firmly into the baron’s throat. “You may want to decide soon. My friend is even less forgiving than I am. And remember, if I allow you to live it is under the condition of not bothering any of us ever again. No threats, no revenge. Just the opportunity to live your life somewhere else.”

The dragon nodded. Not cowed, precisely, but recognizing his lack of options.

Quince took a step back, keeping the poker leveled at the dragon, and nodded to the window. “I suggest you leave that way before the earl arrives. And find the nearest ship. If we can find you we will rescind our offer.”

The dragon managed to open the window one-handed and fled before Gideon, Robert, and Charlie surged into the room.

FORTY-FOUR

June 1815, London

Sabre had argued that a short engagement was best and her fiancé didn’t seem inclined to argue. Thus within a few short weeks she was donning her wedding dress, trying not to succumb to butterflies. Robert had granted the use of his bedroom to the bridal party so she would have more room to prepare. Jack was helping her straighten the fabric and smooth down the skirts.

“Let me give you this while your mothers are out of the room,” her friend said, pulling a small book from her reticule. It gave Sabre pause to think that she had two mothers now. More intimidating was the fact that they seemed to like each other, leaving her with the impression that there might be cases of two against one in her future.

“What is it?”

“It’s your ‘something borrowed.’ I had to return to Kellington to fetch it. You must promise me that you won’t leave it out where someone could take it.”

Sabre furrowed her brow and gave her friend a skeptical look. “What on earth is it?”

“Take a quick peek.”

She flipped the miniature book open and its purpose was immediately obvious, filled with lewd illustrations. “Oh my!”

Jack waved her hands. “Now put it away before someone sees it.”

A third voice joined their conversation. “Even a fellow Haberdasher?”

Sabre turned to find George standing in the doorway. Their friend was just between their own heights, slender to the edge of gaunt, with pale skin and light hair. Sabre was so surprised to see her that she squealed louder than when she had been a child. They all rushed forward and met in the middle of the room, embracing.

Sabre could feel tears squeezing from the corners of her eyes. “Oh, George! I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me by missing my wedding!”

“Well, at least you planned one, short a timeframe as it might have been. Unlike our Jackie.”

Jack sniffed. “There were extenuating circumstances.”

George chuckled. “Yes. I see what comes of my leaving either of you alone.”

Sabre heard her mother’s voice. “Sabrina is everything-? Oh, George! You’re here at last. No wonder I heard shrieking.”

As George turned to greet Viscountess Bittlesworth and Duchess Telford, Sabre tucked the little book down in her bodice.

“Good thinking,” Jack whispered. “He’ll enjoy finding it later.”

Sabre turned incredulous eyes on her friend and said in a fierce whisper. “You are so naughty! I never would have expected it.”

Jack arched an eyebrow. “Let us remember who married Lord Lucifer.”

“Hush!” Sabrina admonished.

The ladies took to rearranging their bouquets so that George would have flowers to carry as an attendant. Sabre thought now that she had her best friends and was marrying the duke, everything was perfect.

Quince would have sworn that his cravat had shrunk since he dressed this morning.

“Stop pacing.”

The earl’s impatient voice pulled him up short. Both Gideon and Jeremy attended him, but currently they were seated on the wooden straight-backed chairs that lined the wall in the vestry.

“What has you worried, Quince?” the earl asked.

“I’m not worried.”

Gideon looked over at Jeremy as though for the young man’s support.

“You appear worried,” Jeremy confirmed.

“Well, weren’t you anxious at your wedding?” Quince accused the earl.

Gideon shrugged. “Of course. I hardly knew Jacqueline and you know I’m not one to back out of my commitments. Marriage, eternity with someone I didn’t know, was quite intimidating. You, however, know Sabre quite well. I assume you’re entering into this rather well informed.”

Quince knew, oddly enough, what he really wanted was Sabre. That she would know the right thing to say to keep his anxiety from overtaking him. He wasn’t even entirely sure why he was so anxious.

“Perhaps today is a bad day to do this,” he heard himself saying.

The earl raised a brow. “My job is quite clear, and that is to make sure you are at the altar at the appointed hour. If I have to knock you out to do it, you know I will.”

Quince huffed out a breath.

Gideon stood and addressed Jeremy. “Make sure he stays here. I shall return.”

After Gideon left Jeremy said, “He won’t be gone long, so what is our plan?”

“What?”

“Obviously as your brother my first duty is to you, and you want to leave. I’m thinking perhaps you should don the vicar’s robes and escape out the back. If anyone tries to stop you, simply bless them and run on.”

Quince grinned. “I had no idea you had a sense of humor.”

“You doubt my seriousness?” the marquess asked with a moderately unsettled expression.

The duke paused. Perhaps what he had interpreted as a formerly unnoticed dry wit was actually dullness. Perhaps Jeremy not only had their father’s face but more of his personality than Quince had realized as well.

Then Jeremy’s lips twitched and he was shortly reduced to helpless laughter. “You should have seen your face.”

Quince lightheartedly chucked his brother on the back of the head. “Unruly brat.”

Jeremy smoothed his hair back in place, still laughing a bit. “Like I want the earl to hunt me down and thrash me.”

The door opened again and Gideon stepped back inside with a bottle and three glasses.

Quince groaned. “Must you act like alcohol solves everything?”

“I’m pragmatic. If it didn’t work, I wouldn’t do it.”

Jeremy jumped up to hold glasses for the earl as he poured.

“Just a bit of wine,” Gideon said. “It will help to settle you.”

“Good Lord, this is the sacramental wine, isn’t it?”

“The vicar was quite happy to part with it for a generous donation.”

“You may be going to hell,” Quince said, “you know that, don’t you?”

“With a name like Lord Lucifer? One suspects. But maybe not if I drink enough sacramental wine.” Gideon winked.

“Lord Lucifer?” Jeremy asked.

“Robert likes to nickname his friends,” Gideon said. “Which reminds me,” he turned to Quince, “while I was out there I suggested to the Bittlesworth brothers that they might need to be on the lookout for a runaway groom.”

Quince scowled. “I wouldn’t jilt Sabre.”

“As I mentioned, you made it my job to ensure that is true. So I have ensured it. Take another drink.”

Quince sipped some more of the overly sweet wine. After a few minutes he had to admit that his nerves had calmed a bit.

Gideon pulled out his pocket watch. “It’s almost time, if you’re ready?”

Quince handed back the wineglass and nodded.

Gideon gave the glasses and bottle to Jeremy. “If you could find the vicar and return these? I want a word with the duke.”

The young man nodded, finishing the dregs of wine so he could more easily hold all the glasses without spilling. Once the door closed, Gideon turned to Quince and put his hands on the duke’s shoulders.

“You can do this?” the earl asked.

Quince nodded. “I just… You know social occasions make me nervous. And it’s my wedding. And what if Sabre changes her mind?”

Gideon chuckled. “Do you seriously believe that could happen?”

“She left me before,” Quince pointed out.

“She left so that she wouldn’t throttle you for being an idiot. Trust me, she has my sympathies.” Gideon sighed. “But I will never forgive myself for not finding out what was bothering you the day of the duel, since it turned out to be blackmail by one of the darkest souls in England. What is bothering you now? Do you have cold feet or is it something more?”

“Just cold feet, I think. But this means that you’ll be even more intrusive than usual, doesn’t it?”

“Perhaps a bit, although I trust Sabre to keep an eye on you.” Gideon’s expression became grave. “And trying to help you only repays you in some small way for all the times you fished me out of the gutter so that I could wake up in my own bed.”

“What are friends for?” Quince asked.

“Indeed. To the altar, then?”

Quince nodded. “I’m ready.”

Jack was able to enjoy Sabre’s wedding in a way she hadn’t her own. Her friends had chosen a small church outside London and the guest list had been held to less than a hundred. Leagues more attendees than her own wedding, but small for a typical ducal affair. When Sabre entered, beautiful in the white and celestial blue gown she had chosen, Jack had glanced at Quince. The love shining on both of their faces was clear to see.

The entire affair was lovely and Sabre had been surprisingly quiet and sweet. Jack honestly hadn’t known her friend had it in her. But it was clear that Quince brought out a tender and loving side that no one else ever had before. That could only be to the good, Jack thought.

Time flew as vows were exchanged and then the exuberant chords of the recessional filled the nave. Once they were in the vestibule, Jack heard a gasp and bump behind her. Turning, she saw George on the ground, petals and flowers scattered around her, her arm clutched to her stomach. Jack dropped her own bouquet and crouched by her friend.

“Georgie? What’s wrong?”

George had grown alarmingly pale. “I think I’m going to faint. Get Robert.”

Jack looked up at Sabre and the other Haberdasher shook her head in confusion.

Gideon knelt to pick up George. She gasped and held her ribs more tightly. At the change in angle Jack could see blood between George’s fingers.

Jack turned to the wedding couple. “Why don’t you two head to the wedding breakfast and we’ll take care of George.”

Sabre stepped forward, “But...”

Jack waved her off. “Don’t be silly. It’s probably just some sort of cramps. We’ll join you when George is feeling better.” Jack turned to Quince’s brother. “Jeremy, why don’t you make sure that the happy couple is settled at the breakfast while we let George rest for a minute?”

Sabre frowned but Jeremy nodded and did a credible job herding the Telfords out the door to the waiting coach. The door to the nave opened again and guests began pouring out. Gideon backed into an alcove of the vestibule, still holding George in his arms. George grabbed Jack’s hand in a shockingly firm grasp.

“Get Robert,” her friend commanded. “I need to talk to him. Now.”

Jack looked up at her husband. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

She threaded her way through the attendees, politely shaking off those who wanted to express their happiness for the couple. She spied the Bittlesworth brothers standing against one of the walls of the nave, laughing amongst themselves. Not just Robert and Charlie, but Justin as well.

“Robert,” she said, pushing her way past the guests who had been leaving. He looked over to her, his expression becoming concerned.

“What’s wrong, Jack?”

“It’s George. She’s hurt and calling for you.”

He tensed immediately. “Where is she?”

“Gideon has her out in the vestibule. We need to find somewhere for her to lie down. She’s…”

“She’s what?”

“She’s bleeding and I don’t know why.”

Robert made a beeline for the doors, slipping through the jostling crowd. Jack and the other Bittlesworth brothers followed in his wake. He located Gideon in the alcove and moved George’s hands to inspect her side.

“What have you done, sweeting?” he asked. “I see blood but this fabric isn’t rent. When did you get this wound?”

“This morning,” George said, sounding frustrated. “I thought it was bound properly, but…” She waved her hand at the offending blood.

“I’ll take her,” Robert said to Gideon. Jack saw her husband look at to her with a raised eyebrow and had to nod. If George wanted Robert then she didn’t have any compelling reason to say no. Gideon gently transferred George’s weight into Robert’s arms.

“Charlie,” Robert said. “Get my carriage. You two,” he said, addressing the Harringtons, “and Justin should go to the breakfast and keep Quince and Sabre from noticing so many of us absent.” He looked down on George, his expression softening a bit. “She’ll be fine. She’s tougher than she looks.”

It was difficult to leave George in Robert’s care, but Jack let Gideon and Justin lead her out to the waiting carriages.

Sabre hugged Jack as soon as she saw her. “Where’s George?”

“She resting.”

“I’ve saved places at the table for each of you. Justin!” She hugged her little half-brother. Sabre thought that if she were any more full of good cheer that she might explode from it. She even hugged Gideon. “Quince is over there talking to some lords. I’m sure he would appreciate it if you saved him.”

Gideon bowed to her. “Yes, your grace.”

Sabre giggled and wrapped her arm around Jack’s. “I find that I like your husband better and better.”

Jack quirked an eyebrow at her. “How much wine have you had to drink?”

“Champagne. Provided by your husband, I’ll have you know. And just a bit?” She held up two fingers barely separated to indicate the teeny tiny bit. Although, perhaps, it was quite a bit more than that.

Jack kissed her temple. “You are a beautiful bride, Sabre.”

“Am I?”

“Yes, your grace.”

Sabre giggled again. “I’ve done a terrible thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I only call Quince ‘your grace’ when I want to point out what an idiot he’s being.”

Jack chuckled. “You’ve ruined your own honorary title.”

“I’m afraid so. Did you see Quince at the church?” She sighed happily. “He’s so handsome.”

“Yes, and right now he’s taking on the duty of circulating to the guests by himself.”

“I’ve already done that once, but perhaps a few new people have arrived.” Sabre looked around and saw her brother. “Oh! Charlie!”

When she rushed toward him he picked her up and spun her in a hug. With the champagne her head was truly spinning by the time he set her down. “How is my beautiful little bird?”

“Dizzy! Lud, Charlie!”

He laughed. “Silly girl.”

“Silly duchess,” she corrected. “Where is Robert? I want to rub in the fact that I outrank him now.”

He laughed and put his arm around her shoulders. “He’ll be here soon, no doubt.”

She frowned. “Is he with George? She was calling for him.”

Charlie paused for a moment and then said, “Yes, he is. She wasn’t feeling well.”

“Are they… are they forming a tendre?”

Charlie laughed. “I have no idea. But I wouldn’t have thought so. At least, not before today.”

Sabre nodded. “Exactly. But, I suppose it’s possible.”

“Does that not meet with your approval, your grace?”

She poked him in the ribs. “You manage to say my honorary with even less respect than I do. But it is not for me to approve or disapprove. George will certainly do as she likes, regardless of my opinion.”

“True enough. Don’t look now, but I think a man is coming over here to bother you. If you like you can hide behind me. I’ll swear I haven’t seen you.”

Sabre looked up to see that the man approaching them was Quince. She happily stepped forward into his embrace.

“Hullo, love,” he murmured into her hair. “I missed you.”

She giggled. “I was only across the room.”

“Too far away, I assure you.” He kissed her briefly on the lips.

“You are scandalous, sir!” she admonished.

“You have no idea what I might be capable of. Shall we sit down to eat? It seems most of the guests are here now.”

“Yes, although I was hoping George would be here.” Sabre frowned. “Terrible of her to show up for an hour and then disappear.”

“I’m sure she’ll be along.”

George did appear within a quarter hour of the breakfast being served. She sat down in her assigned place a bit delicately. Sabre leaned out to look past Jack and Gideon to her. “Are you feeling better?”

George nodded, a bit pale but seeming in good spirits. Sabre still sensed something amiss, despite her friend’s assurances. Something in George’s posture, in her eyes. Whatever it was, she would soon worm out the answer. She’d always been able to get to the bottom of things. She always, as she had proved again today, gained what she wanted.

Sabre smiled up at her husband. “Now,” she said, “everything is perfect.”

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Thanks for reading Athena’s Ordeal!

I'm a bit of history nerd, even though I insist that this sort of book is history fantasy and plenty of it is just made up. But when I can look up a bit of history to include it gives me a special thrill. What's entertaining to me is that the pieces of history Quince and Sabre wanted to look at were completely different than Jack and Gideon's interests. Remember all that political historical context? Not so much for these guys.

One of the first things that Sabre wanted to know was some place to eat. And I thought it would be neat if I could identify places that she could eat then and we could eat now. Fortunately, in 1815 there was the Epicure's Almanac (the first comprehensive list of London eateries) and in 2012 The Guardian identified places that were still open. Believe it or not. (I always was a lucky duck) Check it out at http://www.theguardian.com/travel/2012/aug/20/london-historic-food-drink-bars. So we (that means Sabre, Jack, and myself) selected the "George and Vulture" and "Twinings" to feature in the story. Since I've never been to either place, especially in 1815, all details are completely made up. If you go to the G&V looking for a private room they may not have one. But I certainly think it would be fun to look. Report back to me (@cmdrsue) if you find out!

Quince, on the other hand, made sure that I was much clearer on the art and poetry of the day. Although it doesn't figure strongly in the plot I can assure you that he educated me on Romanticism. I think that he most likely exchanged letters with Keats, procured the 1814 copy of Shelley's Queen Mab, and collected Friedrich from the beginning. With his love of poetry you can rest assured that he hates, hates his reading disability. (He doesn’t like to talk about it so I’m not even clear on exactly what the problem is yet. I assume at some point he will tell me.) He also bears a striking resemblance to the Romantic artist Turner, a fact I discovered shortly before this book went to press. It's a little odd to stumble across an almost exact portrait of how you envisioned your character. You can see it at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Turner_selfportrait.jpg.

They both, of course, had me read about fencing until my eyeballs were ready to fall out. They are concerned that I still don’t get it. And it turned out that they had a shared affection for theatre, especially Shakespeare. We’ll just say they kept me on my toes.

Oh! And if you love perfumes, you can frequent Floris London, just like Sabre. It's been a perfumery since 1790. Still family managed and you can get a customized fragrance for a terribly reasonable price. They are online at http://www.florislondon.com.

Thanks for reading!

MORE IN THIS SERIES

The Haberdashers

Trials of Artemis

Athena’s Ordeal

Fates for Apate

Saving Persephone

Taming Chiron (coming soon)

ABOUT SUE LONDON

SUE LONDON began writing short stories about horses and teen sleuths when she was seven years old. After that she traveled to distant worlds, fought with swords and sorcerers, and played with a few undead things. As you might have expected, this means she went into accountancy. Well, maybe that was an odd plot twist, but “that’s the difference between real life and fiction – fiction has to make sense.”

In her twenties she developed a deep affection for romance, especially enjoying the works of Nora Roberts, Mary Balogh and, most recently, Rose Gordon, Courtney Milan, Lauren Royal, Danelle Harmon, and Diane Farr. You can thank those authors for leading a sci-fi tomboy into writing historical romances set in the Regency period.

Keep up with Sue and the Haberdashers on these websites:

Haberdashers on Twitter: http://twitter.com/haberdashersfic

Haberdashers website: http://haberdashersfic.blogspot.com

Haberdashers Club (email list): http://eepurl.com/Bicsb

Sue on Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/CmdrSue

Sue on Twitter: http://twitter.com/cmdrsue

For more on Sue you can check out her Sueniverse or be her fan on Facebook. You can also catch up on all her interviews at http://bysuelondon.blogspot.com/p/interviews.html.

If you would like to report issues in this version of Athena’s Ordeal, or in any books from Graythorn Publishing, please drop us a line at publishing@graythorn.com.

THE EARL’S SCANDALOUS WIFE

Ruth Ann Nordin

To everyone who wanted to see Perry find his happily ever after.

ONE

September 1815

“No, I can’t,” Miss Paula Leighton protested. She shook her head, her fists clenched at her sides. “I won’t do it, Stewart!”

Her brother glanced at the closed door and gestured for her to lower her voice. “I won’t have you drawing undue attention to this conversation.”

“I don’t care if the servants overhear. You have no right to do this.”

With a groan, he leaned back in the chair and set the quill down on the writing desk. “You should be glad anyone’s willing to marry you at all.”

She gritted her teeth and turned from him. Had she known that Lord Holloway was going to desert her on the way to Gretna Green, she never would have accepted his hasty proposal. Her fingernails dug into the palms of her hands. It didn’t matter now. Lord Holloway was in her past. She’d never have to deal with him ever again.

She moved aside the curtain in the drawing room and glanced at the fog that hovered over the London streets. The chill from the light rain only added to the gloomy evening. An evening that fit this discussion far too well.

“Paula.”

She sighed and reluctantly turned to face him.

Stewart stood up and walked over to her. “It really isn’t that bad. The Duke of Leavenshire—”

“Is a drunken old fool.”

“Who needs a wife to give him an heir.”

She forced back the bile that rose up in her throat. “I will never have someone as disgusting as him in my bed. I’ll become another man’s mistress first. You hear that?” She pointed her finger at her brother. “Then I’ll be of no worth to any of the revolting gentlemen you associate with.”

“Those revolting gentlemen happen to have a lot of money.”

“I don’t care how much they’re worth! I am not a commodity to be sold at your convenience. I will not marry him, and there’s nothing you can do to make me.”

She lifted her skirt and fled out of the room before he could say anything else. Didn’t her brother have enough money already? Why must he always be holding out his hand for more? Of all the things he’d done, she never thought he’d try to sell her in a gambling hell. She had a mind to run away. If only she had somewhere that she could go!

When she made it to her room, she slammed the door and leaned against it, relieved her tears didn’t fall until she was alone. She hated this. She was nothing but a pawn. She had no control over her future. Everything depended on what the gentlemen wanted to do with her. Even if there was a good chance the duke would be dead in ten years, she just couldn’t bring herself to be with him.

Wiping her tears away, she stumbled to the chair in front of her vanity and collapsed in it. Surely, there was something she could do. No situation was so hopeless that there wasn’t a way out. Taking a deep breath, she struggled to regain her composure. She wouldn’t marry the duke. In fact, her brother wouldn’t choose her husband. She would.

Her determination quickly replaced her fear. She wiped the rest of her tears away and took a deep breath. No good would come from panicking. What she needed was a plan. Swallowing, she turned her attention to removing the pins from her dark brown hair so it fell down her back in gentle waves. Her hazel eyes stared back at her, still brimming with tears.

While she brushed her hair, she thought over her options, as limited as those were, and finally came to the conclusion that there was only one way to secure her future. And that was to trap the gentleman of her choice into marriage.

“May this be the night you find your bride,” Mister Christopher Robinson sang out.

Perry Ambrose, the Earl of Clement, looked up from the ledger in time to see his cousin enter the drawing room. He then proceeded to plop down in the seat across from him and put his feet up on his desk. With a sigh, Perry reached over and shoved his feet off.

“I don’t believe it,” Christopher said, sounding appropriately shocked. “I come here to spread good cheer, and you treat me as if I’m bothering you.”

Perry turned his attention back to balancing his funds. “You are bothering me.” He ran his finger across the rows where the steward had written down the payment for the servants’ wages. It was strange not to be giving Christopher any more funds. The ledger just didn’t look the same.

Christopher let out a loud groan and leaned forward. “Haven’t you heard a single thing I’ve said?”

“Yes,” he replied as he made sure each servant got the correct amount due to them. “You think this will be the evening that I’ll find a bride.”

“I said more than that.” Leaning back in his chair, he threw his head back. “Why do I even try? You obviously don’t want to get married.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then why aren’t you married yet?” Before Perry could open his mouth, he added, “Don’t tell me it’s because of your cane. No one cares about that blasted cane except for you.”

“That’s not true.” Irritated, he slammed the ledger shut.

“Sure, it is. You blame it for everything. You really should have been more upset when Agatha’s sister eloped with another gentleman.”

“I’m not going to get upset with Agatha’s sister. That wouldn’t accomplish anything. What’s done is done.” He gathered the ledger and rose to his feet. “I have to get ready for the ball.”

“Oh good. Then you haven’t given up on finding a wife.”

“Nate’s going to be there.”

He grimaced. “What other possible chess maneuvers can you and Lord Ironfist debate for hours?”

“His name is Nate,” he corrected, “and I do more than talk about chess.”

“Oh, that’s right. You also talk about laws and wars.” He made a big show of gagging.

“Well, it’s much better than the kind of things you and Lord Edon talk about.”

“His name is Ethan,” Christopher pointed out and put his feet back up on the desk. “And he has some good ideas that even you could benefit from. For example, he thinks you should create a scandal. Then a lady will have to marry you.”

“He would recommend something like that.” He poked Christopher’s legs with his cane. “Get your feet off my desk.”

“I’m not doing any harm to it.”

“Your heels scuff up the surface, and,” he pointedly added while his cane tapped the inkwell close by, “I always worry you’ll knock that over again.”

“What’s so special about an inkwell? You have them all over the house. If I got careless, you could replace it.”

“No, I can’t. That one was a gift from Nate and Claire.”

“Well, if it’s from Claire, I’ll be happy to ensure no harm comes to it.” He set his feet back on the floor and leaned over to inspect it. “Are you aware there’s a nick on the corner here?” He ran his thumb along the edge of the base.

“It happened right after I got it. You came storming in here one morning while I was about to dip the quill into the ink and spouted off something about some lady’s baby not being yours no matter what anyone said. In my state of shock, I knocked it to the floor.”

Christopher threw back his head and laughed. “I forgot all about that prank.”

“It wasn’t funny.”

“Oh, it was hilarious. I thought you were going to faint. I almost called for the butler to bring in the smelling salts.”

“I don’t think your wife would think that was funny if you’d done that to her.”

He waved his hand in a dismissive manner. “I made that up before I met her.”

Grunting, Perry nudged his cousin in the leg again, this time using a bit more force. “I’m not amused, Christopher. Even now, I find it lacking in good taste.”

He had hoped Christopher would put aside such nonsense when he married Agatha. Agatha was, after all, very much a lady—dignified and proper in every way. What she saw in Christopher, Perry would never understand.

“You know what you need?” Christopher asked as he headed over to him.

“I need you to start taking life seriously.”

“No. That would be boring for everyone, especially you. What you need is to laugh more. There’s nothing wrong with taking a moment to see the humor in a situation. Really,” he pointed to the ledger in Perry’s hand, “life is more than tallying up numbers.”

“I’m making sure my financial house is in order.”

“And while that is commendable,” he began with a mock yawn, “it’s boring. You need to have fun. Enjoy life. Embrace the moment while you have it. Stop watching life pass you by. Get out there and make it happen.”

“Your way of having fun has required me to scramble funds together to get you out of trouble. And this,” he held up the ledger, “was very much needed in order to make sure I had the money to pay off gentlemen so they wouldn’t hunt you down in the country and demand a duel.”

“Granted, I might have upset a couple of them—”

“Might have?”

“All I did was tell them the truth. It’s not my problem they couldn’t handle it.”

“Telling someone his wife looks like something that’s been vomited up on the beach is not appropriate,” Perry said, thinking of the gentleman’s wife. “No matter how true it is. I hope you remember that there’s a way to be tactful, and even better, there are some things you should never say.”

“He provoked me.”

“What he did was irrelevant.”

“Unlike you, I don’t just sit by and let other people get away with insulting my friends.”

“There’s a way to defend your friends without resorting to insults.”

Christopher shrugged but said, “As much as I enjoy these little lectures, that’s not why I came over here.”

“Oh?”

“I am here on your behalf. You need a wife, and the sooner you get one, the sooner you will have something better to do than to go over that ledger or play chess or talk of war and laws. Which brings me to my earlier statement. Ethan’s right. You need to create a scandal. It’s the only way you’re going to get married.”

He grimaced. “You are not to talk to Ethan about me. At all!”

“Don’t be upset. It’s not like he actually cares about your boring life or anything.”

Perry rubbed his forehead. If anyone could give him a headache, it was Christopher.

“It’s not hard to create a scandal. All you need to do is find a lady you like and kiss her. But do it in public where everyone else can see.” Perry shook his head and opened his mouth to protest but he quickly added, “If kissing a lady makes you nervous, then hug her or touch her inappropriately. Brush your hand over her breast. That’ll do it. Plus, you’ll like the experience.”

“It’s time for you to go.”

Christopher followed him as he headed for the door. Thankfully, his cousin had the foresight to close the door so none of the servants overheard them. Not that the servants hadn’t heard some scandalous things while Christopher was living there, but Perry really didn’t care to expose them to more. Christopher made it to the door first and jumped in front of it. How Perry wished that he didn’t need a cane to walk. All it ever did was slow him down when he wanted to get away from his cousin.

“Before you reject the idea,” Christopher began, “at least consider it. You’ve been trying to get a wife for how long? Four…five…years? And each Season is worse than the one before. Do you know what people are saying? They’re calling you ‘The Earl Who Can’t Find a Wife’. This is the year you can prove them wrong.”

Despite what his cousin thought, Perry was very much aware that some people called him that, but he refused to let it bother him. Most of those busybodies were miserable in their marriages. “It’s better to be alone than to have to seek happiness outside the marital bed. Now, move aside so I can put this ledger where it belongs.”

“Find a lady you like and create a scandal with her. I’m telling you, Perry, there’s nothing wrong with taking control of your destiny instead of letting life just happen to you.”

“Will you please move?” Perry stared at him, unwilling to break eye contact. He forced his jaw to relax. “Now,” he added when Christopher didn’t budge.

After a moment, Christopher stepped to the side.

“Feel free to see yourself out,” Perry said as he limped out of the drawing room.

“At this rate, I’ll never leave London,” his cousin muttered.

Though Perry had no idea what he meant, he figured he was better off not knowing. Instead, he climbed the stairs, aware that Christopher left the townhouse. There was no denying how quiet it was now that his cousin was married. Sometimes, especially at times like this, he enjoyed the silence. He didn’t need to be reminded that every attempt he made at finding a wife had failed, and it irritated him to no end that Christopher felt the need to keep bringing it up.

It wasn’t like Christopher was personally involved in seeing to it that he married. Christopher had his own life to live, and now that Perry was no longer his guardian, Christopher didn’t need him around. One day Christopher would inherit his title. Why he couldn’t be content with that, Perry didn’t know.

But there were times when Perry would be lying if he didn’t admit that what he wanted most was to have a wife—someone who would be his other half, someone who would complete him.

TWO

Paula listened carefully to the two gentlemen talking on the street below her bedchamber window. Since she spent most of her time in her room, she made it a habit of opening the window and listening as people passed by.

Sometimes she could make out parts of their conversation, and in this instance, one of the gentlemen had a loud enough voice that it was easy to hear what he was saying, something she was grateful for on this particular day. There was a ball that night at Toplyn Hall.

Her brother never told her where he was going, but after lunch, he had asked his valet to have his best outfit ready for the evening. She bet he was going to the ball. And she further guessed he was going in hopes of finding a wealthy lady. God help the lady who married him.

Well, that wasn’t her problem. Her problem was getting out of the horrible marriage to the Duke of Leavenshire, and in order to do that, she needed to find another gentleman to marry. As it was, she wasn’t going to find anyone unless she got out of the townhouse. Up to now, her brother had insisted on keeping her home. Probably because he worried she’d run away. But she wasn’t stupid. There was nowhere she could go without the protection of a gentleman who would stand between her and her brother. It was a gentleman’s world and ladies had to abide by their rules. And she could abide by their rules…as long as she found a loophole.

She closed her window and slipped out of her bedchamber. This time of day her brother would either be in the drawing room or in his bedchamber. Hopefully, it’d be the drawing room. She wouldn’t get a chance to talk to him otherwise.

By the time she reached the drawing room, she heard two distinct male voices. Before the gentlemen saw her, she pressed her back to the wall in the corridor, glancing around to make sure none of the servants were in sight. Good. No one saw her. She turned her ear to the closed door.

“You don’t need to convince me that this will be a suitable match,” the Duke of Leavenshire said. “I already told you her past is of no consequence to me.”

“I’m just glad her activities didn’t result in a bastard,” her brother replied over the sound of the decanter being placed on a tray. “Had the gentleman she’d been dallying with been a loudmouth, her reputation would have been ruined.”

“A gentleman is expected to engage in such pursuits with a lady.”

“Yes, but that lady should not have been my sister.”

Paula rolled her eyes at her brother’s bitter tone. Such sentiment never bothered him when he found other gentlemen’s sisters to take to bed.

“I have no use for a timid virgin,” the duke said. “Having to ease her into the whole process of getting with child… It’s better just to get it over with.”

“I couldn’t agree more. Who needs the hassle? There’s nothing worse than a lady who insists on getting pleasure from the act. Their bodies are such a mystery. It’s too much work if you ask me.”

The two gentlemen laughed and she rolled her eyes.

“The funds will be in your possession after the banns are read,” the duke said.

“I believe there is nothing else to work out. She’ll be your wife by the end of next month. She’s looking forward to it.”

“I don’t care if she’s looking forward to it or not. I just want to get a legitimate son.”

“I’m sure you’ll have no trouble getting one.”

That might be true, but Paula wasn’t going to be the one who gave him an heir. It’d have to be someone else. When she heard footsteps approach the door, she hurried to another room and slipped into it. Her brother walked the duke to the front door, and if she judged right by the obnoxious boom in the duke’s voice, the gentleman was almost drunk. She shivered. There was no way she could bear to be in the same bed with him, let alone marry him.

After he left, she waited for a couple minutes after her brother returned to the drawing room before she slipped out of her haven. She took a deep breath and strengthened her resolve. It wasn’t a question of “if” she had to do this. It was a question of “how”.

Releasing her breath, she clasped her hands behind her back and strode into the room, feigning the confidence she didn’t feel.

He glanced up from the letter he was writing. “Your timing is horrible, Paula. You just missed your betrothed.”

No doubt he expected her to grimace. Well, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. She sat in front of his desk and folded her hands in her lap. “I’ve been in London since April but have not been to one ball.” Yes, that was a good way to begin.

“I couldn’t exactly trust you around all those gentlemen now, could I?” he asked with a slight smirk.

“It was just one gentleman, Stewart.”

“Yes, and I am forever grateful you didn’t bring a child into the world because of it.”

Ignoring his remark, she said, “I haven’t had a Season, nor have I left the townhouse without you by my side. I want one evening at a ball to enjoy myself before I’m locked away forever in the Duke of Leavenshire’s estate to be nothing more than a brood mare.” The last part she hadn’t intended, but the words slipped out and with them so did the disgust in her voice.

“This is a fate you brought upon yourself. No one told you to let Lord Holloway—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” she snapped. “I’ve paid for my sin three times over. You think a child would have been the worst thing that could have happened to me?” The following years of loneliness and nights of endless crying had been much worse, but he wouldn’t understand that. “All I want is one evening at a ball. I’ve never been to one.”

“You always did have an adventurous spirit.” He leaned back in his chair and studied her for several moments. Finally, he nodded. “All right. Since you’re willing to marry the duke, I’ll grant you your request.”

“Then I’ll get ready for the ball.”

“Wait,” he protested as she stood up. “You mean tonight’s ball?”

“Tonight is as good a time as any.”

“But how did you know there’s a ball tonight? I never told you.”

“Because two gentlemen were talking beneath my window. Just because you keep me here like a trapped animal, it doesn’t mean I don’t pay attention to what others say as they pass by this townhouse.”

He looked as if he was going to throw out some clever retort but then changed his mind. “Very well. Get ready for tonight’s ball. But that’s the only one I’ll let you attend. After this, you are to be the dutiful and quiet wife to the duke. Understood?”

“I understand,” she forced out in a pleasant tone.

“Good. We leave in three hours. Don’t keep me waiting.”

“I won’t.”

Relieved, she left the room.

Christopher groaned and leaned his head against the seat of the carriage. “You can’t be serious.”

Agatha crossed her arms. “I am serious. We aren’t going to our estate until you find your cousin a wife.”

“I’ve been looking for a suitable lady and there’s no one. No one!” He threw up his hands in despair. Why couldn’t she let the matter go? At least for this year. “We should try again next year. There’s bound to be a better selection of ladies to choose from then.”

“You haven’t been diligent in your search.”

“I haven’t been diligent? I’ve been asking everyone if there’s a lady who’d be willing to marry Lord Clement, but they all say no.”

“You can’t ask only three people and expect to find her.”

“It wasn’t three. It was five.” When he saw her eyes grow wide, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and gave her a light squeeze. “I’m teasing. I asked more than five. It was ten. Maybe even twelve.”

“This isn’t amusing, Christopher,” she admonished as he kissed her neck. “We won’t be leaving London until Perry has a wife.”

“And she has to be young, attractive, kind, and overlook his boring tendencies?”

“Of course.”

“You are difficult to please. Do you know how hard such a lady is to find, especially one who doesn’t mind being bored?”

She sighed. “Perry isn’t boring. I don’t want to hear anything else about him being boring. Now, I want you to help me seek out a suitable lady for him tonight. Ask every gentleman there if he has a sister or daughter who is looking for a husband.” She adjusted her gloves. “You know how much I hate going to balls.”

“Which is why we should have stayed home.” He kissed her and wiggled his eyebrows. “We could have a lot more fun there.”

“We’ll have fun later. Right now, we need to work.” After a moment, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. “I promise I’ll make it worth your while if you find him a wife tonight.”

“All right.” What he wouldn’t do for his wife. “I promise you that before the night is over, Perry will secure a betrothal that the lady in question won’t be able to get out of.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“I’m not sure yet, but I’ll find a way to make it happen.” He tapped her nose in a playful fashion. “I secured a marriage to you, and I’ll do it again for my cousin. Tonight, I get him a wife and tomorrow we head out to our country estate where we’ll get to enjoy each other without the distractions of other people.”

The carriage came to a stop and he glanced out the window where Lord Roderick was hosting the ball. He guessed Lord Roderick felt the need to host it because his wife insisted on it. He couldn’t blame Claire. If he was her, he’d do everything he could to avoid being alone with him, too. What the poor lady went through when she was with him.

The footman opened the carriage door and he waited for Agatha to get out before leaving it. Somewhere at this ball, Perry’s future wife was waiting. The trick was finding her. And he would make sure he found her before the night was over.

Paula examined the gentlemen at the ball. Tonight. This would be the night she’d find someone to marry. But she wanted someone who’d make a good husband, something that was hard to determine just by dancing with them. She scanned the room and found her brother who was preoccupied with a lady he was doing his best to win over. If the lady was smart, she’d run away from him as fast as her slippered feet could carry her.

Paula strolled around the ballroom. There had to be someone—anyone—who’d be a decent husband. Just one.

“Are you looking for someone?”

She turned her attention to the gentleman who approached her. He was young. Perhaps he wasn’t married yet. She cleared her throat and offered what she hoped was an attractive smile. “No one in particular.”

He glanced around the room. “Shouldn’t you have a chaperone?”

“Oh, I do. She’s over there.” Granted, “she” was really a “he” and “he” was her brother, but she felt no need to direct the gentleman’s attention to her brother.

“Well, let me take this opportunity to introduce myself. I’m Mister Robinson,” he said with a bow.

She smiled and curtsied. “Miss Leighton.” She noted the spark of interest in his eyes and hoped this would be the one who’d save her from marrying the Duke of Leavenshire.

The music got ready to begin so he extended his hand and asked if she’d join him on the ballroom floor. She agreed and they began the dance.

“I don’t recognize you,” he said. “Is this your first Season?”

“Yes, but I haven’t been to many balls,” she replied. Actually, she hadn’t been to any but there was no need to tell him that.

“Ah, that explains why I don’t recognize you. I go to as many balls as I can.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I love dancing and talking to people. Though tonight, I’m on a mission of sorts.”

“And what would that be?”

He gestured behind her, so she glanced over her shoulder where two gentlemen talked. “I’m trying to find my cousin—the one with the cane—a wife. You said you were Miss Leighton, as in you have no husband?”

She paused for a moment to study the gentleman who leaned on his cane. Dark brown hair, broad shoulders, a nice smile.

“He’s the Earl of Clement,” Mister Robinson continued. “I can’t promise he’ll keep you captivated by stories of his interesting life because his life is really far from interesting. However, I can promise you that he’ll be faithful and treat you with the utmost respect.”

“Why isn’t he already married?” she asked.

“He blames his cane.”

“That’s ridiculous. There’s nothing wrong with a gentleman who has a cane.”

“That’s what I keep telling him, but he’s adamant that being born with one leg a mere inch shorter than the other is enough to make ladies run away from him in absolute fright.”

She chuckled at his joke. “Is that all that’s wrong with him?”

“He’s also boring. I did mention that, didn’t I?”

“Yes.” She glanced at Lord Clement again. His friend laughed at something he said. “He doesn’t seem boring. That gentleman talking to him is laughing.”

“Oh, Lord Roderick. He’s equally boring, I’m afraid. The two can put an entire room of ladies to sleep, but if you have a tendency to daydream, you can smile at him and think of whatever you want while he rambles. I’ve done it many times in the past, and he never caught on that I was only pretending to pay attention to him.”

“Is there anything else wrong with him?” So far, he sounded very wonderful, especially compared to the Duke of Leavenshire.

Mister Robinson thought over it and nodded. “No, that’s the worst of it.”

She bit her lower lip and considered her options. She needed to secure a marriage, and she needed to secure one tonight. Surely, a gentleman of Lord Clement’s standing had ladies lined up to marry him. She didn’t have the luxury of waiting for him to court her and propose marriage, not when she would have to contend with others who were interested. And right now, he was her only prospect.

Turning back to Mister Robinson, she asked, “And what about you? Are you looking for a wife?”

“I’m already married to that gorgeous lady over there.”

She followed the direction he indicated and saw a beautiful lady who was talking to a couple of other ladies. She then turned her attention back to Lord Clement. If she couldn’t have Mister Robinson who had seemed quite amiable, then she supposed she better go with Lord Clement. “Will you introduce me?”

“I’d be happy to.”

When the dance ended, he led her over to his cousin who was insisting his friend use some type of maneuver on the chessboard. Had she played chess, she would have understood why his friend commented that it was a wise move, but as it was, she knew nothing about the game so had to settle for a polite smile as Mister Robinson cleared his throat.

The two turned toward her, but her eyes settled on Lord Clement. He had deep blue eyes that hinted at enthusiasm for life, something the Duke of Leavenshire lacked, something her mother had told her was very important in a gentleman. If her mother was still alive, she’d never allow her brother to pawn her off on someone as awful as the duke.

But that was not going to even be an issue now that she was going to marry Lord Clement. All she had to do was figure out a way to become engaged to him. What scandalous activity could she do?

“I thought you left London with your wife yesterday,” Lord Clement told Mister Robinson.

“Yes, well, we delayed going there,” Mister Robinson replied. “I have something I need to do first. Speaking of which, I’d like to introduce you to...” He smiled. “Forgive me, but what was your name again?”

“Miss Leighton,” she replied, her heart pounding in her chest.

“This is Miss Leighton. Miss Leighton, this is my cousin Lord Clement and his only friend in the world Lord Roderick.” Glancing at Lord Clement, he chuckled. “I’m only kidding, of course.” Turning back to her, he shook his head in a way that indicated Lord Roderick really was Lord Clement’s only friend.

She bit her lower lip so she wouldn’t laugh. Mister Robinson had a splendid sense of humor. Since Lord Clement was his cousin, perhaps he was the same way.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Lord Clement said with a bow, Lord Roderick following the same sentiment with a bow of his own.

“Perhaps you’d like to become wild and toss aside that cane of yours so you can share a dance with her,” Mister Robinson told his cousin.

“I’d like to dance,” she offered, her desperation prompting her to be bolder than she knew she should be.

“Oh,” Lord Clement glanced at his cane, “I can’t.”

“Won’t dance,” Mister Robinson corrected.

“Can’t. One leg is shorter than the other.”

“By a mere inch. They make shoes that enable him to walk evenly without a cane.”

“I walk just fine.”

“Which is why he insists on having a cane.”

She watched as Lord Clement sighed in exasperation at the way Mister Robinson teased him. Hoping to ease things for Lord Clement, she said, “I think a cane is quite distinguished.”

“You do?” Mister Robinson asked, not hiding his surprise.

“Yes, I do.” She looked at Lord Clement. “If you’re not comfortable dancing, perhaps you’d like to talk?” She swallowed the lump in her throat.

“There you go,” Mister Robinson told Lord Clement. “You can talk. All you need to do is open your mouth and words come out.”

She bit her tongue so she wouldn’t laugh at Mister Robinson’s joke.

Lord Roderick groaned. “Mister Robinson, have you nowhere else you can be?”

“I brought over a lady to talk to my cousin. That is a lot more than you’re doing for him,” Mister Robinson replied with a huff.

“That’s enough,” Lord Clement said before Lord Roderick could respond. “Miss Leighton, I’d be happy to talk to you. Where’s your chaperone so we can do so?”

Her chaperone? She scanned the ballroom and saw her brother who was dancing with a lady. Turning to Mister Robinson, she asked, “I don’t suppose your wife would care to chaperone?”

“I suppose I can track her down. I’ll return shortly.”

As he stepped away, she excused herself from Lord Clement and hurried after Mister Robinson and stopped him. “You’ll think my request an odd one,” she said in a low voice so no one could overhear her, “but I am in dire need of a husband. Can you send your cousin outside where I’ll be waiting for him?”

His eyebrows rose in interest. “Do you mean to create a scandal?”

“Well…” How much did she dare tell him? Would he even agree?

“Why Miss Leighton,” he grinned, “I think you’re just the kind of lady my stuffy cousin needs. Find your way to the veranda, and I’ll have my cousin go out there alone. Then my wife and I will stumble upon you two. Does that work?”

Taking a deep breath to settle her nerves, she nodded. “Thank you.”

THREE

Paula couldn’t believe she was doing this. She swallowed and took a deep breath to help calm her pounding heart. The veranda was blessedly quiet since everyone was in the ballroom. It gave her a moment to compose herself. She had to create a scandal. Lord Clement might not be happy about it. All right, he definitely wouldn’t be happy about it. If she was lucky, he wouldn’t scream at her. Well, he wouldn’t scream, at least not in front of all the people. And maybe by the time they got married, he would calm down to the point where he wouldn’t scream when they were alone.

She closed her eyes and steeled her resolve. She could do this. All she needed to do was kiss him when Mister Robinson and his wife came out onto the veranda. That was simple enough. Releasing her breath, she opened her eyes and looked up at the evening sky. She always enjoyed watching the twinkling stars and seeing the way the moon changed each night.

But tonight, she had more pressing matters to tend to. Once her nerves were settled enough, she edged behind a thick column and peered around it.

A minute later, Mister Robinson opened the door and gestured for Lord Clement to step outside. “I told you no one is out here,” Mister Robinson said. “I will go inside and my wife and I will find Miss Leighton. Then we can all talk.”

Lord Clement hesitated on the threshold of the doorway. “I don’t know. Maybe we should all come out here together.”

“What’s the need? As you can see, no one is out here.”

He tapped the golden tip of his cane and sighed. “I suppose you’re right. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“Miss Leighton won’t show up,” Mister Robinson replied, chuckling at his joke.

“I’m not amused.”

He cleared his throat. “Of course not. Nothing amuses you.” As Lord Clement stepped onto the veranda, Mister Robinson added, “If anyone needs a lady who doesn’t take life so seriously, it’s you. It’s the only way you’ll learn to enjoy life.”

“I enjoy life just fine.”

“Playing chess and discussing politics aren’t enjoyable.”

“That depends on who you ask.”

Rolling his eyes, Mister Robinson shut the door, leaving Lord Clement alone. Paula gripped the column and watched as Lord Clement settled onto a bench just mere feet from her. If she was going to do this, it was best to do it now.

Lord Clement jerked and turned toward her as she approached him. “Miss Leighton? I didn’t see you out here.” He rose to his feet. “We must get back inside before someone sees us.”

Her heartbeat picked up as she closed the gap between them. “No one knows we’re out here.” In a bold move, she took his cane, slipped her arm around his, and urged him to sit. From the position she chose, she had a clear view of the door but he didn’t. Good. With a smile, she set his cane on the other side of her so it wasn’t in his reach and clasped her hands around his. “Your cousin, Mister Robinson, was telling me that you’re a very kind gentleman.”

“Oh, well, that was nice of him.” He made a move to grab his cane but she shifted to block him, and in doing so her breast brushed against his hand. Pulling back from her as if he’d just touched fire, his face grew bright red. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t,” he motioned to her breast, “mean to…you know.”

“I know,” she quickly assured him, surprised he should be so flustered. Weren’t gentlemen supposed to try to touch a lady’s breast when they were alone with them? “It was an accident. I understand.” Holding onto his arm, she continued, “I wanted to get a chance to talk to you. Without any interruptions. I thought I might learn more about you that way.”

He cleared his throat and scooted away from her, but she quickly scooted along with him. He let out an uneasy laugh. “We can talk at Hyde Park. While we would need a chaperone, we could ride horses further ahead. That way we’d have a private conversation while not risking anything scandalous, like we are now.”

Before he could turn his head to the door, she cupped the side of his face in her hand and turned it back in her direction. “You worry too much.”

“My cousin will be out here any minute.”

“But he told me he’ll be at least five minutes. That leaves us a little time to talk.”

“I’m really not comfortable—”

“Like I said, you worry too much. Now, tell me all about yourself.”

He stopped struggling to get away from her for a moment and stared at her. “What?”

“What do you like to do? What are your favorite things?” When he didn’t answer her, she asked, “What’s your favorite color?”

“My favorite color?”

“I’m partial to purple myself. Now, tell me, what color do you like most?”

“Um, red, I suppose.”

“You suppose?”

“I also like blue a lot.”

“What a wonderful combination,” she said, snuggling closer to him as she gathered the courage to kiss him. “Red is passionate and exciting while blue is loyal and friendly. I bet you’re a loyal friend who has a passionate and exciting streak hidden beneath the surface. Am I right?”

“I never thought about it before.”

“I bet it’s true about you.” She took a deep breath. “I think we could be well matched.”

“You can’t tell that by learning what colors I like.”

She noticed that though he protested, he wasn’t trying to get away from her. Either he’d given up and was hoping she’d release him or he realized he wanted to be close to her. She hoped he wanted to be close to her. There was something unbelievably sweet and charming about him that made her want to spend more time with him.

She glanced at the door and saw it open. Mister Robinson stuck his head out and gave her a nod. Taking that as her cue, she leaned forward and kissed Lord Clement. He stiffened but didn’t push her away, probably due to shock. In fact, he didn’t even respond, so it was up to her to make it look good. She wrapped her arms around his neck and continued kissing him. Just when she thought he was starting to warm up to her, someone gasped.

Lord Clement stiffened once more and looked behind him. She followed his gaze and saw an amused Mister Robinson with his shocked wife.

“I don’t believe what I’m seeing,” Mister Robinson said, placing his hands behind his back. “Can you believe this, my dear?” he asked his wife who seemed to be at a loss for words. He turned back to his cousin and his grin widened. “Good for you. You’re finally guaranteed a wife!”

“But this is a scandal,” his wife blurted out.

“Exactly! Imagine my pristine cousin being caught out in the open engaging in such atrocious behavior. I, for one, am so proud of you. Congratulations, Perry. You’re human after all.”

His wife turned to Mister Robinson, hands on her hips. “Was this your doing?”

He placed a hand to his heart, his jaw dropped. “Agatha, I am hurt, truly I am. I had nothing to do with this. This charming and witty lady came up with that kiss all by herself.”

Paula’s face flushed and she lowered her gaze, unable to make eye contact with any of them.

“No, it wasn’t her,” Perry said, reaching around her and retrieving his cane. Rising to his feet, he added, “It was me. She’s innocent. I-I took advantage of her.”

At that, Mister Robinson burst out laughing. “No one will believe you’re clever enough to lure an innocent out here to kiss.”

“Christopher,” Agatha warned through gritted teeth.

“I like her,” he told Agatha, pointing to Paula. “She’s exactly the kind of wife my cousin needs. Finally, there will be some excitement in his boring world. Now going to his dinner parties will be something we can both look forward to.”

Her face grew pale as she glanced at Perry. “We have always enjoyed your dinner parties. Christopher doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

Christopher rolled his eyes and said in a low, monotonous voice. “Lord Roderick, I discovered a new chess maneuver today as I twiddled my thumbs in the library, waiting for dinner. Care to hear it?” He pinched his nose and continued, “Of course, I do, Lord Clement. Playing that dull game is the only thing that interests me. Well, besides giving that no-good Christopher grief.” Then he let out an evil laugh.

Agatha groaned. “This is what I get for not taking you out to the country when you wanted.” She walked over to Perry and Paula. “Please forgive my husband. He hasn’t gotten enough sleep and thinks everything he says is funny.”

“I don’t get enough sleep because you keep me up all night, my dear.”

She closed her eyes for a moment then shook her head before opening them. With a smile, she continued, “I’m sure this wasn’t what it looked like. No one needs to know about this.”

Christopher snorted. “If we do that, he’ll never make it to the altar. I’m telling everyone what I saw.”

“Christopher,” Agatha admonished, but he was already in the ballroom. With a sigh, she lowered her voice and told Perry, “I think he’s afraid that what happened with my sister will happen again.”

Paula studied Perry then Agatha, wondering what they were talking about.

“Why does he delight so much in scandals?” Perry muttered under his breath.

“Boredom,” Agatha quickly answered then laughed. “He bores so easily.”

Paula’s eyebrows furrowed. She sensed that Agatha was covering something up. Perhaps Agatha knew Christopher had allowed her to be out here on the veranda alone with Perry and didn’t want Perry to find out?

“I suppose there’s no stopping him,” Perry said and looked at Paula. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Paula asked. Was he sorry he was stuck marrying her?

“You did nothing wrong,” Perry told her then offered Agatha an apologetic smile. “I admit that acting as unbecomingly as I did isn’t something I’d ordinarily do, but I came out here and…and…” He cleared his throat and twirled his cane. “I was overcome by her beauty and acted inappropriately.”

So that was what he was doing. He was trying to make it so people would assume he was the one who took advantage of her in an attempt to protect her reputation as much as possible. She breathed a sigh of relief. Good. He would marry her. And that meant she didn’t have to marry the Duke of Leavenshire.

Not surprising, her brother rushed out of the ballroom and over to her, his face carefully controlled to hide his anger. She knew he wouldn’t like the latest developments, but there was nothing he could do about it, especially since Christopher was telling everyone that she was caught kissing Perry, which was a smart maneuver on his part. She couldn’t help but admire his quick thinking.

“What happened?” her brother asked, glancing from Perry to her.

“This is my brother, Mister Leighton,” Paula told Perry and Agatha. “This is Lord Clement and—”

“I don’t care who they are,” he interrupted and pointed to the corner of the veranda. “Get over there so I can talk to you.”

“No.” She crossed her arms.

His face grew red. “No?”

“No. I’m not under your authority anymore. I’m under Lord Clement’s authority now since we are to be married.” What a relief it was to say that!

Perry winced. “I don’t know if I’d use the word ‘authority.’”

“But it’s true,” she insisted.

“Can’t we say you’re my betrothed instead? It sounds more pleasant than saying you’re under my authority,” he said, his eyes meeting hers in such a gentle way that it made her very pleased she’d chosen him to replace the duke.

“Betrothed is just fine,” Agatha said then smiled at Paula’s brother. “Mister Leighton, I assure you that Lord Clement is an honorable gentleman.”

“Then what was he doing deflowering my sister on the veranda?” her brother snapped, gesturing to Perry.

Perry balked at the accusation, and Paula couldn’t blame him. A kiss was hardly as personal as making love.

Agatha laughed. “Lord Clement was hardly deflowering her.”

“I can handle this,” Perry told Agatha then turned to Paula’s brother. “Mister Leighton, it’s not my intention to do any damage to your sister’s reputation. I will marry her.”

Her brother grunted. “Her reputation? Don’t you know who she is?”

Perry glanced at her. “She’s your sister.”

“That’s enough,” Paula told her brother, knowing exactly what he was getting at. “Lord Clement, I’ll be very happy to marry you,” and she meant that in ways that didn’t have anything to do with the duke.

Christopher stepped back out onto the veranda, a wide smile on his face. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to my cousin. I’m so glad I could be here to witness it.”

“And what’s so great about it?” her brother demanded, turning to him.

“Everything,” Christopher replied as if the answer was obvious. “This is the happiest day of my life.” He glanced at Agatha and winked. “Besides the day we got married, of course.”

Agatha sighed.

“I must talk to my sister.” Her brother shot Paula a pointed look. “Alone.”

“There’s nothing to say,” Paula replied, edging closer to Perry. “Nothing can be undone. Besides, Lord Clement was just suggesting he take me to Gretna Green at once.”

“He what?” her brother demanded.

“I what?” Perry asked in shock.

“Bravo!” Christopher clapped his hands. “Quick on her feet and beautiful. Perry has done well this time, wouldn’t you agree, dear?” he asked Agatha who rolled her eyes.

Her brother’s jaw clenched for a moment before he forced a smile in Perry’s direction. “Will you and,” he glanced at Christopher and Agatha, “your friends please excuse us for a moment?”

Perry shifted from one foot to the other, tapping his fingers on the tip of his cane. “Since I’m going to be her husband, I believe it’s my right to stay here and address any concerns you have.”

Paula was so relieved—and happy—that Perry decided not to leave her alone with her brother that she almost kissed him again. The only reason she didn’t was because a group of onlookers had gathered onto the veranda. She’d already created enough gossip for the busybodies. There was no sense in adding to it.

Her brother closed his eyes for a moment then opened them in a way that indicated he wished he could get what he wanted but didn’t know how. Finally, he relented. “I suppose my concerns can wait. We’ll discuss them another time.”

Perry nodded, his expression void of any emotions as her brother headed back into the ballroom.

As much as she wanted to ask what he thought of her brother, she didn’t dare. She’d done enough damage already. So far, everything was going much better than she expected. If she could do her part to ease him into the marriage from this point forward, that would be all the better.

“Perhaps we should go back into the ballroom,” Agatha suggested. “There’s no sense in staying out here all night when we can enjoy our time inside.”

“I agree.” Perry turned to Paula, his arm extended to her. “I might not be able to dance, but we can discuss the details of our wedding while reclining in two chairs.”

“Why not recline with her on your lap, cousin?” Christopher asked, a wry grin crossing his face.

“You’ve done enough for one night,” Agatha muttered to her husband. “Miss Leighton, I wish to be the first to welcome you to the family. The gentlemen might have their quirks, but they are honorable and well-deserving of a lady’s love.”

“Ah, thank you,” Christopher replied. “I’m flattered you speak so openly about your love for me.”

“I was referring to Lord Clement as well.”

“Yes, I know. He was the quirky one. I was the one who was honorable and deserving of your love.”

“As you can tell,” Agatha told Paula who was fighting the urge to laugh at their good-natured banter, “you are going to be a part of a very interesting family.”

“Thank you,” Paula said, already liking Agatha and Christopher immensely. “We’ll have to have a dinner party so you can get better acquainted with everyone.”

Perry frowned. “By everyone, do you mean Lord Edon will be invited, too?”

“Of course. I’d like to find out what mischief Lord Edon’s up to these days.”

Paula felt Perry stiffen and glanced at him, surprised that his cousin’s statement should bother him, but she gathered from the amused expression on Christopher’s face that he enjoyed provoking Perry.

Agatha placed her hand on Christopher’s elbow and said, “We’ll send an invitation when you return from Gretna Green,” before she led Christopher back inside.

Perry offered her an apologetic smile. “He used to be my ward before he married her.”

She slowed her pace to match his as he limped to the ballroom. “He says things in hopes it’ll bother you.”

“I know. I tell myself not to let him know when he bothers me, but that’s easier said than done.”

“Well, maybe one of these days, you’ll be able to do it.” Feeling the tension ease from his muscles, she smiled, very glad that Christopher had led her to such a wonderful gentleman.

FOUR

Perry knew Christopher had something to do with the scandal that just ensured he’d finally get married, but this was one time he didn’t mind Christopher’s mischievous behavior. Had this happened a year or two ago, he would’ve been appalled that his cousin had arranged for him to get married this way. However, after going through many frustrating Seasons and a failed engagement, he was more than willing to go along with his cousin’s latest scheme.

And he had to hand it to his cousin. He had a good eye for beauty. Miss Leighton was breathtaking with her wavy dark brown hair that framed her heart-shaped face. Her cheeks were flushed at the moment, no doubt from all the activity. Her full lips were slightly open, reminding him of how much he’d enjoyed the kiss she’d given him on the veranda. Yes, his cousin had chosen well, and Perry decided he could forgive him for all of the grief he’d put him through as his ward.

As he led Miss Leighton to the side of the ballroom, Nate hurried over to them. He figured his friend would want to talk to him as soon as he learned about the scandal, but he hoped to have a moment to talk to Miss Leighton first, to explain that he meant it when he said he’d marry her and that he wouldn’t tell anyone she had initiated the kiss.

“My lady,” Nate greeted, quickly bowing to Miss Leighton. Before she had time to utter a greeting in return, Nate turned to Perry. “May I have a word with you in private?”

“I’m not sure now is a good time,” Perry slowly replied. “I have to discuss some things with Miss Leighton first.”

“I won’t take long.”

Perry hesitated, glancing at Miss Leighton. He really didn’t want to leave her alone, especially after watching the tense exchange between her and her brother.

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him and gestured to a nearby chair. “In fact, I wouldn’t mind sitting over here for a few minutes.”

“I don’t know,” Perry murmured, scanning the ballroom for her brother. He didn’t see him, but that didn’t mean her brother wasn’t still here.

“My wife can keep Miss Leighton company,” Nate offered as Claire strolled over to them.

Perry guessed Nate had found Claire and asked her to talk to Miss Leighton so he’d be able to whisk Perry back to the veranda.

“I don’t mind,” Miss Leighton insisted, offering Perry a lovely smile.

He really couldn’t imagine how any lady could be more attractive than the one standing before him.

“Well?” Nate pressed, bringing Perry’s attention back to him.

With a sigh, Perry nodded. “All right. Miss Leighton, I’ll return shortly. If your brother returns—”

“We’ll deal with it then,” Nate interrupted and patted his friend on the shoulder. “I need to talk to you. Now.”

Perry had time to nod to Claire before he felt himself nearly being pushed in the direction of the veranda by a very impatient Nate. “My cane, Nate,” he muttered under his breath.

“Sorry.”

Nate slowed his steps so Perry could keep up with him as they walked to the veranda. Whatever his friend wanted to talk about, Perry had a nagging suspicion that he didn’t want to hear it. But to his credit, Nate didn’t say anything in front of the other people and for that, Perry was relieved.

As soon as they were on the veranda, Nate stood in front of him, looking like a gentleman who was preparing for some bad news. “Are the rumors true?”

Rumors? Perry couldn’t help but wonder exactly what rumors were going around regarding him and Miss Leighton. “The rumors?”

“Yes, the ones about you and Miss Leighton.”

“Exactly what are the rumors?”

With an exasperated sigh, he stared at his friend. “You know very well what people are saying in there. The fool who used to be your ward is going all over the ballroom spreading them.”

“Christopher is only explaining what happened.”

“So it’s true? You lured Miss Leighton onto the veranda and thrust yourself upon her?”

The choice of words Nate used made Perry laugh. “Lured her out here? Thrust myself upon her?”

He crossed his arms. “I don’t see what’s so funny about any of it.”

“I know Christopher has a tendency to exaggerate, but even that one was unexpected.”

“All right. He might not have used those exact words, but he made it clear that you were too friendly with Miss Leighton.”

“I’d say she was the one who was too friendly with me.”

Nate released his breath. “I knew it wasn’t your doing.”

“But I don’t mind that people think I instigated the kiss.”

“What?”

“Actually, it was rather flattering. She could have chosen anyone to get caught in a scandal with and she chose me.”

“Are you daft?”

“Not at all. My wits are still intact.”

“She just trapped you—intentionally—into marriage.”

“Yes, that about sums it up,” Perry agreed.

“And you don’t mind?”

Leaning on his cane, he shrugged. “Why should I mind? Did you see how beautiful she is?”

“A beautiful lady doesn’t come up to you and kiss you unless she’s after something.”

“Granted, that’s true.”

“Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Nate,” he began, wondering how he might explain it so that his friend would understand, “I’m tired of going from one Season to another without finding a wife. I’m tired of people snickering behind my back and saying I’m the earl who’ll never get married, no matter how hard I try.”

“And now they’re all going to say you created a scandal so you would get married.”

“That’s fine.”

“But it’s a scandal.”

“Just about everything we do can become a scandal.”

Nate gasped, stepping back. “You’re not the same gentleman I’ve known since childhood. The thought of being caught in a scandal used to frighten you.”

“And look at how well that worked for me,” Perry pointed out then gestured to him. “You were caught in a scandal with Claire, and you’re happily married. Not only that, but you have an heir. Lord Edon made up a lie about him and Lady Catherine being engaged and the next thing we all know, they’re married, too, and he has a child on the way. It seems to me that playing by the rules has gotten me absolutely nowhere. Then suddenly something unexpected happens, and I’m finally engaged, and not only am I engaged, but because of the rumors, Miss Leighton won’t be able to end the engagement like Agatha’s sister did.”

“Not every marriage begins with a scandal. Christopher wasn’t involved with one when he married Agatha.”

For some reason, Perry still found that one hard to believe, especially since Christopher delighted in causing mischief. “He might not have been caught in something, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he was a little bit on the rakish side in order to secure Agatha’s hand in marriage.”

Nate opened his mouth to protest but then relented. “Probably. Otherwise, someone as refined as her would never have agreed to marry him.”

Perry smiled at his friend. “It’s nice to know I have a friend who will do everything he can to help me avoid scandal or marriage to a lady I don’t want.”

“Marriage is one of those things that will make you miserable if you don’t have the right lady.”

“And lucky for me, I have the right lady waiting for me in the ballroom.”

“I hope so.”

“It wouldn’t hurt you to look at events from a more optimistic perspective.”

“You might be an idealist, Perry, but I will always be a realist.”

Unable to resist the urge to joke, Perry said, “I often wonder how Claire can bear with your constant need to seek out the bad in every situation.”

“That’s not fair. I seek out plenty of good when the situation warrants it.”

Perry chuckled and shifted to his other foot. “Are you done panicking over my future?”

After brief pause, he nodded. “I suppose so.”

“Good.” Anxious to return to Miss Leighton, he headed back into the ballroom.

Paula shifted in the chair, trying her hardest to pay attention to what Lady Roderick was saying even though she kept scanning the ballroom for Perry. She hoped he didn’t slip away like Lord Holloway had right before they reached Gretna Green. She shoved the reminder aside. Perry wasn’t Lord Holloway. And besides, she had witnesses who would testify to the kiss they shared on the veranda. Even so, the longer he took to return, the more anxious she became.

“But of course, not everyone enjoys riding a horse,” Lady Roderick rambled. “I, for one, don’t. I’ve been on them, but I don’t like the lack of control I feel when I’m on one. Sometimes I worry I’ll slip and fall off. What do you think about horses?”

Paula forced her gaze to her and smiled. “I love riding them, but I prefer to walk.”

Lady Roderick let out a cry of delight and clasped her hands together. “That’s wonderful! Lord Clement adores horses.”

Interest piqued, she leaned toward her. “Does he?”

“Yes. He even has a couple he keeps in London so he can ride at Hyde Park.”

“What else does he enjoy?”

“He hosts a lot of dinner parties but only invites those closest to him. He’s very sociable once you get to know him. He enjoys chess and politics when he’s with my husband. The two have known each other since childhood, and they spend a lot of time together at White’s but not so much that you’ll feel neglected. Oh, and he has a wonderful sense of humor and has a good heart.”

“Does he also easily forgive?”

“He’s one of the most forgiving people I know.” Lady Roderick paused then offered a reassuring smile. “You have no need to worry. Unlike some gentlemen, he’s not the kind who holds a grudge.”

That was good to hear. She hated to think he might resent her for their entire lives because she trapped him into a marriage. With a glance at the room, she saw him walking in her direction.

Lady Roderick rose from her seat. “We’ll talk again soon.”

Paula nodded and smiled her thanks before she walked away. A cautious scan around the room assured her that her brother wasn’t anywhere in sight. Good. She had enough to worry about without dragging Perry into the unsavory situation with her brother.

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long,” Perry said as he settled into the seat next to her.

“No.” She cleared her throat and took a deep breath to calm her racing heart. So far, he seemed amiable. That was good. “Lady Roderick kept me company.”

“She’s a good friend.” With a grin, he added, “She’s the better part of her husband.”

Returning his smile, she said, “I understand you and Lord Roderick are good friends, too.”

“Yes. I keep him from getting too serious and he admires me for it.”

She chuckled at his joke. Lady Roderick was right. He had a wonderful sense of humor, and that was very refreshing.

He rubbed his thumb along the handle of his cane, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I suppose since we are to be married, then I have your permission to ask what your name is?”

“Paula.”

“That’s a lovely name.”

“Thank you.”

“I gather you caught my name since my cousin referred to it often enough?”

“Yes. You’re Perry.”

He nodded then asked, “About your brother, am I safe to assume he doesn’t have your best interest at heart?”

How much did she dare tell him? If she told him too much, would he still be willing to marry her? “Well,” she began, testing each word in her mind before she spoke, “my brother and I don’t agree on some things.” She held her breath, wondering if he’d expect her to explain further.

To her relief, he didn’t. “I think I understand. Going to Gretna Green isn’t a fast trip. It’ll take us a few days to get there, and we’ll need to have some things packed and stay at some inns along the way. I can have your belongings brought to my townhouse while we’re gone. I assume from what you told your brother that you wish to leave tonight?”

She bit her bottom lip and wondered if she had the right to be so insistent on what they did. “Well…”

“I don’t mind leaving tonight,” he assured her. “We have plenty of time to talk while in the carriage. Shall I have my butler collect what you’ll need for this trip?”

“I won’t have to see my brother?”

“Not unless you want to.”

She shook her head. “I’d rather not.”

“Then you won’t have to. I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do.” He stood up and held his hand out to her. “We can leave now if you wish.”

“I’d like that.” She accepted his hand, noting how firm but gentle his grip was. She didn’t know how she managed to luck out in finding him, but one thing was for sure, she’d never take him for granted. Not after what she’d gone through with Lord Holloway. She rose to her feet and smiled. “Thank you.”

Squeezing her hand in silent encouragement, he led her out of the ballroom.

FIVE

Paula’s hesitation to tell him about her brother revealed more than Perry needed to know. Whatever relationship she had with her brother, he sensed it wasn’t the best that two people could ever have. And it was probably why she felt the need to get involved in a scandal. In time, he was sure she’d tell him what had prompted her to kiss him on the veranda, and given that they would have the rest of their lives together, he could wait.

He ignored Christopher’s amused grin as he took her out of the ballroom. While he might be secretly grateful to have had his cousin’s help in getting a wife, he felt no need to let the younger gentleman gloat excessively over it.

On the way to his carriage, he caught sight of her brother who was scowling at her. This didn’t bode well. Sooner or later, he would have to confront the gentleman, but now wasn’t the time, especially not when she was in a hurry to get out from under his control.

Turning his attention to her, Perry gestured for her to enter the carriage. Once she was comfortable, he instructed his coachman to go to her townhouse. “Afterwards, we’ll stop by my townhouse and then head out to Gretna Green. So gather what you need for the trip.”

Though the coachman’s eyebrows rose in surprise, he nodded his consent.

Perry got into the carriage and waited for the coachman to lead the horses forward before he offered her a reassuring smile. “You have no need to worry. Your brother won’t be able to tell you what to do anymore. You’re under my protection now.”

She didn’t answer right away, and when she did, her voice was so soft, he had to strain to hear her. “You’re very kind.”

Pleased by her compliment, he fiddled with his cane and shrugged. “It’s only proper that a lady is treated with honor and respect.”

She slightly winced, something that didn’t make any sense to him. But before he could inquire about it, the carriage came to an abrupt stop and someone rapped on the door. Surprised, he turned his attention to the small window. Nate wouldn’t go through the trouble of running after him in order to rescue him, would he? Peering out the window, he fully expected to see his friend, but instead he saw a gentleman who had to be twice his senior.

Beside him, Paula gasped.

He glanced her way. This probably had something to do with her brother. “I’ll handle this.” Grabbing his cane, he leaned forward and opened the door. He stepped out of the carriage and confronted the irate gentleman. “May I help you?”

“Yes, you may. You’re kidnapping my betrothed.” He gestured toward Paula who shifted further from the door until her back was pressed up against the side of the carriage.

Perry turned his attention back to the gentleman and moved so that he was blocking his view of Paula. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. She’s going to marry me.”

“Are you saying Mister Leighton accepted your payment for her hand?”

“Payment?”

“I’ll have you know I was going to pay a handsome fee for her, and that’s something I don’t take lightly.”

“I see.” Poor Paula. So that was why she created a scandal. “You’ll have to take that issue up with her brother. There were witnesses who saw me kissing Miss Leighton at the ball, and there’s no undoing the scandal. I have to marry her as a sense of duty.”

“You did this knowing she was promised to me?”

“On the contrary. I had no idea you and her brother had an agreement. I simply meant that I couldn’t resist her. She’s an enchanting lady.”

“One might think so.”

Perry wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but he sensed the underlying note of disdain in his voice. After a moment, he forced himself to smile. “I gather that this new turn of events won’t trouble you then. In that case, all is well. Have a good evening.”

He turned to get back into the carriage, but the gentleman grabbed him by the arm. “This isn’t a wise move on your part.”

“The scandal has already been done. I have to marry her. There is no debating this.”

“I don’t take kindly to gentlemen taking what belongs to me.”

Sensing the challenge in his statement, Perry drew himself to his full height and met his gaze without flinching. “With all due respect, she wasn’t married to you when this happened. That means there was nothing to steal. Now, if the matter of money concerns you, you’ll have to take that issue up with her brother.” He gestured to her brother who was still standing by his carriage, watching them. “Our business here is done.”

Before the gentleman could protest, he slipped back into the carriage and shut the door. He tapped his cane on the roof to instruct the coachman to leave.

As the carriage lurched forward, he offered Paula a reassuring smile. “We’ll be out of London soon enough.”

She fiddled with her gloves. “Are you worried about him?”

“No. Should I be?”

“His Grace has a tendency to get drunk, and when he does, he acts like a fool. I’m not really sure what he’ll do.”

“Well, whatever he does, I can handle it. If I frightened easily, I never would have taken Mister Robinson under my wing after his parents died.”

Her eyes met his in interest. “You took him under your wing?”

“No one else in the family had the courage. Christopher was known for getting in trouble. There were some who doubted if he’d make it to adulthood. I won’t say he didn’t frustrate me at times or that I didn’t feel like giving up on occasion. But if he’s taught me anything, it’s how important it is to stick with a decision once you make it, and I’m determined to be a much better husband for you than His Grace would have been.”

Her eyes filled with tears and she lowered her gaze. “I don’t deserve you.”

He wondered what made her say that but the carriage came to a stop in front of her residence, so he turned his attention to finding out what she needed for her trip to Gretna Green.

They didn’t stop at an inn until the next evening, and had it not been for the good quality of the carriage, Paula didn’t think she would have made it through the night and day as well as she had. For the most part, she and Perry had kept up a pleasant conversation in between periods where one fell asleep for a short nap.

By the time they stopped for the night, she was more than ready to get out of the carriage, eager to stretch her weary muscles and for the promise of a good, hot meal and a nice bed. There was a moment’s hesitation where she wondered if he’d insist on sharing a room with her, but her growling stomach pushed the question aside and she gladly accepted the coachman’s help off the carriage.

The inn was one of the nicest ones she’d ever seen, which told her that her soon-to-be husband was a gentleman who wasn’t miserly like her brother. That, in itself, was a relief. Had her brother not been so greedy, he wouldn’t have seen it fit to try to sell her.

“I hope you don’t mind if I tell the owner you’re my sister,” Perry softly said as he stood beside her. “I know it’s a lie, and usually I don’t like to engage in deception, but I don’t want people to think less of you because you’re traveling without a chaperone. We’ll have our own rooms, of course, and I won’t take any liberties until we wed.”

She stared at him for a long moment, wondering if she should deny him marriage to another lady—one who would deserve him.

“Is that all right?” Perry asked.

Blinking, she forced a smile and said, “That’s fine. And very considerate of you.”

“You’re a lady. I wouldn’t dream of being anything but considerate. You stay here with my coachman, and I’ll get our rooms.”

She nodded and watched as Perry entered the inn. Despite the warmth from the evening sun, she hugged herself, feeling more vulnerable than she cared to admit. The coachman offered her some water to drink, so she thanked him and took a few sips. As she did, she realized she was queasy, and as much as she told herself it was only because of the long and trying journey, she knew it was much worse than that.

She really should run off. That, or tell Perry that this was a mistake. When she sought out a gentleman to trap into a scandal, she thought she was trapping someone who would be better than the one her brother wanted her to marry, but she never thought she’d end up with someone who was a saint. She expected the gentleman she snared would have some flaws, some traits that would make him comparable to her with her faults. But Perry was far more honorable than she anticipated.

The sound of a cane tapping the steps directed her attention to the entrance of the inn. Perry descended the last two steps and approached her. “They have two rooms close together, so if you need anything, I won’t be far. Since you must be exhausted from the trip, I ordered a hot meal to be brought to your room.”

As he turned to the coachman to ask him to bring her valise to her room, she pushed aside the stab of guilt that pricked at her.

“I’ll show you to your room,” Perry added and gestured for her to join him.

She debated whether or not to suggest he should take her back to London and let her live with the shame of her behavior, but he looked at her with those sweet blue eyes of his and she lost the words on the tip of her tongue. Tomorrow morning. Maybe after a good night’s sleep, she could tell him that she had no business marrying someone like him.

The evening before they were due to arrive in Gretna Green, Paula picked up a quill and dipped it in the ink. She brought the candle closer to the small desk so she could see her paper better. With a deep breath, she examined the room she was staying in. Undoubtedly, Perry gave her the best room at the inn. She couldn’t recall a time when anyone had been so generous with her. And not once did he try to take liberties with her.

Turning her attention back to the paper, she dipped the quill again and thought of the best way to write her apology for running away. Maybe she could find a new life in Scotland. She wasn’t sure what she’d do, really. She heard that the inn in the next town needed a woman to do laundry. It was far down from the life she’d lived in her brother’s home, and it wouldn’t be as comfortable as the life she could have as an earl’s wife. But it seemed necessary. She’d get rid of her brother and spare Perry the disgrace of being married to her.

She closed her eyes and composed herself. She needed to do this. Pressing the quill to the paper, she began writing. Never have I met a gentleman as sweet and noble as you. You should have a wife who deserves you. There are things in my past, things I’m not proud of—

The knocking on the door made her stop. “Who is it?” she called out.

“Perry. I thought you might like a hot bath tonight. Is this a good time or should I tell them to come later?”

She bolted to her feet, dropping the quill and paper. Quickly retrieving them, she stuffed both into the drawer of the desk and pushed the inkwell aside so he wouldn’t see it. She smoothed out the skirt of her dress which was wrinkled due to days of travel then opened the door. He stood in the hallway, his cane at his side. Behind him stood a woman who worked at the inn, holding a folded towel with a bar of soap on it.

When Paula didn’t say anything, he asked, “Would you like a bath?”

“Oh, yes. That would be lovely.” She quickly stepped aside so the woman could put the towel and soap in the room. “Thank you.” She looked at Perry. “I hope it’s not an inconvenience.”

“Not at all. I’m only sorry I didn’t think of it sooner.” As the woman came back out of the room, he asked, “Will you tell the innkeeper my sister’s ready for the bath?”

The woman nodded and hurried down the hall.

Paula tucked a stray strand of dark hair behind her ear. “I’m afraid I’m not presentable.” If she’d thought about it, she would have at least combed her hair after she unpinned it.

“You’re fine,” he assured her. “It’s been a long journey. I thought a bath would help relax you. I also thought you might like to wear something new.”

“Something new?”

“With your permission, I thought I’d take you to a dress shop not far from here.”

“You want to buy me a new outfit?” she weakly asked, not expecting such generosity.

“We only brought one change of clothes, and I don’t know about you but I feel like a pig who went through a slop bath.”

Giggling at his analogy, she said, “I wouldn’t quite put it like that, but yes, I do feel a bit disgusting.”

“Good. Then I’ll take you to the shop after your bath.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“It’s not kindness. It’s practicality.”

That was what he chose to call it, but it was very much a kindness and one he didn’t have to do. Glancing around the hallway, she stepped closer to him and lowered her voice. “Please tell me you’re not as perfect as you seem.”

He laughed. “What?”

“I know it seems like a strange thing to say, but you seem to be the perfect gentleman.”

His eyebrow rose. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Well, yes. But…” She paused. Just what was she supposed to say?

He leaned on the cane as he brought his head closer to hers. “I don’t know if I should tell you this because you’re likely to think less of me when I do, but I’m not exactly the kind of gentleman who attracts ladies. I’ve talked to many. I even got engaged to one.”

“Really? What happened?” For the life of her, she couldn’t imagine why any lady would willingly end her engagement to him.

With a shrug, he said, “She found someone else she’d rather marry. I can’t begrudge her the right to be with someone she can love. Maybe it’s foolish, but I prefer a love match. My parents loved each other, and it made all the difference in the world. Granted, we hardly know each other and everything has happened so fast. But of all the ladies I’ve met, you’re the best one. You’re beautiful, charming, and sweet. And,” he continued with a twinkle in his eye, “I rather enjoyed your kisses.”

Her face grew warm at the teasing tone in his voice.

“I’m very glad it never worked with the others,” he added.

All thoughts she had of running away and leaving him departed. She couldn’t leave. Not when he’d said the most wonderful things anyone had ever said to her. She wasn’t someone he wanted for his convenience. She wasn’t someone who’d just give him an heir or warm his bed. With him, she was a lady—one who’d be cherished and cared for all the days of her life. And she wanted that more than anything.

“Perry,” she began, her voice soft, “you make it impossible for me to resist you.” On impulse, she gave him a kiss. She kept this one quick, mindful that someone might show up at any moment. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”

He blushed. “You’re going to be my wife. I wouldn’t treat you any other way.”

She didn’t know how to respond to that, but a couple of women came down the hallway with a tub and some pails of steaming water. So she thanked him and went back into her room to get ready for a bath, something she had to admit she was looking forward to after the long journey.

SIX

Perry kept expecting Paula to run off at some point or ask him to take her back to London. In fact, when it was time to go to the anvil priest, he left her for a few minutes to reserve their room for the evening with the expectation that he’d return to an empty carriage. But she was right there waiting for him with that heartwarming smile on her beautiful face. Whatever he did to deserve such fortune, he didn’t know. But he wouldn’t question it.

He kept pinching himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, sure he’d end up in his townhouse in bed. But instead, he took her to the priest and they said their vows in a small cottage. Even if the ceremony wasn’t one similar to what his ward Christopher had had, everything about it was perfect. Paula showed up and she said yes. Those were the important things. Everything else…the clothes, the wedding breakfast, and the guests weren’t really all that important in the grand scheme of things. Besides, in the years to come, he figured they would find a way to carve out special memories that would be much better than a wedding in London.

After they were pronounced husband and wife, he wasn’t sure what the best thing to do was. Did he take her back to their room and consummate the marriage? Did he offer to take her on a carriage ride, thereby allowing her some extra time to adjust to the idea of being intimate with him? He’d never gotten this far with a lady so he didn’t know what he should do. If he’d thought about it, he would have asked Nate for advice. Even if his friend’s marriage had a difficult start, he was happy now. So he knew what to do with a lady.

He led Paula out of the cottage and shifted his attention to their surroundings. It was a pleasant day. The air was a little cool, but the sun warmed things up enough so that it was nice to be outside. At any rate, it was better than the summer heat. Taking a deep breath, he turned to her and offered an uncertain smile. “I was thinking,” he began, unable to make eye contact with her in case she realized he wasn’t as charming as other gentlemen, “I’ve never been to Gretna Green, and it’s a beautiful day. It’s not even evening yet. Would you like to go on a carriage ride?”

“Actually, I’m tired of the carriage,” she admitted. “Can we go for a walk?”

“How about a horse ride? I can see if there’s a place we can borrow a couple of horses for a short time.”

“I’d much rather walk. Stretch my legs. Move around. Doesn’t your body feel stiff after all that sitting?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, unsure of how to proceed. With a sigh, he finally decided to tell her the truth. “I’ve never been good at walking. I was born with one leg an inch shorter than the other. It’s why I have a cane.”

She took his hand. “That’s no reason why we can’t walk.”

“I…my pacing is slow. I can’t go as fast as other people.”

“I don’t mind walking slower.”

“It’s not necessarily walking slower that’s the problem.”

With a smile that threatened to melt his resolve, she asked, “Then what is it?”

“I… Well, I have a cane.”

“Yes, I know.”

“It’s awkward.”

“Is it? I think you manage very well with it.”

It took a moment for him to understand what she meant. “No, it’s not awkward for me. I meant, it’s awkward for you. You’ll have to walk beside me and people will look at us.”

She didn’t answer right away, but when she did, she squeezed his hand in reassurance. “Perry, I’m blessed to have you as my husband. The others can think whatever they want. It won’t bother me. As long as you’re content with me, that’s all that matters.”

In all his years of searching for a wife, it never once occurred to him that when he finally married, she would lift him up on such a lofty pedestal. “Content? I’m much more than content with you. I can’t remember a time I’ve been happier.”

Blinking back her tears, she kissed his cheek. “You are ever the gentleman. Now come and walk with me. We’ll take our time and enjoy the nice day.”

He didn’t think anyone could talk him into taking a leisurely stroll, but she did and he suspected that she could talk him into doing anything. Relaxing, he agreed and stepped forward. She went with him, her pace matching his, and after a while, he became less aware of the way he had to use his cane to compensate for his limp.

“Tell me more about yourself, Perry. What kind of things do you like to do?”

“Well, I love riding horses. I usually go for a ride twice a week while in London. When I’m at Blackburn, I go once a day as long as the weather’s nice enough.”

“Blackburn is your country estate?”

“Yes. It’s a day’s travel to my friend Nate’s estate. You met him and his wife, Claire, at the ball. You and Claire are both kind and sweet.”

He noted the way her cheeks grew pink and couldn’t remember when he’d seen a lovelier sight. Forcing his attention on the path in front of them lined with bushes, he added, “I also enjoy the theatre.”

Looking up at him in interest, she asked, “Do you?”

“I go often while in London.”

“I haven’t been there. What’s it like?” He studied her face as if to decide whether she was telling him the truth or not, so she added, “This year has been my first in London, and some of the time has been spent taking care of my sick mother.”

“Your mother’s ill?”

“Was. We buried her three months ago.”

He paused and turned to face her. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“She was sickly for over a year. In a way, it was a relief when she finally passed. It’s hard to watch someone you love spending all their days in pain.” She lowered her gaze. “I don’t want to dwell on the past. This is a special day for us. Will you tell me more about the theatre?”

He nodded and obliged her. If she didn’t feel like going into more detail about her mother, he wouldn’t press her. They had the rest of their lives to learn the deeper things about each other.

To Paula, it all seemed like a fairytale. Even if the whole thing had been done in a hurry, she was now the Lady of Clement, and that gave her freedom from her brother. Sure, he wouldn’t like losing the money the Duke of Leavenshire would have given him, but that wasn’t her problem. And if her brother tried to say anything, she was under Perry’s protection now.

She tried to think of what Perry was getting in return for the marriage. She wasn’t as good as he was. While she could do her part to give him an heir, she couldn’t really give him anything else. She just hoped that he wouldn’t regret committing himself to her.

When their walk came to an end, they shared a meal and got ready for bed. She fully expected him to initiate lovemaking, but he stood by the window, seeming unusually interested in whatever was outside. She remained in front of the vanity for a couple minutes, absentmindedly brushing her hair. It wasn’t until she noticed the way he twirled the cane around that she realized he was nervous.

Of all the things she thought a gentleman might be on his wedding night, being nervous wasn’t one of them. The lady was to be nervous, and that was to be expected given how uncertain the whole thing was for her. But the gentleman? She imagined he’d be either excited or just wishing to get it over with so he could run back to his mistress.

Maybe it was wrong, but she thought it was sweet that Perry was nervous. It was one more thing that made him different from other gentlemen. Standing up, she set the brush on the table and tightened the straps on her robe. She didn’t know how he’d react if her robe fell open in front of him, and though he wore a robe, she didn’t think he was going to take it off without some prompting.

She headed his way, surprised when he gave a slight jerk. With a playful smile, she teased, “I promise I won’t bite.”

Letting out an uneasy chuckle, he gripped the cane and turned his gaze back to the window. “I was just watching the horses over there.” He pointed to three steeds in a pasture not far off in the distance. “They’re graceful animals. At times, they seem to be moving in perfect unison.”

“You enjoy looking at horses?”

“They’re beautiful creatures. Have you ever watched them as they run across an open field?”

“No, I can’t say I have.”

“You should sometime. There’s a sense of freedom in their movements.”

“You wish you could run swiftly like they do?”

He looked in her direction. “When I ride one that’s in a full gallop, I feel free. It’s an exhilarating experience.”

Even as her heartbeat picked up from an act of being so bold, she closed the gap between them and offered him a smile as she placed her hand on his chest. “You know, there is something you can do indoors that’s also exhilarating.”

His face grew pink at her meaning. Clearing his throat, he lowered his gaze to her hands as she slipped them under his robe. Being as shy as he was, she didn’t think he’d be naked under the robe, but she felt bare flesh against her fingertips. Since he didn’t shift away from her, she spread her hands out, tracing the flat contours of his chest. He sharply inhaled but remained still as she continued her exploration of him. He had a light scattering of fine hair on his chest, which was less than she expected. She preferred him this way, though. When she brushed his nipples, he let out a slight shudder.

She waited for him to touch her, but he didn’t. Daring a glance up at him, she noted the uncertainty in his eyes. “You’re allowed to touch me.”

Letting out an uneasy chuckle, he said, “Yes, I know.” After a long moment passed between them, he set aside his cane and placed his hands on her shoulders.

She slipped her arms further into his robe and wrapped them around his waist. Standing on her tiptoes, she kissed him. She’d never come across anyone so shy before. But she found it endearing, and it made her feel completely at ease with him.

He slowly responded to her, hesitant at first but warming up to her as she continued kissing him. Soon, he pulled her into his embrace. She wanted nothing more than to melt into his arms, but recalling they were in front of the window, she ended their kiss and led him to the bed.

She wasn’t sure if he was going to join her right away, but he settled next to her and brought her back into his arms. Pulling him closer, she kissed him again. And as before, he held back slightly. She would have to be more assertive. Lowering her hands, she tugged at the straps of her robe until it opened. Since she had already loosened his robe, her breasts brushed his chest.

He let in a slight gasp and she grinned. “Give me your hand.”

She almost thought he’d say he couldn’t touch her intimately, especially since his moral code was stricter than anyone she’d ever met, but he offered her his hand. She brought his hand to her breast. Deciding anything else she could say might cause him unease, she cupped the back of his neck and encouraged him to kiss her again.

His lips were warm and soft, but she sensed a passion simmering beneath his carefully controlled emotions. She wasn’t sure if it was because he was afraid he’d hurt her, being that he assumed this was her first time. But there was no way she was going to disappoint him by telling him the truth. He wasn’t experienced. That was obvious. She wished she was innocent. She wished he was her first. But what could she do? She couldn’t go back and undo anything in her past.

“Is something wrong?” Perry asked.

She hadn’t realized she’d stopped kissing him. Blinking back her tears, she swallowed and forced herself to smile. She wanted to be with him this way, wanted it more than anything. “I want to be your wife,” she whispered.

“You already are. We’ve said the vows. Nothing will come between us.” After a moment, he asked, “Are you worried about your brother?”

“Well…partly…” Her brother was bound to make trouble for them when they got back to London.

“Don’t. I can handle him. I’ve come across gentlemen like him before.”

Maybe he could handle her brother. Maybe not. Either way, it didn’t change everything. She took a deep breath and turned her attention back to him. He was her husband, and as he said, they’d made their vows for better or worse for the rest of their lives.

She cupped his face in her hands and ran her thumbs along his jaw, noting his wonderful masculine strength. “Make me your wife, Perry. Please.”

He brought his lips to hers and offered her the softest kiss she’d ever received. It was a kiss full of promise and hope, a kiss that was to begin their future. It was, without a doubt, the best of all kisses a gentleman could give a lady. Letting all doubts and fears fade into the past where they belonged, she gave into the pleasure of being with him in this moment in time.

Though his touch was still timid, he caressed her breast. She rubbed her hand up and down his back in silent encouragement, hoping he’d explore her further. And he did. His fingers brushed her nipple, tracing the edge then working his way in. She sighed in contentment. He proceeded to touch her other breast, his movements a bit awkward but gentle all the same.

Shifting against him, she parted her legs then brought his hand to her sensitive region. She guided his fingers, teaching him where she wanted to be touched. He was more than willing to follow her lead, and while everything he was doing felt good, she knew she wasn’t going to climax. She was much too concerned that he’d change his mind at some point and not consummate the marriage.

Even though she reminded herself the marriage was complete already since they’d gone through the ceremony, a deeper part of her needed to do this. As long as she could get him to concentrate on her body, she shouldn’t have anything to worry about. His erection was pressed firmly against her hip, so she knew he desired her, that he wanted to make love to her. But he wasn’t taking a real lead and that worried her. Maybe he would say they should wait until they got to know each other better. And who knew if he’d want to be with her once he found out the truth about her past?

Deciding her body was ready to receive him, she rolled him onto his back and straddled him so that he slid into her. She leaned forward and kissed him. Her tongue traced his lower lip until he parted his mouth. She deepened their kiss, relieved when he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer. She shifted so that he went deeper into her.

With a moan, he left a trail of kisses down her neck, the last of his nervousness fading away. He placed his hands on her hips to guide her movements and she sighed in pleasure. He felt wonderful. And even when he was passionate, he was gentle with her. She rocked her hips, eager to follow his leading. When he climaxed, she stilled and watched him, intrigued by the look of pleasure on his face.

He relaxed and opened his eyes, turning his gaze to her and smiling. Returning his smile, she kissed him, softly this time and let her lips linger on his. He held her close to him. His embrace was warm and protective, and she wished she could stay in his arms forever. In this room, it was just the two of them, far removed from the rest of the world. It wasn’t always going to be like this, but it was like this now. And for now, that was good enough.

SEVEN

“I wish we didn’t have to go back,” Paula said as she and Perry walked over to the gazebo. “I can’t remember when I’ve had such a wonderful time.”

“You’ll miss all the time we’ve been riding in the carriage?”

Noting the slight amusement in his voice, she wrapped her arm around his and giggled. “Would it surprise you to know I don’t mind the long rides because I’m with you?”

“I’d think long rides with someone who rambles on about Parliament would bore you.”

“I don’t mind it. It’s what you’re interested in.”

“While that’s true, I don’t think it’s something that interests a lady. You’d be well within your rights to tell me about something that ladies find fascinating but gentlemen don’t.”

She bit her lower lip as they proceeded up the steps of the gazebo. “And what if I were to tell you I enjoy political talk? Would you be disappointed?”

“Only if you were lying.” Raising an eyebrow, he studied her as she sat on the bench. “Should I be disappointed?”

“No. I’m telling you the truth.”

He sat next to her, his smile growing wider. “Really?”

“Really. I realize it’s because I’m a lady that I shouldn’t, but I do. I grew up with a father who talked of little else. I suppose after a while, it became something I looked forward to hearing about.”

“Then why don’t you tell me what you think about what’s going on with the Parliament?”

She shrugged, barely noticing the breeze that cooled things off around them. “Do you truly want to know?”

“Of course. You’re my wife, and I want to know what you’re thinking.”

Pleased, her eyes met his and she leaned toward him. “I can’t think of a single gentleman who cares so much about what his wife thinks. Of all the ladies in England, I’m the most fortunate one.” She caught a glimpse of his bashful expression as he turned his face from her. “It’s true, Perry. You have no need to be shy around me.”

She found him absolutely adorable. And how she wished they never had to go back to London. At least when they were at an inn, no one knew them so they could be alone for the most part. She was safe and loved, something she didn’t take for granted. But how long could such a blissful feeling last once the outside world came pressing in around them?

With a sigh, she scanned the peaceful land around them with the inn not too far away. “Must we go to London tomorrow?”

“What is it that troubles you about London? Is it your brother? I already told you I can handle him.”

“I like it when it’s just the two of us.”

“Does it help to know we’ll soon be going to our estate in the country? Then it’ll be the two of us all winter, and who knows if you’ll get tired of me?”

“What a terrible thing to say. I could never get tired of you.”

“Wait until winter’s over before you say that,” he teased.

She leaned forward and kissed him. “What will it take for you to realize you’re an ideal husband?”

Instead of answering her, he kissed her in return and said, “We won’t stay in London for long. I only feel it’s right to properly introduce you to my family and friends. I want you to be comfortable with your new life.”

Why was it so difficult for him to accept that a lady might look at him and find him desirable? He was everything a lady wanted and more. If he only knew the type of gentlemen who were out there, he might understand why he was much better than them. Maybe in time he would see himself the way she saw him. In the meantime, she would savor every moment they spent together, especially the ones they had before her brother talked to him.

With a smile, she clasped her hands around his and nodded. “All right. We’ll stay in London for a couple weeks then go to your estate.”

“Our estate.”

“I stand corrected. Our estate.”

He lowered his head and gave her another kiss. She pulled him closer and deepened the kiss, desperately hoping he would remember the joy he found in her because when he learned about her past, it was her only hope that he’d forgive her.

Two days later, Perry was sorting through his ledger to balance his account when a knock came from his library door. Surprised that Paula felt the need to knock, he looked up. But instead of Paula, Christopher stood in the doorway, a question in his eyes.

“What is it?” Perry asked when he didn’t say anything. In all the time he’d known him, he never knew Christopher to be shy about saying what was on his mind. And in this case, he almost felt like his cousin was playing a game with him.

“I know you left London with a delightful young lady, but I don’t see her anywhere. Did she run off before you could marry her?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then where is she?”

“Not that it’s any of your concern, but she’s taking a bath in her bedchamber.” Why he was telling Christopher this, he didn’t know.

His cousin breathed a sigh of relief and walked further into the room, not bothering to wait for the invitation before he sat down and plopped his feet up on the desk. “That’s good. I tell you, it wasn’t easy to find a lady willing to marry you. Agatha’s been at me nonstop about finding you a wife ever since Sophie ran off with another gentleman.”

Fighting back the urge to grimace, Perry turned his attention back to the ledger. “Sophie wouldn’t have been happy with me. We would never have made a good match.”

“Precisely! I told Agatha that, but she was upset with her sister for days. You’re better off with someone who doesn’t crave constant excitement.”

“Oh?” While he knew Christopher considered him boring, he wished he wouldn’t point it out whenever possible.

“I meant the bad type of excitement.”

“I wasn’t aware that excitement could be bad.”

“Of course, it can be. Some gentlemen actually die in bed during lovemaking. Did you know that was possible? I didn’t until Ethan told me about Lord—”

“I’ve heard enough. Your point is well noted. Excitement isn’t always a good thing.”

“Fortunately, all has worked out and you’re married. You did marry her, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did. What kind of gentleman do you take me for? I wouldn’t run off with her and sully her reputation by not marrying her.”

“Well, I suppose one could argue that she sullied your reputation since she was the one who kissed you.”

With a sigh, he set his quill aside. “Did you come by to mock me?”

“No, I came by to make sure you’re married. Agatha fretted the whole time you were gone. Believe me, it’s not easy to talk a lady into doing anything interesting in bed when she’s worried about something.”

“Does everything have to be so…personal…with you?”

Christopher shrugged and clasped his hands over his stomach. “I happen to find such talk entertaining.”

“Apparently. In the future, I’ll thank you to confine such talk when you’re with your friends.”

Perry shook his head and shut his ledger, deciding he’d continue sorting through his finances at a later time. While he knew Christopher purposely said things to unnerve him, he couldn’t figure out how to ignore them. If he could, then he suspected Christopher would stop. After all, how much fun was it to try to bother someone who didn’t respond the way one hoped?

The sound of footsteps directed their attention to the doorway and Perry smiled when Paula walked by. She got lovelier each time he saw her. He called out to her, and she turned to enter the room.

“My cousin wanted to congratulate us on our wedding,” Perry called out, motioning to Christopher who at least had the sense to straighten in his seat.

“Yes,” he said and shot her a grateful smile. “Thanks to you, Perry finally has a wife. You’ll never know what a relief it is that someone made an honest gentleman of him.”

He rolled his eyes. “If you’re so funny, then why is no one laughing?”

At that, Paula chuckled and Perry felt a sense of satisfaction since she laughed at his joke but not Christopher’s. It was a minor victory but a victory all the same and he’d enjoy it.

Christopher’s eyebrows rose as he turned back in his direction. “Who knew you had a sense of humor? Having a wife is already doing you wonders.” Rising to his feet, he continued, “Agatha sent me over to invite you to a dinner party we’re having in a week.”

Hesitant, Perry stood up and grabbed his cane. “Who’ll be there?”

“Our friends. It’ll be an informal gathering, much like the ones you gave while I still lived here.”

He resisted the urge to grimace. “Will Lord Edon be there?”

“He’s my friend. Of course, he’ll be there.” He smiled at Paula. “You’ll like him. He’s got a real passion for life.”

That wasn’t the way Perry would have described him, but it was better than telling her he was one of the most notorious rakes in London. “Will my friend Nate be there?”

He gagged. “Is that a requirement?”

“Lord Edon is your friend and Nate is mine. If you want to assure Agatha that all is well, I insist Nate go. Besides, don’t Claire and Agatha get along?”

“You’re so demanding. All right. Lord Horrid will be there.”

Perry fought the urge to correct him as he stepped around his desk so he could stand beside his wife. “Are you ready for our walk?”

“You mean a walk to the drawing room, right?” Christopher called out before she could answer him.

“No, I meant a walk through Hyde Park.”

His jaw dropped for a moment then he pinched himself.

Frowning, Perry asked, “What are you doing?”

“Making sure I’m awake. I could have sworn you suggested walking—instead of riding a horse—through the park.”

He sighed but saw that Paula seemed amused by Christopher’s comment, so he decided to concede and tell the truth. “Paula doesn’t mind my limp.”

“It’s hardly a limp at all,” she added and slipped her arm around his, causing his body to flush with a pleasant warmth that always seemed to come over him whenever she touched him.

Christopher chuckled. “You have no idea how long I’ve tried to get that stubborn cousin of mine to walk instead of riding a horse, but he was adamantly opposed to it. My lady, you have my complete admiration. You have accomplished what no one else has.”

Perry rolled his eyes as his cousin gave an exaggerated bow before her. She squeezed his arm. Looking at her, he was assured that she didn’t think less of him because he’d let fear hold him back in the past. He tapped Christopher on the shoulder with his cane. “The queen demands you rise.”

Her lips curled up at his joke.

Christopher straightened and clasped his hands behind his back. “Before you two leave, I have something important to give Perry. I’ll retrieve it from my carriage and be right back.”

As he hurried out of the room, Paula turned to Perry and kissed him. “You shouldn’t let him bother you.”

“I try not to. It’s just difficult.”

“Does it help if you know that I think you’re the best gentleman in all of London and no one will ever change my mind?”

Pleased by her words, he grinned. “I think you see me as you want to see me, not as I really am.”

“No, I see you as you really are.”

She gave him another kiss, this one longer than the one before, and his body stirred with desire to caress her breasts or take her over to the chair and have her straddle him. He hadn’t been bold in their lovemaking. Up to now, he’d been letting her take the lead, thinking it would make her more comfortable with him. And fortunately, she had no problem initiating it. She didn’t seem to mind the arrangement, but he wondered if she’d mind it if he took the lead once in awhile. If he had the courage to ask, he would. However, with things going as well as they were, he thought it best to keep quiet in case he inadvertently said something wrong.

When the kiss ended, her eyes sparkled. “You’re a good gentleman, Perry. I’m honored to be your wife.”

Christopher returned with something wrapped in brown paper. “I thought it best to be discrete.” He glanced at Paula. “Agatha would be horrified if she saw what I was carrying when I left the townhouse.” Turning back to Perry, he held it out to him. “This is for your wife.”

Perry frowned and stared at it. “If it’s for Paula, why are you giving it to me?”

“When you unwrap it, you’ll find out.” He winked at her. “You, of all ladies, need something like this.”

Uncertain of whether or not he’d like his cousin’s gift, Perry reluctantly took it. “Is this a debt you owe to someone that you expect me to pay?” He’d done that a couple times in the past, though not since Nate made him a stable boy.

“I don’t have any debts,” Christopher replied, indignation in his voice. “I can’t believe you’d even think such a thing.”

Rolling his eyes, he stepped away from Paula, thinking it best that she not see whatever the “gift” was. She didn’t need to be included in his cousin’s antics. He unwrapped the object, acutely aware that his cousin was smirking at him as if this was the funniest thing that had ever happened. That right there proved Perry had every reason to be concerned.

When he saw it was a book, his gaze lowered to the title and his jaw dropped. Spinning on his heel, he placed the book behind his back so Paula wouldn’t see it. Avoiding eye contact with his cousin, he asked, “Paula, would you please leave me and my errant cousin alone for a few minutes?”

Though her eyebrows furrowed, she nodded and left the room.

“Close the door,” Perry told Christopher.

This time it was Christopher who rolled his eyes as he obeyed him, though the way his lips curled up told Perry that he was enjoying his discomfort. Of course, Christopher was enjoying his discomfort. From the moment Perry took over as his ward, he took fiendish delight in getting a reaction out of him.

Christopher returned to him, his expression intentionally clear of any mischief. “You wish to thank me for making your wife’s bed something she can look forward to?”

“Take it back.” Perry thrust the book at him. “I’m not amused.”

“I would take it back if it was for you, but it’s not your gift. It’s Paula’s.” He thrust the book back at him and he almost dropped it. “If you want me to take it, you’ll have to get her permission.”

His face grew warm. “I can’t show her this.” He looked at the title again and shuddered. How to Pleasure a Lady. What kind of gentleman would give such an inappropriate book to Christopher anyway? Then the answer dawned on him. “Is this from Lord Edon?”

“Technically, it’s from me. But I did ask him to give me a copy to give to your wife.”

“Take it back.” He shoved it at him, but Christopher refused to take it so it fell to the floor. Groaning, he knelt down, leaning on his cane as he did so, and picked it up. “Why do you insist on being so difficult?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing. Do you not want your wife to receive pleasure in bed?”

“Of course I want her to receive pleasure in bed.” He stopped, his face growing even warmer when he realized he was discussing his private life with his cousin of all people! “Not that what I do or don’t do with her is your concern.”

“You’re right. It’s not my concern. But I like her. She’s fun and she’s got a slightly wicked streak to her that will do you a lot of good.”

“There is nothing wicked about her. She’s an honorable lady.”

“Who went up to you and kissed you without knowing anything about you except your name and title.”

Perry traced the edge of the handle on his cane for a moment, not sure how he could best answer something like that. Granted, it was strange that a lady would go up to him and kiss him, but she had a good reason. Then he recalled her brother. “She only did that because her brother was forcing her to do something she didn’t want to do. She needed protection. Now that she’s married to me, she doesn’t have to do anything he wants. The poor thing had no option.”

“If she was so pure and noble of heart,” Christopher began in an amused tone, “then why didn’t she just plead her case? Why did she create a scandal?”

“She was probably afraid I wouldn’t understand her plight. She didn’t know me. I could have told her no.”

Chuckling, he shrugged. “If you must believe that in order to be happy, then so be it. But that book is hers to do with as you will. If you care about her at all, you’ll read it and do what it says. But if you don’t, then by all means, get rid of it.”

“What I do or don’t do with this book has nothing to do with how I feel about her.”

“Sure it doesn’t.” Christopher smirked then turned toward the door. Pausing, he looked over at him. “Is there anything else?”

He almost said no then said, “Don’t bring me any more books.”

“All right. I won’t bring you any more books.”

Perry frowned as he left the room. There was no way to win an argument with Christopher. The imp was much too clever, using words to his advantage. With a sigh, Perry went to the other side of his desk and slipped the book in his drawer. How to Pleasure a Lady, indeed! Paula already received pleasure in bed. She never once uttered a word of complaint. She went up to him often and kissed him, and many times those kisses led to other things. If she wasn’t happy with things the way they were, she wouldn’t initiate lovemaking. He closed the drawer, his face still hot from embarrassment. Just what was Christopher thinking? He wanted to embarrass me. That’s all. And it worked.

A light tapping on the door brought his attention to Paula who stuck her head into the room. “Do you want to take that walk now?”

Sure his face was still red, he forced his conversation with Christopher aside and went over to her, hardly noticing the cane. Usually, he was acutely aware of it, but today, he almost forgot it was there. “Yes, I’m ready.”

With a smile, she slipped her arm around his and said, “It’s a lovely day. Perfect even.”

He couldn’t agree more, but then any day with her was perfect. Putting Christopher far from his mind, he led her out of the townhouse so they could enjoy the day.

EIGHT

That night, Perry rolled Paula onto her back, kissing her as he did so. She felt heavenly. Her breasts pressed against his chest, soft and warm. She cupped his butt in her hands and encouraged him to slide deeper into her. He followed her guidance, allowing her to set the pace of his thrusting. The pleasure mounting in his loins was still overwhelming. Her body felt wonderful, hot and slick as it clenched around him. If there was a better feeling than this, he didn’t know what it could be.

When their kiss ended, he took a moment to open his eyes and watch her in the moonlight. She had her eyes closed, and he thought there was a contented expression on her face. But he wondered if she wasn’t enjoying their lovemaking as much as he was. She moaned softly and worked with him, so she had to be enjoying it to a point. But was it enough? Was she experiencing the same level of ecstasy that he was?

His movements slowed, and she opened her eyes. “Perry, is something wrong?”

He shook his head then tried to get back into the rhythm he’d just been employing moments before, but it didn’t work and in losing his momentum, his erection softened. Hoping she didn’t pick up on what happened, he pulled out of her and rolled onto his back. Out of breath, he drew her in his arms and stared at the ceiling. This was all Christopher’s fault. Up to now, he’d managed along just fine every time he was in bed with her. He hadn’t grown soft until after he released his seed. But now that Christopher handed him a book that pretty much indicated he was no good as a lover, the doubts had trickled in. The next time he saw his cousin, he had a mind to whack him on the head with his cane.

“Perry,” she asked, lifting her head so she could look at him, “what is it?”

With a shrug, he avoided eye contact with her and encouraged her to rest her head on his shoulder. “I just need a break.” Which wasn’t a lie. He did. He just didn’t want to tell her why, and God willing, she wouldn’t ask.

She snuggled up against him and he breathed a sigh of relief. Good. She wasn’t going to ask. That made things more bearable. This wasn’t the first time his cousin managed to slip in some way of making him doubt whether he was adequate when it came to doing something or not, but he sure could have done without wondering how he was as a lover. Of all the areas in his life, this had to be the worst.

“We had a nice time today,” she softly said, relieving him of his thoughts for the moment.

“Yes, we did.” Minus the visit from his cousin, it’d been absolutely wonderful. He took her hand in his and squeezed it. “What would you like to do tomorrow?”

“You mean you’re not tired of me yet?” she teased, making him feel a little more at ease.

“No. I could never get tired of you.” He rolled onto his side, his hand settling on her hip, his forehead pressed against hers. Closing his eyes, he said, “You’re the most exciting person I’ve ever known.”

She chuckled and slipped her arm around his waist. “Well, I did talk you into running off to Gretna Green the same night I met you.”

Laughing, he stroked her skin with the pad of his thumb. “That you did. And not only that, but you have me walking in Hyde Park in broad daylight where everyone can see me. No one’s been able to do that before.”

“Maybe they didn’t know how to ask.”

After a moment of silence, he ventured, “Paula, do you think I’m boring?”

“No. You’re very charming and funny. And even better, you talk to me about things happening in Parliament. You treat me as if I’m as smart as you.”

“You are as smart as me. Maybe even smarter.”

“You’re one of the smartest gentlemen I’ve ever met, Perry.” She cupped the side of his face in her hand and kissed him.

Opening his eyes, he studied her expression, noting the sparkle in her eyes and the smile on her lips. She was so very beautiful, a true vision of loveliness. He had the funniest thought that if he blinked, she might disappear. It still didn’t seem possible that she was with him. “Are you happy with me?” he whispered.

“Of course, I am. Haven’t I been telling you how much I enjoy being with you?”

“Yes, but I keep wondering when this dream will end and I’ll find myself alone.”

“I’m not going to leave you.”

“So when I wake up, you’ll still be here?”

“Each and every morning.”

Pulling her closer to him, he kissed her. He loved her. He’d loved her the moment he met her. Only then, he was afraid to admit it. Afraid that she would find someone else more charming, more handsome, more deserving. But she had chosen him and for that, he would always be grateful.

When he ended the kiss, he asked, “Are you satisfied with me?”

She chuckled and caressed his cheek with her thumb. “What a silly question. Didn’t I just say I was?”

“I mean in bed,” he clarified, his voice growing softer.

“Yes, I’m satisfied with you when we’re in bed. Why would you think otherwise?”

“I just want to be sure.”

She cupped the back of his neck with her hand and pulled him toward her, initiating another kiss, this one longer than the one he gave her. Her tongue traced his bottom lip before slipping between his parted lips. Their tongues interlaced, slowly at first but soon growing more insistent as he grew aroused. He wanted very much to continue making love to her. Nothing felt as good as being intimate with her. He’d like to think it was something both of them could find pleasure in, and she had assured him she did.

She reached down between them and wrapped her hand around his shaft. He moaned as she stroked him, her touch sending thrills of delight all through him, making him forget his earlier apprehension. Relaxing, he brought his hand to her breast. She was soft except for her nipple, which hardened under his caress.

He wondered if she’d let him go lower and touch her more intimately. She’d always guided him in the past, so he knew for sure that he had her permission. He waited for a few seconds to see if she’d take his hand and guide him there, but she continued stroking him, working up and down his shaft, her movements skilled and driving him closer to the brink of release.

At times, he had the inclination to cast aside all restraints and take more of a lead. These moments were especially strong when he was fully erect. And at the moment, she had him so hard he thought he might burst. But he didn’t think she’d like it if he did that in her hand, though the idea intrigued him. He certainly wouldn’t mind it. But she was a lady and probably had no such desire for it.

Gently rolling her onto her back, he settled between her legs. His tip pressed against her opening and dipped in, her wet heat making it easy to slide in all the way. Groaning, he gave into the urge and entered her, loving the feel of her flesh as it surrounded him. Once again, she cupped his butt in her hands and guided his movements, working slowly at first then growing more insistent.

And this time he gave himself to the full pleasure of the moment. He slid halfway out and then pressed as far as he could go into her. The now familiar build-up of tension centering in his loins let him know it wouldn’t be too long before he reached the peak. A few more thrusts and he released his seed, his body still while the intensity of his climax engulfed him.

When the intensity ebbed, he relaxed and pressed his forehead against hers. His breathing still raspy, he whispered that he loved her then kissed her. She wrapped her arms around him and returned his kiss, her lips gentle and warm. Everything about her was so very lovely.

After their kiss, he eased onto his side and drew her into his arms. She snuggled against him, her head resting on his shoulder. This was one of the nicest things he’d ever experienced. When he was with her, it was easy to forget the rest of the world and what others—especially Christopher—said and did. With a contented sigh, he closed his eyes and stroked her back in soothing, circular motions.

“What would you like to do tomorrow?” he asked, his voice soft in the room.

“Spend time with you.”

He smiled. “Anything else?”

She shrugged. “As long as I’m with you, I have no need of anything.”

He kissed the top of her head and murmured, “You’re the best thing that’s happened to me,” before he drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, Paula stirred from her sleep, fully expecting to find Perry lying beside her, but when she reached for him, she only felt the blankets and his pillow. Opening her eyes, she sat up in the bed, clutching the blanket to her breasts and studied Perry’s bedchamber. She didn’t see him until she heard a soft click in the small room off to the right.

After she got out of bed, she put her shift on and crossed the room, noting the cool surface of the hard floor. She reached the small room and saw that he was counting some money at his desk.

“Did I wake you?” he asked, glancing in her direction.

“No. I didn’t even hear you leave the bed.” Then, with a teasing grin, she added, “I missed you.”

She caught the slight blush that crept up his cheeks before he answered, “I couldn’t sleep.”

She walked over to him and leaned against the desk. “You could have woken me up. I would have talked to you or have done other things if you were so inclined.” Really, whatever he wanted, she was more than happy to oblige him.

“We had a long trip. I wanted you to get your rest.”

“You’re so considerate when it comes to the needs of others, Perry. Do you ever take time to think about yourself?”

“I have everything I ever hoped for.”

This time her cheeks grew warm as he caressed her thigh. It was a very intimate action and yet, there was a hint of innocence in it. She doubted he understood just how suggestive his words and actions were. He was such a strange person. How could he be in London, surrounded by a multitude of rakes and remain untouched by their influence?

“I notice you don’t have much,” Perry continued, turning his attention back to his money. “I’d like you to get some…lady things…for yourself.”

She inspected the good sum of money that he gave her and returned a couple of bills. “I don’t require all of this.”

“You’re a countess now. Your wardrobe and jewelry and other fine things are your due.” When she started to protest, he added, “People will expect you to have better things now that you no longer belong to the middle class. If you can’t buy something nice for yourself because you want it, then think of it as buying something for yourself because you’re my wife.”

“All right.”

He tucked the rest of the money back into the box and closed the lid.

She glanced out the small window and saw the pinks and light blues that marked the beginning of the day. “It’s still early. Why don’t you come to bed? We can talk or hold each other or do more.” Unable to stop the playful grin, she leaned toward him and kissed him.

“Do you think it’s too soon for me to love you?”

Her smile widened at his admission. “Maybe I’m a bit of a romantic, but I don’t think it’s ever too soon.” She took his hand and led him back to bed.

“Are you sure you want to go to my cousin’s dinner party?” Perry asked the next evening as he paced Paula’s bedchamber, his cane tapping along the wood floor.

“I don’t mind going,” she assured him then turned from her vanity to show him the two necklaces she bought that day. “Which one do you like best?”

He stepped over to her and motioned to the gold one with sapphires and diamonds embedded in the chain. “This one. The blue matches your gown.”

Smiling, she put the silver necklace in her box and closed the lid. “I didn’t think gentlemen paid much mind to whether things matched or not.”

“I can’t speak for all gentlemen, but I do.”

“Would you mind putting this on for me?” As he took the necklace, she turned her back to him. “I’ve noticed that you dress very well for a gentleman.”

“Thank you.” He slipped the necklace around her neck and fastened it. Then, to her delight, he kissed her neck. “I happen to think that you look good no matter what you’re wearing. Well, I amend that. You look best in nothing, but I don’t want anyone except me knowing that.”

Giggling, she turned to face him and kissed him. “You have nothing to worry about.”

He extended his arm to her and she took it. “I suppose you’re prepared for my cousin’s antics.”

“Christopher?”

He nodded.

“He seems like a friendly sort, even if he enjoys watching you get upset.”

They entered the hallway and he sighed. “I thought maybe he’d stop doing that once he got married. Agatha is nothing like him. She’s very proper and considerate of others. I honestly can’t understand why she married him.”

“Maybe it’s because they’re different. Some people do well with their opposites.”

“Maybe. I’d like to think that he’s a good husband to her.”

“She looked happy when I met her at the ball.”

“She hasn’t run off screaming yet, so maybe you’re right.”

Amused, she slowly made her way down the steps, keeping her pace even with his. “Who else is going to be there tonight?”

“Nate and his wife Claire. I think they were only invited for my sake, though Claire and Catherine get along very well. Christopher saw it fit to invite Ethan. Ethan is Catherine’s husband.”

Noting his slight grimace, she squeezed his arm. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Haven’t you heard of Lord Edon and his many exploits?”

“I’ve heard some rumors, but I figured some of them were made up. There’s no way one gentleman can create so many scandals.”

“I’m afraid they’re all true.”

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, he instructed the footman to get the carriage. The butler handed them their hats, and after she judged that the night was cool enough for a shawl, she asked for her black one. While they waited for the carriage, she decided to pick up where their conversation had left off. “I can’t believe all those rumors about Lord Edon are true. There’s no way they can be. A few of them or so, maybe. But all of them? It’d take several gentlemen to accomplish all those things. I suspect he’s telling some lies.”

“He doesn’t need to embellish anything. And to prove my point, his reckless behavior ended as soon as his father-in-law put a stop to it. It took the fear of the Duke of Rumsey for him to straighten his life out.”

“That might have helped, but I still can’t believe he was capable of doing everything people said he did.”

“Even if it was in the Tittletattle?”

“You can’t believe everything you read in the scandalsheets.”

“My dear, you are very innocent in the ways of the world. Hopefully, you’ll never have to learn some of them. There are some unpleasant people in this world.”

If only he knew how useless his warning was… She offered him a smile and slipped her arm around his and went to the carriage.

She waited until the coachman urged the horses forward before saying, “If Ethan’s made a change for the better, then there shouldn’t be a problem with him being at the dinner party tonight.” Even as she said it, there was more of a question to her statement.

“I don’t know. I try not to engage him in a conversation.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want his bad habits to rub off on me. My father always said that bad company corrupts good habits.”

A knot twisted in her stomach. Hopefully, he’d never find out her unsavory past. If he did, she suspected he would be disappointed in her. She’d like to think he would always look at her with love shining in his eyes. Clearing her throat, she ventured, “Sometimes people change. Maybe having a wife did him some good.” She knew that having him in her life had benefited her.

“It’s possible,” he relented. “Nate was able to straighten Christopher out…to a point. He’s been much better ever since.”

Relieved, she held onto the hope that he hadn’t completely shut out the idea that a person’s past didn’t dictate their future. “That’s good then. People can strive to be better if they wish it.”

Taking her hand in his, he leaned in her direction and kissed her. “You see the best in everything, Paula. It’s one of the things I admire most about you.”

Not sure what he meant by that, she decided not to say anything else in case she slipped and said the wrong thing. His comment could be taken in two ways. Maybe he meant she was being naïve. In that case, he probably thought her to be too trusting for her own good, something she didn’t think of as a compliment. But it could also mean she had the desire for others to strive for improvement, something she considered a good trait. And right now, she decided not to ask him which one he meant because she might not like the answer.

NINE

Perry followed Paula into the drawing room where Christopher was standing in the middle of the room and telling everyone about how he—and he alone—had secured Perry a wife. Without so much as a blush when he realized the two people he’d been talking about had just entered the room, he waved to Paula. “Welcome! I’m so glad you came.”

Perry’s steps slowed since Christopher wasn’t looking at him. Paula seemed hesitant but Perry indicated for her to oblige his cousin so she closed the distance to him.

“I’m happy to introduce Paula, the lady who will make my cousin’s life worth living,” Christopher told the others, ignoring the way Perry sighed. “Paula, I’d like to introduce you to my friends. There’s the witty and sometimes-scandalous Lord Edon, but you can call him Ethan. His wife—the lady who is just as passionate as her fiery hair—is Catherine. Then there’s the love of my life, Agatha, who is both intelligent and beautiful. And last, but not least, is Claire whose kindness extends to the ends of the world, which explains why she can bear to be married to the world’s biggest grouch, Nate, who is sitting next to her.” Nate scowled at him, so he added, “See what I mean? If it weren’t for her, he’d never smile.”

“Christopher,” Agatha warned from where she sat, “let’s be pleasant.”

He glanced at her and smiled. “Of course, we’ll be pleasant. Paula, we’re glad you could come. Are there any games you’re partial to?”

With a shrug, she said, “Anything you want to play is fine.”

“You see what I mean about her? She’s the type of person who can easily adapt to any situation. That’s exactly the kind of thing my cousin needs. I’m telling you,” he turned to Agatha, “I made a good match.”

Shaking his head, Perry lumbered over to Nate and sat in the chair next to him. He had to hand it to Christopher. His cousin could offer himself enough compliments to fill up a book.

“Let her sit down,” Agatha replied. “You’re embarrassing her.”

“What? Is that true?” Christopher asked, looking at Paula. “I was only trying to make you feel welcome here. Think of us as a bunch of lovable people, except for Nate. We put up with him because of Claire.”

“Christopher,” Agatha said with a groan.

“I’m done. Now we can let Paula tell us all about herself.” He motioned for Paula to sit by him and Agatha, but Perry cleared his throat and shot him a pointed look. “Oh, all right. Go sit with your husband…unless you’d rather sit with far more interesting people.”

Chuckling, Paula said, “Perry is wonderful. I’m very happy to be with him,” and went to sit next to him. “Thank you for introducing us.”

“Christopher, you think you’re so clever, but I can’t help wondering how you ended up cleaning out stalls and emptying chamber pots.” Nate leaned forward and glanced at Paula. “Perhaps you’d like to hear him mention that while he’s bragging about how he arranged for you to meet Perry?”

A smile tugged at Perry’s lips when Christopher gagged. He had to hand it to Nate. He always knew what to say to make Christopher squirm. If only he had the same good sense.

“I don’t know about anyone else,” Ethan began, “but I’m getting tired of hearing about the stables and chamber pots every time Christopher and Nate get into the same room. Can’t we discuss something else?”

“Thank you, Ethan,” Christopher replied, smiling at his friend.

“Sure, we can discuss the Battle of Waterloo,” Nate spoke up.

Ethan grimaced. “That happened long ago. It has no relevance to anyone anymore.”

“Long ago? It was in June.”

“Exactly. Months ago. I don’t see any reason to concern myself with something that old. We ought to talk about something that’s happening now, something that impacts our lives at the moment.”

“You mean like the fact that no one knows where Lord Pennella is?” Christopher ventured.

“No one cares about Lord Pennella,” Agatha replied, an underlying disgust in her voice.

“Well, that’s true,” he consented. “And that being the case, we should let Paula talk about herself.”

“What if she’s shy and doesn’t feel like telling a room full of strangers about herself?” Catherine piped up. “I know I wouldn’t like it.”

Perry glanced at his wife. He secretly agreed with Catherine. Having to talk about himself in front of people he just met would make him very uncomfortable, and by the slight trace of pink in Paula’s cheeks, he guessed she would rather not. Sighing, he leaned on his cane and said, “Christopher, before you start asking Paula questions, why don’t you give her time to get familiar with everyone? Not everyone is as vain as you.”

“Nice one,” Nate whispered.

Pleased, he nodded his thanks to his friend.

The butler came into the room before Christopher could respond and announced that dinner was ready.

Relieved, Perry rose to his feet and offered to escort his wife to the other room. She accepted and the four couples went to the long table which was set with many fine dishes. Perry had to admit that Agatha arranged for some wonderful meals. He still couldn’t figure out why she married his cousin, but there was no doubt the two were happy and for that, he was glad his cousin could at least be a good husband.

The course of the meal went smoothly. Most of the talk revolved around the estates the couples would soon be going to until their return to London the following spring. Ethan and Catherine were looking forward to the birth of their first child early the following year. It wasn’t often that Perry cared what happened to Ethan, but in this case, he was happy for him.

Once the meal was over, Christopher asked to have a word alone with him while the gentlemen adjourned to one room and the ladies to another. As tempting as it was to deny his cousin’s request, curiosity got the better of him and he followed him to a small room filled with books. He hadn’t taken Agatha for a Gothic enthusiast, but those were mainly the ones that lined the shelves.

“Your wife enjoys Gothic horror?” Perry asked, picking up a book and inspecting the title.

“We both do,” Christopher replied. “You ought to read one sometime. It’s much more interesting than the bland reading you do.”

“I happen to enjoy history.”

He yawned. “Which has no bearing on today.”

“Oh, I disagree. It has a lot to do with today. The rise and fall of many nations usually follow the same pattern.”

“The same could be said for a gentleman’s ability to pleasure a lady in bed. Did you read the book I gave you for your wife’s benefit?”

Perry glowered at him. He should have known his cousin would make the inquiry. “You spend way too much time minding other people’s businesses when you should be minding your own.”

“So, I take it you haven’t?”

Tapping his fingers on his cane, he said, “I’ll have you know she told me she’s satisfied in bed.”

He stared at him for a moment, his eyebrows raised in an irritating manner that warned Perry he wasn’t going to like what he heard next. And he was right, for Christopher asked, “Who is the one satisfying her?”

“Me, of course!”

“Are you sure she’s talking about you?”

“Yes.”

“But how can that be possible when you haven’t read the book? I know you came into your marriage as pure as the day you were born, so you haven’t had any experience in this area.”

“I don’t have to read the book to know what to do to make her happy. These things are guided by instinct.” Why was he wasting his time? All Christopher wanted to do was goad him along, to get a reaction out of him. When was he going to learn to act as if nothing his cousin said or did could bother him?

“You know what I think?”

Narrowing his eyes, he snapped, “No, and I don’t care to.”

Not to be deterred, he continued, “I think she told you she’s satisfied with you because she didn’t want to hurt your feelings.” When Perry shook his head, he added, “Are you familiar with how a lady cries out or how her body clenches when she climaxes?”

This conversation was much too personal. Perry could only blame himself for letting it get this far. He turned to head out of the room when his cousin darted in front of him, a knowing grin on his face. Perry stepped back, quickly using his cane to regain his balance.

“You would know exactly what I’m talking about if you read the book,” Christopher pressed. “The book is a gift I gave you for Paula’s sake. It’s not hard to satisfy a gentleman but it can be tricky to adequately satisfy a lady. You needn’t look so offended. I read the book. Contrary to what you believe, I hadn’t known a lady intimately before I married Agatha. What I read in that book helped me immensely. And I’m not the only gentleman who’s read it. Your good friend Nate has too, and we both know how happy his wife is. There’s no way she’d be smiling otherwise.”

“Nate is good to Claire.”

“Only in bed.”

“He’s good to her at other times, too.”

Christopher shook his head. “You have a blind spot when it comes to your friend. But it is what it is, so I must accept it. Listen, I’m not trying to be mean by giving you that book to read. I just want you to have the kind of intimate life that I have. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to do your part to pleasure your wife. It’s not a sign of weakness to learn how to do that.”

“You’re much too bold in areas you shouldn’t be. Now, if you don’t get out of my way, I’m going to hit you with my cane.”

For the first time since he’d become Christopher’s guardian, he stared at him, silently challenging him to make him use his cane to knock some sense into him. After a tense moment, Christopher finally looked heavenward and stepped aside.

Relieved, Perry headed out of there, moving as fast as he could with his limp to slow him down. He didn’t feel like staying here anymore. He found the ladies in the drawing room, giggling at something Claire said.

Agatha was the first to notice him. “Perry, is something wrong?”

“I don’t wish to stay here anymore. Paula, would you mind going home early tonight?”

Paula shook her head and rose to her feet. “No, I don’t mind.” Smiling at the ladies, she added, “Thank you for a lovely evening.”

He offered a bow before he escorted his wife out of the room, glad she didn’t argue with him. It’d been apparent that her evening was going better than his, and she probably wanted to stay longer. It wasn’t until they were in the carriage that she asked him why he wanted to leave early.

“I just didn’t feel like staying,” he replied.

Even as he said it, he knew it was a weak answer. But he couldn’t bring himself to tell her the truth. With any luck, she’d never find out about that blasted book and how insistent Christopher was that he read it.

“All right.” She kissed him on the cheek. “It just means we have more time alone.”

Growing uneasy at the thought of doing anything in bed, he said, “It’s been a long day, what with White’s and our horse ride in Hyde Park. I’m tired. I’m not up for anything else.”

She wrapped her arm around his and rested her cheek on his shoulder. “Would you hold me then? I got used to sharing a bed with you and don’t want to sleep alone anymore.”

“I can do that.”

At least that was one thing he could get right that Christopher couldn’t criticize him for. How he wished his cousin had the decency to mind his own business. And how he wished he didn’t let his cousin bother him.

TEN

The next morning as Perry sat in the den with his feet kicked up on the ottoman, he didn’t feel any better than he had the night before. In fact, he felt worse. To Paula’s credit, she hadn’t asked him what was bothering him. She had to have picked up on his bad mood, but she hadn’t pressed him about it and that was a relief.

He stared at the fireplace, not really seeing the flames flickering as they cast shadows along the room. The housemaid had been ready to open the drapes when he told her to leave them shut and draw him a fire instead.

However, his reprieve was not to be enjoyed for long since Nate showed up within half an hour of his retreat to the den. When the footman allowed him in, he glanced in his direction.

“I take it you’re not busy,” Nate joked.

Sighing, he motioned for his friend to come in then turned his attention back to the fire.

Nate picked up the decanter from the table and poured himself a drink. “You thirsty?”

Perry shook his head.

“I notice you disappeared after Christopher asked to talk to you alone.”

He grimaced. He should have known Nate would come over to find out what happened.

“You really shouldn’t let him get to you,” Nate said before he took a sip of brandy.

“I don’t try to let him get to me.”

“Yes, you do. He gains the upper hand every time you talk to him. If you had made him muck out stalls or do some other unsavory task while he was your ward, he wouldn’t be the way he is today. You were always soft on him.”

“Well thank you, Nate, for pointing out my shortcomings. Without you to point out how inadequate I am, I don’t know where I’d be.”

“Be sensible. I’m not trying to point out your shortcomings.”

“You could have fooled me,” he muttered, glancing at his pocket watch and wondering how much longer he’d have to suffer with his friend’s presence before he could kick him out. Snapping the pocket watch shut, he slipped it back into his pocket. Why was he waiting? He didn’t have to put up with anything in his townhouse. Not for thirty minutes. Not for ten. Not even for one. It was his townhouse, after all. The one place he was supposed to be able to enjoy some peace. “Go home, Nate.”

His eyebrows rose in surprise as he sat in the chair across from him. “I’ve never seen you this upset. What’s going on? What did he say?”

“Apparently, when I told you to go home, I was wasting my breath.”

Nate waited for a minute then said, “We’ve been friends since childhood. If you can confide in anyone, it should be me.” When Perry didn’t respond, he added, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be hard on you. I shouldn’t have said you were soft on Christopher while you were his guardian.”

“But it’s true,” he grudgingly admitted. “I was soft.”

“What happened last night?”

If it’d been anyone but Nate, he wouldn’t have said anything. The whole ordeal was much too embarrassing. But it was Nate who asked, and the two had shared everything else that bothered them. If there was anyone he could trust, it was him. “All right, I’ll tell you, but it doesn’t go further than this room.”

“Of course not.”

“Christopher gave me this horrible book that he had absolutely no business giving me. This book supposedly has instructions on how I can,” he rolled his eyes, “satisfy my wife.”

“A book? Was this a book Lord Edon gave him?”

“I think it came from that rake. Only someone like him would have a book called How to Pleasure a Lady on his bookshelf.”

A few moments passed before Nate said, “It’s actually a good book.”

Perry turned his gaze in his friend’s direction, waiting for him to laugh and tell him he was joking. But his friend didn’t. Instead his friend looked alarmingly serious. “Are you telling me you really do have such a book?”

“I got it shortly after I got married and realized Claire was nervous about consummating the marriage. I wanted to ease her into it and asked Lord Edon for advice.”

“Oh, you didn’t!”

“If anyone knows how to make the bed pleasurable for a lady, it’s him.”

He grimaced. And he was friends with Christopher. There was no escaping him.

“Lord Edon gave me the book,” Nate continued, seeming oblivious to his friend’s discomfort. “It’s worth reading.”

“I can’t believe this. You’re actually agreeing with Christopher?”

“I didn’t know Christopher had the book. I figured he was too arrogant to think he was less than perfect in bed. He certainly would have everyone believe he’s perfect in every other way. Frankly, I’m surprised he’d admit such a thing to you.”

“Just how many gentlemen have this book?”

“I don’t know. Probably more than either of us imagine.”

Probably. But even so, it didn’t make him feel any better.

“Don’t be discouraged. We weren’t born with the kind of bodies ladies have. How can we possibly know what they’ll like or not like? It doesn’t take much for us to receive pleasure from the bed. Well, you know how it is since you’re married now. Come.” He stood up and walked over to him. “Let’s go to White’s. You can’t spend all day holed up in this room.”

“What if I want to?”

“I won’t let you.”

Perry thought about telling his friend to leave but realized the best thing he could do was stop feeling sorry for himself. “All right.” Grabbing his cane, he stood up. “A game of chess would do me good.”

“Unless I win.”

Unable to stop the smirk that crossed his face, he said, “I don’t think you have a chance, but you can give it your best shot.”

“My lady, there is a gentleman here to see you. His name is Mister Leighton. He says he’s your brother.”

From where she sat in the drawing room, Paula lowered the book she’d been reading and turned to the butler who stood in the doorway. She knew Stewart would be coming by but had hoped he wouldn’t realize she’d returned from Gretna Green yet. She fought the wave of nausea that threatened to make her lunch come up. How she wished Perry had taken her directly to his country estate.

“Should I send him in?” the butler asked.

She hesitated to say yes but knew it’d be better to see him now, while Perry was at White’s. Reluctantly setting her book on the settee next to her, she rose to her feet and nodded. She clasped her hands together. This wasn’t going to be pleasant. But at least she wasn’t living in the same house with him anymore.

When Stewart entered, she forced herself to ask the butler to bring them tea and scones. As soon as he left, she gave her brother a look that demanded he hold his tongue until she was ready to talk. To her surprise, he sat in the chair across from the settee and leaned back, crossing his arms and ankles.

Releasing her breath, she slowly sat on the settee and glanced at her book. Actually, it was Perry’s book. It was about the rise and fall of the Roman Empire. She’d always wanted to read about it, but her brother wouldn’t let her, saying that she’d do better to learn how to paint or play pretty music.

They waited in an awkward silence as the butler set the tea and scones on the table between them.

“Please close the door on your way out,” she told the butler. She waited until the butler obeyed before she poured the tea, noting the way her hands shook. “All right, Stewart. We’re alone. What did you wish to discuss?” She held out his cup to him, determined to act braver than she felt.

He took the cup, his eyebrow raised. “You did fairly well for yourself.”

Clearing her throat, she picked up her cup and forced herself to drink some tea, ignoring the way it nearly burned her tongue. “Lord Clement is a good husband.”

“It seems that he’s doing well, too.” He scanned the room then turned his piercing blue eyes in her direction.

She hated it when he did that. She always felt like she was a small child under his careful inspection.

“Or is all this wealth a mere pretense?” he pressed.

Sipping more tea, she debated how to answer. “He’s an earl,” she finally hedged.

“A title doesn’t mean anything. There are plenty of poor earls out there.”

She shrugged.

“But Lord Clement isn’t one of them, is he?” He leaned forward and put his cup on the table, not bothering to take a single sip from it. “I never would have believed you were so clever. You managed to defy me and secure your own financial future with a single kiss. I have to admit I’m impressed.”

She shifted uncomfortably in the seat. While she wished he’d just get on with what he wanted, she also knew she didn’t want to hear it. Glancing out the window, she relaxed when she didn’t see Perry. She’d seen him leave after he told her he was going to White’s and assumed he’d be coming back the same way he left. With any luck, Stewart would be gone by then, but in order for that to happen, she needed to get him to talk.

Her gaze met his. “What do you want?”

One corner of his lips curled up. “He’s not here, is he?”

“Did you wish to talk to him?”

“No. My business isn’t with him. It’s with you.”

Here it came. Gripping the cup in her hand, she managed a tense, “Oh?”

“I have a feeling you didn’t tell the happy bridegroom what you did before you came into his life. And from what I learned about him, his past is as boring and untarnished as a fresh layer of snow. It also appears that you didn’t only secure a gentleman of means, but you captured his heart as well. Word is that he adores you.”

“How can you know that?”

“I’ve been asking questions here and there.” When she didn’t reply, he continued, “I know you, Paula. You don’t care about his money. You would have picked a pauper if he would have saved you from the Duke of Leavenshire. You want to be loved. You want a gentleman who’ll do anything to be with you. And it seems to me, you have that in Lord Clement. It’d be a shame to see you lose that. Lord Clement prides himself on living a holy life. What would happen if he found out about you and Lord Holloway?”

She closed her eyes. This was worse than she expected. She thought he might mock her or scream at her. Never once did she think he might demand money in payment for his silence. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she asked, “How much do you want for your silence?”

“Five thousand pounds.”

She nearly fell off the settee. “Five thousand…?” She shook her head. “My husband checks his accounts carefully. He’ll notice the money is missing.”

“You didn’t let me finish. I don’t mean that you have to pay me everything at once. I happen to like the idea of getting a little bit at a time. Ten pounds here. Fifteen pounds there. Small amounts.”

“How do you propose I do that? Don’t you think he’s going to wonder where these small amounts are going to?”

“Not if you’re creative. Ladies need clothes and personal items. Just give me the money from the amount he gives you or buy things that you credit to his account at different stores. I’m partial to gold. You could buy me a gold pocket watch. I also wouldn’t mind finer clothing than what I currently own or a chair as nice as the one I’m sitting on. You do enough transactions like that in addition to little amounts of money, and the total will add up in no time.”

She released her breath. It was safer to go about paying him that way instead of doing it all at once. If she was careful, then Perry wouldn’t find out. “All right. I’ll do it.”

“I thought you’d agree.” He stood up and motioned to the inkwell on the desk. “Is that trimmed in gold or does it just look like it?”

Reluctant, she went over to the desk and picked it up, inspecting it. “It probably is.”

“It’s a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. Your husband has wonderful taste. I’ll take it as your first payment.”

Seeing little choice but to comply, she handed it to him.

“Thank you. That’s not so hard, is it? Your husband won’t even miss it.” Before she could respond, he added, “I should take my leave. I’m sure you have more important things to do than to entertain your brother.” With a smile, he headed for the door. “I’ll send you a missive when I find something else I want.”

Her heart sank. Of course, he would. And now she was going to be obligated to give him anything he wanted for the rest of their lives. She knew better than to believe he’d be content with five thousand pounds. He’d be after her for a lot more than that over the course of his life, and the inkwell was just the beginning.

ELEVEN

It was a half hour later when the butler told Paula she had another visitor. This time it was Agatha. And even though Paula didn’t feel up to talking to someone else, she didn’t dare say no to someone in Perry’s family. Turning from the window, Paula told the butler to let her in and asked him to bring more tea and scones.

She went over to the settee and took the book over to the desk. When she returned to the settee, Agatha entered the room. “Good afternoon,” Paula greeted then cleared her throat. “Will you sit?”

To her surprise Agatha sat on the settee and patted the spot next to her. “I hope my husband wasn’t the reason Perry ran off in a hurry last night.”

“I don’t think so,” she replied and settled onto her part of the settee. “He said he was tired.”

“He could have been tired of Christopher.” With a sigh, she shook her head. “I told Christopher to mind his tongue. While I love him dearly, he has no sense of propriety when it comes to social situations, especially when it comes to Perry. I shouldn’t have allowed the dinner party. No good could have come from it. I hope Perry wasn’t too upset.”

“I think he was fine. He only said he was tired. He didn’t say anything about Christopher when we left. Besides, I got the impression things were usually like that when everyone came together for a dinner party.”

“Well, I suppose they are. I haven’t been married to Christopher for long, but every time he and Perry get together, Christopher seems to provoke him.”

“I told Perry he shouldn’t give in when he does that. He’d be better off pretending none of his comments bother him.”

“Christopher has a way of pestering everyone.”

“Even you?”

“Especially me. He kept at me until I agreed to marry him, and one would think it would have gotten easier now that he has me.”

Unable to stop the smile tugging at her lips, she asked, “What does he do to you?”

“He pestered me until I agreed to host a dinner party. It wasn’t the only thing he’s done. It’s just the latest. He’s been moping around all morning because he never got a chance to talk to you.”

“Oh, there’s not much to say.” Relieved the butler returned with fresh tea and scones, she hurried to pour Agatha and herself a cup. “Please, help yourself to the scones.”

Agatha thanked her and took a scone and the cup she held out to her.

Settling back on the settee, she took a sip of her tea as she thought over what to say about her past. Up to now, Perry hadn’t pressed her for information, and she’d been careful to not say any more than she had to. She figured the same course of action would be wise with Agatha.

“If you want to tell Christopher more about me, you can tell him that I grew up in the country with my parents and older brother. When my father died, my brother went to London and enjoyed a small fortune.” Granted, that fortune came from her father who left it to him for an inheritance. Then he, in turn, saw it fit to send her and her mother to a small cottage and gave them such a small allowance, it was downright pitiful. But she didn’t want Agatha to know that. “When my mother died, he brought me here to London to stay with him.”

“That’s very nice of him.”

“Yes.” Or so it seemed until she realized he had wanted to arrange for her to marry a titled gentleman for financial gain. “This is my first year in London. I don’t know anyone.” Well, that wasn’t completely true but she felt no need to disclose that. “So you see, there really isn’t much to tell. I’m afraid Christopher will be disappointed.”

Agatha chuckled. “Nonsense. He highly esteems you. So do I. While I love my sister, she was foolish enough to let a gentleman as noble as Perry go.”

“Was she the one who was engaged to him?”

“He told you about her?”

“Not much. He only said he was engaged once but the lady married someone else.” As an afterthought, she said, “He bears her no ill will.”

“I know he doesn’t. He blames that cane of his, which is silly. It was her lack of wisdom that led her to elope with someone else.”

“Is she happy with her husband?”

“I hope so. They left for Ireland shortly after her marriage. I have yet to receive word on how things are for her. But that’s of little consequence. She was foolish to let him go, but fortunately, you were smart enough to marry him. While other gentlemen merely want a wife to give them an heir, Perry desires a love match. You can be sure that he wants you, not what you can give him.”

“He’s been very kind to me. I have no doubt his affections are real.”

Agatha ate a piece of her scone and sipped more tea. “You care very much for him, don’t you?”

“I do. It’s hard not to love someone like him.”

“I like you. You’ll be perfect for him. He needs to know that his worth is based on who he is instead of focusing on that cane of his.”

Paula nodded when the familiar sound of footsteps and the tapping of a cane on the hardwood floor outside the drawing room drew her attention to Perry who walked up to the doorway. “Speaking of him,” she told Agatha as she smiled at him. “Agatha came by for a visit.”

“It’s always a pleasure to see my cousin’s better half,” he greeted and bowed.

“There’s no need to be so formal with me,” Agatha replied. “I was just telling Paula that I’m happy you two are married.”

He turned his gaze to Paula. “She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Paula’s face warmed in pleasure from his compliment. It was one thing for him to express his sentiment when they were alone but in front of someone else, it seemed even more endearing.

“Well, I won’t keep you.” Agatha finished her scone and tea then thanked Paula for a lovely discussion.

Once she left, Perry closed the distance to Paula who rose to her feet. “I didn’t intend to interrupt your visit,” he said. “I was going to say hello and then go to the library.”

“You didn’t interrupt anything. She just came by to apologize about Christopher.”

“There was no need for her to do that.”

“I know, but it was nice of her to be so concerned about everything.”

“That’s how she is. And patient to a fault since she can put up with my cousin.”

She giggled and kissed his cheek. “Do you feel better?”

He nodded and caressed the small of her back. “Are you upset because I insisted we leave Agatha’s dinner party early?”

“No, but I was concerned about you.”

“You have nothing to worry about. I was just tired, that’s all.”

“Does your cousin tire you?” she asked, wondering how much he wanted to tell her.

If he didn’t want to say anything, she couldn’t blame him. Surely, he was entitled to his private thoughts. But even so, she longed for someone who would choose to confide in her, to share some private thoughts. She’d fancied such a thing since childhood when she read books about close friends who trusted each other with their deepest secrets.

“Yes.” With a sigh, Perry turned toward the desk then stopped. “That’s odd.”

“What is it?”

“I thought there was an inkwell on this desk.”

She didn’t know what shocked her more: the fact that he noticed it at all or the fact that he noticed it right away. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she forced out, “Was there one?”

“I’m fairly certain of it.”

She held her breath, clasping her hands behind her back and digging her nails into her palms. He walked over to the desk, and she watched as he opened the drawers. As much as a part of her wanted to confess and plead with him to forgive her, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Doing so would only lead to questions. Why would she do that? he’d ask. Because her brother was blackmailing her, she’d say. But why would he do that? he’d ask. Because he knows once you learn about my past, you won’t love me anymore, she’d say. What could possibly be so terrible that you’d think I’d stop loving you? he’d ask. And there was no way she wanted to answer that question.

When he finished looking in the last drawer, he closed it and shook his head. “I don’t understand it. I know I put it right there.” He indicated to the spot it had been earlier that day.

She swallowed then ventured, “What did it look like?”

“The base was made out of black marble with a gold trim. The main part of it was made of crystal. It came with a black quill.” He picked it up and showed it to her. “Here’s the quill.”

Why didn’t she think to hide the quill? She’d had plenty of time to do so. Unsure of what to say, she shrugged, hoping he wouldn’t figure out what happened. “I don’t remember seeing that.” At least that much was true.

“Hmm…” He shook his head then set it back down. “I must have put it in the den and forgot. With everything that’s been happening over the last few days, I’m doing good to remember anything at all.”

Offering a hesitant smile, she said, “A lot has been going on.”

“I wouldn’t mind it so much except it was a gift from Nate and Claire.”

“It was a gift?”

“When they had a son, they not only named him after me but they sent me this.”

She glanced at the spot where the inkwell had been. “That was nice of them.” So it’d not been just an expensive inkwell. It’d been something with sentimental value. She didn’t think it was possible to feel worse about giving her brother the inkwell but she did. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“It’ll turn up. I’m sure I put it somewhere else and forgot about it.” He turned back to her. “What would you like to do?”

She’d like to go to her brother’s and find something else she could give him to replace the inkwell, but there was no way she could do it. Not now. She needed to do it at another time, a more convenient time. “You’re always doing what I want. Why don’t we do what you want?”

“I love going for a ride on a horse, and I have more than one to ride if you wish.”

“It sounds like fun. Let’s do it.”

“We’ll both have to change into our riding clothes first,” he replied with a twinkle in his eye.

“You’re right. Would you like to escort me to my bedchamber?”

“Actually, there’s something I need to tend to first. Why don’t you go on up and I’ll meet you back down here?”

Nodding her consent, she left the room, eager to do whatever she could to make him happy. And somehow—someway—she would get that inkwell back.

“What do you mean no?” Paula asked her brother the next day when she went to see him at his townhouse.

Stewart didn’t look up from his desk. “I mean no. I didn’t think the answer was that confusing.”

She watched as he dipped his quill into Perry’s inkwell. “But the one I bought is far more elaborate. That one is trimmed in gold. This one is made of gold.” She held the gold inkwell out to him, but he refused to look at it. Lowering her voice, she leaned toward him. “Please, Stewart. I need to get that inkwell back to my husband. It was a gift from one of his friends.”

“A deal is a deal. I want this one. Not,” he pointed his quill at the gold inkwell, “that one. You’ll have to return that to the merchant you bought it from.”

She examined the inkwell in her hands. The thing cost a good sum of money, a sum that she thought for sure her brother wouldn’t be able to resist. “This is worth a lot more.”

“Oh, I disagree. The one you gave me yesterday is much more valuable. Why don’t you just tell your wealthy husband that you wanted me to have it? A gift for your older brother is a nice gesture, after all.”

“But it wasn’t a gift,” she hissed. “It was compulsion.”

Looking up from the missive he was writing, he smirked. “It all depends on your perspective. You forced me into letting you marry someone I didn’t approve of. How do you think I’m supposed to feel about that? I was hurt.”

“You weren’t hurt. You were angry.”

“And I had every right to be. Swindled me out of a good monetary arrangement with that one, you did. Now, just be glad that I’m willing to keep silent about your past.”

He turned his attention back to the missive and she let out a long sigh, not sure what recourse she had available to her now. If he wasn’t going to let her take Perry’s inkwell, what could she do? She examined the gold inkwell in her hands and thought over her options. After a few tense moments, she decided she’d return this to the store and search for one that looked just like Perry’s inkwell. Then she’d buy it and replace it. That would work. At this point, it was her best option.

A knock at the door made her jump.

Laughing, Stewart stood up and shook his head. “You need to relax, Paula. You’re much too skittish. It’s not like I can marry you off to the Duke of Leavenshire.”

As he went to the door, she closed her eyes and thought over what she’d tell the merchant when she returned the gold inkwell. If she told him her husband wasn’t happy with it, he’d probably be willing to let her exchange it for another—one that would hopefully be the exact duplicate of what her brother now owned. She should have looked for a replacement one. If it wasn’t for the fact that Nate and Claire gave Perry that specific one, she would have done that instead. And now she had no choice.

“Lord Clement,” Stewart exclaimed, “come on in!”

Paula’s eyes flew open and she nearly dropped the inkwell when she saw her husband in the doorway, being welcomed by her brother. Her gaze darted to the inkwell on his desk and the ink on the quill resting beside it.

“Bring us some tea,” Stewart told the butler. “My brother-in-law has decided to pay me a visit. And just in time, too. I was about to extend an invitation.”

Paula glanced between Perry and the desk and noted Perry couldn’t see the inkwell from where he was standing.

“Paula, my dear sister, what are you doing all the way over there?” her brother asked, waving her over. “Don’t you want to sit with your husband?”

Realizing her brother was gesturing to the settee that would force Perry to turn his back to the desk, she hurried over to them. “Perry, what are you doing here?” She gulped and forced herself not to look back at the desk.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Perry replied, his eyebrows furrowed in concern. “Is everything all right?”

It took all of her effort to smile. “Yes, everything’s fine.”

His gaze lowered and he motioned to the inkwell in her hands. “What’s this?”

“Oh,” her brother began and took it from her, “it’s a gift. She’s such a sweet thing. She felt guilty for running off to marry you without my permission and thought to make amends.”

“I don’t really think she has anything to be sorry for,” Perry said.

Her brother’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Well, I suppose it doesn’t look that way to you, but ours is a long and complicated past, isn’t it, Paula?”

“He’s right,” she told Perry. “We weren’t getting along.” She studied her brother’s expression to try to get an idea of how much—if anything—her brother was hoping to reveal. “But I figured that it might be a good idea if I came by with…with,” she motioned to the inkwell in his hands, “that.” She gulped. “To make amends.”

To her surprise, Perry directed his full attention to her. “Is that true, Paula?” he softly asked, his eyes seeking out the truth. “Or have you been forced to come here?”

She caught the way her brother glowered at her before she let out an uneasy chuckle. “It’s true. I came here of my own free will.”

Her brother relaxed and turned in time to thank the butler for bringing them their tea. She took Perry by the elbow and encouraged him to sit beside her, thankful he had his back to the desk. As long as he didn’t look behind him, they should be all right.

Her brother handed them their tea then sat in the chair across from them. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am for misjudging you, my lord.” He crossed his legs and sipped some tea.

“Oh?” Perry asked, still hesitant.

“I thought,” he laughed, “that you knew I had arranged for her to marry someone else and meant to thwart me. Now I understand she never cared for the gentleman I had in mind and wished to escape marriage to him by engaging in a scandal with you. My grievous error was in thinking you would do anything deceitful. Your wife has assured me that you are a gentleman of impeccable character. I had no idea a titled gentleman could be so incredibly noble and pure of heart.”

She shot her brother a silent plea to stop. This wasn’t making anything easier. In some ways, it was making things worse. What if Perry saw right through the flattery?

Perry shifted so that he was closer to her and set the cane beside him. “I know the reputation of some gentlemen leave a lot to be desired, but I always thought if I was going to teach my ward how to behave—to be worthy of lady’s hand—then I should live the life I’d want him to lead.”

“Practicing what you preach.” Her brother’s eyes widened and he shot her a meaningful look. “How very noble. One would swear you were perfect.”

“No, I’m not perfect. I never claimed to be.”

“From where I’m sitting, you’re perfect.” Smirking at her, he added, “Very perfect indeed. It’s no wonder my sister wanted to marry you instead of the duke.” Directing his gaze back to Perry, he lifted his cup. “I heartily approve the match. May you two have many happy years and children together.”

Perry glanced at her, still not seeming to believe what he was hearing.

Knowing she had to do something to appease her brother, she lifted her cup and smiled at her brother. “Thank you, Stewart.”

He drank his tea then slapped his forehead. “Silly me. I forgot that I’m supposed to leave. I’m sorry I have to end this wonderful family reunion. I hope we can all meet again soon.”

Paula prayed that was another lie her brother was saying because she had no desire to have her brother and Perry in the same room again.

After they exchanged polite, albeit tense, good-byes, Perry escorted her out of the townhouse where two carriages waited for them—one for her and one for him.

“Is it true that you went to see your brother to make amends?” Perry softly asked as he led her to her carriage.

Paula was afraid he’d ask that question. She thought he’d wait until they got home, though. Her gaze turned to the footman who waited by the carriage door. Try as she might, she couldn’t bring herself to make eye contact with Perry.

“Paula?” he whispered, gently touching her elbow.

“I did what I had to do, and this is the only way I could think of to work things out with him so he won’t interfere in our lives,” she finally replied then looked at him. “I know my brother better than you do. The course I chose is the best one.” She took a deep breath. “Can we go home, please?”

For a moment, she thought he was going to argue with her. But then, he nodded. “All right.”

Perry gave her hand an affectionate squeeze then encouraged her to enter the carriage. Afterwards, he went to tell the other coachman to head on home and returned to Paula’s carriage.

He resisted the urge to look behind him to see if the fox was watching them. If he looked back, her brother would know he knew something was going on. There was much more to the story than either of them were saying, and he suspected her brother had somehow coerced her into being silent on the matter.

“Where to, my lord?” the coachman asked.

“Is there somewhere else you need to go to?” Perry asked Paula who was staring out the small carriage window. When she didn’t look at him, he softly called, “Paula?”

With a jerk, she finally turned her gaze to him.

The poor thing was scared. Perry had a mind to go right back into her brother’s townhouse and demand to know what he was doing to frighten her, but he knew better than to do that. Her brother would never tell him the truth. Hoping a smile might relax her, the corners of his lips curled up. “I was just asking if you have anywhere else you need to go today? I’ll be more than happy to accompany you on any errand.”

He couldn’t be sure, but he thought she blinked some tears away. “No, I don’t need to go anywhere else. Thank you.” Then she looked back out the window.

Sighing, he indicated that they’d be going home. He slipped in next to her but waited until the carriage moved forward before he leaned closer to her and brushed her cheek with his finger. “Paula, what’s wrong?”

She shut her eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” she whispered so softly that he had to strain to hear her.

“Sorry for what, my love?”

“I don’t deserve you.”

Was that what her brother told her? Was that what scared her? Did she think he regretted marrying her? “Paula,” he clasped her gloved hand around his, “I don’t know why you said that, but it’s not true. Who cares what your brother thinks? What we have has nothing to do with him.”

“I want to be a good wife.”

“You are.” He brought her into his arms. “Whatever he’s telling you, don’t listen to him.”

When it was apparent that she wasn’t going to say anything else, he decided to relent. Maybe stopping at the townhouse and interrupting their conversation had been a bad idea. He thought he was helping her, but maybe he wasn’t. He released his breath and decided he wouldn’t push her. In time, the matter would resolve itself. Sooner or later, all things came to light. And when this matter did, he and Paula would work through it.

TWELVE

That evening Paula tried to eat her dinner, but she could only manage a few bites before it became nearly impossible to swallow anything else. Across from her, Perry was talking and as much as she tried to listen, her mind kept drifting off to the inkwell. Tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow she could get him an inkwell that matched the one she gave her brother.

“Paula?”

Blinking away her thoughts, she looked up from her half-eaten meal and saw that he was studying her with the same worried frown he’d had when he entered her brother’s drawing room. “What?” she asked, running her thumb along the cool handle of the fork.

He settled back into his seat, his gaze intense. “Are you feeling all right?”

“I’m fine. It’s just been a long day, that’s all.”

After a moment, he motioned to her plate. “Would you like to eat anything else?”

“No, I’m full.” She pushed her plate away. “You?”

“I’m done.”

Grabbing his cane, he rose to his feet then went over to her. She accepted his hand and let him escort her to the drawing room, forcing herself to remain by his side. As much as she wanted to run up the stairs and hide under the safety of her bedcovers, she knew she’d have to face him sooner or later. So she might as well do it now. He undoubtedly had more questions about her brother and had been waiting until they were alone to ask them. While she appreciated his consideration in keeping the matter private, she wished they didn’t have to discuss the matter at all.

But he closed the door to the drawing room and turned to face her. With a long sigh, his gaze met hers before he stepped over to her. “I’m sorry.”

Surprised, she asked, “What for?”

“I hope you don’t think I’m following you around. I wasn’t planning to stop by your brother’s townhouse today, but on my way back from White’s, I saw your carriage out front—”

“You don’t need to explain, Perry. I know you weren’t spying on me.”

He relaxed. “I only went in because I thought he might be giving you a difficult time. I remembered that before we left for Gretna Green, you didn’t want to see him and thought he somehow coerced you to go over there.”

She’d been selfish in marrying him. Her brother had known it and had challenged her on it. Daring a look at him, she asked, “Perry…you love me, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him, needing to be physically close to him, needing more than words to be assured that he still wanted her.

He cupped the side of her face with one hand and brushed a tear from her cheek. “You can tell me anything, Paula. If your brother has done something to upset you, I’ll—”

“I don’t want to talk about him. I just want to think about you and how wonderful you are.”

He seemed as if he was going to argue with her, so she cupped the back of his neck and brought his lips to hers. She wanted him to make love to her, to make her forget everything but him because when they were together, the rest of the world ceased to exist. She left a trail of kisses down his neck, taking in the familiar scent of him that made her feel safe and protected.

“Will you make love to me?” she asked, pressing her body against his in silent encouragement.

“We should go upstairs,” he murmured.

“We can do it down here.”

He let out a slight gasp. “We can’t do it in a drawing room.”

Surprised, she giggled and pulled slightly away from him so that she could look at him. “Who says we can’t do it here?”

His reddening face didn’t go unnoticed. “Well, it’s just…” He glanced around the room. “There’s no bed here.”

“You can do it in more places than a bed.” She took his hand and led him over to the settee. After she sat him down and put his cane aside, she moved on top of him and grinned in a playful manner. “What do you think?”

“It’s unusual.”

“Unusual can be fun.” She kissed him and wiggled intimately against him. “I had no idea you could be so bashful. It’s just you and me.”

“Well, I know, but…”

When he didn’t finish, she loosened the cravat around his neck then slipped it off. “There’s no harm in trying something new.”

She proceeded to undo the buttons in his waistcoat, followed by his shirt. She noticed the slight increase in his breathing and the way his hands hesitated just below her breasts. Surprised when he didn’t move them further up, she whispered, “You can touch them when we’re not in bed.” Then to ease the tension when she saw him shyly glance away from her, she teased, “Though I wouldn’t suggest doing so while at a dinner party or ball. At least not at a moment when others can see us.”

He let out an uneasy chuckle. “Surely, you don’t want me to touch them at those places.”

She shrugged as she got off of him so she could continue to remove his clothes. “It might be fun. But you need to be discreet. It’d be easy to do it in a carriage or if no one was looking. A light brush can be exciting.” To emphasize her point, she let her fingers trace his male hardness as she unbuttoned his trousers.

He let out a low moan, rewarding her for touching him. She thought it was both odd and cute that he always let her initiate their lovemaking. Why he did so, she could only guess, but she suspected it was mostly because he was the type of gentleman who would never do anything unless he had her permission.

She removed her clothes, very much aware that he watched her with intense interest. A glance at his erection notified her that he enjoyed the slow and methodical pace she was moving at. Perhaps she should have blushed and hurried through the process, but she rather liked the way she could hold his attention. It made her feel as if she was the only one he cared about, the only lady he ever had and ever would desire. Undoubtedly, her brother would laugh at her foolish thinking, but she couldn’t help it. When Perry looked at her with a mixture of passion and adoration, the past melted away. And only the present and their future mattered.

Once she discarded the last of her clothing, she returned to him, straddling him again and wrapping her arms around his neck. She lowered her head to kiss him. The kiss started out softly, almost a whisper across his lips. But then he responded to her and she parted her lips and encouraged him to open his mouth. He did and her tongue brushed his. There were times when they made love that she had the urge to be more assertive, to give herself fully to the moment, but he was usually so reserved—even in their lovemaking—that she was reluctant to do it.

Whether it was the fact that she needed him to make love to her without any inhibitions or the fact that they were in the drawing room where it seemed to be a wicked place to be intimate, she disregarded her inhibitions. Judging by the way he hungrily kissed her, she knew he felt the same way. He wanted to be as consumed by her as she was by him. He just didn’t know how to do it.

Her body crying out for release, she rubbed her sensitive nub against his shaft. How often when they made love had she wanted to experience such heightened pleasure and now that she’d finally given herself permission to do it, she couldn’t slow down. Her hips rocked faster, developing a rhythm that matched the pace her tongue sparred with his. He brought his hands up to her breasts and cupped them in his palms then lightly squeezed her nipples. The action sent a spark straight to her core that brought her to the peak. Gasping, she dug her fingernails into his shoulders and stilled. He left a trail of kisses down her neck as she rode out each wave of pleasure.

“Paula?” he whispered, seeming hesitant.

Lightheaded, she pressed her forehead to his and waited until she could catch her breath before answering him. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he replied and kissed her earlobe.

When her head cleared, she took him inside her and rocked her hips once more, this time for the purpose of his pleasure. His hands were still on her breasts, his fingers still teasing her nipples in a very pleasant way that made her clench around him. She didn’t notice the tension building in her core until she was moving faster without his leading. Biting her lower lip, she focused on the way he was stroking her deep in her core. She murmured that she needed to keep going, that she needed to find her release once more. He prompted her to do whatever she had to do to get there.

She nudged him to lean back and established a rhythm in her movements that enabled her to take him as deep into her as she could. Whispering over and over that he felt good inside her, she continued until she was over the edge once more. This time she called out his name. He joined her, calling out her name in return as he grew taut and spilled his seed into her.

Together, they remained suspended in their state of bliss until she collapsed in his arms. “That was…that was…”

She couldn’t think of how to describe it, except that she had no idea such physical pleasure was possible twice in a row or that she could fully let herself go and know he would still love her tomorrow, even after she’d satisfied him. It was wonderfully freeing to lose herself to someone like Perry.

Her lips met his in a lingering kiss. “I’m glad we’re married.”

“Good,” he replied, his voice soft as he hugged her. “I am, too.”

“Why don’t we get dressed and continue this in bed?” she suggested, a mischievous grin on her face.

“I’d be a fool to say no.”

“Good thing for me you’re not a fool.” She gave him another kiss before she got off of him so they could dress.

“I’m sorry but we don’t have any inkwells that match what you’re looking for,” the merchant told Paula the next day.

She scanned the shelves full of inkwells and tried to figure out how that could be when she’d checked every other place that sold them. This store had been her last hope.

“Perhaps there is something else that will suit your needs?”

With a sigh, she shook her head. “No. It’s the only kind I want.”

“If something like that comes in, would you like me to send you a message?”

“No.” She couldn’t afford that in case the message got to Perry before it got to her. “Thank you for your assistance.”

She left the store and scanned the businesses. There was nowhere she could go. Her mission was a lost cause. She didn’t know what to do now. Her brother would never give it back, and if she stole it, he’d run straight to Perry and tell him everything.

She considered her options as she trudged down the street. She could keep pretending she had no idea where the inkwell was if Perry mentioned it. She could make up some story about losing it. She could even come out and tell him she gave it to her brother. But then he’d want to know why she’d give her brother something that was a gift from his friend. And what could she tell him? Because her brother would tell him he made a mistake in marrying her? She couldn’t bear the disappointment he was bound to feel.

So telling him the truth was not an option. That left her with the choice of acting like she had no idea what happened to it or telling him she misplaced it. Either way, she’d be lying, and she honestly didn’t see how those options were any better than the first.

As she crossed a street, she caught sight of the townhouses and paused when she recognized Nate and Claire’s. The only reason she knew it was theirs was because Perry had pointed it out to her during one of their walks. She slowed her steps and bit her lower lip. If she could ask Claire where she and Nate got the inkwell, then she’d know where to go to get it. But she couldn’t just go right up to the door and arrive unannounced. The best thing to do was to ask Claire if she could visit her.

She turned away from the steps leading to the townhouse when a carriage pulled up next to her. Surprised, she looked up in time to see Claire and Lord Edon’s wife—Catherine, if she remembered right—wave at her from the small window. She offered a tentative wave back. She wasn’t sure what she had in common with ladies who never did anything wrong. From the dinner party, she got the impression they were perfect. Perfect in their manners. Perfect in their past. Perfect on their wedding night. She hadn’t known what to say as they talked in the drawing room and had been relieved when Perry asked her if they could leave.

Now, as the footman helped them down from the carriage, she took a deep breath and told herself to relax. It would be all right. All she had to do was ask about the inkwell. Then she could be on her way to the place Claire got it from.

“Would you like to join Catherine and me for some tea?” Claire asked as she tucked a hatbox under her arm.

“Oh, um,” Paula cleared her throat, “I’m on my way home. But,” she quickly added before she lost Claire’s attention, “Perry showed me the inkwell you and your husband gave him. Do you remember it?”

“Of course I do. We had Mister Williams make it.”

“Mister Williams?”

“He’s a friend of my brother-in-law. He makes things for people that can’t be duplicated anywhere else. That’s why we wanted him to make the inkwell for Perry. We wanted to make sure no one else had something like it.”

That explained why she couldn’t find it anywhere. What were the chances Mister Williams would make it for her, knowing full well that he’d made it for someone else? Maybe she could explain her case and he’d make another one. All she had to do was tell him she lost it and didn’t want to upset her husband. It was another lie, something she didn’t want to do. But it was better than nothing.

“I’d love to go there and see what else he can make,” Paula said. “Where can I find him?”

“I can take you there.”

“No,” she quickly said then stopped when she saw Claire’s eyes grow wide in surprise. “That’s not necessary. You and Catherine,” she smiled at Claire’s friend, “are enjoying the afternoon together. I don’t want to intrude.”

“You’re not intruding,” Catherine assured her.

“Certainly, you’re not. Come on in and have some tea with us.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Paula said, “but I should get home. Could you please tell me where I can find Mister Williams when I have time to talk to him?”

Claire told her where he lived then added, “You’re welcome to stop by for a visit any time you wish.”

“Thank you,” Paula replied then hurried off before they could try to talk her into having tea with them again.

Good. Now she knew who could make Perry another inkwell and if she was lucky, he’d never find out what happened.

THIRTEEN

Perry stared at the book in his hands. He couldn’t believe he was actually contemplating whether or not to read it. But being with Paula the previous night… He never imagined she could be so passionate. There was something different in the way she made love to him. It was a surprising blend of raw need and devoted love. He had no idea such a response from a lady was possible. And it had excited him.

Not that he hadn’t been excited before. Just being near her was enough to enrapture him. But he wondered if he could seduce her the same way she had seduced him. She had him naked and enjoying her with reckless abandon, for goodness’ sakes. He had no idea anyone could—or even should—make love outside the bedchamber. The possibilities enticed him to learn more, to think beyond what he had thought about marriage before she came into his life.

Though he didn’t want to give credence to anything Christopher thought was good, he would be lying if he didn’t admit that this book might hold some promise. He studied the cover again. It was a plain blue cover. There was nothing on it that testified to its contents except for the title, How to Pleasure a Lady. Paula had said he could touch her whenever and wherever he wanted. Perhaps he should try it. See where things led. See what he might do to please her.

He glanced at the closed door of his bedchamber to make sure no one was there to see him. Assured he was alone, he opened the book and began to read it.

“You don’t mind going with me tonight, do you?”

Paula turned from the small window of the carriage so she could face her husband. “I’d go anywhere with you, Perry.”

“While I appreciate that, I also remember how much you wanted to go to the country.”

“Well, you said Nate and Claire will be leaving in a couple days, and this is the last ball they’re going to. You should see your friends.”

He smiled and clasped her gloved hand. “That’s very sweet of you. I promise that we’ll leave soon. It won’t be long before it’ll be just you and me at Blackburn.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

Even more so now than ever. Her brother wouldn’t be at Blackburn. He’d be safely away from them, and she could relax…at least until next year when they returned to London. She was as trapped as she’d been before she married Perry. It’d only been because of her hasty—albeit failed—elopement with Lord Holloway that he practically imprisoned her in his home. She couldn’t go anywhere or do anything without his permission. He’d made it so that no one ever found out about her disgraceful behavior and for that she paid a heavy penance.

She closed her eyes and released her breath. And she was still paying it, except she’d get a reprieve while at Blackburn. She could think of nothing better. How she looked forward to the moment she and Perry left London!

She tightened her hold on Perry’s hand. “You do love me, don’t you?”

Smiling, he brushed aside a few strands of hair from the side of her face with his free hand. “I believe I told you that this morning.”

“I know but I like to hear it.”

He cupped her face in his hands. “I love you, Paula. I know it sounds foolish, but I loved you from the moment I met you. And every day we’re together, I love you more.”

“How did I end up with someone as wonderful as you?”

“It was fate.”

“You think so?”

“After all the failures I’ve been through, it has to be. It seemed every time I took an interest in a lady, she ended up with someone else. Those were never meant to be. We, however, are.”

Blinking back tears, she smiled at him. “I’m glad I didn’t end up with anyone but you.” And that was the truth. When she was with him, all the pain in her past melted away as if it never happened. He made all things new, and if she had to go through all the pain again just to be with him, she’d gladly do it.

He lowered his head and kissed her.

The carriage came to a stop, ending their kiss before she was ready to part from him. Despite her disappointment, she smiled at him and accepted his arm. They entered the ballroom, and to her surprise, he offered to dance with her.

“I thought you didn’t like to dance because of your cane,” she replied, not sure she heard him right.

“It’d be a shame to be here with my wife and not share at least one dance with her. I know all the steps of every dance since I’ve been watching how they’re done for years.” He glanced at his cane. “I’ll probably be awkward though. If you don’t want to—”

“No!” She chuckled and led him to the area where other couples were getting ready to dance. “I want to dance with you.”

She curtsied and waited for the music to begin. He held his cane as the music played, and though he limped from time to time, she was surprised at how well he knew the steps. Sure, he’d told her he knew them, but knowing the steps and performing them were two separate things.

When the music ended, she got ready to tell him he did wonderfully but a familiar voice called out, “I don’t believe it. Lord I’ll-Never-Dance-Till-The-Day-I-Die actually danced!” They turned in time to see Christopher approach them. “That just goes to show how much of a miracle worker Paula is.” He bowed to her. “It’s always a pleasure to see you.”

“Thank you, but the dance was your cousin’s idea,” she replied.

“Well, that only reinforces my point. You are a miracle worker. Maybe next time I see him, he’ll be enjoying himself.”

“I enjoy myself just fine,” Perry said. “What are you doing here? I thought you and Agatha left London already.”

“I wanted one more opportunity to talk to Paula.” Christopher turned to her. “My lady, would you do me the honor of sharing a dance with me? I’d be delighted if you’d share your secrets with me.”

Paula stiffened for a moment. Secrets? What did he mean by that? Did her brother talk to him?

Perry sighed but patted the small of her back. “He won’t relent until he does. You might as well do it. I’ll find Nate.”

“Is it wrong for me to like talking to your wife?” Though he gasped, his amused tone betrayed his humor.

Perry rolled his eyes and muttered, “There’s one in every family,” before he left.

Bowing again, Christopher said, “Don’t mind him. He has no sense of humor.”

“He has a marvelous sense of humor,” she replied as the music began. She stepped in time to the melody and added, “I should thank you for introducing us. I couldn’t think of a better gentleman than him to marry.”

He almost tripped but quickly recovered. “Good heavens. You sounded just like Claire when she talks about her husband.”

“Do I?”

“Yes. She’s blind to a fault when it comes to him. Despite his many bad qualities, she refuses to see a single one.”

Hoping he’d forget to ask her about the secrets he had mentioned earlier, she pressed, “Surely, he has enough good qualities to make up for the bad.”

“When I say she’s blind, I mean she’s completely oblivious to all of his flaws.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, I suppose. She’s married to him. She has to see the best in him or else she’ll fall into depression. I feel sorry for her. She’s such a nice lady, too.”

She laughed. Never before had she met anyone so dramatic. “I’m sure she’s fine.”

“She’s a brave soul. But what I wished to speak about was you.”

She mentally cursed herself for not thinking of another topic. She’d been so busy minding her steps that she forgot to think of another way to distract him, and to be fair, they couldn’t talk about Claire during the course of the entire dance. “Didn’t Agatha tell you what I said about my past? That I grew up in the country with my parents who are no longer living and how my brother brought me to London to find a suitable husband?”

“Oh, yes. She relayed all that boring nonsense. I don’t care about any of that. I want to know what your secret is. How do you get my cousin to take walks and dance? I’ve been trying to get him to do those things for years, but he never listened to me.”

It took her a moment to realize that the secret he’d been referring to had nothing to do with Lord Holloway. Relieved, she laughed again. Good. Her brother hadn’t talked to him. “There’s no secret to it. Perry’s an easy gentleman to please.”

“We can’t be talking about the same person.”

“I assure you, we are.”

“I refuse to believe it. Perry has never been satisfied with any noble thing I’ve done. Well, no. I take that back. There is one thing—and only one thing—I’ve done that’s made him happy. I got married to an honorable young lady. Had it not been for that, he wouldn’t have seen fit to compliment me at all.”

“Maybe that’s because you look for ways to upset him.”

“I don’t look for ways to upset him,” he replied, his tone indignant though he smiled.

“I think you do, and what’s more, I think you enjoy watching him squirm. It’s quite wicked of you,” she teased. “You’d do well to pay him a compliment sometime.”

“But if I did that, his whole view of me might be shattered. For years, I gave him something important to do. He needed a wayward lad to mold into the image of a proper gentleman. Can you imagine how bored he would have been had I not given him something worthwhile to do? And now that I am married and cause no scandals, he can see the fruits of his labor. He really should thank me. I gave him a legacy he can be proud of.”

She giggled and shook her head. “You’re a hopeless cause, aren’t you?”

“I’d say not. I treat my wife very well. You can ask her if you want. She’s right over there.” He motioned to Agatha who was dancing with a gentleman Paula didn’t recognize.

“She looks bored to me.”

“Of course she is. I’m not with her.”

She laughed again. Christopher was an easy gentleman to like. Though she could understand Perry’s frustration with him from time to time, she also knew that Christopher had turned out to be the kind of gentleman he had hoped for, even with the mischievous side to him.

The music ended and she curtsied, still chuckling as he bid her good luck with Perry and went to Agatha. She turned to leave the dance floor so she could find Perry when someone cupped her elbow in his hand. Facing the gentleman, all the laughter died from her throat. After four years and being in London all Season, she didn’t think she’d ever see him again.

“It’s been a long time, Paula,” Daniel whispered.

It took her a moment to get over her shock. “Lord Holloway,” she forced out, glancing around them to see if Stewart was somewhere nearby, watching them. If her brother saw who she was talking to, he’d find another way to blackmail her.

“Can I have this dance?”

Returning her gaze to him, she said, “No.”

Then she hurried away from him, her heart pounding fiercely in her chest. After all this time, why did he have to come back into her life? She’d fought so hard to get over him and now that she’d succeeded, he showed up? It was like a horrible nightmare. First Stewart insisted on bringing up the past. And now this? Hadn’t she already served her penance for her sins?

She made it to a wall and whirled around to make sure Daniel hadn’t followed her. He hadn’t. Good. At least that was something. But he was in London, and he came to this ball tonight. She swallowed and leaned the back of her head against the wall. What was she supposed to do? She had no idea he’d be here. If she had known, she would have done anything she had to in order to convince Perry to stay in their townhouse instead.

She scanned the room in hopes of finding Perry, but too many people were in her way. She was going to have to venture back into the heart of the room to find him, and right now she didn’t want to chance Daniel catching up to her.

Why? Why did he even want to talk to her? He was the one who married someone else. He was the one who broke her heart. And now that she’d found someone much better—someone she loved more than she’d ever loved him—he stepped right back into her life to ruin it.

No. He wouldn’t ruin it. She wouldn’t let him. She was Perry’s wife. She’d do whatever it took to make sure no one separated them. Maybe she’d have to pay Daniel off like she was paying Stewart. Daniel had needed money. He’d needed it so much that he abandoned her on their way to Gretna Green four years ago. He’d married a wealthy duchess and secured his fortune.

Maybe he gambled the money away? Maybe he heard she married a wealthy gentleman and wanted some of it in exchange for his silence? Well, whatever he wanted, she’d pay it. Anything to get him to leave her in peace so she could be with Perry. Maybe she should confront him and offer him money. She’d find a way to come up with enough so he’d leave her alone.

Releasing her breath, she pushed away from the wall. She could do this. As she took a step forward, a familiar figure headed in her direction. Glancing at her brother, she grimaced. This wasn’t what she needed. Not now. Not when everything was crashing in all around her.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said when he reached her.

“Did you know Daniel is here?” she demanded, not putting it past him to know—and enjoy—such a thing.

“Daniel’s here? Really?”

He looked over his shoulder, so she stopped him. “Don’t draw attention to yourself.” Who knew which person was watching them? “So, you didn’t know he was here?”

“No. I haven’t seen him since you played mistress to him.”

Her cheeks burned from the admonition. “I wasn’t playing mistress.”

“You were sleeping with him without being married. I fail to see the difference.”

“He wasn’t married.”

“Oh, I stand corrected. You played the common whore.”

Fighting the urge to wince, she said, “Your point is noted. What do you think he’s doing here?”

“Probably dancing and talking to people, much like everyone else.”

She shouldn’t have been surprised by his answer. It was both sarcastic and practical, two things he seemed to blend quite well.

“I know what I want next,” he said.

“What?” She stopped scanning the ballroom for Daniel and turned her gaze to him.

“Our agreement. Don’t tell me you forgot it already.”

“I didn’t forget. I’m just distracted.”

“Want to make a rendezvous with an old flame?” he asked with a smirk.

“No,” she hissed. “I don’t want to ever see him again.”

Though he said, “All right,” he didn’t seem convinced. “I don’t care what you want or don’t want with him. I could use a new pocket watch.”

“A pocket watch?”

“Yes. My old one has worn out its use and I’d like a new one. Solid gold. Expensive. And this won’t have to be your husband’s. I want it brand new.”

“All right.”

“When you have it, come by for a visit and give it to me. There’s no need for your husband to know who you’re giving it to.”

She nodded and watched as he headed back into the crowded room. At least this time she didn’t have to make up a lie on what happened to another one of Perry’s things. That in itself was a blessing.

Tomorrow she’d get the pocket watch. Then maybe she and Perry could head out to the country the next day. If she ever needed to get out of London, now was the best time to do so. She took a deep breath before she wound her way through the group of people. She glanced around to see where Daniel was but she caught sight of Perry instead. He was laughing at something Nate was telling him. She watched him for a moment, studying the way he leaned on his cane, a carefree smile on his face, a bit of mirth in his eyes. How could she not love him? He was absolutely wonderful.

Deciding she’d rather not deal with Daniel, she hurried over to Perry. When she reached his side, he turned serious. “Paula, is something wrong?”

Steadying her nerves, she slipped her arm around his. Neither Daniel nor Stewart would dare come over to her if she remained with him for the rest of the night. “No, I’m fine. I just missed you, that’s all. I hope you don’t mind that I came over here.”

He smiled and gave her hand an affectionate squeeze. “I don’t mind.”

She relaxed. Good. All she had to do was stay with him and everything would be all right. At least for the rest of the night.

FOURTEEN

Perry wondered what had changed Paula’s mood. When they had arrived at the ball, she’d been relaxed and laughing. Then she came over to him and had been at his side for the past ten minutes, and if he guessed right, she had no intention of leaving him. On top of that, she had a worried look on her face and was standing closer to him than necessary. Granted, he didn’t know much about the way a lady’s mind worked, but he got the feeling that she was silently asking for his protection. If he had any idea what she needed protection from, he could go after the source of her worries.

“It can’t be good for any society when prices are kept higher than they need to be,” Nate said, drawing Perry’s attention back to their conversation about the recently passed Corn Laws. “Such a thing wouldn’t be an issue if the landowners weren’t so heavily represented in Parliament.”

“Maybe we should talk about this some other time,” Perry replied. While Paula had expressed an interest in the laws, he didn’t think that was her most pressing concern at the moment. “I think I’ll get a breath of fresh air. It’s awfully stuffy in here.”

As he expected, Nate got his hint and went off to find Claire.

Turning to Paula who seemed to be unusually interested in the people attending the ball, he asked, “Would you like to step out on the veranda?”

It took a moment before she looked at him. “What?”

“I asked if you would like to step out on the veranda for a while?” She nodded so he took her by the elbow and escorted her outside, remembering too late that the air was a little chilly. “I should get your shawl.”

“No, I’m fine. Actually, I’m a little warm from being in there. The cool air is refreshing.”

He frowned, not sure whether to believe her. While he wore a frock coat, her short sleeves didn’t offer much protection, and if he was right, she slightly shivered. “Well, I’d feel better if you had something else on.” He slipped off his frock coat and put it over her shoulders.

“Thank you.”

Satisfied when he saw that she didn’t seem to be shivering anymore, he led her to the bench and sat beside her. “Paula, is something bothering you?”

“No, of course not.” Letting out an uneasy laugh, she glanced over her shoulder then kissed him. “We met this way, you know.”

He debated whether or not he should press her to tell him what was upsetting her. There was no denying that she was preoccupied, and whatever preoccupied her thoughts had nothing to do with him. More than anything, he wanted to help her—to ease her fears—but he wasn’t sure how to do it if she didn’t want to open up to him. After a long moment, he decided he wouldn’t force her to tell him. When she was ready, she’d say something. He was sure of it. In the meantime, he could reassure her that she was safe with him.

“Paula,” he took her hand in his, “the day we met was the best day of my life. Every day I’m thankful for you. I hope you know that you can trust me with anything.”

Her gaze lowered to his hand. “When I was a child, my mother told me stories about princes coming to rescue a young lady. In these stories, the princes were always brave and kind.” Her eyes met his and she smiled. “I never thought such gentlemen existed before I met you.”

He sensed something underlying her words but had no idea what that might be.

She leaned forward and kissed him again, this time letting her lips linger on his. Given the privacy afforded them in the moment, he responded to her. It was reminiscent of the first time she kissed him, except this time he wasn’t too shocked to enjoy it.

Reluctant, he ended the kiss. “Would you like to talk to Claire, Catherine or Agatha? They’re all here this evening. I’m sure they’d love to see you.”

“I just want to be with you. Is that all right?”

“Paula, that’s always all right. I love having you with me. I just don’t want you to feel like you can’t have some friends. Ever since we met, I’ve heard no mention of your friends. I know about your brother, but certainly, he isn’t the only person you know.”

“Of course not. I know other people.”

The way she laughed did little to assure him of this. For the first time since he met her, he wondered what her life had been like before they married. He had the nagging suspicion that she’d been sheltered for a great part of her life, that her world had been very limited until she came to London. “Paula,” he began, running his thumb along the top of her hand, “when did you come to London? I don’t recall seeing you at any of the balls until the night we met. You’re so beautiful, I don’t think I would have missed you if you’d attended one of them over the past four years.”

“You’ve been to every ball?”

“Maybe not every single one but most of them, yes. And I noticed you as soon as you entered the ball, before my cousin introduced us. You were the most attractive lady in the room, and my first thought was that you were either married or a widow because you were older than a lady in her first Season.”

“You noticed me but you didn’t introduce yourself?” she teased.

“I didn’t think there was anyway you’d consider me. No one was more surprised than I was when you kissed me.”

She leaned into him and wrapped her arms around his waist, her breasts pressing nicely against him. “Will you kiss me this time?”

Despite the heat rising up in his cheeks, he realized it’d please her if he did so he lowered his head and brushed her lips with his.

“Is that it?” she asked.

“Well,” he cleared his throat, “I don’t know how much longer we’ll be alone out here. As it is, we’ve pressed our luck.”

She glanced at the door and, unwittingly, his gaze followed hers. “No one is watching us,” she whispered.

He turned his head in her direction, ready to suggest it’d be safer to wait until they were at home, but she brought her mouth to his and quieted all thoughts of protest. While he was hesitant to act on his desire for her in a place where they might be caught, he sensed there was something she needed from him, something that couldn’t be expressed by mere words. And that being the case, she required more than a simple kiss.

He enveloped her in his arms and drew her closer to him. At once, he noticed the way she relaxed. Encouraged, he traced her bottom lip with his tongue, seeking permission to deepen the kiss. As he suspected, she opened her mouth to receive him. It’d be easy to lose himself in the moment, to think only of the physical pleasure of what they were doing. But another part of him was too busy piecing parts of the puzzle together.

Something happened with her brother, and whatever that something was, it made her seek out his protection, to make sure he hadn’t changed his mind about loving her. The question, of course, was why. Until then, he couldn’t get to the root of the problem. And unless he got to the root of the problem, he couldn’t resolve it.

When their kiss ended, he cupped her face in his hands and studied her expression, picking out any clues he could find there. But all traces of her earlier anxiety had been replaced by twinkling eyes and a beautiful smile that lit up her face. He didn’t know what difference a kiss should make, but it had been enough to wash away her worries.

Gently brushing her cheeks which were no longer pale, he whispered, “I love you, Paula, and there’s nothing that will ever change that.”

Then, because his touch and kiss had been the balm for her soul, he lowered his head and brought his lips back to hers. If someone came out and saw them, then so be it. Some things were more important than fretting over what others thought. Having given himself full permission to enjoy the moment, he finally lost himself in their kiss, and it wasn’t until they were both out of breath that he pulled away from her.

He studied her expression again. Yes, the fact that he touched and kissed her definitely made her feel loved. Why hadn’t he realized it before? All this time, he’d assumed that she only needed to hear the words to understand the depth of his feelings for her, and while he didn’t doubt the words were important, the physical demonstration of his love was much more profound. So all the times he’d been holding back and waiting for her to initiate their lovemaking hadn’t been necessary. He could have been more assertive. If he guessed right, she would prefer that. And really, hadn’t she suggested he touch her breasts that evening in the drawing room?

He glanced at the doors, still assured no one was watching them. “Perhaps we ought to go home.”

Despite the flicker of relief that crossed her face, she asked, “Are you sure? I know you wanted to talk to Nate.”

“I can talk to him some other time. I’ll invite him to a game of chess. Right now, I’d rather be with you.” Retrieving his cane, he rose to his feet then held his hand out to her. “Would you be willing to leave everyone else and come home with me?”

Her lips curled up as she took his hand and stood up. “I’d go anywhere with you, Perry.”

“You’re the only lady I’ll ever be with.”

Her eyes shined with unshed tears. “I know. You’re such an honorable and good gentleman. The best there is. I…”

As her words drifted off, he wondered what she stopped herself from saying. He waited for a moment, giving her time to continue, but when he realized she wouldn’t, he kissed her. “When you’re ready, you can tell me,” he whispered.

He escorted her back into the ballroom and invited Nate for a game of chess. He pretended he didn’t notice the way she scanned the ballroom, her hand gripping his arm with more force than necessary. Her brother was lurking around somewhere among the people who were in the room, but he figured if he was with her, her brother would stay away.

It wasn’t until they were in the carriage that she seemed relieved. “I’m sorry,” he told her as the coachman led the horses forward.

“What do you have to be sorry about?” she asked, turning her attention away from the small window where she had a good view of the place they’d just left.

Curious, he looked out the window. Was she watching to see if someone followed them?

“Perry?”

He turned his attention back to her when he was assured that no one had. “I didn’t realize your brother would be here tonight, though I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. It’s just that in all the times I’ve been to balls, I didn’t pay much attention to the gentlemen in attendance. I knew some who went,” he quickly clarified, “but I was more interested in the ladies.”

“A bachelor is apt to pay more attention to the ladies.”

With a chuckle, he drew her into his arms. As he expected, the tension left her body. Who knew touch could have such a powerful affect on someone? Cupping the side of her face in his hand, he lowered his head and brought his lips to hers. Even after reading that book Christopher saw fit to give him, he had been too shy to be bold enough to initiate a kiss that was going to lead to more once they got home, but after discovering how much she needed him to be physically intimate with her, all awkwardness about it had departed. Their lovemaking was much more than a way of receiving pleasure. It was the best way he could love her. And he didn’t need a book to tell him that.

By the time the carriage came to a stop, he was caressing her breasts. Too late did he think through the implications of letting himself get so aroused outside the bedchamber. He pulled away from her and cleared his throat, aware of the heat rising up in his face. If he wasn’t careful, the coachman would know what they were doing.

“We’ll resume this in your bedchamber,” he told her.

He grabbed the cane and focused on its smooth, cool handle, thinking that should help get his mind off the bedchamber, but it wasn’t working. Even now, he could feel the soft curve of her breasts and the way her nipples hardened beneath her dress. This was a good reason why he shouldn’t be kissing and fondling her while they were away from home.

She touched his arm, an action which didn’t really help the situation. “Is something wrong? Did you want to go back to the ball?”

“No, I want to be with you.” Then, clearing his throat, he added, “A little too much at the moment.”

Her gaze lowered. “Oh, I see.” She removed her hand from his arm. “Think of one of your favorite chess maneuvers or the Corn Laws you and Nate were discussing.”

That was a good idea. Why didn’t he think of it? He decided to figure out what strategy he’d use when he and Nate played chess. The coachman opened the door and helped her out. Perry stepped out next, thanked him, then led her up the stairs. It wasn’t until the footman opened the front door that he wondered how Paula knew how he could quickly get rid of his erection. It wasn’t like he had needed to do that before.

“Is there anything you need, my lord?” the footman asked him.

Perry considered telling him to tell his valet and her lady’s maid that they were home but decided against it. Paula was standing closer to him than she needed to be, and he sensed that whatever her brother told her tonight was still bothering her. Even if she didn’t want to talk about it, she wanted to be with him. And quite frankly, he’d never deny her anything.

“Not tonight, thank you,” he told the footman.

Clasping her elbow, Perry led her up the stairs. He could ask her how she knew what to do in the carriage, but the time wasn’t right. Whatever the reason, she’d been faithful to him, and he had no doubt she always would be. Perhaps she had a book similar to the one he did, except instead of describing the female body, hers described the male’s body. He wouldn’t put it past Christopher to send her such a book, though he doubted even Christopher would do it in person. Knowing him, he’d do it anonymously. One nice thing about being in the country, his cousin wouldn’t be meddling in his life for a few months.

“I hope you don’t mind that I didn’t ask for your lady’s maid,” he said when they reached the top of the stairs.

“It’s fine, Perry. To be honest, I’d rather undress myself tonight.”

“Oh, well, I was hoping to do that part for you.”

Her lips curled up at his teasing tone. “I’ll never turn down the offer for you to undress me.”

Pleased his bold move had paid off so well, he guided her to her bedchamber and made love to her.

FIFTEEN

The next day, Paula went to Mister Williams’ house, and after she explained to him that she needed an inkwell that looked just like the one he’d made for Nate and Claire, she clasped her reticule as she waited for his response. The fewer questions he asked, the better, though he was bound to be curious about her request.

“I don’t make the same thing twice,” he replied, handing her a cup of tea.

She settled back in her chair and scanned the drawing room with its shelves of projects he was working on. “But Lord and Lady Roderick gave my husband the inkwell as a gift. Since it’s for my husband, I don’t see how it makes any difference if you make another one.”

“What happened to the one your husband had?”

She was afraid he’d ask that question. With a sigh, she said, “He doesn’t know what happened to it.” At least that was true.

“Do you know what happened to it?”

Drats! Why couldn’t he make this easy? “If you’ll keep the matter a secret, I’ll tell you the truth.” She waited until he gave a slight nod then continued, “I was the one who lost it. I didn’t realize its worth at the time and assumed it held no sentimental value. Please don’t make my husband pay for a mistake I made.”

He pushed his spectacles up his nose and finished his tea. “I gather that by ‘lost’, you mean you gave it to someone else?”

“You would be right.” She forced her tone to remain pleasant despite her unease. It wasn’t good that he was so perceptive. Other gentlemen would have brushed off the matter as one of those mindless things ladies did. But not this one. He had an uncanny way of seeing beneath the exterior to find out what was really going on. “I’ll give you double what Lord and Lady Roderick gave you,” she added, hoping that would sweeten the deal for him so he’d have to agree to it.

“It’s not a matter of money, Lady Clement.” He rose to his feet and turned to the inkwells, cups, dolls, and other knickknacks he was making. “I enjoy what I do, and I already have more than enough money to keep me satisfied for years to come. The thing is that each work is a unique creation. I can’t guarantee the inkwell will be precisely like the one I already made.”

Deciding not to make a pretense of drinking her tea, she set the cup down and watched him while he ran his fingers along one of the bases of an inkwell. “I can describe the inkwell to you.”

“Oh, I remember what it looked like. I still have the notes I took from Lord and Lady Roderick when they ordered it.” He tapped the ledge of the shelf and stepped over to his desk where he opened a drawer. “I take it you regret ‘losing’ the inkwell a great deal.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You love your husband?”

Her gaze met his and she nodded. “With all my heart.”

To her surprise, his face relaxed and he smiled. “A rare thing it is, indeed, when a wife can say that.” He rummaged through his drawer then put a piece of paper on his desk. “All right, my lady. Your love is an inspiration in itself. I will make the inkwell. Come by in three days and I’ll have it ready.”

“Thank you.” Relieved, she stood up and opened her reticule.

“Pay me when you receive it,” he argued. “I will only ask the same as what Lord and Lady Roderick paid for it. And,” he came over to her, “I won’t speak a word of this to anyone.”

She closed the reticule. “Thank you, Mister Williams. I appreciate it.”

He saw her to the door and stopped her as the butler opened it. “Be sure you keep loving him. A husband needs his wife’s love, often far more than she realizes.”

“There will never be a day when I won’t love him.”

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Lady Clement.”

Had she not been so relieved that he had agreed to make the inkwell, she might have questioned his odd words. But then she figured it was Mister Williams’ business what he meant. And she hadn’t lied to him. She did—and always would—love Perry. There would never be anyone else. A couple years ago, she wouldn’t have believed she’d ever fall in love again, but now that she had, she knew she was much better off with the way things turned out.

She left Mister Williams’ residence and made it several blocks when a familiar voice called out her name. Her steps slowed when she realized it was Stewart. As much as she wanted to keep walking, she knew she had to wait for him to catch up to her.

“What a lovely day to be outside,” he said. “I will say, though, that I didn’t think I was going to see you twice in one day.”

“Is the pocket watch already boring you?”

“Oh, on the contrary.” He pulled it out and inspected it. “I can’t recall the last time I saw anything so divine. Who knew you had such good taste? I should have taken you shopping with me in the past.”

She decided not to comment. The point was, she’d given it to him on her way to Mister Williams’ and now could be done with it. “I’m glad you approve.”

She took a step away from him, but he said, “I notice you have a reticule with you.”

Frowning, she fell into step beside him. “It’s not uncommon for ladies to carry a reticule.”

“No, it’s not, but it is often a sign that they have some money in their possession.”

So that was the matter of it. Had she known that, she would have tucked the reticule under her shawl. But it probably wouldn’t have made any difference. Her brother would’ve found a way to mention money. She glanced around to make sure no one she knew was in sight before pausing by a bench. “I have two pounds.”

“That’ll suffice.” He held his hand out and wiggled his fingers.

She pulled the money out of her reticule and gave it to him.

He slipped it into his pocket. “For now.”

“Pardon?”

“That will suffice for now. I’m going to require more. After all, I do have a long and cold winter to get through. I wager you and your husband will be going to the country?”

“Yes,” she hesitantly replied, praying he wouldn’t insist on going to Perry’s estate.

“In that case, I need a little bit more to get me by.”

“How much more?”

“Fifty pounds.”

“Fifty pounds?” Just how was she going to come up with that much when she already bought a pocket watch and saved money for the inkwell?

“You don’t want me to live like a pauper while you’re gone, do you? Unless, of course, you’re willing to extend an invitation for me to stay with you and your besotted husband?”

“I’ll get you the fifty pounds,” she blurted out.

His smile widening, he pointed to her. “I knew I could count on you. There’s a ball next week. It’ll be the last one Lord Reddington will give this year. You’ll like going there, Paula. They have a chandelier lit with a hundred candles. It’s impressive. And don’t get me started on his taste in music.”

“All right, I’ll be there.”

“With the fifty pounds?”

She nodded. This would be the last thing she’d have to give her brother this year. After this, she could go to the country and enjoy some peace.

“Good,” her brother said. “I’ll send you a missive to let you know where to meet me at the ball. We don’t want that husband of yours to find out what we’re up to, do we?” He winked then headed down the street.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. She wouldn’t cry. Yes, she was lying and stealing from Perry, but she kept telling herself it was because she loved him. If she didn’t keep telling herself that, then she’d have to admit she was only making things worse, adding to her list of sins. Releasing her breath, she resumed her walk down the street.

Perry was reading a book when he heard the front door open. Smiling, he put it on the small table next to the chair and grabbed his cane. He made it to the doorway in time to see Paula heading up the stairs.

“I have good news,” he called out.

She stopped and turned to him. “Good news?”

He waved her down. “Come to the drawing room. I’ll have the butler bring some tea and scones. Unless you want to go for a walk?”

“No. I’ve had enough of walking today.”

She descended the steps, her beauty making him think of an angel coming down from Heaven. He held his hand out to her. “I think you’ll like what I’m going to tell you.” After she took his hand, he told the butler to bring them some refreshments and led her to the drawing room. Once she was sitting beside him on the settee, he realized she didn’t have new gloves. “You couldn’t find the pair you wanted?”

“The pair I wanted?”

“You went out to get gloves.”

“Oh. Oh, yes. I did say that.” With an uneasy smile, she shrugged but averted her gaze so she didn’t have to look at him. “It’s as you said. I couldn’t find a pair I wanted.”

She was lying. She didn’t leave the townhouse with the intention of buying a new pair of gloves. As much as he wanted to ask her about it, something told him that wasn’t the best thing to do. She was scared. Anything he’d do to get the information out of her would only make her retreat. Despite her bravado of going up to him and kissing him without knowing him, she was like a scared rabbit who was hiding in its hole. The question was, of course, who was chasing her. Perhaps her brother? If he had to guess, that would be his first choice. And it made perfect sense when he remembered how she was at the ball. That being the case, she would be especially relieved when she heard the news.

The butler came in and set the tray of tea and scones down. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”

“No,” he replied. “Please shut the door on your way out.” He waited until the door clicked into place before he poured tea into their cups. “We’ll leave for Blackburn in two days.”

“Your country estate?”

He gave her a cup and chuckled. “Our country estate. It’s as much yours as it is mine.”

“I never told you, but I like the name.”

“I can’t take credit for it. My great-great-grandfather named it.”

She traced the handle of her cup with her thumb. “Um…is it possible to leave later? Like maybe in a little over a week?”

“I thought you were anxious to leave London.”

“I am but,” she sipped some tea, “I hear Lord Redd…Redd…” She sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “It ends with a ‘ton’.”

“Lord Reddington?”

“Yes, that’s who it is. I hear he’s having this ball and someone told me it’s worth going to. He has a magnificent chandelier and has good taste in music. I thought it’d be a good idea to go there before we leave.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her if her brother was the ‘someone’ who told her this but he managed to refrain. If he attended the ball, he’d track her brother down. And if her brother wasn’t there, then he’d know something else was amiss. “All right,” he finally agreed and picked up a scone.

“All right?”

Noting the tentative question in her voice, he smiled at her. “We’ll go to Lord Reddington’s ball. Afterwards, we’ll go to Blackburn.”

She bit her lower lip. “You don’t mind?”

“No, I don’t mind. Paula,” he placed a comforting hand on the small of her back, “how many times do I have to say that you can tell me anything? I promise I won’t cast you out.”

Though she returned his smile, he sensed she didn’t fully believe him. Whatever was holding her back must be serious. If only he knew what he might have said or done that made her worry so needlessly, he’d rectify it. But without knowing, he couldn’t really do anything but watch and wait. Sooner or later the matter would come to light. Christopher had gotten into enough trouble to prove the truth in that sentiment. All he needed was to be patient. When the time came to act, he’d know.

He leaned toward her and brushed her cheek with his lips. “If I recall right, Lord Reddington does bring in an orchestra that plays some of the most beautiful music I’ve ever heard. It’ll be a nice way to end our time in London. Now, I was thinking we should go to a dressmaker. You’ll need better clothes for the upcoming cold weather than the ones you currently have.”

“Certainly shopping for ladies clothes will bore you.”

“Nonsense. I’ll be with you.”

“I would like to spend the time with you.”

“Good. Then it’s agreed.” He gave her a kiss. “We’ll have a good afternoon.”

She nodded and drank more tea, finally looking relaxed.

SIXTEEN

Four days later, Paula held her breath while the merchant inspected her necklace. It had to have been worth at least fifty pounds.

The merchant’s gaze went up from the necklace. “Twenty pounds,” he said.

Her smile faltered. “I know for a fact it’s worth more than that. My father gave it to me from a wealthy widow.” Never mind what he had probably been doing with the widow to get the necklace. “I’d say a fair price would be fifty pounds.”

He let out a long sigh and studied the necklace. “The gold and gems are real.”

“Yes, they are.”

“However, I am running a business. I need to make some profit.”

It was hard to argue his point, but she needed a full fifty. “You can probably get more than fifty pounds when you sell it.”

“Probably but not much. I need to keep food on my family’s table, and with five growing boys, that isn’t an easy feat.” After a moment, he said, “I’ll give you thirty pounds.”

“Forty-five.”

“I’m not budging from thirty. You can take it somewhere else and see if you can get fifty for it.”

He held the necklace out to her and she thought over her options. If she thought her brother would take it, she’d try to give it to him, but he had no use for jewelry. And she’d already been to two other merchants who claimed to have more than enough jewelry. The last thing they wanted was more.

Her shoulders slumped, she relented. “I’ll take thirty pounds.”

While he gathered the money to pay her, she glanced around the shop to make sure no one was watching her. She’d purposely put on one of the dresses she’d had before she married Perry so the merchant wouldn’t suspect she was a countess. Had he any idea how much her husband was worth, he’d undoubtedly try to sell her something. And right now making any purchases was the last thing she needed to do.

After he gave her the money, she slipped it into her reticule and lowered her hat over her forehead so no one would get a good look at her face. She managed to make it to her townhouse without incident and made her way through the servants’ stairwell. When she reached her bedchamber, she breathed a sigh of relief and leaned against the door. Her heart beat so fast she didn’t think it’d ever slow down. But in due time it did, and she was able to undress in time for a knock to come at the door.

“Who is it?” she called out.

“It’s Miriam, my lady,” her lady’s maid replied. “I thought you might be up from your nap and want to dress for the walk you wanted to take with Lord Clement.”

“Oh, yes. Just a moment.” Paula stuffed her dress under her bed and smoothed her undergarments. She quickly messed up the blanket on the daybed then called out, “I’m ready!”

Once she was in a much more appropriate dress, she thanked her lady’s maid and hurried down the stairs. She was late in meeting Perry for the walk but only by a few minutes. When she entered the drawing room, she paused when she saw that the inkwell she had bought from Mister Williams was on the desk. Perry wasn’t in the room as she expected, but someone had found the inkwell she’d carefully placed under the desk yesterday.

She hadn’t expected anyone to find it so soon. She thought perhaps it’d take another day or two. Walking over to it, she couldn’t help but admire Mister Williams’ craftsmanship. He must have worked day and night to make this for her.

A familiar tapping of Perry’s cane as he walked into the room made her turn around.

“Did you have a good rest?” he asked.

Hurrying over to him, she said, “Yes, I did. You keep me up too late. But,” she kissed him, “I’m not complaining.”

Despite the slight pink in his cheeks, he returned her kiss. “You’re hard to resist.”

“That’s to my benefit since I enjoy being with you.” She gestured to the inkwell. “I see it’s back.”

“Yes. I was sitting down at the desk and my cane knocked into it.”

“Oh.” She thought for sure he didn’t put his cane on the left side of his desk since he used his right hand to walk with it.

“I don’t know how I missed it all this time.”

“I must have knocked it off the desk by accident and not realized it.” She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye to see if he believed her. She wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t. The lie was so absurd that anyone could see right through it.

“Well, given everything that’s happened in such a short time, I’m not surprised.” He kissed her forehead and extended his arm to her. “Are you ready to go for a walk?”

She reluctantly turned from the inkwell, hoping he didn’t detect her guilt as she looked at him. Maybe she should say something about hearing a heavy object hit the rug but being distracted when the butler came in. But that would only complicate her lie, and as it was, she was having difficulty keeping the charade going. Perhaps the less said, the better. With a hesitant smile, she said, “I’d love to go for a walk.”

He extended his arm to her, and she accepted it. Next week. Next week after the ball, they’d go to Blackburn and be safe from anyone—or anything—that could possibly tear them apart.

The next day, Perry picked the inkwell up and inspected it. He didn’t know why he expected it to be any different from the other dozen times he’d studied it. But try as he might, he couldn’t make the chip in the lower right edge on the base appear.

Christopher had been the one responsible for that chip. One day he sat in front of the desk and kicked his feet up on it, as was his annoying habit, and his feet got too close to the inkwell. It fell off the desk and that was when the base chipped. Perry had been so upset with his cousin for being careless with his things at the time.

But now as he examined the perfectly formed base in his hands, he hated what it meant. Paula had done something with his old inkwell and replaced it with another one. But why? What could have made her do such a thing? The original went missing before he told her how important it was, so her motives hadn’t been to hurt him. She probably thought it had no value. The fact that she replaced it proved her intentions weren’t to harm him.

This had to have something to do with her brother. The butler had said that her brother had come by to pay her a visit. Maybe her brother wanted the inkwell. But what could her brother have said or done that made her give it to him? It was an irritating thing to be so close to the truth yet be so far from it.

He set the inkwell down and rose from his chair. He grabbed the cane and left the drawing room in time to see Paula coming down the stairs.

“Did you have a good rest?” he greeted when she reached the last step.

“I did,” she replied as she came over to him.

“Are you feeling more tired than usual?” He didn’t recall her needing naps during the day shortly after they married. Even in the grueling ride in the carriage, she’d managed to stay awake. Had she not started her monthly flow that morning, he would have suspected she was with child. But since that wasn’t the case, he wondered what else could be going on.

“I’ve had a lot on my mind,” she replied. “You know, with the upcoming ball and getting ready to leave for Blackburn. When I lie down for a while, it helps me think more clearly.”

“You shouldn’t worry about Blackburn. The servants will handle the details on all that. Your things will go with us.”

She nodded but didn’t say anything.

“Maybe a nice, long walk will help, too.”

“You’re probably right.” Smiling, she set her hand on his arm. “I am looking forward to Blackburn.”

He suspected there was more truth in that statement than she was willing to admit. At least there, her brother wouldn’t be around. “Everything will be all right.” He placed his hand over hers and squeezed it. “You’ll see.” Because one way or another, he was going to take care of her brother.

Perry hadn’t planned to go to Nate’s the next day, but he needed to clear his head and the best way he could do that was by playing a game of chess. As he sat in the den, he stared at the pawns without really seeing them.

“Under ordinary circumstances, I’d assume you were stumped on what you should do next, but the endless sighing tells me something else is amiss,” Nate said as he got up to pour brandy into his glass.

“I didn’t realize I was sighing,” Perry replied, straightening in his chair.

“You only sigh like that when something’s bothering you.” He took a sip then motioned to him. “Out with it. What’s on your mind? Is it Christopher again?”

“No, it’s not him. He and Agatha headed out to their country estate, so he’s not around to bother me.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s Paula’s brother. He’s up to something, and it can’t be good.”

“Are you going to confront him?”

“I’m going to have to. The question is how to best do it.” Leaning back in the chair, he crossed his legs and tapped the arm of the chair. “I’ve thought about going to his townhouse. I almost did so on my way here.”

Settling across from him, Nate sipped more of his brandy. “What stopped you?”

“I’m not sure. On the surface, it seems like a simple matter. I should be able to go up to him and demand what’s going on, but I don’t think he’ll come out and tell me.”

“Did you ask Paula about it?”

“No. She doesn’t know I’m aware that something’s going on.”

With a shake of his head, he said, “I don’t understand you, Perry. You never confront anyone about anything. That’s why Christopher ran rampant through London, getting into countless brawls. You can’t stand by and let everything happen around you. You need to take matters into your own hands and make things happen for you. There’s a big difference between the two.”

“Sometimes the direct approach isn’t the best one.”

“That didn’t work for Christopher.”

“Paula isn’t Christopher. She’s kind and sweet. At times I sense a sadness in her, and while I think a part of it has to do with her brother, something else is at play. But,” he quickly added when he saw Nate open his mouth to protest, “she’d never do me any harm. I know you find it hard to believe a lady who willingly creates a scandal can make a good wife, but she is the best a gentleman can hope for.”

“In light of the fact that I’m married to Claire, I’ll argue that Paula isn’t the best any gentleman can hope for.”

Amused that his friend paid Claire such a high compliment, he teased, “And to think when you met Claire, you believed she would doom you to a life of misery.”

He shrugged. “A slight misunderstanding. I had no idea she didn’t willingly cause a scandal.”

“It’s nice you figured that out before you made a real mess of things and drove her away.”

“Hmm… I didn’t think we’d start talking about me all of the sudden.”

“We’re not. We’re talking about your wife, and I agree that she’s a good one. A little too good for you, perhaps—”

“May I remind you that you’re in my townhouse, and I can throw you out of here whenever I want?” Nate replied, his tone hinting at his jest.

“In that case, I remove my comment from this discussion,” Perry consented with a chuckle. Good old Nate. It never failed that whenever something bothered him, he could depend on Nate to make him feel better. “Getting back to Paula’s brother, though,” he shifted in the chair, “I can’t say he’s like Christopher either. While Christopher did get into trouble, I honestly believe he acted on impulse and inexperience. Granted, he says things just to irk me, but it’s harmless. Her brother, on the other hand, is more calculated in his dealings. He plays the part of a gentleman, but I suspect that while he’s pretending to be honest, he’s slipping in something dangerous when he thinks no one is looking.” He rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know how to better explain it than that.”

“And you think he’s been manipulating Paula to his advantage?”

Perry hadn’t thought of it that way, but Nate had a good point. “Yes, yes I do.” He recalled how scared Paula had been of her brother when they left for Gretna Green. He’d assured her on several occasions that he would take care of her brother so she wouldn’t have to talk to him. “She said that she and her brother resolved their differences.”

“But you don’t believe her?”

“No, I don’t. I think her brother is using something against her.” Probably something her brother knew he wouldn’t like. But what could it possibly be?

“If you’re dealing with a fox, then there’s only one thing you can do.”

“Oh?”

“Outfox the fox. Bring him into your hole. Put him in your territory. Make him feel comfortable. Don’t let him know you suspect something is up. Then watch him. Bide your time. Sooner or later, he’ll expose himself, and when he does, you’ll have him exactly where you want him.”

“So what you’re saying is, I’ve been doing the right thing all along.”

Nate’s lips curled up. “Perhaps you are. But you haven’t invited him to your home.”

“I’ll grant you that. I haven’t.”

His smile grew wider as he moved his chess piece. “Invite him to Blackburn. That’ll leave the fox with nowhere to hide when you catch him.”

SEVENTEEN

Paula glanced at the door of Perry’s bedchamber. It was still closed. She was alone. No one was about to witness what she was about to do. Letting out a shaky breath, she sat at his desk and pulled out a drawer. No money. She closed it and opened another one. A small wooden box was in it. She took it out and lifted the lid, surprised it wasn’t locked. And it contained money. That only proved how trusting Perry was.

Wiping away her tears, she counted twenty pounds then closed the lid and slipped it back into the drawer where it had been before. She shut the door and hurried out of the room. She slammed the door connecting their bedchambers behind her and collapsed on her bed. She never wanted to steal anything from him again.

If only she came into the marriage with more than the necklace her father gave her, she would have had something else to sell to come up with the money her brother wanted. But everything she had that was worth any value was because of Perry.

She brushed away more tears. Tomorrow evening was the night of the ball. Then the next day, she and Perry would head out to the country. She didn’t know how, but she’d find a way to make the theft up to him. She’d find a way. Somehow. Someway. Because if she didn’t, she’d never be able to look at herself in the mirror again.

Paula sat on a bench at Hyde Park, staring off into the distance, barely aware of the people around her. She’d stolen. She’d taken something that belonged to Perry and was giving it to her brother. But did she have a choice? Of course, she did. She could tell Perry everything then ask for his mercy. He’d forgive her for taking the inkwell and money, but would he forgive her for playing the virgin when she hadn’t been one on their wedding night? Did she dare take the risk and find out?

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she dabbed the handkerchief over her eyes. She was a bundle of nerves. She couldn’t see Perry when she was like this. She had to strengthen her resolve. If only she knew how…

How foolish she’d been. Why did she assume that by marrying someone she picked, she’d be able to leave the past behind? She should have known her brother would see to it that she’d have no peace. Not when he could benefit from it.

What was she going to do? She needed twenty pounds. If she could think of another way to get it instead of taking it from Perry’s box—

“Paula?”

Stiffening, she looked up at Claire. Good. It wasn’t Stewart or Perry. Relaxing, she cleared her throat and quickly brought the handkerchief back down, wrapping her hands around it to hide it, though Claire had already seen it. But maybe she wouldn’t mention it if Paula distracted her. “Will you be attending the ball tomorrow evening at Lord Rett…Redd…”

“Lord Reddington’s?”

Letting out an uneasy laugh, Paula nodded. “I don’t know why, but I can’t remember his title.”

“It doesn’t flow very well.” She motioned to the bench. “Mind if I sit?”

“Oh, please do.”

Claire settled beside her and tucked her shawl around her arms. “Who knows how many nice days we’ll have before it feels like autumn?”

“Everyone else seems to be thinking the same thing.”

“There’s a lot of people out here today.” The two sat in awkward silence for a minute before Claire spoke up. “I’m glad I found you.”

“Are you?”

“You’re Perry’s wife. Nate and I had hoped Perry would find one, and we couldn’t be more pleased that you’re the one who married him.”

“That’s very kind of you to say, but…” But what? But Claire and Nate were sorely mistaken if they thought she deserved him? She didn’t dare say such a thing. “There’s nothing special about me.”

“You’d never know that from the way Perry’s eyes light up when you enter a room. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a gentleman more devoted to a lady than he is to you.”

That only made Paula feel worse. She averted her gaze from Claire’s and watched the people who strolled by. All of them were laughing and talking as if they didn’t have a care in the world. None of them had the heavy weight of sin pressing down on them.

“What kind of things do you like to do?” Claire asked, once more bringing her attention to her.

“Oh, well, not much, really. I like going outside and taking a walk. I like to see the trees and grass and birds.” Claire waited, probably expecting her to add more, but Paula’s life had consisted of little else besides her time outdoors and helping her mother in the cottage until Lord Holloway came into her life. She shrugged and tightened her grip on the handkerchief. “I’m afraid there’s not much else to me.” She forced a smile. “How about you? What do you enjoy?”

“I also enjoying going out and walking. I don’t enjoy horse riding, though my husband likes to take his horse out a couple times a week, especially when we’re in the country. I’d rather sit in the gazebo and draw.”

“You draw? Are you any good at it?”

“Sadly, no. But Catherine is. We should have invited you to take a stroll through here a week ago. From time to time, we come out here and draw what we see. I like to draw flowers. She prefers to draw buildings and people. Next year when we return, we should come here and you can see how good she is. Do you draw at all?”

“No. I haven’t had the need to.”

“So you might be good at it and not even know it. That’s how it was for Catherine.”

Maybe she could draw well. Maybe she couldn’t. Either way, she didn’t think Claire would invite her to go with her and Catherine if Perry found out about her past and cast her away in the country so he wouldn’t have to bear the shame of being in London with her.

“Are you and Perry leaving for the country soon?” Claire asked.

“Yes. After tomorrow. We’ll attend the ball first.”

“Nate and I had planned to leave already, but he wants to discuss a few investment ideas with a gentleman. Once he finishes up with business, we’ll be leaving.”

“Are the others already gone?”

“You mean Christopher, Agatha, Catherine, and Ethan?”

Paula nodded.

“Yes.” She chuckled. “Between you and me, I think Christopher wants to have Agatha all to himself.”

“That’s sweet.”

“It is, isn’t it?”

“Speaking of Christopher, do you think he’s changed? Perry said he used to get into trouble a lot.” She hesitated to add that Perry still thought he had a wicked streak in him despite all outward appearances.

“Christopher’s motives have always been good, even if he didn’t know how to best act on them. I think people look at Christopher and only see what’s on the surface. There’s much more to him than what appears. He’s probably more honorable than a lot of us imagine.”

She had suspected as much. “So his past hasn’t destroyed his future?”

“I should say not. He and Agatha are happy, and in the end, that’s all that matters.”

“Agatha must be an understanding person.”

“Either that or a part of her enjoys the slightly mischievous side in her husband.”

“Perry doesn’t though.”

“I suspect that’s because Christopher finds ways to irritate him on purpose. But he loves him. He may never say it, but he’s shown it in his actions. He took Christopher in when Christopher was young and he always did what was best for him. I think it’s because Perry didn’t give up on him that Christopher didn’t become a rake. He might have wanted others to believe he was a rake, but he wasn’t. Like I said, what you see isn’t what you get. Sometimes people surprise you.” She stood up and gestured to the path that curved around some trees. “Would you like to walk with me?”

Paula rose to her feet. “Yes. Tell me about Agatha, Catherine, and Ethan.”

As Claire did, the two headed for the trees.

When Paula returned to the townhouse, she went to her bedchamber and opened the reticule resting on her vanity. She pulled out the twenty pounds and stared at it. She didn’t have to resort to stealing anymore. There had to be another way she could satisfy her brother’s demands.

Steadying her breath, she put the reticule back on the vanity then walked over to the door that connected her bedchamber with Perry’s. She pressed her ear to it and waited. Nothing. It was silent. Good. Maybe he hadn’t returned from White’s yet.

Just to be sure he wasn’t in, she knocked on the door. No response. She slowly turned the knob and nudged the door open. With a glance around the bedchamber, she saw that she was alone. Relieved, she opened the door all the way and stepped into the room. All she had to do was put the money back into the box.

Maybe she’d take one of the necklaces Perry bought her and sell it to that merchant. Even if he didn’t give her the full amount for it, she could easily get the extra twenty. Yes. That was a much better plan. Then she’d be selling her own things to pay her brother off instead of stealing from Perry.

She made it to the desk and placed the money in the box. Just as she shut the lid, the door to his bedchamber opened and she stilled. Maybe it would be the valet who came to get Perry’s clothes ready for dinner. But she didn’t have any such luck, not when she heard the familiar sound of a cane tapping the floor. She shoved the box into the drawer and tried to be quiet about shutting it before he could see her.

“Paula, what are you doing here?” he asked.

She couldn’t tell if he sounded bewildered or not but hoped that was the case since she didn’t want to think he was angry with her. “Perry, I can explain,” she replied, struggling to think of something—anything—she might say that would make sense as to why she was right by his desk. Nothing came to mind. She was guilty. And worse than that, she’d been caught.

He waited for her to continue, his eyes patient, his expression open to whatever she had to say.

She released her breath and ventured, “I needed twenty pounds.” There. It was the truth. Maybe not the complete truth, but it was better than an outright lie.

He went over to the desk and took the box out of the drawer. “We’re married. Anything I have belongs to you.” He pulled out twenty pounds and held it out to her. “You have nothing to fear. It’s yours to take.”

She stared at the money for a long moment, hardly believing her ears. “You want me to take it after I came in here and stole it?”

His eyebrows furrowed, he counted the money in the box. “The full amount is here.”

“I took the twenty pounds out this morning after you left for White’s.”

“So you came in here to return it?”

She shifted from one foot to another and nodded. Might as well admit that part, too.

“It’s all right,” he softly told her. “You can come in here any time you want and take whatever you need. We could even get you a box to put money in so you don’t have to come here. Here.” He indicated to the twenty pounds. “Take it.”

Despite her hesitation, she accepted it. “Thank you.”

“When we return next year, I’ll get you a box and put money in it.” His fingers brushed her cheek and he kissed her. “It’s all right.” With a chuckle, he added, “Stop worrying about it.”

She should be relieved. She got the money and did it with him knowing about it. But she wasn’t. Deep in her gut, she still knew what she was doing was wrong. And there didn’t seem to be any way that she could make it right.

EIGHTEEN

The following evening, Perry’s valet helped him put on his double-breasted wool frock coat then handed him his gloves and hat. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”

“No, thank you. You may retire for the evening.”

After his valet left, Perry checked his reflection in the mirror and thought over what he was going to say at the ball. Nate’s advice was the best recourse. He had to lure Stewart to his country estate somehow.

Clearing his throat, he stared at his reflection, pretending he was looking at Stewart. “Would you delight Paula and me by coming to Blackburn?”

No. That sounded awful.

He took a deep breath and tried again. “Since you’re Paula’s brother, it’s only right you stay for a while at Blackburn.”

No. That didn’t sound good either.

He closed his eyes for a moment. Opening them, he said, “Stewart, I’d be remiss if I didn’t invite you to visit Blackburn for a couple weeks. I’d like a chance to get to know my wife’s brother better without the distractions found in London.”

That was better.

With a nod, he took his cane and left his bedchamber. Just as he turned to head for the stairs, Paula’s bedchamber door opened. This evening she wore a blue gown that seemed to shimmer in the candlelight. “You’re beautiful in your new dress,” he said.

She looked up from the doorknob as she closed the door. “Anyone would be beautiful in this dress. It’s gorgeous.”

“Don’t be so modest, Paula. You’re the one who makes the dress worth looking at. But I didn’t expect you to be ready so soon. I thought I’d be waiting for a half hour for you in the drawing room.”

“I started getting ready early.”

“Well, I suppose it doesn’t hurt to take a nice ride through town before we go to the ball since we’ll be on our way to Blackburn tomorrow.”

She strolled up to him and slipped her arm around his. “I can’t wait.”

Chances were, she wouldn’t be thinking that when she realized he invited her brother to their estate, but he’d deal with that if her brother agreed to come out. If not, then there was no point in telling her.

After he reassured her that everything would be all right, he escorted her to the carriage and they took a nice, leisurely ride. He held her hand, thinking that his touch would comfort her as it had in the past. But she kept fidgeting and glancing at her finger purse.

It didn’t occur to him why the finger purse was so important to her until he recalled the twenty pounds. As much as he wanted to open it and find out if she was carrying that money with her, he stood a greater advantage by pretending to be oblivious to everything.

They arrived at the ball in due time, and he offered to dance with her. Though she accepted, he sensed her mind was on other things. She kept scanning the large ballroom. He was tempted to follow her gaze but managed to refrain.

When the dance ended, she waved to someone. This time, he did look over his shoulder, but he couldn’t figure out who she was waving to. “I should talk to an old friend while I have the chance,” she said, turning back to him. “Do you mind?”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t mind.” This friend was probably her brother, and since he didn’t see her brother where she’d been looking, he guessed she was going to search for him. Maybe he’d find Stewart first. “Go on and talk to your friend. I’ll see who else is here.”

Though she seemed relieved he hadn’t put up an argument, he sensed her reluctance to leave him. He watched her as she walked away until she passed enough people so that he couldn’t see her anymore. Turning his attention to the gentlemen in the room, he searched for her brother. But within a minute, someone was calling out his name.

Even before he looked at the gentleman, he knew it was Lord Pennella. Hiding his grimace, he stopped, leaning on his cane so he wouldn’t hurry off to get away from him. He had thought by now Pennella had left London, but here he was, still slithering around to annoy as many people as possible.

Forcing his tone to remain polite, he said, “I already told you Christopher didn’t tell someone who works at the Tittletattle about the wager you and Davenport made at White’s. Christopher might be guilty of many things, but he wouldn’t betray a secret.”

“I know he did it, and I know who he told.”

“Then all your problems have been resolved.”

Perry made a move to leave, but Pennella stepped in front of him. “That ward of yours has caused me a lot of difficulty, and this wasn’t the first time.”

“He’s no longer my ward. He’s a married gentleman now.”

“But he is still your cousin and will inherit your title if you don’t get an heir.”

With a sigh, he glanced around the room. At this rate, he’d never get to talk to Paula’s brother.

Once Paula reached the corner of the large room, she opened her finger purse and took out the folded missive her brother had sent that morning. Now that she was here, she could follow his instructions. He told her to go down the corridor off the east side of the room, pass three doors and take the fourth one, saying it was small enough where no one would find them. How he could know no one would find them, she didn’t know, but even if someone did, all she had to do was find another way to give him the money.

She folded the paper back up and put it back in her finger purse. All right. Now that she was here, she could find the east corridor. Her gaze went to it and she took a deep breath to steady her nerves. She could do it. This would be the last time she’d have to see her brother before she left for Blackburn. And next year… Well, she’d deal with it when the time came.

Her gaze traveled the room, making sure no one was watching her as she wove her way through the guests. Perry was on the other side of the room. From the looks of it, he didn’t seem to be enjoying his conversation with a gentleman she didn’t recognize. Whatever the matter was, she hoped the gentleman wasn’t giving him a difficult time.

She had to find her brother. Nothing was going to get done until she took care of business. Gripping her finger purse, she hurried over to the corridor and rushed down it. She found the little room he mentioned and slipped into it, surprised by how dim it was when the others were so bright with all the candles that decorated the place.

“Stewart?” she whispered.

All she had to do was give him the money she’d tucked into her finger purse and this horrible ordeal would be over.

“Stewart?”

She jerked when someone touched her arm. “Stewart,” she hissed and spun around. But instead of her brother, Daniel stood before her.

“You can’t intimidate me into giving you money,” Perry finally told Pennella when he’d had enough. “Whatever qualms you have with my cousin, you’ll have to work it out with him. I’m no longer responsible for anything he does. If you bother me about this in the future, I’ll have you removed from White’s.” When Pennella opened his mouth to protest, he added, “Don’t doubt for a minute that I don’t have enough leverage with the other gentlemen to make it happen.”

Pennella closed his mouth, a silent acknowledgment that Perry did, indeed, have more influence among the members than he did.

Tapping his cane on Pennella’s leg, Perry said, “If you’ll excuse me, I have something worthwhile to do.”

Pennella moved aside, so Perry passed him. Few times had anyone pushed him to the point of making such a threat regarding White’s, and he had a nagging suspicion Paula’s brother wouldn’t be any more pleasant to deal with once he figured out what was going on.

He found Stewart dancing with a lady and remained still, patiently waiting for the music to end. He glanced around the room but didn’t see Paula. She could be anywhere in such a large room with so many people enjoying their last ball before they left for the country. Turning his attention back to Stewart, he focused on him. Based on outward appearances, one would never suspect he needed careful watching.

As the music came to an end, Perry hurried over to him. When he reached him, he offered him a smile, hoping it’d let the other gentleman’s guard down. “Mister Leighton, what a pleasure it is to see you again.”

If Perry judged right, Stewart’s gaze darted from one end of the room to the other. Finally, he looked at Perry and gave him a wide smile. “Lord Clement, I didn’t realize you and my sister would be here.”

The gentleman was as bad at lying as Paula was. Well, that only made his task easier. “She insisted we come tonight. She heard the music was the best in London and wanted to see the grand chandelier.” Though unnecessary, he motioned to the beautiful object hanging from the ceiling. “The least I could do was oblige her since after this we’ll be heading out to the country where she’ll likely grow bored. There’s not much to do there, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, you don’t need to worry about Paula. She grew up in the country. She learned to find ways to pass the time.”

He couldn’t be sure, but he thought Stewart gave a light smirk. “Perhaps. There are horses to ride. She might take delight in the gazebo or lake since she enjoys taking long walks. Of course, she’s likely to spend most of her time exploring the east and west wings of the manor. There’s so much room, a person could get lost if they wanted.”

Stewart’s eyebrows rose in interest. “Oh?”

“Yes.” Then to gauge his reaction further, Perry added, “Maybe she’ll enjoy spending hours going through the many possessions out there. Lots of valuable things.”

As he suspected, Stewart seemed even more intrigued. Now things were beginning to make sense. The missing inkwell, the twenty pounds… Stewart was greedy. That being the case, it shouldn’t be too hard to set the bait.

“I just had a thought,” Perry began. “Why don’t you come to the estate for a few days? Maybe even a couple weeks?”

“Oh, I couldn’t impose.” Though he protested, the tone in his voice suggested he’d love nothing more.

“It’s not an imposition. You’re Paula’s brother. She’d be disappointed if you didn’t go.”

“Is that what she said?”

“She didn’t have to. I was there that day she went to your townhouse. You heard her tell me she wanted to see you.”

“Yes, she did say something to that effect.”

“I insist you be our guest. She would never forgive me if you didn’t come out. There’s no use in arguing with me, Stewart. I won’t take no for an answer.”

“I can’t say yes until I make sure I’m not needed in London. I’m a busy gentleman.”

Perry gripped the head of his cane. So he wasn’t going to jump at the opportunity as he hoped. But he hadn’t said no either. He relaxed his grip and forced himself to relax. If he didn’t find out what was going on this winter, there was always next year. “Send a missive to Blackburn if you’re able to make it.”

He turned to leave but Stewart called out, “Before you leave, I thought I might tell you a few amusing stories from Paula’s childhood. We never did have that brother-in-law discussion yet,” he said in a teasing tone with an underlying edge of panic.

Was Stewart distracting him on purpose? Perry glanced around the room, still not seeing Paula anywhere. No, Stewart couldn’t be distracting him. Perry had been the one seeking him out, not the other way around. He was trying so hard to pick up clues that he was starting to see things that weren’t there. Paula would find him soon enough and since she wanted to give her brother the money, it wouldn’t be long before she found them.

“Sounds interesting,” Perry told her brother. “Go on and tell me some of the amusing things she did as a child.”

NINETEEN

Paula bolted for the door.

Daniel darted in front of her and shut it. “It’s been a long time.”

“Not long enough. Get out of my way. I must go to my husband at once.”

“And I must get to my wife…eventually.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her to him. She struggled to get away from him, but he pinned her against the door and shot her that devilish smile that used to make her weak in the knees. “It’s all right. No one will interrupt us.” He reached behind her waist and clicked the lock. Then he lowered his head and kissed her neck.

“I’m not interested.” Her cheeks burned with a mixture of rage and humiliation. No one had the right to kiss or touch her but Perry.

“Oh, Paulie, don’t be like that,” Daniel whispered in a soothing voice that had once sent chills of delight running up and down her spine.

“I told you I hate that nickname. My name is Paula.” She swatted his hand away when he reached out to touch her cheek. “Leave me alone.” She glanced around the room to make sure no one could see them. If anyone caught them together, she’d never live it down.

“If you’re worried someone will catch us, you have no need to worry. I chose a very discrete place.”

“I don’t want to be with you. How hard is that for you to understand?”

She tried to push him away, but he used his body to hold her in place. “I remember a time when you sought me out. You remember that, don’t you? Four years ago, I’d come to that little cottage you and your mother lived in, and I’d sneak in to your room at night. Then there was that time in my carriage when I slipped my hand beneath your dress and realized you weren’t wearing anything. We found many pleasant ways to be together.”

She shook her head. She didn’t want to remember any of it. Even now, it made her sick to her stomach to think of how often she’d blindly gave herself to him, not realizing the heartache she’d endure when she woke up one morning to find a note telling her he decided to marry the Duchess of Breckman because he needed the money. She’d been so devastated all she could do was cry in bed for two months, refusing to let anyone console her. At that time, her mother had sent for her brother and it was up to him to cover up her sins so that he could take her to London to find a suitable husband.

“You can’t tell me that you don’t think of me and how much we meant to each other,” Daniel continued.

“I was young and stupid. I should have known a titled gentleman would never marry someone who had no money or a family name. You knew that and you took advantage of it.”

“Yes, I did know that, but I loved you and wanted to be with you. I still want to be with you. There’s no reason we can’t be lovers. We’ll be discrete. No one has to know. Paula, I never stopped loving you. In all these years, I’ve often dreamt of being with you again. I only married my wife because she was wealthy.” He traced the curve of her back and cupped her behind in his hands, pressing her intimately against him so that she could feel his erection. “I didn’t want to leave you that morning we were supposed to get married.”

“But you did,” she hissed and finally succeeded in pushing him far enough so that there was some space between them. “You used me and threw me away when you were through.” She shoved him away again and he finally relented. Relieved, she unlocked the door. “If you had really loved me, you would have given up whatever it took to be with me.”

“It wasn’t that easy.”

“For you, it wasn’t. But for me, it is. I love Perry, and I will never share my bed with anyone but him.”

She hurried out of the room before he could respond and rushed down the corridor until she found the ballroom. She stopped outside the door and scanned the room to be sure no one would notice her slip into it. The last thing she needed was for someone to see her and start rumors that would hurt Perry.

Glancing over her shoulder to make sure Daniel hadn’t followed her, she slipped into the room, edging her way along the wall. Once she found a group of people who were too busy talking to each other to notice her, she bypassed them and stepped further into the room.

When she found Perry, he was talking to her brother. Her steps slowed. What was her brother doing? He promised her that he wouldn’t tell Perry anything about her past as long as she gave him whatever he wanted, and up to now, she’d been diligent about meeting his demands. She’d even snuck off to another room to give him the money he asked for. And how did he repay her? Did he know that Daniel would be waiting for her? Were the two of them conspiring against her?

Perry glanced in her direction, and she hesitated to proceed further until he smiled in that way of his that let her know he still loved her. Relieved, she picked up her pace.

When she reached his side, he gently touched her elbow in a reassuring manner that further relaxed her. “Your brother was telling me you used to play the piano when you were a child.”

She glanced at Stewart who, if she understood right, was smirking at her. So he had arranged for her and Daniel to be alone together. Did it really please him to see her in such a perilous situation where she could have been caught? No one would believe nothing happened between her and Daniel if they’d caught them. Her brother had to have known that.

“If you enjoy the piano, I can get one,” Perry told her.

She shifted closer to him. “No. I didn’t like it. My mother insisted I play it.”

“Really? You didn’t enjoy it?” her brother asked. “I thought you did since every time I came by for a visit, you were playing it.”

“There was little else to do in the country,” she replied.

“Ah, I understand. It’s a good thing you and Mother received a visitor from time to time to ease away the boredom.”

She stiffened at his meaning. They both knew exactly which visitor he was referring to. “I don’t miss receiving a visitor,” she told him, hoping he’d understand that he was to never arrange it so that she and Daniel were alone again. She turned her attention back to Perry. “Can we go home now?”

“Of course.”

Her brother cleared his throat.

“Will you give me a moment with my brother?” she asked.

He nodded and motioned to the doorway. “I’ll wait for you over there.”

“I won’t be but a minute.” After he left them, she focused on her brother. “The next time you tell me to meet you, you’d better be there.”

His eyebrows rose in surprise. “Well, that’s gratitude for you. I thought you’d be pleased to see Daniel.”

“Well, I wasn’t.”

“It’s not uncommon for a countess to take a lover,” he said in a lower voice.

“I don’t care what other countesses do. I will not betray Perry that way. It’s bad enough I’m stealing things for you. I will not add adultery to my list of sins.”

He chuckled. “What you do or don’t do in your spare time is none of my concern. I only care about whether or not you bring me what I want. Now, did you bring it?”

“Yes. It’s all there.” She slipped him the money from the finger purse, hoping no one else noticed. From where Perry stood, he didn’t seem to be watching them.

“Good. Now, I’ll let you get back to the doting husband.”

Relieved, she went over to Perry, barely noticing the other people in the room.

When she reached him, he asked, “Are you feeling all right?”

She took him by the arm and led him out of the ballroom. “I’m fine. I just want to go home with you.”

She’d never been so glad to get into a carriage as she was that night. Seeing Daniel and finding out Stewart arranged the meeting were too much to handle for one evening. What she wanted, more than anything, was to be with Perry in bed and stay there for the rest of her life.

As the carriage made its way down the street, Perry put his arm around her shoulders and drew her close. She rested her head on his shoulder, taking comfort in his solid presence. Tears filled her eyes but she blinked them away so he wouldn’t realize she wanted to cry.

There were things she wanted to say, things she didn’t dare, and things she was too afraid to reveal. The evening had been a trying one. She kept hoping things would get easier, that the weight of her guilt wouldn’t get in the way of her newfound happiness. But happiness was such a fleeting thing when the world crept in to destroy it.

“Paula, if you don’t tell me what’s wrong, I can’t help you,” he whispered, rubbing her back in gentle circular motions.

She swallowed the lump in her throat then waited until he wouldn’t hear the sound of tears in her voice. “I just want to know you still love me.”

“There isn’t anything you will do that will make me stop loving you.”

A tear slid down her cheek. If only he knew how wrong he was.

TWENTY

Paula pushed aside the green drapes in the drawing room and examined the landscape. She and Perry had arrived at Blackburn after sunset the previous evening so she didn’t get a good view of it. But now as she scanned the rows of trees with their changing colors, the large stable, and the quaint gazebo, she had to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. She was the countess of this estate? Never did she think she would be the mistress of anything so grand. And better yet, her brother was far away in London. She could spend the next few months free of him.

“I hope you approve.”

She turned in time to see Perry enter the room. With a smile, she motioned to the grounds. “It’s lovely. I feel like I’m in an enchanted world.”

“It’s enchanting because you’re here.”

Letting the drapes fall back in place, she shook her head and approached him. “Come now. It’s always been beautiful out here.”

“It might’ve been beautiful, but it was a lonely place.”

“Even when Christopher was here to create mischief?”

He chuckled at her joke. “He made things interesting in London. When he was here, he grew restless. He spent a lot of time reading or running off to visit his friend.”

“Lord Edon? The one I met at the dinner party?”

He nodded.

Unable to resist the inquiry, she asked, “Did they create mischief together?”

“Actually, I don’t know what they were up to, but I’m sure whatever it was, it wasn’t good.”

“Admit it.”

“Admit what?”

“Even though Christopher says things to get a response from you, you missed him when he wasn’t here.”

“I won’t deny it,” he consented with a slight shrug. “But the scenery is certainly better with you here instead.”

Her smile widened. “Since you put it that way…” She closed the gap between them and kissed him.

“I get a kiss just for saying that?”

“Yes, you do.”

“What would I get if I took you for a walk?”

“Take me and find out.”

“Sounds like an intriguing proposition.”

“It is, but only if you’re willing to do it.”

“Well then, it’ll be a good time to show you more of the grounds,” he said as he went to the wall and pulled a cord. “It’d be more practical if we went for a horse ride, though. We’ll cover a lot more ground that way.”

“Maybe but it won’t be as fun.”

His eyebrows rose. “And a walk is?”

“I’d say yes, considering what will happen.”

“Now I have to find out what you have in mind.”

Chuckling, she led him to the entryway where he slipped into his coat and hat and she put on her hooded cloak. Once they were outside, she snuggled up to him, surprised when he slowed his steps.

“What is it?” she asked. “Did you forget something?”

“No. I…” He glanced around them. “Are you sure we should be this close out here?”

“You’re only warming me up.”

“I know but what if someone sees us?”

Laughing, she wrapped her arm around his waist and gave him a light squeeze. “You worry too much. We’re only walking. We’re married. And besides all that, we’re in the country. You needn’t be so uptight out here.”

He frowned. “You think I’m uptight?”

“You’re a wonderful gentleman, Perry. But from time to time,” she reached for his cane and took it, “it wouldn’t hurt if you worried less about what others thought. Just enjoy the moment.” She slipped the cane under her arm. “Lean on me. I’ll get you to where we’re going.”

After a moment, he laughed. “You’re right. I shouldn’t spend so much time worrying about others. What’s important is that you’re satisfied with me.”

“I’m more than satisfied with you. I wouldn’t want to be married to anyone but you.” And she felt that way even more after seeing Daniel again. Though she wouldn’t have believed it the morning he left her, she was grateful that he made the choice to return to London to marry someone else. She wouldn’t have been able to marry Perry otherwise. “You once said that you were glad it didn’t work out with the other ladies in your past. I’m glad it didn’t, too.” Pausing, she turned to him and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I love you.”

Cupping her face in his hands, he lowered his head and caressed her lips with his. The action was so sweet and gentle that she couldn’t help but melt in his arms. When he ended the kiss, he smiled at her. “The important thing is, we’re happy.”

“I’ve never been happier.”

He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer as he led her down the path. “So, where would you like to go?”

“The gazebo.”

“As my lady wishes it, it shall be.”

She giggled. “You’re ever the nobleman, Perry.”

They continued on their stroll in a comfortable silence. When they reached it, she placed his cane next to the bench and encouraged him to sit beside her.

“I’ll give you the cane back when we leave. I promise,” she added when he stared at it. “It’s safe on my side of the bench.”

“I’ve gotten so used to putting it next to me. It’s almost a part of who I am.”

“I know. I won’t let anything bad happen to it.”

He settled beside her and brought his arms around her. “It’s not just for show. Christopher thinks it is. He says I used it as an excuse to explain why I couldn’t secure a wife. Some ladies didn’t like the fact that I had it.”

“I don’t mind that you have a cane, Perry. You’re dignified whether you use it or not.”

“Oh, I know you don’t mind. And I appreciate that. What Christopher doesn’t understand is that it helps me walk. My knees and ankles feel better. I have some padding in the shoe of my shorter leg, but the cane provides extra support that I’ve grown accustomed to. It also makes me feel more comfortable around people. In some ways, it’s a form of security.”

“I understand.” She snuggled up to him. “And if a lady is so petty that she’s going to reject you because you have a cane, then she’s not worth your attention.”

“Would you think less of me if I confessed that was one of the reasons I pointed it out to each lady I met?”

“No,” she whispered. “In fact, I think that was a wise move. You don’t want to waste your time with someone who can’t love you for who you are.”

“Of all the people I’ve known, you’re the only one who truly understands me.”

Touched and honored he should compliment her so highly, she kissed him again, this time letting her lips linger on his. When the kiss ended, she shot him a wicked smile. “You know that thing I promised you if we went for a walk?”

Returning her smile, he said, “Is it time to go back inside so you can show me?”

“No.” She unbuttoned his Carrick coat. “I’m going to do it out here.”

Clearing his throat, he glanced behind them at the manor. “What are you going to do?”

“Relax. No one can see what we’re doing. We’re too far from them. And,” she continued when he started to protest, “our backs are to them.” She took off her gloves then brought her hands to his trousers and undid the buttons. “For all they know, we’re merely talking.”

Before he could respond—and possibly stop her—she leaned toward him and kissed him again, this time brushing her tongue along his lower lip. Up to now, she’d wanted to do something highly improper with him and thought he’d most enjoy this. Her tongue interlaced with his in an attempt to distract him while she slid her hand inside his drawers.

He let in a sharp breath and pulled slightly away from her. “I don’t know if we should do this.” He glanced behind them. “Out here.”

Grinning, she traced his erection, an action which made him shiver in pleasure. “I think there’s a part of you that wants me to continue,” she whispered.

Then, before he could respond, she kissed him again, this time more passionately. Her heart raced in excitement as she lightly touched the tip and ran her fingers down his shaft. It was an intoxicating experience to explore him so openly, to offer him pleasure while they were fully clothed. And she suspected this just might become one of his favorite activities if he’d ever learn to get over his shyness.

She wrapped her hand around him and lightly squeezed him. Her hand went to the base of his shaft, came swiftly up to his tip and then back down again. He brought his hand down over hers and for a moment, she thought he was going to pull her hand away but then he groaned and tightened her grip.

“You’ll like where this is going,” she whispered and proceeded to stroke him.

He glanced at her and let out another moan. “I have no doubt about that.”

Then he closed his eyes and released her hand, giving her full reign over his body. So he hadn’t been hard to convince. That was good. She suspected they could have a lot of fun in the carriage the next day.

She continued her ministrations, slowly increasing the pressure and speed of her movements, taking a wicked delight in the gradual build of tension that would eventually result in his climax. He wiggled beneath her and his hips rocked along with her strokes. Leaning forward, she kissed his neck and then traced his ear with her tongue. When she realized this heightened his pleasure, she continued to do it. His arm tightened around her shoulders and he murmured her name until he grew taut and his seed poured over her hand.

After a few moments, he relaxed, his breathing still heavy. He opened his eyes and looked at her. “That,” he cleared his throat, “was definitely worth taking a walk for.”

She laughed and gave him a kiss. “I told you it would be.”

“I’ll never doubt you again.”

“We’ll have to try some other things,” she replied as she buttoned his clothes and his coat so no one would notice what they’d been doing out there. “And I believe you’ll enjoy them just as much as this one.” Giving him a suggestive wink, she put her gloves back on and stood up. “Care to join me inside? Being out here with you has made me quite eager for more. Care to go to your den and see how many clothes we can keep on while we work on an heir?”

Though his face was still flushed from their recent activity, she detected his shyness coming back.

“Come on. It’ll be just as fun as what we just did. I promise.” She held his cane out to him.

After he rose to his feet, he took it and slipped his arm around her waist. “You’re the most thrilling person I’ve ever met.”

She kissed his cheek. “Good.”

“Paula,” he began, his tone becoming serious, “if you don’t have a son, I won’t be disappointed. Christopher will get my title if there’s no heir, and since he’s married to Agatha, I know if he has an heir, she’ll make sure he’s deserving of the title.”

She studied his expression as they stepped down from the gazebo. “You really mean that, don’t you?”

“Oh yes. She’s got a way of making sure Christopher stays out of trouble. She’ll do the same with their children. I wish I knew her secret, but alas—”

“No. About the heir. You’ll be happy even if I never have a son.”

“Life is about more than titles or money. It’s about the people we love and the moments we have together. Paula, I had parents who loved each other. I watched Christopher’s parents, and they didn’t. There’s a difference between the way a home feels when a husband and wife appreciate one another. What we have is the most important thing in my life, and as long as I have you, I’m complete.”

She blinked back the tears in her eyes. “You say things like that and you wonder if I’m satisfied when you make love to me? Perry, it’s because you love me so well that I enjoy our intimate moments.” On impulse, she stopped walking and hugged him, and he brought her into the protective warmth of his embrace. “When you make love to me, I feel loved. I feel wanted. I feel complete. You don’t have to ever doubt yourself. You can touch me and kiss me anywhere you want to. You don’t need to ask.” Looking up at him, she cupped his face in her hands, wondering why even now, he should seem hesitant to act on his desires. “You don’t have to be shy.”

“Well, I have been reading a book,” he glanced skyward, “someone brought to my attention.”

“A book?”

“I haven’t gotten through all of it yet. It’s something I read from time to time.” He cleared his throat. “It’s about pleasing a lady in bed.”

She watched as his face grew bright red and fought the urge to laugh. The poor man was so incredibly sweet and nervous. “Do you want to try something you read in the book?”

“I’m not sure if the book is accurate. I mean, it’s supposedly written by a lady, but who’s to say that a gentleman didn’t write it and was just saying he was a lady to gain some credibility?”

“I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you let me read the book, and I’ll tell you if it’s right or not. Then we can try something you’d like to do.”

“It wouldn’t embarrass you to do that?”

“No, because you’re my husband.” And if it would help him feel more comfortable in bed, then he’d finally be free to do the things he’d been wanting to do but holding back in fear he’d somehow upset her.

“Well, all right. But I want to do that thing you mentioned by the fireplace first. You know, the one where we keep as many clothes on as possible while working on an heir. That sounds like a lot of fun.”

This time she did laugh. “You have my word. When we’re back inside, we’ll do that one.”

A week later, Perry was going through his ledger in the den when a knock came from the door. Glancing up, he saw the butler and waved him in.

“This came for you, my lord.”

Perry took the missive. “Thank you.”

After the butler left, he opened it. It was from Paula’s brother, and better yet, he had agreed to come out for a two-week visit. Perfect. He didn’t expect anything in the first week. The first week would merely be about making Stewart feel comfortable and secure. During the second week, Stewart was bound to do or say something that would expose his true intentions. Soon. Soon, Perry would get to the bottom of what was going on.

TWENTY-ONE

Perry stared at Paula from across the table a week later as they finished their morning meal. He had to tell her. She wasn’t going to be happy knowing that her brother was coming, which was why he delayed the news for as long as he could, especially since she’d been happy after they arrived at Blackburn. He got to see the young, vibrant lady she truly was, got to know her much better than he had while in London, and she was altogether charming—a much needed refreshing change from what he’d been used to in his solitary world.

But he couldn’t put the news off any longer. He had to do it and it was best to do it today. He picked up the cloth napkin from his lap and wiped his mouth. “It’s a nice day. Would you like to go outside?”

Her eyes twinkled as she made eye contact with him. “Are you in the mood for another walk?”

Catching her subtle meaning, his skin warmed. How she had talked him into engaging in intimate play at the gazebo, he still couldn’t figure out, but if he was honest with himself, he had to admit that she could talk him into doing anything. Unfortunately, he didn’t think her mind would be on trying the things they had read about in the book after she found out what he needed to tell her.

“Actually, I was thinking of taking a carriage ride today.”

“A carriage ride might be a nice change.”

She winked at him and he glanced at the servants, praying none of them knew what she was hinting at. “I’ll send for the coachman at once.”

A slight smile curled her lips upward as she rose from her chair. She wouldn’t be smiling for long. He hurried off to arrange for the carriage ride while she slipped into warmer clothing.

In due time, they were sitting together in the carriage, and he brought her into his embrace. She rested her head on his shoulder and wrapped her arms around his waist in a way that spoke volumes of how much she loved him.

He kissed the top of her head. “Paula, I love you and nothing will ever change that.”

She lifted her head off his shoulder and looked at him, her eyebrows furrowed. “You sound serious. Are you about to tell me something I won’t like?”

Giving her a gentle squeeze, he said, “I received a missive from your brother, and he’ll be coming out here tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I know I should have told you sooner, but we were having such a wonderful time and I didn’t want to spoil it.”

She turned her gaze to the small window and didn’t answer for the longest time. When she finally did, her voice was so low, he barely heard her. “How long will he be here?”

“Two weeks.”

Her eyes wide, she looked back at him. “Two weeks?”

Not surprised that she nearly shrieked the question, he took her hand and gently squeezed it. “Paula, not too long ago, you were at his townhouse and seemed to be getting along with him. What’s going on?”

She let out a long sigh. “Nothing. I…um…I’d like to spend time alone with you, that’s all. As you said, we’ve been having a wonderful time. Just the two of us. I like it that way.” She glanced out the window. “I didn’t think he’d invite himself all the way out here.”

“Actually, I invited him when we were at Lord Reddington’s ball,” he forced out, knowing full well this wouldn’t please her any more than the news of her brother’s impending arrival.

“You invited him?”

“I can’t go into my reasons, but I had to.”

“Did he make you invite him?”

“You could say that.”

“Did he say something?”

“Something like what?” he asked, hoping she’d slip and give him a hint into what was going on.

“Something about me wanting him to visit?”

“No. I extended the invitation and he accepted. I’d like to get to know him better. However,” he began, a twinge of guilt making him reconsider his plan, “when he arrives, I’ll tell him a matter’s come up and he’ll have to return to London.”

He thought she might agree to it by the way her body relaxed. And as disappointed as he’d be since he wanted nothing more than to figure out what was going on, he’d rather do that than put her under more strain than she could handle.

She shook her head. “No. Don’t send him away when he arrives,” she said, her tone soft. “It’s only two weeks and after that, he’ll be gone.”

He’d be lying if he didn’t admit how relieved he was that she relented. And that being the case, he wouldn’t try to coax her into telling him what hold her brother had over her. He’d find out soon enough.

Paula pressed her hands over her stomach, afraid at any moment she might lose her lunch as Stewart’s carriage pulled up to the front of the house.

Two weeks. It was only two weeks. Surely, she could do this. Because if she didn’t allow him to visit, who knew what he’d tell Perry?

She glanced at her husband as he stepped toward the carriage to wait for the footman to open the door. The fact that Perry hadn’t pressed her for more information should have made her feel better about the whole thing. He knew she didn’t want her brother there and yet didn’t insist she tell him why. He merely accepted her answers and still treated her as if she was the most important person in his life. How could someone so wonderful exist? She couldn’t find any fault in him. He was altogether lovely, and she was very much undeserving of his love.

Stewart got out of the carriage, his gaze lingering on the manor as Perry welcomed him. No doubt he was in awe of how big the place was. Even Paula had marveled at the size of it when she came here. And more than that, the grounds were immaculate and the stables in good order. Everything Perry owned was well-cared for.

“You must be exhausted after your long journey,” Perry told her brother. “I’ll have the butler show you to your bedchamber and have a bath brought up for you.”

Her brother’s eyebrows rose as he glanced in her direction. “My sister has done very well in marrying you, my lord. Had I known how good you would be to her, I never would have protested the union the night we met.”

Through great force of will, she managed to avoid rolling her eyes. No doubt he was thinking that Perry had more money than even the Duke of Leavenshire, and that was to his benefit.

“That’s all in the past. The important thing is we make a profitable future together,” Perry told him.

She studied her husband, wondering why he should choose the word ‘profitable’. It almost seemed as if he said it to catch her brother’s interest, but that couldn’t be the case.

“Indeed,” her brother agreed.

She nearly gagged. Could he sound any more excited? If he wasn’t careful, he was going to give his intentions away. Then Perry would begin to ask questions, and those were questions she didn’t want to answer. She rubbed her stomach, sure she was going to be sick. How was she going to survive the next two weeks acting as if everything was all right?

As Stewart passed her, he slowed his steps and whispered, “Are you expecting?”

“No,” she hissed. How dare he ask her something so personal in front of everyone? Even if he was quiet, someone might have overheard.

“I meant no offense,” he replied, his eyes widening innocently. “You look as if you’re ready to vomit, and I can only think of one reason why that might be.”

“Is something wrong?” Perry asked as he approached them.

“I merely made an inquiry regarding my sister’s health,” Stewart replied. “I thought she looked ill. Thankfully, she’s feeling fine.”

Perry placed a comforting hand on the small of her back and led her into their home, the butler leading her brother in behind them.

“Before I see my room, may I have a word alone with my sister?” Stewart called out.

Her stomach rolled. She was going to throw up. She just knew it! He was probably ready to demand she give him money. And she didn’t have any excuses to give Perry about needing to buy something.

Perry turned to her. “Did you need to change for dinner?”

Sweet Perry. Always looking for ways to protect her. He was giving her the perfect opportunity to bow out of this awkward situation. But she didn’t dare upset her brother who could let something slip at any moment. “I’ll go to my bedchamber in a moment. I’m sure whatever Stewart has to say, it won’t take long.” She glanced at him and silently pleaded with him to accept those terms.

“It won’t,” Stewart—thankfully—consented.

“All right then,” Perry replied then looked at her. “I’ll be getting ready for dinner.” The footman came in with Stewart’s luggage and took it up the stairs. “We’ll have you all settled in soon,” Perry told her brother. “Paula, if you need me, you know where to find me.”

She nodded.

“Will you require anything to eat or drink?” the butler asked.

“No,” she answered before Stewart could open his mouth. “As my brother said, this will be only a moment.”

“Summon me when you’re ready to go to your bedchamber,” the butler told Stewart.

Not bothering to see if her brother responded, she hurried to the drawing room. Her knees were so weak that she had to sit on the settee or else she would have fainted. Having Stewart under the same roof was going to be a more trying experience than she anticipated.

Her brother shut the door and made a show of inspecting the furnishings as he approached the chair next to her. “I didn’t think your husband’s things would be more expensive in the country. I thought he only displayed his best where others could stop in and see it at a moment’s notice.”

“The portrait is Perry’s grandfather. The desk belonged to his great-grandfather. The other furniture all belonged to his father. As for the inkwell and everything else on the desk, they belonged to his mother. You can’t have anything in this room.”

He settled in the chair next to her and put his feet on the small table in front of him. “I don’t recall saying I wanted something in this room.”

“Before you did, I’m just letting you know you can’t. Everything has sentimental value. He’ll notice if you take any of it.”

“Does everything in this manor have sentimental value?”

“Most of it does.”

“These things in his possession were handed down to him from one generation to another?” He rubbed his chin, a slow grin spreading across his face. “But I notice everything is in excellent condition. He has to have money to manage that. And the servants are better dressed than some noblemen’s. The poor man has nothing to do but spend money on people. I’ll be doing him a service. He needs help disposing of his unlimited wealth.”

“I may not be privy to how much he’s worth, but I assure you, it’s not unlimited.”

“Well, he has far more than most noblemen.”

“Stewart,” she warned, her anger starting to overcome her fear of him, “he’s already a generous person. It’s not right for you to take advantage of someone so nice.”

He smirked. “My dear, dear sister, if he’s too nice to say no when someone needs financial assistance, then it’s his fault if he gets taken advantage of.”

“I mean it, Stewart. Don’t take advantage of him!” Realizing her voice had been louder than she intended, she glanced at the door and prayed no one overheard her.

“I don’t know what you’re getting so upset about. It’s not like he can’t afford it. But,” he rose to his feet and examined the room, “in order to stop you from acting hysterical for the next two weeks, I’ll be discrete. If you are that worried, you could always distract him by taking him to bed. A lady with your past must be good at that kind of thing.”

She stood up to slap him, but he was already on his way to the door. Her jaw clenched, she sat back down. Her body shook with rage. She’d love nothing more than to get rid of him, once and for all. But doing so would cost her Perry’s love, and if there was one thing she couldn’t lose, it was that. She took a deep breath and slowly released it. Two weeks. It was only going to be two weeks. She could make it to then. Her fingernails dug into the palm of her hands. She hoped.

TWENTY-TWO

“I must say, this is a splendid meal,” Stewart raved before he took a sip from his wine.

Perry wiped his mouth with his cloth napkin and set it back on his lap. “Thank you. Cook will be pleased to hear you think so.”

A glance in Paula’s direction showed Perry that she’d barely eaten her food. Biting back the urge to plead with her to eat, he settled for smiling instead. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought tears filled her eyes before she returned her gaze to her plate.

“I can’t compliment him enough. I’ve never had venison this good before,” Stewart said, either oblivious to his sister’s condition or too wrapped up in himself to care.

But as much as Perry didn’t want to think it, he suspected Stewart knew full well how much she was hurting. Forcing aside the rise of guilt he experienced at putting her through this, he set the napkin on the table and nodded to the butler that the meal was over.

“Paula, why don’t you retire for the evening?” Perry suggested, thinking she needed to get away from her brother right away. As it was, she’d start crying in front of everyone if they lingered any longer. “Stewart and I will play a game of chess in the den.”

“A game of chess?” Stewart asked. “I haven’t played in years.”

“Then I’ll try to go easy on you.”

He chuckled and finished his wine. “I hope so. Otherwise, it’ll be the quickest game ever played. I was never that good at it to begin with. Isn’t that right, Paula?”

Grabbing his cane, Perry rose to his feet and went around to Paula’s side so he could gently take her by the arm to help her stand up. “Paula’s had a long day. Before you came, we went horse riding together.” He motioned to the maid. “See our guest to the den and provide him some brandy while he’s waiting for me.”

While Stewart got up from his chair, Perry pulled her to the side of the room. He would have taken her to the hallway if he thought he could have beaten Stewart there, but his limp wouldn’t give him the speed needed for it. After everyone cleared the room, he clasped her hand.

“Do you mind if I play chess with him?” he asked, his voice low.

“You can do anything you want,” she replied, her head lowered.

Placing his finger under her chin, he lifted her face so that she’d look at him. “Paula, what’s wrong?”

She blinked back her tears. “I’m afraid you’ll stop loving me.”

He expected her to say nothing was wrong. He’d hoped she’d tell him something about her brother that would help him. But he hadn’t expected her main concern to be whether or not he’d continue loving her. “Why are you afraid I’ll stop loving you?”

“You’re a good gentleman, Perry.” A tear slid down her cheek, so he brushed it away. “I wish I’d known you were going to be in my life. If I had…” She swallowed. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Contrary to what you think, I’m not perfect.”

“Yes, you are. Everything you do, you do for the benefit of others. There are people who’ll take advantage of that.”

While that might be true about her brother, his heart was safe with her, which was why he couldn’t understand why she’d say she didn’t deserve him. Some of the ladies he met took one look at his cane and didn’t want to have anything to do with him. Some didn’t think he was exciting enough to be with. The rare few who might have taken an interest in him ended up married to someone else before he had a chance to know them.

“I don’t care what brought us together,” he told her. “I’m just glad you’re with me.”

“Once you talk to my brother, you might not feel that way, but whatever he tells you, please don’t let him take advantage of you.”

He opened his mouth to ask her what her brother could tell him that would possibly change his opinion about her, but she excused herself and hurried out of the room.

“Will there be anything else, my lord?” the butler asked as he entered the dining room.

Listening to her retreating steps as she ran down the hall, he shook his head. “No. Not right now.”

“And that is why the Corn Laws were passed,” Perry concluded as he moved his chess piece and won the third game of the evening. “Sometimes all it takes is for people in a certain position to do things that aren’t for the good of all.”

Across from him, Stewart covered his mouth to stifle a yawn. “Yes, that’s very interesting.” He picked up his glass and chugged down the rest of the brandy. “I’ll be honest. I don’t pay much attention to what’s going on in Parliament. I’ve been too distracted by more pressing matters.”

“What matters would those be?”

“Oh, I don’t want to trouble you.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “Besides, it’s late.”

Perry knew full well Stewart was hinting around at something, but he was smart enough to figure out that it was too soon to ask him for money. He’d need to wait just a bit longer until he believed Perry was more likely to give him what he wanted. And that was fine. Perry could wait. He didn’t expect Stewart to expose his intentions immediately. Stewart would need a few more days, and in that time, he would continue to hint while he offered Perry false praise in an effort to win him over.

Deciding to follow his example, Perry took out his pocket watch. “You’re right. It is late. I can’t believe how quickly the games went.”

As they rose to their feet, Stewart set his glass down and chuckled. “I told you I wasn’t the best player.”

“Oh, you did fine.”

Perry had no doubt Stewart was as bad as he claimed to be at chess, but Stewart’s aim was probably to make Perry feel like a good player. That, of course, was downright insulting since Perry really was a good player. He didn’t need someone letting him win a game to know it.

As the two made their way out of the room, Stewart said, “I can’t thank you enough for inviting me here. Paula was right about you. She said I’d enjoy talking to you.”

“It was nice of her to put in a good word for me.”

“She couldn’t have picked a better husband.” He patted him on the shoulder. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll get to join you for a horse ride.”

“I hope you brought a good riding outfit for this time of year.”

“I brought my best one. It might not be in prime condition anymore, but I believe it’s doable.”

There it was. Another hint at his lack of funds. “If it’s not suitable, we can certainly play more chess.”

“Or take a tour of this place,” Stewart suggested as he glanced around as they headed for the staircase.

“I’ll be happy to show you around.”

Once Perry saw to it that Stewart had his valet’s assistance for the night, he proceeded to his bedchamber. Tonight, he didn’t feel like having his valet help him. His concern was Paula. It hadn’t been easy to find things to talk to Stewart about. The gentleman hadn’t been forthcoming with anything useful, choosing instead to offer senseless flattery. But it was all part of the game he was playing, he supposed.

Not sure if Paula would be awake, he chose to put on his nightclothes. Unless it was her lady’s time of month, he had made it a habit of going to bed without clothes on. But tonight, she might already be asleep.

He entered her bedchamber. The candles had all been blown out and the curtains drawn, so it was hard to tell if she was awake or not. He whispered her name as he approached her bed.

“Perry?” she asked in a soft voice that had a hint of uncertainty in it.

He slipped into the bed and reached for her and felt her night clothes. “I thought you might be asleep.”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d come to me tonight.”

“Of course, I came. I came even when you had your monthly flow.” Even if they hadn’t done anything, it was nice to be in the same bed with her. “I like sleeping with you. The bed is empty without you beside me.”

She clung to him and buried her face in his neck. “You still love me?”

With a sigh, he kissed the top of her head. “Always and forever.”

Then, to prove the sincerity of his words, he proceeded to make love to her.

“This is a genuine vase from the Ming dynasty?” Stewart asked the next day.

“My grandfather collected items from other countries,” Perry replied.

Paula watched in dismay as her brother drooled over the object resting in the room full of valuable antiques. Why didn’t she warn Perry that taking her brother on a tour of the place was the worst thing he could do? She knew full well that her brother was trying to gauge what he could leave with, and worse, he’d probably get her to slip it to him.

“And this,” Perry motioned to a goblet, “belonged to Henry VII.”

“Surely, you jest,” Stewart protested.

“I assure you, I’m not.”

She cleared her throat. “Perhaps we should get ready for dinner. I hear Cook will make veal.” She gave Stewart a pointed look. “That’s your favorite.”

Fortunately, he turned from the goblet and faced Perry. “She’s right. It is. While I have enjoyed every moment of the tour, I don’t want to upset Cook by not arriving to the evening meal on time.”

“Very well,” Perry replied. “We’ve seen almost every room anyway.”

They walked out of the room and Paula saw her brother take a look back at it, probably trying to decide what item—or items—he planned to take with him when he left Blackburn. “Perry, do you mind if I have a word with my brother?”

“If that’s what you wish,” he replied, his concerned eyes penetrating hers.

Glancing away from him, she nodded. “I haven’t talked to him since dinner last evening. It’s only right I don’t avoid him altogether.” Though she laughed, it came out as a hollow sound.

“I’ll be upstairs,” Perry told her before he left them alone.

Stewart turned to her and snickered. “There’s no need to offer me something in that room right now. I can wait until the day I head out of here.”

“You won’t get anything from that room,” she whispered, careful to make sure no servants were lingering nearby.

“Why must you be so heartless? You know how much I need a vase that matches the inkwell you gave me.”

“You can get that with the fifty pounds I gave you.”

“Not from the Ming dynasty.”

“You have no sense of decency in you at all. I have a mind to…” Her threat fell short as she considered the consequences of such a reckless move.

“You have a mind to what? Tell Perry I’ve been blackmailing you so I won’t tell him about you and Lord Holloway? About one time in particular I caught the two of you in a very compromising situation by the lake where you didn’t think anyone would be at that time of day?”

Heat flushed her cheeks. “You what?”

“Don’t worry. I didn’t tell poor Mother. It would have sent her to an early grave. I often wondered why Lord Holloway came around as often as he did. But when I saw you two, it all made sense. Then I realized that’s why he gave you and Mother money from time to time.”

“It wasn’t because of that. He gave us money because you didn’t give us enough and he felt sorry for us. Your pitiful allowance barely covered one meal a day.”

“And now you’re doing better than either of us expected.” He patted her cheek as if she were a child. “You impress me. If I had known you could have attracted such wealth, I would have aimed higher than Leavenshire. Perry’s got much more than he does. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a dinner to get ready for.”

She waited until he disappeared down the hall before she went to her bedchamber.

TWENTY-THREE

Perry endeavored to give Paula as many excuses as he could to avoid her brother. So two days later after breakfast, he didn’t argue when she said she was going to rest in her room.

“There wasn’t much to do in the country,” Stewart had said while she left the room. “She liked to curl up in bed and read until she fell asleep. I’m not surprised she’d rather do that than be in the chilly weather riding a horse.”

“But you’ll be coming, won’t you? I have yet to show you the grounds.” Perry suspected this was the day that her brother would finally disclose his financial hardship in hopes of getting some money. It was best if Paula wasn’t there for such a conversation.

“I’d be delighted.”

“Oh, since your current riding outfit is worn, I thought you might be more comfortable in the riding outfit my cousin Christopher used to wear. You’re about the same size. I’ll have the valet bring it to you.”

“You’re much too kind.”

“You’re family. And family takes care of its own.” In this case, he was talking about Paula, not Stewart, a subtle difference that Stewart wouldn’t recognize. “I’ll send the valet soon.”

Stewart indicated he understood, and Perry slowly made his way up the stairs. There were times he wished he could just bound up the stairs like Christopher often did. He wanted to see Paula. He’d been spending so much time with Stewart in an effort to figure him out that he’d been neglecting her, and that had to have made things more difficult for her.

After his valet helped him into his riding outfit, he sent him to Stewart then tapped on the door separating his and Paula’s bedchambers.

She called out for him to enter and he was surprised that she was on her daybed wearing nothing but her shift.

“Am I to assume you were hoping to convince me to stay indoors?” he teased.

As he hoped, she laughed at his joke. “I certainly wouldn’t mind your company, but I thought you wanted to go for a horse ride.”

“Riding a horse isn’t nearly as fun as riding you.”

Her eyes grew wide but then she laughed again. “I never thought of it that way before, but I can see how well it fits.”

He relaxed. “My jokes aren’t as good as some people’s.”

“That was a wonderful joke. Perry,” she stood up and approached him, “you have a marvelous sense of humor. Don’t let anyone tell you differently.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek.

He grimaced. “Please don’t tell me we’ve been married for so long that you can wear only a shift in front of me and give me a chaste kiss.” She stared at him for a moment, making him wonder—again—if he’d said something wrong. “What is it?”

“Nothing’s wrong. It’s just that you’re…” She shrugged. “I don’t know how to explain it except that before, you seemed timid when it came to things of a more intimate nature. I had to take the lead.”

“I wasn’t sure what you wanted me to do. Well, until you read that book and helped me figure it out.”

She took his hands in hers and squeezed them. “Perry, you love me. Really love me. You’re gentle and kind. Everything you do for me, you do because you want what’s best for me. Why would you think anything you do wouldn’t please me? Do whatever you want with me.” With a teasing grin, she added, “I’ll enjoy it.”

This time when she kissed him, she pulled him closer to her. Engulfing her in his arms, he deepened their kiss. He missed this side of her. He wished she was always like this. Maybe she would be once he resolved the issue with her brother.

When the kiss ended, he cupped the side of her face with his hand and studied her face, noting the contented smile, the blush on her cheeks, and slight twinkle in her eyes. “You’re very beautiful, especially when you’re happy. I’m going to do everything I can to make sure you will always look at me this way.”

“I wouldn’t mind it if you always looked at me the way you are right now, too. It makes me feel as if I’m the most important person in your life.”

“You are.” He brushed her lips with his thumb. “Paula, you do know I’d rather be with you than with your brother, don’t you?”

“Yes, I know. But he’s our guest and you have to spend time with him.”

“He won’t be our guest much longer. I suspect after this, we’ll never have to deal with him again.” Before she could ask him what he meant, he continued, “I was thinking of inviting Christopher and Agatha for a visit, but I wanted to get your opinion first.”

“Are you sure you want Christopher out here? He’s likely to bother you about something.”

“I know, but I also know it’s because I let him. It wouldn’t hurt me to relax and laugh a little more.”

“He wouldn’t try to bother you if he didn’t care about you.”

“You’re probably right.”

“I’d love to see Christopher and Agatha again.”

By the way she smiled, he knew that was true. There was a world of difference in the way she talked when the topic was on Christopher and Agatha versus when it was on her brother. “I’d much rather stay here with you,” he whispered.

Especially when her breasts were pressed nicely against his chest. But then his mind went back to more immediate matters. He was three days into his plan and couldn’t be distracted, at least not until the evening after Stewart retired for the night. Sighing, he traced her bottom lip with his thumb once more. “Believe me, there’s nothing I’d rather do than spend the afternoon up here with you, but I must go.”

Her smile faltered. “I know. You promised Stewart you’d take him for a horse ride.”

“I won’t be long. Maybe we’ll have a little time to spend together before dinner.”

“I’d like that.”

He didn’t doubt the truth in that statement. And that being the case, he supposed he could manage to be distracted for a little while after his return. He gave her a lingering kiss before heading out.

Perry led Stewart along the grounds of his estate, going directly to the row of trees that decorated the landscape. The leaves had changed color, allowing for one of the most breathtaking displays he’d ever seen. He loved autumn most. And now that he hadn’t returned to Blackburn with another failed attempt to secure a wife, he had an even better reason to be content.

“You were right,” Stewart said as his horse kept up the leisurely pace with Perry’s. “The air is simply invigorating. I’d forgotten how refreshing it is to ride a horse in the country.”

“Did you ride often?” Perry asked.

“Not as much as I wanted. I’m afraid I had more pressing matters to tend to. After my father departed from this earth, I had to take care of my mother and sister. I had to go to London in order to gather enough for their allowance.”

He suspected this wasn’t necessarily the case but that was true for most of everything that came out of Stewart’s mouth. “It must have been hard to do that.”

“I won’t say it was easy, but it was worth every sacrifice I had to make. When I see how happy Paula is, I’d do it all over again.”

“I’m sure any brother in your position would feel the same way.” Or at least should feel the same way.

Whether either Paula or Stewart were aware of it or not, the last couple days had opened Perry’s eyes to many things. He never realized just how things must have been for Christopher before he became Perry’s ward. His parents often claimed they needed some money to help take care of their son, and Perry—fool that he was—didn’t hesitate to give them whatever they wanted.

Later, he found out they were using that money on themselves, not for their son. Christopher didn’t know this, and Perry knew he wouldn’t like to find out his parents had used him as a way to enjoy their lavish lifestyle. But what hadn’t occurred to Perry, up until now, was that Christopher must have felt unloved for many years.

No wonder he acted the way he did. Always getting into trouble. It was the only time his parents gave him any attention. And Perry, in not understanding this, had done the same thing. Perhaps if he’d spent more time appreciating Christopher when he did something good, he wouldn’t have gotten into as much trouble as he did.

“Tell me, what is your secret?” Stewart asked.

Perry broke out of his thoughts and turned his attention back to Paula’s brother. “What secret?”

“How you managed so well. I’ve met other earls and I can’t think of one who has done as well as you.”

“You mean, how did I acquire so much money?”

He nodded.

“Simple. I’m generous with what I have.”

Stewart waited for a moment then laughed. “Certainly, it can’t be that easy.”

“I can’t be reckless with money. I don’t participate in the gambling hells or waste money on mistresses. But I do help people who need it, especially those I care about.”

“You loan them money and reap the interest?”

“No. I give it.”

“Give it? Without expecting anything in return?”

Noting the disbelief in Stewart’s tone, he nodded. “It’s not a gift if you expect something in return.”

“Wouldn’t you end up losing everything if you keep doing that all the time?”

“Not if you’re careful about who you give it to.”

“Ah,” Stewart replied.

“The point is,” Perry continued as the stable came into view, “I’ve learned long ago that a generous person who is wise will never lack for anything.” Not that he expected Stewart to take the advice to heart, but now Stewart could never claim he didn’t try to help him.

TWENTY-FOUR

Paula stared at her brother as he played chess with Perry. Perhaps it’d been a bad idea to sit by the fire and try to read a book. She had a hard time not wanting to break down and cry or scream in frustration. Most of the time, she retreated to her bedchamber. But she’d been hiding for most of the seven days her brother had been there and was tired of it. What she really wanted was to be close to Perry. And unfortunately, to do that, she had to see her brother.

At the moment, Perry was explaining why Napoleon lost at Waterloo. Stewart did a lot of nodding and agreed with everything Perry said.

“Napoleon wasn’t prepared,” Perry concluded as he moved his pawn across the board. “I suspect he thought he was invincible. Once that happens, people are inevitably bound to fail.”

“What an astute observation,” Stewart commended then moved his own pawn. “I didn’t see how he could keep winning all the time.”

Paula gritted her teeth and forced her eyes back on the book in her lap. Her brother had no interest in politics—or chess. He was flattering Perry with the same sickening sweetness that he used on the Duke of Leavenshire. No wonder it was hard to eat whenever he was around. Her stomach growled, but she just couldn’t swallow much. And it only got worse with each passing day. She could feel the tension building up inside her and worried she wasn’t going to make it another week before she snapped.

Coming down here was a bad idea. She should get to the safety of her bedchamber. She got ready to shut the book when Perry approached her.

“I need to tend to personal business. I won’t be long,” he said.

She indicated she understood. Too bad she didn’t think to leave before he left. Now she had to be alone with her brother.

Stewart stood up and walked over to the decanter. “Am I right to assume you’ve been avoiding me?”

“You’re not here to see me, so what do you care?”

“Come now, Paula. You mustn’t be so harsh.”

Despite her better judgment, she turned to face him as he settled back into the chair. “Harsh? You’ve been blackmailing me.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “You don’t have anything to worry about. I’m not going to require you to give me money for my silence anymore.”

Hardly daring to believe her ears, she stood up and went over to him so she could make sure he wasn’t joking. “You’re not?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Why did you suddenly have a change of heart?”

“A gentleman can live like a king in this place. Your husband has more money than he’ll ever use. The last thing I want to do is ruin it for you. If I ruin it for you, I’ll ruin it for me.” He drank the brandy and winked. “Your husband is the greatest friend I ever had.”

She frowned. “You think he’s boring. I can tell by the way you try not to yawn when he talks.”

“My dear sister, he can be as boring as he wants when he has all this.” He motioned to the room then picked up a scone from the tray by the small table next to him. “I will do everything I can to make sure Perry never finds out about your past. And as it turns out, I don’t need you to get money. When we went horse riding earlier this week, he told me he likes to give money to family and friends. And when I say ‘give’, I mean he won’t expect me to pay it back.”

It took a moment for his meaning to dawn on her. “You’re going to ask him for money?”

“A mere two-hundred pounds. He won’t even miss it.”

“But you won’t stop at two-hundred pounds. You’ll demand more.”

“I won’t demand, Paula.” He bit into his scone and swallowed it before taking a sip of his brandy. “I don’t have to demand anything. That’s the beauty of this whole thing. You married him, which immediately brings me into his good graces. All I have to do is pretend to like him and he’ll give me what I ask for. And better yet, I’ll get to come by for visits and be treated like a king. I’m telling you, Paula, you married the best gentleman possible.”

She clenched the book in her hands. “You’re going to use him.”

He grimaced. “That’s such an unpleasant way of putting it.”

“Then how would you say it?”

“I am going to enable him to get more money by letting him give me money.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know, but it’s what he says he does and I’ll go along with it.”

She doubted Perry came out and said it like that, but since she hadn’t heard the conversation, she couldn’t effectively argue the point.

“Did I miss anything interesting?” Perry asked from behind her.

She spun around in time to see him entering the room. She opened her mouth to tell Perry what they’d been discussing but saw the way her brother’s eyebrows rose and thought better of it.

“I was just telling my sister that it’s wonderful you two have a love match,” Stewart finally said. “You don’t often hear of such marriages anymore.”

“No, you don’t.” Perry turned to her and smiled. “Which is why I’m a fortunate gentleman.”

“It’s good to see someone who knows my sister’s worth.”

“I need to go,” she mumbled and hurried out of the room, ignoring Perry as he called for her.

If she stayed any longer, she was going to throw up. She just knew it. It’d been a terrible mistake to join Perry and Stewart. Lifting her skirt, she raced up the stairs and didn’t stop until she was back in the comfort and safety of her bedchamber. And her tears were already falling by the time she slammed the door.

That evening, Paula decided to go without dinner. Instead, she sat in front of her vanity, dressed in one of the beautiful gowns Perry had bought her. When she looked at her reflection, she saw the lady he created: someone lovely, someone honest, someone true. But it was all a charade, and she couldn’t go to the dining room and act as if everything was all right.

A tear slid down her cheek. No matter how much her brother acquired, he always wanted more, and in his whole entire life, he was never satisfied. No matter how much he got. Their father had left a sizable inheritance upon his death, and though Stewart was instructed to leave Paula and their mother a decent monthly allowance, they barely saw enough to get them through. He wasn’t hurting for money. He was living comfortably and could for the rest of his life. But it just wasn’t good enough.

Her hands shook and more tears fell. The only way to protect Perry was to tell him about Lord Holloway. Once she did, her brother wouldn’t be able to use Perry. She had no choice.

Perry was going to hate her. Not only did she have a tainted past, but she’d lied and stolen from him. She brought the handkerchief up to her face and wiped her eyes, but it was no use. She couldn’t stop crying, and the more she tried to stop, the faster the tears came.

Even in his disappointment, he’d be kind. He’d probably find her a cottage to spend the rest of her life in and, unlike Stewart, he would make sure she had enough of an allowance to live comfortably. But she’d be away from him. He wouldn’t hold her or kiss her anymore. He wouldn’t come to her bed to make love to her. She’d have to live without his love.

She was such a fool to think her past wouldn’t catch up to her—to think that she could have any kind of future with someone like Perry. She should have run off before they reached Gretna Green. She could have spared herself and Perry so much pain.

A light tapping on the door of her bedchamber made her temporarily stop crying. She stood up and walked to the door. After a shaky breath, she managed, “Perry?” But then it occurred to her that Perry would use the door connecting their bedchambers, not the one that led to the hallway.

“My lady,” her lady’s maid began, “I came to tell you that Mister Robinson and his wife have arrived.”

Mister Robinson? Oh, Christopher! “I’ll be down shortly,” she called out.

“Do you want me to help you, my lady?”

“No, I’m fine.”

She went to the basin and poured water in it then washed her face. The water felt cold against her hot cheeks. Looking in the mirror, she realized everyone would be able to tell she’d been crying. Her blotchy red cheeks and puffy eyes weren’t going to go away for at least a half hour.

Her first thought was to make up some excuse and wait until no one could see she’d been crying to come down, but that would be another lie and she was tired of lying. She’d just have to go down there and face everyone. Pulling a new handkerchief out of her vanity drawer, she wiped her face again then left the room.

“We would have waited for an invitation if we believed one was coming,” Christopher said as he stepped out of the carriage.

Perry glanced over his shoulder to see if Stewart or Paula had come outside to greet his cousin and wife, but the stairs leading up to the manor were still vacant. Turning his attention to Agatha as Christopher helped her out, he bowed a greeting. “I’m glad to see you. And,” glancing at Christopher, “you, too.”

Christopher looked around then pointed to himself. “You mean me?”

On impulse, Perry decided to do something he hadn’t done since Christopher’s parents died. He hugged him.

Christopher pulled away from him. “Are you dying?”

“Of course not. I’m just happy to see you.”

“We need to get a doctor,” Christopher told Agatha.

Laughing, Perry patted him on the shoulder. “I don’t need a doctor. I’m doing fine. I was going to ask you to come visit. Having you here will be good.”

“All right. Who are you and what did you do with Perry?”

“Just be glad he’s happy to see you,” Agatha told Christopher and smiled at Perry. “I take it things are going well with Paula.”

“They are. I can’t remember a time when I’ve been happier,” Perry replied.

“I don’t think your wife would agree with you,” Christopher muttered in Perry’s ear.

Perry leaned on his cane as he turned to the stairs, surprised when he saw that Paula had been crying. He thought she and Stewart had an argument while they were alone earlier that day, but he didn’t realize it upset her so much that she cried. Why didn’t he think to have the butler go in with something to eat? Having someone else in the room would have prevented them from talking about anything personal.

“Why do you constantly resist reading that book?” Christopher whispered, his tone indicating his surprise.

Leave it to Christopher to assume Paula was crying because she wasn’t satisfied in bed. Sighing, Perry glared at him. “This has nothing to do with the book. I’ll explain later.”

“Paula,” Agatha said as she hurried over to her, “what’s wrong?”

Stewart chose that moment to glide down the steps as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “I hear we have more guests.”

Christopher glanced from Paula to Stewart, his eyes growing wide.

“Christopher, this is Paula’s brother, Stewart Leighton.”

“Yes,” Christopher slowly said, “I remember him.”

Right. Christopher was there to cheer Paula on for her quick thinking when she managed to avoid having to talk to her brother at the ball where they met. “He wished to congratulate Paula and me on our marriage so I wanted to invite him for a visit.”

Christopher’s gaze went back to Paula. “I see.”

Perry had to hand it to Christopher. He was quickly figuring out that she was crying because of her brother. And that might make it easier to pin Stewart down.

Agatha wrapped her arm around Paula’s and led her back inside, talking to her in low, soothing tones. It was definitely good that Christopher and Agatha had arrived. Paula needed a lady she could confide in, and being a lady, Agatha would have a better way of comforting her than Perry did. Perry had tried everything but it wasn’t enough.

Perry motioned to Christopher and told Stewart, “This is my cousin, Christopher Robinson. His wife, Agatha, went inside with Paula.”

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Stewart greeted. “I’m afraid we weren’t properly introduced the first time we saw each other.”

Christopher offered a nod. “How long will you be staying?”

“Only a week. I don’t want to wear out my welcome.”

“That’s probably a good idea. There’s only so much chess a gentleman can take.”

Perry chuckled. “Christopher, you’re a decent player when you choose to be.”

He grimaced. “Chess is boring.”

“I’m surprised you think so when you’re so good at strategy.”

Christopher’s jaw dropped, and Perry hid the urge to grin. He had no idea that complimenting his cousin would startle him so much.

“Well,” Perry continued as he motioned to the entrance where the footman waited for them, “dinner will be served soon.” Then he led them inside.

“I don’t think the gentlemen will mind that we decided to eat up here,” Agatha said as the maid set their dinner on the table in Paula’s bedchamber. Once they were alone, she sat across from Paula and smiled. “Besides, after the long ride with Christopher, it’s nice to have another lady to talk to.”

“Did Christopher bore you?” Paula asked as she slowly took a cloth napkin and spread it over her lap.

“Hardly. But he refused to keep his hands off of me.”

Paula looked at Agatha to see whether or not she was jesting, but Agatha didn’t strike her as the type of person to make such jokes.

“Not that I mind being touched by my husband,” Agatha added. “But he was trying to get me to do it in the carriage, and there’s no way that’s happening.”

“Do it? You mean…it?”

She nodded as she buttered a roll. “I might be willing to try some new things, but I don’t want to be in the middle of a passionate moment when the carriage hits a large hole in the road. I don’t care what he thinks. That would be very uncomfortable.”

The carriage wasn’t the best place, but there was no way Paula would explain why she knew that. “If Christopher puts up a fuss about it, just tell him the anticipation will make it even better when you finally do it in a place that’s more comfortable.”

“I’ll have to remember that.” She gestured to the food in front of them. “Won’t you have something to eat?”

“I’m not hungry.” To her irritation, her stomach growled, betraying her.

“You mean you don’t have an appetite?”

“Yes.”

Agatha finished her roll and wiped her mouth with her napkin before setting it back on her lap. “I’m a private person. If something bothers me, I tend to keep it inside. So I understand if you would rather not talk about anything that’s bothering you. But I want you to know that if you need to talk, I’m a good listener who can keep a secret.”

Paula lowered her gaze to the napkin and ran her fingers along the edges of it. While it was tempting to confide in a lady, it wouldn’t be fair to Perry. He was the one she had to tell, and she wouldn’t shame him by telling another person. “I can’t.”

“All right.” With a sympathetic smile, she asked, “Is there anything you would like to discuss?”

Relieved Agatha wasn’t going to press her for more information, she picked up her spoon and dipped it in the soup. Maybe she could eat something light. “Well…um…why did you and Christopher come here?”

“That’s easy. He wanted to see how things are going for you and Perry. Don’t tell anyone, but I think Christopher sometimes misses him, even if he claimed that his cousin didn’t let him enjoy life enough.”

Her lips curled up. “I think Perry misses Christopher, too.”

“They’re such an odd pair. Perry is serious while Christopher’s whimsical.”

“Perry is serious, but he doesn’t always seem to be that way.”

“Oh, he isn’t, and Christopher isn’t always whimsical.” With a chuckle, she added, “When we got out of the carriage, Perry told Christopher he was glad to see us and gave Christopher a hug. I almost burst out laughing but that would have only embarrassed Christopher so I managed to hold it in. That was the first time I’ve seen Perry put Christopher off guard. Usually, Christopher is the one who shocks Perry.”

“It sounds like Perry’s figured out a way to not let Christopher bother him.”

“I think you’re right.”

Her tension easing, Paula tasted the soup. Maybe tonight, she wouldn’t go to bed hungry. But she still had to face Perry. She had to do it before Stewart asked for the two-hundred pounds. Perry had to say no because if he didn’t, Stewart would only keep coming back, and she owed it to Perry to make sure that never happened. But first she’d eat. Then she’d figure out what to do next.

TWENTY-FIVE

Christopher pulled Perry aside before they followed Stewart into the drawing room. “You are aware that he’s not your friend?” He nodded toward Stewart who poured some brandy into his glass.

“I’m well aware of that,” Perry whispered.

“I mean, he doesn’t have your best interest in mind.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Then why is he here?”

“Because I need to help Paula.”

“With what?”

“I don’t know yet. Now, come in before he gets suspicious.” Perry used his cane to move the door open a little further then stepped into the room. “Hopefully, the ladies will join us soon.”

Stewart sat in a chair and let out a contented sigh. “I’m not a lady, so I have no idea how long they take to do anything.”

Christopher sat in another chair. “But you have a sister. Certainly, you had to wait for her at some point.”

“Paula always did her thing and I did mine.”

“Didn’t you eat your meals together?”

“Most of the time, I didn’t eat at home.”

Perry sat on the settee and glanced at the doorway. If Paula chose to come down tonight, he’d like to sit beside her.

“Are you saying you weren’t interested enough in your sister to want to share some meals with her?” Christopher asked.

“Christopher,” Perry warned, still gripping his cane. “It’s not our business what Stewart did with his time.”

“Oh, I don’t mind the questions,” Stewart told Perry. “When my mother died, I made it my duty to find Paula a suitable husband. In doing so, I spent a lot of time talking to gentlemen to get an idea of who would make a good match.”

“And you chose that repugnant Duke of Leavenshire?” Christopher asked.

Noting the disgust in his cousin’s voice, Perry said, “That doesn’t matter at this point. I married her.”

“A fact which didn’t make Stewart happy at the time,” Christopher added.

“Only because I wasn’t sure she’d be provided for,” Stewart said. “I wanted to make sure that all of her needs were taken care of.”

“Somehow I don’t believe—”

“She married me and all of her needs are met,” Perry told Christopher. “End of discussion.”

Though Christopher gave a slight shake of his head, he remained silent, something Perry was thankful for. So Christopher could keep his mouth shut if he tried.

After an awkward silence, Perry asked his cousin, “How was your trip out here?”

“Horrible,” Christopher replied.

When he didn’t elaborate, he pressed, “Did your carriage get stuck?”

“No. That would have only been frustrating.”

“Is the carriage in poor condition? I don’t mind pitching in for a new one if Agatha had a rough ride.”

“No, it’s nothing like that. The carriage is fine. Actually, it’s not worth discussing. Can we talk about something else?”

“It’s nice to know that when I’m not around, you complain about me,” Agatha said from the doorway.

At once, Christopher jumped out of his chair and turned to her. “My dear Agatha, I didn’t hear you.”

“No, I venture not since our ride together was such a horrible experience.”

He let out an uneasy laugh and glanced at Perry and Stewart. “I didn’t say horrible.”

“Really? I distinctly recall hearing the word ‘horrible’ as I was coming down the hall.”

With a groan, Christopher took her hand and pressed it to his heart. “I wasn’t talking about you. You are the shining star in my life, my very reason for waking up in the morning.”

“As poetic as that sounds, Christopher,” Perry interjected when it occurred to him that his cousin was only going to dig himself further into a hole if he continued, “may I suggest that after a long day of traveling, you should get a good night’s sleep? You can go to your old bedchamber. I believe you know the way.”

“Wonderful idea, Perry.”

As Christopher hauled an arguing Agatha down the hall, it suddenly dawned on him why Christopher had claimed the carriage ride was horrible. He grimaced. Had he known it had to do with his cousin’s primal urges, he would never have asked the question.

“I suppose it’s just you and me again,” Stewart said. “I feel lucky tonight. I might be an actual challenge to you if we play chess.”

With another glance at the doorway, Perry realized Paula wasn’t going to come down. He had hoped with Christopher and Agatha here, she would feel comfortable enough to join them. But that was moot since he made the stupid suggestion they go to bed early. Had Christopher not been confronting Stewart so aggressively, he wouldn’t have thought of it.

Forcing a polite smile, Perry rose to his feet. “Are you sure you aren’t bored of the game yet?”

Shaking his head, he stood up and sipped some brandy. “No. I could play the game all day and never get bored.”

Perry doubted that. And though he never thought it possible, he was beginning to tire of the game himself. But since he suspected this was the evening Stewart would be asking him for money after hinting at it for a week, he figured a relaxing game of chess was in order. “Follow me and we’ll see if you get closer to winning tonight.”

Maybe eating dinner was a bad idea. Even if Paula only ate soup and some bread, her stomach was heavy. It was the impending conversation she needed to have with Perry that was responsible for it, not the food itself. Knowing this did little to quell the wave of nausea that came over her as she opened her bedchamber door. She swallowed and stepped into the hallway.

She could do this.

She had to do this.

With a soft click, she shut the bedroom door and faced the stairs. She closed her eyes and steeled her resolve. She would find Perry and ask to speak with him alone. She’d be discrete. Whatever the outcome, she would not do anything to embarrass him. She opened her eyes and wiped a tear from her cheek. Maybe she could talk him into having the conversation in the dark. The last thing she wanted was to see disappointment in his eyes when he realized she wasn’t the virgin he thought he married.

Forcing her feet forward, she thought over all the ways she might tell him. She struggled to find the best angle to go with, but no matter how she worded it, nothing sounded right. She was just going to have to tell it as simply as possible and be done with it. Her mother was right. It was best to take the medicine fast and get it over with.

When she made it to the bottom of the steps, she almost turned around and ran back up but reminded herself she needed to do this. She proceeded down the hall, her slippers soft on the floor. From the den, she heard familiar voices. One was her brother’s. The other voice was Perry’s. Her steps slowed. She swore the sudden beating in her heart was going to make her faint.

Clasping her hands in front of her, she entered the room. Neither gentleman noticed her. Their attention was on the chessboard in front of them. She took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.

As she opened her mouth, Perry told Stewart, “I can give you two-hundred pounds.”

“I know, it’s a lot to ask,” her brother replied, looking relieved, “and I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t absolutely necessary—”

“It’s not necessary,” she blurted out before she had time to think. This wasn’t how she planned her talk with Perry. But when both gentlemen turned their gazes in her direction, she couldn’t undo her bold action. With far more bravado than she felt, she stepped forward so they could get a better look at her in the candlelight. “I can’t let you do it, Stewart. It’s not right.” Ignoring the dark scowl on her brother’s face, she made eye contact with her husband. “I’m sorry.”

“What is this about?” Perry asked as he retrieved his cane and stood up.

“Paula,” her brother said, a slight warning underlying the pleasant tone in his voice.

“No,” she told her brother. “I’m going to tell him.” She paused. “Everything.”

“Don’t be a fool.”

Perry approached her. “Let her speak.”

She glanced at her brother who narrowed his eyes.

“Do you need to speak with me in private?” Perry asked in that all-too-familiar gentle way of his.

She couldn’t look directly at him. “No. Stewart knows everything already.”

“And you wish him to be here?”

No, not really. But she needed to expose him for the person he really was, and it was easier to do that if he was in the room. She nodded.

“Wait for just a moment.” Perry went to the door and shut it before he returned to her. “What is it, Paula?”

She had to do this. There was no backing out. “I…um…I’m not the person you think I am.”

“What do you mean?”

“She means she was Lord Holloway’s mistress before she met you,” Stewart snapped.

Her cheeks warmed. “I was never his mistress.”

“But you slept with him without being his wife, and he gave you money.”

“It wasn’t like that. Exactly.” Unable to look at Perry, she focused on her hands. “When I first met him, he came to the cottage my mother and I lived in because his carriage broke down and he and his coachman needed a place to rest. As a way to thank us for our hospitality, he gave us some money.”

“And he kept coming back to enjoy your bed,” Stewart growled.

“Let her tell this,” Perry ordered. In a softer tone, he said, “Go on.”

“He found out about Stewart when he returned to London. Stewart’s always had money. Father was well-to-do. Stewart was supposed to provide for Mother and me, but we barely had enough to live on. Lord Holloway felt sorry for us. He came out to give us extra money. And,” she forced out, “in time, things of a more personal nature developed between us. It happened so fast. None of it was planned.”

“So what happened?”

“I didn’t have any money I could bring into a marriage so he married someone else.” She swallowed and blinked back her tears. “I’m not proud of my past. I wish I had come to you untouched by another gentleman. You deserved that.”

He set his cane by a nearby chair and closed the gap between them. “Now it makes sense. All those times you asked me if I loved you…”

Cupping her face in his hands, he tilted her head up so she had to look at him. Instead of the condemnation she expected to see in his eyes, she saw tenderness. And it was that tenderness that made her break down and cry. He pulled her into his arms and let her lean on his strength.

Perry looked at her brother. “I gather you threatened to tell me about Lord Holloway if she didn’t give you my inkwell and twenty pounds?”

“It was fifty, but I sold my necklace to make up for thirty of it,” she spoke up, knowing full well her brother would never disclose the details.

“I don’t need to stick around for this,” Stewart muttered as he jumped up.

“No, you certainly don’t,” Perry replied, his voice uncharacteristically sharp. He released her and limped over to him. “I’ll have the butler see you and your coachman off within the hour. And in case you think of using someone else in the same way you used Paula, I’m going to make sure all of London knows exactly what kind of gentleman you are.”

“You don’t have that kind of influence.”

“No, I don’t. But I know someone who does. Life is going to get awfully uncomfortable for you when you return home.” After Stewart stormed out of the room, he pulled the cord to call the butler. “You don’t need to worry about him,” he told her. “He won’t be causing problems for you anymore.”

“You…you’re not disappointed in me?” she hesitantly asked.

“No, I’m not disappointed. Paula, I keep telling you that there’s nothing you can do that will make me stop loving you.”

He collected her into his arms. Relieved, she collapsed against him. It was over. Now she didn’t have her past overshadowing her life with him. Finally, she was free. Truly and completely free.

TWENTY-SIX

After Stewart left the manor, Perry was exhausted. The day had been a long and trying one, but it was over and Stewart would no longer be a problem. He had expected Stewart to reveal something, but it had been Paula who broke under the strain of the past week and told him the truth. And in so doing, he saw just how much her past tormented her. The last thing she needed was more condemnation. What she needed most was to put the past behind her and proceed into the future with a fresh start.

“I’m sorry I put you through this past week,” he whispered as he led her to her bedchamber.

“You didn’t put me through anything. I did it to myself by letting my brother control me.”

“You were scared. No one can blame you for what you did.”

They stepped into her bedchamber, and she turned to face him. “Perry, I tried to get the inkwell back but he wouldn’t let me and then I paid someone to make another one just like it—”

He closed the gap between them and pressed his fingers to her lips. “The past is the past. You can’t change it. And to be honest, I’m not interested in your past. I’m interested in your future.”

She clasped her hand around his and kissed his fingers. “You have my future, Perry. There’ll never be anyone but you.”

“I know. And I won’t have anyone but you either.”

He leaned forward and kissed her. After they undressed, he thought he’d do something playful and picked her up in his arms. As he hoped, she giggled in delight. The mood lightened considerably, something that was a great relief after the strain of the past week. Grinning, he carried her to the bed, hardly noticing his limp as he did so. It was funny how he used to be so self-conscious about it, but when he was with her, it was like he didn’t have one. She accepted him—all of him. He didn’t have to be someone else when he was with her. He could be who he was, flaws and all. And better yet, now she was free to be herself as well.

When he settled beside her on the bed, he took a moment to inspect her in the candlelight. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered, venturing to trace her soft skin with his fingertips, starting at the base of her neck then settling over one of her breasts.

Her gaze met his and she rubbed his back in gentle circular motions. “Make love to me, Perry,” she whispered.

He leaned forward and kissed her. She responded to him, parting her lips to accept him into her mouth. His fingers resumed their exploration of her breasts, first spending time on one then going to the other. She seemed to especially like it when he traced the area around her nipples until they grew hard. On impulse, he lightly squeezed her nipple which made her moan.

“You like that?” he asked, his voice soft in the quiet room.

“I like everything you do,” she replied.

“But I might not be good at what I’m doing.” He hadn’t meant to voice that thought aloud, but it slipped out and immediately, he wished he could take it back. There was nothing that said inadequate like a gentleman who said such a statement.

She shifted so that she could face him. “There’s a difference between making love to a lady and having a meaningless dalliance with her in bed. You make love to me.”

Considering her experience with Lord Holloway, he had no doubt she was right.

She cupped the back of his neck and pulled him to her so that his mouth met hers. Relaxing, he decided he wouldn’t stress the book so much. Sure, it had given him some ideas of what he could do, but in the end, what mattered most was that she knew that this act meant everything to him. He wasn’t going to run off and leave her. He was going to remain with her. She was the only lady he’d take to bed, and that was really what she longed for.

When their kiss ended, he brought his mouth to her nipple and traced it with his tongue. He was rewarded with a contented sigh. He continued to caress her breasts, taking his time to fully enjoy her.

At one point, she guided his hand to the dark curls between her legs. “I need you to touch me here,” she whispered, slightly out of breath.

She slid two of his fingers into her and moved his thumb so that it was over a small nub. She proceeded to demonstrate how he could best increase her pleasure by rubbing her nub in circular motions. Then she rocked her hips in a gentle rhythm. It didn’t occur to him right away that the book had suggested this very thing. As much as it pained him, he supposed he should have read the thing sooner…though he’d never let Christopher know that.

Recalling something else the book suggested, he moved lower down her body and repositioned himself so that his mouth was over her sensitive nub. The book had claimed that either his hand or his tongue was sufficient for maximizing a lady’s pleasure, but he was now curious about the difference and was rewarded with a sharp gasp when his tongue touched that part of her. As he continued his ministrations, her moaning grew louder and her fingers dug into his shoulders.

Something he hadn’t anticipated was how arousing the whole thing would be, for either one of them. There was a sense of euphoria in bringing her closer to sexual release. And before long, she stilled and cried out his name. Her body clenched around his fingers, pulling them further in. When she relaxed, he got up and crawled on top of her, pleased to note the look of contentment on her face.

He lowered his head and kissed her. She let out a soft sigh then wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer to her. He entered her and she rocked her hips once more, this time not as impatient as before. He wanted to prolong this experience. He’d taken her to completion and even now her body clenched around him from the effects of it.

He hoped to give her sexual fulfillment every time they came together in the future. While he believed that she was completely satisfied up to now, there was a certain empowerment in knowing he could take it a step further.

When he found his release, he held her close, murmuring her name and kissing her neck. Few things were as wonderful as being wrapped in her embrace. He remained with her for a long time, content to continue kissing her, loving how intimately they were connected.

Eventually, he settled next to her and pulled up the blanket to their shoulders before gathering her into his arms. Resting his cheek on her head, he closed his eyes and smiled. If anyone had told him how perfect his life would become, he wouldn’t have believed it. But there was no denying how much better off he was because Paula was in his life. And that was something he’d never take for granted.

The next morning before Paula woke up, Perry got dressed and went to the drawing room to see if Christopher or Agatha were up yet. When he found Christopher reading a book with a cup of hot tea and a tart on the table next to him, he sat across from him. “You’re reading a book. Let me guess. It’s either about pleasuring a lady or ways you can upset gentlemen at White’s.”

His cousin didn’t bother glancing up at him. “It’s a shame when people think they’re funny but they really aren’t. I mean, do you tell them the truth or humor them and laugh?”

“Humor them and laugh, of course.”

“Ha ha.”

Not to be deterred by his sarcasm, Perry leaned forward and saw the title. “Gothic horror? You’re still reading those?”

He shrugged.

After a moment, Perry leaned back in his chair. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

Christopher sipped his tea then looked up at him. “What favor is that?”

“I want you to ask Agatha to mention Stewart’s tendency to manipulate people in order to rob them of their wealth. It doesn’t have to be worded exactly that way, but make sure people understand he’s greedy and has no problems using people to his advantage.”

“What good is telling Agatha this going to do?”

“She needs to put it in the Tittletattle.”

Christopher, who was about to take another sip, dropped the cup and tea poured out all over the rug.

“What’s gotten into you?” he asked as he grabbed a cloth napkin to soak up the spill. “I can’t remember ever seeing you so clumsy.”

“How do you know Agatha works at the Tittletattle?”

Perry grinned. “You honestly don’t give me enough credit. Out of all the gentlemen at White’s, you were the only one who would find out about the wager between Lord Pennella and Lord Davenport, and more than that, your engagement to Agatha happened right after the thing was exposed in the Tittletattle. I might be many things, Christopher, but I’m not stupid.” Though, to be fair, he hadn’t figured it out right away.

“I suppose not.”

“There was no other way someone as lovely as Agatha would marry you unless she was afraid you’d expose her secret to the world.”

“Wait a minute.” He straightened in his chair, looking as indignant as he had at any of the times in the past when Perry caught onto what he was doing. “Are you saying that I’m not good enough for her?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. But,” he patted his shoulder, “since you are an expert in pleasuring a lady, I’m sure she’s found a way to be content with her lot in life. As for my wife… She’ll just have to be content with intelligence, good looks and wealth. Though, she did ask me to come right back to her bed after I talked to you, so I better get going. I don’t want to make her wait for me longer than she’s able to bear.”

He gathered his cane, his smile growing wider as Christopher tried in vain to come up with a clever comeback.

“You look happier today,” Agatha greeted as Paula came into the drawing room early that afternoon.

Heat rose to her cheeks. She probably should have come down sooner, but Perry had distracted her during that morning…twice. Then there was the long and relaxing bath. It had been such a wonderful morning, the kind prompted by the newfound freedom she was now enjoying. No more secrets. No more lies. Just blissful intimacy with the gentleman she loved.

Agatha chuckled and waved her to the settee where she was sitting. “Come on over and have some tea and scones. You didn’t have breakfast and you ate so little last night. You must be famished.”

“Actually, I am hungry,” Paula admitted as she sat next to her.

“Perry will feel better when he knows you’re eating properly.”

“He was worried about whether or not I was eating?”

“He asked me to go to your bedchamber and make sure you ate something last evening.”

“Did he?”

“Yes. He loves you. The poor gentleman wants nothing more than to dote on you.” Handing her a cup of tea and a scone, Agatha added, “You’re worth doting on. You see him for who he really is and better yet, you appreciate him. There’s nothing he’d deny you.”

“There’s nothing I’d deny him either.”

“Good. Then make sure you eat.”

Paula laughed then quickly obeyed her. She had no idea Perry fussed over her so much, but it was wonderful that he did. “Where are our husbands?”

“Oh, they’re out riding their horses. You won’t believe it, but Christopher is at a loss for words for the first time since I met him. Perry’s been winning the battle of wits with him and Christopher doesn’t know how to handle it.”

“I’m sure he’ll figure it out.”

“In due time, I’m sure he will, but something tells me Perry won’t be so easily horrified by anything Christopher says again.”

Paula finished her scone and tea. “I’m sure Christopher will live with it.”

“He will. If there’s one thing he knows how to do, it’s adapt to change.”

The front door opened and as soon as she recognized Perry’s voice, Paula jumped off the settee and hurried down the hallway. Before waiting for him to greet her, she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him. “I missed you.”

Christopher glanced at Agatha. “Why don’t you greet me that way when I come home?”

“Give me a reason to and I will,” Agatha shot back, a teasing gleam in her eye.

“My dear Agatha, you get more and more beautiful every day,” he replied.

She walked over to him and kissed his cheek.

“That’s it?” he asked. “Has the passion already left our marriage?”

“I think you need to read a certain book again,” Perry told him, jabbing him playfully with his cane.

Christopher groaned.

“What book is he referring to?” Agatha asked, her eyebrows raised in interest.

“Oh, nothing important,” he quickly replied. “So when is it time to eat? I worked up an appetite out there.”

“Lunch will be in an hour,” Perry said and gave Paula a kiss. “I hope you’ll be able to eat more than you did yesterday.”

“She already ate a scone,” Agatha spoke up on her behalf.

“And I’ll be hungry enough to eat lunch,” she assured her husband.

“Good.” He kissed her again then released her. “I need to change out of these riding clothes then take a bath.”

“Don’t be too long,” Paula said. “I miss you when you’re not with me.”

“You can come with me.”

She glanced at Agatha and Christopher. “I don’t know. We have company.”

He turned to them. “We’ll meet you in the drawing room in an hour.” Before Paula could respond, he slipped his arm around hers and led her to the stairs.

Barely within her hearing, Christopher told Agatha, “I had no idea my cousin had such a wild streak in him.”

To which Agatha replied, “Well, you hoped Paula would loosen him up and you got your wish.”

Perry winked at Paula and continued leading her up the stairs.

EPILOGUE

Two years later

Paula gave a final push and the doctor told her the baby was out. Exhausted, she collapsed on the pillows behind her, glad the ordeal was over. When she heard the baby let out a strong wail, she peered around her monthly nurse as the doctor wiped the baby’s face with a clean cloth.

“Congratulations, my lady,” the doctor called out over the baby’s cries. “You have a healthy baby boy.”

Laughing, Paula accepted the nurse’s help as she brought her up into a sitting position and fluffed the pillows behind her. “A boy?”

“And he’s a strong one,” the doctor said. “He keeps kicking his blanket off.”

“I’ll get him swaddled up for you,” the nurse told her before she took the child and wrapped him tightly in his blanket.

Eager to hold her son, Paula stretched her arms out and brought him to her bosom. He wiggled against her for a moment then settled down and let out a contented sigh. Tears filled her eyes as she examined him. He was so tiny. And perfect.

The nurse patted her on the shoulder. “I’ll let the father know he has an heir.”

She nodded her thanks then turned her attention back to her son. Her son! She hadn’t been sure she could conceive, given that her time with Daniel hadn’t resulted in a child. But early that year, she had discovered she was with child, and here she was just two days away from Christmas and she was holding her son.

“You did fine, Lady Clement,” the doctor said, turning his attention to taking care of the afterbirth. “Your husband will be pleased.”

Yes, he would. Though Paula knew he would have been happy with a girl, she was glad she could give him an heir. Curious about her son, she pulled back the blanket and inspected his little fingers that were clenched. He let out a yawn and opened one of his hands so she reached out to touch his palm. He curled his fingers around her forefinger. Chuckling, she whispered, “You are strong.”

She continued to hold and speak to him in low, soothing tones until the doctor was finished. “You and your son are doing well. I’m happy to say you had a good birth and should have no problems having more children in the future,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“I’ll tell Lord Clement it’s safe to come in.”

The monthly nurse returned just as the doctor left and smiled at her. “I’ll get him cleaned up for you, my lady.”

Though it was hard to part with him so soon, she handed the baby to her and watched while she gave him a quick bath, surprised he should cry.

“It’s nothing to be alarmed about,” the nurse assured her. “Babies don’t like the cold air. They spent nine months in a very warm place.”

A gentle rapping on the door brought Paula’s attention to Perry who stood at the doorway. Her smile widening, she motioned for him to join her. “You have a son.” She couldn’t resist saying it, even though she already knew the nurse had told him the good news.

“Now I can tell Christopher he doesn’t have to feel guilty for having a daughter,” he replied, his tone light as he came over to her and settled next to her on the bed.

“He can have all girls if he so desires. The pressure to pass on a title to an heir is no longer going to burden him down,” she quipped, recalling the way he responded when Perry had teased him about not having a boy three months earlier.

“I’m sure he’ll be relieved.”

Giggling, she turned back to the nurse who came over with her son. “Unless you need me for anything else, I’ll give you a few minutes alone,” the nurse said.

“We’ll be fine,” Paula replied then waited until she and Perry were alone before she spoke again. “What do you want to name him?”

A smile crossed his face. “I’d like to name him Anthony, if that’s all right with you.”

“Anthony’s a good name. You want to hold him?”

“I don’t know. He looks so small.”

“You won’t hurt him. Come on. Hold out your arms.”

Despite the slight unease in his expression, he obeyed and gingerly held his son. “He barely weighs anything.”

“I know, and that’s surprising since he felt huge in my womb.”

“Will you miss carrying him? You often mentioned how much you enjoyed it when you could feel him kick.”

“I’ll miss that part of it, but I love seeing you with him. You’ll be a wonderful father, Perry. You can teach him everything you know about chess and horses.”

“And we’ll take him for walks in Hyde Park and to the gazebo.”

“Do you really enjoy walking?”

“I do but only because I’m with you. I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing it otherwise.”

She kissed his cheek and settled her head on his shoulder. “You needn’t—”

“I know, I know. I shouldn’t worry so much about what others think.”

“I understand. It’s easier said than done.” She traced her finger along their son’s nose and cheeks. “Why did you pick the name Anthony?”

“It’s Nate’s middle name.”

“Is it?”

He nodded. “I could have named him Nathaniel, I suppose, but I prefer Anthony.”

“It’s a fine name and will serve him well in the years to come.”

“Next time we have a child, you can choose the name.”

“You’re very sweet, Perry.” She gave him another kiss. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. Thank you for making my life complete.”

With a contented smile, she returned her gaze to their son, thinking of all the good things waiting for them in their future.

MORE IN THIS SERIES

The Marriage by Scandal Series

The Earl’s Inconvenient Wife

A Most Unsuitable Earl

His Reluctant Lady

The Earl’s Scandalous Wife

ABOUT RUTH ANN NORDIN

RUTH ANN NORDIN is a stay-at-home mom of four school-aged boys and the proud wife of a veteran of the US Air Force. She lives in Montana where she is blessed to spend her days creating new worlds with her characters. To date, she's written over fifty romances and has plans to write many more in the years to come.

THE MAJOR’S FAUX FIANCÉE

Erica Ridley

Four left for war…

Only three made it home.

ONE

February 1816

London, England

Despite the icy wind pelting the windows with snow, hot rivulets of sweat dripped from Major Bartholomew Blackpool’s skin.

He was facedown in the center of his town house parlor, the muscles of his upper arms trembling as he pushed his prone body up from the faded Oriental rug again and again. As he did every morning. Balancing on the toes of just one foot.

Not that Bartholomew had much choice. Half his right leg was missing.

He’d lost the limb—and everything else he’d ever cared about—seven long months ago, at the Battle of Waterloo. His pride. His twin brother. His very identity. All gone, in the space of a few seconds.

Bartholomew gritted his teeth and increased his pace. He couldn’t replace his brother or his missing leg, but he wasn’t going to sit around weeping about it. He’d lived through the pain thus far. He could survive a great deal more.

A loose floorboard squeaked in the corridor. Someone was approaching the parlor.

With a muttered curse, Bartholomew flung himself off the rug and behind the pianoforte. He snatched up his discarded prosthesis and barely got the wretched thing secured before the parlor door slowly creaked open.

The fury in Bartholomew’s tone could have melted iron as he hoisted himself up from the floor to scowl at his butler. “What the devil is so important that you would disrupt me when I have expressly forbidden all interruptions?”

Only the slightest twitch of his nose betrayed Crabtree’s affront at this rebuke. Impassive, he strode into the parlor bearing the morning missives on a burnished silver platter, just as he’d done every single day of his seven years in Bartholomew’s employ.

Every day until his master left for war, that was. Upon returning home, Bartholomew had requested all incoming correspondence be delivered directly to the closest fireplace.

“Who put you up to this?” he demanded, although there could really only be one culprit. “Fitz, don’t you dare hide around the corner like a coward. If you’ve stones enough to order Crabtree about, you’ve stones enough to bring me your complaints in person.”

Silence reigned for a few moments before Bartholomew’s thin, excitable valet appeared in the doorway, wringing his pale hands and casting beseeching looks at the ever-stoic Crabtree.

Bartholomew let out a slow breath. This was his own folly. If he had been less vain and self-important when he left for war, he would not continue to pay his sought-after valet’s exorbitant fees, just to keep Fitz out of the clutches of the two-legged dandies.

And if Bartholomew hadn’t been the most shameless braggadocio, the most infamous rake, the most imitated Corinthian—Fitz might not still be here, hoping against hope that someday, he might once again fluff and pluck and adorn his master back into his rightful place as the most celebrated pink of the ton.

Foolishness, of course. Without two legs, a man couldn’t ride, box, waltz, or whisk pretty young ladies into shadowy corners. Nor did he wish to. Not anymore. Without his twin, Bartholomew couldn’t even smile, much less face the judgmental countenances of his peers.

What was life now, but solitude and phantom pains and locking himself in his chambers whilst he attended to his own toilette? He could no longer stand for his valet to glimpse what had become of the once-perfect body he had been so arrogantly proud of. It was nothing, that’s what it was. ’Twas pride that kept him from allowing any help. And it was pride that kept him from letting Fitz go.

Or allowing anyone to see him, now that he was less than perfect.

“Whatever those missives are, you know what you can do with them.” Bartholomew wiped the sweat from his face with his towel. When he glanced back up, neither of his servants had moved. “If you need suggestions on where to put those letters, you might start with your—”

“’Tis the Season,” Fitz blurted.

Bartholomew shook his head. “Twelfth night is long past. It’s February.”

“Not that season, sir.” Fitz looked horrified. “The Season that matters. The London Season. It’s here. You’re here. All we have to do is—”

“I said no.”

“You should be out in Society. You were made for Society.”

Bartholomew snorted and gestured at the awkward wooden prosthesis strapped to his right knee. “With this leg, Fitz? What would be the point?”

“Not every moment must be spent dancing.”

“Or sparring in Gentleman Jackson’s, I suppose, or riding hell for leather through St. James Square, or hiking to remote follies, or sweeping ladies off their feet?” Bartholomew tossed his towel over his shoulder.

“You don’t have to literally sweep them off their feet,” Fitz said earnestly, his thin hands wringing without cease. “You could use your… your charm, sir. Surely you didn’t lose that in the war.”

“My charm? What I had was good looks, two legs, and plenty of arrogance.” Bartholomew crossed his arms. “That was then. This is now. If wooden pegs haven’t suddenly become an aphrodisiac to gently bred ladies, I fail to see—”

“You do fail to see, sir! Your apparatus is scarcely an eyesore. It’s got moving ankle joints and five cunning little toes—”

“Wooden toes…”

“—and one cannot even discern it beneath your breeches and stockings and boots. Truly.” Fitz took a deep breath and rushed forward, his fingers stretching toward his master’s chest. “If you would just let me do something about this hideous waistcoat—”

Bartholomew batted away his valet’s hands. He glared over Fitz’s shoulder at the butler, who hadn’t changed position or expression since entering the room. “Crabtree, if you’ve nothing to say for yourself, could you at least brain Fitz with that silver platter until he recovers a modicum of sense?”

“What about your brain?” Fitz put in before Crabtree could respond. “If your charm is rusty, surely your mind is not. Do not discount yourself so easily, sir. You went to Eton and Cambridge, and you were a major in the King’s Army. If you would use—”

Bartholomew scoffed. “My brain is irrelevant. The ton has never held the least interest in intellectuals. My conversations with men centered on sport, horseflesh, and women, and my conversations with ladies were limited to ballroom gallantry and bedroom whispers. Attempting to force a crippled, but intellectual version of myself upon Society would be a nightmare for all involved. No, thank you.”

“But sir—”

“I’ve no wish to be part of that world anymore, Fitz. Not from a distance, and not as an object of pity.” He lifted his chin toward Crabtree’s silver tray. “Why do you think I receive so much correspondence? Because no one wishes to visit. No one wishes to see me in person. Not with this crippled leg. The ton sends letters to make themselves feel better, not because they long for the presence of a broken soldier.”

“You did so have an invitation,” Fitz stammered. “Last month, for the annual Sheffield Christmastide ball. I saved it.”

Bartholomew sighed. “The sister of one of my best friends sent me that invitation.”

“You receive many invitations, sir,” came Crabtree’s bored voice. “It’s simply difficult to respond to them once they’ve burned to ash. Are you certain you wish the same fate for these?”

“I do.” Bartholomew smiled tightly. “’Twould be embarrassing for all parties to have me show up and clomp about their lymewashed floors as they try desperately to think of something to say that doesn’t involve my missing leg or my missing brother. Coping with my own grief is hard enough. I bloody sure won’t waste my time scribbling platitudes to people I hope never to see again. And I’ll be damned if my name pops up in the scandal sheets for stumbling on my prosthesis and falling on my arse in front of all and sundry.” He gestured toward the fireplace. “Go on. Toss them in.”

“Only once you’ve verified they’re all rubbish.” Crabtree lifted the first missive from the pile. “Addington? It certainly looks like an invitation.”

Bartholomew cut him a flat look.

Crabtree tossed the folded parchment into the flames and squinted at the next. “Grenville? I’m told that family still has unwed daughters.”

Bartholomew crossed his arms and turned toward the windows. Snow clung to the panes and whirled past in clouds of white, blocking his view, but anything was better than enduring the ritual of his unwanted correspondence. He refused to read any of it, and his butler refused to destroy a single word without first ensuring he wasn’t tossing anything of importance.

“Montgomery… Blaylock… Kingsley…”

Seven months. Bartholomew closed his eyes and let the names fade to silence.

His closest friends had visited when he’d first returned from war. The Duke of Ravenwood. Lord Carlisle. Captain Grey.

Bartholomew hadn’t been fitted for a false leg yet, so he’d refused to let them in. He wouldn’t let them see him as a bedridden invalid.

Even once he got his expensive prosthesis—a fully articulated contraption designed by James Potts, a true craftsman and a visionary—it had taken months for Bartholomew to accustom himself to the strangeness of its weight, to its lack of feeling and sluggish behavior. But he’d never stopped exercising. Never stopped trying.

His arms, chest, and stomach were in the best shape of his life from all the strengthening exercises. He did his damnedest to ensure there was no muscle loss in his good leg or what was left of the other. But he couldn’t run. Couldn’t ride. Would have to carry a cane if he ventured out-of-doors in the winter because his articulated wooden miracle couldn’t be trusted on snow or ice, even when ensconced in a boot.

Not that he’d be going anywhere. He had alienated all his friends. He wouldn’t even be visiting his parents. His mother was too distraught to leave her bedchamber, and the one time Bartholomew’s father had visited, he’d barely muttered a single word. Not that it had been necessary. The accusation in his father’s eyes had spoken volumes in the brief second he’d gazed down at his one remaining son before turning around and walking away.

Bartholomew had rid the house of all the mirrors the next day. His father couldn’t bear to look at him and he couldn’t bear to look at himself. He was no longer a whole man.

Worse, he’d let Edmund die.

“Jersey…” Crabtree droned on. “Vaughan…”

Bartholomew spun around, his good leg catching him in time. “What did you say?”

The butler’s fingers paused, mere inches from the flames. He lifted the missive from harm’s way. “Vaughan, sir. Would you care to peruse this one?”

Bartholomew hesitated, then shook his head. “Hamish Vaughan was our parish vicar when I was a child. He was a kind man, but even the good Lord cannot return what I have lost. Burn it.”

Crabtree didn’t move. “It says Miss Daphne Vaughan, sir. Not Hamish.”

Daphne? Red-gold plaits and a sunny smile sprang to Bartholomew’s mind. How old was the chit now? Twelve? He hadn’t laid eyes on her since he’d left for Eton back in…

His eyes widened as he did the maths. She had to be twenty-one, or near enough. A grown woman. If she’d had a Season, it had been while he was at war. And if her name was still Miss Daphne Vaughan, it must not have been a successful one, although he couldn’t imagine why. She’d been too clever for her own good. A pretty child with a heart as big as the sea.

“Give me that.” He stalked over and snatched the missive from his butler’s fingers.

He ought to toss the letter into the fire with all the others, but… Daphne. The girl next door. Laughy Daffy. The name came back to him with a jolt, bringing an unbidden smile to his face.

She’d been a few years too young to be part of his immediate circle of friends, but that hadn’t stopped her from following them around and trying to rope them into charity missions and knitting brigades. Why on earth would she be writing him now?

His smile faded. If this was just another rotten luck about your amputated leg and dead brother letter, he would never again stop Crabtree from tossing anything into the fire. He unfolded the parchment and began to read.

Dearest Bartholomew,

I’m sorry to write you while you’ve so many troubles of your own, but I don’t know to whom else I could turn. My father passed unexpectedly some months back, and my new guardian has no desire for a ward. In fact, he will commit me to an asylum if I do not take a husband forthwith, and has given me a sennight to decide which fate it shall be.

He has arranged for the single men of his acquaintance to visit the vicarage and press their suits. I’ve no doubt that they are just as disreputable as my guardian and I have no wish to become anyone’s property. Yet my guardian intends to sign a marriage contract by Saturday. If I do not choose a name, he will do so for me.

Do not fear I’m asking you to marry me. I merely hope you might feign an attachment. Once I come into my majority, we may quietly cancel the engagement. I shall come into a small bit of money on my next birthday, and will be no burden to anyone from that day forward… if I can avoid asylums and forced marriages until then.

Please, Tolly. Come at once. I am begging you.

I trust no one else.

Daphne

“Sir?” came Fitz’s anxious voice.

Bartholomew glanced up from the letter with sudden urgency. “What day is it today? Tuesday?”

“Thursday,” Crabtree corrected impassively.

Fitz clapped his hands in excitement. “Why, sir! Do you realize that’s the first time you’ve cared about the day of the week since—”

“Crabtree, summon the landau. Fitz, find a trunk and stuff it with a few days’ worth of clothing.” Bartholomew tucked the letter into his waistcoat pocket and turned toward the door. “We leave at once.”

TWO

Maidstone, Kent

Later that night, a heavy fist crashed against the surprisingly sturdy door to Daphne Vaughan’s bedchamber. Her stomach tightened. That fist could only belong to her second cousin and new guardian, Captain Gregory Steele.

He didn’t enjoy being called “cousin” or “guardian” or even “captain,” however. Since returning from war, the epithet he most frequently responded to was Blackheart. Rogue. Renegade. Pirate for hire.

The door rattled in its hinges as Captain Steele’s fist rained hell upon it. He was big enough and strong enough to shatter it with one square kick.

His boots clipped against the floorboards, indicating his departure from the corridor, but Daphne knew better than to believe he’d decided to give in. Not a pirate. Anyone who spent months at a time at sea had mastered the art of waiting for the right opportunity.

Before becoming a full-blown pirate, he had started his career as a ruthless barrister, then a Royal Navy captain, and then a merciless privateer. His familiarity with the courts meant he knew he couldn’t legally force her into a betrothal—but his experience in skirting the law meant he’d have no problem finding a way to make her acquiesce on her own.

Hands trembling, Daphne adjusted her reading spectacles and tried to focus her attention on her correspondence.

There were a dozen loose threads of even more importance than Captain Steele’s desire to rid himself of his ward by end of week. There were the miners to think of, and hundreds of weavers, and the squalid conditions in various London rookeries. She couldn’t abandon them.

She hoped the choice wasn’t taken from her, but she wasn’t one to waste tears fretting about things she could not change. Her time was better spent focusing on the things she could.

This was what she’d been born to do. Fight for the less fortunate. It would be easier to accomplish had she been born wealthy, male, and titled, but one did what one could with what one had been given. In her case, the power of words. No one knew who stood on the other end of a quill pen.

Yes, very well, perhaps the daughter of a vicar shouldn’t falsely imply she was a reclusive landowner of middle age and deep pockets, but if a wee misrepresentation here and there reduced the occurrence of disease or circumvented injury or saved the lives of innocent children, then it was precisely what she should be doing. What anyone with a brain or a heart ought to do.

She dipped her quill in the standish and began to write.

Moments later, another knock sounded upon her door. Not the hamfisted pounding of Captain Steele—he’d stormed off some minutes earlier. This knock belonged to a lighter hand. A friendly hand.

“Come in, Esther. ’Tis unlocked.”

Which might be proof that Captain Steele wasn’t one hundred percent irredeemable. Or that he’d decided to grant Daphne’s privacy now, because in another few days she wouldn’t have any. Her shoulders tightened. Either she’d become betrothed to a man who refused to let his wife dedicate her life to something so vulgar as charity work… or she’d find herself on an extensive holiday in Bedlam.

Unless—

“You’ve a visitor,” came Esther’s rushed whisper from the open doorway. “It’s Major Blackpool.”

The quill tumbled from Daphne’s limp fingers, splattering her careful script with specks of ink. Her breath caught as her pulse galloped wildly. Major Blackpool. She splayed her trembling hands atop her escritoire and pushed to her feet. He’d come. He’d truly come! Her heart sang. For the first time, she dared to let herself feel… hope.

“Where is he?”

“In the entranceway. He says he won’t take another step until he sees your face.”

She tossed her spectacles onto her correspondence. “Then I mustn’t leave him waiting.”

Daphne slipped from her bedchamber and glanced both ways. No sign of her guardian. The corridor was empty. Captain Steele was undoubtedly interrogating the new arrival.

She ran a hand through her hair and hurried toward the front door.

THREE

Daphne pulled up short the moment she saw Major Blackpool standing just inside the front door. She couldn’t move. Her limbs had frozen in place. For a moment, she even forgot how to breathe. Her heart was the only part of her that still moved, and it was clamoring loud enough to tumble right out of her chest.

Ten years. That was how long it had been. Ten years.

The last time he’d seen her, she’d sported a pinafore and pigtails. And the last time she’d seen him…

There had been two of them.

He and Edmund had been inseparable. Indistinguishable. Always playing tricks and trading places with the other. She’d been one of the few who could tell them apart, although it didn’t matter anymore.

Now there was only one.

“Tolly,” she breathed.

The corner of his mouth quirked. “Laughy Daffy.”

Her heart thundered. His voice was so deep. So… manly. Like the rest of him. She tried not to blush. She couldn’t help but drink him in.

He was taller than she remembered. Her heart beat faster. Of course he was taller. She’d been ten or eleven years of age, and he’d been, what? A lad of fifteen, perhaps? Of course he was taller.

The years had been more than kind. His brown hair was longer. Wilder. His crystalline blue eyes now had laugh lines at the edges, although she doubted he’d found much humor recently. His face was more chiseled, more defined. A faint hint of stubble darkened the line of his jaw.

That brief little quirk was already gone from his lips. She missed it. She’d missed him. But he was no longer the boy she once knew.

He didn’t even look like Tolly, puller of pigtails. He looked like Major Bartholomew Blackpool. Soldier. Survivor.

Everything about him was more than she’d expected. His youthful reediness was gone. Broad shoulders and thick muscles filled out a coat that looked as though it had been tailored for someone less powerful.

She’d heard he’d become a rake and a dandy. His more passionate exploits had graced every scandal sheet in the country. As for his sense of fashion… He could not have appeared more handsome.

Despite what must have been an entire day’s journey, his cravat was starched perfection. His greatcoat was similarly pristine and devoid of wrinkles. The buckskin of his breeches looked buttery soft and clung to every muscle of his thighs. His Hessians gleamed, as though they had been freshly polished moments before he walked through the door.

She blinked. Hessians. Plural. She’d heard he’d lost a leg in the war trying to save the life of his fallen twin, but as far as she could tell, the boy next door looked nothing short of perfect. No wonder he’d cut a swath through the ton as a dashing rake before setting off for war. She doubted a single bosom failed to tremble in his presence.

Heavens. Daphne wouldn’t have the slightest trouble feigning a betrothal with him. The difficulty would be pretending she wasn’t truly interested. No doubt her flushed cheeks and racing pulse had already given her away.

She forced herself to meet his gaze.

His clear blue eyes were staring at her with a mixture of shock and wonder. As if he, too, was having difficulty reconciling the Daphne in his memory with the Daphne standing before him.

She wished they had weeks, or even a few hours, to sit and discuss everything that had happened since last they’d met. But for this ruse to work, she needed her guardian to believe Bartholomew’s suit was sincere. She glanced over her shoulder as a knot of worry formed in her stomach.

If Captain Steele uncovered her deception, Daphne had no doubt his reaction would be swift and merciless. Instead of a false betrothal with Bartholomew, she’d find herself leg-shackled to one of the would-be suitors in the parlor.

She rushed forward to close the distance between them. She could take no chances. Not with her future, or Bartholomew’s. They mustn’t look like the strangers they now were.

He took her hand in his and lifted it to his lips as if to kiss it, but paused inches before his mouth touched her fingers.

“Daphne.” This time, the corners of his eyes finally crinkled, rendering him devastatingly handsome. “You’re…”

Her hand remained in his. He didn’t kiss it. Nor did he let her go. He looked…mystified. As if he wasn’t certain whether to treat her like a girl or a woman.

Her heart thudded in dismay. What if Captain Steele found them like this? He would never believe they’d had any sort of courtship.

Panic began to crowd out her burgeoning sense of hope. “Stop that. You can’t look at me like you’ve never seen me before.”

“I feel like I haven’t.” As his eyes traveled over her body, every inch of her felt bared to his gaze. “The last time I saw you…”

“—was mere months ago, if anyone asks,” she whispered desperately. “You received my letter. You’ll play the part?”

He nodded. “If it comes to that.”

Her blood ran cold. “What do you mean, if it comes to that? It’s come to that.”

He shook his head. “I’d like to have a chat with the man first. Perhaps all he needs is for a voice of reason to talk some sense into him—”

“He would garrote the voice of reason. He’s a pirate. It’s his way or no way at all.”

Bartholomew dropped her hand. “He’s a what?”

“A pirate. My father’s cousin. He was a privateer until abiding by law and ethics became too much for him.” She failed to keep the sarcasm from her tone. “During the war, he was known as Captain Gregory Steele, but now he mostly goes by—”

“Blackheart?”

Her mouth fell open. “You know him?”

“I know of him. A friend of mine hired him to abduct his wife’s—it’s a long story, really, and not relevant at the moment.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Captain Steele has a significant reputation for being ruthless to his enemies and loyal only to the highest bidder. And he’s your guardian?”

She pursed her lips. “He doesn’t wish to be. That’s why he wants me married off at the earliest opportunity.”

His eyebrows rose. “We should be thankful he didn’t throw you over his shoulder and haul you onto his ship.”

“He said women are too much bother.” She lifted a shoulder. “His misogyny is my saving grace. He wants me gone. To rid himself of me legally, his options are limited. Marriage is the least distasteful.”

“To him or to you?” He pinned her with his gaze. “Why not get married? Weren’t you planning to eventually?”

“I categorically refuse to,” Daphne answered flatly. “I’ve an endless list of goals I mean to accomplish, none of which will be possible if I’m to act like an arm bauble the rest of my life. I cannot be both a wife and a crusader—”

“A what?” he choked out.

“—and so spinsterhood it shall be.” She stiffened her spine. “I’m simply awaiting the month of March. I’ll inherit a small portion on my twenty-first birthday, and will no longer need to be anyone’s ward—or wife.”

He rubbed his forehead. “Provided you can put off Captain Steele until then.”

“Provided I can put off marriage until then.” She hesitated. “He wants the first banns read this Sunday. As soon as the contract is finalized.”

Bartholomew recoiled. “I’m expected to sign a contract?”

“You’re expected not to honor it,” she reminded him in a low voice. “It’s a lie. Nobody has to know. I certainly won’t hold you to it. In five short weeks, I’ll be out of your hair and out from under my guardian’s thumb. It’s distasteful, but my only chance for independence.” She lifted her chin. “Will you help me?”

FOUR

Would he help her? Bartholomew swallowed. He wasn’t at all certain what he’d got himself into. Yet he inclined his head in assent. “Why else would I have come?”

Why else, indeed. He’d hurried to play hero because… Well, because it seemed like it might be his last opportunity to do so. He was no longer in demand. As a rake, as a soldier, as anything.

For a toff with a fake leg, a faux fiancée was the best he could do.

He massaged his temple. When he’d been whole, he hadn’t been concerned with being heroic. He’d only wanted to be better than all the other men. Thief of every woman’s heart. Perhaps if he hadn’t been so damn successful at everything he did, he wouldn’t have believed himself invincible.

Believed his twin equally invincible.

Bartholomew could no more have stopped that bullet from entering his brother’s chest than he could have redirected the cannon-fire that had pulverized his own leg. He had tried, but he hadn’t been able to staunch Edmund’s wound or carry him from the battleground. If criminally kindhearted Oliver York hadn’t risked his skin to drag Bartholomew to safety, he would have died on the bloody soil right next to his twin.

Every day, he’d wished that was exactly what had happened.

Until today.

“Why else would I have come?” he repeated, more softly this time.

Her answering smile was weak. He wasn’t surprised. The look in Daphne’s wide green eyes was one he well recognized: Desperation.

She was fighting her own war. With Captain Steele and the world at large. She’d lost her mother as a child, but her father had always seemed like the young, ruddy-cheeked, sparkly-eyed sort who would live forever.

He knew better now. There was no such thing as forever.

Even Daphne had changed. He could hardly believe she was twice as old as the last time he’d seen her. Twice as beautiful. She might not want a husband, but he was frankly surprised she didn’t already have one. She was young and smart. Whole. Happy.

Any man would be lucky to have her.

It was Bartholomew’s duty to keep her safe until she found that man. The right man. Not some degenerate her privateer guardian had flung up from the sea. She needed to marry a husband she desired. A man who deserved her. But until then…

“Now that I’m here, I’d like a word with your new guardian.” He smiled at Daphne and proffered his arm. “Shall we?”

She placed her fingers in the crook of his elbow without the slightest hesitation.

His bravado cracked. If only she knew what a piss-poor hero he made. He’d ruined his life. Broken his parents’ hearts. Failed to save his brother.

The people in Bartholomew’s orbit never escaped unscathed. If the pirate wanted to fight, it would lead to his own destruction. Bartholomew’s expression hardened. So be it.

As long as nothing happened to Daphne. He glanced down at her and smiled.

Her hair was the same red-gold he remembered, but longer and thicker. Despite being coiled to her head in some sort of no-nonsense coif, stray ringlets framed her face like little curls of sunshine.

Most of the freckles had faded from her once-plump apple cheeks, leaving high cheekbones and a roses-and-cream complexion… save for a smudge of ink across the bridge of her nose. Her hair and skin smelled of lilacs. He liked the scent.

He supposed she’d grown taller, but so had he. The top of her head barely crested his shoulders. She’d always been petite, but the scant width of her waist and slenderness of her arms made him wonder if she was getting enough to eat. Was Captain Steele too tightfisted or too ignorant to properly care for a ward?

Or was Daphne still getting lost in her own worlds and forgetting to eat?

His eyes kept straying back to her. Her air and mannerisms were no longer that of a child, but of a grown woman. Her voice was huskier, her stride accented by the swing of the hips.

Ten years could do that. He couldn’t believe he’d missed the transformation.

His jaw clenched. If he’d come home once in a while, he might have noticed sooner. Should have noticed sooner.

He couldn’t even count all the things he wished he’d done differently.

Perhaps, if he’d been less self-centered—if he’d been the good twin instead of trying so hard to be the best—he’d have a woman like this on his arm for a reason other than a faux betrothal.

He’d have been selected because he was a worthy suitor, not because he was so laughable a choice that it hadn’t even crossed her mind to wonder if he already had a paramour.

Perhaps Daphne had assumed he was unattached simply because he’d never been attached. Lord knew he’d never tried to cultivate a lasting relationship. The beauty of being a rake was that one wasn’t required to call with flowers the next day. After the night was through, he was never expected to do anything at all. That was how he liked it.

At least, that’s what gentlemen of a certain background were expected to like.

If being a Corinthian and a rake were half as fulfilling as he’d always pretended they were, maybe he wouldn’t have run off to war in search of something more. He’d still have his brother. The love of his family. And his leg.

Daphne hadn’t said a word, but she wasn’t blind or deaf. Bartholomew couldn’t help wincing at the clapping sound his hand-carved foot made every time it snapped back into place. It shamed him. Everything about his misshapen body shamed him. There was no way to hide it.

Daphne paused a few feet from a familiar doorway.

He swung his head to face her. “Your father’s office? Captain Steele has taken over your father’s study?”

“It is a small home,” she replied quietly, shoulders stiff. “There is nowhere else for him to be. The other gentlemen are in the main parlor.”

Bartholomew clenched his jaw to keep from responding. There might not be much space, but what there was had belonged to her father. The vicar had only passed recently. Daphne was still in mourning clothes.

“What happened?” he asked, then immediately wished to kick himself. Using his false foot, so it would hurt more. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t ask questions, that he would let her grieve and decide whether or not she wished to discuss her loss at her own pace, without any bullish interrogations from—

“Apoplexy,” she said softly. “At least, that’s what we think. He was upright one minute and prone the next. He never got back up.” She shuddered. “’Twas over in moments.”

Bartholomew nodded. It sounded dreadful. His heart ached for her.

He wished he had the right words. He knew from experience there weren’t any. There was nothing a friend could say, nothing anyone could do. Not when you were praying for an impossible miracle. Time could not be turned back. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.” She squeezed his arm. “I’m sorry, too. I didn’t want to mention…”

“Edmund.” Bartholomew’s throat dried. She’d been doing the same thing he was. Trying to leave painful subjects alone. Yet they were impossible to ignore. Captain Steele didn’t belong in her father’s study any more than this blank empty space belonged at Bartholomew’s side. Was it as strange for her to see him like this? He wasn’t certain Daphne had ever glimpsed either twin without the other. “We’re easy to tell apart now. I’m the one with the wooden leg. He’s the one who’s dead.”

Her face jerked up at him, her eyes wide with shock.

“Forgive me,” he muttered and glanced away.

He was always saying the wrong thing these days. He couldn’t stifle his words, although they weren’t funny to him, either. They burst out of his mouth on their own. His jokes were awful because they were true. They were all he had left. A nervous tic, he supposed. Or a subconscious attempt to poke fun at himself before anyone else could beat him to it.

“Well, Miss Vaughan?” came a languid drawl from somewhere within the vicar’s study. “Are you going to whisper in the corridor all evening, or are you going to introduce me to our newest guest?”

Bartholomew raised his brows at Daphne. When she nodded, they walked into the study side by side.

A tall, slender man with a scar across his left temple and slight salt-and-pepper in his stubble leaned against the vicar’s old desk.

The infamous Captain Steele.

He was more compact than Bartholomew had expected. More lithe. The captain’s sleekly muscled frame and all-black ensemble gave the man more an air of a panther than that of a pirate. Yet there could be no doubt as to his identity.

“Blackheart.”

The blackguard smiled winningly. “That’s ‘Captain’ to you, I’m afraid. My darling ward refuses to allow ‘savage’ nicknames in her father’s home.”

Daphne’s fingers tightened around Bartholomew’s elbow. She flashed him a tense smile. “This is my guardian, Captain Gregory Steele. Captain Steele, this is the first and only man who ever stole my heart—Major Bartholomew Blackpool.”

Captain Steele smiled like a shark that tasted blood. “Well, damn me.”

Daphne flinched, but held her tongue… and held fast to Bartholomew’s arm.

Bartholomew didn’t take his eyes from the captain.

Steele leaned back against the desk. “Major Blackpool. The King’s Army, I presume?”

Bartholomew inclined his head in silence. He had no interest in engaging in idle chitchat.

“I’ve nothing but respect for men who fought on the front lines,” the captain continued. “Me, I did all my fighting from my ship. Took care of things with some well-aimed cannon fire.” Another shark smile curved his lips. “Run into any cannon fire abroad?”

Daphne jerked up straight. “Of all the inconsiderate—”

“Shh.” Bartholomew hauled her to his side and curled his arm about her waist. Her muscles were tense with anxiety. He raised his cold gaze to the pirate. “Mock my injury all you like. You can’t hurt me and you won’t hurt Daphne.”

Steele’s eyes widened in injured innocence. “I’ve no wish to hurt our darling girl. Only to see her happily married. Isn’t that what guardians do?”

“Happily married,” Bartholomew ground out, “means you cannot force her.”

“Who’s forcing her? I’m just… recommending strongly.” Steele shrugged. “As you said, one cannot force a chit into wedlock.”

“She said you threatened her with an asylum.”

“Oh, yes. I can certainly follow through on that.” Captain Steele bared his teeth. “If the lady wishes.”

Bartholomew ground his jaw. “You’d commit her on what grounds?”

“On the grounds that she’s a raving lunatic.”

Daphne stiffened. “I’m nothing of the sort!”

The pirate chuckled. “You believe yourself to be multiple people. Last I checked, that’s called ‘madness.’”

“I’m Daphne Vaughan and no one else,” she said hotly, her hands curling into fists.

Captain Steele leaned back and brandished a handful of letters. “Then explain these.”

Her mouth fell open. “You stole my correspondence?”

“I waylaid it temporarily.” He flipped through the pile. “Either you believe yourself to be Mr. Caldwell, Mr. Baker, and Mr. Smith, or you’re purposely and fraudulently attempting to bamboozle… Parliament, is it? What do you think, Major Blackpool? Is our girl bound for Bedlam or the Fleet Prison?”

Good Lord. Bartholomew sent her a sharp look.

She flushed and reached for the letters.

Captain Steele held them out of reach. “Right fortunate she is to have me for a guardian and not some upstanding, moral sort of chap who gives a fig about fraud. I’ve no intention to turn her in. I intend to marry her off.”

Bartholomew considered him carefully. “Why bother?”

“Pirates mind ships. They don’t chase after wards. I set sail a week from Sunday, and I expect to have the matter settled before I go. The contract will be signed by Saturday night, and the first banns read Sunday morning.”

Bartholomew frowned. “You’re not staying for the wedding?”

“Yes, yes, it won’t be the same without me present. She’ll just have to make do. I’ve an extremely lucrative… project that I cannot reschedule. I’ll return in a month’s time.” Captain Steele smiled cheerfully. “If she’s not married when I do, it’s off to Bedlam for her.”

“You are heartless.” Daphne’s voice shook with rage.

“I am more than fair. I’ve given you a choice in the matter. If you or your future fiancé make the wrong decision, how are the consequences my fault? You will have chosen your fates.”

Bartholomew narrowed his eyes. Although he couldn’t deny Steele’s ruthlessness, the pirate was no doubt exaggerating his reach. “I suppose you’re powerful enough to send the fiancé to Bedlam as well?”

“Newgate,” Captain Steele corrected, flashing his teeth. “Sanitarium for her, prison for him.”

Daphne sucked in a breath. “You said you wouldn’t turn anyone in to the courts!”

“I said I wouldn’t do that to you, love. Any so-called gentleman who breaks a solemn vow with Blackheart, however, gets prison rot in Newgate or impaled upon my sword. His choice.”

Her face went ashen. “You’re a monster!”

Steele tipped his hat. “At your service. Until Saturday, that is. Unless you’ve already chosen? Is your gentleman friend here to make me an offer?”

“We…” The look in her eyes wasn’t as confident as before. Bartholomew didn’t blame her. The threat of institutionalization was credible. So was the threat of prison. “I’m not certain.”

Captain Steele tapped Daphne on the nose. “As your guardian, I will exert final approval. Choose wisely, or I shall choose for you.”

“I need a moment alone with Major Blackpool,” she said tightly.

“Like that, is it? You can have a moment alone with all the gentlemen you wish. Try before you buy, as they say. You’re a clever one, all right.” He rose from behind the desk and swaggered from the room.

Daphne turned to Bartholomew with tears in her eyes. “This is a disaster.”

“That’s why I’m here,” he said simply.

She shook her head. “I can’t let him send you to Newgate for breach of contract.”

Nor would he. Bartholomew made his decision. “If I go, he goes, too. Fraud is illegal, but so is coercion into an unwanted marriage. It must be bluster.”

“Are you willing to risk the point of his sword on it?”

“I’d like to see him try.” He belatedly recalled he was no longer light on his feet. Even a child could beat him at fencing now. “What did he mean about final approval?”

“He doesn’t trust my judgment.” Her cheeks flushed, but she lifted her chin. “It’s my charity work. He says a young lady like me is meant for ballrooms and ices, not playing nursemaid in the rookeries, and he intends to pair me with a man who can keep me in line.”

To his chagrin, Bartholomew didn’t completely disagree. But it was not his decision. “There is a chance Captain Steele won’t let me sign a marriage contract?”

She gazed up at him in wonder. “You still wish to?”

Save her from an unwanted betrothal? Yes. Help her to ruin her life? No. “I won’t let him send you to prison or Bedlam, but I need to understand what I’m getting myself into.”

“Then you’ll need to see what I’m fighting for. Why it is of utmost importance that I remain unwed.” She scooped up her letters. “Come with me.”

FIVE

Daphne’s heart thumped as she led Bartholomew Blackpool to her bedchamber.

The last time she’d been anywhere near him, she’d been too young to think of boys as anything more than vexing playmates. Ten years later, they were both older and wiser—but there could still be nothing between them. No matter how handsome and heroic he might be.

She needed to continue her charity work. It was all she had left.

When she was a child, she’d thrown herself into charity work to gain her father’s approval. It hadn’t worked. She never managed to hold his attention at all.

The parishioners, however, appreciated her little kindnesses. They might forget the incident—and her—in a fortnight or two. But first, for a few scant hours, she was important to their lives.

That was the moment that had changed everything. The moment she realized if she couldn’t be wanted, she could be needed. If not by her father, then by the hundreds of thousands of people throughout England who didn’t have food to eat or clothes to wear.

Fear twisted her stomach as they approached her bedchamber door.

What if Bartholomew didn’t understand her need to help others? To matter? What if he refused to take part in her charade after all?

Now that she’d built her life around charity work, she couldn’t imagine doing anything else. Not only would it be selfish to choose marriage over the masses, she wouldn’t be able to live with the shame of abandoning so many worthy causes. Men. Women. Families.

Dedicating her life to the common good and dedicating her life to the will of a husband were mutually exclusive and irreconcilable. She’d chosen the path that would help the most people. For Bartholomew to risk Newgate to help her, however, she’d have to prove to him it was the right path.

Which meant inviting him into her bedchamber. Yet she was terrified to do so.

The wheezing rattle in her too-tight lungs, the appalling tremble in her ice-cold fingers, the fear that flooded her whirling brain until she couldn’t even think—that was because she dreaded letting him see that her bedchamber was actually her office. Her center of operations. Her biggest, deepest secret. There would be no going back.

She hesitated with her hand on the doorknob.

The documents, correspondence, and figures piled upon her escritoire and papering her walls were how she tracked the many worthy causes lacking a champion, lacking a focus, or lacking results. She applied herself to every one of them. Sending letters. Rifling through ledgers. Recruiting help. Marking progress.

She never threw anything away. One never knew when it might be the key to saving a life. Sometimes it took days to find this precise figure or that specific newspaper reference, but they were all right here within her grasp. Somewhere.

She took a deep breath and opened the door.

To the untrained eye, well… Captain Steele was right. She no doubt looked positively mad.

To his credit, Bartholomew refrained from pointing out the similarity.

“Interesting,” was all he said aloud. “And here I thought debutantes preferred decorating with pastels and flowers. I burned some letters this very morning that I could’ve brought to add to your collection.”

She cuffed his arm. Some of the tension finally seeped from her shoulders. This was Bartholomew. He would help her, not judge her. Nothing would have to change. Her work could continue.

Her life would matter.

She stepped into the center of the room. “I said I was a crusader. These are my causes. I’m married to every one of them.” She traced her fingers along the clippings covering her walls. “Wheat farmers. Weavers. Miners. Workhouses. Orphans. Apothecaries.”

“Apothecaries?” His brow creased. “If you’re referring to the act prohibiting unlicensed medical practitioners, wasn’t that passed last year?”

“Formal qualifications and compulsory apprenticeship are a wonderful first step, but training and methodology is still wildly unpredictable and, in far too many cases, deadly.” She paused and tilted her head to study him more closely. “I’m surprised you’ve heard about it.”

“Because I’d been at war, or because you doubted I knew how to read?” he asked dryly. “Something about spending months in bed waiting to see if an amputated leg will heal gives one a new appreciation for passing time with the written word.”

She frowned but didn’t look away.

A hint of belligerence in his stance indicated he’d expected his words to shock her. Why should they? Did he think she’d cringe at the forthright way he’d said “amputated leg?” She arched a brow. If he had any concept of the atrocities that crossed her escritoire daily, he wouldn’t think her as missish as that.

Or did he fear that his reputation as a rake and a dandy had given her the idea that there was nothing between his ears but waistcoats and women? Daphne would be the last woman to make assumptions about another person based solely on the persona they portrayed to the public. She was a vicar’s daughter… and perhaps England’s most clandestine political agitator on behalf of the poor.

She placed her correspondence onto her desk next to her reading spectacles. “This is why I must remain unwed. Every minute attending routs or planning dinner parties is a wasted minute these desperate people can ill afford to lose.”

“Perhaps it’s not as bleak as that. There must be some gentleman out there who wouldn’t expect you to plan or attend society functions.”

“Must there?” She couldn’t help but scoff. “Some gothic recluse who lives in a rundown castle in the moors? Some palsied invalid who wants me to hold his hand until he leaves this earth?”

His eyebrows rose. “Are invalids and recluses any less worthy than other people?”

“Of course not,” she said softly. “But a husband is fewer than ‘other people.’ I cannot devote myself to one individual, no matter how worthy, if it means abandoning ten thousand more. No one voice or single letter causes change. It needs many voices. Many letters. By remaining unencumbered, I can help make a difference.” She tilted her head and studied him. “You’re the last person I would have expected to make a case for marriage.”

A startled laugh escaped his throat. “God’s teeth, have I? ’Twas not my intention. I have never wished to wed, nor shall I, so it would be the height of hypocrisy to demand anyone else get leg-shackled. Your vehemence surprised me, that’s all. I wanted to make certain you’ve thought this through.”

She turned away so he wouldn’t see her clench her jaw. She did nothing but think things through. Why did he imagine she was choosing charity work over marriage and family?

Of course he couldn’t imagine abandoning the world of routs and soirées willingly. He’d been king of the ballrooms and the prince of every young lady’s fantasies.

In fact, that was the primary reason she’d chosen him for this farce. He would make her a terrible husband, and she would make him a terrible wife. Hades would freeze over before Bartholomew Blackpool would limit himself to any one woman. Much less give up the glittering world where he’d reigned supreme.

Therefore he could be counted upon to dissolve the contract willingly and promptly.

“I have thought this through,” she said quietly. “My future—England’s future—is the only thing I think about. Improving the world we all share is the worthiest goal there is. ’Tis all I do, from the moment I rise to the moment I tumble into bed, exhausted. It’s what I want to do. Become a housewife is not.” Her mouth tightened. “Your ‘competition’ out in the front parlor? Trust me, they’re better off without me. I have no time for anyone if I’m worrying about everyone.”

Those were most of her reasons. There was one more. One she was unwilling to admit aloud. The true reason she would never marry.

Fighting for thousands of faceless individuals was so much easier, so much safer than allowing someone into her heart.

Everyone she’d ever cared about left her. In the worst ways possible.

Her mother had died in childbirth. An accident, of course, but the catalyst for Daphne’s fervor to help others, to improve medical conditions. Her father’s father had also been a vicar. Daphne adored her grandparents. They died. Scarlet Fever. Then it was just her and papa, on their own.

She’d thought, At least I have Papa. At least I’m not alone.

She was wrong.

Papa had focused on his “sheep.” His parish. He’d believed the only virtue came from helping his flock. He’d had little time for his daughter.

Daphne had done her best to do the same, to live up to his standard, but she was young. She’d longed for friends. The closest neighbors were twin boys, too old to be proper playmates. Soon, they too had gone away. It hadn’t taken her long to realize her life was fated to be lived alone.

Even her new guardian didn’t want her.

She had no doubt she would never have seen Bartholomew again had her circumstances not been so dire. If her father hadn’t died. If her guardian hadn’t threatened her with an asylum.

If rakish, fashionable Bartholomew Blackpool hadn’t got his leg shot off and found himself so bored with his long recovery that he was reduced to reading something so mundane as a newspaper.

For him, this visit was nothing more than a diversion. For her, it would define the rest of her life.

She turned toward the door. “Come on, then. It’s time to meet the others.”

SIX

At first, Bartholomew couldn’t identify the unsettled edge to his gut, or how the deuce his palms could be clammy during a British winter.

And then it hit him. The most improbable, unlikely, unfathomable of all circumstances had actually come to pass. He was nervous.

Nervous. Him!

He didn’t have to wonder if he’d ever felt such a sensation before. He well knew he hadn’t. From the mindlessness of youth to the bravado of university days to the swagger of the haut ton to the zeal of fighting enemy soldiers—no. Not once had he been nervous.

How could he have? He was always the best. Of course he could climb that tree. Trounce that prefect. Win that game. Race that horse. Steal that kiss. Live through anything.

Even war.

And yet here he was, in the cottage of a deceased vicar of all places, about to be paraded like livestock before a degenerate pirate and a handful of “competition.”

’Twas ludicrous that such an insignificant word should bring about uncertainty in a man who had once been a total stranger to fear. He’d never had competition; he’d always been the competition. And won.

Until he didn’t. Until he lost everything that mattered to him, including hope for his own future. Until he was here, in Kent, feigning so much more than a faux betrothal. He was armed with his rakish smile. Had his rapier charm at the ready. His hallmark self-confidence exuding from every pore. His goddamn knee itching like the devil because he wasn’t used to so much walking, and… He clenched his jaw in frustration.

Curse his arrogance and curse his pride. Why bother pretending to be whole? Everyone knew what had happened to him. He couldn’t hide his limp or muffle the clapping noise of the vanguard technology powering his very expensive, very clever, very obviously false leg. They all knew he was no longer the better man. This wouldn’t be an easy battle.

Even with the young lady’s pretend consent as a given, he still had to convince that scoundrel, Blackheart. Captain Steele. Their entire charade could be moot even before it began. No doubt Captain Steele had handpicked the other men for a reason.

And Daphne—what was he to do with sweet, big-hearted Daphne?

She couldn’t be trusted to remember to eat when she was in her father’s home, buffeted by a few servants who’d known her since birth. Imagine her all alone, in some dismal-but-economical shack, with naught but a maid-of-all-work and mountains of ink and paper. Impossible.

He couldn’t fault her the desire to plan her life as she pleased. He certainly had no say in the matter. Nonetheless, the right man must exist…

Someone wealthy enough to keep her in style, but not so lofty as to dismiss her concerns for the common people. Someone compassionate enough to help her wage her campaigns, and wise enough not to suggest she end them. Someone whole and handsome whom she would be proud to have at her side. Who could toss their daughter in the air or teach their sons to ride and waltz a scandalous number of sets with his wife at high-flown dinner parties.

Bartholomew had no idea who that paragon might be—he certainly held few of the required characteristics—but he had no doubt that someone, somewhere, would make the perfect partner for Daphne. He liked her too much to wish her an unhappy marriage.

If she would not open her eyes, he would have to keep a look out for her. And keep her safe from her guardian’s suitors in the meantime.

“Ready?” Daphne whispered as they approached the front parlor. Her guardian was nowhere to be found, but her maid stayed close behind her. Candlelight and male voices spilled from the open door.

The game was afoot. Bartholomew rolled his shoulders back and walked into the fray.

“Blackpool?” came a droll voice from the side of the room. “Do my eyes deceive?”

“Lambley?” he blurted back, as he whirled to greet an old acquaintance.

How the devil had Captain Steele got a duke to court a vicar’s daughter? More to the point, why on earth should Lambley wish to court anyone?

By all accounts, he’d taken over Bartholomew’s role as charming-rake-of-the-ton within seconds of his leaving England’s shore. And worse. Lambley was the last suitor for an idealistic innocent like Daphne. The duke’s scandalous masquerade parties were high society’s worst-kept secret. She’d end up accompanying him to every soirée in Christendom and having to put up with her husband slipping away behind every curtain.

If Lambley even came up to scratch. He was far more likely in search of an amusing dalliance, not a wife. Bartholomew flexed his fingers. Daphne deserved better.

“Blackpool?” came a disbelieving voice from the other side of the room. “Bartholomew Blackpool?”

He whirled again, and this time came face to face with a nattily dressed gentleman more famous for his predilection for gaming hells than for attending Society events. Bartholomew lifted his brows. The parlor was beginning to feel like a circus, with he and Daphne in the center ring.

“Anthony Fairfax.” His smile troubled, Bartholomew inclined his head at the young man.

Fairfax’s presence was both more and less surprising than Lambley’s. Unlike the duke, Fairfax had grown up near the vicarage. His sister Sarah was about Bartholomew’s age, and he’d always considered her a good friend.

She had also been in love with Bartholomew’s brother. She and Edmund had expected to marry the moment he returned from the war Bartholomew had talked him into fighting. The war he hadn’t survived.

Edmund hadn’t left behind a widow, but rather an even worse situation.

Sarah was seven months pregnant.

Bartholomew’s throat grew tight. Once Society found out, neither she nor her bastard child would be welcome anywhere again. He wished there was something he could do to protect her. And his unborn niece or nephew.

Sarah’s brother likely felt the same. Anthony Fairfax’s roguish smile and good-natured charm still opened many doors, but his gambling debts grew ever deeper. Despite his good blood and well-connected family, soon he wouldn’t be able to show his face anywhere near King Street without a pocketful of banknotes or a loaded pistol in hand.

Or an heiress.

Bartholomew cast a considering glance toward Daphne. He’d taken her at her word when she’d mentioned inheriting a “small portion.” Was it possible the sum was more significant than she’d implied? Or had devil-may-care Fairfax sunk to such lows, he was desperate enough to swindle the dowry of a vicar’s daughter just to pay a few vowels?

He frowned. Did she even have a dowry? Captain Steele certainly hadn’t mentioned one.

An insidious thought made Bartholomew rethink the situation. He’d known Lambley and Fairfax for years. Despite their faults, they were good sorts. Couldn’t it be true that a well-liked duke and the brother of a good friend might make perfectly acceptable suitors? Perhaps it was Bartholomew’s bitterness over his less-than-ideal new reality that was causing him to overstate their faults.

“I see you know His Grace, the Duke of Lambley, as well as Mr. Fairfax. Have you met Mr. Whitfield?” Daphne motioned over Bartholomew’s shoulder. “Mr. Whitfield, this is Major Blackpool.”

“Chauncey Whitfield?”Bartholomew’s smile froze as he turned around.

Impossible. Yet there he was. Bartholomew fought a spike of jealousy.

Chauncey Whitfield, the darling of the caricaturists. Tall, handsome, and larger than life, with his twice-broken nose and bashful, bedimpled smile.

After Bartholomew had left for war, Whitfield had become the reigning king of the sparring rings—both legal and illegal. He had endless admirers. He even had a slogan. Take a chance on Chaunce could be heard everywhere from underground fighting dens to London ballrooms. Two places Bartholomew could no longer navigate with ease.

He swallowed and inclined his head. “How do you do.”

Dimples creased Whitfield’s boyish cheeks as he grinned back at Bartholomew. “Never thought I’d meet the legend in the flesh, sir. I’d probably never have beaten your sparring record if you hadn’t gone off to war and lost your leg. Lucky break for me.”

Anthony Fairfax spun on Whitfield in horror. “How can you say that?”

“I’d never be champion otherwise.” Whitfield gave a pretend punch to Fairfax’s shoulder. “You’re a gambler, mate. Think like one. The only reason why a man like you would put money on me instead of Blackpool is because he’s no longer fighting. Demmed shame, if you ask me. If he still had both legs, I’ve no doubt the major could—”

“I’m standing right here,” Bartholomew gritted out. “I lost my leg, not my ears.”

“A gambler, am I?” A slight flush crept up Fairfax’s cheeks as he glared at the fighter. “Never you mind what I do with my blunt. I won’t be ‘taking a chance on Chaunce.’ I’d put a monkey on Blackpool drawing your cork any day of the week, even if the war left him nothing more than a—”

“I am right here,” Bartholomew repeated through clenched teeth. “Missing half a limb doesn’t make me less of a man.”

Except of course it did.

The room fell silent. He waved away their awkward apologies and regretted agreeing to this farce. He’d meant to help Daphne, not parade his new weakness in front of others.

He didn’t need four sets of pitying gazes to recognize the truth. He wasn’t getting invitations to fencing clubs or races or sparring matches. Even his Almack’s voucher had been revoked for failure to comply with the dress code.

Bartholomew curled his fingers into fists. He’d like to knock the pity right off of Fairfax’s face.

And Lambley’s. And Whitfield’s.

As for Daphne…his throat stung. Her kindheartedness made her even worse than the others.

In her chambers, she’d looked scared, but determined. In this moment, she also looked infuriatingly compassionate. As if he was worse off than her. He could no longer fool himself for why she’d invited him here. It wasn’t just because a man without two feet was unlikely to already have a romantical entanglement.

It was because she, too, considered him less than a man. Devoid of options. Easily managed. No more a captain of his own fate than a lapdog would be.

He hated the poor-old-Tolly look in her eyes. Despised the smug superiority the other men weren’t even trying to hide.

Daphne had called these blighters his “competition.” If they would have heard her say so, all three of them would laugh until they hiccupped. Bartholomew wasn’t competition to anyone. He curled his fingers into fists and set his jaw.

There was nothing to do about it except prove them wrong. He was still Bartholomew Blackpool. Still a person. Still a man. He didn’t need to impress anyone in the ring or before an orchestra to know that his iron will was still intact. He just needed a new goal. To excel at something else. Something that didn’t require… feet. Or the crushing weight of sympathetic stares.

He affected his haughtiest posture. “I suggest we move on to other topics.” He turned his gaze to the duke. “Lambley, what brings you to Maidstone?”

“Why, the lady, of course.” The duke lifted Daphne’s fingers to his lips. He held her hand a beat longer than was necessary. “Does a man require any other reason to bask in the presence of such beauty?”

“Daphne isn’t just beautiful. She’s resourceful and clever.” The words were out of Bartholomew’s mouth before he could pull them back. Devil take it. He’d meant to illustrate the shallow nature of Lambley’s compliments, not lower Daphne’s worth in the marriage mart. Most gentlemen didn’t consider working brains a desirable characteristic in a female.

Not that Daphne should settle for an imbecile who didn’t value her for more than her looks. She was different than other women. Passionate. She wasn’t afraid to be herself. It made her irresistible in a completely different way. He wished they had hours to sit and talk. He wished they were alone.

“Of course she’s clever,” Lambley said soothingly, casting Daphne soulful glances. “Aren’t bluestockings always the most breathtaking?”

A slight blush touched her cheeks.

Bartholomew’s smile tightened. Weren’t bluestockings always the most… He shook his head. There was no way to respond to blatant flummery like that without inadvertently insulting Daphne.

She was beautiful. But there was no possible way that Lambley found bluestockings remotely breathtaking. At least, not any more so than the countless other women that passed through his arms in and out of Society ballrooms and secret masquerades. Lambley would never make an offer.

Then again… Bartholomew’s brow creased.

Lambley was in Kent, not London. Why would he be, if he weren’t interested in Daphne? Why would any of them be there? Daphne was young, pretty, compassionate, and wise enough to keep her more questionable charitable projects a secret. In short: marriageable. Bartholomew had been intrigued from the moment he walked through the door. Which could only mean one thing.

Bloody hell. These men were real beaux. If he turned around and went home without another word, Daphne could be a duchess by springtime. The envy of her peers. Would he truly do her any favors by standing in the way of such a match?

Whitfield glanced at the clock upon the mantle. “I suppose we ought to summon our carriages if we’re to make the assembly.”

Bartholomew stared at him blankly. “The what?”

Daphne’s shoulders slumped. “There’s dancing tonight in the Maidstone assembly hall. It’s unnecessary and uninteresting, and not remotely a priority. I can’t imagine why Cousin Steele even thought—”

“It’s more than interesting,” Fairfax interjected, reaching for her hand. “I’ve no greater priority than being the first name on your dance card.”

That was likely a true statement. Bartholomew curled his lip. He was surprised Fairfax had any priorities at all. He ought to be home with his sister, not here courting Daphne.

“As do I,” said Whitfield quickly. “It’s also my priority to be the first name on your dance card.”

Fairfax cut him an exasperated look. “We can’t both be the first name.”

“Of course not,” Whitfield responded cheerily. He bounced on his toes, flexing his muscles. “I’d fight you for it, but I believe the victor is a foregone conclusion.”

Fairfax burst out laughing. “I’d wager a—”

“Gentlemen,” Bartholomew interrupted. He tried not to feel smug when Daphne edged a little closer to his side. He liked having her there. “If the lady doesn’t wish to attend the assembly—”

“Of course we’ll attend.” Fairfax stared at Bartholomew as if he’d grown an extra leg, rather than the opposite. “Miss Vaughan’s dance card will be the envy of Kent.”

“I should doubt that.” Daphne gestured toward her dark attire. “I can’t stand up with any of you. I won’t be out of mourning until the end of the week.”

Ah. Bartholomew rubbed his jaw. That explained Captain Steele’s sudden rush to get his ward betrothed by Sunday. It would be the blackguard’s first opportunity to marry her off.

“Just so.” Whitfield puffed up his chest. “Although you can’t dance, you shan’t lack for company a single moment. I, for one, will never leave your side.”

“I, on the other hand,” Lambley said with a glance at his pocket watch, “am afraid I must. Parliament opens session tomorrow, and I must hurry if I’m to arrive on time. Miss Vaughan, forgive me. If you’re… available in a fortnight, my cousin is hosting one of her soirées, and I know she’d be delighted if you were to attend.” He sketched a bow. “As would I.”

Fairfax sniffed in gentlemanly offense. “From the way that was worded, I’m assuming only Miss Vaughan is invited?”

Lambley smiled. “You’re ever so astute.”

Daphne pressed his hand. “Katherine did invite me to London, but I’m afraid my place is here in Kent. I do thank you for the kind invitation. And for your visit.”

“Your servant.” He bowed. “Until next we meet, do take care.”

“I shall do what I can.” She dropped his hand to dip in curtsey. “Safe travels, Your Grace.”

Bartholomew shouldn’t have been quite so pleased to see the last of Lambley, but he couldn’t help a small rush of relief at one less competitor.

Daphne might believe a faux fiancé solved all her troubles, but that was only if Captain Steele approved the match. No guardian would choose a one-legged soldier over a rich, eligible duke. Particularly not someone as opportunistic as a pirate.

He tensed. No one in his right mind would choose a one-legged soldier over anyone.

Not that it mattered. He straightened his shoulders. He had no intention of paying suit to right-minded people. He just had to make a positive impression on Captain Steele, sign a sham contract, and then return to his life of endless solitude as if this interlude had never happened.

As if being the recipient of feigned interest hadn’t made him yearn for the real thing.

He gazed at Daphne. What might it be like if she felt a fraction as passionately for him as she did for her charity work? She was not completely immune to him. The expression on her face when she’d first laid eyes on him indicated she found his appearance more than pleasing.

Of course, that was because his false leg was disguised beneath layers of clothing. His flesh turned cold. No matter what sparks might fly between them, nothing could come of it. He had no wish to sink his fingers into her hair and cover her mouth with his own, only for her to be revolted when she saw him naked.

They’d been friends before. They would simply have to remain so. No matter how a part of him might wish there was a chance for something more.

Captain Steele swept into the room with a smile on his face and a sword at his side. “Miss Vaughan. Gentlemen. I’ve just taken possession of the delivery I was waiting for. If tomorrow is as clear a day as today, who would like to take my new horses for a run?”

Bartholomew groaned inwardly. The devil only knew how a pirate had managed to purchase horseflesh at half ten on a Thursday night, but that was the least of Bartholomew’s concerns. Fairfax and Whitfield were already arguing over which path would allow them to race the fastest, and even Daphne had clapped her hands together in delight. Bartholomew’s shoulders sank.

He was not competition. He couldn’t even play the game.

SEVEN

Unfortunately for Bartholomew, the following day was bright and sunny, with nary a snow cloud in the uncharacteristically blue sky. The ground was still frozen and the frigid air would slice painfully across the wind-chapped face of any rider foolish enough to race an unfamiliar steed across frost-ruined terrain.

In other words, everyone except him.

The other gentlemen were already astride their horses, laughing and prancing and bickering over which path would be the fastest route around the lake. He stared wistfully at the rolling hill dipping below the horizon. Lord, how he wished he could join the fun.

Instead, he hung back near the doorway. Which meant he was the first to see Daphne step outside to join them. His breath caught at the sight.

She wore a simple day dress and spencer, rather than a riding habit. Perhaps she did not own one. Her red-gold curls were pinned beneath a wide-brimmed bonnet. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed.

“Did they leave us the slowest nags?” She grinned up at him from beneath her bonnet as she took his arm. “Or give us the feistiest steeds?”

He cleared his throat. “You’ll have your pick of the remaining horses. I won’t be riding.”

Her smile fell. Her eyes lost some of their sparkle. “You don’t want to join me?”

Bartholomew’s jaw locked. Her obvious disappointment curled about his heart like a fist. How he longed to join her. To see her smiling at him with her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed as they raced side by side over the frozen hills. Enjoying the moment together.

But the mood was already broken.

“I’m afraid I cannot,” he said. “I’m on my last leg, as it were.”

Her eyes widened in sudden sympathy. “Oh, I didn’t think… Of course we don’t have to ride. ’Tis too cold for such rubbish anyway. Let me talk to my guardian, and I’ll—”

“Balderdash.” His neck heated in embarrassment. He didn’t need or want her concern. “The horses are here and ready, as is everyone else. I won’t be spoiling anyone’s fun. Now tell me which of these fine animals you’d like to ride and I’ll fetch the mounting block.”

Her lips tightened as if she were biting back a protest. Something in his eyes must have convinced her of his intractability on this point. Nodding, she pulled an apple from her spencer pocket and gestured toward the closest mare. “This one. Thank you for assisting me.”

He left her stroking the mare and turned to fetch the mounting block.

Once upon a time, he would not have needed such a thing. He would have handed her up himself without thinking twice. Lingered a moment too long with his hands cupping her curves.

He no longer could do such things.

His fingers clenched. He had thought the ridicule of his peers would be the worst part of returning to Society, however briefly.

Now, he suspected the worst would be the thousand little deaths every time he wished to do something and could not. His hands wouldn’t know the feel of her waist as he lifted her onto a horse. His arms wouldn’t know the warmth of her embrace as he pulled her into a waltz. His mouth wouldn’t know the feel of her lips, the sweetness of a stolen kiss.

He was here to be a faux fiancé, nothing more. He should be satisfied with that much. If it weren’t for her, he wouldn’t have left his town house. Even that ’twas more than expected, after the accident.

Once his leg had healed—as much as it ever would—an all-consuming depression had kept him bedridden for several weeks as he came to grips with his new reality. He was crippled. It was never going to get any better. Life as he knew it was over.

In despair, he’d dragged himself from the bed to the bottle, and might’ve whiled away the next forty years with whisky and laudanum his only companions, had his insufferable pride not snapped him out of it at last. Others might see his ruined body as useless, but he wouldn’t be worthless. Not in his own home. That had been the end of the whisky and the laudanum.

From that day forward, he spent every waking hour stretching and exercising. Pushing his limits. Becoming stronger.

His atrophied muscles had screamed with agony. Mottled bruises had covered every inch of his skin from a series of endless tumbles as he’d taught himself to sit and rise without aid, to walk without a cane, to climb ropes and increase endurance.

But he never expected he’d have to endure a challenge like this.

He hefted the mounting block and carried it back over to Daphne. One of the footmen was already fitting the horse with a sidesaddle.

Bartholomew could have sent a servant after the mounting block as well, but he’d wanted to help. To be the one she needed. If only for a moment.

“Thank you,” she said softly as he placed the block next to her horse. She laid her hand in his for balance as she mounted the mare.

He gave her fingers a light kiss before releasing them. He wished he could pull her close instead of letting her go. “Enjoy the ride.”

She tucked a stray tendril behind her ear and blushed. “I would enjoy it more if you joined me.”

An entirely different image of her riding him rose unbidden to his mind and his stomach tightened with desire. He pivoted away before the hunger in his eyes could betray him.

There would be no riding of any kind. Not today. Not ever.

He saluted Captain Steele and turned back toward the house. He would watch Daphne ride away from a distance. Out of her way. Away from temptation.

“Are you certain you won’t join us?” Whitfield, bless his soul, still seemed to believe Bartholomew the unstoppable juggernaut he’d once been, back when Bartholomew’s legendary antics were fodder for amazement and envy.

“I’d rather keep my feet on the ground.” He gestured at his legs. “Or foot, as the case may be.”

Captain Steele grinned down at him from atop a rearing stallion. “I’ve a pony tied up behind the house, if these horses are too much for you.”

Bartholomew flashed his teeth. A pony wasn’t quite as insulting as an ancient broodmare would have been—any pony of Captain Steele’s was bound to have a little devil in him—but the meaning was clear all the same.

Frowning, Daphne tossed her reins aside and moved as if to dismount. “I’m staying with him.”

“No.” He dashed forward to rescue the reins and placed them back into her gloved hands. When was the last time she’d ridden a horse? He couldn’t deny the sparkle in her eyes or the flush to her cheeks. Riding might be a rare treat. He couldn’t take that away from her. “Have a little fun. You deserve it. I’ll still be here when you get back.”

The expression in her eyes was unreadable, but she accepted the reins and joined the others.

Captain Steele raised his arm, his fingers cocked like a pistol as if about to fire the opening charge.

Without warning or waiting, Fairfax launched off with a whoop, flying down the hill with reckless abandon and infectious laughter. The others instantly gave chase.

Bartholomew couldn’t hold back a wistful smile.

Captain Steele was ahead of the pack in no time, his stallion impossibly swift despite its impressive size. Whitfield and Daphne raced neck-and-neck, just behind, until they split ranks to belt along opposite paths around a frozen pond.

Bartholomew stood stiff and tall, watching her retreating form until he could no longer hear the horse hooves. Only then did he close his eyes and turn his back to the wind, to the things he could no longer do.

How he wished he could be racing across the hills at Daphne’s side. He wished he could treat her to the sort of courtship she deserved. Surprise flowers, dancing too close, moonlit kisses. Love.

Instead, he would be a fiancé in name only. Their “relationship” would never even leave these grounds. They weren’t even together on these grounds. She and her horse had torn off with the same buoyant joy as any of the others.

To his surprise, she was an excellent horsewoman. He doubted she’d had much practice in the art. On the other hand, even as a young girl she’d been a quick study and curious about everything. He didn’t doubt she had a thousand hidden talents, with riding sidesaddle being the least of them.

Nonetheless, the sight of her dashing off down the slope, every bit the equal to Fairfax or Whitfield, made him wonder anew if spoiling their suit was truly the right thing to do.

The paper clippings filling her bedchamber were a symptom of a bright young woman’s desire to be useful. That same dedication and attention to detail left no doubt that Daphne would be more than able to manage a household. With her passion and big heart and exuberance for life, she would make any man a splendid wife.

Anthony Fairfax might frequent gaming hells more than a gentleman ought, but Bartholomew had known him his entire life, and could easily vouch for Fairfax’s good heart and integrity.

Chauncey Whitfield was the current champ in London’s pugilistic underworld, but that didn’t mean he had rocks in his head or that a gentle young lady oughtn’t to take a chance on Chaunce. He was good-natured and easy to please, and could be counted upon to keep those he cared about safe and cared for.

Bartholomew sighed. ’Twas precisely this sort of thinking—his tendency to analyze outcomes far into the future—that made him such an effective Army major and such a terrible knight in shining armor.

Daphne didn’t want to wed. Blocking her guardian’s stratagems was the easiest way to win that battle. But what was the war?

He furrowed his brow. The consequences of winning the current skirmish might be that she never got such an opportunity again. Daphne was a vicar’s daughter. She was unlikely to catch the eye of another duke. Even title-less men like Fairfax and Whitfield were more plentiful in London than Maidstone.

Not only that, these easygoing gentlemen were apt to appreciate and encourage a wife’s unusual interests than the humdrum suitors she was more likely to attract in the countryside. He let out a deep breath. Daphne needed someone to share her interests, not stifle them. What if his intervention spoiled her best chance to make that happen?

Just as he turned to go back inside, horse hooves sounded from the opposite side of the cottage.

Bartholomew frowned. He didn’t expect the others back for at least a couple of hours, and yet the incoming rider wasn’t coming from the direction of the public road. He paused on the threshold to see who it might be.

Daphne. Cheeks pink, lips rosy, her hair a golden cloud of windblown curls beneath a cockeyed bonnet.

She’d never looked more beautiful.

“Why did you come back?” he demanded. The answer couldn’t be more obvious. His neck heated in embarrassment. She hadn’t wanted to abandon the poor, crippled soldier, so she’d raced down an alternate path in order to double back and make sure he was still well. “I don’t need your pity.”

“That’s fortunate.” She arched her brows. “You don’t have it.”

Clearly. He lifted his chin toward the trail. “You wanted to ride a horse. Go ride. You may not get another opportunity for some time.”

“So be it.” She dropped her reins, then hesitated. “You’re right. I did feel awful, leaving you standing in our dust. Quite literally. It wasn’t well done of me. I shouldn’t have gone.”

See? Pity. He lifted his hands to her hips. “Don’t do me any special favors. I’m not your real fiancé. I’m not even your fake fiancé.”

“Not yet.” She slid into his arms. “Am I allowed to do favors when I’m your faux fiancée?”

“No.” He set her down. Slowly. Letting her body slide against his.

She didn’t back away. “Why not? You’re doing quite a large one for me.”

“Am I? I’m not sacrificing more than a few days.” And his pride. “This is the first time I have been out since I returned from war. Perhaps you’re the one doing me a favor. In which case, we’re even.”

She reached behind him and handed him the reins. “If that’s all the bonding we’re to do, mind this horse while I slip off to attend to some correspondence.”

He gave her a grudging smile. Cheeky chit. And one of the most selfless, focused people he’d ever met. “Which nonexistent gentleman are you going to impersonate today?”

The corners of her lips quirked. “Perhaps I’ll pretend to be you.”

“Don’t spite yourself just to spite me.” He tied the horse and leaned against the post. “My opinions carry little weight.”

She tilted her head. “What are your opinions?”

He straightened. Did he even have any? No one had asked him in so long. “My opinions on matters such as…?”

She bit her lip. “Do you remember what I showed you in my chambers?”

How could he not? A mere year ago, an invitation into a lady’s chambers would have ended quite differently. Perhaps even an invitation into Daphne’s arms. A woman who didn’t want a husband might still want a man. Her room had been more than adequate for a rendezvous. “One four-poster bed, sturdy, three pillows. An open wardrobe containing—”

“Not that.” She gave his shoulder a teasing push.

He caught her hand. His heart was beating far too fiercely. She must feel its pulse beneath her palm, racing faster than any stallion.

He hadn’t spoken to any young ladies since returning from war. Hadn’t teased or been teased. Hadn’t been shoved playfully without a thought to whether his sensibilities—or his balance—could withstand physical interplay.

In so many long months, it was the first time he’d been treated like he was… normal.

Of course he knew how deeply he’d missed it. But he hadn’t realized until right this moment that he could have that feeling again. Of belonging, of bantering, of being himself.

He dropped her hand. “Yes, I remember your room. Wheat farmers. Weavers. Miners. Workhouses. Orphans. Apothecaries. Particularly in the areas of training and methodology.”

Her beautiful mouth fell open. “You listened to what I said? And memorized my causes?”

“I recalled, not memorized. Soldiers are trained to remember things.” He gave her a devilish smile. “Shall I tell you more about the contents of your wardrobe?”

Her cheeks flushed. “I already know what’s in my wardrobe. I don’t know what’s in your mind. Those are the things I most care about. What are your opinions on the topics you recall?”

He dipped his head. “Honestly?”

She leaned forward, nodding as if eager to hear his insights and hidden depths.

He gave her the truth. “I don’t have any opinions.”

Not in the way she meant. He had plenty of opinions, one of which was: you can’t save everyone, no matter how hard you try. He’d sacrificed enough. ’Twould be foolish to add hopeless causes to the mix.

She stepped back, disappointed. “You said you read the newspapers!”

He shrugged, knowing it would vex her. She shouldn’t have illusions about him. He was here to help her escape her guardian, not become a white knight. “Reading newspapers doesn’t mean I’m a ‘crusader.’ It means I’m bored. And literate.”

Her eyes flashed. “If you’re bored, it’s your own fault. Interesting people are never bored.”

“I wasn’t always a wretched bore.” He had barely had time to sleep. Wine. Women. Waltzing. Gaming. Pugilism. Adventure. The army was only more intense. Troops. Weapons. Enemy soldiers. Stratagems. “My days were far too busy for boredom to set in. Or to develop strong opinions about weavers and wheat farmers.”

Her lips pursed as she considered him. “What fills your days now?”

“Nothing,” he said simply. Although he found her idealism endearing, he did not share it. The war had taught him that some fights just couldn’t be won. “After what I’ve been through, I quite prefer it.”

“But the farmers—”

“You may keep your causes, my dear.” He brandished his wooden leg with a self-mocking smile. “I’m done crusading.”

EIGHT

The following morning, Daphne’s eyes flung open in a panic. Sun trickled in around the shutters. She closed her eyes as quickly and as tightly as she could, but it was too late. Saturday was here. The changes would begin.

Today she was officially out of mourning. She could wear colors again. Dance at assemblies. Wed the suitor of her guardian’s choosing. Dread made her fingers shake and her limbs leaden.

She rolled over and buried her face in her pillow. Lucky her. She didn’t want to do any of those things. There was no one she wished to wed. And she would mourn the loss of her father the rest of her life. No matter what color she happened to be wearing. They might not have had an idyllic relationship, but at least she’d had someone who loved her. She might not be so fortunate ever again.

Her cheeks heated as she thought back to the previous day. She certainly hadn’t felt her life was empty when Bartholomew was around.

Whenever he was near, his presence muddled her brain. Made her think of foolish things, like the width of his shoulders or the strong line of his jaw.

Every time he kissed her hand, heat spread through her. When he’d lifted her from the horse, letting her body slide down his in a most shocking and brazen manner… her bones had nearly melted. If he had let go of her just then, she would surely have crumpled to his feet. And wrapped her arms about him.

She had never doubted his reputation as a rake. She now wondered if all he had to do was stand still and let the women throw themselves at him. Her inability to control her body’s reaction to his touch was infuriating. And more than a little intriguing.

What might it be like to be the sort of woman who gave in to such desires? A woman unafraid to throw her reputation to the wind in exchange for a night of passion in his muscular arms? She clutched a pillow to her chest.

Making love with Bartholomew would be incredible, she had no doubt. He would be the sort of lover who would give a woman his complete attention. Make her feel wanted. Needed.

And then he would leave before morning, never to be heard from again.

With a sigh, she shoved Bartholomew and certain heartbreak out of her mind and pushed herself out of bed. There was no time to be maudlin. She had to focus.

She washed her face and her teeth, then settled down before her escritoire. Today was full of risk. Tomorrow, even more uncertain. She had best attend to as much charity work as possible while she still could.

It might be her last chance to leave a mark before she faded into obscurity. Into a loveless marriage. Or Bedlam.

She pushed aside a tall stack of correspondence and perched at the edge of her chair. After luncheon, she’d begged off from playing Charades (Mr. Fairfax’s idea) or battledore and shuttlecock (Mr. Whitfield’s) with the excuse of a megrim. Instead, she’d stayed up until the wee hours of the morning, penning every last outstanding letter until her eyes and fingers ached.

Now all that was left was forming a plan.

Her gaze wandered over the clippings covering her walls. She wasn’t nearly as efficient solving problems as she was finding them. Some days she wished she were a dozen Daphnes, so that she could divvy up her endless chores amongst her many selves and finally be able to cross some things off her lists.

Papa, she knew, would have scolded her much the same way she’d scolded Bartholomew for being bored. Daphne could never do the right thing. If she felt overwhelmed and overworked, ’twas her own fault.

He saw no need to save the world. ’Twas an impossible task. If she focused on her parish, on her neighbors and the other inhabitants of Maidstone, she could make a direct and appreciable difference in the lives of those around her. Just as Papa had done for thirty years.

But she didn’t want to limit herself to Maidstone. Maidstone was fine. They didn’t need her.

Was there truly that much honor in polishing the windows at All Saints Church or helping a happy, well-adjusted parishioner become even happier? Here, she was forgettable. Outside of Kent, she could make a difference.

The people who needed the most help were the people she couldn’t reach out and touch. The people no one reached out to. The ones whose livelihoods had been ripped away by drought or disease or dangerous working conditions. The people for whom the slightest act of kindness might be the balm that let them live another day.

Only if she was free to do so.

Which meant she could never marry. Not when there were so many worthier subjects to command her attention. Who might give her theirs. And definitely not any gentleman Captain Steele had chosen as a potential suitor.

As for Bartholomew… Handsome, roguish, unforgettable Bartholomew. He was the worst of all possible choices. Thank God their betrothal was only make-believe.

Presuming they could convince Captain Steele to sign the contract.

Daphne dipped her quill into the inkwell and wrote Priorities across a sheet of parchment. She bent her head over the sheet of parchment and began organizing her projects by level of urgency.

In the event that her time became severely limited due to some mishap or another, she could devote what little she had to whichever cause was the most important at that moment.

She rose from her escritoire only when her maid entered the chamber with buckets of steaming water and all but forced Daphne to ready herself to face the day.

Esther refused to even consider allowing her mistress to don yet another gray and black ensemble, and fairly crowed with glee when she managed to talk Daphne into pale blue instead. A few ringlets later, Daphne was pronounced fit for joining the others at breakfast.

If they were still at the table. A glance at the clock indicated the hour was later than she realized. An unsurprising circumstance that transpired more often than not these days. Sometimes, she worked straight through lunch and only recognized the grumble of her stomach when she was too lightheaded to hold her pen properly.

Rather like now.

She slipped from her chamber and headed toward the dining room. The low rumble of conversation indicated the men had not yet quit the table. Her footsteps slowed.

What if Cousin Steele had already promised her to someone other than Bartholomew? Her hunger pangs vanished. She would not be able to eat until she was confident she would not wake up to find herself the new Mrs. Whitfield or Mrs. Fairfax in a few weeks’ time.

She paused to listen just out of sight from the open doorway.

“—wonder when the weather will be warm enough to take a dip in the river. I do miss swimming.”

Daphne’s shoulders relaxed slightly. That voice belonged to Mr. Whitfield, and the subject was certainly safe enough.

“I wager it won’t be properly warm until May or June, but why wait? They say the Russians go straight from the sauna to the snow. What’s a cold river compared to snow?”

And that was Mr. Fairfax. Always primed to race pell-mell into one reckless scrape or another. Daphne narrowed her eyes. When he was younger, Bartholomew used to do the same. It was no surprise at all when he ran off to join the army. She half expected him to disappear again the next time adventure knocked.

“What’s a cold river?” came Mr. Whitfield’s incredulous voice. “It’s ague, is what it is, and I’ve a match next week. Got to be in top form if I’m to best Quinton. Ever spar with that one, Blackpool?”

“My brother did,” came Bartholomew’s low, smooth voice.

“Your brother! Win or lose?”

“You have to ask?”

Mr. Whitfield’s warm chuckle drifted out into the corridor. “I should say not. One glance tells me you’re in better form than anyone at Jackson’s, so I can quite imagine the damage a brother of yours might have done.”

As could Daphne. Bartholomew and Edmund had been more than twins. Their own parents had difficulty telling their lads apart. Perhaps it was for that very reason that the brothers became so competitive, each of them fighting to be stronger, faster, distinguishable from the other. She sighed. That struggle was finally over.

Daphne lay the back of her head against the wallpaper and closed her eyes. Poor Tolly. He’d never intended to win like this.

A strong hand clamped down on her shoulder.

Her eyes flew open. She immediately closed them again. And pretended she was invisible. Perhaps if she didn’t acknowledge her guardian had just caught her eavesdropping on guests in her own dining room, she could melt through the wainscoting and disappear.

“Not in the mood for kippers, are we?” Captain Steele didn’t bother to hide the amusement in his voice. “Table too crowded for you, love?”

NINE

Breakfast had been excruciating. Bartholomew struggled to keep his mask in place.

He’d managed to exchange a few light words about his brother without his face or voice betraying just how completely his world had shattered when he’d lost his twin, but the memories were flooding back and it was becoming hard to breathe.

He pushed to his feet, careful not to upset his dining chair with his false leg. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.”

Before he could do more than stand, voices sounded in the corridor. Daphne all but stumbled into the dining room, propelled forward by none other than her guardian, Captain Steele.

She looked tired and furious. And absolutely beautiful. Red-gold ringlets framed her ivory face. Her cheeks were a light pink. Her slender frame was all the more becoming draped in light blue linen instead of charcoal gray.

Then again, now that he’d had his hands at her waist and felt her body slide against his, it wouldn’t matter if she wrapped herself in brown paper. Her curves had been burned into his mind. He couldn’t look at her without wanting to draw her back into his embrace.

Whitfield and Fairfax nearly crashed into each other as they scrambled to their feet. “Miss Vaughan! Good morning!”

Bartholomew’s jaw set. They looked foolish. He would not lower himself to their level…no matter how pleased he might be to see Daphne.

“You look lovely,” Whitfield stammered, gazing at her as if he’d just noticed her beauty. “Powder blue is quite a departure from…”

Daphne’s eyes darkened, rather than brightened. Bartholomew understood perfectly. Being out of mourning didn’t mean one had stopped mourning. But it did mean one had ceased being treated that way.

She smiled tightly and followed the footman to the empty chair at Bartholomew’s side. “Please. Sit. Enjoy your breakfast.”

“Happily.” Fairfax’s eyes twinkled as he arched a brow at Bartholomew. “I’m afraid Blackpool was just leaving, though. Isn’t that what you said, Major?”

Bartholomew slanted him a flat look and sat back down. All of them had finished breakfast an hour ago. Their plates had been long cleared, and only their tea or coffee cups remained.

Fairfax doubtlessly wished Bartholomew out of the picture. Today was the day the marriage contract was to be signed. Only one of them would win Daphne’s hand.

It had better be Bartholomew.

Captain Steele slid into a chair at the head of the table. Within seconds, the footman reappeared with a fresh tray from which he began to serve the new arrivals.

Steele ate with gusto. Daphne did not.

After watching her flick her toast about her plate a few times, Bartholomew murmured under his breath, “Your heart is your own, no matter what color you’re wearing.”

She shot him a quick, grateful glance and nodded firmly. “You’re right.”

He smiled. “That doesn’t mean you ought—”

“What’s that?” Fairfax lifted his brows, his eyes mischievous. “I can’t quite hear you all the way across this not-particularly-wide table. ’Tis almost as if you’re whispering on purpose, just to keep—”

The footman interrupted this sally with another tray. Delivered straight to Mr. Fairfax. Instead of more foodstuffs, however, the otherwise empty tray bore only a folded missive.

Frowning, Fairfax broke the seal and scanned the letter’s contents. His face was pale when he faced the others. “I’m afraid I’ve been called away. I must leave at once.”

Frowning, Bartholomew felt no pleasure at this sudden departure. Fairfax’s sister was expecting Bartholomew’s niece or nephew, but the baby wasn’t due for another month and a half. His fingers turned to ice at the thought of Sarah or the baby in danger. “Is it…?”

“No,” Fairfax said quickly. He rose shakily. “Not yet. But I must be off. My apologies, all. Until next time.”

He rushed from the dining room before anyone could so much as bid him farewell.

The remaining four looked perhaps less baffled than the situation warranted. Daphne was still toying with a crust of toast as if she hadn’t registered Fairfax’s departure at all. Captain Steele was singlehandedly demolishing every other edible item on the table. And Whitfield kept vacillating between long, mooning gazes in Daphne’s direction and more surreptitious glances toward Captain Steele.

Bartholomew’s eyes narrowed. From the looks of it, Whitfield might offer for Daphne right here at the breakfast table, without any eye to propriety or common sense. Or was that the wiser move? Now that both Lambley and Fairfax were out of the way, ’twas simply a question of which would-be suitor stated his case first.

Whitfield opened his mouth.

Bartholomew leapt to his feet. “Steele, may I speak with you privately?”

The pirate arched a thick black eyebrow as he chewed a mouthful of food. “At this precise moment?”

“If you’d be so kind.” Bartholomew’s fingers brushed against Daphne’s shoulder to indicate it was time. He had promised to help, and he intended to keep his word. Whitfield was a good lad, but he wasn’t the right man for Daphne. She deserved a better partner. A love match.

Captain Steele set down his fork. “Very well, then. Come to my office. Shall we meet alone, or should Miss Vaughan join us?”

The fire in Daphne’s eyes at the reference to “his office” indicated there was no chance she’d stay away. She rose to her feet. “I’ll join you in Father’s study.”

The pirate led the way, his swagger and amused grin indicating he enjoyed having others dangle upon his strings.

When they reached the vicar’s study, Captain Steele settled himself behind the desk and stroked the salt-and-pepper stubble along his scarred jaw. “Now, then. How may I be of service?”

“Enough with the games.” Bartholomew wished he had a sword. Captain Steele was a hard man. He would respect decisiveness, not sycophancy. Bartholomew drew himself to his full height and glared down at the pirate. “You want Daphne off your hands. I wish to oblige. Let’s settle this and move on.”

Steele’s eyes danced merrily. “Well, that’s certainly romantic. Minus the compliments and flowers and avowals of love, of course, but since my own entanglements tend more toward wrapping an arm around the closest tavern wench, I must and do commend your efforts. I also award you special consideration for making the trek all the way from London to Kent to press your case.”

“I don’t want special consideration,” Bartholomew bit out. “I want—”

“You want Miss Vaughan. Yes. So you’ve mentioned. With all the eloquence of a stampeding bull.” Captain Steele rolled his eyes toward Daphne. “I suppose you find yourself so overcome with emotion by this heartfelt proposal that you’ll quite literally die if I don’t accept his suit in favor of a better candidate?”

“One of us will.” Daphne crossed her arms and scowled at him. “I shouldn’t sleep with my door unlocked if I were you.”

“Now, now. Is that any way for a vicar’s daughter to speak to her elder? I’m shocked. Shocked. And not at all certain the two of you are remotely suited for matrimony.”

Bartholomew smiled tightly. “Your experience in the matter being…”

“True. You make a fine point, Major. So here are mine.” Steele ticked them off on his fingers. “We will sign not one, but two copies of the marriage contract. Miss Vaughan, you get neither. I don’t trust vicars or their daughters. The first copy is mine, and the second copy goes to the major so that he does not forget his duties. Which are: having the first banns read tomorrow morning, concluding the marriage ceremony by the end of February—”

“But it is February,” Daphne interrupted. “Today is the third, which gives us less than four weeks to—”

“—accomplish what only requires a fortnight to do,” Captain Steele concluded. He held up his last finger without missing a beat. “Finally, you’re to take the lass from my sight as soon as possible. She’s mouthy and opinionated. Two of the worst possible traits a female can have.”

Bartholomew allowed the outrage to show on his countenance, but nudged Daphne’s toe with his own. They’d done it!

All they had to do was stall the wedding until Daphne came into her portion and then break the false betrothal. Bartholomew couldn’t cry off without damaging her reputation, so she would have to be the one to do the jilting. His reputation was of no consequence. He would return to his life of solitude just as soon as the ink dried, and never think of it again.

Oh, very well. He would think of it. Think of her. Every night, most likely. He swallowed hard. Losing a faux fiancée wouldn’t be much better than losing a real one. Especially when it meant losing Daphne. They’d only just found each other again.

His throat tightened. He’d wonder where she was and what she was doing. If she’d found a husband and gotten married. If she ever thought of him, and what it might have been like if their betrothal had been in truth. If they would have indulged in a torrid affair.

Or if she had found someone else. Someone she could love.

Captain Steele pulled two identical contracts from a drawer in the desk. He filled in Bartholomew’s information in the blank area reserved for the suitor’s name, then pushed both documents across the desk along with two plumes and an inkwell. “Sign.”

Bartholomew scanned the tiny print for hidden surprises, then signed his name at the bottom. For better or worse, the deed was done. He switched copies with Daphne and repeated the process. He then walked both sheets over to the fire to encourage the ink to dry as quickly as possible.

When the script no longer shimmered, he handed one of the sheets of parchment back to the pirate. He rolled the other into a narrow tube and slid it into his waistcoat. “Are we through?”

“You and I, perhaps.” Captain Steele tossed his copy of the contract into the wall safe behind the desk. “Your life with Miss Vaughan, however, is just beginning.”

“And you are no longer part of it.” With a gentle touch of his fingers to the small of Daphne’s back, Bartholomew angled her out the door. Thank God that was over. He lowered his mouth to her ear. “This could have been solved so much easier with dueling pistols.”

“Or just pistols,” she muttered back. “No sense waiting until dawn. I’ve no idea how that man is still alive. Everyone he meets becomes his enemy.”

They reached the corridor just as the footman hurried straight toward them.

“Visitors, miss.” He glanced about nervously. “Shall I send them away?”

Daphne rubbed her temples. “Pray, do. I’m through with company for the day.”

“I’m certainly not.” Captain Steele slipped from the vicar’s study and widened his arms in welcome. “Who’s come to see me?”

“No one. They’ve come for Major Blackpool.” Flushing, the footman wrung his hands at Bartholomew. “Sir, your parents are here.”

TEN

Parents. Daphne’s breath whooshed out of her at the word.

It was impossible not to feel sorry for herself. Not to be jealous. How could she? Bartholomew’s parents were still alive. They showed up even when he wasn’t expecting them. They loved him. They certainly weren’t forcing him to marry against his will, just because they didn’t wish to deal with him.

No. She swallowed hard. That wasn’t fair. Just because Bartholomew’s parents were still alive didn’t mean all three of them hadn’t suffered a loss just as powerful as hers.

And here she was, forcing Bartholomew into a faux betrothal.

How would they possibly keep his parents from finding out? She looped her arm through Bartholomew’s and dragged him forward. This was dreadful. They had to send his parents home immediately, before they ran into—

Captain Steele’s hand fell upon Daphne’s shoulder before she finished taking her next step. “What’s the hurry, love? Of course we’ll invite Mr. and Mrs. Blackpool in for a nice spot of tea. It’d be right churlish to turn them away in this sort of weather.”

Rooted in place, she slowly turned her head up toward Bartholomew, expecting to see writ upon his countenance the same panic jolting through her veins. That, or fury at Captain Steele’s obvious glee from meddling with their lives.

Instead, she saw abject sorrow flit across his face, followed by a wince of pain. Frowning, she held fast to the crook of his arm. He let out a slow breath.

“They’re going to be so disappointed in me.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his face pale. “I’ve no idea how they learned I was here, of all places, but to discover me a half mile from their door when I haven’t left London since returning from war…”

“You haven’t seen them?” she whispered in disbelief.

“I saw my father. Once.” He nodded to the footman. “Show them into the parlor, please.”

The footman glanced at Daphne, then behind her at Captain Steele.

Her guardian lifted his hand. “By all means, the parlor. We’re not animals. I’ll fetch the port.”

She glared at him. “It’s ten o’clock in the morning!”

“I’ll fetch two bottles.” He winked and disappeared back into the study.

Daphne shook her head. Only a pirate. She kept her fingers curved around Bartholomew’s arm as they headed toward the parlor. Her head, however, was still spinning from his casual admission of little to no contact with his parents. What in the world could cause such a thing?

She frowned. During the first few months of recovery, he wouldn’t have been able to leave his bedchamber, much less take a carriage ride to Kent. Yet his father had visited his sole surviving child only once? She narrowed her eyes. Something was amiss. If anything, the Blackpools had always struck her as overly doting on their twin sons.

Surely they didn’t blame Bartholomew for Edmund’s death! That blame lay with Bonaparte’s army, not with the honorable soldiers dedicated to defending against it.

Then again, she, too, had felt abandoned when the twins left for Eton and then to war, leaving her adrift in the countryside with an absent father and nothing to keep her company but her own loneliness. She had dreamt of them coming home. Of having friends. Of mattering to someone.

No doubt Bartholomew’s parents had been even more desperate for the safe return of their sons.

And now this.

She bit her lip. With such an obvious rift in their family, the worst thing to do was to spring a surprise betrothal on them, but there was no way to avoid it now that they were here. Her stomach churned. Bartholomew’s parents were bound to think the reason they knew nothing of their relationship was because their estranged son hadn’t deigned to inform them.

The only thing she could do was smooth their ruffled feathers as quickly as possible. But was that even a help, when they’d be crying off the engagement in a few weeks’ time? Her stomach soured. No matter what, hopes would be dashed. What was the best plan?

She didn’t want to make too good of an impression. She might never speak to his parents after today. Bartholomew, on the other hand, was going to have to go through a heart-rending dust-up with them all over again when the wedding fell through.

Presuming they were still speaking to him.

Daphne would instruct him to blame everything on her, of course. She would never forgive herself if his relationship with his parents worsened because of her involvement.

Familial relationships were to be cherished. One never knew how much time one had left.

She settled onto a wingback chair to await the inevitable disaster.

Bartholomew took the wingback chair opposite. His posture was stiff, his eyes glassy.

She frowned. They didn’t look like a besotted couple. They looked like strangers. Awaiting sentencing.

Hollowness seeped inside her chest. Of course that’s how they looked. Why should she have expected anything else?

From childhood, she had been taught that her needs were of secondary importance. That she herself was of little importance, forgotten by her flock-minded father and their entire little town.

A part of her had always hoped that someday, someone would look at her selfless life, her years of devoting herself to the welfare of others, and think, Miss Vaughan has made a difference. Or Miss Vaughan matters.

A deeper part of her once hoped that someday, someone would actually want her in his life. Not because he was in search of a wife or in want of companionship. But because he wanted Daphne. Someone who wanted to chase her dreams with her instead of force her to abandon them completely. Someone who loved her. Who couldn’t imagine life without her.

Today… was not that day. Even her faux fiancé could not look less interested.

She curled her fingers into fists. Next month, the ruse would be over. Bartholomew would be gone. But here today, beneath her guardian’s watchful eye, they needed to look like a couple that intended to marry. Now that they’d signed the contracts, they could not risk him making good on his threats of Bedlam and Newgate. She glanced around the room.

Opposite them was a chaise longue, closer to the fire. Perfect. They could sit next to each other, with nary an armrest between them. She could force her cracked lips into a smile and at least pretend her handsome, rakish neighbor really had returned to Maidstone to beg for her hand.

She dashed to the chaise longue and motioned for Bartholomew to join her.

He tilted his head quizzically, his mind obviously elsewhere.

Urgently, she thumped her hand on the cushion. “Come here.”

“What am I, your lapdog?” he groused. But he smiled as he joined her on the chaise longue, his attention focused on her once more. “You’re fortunate this is a counterfeit betrothal.”

“Shh.” She rapped the back of her knuckles against the side of his thigh. “Or what? You’d toss me over your shoulder like a heathen and lock me in some gothic attic on the moors?”

“If I could do so without my fake leg giving out on me, absolutely.” His blue eyes twinkled as he gave her a chastising look. “If we did make it to the altar, you’d be the one who should carry me over the threshold.”

“Me!” she exclaimed, clutching a hand to her bosom in mock affront. “Just what might you be implying about my ladylike figure, sir?”

He blinked back at her innocently. “Was it too subtle? As clever as you are, I assumed wordplay wouldn’t be too far above you. I can think of other things I’d prefer to have above you—or wherever you like it. May I offer my…” He coughed into his gloved fist and sprang to his feet.

Flushing, Daphne did the same. Bartholomew might not have lain eyes on his mother in three years, but Daphne had run into her now and then at All Saints Church while he’d been gone. Until they’d got the news about their children, of course. There’d been no sign of any Blackpool since. Without Edmund’s body, there hadn’t even been a funeral to attend.

Her breath caught as they walked into the room. In the interim seven months, ’twas safe to say that Bartholomew’s parents had… deteriorated. She could scarcely believe her eyes.

Mr. Blackpool—once as wide and tall and arrogant as his sons—hovered in the doorway like a leaf caught in the wind, neither rising up nor falling down. Despite his height, he seemed fragile. Ephemeral. His expression was vacant, as if his body were an empty shell and his mind no longer present.

Mrs. Blackpool, on the other hand… everything about her was very present. She’d gained at least two stone in the past few months, and her entire body quivered like a volcano about to burst. Her red-rimmed eyes watered. Her handkerchief trembled from shaking fingers. The gasping sounds escaping her throat were somewhere between weeping and outright hysteria.

Daphne’s throat convulsed. She had felt exactly like this when her father first died. Some days, she forgot to eat. On others, her eyes wouldn’t stop watering. Her father might have always been busy tending his flock, but he was the only person who loved her. And now he was gone.

She curtseyed awkwardly, unsure of how to proceed. Bartholomew took a hesitant step forward, his face ashen.

With a sob, Mrs. Blackpool threw herself directly into her son’s arms.

Bartholomew’s false leg crumpled, sending both mother and son barreling right over Daphne. All three landed on the floor in a tangled heap of skirts and limbs, with Daphne underneath. The wind rushed out of her lungs.

As the footman rushed over to pull Mrs. Blackpool from the top of the pile, Bartholomew’s mouth brushed the shell of Daphne’s ear as he whispered, “You needn’t worry about my sense of balance. I know better than to sign my name to any dance cards.”

She was prevented from shaking him for flippantly undermining his self-worth at a time like this, due to her arms being trapped beneath her body.

During all of this, the elder Mr. Blackpool hadn’t moved a muscle. He remained in the doorway, neither in nor out, eyes focused on nothing.

Captain Steele edged around him, entering the room just as the footman was steadying Mrs. Blackpool on her feet. With neither merriment nor any particular hint of surprise in his eyes, the pirate crossed the parlor in two long strides and held a hand out to Bartholomew.

Bartholomew ignored it.

He rolled off of Daphne and into a sitting position. He quickly swung both knees up to his chest, falling backward as he did so as if gathering momentum. Then he rocketed forward, his false leg outstretched before him, and sprang upright on the force and strength of his good leg alone.

Daphne gaped at him in disbelief. She couldn’t rise from the floor that fast using both arms and both legs, much less do so gracefully. She was absolutely going to let the footman help her to her feet.

Bartholomew held his hand out first. He was neither winded nor perspiring. He looked magnificent.

If she wouldn’t have seen him crumple like a marionette, if she hadn’t been trapped beneath him and his mother just a few seconds earlier, she might have believed he’d never fallen at all. She, however, was trying to catch her breath.

He mistook her awe for distrust in his ability to help and lowered his proffered hand. Lips tight, he glanced over his shoulder toward the others. “Footman? If you’d—”

“No.” She reached up, her arm and gaze steady. After a beat, he took her hand and pulled her smoothly to her feet. Too smoothly. She had to fake a small stumble in order to press against his chest long enough to whisper, “Pure laziness is the only reason you wouldn’t carry me over a threshold.”

The corner of his lip quirked. “You didn’t see me fall?”

“I saw you get up.” She stepped back to shake out her skirts, then turned to face his parents. “Pardon my clumsiness. I get lightheaded when I fail to break my fast properly, and I—”

“She’s scarcely to blame,” Bartholomew interrupted. “My pride prevents me from carrying my walking stick as I ought, and the last thing I expected was…”

Daphne glanced around as he trailed off. Neither of his parents was listening. His father had retreated back into himself. And his mother was moaning to the room at large about how it was too much, just too much, to have one son dead and the other as helpless as a babe.

“Twenty-six years old,” she wailed, hurling herself into her husband’s cravat. “We’ll have to hire help to watch over him, like a nanny. He cannot even stand reliably. Whatever will I do?”

From the flat expression on Bartholomew’s face, the reunion was going about as well as he’d expected. He made no further attempt to hug his mother. She would likely either cosset him like a newborn baby, or throw herself back into his arms and tumble the entire party to the floor all over again.

“Well, then,” Captain Steele boomed from behind the desk. “Port?”

Why not? Daphne accepted a glass from the pirate, then handed it directly to Bartholomew.

He handed the port to the footman and pulled her over to the chaise longue. “Mother. Father. Sit.”

Mrs. Blackpool pulled her tear-streaked face away from Mr. Blackpool’s cravat and staggered into the wingback chair closest to Daphne and Bartholomew. Mr. Blackpool did nothing.

Bartholomew didn’t breathe. His fingers clenched and unclenched, his posture stiff, his cheekbones touched with pink.

This was killing him, Daphne realized. How could it not? His mother wasn’t thinking of him as a survivor. She thought of him as a baby, a burden. A disappointment. All her grief was due to her own pain. She hadn’t yet spared a thought for how her son must feel. What he might need. Daphne brushed the back of her fingers against Bartholomew’s fist.

After a long, tense moment in which the only sounds that could be heard were the halting sniffles of Mrs. Blackpool and the clink of Captain Steele’s glass of port against the desk, Mr. Blackpool nodded slowly. He crossed the room with the jerky gracelessness of an automaton and folded himself into the wingback chair nearest his wife.

“Why didn’t you visit?” Mrs. Blackpool burst out sobbingly, wringing her handkerchief and casting huge, beseeching eyes at her son. “Three and a half years since last I’ve seen you, and when you finally come home, it’s to visit… the vicarage?”

“Oh, that,” Captain Steele put in pleasantly. “’Twasn’t to visit the vicarage. He and Miss Vaughan are to wed later this month.”

Mrs. Blackpool sucked in a shocked breath, her pallid face a mixture of hurt and despair. “You couldn’t have mentioned this?”

Bartholomew gazed back at her stoically, his spine straight, his shoulders rigid, his tongue as silent as that of his father’s. The poor man. Daphne doubted he wished his first words after all this time to be lies. This was her fault.

She took a deep breath and faced his parents. Before discussing a fake wedding, they needed to address the more important issue. His mother. She directed her gaze at Mrs. Blackpool. The woman needed to acknowledge that she was not the only one who had suffered a loss. Families needed to support each other.

“Three and a half years since you’ve seen your son?” She edged closer to Bartholomew’s side and faced his mother squarely. “Why didn’t you visit him in London, when he was recuperating from having his leg blown off?”

“And leave Edmund?” Mrs. Blackpool gasped. “Never!”

“He’s not there,” her husband said dully, his eyes focused somewhere above his wife’s head. “’Tis an empty grave, so there’s no sense you sobbing upon it, all hours of every day.”

“He will be there,” Mrs. Blackpool countered staunchly, “just as soon as the army returns his body. We shall have a fine ceremony. You shall return home where you belong, Bartholomew. It would ease the emptiness in my heart to have both my sons back.”

“Even if one of our lads is in his grave?” her husband asked dryly. “You must know it cannot be the same. Edmund is dead.”

“Then Bartholomew’s presence alone will have to fill the void.” Mrs. Blackpool’s lip trembled as she turned to her son. “Stay by my side and keep me company whilst we await your brother’s remains. Will you not do that for your mother?”

Bartholomew’s voice was strained. “They’re not going to find a body. Even if they did, how would they know who it was or where to send him? He’s not coming home. If it makes you feel any better, I never found the rest of my leg. That doesn’t mean it’s not gone.”

“I know he’s gone,” Mrs. Blackpool snapped. “Why do you think I haunt his gravestone? I’m trying to spend all the time with him now that I failed to do back then.”

“And ignore the son that survived?” Daphne blurted indignantly. Dear heavens. Was the woman blind to Bartholomew’s pain?

“He’s the one who got Edmund to join.” Mr. Blackpool’s gaze sharpened and focused directly on his son. “He promised they would both be fine.”

Bartholomew nodded slowly, accepting the blame. “I only brought half of us home.” He lifted his false leg and let it thump to the floor. “Less than half.”

Daphne entwined her fingers with Bartholomew’s. He stiffened, but did not pull away. It might well have been the most support he’d received since returning home.

Mrs. Blackpool’s voice rose in pitch. “What did you do with Edmund’s things? His town house? His paintings?”

Only the slight tightening of Bartholomew’s hand in Daphne’s betrayed his emotion. His grief-stricken mother was more concerned about the son who’d died than the one who’d lived.

“I’ve done nothing,” he answered. “I haven’t visited Edmund’s town house.”

Mrs. Blackpool gasped in horror. “What if his possessions have been stolen?”

“They have not,” Bartholomew bit out crisply. “I continue to pay the rent on his town house and the salaries of his staff.”

Daphne slanted a surprised look at him. Not only was that a shocking waste of money, it was inadvertently cruel to his mother. If there were personal effects in the town house that might bring some peace to the obviously hysterical Mrs. Blackpool, then those items were better off in Kent than in some living mausoleum. Surely he saw that.

Then again, Bartholomew was far from heartless. He must have some reason for refusing to dismantle his brother’s house.

She lowered her voice. “Why don’t you—”

“I can’t.” His gaze jerked away from her. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “My mother cannot stay away from his memory, and I can’t bear to face my grief or my failure. I’d rather let the town house sit empty than to organize and dispose of all the things my brother believed he’d come home to.”

She squeezed his hand and desperately wished there were something she could do to ease his pain. There were no words to convey her horror at his plight or the depths of her sympathy. How much worse would the past months have been if she’d felt responsible for her father’s passing? If the people she most cherished, the people whose love and acceptance she most craved, blamed her for his death?

“It’s not his fault,” she said suddenly. Her tone came out stronger than she’d intended, but she did nothing to temper it. She glared at his parents. “Edmund’s death is not Bartholomew’s fault.”

“Of course it isn’t,” cried Mrs. Blackpool, casting a self-righteous glance toward her husband. “I told Mr. Blackpool the lads were too weak to face something like war, and when Bartholomew came home a cripple, I sent my husband straight to London to bring him right back to Kent, where he could stay safe in my home for the rest of his life.”

Bartholomew’s grip on Daphne’s fingers was tight enough to bruise. She didn’t blame him one bit. He didn’t need his mother to keep him safe. He needed her to love him.

“Your son is scarcely weak.”

“He collapsed when I hugged him!” Mrs. Blackpool dissolved into tears. “Come home, Bartholomew. The house is so lonely. Stay with me. With us. We’ll employ so many servants, you’ll never have to lift a finger again. You won’t even have to get out of bed.”

Good Lord. Daphne slid a startled glance in Bartholomew’s direction. His smile was brittle and failed to reach his eyes. His mother didn’t want him home because she missed him. She wanted him home because she believed him no longer capable of being his own man. And because she thought his presence would erase her own grief.

Daphne’s shoulders stiffened. No wonder the man hadn’t stopped by for a quick visit. His mother would never have let him leave.

Captain Steele drained his port. “May I move in? I quite adore fawning attention and the thought of having untold chambermaids at my disposal.”

Bartholomew sent him a dark look and returned his focus to his parents. “How did you know I was here?”

His father blinked as if awakening from slumber. “’Twas the note.”

Bartholomew’s gaze sharpened. “The what?”

“A message arrived for you by special courier. Carlisle. Once I saw the seal, I rushed outside to try and catch the earl’s man, but the carriage was already gone.” Mr. Blackpool shook his head. “That’s when young Fairfax rumbled by. He knew nothing about Carlisle, but had seen you at the vicarage. So I went to fetch your mother.”

Mrs. Blackpool smiled tremulously. “And here we are.”

Silence reigned.

Bartholomew loosened his hold on Daphne’s fingers and leaned forward. “May I see the note?”

Mr. Blackpool fished it out of his coat pocket and handed it to his son.

Bartholomew read it in silence.

Mrs. Blackpool aimed her trembling smile toward Daphne. “I always did like you, dear. I’m so thankful you were the one to win Bartholomew’s heart, and not some horrid Londoner with a penchant for city life. Now that he’s crippled, Bartholomew can’t endure such frivolity. He’s better off at home, and of course, there is plenty of room for you, too. There will be no reason to leave. I’m assuming this gentleman inherited your father’s house?”

“I’m no gentleman,” Captain Steele corrected, his grin roguish. “But yes. This shack is mine now. Want to buy it?”

“Whatever for?” Mrs. Blackpool glared down her nose at him. “Bartholomew and my daughter-by-law have a home with us. It will be like having two children all over again.” She turned back toward her son, her expression determined. “You must apply for special license, so we can have the ceremony in the garden.”

Mr. Blackpool raised an eyebrow. “Next to Edmund’s empty grave?”

“I couldn’t if I wished to,” Bartholomew cut in. “The Archbishop favors those with a coronet, and you’ll notice I have none.”

“Not always,” his mother insisted. “One or two times he’s made an exception, and if the Earl of Carlisle would put in a word for you…”

“Oliver has his own matters to deal with.” Bartholomew folded the missive and slid it into a waistcoat pocket. “He’s getting married on the morrow, and he’d like me to bear witness.”

“Darling, you can’t!” His mother sprang from her chair to clasp her son’s hands in hers. “You mustn’t even think such nonsense. No more London! Not in your condition. No more trips anywhere at all. I’ve already lost Edmund, and I’ll die if I lose you, too. I need you at home.”

Bartholomew extricated his fingers from his mother’s grasp. “I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you yet again, Mother. As I mentioned, the Earl of Carlisle wishes me to be a witness at his wedding, and I’m certain you realize that I cannot refuse. I owe him my life. If he hadn’t carried me from the battlefield at risk of his own life, you would have lost both of your children the same day.”

Daphne glanced at Bartholomew in admiration. Even the most cloying of mothers—and there could be no doubt that Mrs. Blackpool deeply loved her son and truly wished no harm to befall him—could scarcely deny such a simple request from the friend who had saved her child’s life.

Mrs. Blackpool grasped Daphne’s hands instead. “You’ll stay with me, then. Starting this very night. You wouldn’t leave me alone, would you, with my son all the way in London? Not when you’ll be living with us from now on anyway. Besides, Bartholomew will come back sooner if you’re with me. And we can plan the wedding. The garden would have been ideal, but All Saints Church is lovely and full of history. If only your father were still alive to perform the ceremony! I haven’t met the new vicar yet because I can’t bear to leave Edmund, even on Sundays, but with the two of us together, I might—”

“Daphne is also going to London to visit a friend.” Bartholomew cut her a speaking glance. “Didn’t you say someone was expecting you?”

Daphne’s eyes widened at the reminder. Panic clawed at her insides. To get even halfway through her list of priorities, she’d need to spend every waking hour between now and her birthday locked in her chamber with her escritoire and an extra pot of ink. London was completely out of the question. As was moving in with Mrs. Blackpool.

“Right you are,” her guardian put in, fixing Daphne with his crocodile smile. “Miss Vaughan said the Duke of Lambley’s cousin had sent her an invitation. One oughtn’t to offend the cousin of a duke. Of course she’ll be going to London.” He stood up from the desk. “I’ll see to it personally. I’ve decided to cancel my upcoming venture in order to ensure no unfortunate delays befall our darling lovebirds.”

Daphne’s dream of making huge strides on her charity projects vanished. If Captain Steele intended to send her to London, there would be no stopping him. Now that he’d canceled his pirating venture, it would become even harder to stop her faux betrothal from becoming alarmingly real. She would have to go and put his mind at ease.

She forced a smile at the Blackpools. “I’m very sorry. Miss Ross is a very good friend of mine. She’s been planning this visit for ages.”

Mrs. Blackpool clasped her hands even tighter, her voice trembling. “Oh, I do wish you wouldn’t go. I would love to have a reminder of my son. But go, if you must. Take care of my boy. Promise me you’ll keep him safe until he returns home to Kent. And that when you do, you’ll stay with us forever.”

ELEVEN

Bartholomew allowed his valet to clothe him in the finest items in his wardrobe. Fitz adorned his neck with a starched white cravat of monumental proportions. Its careful white folds soared so high that Bartholomew doubted he’d even be able to see the ceremony.

All of which was fine with Bartholomew, for he didn’t want to watch other people staring at him. Pitying him. Especially not people who loved him. Watching his mother fall apart had been worse than watching his leg explode. He could not bear to see the same dismay and pity on the faces of his closest friends. He dreaded the ceremony.

Yet he could not ignore the Earl of Carlisle’s summons. Oliver had carried Bartholomew’s mangled body to safety. The least he could do in return was attend the man’s wedding.

Heart thudding, Bartholomew allowed Fitz to spritz him with perfume and adjust the painstakingly mussed curls on his head one last time before heading toward the stairs.

He thought again of his mother. Of her disappointment. His throat tightened. He missed his family and had no wish to deprive them of their living son, but he couldn’t be himself and Edmund, too. Bartholomew had enough guilt of his own without also shouldering his parents’.

Or his friends. His breath grew shallow. London suddenly seemed terrifying. What if his friends blamed him for the death of his brother? What if they, too, expected him to be more, not less? To somehow take the place of both twins?

He rubbed his face. After he put down the whisky and picked up his spirits, he had been too busy strengthening what was left of his body to correspond with his friends. He should have paid more attention. The world had gone on without him.

Oliver. Married.

Bartholomew had seen the infamous compromise alluded to in the scandal sheets, but he hadn’t expected to be invited to the wedding. Much less to have duplicate invitations show up at every address he’d ever frequented. He no longer wondered why his parents had received the note, but rather why he’d been invited in the first place.

The first—and last—time Oliver had dropped by Bartholomew’s sickbed, Bartholomew had thanked the earl bitterly for saving his life and then ordered him to quit the premises and never return. Bartholomew hadn’t wanted anyone’s eyes on him or his infirmity. And yet, here he was. Making his first public appearance.

Well, semi-public. Weddings were traditionally small, but Oliver was taking it a step further for all their sakes. Modest church, no bystanders, invitation only. He was aware that Bartholomew had no wish to be seen by the general population. The risk of curious eyes was even more critical for Sarah Fairfax.

Who would have been his sister-in-law. If Bartholomew hadn’t failed to bring Edmund back alive.

Bartholomew’s throat convulsed as he shrugged into his greatcoat. Was he really going to present himself to her after being unable to return her intended to her arms? Sarah was not only facing a future without Edmund, but a lifetime of being shunned by her ex-peers, as soon as they discovered she’d birthed a bastard child.

It was Bartholomew’s fault. And there was no way to stop it. The only way to avoid that fate would be to marry as soon as possible. But who would wed a pregnant bride?

He squeezed the back of his neck. What would Edmund want him to do? Surely not marry his bride. To rescue Sarah from ruin would be to consign her to an even greater hell: a lifetime wed to the crippled failure who’d let her true love die.

If Bartholomew’s mother had any inkling of her impending grandchild, she would approve the match in a heartbeat. To hell with anyone’s wishes—Daphne’s, Bartholomew’s, or Sarah herself. One hint that Sarah was increasing, and Bartholomew’s mother would happily hide her and the child away in Kent for the rest of their natural lives.

Would that be a better or worse fate for Sarah and the baby?

He turned toward the door.

Crabtree was there waiting.

Bartholomew straightened his shoulders. “Landau?”

“Ready for you, sir. With a warming brick inside.”

Bartholomew nodded and reached for the door.

“Wait!” Fitz careened around the corner bearing an armful of sundry accessories. “You cannot go to a wedding in those ancient gloves, sir. What can you be thinking?”

He snatched Bartholomew’s trusty linen gloves from his fingers and replaced them with a more starched, less comfortable version of the same.

Bartholomew smiled dryly. “Thank you, Fitz. You have saved me from certain embarrassment. Do I now meet your high standards?”

Fitz eyed him critically, the edges of his thin lips turning down with displeasure. “Something is missing. Something important.” His eyes lit up as he clasped his hands together in delight. “Of course. A walking stick!”

Ah, yes. Bartholomew’s wry humor faded. No matter how one dresses a cripple, he remains a cripple. No amount of starch in his gloves would change that. “I don’t think—”

“But you must! Oh, it’s not because of…” Fitz flicked pale fingers in the direction of his master’s vexing prosthesis and fixed him with beseeching eyes. “It’s a vital accessory, sir. You must take it. A natty walking stick is the crown jewel to a princely appearance.”

He dashed from the room and returned in a trice, this time bearing a freshly buffed walking stick. Beaming, Fitz presented it with both hands. ’Twas the walking stick with the claw handle and the hidden sword.

Bartholomew’s stomach twisted. He used to love that walking stick.

Now? He hated it. Hated that he needed it, rather than carried it for show. Hated that everyone knew he needed it. That without it, he risked going down like a rock, just like he’d done in front of his parents and Daphne. And Captain Steele. And a footman.

His muscles tensed as he snatched the walking stick from his valet. Steady. He was not going to fall. He would not humiliate himself. No one was going to laugh at him.

He’d survived war. Surely he could survive a marriage ceremony.

Particularly since it wasn’t his.

He pushed out the front door and clapped a hand over his hat when an icy burst of wind threatened to whisk it away.

The tiger leapt from the coach and rushed forward. The arm he held out was tentative, as if he wasn’t certain whether the major was more likely to require his assistance or crack him on the head with his walking stick for trying.

Bartholomew refrained from both courses of action. He’d had enough of violence. But he would go to the devil before his damnable pride permitted him to clutch a schoolboy’s arm like a feeble old woman.

He kept his head back, rather than gaze out the window at the London streets as they rolled along. Not because he didn’t care, but because he missed it terribly. London wasn’t his world anymore. His reign had ended.

For the hundredth time, he found himself thinking about Daphne. He supposed her guardian had packed her off to London by now. Was she enjoying her stay with the duke’s cousin?

A smile flitted on his lips. She must be having a fine time. How could anyone fail to be impressed by London’s breadth and opportunities? Especially Daphne. Whatever charity work she could accomplish from Kent, she could do here sevenfold. Perhaps she would fall in love with the city and wish to stay. His heart warmed.

The landau pulled up at the church a half an hour early. As much as Bartholomew had dreaded these few hours, arriving early was the lesser evil to arriving late and making a further spectacle of himself.

If he was lucky, perhaps he could find an unobtrusive seat in the back before any other guests arrived and enquired about his prosthesis or its quaint little clacking sound.

As luck would have it, he was not the first inside the church. He cringed. No matter how softly he tried to walk, he could not hide the telltale clicking. He rolled his shoulders back and pretended not to care.

Oliver, the groom, was pacing beneath a stained-glass window. Another friend, Xavier Grey, was the sole occupant of the furthest pew. No sign of the bride or the clergyman.

Bartholomew made his way to Oliver first.

Delight lit the earl’s warm brown eyes. “You came!”

“Of course I came,” Bartholomew grumbled. “That’ll teach you to invite me. Congratulations on your new countess.”

Oliver beamed at him. “I can’t wait for you to meet Grace. You’ll love her.”

“I’m sure I will.” Bartholomew lifted his chin toward the rear of the church where Xavier sat. “Is he…”

“Xavier again?” Oliver’s grin faltered. “He’s mobile. And verbal. But I don’t know if we’ll ever truly get him back. Some days are better than others.”

Bartholomew nodded his understanding. The war had changed Xavier. Had marked them all. He clapped Oliver on the shoulder. “I’ll leave you to your pacing.”

Oliver flashed an embarrassed smile. “Thank you. This section of the floor was far too clean. I was… giving it some character.”

Bartholomew’s lips quirked. Oliver looked positively terrified. The poor sod. Marriage must be terrifying. Bartholomew was fortunate his betrothal was a sham. And a secret. His friends would never let him live down the infamy.

He made his way to the back of the church and slid into the pew next to Xavier.

Captain Xavier Grey had returned from war whole… in body only. The rest of him had been trapped deep inside his mind, somewhere even his best friends couldn’t rescue him. Slowly, he’d become more aware of the world around him. Bartholomew hoped he’d stay.

He didn’t share this thought with Xavier, of course. It wasn’t done. The same way Oliver hadn’t asked after Bartholomew’s missing leg, or how the grieving process was coming along. The same way Bartholomew had refrained from enquiring what the devil Oliver had been thinking to kiss a young lady in a library that was not his own.

Oliver was usually the hero, not the villain. For him to succumb to passion in such a way meant the lady was very important indeed. And for him to be so charmingly nervous at his own wedding meant he had fallen in love at last.

Good for Oliver. He deserved to find happiness.

Bartholomew ignored a pang of envy. He was pleased to see Xavier alert and present. He, too, deserved happiness. Xavier might not be ready for courting, but Bartholomew could at least give him friendship.

He used his walking stick to gesture toward Xavier’s midsection. “Hideous waistcoat.”

Xavier nodded. “What happened to your neck? Get tangled in a bed sheet?”

“Mm. Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Going to show off your distinctive fashion sense at the Grenville musicale tomorrow?”

“I wasn’t asked.” Bartholomew paused. “Or perhaps I burned the invitation.”

“I’ll send you mine. I get invited to everything.” Xavier consulted his pocket watch. “I’m retiring to Chelmsford.”

“For a while?”

“Permanently.”

Bartholomew’s gut hollowed. Now that he was finally out of the house, he realized how badly he had missed his friends. And they were all moving on with their lives. “When?”

“Soon as I can. Oliver’s forcing me to attend an opera with him first. Wife’s orders.” Xavier rolled his eyes toward the pacing groom. “Not surprised he was the first to fall.”

“We’re too smart for that,” he agreed. Or too damaged. Bartholomew had lost part of his leg on the battlefield, but Xavier had lost part of his soul.

The door eased open and a round woman in a thick black coat slipped into the church.

“Sarah.” Xavier sprang up and stared. “She looks so…”

“Pregnant?” Bartholomew finished wryly. He, too, could scarcely believe the transformation. “That cloak might disguise her face, but it’s doing nothing to hide her belly.”

“Even the bed sheet around your neck couldn’t hide that belly.”

“Could strangle you, though.” Bartholomew watched from the back of the church as Sarah waddled over to hug Oliver. “Could probably cut you, given its current cloth-to-starch ratio.”

“And mop up spilled blood all in one go,” Xavier said approvingly. “Well done. That much fabric could even double as a sail, should you need to escape by sea.”

“Your waistcoat could double as fool’s treasure,” Bartholomew shot back. He tugged a quizzing glass from his pocket and peered at Xavier’s tailoring. “What are the shiny flecks? Glass?”

“Paste. The very finest. I’ll sell it to you for ten quid.”

“For that monstrosity?” Bartholomew choked. “Not even if the ugly bits were diamonds. I’m hemorrhaging self-respect just by standing next to you. Do you have a valet?”

“Don’t require one. I’m retiring to Chelmsford, remember?”

Before Bartholomew could respond, Sarah turned from Oliver and plodded down the aisle toward Xavier and Bartholomew.

His good humor vanished as she approached, leaving his gut filled with guilt and pain. He hadn’t seen his brother’s fiancée since returning from battle. By the time the surgeon had pronounced Bartholomew well enough to receive visitors, she had already confined herself in her parents’ house for fear of being seen.

That she was here today either meant she was confident her disguise would protect her long enough to attend a friend’s wedding… or that she no longer cared what the ton thought and had resigned herself to a life on the margins.

“Sarah…” He swallowed. He’d meant to say more than just her name, meant to tell her he would’ve happily traded his own life if it could have saved Edmund’s. But his voice had broken on the very first word, and now Bartholomew could say nothing at all.

“I wish I could say it was good to see you.” Her voice was low, her eyes tired and red. “But you look exactly like Edmund. You always did. And it’s…” She jerked her face toward the vaulted ceiling and blinked far too rapidly for several seconds before returning her gaze to Bartholomew. “It’s hard. Terribly hard. You’re the only one who knows how I feel.”

He nodded, but of course it wasn’t the same at all. He hadn’t simply lost his twin brother, the mirror image of his soul. He’d failed to save him, which was altogether worse. He’d ruined his parents’ lives, and Sarah’s, and the unborn babe’s.

He was the twin who should have died. But he didn’t. And here they were.

Sarah leaned around him to buss Xavier on the cheek, then sat down on the pew. She bunched up her cloak several different ways before finding the perfect width of cloth between the small of her back and the hard wood of the pew. Then she turned back to Bartholomew. “Well? Out with it.”

He blinked back at her in confusion.

Out with what? That he’d drown in guilt and sorrow the rest of his life because of his mistakes? That he could have killed Oliver for rescuing him, and then very nearly killed himself with whisky and laudanum? That it still took all his strength, every day, to find a reason to get out of bed, much less keep pushing himself to stretch and exercise a lopsided body that would never be perfect again?

Until he’d received Daphne’s entreaty, he’d had no such reason, other than his own stubbornness. Now, at least, he could say he’d done one good thing since returning from war. No one would know about it, but that was fine. He was no hero.

His gaze lowered to Sarah’s belly. He was going to be one hell of an uncle, though. He had to make up for everything the baby had lost.

His lips curved. “Have you picked a name?”

She stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “I don’t want to talk about me. I want to talk about you. When on earth did you get betrothed to little Daphne Vaughan?”

His throat went dry. The news was out? How? When? He tried to calm his racing heart. The first banns had been read in Maidstone, not London. For obvious reasons they hadn’t wanted to announce their faux engagement to the whole city, so Maidstone was the only choice. Which left what?

“How did you find out?” he demanded hoarsely.

Her brow creased. “The newspaper, of course. I’ve nothing better to do than read such things from front to back. Bit of luck, since your announcement was last.”

Announcement. He covered his face with his hands. Of course a pirate would never take a man at his word. That rat! Wasn’t a marriage contract enough? Steele must have put that notice in the paper for the same reason he canceled his trip. He trusted no one. Not even a war hero and a vicar’s daughter.

Not that he was wrong.

“Don’t tell anyone,” Bartholomew managed, then turned to face Xavier. “You either. Understand?”

Xavier blinked back at him slowly. “Hmm?”

“What on earth?” Sarah laughed and shook her head. “Why shouldn’t we speak of a union that’s already been printed in the newspaper?”

He took a deep breath. Sarah was part of his family and would never betray a secret. “Because it’s a lie. Daph and I are pretending to be betrothed so her guardian doesn’t force her to marry someone else. We need him to believe it for another month. Just until Daphne reaches her majority.”

Sarah’s smile faded. “If a signed contract isn’t proof of intent, a mere announcement won’t prove anything either. What are you two doing to convince him that you’re a couple in love?”

Doing? Absolutely nothing. Bartholomew’s mind raced. They weren’t in love. They were strangers.

“Bloody hell.” His fingers tightened their grip on his walking stick. “I have to find her.”

Find her and court her. Publicly, at least. Until her birthday. He hadn’t come this far just to let her down now.

“After the wedding,” Sarah whispered, and patted him on the leg. “Here comes the bride.”

Bartholomew grimaced. For his rescue to work, they needed to convince Captain Steele their matrimony was imminent. For that to happen, London would have to believe it. Whatever the gossips believed, the world believed. His stomach bottomed. Such a feat would take a lot more than just declaring it publicly.

For the next few weeks, he and Daphne would have to be the most besotted couple in England.

TWELVE

Daphne gazed at her sumptuous guest chamber in dismay. It looked like a museum. Knowing Katherine, its contents had likely come from one.

Every horizontal surface was glossy and dust-free… and covered with dozens of priceless antiquities from all over the world. Even the escritoire in the corner had more decorations than writing space. There would be no room for Daphne’s towers of documentation here.

Not even on the walls. The wallpaper was pristine and colorful, the wainscoting spotless and shiny. Blast. She couldn’t possibly affix clippings to such beautiful paper. She turned in a slow circle, frustrated.

Centered in the furthest wall of the chamber, there was even a little balcony overlooking the park.

But there was nowhere for Daphne’s things.

Her fingers clenched. She wouldn’t have come to London at all, if her guardian hadn’t forced her. But now that she was here, how was she supposed to work? She’d brought the smallest trunk of correspondence she could, and still there was nowhere to put it, other than a dark little corner of the dressing room.

Untenable.

“What splendid living quarters,” her lady’s maid breathed in awe. Until today, the finest rooms Esther had seen were in the vicarage. Katherine’s town house looked like a palace. Esther clapped her hands in delight. “I feel like I’m in a dream.”

Daphne wrinkled her upper lip. “Quite.”

“Thank you!” Katherine beamed at them both. “It took years to collect just the right pieces to create the effect I wanted. The other guest chamber is rather rococo, but I much prefer this look, don’t you? Early baroque was so much richer.”

“Indeed.” Daphne tried for a smile. Katherine had received her at a moment’s notice, had been inviting her for years, and the last thing she deserved was a churlish friend with her nose put out because the accommodations were grand. “Thank you for everything.”

“’Tis my pleasure.” Katherine glanced down the corridor. “Why, look. Here comes Aunt Havens. How do you do, Aunt?”

This time, Daphne’s smile was genuine. Katherine’s great-aunt was marvelous. Daphne stood a little straighter and motioned for Esther to do the same.

A sprightly older lady with bright blue eyes and powdered hair poked her head about the corner. “Guests! I adore guests! Who’s come to visit, Kate?”

Katherine led her great-aunt forward gently. “Come and meet my dear friend Daphne Vaughan. She lives in Maidstone. Do you remember Maidstone?”

“All Saints Church! I was there just the other day. Darling people.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “That’s where I met my husband, you know.”

Daphne did know. That was how they had met. Katherine’s great-aunt had been the wife of the previous vicar. Daphne’s father had taken over when he got too old, and had later presided over his funeral. Sadness filled her chest. They had both lost the most important man in their lives.

The year after her husband passed, Mrs. Havens had gone to London to chaperone Katherine during her come-out. Katherine lost her parents shortly after, and she and her great-aunt decided to stay on as each other’s companions. Katherine was too young to respectably live alone, and her great-aunt’s memory problems were becoming too frequent to ignore.

Not that Mrs. Havens noticed a lapse. Senility was both a blessing and a curse.

Daphne dipped a curtsey. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am. Next time you’re in Maidstone, you must stop for tea.”

“I would love that, child.” Mrs. Havens frowned and glanced over both of her shoulders. “Where did the dog go?”

Katherine’s eyes widened. “I don’t know, Aunt. Shall I look for him?”

“Of course not,” Mrs. Havens chided her. “You must chat with your friend. The dog is no doubt hiding under my bed again. I’ll coax him out.”

“As you please, Aunt.” Katherine shook her head as her great-aunt hurried away. She lowered her voice. “If she finds him, I’m hiding ’neath the closest bed. This house hasn’t had a dog in ten years.”

Daphne grinned back at her. “If a phantom canine appears, I’ll join you under the bed.”

Katherine laughed. “Thank you so much for letting her introduce herself again. She remembers the past better than I remember what I ate for breakfast, but the day-to-day is far more slippery.”

“I adore your aunt,” Daphne assured her. She would give anything to have an aunt half as sweet-natured. To have any family at all.

Mrs. Havens was one of the kindest women Daphne had ever met. ’Twas no hardship at all to repay that kindness however she could.

The Havens family had been legendary in Maidstone for their warmth and dedication to the community. Daphne’s father had often said his greatest challenge was living up to the previous vicar’s example, and that he hoped Daphne would do the same. She had spent her life trying to fulfill that promise. To earn his love. To be important to someone.

Katherine touched her fingers to Daphne’s arm. “Are you certain you shouldn’t like something to eat? If you’re too weary for the dining room, ’tis of no trouble to have a tray brought here to your chambers.”

“No, thank you.” Daphne had dined at a posting house during her journey, and wanted nothing more than to get back to her projects. Somehow. “May I use that escritoire?”

“Absolutely. Please, make yourself at home. Adjust the room to your needs. I have some correspondence to attend to, so I shan’t be bothering you. A benefactress’s work is never done.” Katherine rolled her eyes, as if she found correspondence a chore. “Don’t hesitate to ring for service if you need anything at all.”

Adjust the room to her needs? Daphne smiled. “I will.”

The moment Katherine disappeared down the hallway, Daphne shut the door behind her. Esther was already unpacking Daphne’s clothes from the first trunk and arranging them in the wardrobe.

Daphne’s eyes narrowed as she considered her options. “Esther, stop.”

Her lady’s maid froze in place. “I oughtn’t to hang your gowns?”

“The large items, yes.” Daphne glanced about the room. “The smaller things—stockings and underskirts—let’s use them to wrap up these artifacts.”

“I’m to put Miss Ross’s antiquities in… your underthings?” Esther repeated doubtfully.

“That’s the only way they won’t break when we store them all in my trunks.”

Esther’s eyes widened. “The other trunk isn’t empty. It’s got all your papers.”

“Precisely.” Daphne gave a brisk nod. “Documents out, antiquities in. I won’t be able to cover the walls, but at least I’ll have my most important items at hand.”

Who needed excess underskirts anyway? Other than taking occasional meals with Katherine, Daphne intended to spend every other waking moment making good use of that escritoire. She’d already given her most important contacts her new direction, and wouldn’t be surprised if post started arriving for her nom de plumes first thing in the morning.

Until then, there was plenty to do. She’d already lost nearly a full day to travel. She couldn’t afford to waste another moment.

People needed her. The weavers’ situation was deteriorating rapidly and the revolutionary Davy lamp was causing miners more harm than good. A Luddite disturbance had taken away the livelihoods of dozens of families. The collapse of a cave in South Tyneside had left desperate wives without their husbands.

She picked up her reading spectacles. Correspondence was not a chore. These were families. Fathers, mothers, children. People who had no one else. People who were grateful for the aid and sympathy of a little-known country miss named Daphne.

Er, perhaps better known as Mr. Caldwell. Or Mr. Baker. And Mr. Smith.

An hour later, when a knock sounded upon the door, she jerked her gaze up from the pile of letters on her lap with a frown. She’d assumed Katherine would be unlikely to intrude once she’d shown Daphne the guest chambers, but perhaps something had come up with Mrs. Havens and Katherine needed Daphne’s help. If so, Katherine was about to find out how literally Daphne had taken her suggestion to make herself at home.

With a sheepish glance at the twine-bound stacks of papers where the antiquities used to rest, Daphne swallowed her guilt and opened the door.

A footman stood in the corridor.

Daphne raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Yes?”

“Forgive me for bothering you, ma’am. There is a gentleman here to see you. Miss Ross is talking to him in the parlor.”

She blinked. A gentleman? Yes, she’d forwarded her temporary direction to several key parties, but they all knew her under one of her false names. The only person besides Katherine with any inkling Daphne might be in town was… Bartholomew?

She accepted the card from the footman. Major Bartholomew Blackpool was embossed in gold script. She pressed the card to her rapidly beating heart. He was here. How? Why?

Warmth infused her. She hadn’t expected to see him again. He’d done his part. Above and beyond. It hadn’t occurred to her to send him Katherine’s direction or to beg him to come visit. It hadn’t occurred to her that he might wish to.

She stared at the card again. Despite the interruption, she couldn’t hold back a rush of pleasure. For the first time, part of her wished she hadn’t committed herself to aiding so many families, so that this sort of unexpected visit wouldn’t have to feel like an interruption.

Was he just stopping by to see if she was settled? To make certain the accommodations were comfortable and her hostess far more considerate than her guardian? Daphne’s heart warmed at the idea of Bartholomew checking after her the same way Daphne checked after her destitute families. She did so because she cared.

Of course, it was foolish to assume—or even hope—that Bartholomew could come to truly care about her, after all this time. Yet she was possessed of a very foolish heart indeed, for she could not help but hope that might be the case. To hope he had missed her, as she had missed him.

Breathless, Daphne handed the calling card to her maid and followed the footman down the stairs.

Bartholomew was speaking to Katherine in the parlor, his body angled away from the open door. Daphne’s heart fluttered at the sight. He’d been sharply dressed when he’d called upon her in Maidstone, but in black breeches, a frothy white cravat, and a crisp black greatcoat, he was positively resplendent.

He was also holding her fur-lined winter spencer.

As soon as he caught sight of her, his smile widened and he held her coat open for her. “Put this on. We’re going to be late. My carriage is out front.”

She slipped her arms into the sleeves without thinking, then paused. “Wait. Where are we going?”

He shivered with mock horror. “To a musicale. My heartfelt apologies.”

“A what?” She blinked up at him in confusion. “Why?”

He handed her an invitation. It failed to clear up the mystery.

She stared at the crinkled parchment. “This says, ‘Grenville Musicale: Captain Xavier Grey.’ Your name isn’t even on it.”

“I burnt mine.” He glanced over her shoulder. “Where is your chaperone?”

“I don’t have a chaperone.” She bit her lip, conflicted. She’d dreamed of seeing him again. But her first duty was to the desperate women and children counting on Daphne’s support. They needed her. “I don’t need a duenna, I’m afraid. I cannot go anywhere.”

Katherine chose that moment to interrupt. “Of course you can. You shall borrow my chaperone. Aunt Havens adores musicales.”

Bartholomew inclined his head. “Wonderful. Thank you. Please ensure Mrs. Havens is properly bundled against the weather.” He turned back to Daphne and frowned. “Where is your bonnet? Have you no muff for your fingers?”

Her head spun at the idea of being swept away. By Bartholomew. His demeanor implied that musicales were the seventh level of hell, but Daphne had never been to one and wouldn’t know.

She’d always assumed society musicales were just another venue for the idle rich to applaud themselves for having nothing better to do than spend thousands of pounds to show off their children playing a Stradivarius. She’d never imagined being invited to one.

Much less escorted thither on the arm of a man who could melt her insides with little more than the press of his wide, firm lips against her gloved fingers. Of course she wished to join him.

If only she could.

Life was about choices. She’d already lost so much time. She would not compound that folly with choosing to attend a musicale over choosing to save lives. She was simply not a woman who could pursue pleasure for pleasure’s sake. No matter how tempting the offer.

Daphne swallowed her disappointment. “I apologize. I cannot go. I’ve too much work to do, and—”

“You can and you will, if you’ve any care for your freedom.” Bartholomew pressed her hands, his tone urgent. “Your guardian thinks he’s being quizzed. He put a wedding announcement in the newspapers.”

Daphne’s stomach dropped. “He put a what?”

Bartholomew’s low voice was full of portent. “He’s trying to ensure we dance to his strings. We have to make him think his plan is working. How much longer until your birthday?”

“Three weeks,” she stammered, her mind dizzy. What if they didn’t make it? What if her guardian forced her into marriage after all? Or locked her in a sanitarium?

Bartholomew’s mouth tightened. “We can put him off until then. Provided we give every impression of a happy couple fully intending to comply with his wishes.”

She nodded jerkily. He was right. They couldn’t risk her guardian making good on his threats. If she thought Mayfair was ill-suited for charity work, Bedlam would be far less pleasant. They had to ease Captain Steele’s mind before he took matters into his own hands.

She looped her hand about Bartholomew’s arm and forced a smile. “A musicale sounds brilliant. I cannot wait for the wedding.”

Katherine’s mouth fell open. “You two are getting married?”

“Yes,” Bartholomew said firmly. “Unless we should unexpectedly suffer a shocking breakup just prior to the as-yet-unplanned ceremony. Which would be extremely unlikely because we are completely in love. Isn’t that so, Daphne… poppet… dear?”

Daphne Poppet Dear was singularly unimpressed by her new appellation, but terrified at the specter of her plan to escape her guardian’s schemes unraveling so quickly. What had made him doubt her? How was she meant to act like a young lady in love?

Her heart raced in panic. It wasn’t going to work. She had no invitations. The one Bartholomew possessed didn’t even have his name on it. What if they were denied entry? What if they failed to prove to anyone, least of all her guardian, that their betrothal was in truth? What if it was already too late?

No. Captain Steele had to believe she and Bartholomew intended to wed. Daphne’s future depended on it.

She spun toward Katherine. “You have to join us.”

Katherine recoiled in horror. “What? Why?”

“Bartholomew’s invitation says ‘Captain Grey.’” Daphne reminded her. “We are not invited. But you’re a cousin to the Duke of Lambley. No one would dare cut you. Or, by extension, us. Please, Katherine. We need your help.”

“But I hate musicales.” Katherine reached for a silver platter on the mantle. “Here, I’ll give you my invitation. I’ll write your name on top.”

Daphne stilled her arm. “You can’t just write extra names in the margin. They’ll think we pickpocketed both of you. Over a musicale.”

“You could be famous in a completely different way,” Katherine agreed in delight. “A couple in love… and unafraid of the law. Two lovers joining forces against Society in the mad, mad search for musical entertainment. There’s no captain too menacing, no duke’s cousin too hoydenish, whom they wouldn’t assault in their own front parlors to steal invitations to a good—”

“Katherine.” Daphne valiantly refrained from doing bodily harm. “Get your spencer. Then get in the carriage.”

“You could try to be romantic about it,” Katherine grumbled in good humor. She motioned for a footman to fetch her things. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were betrothed. I’m invited to the wedding, aren’t I?”

THIRTEEN

By the time they reached the Grenville estate, Daphne’s nerves were frayed beyond all hope.

Everything she’d worked for, everything she hoped for, hinged upon her deceptively simple plan not falling completely apart. Step one: Trump unwanted betrothal with false betrothal. Step two: Break fake betrothal as soon as her inheritance materialized. Step three: Be financially independent and free from male guardianship for the rest of her life.

She smoothed her gown with trembling fingers and stepped out of the carriage. If they didn’t sell step one well enough, she wouldn’t even make it to step two.

Katherine, for her part, was brilliant from the moment they knocked upon the door. The Grenville butler did not even blink to see the ebullient Miss Ross flanked by unexpected guests.

As Katherine dragged them through the entryway, she murmured into several key ears that it would make her quite happy indeed if her dear friend Miss Vaughan and her fiancé Major Blackpool would trouble themselves to be seen more in Society.

Although none of them had seen Daphne before in their lives, all of Katherine’s acquaintances professed to be delighted to include the happy couple in any upcoming events. Such was the power of being first cousin to a duke. Daphne expected to have a half-dozen invitations by morning, all from Katherine’s good-humored intervention.

The surprising part was that it might not have been necessary.

From the moment they entered the main salon, Bartholomew was surrounded by well-wishers jostling to be the first to greet him.

“Blackpool!” crowed a tall, well-dressed gentleman. “Jolly good to see you back in society!”

“And with your cravat as exquisite as ever,” said another. “Never say that valet of yours has spent the last year perfecting his art, just so you could show us all up. How do you do it?”

The waves of eager faces were overwhelming. The noise, deafening. In no time at all, the musical entertainment was an hour delayed, simply because there was no end to the number of people who preferred to have a word with Major Blackpool rather than sit down for the performance.

“Major Blackpool, Major Blackpool,” cooed a handful of debutantes, each elbowing the others out of the way to preen at Bartholomew. “Now that you’re attending events again, shall I save a spot for you on my dance card at the next ball?”

Daphne’s teeth clenched as she forced herself to look away from their rouged lips and fluttering lashes. ’Twas everything she had always imagined Bartholomew’s life to be like. Rakish. Sparkling. Larger than life. Constantly surrounded by adoring eyes. She swallowed her jealousy. It wasn’t as though she wished she were in the limelight. She was needed in her office, not onstage. Her best work was accomplished anonymously.

Yet, what must it be like to have so many friends? To have so many people interested in what one had to say?

Bartholomew pulled her closer, as if sensing her discomfort. Or her jealousy.

“I’m afraid we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot,” he said to the coquettish young ladies, then winked at the gentlemen. “My only foot, that is.” He turned to Daphne and smiled as if she had been sent down from the heavens. “May I present Miss Daphne Vaughan, who has done me the honor of agreeing to be my wife. She was dear to me when we were children playing on the hills of Kent and she is even more precious to me today. I am a man in love.”

Daphne’s breath caught. She had to grip his arm a little tighter to keep from swaying, and she knew it was utter poppycock. Yet she couldn’t help but glance up at him from beneath her eyelashes and wonder how it would feel if he truly were a besotted swain.

Her cheeks flushed. Even thought he was acting a role, ’twas intoxicating to have a man who could choose anyone be focused on her. It was like sunlight to her soul. Rain to a flower. She had been starved for affection for so very long that even the pretense of it was heady and addictive.

If only it were as real as it looked.

A few of the debutantes stared daggers at Daphne. The others ignored her completely, as if the fight had only just begun. They made shameless calf eyes at Bartholomew whilst licking their lips and tugging coyly at their ringlets.

Daphne despised them all. Their lack of morals, their lack of sense. Why was it that this sort of woman could be confident in her ability to attract attention, whereas Daphne could dedicate her entire life to improving the world about them, and still not even earn a second glance?

She was irrelevant. An afterthought. No matter how hard she tried to be the best possible person she could be, ’twas never enough. She wasn’t good enough to keep her father’s attention, pretty enough to catch a gentleman’s eye, intriguing enough to command anyone’s attention.

Bartholomew would have forgotten her altogether, had circumstances not thrown them together. Even here, at his side, with her fingers curved about his elbow, the aristocrats and debutantes had dismissed Daphne without so much as a second glance. Even Bartholomew had been caught up in a conversation with several gentlemen on the merits and pitfalls of fox hunting.

Her throat tightened. What had she expected? All her life, she’d wanted to be noticed. To be loved. To be worthy of love. She had done everything she could to be an angel on earth and all it had earned her was a lifetime of loneliness. She’d had to learn to be strong. To define her own self-worth, rather than wait for someone else’s approval.

As she gazed at the crowd, part of her wished she could be the sort of giggly, simpering debutante who never sat out a single dance. But it was too late for that. She hadn’t been raised to giggle or simper. Now that she’d opened her eyes and her heart to the plight of the nation’s poor, she could no more turn her back on them than she could have turned her back on her own father.

She rolled back her shoulders. As much as she might fantasize about being a giddy, feather-headed girl whose life revolved about little more than fashion and merrymaking, she had committed herself to a greater cause. A worthy cause. She might not interest others, but she would lose respect for herself if she gave society events more importance than human charity.

Even if it meant losing Bartholomew to one of these girls.

“You rogue,” pouted one of the debutantes, edging closer to Bartholomew. “How cruel of you to tease us with your presence after all this time, when you’re already taken.”

An older gentleman raised an eyebrow at Daphne. “I imagine Major Blackpool considers himself quite fortunate.”

“Fortunate?” Bartholomew turned to Daphne, eyes solemn. “I used to think the luckiest moment of my life was when I made it off the battlefield alive.” He lifted her gloved fingers in his hands. “I now know it was the day I met you.”

Her stomach dropped and her throat went dry. She stared back at him, speechless. He was everything she’d never dared to dream of.

His warm gaze never left hers as he pressed a kiss to her trembling fingers. She cursed the foolish weakness in her knees. The temptation to throw herself into his arms and beg for the betrothal to be real. For him to look at her and mean his incredibly romantic words.

When he turned away, she pressed her kissed fingers to her chest. Close to her heart.

“I don’t know,” laughed a freckled gentleman. “I’d still say the battlefield was your luckiest day. Let you come home to the lass, did it not?”

“What precisely happened? Carlisle wouldn’t say a word,” put in another. “Rescued two out of three of you, and you’d think it was just another promenade in the park. Did you see Boney?”

“Were you ambushed?” asked another.

“Tell us about Waterloo. Were you near Wellington at all times?”

“How many soldiers were on that field?”

The loud gaggle of gentlemen surrounded Bartholomew, separating him from Daphne with their thumps to his shoulders and their avalanche of questions. He sent several searching looks over his shoulder in Daphne’s direction as he was enveloped into the tide.

She hugged herself. He would find her later. Probably. She sighed. If he remembered she was still here.

’Twas no surprise everyone found Bartholomew fascinating. Not only were he and his friends collectively referred to in the scandal sheets as the Dukes of War, Bartholomew was a major. A twin. A hero. A survivor. Despite a pulverized leg, he’d still tried to save his dying brother.

The whole thing was so gothic and heart-wrenching that the recital had been all but forgotten, and even Katherine resembled a wallflower for the first time in her life. It also meant she probably wouldn’t see Bartholomew again until it was time to return home. She’d been left standing all alone. Adrift in an ocean of strangers.

Daphne sighed. If she’d but known she would be invisible this evening, she might have brought her work and a traveling desk with her and taken up office in one of the retiring rooms. And perhaps dedicated her time to someone who actually wanted it.

“Well?” murmured Katherine as she returned from the refreshment table with two cups of lemonade.

Daphne took a sip and winced at the criminal dearth of sugar. “Well, what?”

“The Blackpools are from Maidstone, so that’s obviously how you met. But the major was off at war for three years and hasn’t left London since he returned, so how the deuce did you get betrothed?”

“Shh.” Daphne flapped a suppressing hand in Katherine’s direction. “You can’t say deuce. Especially not in public.”

“You may recall I never wished to attend this musicale in the first place.”

“Don’t say that either!” Daphne motioned Katherine over to the rows of chairs set up before the pianoforte. The audience section was currently the most private area of the entire Grenville estate. “I did see Major Blackpool recently. In Maidstone.”

“And you fell instantly and deeply in love. Then forgot to tell me about it.” Katherine squinted over Daphne’s shoulder. “Hard to see him through the throngs of people. He cuts as dashing a figure as he ever did. Perhaps more so, now that he’s a tragic hero as well. I believe it’s safe to say your wedding will be well attended. Not that you’ve invited me to it.”

“Fine.” Daphne took a deep breath. “’Tis a lie. We’re not getting married. He’s only playacting to help me out of a scrape with my new guardian. After Papa died, I became ward to a man who would rather walk the plank than be responsible for me. He tried to force me into an unwanted betrothal.”

“And Major Blackpool swept in to save you?” Katherine arched a brow. “This gets more romantic with every word. Do go on.”

“It’s not romantic, it’s—” Daphne snapped her teeth together and briefly closed her eyes.

He had swept in to save her. It was romantic. She’d promised their scheme would be a secret, yet when their imaginary relationship fell under suspicion, Bartholomew hadn’t hesitated to involve himself up to the ears just to keep her safe from her guardian’s threats. To protect her.

“The look on your face tells me you’ve finally noticed your fiancé would be considered a fine catch.” Katherine’s eyebrows tilted toward the crowd. “Approximately every single female present appears willing to take your place, should anything untoward happen to your happy engagement. Such as a shocking termination, moments before the as-yet-unplanned ceremony.”

“I can’t marry him,” Daphne burst out, her voice thick. “He doesn’t even wish to. He’s playacting.”

“But are you?”

Daphne swallowed. She wasn’t sure anymore. Not that she had a choice. The betrothal was a sham. Soon she would have the freedom she’d wanted. And the memory of what might have been. “You know how wholly my projects consume me. I don’t have time for myself, much less a husband.”

Katherine’s expression was skeptical. “You wouldn’t even marry for love?”

“Especially not for love.” Daphne had thought it through. Repeatedly. Every time Bartholomew crossed her mind. “If I loved someone, I would want to spend every moment with him, which isn’t remotely amenable to getting anything at all accomplished.”

Katherine shrugged. “I’m sure a good husband could be counted upon to have interests outside the home.”

“Yes, and I’m just as certain that a wife in love would spend those moments mooning over him or worrying about him or wondering what, precisely, he and his friends were up to and whether she oughtn’t to go and investigate.” Like right now. With a room full of unwed debutantes on the loose. She shook her head. “No, thank you. I’ll stay unfettered and unencumbered.” Life was simpler when her heart was only involved from afar. “There are thousands of people whose lives are affected by whether or not I act to protect them. I cannot jeopardize that over something as foolish as love.”

Katherine’s head tilted. “What projects are you working on now?”

Daphne gave her a shaky smile, relieved at the conversational reprieve. Charity work was a far safer topic than Bartholomew. “I’m terribly worried about the worsening situation with the weavers. There’s scarcely any work and the people are starting to get desperate. And then the miners… The Davy lamp seemed like a miracle—who wouldn’t wish to see what lurked in the shadows?—but the increased visibility makes workers feel safer in areas that are anything but, and the accident rate—”

“The what lamp? Why isn’t there any work for the weavers?” Katherine clasped her hands together and leaned closer. “If I can’t help you plan a wedding, at least let me lend a hand with your projects. I’m frightfully good at planning things. Last year I became patroness of an antiquities museum, did I not? Just look at how successful it is.”

“An antiquities museum is nothing at all like—” Daphne stilled her tongue. Katherine meant well, but she didn’t understand. “I wish you could help. If there were some way for you to know everything I know overnight, perhaps. But I don’t have weeks to spend explaining the history or what’s been done about it. I might not have weeks at all, if my guardian gets his way. I need to focus now more than ever.”

“On being the most enamored fiancée in all of Christendom?”

Daphne pressed her lips together. So much for the conversational reprieve. Of course Katherine wasn’t interested in charity. “No, on—”

“Wrong answer.” Katherine motioned behind her.

Daphne turned. Bartholomew was heading toward them, leading the rest of the guests toward their seats as though he were the commander of an army.

Or the Pied Piper of Hamelin.

She narrowed her eyes. Whether the frivolous aristocrats were children or rats was hard to say. She was so frustrated with the upper class. They were the ones with the money and power to improve employment, safety, orphanages. Perhaps the ladies embroidered for charity now and again, but it didn’t do much toward enacting change.

The men were even worse. Egotistic. Dismissive. She frowned at a sudden realization. What did it say about Bartholomew that they looked up to him so? Was he just as superficial? Just as narcissistic? The price of the waistcoat he was wearing could likely feed an orphanage for a week. He either didn’t realize, or didn’t care. The proof was right before her eyes. He wasn’t the perfect romantic hero her heart had wished he could be. He was just like the others.

She let out a shaky breath. No matter. He had never been hers for the taking. She had promised herself to a greater calling. A purpose. The people she helped thought she hung the moon. They sometimes sent letters, signed by the whole family. They told her she mattered.

Here in London, she patently did not matter. She was of no interest to Polite Society. She intermittently commanded the temporary attention of her faux fiancé. When obligated to do so. It wasn’t love. It was an old childhood friendship. Bartholomew didn’t think of her as a woman, with hopes and dreams and desires. She doubted he thought of her much at all.

She wished it didn’t hurt so much.

Her heart clenched at the pain. Once she no longer saw him every day, his indifference would cease to hurt her. She straightened her spine. As soon as their false betrothal was over, she would spend the rest of her days with people who looked forward to her presence. She would travel wherever her aid was needed most, providing support however she could. She would force herself to be happy.

The life she was given would have to be enough.

“There you are, darling.” Bartholomew gave her a slow, devastating smile as his fingers brushed the small of her back. “I missed you.”

Her breath caught. She had to fight not to shiver at his words. Or melt beneath the warmth of his gaze and the sensation of being the sole object of his complete attention.

He was playacting, just like her.

He was also better at it. He’d been a rake for most of his life, whereas she’d spent all of hers as a vicar’s daughter. She would never be part of his world.

Yet she couldn’t help but long for him to look at her like that and mean it.

She smiled back at him, hesitantly.

His gaze lowered to her lips. Her heart quickened. She licked her lips in anticipation. His eyelashes lowered, and for a single, soul-stopping moment she truly thought he might kiss her, right there in front of everyone.

And she stood there, waiting for it. Like the goose she was.

He lifted his gaze and gestured toward the seats. “Shall we?”

She swallowed hard and nodded. Her legs shook. She couldn’t care less about the musicale, or even the crowd. All she could think about was how it might have felt if he’d kissed her. Foolishness. She pressed a hand to her chest. Her heart still pounded.

Katherine entered the row first, followed by Daphne and then Bartholomew.

As soon as Daphne sat down, Katherine leaned toward Daphne’s ear. “I could have sworn he was about to—”

“He was not,” Daphne whispered back, her face heating.

“Well, you certainly looked like you—”

“I did not,” she hissed and shooed away any further comments. “Eyes on the stage.”

A couple Daphne didn’t recognize sat in the row in front of them. The man instantly turned around to cast a wide smile at Bartholomew. “Never thought I’d see you at a place like this, Blackpool. Didn’t you always say you’d never set foot in a musicale?”

“Still haven’t.” Bartholomew lifted his false leg. “I couldn’t even find my foot.”

The man guffawed and half-turned to his wife. “You see this? Wouldn’t believe it if I weren’t witnessing it with my own eyes. Blackpool in love. I’ll be damned.” He grinned at Daphne. “Caught yourself a good one, miss. One of the very best.”

“Thank you,” she stammered. No. No stammering. Be in love. That’s why they had come. She brushed her fingers against Bartholomew’s chest and peered up at him through her lashes. “He’s…”

Conscious thought failed her. He was playacting, she knew he was playacting, and yet the passion in his eyes was nothing short of smoldering. She could lose herself in eyes that blue. She yearned to brush her fingers against his chest again, to flatten her palm over his heart and feel it thunder beneath her hand. He seemed larger than before. Closer. As if she was leaning too far into him, offering herself into his embrace.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” boomed a voice from the stage. “Heath, Camellia, and Bryony Grenville!”

Daphne flattened her spine against her seatback and prayed no one noticed the heat coloring her cheeks. Playact, she reminded herself fiercely. No actual kissing. The last thing she needed was to get compromised and have to marry him in truth. Not when he had to pretend to like her.

She breathed out slowly and kept her eyes locked on the stage.

Katherine leaned over. “That certainly didn’t look like faux—”

“Kindly refrain from speaking during the musicale,” Daphne muttered back. “It’s considered rude.”

Katherine laughed softly. “It’s your show.”

If only it were.

Daphne slid another glance toward Bartholomew. If she were a different kind of woman, his eyes would be fixed on her instead of on the stage. If she were only carefree and gay, coquettish and elegant, mysterious and irresistible. She could be his.

If she weren’t Daphne.

FOURTEEN

Any victory Bartholomew had felt at having survived a musicale without falling on his face or punching everyone who asked how he was coping without his brother vanished the day he picked up Daphne to go riding in Hyde Park. He wanted it to look like a romantic afternoon ride. He wanted it to be a romantic afternoon ride.

The problem was his curricle.

Never mind that it was old. He’d bought it long before he’d joined the army and had spent a solid year testing its limits and its speed.

Never mind that it was cold. An open carriage was quite possibly the most ridiculous conveyance for February weather, but it was paramount that he and Daphne be seen together. That he and Daphne appear positively smitten.

The curricle was wrong because Bartholomew was wrong.

He’d been at sixes and sevens since leaving the house. Scratch that. He’d been at sixes and sevens since almost kissing Daphne in the middle of a musicale. Or perhaps since the moment Crabtree had saved her letter from the fire and her plea had sent his solitary existence down a whirlwind path.

A month ago, his biggest adventure was deciding whether to do his afternoon exercises before or after a spot of tea. This month, he had a beautiful faux fiancée. A pirate threatening her with Bedlam—and Bartholomew with Newgate. An entire city of curious onlookers pinning him and Daphne both under their watchful eyes. And three weeks to convince them all he was eagerly awaiting a wedding that was never going to happen.

Unfortunately for him, he did eagerly await the stolen moments he shared with Daphne. She had turned his life upside down, but he dreaded the day she was no longer in it. From the moment she’d taken his hand to present a united front before his parents, part of him had begun to want her in his life for good.

Impossible, of course. Not only was Daphne’s refusal to wed abundantly clear, Bartholomew would make a poor husband for any woman. He’d left for war far from perfect. He’d returned home incomplete. After losing his brother, he no longer believed he deserved happiness.

Much less a woman like Daphne.

She was resourceful and clever. Gave freely of her heart and expected nothing in return. She was selfless where he had been selfish. Open to the world, whilst he had closed himself off from it. Fought for strangers to thrive, whereas he had left his own brother to die.

No, he certainly didn’t deserve her. But, oh, how he wanted her anyway.

He pulled up in front of the Ross townhouse and banged the knocker. Within moments of being shown into the parlor, she was already descending the stairs, bonnet and gloves in place. As if she’d been looking forward to this outing as eagerly as he was.

“My lady.” He offered his arm. “Ready for a spot of sunshine?”

She laid her fingers in the crook of his elbow and gave him a shy smile. “I’ve never seen Hyde Park before.”

“Then I am honored to be your guide.” He just hoped he didn’t make a fool of himself doing so. He didn’t want her to have to pretend to enjoy his company even when they were alone.

He handed her up into the curricle, then crossed around back to swing himself up from the other side. The air was brisk as they trotted west toward the park. Daphne edged closer. He wished he could believe she was drawn to him due to a physical attraction, not simply to seek relief from the winter chill.

Then again, perhaps the open carriage was a blessing in disguise. Even if it were mutual, he had no business acting on his physical attraction. He was meant to protect her from an unwanted marriage, not compromise her into one as Carlisle had done. The earl and his new wife were happy with their fates. With each other. Daphne would not be.

Bartholomew would have to respect her wishes and keep his interest hidden. He was a pretend beau, nothing more. ’Twas what he had promised. And what he must deliver.

Navigating Hyde Park was its own gauntlet. His muscles tensed as his carriage joined the queue leading into the park. Today was his first time driving since returning from war. Everything about it felt awkward and out of place.

For one, this was his racing curricle. He’d never before had a woman in it. He’d never promenaded through city parks at all. He’d been too busy hurtling down Rotten Row with the wind in his face and his wheels tipping precariously as he took curves far too sharply.

He felt out of balance with both wheels on the ground. With his hat staying put. With Daphne in the carriage.

His gloved fingers tightened on the reins. Could she tell how discomfited he was to be here, to be doing this? Was his countenance a touch pallid? His clammy hands unsteady? His dark looks at the young bucks rocketing by in flying phaetons too obviously borne of envy for their easy, careless lives? Any one of the eligible bachelors buzzing about in search of a pretty face would be a better choice than a man with no leg.

Any other gentleman could stay seated on a saddle. Waltz without falling. Disrobe without humiliation. He glanced at Daphne and sighed. ’Twas impossible to convince anyone they were a love match. She was too perfect. He was too flawed. Even he could see it. Soon, she would, too. If she hadn’t already.

Once she got rid of Bartholomew and enjoyed a year or two of independence, she’d start to wonder what it might be like to have a husband or a family. Bartholomew well knew the loneliness of self-imposed solitude. The nights would grow long. Whether she planned to or not, she would someday fall in love. It was inevitable.

The man she chose would be nothing like Bartholomew. He’d be some damnably happy fellow from a happy family, and have many happy memories of never having been to war or lost someone he cherished. He’d enjoy racing and dancing, make love like a stallion, and be the proud owner of both of his legs. In short, he’d be perfect, too.

Daphne deserved nothing less.

He slid another glance in her direction. She gripped the side of the curricle, staring out at the sprawling park and endless carriages with cautious green eyes. He rubbed the back of his neck. He’d thought she would love Hyde Park. Instead, she looked half terrified. As though instead of finding the serpentine throng invigorating, as he did, she found the crowd nerve-wracking. She looked like she might throw herself bodily from the curricle rather than spend another moment promenading in the park.

His jaw tightened. Not only did they fail to resemble a besotted couple, Daphne’s current expression wouldn’t look like she enjoyed his company at all. His cheeks burned. Perhaps she didn’t. He ought to distract her with more pleasant topics.

He cleared his throat. “How have you been enjoying London?”

“I haven’t.” She made a frustrated sound and turned to meet his eyes. “Katherine is lovely, and her house of course is magnificent, but it isn’t home. Not for me. I’ve done my best to turn my chamber into a study, but the wallpaper is too pretty to affix documents to it and the noise from the balcony is incredibly distracting while I’m attending to my correspondence. There’s a park just outside, with any number of horses and children and pie vendors causing ruckus at all hours. How can anyone work in such conditions?”

He stared at her, nonplussed. Everything he loved about London, she hated. The finery, the food, the fun. His stomach clenched. ’Twas yet another reason no one in their right mind would believe them slated for marriage. Even he couldn’t believe they were that incompatible. The attraction between them had been too palpable. For a moment, he had even thought… He shook his head.

“Never say you’ve spent every moment you’re not with me focused on nothing but your projects.”

Her eyes flashed. “Of course I have. Someone needs to champion these people’s rights. ’Tis who I am and what I do.”

He raised his brows and turned his gaze back to the road in silence. She found his sense of charity lacking. The implication was clear. His fingers tightened on the reins in annoyance. And envy. Until Waterloo, he, too, had known who and what he was. Now he had no idea. And he’d managed to offend her in the process.

No doubt she believed he thought her silly for choosing to fight iniquity instead of taking a husband. She was wrong. He did not consider her ideals silly at all.

He thought them futile.

One woman couldn’t save everyone. An entire army hadn’t even been able to save everyone. Some wars just couldn’t be won.

She arched a brow. “How have you spent your valuable time since last I saw you? Drinking champagne and frequenting gentlemen’s clubs? What is it that you do?”

He smiled tightly. “Absolutely nothing.”

He knew his answer would infuriate her as much as if he’d said “rutting with whores” or “designing a new waistcoat.” Her belief in the potential goodness of others was too entrenched. By nature, she interpreted any fun-seeking activity as willfully ignoring orphans or worker safety or rookery famine. No doubt she judged him just as frivolous and useless as the rest of London. And she was right. There were better uses for his time.

But he wasn’t her. He wasn’t even him anymore. No longer a rake, no longer a soldier, no longer a twin. He was nothing. As dull and lifeless as the wooden prosthesis strapped to his knee. A heartless man carved to look like the real thing, but empty inside. Too tired to be a martyr.

“Let’s not argue.” He leaned over. “When there are witnesses about, you should at least pretend to tolerate me.”

She tossed him a saucy smile. “I do like you. Very much. You were my hero before you ever left for war. I just thought you of all people would understand.” Her shoulders eased. “But you’re right It’s not even necessary that we agree. By next month, it won’t matter.”

True. The warmth of her remarks faded. By next month, he would be back in his townhouse. Alone with his thoughts and his regrets. “Will you be returning to Maidstone?”

Her nose wrinkled. “I can’t. Cousin Steele owns the cottage and I cannot live under the same roof. Not after deceiving him. Besides, that’s not where I can do my best work.”

He straightened, his heart suddenly light. Perhaps there was hope. “You’ll be staying here in London?”

“Hardly.” She shook her head. “I will go wherever I’m needed most. South Tyneside first, then Leicester. I’m unlikely to see London again for a long time.”

Or him, in other words. Bartholomew’s fingers tightened around the reins. What had he expected? That a few weeks with him would trap her in London’s web? Leave her hopelessly addicted to his company? Make her fall in love with a man who wasn’t even certain he deserved the emotion?

“I’ll miss you, though.” Her soft words pierced his armor. “Even more than I did when you first left Maidstone. I didn’t even think such a feat possible.” She laughed sadly. “It seems the jest is on me.”

“The jest is on both of us,” he admitted gruffly. “I wish you well, but I do not look forward to your departure.”

Several minutes passed in silence.

He wished he hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t admitted that he cared. Every other relationship he’d ever cared about ended in shambles. He didn’t wish to add Daphne to that list.

She tilted her head, her green eyes curious. “And you? How will you spend your time?”

He pretended to think it over. “Perhaps I’ll take up coal mining or fabric weaving so that we’ll meet again.”

She stuck out her tongue. “Rubbish. You’d get your cravat dirty.”

He shuddered. “Thank God you warned me in time. Fitz would have my head on a silver platter.”

Her eyes laughed at him. “One can always trust Bartholomew to be Bartholomew. You’ll stay here in the city, I presume?”

His jaw tightened. Did she truly think him as featherbrained as that? Perhaps it was for the best. He couldn’t disappoint her if she didn’t hold any expectations.

“London is where the best tailors are. I wouldn’t dream of living anywhere else.”

Her expression grew pensive. “And your parents?”

“Should stay as far away from me as possible.” As should Daphne, if she wished to escape the inevitable hurt he caused everyone he loved. The visit with his parents should have illustrated how badly he’d disappointed them. “What did you think when you saw them?”

Her gaze softened. “That they love you very much.”

He scoffed and returned his gaze to the road, unable to meet her eyes. “They did. Before I lost Edmund.”

“They still do. You cannot possibly have failed to notice that your mother—”

“Lives in a state of constant hysteria? I noticed. It’s my fault.” He hated that his tight knit family had shattered in the space of a single moment. He scraped a hand through his hair. If only there was some way he and his mother could be closer without leading to madness for them both. “My presence in Maidstone wouldn’t be beneficial to either of us. I do not require a nursemaid.”

“She misses you.”

“She misses Edmund. She thinks I can replace him by being both of us. By filling the hole and being me, too.” He took a deep breath. “I cannot.”

Daphne’s voice lowered. “Your father?”

“Is empty now. I disappointed him, and Edmund broke his heart. I cannot fix that.” His smile was mirthless. “I can’t fix anything.”

She frowned. “It wasn’t your fault—”

“Don’t,” he snapped. “You weren’t there, and you aren’t me. Don’t presume to tell me how I should feel.”

She fell silent.

He set his jaw and fixed his gaze on the horizon.

Shite. He hadn’t meant to snarl at her, but it wasn’t her brother that had been talked into fighting someone else’s war and then left on a battlefield to die. It wasn’t her family who was too broken to speak to each other. If Bartholomew could undo the past, he would.

His shoulders slumped. None of it was worth it.

So little ever was.

Her miners and weavers would be no exception, unfortunately. But ’twas not his duty to crush her dreams. She’d learn soon enough how the world truly worked. Her dogged idealism and precious causes were all well and good, but if three years in the army had taught him anything, it was that one cannot save everyone, no matter how hard one tries.

“Blackpool!” called a voice alongside the carriage.

A distraction. Thank God.

“Who goes there?” Bartholomew leaned his head out of the curricle and faked a shudder. “Good Lord. Not even a mother could love a mug that ugly.”

The Marquess of Sainsbury’s handsome face split into a grin. “Good to see you back, old man. A few of us are off to race phaetons here in a few moments. I see you’ve better company this time, but we’ll meet again next week if you think your ancient nag can manage Rotten Row. I’ve twenty pounds that says it can’t.”

“A snail could outpace you,” Bartholomew shot back. “But I’d hate for you to lose your money. ’Tis the only way you’ll ever attract a bride.”

The marquess laughed. “How on earth did you get yours? Congratulations to both of you. I never thought I’d see the day!”

Bartholomew kept his smile pasted on as the marquess snapped his reins and rode away. Pensive, he turned to look at Daphne. The sunlight caught her golden curls, softening the no-nonsense exterior she liked to project. Her lips were rosy and her cheeks flushed pink from the winter wind. Her warm green eyes were intelligent and discerning, and looked back at him with the same intensity that he gazed at her.

“You are one of the good ones,” he said softly. “You could have a real husband if you wished.”

She shook her head and glanced away. “It doesn’t matter what I wish. I wouldn’t fit into a husband’s life. Nor would he fit into mine.”

He nodded. Perhaps. And perhaps not. Someone out there had to be a match.

She was right that it would be difficult to reconcile a wife’s duties with her current obsessions, but he couldn’t imagine her never finding love. There was passion hidden within her. Passion for more than displaced weavers and children’s rights. Perhaps even passion waiting to be explored by the right man.

His heart beat faster. The other night at the musicale, there had been several moments where it had taken all his self-control not to tilt her face up to his and kiss her. Even now, her arms looked soft and inviting. She smelled like heaven. And her lush pink mouth was simply begging to be tasted.

But she was not to be his.

The two of them were beyond incompatible as a married couple. On that, they could agree. But he imagined they might have quite a bit in common when it came to matters of the flesh. He swallowed hard.

How different things might have been if they’d only been thrown together back when he was a whole man.

FIFTEEN

A few days later, Bartholomew found himself calling upon the Ross house once again.

This time, it wasn’t to whisk Daphne off to a musicale or for a drive in Hyde Park. They wouldn’t be leaving the town house. This was the night of the soirée Lambley had referred to weeks ago, when he’d asked Daphne if she would be in town visiting his cousin.

Everyone, it seemed, was visiting Lambley’s cousin.

Carriages had queued from around the next block. Hackney carriages, private coaches, even a donkey cart. Bartholomew couldn’t imagine what all these people had in common, much less why they’d all be under one roof. He was intrigued by the mix.

For once, perhaps he wouldn’t be the oddity.

The butler motioned him in the door without questioning whether Bartholomew had an invitation. Fortunate, that. Given that he didn’t have one.

On the other hand, it didn’t look like any of the guests were being questioned too closely, or even at all. They were simply welcomed in, relieved of their coats or bonnets, and motioned to join the others in the parlor.

The amount of people crammed into one spacious, but clearly inadequate room put even the annual Sheffield Christmastide ball to shame. In fact, Bartholomew could have sworn he’d glimpsed Lord Sheffield himself on the other side of the teeming horde. Perhaps he and his wife were taking notes on how to outdo themselves next year.

“You came,” said a surprised voice from just behind him.

Daphne. He tucked her hand around his upper arm and lowered his lips to her hair to breathe in her scent. “Of course.”

Was it scandalous to feather a light kiss against those sweet-smelling red-gold ringlets? Perhaps.

Was he going to do it anyway? Absolutely.

He lifted his head to survey the motley crowd in wonder. Even Vauxhall wasn’t this diverse. “Who are these people?”

Daphne lifted a shoulder in sympathy. “The only people I know in London are you, Katherine, and Lambley.”

“But what kind of party is this?”

“A Katherine party,” Daphne answered with a little smile. “Katherine is… eccentric. She doesn’t think there is any reason why earls and poets and solicitors can’t mingle.” Her eyes softened. “It’s why I love her.”

An elderly woman with white powdered hair caught his attention. She made a beeline straight toward them. “Daphne, is that you, dear? Introduce me to this fine gentleman at once. Hoarding the handsome ones is strictly verboten.”

“And have you steal him from me?” Daphne’s smile widened indulgently. “Mrs. Havens, this is my fiancé, Major Bartholomew Blackpool. Major Blackpool, this dear lady is Katherine’s great-aunt and the widow of the previous Maidstone vicar. Mrs. Havens is a legend.”

The name clicked in Bartholomew’s brain. “Of course! Mrs. Havens, how wonderful to meet you. Daphne’s father was vicar in my earliest memories, but I cannot recall a time when you and your husband weren’t spoken of with great admiration. It is an honor to meet you.”

Mrs. Havens beamed at him, then stage-whispered to Daphne, “Handsome and charming. Hold tight to this one.”

Daphne’s hand tightened reflexively about Bartholomew’s arm. “Of course, ma’am. I wouldn’t dream otherwise.”

One of the footmen passed by with a tray of champagne flutes. Mrs. Havens stopped him to make certain both Bartholomew and Daphne took a glass.

“Moderation, not libation,” she cautioned with a wag of her finger. “Especially you, Daphne. Don’t let London go to your head.”

“No, ma’am.” Daphne shook her head gravely. “I certainly won’t.”

Emptiness filled Bartholomew’s chest. He doubted Daphne would stay in London a day more than necessary after she inherited her portion. She was too eager to leave. To seek out a better life than what she could find here.

“Blackpool!” The Duke of Lambley emerged from the sea of faces. He nodded in the direction of Daphne’s fingers curled about Bartholomew’s arm. “Cupid knock you off your cloud, did he?”

Bartholomew paused, unsure whether this was meant as a gibe for having “stolen” Daphne away from the others, but the last thing he wished was to cause a scene. He gave his best careless smile. “Cupid’s arrow was true. I fell hard, but as you see, I always land on my feet. Or foot, as the case may be.”

Lambley chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Losing a leg would slow anyone down. Of course you couldn’t dodge the arrow. Well, they say reformed rakes make the best husbands. Good to see you cheerful again. Congratulations to both of you. You make a lovely couple.”

Daphne’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Thank you.”

As Lambley glided away, Daphne frowned at his retreating back. “He should not have made a teasing comment about your leg.”

Bartholomew placed his untouched champagne glass on the tray of a passing footman. “I made a teasing comment about my wounded leg.”

“You should not have, either.”

He shrugged. Jokes were all he had. “Ignoring it won’t grow it back.”

Before Daphne could respond, her friend Miss Ross slipped from the crowd to join them.

Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright. “Good evening, Major. I do so love a party. How are you enjoying your evening so far?”

“It’s… overwhelming,” he admitted. “And impressive. Do you actually know all these people?”

“Of course!” She moved closer so that she could gesture without others noticing. “You see the older gentleman with dark hair and a cleft chin?”

Bartholomew scanned the crowd, then nodded. “The one who looks like John Kemble, the actor?”

“That is Mr. Kemble. He manages the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden. Which is why he’s at the opposite end of the room as that young gentleman with the foppish hair, the one sneaking all the biscuits from the refreshment table.”

“Is he another actor?”

“Heavens, no. Mr. Wyatt is too serious by far, when there are no biscuits about. He designed the other Theatre Royal, in Drury Lane. He and Mr. Kemble have already exchanged several heated words about parquet and acoustics.” Miss Ross grinned as if this were a hallmark of a successful party. “Can I help with any introductions? If neither the business nor the performance aspect of theatre pique your interest, surely the wonders of Egypt catch your fancy?”

Bartholomew arched an eyebrow. “Are there mummies or a misplaced pharaoh somewhere amongst all those people?”

“Close.” Miss Ross leaned closer. “Look for a portly gentleman by the piano. Balding, with tufts of gray hair over his ears? Mr. Bullock is a naturalist, the antiquarian behind the Egyptian Hall in Piccadilly.” She lowered her voice toward Daphne. “I tried to get him to let me help manage the exhibit when it first opened. The knave categorically refused.”

Daphne’s eyes twinkled. “Is that why you sponsored a completely different antiquities museum?”

“Did I?” Miss Ross blinked back at her innocently. “Egyptian artifacts aren’t the only interesting relics in history.”

“You would have been the best thing to happen to the Egyptian Hall,” Daphne said staunchly. “It is his loss.”

“Yes, well, there are no hard feelings.” Miss Ross lifted her chin. “All of these people are very special to me or to this city, and I’d be delighted to introduce you to any one of them. Just say the word.”

Bartholomew kept mum. He was happy to stay in the shadows. The less attention, the better.

“Kate!” Mrs. Havens all but bounded over, her clear blue eyes sparkling against the pale of her skin and the powdered white of her hair. “What a lovely gathering.” She glanced at Bartholomew and Daphne. “Are you two enjoying yourselves?”

He smiled back at her. “How could we not, in company as delightful as yours?”

“I see you don’t have any champagne, young man.” Mrs. Havens flagged down a footman. “Champagne for the gentleman, please. But just one. Moderation, not libation!”

Bartholomew frowned and lifted a hand to forestall the footman. “None, actually. I no longer imbibe spirits. I thank you for your consideration, ma’am.”

Mrs. Havens’ eyes widened in pleasure. “I’m very impressed. So many young men these days have little restraint. Oh, is that Lady Grenville? If you’ll excuse me, I must greet an old friend.”

She was gone before anyone could reply.

Miss Ross shook her head, laughing. “That was Aunt Havens. She’s three times my age and has twice the energy. I’ll introduce you when she flutters back by.”

“I believe I did meet her.” Bartholomew darted a questioning glance toward Daphne. “A half hour ago, perhaps.”

“Ah, well.” Miss Ross’s grin didn’t falter. “Don’t be offended if you meet her a few more times tonight. She has good days and forgetful days, but she’s the best aunt anyone could possibly—is that Mr. Godfrey? I’ll be back, darlings. He owns a shipping conglomerate I’ve an interest in, and I must speak with him about his experiences contracting with the East India Company.”

In a blink, she was gone.

“She’s going to be just like her aunt,” Daphne lamented, lifting the back of her hand to her forehead in mock dismay. “Two whirlwinds under one roof. Be prepared to turn down a lot of champagne this Season.”

Bartholomew grinned before her words sank in. Her prediction was well meant, but flawed. He wouldn’t be around to turn down much more champagne. In a few weeks’ time, their fake betrothal would be over and Daphne would be gone. He would no longer have a reason to leave his home.

“Major Blackpool?”

A happy, smiling couple stepped out from the crowd. He smiled. It had been Lord and Lady Sheffield that Bartholomew had spotted across the room. Until her recent marriage, he’d known Lady Sheffield as Lady Amelia, sister to the Duke of Ravenwood, one of Bartholomew’s closest friends.

“If only my brother were here,” Lady Amelia said now, clasping her hands in delight. “He was so pleased to hear you were out in Society again. You really should pay him a visit. Both of you.”

Bartholomew shook his head fondly. The introductions hadn’t even been made, and already Ravenwood’s sister was organizing Daphne’s schedules. “Lord and Lady Sheffield, let me present my fiancée, Miss Daphne Vaughan. Daphne, Lord Sheffield is a very respectable viscount who wed the extremely managing elder sister of my friend, the Duke of Ravenwood.”

Lady Amelia whacked him on the shoulder with a painted fan. “Lies! And if not, then they’re secrets. Miss Vaughan, I’ll have you know I’m not the least bit…” She trailed off, frowning up toward the chandeliers.

“Now you’ve done it,” Lord Sheffield groaned. “That’s the expression she makes when she’s accessing her memory pantry.”

Bartholomew blinked. “Her what?”

“Vaughan of the Maidstone Vaughans,” Lady Amelia breathed. “Your father was vicar there for many years. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Daphne’s eyes widened. “How did you…”

“She just does.” Lord Sheffield lifted his wife’s fingers to his lips. “I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say she has the greatest mind in all of England.”

“And she’s not afraid to use it,” Bartholomew put in with a smile. “There was the time when Ravenwood—”

“Now, now, we don’t want to bore Miss Vaughan with stories from the past.” Lady Amelia pointed her fan toward Daphne. “Drop by for tea anytime you please.”

“She’ll probably have it ready and waiting when you do.” Lord Sheffield cast his wife a sly grin. “She has a way of… anticipating needs. Don’t you, my dear?”

Lady Amelia flushed scarlet and tugged him toward the crowd. “Benedict, if you’d still like me to—”

“Have you ever seen such a happy couple?” Bartholomew shook his head. “And to think, just last year, Sheffield was infamous for his rigid schedule. From eight in the morning until eight at night, he locked himself in his office and forbade all visitors. Then from eight at night until eight in the morning…” Bartholomew coughed into his hand. “He, er, attended to other matters.”

Daphne’s lip curled. “He wasted twelve hours a day on pleasuring?”

“Not… every day.” Bartholomew should have known she wouldn’t find the humor. “I’m sure he slept. Occasionally.”

Her eyes rolled heavenward. “I cannot stand the frivolousness of the ton.”

“Sheffield’s not frivolous,” he protested. Just because Daphne spent every waking moment with her charity work didn’t mean everyone else was idle. She didn’t even know the man. “Didn’t you just hear me say he worked for twelve straight hours, every day without fail? How many men do you know that do that?”

“I allow that taking infrequent breaks is important for one’s well-being, but you cannot expect me to condone the behavior or the character of a man who dedicates half of every day to self-serving debauchery.”

“Perhaps you should keep your prejudices to yourself.” His tone hardened despite himself. “If you don’t want your hallowed peasants to be dismissed unfairly, you shouldn’t make sweeping judgments against upper crust friends who might have helped you.”

Her mouth turned downward. “Shouldn’t I? How many of your friends will be at the demonstration next weekend?”

“At the… what?”

“Precisely. I doubt they know or care about merchants gathering on Gracechurch Street to discuss overthrowing the income tax laws. There have only been hundreds of pamphlets posted up and down Cheapside.”

“Let me guess.” He rubbed his temples. “I suppose you plan to attend?”

Her nose lifted. “Of course I will. I’m circulating a petition.”

He sighed. She was so focused on others, she was blind to her own needs.

“This is why you’re not married,” he muttered.

Daphne’s cheeks flushed. “Even if I were the most sought-after debutante in England, I couldn’t marry. There are too many people counting on my help. My personal desires are irrelevant.”

Before he could reply, loud clapping drew their attention toward the pianoforte.

“I’ve had another request for dancing,” Miss Ross called out. “With a room so full of talent, there must be dozens of accomplished ladies who can wring music out of this ancient thing.”

Several young ladies giggled and stepped forward.

“That, for example.” Daphne leaned toward Bartholomew. “Do you consider competency at the pianoforte a legitimate female accomplishment?”

He shrugged. “I see your point. Why should the achievement be limited only to females?”

Daphne’s lips pursed. “Don’t be obtuse on purpose.”

“Why not?” he demanded. “You’re being obtuse on accident, so I figure we both might as well get angry enough to make it a good fight.”

Lambley stepped out of the crowd and bowed toward Daphne. “I promised you the first dance. Is it still open?”

She arched a brow at Bartholomew as if to say, What was that about no one wishing to marry me? Her chin lifted defiantly as she placed her hand into Lambley’s and allowed the duke to twirl her into the crowd.

Bartholomew’s fists clenched. He wasn’t jealous, of course. He couldn’t be. Daphne was his fiancée, not Lambley’s… for the next few weeks, anyway.

Besides, Bartholomew couldn’t dance. Probably. He might be able to if he worked at it hard enough, but it wasn’t worth the risk of public humiliation if he fell.

He missed it, though. Not just dancing. Music.

That’s why he’d ordered the pianoforte in his parlor. He’d never entertained in his town house—well, not more than one person at a time—so there’d been no reason to invest in such an instrument before his confinement.

After the accident, banging at the keys had given him something to do in the early days when he wasn’t weeping or looking for things to break. When he’d given up whisky, he’d discovered he actually had some talent. Deciphering sheet music and memorizing foreign melodies had been a welcome respite from the agony of his endless stretches and exercises.

To him, skill at the pianoforte wasn’t a female accomplishment. It was an accomplishment. Full stop.

Particularly for an ex-soldier who’d had to drag himself out of the darkness note by painstaking note.

But he’d be damned if he plunked out a waltz in front of all and sundry, just so Lambley could hold Bartholomew’s fiancée and swirl her about the dance floor in ways Bartholomew would never be able to do again.

He forced himself to look away from Daphne. Away from the crowd. Now everyone was dancing, save for a few young bucks here or there who couldn’t tear themselves away from their champagne glasses or the biscuits on the refreshment table.

And him, of course. He was still in the corner, in the shadows. All of the other men were strong enough, whole enough, to sweep Daphne into their arms waltz after waltz, and dance until the sun rose.

Bartholomew was just broken enough to let her go.

SIXTEEN

Daphne twirled about the crowded parlor in the arms of a duke, but Bartholomew was the only man she could think about. Her chest tightened with self-recrimination. She should not have left him like that. She should not have left him at all.

He wasn’t likely to understand her passion for championing the invisible class of people High Society never even thought about, but had she truly expected to change his priorities and his worldview overnight? Why should anyone? But their useless argument wasn’t why she was so disappointed in herself.

She couldn’t help wishing she was in Bartholomew’s arms instead of Lambley’s.

Foolish, of course. Bartholomew didn’t want her. She was a temporary fiancée who would be out of his life in less than a month. She had intended to be distant with him in order to make parting easier. If they found each other vexing, it would be easier to say goodbye.

Except it wasn’t working. The only reason she found him vexing was because she could not quit him from her mind. She had even begun to dream about him at night. Every night. In her dreams, they didn’t have to say goodbye. They were too busy kissing to say anything at all.

The unbidden image sent a shiver down her spine. She missed a step and inadvertently trod upon the Duke of Lambley’s toes. Her cheeks flushed.

The duke’s quick blue eyes flashed with chagrin. “It only now occurs to me that I’ve never seen you dance. Forgive me for not inquiring if you had permission to waltz, or even knew how.”

Permission? Daphne smiled weakly. Wonderful. Something else she hadn’t considered. Katherine had first butted against the various rules of Almack’s patronesses and Polite Society so long ago, Daphne had forgotten them completely. She probably embarrassed Bartholomew every time he escorted her in public.

Unlike Katherine, Daphne hadn’t had a formal come-out. This was her first visit to the city. There was much she didn’t know. Would never know. She couldn’t fit into London life even if she wanted to. She was precisely the green rustic they likely all thought she was.

That she knew how to dance at all was also Katherine’s doing. Whenever she’d visited Maidstone, Katherine had always dropped by the vicarage with amusing anecdotes about some exploit or another. That she’d taught Daphne to waltz was less surprising than the idea of boisterous Katherine paying attention to a dancing master in the first place.

“’Twas kind of you to stand up with me,” she murmured to the duke. Her response didn’t address his implied question, but then again, it was too late to worry about permission. “I don’t often attend dinner parties or soirées.”

His smile was droll. “I noticed. Eligible gentlemen have long despaired of catching your eye, much less your heart.”

Daphne swallowed. Eligible gentlemen, like him? Or did he mean gentlemen of her acquaintance in general.

It was true that she didn’t often attend events of any kind. It was further true that if she had attended said parties, she had done so under duress and likely bore a countenance so vexed it would have frightened away even a duke.

If someone had warned her at the time that her obvious disdain for the interests of those around her would give her a reputation for being cold and impossible to please, she wouldn’t have cared a button. Those weren’t the opinions that mattered. Then or now.

Except… She couldn’t stop herself from seeking out glimpses of Bartholomew. Or notice all the other young ladies who were doing the same. Even the gentlemen couldn’t help from going out of their way to have a word with him, and they all laughed heartily at whatever witticisms he said in reply.

He was handsome and popular and charming and competitive and everything that she’d never wanted, all wrapped into one gorgeous package.

There was nothing he hadn’t done. No horse he hadn’t raced, no pugilist he hadn’t boxed, and no heart he hadn’t won. The men wanted to dress like him and the women wished he’d take their dresses off. He knew everyone there was to know, and they all considered themselves the richer for it. He was made for London.

And the only reason he was here today was because of her.

The moment she cried off, he’d go back to the shadows, back to his town house. Back to his memories.

This time, with scandal attached to his name. Because of her. Her throat tightened with guilt.

“You’ve gone awfully serious,” Lambley said as the music came to an end. “Is everything all right?”

“Everything is splendid. Thank you for the lovely dance. I must get back to my fiancé.” She curtseyed and hurried away, eager to return to Bartholomew. If they both had to be at this party, she wished to spend it at his side.

Or in his arms.

The more she tried not to think about how it might feel to be held, to be kissed, to be wanted, the harder it was to resist the temptation to find out firsthand. Their betrothal might be false, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t share a true embrace.

No reason except that if she dared to let her heart get involved, she’d be tempted to stay. To burrow in his arms, in his bed, and beg him never to let her go. To be the first person who chose to stay. Who chose her.

She came up behind him as he was speaking to a ruddy-faced gentleman.

“—as smart as she is beautiful,” Bartholomew was saying. “I am the happiest of men.”

A wave of pleasure flushed her cheeks. Until she remembered he was only acting a part. Then again, their scheme only required him to act betrothed, not besotted. If Bartholomew was saying nice things about her, it was because he wished to. Because he was nice. Not because she deserved it.

He’d gone so far above and beyond the initial favor she’d asked of him that she would never be able to repay this debt. She had been so desperate to deflect her guardian’s nefarious plans, she hadn’t given much thought to the false betrothal’s effect on Bartholomew at all.

Worse, whenever he was within sight, she was finding it harder and harder to remember the betrothal was false. She wanted him to see all the good works she was trying to do and conclude that she, too, was a good person. She wanted him to like her. More than that, she wanted him to miss her when she was gone. She would certainly miss him.

“I doubt a dandified rake would make anyone the happiest of women,” the man chuckled. “I’ve got fifty quid down at White’s that says even a peg-leg like you will be on to greener pastures by spring.”

Daphne’s jaw fell open. Outrage flooded her system, electrifying her nerves and freezing her in place.

“On the contrary,” Bartholomew replied evenly, as if he deflected these sort of comments every day.

She swallowed. Perhaps he did.

“A man in love spends extra blunt on a prosthesis, not a pegged leg. That way, the leg-shackle won’t slide off.” Bartholomew gestured toward his false leg, his tone light. “I’m afraid this rake is a reformed man.”

“More like a deformed one,” the man said with a laugh. “Maybe she’s the one in search of greener pastures. Even a vicar’s daughter can do better than—”

Daphne darted forward and slid her hand around Bartholomew’s upper arm. His muscles were tight, as if he were poised to fight. If he wished to plant this knave a facer, she wouldn’t stop him. She lifted her chin. “There is no better man than Bartholomew.”

“Darling.” Bartholomew pressed his lips to the top of her head. “I’d introduce you, but this ‘gentleman’ was just leaving.”

The man’s eyes widened at the obvious cut. A sneer curved his lips. “Have it your way, Blackpool. You’ll be tripling my fifty quid.”

He stalked away before anyone could reply further.

Daphne’s mouth tightened. She clutched Bartholomew’s arm a little tighter. “Who was that odious blackguard?”

“Phineas Mapleton.” Bartholomew’s hands were curved into fists. He visibly tried to calm himself down. “The worst part about this whole charade is knowing it will line his pockets the moment you cry off.”

No, Daphne realized, her stomach sinking. For Bartholomew, the worst part of this whole charade was every single moment of it. She just hadn’t seen it until now.

He’d closed himself off from society for a reason. Soulless cretins like Phineas Mapleton were perhaps the bottom of the barrel, but she had no doubt Bartholomew withstood countless questions and implied insults about his injury and his ability to still be a man, even if he laughed them off.

Worse, she suspected, were the people who felt sorry for him. Who thought they were being kind when they showered him with pity or treated him like an invalid incapable of caring for himself.

As a woman, she’d long been familiar with a world that dismissed her concerns, opinions and aspirations, simply because she was female. As a champion for the poor and the marginalized, she well knew the maddening, soul-consuming frustration of being discounted for something over which there was no hope to change.

She had never thought it could apply to Bartholomew.

The back of her throat tightened. ’Twasn’t right. One could not change one’s gender, or one’s parentage, or grow back a leg. But that didn’t make one any less important, any less worthy. And she certainly couldn’t do anything that would make his situation even worse.

“About that…” she began, her voice unsteady.

Bartholomew’s brow furrowed. “About what?”

“About me crying off.” She bit her lip as she considered how to proceed.

If she was the one to cry off, she would make him a laughingstock. Perhaps make it impossible for him ever to find a real bride.

Bartholomew deserved better. He deserved to find love.

“You want to do it now?” He darted a glance about the crowded room. “Don’t you need to wait until your birthday?”

“Not here,” she said quickly, caressing his arm with her thumb. “And not until my birthday. But when I inherit my portion, I need you to cry off.”

“Out of the question,” he said without hesitation. “It would ruin your chances of ever getting married.”

Precisely why she couldn’t do the same thing to him. Not after all he’d been through. What she was still putting him through.

“I don’t ever want to get married,” she reminded him. “You’ll be doing me a favor.”

He shrugged. “I won’t do it at all.”

“You must,” she said firmly. “Because I won’t do it, and we’re not getting married. You must cry off.”

He laughed. “You cannot truly expect me to jilt you. It would be disastrous to your reputation under the best of circumstances. In our case, even worse. The gossip will already be horrendous. No man will ever play suitor to a woman even a peg-leg wouldn’t marry.”

“Don’t say that about yourself,” she said fiercely. “My goals hinge on me remaining single, but your dreams do not. Your injuries won’t preclude you from finding a wife. Not if you’re the one who jilts me. I’ll make it known that you’re the greatest catch this town has ever seen. By the time I’m done, there won’t be a marriageable young lady in the entire country who wouldn’t give her last penny for a chance to catch your eye. I’ll—”

Bartholomew spun her in front of him and grasped her wrists so hard she winced at the sudden pain. A mottled flush crept up the sides of his neck.

“Wrong,” he snarled, nostrils flaring. “Don’t you dare turn me into one of your causes. I don’t want your charity.”

He tossed her hands aside and turned and stalked away.

SEVENTEEN

Furious, Bartholomew flung open the tavern door and stormed inside.

A few short days ago, he had walked out of the Ross town house because he could not, could not, listen to the woman he was protecting act as though he were the one in need of her protection. His mother’s lack of confidence in him was bad enough. He bloody well didn’t need it from Daphne.

She was the one who had called upon him for help. He’d agreed to help her out of a scrape. Not to help her plot her next crusade for poor, peg-legged Major Blackpool. He didn’t need her to do him any favors. To throw away her future, just to improve his.

She would cry off. He would ensure it.

He’d be the largest thorn in her side, a constant nettle on her nerves, until she’d rather pull out her beautiful hair than spend another moment with her name linked to his. The morning of her birthday, she’d have retractions in every newspaper and scandal sheet in all of England.

If he didn’t throttle her first.

He spotted her red-gold ringlets across the tavern. Dratted woman. His ears pounded in exasperation. He shoved through the swarm of shopkeepers and drunkards until he was finally close enough to grab her by the upper arm and haul her away from buzzing voices and spilt ale.

“What the devil do you think you’re doing?”

“You came!” She had the gall to look delighted at his presence. “I didn’t think you’d remember.”

“I didn’t think you’d be foolish enough to show,” he snapped.

“This is Cheapside,” she admonished him. “Whitechapel is several blocks away. And what if it weren’t? The rookeries have as much right to self-improvement as anyone else.”

“What right might that be?” He motioned toward the cracked, pungent tables. “The right to ruin your reputation beyond repair by traipsing unchaperoned through back alley pubs?”

“Of course not.” She pointed over the heads of the men seated on the benches to a petite brown-haired maid cowering in the far corner. “You recognize Esther, don’t you? I’m perfectly respectable. Wouldn’t go anywhere without at least a lady’s maid. Especially since Katherine was too busy to join us today.”

He couldn’t believe his ears. “You invited the Duke of Lambley’s cousin to accompany you to a Cheapside tavern?”

Of course she did. He should have known. Given the motley guest list at Miss Ross’s soirée, the greater miracle was that the woman had passed on the opportunity.

“’Tis better that you’re here, of course.” Daphne winked conspiratorially. “We can be a young couple in love, presenting a united front against the injustice of the government’s greed.”

“What I would love to do,” he ground out, “is throw you over my shoulder and march you straight home.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She pointed behind him. “How would Esther get home?”

He ran a hand through his hair to keep from making good on his threat. “How indeed. I suppose we should just stay here then, and hope no one notices us?”

“I hope everyone notices us. The laboring class is counting on it.” She held up a sheet of parchment half-covered with scrawled signatures. “This petition is going to join dozens of others and be presented to the House of Commons.”

He squinted at the paper. “What makes you think they’ll listen to you?”

“Not to me.” She gestured over her shoulder. “Them. When thousands of righteous voices ally against a common injustice—”

“Income tax isn’t an evil plot. How else do you expect the government to manage the National Debt? It’s at seven hundred million pounds and rising.”

She blinked in surprise.

He could’ve kicked himself. Now she’d suspect the truth. He hadn’t just perused newspapers during his convalescence. He read them assiduously, and paid as close attention to the details as she did. That didn’t mean he agreed with her methods. Such as an utter disregard to her name and her safety.

Daphne lifted her chin. “I expect the government to manage its own finances, and to allow the rest of us to do the same.” She shook out the petition. “I’m not the only one who thinks so.”

He plucked the parchment from her grasp. Name after name covered most of the front side. “Who are these people?”

“Merchants, manufacturers, tradesmen. Landowners. Bankers. A better question is, who aren’t they?”

He snorted. “Easy to answer. They’re not anyone with any influence. I don’t recognize a single name on that paper.”

“Yes, well.” She bit her lip. “If you could ask a few friends in high places to—”

“I will not have anything to do with this or any other of your well-meant but ill-conceived notions. Nor will I presume to beg my friends to do so.” He rolled up the parchment. “Not that they would.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Just because you don’t agree with a cause doesn’t mean that the people shouldn’t have a voice before the representatives who govern them. Wasn’t the war you just fought in response to a tyrannical emperor who—”

“Point made. Everyone’s voice deserves to be heard.” He glanced about the loud, boisterous room. “Can we leave now?”

She shook her head. “Not until everyone has had an opportunity to sign the petition.”

His jaw clenched in exasperation. “Where is the pen and ink?”

“At each end of the room. I brought two sets. What are you…?”

He scanned the tables for the closest inkwell and marched straight into the fray. When he got within reach of the first table, he slapped the petition onto its scarred surface, dipped the idle pen into the pot of ink, and handed it to the closest shopkeeper. “Stop talking. Sign.”

Startled, the shopkeeper accepted the pen and scrawled his name below the others without more than a cursory glance at the heading across the top.

“Excellent.” Bartholomew pushed the petition in front of the next one. “Sign.”

The shopkeeper stared up at him in befuddlement. “What do you think you’re—”

“Changing the future,” Bartholomew interrupted in an exaggeratedly pleasant voice. “Isn’t that why we’re all here? Income tax is high. Employment is low. Here’s a petition. Do you prefer to be compliant or triumphant?”

The man quickly signed his name. Bartholomew moved on to the next one. Perhaps Daphne’s plan wasn’t as daft as it had first sounded. These men had given their time to join forces to try to have a voice before Parliament. Perhaps it would even work. If they set down their ale long enough to truly take action.

He took another look at the long list of signatures covering the petition and grudgingly admitted that the strange sensation inside his chest was pride. His faux fiancée’s methods were unconventional, but he now saw how fortunate all her charities were to have her on their side. If anyone could save the miners and the weavers and the orphans and the Cheapside shopkeepers, it was Daphne.

He headed to the next table of laborers feeling lighter than he had before.

Daphne hurried to keep up. “You knew employment was low and there was unrest in the streets?”

“I told you. I spent seven months with nothing else to do but read the papers.”

“Then why didn’t you—”

“—become an insurrectionist and try to spark a revolution? I don’t know. Perhaps because I’m an ex-Corinthian without a title or a leg to stand on. Literally.” He touched a finger to his chin and peered down at her. “Or perhaps because I’m not mad.”

Her eyes flashed. “I’m not mad!”

He grinned at her. “How do you know? All the best revolutionaries had a few bats in the belfry. How else did they get the courage to try and change the unchangeable?”

She blinked in confusion. “You don’t… disagree with the idea?”

“I disagree with you traipsing about taverns with no more chaperonage than that terrified chit hiding in the corner. Make-believe betrothal or not, I forbid you from taking unnecessary risks with your life or your safety. You won’t help anyone if you’re in a hospital or Bedlam or dead.”

He collected the pen and ink and made his way to the next table.

She gestured at the petition in his hands. “Are you just humoring me to keep me safe?”

When he’d first found out about her charity work, that answer might have been yes. Four weeks ago, he would have dragged her out of the door and turned her over his knee if he had to in order to wake her up to the world around her.

But somewhere along the line, she’d begun to wake him up to the realities around them.

Did he think she and her shopkeepers would overthrow income taxation? Not a chance in hell. But he couldn’t help but admire her drive, her heart, and her courage. The passion she brought to everything she did, no matter how unlikely it was to succeed or how unworthy the recipient of her attention.

If he pulled her onto his lap today, it wouldn’t be to scold her.

It would be to kiss her senseless.

EIGHTEEN

No kissing, Bartholomew promised himself a few days later as he escorted Daphne to a dinner party at the Willoughby town house. No kissing, no matter how desperately he longed to taste her lips. He needed her to break off the engagement, not to compromise her into marriage.

He’d devised a plan of attack. As long as he concentrated on rubbing her the wrong way, her wrongheaded campaign to salvage his image at the expense of her own should dissolve on its own. Fortuitously, they were seated right across the table from each other. There would be no escaping his onslaught of annoyances.

He started by engaging the young bucks in his vicinity in conversation. The only topics of interest to them were phaetons, pugilism, and the proper folds of a neckcloth. Not only would Daphne consider all of these subjects to be typical ton frivolousness, they also happened to be areas in which Bartholomew had a great deal of expertise. Nothing would repulse her more.

“The first time I was invited to Brummell’s toilette,” he began as pompously as possible, “’twas because he sought my opinion on whether the knot of his cravat should contain an asymmetrical cascade of folds.”

The aspiring dandies were, as expected, utterly enthralled. Even a few of the young ladies stared in open fascination, their interest as likely due to the questionable propriety of mentioning one’s toilette in public as to the wonder of having been one of the select few Beau Brummell had invited into his dressing room to witness his infamous five-hour morning ritual.

Bartholomew had done no such thing, of course, but since Brummell had recently fled to France to escape debtor’s prison, ’twas unlikely he’d walk up behind Bartholomew and spoil the Banbury story he was inventing as he went along.

“Oh, yes,” he answered one of the young bucks with as much earnestness as he could muster. “Brummell always said that if it took less than an hour to fold one’s cravat, one was obviously doing it wrong. Each fold should be an expression of one’s inner passion.”

Daphne cut him a look of utter disbelief. Not because she doubted his ability to overcomplicate a neckcloth—if Captain Xavier Grey were here, he might enquire whether Bartholomew was wearing a bed sheet and the four-poster canopy—but because he’d helped her during the demonstration. She now believed he had more rattling about his head than waistcoats and racing curricles. She imagined he might become a crusader.

He intended to correct that misconception once and for all.

“A gentleman must endeavor to put his best leg forward, Brummell always said.” Bartholomew leaned forward to wink at his crowd. “In my case… my only leg. He and I did get off on the right foot.”

Daphne covered her face with her hand.

He smiled. Good. One did not delay parting ways with someone one found dreadfully embarrassing.

As he kept up a lively, nonsensical conversation about the proper temperature of pomade to style one’s hair and whether a gentleman ought to alter the color palette of his waistcoat before or after the vernal equinox, a curious thing began to happen. So curious, in fact, that it took him a prodigious amount of time to even determine what it was.

He was having fun.

It had been years since he’d discussed fashion—three and a half years, to be precise—and it was amusing to discover that he still could, despite a complete lack of knowledge about whatever intricacies of vogue and tailoring had transpired since then.

He’d missed the latest technological advances in virtually every style of carriage. He hadn’t played faro or polo since before purchasing his commission. And if he visited Gentleman Jackson’s today, he doubted he’d recognize half the faces.

Yet he was having fun.

It struck him as so unlikely, so impossible a circumstance, that he froze with his serviette halfway to his lips in consternation. And guilt. Did he deserve to have fun?

Enjoying life again despite being crippled would be nothing short of a miracle. But enjoying life again without Edmund seemed nothing short of a betrayal.

He’d led his brother into danger and left him to die. There. He wasn’t worthy of happiness. Of fun and laughter. Question answered. He’d better not get too used to being on center stage. As soon as he’d completed his favor for Daphne, he’d shutter himself back in his shadowed town house where he belonged. No curricle rides. No dinner parties. No Daphne.

This time, he’d finally let his valet go. It was cruel to keep someone of that talent tethered to a man who fully intended to live out the rest of his days as a recluse.

Perhaps Captain Grey was in want of a valet who knew how to tie a proper bed sheet.

“Almack’s,” Daphne breathed in response to some unheard question. Her eyes met his only briefly from across the table, but their glittering contempt was enough to chill his blood. “Why, no, I don’t have a voucher to attend a pretentious weekly showcase run by judgmental dragons who can think of no better use for their money or influence. Why do you ask?”

He barely refrained from dropping his glass into his lap. Either Daphne recognized his game, or she’d come up with the same plan on her own. And was winning.

“Gowns are very important,” she was saying earnestly to some poor bastard on her right. “Textiles have an unparalleled impact on the economic balance and living conditions of manual laborers in Lancashire and other areas. One needn’t be a Luddite to see the increase in displaced weavers makes entire families more susceptible to famine and disease.”

This time, Bartholomew covered his face with his hands. No one was looking at him anyway. Every eye was trained on Daphne in horror.

“Well, then.” Lady Willoughby rose to her feet. “I think its time for dancing. Are we all in agreement?”

The debutantes certainly were. If the men retreated into another room for their customary after-supper glass of port, the girls would all be stuck in the side parlor with Daphne and her displaced weavers. Once the carpets were rolled up, one of the Willoughby chits took a seat at the pianoforte and began playing a country-dance. Partners took to the floor with unprecedented alacrity.

Nonetheless, he couldn’t get her words out of his mind. He made a mental note to investigate whether the textile industry in Lancashire were half as bad as she claimed.

Daphne walked up to him wearing a pained expression.

He slanted her a look. “You didn’t have to be rude. There is no sense alienating the very people who could help you effect change.”

“They’re the very people who won’t.” She rubbed her temples, dislodging red-gold tendrils from their matronly twist. “Aristocrats won’t listen to me. I’m nobody. This isn’t my world.”

He raised a brow. “Where should you be? In a Cheapside tavern?”

“At my escritoire, concentrating on the textile situation.” As she stared at the dancers, her shoulders slumped. “If I toadeated the way I’d need to in order to get these people to accept me, I wouldn’t have time to champion causes at all.”

His gaze flicked across the crowd. Daphne was right. These families were unlikely to listen to her. But that didn’t mean they were heartless. Many of the women had charities of their own. They simply also took time to have fun. He wished Daphne could, too. She could use some happiness. “Your ‘causes’ are all commendable projects, but must you make them your entire life?”

“My causes are my entire life.” Her eyes glistened and she looked away. “It’s the one way I can make a difference in the world. No one will remember me when I’m gone, but my efforts will have improved lives. That has to count for something.”

He frowned at her. “What do you mean, you won’t be remembered? Everyone will miss you when you’re gone.”

“Everyone who? My dead grandparents? My dead mother? My dead father? Katherine, of course, but she doesn’t need me, and her aunt has no doubt already forgotten me.” Daphne’s fingers curled into fists. “I want my life to matter. The weavers, the miners, the farmers… they desperately need someone. Why shouldn’t it be me?”

He shook his head. “Because you can’t do it by yourself. No one can. You would need an army of volunteers, contacts with direct governmental influence—”

“So I should sit back and do nothing? Beg Lady Jersey for permission to waltz?”

He coughed into his fist. “You don’t have permission to waltz?”

“Are you even listening to me?” she demanded, cheeks pink. “Or to yourself? Who cares about Almack’s patronesses when there are a hundred more important matters right outside our doors? I know it doesn’t bother them”—she motioned toward the laughing, dancing partygoers—“but doesn’t it matter at least a tiny bit to you? You used to care about what happened to others. You went to war to defend the defenseless.”

“And look how splendidly that turned out,” he said through clenched teeth. “It ruined my life and stole my brother’s.”

“Never stop fighting.” Her clear green eyes pierced him. “Many people are desperate for aid. Are you truly the sort of person who would let them die without lending a hand?”

Anger raced through his blood at her presumption. She had no idea what the war had cost him. What he was no longer willing to give up. His jaw worked.

He was saved from answering by the arrival of one of the young bucks from the dinner table.

The boy blushed. “If you don’t mind, I’ve more questions about when it’s better to wear trousers versus knee breeches.”

The fire in Daphne’s eyes indicated her head might combust.

“I’m afraid your life-or-death trouser questions will have to wait.” She reached for Bartholomew’s arm. “I quite adore a country-dance, and I believe my fiancé was just about to invite me.”

“Doubtful,” he responded. “I’m afraid I don’t dance.”

Her fingers dropped from his arm as her cheeks flushed scarlet. “You can’t… I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think.”

“I can.” His voice had gone brittle the moment he registered the horror on her face was due to his missing leg. “I choose not to.”

“Then I shan’t either.” She reached out her hand, her eyes pleading. “Bartholomew, forgive me. I—”

He blasted his most charming smile in the direction of the young dandy. “I would consider it a personal favor if you were to stand up with my fiancée this set. It seems she quite adores a country-dance.”

“Of course,” the boy stammered, his wide-eyed gaze darting between them. “Right away.”

He hurried Daphne onto the dance floor to join the other couples.

Bartholomew crossed his arms and wondered whether she really did enjoy country-dances. He certainly hated watching her perform them with other men.

He’d realized partway through supper that half the reason he was furious with her for burning bridges with abandon was because if she was no longer welcome in London—once she was no longer in London—he was unlikely to ever see her again.

He was no longer doing an old friend a favor. He was enjoying spending time with someone whose presence would be missed when she was no longer part of his life.

Mrs. Epworth, a recent widow, sidled up to him while he was staring daggers at the lad dancing with Daphne.

“It’s so good to see you back in society, Major Blackpool,” she cooed. “You’re as handsome as ever.”

He grunted noncommittally.

“Is there any chance I can talk you into wearing your regimentals for me?” She fluttered her eyelashes. “Or better yet, talk you out of them?”

Never! shot through his head like a bullet. Not with her. Not with anyone. His casual rakish encounters weren’t just over; his days of physical intimacy were through. Even he could no longer bear to look at himself naked.

Mrs. Epworth gave a slow, suggestive wink.

He turned and walked away.

His jaw worked. The widow Epworth was known for taking her dalliances with men who allayed her ennui. Actors, foreign dignitaries, the occasional marquess. That she was speaking to him at all meant she considered him a novelty. His hands shook.

He had no intention of being her next novelty. Of being chosen because the thought of lying with a one-legged soldier amused her.

Being a curiosity was even worse than being pitied. He was no longer a whole man, but nor was he a freak exhibition at a penny circus.

He never should’ve come back out into Society.

The music changed. A waltz. Daphne was in the arms of Willoughby’s eldest son. Bartholomew despised all of them. All of the young bucks and bachelors and married men with their perfect legs and happy lives.

There was nothing wrong with Willoughby’s eldest son, of course. He was a year or two younger than Bartholomew, of fine stock and gentle humor, and heir apparent to a coronet. His obvious lack of offense to Daphne’s gaucheness at dinner spoke to his empathy and good breeding. Perhaps he was even now capturing Daphne’s heart.

Bartholomew wished the idea didn’t make him feel like planting that fine young man a facer.

After the waltz ended, Daphne returned to his side. “If you’re not going to dance, can we go? I believe we’ve made our mark.”

Gladly.

Pausing only to thank their hosts for their hospitality, he had a footman summon the carriage and sent another to fetch their outerwear. By the time the landau appeared, they were both bundled against the wretched winter weather.

Heads down, they hurried out the door and into the carriage.

As soon as the door locked tight against the wind, she tossed her muff to the squab in disgust. “Thank heavens that’s over. If you think for one second that I enjoyed anything at all within those walls—”

He cupped her chin with his hand and kissed her.

She didn’t rear back or slap his face. She curled her fingers about the lapels of his greatcoat and pulled him close. Good. The last thing he wished to do was let her go. He pushed the pad of his thumb against her chin, encouraging her to open her mouth to him.

Her mouth yielded to his immediately. Sweetly. She tasted of berries and honey. Ambrosia in his arms.

He deepened the kiss and she met him with equal urgency. Tasting. Taking. She was everything he wanted and knew he couldn’t have. He pulled away, gasping for air. Straining for self-control. He could not kiss her again.

If he did, he might never stop.

NINETEEN

Daphne stared blankly into the looking glass as her lady’s maid plucked a few artful tendrils free of the elegant chignon the girl had managed to twist from Daphne’s stubborn hair. She didn’t register any of it. Her mind was still replaying the last few moments of the previous night.

A small stack of correspondence rested on her escritoire. Unread. Katherine had no doubt already summoned a carriage meant to whisk them to the new exhibition at the antiquities museum. And yet the only thought Daphne’s muddled brain was capable of forming was:

He’d finally kissed her.

And regretted it almost instantly—there was no misinterpreting his vociferous self-reproach—but before he had practically shoved her into the town house, before they had spent an awkward half hour in stony silence, he had lifted her face to his and kissed her senseless.

Worse, she hadn’t just let him take such a liberty. She’d liked it. Welcomed it. Wished he’d done so sooner. Wished he’d keep doing it. Charity work be damned.

Impossible.

Upon realizing that the attraction she’d tried so hard to deny was just as reluctantly reciprocated, Daphne’s second reaction was horror. She couldn’t wed. And absolutely not Bartholomew. He was her opposite in every way and would clearly never condone the rootless, monkish life she intended to live, traveling wherever help was most needed, immersing herself in every walk of life.

But wasn’t that putting the cart before the horse? All they’d shared was a kiss. A single, beautiful, utterly addicting kiss.

Mutual attraction didn’t have to mean marriage. Bartholomew had left a trail of broken hearts and happy sighs before leaving for war. He hadn’t felt compelled to wed any of those women. None were debutantes; they knew precisely what they were and weren’t getting: a chance to indulge mutual attraction for a few hours.

Perhaps a woman destined to a scandalous life of lonesome crusading could spare a night or two before setting out on her journey. Indulge in something utterly and completely for herself.

The question was, could she?

A year ago, Daphne would have been wholly against the idea. Today—or, rather, the moment that he’d kissed her—the desire coursing through her traitorous body strongly felt that a carriage was as good a place as any to do something scandalous, and Bartholomew was precisely the right man to do it with.

As maddening as he could be, she’d wondered what it would feel like to have his lips on hers ever since the faux engagement began. Now that she knew the answer, keeping a safe distance would be that much harder.

She bit her lip. Was restraint necessary, if the man in question was as disinterested in marriage as she was?

Not only could he be trusted with her best-kept secrets, he was actively campaigning for her to jilt him first. If there was ever going to be a man with whom a crusader for the unfortunate could exchange the occasional bone-melting kiss, that man was Bartholomew Blackpool.

The better question was, how would she feel about it once they parted ways? Would he be a pleasant memory of stolen moments and passionate kisses? Or would she turn into a rabid harpy and long to claw the eyes out of all the other women that would replace her in his arms?

There would undoubtedly be many. Daphne’s hands curled into fists. She wasn’t blind. Neither were the glamorous, worldly women who cast heavy-lidded gazes at him across the room.

She hadn’t missed the obvious intent in Mrs. Epworth’s sashay up to Bartholomew’s side, and the lewd invitation she’d no doubt whispered into his ear. The widow believed him to be betrothed and still hadn’t wished to let an opportunity slip away. Once he was single again, there’d be no end to the buffet of eager, elegant ladies lined up to help fill the void.

Not that she’d be there to see it, Daphne reminded herself sternly. She’d be in Manchester or South Tyneside or wherever help was needed. And she absolutely wouldn’t be stupid enough to scan the scandal sheets for mention of his name.

Probably.

“There.” Esther slid the last of the pins into Daphne’s hair and stood back to admire her handiwork. “Perfect.”

Daphne blinked at the looking glass.

The woman reflected back at her was a calm, coiffed, elegant stranger. The kind of woman who would be completely unconcerned about her faux fiancé’s many admirers because she, quite frankly, wasn’t one of them, and looked forward to dissolving the temporary alliance and never crossing paths again.

Daphne averted her gaze. She didn’t wonder when she’d ceased being that cold, disinterested woman. She wondered if she’d ever truly been her to begin with.

She thanked Esther and rose to her feet, determined to make it through the evening with some semblance of self-control. No more pining for Bartholomew. Katherine was thrilled about her antiquities museum’s new exhibition. Daphne would smile and applaud and be thrilled for her. That’s what friends did.

Even if it meant going to an antiquities museum.

When their carriage arrived, the bounce in Katherine’s step and the nervous excitement in her eyes made Daphne rethink her initial reluctance to attend. Her escritoire contained a mountain of correspondence pertaining to dozens of worthy causes, but did that truly make Daphne the better person? She now recognized that one reason she cared so deeply about charity work was because she wanted people to care about her.

In contrast, Katherine cared about her antiquities museum because she wanted people to care about… antiquities.

Put like that, whose motives were purer?

Daphne’s cheeks heated in shame. Bartholomew was right. She’d let her prejudices alienate the very people she ought to have been befriending. She reached over and gave Katherine’s hand a squeeze. “Everyone will love your new exhibition. The party will be splendid.”

Katherine’s face lit up. “I hope so. Thank you so much for coming with me. I hated to tear you away from more important work, but it wouldn’t feel like celebrating without you here, too.”

Daphne swallowed a lump in her throat. “It’s my pleasure. You’ve worked just as hard as I do, and you deserve to succeed.”

Katherine pulled her into a quick hug. “You’re the best. Promise me you’ll try to have fun tonight?”

Daphne nodded wordlessly. She didn’t regret the path she’d chosen in life, but for the first time she wondered if there could be more than one right option. The choice between pleasure and charity work had always been clear. She now wished there was a way to have both. To travel to all the families who needed her, fight for justice and employment and safety, and have someone to come home to when the day was done.

Her chest felt oddly hollow, despite the steady stream of excited guests flooding into the museum. At least she wouldn’t be required to speak coherently with anyone. Antiquities were Katherine’s expertise. Daphne was just there for support. She could fade into the shadows and try to imagine a life where she not only got everything she’d been working toward, but also something extra. Something even better.

Love.

She grabbed Katherine’s arm when the very object of her thoughts strolled through the main doors on the other side of the room.

“What’s he doing here?” she whispered, simultaneously delighted and despondent to spend the next hour under the same roof. He was the reason her easy decisions were suddenly so hard. Charity work was a sure thing. Love was a risk.

And Daphne wasn’t much of a gambler.

Katherine flashed her a smile. “Major Blackpool? I invited him. The more the merrier, and he’s a treasure with crowds.”

Daphne wished she’d worn a prettier gown.

Her best friend was right, of course. The more attention Katherine could bring to the new exhibition, the better. And Bartholomew was incredible with crowds.

Daphne wasn’t the only one who found him charismatic. Even when every word falling from his silver tongue was unadulterated balderdash, people listened to him. Gobbled it up. Sought him out for more. He appeared more energized with every such encounter.

She, on the other hand, hated to be on display. She went wherever people needed help because it was the right thing to do, not because she had any particular fondness for crowds. She much preferred the distance and anonymity of letter writing and a good pseudonym. The only reason she and Katherine had become friends was because Katherine had never not made a friend in her life.

Much like Bartholomew.

He was currently regaling a group of preening fops with an anecdote so sidesplittingly hilarious, several dandies looked dangerously close to soiling their buckskin breeches.

What must it be like to be universally admired? Exhausting, she supposed. Daphne sighed. She would never be effortlessly popular like Bartholomew or Katherine. She was made of different stuff.

No matter. While her name would never appear in scandal sheets or history tomes, her life still had meaning. She would be the woman who made the world a better place.

Just as soon as she quit gazing across the room at Bartholomew.

If she hadn’t been watching him with as much focus as a lioness stalks her prey, she might not have noticed the slight wince in his smile every time he was forced to move a few inches in one direction or another.

The wince didn’t appear to be borne of pain. Nor did he even have a limp. With or without the handsome swordstick he occasionally carried, the man was more graceful now than Daphne had ever been. So why the wince?

She studied him even more minutely. The barely perceptible tic was more a grimace than a wince, and only occurred when he moved his right leg.

His missing right leg.

She tilted her head as she considered his prosthesis. Its wooden calf was just as shapely and equally concealed behind stockings and shiny leather footwear. She’d been told the ankle joint even boasted catgut tendons for greater flexibility and aesthetics.

The craftsmanship was a mix of artistry and the latest in modern technology. It certainly wasn’t anything to be ashamed of. Just by glancing at him, one would never guess that everything below the knee was false.

By listening to him, however… Daphne frowned. Now that she thought upon it, there was a distinctive snick as the articulated foot section clicked into place. Her eyes widened.

Up until now, she’d assumed his disinclination to rejoin society—much less to dance—was due to the very understandable concern that his false limb might not support his weight or activities, and he might injure himself even further in a fall.

She now suspected what he suffered was a visceral fear of humiliation.

He’d been a rake, a dandy, and a soldier. All three aspects had garnered him nothing but admiration from his peers. He no longer fit those roles because he no longer felt the part. Instead of being proud of his body, he was shamed by it. He’d obviously been mortified that morning in the vicarage when his leg had collapsed in front of witnesses. But it hadn’t been his fault.

Daphne doubted she could’ve withstood the force of Mrs. Blackpool launching herself deadweight into Daphne’s arms. Anyone would have fallen. Not everyone would have leapt back up. Bartholomew’s impairment hadn’t made him weaker. It had made him stronger.

He was still achieving victories that would have destroyed another man. The only person who thought him lesser for his injury was Bartholomew himself.

She edged closer to where he conversed with the other dandies.

His blue eyes sparkled when he saw her and he held out a hand to pull her closer to the group. “Have you all met my ravishing fiancée? This delightful young lady is Miss Daphne Vaughan. Darling, these ruffians are Mr. Dunham, Mr. Bost, and Mr. Underhill. Pay them no mind.”

“Betrothed!” teased one of the men. “Don’t you know wives are expensive?”

“They cost an arm and a leg,” Bartholomew agreed innocently, then winked as he gestured toward his prosthesis. “I’ve already paid the first installment.”

The gentlemen roared with laughter.

Daphne heroically refrained from throwing a slipper at her betrothed’s head.

His constant self-deprecation finally made sense. Bartholomew didn’t make light of his loss because he didn’t care what people thought, but because he very much did. He tried to belittle himself before others could do so, in order to save his pride the blow of public humiliation.

She wished she could shake some sense into him. Such efforts were misguided and unnecessary. The only people who didn’t flat out adore him were the ones who were jealous of him, like that horrid Phineas Mapleton.

As soon as Bartholomew realized that, he’d regain the only thing he was truly missing: his confidence. When would he realize he needn’t poke fun at himself?

She frowned at the dandies. Was she the first one to understand it took just as much courage to face his peers with gregariousness and wit on their own battleground as it did to purchase a commission to sail off to war?

That he could do so with charm and a swagger made him seem even more of a legend, even larger than life, than when he’d been at the height of his popularity three and a half years earlier. His determination was awe-inspiring. If he’d been irresistibly arrogant before… once he regained his confidence, he’d be nigh on unstoppable.

Already there were a gaggle of interested ladies making eyes at him from the other side of the exhibition hall. Daphne’s fingernails bit into her palms. Perhaps she should encourage him to make his leg-shackle jokes a little louder.

No. She needed to cry off, not stake her claim. In fact, she needed him to cry off. Realizing he could return to his previous unencumbered rakish life might help him do that.

She swallowed her jealousy as a pair of giggling young ladies wiggled up to him to present their fingers for a kiss. Who cared if they ignored her? Daphne wouldn’t be around much longer.

Once she and Bartholomew went their separate ways, they would both be free to do as they pleased, to be whatever kind of person they wished. Separating was the only way to ensure happiness for both of them.

She bared her teeth at the simpering young ladies. They were too enthralled with Bartholomew to notice the mousy woman on his arm.

It didn’t matter. Soon she wouldn’t have to witness such blatant flirtation. Soon she would be halfway across the country, crusading for better causes. She was winning. She’d gammoned her heartless guardian and would soon have her independence. Freedom was within reach.

She just wished it didn’t feel like the only one she’d tricked was herself.

TWENTY

Just as Bartholomew finished the last of his strengthening exercises, his butler entered the parlor bearing a platter of afternoon mail.

Crabtree dangled it toward the fire. “Shall I torch the post at once?”

Bartholomew held out his hand in silence.

“As you wish, sir.” His face carefully devoid of smugness, Crabtree placed the stack into Bartholomew’s hand and quit the parlor without a backward glance.

Bartholomew hauled himself up from the floor and into a chair to read. He hadn’t burnt correspondence without opening it since the day he’d left for Kent to rescue Daphne.

Nonetheless, Crabtree never missed an opportunity to point out his master’s previous obstinacy by politely enquiring whether he ought to set fire to every missive that crossed the threshold.

Ignoring his butler, Bartholomew flipped through the pile. The topmost items were invitations to upcoming events. Another musicale, a few dinner parties… the Caxton ball. The corner of his mouth tilted as an idea formed.

He ought to take Daphne. A woman ought to experience at least one ball.

There was nothing so grand back in Maidstone. If Daphne followed through on her goal to become a nomadic crusader for England’s voiceless poor, she was unlikely to have another opportunity to attend such a rout. Much as she denied it, he suspected she did adore a country-dance.

If he’d thought he could do it justice without embarrassing himself—or her—he would certainly have tried. He already regretted turning down an opportunity to have her in his arms while he still could. No London in her future meant no Bartholomew in her future.

His jaw tightened. He was finding himself ever more disinclined to accept such a fate.

Less obvious was what to do about it.

Daphne wanted her independence. The right to marry when and if she found someone worthy of her love. The freedom to determine what to do with her life and where to live it. Even if that meant never seeing her again.

London was his home. He belonged here. He would never have the sort of life he’d imagined for himself when he’d been younger, but that didn’t mean he could no longer enjoy the city. Hope unfurled in his chest. Dinner parties, card games, friends… He was still welcome.

Not at Almack’s, of course. The marriage mart would be as disinterested in him as he was in it. A broken soldier wasn’t meant for the altar, but he now realized that didn’t mean he needed to close himself off completely. London had something for everyone.

He broke the seal on the next letter and bolted upright. The report. A fortnight ago, he’d hired a man to investigate the facts behind Daphne’s pet causes. He read through the front in dismay. His jaw dropped when he turned the page. The reality was even worse than Daphne had claimed.

The issues she championed were more than real. They were positively hopeless. He flipped to the next page and winced at the numbers. At the suffering. Someone needed to help these people.

He swallowed. He should never have discounted her fervent charity work as a mere obsession. Daphne deserved his respect, not his indulgence. Every one of her concerns were valid. His stomach twisted. She was right about everything.

Horrified, he scanned the pages even faster. Every paragraph was more appalling than the last. There was no possible way that one young woman, no matter how intrepid, might save the orphans, protect the miners, employ the weavers, curb wheat inflation, calm the Luddites, improve workhouses… It would take an army of Daphnes to even make a dent.

He closed the report with a shudder. He could no longer stand between her and her goals. His idle, self-pitying life was scarcely a nobler cause. He slipped the document into his waistcoat pocket. There had to be some way he could help.

If so, he might not need a pretext to stay in contact with Daphne after all. If they were both crusaders, perhaps they wouldn’t have to say goodbye.

Quickly, he sifted through the rest of the post. The last letter in the pile bore a seal from the Duke of Ravenwood’s estate. Eyebrows rising, Bartholomew broke the wax.

He hadn’t seen the Duke of Ravenwood since Oliver’s wedding. Not unusual, in and of itself. Of their core circle of friends, Ravenwood had always been the most serious. He’d inherited the dukedom at a young age and rarely attended frivolous Society entertainments.

Ravenwood did, however, cherish his friends. He, Xavier, Oliver, Edmund, and Bartholomew had once been inseparable.

Perhaps the duke’s sister had mentioned running into Bartholomew at Katherine Ross’s crush the other night. The soirée had been so well attended, Bartholomew almost wondered that Ravenwood hadn’t made room in his schedule. Miss Ross had apparently managed to wrangle every other Londoner into accepting the invitation.

Smiling, Bartholomew unfolded the letter.

Blackpool,

Come to Ravenwood House at your earliest convenience. We need to talk about S.

Ravenwood

Sarah. Bartholomew’s flesh chilled. He had failed her completely. Heart sinking, he leaned his head against the back of his chair and closed his eyes.

There was nothing to talk about. He’d broken his promise to bring Edmund home alive.

When he’d learned she was pregnant, he did not offer himself as a means to save her reputation and give her baby a name. He couldn’t.

And now her life was over. Bartholomew’s niece or nephew would be born a bastard. His parents would lose their minds. Her friends would abandon her. All because Edmund had followed his brother to the ends of the earth.

Bartholomew tossed the note aside and rubbed his face. What was left to say?

He pushed to his feet. He was no coward. Whatever the situation, he had to face it head on. It was his fault Edmund had joined the army and his fault Edmund hadn’t left the battlefield alive. Sarah’s predicament wasn’t going to get any better. Bartholomew would do whatever he could to help. He owed her that much.

He owed it to Edmund.

Within the hour, Bartholomew was seated in the duke’s private study.

Ravenwood dismissed his servants and shut the door before taking a seat across from Bartholomew. His face was drawn, his cheeks pallid.

None of which was helping to calm Bartholomew’s growing trepidation.

The duke steepled his fingers. “When my sister married Lord Sheffield last month, she left Ravenwood House in clockwork condition.”

Bartholomew furrowed his brow. Ravenwood wanted to waste time with small talk before discussing the matter at hand? ’Twas so unlike the duke, it took a moment for Bartholomew to gather the wits to respond. “I believe we can all agree that Lady Amelia whips everything she touches into clockwork precision.”

“Just so.” Ravenwood nodded slowly, then drew up straight. “My home is now without a mistress. Sarah and her unborn baby need a name. I have decided to give them one.”

Bartholomew’s mouth fell open. “You’re making Sarah your duchess?”

“Do you think her unworthy of the position?”

“Of course not.” Bartholomew sputtered. “She’s been one of us since we were children. My brother was going to marry her.”

Ravenwood’s voice was grave. “You think I should refrain out of respect for your brother?”

“No, I…” Bartholomew shoved a hand through his hair. “Every single day, I ask myself what Edmund would want. The answer, of course, is the safety and happiness of his intended and their child.”

Ravenwood inclined his head. “But?”

Bartholomew hesitated. “I’ve thought of marrying her myself, for the reasons you state. I’ve denounced my own selfishness for failing to do so. Edmund was my brother. The child in Sarah’s womb is part of my family. Why should you be the one to sacrifice your future happiness?”

“Who said I…” But even Ravenwood couldn’t complete the thought. Of the four friends, he was the romantic who had always sworn to only marry for love. Thus far, it hadn’t happened. Now it never would.

“Do you love her?” Bartholomew asked quietly.

Ravenwood looked away. “We’re all fond of Sarah.”

“Don’t play cute,” Bartholomew chided him. “Do you love her?”

Ravenwood arched a brow. “Since when do you care about love?”

“Since recently,” Bartholomew admitted. “But you’ve searched for it your whole life. Are you prepared to throw your dreams away to help a friend?”

“Isn’t that what friendship is?”

Was it? Bartholomew tapped his fingers against the armrest and tried to think of a situation that would work out for everybody. He failed to come up with one. “I’m not trying to talk you out of marrying. I can’t think of anything better that could happen to Sarah or her baby. I just hate to see you miserable.”

“That is a trade we were both willing to make,” came the duke’s clipped reply.

Bartholomew straightened. “You’ve already spoken with her?”

Ravenwood laughed humorlessly. “She was harder to convince than you were. We have never thought of each other as more than friends, and she fears the union will necessarily result in me resenting her or the child for taking away my opportunity to marry for love.”

Bartholomew winced. Those were very good points. “In the end, you prevailed?”

“The babe prevailed.” The duke’s smile was grim. “She won’t get a better offer. Or any offer. The midwife believes Sarah is just a few weeks away from giving birth. I am their only hope.” He lifted a shoulder. “What choice do we have?”

Bartholomew’s heart twisted. When he and the others had purchased their commissions into the army, they had pitied Ravenwood for having to stay home and mind a dukedom rather than rush headlong into adventure.

The war hadn’t brought any of them glory. Nor had a dukedom let Ravenwood escape unscathed, evidently. It turned out there were plenty of consequences to go around.

Ravenwood brushed invisible dust from his breeches. “Can I count on you to be a witness? You may say no, if you feel your loyalties are too divided.”

“My loyalty is to you and Sarah.” Bartholomew shifted uncomfortably. Of course he would stand up as witness to two of his dearest friends giving up their dreams in order to rescue the future of an unborn child.

He swallowed. Who was to say they wouldn’t find love?

As the duke had pointed out, they were all fond of her. She would make any man a good wife.

And as for Ravenwood, what was not to love? He was one of the finest men of Bartholomew’s acquaintance. A touch solemn, perhaps. Attentive to duty, certainly. But also clever, kindhearted, honest…

Certainly a better choice than if Bartholomew had offered himself in the duke’s place. Ravenwood was a whole man in every sense, not a patchwork monster missing half his leg and half his heart.

Bartholomew’s chest tightened. He could never marry. A daughter would need a father to dance with, to swing her up on a pony or teach her to swim. A son would need a father to spar with, to toss him into the air as a baby and to race across the countryside astride new stallions. And a wife…

He swallowed hard. Years before, he hadn’t been worth considering for marriage because he was too self-centered, too much of a rake. Now he wasn’t worth considering because he wasn’t much of anything at all.

“Thank you,” the duke said quietly. “Your support means everything.”

Bartholomew exhaled. “As does yours.”

“Come.” Ravenwood rose to his feet. “I’ll see you out.”

Bartholomew pushed up from the chair and followed him down the corridor.

The front door opened just as they reached the entryway. Ravenwood’s butler helped Lady Amelia inside. Her eyes sparkled to see the two of them together.

“Brother dear. Major Blackpool.” She bussed Ravenwood on the cheek before turning to Bartholomew. “How bad of you to be leaving just as I arrive!”

He bowed. “Perhaps we will see each other again the next time Miss Ross sponsors a fete.”

Lady Amelia laughed. “Perhaps so. It was certainly lovely to meet your fiancée. Where will you be getting married?”

Nowhere, of course. But he would wait until Daphne officially cried off before letting anyone know.

“My parents would disown me if I wed outside of Maidstone,” he said instead. That much was true. “It was all I could do to talk them out of begging Ravenwood to help me procure a special license so we can have the wedding in my parents’ rear garden.”

Ravenwood’s eyes widened in surprise. “If you had but mentioned—”

“The banns and a church are perfectly fine,” Bartholomew assured him. And also perfectly unnecessary. He turned back to Amelia. “How are you adapting to married life? Do you miss lording over Ravenwood House with your iron fist?”

“I miss having something productive to do with my time,” she admitted with a smile. “My husband’s estate is shockingly efficient.”

An idea began to form in the back of Bartholomew’s mind. “It sounds like you could use a project or two. Have you ever heard of a Davy lamp?”

“I have not.” Lady Amelia tugged a small journal and the nub of a pencil from her reticule. “Tell me everything.”

Ravenwood chuckled. “Mind your step, Blackpool. Whatever plot you’re brewing, Amelia is bound to overtake it entirely.”

“Perhaps that’s just the thing.” Bartholomew considered the viscountess in silence. She would be a formidable ally. “Daphne is passionate about charity work. She has more projects than any one woman could reasonably hope to accomplish. I was thinking to myself that what she needed was an army—”

“—when you realized all she needs is a lieutenant,” Lady Amelia finished with a sharp nod. “Say no more. I shall assemble the army.”

“Told you,” Ravenwood murmured. “She’ll have everything sorted by suppertime.”

“I wish I thought it were possible for things to be sorted within our lifetimes,” Bartholomew said. “But if we get enough people working together toward a common goal…”

His blood pulsed faster. If Lady Amelia could amass an army, perhaps Daphne wouldn’t have to travel the country, immersing herself in potentially dangerous situations. With London as a command center, perhaps she could stay right here.

With him.

Hope flooded him for the first time. What if he could give Daphne a reason to stay? A reason not to break the betrothal after all? Perhaps even a reason to love him?

“No need to take notes.” He yanked his investigator’s report from his waistcoat pocket and presented the roll of papers to Lady Amelia. “That should give you a fair idea of what Daphne’s hoping to accomplish. Take a look, think it over, and perhaps the three of us can meet to discuss your ideas in a week or two?”

“In a week or two, we’ll have an army of charity soldiers at your fiancée’s disposal.” Amelia tucked her journal and the report into her reticule. “May I just say how refreshing it is that you intend to help, rather than hinder, a wife who knows what she wants? The world could use more men like you, Major Blackpool.”

Ravenwood grinned. “Lord help us. London’s going to be awash in strong-willed, opinionated ladies when the fashionable Major Blackpool starts a new trend.”

“I, for one, think he chose wisely.” Lady Amelia dipped a curtsey. “I shall be honored to do charity work with your wife. And I do hope it starts a trend.”

Bartholomew’s smile faltered. If only he could start such a trend. But he hadn’t chosen Daphne any more than she’d chosen him. Yet he could no longer hide the truth. If he could choose a wife…

It could only be Daphne.

TWENTY-ONE

Daphne wished she could drum up the proper level of enthusiasm about the Caxton ball. That it would be a sumptuous gala, more magical than anything she’d previously experienced, she had no doubt.

She also knew it would be her last.

Her birthday loomed around the corner. She had an appointment with the bank and a solicitor set up for that same afternoon.

All that was left was packing her trunk and purchasing passage on the first mail coach heading toward Lancashire. She’d already prioritized her list and mapped out the best route to visit the most urgent cases personally. By this time next week, she’d be gone.

All that was good news. Wonderful news. There was no reason at all for the great yawning emptiness inside at the thought of finally realizing her hard-won dreams.

No reason except Bartholomew.

He was escorting her to tonight’s ball. Escorting her, Katherine, and Mrs. Havens, to be precise. He’d scowled at her as though it were her fault they required extra chaperonage because he no longer believed the presence of a mere maid could stop him from kissing her.

She hoped the chaperones would fail.

She was tired of being proper. Tired of pretending she didn’t want Bartholomew. Tired of him protecting her from his passions when what she truly wished was to be swept away by them. To have a few moments in his embrace. Moments where all else fell away and all that was left was each other.

Bartholomew, on the other hand, thought a society ball would be a fine place for her to publicly jilt him.

As if she would. As if she could. He had become too important to her. It was taking every ounce of her will and courage to leave him behind in order to devote her life to improving the lives of others. She rubbed her arms, chilled at the thought. He had to cry off. Her first act as a free woman couldn’t be to ruin him. Not when he was finally coming back to life.

She took a deep breath and made her way toward the stairs.

Bubbling voices indicated he had already arrived, and that Katherine and her great-aunt were conversing with him in the front parlor.

Daphne hurried down the stairs, but pulled up short when she reached the open doorway.

Bartholomew was breathtaking. His eyes were the same crystalline blue, his brown hair the same soft mane, his cravat and clothing as tailored and impeccable as ever. What had changed was him. He no longer carried himself like a cautious, grief-stricken ex-soldier. He carried himself like the popular, self-assured rake he’d once been. The powerful, captivating man he still was.

His confidence had returned. His arrogant swagger. His irresistible charm.

The effect was devastatingly attractive.

A flutter unfurled in her belly. This was how he’d earned his reputation. Not because he consciously set out to charm and seduce women, but because they couldn’t help but insert themselves in his path, hoping he might notice them even a fraction as intensely as they were enthralled by him.

Elderly Mrs. Havens all but preened before him, her infectious giggles a trifle too loud, her unwavering gaze a trifle too melting.

Even Katherine was toying unconsciously with a tendril of hair, her eyes on Bartholomew. Katherine had licked her lips no less than three times in the scant minutes since Daphne had appeared in the doorway.

Heaven help her. Every woman at the Caxton crush would be drawn to him tonight.

She wasn’t jealous, she reminded herself firmly. He was hers. If only for another week.

Her stomach twisted at the thought.

He glanced up toward the doorway. His blue eyes softened when he caught sight of her. “Daphne. You’ve always been pretty, but tonight you look stunning. I’ll be the envy of every gentleman when I escort you to the ball.”

Her cheeks warmed, and her voice came out breathier than she’d intended. “Th-thank you.”

He then proceeded to take Mrs. Havens’ arm, not Daphne’s.

She forced her tense facial muscles to relax. He was escorting all three of them, so of course Katherine’s aunt took precedence. What Daphne hadn’t expected was that their brief exchange of pleasantries would be the only thought he spared for her. Not when she couldn’t stop thinking about him.

She hadn’t even cared about balls until the opportunity for Bartholomew to escort her arose. Then her mind bubbled over with gowns and curling tongs and long, slow dances. She’d wanted to impress him. She’d wanted tonight to be special. She’d wanted to feel like a real fiancée.

Instead, Bartholomew sat next to Mrs. Havens in the carriage. He set about charming her with amusing anecdotes during the entire ride, delighting Katherine and annoying Daphne, though she tried valiantly not to show her hurt at being forgotten.

Her fingernails bit into her palms. She’d been ignored and insignificant her entire life. She should have known better than to let herself believe she mattered to him. He hadn’t even bothered pretending.

If he intended to spend their last evening out without so much as light conversation, much less illicit kisses, perhaps that was for the best. It was high time she got used to living without him.

When they arrived at the Caxtons’, he all but vanished the moment their names were read. Other than catching the occasional glimpse of the back of his head as he talked with this marchioness or that countess, Daphne might not have realized they were under the same roof at all.

He certainly seemed to have more interest in flattering crafty-eyed widows than he did in the woman he was allegedly courting.

Katherine, for her part, didn’t notice or care. She knew every person who crossed her path, and effortlessly amused the sillier chits and fops, and then held the investors and collectors captive with more serious talk before she was whisked off to dance with a seemingly endless stream of eligible gentlemen.

Daphne’s dance card was nowhere near that full, but whenever she did get a nibble, Katherine cheerfully took Daphne’s place watching over her great-aunt, so that Daphne could enjoy a set or two swirling about the Caxtons’ magnificent ballroom.

Except she couldn’t enjoy it. Not when the one man who interested her was too interested in everyone else.

He was currently surrounded by a flock of fawning debutantes, each with more feathers protruding from her hair than the last. Daphne clenched her teeth. Every one of those girls was precisely the sort of mindless, adoring sycophant that she had long suspected men tended to marry. The kind of woman Daphne wasn’t.

She forced herself to look away. If that was the sort of young lady Bartholomew preferred, then he was welcome to them.

No matter how wonderful her husband, no matter how deeply she fell in love, she would never be the sort of person who could spend the rest of her life worshipping a man. She couldn’t devote herself to one person when she could be devoting herself to many.

Then again, she supposed a fair number of rakes shared that same thought process before—and after—they took a wife. Society marriages were strategic alliances, not love matches. Rare was the man who preferred his wife’s bed to that of his mistress.

That kind of husband would certainly be much less demanding on a wife’s time. Cocksure and arrogant, he’d flit from one bed to another, swaggering home only when it was time to beget an heir.

She used to think she’d prefer a husband like that.

She now knew she’d kill him.

That was her problem, she realized. She wasn’t just being forced to accept his divided attentions. He wasn’t hers at all. And he didn’t seem the least bothered.

How much worse would it be if their betrothal was real, but his affection was not? She was right to walk away. The worst kind of marriage wasn’t a husband who wished to spend too much time with her. It would be a husband that didn’t care about her at all. Spending the rest of her days with someone who was indifferent toward her would be a loneliness more empty and endless than any she’d ever known.

Her focus should remain on the people who did need her. Not tangle up her heart fantasizing about what could never be. She wasn’t fated for romance. Her fate was to be left behind. Forgotten.

Bartholomew had kissed her and swaggered away, with no more thought to it than that. Why should she expect any different? He had always been a rake. A temporary pleasure. The flirtatious women hanging on his arms knew precisely what they were—and weren’t—getting.

So did Daphne. Their relationship was in name only. Bartholomew wanted her chaperoned in order to keep his mouth at a safe distance, but that didn’t mean his lips weren’t busy elsewhere.

They had every right to be. Daphne held no true claim on the gentleman or his kisses. No right to his time after their betrothal had come to an end.

But, oh, she wished she did.

What’s more, she wished he were the one wondering what she was thinking and doing. She wished he were less confident about her interest. Uncertain he could steal a kiss even if there were no chaperonage for thirty miles. She wanted him to want her.

But she knew she couldn’t keep him.

When the music ended, she pasted a smile on her face before returning to Katherine and Mrs. Havens. She would pretend she was enjoying the evening, not yearning for a man she shouldn’t desire.

Katherine frowned. “What’s amiss? Have you the indigestion?”

Daphne stopped trying to smile. She gestured at the crowded ballroom. “I think I’m just over warm.”

“Care to take a turn in the garden?” came a low, warm voice from behind her.

Bartholomew. She spun to face him, not at all sure whether she were more likely to strike him for his flirtations or throw herself into his arms and beg to be kissed. Either way, she shouldn’t be trusted alone with him.

“Why, yes.” Mrs. Havens beamed at him. “I would love a turn in the garden.”

“Not you, Aunt. He means Daphne.” Katherine motioned for them to go on ahead. “Come, Aunt. Let’s find the ratafia.”

Daphne scowled at their backs. Traitors.

Bartholomew’s brow creased. “Are you all right?”

“Splendid,” she bit out in a tone that probably indicated she was anything but.

He was wise enough not to question her further.

Instead, he escorted her toward the folding screens separating the garden entrance from the rear of the ballroom. He bid a footman to fetch her pelisse. Once she’d donned it, he allowed her to take no more than a few steps onto the stone path before coming to a halt.

She squeezed his arm. “What is it?”

He frowned. “We’re the only ones out here.”

“It’s February,” she reminded him with a smile.

“It’s foolish. I wish to speak with you, but…” He tried to pivot her toward the ballroom. “We must return to the party.”

She refused to budge. “Speak with me about what?”

He glanced over his shoulder.

The folding screen blocked most of the light from the chandeliers, but the music from the orchestra wafted past as if carried on the wind. The garden was vacant and devoid of flowers, but its very emptiness gave them privacy. A thin sliver of moon was the only light they needed.

He took her hands. “I spoke to Lady Sheffield about your projects.”

Daphne’s stomach tightened. She supposed it was inevitable that her life’s work would become gossip fodder at tea parties. She just wished it didn’t make her feel so alone. “You spoke to whom?”

“The Duke of Ravenwood’s sister.” He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. “You might recall her from Miss Ross’s party. She’s Lord Sheffield’s new viscountess. She more commonly can be found managing households and holiday fêtes, so when I mentioned your concerns for the miners and the weavers—”

She jerked her fingers out of his grasp. “I don’t need you or anyone else mocking my beliefs or thinking me mad for trying to help. Many of these people will die without outside aid. The working conditions are deplorable and their living conditions horrid.”

“She wants to help.”

Daphne’s body froze. “What?”

“Lady Amelia is formidably efficient. She dubbed herself lieutenant of your army. Your people definitely want her on their side.”

“My people?” Daphne echoed faintly, her mind spinning. She had an army on her side? And a viscountess?

He took her hands again, his expression earnest. “The other women I’ve spoken to seem divided in ways one might anticipate. The debutantes probably won’t be interested in helping other people until they have secured their own futures. Ladies married to titled husbands already have more than enough tasks to keep them occupied. But there are quite a few dowagers and even a handful of widows who—”

“That’s what you’ve been doing?” she blurted. Her cheeks heated. “All those women you were speaking to…”

“I presumed ladies would be more easily persuaded to charity work than their husbands, but I intend to convince the men next. I’m still a member of several gentlemen’s clubs and, believe what you like, they are not solely dens of iniquity and vice.”

She gazed up at him, speechless. Guilt flooded her. Despite their past weeks together, she hadn’t hesitated to discount Bartholomew as a rake and a ne’er-do-well, when in fact he’d been crusading for her.

“Men may be less likely to dedicate their spare time toward volunteer work, but the more affluent might be free with their pocketbooks.” His eyes sparkled as he outlined his scheme. “With Lady Amelia’s organizational talent and a reasonable amount of initial funding, all of your projects can be priorities.”

He hadn’t forgotten her. Quite the opposite. He had aligned himself with her causes publicly and personally, in front of all the people whose opinions he valued. She stared at her feet. Bartholomew wasn’t the shallow one.

She was.

Who cared if it was her project or her ideas? Wasn’t forward progress the important part? Making a change in people’s lives? Was there any reason she shouldn’t allow others to help, if they were so inclined? Like Katherine always said, the more the merrier…

Daphne’s throat grew thick. Her best friend had offered to help in any way. Perhaps she could! Being patroness of an antiquities museum didn’t mean Katherine wouldn’t be just as valuable of an asset when it came to Daphne’s many causes. Katherine knew everyone and they all loved her back. She’d be an exceptional lieutenant to add to the army. New recruits would flock to her flame.

Then Lady Amelia Sheffield could organize the troops, and Daphne would pick the battles.

Bartholomew was already their major… and Daphne’s saving grace.

“Thank you.” She threw her arms around his neck and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you for helping me when I was too blind to help myself.”

“Your servant,” he said gruffly. But he didn’t let her go.

She rested the side of her face against his chest. His strong arms wrapped tightly about her, enveloping her in the heat of his embrace.

Contentment flooded her. As long as she was in his arms, nothing else mattered. He’d keep her warm. He’d keep her safe. He’d do everything within his power to keep her happy. She snuggled closer, listening for the beat of his heart. He was perfect. No wonder she couldn’t bear to let him go.

Her stomach dropped as she realized the truth. She wasn’t just attracted to him. She was in love with him.

And she was going to have to walk away.

She lifted her cheek from his chest. Rather than release her, he shifted his stance so that her right hand tucked into his and the fingers of his other hand splayed above the small of her back.

Slowly, he began to lead her in time with the music. Her breath caught. They were waltzing.

He gazed down at her. “I have wanted you in my arms since the moment you first mentioned you might come to London. I would have danced with you every day, if I could.” He met her eyes then glanced away. “It’s just so… humiliating. You’d already seen me fall. To add the clacking of my leg…”

She didn’t hear any clacking. She could barely even hear the music over the thundering of her heart at what this moment meant to him. He wasn’t just dancing with her. He was risking all the rejection and humiliation he’d had to cloister himself into his town house to avoid.

He was confronting his deepest fears just for the chance to waltz in the garden with her.

She touched the side of his face. “You don’t have to do this if you’re afraid someone might see.”

“I don’t care about anyone’s opinion but yours. If I fall…” His lips curved wryly as he met her eyes. “I think I’ve already fallen.”

Her heart thudded. “Then it’s fortunate we find ourselves in each other’s arms.”

“Indeed.” He lowered his mouth. Slowly. Giving her plenty of time to turn away.

She slid her fingers into his hair and lifted her lips to his. He was what she wanted.

His kisses were gentle. Tender. She didn’t want gentleness. Her heart yearned for him too sharply to be content with mere tenderness.

Her kisses were hungry, demanding. She wanted every taste, every sensation to be seared upon her soul. If she couldn’t keep him in her arms, she would keep moments like these in her memory. Cleave them to her heart.

His feet stilled and, slowly, he broke their kiss. Their private waltz had come to an end.

She couldn’t repress the small sound of disappointment that escaped her throat… until she realized how far they now were from the ballroom. Although still and bare, the gardens’ trees and fountains provided a dark, secluded nook, sheltering them from prying eyes and the winter wind.

They were alone. Scandalously, deliciously, alone.

She didn’t think for a moment that it meant he was finally willing to introduce her to hedonistic pleasure—no matter how many nights she dreamt of just such a liaison—but she was greedy for any part of himself he was willing to share.

He led her to a stone bench and pulled her onto his lap.

Eagerly, she wrapped her arms about his neck, thrilling at the warmth of his embrace. He could have forced her to go back inside. Yet he cradled her in his arms instead. She wished she could be there forever. Her heart beat so rapidly, pressed against his.

He kissed the top of her head, the side of her temple, the shell of her ear. Letting her know he wanted more. Letting her know it was her choice.

Of course she would choose him.

She lifted her parted lips to his. He took her mouth. Her soul. His arms were heaven. She devoured him, her tongue dancing with his. He held her closer. The heat and passion of his kisses proved the intensity of his desire matched that of her own.

Her skin grew hot. Her clothes, restrictive. She wished she could tear his greatcoat from his beautiful shoulders. Feel her mouth on his warm neck, his muscled arms, his bare chest. To taste him on her tongue and know that he was hers.

The fantasy was so intoxicating, it stole her breath. If she could have had him, she might never have become a crusader. Might never have had to make do with clandestine kisses on a garden bench. She would have been able to give herself to him every night and cherish him every day.

His kisses heated her flesh. Robbed her ability to think. All she could do was lose herself in the moment. Surrender to his mouth, his touch. Pray he never let her go.

He splayed his hands against her ribs, just beneath her spencer. Taking possession. She arched closer. He suckled her tongue, nipped her lower lip. Branded her. This was Bartholomew. Her Bartholomew. As desperate for her as she was for him.

She slid her hands in his hair and kissed him back. Only a foolish woman would ruin the moment with unnecessary words. He was right where she wanted him: in her arms. He would not be there forever. A smart woman would take advantage while she still could.

The pad of his thumb traced the lower curve of her breast. She gasped as a sudden yearning shot through her to twist into his touch until he was forced to cup her breast in his hand. She gripped his shoulders, his hair. How could he have so much control whilst she had none? She could be his, if only he would take her. Her body had surrendered completely.

Her nipples were taut with desire. The shiver racing down her spine had nothing to do with the chill of winter and everything to do with the man whose mouth fed so hungrily on hers, whose thumb was rising toward her nipple with deliberate, torturous slowness.

Did he think he might shock her with his touch? Too late. She had already shocked herself with how completely she desired him. With the nights she had awoken, drenched in sweat, her pulse pounding in her ears at the taste of his name still hot on her tongue.

Here he was, in her arms at last. Hers for the moment. She gasped in pleasure, in need, as his fingers teased her aching nipples. He was everything she wanted. Her body burned to have his bare flesh against hers.

If the wind were not so bitter… If they were not a stone’s throw from discovery…

His fingers dropped as if she had spoken the words aloud. He broke the kiss, but rested his forehead against hers. Both of them panting, their hearts racing, their swollen lips only a breath away.

The wind had vanished, the music forgotten. He cradled her to him as if he, too, struggled to resist the temptation to indulge in a single passionate moment. Here, now, they could not do more than kiss. But they did not yet need to stop.

She opened her mouth to his once more, confessing her desire, her love, with every lick, every gasping breath.

The future would wait. All that mattered now was the heat of his embrace, the matching hunger in his kisses. Soon enough, they would resume their separate lives. Until then, she was his. She would love him with her mouth, her tongue, her hands in his hair, her body yielding completely in his arms for as long as he wished to hold her.

Laughter spilled from the other side of the garden. She froze with her lips on his, her heart pounding in alarm.

“’Tis perhaps fortunate that our interlude cannot continue.” He rubbed her cheek with the pad of his thumb then took her mouth in one last kiss. “It seems even the chill of winter cannot cool my ardor whilst in your presence.”

She did not feel fortunate. She rose from his lap only because footsteps approached. She’d forgotten the weather altogether until she no longer had his warm arms and heated kisses to shield her from the wind. An involuntary shiver wracked her. As soon as he rose from the bench, she clutched his arm and pulled him as close as she dared. But not as close as she wished.

For that, there would need to be no barriers between them. No curious partygoers. No icy wind. No clothing. Just her and Bartholomew, united at last.

She swallowed hard and glanced away.

’Twas an impossible dream. She could not have him. Her presence was temporary. She bit her lip. Her presence had always been temporary, for everyone in her life. Her loved ones left, or they forgot her. Bartholomew was no different. He had done so before and would do so again. A year from now, she’d be nothing more than a memory.

Yet her heart would break when it was time to walk away.

TWENTY-TWO

The evening of her birthday, Daphne descended from a hackney carriage as though she were pushing through molasses.

She should be happy.

She clutched her documents to her chest and stared up at Katherine’s elegant town house. At the second story room Daphne no longer required. It was over. She could leave right now if she wanted and never return to London again. She should be thrilled.

Her lady’s maid alighted from the hack. “Everything all right, ma’am?”

Esther. Daphne shot a despairing glance at her maid. What was she meant to do about Esther?

With simple living and an eye on her budget, Daphne’s small portion was enough to provide for her and perhaps a maid-of-all-work as a companion.

No lady’s maid—not even a kind, unpretentious lady’s maid accustomed to no more fine living than what might be found in a simple vicarage—would wish to trade the slow, pleasant country life for the wretched, grueling drudgery of an overburdened, underpaid maid-of-all-work.

Even less likely was the idea any maid would wish to be dragged through the poorest, most far-flung corners of England. Daphne’s itinerary was not for the faint of heart. Failing farms. Teeming rookeries. Dangerous mines. It was not for Esther.

Once Daphne became an independent, unchaperoned crusader, she would no longer have the option of avoiding high society. She’d be obligated to avoid them. With a reputation that tattered, the only lord or lady who wouldn’t give her the cut direct without a second thought was Katherine.

And, perhaps… Bartholomew.

Daphne let out a slow breath. The silver lining to losing one’s reputation was that there was no longer any need to go to heroic measures to protect it. In fact, she rather appreciated the freedom her classlessness brought. If Bartholomew wished to kiss her, here she was.

For now.

“Everything’s fine,” she assured her maid, before forcing her feet up the walk to Katherine’s front door.

Whether or not everything was fine remained to be seen. The only certainty was that everything was changing.

Daphne handed off her coat and gloves to the butler and started up the stairs. Perhaps she should stay a few days before leaving. One couldn’t sack a cherished servant out of the blue.

She would also love to put her head together with Lady Amelia Sheffield one last time before the viscountess could no longer associate with Daphne publicly.

She frowned. There were plenty of black clouds to go with the silver lining of freedom.

Now that she finally had an army—and a lieutenant—she could do battle with more than her pen and writing desk. Lady Amelia didn’t seem the sort to require in-person instruction. She had already shouldered a fair chunk of Daphne’s letter writing, and had created teams of volunteers and detailed journals for each of her campaigns.

When Daphne reached her guest chamber, she rang for a tea tray and a hot bath. This might be one of the last times in her life to have such luxuries at her fingertips, and it was difficult not to wish to make the most of them while she still could.

The butler had informed her that Katherine had taken her aunt to the theatre and left instructions for Daphne to join them, but after the stress of so many weeks spent agonizing over whether she’d celebrate her birthday a free woman, Daphne wanted little more than to relax in the hot water and enjoy an evening away from crowds. Away from pretending.

An evening of being herself, without need to impress or playact or mind her tongue sounded just like heaven.

Once she was clean and dressed, she gave Esther the rest of the evening off. Daphne needed to sit down at her escritoire and decide what could be done for her maid. A task much easier without the maid in question staring at her from across the room.

Daphne affixed her reading spectacles to her nose and began to create a list of what Esther might need.

Passage back to Maidstone, of course. If Esther wished to return to Kent. London might well offer more and better opportunities for an experienced maid. Daphne nodded. She’d write several letters of recommendation. It might be difficult for the post to locate her as she traveled, so the best thing to do was provide Esther with a good quantity up front, as well as a month’s wages in case there was any delay securing employment.

The vicarage servants had been few in number, but they were loyal and kind, and in most cases had been with the family since before Daphne was born. Now that Captain Steele had inherited the cottage, heaven only knew what would become of them. Perhaps she should send letters of recommendation for the entire staff, just in case they found themselves in need of a way out.

Presuming Captain Steele didn’t intercept her recommendations and toss them straight into the fire.

A knock sounded upon her chamber door.

Daphne rose and discovered one of the footmen in the corridor with the afternoon post. She thanked him and carried the small pile to her escritoire. As expected, the mail was addressed to various aliases, in response to one cause or another.

All except one.

Frowning, she broke the drop of wax. A folded document tumbled onto the desk.

A document she recognized.

With shaking fingers, she unfolded the parchment. Her betrothal contract. She gasped and hugged the cursed document to her pounding heart. One of the servants must have managed to smuggle it from her father’s study.

A laugh burbled in Daphne’s throat. It would never have occurred to a pirate who trusted no one that most of the household knew the combination to her father’s safe!

For a servant to have risked discovery, however, meant that Captain Steele must have already left on his next pirating adventure after all. Which meant Daphne could happily send off multiple letters of recommendation to everyone on staff. They had taken care of her since she was a child, and they hadn’t stopped doing so just because her father was no longer their employer.

But first—!

She leapt up from the escritoire and strode toward the hearth, intent on ripping the contract into shreds and feeding each scrap to the crackling fire.

No. She paused just as her fingers made the first tear. This was a moment that deserved to be shared.

And it wasn’t the only copy of the contract.

She hurried back to the escritoire and dashed off a quick summons for Bartholomew, telling him everything was fine—better than fine!—and to please present himself and his copy of the contract at his earliest convenience. She rang for a footman to deliver the letter.

As soon as the note was gone, a thought occurred to her. Captain Steele hadn’t just lost his hold over Daphne. She’d lost hers over Bartholomew. As soon as they destroyed both copies of the contract, he would no longer need to fear Captain Steele dragging him into prison. Bartholomew would be free to walk away.

Unless she gave him a reason to stay the night.

Now that she was an independent woman, what did she intend to do with her newfound freedom? Even if marriage wasn’t in her future, there was only one way she wanted to spend the present evening: in Bartholomew’s arms.

She turned to the closest looking-glass. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement, her eyes bright and shining. Her simple day dress wasn’t precisely the sort of gown one wore when plotting a seduction, but she’d already let Esther go for the evening and…

Daphne’s blush deepened. Yes. This was absolutely a seduction. She was free from the machinations of Captain Steele, free from Society’s prim dictates, free to live her life where and how she chose. She couldn’t think of anything more fitting than for her first act as a free woman to be making love to a man she cherished.

And would likely never see again.

She glanced down at the journal she used to plan her schedule. By this time next week, she planned to be in South Tyneside. From there to Leeds, then on to Shrewsbury.

Daphne doubted she’d soon return to Mayfair or Hyde Park. There were too many people who needed too much help elsewhere in the country. There were plenty of worthy causes in the London rookeries as well. However, those dirty streets weren’t where one stumbled across rakish childhood friends. Once she embarked on this adventure, she’d never be welcomed back.

She inhaled a slow, shaky breath. Whatever was going to happen, needed to happen tonight. The stars were aligned as well as they would ever be. If Bartholomew didn’t get her message, or was tied up with other engagements until later in the week… then it wasn’t meant to be.

Of course, now that she’d sent the invitation, her stomach was tangled in knots. She removed her spectacles and rubbed her face. So much could still go wrong. What if he didn’t receive it until the morrow? What if he did receive it—along with a more salacious offer from that beautiful widow with the long, seductive glances? What if he arrived, only to chuckle in amusement when she revealed her intent to seduce him?

What if he didn’t want her, not in that way?

Her heart skittered in trepidation. He’d been a rake for the past decade, while she’d remained good old Laughy Daffy, the forgettable vicar’s daughter from the country. He’d kissed her, but that was all. Rakes were scarcely renowned for their restraint. If he’d had any inclination to seduce her, surely he would have already done so. Wasn’t that omission clear enough? Did she really need to force him to reject her to her face?

Panic coursed through her. Heaven help her, she should never have sent that letter. With any luck, Bartholomew wouldn’t be at home to receive it. Or perhaps he’d send a note of apology, and come round some other time, when they wouldn’t be so alone, and the circumstances so ripe for—

“Miss?” Outside Daphne’s open door, a footman consulted a pristine calling card. “Major Bartholomew Blackpool is here. Are you receiving callers, or shall I send him away?”

“No,” she said, too quickly. Just the sound of his name set her stomach aflutter. Her cheeks flushed. “I should like to see him. Is he in the parlor?”

The footman bowed. “He is indeed. Shall I order tea?”

She hesitated for only a moment. “No, thank you. I’ve important matters to discuss with Major Blackpool, and it is imperative that we not be disturbed.”

The footman nodded crisply and took his leave.

Daphne snatched the stolen copy of the betrothal contract from atop her escritoire and strode out of her chamber.

At least she had a pretext. Regardless of Bartholomew’s interest in her physically, he would be just as relieved as she was that she no longer required a guardian’s care or a fake fiancé. She swallowed. In fact, he might be delighted to learn he could now resume his previous habits and need not concern himself with vagabond crusader Daphne Vaughan again once he left these premises.

The thought of Bartholomew returning to the infamous rake he’d once been…

Parchment crinkled as Daphne’s trembling fingers curled into a fist.

She halted outside the parlor to try and regulate her breathing. They were independent souls. If he wished to lie with every debutante from Exeter to Newcastle, that was his business. Just as choosing to devote herself to improving the lives of the less fortunate was hers. She held no claim to his time or his heart. He wasn’t here to sign a contract, but to burn one.

There could be no future beyond tonight. No sense ruining it with jealousy over liaisons he hadn’t yet had. She took a deep breath and stepped into the parlor.

At the sound of her footsteps, he spun to face her. His brow was knit with concern, but his warm blue eyes were filled with something deeper. Not the cool perusal of a disinterested rake, but the hungry fire of a wolf that had just been hand-delivered a succulent lamb.

Her heart thundered as she latched and locked the door behind her, but she could not keep a self-satisfied smile from curving her lips.

The heat in his gaze indicated tonight’s seduction would be decidedly mutual.

“I received your note.” His fingertips touched his chest as if her letter were inside his waistcoat pocket, tucked safely against his heart. “You said to come at once.”

“And so you did.” There was a breathless edge to her voice that she barely recognized, a deliberate swing to her hips as she closed the distance between them. Being the object of his undivided attention emboldened her.

Without taking her eyes from his, she flattened her hand against his chest and slid her fingers beneath the lapel of his tailcoat. His heart thundered against her palm as her fingertips brushed the telltale edge of folded parchment.

“I missed you.” He clapped his hand over his chest, trapping her fingers between layers of silk and linen that she held no right to touch.

Layers she longed to remove, piece by piece.

He lifted her chin with his free hand. Eyes dark, he slid his fingers into her hair to cup the back of her head and crushed his lips to hers.

She gasped, and he swept his tongue inside her mouth, teasing her in such a way that her entire body trembled with desire and want. She clutched the hard muscle of his upper arm and met him kiss for kiss.

When he finally lifted his lips from hers, the corner of his beautiful mouth twitched with arrogant satisfaction. He well knew how potently he affected her. She might have felt powerful before, but she was powerless in his arms. There was no hiding the fact that she was his for the taking. He suckled her lower lip into his mouth.

Breathless, she pressed herself even closer.

He bit her lower lip gently before releasing it and licking the spot his teeth had grazed.

“Is this why you summoned me?” he asked, without lifting his mouth from hers.

She suckled his lower lip the way he’d suckled hers, then bit it slightly harder before touching her tongue to his. “Not the only reason.”

The wicked promise in his eyes nearly melted her chemise right off her body. “I watched you lock the door. If there is anything you wish to discuss, tell me now before we have no more use for words.”

As tempting as it was to forgo words completely, he needed to know he no longer ran any risk of having to marry her.

“Whatever happens between us…” she began, whilst fervently hoping everything that could happen, did. “You are officially a free man.”

Frowning, he stepped back. “What do you mean?”

She bit her lip. “Did you bring the betrothal contract, as I requested?”

He gestured toward one of the tea tables. “I brought you more than that.”

Her heart warmed. The table he’d indicated was laden with roses and Queen Anne’s lace.

Daphne peered up at him shyly. “You brought flowers?”

Casually, he lifted a shoulder. “It’s your birthday. All those roses were cluttering up my garden rather awfully, so I thought—”

She narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “Do you even have a garden?”

He widened his eyes, the very picture of innocence. “Not anymore. Everything I had is over there on your tea table.”

Her lips quirked. “That was very thoughtful. The flowers are lovely. I do thank you for digging up your garden for me.”

“It’ll grow back.” He waved a careless hand. “Try not to have another birthday until next year.”

Until next year.

Daphne’s smile fell. No more teasing. Next year, the months they’d shared together would only be a memory. It was past time to let him know.

“The bank finalized my inheritance.” Her voice was low and surprisingly calm, given the turbulence she felt inside. Once Bartholomew realized he need not playact any longer, there would be no reason to stay… except for her.

“Your finances are in order?” His eyes were shuttered, his face unreadable. “Then it is a very happy birthday, indeed.”

She nodded. Or meant to. She’d achieved precisely what she’d hoped for. So why did she feel torn in two directions at once?

“I am much relieved,” she said. “My portion is what I thought it would be. Not enough to rub shoulders with high society, of course, but more than enough to meet my simple needs.”

“Congratulations. You can finally tell that pirate cousin of yours to shove off.” He reached inside the breast of his tailcoat and removed a tightly rolled document. “I presume that’s why you asked me to bring this?”

“Yes. This morning, I received…” Suddenly realizing her hands were empty, her gaze darted about the parlor until she spied a corner of parchment protruding from beneath one of the chairs. The betrothal contract must have fluttered from her fingers during their heated kiss. She knelt to retrieve the fallen document and handed it to Bartholomew. “My father’s servants managed to liberate Captain Steele’s copy. I thought we might toss them into the fire together.”

Bartholomew didn’t exhale with relief at the end of their charade, nor did he laugh merrily at the servants’ ingenuity or the arrogant pirate’s certain disgruntlement once he discovered he hadn’t been as clever as he’d thought. Instead, Bartholomew simply handed back the captain’s copy and motioned toward the hearth. “After you.”

She gave a determined smile and strode up to the low iron grate. Lazy orange flames licked upward from a jumble of charred logs, warming her cheeks and fingers with their heat. She held the corner of the contract up over the grate, where it would be sure to fall into the flames. The lowest corner of the parchment instantly began to brown from the heat.

“Ready?”

In a single breath, Bartholomew was next to her, holding his own copy of the contract above the flames. Because it had been rolled, the edges curved inward, but it too would tumble directly into the fire. They would no longer be betrothed.

He gave a sharp nod. “Ready.”

“To freedom,” she whispered, and released the parchment.

Bartholomew met her eyes as he let go of his copy. “To Daphne.”

The fire crackled and snapped as it hungrily consumed the new offerings. In seconds, both documents had browned, burned, and scattered as ash.

“It’s truly over. All of it.” She turned to smile up at him. “Thank you for coming to my rescue.”

He sketched a bow. “I am ever your servant.”

“If there is ever anything I can do for you…” Her voice trailed off. She cursed her awkwardness. That was not what she’d meant. She’d invited him in the hopes he would stay for a seduction and instead, she’d made it sound like good-bye. “The worst part about ending our sham relationship is that we no longer have any reason to—”

“No,” he interrupted, his blue eyes intense. “The best part about ending a sham relationship is that you’ll know for certain that what I’m about to do is because I wish to, and not for any other motive.”

Hope filled her. “What are you about to do?”

“This.” He hauled her against him and covered her mouth with his.

Elated, she wrapped her arms about his neck as she kissed him back, letting him feel with every lick, every nibble, just how much she wanted him, too.

She loved him even more for this, although she knew better than to say so and risk him walking away. They’d made each other no promises.

But even though their paths would diverge on the morrow, this was no idle coupling. She would love him passionately with her heart, her mind, and her body, just as she would if he were her husband. Hers to have and to hold. Hers to keep. If only for tonight.

She ripped his cravat from his neck. He unbuttoned her gown without breaking their kiss. His fingers were tender, his mouth urgent. Cool air whispered down her spine as he unlaced her stays and tossed them aside.

When his fingertips grazed her hardened nipples through the thin layer of linen, she shivered at the delicious sensation.

His mouth broke from hers. “Daphne. Are you certain?”

“I want it all,” she murmured against his lips, pushing her gown and chemise off her shoulders so that they puddled onto the floor, baring her body before him. “I want you. The door is locked. No one will disturb us. The moment is ours.”

He swung her into his arms and over to the chaise longue, where he lay down beside her and slanted his mouth over hers.

She drank him in greedily. The chill on her flesh from the exposed air evaporated the moment his warm hand splayed against her ribs. Her breasts seemed to swell in anticipation of his touch, every inch of her body alive and tingling with expectation. Her heart swelled. She hadn’t been waiting to make love. She’d been waiting for him.

When at last he cupped her breast, she knew she was lost. As his fingers rolled across the peak of her nipple, toying, teasing, an answering tension surged between her legs, a sharp yearning unlike anything she had ever imagined.

He lowered his mouth to her breast and slid his fingers down her stomach to the cleft between her legs. Pleasure shot through her.

Her head fell back against the pillows, her eyelids fluttering in bliss at the twin sensations. She arched her breast into his mouth, let her thighs fall open to give him greater access. Longing stabbed through her as his fingertips stroked and dipped, teasing her with hints of the ecstasy to come.

As much as she wanted this—wanted him—a growing part of her desperately wished that it could be forever. That he could truly be hers.

“Bartholomew…” she whispered.

He slid two fingers inside her and conscious thought vanished. The pad of his thumb swirled against her slick nub as his fingers surged within her. She could barely breathe at the onslaught of sensation.

Her legs began to tremble as the pressure built to a crescendo, then burst in waves of pleasure. She grasped his hair with both hands, clutching his mouth to her breast as her inner muscles contracted around his fingers with delicious abandon.

When at last the tremors ceased, he slid his fingers from between her legs and covered her mouth with fevered kisses. Her heart warmed. This was only the beginning.

“Make love to me.” She tugged impatiently at the shoulders of his tailcoat, suddenly cognizant that she was completely nude and he was completely clothed. She yearned to feel the heat of his flesh against hers. Two bodies, two souls, with nothing between them. She reached for the buttons of his tailcoat. “Bartholomew, make love to me.”

He lifted his hips up off the chaise and slid his hand between their bodies. Rather than unbutton his waistcoat, however, he simply unfastened the fall of his breeches. As he settled his hips atop hers, the hard length of his shaft fell perfectly against the wet heat between her legs.

She frowned and tried to prop herself up on her elbows. “What are you doing?”

He tugged her lower lip between his teeth and smiled. “Making love to you. Just like you asked.”

She shook her head with frustration. “Not like I asked. I want you to make love to me.”

“Happily.” He reached between them and guided his shaft toward her core.

This was it. This was all he was willing to share. As close as he was willing to get. Disappointment flooded her, erasing all the pleasure of the moments before and leaving her with nothing but a great, yawning emptiness.

This wasn’t making love. This was him, fully clothed, already planning to leave her. Just like he left everyone. Just like everyone always left her.

Not anymore.

TWENTY-THREE

The sudden shove to his solar plexus caught Bartholomew off guard. He grabbed the back of the chaise in order to keep from tumbling arse-first onto the carpet.

Daphne no longer looked like she wanted to make love. She looked like she wanted to kill him.

He refastened his breeches for safety. “You said you wanted—”

“Not like this.” Her voice broke.

The disillusionment in her eyes cut him to his soul. He realized she wasn’t angry with him. He’d hurt her. He just wasn’t sure how. “Daphne…”

“Look at you,” she hissed, her eyes welling with tears.

Look at him? His smile felt brittle.

It had come to this. He didn’t have to look at himself to know what a prize he wasn’t.

The body he’d once taken for granted was now broken and scarred. Incomplete. Even if he’d had the foresight to put out the fire and extinguish every candle, there was no hiding the truth. He didn’t deserve her.

And he’d never loved anyone more in his entire life.

He tried to put his arms around her, to show her with his embrace that he loved her with all of his heart, even if he no longer possessed all of his body.

She shoved him off the chaise.

The breath whooshed out of him as his head hit the floor. Heat raced up his neck. She’d taken advantage of his lack of balance and pushed him. As if he were of no substance at all. His fingers shook with embarrassment.

By the time he rolled to his knees, she was on her feet and snatching her chemise and gown from the floor. Their interlude was over. It had gone even worse than he’d feared.

Perhaps there was still a chance to save it.

He brushed off his breeches and faced her. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

She swung her head to look at him, mouth open in disbelief. “Me? Are you going to tell me what the problem is? I am naked before you. Naked. Begging you to make love to me. And all you do is unbutton the fall of your breeches—”

“Actually a key step in the lovemaking process,” he murmured.

“A step, not the entire journey.” Her eyes flashed as she yanked her chemise over her trembling body. “Making love is something two people do together. Equally. I’m not going to bare myself to you and let you tup me like I’m a penny whore. I’d rather hoped we could tear each other’s clothing off.”

“I’m not disrobing in front of you. Now or ever,” he snapped. “Even my valet doesn’t see me naked. It’s nothing personal.”

A frown flickered across her forehead as if neither of those situations had ever occurred to her. She turned away and slipped her gown back on before facing him again.

“Making love is personal,” she said stiffly. “At least to me. I’m not your valet, and I’m not some two-bit strumpet who doesn’t care a button about intimacy or if she’ll ever see you again. Either we both are naked, or no one shall be. And it appears I am no one.”

He grabbed her hand and pressed her palm against his thudding heart. “When I first arrived, your fingers brushed against a folded paper in my breast pocket. Do you know what it is?”

She tugged at her fingers then glared at him when he didn’t release his hold. “My letter, I suppose? Requesting you come burn that horrid contract?”

“No.” He released his hold. This was not at all how he’d wanted the evening to go. “I’ve never wanted you to be temporary, Daphne. These weeks with you have been the happiest of my life. I love you. I was rather hoping you’d do me the honor of being my wife.”

He handed her the folded document, his heart in his eyes.

She opened the parchment without looking at him.

From this angle, he couldn’t read the scripted words. Not that it mattered. He already knew what each line said. He ought to. He’d rewritten them dozens of times.

The first drafts would never have done. The words were too poetic. Too embarrassingly honest. They appealed to emotions he wasn’t certain she shared, rather than to the intelligent mind she preferred over her heart. Daphne was too pragmatic for love. She needed to see how practical a union with him would be.

He had regained enough of his old confidence that risking the loss of the ton’s good opinion no longer concerned him. Losing Daphne, on the other hand, was the one rejection he wasn’t willing to risk. The odds were already against him. She intended to remain unwed. He might only have one chance to change her logical, goal-oriented mind.

After hours of tossing crumpled drafts into the fire, he finally settled upon:

BETROTHAL CONTRACT

I, Bartholomew Blackpool, enter willingly into a betrothal with Miss Daphne Vaughan. I pledge to aid her in her endeavors and be an exemplary husband in all things.

Anything she needs, she shall receive. Anything she desires, she shall have. Her money remains hers. Her time remains hers. Her freedom remains hers.

She and her charity work shall have the full support of my staff, my acquaintances, and myself whenever she has need of us, and complete autonomy when she does not.

Signed,

Bartholomew Blackpool

He held his breath while she finished reading.

She glanced up at him with empty eyes and tossed it directly into the fire.

His hopes plummeted.

“Words,” she spat. “You obviously don’t mean them.”

He reached for her hands, desperation coursing through him. “They’re not just words. They’re true. We would make a formidable couple. It’s an advantageous proposition.”

“‘Anything she desires, she shall have?’” she quoted, her tone mocking. “I hold nothing. You won’t even make love to me properly.”

“My love…” Bartholomew felt like his whole world was crumbling to ash. Just like the betrothal contracts in the fire. He had hoped to woo her with romance. With pragmatism. Anything but cold disdain. “Please listen to me. You hold my heart in your hands.”

Her eyes were wild, her voice thick with unshed tears. “You were still wearing your boots and your tailcoat. Give me one good reason why anyone would ‘make love’ in the privacy of a home, wearing boots and a tailcoat.”

“You can’t possibly understand.” His neck heated. “My leg—”

She shoved his chest. “Your leg isn’t everything, Bartholomew! Your leg isn’t anything.”

He shook his head. “You have no idea how unsightly—”

“You have no idea how much I don’t care.” She swept up his cravat and tossed it at his chest. “Your leg is not you. Do you know how often I think about your prosthesis? Never. That’s how often. I don’t worry about it, I don’t think about it, I don’t care one button.” She grabbed her stays up off the floor. “How often do you think about my spectacles? Do you fret when I misplace them and cannot read a word?”

“What?” He blinked at the sudden change in topic. “I don’t really notice when you’re wearing them or not. Your spectacles have nothing to do with who you are.”

“Neither does your prosthesis. The End.” She made a disgusted expression and turned toward the exit. “There are people out there with real problems. You’re no longer one of them.”

He clenched his cravat in his fist. “Tip-top condition, am I? Take a closer look. I’m scarcely fine.” He bounced his ruined knee to make the ankle joint clap. “If I keep myself hidden, it’s for a reason.”

Daphne unlocked the parlor door, then cast a long, pensive glance at him over her shoulder. “The only person who thinks you a lesser man is you.” Her lips tightened into a line. “Until you can give a woman everything you still are… Well. I wouldn’t sign any more betrothal contracts.”

She quit the room without another word.

TWENTY-FOUR

It was raining by the time Bartholomew pulled his landau up in front of his town house.

A footman ran over with an umbrella to walk him into the warm safety of his home, but Bartholomew waved him away. He didn’t want to go back inside his dismal, lonely town house. He didn’t want to leave his carriage, or come in out of the rain. The only thing he wanted was Daphne.

His fingers clenched. How could she dare compare a missing leg to something as trivial as a pair of spectacles?

He leaned his head against the wall of the landau and sighed. He knew precisely why Daphne would compare a prosthesis to reading spectacles. It wasn’t that she considered the two to be of the same relative importance. It was that she didn’t see either condition as particularly important in the first place.

It was more than important. It had destroyed his entire life.

Daphne might not find an amputated leg diminishing in any way, but the rest of Bartholomew’s peers certainly did. He was a mockery. A cripple. A mere shadow of the man he’d once been. No one could look at him the same way. Even his servants…

He frowned. It was true that he hadn’t allowed his valet to assist him since returning from war. His pride couldn’t allow himself to be pitied or coddled. But had he prevented Fitz from pitying and coddling his disfigured master? Or had he simply prevented his talented valet from performing the normal duties for which any given valet was employed?

Captain Steele hadn’t treated Bartholomew like an invalid, but rather, an adversary. He was given no special consideration for having lost a leg, nor treated any differently than the other suitors. When he’d chosen not to go riding with the others, the pirate had mocked Bartholomew’s apparent lack of camaraderie, not his impaired horsemanship.

Chauncey Whitfield hadn’t acted like Bartholomew was worthless. He’d asked for advice on sparring partners and fighting stances, and reminisced about the old legends. Fairfax, Lambley, Xavier, Sarah… None of them had treated Bartholomew any differently than they’d ever done.

His mother, of course, had made a dramatic fuss over her son’s unfortunate condition. But when had she not? Even when Bartholomew and Edmund had been in the peak of youth and health, she’d been convinced her lads were one cough away from consumption and too delicate to withstand the tamest physical activities.

Before, it hadn’t been true. And now?

He would never have his leg back, but the rest of his body was as strong or stronger than it had ever been. Whether or not that was enough, it was all he had. His half-leg was unsightly, the strapped-on prosthesis a poor substitute… But there was really only one opinion that mattered.

Daphne’s.

She might say his disability never so much as crossed her mind—it might even be true!—but there was a wide gulf between the theoretical and the practical. It was easy enough to discount his false leg when it was out of sight beneath layers of clothing. It was another thing entirely to expect Daphne to wish to make love to a man whose leg ended just below the knee.

It was worse than unsightly. It would extinguish her ardor completely.

His prosthesis was the best money could buy, but the leather straps affixing it in place and the hand-carved toes at the end of its foot wouldn’t fool a woman looking at him from less than an arm’s length away.

Even without her spectacles.

If Daphne truly didn’t care… then neither should he. Not if it was keeping them apart.

He loved her. If there was still a chance, however slight, that he could convince her to let him at least try to win her heart. He couldn’t allow the opportunity to pass him by. He had to talk to her.

Bartholomew collected the reins and set his landau on the path back to the Ross town house. The rain slowed his progress. By the time he arrived, his gut churned with more nerves than the first time he’d stepped foot onto a live battlefield.

What could he possibly say that would prove his sincerity? What would he do if she tossed him out, again? If he was unable to change her mind?

He hesitated before alighting from the carriage, torn between racing through the rain and risking a fall, or taking it slow and arriving upon her doorstep a bedraggled mess. Ruining what little was left of his looks wouldn’t do much to endear her to his cause.

Hurrying as fast as he dared, he exited the landau and made his way to the front door, where he made good use of the knocker, just as he had done a few hours earlier.

This time, however, the butler was less keen to allow him entry.

Rain trickled down Bartholomew’s neck. “I’m here to see Miss Vaughan, please.”

The butler stared back at him impassively.

Perhaps the downpour had left him all but unrecognizable. He searched his waistcoat pocket for a dry calling card and came up empty. “I’m—”

“Please wait here, Major Blackpool.” The butler turned and disappeared around the corner.

“Thank you,” Bartholomew said to the empty entryway.

He checked the floor to see if his clothes were leaking rainwater all over the entryway, but aside from his bootprints, all was clear. He was not as wet as he’d feared, based on the butler’s obvious displeasure at his presence.

He consulted his pocket watch and grimaced at the hour. Of course. It was much too late to pay a social call. But the damage was done, and now that he was here—

“Major Blackpool.” The female voice that greeted him belonged not to Daphne, but to her friend, Miss Ross… whose always-merry face was unnervingly devoid of both smiles and laughter. “What brings you here?”

“Miss Ross.” He bowed with as much grace as he could. “I was hoping to have a word with Miss Vaughan.”

She pursed her lips. “You cannot. Good night.”

“Wait,” he stammered. “Will you tell her I’ll call tomorrow? What time do you recommend I stop by?”

“I don’t. She’s leaving at dawn and must keep to a tight schedule.”

He gaped at her. “Leaving? Where is she going?”

Miss Ross shrugged. “If Daphne wished for you to know, you already would.”

True. He tried not to lose heart. “It’s imperative that I see her.”

“And she has said that it is imperative that you do not.” Miss Ross’s brown eyes filled with pity.

Not for his missing leg, he realized, but for his missing heart. Somehow that hurt even worse.

“I’m sorry, Major Blackpool. Whatever has occurred between you and Daphne… She’s asleep now, and I shan’t wake her.”

He nodded and bowed, for there was nothing else to do and nothing else to say, and stepped back out into the rain. The door closed smartly behind him.

Halfway down the front walk, however, he wondered if all was truly lost. Was Daphne asleep? Or might there still be a few moments to convince her to stay? He squinted at the upper story.

During their drive in Hyde Park, she’d mentioned that her guest chamber was the one with a balcony overlooking the park. Perhaps he could walk that direction, try to see if any candles still flickered in her windows. If not, he would have to go home. But if she were still awake… He couldn’t risk losing her.

Ducking his face to the wind and rain, he followed the street to the corner and crossed over to the park. At this hour—and in this weather—the park was deserted. More than one balcony faced this direction, but the room Daphne was in was obvious.

She was just now rising from what was likely some sort of desk and crossing over to the window. He cupped a hand over his eyes to watch. She closed the curtains without so much as pausing.

He let out his breath. Of course she hadn’t seen him. It was so dark outside that the only image she would’ve seen in the window was the reflection of the fire in the hearth and the flames of her candles. Which were disappearing one by one before his eyes.

His fingers curled in determination. If he waited any longer, she would be asleep. But how was he supposed to get to her?

He scanned the facade. If rain wasn’t sleeting down, turning Mayfair into a slick, mud-splattered danger zone, he’d dash across the street and toss pebbles at her window until she was forced to acknowledge him.

If the trees were perhaps slightly closer to the wrought iron balconies—or if he had worn climbing shoes, and was possessed of two working ankles and two sturdy feet—he’d scale the slippery looking tree closest to her window and vault onto her balcony with acrobatic grace and romantic charm.

Unfortunately, he possessed none of those elements. And he was going to have to do it anyway.

He shoved his sodden hair out of his eyes and marched through the biting rain, across the street and over the lawn to the base of the most adjacent tree. Bless London for being overrun with tall, slender, multi-branched trees perfectly suited for climbing.

Presuming that the climber was not a one-legged ex-rake…

He reached the base of the tree and shook the rain from his face. The moon was dim. Winter still stalked the city. The spidery branches held few leaves to block dirt and rain from falling into his eyes. He would have to keep them shut. His hands would be occupied with the critical task of not tumbling to the hard, wet ground.

“You can do this,” he muttered beneath his breath. “You’re a soldier. It’s just a tree.”

It might as well have been a mountain.

He closed his eyes against the onslaught of rain and stretched for the tallest branch he could close his fingers around.

The bark was familiar beneath his palms, its overlapping patches slick and smooth. He’d climbed thousands of these trees in his youth. He and Edmund had been monkeys, competing to see who could reach the highest peak or lying in wait to leap upon one’s unsuspecting twin as he chanced to pass beneath.

In those days, the sensation of the thin sheets of bark crumbling beneath his palms had been no cause for concern. Just part of the adventure.

Tonight, the slightest misstep would prove disastrous.

Not misstep, Bartholomew reminded himself dryly. Since his footing could not be trusted, the trick would be not stepping at all. He would have to pull himself up on the strength of his arms alone.

He gripped the branches as firmly as he could and hoisted his body up off the ground. What would happen if he fell? What would he do if he climbed so high and landed so hard that he knocked his false leg clean off? He would die, that’s what he’d do.

But he had no choice. Daphne was worth it.

At home, his strengthening exercises had included half an hour of using his arms to pull his chin level with a horizontal iron bar. Unlike branches, the iron bar was sturdy and dry, with neither nettles nor peeling scraps of bark slipping beneath his palms. The bedchamber floor was never more than a mere foot away.

Without allowing time to second-guess himself, he wrapped his thighs around the trunk of the tree and reached for the next highest branches. This hoist required more maneuvering, as he needed to work his leg up and over the previous branches in order to slowly rise to the next. And the next.

And the next.

Breathing hard, he pulled himself higher, bit by bit. The branches grew thinner and closer together, making each hard-won inch harder and harder to achieve.

He squinted to check his progress. Close. And yet too far. His heart sank. He was high enough in the tree that he could now look down onto the balcony. Sort of. Leaping onto its slick, narrow tile would have been straightforward.

If he could release his stranglehold on the branches and trust his feet to launch him in the correct direction. He couldn’t. But he hadn’t come this far just to slink home without trying. He wouldn’t forgive himself if Daphne left London without ever knowing how much she meant to him.

He took a deep breath and jumped.

He even almost made it.

His fingers grappled for the vertical iron bars of the balustrade. The weight of his body and the momentum from springing through the air made it impossible to hold tight. His fists slid down with lightning speed, burning his palms. He pulled up short when the base of his hands slammed against the sharp edge of the tiles. His body swung forward from the momentum, weakening his grip.

He dangled there for a moment, to catch his breath. If he let himself fall now, he would almost certainly catch one of his legs beneath him at a truly unpleasant angle.

The only direction to go was up.

He bent an elbow, shifting his balance to one side and then swung his weight toward the other. He released his free hand briefly in order to grasp the iron bar a few inches higher up. Using his body like a pendulum, he repeated the process, letting each alternating fist move a few inches higher.

At last, the edge of his hand brushed the top of the railing. With a grunt, he hauled himself up and over, and landed on his good foot in an awkward crouch.

He was half tempted to lay flat upon the tile, rain and all, until his heart stopped pounding and his icy fingers regained feeling.

No such luck. The curtain swung open.

Daphne stared out at him from the other side of the glass with her lips parted and her eyes wide with shock.

He lifted his aching arm and waved.

She unlatched the window and pushed it open wide. “Are you mad? What on earth… How on earth?”

He gripped the sill and hiked himself into her bedchamber. “Hullo, Daphne. Did I wake you?”

She pushed at his chest, her hands shaking. “What were you thinking?”

“That I wanted to see you. I did attempt more traditional methods first, but Miss Ross implied you would never again receive my call, and since you were leaving at first light, I figured—”

“—that you would scale a town house in the middle of the night and pop in via my balcony?” She shoved her head out the window and paled. Her breath was ragged. She closed the glass violently and sagged against it. Her eyes flashed. “It’s raining, you daft man. What if the railing had given way? What if you’d fallen?”

“I’ve already fallen,” he said quietly. “I’m in love with you, Daphne. You’re my first thought every morning and my last thought every night. Marry me. Please.”

She pushed away from the window, away from him. “I told you—”

He stepped in her path. “You think I haven’t given myself to you, not completely. That I’m afraid to bare my body. Look at me, darling. I’m baring my soul. I give you everything I have.”

She peered up at him warily. It was all he could do not to pull her into his arms and kiss her. But he needed more than her kisses. He needed her trust. Her love.

Desperate, he stepped over beside the fire, to place himself fully in its light. “What do you see before you? A rakehell who cares naught for your feelings? Or do you see the man who once fancied himself more fashionable than Brummell, standing before you a sodden mess, just to speak with you? Just to beg you for your hand?”

She crossed her arms beneath the bodice of her nightrail, but her gaze tracked down his tattered finery, then back up to his eyes.

He yanked off his ruined cravat and tossed it to the floor. “Marry me.”

Wordlessly, she shook her head.

He shucked off his wet greatcoat, its tailored seams irreparably split and ragged. “Marry me.”

She shook her head.

As he unbuttoned his waistcoat, his fingers shook as much with nervousness as with fatigue from the strain he’d put them through. If only she could see what she was doing to him. What he was doing for her. He tossed the waistcoat aside. “Marry me.”

She shook her head.

He crossed his arms at his waist and peeled his white linen undershirt up and over his head, the once-billowing material wet from rain and exertion. His chest was bare, the muscle flecked with scars. “Marry me.”

She stared at him in determined silence.

He yanked the chair out from her escritoire and sank down onto it to tug off his boots and stockings. First, the good foot. Then the false one. He steeled himself for her reaction. “Marry me.”

Her expression didn’t change.

He unfastened his breeches, shoving them down over his bare arse, over his ruined knee, over the leather-strapped prosthesis he hated with every thunderous beat of his heart. Shaking, he hurled the breeches across the room and rose to his feet. Completely naked. Bared to the soul. “Marry me.”

Her gaze heated. She reached behind her neck and untied her nightrail. It fluttered to the floor.

Every inch of his body was instantly alive, the cold and fear forgotten. He stepped forward. She hadn’t said yes. But she hadn’t said no. There was still hope. He pulled her into his arms and crushed his lips to hers. “Marry me.”

She wrapped her arms tight about his neck and kissed him. Her tongue was warm honey, her body heaven against his. Soft. Beautiful.

He lifted her up and set her bottom on the edge of the four-poster bed. Her hips now perfectly aligned with his. He couldn’t get enough of her mouth, her taste. He kissed her as though he were starving, and her love the only thing that could sustain him. She made him live again.

Gently, he slid his hands up over her hips, past the curve of her waist, to the edge of her breasts. She leaned into his touch. His shaft pulsed between them as he teased her already hard nipples and his tongue mated with hers. Without her, he was nothing. With her, she made him whole.

“Marry me,” he whispered between kisses.

He slipped one of his hands between her legs and slid two fingers into her slick heat. She wanted him. Even after seeing him naked. She didn’t think him broken at all.

Confidence and joy soared through him. She had helped him to find himself again. She humbled him and made him whole. His breath caught.

Finally, he had everything he wanted: Daphne. Right here in his arms. His heart beat faster. For her, there was no mountain he wouldn’t climb. No dragon he wouldn’t slay. She was his greatest treasure. He would spend the rest of his life proving it.

He lowered his mouth to her breast, suckling as he drove his fingers inside her. She clutched his hair, trapping him to her.

She needn’t have worried. He was hers, forever.

He slid his slick fingers from her, and she whimpered. He gently pushed her backward, then sank to his knees to lave with his tongue and bring her to pleasure. He would love her until she loved him back. He would love her into eternity.

She gasped, and arched into his mouth. As he licked and suckled, her legs began to tremble, holding him in place. He joined his fingers to his tongue, licking, invading, loving. She cried out, legs shaking, her muscles tightening about his fingers.

Before her contractions had even ceased, she struggled upright and tugged his hair so that he would rise to his feet. Her skin was flushed, her eyes glassy with pleasure. His heart flipped. He hoped to bring her to ecstasy for the rest of their lives.

She widened her legs and reached for his shaft. At first, hesitant. Then bolder. Squeezing. Stroking. He closed his eyes and tried to keep breathing. Each touch, each stroke, sent shivers of desire through his body. This was the woman he wanted beside him for the rest of eternity.

When she began to rub his shaft against her cleft, his heart jumped. She was ready to make love. This time, he was ready to give her everything. Body and soul.

He slid a hand into her hair, cradling her head to devour her with passionate kisses. With his other hand, he guided his shaft to her opening. Before entering, he paused to get her attention. “I’m sorry… This may sting.”

She licked his lower lip and smiled. “You’ll make it feel better.”

Or die trying.

He swept his tongue into her mouth and grasped her by the hips. Slowly, gently, he rocked into her inch by careful inch.

She gasped once, but held him even tighter until his shaft was fully seated within her. Her kisses became more heated. He hesitated, wanting to give her body time to get accustomed to being stretched like this. She wiggled against him, indicating she had no wish to keep waiting.

Thank God.

Still gripping her hips, he drew almost completely out, then drove himself back inside. She dug her fingernails into his shoulders. His heartbeat doubled. She was perfect for him. He wanted to be the same for her.

He slid a hand down so that his thumb could tease her nub as his shaft pistoned within her. Spine arching, her head lolled backward and her eyelids fluttered in pleasure. His body tightened in response, longing for release.

He lowered his mouth to her neck and touched his tongue to her throat. Her pulse raced as rapidly as his own. The proof of her desire was everywhere. The passion blurring her eyes. The slick wetness at her core. The spice of lovemaking in the air. But the proof of her love was still locked in her heart.

His muscles tightened as something unfurled in his chest. He wasn’t an incomplete man. Not any longer. He kissed her deeply. Thanks to Daphne, he had finally found himself again. Was able to give himself fully. Her legs tightened about his hips, their softness only making him harder. His blood pounded as he took her mouth with kisses. He had never felt so alive.

“Here I am,” he said as his shaft surged within her. “I bare myself before you. I give myself to you completely. What you see is what I am. This is all that I have to offer.”

Her eyes met his, stormy and passionate. She slid her fingers deeper into his hair.

“I love what I see. I love what I feel.” Her inner muscles clenched against him as she rocked against him. “You’ve always been enough, Bartholomew. There is no one I want more.”

“Then marry me,” he begged desperately as his hips slammed into hers. He wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer. “Please.”

Her fingers tightened in his hair and she gasped into his mouth. “Only if you promise to do this every night.”

Victory shot through him. She’d said yes. “With pleasure.”

The moment she arched and her inner muscles contracted about him, he welcomed his own climax at last, releasing himself into her with every thrust of his hips, every beat of his heart. Spent, he cradled her in his arms and held her close.

He had always been hers.

And now, finally, she was his.

TWENTY-FIVE

The next afternoon, Bartholomew and his very real fiancée made the trek to Maidstone to visit his parents. With Daphne at his side, he was finally ready to face his brother’s empty grave.

His parents met them at the small gravesite at the far end of the garden.

His mother held flowers. His father held his hat to his chest. Bartholomew held tight to Daphne’s hand.

A few months earlier, he hadn’t thought himself strong enough to face this moment. To face his devastated parents, or the accusing letters carved into his brother’s tombstone.

It wasn’t easy.

He would never forgive himself for failing to save his twin. Nor did he deserve his parents’ forgiveness, or Sarah’s. He had failed to keep Edmund safe. Failed to bring him home at all. There was no need for a false grave to remind him of what he’d lost. He lived with that failure every single day.

Daphne handed him a clutch of flowers they’d clipped together that morning.

He accepted them with cold fingers, and went to join his mother and father before the chiseled stone. Before laying the flowers on the undisturbed ground, he turned to his parents. Daphne was right. They did love him. Even though Edmund’s death was on his shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” he said brokenly. “I’m sorry I failed you. I’m sorry I couldn’t save him. I’m sorry I ever suggested we give up our foolish rakish lives and purchase a commission to go fight that godforsaken army. I’m sorry I—”

“Son.” His father’s brow creased as he laid a hand on Bartholomew’s arm. “We never blamed you. Edmund was his own person. His death is not your fault.”

Bartholomew felt as if the world had ceased spinning.

“My darling boy.” His mother wrung her pale hands. “We all lost Edmund that day. Not just your father and me. You lost your twin. And I… we… I’m your mother, and I couldn’t fix it. I couldn’t make anything better. I put up this stone to at least give us something, a symbolic way to unite our family again. But I made it worse. We were still broken. You stopped speaking to me. Your father stopped eating. We were lost. A mother is supposed to keep her family together, and I failed all of you.”

Bartholomew’s heart cracked. He reached for his mother and hugged her tight. “You never did, Mama. You never did.”

“I was no better,” his father said gruffly. “I didn’t know what to say or what to do. Everything I tried came out wrong. I couldn’t console my wife. I couldn’t even console myself. We weren’t avoiding you, son. I thought you’d heal faster without us.”

“No one can heal without their family,” Bartholomew said quietly. It had taken him a long time to figure out the truth. “Healing is family. It’s letting other people in, even when you’re angry or frightened.”

His father’s arms wrapped around them both. “Forgive me, son.”

Bartholomew held them close. “There is nothing to forgive. We’re a family again. From now on, we’ll miss him together.”

EPILOGUE

They had the wedding in Maidstone, in the nave of her father’s church.

Daphne couldn’t have imagined a better location. Her only regret was that neither her father nor Bartholomew’s brother were still alive to share the moment with them. Her husband’s parents were thrilled, however, and their happy excitement made the ceremony just as joyful.

Afterward, with her hand tucked inside her husband’s, they made their way to his carriage. Bartholomew had managed to politely decline his mother’s repeated invitation to move in with them, but settled on having the wedding breakfast at his parents’ house instead.

Daphne begged him to swing by the vicarage before continuing on to the Blackpool estate, in order to thank the servants who had risked their employment to mail her the stolen betrothal contract. They had valued her happiness above their own, and deserved to know that she was absolutely, positively, euphoric. She was in love with a man who was in love with her. They would forge their future together.

Nothing could have made her happier.

As the landau approached the old vicarage, Bartholomew turned to her with a nostalgic smile. “The last time I directed my carriage to this address, I hadn’t anticipated pitting myself against three men and a pirate for the chance to win your hand.”

“You won then, and you won now.” She blushed. “There was never any contest.”

“Of course not. You were destined to be mine.” His grin was all arrogance. “Only the most lovesick of swains would have pursued you up a tree and over a balcony in the rain.”

She kissed his cheek and whispered, “If you ever do anything that foolish again, I’ll kill you.”

Within moments, they pulled up before the vicarage. Bartholomew leaped out of the carriage to circle around and hand her down. They had scarcely reached the front door when it swung open from within.

Captain Steele stood there to greet them, wine glass in hand. “Good morning, lovebirds. Lost, are we? Now that my ward is married, this is no longer her direction.”

Daphne blinked up at him. “How did you know—”

“How wouldn’t I know?” Captain Steele wiggled his brows. “I sent you the betrothal contract, didn’t I?”

Her mouth fell open. “You sent the contract?”

“No one else could have done. The first thing I did when I inherited this old place was change the combination to the safe.” He swirled his glass of port. “Besides, ’twas your birthday. What with that pittance you call an inheritance, I figured either you’d marry the man you’d rushed into a betrothal with, or you wouldn’t.”

She nearly choked in outrage. “Rushed into a betrothal? You were the one who invited a random assortment of completely unsuitable men in order to pack me off to the first bidder—”

“Not precisely.” Captain Steele cleared his throat and flashed a mischievous smile. “I may have implied that was the case to you, my dear, but Mr. Whitfield and Mr. Fairfax hadn’t the least idea of your existence before they arrived on these premises.”

“Then why—”

“Believe it or not, a man can have business with another man that does not involve marrying one of the lads off to his termagant cousin.” He sipped his port. “I did invite Lambley for you, though not as a suitor. I told him you had become quite despondent when your father died. After that heart-wrenching rejection you’d sent in response to that Ross chit’s soirée invitation—”

“You read my letter to Katherine?” she sputtered.

He arched his eyebrows. “I read all your letters, Mr. Caldwell. Or are we Mr. Smith today?”

Her cheeks heated. Of course he had read her letters.

“At all events,” Captain Steele continued. “I told Lambley what a wet blanket it was to have you mope around all maudlin, locking yourself in your chamber for days on end, pretending to be bourgeois gentlemen and whatnot. Didn’t seem healthy. I thought the duke might be able to cheer you up, or at least talk you into going somewhere else. Your depression was beginning to wear on my nerves.”

“Then why did you tell me you intended to give me to one of those men?” she demanded. “You threatened me with Bedlam if I didn’t comply.”

“I knew you’d have none of it, of course.” He drained the last of his port. “As inventive and stubborn as you are in fighting for your ‘causes’, I knew my best hope for marrying you off was tricking you into doing it yourself. You sent for Major Blackpool here within minutes of my little fib, and you brought him up to scratch quite nicely, I daresay. Well done.”

Her mouth fell open. She slanted a disbelieving gaze toward her husband. “I cannot credit that he lied about forcing me into an unwanted betrothal just so I’d pick someone I did want.”

“That is devious,” Bartholomew admitted. He swung her into his arms and spun them toward the carriage. “But I can’t say I’m displeased with the outcome.”

“What are you doing?” she hissed into his shoulder. “You can’t just pick me up and turn our backs on the captain without so much as a by-your-leave.”

“Why not? I’m sure he does that sort of thing all the time,” Bartholomew answered drolly as they reached the landau. “’Tis our wedding day, my love. If you’ll recall, you had me make you a certain… promise?”

Her neck flushed as she remembered the feel of him driving into her as he begged her to marry him. How she’d wanted him to make love to her again and again. She settled herself into the carriage and curved her lips into a seductive smile. “I believe you vowed quite convincingly that you’d be interested in repeating the act?”

“Quite interested,” he agreed. He swung onto the seat beside her and stole her breath with a heated kiss. “Every day for the rest of our lives.”

She spread her fingers over his chest. “And every night?”

“And every minute.” He wrapped his fingers about the reins and glanced over his shoulder at the empty road. “I can park this carriage around the next corner if you’d prefer not to wait for a proper bed.”

She grinned wickedly and slid her hand into her husband’s lap. “Perhaps you’d better.”

They arrived forty-five minutes late to their own wedding breakfast, and quite suspiciously disheveled.

But they couldn’t have looked happier.

The End

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As always, I could not have written this book without the invaluable support of my critique partners. Huge thanks go out to Darcy Burke, Emma Locke, Jackie Barbosa, and Morgan Edens for their advice and encouragement.

I also want to thank my incredible street team (the Light-Skirts Brigade rocks!!) and all the readers in the Dukes of War facebook group. Your enthusiasm makes the romance happen.

Thank you so much!

MORE IN THIS SERIES

Dukes of War Series

The Viscount’s Christmas Temptation

The Earl’s Defiant Wallflower

The Captain’s Bluestocking Mistress

The Major’s Faux Fiancée

The Brigadier’s Runaway Bride

The Pirate’s Tempting Stowaway

The Duke’s Accidental Wife

ABOUT ERICA RIDLEY

ERICA RIDLEY learned to read when she was three, which was about the same time she decided to be an author when she grew up.

Now, she's a USA Today best-selling author of historical romance novels. Her latest series, The Dukes of War, features roguish peers and dashing war heroes who return from battle only to be thrust into the splendor and madness of Regency England.

When not reading or writing romances, Erica can be found riding camels in Africa, zip-lining through rainforests in Central America, or getting hopelessly lost in the middle of Budapest.

For more information, please visit ericaridley.com.

CORINNA

Lauren Royal & Devon Royal

CHASE FAMILY TREE

To see a larger version of the Chase Family Tree, click here!

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Our heartfelt thanks:

To Deborah Alexander, MD, for helping us choose an appropriate illness for Lord Lincolnshire and spending much precious time describing all the pertinent details. (For anyone who may not know, dropsy is currently called edema and in Lord Lincolnshire's case was caused by heart failure.)

To Andrew Potter, research assistant at the Royal Academy Library, for the list of Academicians on the 1817 Selection Committee and historical information on the selection process.

To our Chase Family Readers’ Group, for their enthusiastic support.

And to our readers, because we do this for you.

Thank you, one and all!

For Uncle Bert

We will miss you forever and ever!

PROLOGUE

IRISH WHISKEY CAKE

Take butter with sugar and put in this eggs and flour and a bit ‘o coffee to make a nice flavour. Put in your pan and bake in your oven. Make a syrup of coffee with much sugar and a wee dram ‘o whiskey and pour this into your cake. Bring to table with sweet whiskey cream and a sprinkle of nuts.

My mother used to caution, “Who gossips with you will gossip of you.” Nonetheless, she surely did love to gossip. She used to serve this cake when the womenfolk came for tea. She claimed it loosened ladies’ tongues.

—Deirdre Delaney Raleigh, 1819

Kilburton, Ireland

November 1809

On a damp Tuesday shortly after he turned sixteen, life as Sean Delaney had known it ceased to exist.

First he received a letter, an event in itself. Everyone Sean knew lived in the village of Kilburton—nobody had reason to write him a letter. A very official letter it looked, too. As Sean watched the lad who’d delivered it retreat down the lane, his mother came in from the sitting room where she’d been serving tea to some womenfolk from the parish.

“Was it not Mary McBride, then?” Ma asked. “She’s late.”

“It wasn’t Mrs. McBride.” Sean shut the door and turned to her, the single folded sheet clutched in a hand. “It’s a letter. For me.”

“For you?” Her pleasant, guileless face looked as surprised as he felt. “Well, open it, then, won’t you?”

He nodded and broke the seal.

“Who is it from?” she asked impatiently.

“A solicitor.” Below the imposing engraved letterhead, he scanned down the page. “‘On behalf of Mr. Patrick Delaney—’”

“Never heard of him.”

He shrugged. “One of Da’s relations, perhaps.”

“Your father has no living relations.” She frowned. “What is he wanting, then?”

“He’s wanting…” He read further and gasped. “Begorrah!” His head shot up. “He’s not wanting anything. He’s dead. And he left ten thousand pounds. To me.”

“Ten thousand pounds?”

To a vicar’s wife like Ma, the number was incomprehensible—enough to support a villager and his family and even a servant or two for fifty years. Staring at Sean, she slowly lowered herself to a plain oak chair. Muffled feminine voices could be heard from the sitting room—her guests were having a gossip, no doubt. Uncharacteristically, she ignored them.

“Ten thousand pounds, Sean. Whatever will you do with so much money?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

But he did know. He’d known instantly. He just didn’t want to tell her.

He didn’t want to disappoint her, not yet.

“I’m after going for a walk.” He grabbed a heavy wool cloak from the peg by the door. “I shan’t be gone long,” he promised before slipping outside.

It was raining, as usual this time of year. As usual all year, come to that. Tucking the letter inside the cloak where it would stay dry, he hurried down the lane.

Such a vast amount of money, more than Ma had seen in her entire lifetime. She would want him to do good with it. Charitable works or some such. She was a vicar’s wife, after all, and a kindly one at that.

But Sean had something else in mind. Oh, he’d pay the expected tithe, of course. He was a vicar’s son, after all. The amount would be an unprecedented windfall for the parish, one Sean would be pleased to give. He’d been raised by this congregation—spent his entire life surrounded by them, cocooned in their comforting familiarity—and it seemed right that they should share a tenth of his good fortune.

But after that, he was going to leave Ireland.

He was going to London.

He was going to make a life for himself, something better than he’d ever imagined growing up in wee Kilburton.

He was still quite young. People in London might not take him seriously at first. And it wouldn’t be easy to leave kinfolk and friends, to strike out on his own. He knew that. His heart seemed both heavy and light as he turned away from the village, crossed the harvested fields, wandered the age-old riverbank. Touching the precious letter beneath his cloak, he alternately laughed, pondering his immense luck, and trembled, wondering what lay ahead.

Hours passed—tense, exhilarating hours—before he took a deep breath and started home. It had stopped raining. When he reentered the village, the sun was setting low on the horizon, its last rays fighting through the cloud cover as he trod the lane toward the vicarage. Just before he reached the squat house, two figures came out of it, dark shadows against the silvery glow.

“You have no choice.” The Honorable Mr. William Hamilton’s voice came low and angry through the gloom. An imposing man if not a tall one, he was the same height as the son he pulled toward their fancy carriage. “Not this time.”

Wondering what was going on but not wanting to be seen, Sean hid himself behind a tree.

“You paid off the last one,” young John Hamilton whined. “And the maid—“

“Two. Two maids, there were.” His father pushed him up the carriage’s steps. “This one’s not some servant’s get, you idiot,” he muttered, following his son inside. “I’d lose face should you not—“

The door shut, and Sean heard nothing else. As the carriage rumbled off, he stepped from behind the tree and hurried into the house.

It was warm, welcoming, filled with the soft light of oil lamps and the scent of the whiskey cake his mother had baked earlier for her guests. A good home, simple but clean and cared for. Sean had a fine family, a sister two years older and parents who had always been there for both of them, giving of their hearts although they’d never had much to give materially.

He felt sad, knowing he’d soon be leaving all of this, and also excited about his new life. But mostly, he was mighty curious to learn what had made the Hamiltons leave their huge manor house to pay a call at the modest vicarage.

Hearing voices from the sitting room, he headed there. And stopped short when his sister turned to him with a grin. “I’m marrying John Hamilton.”

Sean gaped at eighteen-year-old Deirdre. He couldn’t have heard her right. “What did you just say?”

Her golden hair gleamed in the firelight as she bounced to her feet. “Mr. Hamilton told John he’d have to marry me.”

“But why?” His gaze shot from his father’s bloodless face to his mother’s eyes, swollen from weeping. There could be only one reason they looked like that, one reason John Hamilton might be forced to wed Deirdre. “Don’t tell me you’re…” As he looked back to his sister, the rest of the sentence stuck in his throat.

Her grin widened as she folded her hands over her deceivingly flat middle. “Aye, little brother, I’m with child. And I’ll be the wife of John Hamilton, the handsomest, richest young man in all of Kilburton.”

In all of the county, more like. The Hamiltons’ lofty new manor house sat in the shadow of their ancestral home, centuries-old Kilburton Castle. John Hamilton’s father was the younger brother of the Earl of Lincolnshire, sent years ago to oversee Kilburton, one of the earl’s many lesser estates.

Growing up, Sean and Deirdre had been educated in a chilly one-room schoolhouse, while John had a parade of private English tutors. The boy had always been temperamental, and Sean had thought him haughty, unfeeling, and selfish. But since there were no other lads near their age in Kilburton, Sean’s mother had told him to play with John anyway. After all, as she’d often say, it was the Christian thing to do.

Being a dutiful sort of son, Sean did as he was told. But John had always made them stay inside fiddling with paste and paint, instead of engaging in the outdoor pursuits Sean preferred, like fishing and building forts. He’d never really liked John Hamilton.

Deirdre, on the other hand, a rather wild girl and the bane of her parents’ existence, obviously liked John Hamilton just fine.

Fine enough to let John…

Sean couldn’t finish the thought.

Still and all, he loved his sister. She was lovely and fun, the best of companions, always ready with a smile and a plan for mischief. Looking at her now, her eyes dancing, he sadly shook his head. She had no idea what she was in for. John might seem nice when he wanted something from you, but once he’d gotten what he wanted…

Sean clenched his fists.

He no longer disliked John Hamilton. He hated him.

For life.

ONE

Eight years later

The British Museum, London

April 1817

“We want to see the Rosetta Stone,” two impatient voices chorused.

For the third time.

“Just a few more minutes,” Lady Corinna Chase promised her sisters, her gaze focused on her sketchbook.

“A few is three,” Alexandra, the oldest, pointed out.

“Or maybe five,” added Juliana, the middle sister.

“But certainly not thirty,” Alexandra went on. “You said ‘a few more minutes’ half an hour ago.”

“And half an hour before that,” Juliana put in.

Corinna was used to ignoring her sisters’ chatter, but the squeak of wheels threatened her concentration. Alexandra was rolling a perambulator back and forth in hopes of soothing Harold, her infant son. Though ladies generally didn’t make a habit of carting their babies around town—most aristocratic mothers happily left their children in the care of wet nurses and nannies—Alexandra had insisted on buying one of the newfangled contraptions, because she rarely let little Harry out of her sight.

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. “How can you gaze at statues for so long?”

“I’m not gazing. I’m sketching.” Corinna drew another line, following the curve of the marble figure’s muscled thigh. “And as you see, this is not a statue, it’s a panel. Part of a frieze from the famous Parthenon in Greece, to be exact. And more importantly, the figures carved on it are anatomically correct.”

Which was the reason she’d come, of course. The reason she’d been willing to drag herself out of bed at a preposterous hour to come see the Elgin Marbles. Corinna wanted nothing more than to study human anatomy so she could improve her skill in portraiture. Unfortunately, the anatomy classes at the Royal Academy of Arts were entirely forbidden to girls.

Entirely.

Forbidden.

It was infuriating. Corinna’s fondest wish was to be elected to the Royal Academy, an honor no woman had attained since 1768. Though she harbored no illusions of accomplishing this goal at the tender age of seventeen—for one thing, Academicians were required to be at least twenty-four years old—earning a nomination was a long, involved process, and she hoped to take her first step within a matter of weeks, by getting one of her paintings accepted for the Royal Academy’s Summer Exhibition.

That was something girls did accomplish on a regular basis, although not usually with portraits. Proper ladies painted only landscapes and still lifes—painting people was considered unseemly. But Corinna’s heart lay in portraiture. As she’d grown older, she’d found herself more and more drawn to the human figure, fascinated by the challenge of capturing a personality on canvas.

But how was she supposed to paint people accurately if she wasn’t allowed to attend anatomy classes?

“We cannot stay much longer,” Juliana said. “I need to make sure everything’s in place for Cornelia’s wedding.” Cornelia, Juliana’s mother-in-law, was marrying Lord Cavanaugh at her home later that evening. “And I want to see the Rosetta Stone,” she added for the fourth time.

“So go see it.”

“And I want to see the gems and minerals,” Alexandra said. “And the jeweled—“

“Go see it all. Go see every rock in the museum.” Corinna flipped a page, refocusing on the nude form of the gorgeous Greek god before her. “I’ll be right here.”

“That would take an hour or more.” Squeak. Squeak. “We cannot leave you here in the Elgin Gallery alone.”

“I’m not alone. There are people everywhere.” Too many people, constantly jostling her and blocking her view.

“The Rosetta Stone is in the main building.”

“It’s perfectly proper for two married ladies to cross the museum grounds together.” Unlike Corinna, who was a bit of a free spirit, her sisters seemed always concerned with being proper. “I knew I should have brought Aunt Frances along instead. She’s more patient than either of you.”

“She’s also nine months gone with child,” Alexandra retorted. She sighed. “We’ll be back in an hour.”

“Make that two or three,” Corinna muttered as they left. Hearing the pram squeak-squeak away, she smiled. She and the Greek god were alone at last.

Holy Hannah, he was magnificent.

Major changes in Sean Delaney’s life always seemed to be heralded by a letter.

The first had been the letter informing him of his unexpected inheritance, of course, but more letters had followed. A year later, a letter had relayed the devastating news that he was now an orphan, his parents having succumbed to smallpox. In the years that followed, he’d received numerous letters each time he’d established a new enterprise, each time he’d bought an ongoing concern, each time he’d purchased a piece of property. And six months ago, a letter had arrived from his older sister, Deirdre, confessing her unhappiness in her marriage (surprise, surprise) and announcing her intention to leave John Hamilton and come live with her brother instead.

But when Sean’s butler brought him a letter this fine spring morning in Hampstead, he broke the seal without a second thought. Opened it. Scanned the scrawled message quickly.

Then crumpled it into a ball and hurled it into his library’s fancy white marble fireplace.

“Who was it from?” Deirdre asked from the plush blue velvet chair where she’d draped herself with a book.

She was still a beauty, though you wouldn’t have known it when she’d first arrived. After eight long, bitter years of fighting with her weasel of a husband, Deirdre had looked haggard when she’d shown up on Sean’s doorstep. She’d looked run-down and wretched and much older than twenty-six.

As Sean feared, John Hamilton had treated her like dirt. Or less than dirt, considering one usually noticed dirt and did something about it. In contrast, Hamilton preferred to ignore his Deirdre completely, while amusing himself with an endless parade of other women. None of whom he bothered to try to conceal from his wife.

The worst of it was that she’d miscarried three months into their marriage, losing not only a child, but the only bright spot in her gloomy new life. Poor, heartbroken Deirdre remained childless and lonely, while Hamilton, who’d gained a reputation as a talented young artist as well as a notorious scoundrel, had illegitimate offspring all over Great Britain.

Sean sipped his tea, glaring at at the paper ball in the empty fireplace, wishing it weren’t such a warm, sunny day. Had there been a proper fire on the hearth, the letter would have been ashes by now. “It was from your husband.” The final word left a bad taste in his mouth.

“From John? What did he say?” She shook her head. “Never mind. I don’t want to know. I’m done with him.”

Sean wished she were done with him. The reason Deirdre looked so much better lately was that she’d met Daniel Raleigh, a prosperous merchant Sean sometimes worked with. The two had fallen head-over-heels in love and wanted to marry. But despite her desperate pleas, Hamilton refused to grant her a divorce.

Maddeningly, women weren’t given the same rights as men when it came to ending a marriage. Only the husband could sue for divorce, and it seemed Hamilton preferred to stay wed. Apparently he found Deirdre a convenient prop for deflecting any woman who might dare ask for commitment after finding herself carrying Hamilton’s child. Such conversations could grow tiresome, you see.

And what could Deirdre’s screaming anguish possibly matter, next to Hamilton’s slight discomfort?

The weasel.

“He wants me to meet with him at noon,” Sean told his sister. “At the British Museum. He claims he has ‘something important’ to discuss.”

Hope leapt into her eyes. “My divorce?”

He shook his head. “It sounded more like a favor. What makes him think I’d do him a favor? Me, of all people?”

She sighed and returned to her book. “It doesn’t signify. Divorce or no, Daniel wants me to come live with him, and I’ve decided I will.”

Sean nearly spat out a mouthful of tea.

Raleigh had a fine house and could provide well for Deirdre. He was a steady man of good character. Sean liked him, and he treated Deirdre like a princess.

But all of that was beside the point.

“Begorrah,Deirdre! You’ll live with him as his mistress?”

“I made a mistake, Sean. I’ll be the first to admit that. But haven’t I suffered for it long enough? John’s already stolen nearly a decade of my life.” She set her book aside. “I’d much prefer to marry Daniel, but that isn’t an option. He’s willing to have me anyway, and it’s time I lived again.”

“What would Ma say? And Da?” For the first time ever, Sean was almost glad they were gone. They’d both have been mortified. Though their daughter had always been a wild one, this went beyond inappropriate. It was unthinkable.

Sean pushed his chair back from the table and rose. ”Deirdre, you’re not thinking this through. You’ve a chance for a fresh start here in London. If you want to be accepted by society, you need to abide by its rules.”

“I’m not part of society.”

He’d begun to pace. ”I’m not meaning in the sense of the aristocracy, and you know it. The public in general, Deirdre, the respectable people. Someday you’ll have children. Do you want them to be outcasts?”

“No, I won’t have children, not if I stay with my husband!” she snapped. “Better to be an outcast than never to be born, don’t you think?”

He strode to the fireplace, snatched out the crumpled paper, and smoothed it on his rosewood desk. “I’ll meet with Hamilton. We’ll work this out. There’s just enough time to get to the British Museum by noon—”

“Don’t.” She leapt from her chair to seize his arm. “This is my mess, little brother. And you’ve got your own work to attend to.”

“I’ve no work that matters as much as this.”

“I won’t have you begging on my behalf. It’s humiliating.”

“And your living in sin won’t be? I’m going. You cannot stop me.”

He shook her off and went to summon his curricle. On the ride into town, he prayed fervently that, instead of a favor, “something important” would turn out to be the divorce that would save Deirdre from being ruined (again).

TWO

“I have a problem,” Hamilton drawled when Sean met him in the museum lobby. “I require your help.” He beckoned. “I wish to view the new Elgin Marbles exhibition.”

“That hardly presents a problem,” Sean said dryly, waving toward the back of Montagu House. “You need only walk through here and outside.”

Never one for humor, Hamilton slanted a look at him as they fell into step. “My uncle, the Earl of Lincolnshire, is dying.”

“My condolences,” Sean said automatically, though Hamilton looked cheerful enough (for him). As always, he was flamboyantly dressed. His waistcoat appeared brown to Sean, which likely meant it was actually a bright red or green. “Though I’m not sure how I can help with that.”

“That is not the problem. I’m Lincolnshire’s heir, you see,” he said smugly. “But the old man wishes to acquaint himself with me before he dies. He hasn’t seen me for many years—not since I was an infant, in fact.”

“So he wants to meet the fellow who’s inheriting his title and fortune. I don’t find that surprising,” Sean said as they stepped outdoors. “Or particularly problematic.”

Hamilton’s estrangement from his uncle was no surprise, either. Deirdre’s dear husband was an infamous recluse. He claimed that keeping to himself—with the exception of female companionship, of course—helped maintain his artistic vision. But Sean had known the weasel long enough to realize what he really meant to maintain was his pretentious, “mysterious” persona. And maybe his distance from those he disliked.

Which was nearly everyone.

“Go see your uncle if that’s what he wants.” Sean stopped before the Elgin Gallery building, which his experienced eye told him was nothing but a large, prefabricated shed.

“He doesn’t want to just see me. He’s demanded I come live with him through his final days.”

“Sounds fair enough to me. How long is he expected to live?”

“A week or two,” Hamilton spat. “And he swears that if I ignore his request, I’ll only inherit what is required by law—the title and the entailed estates. He’ll leave the rest of his fortune to charity.”

And how the angels would weep.

Sean shook his head in disgust. ”So go stay with him, man. For pity’s sake, it won’t kill you.” He turned to leave, thinking he’d obviously get no human decency out of the weasel today.

“I cannot.” Hamilton moved to block Sean’s way. “I’ve an invitation to paint the waterfall on the Llewelyn estate in the Tanat Valley. Lady Llewelyn’s message came in the same mail as Lincolnshire’s. I’ll be leaving before nightfall.”

It was common knowledge that Lady Llewelyn was Hamilton’s latest conquest. How he could think of abandoning his sick and dying uncle for the sake of a tryst—while his own lovely wife languished in isolation, no less!—was far beyond Sean.

It was the second most unthinkable suggestion he’d heard today.

”I suppose Lord Llewelyn will be conveniently absent,” Sean said tightly.

“Abroad,” Hamilton confirmed.

“And I suppose you’ll be quite busy painting.”

“Naturally. The falls have never been opened to a landscape artist before. And it’s spring, the season when their volume is greatest. This very month of April, in fact, is said to be when the monk and the lady are most likely to appear. If I can capture them in paint, it will be a work for the ages.”

“The monk and the lady?”

“A monk in his long robes, the Guardian of the Falls, said to materialize in the pattern of rushing water. And the Lady of the Waterfall. She peeks out from behind the towering gush, wearing flowing skirts, her face hidden by her long hair—”

“You believe this blarney?” Sean interrupted. “This utter fairy tale nonsense?”

“You don’t? You’re Irish, for heaven’s sake. You have to believe in the fairies.”

Sean snorted. Hamilton didn’t want to see fairies. He wanted to see his fair Lady Llewelyn. “Your uncle needs you, Hamilton. Paint the falls another time.”

“There won’t be another time. Llewelyn never grants access, and he hasn’t left the country in years.”

Why on earth was the weasel coming to him with this problem? “Well, I suppose if that’s the way you feel, you’ll have to forgo Lincolnshire’s unentailed holdings.”

“Lincolnshire’s unentailed holdings make up the majority of his fortune!”

“And what on earth do you expect me to do about that?“ Sean was done with this conversation. ”Cancel your trip, Hamilton. You’d best stay and pray that your uncle goes quickly and without pain,” he added contemptuously.

Once again, his exit was blocked. ”There is something you can do about it.” Hamilton had a firm grip on his shoulder. “I want you to go to the old man, tell him you are John Hamilton, and live with him until his death.”

Sean could do nothing but gape. He couldn’t imagine he’d heard correctly.

After a long pause, he finally recalled which muscles to use for the purpose of talking. “I’d be sure you were jesting,” he said slowly, “except I know you haven’t any sense of humor to speak of.” Looming over his shorter brother-in-law, Sean gripped Hamilton’s wrist and squeezed until the weasel let go of his shoulder. “Why would I, of all people, do this favor—or any favor—for the person who ruined my sister’s life?”

“Why?” Hamilton’s lazy-lidded eyes sharpened. “Because if you help me, I’ll grant your sister her precious divorce.” He cocked his head. “And because if you refuse, I won’t. Ever.”

The words knocked the wind out of Sean.

He was being offered an impossible choice: condemn Deirdre to the shameful, miserable life of a social pariah…or defraud a sick, dying old man out of his final wish.

He couldn’t wrap his mind around either option.

Unfortunately, neither could he commit murder (however justified) in the middle of a crowded museum. So Sean chose another tack. “You’ll soon be an earl,” he pointed out. “You’re going to need an heir—a legitimate one—to carry on the line. With or without my cooperation, you’d best divorce Deirdre and remarry.”

“That doesn’t signify.” Hamilton waved a smooth, pale hand. “I shall simply force her to return to my house until she bears me a male child.”

Monstrous as that declaration was, Sean couldn’t argue. He knew Deirdre would have to comply. The law was clear on this matter: A husband had the right to compel his wife to live wherever he pleased. Just thinking about the possibility made him feel sick.

“It has to be you, Delaney,” Hamilton pressed. “You’re the one person who’s not only similar in age and appearance, but also knew my father, my mother, our estate in Ireland…everything my uncle would expect you to know.”

All of this was true. Though Sean was taller, they both had similar dark hair and green eyes. And Lincolnshire hadn’t seen his nephew since infancy. No doubt Sean could pull it off.

Except…

“I’m color-blind.”

“What of it?”

“What if your uncle notices? He’ll never believe I’m a color-blind painter.”

Hamilton scoffed. “People will believe whatever you tell them. In fact…” With a mean-spirited glint in his eye, he opened the flimsy door to the Elgin Gallery and dragged Sean inside. Hamilton scanned the crowd…“There!” He pointed out a girl seated before a magnificent marble frieze, busily sketching. “I’ll bet I can fool that girl—an artist—into believing you’re an artist.”

Sean rolled his eyes. “I’m not going along with—”

“Hush. You haven’t heard the terms of the bet. If I manage to convince the girl, you’ll agree to do as I’ve asked, thereby securing my inheritance and your sister’s liberation. If I fail, I swear I’ll march out of this building and straight to the clerk to start the divorce proceedings. Either way, Deirdre wins.” A slow, devious smile stretched across his face. “Take it or leave it, Delaney.”

Before Sean could protest any further, Hamilton pushed him toward the girl.

THREE

If only she could find a young man who looked like this, Corinna mused as she sketched another Greek god, she’d have nothing left to wish for.

Not that she had the slightest intention of wedding anytime soon, much to her brother’s displeasure. Griffin wanted nothing more than to marry her off, to have her—his last unwed sister—out of his house and off of his hands. To make her someone else’s responsibility.

To that end, he’d been dragging Corinna to balls and to Almack’s and to every other social event on the calendar, for the express purpose of hurling her at every eligible gentleman he could find. The season had been underway only a few weeks, yet already she was grumbling more than Juliana had all last year.

Griffin really did take all the fun out of it.

True, she was fond of dancing, and she also liked gentlemen, of course. Especially the ones who’d managed to get her alone, behind a potted palm in a ballroom or in a dark corner on a terrace, for a kiss. But those had been few and far between this year—her brother was a much more vigilant chaperone than dear, oblivious Aunt Frances.

Artists were supposed to be creatures of passion, were they not? Well, Corinna’s life seemed to be sorely lacking in passion. After the shattering consecutive deaths of her father, mother, and eldest brother had kept her hidden away in mourning through much of her adolescence, she’d emerged a fresh-faced sixteen-year-old eagerly anticipating her first season. Anticipating glamour, gaiety, novelty, intrigue, and most of all, passion. And when she’d finally made it to London, finally come out in society, finally experienced her first kiss, it had all been…

Rather pleasant.

But that was all.

So excuse her if she was in no great hurry to put aside her grand, exhilarating, ambitious artistic dreams in favor of the rather pleasant pastime of finding love.

Especially since, now that she was seventeen and the last unmarried sister, Griffin was making it rather annoying.

Catching her lower lip between her teeth, she was using her pencil to shade the fascinating muscles on the god’s toned bare chest when something caught her eye. Glancing up, she spotted two young gentlemen heading in her direction. Not an unusual sight—the gallery was crowded with people—but something about these gentlemen held her interest. Actually, it was just one of the gentlemen. The taller one.

The one who bore a striking resemblance to the Greek god she’d been sketching.

Flipping to a new page, she started sketching him instead. Quickly, before he disappeared from view.

His angular, sculpted face was framed by crisp black hair that grew long at the back of his neck. His eyes were the greenest she’d ever seen. Sadly, he was somewhat more clothed than the marble gods, but having sketched quite a few of them, she fancied she could imagine what he looked like beneath his smart but conservative trousers, waistcoat, and tailcoat. Her pencil outlined broad shoulders—

She froze midsketch as the two gentlemen walked right up to her.

“Good afternoon,” the shorter one said.

Like his taller companion, he was dark-haired and green-eyed and good-looking. And he was much more fashionably dressed. But all in all, she decided, not nearly of the same godly caliber.

Still, she felt flustered. She wasn’t accustomed to handsome young men introducing themselves. Good manners dictated they ask permission of a young lady’s chaperone, who would then provide the introduction.

Of course, Corinna’s chaperones were currently off who knows where, looking at rocks.

“Good afternoon,” she returned guardedly. “Mr.…?”

“Delaney,” he drawled. “Sean Delaney, at your service. And this,” he added, indicating the taller man, “is my good friend Mr. John Hamilton. Having noticed you sketching, he wished to greet a fellow artist. You’ve heard of him, I presume?”

Had she heard of him? Corinna’s sketchbook and pencil fell to the floor. Everyone had heard of John Hamilton, the young renowned and reclusive painter of landscapes.

She turned to him, positively stunned. Her Greek god was John Hamilton—John Hamilton!—and he wanted to meet her. Her, Corinna Chase, possibly the most unrenowned artist in all of London.

“Mr. Hamilton,” she gushed, “I cannot tell you how I much admire—”

“Please stop,” he interrupted, bending to scoop up her fallen supplies. He straightened and, with a roll of his gorgeous green eyes toward Mr. Delaney, handed the items to her. “I’m sorry, but I’m not John Hamilton.” His lilting voice was distracting. The melodic Irish accent didn’t quite mesh with the Greek physique. “I’m Sean Delaney. And I’m afraid my brother-in-law here—the real John Hamilton—has a horrible sense of humor.”

“Now, Hamilton.” The other fellow dolefully shook his head. “There’s no need to hide your identity from this charming young lady.”

“It’s your identity, and you feel the need to hide it from everyone.” The Irishman drew a line in the air that traced his companion from head to toe. “You’ll note he’s the one dressed with artistic flair,” he pointed out to Corinna before brushing at his own plain black clothes. “I’m merely a common man of business.”

“Please forgive Mr. Hamilton.” Mr. Delaney—or perhaps he was Mr. Hamilton—raised a brow toward Corinna. “He’s much too self-effacing.”

“Blarney!” the Greek god shot back. “You’re a dunce, Hamilton.”

Corinna felt like a tennis ball bouncing back and forth between two players. She didn’t know which one to believe. But since she didn’t expect to see either of them ever again, she figured it didn’t signify.

While they’d volleyed, she’d regained her senses enough to recall Mr. Hamilton was a member of the committee that chose artwork for the Summer Exhibition. That was what truly mattered.

She clutched her art supplies to her chest. “I’m an oil painter myself,” she told both of them, praying one really was John Hamilton. “I’m here sketching the marbles to learn anatomy so I can improve my technique for portraits. It’s my fondest hope that one of my canvases will be selected for this year’s Summer Exhibition.”

“I’m certain Mr. Hamilton will vote for it,” the shorter one assured her gravely.

“I will not.” The Greek god’s fists were clenched, and his Irish lilt came through gritted teeth. “I mean, he won’t. Or perhaps he will, but I’m not Hamilton.”

“Pshaw.” His friend waved a smooth, graceful hand. “He’s—”

“Corinna!” She looked away to see her sisters and the pram squeaking their way toward her. “I’m sorry we took so long,” Alexandra said. “Are you finished yet?”

Corinna beckoned them eagerly, certain Juliana would discern which fellow was John Hamilton. An inveterate meddler, Juliana could ferret out any secret. “I’d be pleased for you to meet Mr. Hamilton,” she said, turning back to the gentlemen.

They were gone.

Lifting sweet little Harry from the pram, Alexandra frowned. “Mr. Hamilton?”

“The landscapist, John Hamilton. He was just here.” Corinna scanned the crowded gallery, to no avail. “He’s gorgeous. Or perhaps it’s his friend who’s gorgeous, or his brother-in-law—”

“Whatever are you on about? Everyone knows John Hamilton never appears in public.” Looking sympathetic, Juliana touched her arm. “I think we should go. I must get home well before my mother-in-law’s wedding, and in any case, you’ve clearly been sketching too long.”

Sean hauled Hamilton back toward Montagu House, one hand clenched on the weasel’s upper arm.

“It’s a shame girls cannot study anatomy,” Hamilton drawled as though they were on a leisurely stroll, “because sketching statues isn’t going to help her learn anything.”

“Is that so?” Sean gritted out.

“I’ve yet to see a portrait painted by a female that was any good, and I never expect to, so I seriously doubt I’ll vote for that girl’s painting.”

Sean had no wish to continue this conversation. In fact, he’d gladly pay a thousand pounds to avoid speaking with Hamilton ever again. But he felt sorry for the girl in question. “What if her picture is good? Will you still refuse to vote for it simply because it was painted by a lady?”

“Of course I wouldn’t. As it happens, I wouldn’t be aware a lady painted it, since I don’t look at signatures before I vote. Most of the Summer Exhibition judges take an artist’s status into consideration, but I believe each work should stand on its own. Regardless of what the other Academicians think, I believe a painter’s identity should never influence a judge’s opinion.”

It was the most decent thing Sean had ever heard Hamilton utter. Surprisingly decent. Until the weasel added, “But I’m certain her paintings won’t be any good. Especially since she’s never studied anatomy.”

“She might surprise you,” Sean shot back. “You shouldn’t be so judgmental. You might vote for her painting and later on have to eat humble pie.”

“I doubt it,” Hamilton said blandly. “We failed to learn her name, so in the unlikely event I ever did vote for one of her works, I’d never know it, would I?”

“Corinna.”

“Pardon?”

“Her name is Corinna. Another girl called her Corinna as I was dragging you off.”

She’d had wide blue eyes and gleaming dark hair. Sean remembered the way she’d bitten her plump lower lip. For some reason, that had made him imagine kissing her.

“You had no right to drag me off.” Wrenching his arm from Sean’s hand, Hamilton pulled open the door to Montagu House. “I won the bet,” he added smugly.

“You did not. She didn’t believe I was you.”

“She didn’t know what to believe. Which means I won. I succeeded in convincing her you may be an artist.”

“Blarney.”

Hamilton shrugged. “Whether you agree or not doesn’t signify. You’ll still pretend to be me for Lincolnshire’s sake if you want to see your sister divorced.”

“I believe you’ll want to rethink that demand. When society discovers you deceived your uncle for your own gain, your reputation will be torn to threads. Your impressive art career will end in shame.”

“Blarney,” Hamilton mimicked in disdain. “No one will ever find out. Lincolnshire is incapacitated and housebound. And the man lived to make others miserable—especially my family—so who would give a care if he’s duped? The mean old brute deserves it.”

Maybe Hamilton had a point there. Who would complain if a man like Lincolnshire got tricked? Sean had heard tell of his infamous deeds throughout his childhood. William Hamilton—Lincolnshire’s younger brother—had dreamed of a fulfilling career in the church, but Lincolnshire couldn’t be bothered to help him secure a position. He’d been willing to instead commit his service to the military, but Lincolnshire had refused to buy him a commission. Being a younger son, William had no means to support himself, his wife, and his young child, so he hadn’t a choice when his brother banished him to Kilburton to oversee his foreign interests. Left to rot among village rabble in the dreary backwoods of Ireland, far from all their friends and relations, the family had languished in bitterness and despair, their desperate pleas to return home falling on deaf ears.

Perhaps those years of bitterness were the reason Hamilton could act so callously toward poor Deirdre. Like uncle, like nephew?

Sean stood in the museum’s busy lobby, fighting his better judgment. Though he’d normally abhor lying to a man on his deathbed (or anywhere else, for that matter), maybe the mean old earl had it coming. But more than that, Sean loved his sister. He didn’t want to see her forced to bear Hamilton’s child or living in sin with Daniel Raleigh. And he knew that if he didn’t agree to the deception, the weasel would never free Deirdre.

“This won’t interrupt your routine,” Hamilton went on. “You’ll have to move to Lincolnshire’s Berkeley Square town house for a couple of weeks, but you need only sleep there at night. You can tell the old man you must paint during the day and go off to do your usual work. It shan’t affect Delaney and Company at all.”

“What if he wants to see your paintings?”

“You mean your paintings,” Hamilton returned with a smirk. He frowned a moment, then nodded. “I’ll leave you some money to lease studio space near the square—”

“I don’t want your money,” Sean growled. “And I don’t need to lease anything. I own half of Piccadilly Street.” He normally hated advertising his wealth, but, even more, he hated being bullied. And Hamilton was a bully. Sean couldn’t resist firing back with whatever he could use to intimidate the weasel.

Hamilton raised an eyebrow. ”Do you, now? Well, that’s excellent. If you’ve a vacant garret nearby, that would be ideal. Something very private with north-facing windows. I’ve a few canvases in the apartments I’ve been renting. I shall fetch them posthaste and put them in there for you to show him.” He nodded again, more enthusiastically. “Perhaps I’ll lease the space from you permanently. Once I inherit the title, I’ll be forced to spend some time at Lincolnshire House, so I’ll need it when I return from Wales.”

An awkward silence stretched between them while people walked in and out, asking the porter directions to find the Rosetta Stone or the Egyptian mummies.

“You’ll do it, won’t you?” Hamilton pressed. “Otherwise—”

“I’ll do it,” Sean snapped. He knew what otherwise entailed: doom for Deirdre.

To avoid that, he’d sell his very soul if he had to.

Which he very probably just had.

FOUR

ORANGE BRANDY

Take a quart of Brandy, the peels of eight Oranges thin pared, keep them in the Brandy forty-eight hours in a closed pitcher, then take three pints of Water, put into it three quarters of a pounde of loaf Sugar, boil it till half be consumed, and let it stand till cold, then mixe it with the Brandy.

This was served at my grandparents' wedding breakfast, and their marriage was blessed with love and health. We have had it at family weddings ever since.

—Eleanor, Marchioness of Cainewood, 1730

Lady Stafford and Lord Cavanaugh’s wedding was a modest affair, just family and a few friends in the gorgeous Painted Room at Stafford House. The chamber was a bit tight even for the small number of guests; the equally impressive Palm Room downstairs would have been more comfortable. But the Painted Room was perfect for the occasion, because its theme was marriage.

A famous Roman fresco was re-created on the chimneypiece, and other wedding scenes were painted directly on the plaster walls. Panels depicted music, drinking, and dancing. Cupid and Venus cavorted overhead, nymphs danced on the ceiling, lovers courted on gilt-framed canvas, and a frieze of rose wreaths and garlands of flowers went all around the cornice.

The house wasn’t actually Lady Stafford’s anymore. Cornelia had been the Dowager Lady Stafford for several years now, which meant Stafford House belonged to her son, James Trevor, who was the current Earl of Stafford and, of course, Juliana’s husband.

While the minister droned on, Juliana leaned close to Corinna and whispered, “Your turn will come next.”

“I’m not concerned about having a turn,” Corinna hissed back.

Juliana rolled her eyes.

On Corinna’s other side sat Aunt Frances, hugely pregnant and watching the ceremony with a sappy, romantic smile on her face. Love and marriage had come late to Aunt Frances, but she looked happier now than her niece had ever seen her. And love had transformed Corinna’s sisters as well. Juliana and James had wed last August—right after Aunt Frances and Lord Malmsey—and the two of them still had trouble keeping their hands to themselves in public. Alexandra and Tristan had been married nearly two years and seemed to live in awe of each other and their infant son.

Although Corinna sometimes worried she’d never find that sort of love for herself, she also worried she’d never fulfill her artistic potential. Of the two, she felt the art was more under her control. It was the thing that defined her, the thing she had that others didn’t.

She was happy for Aunt Frances and her sisters. It was brilliant that they’d all found love, but to Corinna’s mind, the three had little else. They’d needed love to complete them, but she had her art.

She had her landscapes and her still lifes, and most of all, her portraits. If only she could get one of her works accepted into the Summer Exhibition, her future would look bright whether or not there was a gentleman in the picture.

No sooner had the minister announced that the Dowager Lady Stafford was now Lady Cavanaugh than Juliana began distributing glasses of orange brandy, a concoction some ancient Chase ancestor had claimed would guarantee a lifetime of marital bliss. How her sisters believed such nonsense, Corinna would never fathom. But she had to admit that Lord and Lady Cavanaugh looked very happy for now. Perched together on an amazing green silk sofa with gilt arms carved to look like winged lions, they both beamed as they accepted congratulations. Apparently Cornelia had found her Greek god, even if he was somewhat aged and silver-haired.

Her husband in tow, Juliana returned. She handed Corinna the last glass with a satisfied sigh. “Don’t the two of them look perfect together? I knew they’d end up married.”

Juliana always knew what was best for everyone, and she never hesitated to say so. Last season she’d suggested Lord Cavanaugh and James’s mother share a dance, and now here they were, man and wife.

“Her new title even begins with C,” Juliana added proudly.

Corinna sipped the sweet spirits. “Why should that signify?”

James laughed, slipping an arm around Juliana’s waist. “My aunts,” he reminded Corinna, “are Aurelia, Lady Avonleigh, and Bedelia, Lady Balmforth. But until today my mother—their sister—was Cornelia, Lady Stafford.”

“Now she’s Cornelia, Lady Cavanaugh, and the three sisters are Ladies A, B, and C,” Juliana concluded.

“Holy Hannah,” Corinna said, shaking her head.

She’d never understand how Juliana’s mind worked.

James dropped a kiss on Juliana’s head and moved off, just as Lady A herself made her way over. “Wasn’t the ceremony beautiful? My baby sister, married again.” With a teary but joyful little sniff, she tore her gaze from the new Lady C and focused on Corinna. “How are you these days, my dear?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“And your art?”

“I’ve been painting madly. I think I’m close to finishing my submissions for the Summer Exhibition.”

“Don’t forget, I promised to help.”

“Thank you,” Corinna said, although she had no idea how Lady A could help. But the woman seemed quite determined. Years ago, her youngest daughter had tragically ended her own life by jumping off the London Bridge, taking her unborn baby with her. The poor girl had been artistic and ambitious, and dreamed of entering the Royal Academy just like Corinna, so Lady Avonleigh dearly wished to see Corinna succeed in her daughter’s stead.

Unfortunately, wishing didn’t accomplish much. The kindly woman’s heart was in the right place, Corinna knew, but she had no connections or influence in the art world. “I appreciate your good intentions,” Corinna told her sincerely.

“I have a plan,” Lady A announced.

“You do?”

“Yes, indeed. I’ve made a rather large donation to the Royal Academy, earmarked to provide yearly grants for deserving students to study abroad. A noble cause, don’t you think?”

“Very much so,” Corinna said. The Royal Academy had sponsored student travel years ago, but such grants had been suspended since the wars had begun, making journeys to the Continent impossible. Following Napoleon’s recent defeat at Waterloo, travel had once again resumed, and artists were now clamoring to go.

But Lady A’s grants would all go to males, of course, since females were barred from the Royal Academy schools.

Corinna sighed. “I would love to go study in Italy.”

“I’m sure you would, dear. My daughter always wanted to go, too.” Lady A rested a sympathetic hand on her arm. “I’ve made a stipulation that the yearly awards be titled the Lady Georgiana Cartwright Scholarships, in her honor. I do hope that seeing a lady’s name on the grant will encourage the Academy to consider admitting girls in future. And in the meantime”—she smiled, her soft blue eyes going a little hazy as she gazed off into space—“it gives me pleasure to think of helping any art student achieve his dreams, no matter the recipient’s gender.”

“Tell her the rest,” Juliana prompted.

“Ah, yes.” Lady A nodded, coming back from wherever she’d drifted off. “Next month I shall hold an afternoon reception in my home, to which I shall invite the members of the Summer Exhibition Selection Committee. Thanks to my generous patronage, I’m certain they’ll all feel obligated to attend. And, of course, I shall invite you too, Lady Corinna, giving you the opportunity to show them some of your work and, more important, charm them and sway their decisions.”

Corinna swallowed hard. The idea that her future might depend on her ability to “charm” anyone made her feel queasy. Charm was Juliana’s department—Juliana oozed charm. And even Alexandra could be charming when necessary, when it helped her to achieve some end. But Corinna had never been much good at hiding her true feelings or keeping up a smooth, polished social grace. She wasn’t the type of person who could enter a room full of perfect strangers and instantly captivate the whole place.

Now, if Lady A were looking for someone who could enter the room and blurt out the first thing that popped into her head, she’d have come to the right girl.

But as Corinna was an unknown artist—and that would be a mark against her in the judging—she knew she should be thrilled to have an opportunity to meet the committee. And she was grateful and astonished that Lady A would go to such lengths to help her.

“Thank you so much!” she gushed. “I shall do everything I can to make the most of this chance.”

“I must give credit where credit is due,” Lady A said. “The whole scheme was your sister’s idea.”

“It was your money,” Juliana hastened to point out. “And your decision where it should be allocated.”

“I was pleased to do it. My dear daughter would have approved. I shall be even more pleased when your sister becomes the first female elected to the Royal Academy in more than fifty years, and honored to have had a hand in it.” Taking a sip of her orange brandy, she looked back to Corinna. “Of course, your talent will be the determining factor, my dear. I’ve no doubt you’ll eventually find yourself elected with or without my help.”

Corinna wished she could be so confident.

“Have you need of any planning assistance?” Juliana asked Lady A.

“I could use a hand with the invitations,” the older woman admitted. “My penmanship isn’t what it used to be.”

“I’d be pleased to help,” Juliana assured her—no surprise, since Juliana lived to have her hand in everything. “Perhaps we can have a little invitation party here next week. Friday afternoon would work well. I’ll invite Alexandra and our cousins. You remember Rachael, Claire, and Elizabeth?”

“Of course,” Lady A said. “It was a pleasure chatting with them during your many sewing parties.” Last year, Juliana had offered to make baby clothes for the Foundling Hospital, and she’d needed a lot of assistance. “I would be grateful for your cousins’ help. And now…” Lady A gestured to the new Lady C. “I must congratulate my sister before the wedding supper.”

She ambled off, and Juliana drew Corinna toward their Chase cousins standing nearby. At sixteen and seventeen, Elizabeth and Claire were both dark-haired and pretty as pictures. Their tall, equally dark-haired brother, Noah, the Earl of Greystone, was twenty and would have been pretty, too, but for a small scar that slashed through his left eyebrow.

He flashed a smile as Corinna and Juliana approached. “I’m going to find Rachael,” he said, referring to his elder sister. “If you’ll excuse me.”

As he strode away, Juliana looked to Elizabeth and Claire. “We’re helping Lady Avonleigh with the reception she’s planning to help launch Corinna’s art career. I’m hoping you’ll both come to a little invitation-making party here next Friday. And I hope Rachael will come as well, of course. Where has she gone off to?”

“The terrace. She’s just staring out over Green Park.” Claire looked fretful. “She hasn’t been herself for a long while.”

“I’ve noticed,” Juliana said. All the time Corinna’s brother, Griffin, had been busy trying to marry off his three sisters, Juliana had been trying to match him with Rachael. But Rachael had been acting sad and withdrawn these past months, which put a damper on Juliana’s efforts. “Rachael has always been so good-humored. What do you suppose is the matter?”

“She’s not yet got over finding that letter,” Elizabeth said.

Claire elbowed her younger sister in the ribs.

“What?” Juliana looked between them. “What letter?”

“Now you’ve done it, Elizabeth.” Claire’s unusual amethyst eyes glared into her sister’s green ones. “Rachael’s kept mum on the subject deliberately, you know.”

Elizabeth’s hands flew up to slap her own cheeks. “Oh, fiddlesticks!”

“What letter?” Juliana repeated.

Although the Painted Room was filled with the babel of conversation, Claire and Elizabeth’s silence was noticeable. “Whatever it is,” Corinna said for them, “Rachael wants it kept a secret.”

“Surely she didn’t mean from us,” Juliana said. “We’re her cousins.”

“No, you aren’t,” Elizabeth said, then clapped a hand over her mouth.

“What?” Juliana and Corinna burst out together.

Claire glared at her sister again, then sighed. “When Rachael cleared out our parents’ suite at Greystone for Noah, she found a letter that revealed she had a different father than ours. It seems our mother was married before and carrying Rachael when she was widowed. Then she married our father before giving birth.”

Juliana looked astonished. “Who was her real father, then?”

“She doesn’t know.” Claire shook her head. “The letter didn’t say, and there’s no one to ask. We have no living grandparents, and Mama’s only sister died when we were young. Rachael went through all of our mother’s belongings, searching for clues to who her first husband might have been, but she found nothing.”

“Is she still looking?” Corinna asked, concerned.

“She cannot think of anywhere else to look,” Elizabeth said. “Griffin even helped her go through everything again last year, in case she missed something.”

Now Juliana looked intrigued. “Griffin knows about this?”

“He’s the only one besides us,” Claire said. “Please don’t tell Rachael you know now, too. She’d be mortified.”

“Why?” Corinna asked. “Does she think so little of us that she believes we’d feel differently toward her, just because we’re not cousins by blood?”

“I fear she’s not thinking at all these days.” Claire crossed her arms over her violet satin bodice and leveled another glare at her sister. “Much like Elizabeth.”

“I’m sorry,” Elizabeth squeaked.

Claire sighed again. “I don’t think Rachael even realizes you’re not her cousins. She’s so upset at not knowing who her real father is that she hasn’t thought past that. Or maybe she’s blocked the truth from her mind, because she can’t stand the thought of losing all the family she knows.”

“She still has you two,” Corinna said. “And Noah. You all shared a mother.”

“But that’s all. Please just let her work it out for herself in her own good time. I don’t think she could take hearing anything more now.”

“We promise not to tell a soul.” Corinna turned to Juliana. “Don’t we?”

“Of course we do.” Juliana reached to squeeze both her cousins’ hands. “I’m sorry to hear Rachael is so upset, and I promise that no one—including her—will hear about it from either of us. We love Rachael, no matter what.”

Corinna nodded agreement, but she knew Juliana well enough to hear the barely concealed glee in her sister’s voice.

Oh, Juliana sympathized with Rachael, of course—but far more important was the fact that Rachael’s main objection to marrying Griffin had always been their shared ancestry, and that obstacle was now gone. Not to mention, Rachael had chosen to confide in Griffin, and Griffin had tried to help her and kept her secret.

Add all of that together, and it seemed another of Juliana’s incessant projects was well on its way to success. And if she actually managed to pull it off, she was going to be smug beyond belief.

Corinna couldn’t hold back a groan.

FIVE

Few people were strolling in Green Park this Thursday evening. The undulating landscape was shadowed by the setting sun, and the gardens were very tranquil.

But Rachael wasn’t.

Gripping the terrace’s rail, she stared out over grassland and trees, telling herself it was time to let go of these feelings. She was never going to learn who her father was, and she had to come to grips with that. She’d allowed Griffin to help her as he’d wanted, and they’d found nothing—just as she’d expected. That had been months ago, months spent in a melancholy haze.

The man who had raised her had cared for her, so it shouldn’t matter that they hadn’t shared a blood bond, should it? And how long could she remain angry with her mother for withholding the facts? The woman was dead, for heaven’s sake. The anger was pointless, and she had to get on with her life.

“Rachael.”

Turning to see her brother step out on the terrace, she forced a smile. “Noah. You arrived so late I had no chance to chat with you before the wedding.” His priorities never had been with family or responsibility. “Did you get the new racehorse settled in at Greystone?”

“Horses,” he corrected. “I bought two. And they’re both doing well, yes. I’m hoping for a good showing at Ascot. While I was home I asked for an inventory to be taken—”

“An inventory of what?” Since when did Noah care about anything at Greystone Castle?

“Of everything. While dining there alone, I noticed that old portrait of the first earl over the fireplace and got to thinking about what might have accumulated in the hundred and fifty years since he was granted the title and lands. The servants aren’t finished yet—I expect it will take them weeks to catalog everything they find. But one thing they discovered was an old trunk in the attic with Mama’s wedding dress and a few other items. Nothing important—”

“I want to see it.”

“I knew you would,” he said with a wry smile. “That’s why I’m telling you they found it. I had it brought down and put in my room so you can go through it after the season.”

“I want to see it now. Can we go to Greystone tomorrow?”

“I’ve just returned from Greystone, and the Jockey Club meets tomorrow. Besides, I told you nothing in it is important. You can wait a few weeks.”

“No, I can’t, Noah.” He didn’t know what was important. The trunk might have something in it that would reveal her father’s identity. “I’m going tomorrow.”

“I’m not going with you, and you cannot travel that far alone or with Claire or Elizabeth. It wouldn’t be safe.”

“I know that.” But she knew another gentleman who might be willing to accompany her in his place. “When you go back inside, will you ask Griffin to step out here a moment?”

“Can you come for me at seven?” Rachael asked, a few loose tendrils of her hair blowing in the breeze that crossed the terrace.

“That anxious, are you?” Griffin’s sisters were never ready to leave the house so early in the morning. But then, none of them were nearly as focused as Rachael. “That will be fine. Will one or both of your sisters come along, too?”

“I think not.”

“Hmm. Aunt Frances is too far gone with child, so I guess I’ll ask one of my sisters to drag herself out of bed and join us.”

“Why?”

“As a chaperone, of course.”

“We don’t need a chaperone, Griffin.”

He sipped orange brandy, watching her warily over the rim of the glass. “It’s a long journey.”

“Only half a day each direction. We won’t be gone overnight. Other than you and my siblings, no one knows about my true parentage, and I want to keep it that way, at least for now. Besides,” she added, “you’re my cousin. Would I require a chaperone to travel half a day with Noah?”

“I’m not Noah,” Griffin pointed out. “A cousin isn’t the same as a brother.” But he didn’t point out that he wasn’t, in the strictest sense, her cousin. Not by blood anyway, not since it had been established that John Chase hadn’t been her father. He didn’t want to upset her, and more to the point, he’d just as soon have her think of him as a cousin.

“You’re practically my brother,” she insisted.

Maybe having her think of him as a brother was even better. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll come for you at seven.”

“Thank you!” she exclaimed, looking happier than he’d seen her since that disappointing day when they’d gone through her mother’s belongings and found nothing.

As he watched her glide back into Stafford House, gracefully swaying as she went, he clenched his jaw.

Griffin remembered Rachael as an awkward adolescent, a tomboyish playmate, all skinny arms and gangly legs. At fourteen, she’d had a funny dent in her chin, wild, curly dark hair, and rather bulbous blue eyes. But then he’d left home for Oxford and later joined the cavalry. And during the years he’d spent away, the tomboy had become a lady.

A very sultry one.

Those cerulean eyes were now alluring, those limbs long and graceful, that figure anything but awkward. The dented chin made her face distinctive and fetching. Her hair was sleek and tamed, excepting those few tendrils that always seemed to come loose. Or maybe she left them loose deliberately. Either way, they looked soft and silky and tickled the sides of her smooth, sculpted cheeks.

In short, Rachael Chase was spectacularly attractive. Too much so for Griffin’s comfort. Which was why he was happy she thought of him as nothing more than a cousin.

Although cousins often wed, Rachael’s aunt had married a cousin, then sadly given birth to a crippled, feebleminded child. A doctor had said the family relationship might be to blame, and as a result, Rachael was dead-set against marrying any cousin, no matter how distant. And that suited Griffin just fine, since he had no intention of marrying her.

He had no intention of marrying anyone.

At least, not anytime soon.

His sisters and Cainewood kept him occupied quite enough, thank you very much. The last thing he needed was an additional distraction, or yet another responsibility. After all, he was only twenty-six, he thought as he downed the rest of the orange brandy and went back inside.

There were years and years left before he’d have to worry about taking on a wife.

SIX

The homes on the east and west sides of Berkeley Square were close to the street and built cheek by jowl against one another, but Lincolnshire House stood alone on the north end, behind a high imposing wall.

On Friday morning, the guard at the massive wooden gate scowled at the portmanteau Sean carried. “Peddlers aren’t welcome.”

Sean’s hand clenched on the handle of the simple leather bag. “I’m the earl’s nephew,” he said, all but choking on the words.

A little gasp burst from the man’s mouth. “Pardon me, Mr. Hamilton, I’m sorry, truly I am.” Babbling, he swung open the gate. “Do come in, and please accept my sincerest apologies.”

Sean was more than willing to do so, but he was struck dumb at sight of the house.

His own house in Hampstead was sizable and impressive. Originally built in the seventeenth century, it had been extended and remodeled some fifty years ago by the notable architect Robert Adam, for a chief justice who worked in the City but wanted to live in the suburbs. It sat in acres of gardens and ancient woodland, with a stunning view out over London. Deirdre had gasped the first time she saw it.

But it seemed a hovel in comparison to the Earl of Lincolnshire’s enormous mansion in Berkeley Square.

A rather plain Palladian-style brick building, it was quite simply the largest house Sean had ever seen. Five gardeners labored industriously in the lavishly landscaped courtyard. After banging the knocker, he shifted uncomfortably on the front steps beneath the portico, wishing he could be anywhere else but here, doing anything else but this.

Deirdre certainly hadn’t agreed that going along with Hamilton’s plan was worthwhile to secure her divorce. Last night’s disbelieving cry—“You promised to do what?”—still rang in his head. “That’s ridiculous!” she’d railed—and Irishwomen were nothing if not expert railers. “You fool! You knothead! I don’t need you to play the martyr for me. I’ll be happy together with Daniel whether we’re married or not.”

Well, maybe she would be happy, but Sean wouldn’t. And although he’d been tempted to tell her of her husband’s threat to make her move back in with him, he’d resisted that temptation. He didn’t want to be the martyr; he didn’t want her to feel indebted or burdened with guilt. Better she think her brother a knotheaded fool.

That was nothing new, anyway.

A butler opened the door. His dark suit was starched and pressed. His expression looked as rigid as his clothing.

“May I help you, sir?”

“I’ve come to see my uncle, the Earl of Lincolnshire.”

“Your uncle? You must be Mr. Hamilton, then.” As though he’d suddenly melted, the man’s entire demeanor changed. “Come in, come in,” he said, ushering Sean through the door. “I’m Quincy, and the earl is going to be so pleased to hear you’ve arrived. I shall inform Mr. Higginbotham, his house steward, that you are here so he can make certain your room is ready.” He eyed the portmanteau. “That cannot be all you brought along.”

“My manservant will bring in my trunks after he sees to my curricle.”

“Good, good. I shall send an underfootman to assist him. The earl has been asking after you since he opened his eyes this morning. In truth, since last night when he received your note. He’s abed, so I shall fetch a maid to show you upstairs posthaste.”

The butler closed the door and promptly disappeared down a corridor. Sean waited, anxious to get this introduction over with. How much time would he be forced to spend with the mean old brute?

Unpleasant as the earl himself might be, he certainly had a nice house. In contrast to the building’s simple facade, its interior was absolutely sumptuous. The grand, pillared entrance led to a wide, sweeping curved staircase with broad steps made of purest white marble. Grecian-style couches lined the perimeter, plushly upholstered in light-colored velvet with darker trim. Gold and crystal glittered everywhere, and there was lots of Oriental pottery scattered about. Paintings hung everywhere, too—enormous gilt-framed paintings that Sean imagined were probably famous, though knowing nothing of art, he couldn’t identify a single artist.

“Fancy, ain’t it?”

Wondering if his mouth had been hanging open, he turned to see a little bird of a middle-aged woman wearing a dark dress with a starched white apron. “It’s impressive.”

“The most impressive house in London,” she declared, leading him across the stone floor toward the steps. “Which is only fair, considering Lord Lincolnshire is the most wonderful man in all of England.”

Wonderful? The earl was wonderful?

That couldn’t be right. This maid was obviously just being a dutiful employee.

The staircase’s newel post looked to be fashioned of solid crystal. Atop balusters of gilded ironwork, the handrail was crystal, too. As Sean climbed, he nodded at two more servants on their way down. “What exactly is wrong with his lordship’s health?”

“Such a tragedy.” The maid sighed. “He complained of chest pain that lasted a few hours. Before the doctor could arrive, he fell into a dead faint, and when he woke, his legs began swelling horribly. A dreadful sight, I tell you. And he’s short of breath, the poor man. Dropsy, the doctor said.”

“Dropsy.” Sean knew little about the disease, but it sounded bad. “He can talk, though, yes?”

“Aye, that he can.” At the top of the stairs, she turned down a corridor that had more paintings on the walls and more Oriental pottery on marble hall tables. She skirted around a woman polishing the already spotless inlaid floor. “And he cannot wait to see you.”

Sean was waved through a door to find Lincolnshire in a huge state bed hung with dark damask trimmed with pale silk. His face hidden from Sean’s sight by a sturdy nurse dressed in white, the earl sat propped against four or five pillows. The nurse finished plumping them and stepped away.

“John!” the man exclaimed as Sean came into view. He had light-colored eyes, thinning gray hair combed forward, and an altogether dignified, pleasant appearance.

And he didn’t look nearly as ill as Hamilton had indicated.

“I’m so pleased you agreed to keep me company in my final days,” he enthused. “Come here, nephew. Let me have a look at you.”

Sean approached warily. “You seem far stronger than I feared, my lord.”

“My lord? Please call me Uncle. But I’m afraid I am quite ill. Began with massive pain—a great, squeezing pressure in the vicinity of my heart. As though a man were sitting on my chest.” He paused. And then, “No,” he corrected himself, “as though the Prince Regent were sitting on my chest.”

Lincolnshire smiled at his own joke; the Prince Regent was grossly overweight. Although Sean had never run in court circles, even he knew that. Scurrilous cartoons were often printed in the papers, and a recent one had featured the fat prince picking his teeth following an enormous meal.

“The doctors say I won’t last two weeks,” Lincolnshire added, sounding a bit out of breath. “I need all these pillows because I cannot breathe lying down. I have to stay upright even to sleep, so I can breathe. Sit down, sit down.” Looking much more chipper than a man with a death sentence rightly should, he indicated a tufted velvet chair close by the bed. “It’s dropsy, they tell me.”

“What causes it?”

“That they haven’t told me. Or perhaps they don’t know. Sit, John, sit.”

“You seem so cheerful,” Sean commented as he lowered himself.

“I’m happy to see you. After all these years, John—”

“Sean,” he interrupted.

“Eh?”

“Call me Sean, please.” He couldn’t stand being called by the weasel’s name, not to mention he would likely forget to answer to it. “Sean is the same name as John in Ireland, you see, so I’ve been called Sean since I was a lad. I’m still called Sean by all my friends and family.”

“You haven’t any family left other than me, have you? Or only on your mother’s side?” The old man cocked his head. “You’ve an Irish accent, too. How is that?”

Sean had forgotten Hamilton’s parents were dead and he’d had no siblings. He’d have to tread more carefully.

Sweet mercy, whatever had made him think he could pull this off?

He ignored the first questions and answered the last. “Surely you know I was raised in Ireland.”

“But you’re an Englishman, after all. I made certain you always had English tutors. Paid the enormous bills myself.”

Sean shrugged—casually, he hoped. “Everyone else around me was Irish. I expect I picked up a bit of an accent anyway.”

“A bit?”

In all honesty, Sean had thought he’d lost most of it. Or at least he’d tried to. He was very careful to always say yes rather than aye, and my rather than me. Yes, that’s my best suit, instead of Aye, that’s me best suit.

He knew London wasn’t overly fond of the Irish.

“Ah, well, I suppose it doesn’t signify,” Lincolnshire added kindly. “I’ll call you Sean if that pleases you. I’m just glad to have you here. Been lonely since your aunt passed on.”

“You must miss her.” Hamilton’s aunt, Lincolnshire’s wife. So the earl had cared for his wife—and for his nephew enough to see to the boy’s education. He sure didn’t seem like a heartless beast.

“I still do miss her. After all our children died, at least we still had each other. Rather disconcerting to find oneself alone.”

“You seem to be surrounded by staff, sir. Uncle.” An understatement of great proportions. The nurse still puttered in the shadows, and two more maids had come and gone in the past few minutes, delivering a glass of water, fussing with the curtains, seeing to the man’s comfort.

“Ah, yes, that I am.” The earl smiled a bit sheepishly, revealing straight but tea-stained teeth. “Mrs. Skeffington takes excellent care of me,” he said, indicating the nurse, “but she does have some help.” He shook his head. “More than a hundred servants altogether, and I cannot bring myself to dismiss a single one. My family has employed all of them for years.”

“All of them?”

“And their folk before them, generations back. My forebears housed many relations, you see. As did I, in the past.” A sigh escaped his lips, a wheezy sort of sound. “While my family shrank, the families of the servants continued to grow. After so many years of loyal service, I cannot find it in myself to turn them out. It’s no simple matter to find good positions these days, even with a letter of good character.”

While keeping such an overlarge staff bordered on the absurd, Sean found the sentiment admirable—and baffling. Where was the cruel, miserly man Sean had heard about all his life? The distant master of Kilburton who lived to spite others?

Come to think of it, had he ever heard those stories from anyone but the weasel and his parents?

As Sean looked on the earl’s open, smiling face, his breakfast felt as though it were congealing in his gut. An iron collar seemed to be squeezing around his throat. Clearly Lincolnshire wasn’t the brute Hamilton had described. And neither was he “incapacitated.” Perhaps he was knocking on death’s door, but for now, at least, he was fully alert.

How could Sean deceive such a nice man?

Lincolnshire leaned to pat Sean’s hand. “I’m so glad you’re here, John,” he repeated gratefully.

“Sean,” Sean choked out.

“Sean, yes. I shall have to grow accustomed to that.” He smiled again, a fond smile that spiked Sean’s guilt. “Lady Partridge is holding a ball tomorrow night. I’ve already sent my regrets, but I’ve a sudden hankering to see all my friends one last time. To show off my famous nephew. I’ll have my secretary send her a note, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble for you to accompany me.”

Trouble?

Guilt transformed to a panic that trouble didn’t even begin to describe.

Sean couldn’t appear in public as Lincolnshire’s nephew—when the real Hamilton came forward later to claim his earldom, all of society would learn of the hoax. And then where would they all be? Hamilton would lose his art career if not his inheritance. He’d kill Sean, or, at the very least, refuse Deirdre her divorce. Sean’s sister would go on to live in sin, or worse, in subjugation to her hateful husband.

And it would all be Sean’s fault.

“I’d prefer not to be ‘shown off,’” he explained carefully. “I’m rather a mystery to the public. That secrecy adds to my cachet, and—”

“Your mysterious ways are legend. Very well, then.” Lincolnshire looked resigned, and Sean was relieved—for approximately two seconds. “I won’t tell anyone you’re John Hamilton. I’ll simply introduce you as my nephew Sean.”

“Surely people know who your heir is…”

“I’ll tell them you’re my long-lost other nephew. For now. They’ll learn the truth, of course, when you inherit. It will be our little secret.” For a moment the earl’s eyes danced with merry amusement, but he quickly sobered. “I’d…well…” The old man cleared his throat, looking embarrassed. “I’d given up living, Sean. I didn’t want to see anyone. But now… having you here…it makes me want to live again. I’ve a short time left. With you by my side, I wish to say my good-byes.” A sheen of tears glazed his eyes. “Please, nephew, do me this favor.”

How could Sean possibly deny such a heart-rending request? How could he disappoint the most wonderful man in all of England?

He gazed up at the exquisite painted ceiling, where the Goddess of Dawn chased the Goddess of Night. Hamilton had been so wrong about his uncle, in so very many ways. And being introduced as Lincolnshire’s other nephew should carry no risk. Their ruse would never come to light. Sean had no connections with high society. Before Lincolnshire, he’d never met any member of the ton. No one should suspect he was anything but what Lincolnshire said, and after all of this was over, he’d never see any of them ever again.

“Very well,” he said at last, lowering his gaze to meet the earl’s eyes. “I’ll accompany you. Just remember to call me Sean.”

The old man’s obvious delight did nothing to ease Sean’s guilt.

SEVEN

Griffin spent all of Friday morning seated across from Rachael in his carriage, smelling her heady, floral scent and watching her lick her lips so many times his jaw ached from clenching his teeth.

He talked of parties, books and politics, family and property and plans for the future…anything to keep his mind off that sultry mouth. It was difficult to speak with his teeth clenched, so he was thankful Rachael kept up her end of the conversation. She’d always been easy to talk to, especially for a girl.

At long last, in the early afternoon, the carriage rattled over the drawbridge and into a modest courtyard before the small castle that was Rachael’s home at Greystone. Spring rain pelted him when he shoved open the door and leapt to the circular drive. He breathed a sigh of relief.

When he reached to help Rachael out, he discovered she wasn’t wearing gloves. The warmth of her hand seemed to spread throughout his body, especially up his neck to heat his face. Maddeningly, she left her hand in his while they made their way down a short, covered passageway and entered through the unassuming oak door. Her fingers trembled, either from the chill or from nervousness at what they might find; he wasn’t sure which.

He was thankful she dropped his hand when the butler, Smithson, approached. “Lady Rachael. Lord Cainewood.” Tall and lean with gray hair and piercing gray eyes that seemed to match the old castle, Smithson was too mannerly to show dismay at their unexpected arrival. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“We’ll be here but a short while,” Rachael assured him. “No need for any great fuss.”

He glanced at the tall-case clock that stood in the square, stone-floored entry. “I’ll ask Cook to prepare a luncheon. Will you be wanting anything more?”

“No, thank you. I wish only to fetch something of my mother’s, and Lord Cainewood was kind enough to accompany me.” She headed toward the oak staircase that marched up the wall opposite the entrance. “Please don’t trouble yourself or anyone else.”

Griffin followed her up the steps, past two of her mother’s watercolor paintings and along the corridor that led to what used to be her parents’ bedroom. The chamber’s walls were covered in pale green paper with gold tracery, the bedding green velvet of a deeper hue, the furniture light and slender, of the style popularized by Sheraton.

“Wasn’t this room decorated in red?” he asked. “And the furnishings of dark oak?”

“I changed it all for Noah.” Her younger brother had finally taken responsibility for the earldom—a responsibility Rachael had borne herself since their parents died four years ago, when she was seventeen. “To make it his, not Papa and Mama’s.”

How thoughtful. How Rachael. “But some of your mother’s things are in here now?”

“In that chest.” She gestured toward the one heavy, dark piece of furniture, a large carved trunk set in a corner. “Noah had it brought down from the attic.” Her voice sounded thin. “He said nothing in it is important.”

“He could be wrong,” he said, hoping that was the case. “Let’s have a look.”

“Yes, let’s.” She crossed to the trunk and removed an embroidered covering and a lamp someone had set on top. Then she knelt and took a deep breath before reverently opening the lid. A musty scent wafted out, starch and aged leather mixed with hints of her mother’s gardenia perfume.

Griffin knelt beside her. “Pretty,” he murmured, lifting a straw hat from atop the contents.

“I remember her wearing it when I was a child.” Rachael removed a few more old-fashioned items of clothing, then shook out a white gown. “This must be the wedding dress Noah mentioned. I recognize it from their wedding portrait.”

Though clearly out of fashion, the gown was lacy and beautiful. Rachael’s mother had been slender like her daughter, all willowy, graceful curves, and she obviously hadn’t been pregnant long when she married John Chase. The dress looked like it would fit Rachael perfectly. “Will you wear it for your own wedding someday, too, now that you’ve found it?”

“I’d love to, but…” Her eyes grew misty as she gazed into the trunk. “Thunderation. I’m not going to cry.”

Rachael could cuss as colorfully as a cavalryman, but that didn’t bother Griffin. He considered it part of her charm. It reminded him she’d spent years as the Earl of Greystone in all but name, and he admired her for that.

“But what?” he prompted.

“She wore it for her wedding to him. Lord Greystone. Not my father.”

“Balderdash.” Griffin sought her gaze. “Lord Greystone was your father in every way that counted. I’m sure he would have wanted you to wear it. He would have been honored, as a matter of fact.”

She nodded and swallowed hard. “I’m not sure I’ll ever marry, anyway.”

“Of course you will. What gentleman in his right mind wouldn’t want you? I’m surprised Noah hasn’t already found you a match.”

“Noah?” Her eyes cleared, and she laughed, turning back to the trunk. “Who would run his household if I wed? He won’t be matching me anytime soon.”

Though Noah was only eighteen months her junior, he’d always seemed far less mature. Had it not occurred to the boy that seeing his three sisters settled was now his responsibility? Perhaps Griffin would have to set him straight.

A few old books lay beneath the clothes, all inscribed, To Georgiana with love from Mama. Georgiana had been Rachael’s mother’s name, but the inscriptions were all dated with her early birthdays, and the books contained no clues. There were no diaries or anything else of a personal nature. A stack of letters tied with a ribbon held no relevant information, either. They were all written in the years following Rachael’s birth.

When the trunk was otherwise empty, Rachael found a tiny box in the bottom and pulled it out. It held a narrow, plain gold band.

“Her wedding ring?” Griffin guessed.

“She was buried wearing her wedding ring. Unless…” She glanced up at him, wonder in her eyes. “This must be from her marriage to my father.” She looked inside, turning the band to catch the light. “No engraving. No clues.” Sighing, she slipped it onto the fourth finger of her right hand. “It fits.”

“I’m not surprised.” Griffin’s knees creaked when he stood and stretched. “That’s it, then, is it?”

“Everything in here was old, things she didn’t use anymore, things it made sense to have put away.” Leaving the ring on her finger, she began putting everything else back. “I guess she didn’t have a lot to keep. Mama led a quiet life.”

He nodded. “I remember she was always home with you. My parents often left us with our governesses, but your mother never did.”

“She never went up to London. She said the air there was bad for her lungs.” Another dismal sigh escaped her lips as she replaced the last few items and shut the trunk. “Noah was right. There was nothing important here. I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

“It wasn’t a waste, Rachael.” He watched her spread the embroidered cloth, the narrow gold ring glinting as she moved. “Did your mother have no other jewels?”

She lifted the lamp. ”Yes, of course she did. She may have been quiet, but she liked pretty things. She willed all her jewels to me. Claire and Elizabeth each chose a few pieces, but the rest are in my room.”

He took the lamp from her and set it down decisively, then reached a hand to help her up. “We should have looked at them last time. Maybe something will be engraved—“

“Nothing is. I would have noticed.”

Yes, she probably would have. Rachael was nothing if not observant. “Let’s have a look anyway, though, shall we?”

Rachael’s chamber was deep rose and rich green and dark blue, a combination as classic and sophisticated as Rachael herself. Another of her mother’s watercolors hung over her washstand. Fetching a mahogany box off her dressing table, she brought it with her to sit on the bed and patted the spot beside her in invitation, apparently not at all troubled to have him, an unmarried gentleman, in her room.

Griffin wished he could say the same.

He sat, though, when she opened the box. Filled to the brim, it sparkled with gold and diamonds, colorful gems and lustrous pearls. Griffin didn’t know much about jewelry, but he recognized a fortune when he saw it.

His eyes must have widened, because Rachael laughed at the look on his face. “This family is descended from jewelers,” she reminded him. “My great-great-grandmother, or some such.”

“I think you need a few more greats,” he said, remembering now. “Her father’s shop burned in the Great Fire, didn’t it? Way back in the 1660s?”

“Something like that. Some cousins own another shop in London. I believe it was opened by one of her sons. In any case, there are many more jewels, including some very old ones, in the safe in Claire’s workshop.” Her sister Claire had taken up the old family hobby. “These were Mama’s personal items. Some family heirlooms given to her by my father—Lord Greystone, I mean—and some newer things. But nothing I could identify as coming from her first husband.”

Griffin sifted through the treasure trove, rings and bracelets glittering as they slipped through his fingers. He recognized a diamond necklace as one Rachael had worn to a ball at Cainewood two summers earlier. A brooch he thought he could recall Aunt Georgiana wearing often, pinned to her dress.

A locket made him momentarily hopeful, but it held a swatch of hair, not a miniature or a note. No dates or names were engraved on anything.

Then another brooch caught his eye. “The Prince of Wales’s Feathers,” he murmured, pulling it from the pile.

Three silver plumes rose from a gold coronet of alternate crosses and fleurs-de-lis, studded with rubies and emeralds. Along the bottom, a gold ribbon bore a motto.

“What does it say?” Rachael asked.

“’Ich Dien.’ I serve.” He looked at her. “Your father…I mean, John Chase, Lord Greystone…was he ever in the cavalry?”

“Of course not. His younger brother served in the army, but Grandfather would never have allowed his heir to risk his life.”

“I thought not. This may be our clue.”

She blinked. “It’s a national symbol of Wales, isn’t it? I assumed it was a souvenir from a visit.”

“It’s a military badge. From the Tenth Hussars. My regiment.”

Hope leapt into her sky blue eyes. “Do you think it was given to my mother by a member?”

“An officer, from the looks of this piece. Gold and gemstones. An enlisted man would wear a much less expensive version.” The metal felt cool in his fingers as he turned it over. Nothing was engraved on the back.

“No more clues,” she said with a sigh.

“This alone may be enough. Would you mind if I keep it a while?”

“Of course not. But how can it help you find my father?”

He slipped it into his pocket. “He died in 1795, sometime in the months after you were conceived but before you were born—that much we know. Napoleon didn’t come to power until ‘ninety-nine. There shouldn’t have been many deaths that year; the Tenth would have been at home; in peacetime, there are few casualties. I’ll go to regimental headquarters and ask to see the records.”

It would take two days to get there, a day to search the records, and another two days to ride home. Five days during which Corinna wouldn’t meet any suitable men. But much as he wanted his sister married and off his hands, he didn’t mind.

Rachael’s happiness was important, too.

Although another girl might have made a token protest, Rachael wasn’t that sort. “Thank you,” she said instead, two simple, grateful words. “Do you expect you can find something that could tell us who he was?”

He shrugged, not wanting to get her hopes up. “I can try. I’ll bring you back to London now, and I’d like to take Corinna to Lady Partridge’s ball tomorrow night. I’ll leave for regimental headquarters first thing Sunday morning. With luck, I’ll have an answer for you by Thursday.”

“An officer,” she breathed. “Someone important.”

A bark of a laugh burst out of him. “It doesn’t take importance to buy a commission. Only money.”

Her eyes shone. “You were important. You led campaigns in the Peninsular War. Your patrol brought news of the Prussian retreat at Wavre, thus influencing the Duke of Wellington to fight at Waterloo.”

“How do you know all that?”

“Your sisters. They’re proud of you. You’d have been at Waterloo had your brother not died.”

“Well, he did,” he said flatly, keeping the bitterness out of his voice.

He’d never wanted to be a marquess. It seemed a frivolous career next to the vital work of the army. But here, now, was a chance to use his military connections to advantage. To help someone.

To help Rachael.

And that thought made him far too pleased.

EIGHT

“You’re not going to stay up till all hours again, are you?”

In a haze of concentration, Corinna turned from her easel and blinked at her brother in the drawing room’s doorway. It was close to midnight, and she hadn’t realized he’d returned home. “I’m starting a new painting.”

“You didn’t answer my question. I’ve had a long day, and I’m off to bed. Will you also be retiring soon?”

“I don’t know.” Irritated, she set down her palette. “It depends upon how this goes.”

Griffin walked closer. “Doesn’t look like much.”

“Yet.” All she’d done was layer the pale gray ground that she used as the undertint for her paintings, with a rough white oval in the upper middle.

“What is it going to be?”

“I’m not sure,” she hedged.

But she knew what she wanted it to be: a portrait. That was why she’d laid the white oval where she planned to paint the face. Flesh tones would appear brighter over white than gray, and she wanted the face to be luminous.

And she wanted it to be a good portrait. That was why she’d sketched the Elgin Marbles.

“I want you to get a good night’s sleep,” Griffin pressed. “I’ve several men I want you to meet at Lady Partridge’s ball tomorrow evening.”

Not that again. Your turn will come next, she remembered Juliana saying. All she wanted was to concentrate on her art, but everyone wanted to marry her off.

Like paint swiped with turpentine, her creative haze had dissipated. “Well, then, I shall certainly need my beauty rest,” she said tartly.

She may as well go to bed, though. She hadn’t decided whom to paint anyway.

“I’m glad you agree,” Griffin said, apparently missing her tone. “By the way, I need to leave Sunday morning, and I probably won’t be back until Thursday. I won’t be able to take you to Almack’s on Wednesday night.”

“What a terrible pity.” Day after day of painting without interruptions, while he was off dealing with some problem at Cainewood or whatever?

What more could a girl like Corinna ask for?

Though she vaguely wondered what he was going to do, she didn’t want to prolong this discussion. “That’s really too bad, Griffin,” she said with a straight face. “Good night.”

Looking forward to the week ahead, she hummed as she cleaned up and put everything away. Then she went upstairs to her room, lit a candle from the fireplace, and ducked into her dressing room to grab a nightgown.

And there she stopped short, pulling a face.

In the corner were dozens of paintings stacked leaning against the wall. Her paintings. Portrait after portrait, none of them quite right.

They taunted her.

She’d spent nearly a decade learning to paint still lifes and landscapes. Practicing, persevering, perfecting. Eventually she’d begun putting people into her scenes, figures strolling or laboring or simply lounging in the background. But that hadn’t been enough to satisfy her.

She’d always wanted to paint real portraits, detailed studies of people. She all but burned to paint portraits, and last year she’d put all other sorts of subjects behind her.

She walked closer and flipped canvases, bringing the candle near to scrutinize the year’s many efforts. Her maid. Alexandra and Juliana. Alexandra and baby Harry. Juliana alone, her shoulders bare, her skirts hiked up to show one scandalous, exposed knee.

Juliana, the dear, had obligingly posed for Corinna in the nude. Rigidly, self-consciously nude. Unfortunately, Corinna had been unable to paint her sister nude, as the sight of such a work of art would make poor Griffin’s head explode.

And still, none of the paintings were good enough.

Sighing, she leaned them back against the wall. She knew she had it in her to produce a fine portrait. She’d long since mastered all the things she could easily study—the face, the hair, the clothing, the hands—and she’d been told she portrayed her subjects’ expressions well.

But when it came to the body, she found herself frustrated every time. The people looked stiff and unnatural, not altogether surprising, given they’d looked stiff and unnatural when they’d posed. Corinna’s maid and sisters could never seem to sit still for long, and sketching them had never proved as helpful as she’d hoped.

Not to mention her maid and sisters were all female. Men were formed differently, and since half the world’s population was male, Corinna wanted to paint them, too. But barring her spectacularly unwilling brother—yes, she’d asked him—where on earth was a gently bred girl supposed to find a male model?

Well, perhaps sketching the Elgin Marbles had done the trick, she reminded herself, lifting her chin. At least they knew how to hold still.

Squaring her shoulders, she returned to her room and summoned her maid to help ready her for bed. But then she found she couldn’t retire. She rarely rose before noon, because she stayed up late as a habit. Although painting by candlelight rather than sunlight could sometimes prove challenging, the night hours were quiet, almost mystical, the very best time for creativity.

It was too early to fall asleep.

She pulled out a small book tucked under her bed, the second volume of Celia in Search of a Husband by Medora Gordon Byron. Smiling, she cradled it in her hands. It was a Minerva Press novel, a torrid romance, bound as always in cheap marble-patterned paper.

Other than painting, Minerva Press novels were Corinna’s favorite, most secret escape.

She bought them in secret, too. Fortunately, a bookseller’s shop sat next door to the colorman’s shop where she purchased her art supplies. Her maid or a footman usually accompanied her on these errands, since no one in the family had the patience to wait for hours while she chose the perfect oils and tints. Which was a good thing, since that meant they never saw her go into the bookshop afterward, either.

The last thing she wanted was her family discovering she reveled in such unseemly literature. Her sisters would be properly scandalized—or else they would tease her mercilessly. And Griffin would probably be smug; he’d consider it proof that, deep down, she pined for love and a husband.

She could do without any of those reactions, thank you very much.

To make doubly sure there was no risk of discovery, after reading a Minerva Press novel she always donated it to the circulating library. That way other girls could enjoy them. She had no need to ever reread them herself, since she was afflicted—yes, afflicted—with the ability to remember everything she’d ever read, word for word. She could see the printed pages in her mind, and they had a tendency to pop into her head at the oddest, most inconvenient moments. It was rather a nuisance. Almost annoying enough to make her stop reading.

But only almost. She set the candle on her bedside table and opened Celia in Search of a Husband with a happy sigh.

Celia was quite amusing. Though the heroine proclaimed loudly and often that she wanted a husband, she discarded men left and right as though they were so many used handkerchiefs.

On page 183, Celia sighed, “mentally,” according to the author—Corinna often sighed mentally, too!—wondering, Am I rigid? What woman of real feeling would trust her peace to the keeping of a libertine? It may prove the vanity of love to believe that we could fix the heart hitherto unprincipled, but a trusting woman must meet, in the creature of her choice, either the idol of her hopes or certain disappointment in her connubial happiness—for here is no medium.

Exactly, Corinna thought with another sigh. A mental one, of course.

If a flawed fellow couldn’t be fixed—no matter how much one might love him—then what were her chances of finding marital happiness, anyway? Corinna would have to meet her “idol,” and how improbable was that?

Certain disappointment was a much more likely outcome, which was why she, a woman of real feeling, was far better off putting her faith in her art.

NINE

Lady Partridge lived in a small mansion at the edge of Mayfair. On Saturday night, the line of carriages stretched for blocks. Sean figured he could have negotiated two contracts and plowed through the entire mountain of paperwork on his desk in the time it took him and his “uncle” to make their way to the front.

Two footmen reached in for Lincolnshire, who had spent most of the wait dozing. As he emerged, supported by the two men, he eyed Sean. “You look a bit sober, eh?”

“I beg your pardon, sir? I should think so.” Sean watched the footmen settle the earl in a curious vehicle. A typical dining room chair with a caned back and an upholstered seat, it had two huge wheels attached to its sides and a smaller wheel centered behind. “I’m not an inveterate drinker.”

To the contrary—and to Deirdre’s screaming amusement—Sean seemed the only Irishman alive who couldn’t hold his liquor.

“Downed a toddy myself before leaving,” the earl said as one of the men lifted his feet while the other unfolded a small, upholstered shelf for them to rest upon. “A swallow of spirits never hurt a man, should you ask me. But that wasn’t what I meant by sober. I plan to stick around long enough to get to know you, yet you appear to be dressed for a funeral. Not mine, I hope.”

“Certainly not yours, sir.” Sean shook out a blanket and settled it on the earl’s lap to hide his swollen legs. Though Lincolnshire was on the whole a slight fellow, his lower extremities would fit a man thrice his size. Earlier this evening, when Sean had seen them uncovered, he’d choked back a gasp. “But I fear that I haven’t spent much time at balls.” Actually, he’d never been to a ball. “Am I wearing the wrong thing?”

“Not wrong, no. Just a bit drab for a festive occasion.” Lincolnshire himself was decked out in peacock blue and gold. “Some color wouldn’t be amiss, my boy.”

“Ah, yes,” Sean said as he moved around to push the chair. “I usually prefer black and white.”

Actually, he always wore black and white. He’d learned early on that attempting anything more adventurous would inevitably lead to some hilarious mismatch (hilarious to everyone but Sean, that was). Since he had nothing but black and white in his wardrobe, he was relieved to find his choice suitable if not stylish.

As he wheeled the earl toward the door, a tall proper butler opened it. Sounds of music drifted out. “Your name, sir?”

“Lincolnshire,” Lincolnshire declared. “And my nephew, Mr. Hamilton.”

“My lord Lincolnshire, do please come in,” the butler said in reverent tones. “Lady Partridge left instructions to be notified the very moment you arrived. This way, if you will,” he added, motioning to Sean.

But Sean couldn’t push the chair along behind the butler. In fact, he couldn’t push it anywhere at all—because people had begun steaming into the foyer, forming a crush around the earl in his wheeled chair. Sean was trapped.

It seemed Lord Lincolnshire had declared his name a little too loudly.

“Lord Lincolnshire!” An aging matron took the old man’s hands. “It’s positively delightful to see you!”

“I’m delighted as well, Lady Fotherington. May I introduce my long-lost nephew, Mr. Sean Hamilton? He’s become like a son to me.”

Sean tensed, waiting to be called a fraud, but the woman focused on him only briefly. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” she said politely, displaying no interest in him at all. Or no more than was required by good manners, anyway.

Apparently his secret was safe. He didn’t know any members of the ton, he reminded himself, glancing around at the still-gathering crowd. And none of these people knew him.

There was absolutely nothing to worry about.

“Lord Lincolnshire, how are you feeling?” the woman asked.

“As well as can be expected. And how is your son?” Lincolnshire squeezed her hands. “Well as well, I hope?”

“Oh, he’s very well indeed, thanks in no small part to your assistance.”

“It was but a trifle, my lady, I assure you.”

A burly young man gave a bark of laughter, shaking his head. “You always say so, my lord, and it’s never yet been true.”

An older, taller gentleman sighed. “Who will bring toys this Christmas for the children at the Foundling Hospital?”

“We will,” said a commanding woman, apparently the man’s wife. “It’s the least we can do to honor you, Lord Lincolnshire.”

Someone else put in, “We’ll miss you, Lord Lincolnshire!”

“Yes, mightily!”

“However will we go on without you?”

As Sean watched them all clamoring to voice their sorrow and their gratitude, an icy feeling of horror was slowly creeping over him.

This was much worse than he’d thought.

“We would do anything for you, my lord!”

“Anything to make you more comfortable.”

“Anything at all…”

Lincolnshire wasn’t just a pleasant man. A nice man. A generous man.

“Too right, we would.” The commanding woman now had tear-tracks down her stern face. “Though it could hardly begin to repay all you’ve done for us. London shall never see your equal again.”

Sweet mercy.

The man was a blasted saint.

More people crowded in. It was a maelstrom of affection and tears and lamentations. Men and women, young and old alike, sharing their memories and paying their respects and, most of all, expressing their fervent hopes that the dying Earl of Lincolnshire would spend his last days in ease and contentment, in the company of those who loved him.

But he wouldn’t.

No, sir!

Instead, the sainted man would be spending his last days in a tangle of petty lies, in the company of some backwoods Irish nobody.

Sean was, without a doubt, the most despicable person on the face of the earth.

Corinna was dancing with a thoroughly boring young man—the latest in a string that proved Griffin hadn’t the slightest idea of her type—when she noticed her old neighbor Lord Lincolnshire enter the ballroom.

Well, try to enter, anyway. He was making excruciatingly slow progress, surrounded as he was by adoring people, all vying for his attention at once.

Propped up in a cane-backed wheelchair, he looked happier than she’d ever imagined a dying man could be. The sight warmed her heart. If anyone in the world deserved happiness, it was Lord Lincolnshire. She smiled when she saw him turn to aim an elated grin at whoever was pushing the chair. She craned—rather gracelessly—to see who it was.

And she sucked in a breath.

Crisp black hair. Emerald eyes. Angular, sculpted face.

Holy Hannah, it was her Greek god!

She’d tried to paint him this very morning—she’d decided she wanted him in her portrait—but that day in the Elgin Gallery, he’d vanished before she had a chance to finish drawing him. With no sketch to work from, she’d found herself unable to recall enough detail. Eventually she’d resigned herself to choosing another subject and glumly painted over her efforts before dressing for tonight’s ball.

Her canvas once more had a plain white oval where there should be a face. And now her fingers itched for a pencil.

What was he doing here? She hadn’t expected to ever see him again. He’d certainly never appeared at a society event before this. How had he come to be with Lord Lincolnshire, pushing the dear old earl in a wheelchair?

“At whom are you staring?” her partner asked.

She snapped to attention, surprised to find she was still dancing. Her feet seemed to know what to do all by themselves. Perhaps she should have thanked Mama for all those dance lessons instead of throwing a fit every time she was dragged away from her easel.

Then again, maybe it was just that she was letting Lord Snooze-Basket lead, and repeating the same three steps over and over seemed to be all the excitement he could manage.

She shook her head. ”I was watching Lord Lincolnshire. I’m glad he managed to attend tonight. Might you know that gentleman with him? I’m wondering if he could be the artist John Hamilton.”

“I haven’t seen him before, but I seriously doubt he’s John Hamilton. The man never appears in public.” The music came to an end, and her partner bowed. “Thank you for the dance, Lady Corinna.”

“My pleasure,” she said with a straight face.

Thinking Juliana knew everyone, Corinna looked around and found her sister conversing with her mother-in-law, the new Lady Cavanaugh.

“Might either of you know that young man accompanying Lord Lincolnshire?” she asked, barging right in.

Juliana shook her head. “Handsome though, isn’t he?”

A vast understatement. “I met him the other day at the British Museum. When you and Alexandra went off, remember? Another gentleman introduced him as John Hamilton.”

“John Hamilton, the artist? I remember you claimed you’d met him, but—”

“Yes, the artist. But then everything became very confusing, because this fellow claimed he wasn’t John Hamilton, but the other fellow was instead. And why would John Hamilton be with Lord Lincolnshire?”

“Lord Lincolnshire collects art,” Juliana reminded her. “Ming vases and paintings.”

“More to the point,” Lady Cavanaugh said, “John Hamilton is Lord Lincolnshire’s nephew. And his heir.”

Corinna hadn’t known that. But if John Hamilton was Lord Lincolnshire’s nephew, that explained why the two were together. Suddenly everything made perfect sense. The Greek god was the elusive John Hamilton! Being a recluse, he must have claimed otherwise in order to preserve his anonymity.

But Corinna knew the truth now.

Rising excitement fluttered in her chest. Her pulse pounded in her ears. She’d actually met John Hamilton.

The John Hamilton, a member of the Summer Exhibition Selection Committee.

The John Hamilton who could help her dreams come true.

Now all she had to do was charm him.

Before she could think better of it, she grabbed her sister’s hand. “Come along,” she said, motioning to Lady Cavanaugh. “I’ll introduce you both.”

TEN

Lord Lincolnshire held up a hand, interrupting an outpouring of affection from yet another of Lady Partridge’s guests. “Nephew.”

“Do you need something, Uncle?” Concerned (and guilty), Sean moved around the front of the wheelchair, wedging himself between two older, portly gentlemen. “Are your limbs paining you? Would you care for some laudanum?” He reached into his pocket for the vial the nurse had pressed into his hands.

“No laudanum. I’d as soon not dull my senses.” The earl smoothed the lap robe that covered his legs, looking amused. “That pretty young lady is calling you.”

“What pretty young lady?”

“That one.” Lincolnshire motioned with his head. “Lady Corinna.”

Corinna. Though London was certainly home to more than one Corinna, when Sean turned to look, he already knew what he would see: shining dark hair and stunning blue eyes.

Begorrah, he’d met another member of the aristocracy, after all!

“Mr. Hamilton!” she gushed as she approached, making him realize she’d already called out “Mr. Hamilton!” several times. He’d known he would forget to answer to the weasel’s name. “What a pleasure it is to see you again!”

“Again?” Lincolnshire asked.

“I met your illustrious nephew in the British Museum,” she enthused. “But when I went to introduce him to my sisters, he was gone!” She turned to a girl and a woman who had followed her. “Here he is at last, the talented and reclusive John Hamilton. Mr. Hamilton, this is my sister, Lady Stafford, and her mother-in-law, Lady Cavanaugh.”

Both ladies curtsied. Lady Cavanaugh looked kind and motherly. Lady Stafford was pretty like her sister, but she was petite where Corinna was shapely.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not Mr. Hamilton.” Sean turned to Lord Lincolnshire. “Tell them, Uncle.”

The earl’s eyes danced; clearly he was enjoying this bit of subterfuge. “Of course you’re Mr. Hamilton.” His papery lips curved into a smile as he focused on the three ladies, making Sean imagine he must have been a bit of a flirt back in the day. “But he’s Sean Hamilton,” he told the ladies. “Sean, not John. My other nephew.”

Sean had never in his life heard anything less convincing.

Lady Cavanaugh gave Lincolnshire’s shoulder a sympathetic pat. “I know you’re not feeling yourself these days, my lord, but you’ve only one nephew.”

“I may have lost the use of my legs, but I assure you, dear lady, I haven’t lost my mind along with them.” He turned to Sean with an unapologetic grin. “I’m afraid our ruse didn’t work.”

“I knew it!” Corinna exclaimed loudly enough to wake the dead. Heads snapped round to hear. “You are John Hamilton!”

Whispers ricocheted about the room.

“John Hamilton?”

“The John Hamilton?”

The whispers became a buzz. “John Hamilton!”

“It’s John Hamilton!”

Moving behind Lincolnshire where the earl couldn’t see him, Sean looked straight at Corinna and shook his head wildly. But she only frowned in confusion, and he was too late anyway. A matron was already waddling over, dragging a shy, marriage-aged daughter by the hand.

“Lord Lincolnshire, may I beg an introduction to your esteemed nephew?”

Another matron seemed to appear from nowhere. “Is this your heir, Lord Lincolnshire?”

A third matron shoved in front of her. “Mr. Hamilton, my Matilda is a diamond of the first water.”

Lincolnshire seemed to puff up like a peacock, albeit a seated one. “Our secret is out.” Pride was obvious in his tone. “I’m pleased to have you all meet the next Lord Lincolnshire. My nephew, Mr. John Hamilton.”

Sean cringed as more matchmaking mamas came out of the woodwork, their eligible daughters in tow. Corinna disappeared, or maybe she was swept away by the rush. He was surrounded, pinned to Lincolnshire’s side, engulfed in a sea of beady eyes, ingratiating smiles, and fancy, fluttering silk fans.

He’d never endured so much giggling in all his life.

Or so much small talk. The endless parade of young misses talked at him for hours (at least it felt like hours), while he helplessly cast about for some means of escape. If only he could stick his fingers in his ears and sing at the top of his lungs like he used to when Deirdre wouldn’t shut up…

“Sean.”

Feeling a tug on his tailcoat, he leaned down with a sigh of relief. “Uncle, you must be exhausted. I’ll take you home.”

“Balderdash. I haven’t felt so energetic in weeks. I wish to see you dance with one of these lovelies.”

The mercenary mamas started shoving their charges Sean’s way.

“I couldn’t choose,” he protested politely. But he wasn’t feeling polite at all. What he felt instead was a rising panic in his chest.

He didn’t know how to dance. Not like the English, anyway.

His mother had dragged him to many a village ceili. A vicar’s family should be social, she’d always say. But he’d never enjoyed dancing. And more to the point, Irish dance parties featured jigs and reels. No ceili band ever played a waltz.

And Lady Partridge seemed quite partial to waltzes. The last dance had been a waltz, a waltz was playing now, and Sean would lay odds a waltz would come next.

He tried for a winning smile. “Besides, I should stay with you, Uncle.”

“I think not.” One of the earl’s grizzled brows went up. “I’ve a mind to see you settled before I die.”

Settled? Posing as Lincolnshire’s nephew was bad enough—Sean would go only so far to placate the man. And a wedding went rather beyond that boundary.

Miles beyond that boundary.

And then he remembered.

“I’m settled already. Didn’t you know I’m married?” The real Hamilton was married, after all. Had he not been married—to Deirdre—Sean wouldn’t have been in this mess in the first place. “I’ve been settled for eight long years now.”

A chorus of feminine sighs drowned out most of the earl’s response. Sean caught only the tail end: “—forgetting, considering I’ve never seen your wife in all that time.”

Lincolnshire hadn’t seen his nephew in all that time, either, but Sean wouldn’t be the one to remind him. Instead, he said, ”Deirdre is a wonderful girl.”

The earl’s forehead furrowed. “I seem to recall rumor has it you two don’t rub along.”

“To the contrary,” Sean assured him. “The two of us rub along grandly.”

Someone snorted, and a few other bystanders murmured, evidently recalling the same rumors. Or, more likely, rumors of the weasel’s many adulterous affairs.

“Where is your wife?” Lincolnshire asked.

“In the countryside,” Sean told him, not actually stretching the truth. Though Hampstead lay only a few miles northwest of Charing Cross, many Londoners did consider it “way out in the countryside.” Which was precisely why he liked living there. He had a preference for wide open spaces—they reminded him of home.

“In the countryside.” Lincolnshire let out a long, disappointed sigh, his gaze turning wistful. “I do understand. But since I can no longer dance myself, I was so hoping to see you dance in my stead.”

The current waltz ended, and sudden silence seemed to fill the ballroom.

“Dance for him,” a woman urged.

Her daughter nodded. “Make him happy.”

The music—another waltz, naturally—restarted. “It’s just a dance,” someone else called out.

The crowd seemed to press closer. “Lord Lincolnshire wants to see you dance.”

“Humor him, will you?”

Although attempting a waltz was sure to prove humorous indeed, Sean felt his resolve crumbling. The old, ailing earl was making eager puppy-dog eyes, practically bouncing in his chair.

One of the young misses flapped her fan at Sean. “Don’t you want to make Lord Lincolnshire happy?”

Saints preserve me.

“Oh, very well,” he gritted out. “One dance.”

Then he turned on his heel and headed straight for Corinna.

As he elbowed his way through the crowd, Corinna’s startled blue gaze met his, and it seemed as though a fist grabbed him in the gut. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on the maddening girl. Part of him felt like wringing her neck.

But instead he seized her hand and hauled her off to the dance floor.

He threaded their way to the center, tripping over other dancers in the process. It was rather ungentlemanly, but he was determined to be in the middle, where he wouldn’t be on display.

He turned her to face him. “I hope you can lead.”

“I beg your pardon?” She stood still, gazing at all the people moving around them, and bit her lip.

He swallowed hard. ”Thanks to you, I’ve been commanded to dance. And I’ve never waltzed in my life.”

“Oh.” Her mouth curved into a sheepish smile. “I confess I’ve been accused of leading before. I fear it’s one of my bad habits.”

“It’s glad I am to hear it.”

Mimicking the other dancers, he wrapped an arm about her waist and held her gloved right hand. She began to move, keeping her frame rigid so that he moved with her.

Not very gracefully, but they moved.

“May I sketch you?” she asked.

“Sketch me?” he echoed absently, marveling at finding himself swirling among the other dancers. “I don’t think so.”

“Never?”

He tread on her toes.

A wee “Eek!” escaped her lips, but then she gave him another smile. An understanding one this time.

“Very well,” she said on a sigh. “I suppose you’re too busy with your own art to sit for someone else.”

She was exasperating. “You’re ruining my life.”

“How so?” she asked. “I’ve done you a favor, Mr. Hamilton. Society is all aflutter to finally meet Lord Lincolnshire’s famous, mysterious nephew. They’ll pay even more for your paintings.”

He leaned improperly close, catching a trace of a light, floral scent with something peculiar—paint?—layered beneath it. “I’m not an artist,” he hissed in her ear. “I’m Sean Delaney, not John Hamilton.”

When he drew back, making them lurch, he was dismayed to find her latest smile closer to a smirk. “I haven’t heard you say that in front of your uncle.”

“For his sake.” Revealing the truth would probably destroy the kindly old earl, not to mention infuriate Hamilton and jeopardize Deirdre’s divorce. “I’ll not to embarrass the poor fellow by correcting him in front of his friends.”

“I understand you value your privacy, Mr. Hamilton. But as the real Mr. Delaney said in the museum, you are much too self-effacing. You’ll get used to being famous, and it’s long past time you met your adoring admirers.”

He considered stepping on her foot again, on purpose. “They wouldn’t adore me if they knew the truth.”

“Of course they would. They all love Lord Lincolnshire and will transfer that affection to you. In fact, they already have. I was squeezed right out of the earl’s circle by all the girls who want to marry you.”

So she hadn’t heard he was married. Or rather, that Hamilton was married. Well, he wasn’t going to inform her. That would only serve to reinforce her conviction that he was Hamilton.

“Lincolnshire is well loved,” he muttered instead in disgust. Had the earl been the beast Hamilton had described, he wouldn’t have been welcome at this ball. And Corinna would never have introduced Sean as his famous nephew. “Everyone seems utterly devastated to lose him.”

“Of course we are,” she said, pulling his hand back to keep him from ramming into someone. “Lord Lincolnshire is the most compassionate person you’ll ever meet. He supports half the charities in London, and he’s just as generous with his time. He’s helped practically every ton family at one point or another.”

“You exaggerate.”

“Not by much.”

“Everyone says they’ll do anything for him.”

“Anything but the one thing we cannot,” she said mournfully, “which is to save his life.”

“Then why didn’t you believe him?” When he stumbled, her hand gripped his shoulder to keep him upright. “He told you I was Sean, not John, but you disagreed with him. Loudly.”

The look she gave him said he was a complete idiot. “He was obviously fooling! Do you not know your own uncle? It seems as if you only met him today.”

Well, yesterday.

She went on, “And Sean is the same name as John in Ireland anyway, isn’t it? You sound like you come from Ireland.”

That he couldn’t deny. Not without looking like an even bigger idiot. Luckily for him, just then the music stopped. The dance had come to an end. Corinna curtsied, thanked him politely, and quit the dance floor.

He’d survived his first waltz. But as her intriguing, paint-tinged scent wafted away, he found himself wishing it had lasted longer.

And wasn’t that absurd? He was lucky he had come out alive.

ELEVEN

Shortly after noon on Monday, Sean paced outside the gate in front of Lincolnshire House, planning his day as he waited for his curricle to be brought round.

Thanks to a long breakfast with Lincolnshire, he was getting a very late start on his very full agenda. Besides all the work that had piled up in his absence—contracts to review, sales to negotiate, properties to inspect—he needed to talk to Deirdre, which meant a drive all the way out to Hampstead and back. He hadn’t a moment to spare.

Making himself stand still, he stared impatiently out across the street. Berkeley Square hummed with activity. From his vantage point at the north end, he watched people traipse in and out of the fenced, grassy park in the middle. In the row of houses along the west side, a blue door opened, catching his eye. Two footmen emerged, burdened with boxes and an easel. As they headed across the street toward the park, a girl came out and followed, her shapely figure clad in a pale blue gown with a white apron tied over it, her glossy dark hair worn unfashionably loose.

As his curricle pulled up, he blinked, suddenly recognizing Corinna.

“Just a moment,” he told the stableman before dashing out into the square.

By the time he reached her, the servants had positioned her easel beneath a giant plane tree and were setting a canvas upon it—one covered with blotches of gray and white. She riffled through a box filled with little pots of paint, her gaze focused, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

“Good day to you, Lady Corinna.”

Startled, she looked up, narrowing her blue eyes.

To Sean, most everyone’s eyes (including his own) were brown. Green, hazel, brown…they all appeared brown. Only shades of blue looked different, and Corinna’s eyes were the clearest, most brilliant blue he’d ever seen. They were bottomless.

He gave his head a little shake to clear it.

“Have you decided to let me sketch you?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “I was waiting there for my curricle”—he gestured toward Lincolnshire House—“when I noticed you entering the square. I came over to convince you I’m not Hamilton. I’m not Lincolnshire’s nephew.”

She lifted a dull knife. “So you keep saying.” Using it to scoop brown (or maybe red or green) paint onto a palette, she slanted him a glance. “Yet you’re living in Lincolnshire House.”

“I am. I can explain. Hamilton is my brother-in-law, and—”

“You said that in the museum.”

“Because it’s true.”

She seemed to be staring at his mouth. When he raised an eyebrow, she quickly looked away, wiping the knife on her splotched apron and using it to add a smidge of a lighter color. “I don’t believe you.” My, she was rather blunt for a lady. “I understand that you’ve enjoyed your anonymity in the past, but your secret is out now. You’re going to have to get used to the fact that everyone knows you’re John Hamilton.”

She glanced at his mouth again, making Sean suddenly think about kissing her—though really, what he wanted to do was throttle her. “But I’m not John Hamilton.”

“And I’m not here in Berkeley Square.” With a cheeky smile, she picked up a brush and turned to her canvas. “I expect you should get to your own painting, Mr. Hamilton. I wish you a successful day.”

Clearly he was dismissed. He marched back to his curricle, bunching his fists.

With Corinna living across the street, he feared his hands might become permanently clenched.

With Griffin gone, Corinna had been looking forward to a few peaceful days to work on her portrait. But she wandered the drawing room Tuesday, still pondering whom to paint.

She’d decided her picture would be set outdoors. She was an accomplished landscape artist, after all, and it was important that her backdrop be as impressive as her central subject. She wanted the play of light and shadow, the varied greens of grass and trees, the bright hues of blooming flowers. She’d started painting all of that yesterday in the square, and she was happy enough with how it was coming along. But she couldn’t make up her mind whom she wanted in the foreground and what, exactly, he or she should be doing.

She didn’t care for formal portraits where the sitter just stared at the viewer. She preferred to see subjects in context. Conversation portraits, they were called. Quite popular in the previous century, they often featured whole families or groups of friends posed casually, as though caught in some everyday action. Although it wasn’t common to do the same with a single subject, she wanted to give it a try. She hoped it would make her painting a little different—and therefore more noteworthy.

If the painting turned out well, it would not only be the first work she submitted to the Summer Exhibition, but also the first portrait she put on public view. She wanted to choose someone who would be memorable. Someone whose personality would shine from the canvas. Someone she knew well enough to portray in such a manner that the viewer would feel he or she was a close, personal friend.

That was why she’d painted family members over and over.

She stopped and scanned all the many old Chase family portraits on the wall, settling on one dated 1670. The gentleman wore a long surcoat and a lace-trimmed cravat, the lady a full, heavy brocade gown with an old-fashioned stomacher fronting the bodice. A small engraved metal plate on the frame read:

JASON AND CAITHREN

6TH MARQUESS AND MARCHIONESS OF CAINEWOOD

She’d never known this couple, of course. They’d both died long before she was born. But unlike the ancient, more sober portraits, which invariably featured stern, unsmiling subjects, this pair looked happy. They looked like they were in love.

And they looked more than a little familiar.

Juliana resembled Caithren, sharing her ancestor’s warm hazel eyes and straight, streaky blond hair. Griffin had inherited Jason’s dark hair, square jaw, and deep green eyes.

But they weren’t as startling a green as the eyes Corinna really wanted to paint.

She groaned and turned her back on the portrait. It was infuriating, the way Mr. Hamilton kept lying to her—and even more so the way he kept popping into her head at odd moments. Lately, whenever she picked up a Minerva Press novel, she pictured him as the hero. No matter if the author described the hero as having fair hair and blue eyes; in her head his hair was dark, his eyes that startling green. Whenever the dark-haired, green-eyed hero touched the heroine, she felt a tiny shiver. And whenever the hero and heroine kissed, she imagined Mr. Hamilton kissing her, and her lips tingled.

But in real life, she was about as likely to kiss him as she was to paint him—which was to say, very unlikely. He’d already twice refused to sit for her.

She could have had a Summer Exhibition portrait that revealed, for the first time ever, the elusive face of a famed artistic genius and future peer of the realm. Now, that would have been noteworthy.

But, noooo. That face was far too busy and self-important to sit for even one measly little sketch.

She sighed—out loud, not mentally—knowing it was hopeless. His cachet was more important to him than her ambitions, and honestly, who could blame him for it? They barely knew each other, after all.

But she didn’t want to spend her career updating the family portrait collection. She couldn’t keep painting her poor, patient sisters over and over. She’d been doing that for nearly a year, and none of her pictures had turned out good enough to add to the collection, anyway. She needed new experiences, new challenges, if she hoped to improve and grow as an artist.

She collected her art supplies and summoned two footmen to accompany her into the square. Until she found a subject, she’d continue working on her setting. Carrying her box of paints, she followed the servants out the door and across the street.

Or at least she tried to cross the street. Rounding the curve from Lincolnshire House, a curricle drew to a halt in her path. The driver looked down from his high perch.

“I’m not Hamilton,” he said coldly.

She shrugged blithely, to cover her agitation. Apparently he hated her. And since he wasn’t going to let her sketch him—let alone paint him—she wished he’d just leave her alone. If he’d cease popping into her life, perhaps she’d be able to concentrate on finding someone else to kiss.

To paint, she mentally amended. She didn’t want to kiss him; she only wanted to paint him.

Holy Hannah, she was a liar.

And was there anything worse than lying to oneself?

“Fine,” she snapped. “You’re not Hamilton. Now will you please drive on so I can get back to work?”

A bark of laughter burst from his throat. Or maybe it was a noise of derision. Whichever, he flicked his reins and drove off, leaving her to her painting and her thoughts.

But mostly her thoughts.

At this rate, she’d be lucky to finish a new portrait before next year’s Summer Exhibition.

TWELVE

“Nephew?”

“Hmm?”

Sean looked up from reading the Morning Chronicle at the breakfast table, thinking it was way too late for breakfast.

By this hour on a normal morning, he’d have already risen, eaten, and driven into town. On a normal morning, he’d have already gone through the day’s mail, taken several meetings, and directed his staff. On a normal morning, he’d be elbow-deep in work by now, expanding his operation and increasing his fortune. On a normal morning…

This wasn’t a normal morning.

No morning had been normal since he’d agreed to this blasted scheme. Lincolnshire had trouble falling asleep and consequently stayed abed late. And then he wanted his dear nephew to keep him company at breakfast. He ate very little and very slowly and it all took a very long time.

Now the old man gave him a sunny smile. “I wish to see your studio today.”

Sean folded and set aside the newspaper. “My studio is private,” he said carefully.

“From me?” The earl looked hurt. “I’m your uncle. You’re my heir.”

“I have work to do—”

“I know. Work that makes me mighty proud, work that rivals the very best.” He gestured to all the old masters on his dining room walls. “I want to see where you work. I shall sit and watch quietly; I promise. It’s not as though I could move around much even if I wanted to,” he added with his usual good humor.

But Sean’s smile was regretful, not amused. “I’m sorry, but I wouldn’t be able to concentrate—”

“You won’t even know I’m there.”

Sean shook his head. He did want to make the sainted fellow happy. Lincolnshire’s condition was worsening by the day, and he was a nice man who deserved a happy ending. Sean hated to see him disappointed.

But he couldn’t allow the earl into his “studio.”

At least, not in its current state.

No more than an hour after leaving the British Museum, Hamilton had fetched a few paintings and stuck them in an empty garret in one of Sean’s buildings. He’d even included a half-finished canvas and propped it on an easel, so it would appear as though Sean were in the middle of a project.

But after that, he’d run off to Wales. Immediately and without a backward glance. Other than the pictures and a few well-used sketchbooks, he’d provided nothing.

No paint. No brushes. No…whatever else it was that painters needed.

The earl would expect to find more than art, wouldn’t he? He’d expect to find art supplies.

So Sean was forced to twist the truth once again.

“Unfortunately,” he improvised, “I find it impossible to paint with anyone watching over my shoulder. And I’m in the middle of something I fear I’m quite anxious to finish today. Will tomorrow be soon enough? I should be done then, and I’ll be happy to bring you to the studio. Not to watch me paint, mind you, but to see the space. And to view the latest Hamilton canvases.”

He hated lying. This whole business was mentally exhausting. For the umpteenth time, he silently cursed himself for allowing the weasel to drag him into it.

“Very well,” Lincolnshire finally conceded. “I shall look forward to visiting tomorrow.”

Sean thanked him and finished breakfast, then went off to work. Or rather—abandoning his own responsibilities once again—he went off to purchase art supplies.

He wouldn’t have had a clue where to buy anything related to art, but he’d noticed Hamilton’s sketchbooks all had REEVES & SONS stamped on them. Recalling a tenant by that name in one of his buildings in the center of town, he drove straight there.

It took him a good while to choose the supplies, particularly the colors. At a complete loss, he finally consulted one of the Reeveses—father or son, he knew not—who selected the proper pigments for him. Listening to the fellow rattle on about tone harmony, warmer and cooler variants, transparent as opposed to opaque, and the benefits versus the drawbacks of a broad palette compared to a more limited one—this particular “palette” apparently referring to a list of colors, not a thing one put the colors on—Sean was again tempted to stick his fingers in his ears.

When at long last he came out of the shop (a “colorman’s shop,” he’d learned it was called) more than half his day had slipped away.

He was in a hurry. So much so that, on his way back to his curricle, he glanced twice at a girl in the bookshop next door before realizing she was Corinna.

A footman in Chase livery stood outside the shop, looking bored. Corinna stood on the other side of the window, her nose buried in a book. A bell on the door jangled when Sean opened it, but she didn’t look up at the noise. Nodding at the bookseller’s muted, “Good afternoon,” Sean walked past the front desk and right up to her. She didn’t acknowledge him.

“I’m not Hamilton,” he said.

She jumped. Then slammed the book shut and fixed him with a seething look. “I don’t believe you.”

“So you keep saying. But I’m no artist.”

Her blue, blue eyes focused on the bulky package in his hands. Wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, it had REEVES & SONS stamped on it in smudged black ink.

She smirked. “Then what did you buy at the colorman’s shop?”

He had no answer to that. The truth would only dig him in deeper. But he was tired of lying. He’d been fighting to correct a lie. He didn’t want to try to fabricate some elaborate cover story.

So instead he said, “What are you reading?”

Her reaction was peculiar. She blushed and stuttered and quickly shoved the book onto the nearest shelf. When he bent to see the title, she grabbed his upper arm and maneuvered him down a row of bookcases. And around a corner and down a second row. She didn’t stop until she’d backed him into a dead end.

What an odd girl she was. Pretty and stubborn and odd. He smiled down at her in bewilderment. She looked quite fetching with her cheeks flushed. And when she finally released him, he felt rather sorry for it.

A small part of him still wondered what she’d been reading. A very small part of him. The rest of him was busy noticing that the two of them were alone, tucked away between the quiet bookshop’s tall, dusty shelves. There didn’t seem to be any other customers, the bookseller was miles away at the till, and Corinna’s footman was certainly still woolgathering outside.

Sean set the package on a high, empty shelf.

The shop smelled like paper and old leather, but Corinna smelled of flowers and paint. Silence seemed to blanket the store along with the dust, making her breathing sound loud by comparison. She bit her lip.

Without thought, he leaned in to kiss her.

He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help himself—or he didn’t want to help himself. He’d been imagining this kiss since the first time he’d seen her bite that full, pillowy lower lip, that day in the British Museum. He grasped her shoulders, half expecting her to pull back in protest.

But she didn’t.

She kissed him back.

For one long, sublime moment, he let himself sink into her warmth. She was soft, boneless, embracing. Her lips were softest of all, even softer than he’d imagined.

It took a massive effort to wrench himself back to earth.

When they pulled apart, her cheeks were even more flushed than before. Her eyes looked twice as wide as usual. She spoke slowly, her voice a wee bit hoarse. ”Why did you do that?”

He wasn’t sure why. “I suppose because I wanted to.”

“But you hate me!”

“Obviously, I don’t. Although I’ll admit to finding you somewhat exasperating.” He narrowed his eyes. “Why did you let me do it?”

Her eyes went even wider. “Are you jesting? What girl—most especially if she’s an artist—wouldn’t let John Hamilton kiss her?”

For once he didn’t protest that he wasn’t John Hamilton. He was too stunned. “So it was a trophy kiss?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You kiss artists? You thought to add me to your collection? A particularly shiny prize?”

She planted her hands on her hips. “I’ve never kissed an artist before!”

She had not, he noted, claimed she’d never kissed anyone before. Most intriguing.

Although it hardly changed the fact that he had no business kissing her. He wasn’t John Hamilton. He wasn’t Lincolnshire’s nephew. He wasn’t an English lord, or a soon-to-be English lord, or remotely related to any English lord at all.

He wasn’t even English.

He was an Irish nobody with lots of money but little social status—and not a lick of sense. Aristocratic young misses like Corinna were off-limits to a fellow like him.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“I’m not.”

She was very blunt, he thought, not for the first time. “I won’t kiss you again.”

“I hope you will.” She smiled. “I rather enjoyed kissing you.”

“You may find you enjoyed it less than you think,” he informed her, “when you realize I’m not John Hamilton.”

“Not that again.” Reaching up to the shelf, she shoved his package toward him. “Don’t forget your art supplies,” she called over her shoulder as she strutted away. “You’re going to need them the next time you paint.”

He was still standing there when the bell jangled and the door shut behind her.

THIRTEEN

Corinna stood before her easel in Berkeley Square the next day, painting.

Oh, very well, daydreaming.

Or—since she was determined to stop lying to herself—reliving the kiss.

For at least the hundredth time.

She’d been kissed before, of course, but never like that. She could have sworn her legs had turned to water. Not only her lips, but her entire body had seemed to tingle. She was surprised her pounding heart hadn’t cracked a rib.

She’d never expected to experience such a kiss—ever—though she’d certainly read enough of them in Minerva Press novels. In fact, just before Mr. Hamilton had entered the bookshop, as she’d flipped through Children of the Abbey, Lord Mortimer had clutched Amanda close and, straining her to his beating heart, he imprinted a kiss on her tremulous lips.

Which was a fairly spot on description of what had happened to Corinna yesterday.

Children of the Abbey had seemed an excellent novel, and she’d had every intention of buying it. Until Mr. Hamilton had imprinted a kiss on her lips and left her head spinning like a top. She’d forgotten herself completely, and forgotten all about buying the book.

“Lady Corinna.” A familiar voice interrupted her musings.

It sounded weaker and shorter of breath than she’d like. Lord Lincolnshire wasn’t doing well. Her heart sinking, Corinna turned to see him sitting in his wheelchair outside the fence that enclosed the park.

Setting her palette down on a bench, she walked over to greet him, feeling a bit better as she got closer. He looked red and swollen…but happy. Happier than she’d seen him in ages.

Mr. Hamilton stood behind him, his hands on the back of the chair. She remembered how yesterday those hands had gripped her shoulders and pulled her against him.

“My nephew is taking me to his studio,” Lord Lincolnshire informed her brightly, snapping her attention back to him. “I’m going to see his newest paintings.”

“We really must be on our way,” Mr. Hamilton said without meeting Corinna’s eyes. “I have much to do today after this.”

Lord Lincolnshire smiled up at her. “Would you like to come along?”

“No,” Mr. Hamilton shot out at the same time Corinna exclaimed, “Oh, yes!”

“Thank you for the invitation,” she added. “I’d love to come along!”

“No,” Mr. Hamilton repeated more forcefully, finally looking at her. “My workspace is private. There’s a reason I’m known as a recluse.”

“Come now, nephew,” Lord Lincolnshire chided. “You’re about to be an earl. Your days as a recluse have come to an end.”

“Uncle—”

“Mr. Hamilton,” Corinna interrupted, never one to hold her tongue. “Your uncle would like me to accompany you. Will you disappoint such a kindly man?”

Mr. Hamilton opened his mouth as if to argue, but then apparently had second thoughts, because he closed it. Into a very straight line. And he glared at her.

She’d won.

Remembering that sulky mouth imprinting a kiss on her lips, she couldn’t help but smile. “I’ll be but a moment. I’ll meet you gentlemen at the gate.”

After dashing back to her easel and instructing the footman to take it home, she removed her apron, smoothed her pink dress, and joined the two Hamiltons outside the fence.

It was a short walk to Piccadilly Street, where the studio was located. Mr. Hamilton remained grim and silent as they went. Lord Lincolnshire chattered breathlessly, talking about this and that, until he said…

“I’ve been thinking, nephew, that I’d like to meet your wife.”

Corinna nearly fell over her own feet.

Mr. Hamilton had a wife?

She’d kissed a married man?

She was so shocked—and instantly guilty—she didn’t even hear whatever Mr. Hamilton said in response to Lord Lincolnshire’s request. While artists were supposed to be free spirits, living at the whim of their passions, Corinna had too much respect for marriage and sympathy for poor Mrs. Hamilton—whoever and wherever she was—to feel anything less than deep shame for her own actions.

And yet…that didn’t change the fact that the kiss had been glorious. Breathtaking. The most exciting thing that had ever happened to her. Though she couldn’t let it happen again, she knew she wouldn’t be able to help reliving the experience over and over, as she’d been doing since it happened. And surely the kiss hadn’t been her fault.

She’d simply been a victim of Mr. Hamilton’s unseemly advances.

Hadn’t she?

Still, she was ashamed to think she’d been so blind. Mr. Hamilton was obviously well practiced at charming young women. Very well practiced. Far more practiced, Corinna realized, than any honorable, respectful young man could hope to become. His very experience should have been a clue. She sighed, thinking that much as she’d never expected to be kissed like that kiss in the bookshop in real life, it was even more unlikely she’d ever be kissed like that again.

Which seemed the greatest shame of all.

“We’re here,” Mr. Hamilton said, jarring her out of her panic and back into the real world.

She drew a deep breath and pushed those thoughts from her mind, suddenly impatient to see the studio, to see new Hamilton paintings before anyone else. To see exactly where the artist worked, and what sorts of supplies he used, and maybe, if she was lucky, a canvas or two that wasn’t finished yet, so she could study his technique.

And she was also pleased to think how after she’d visited his private space—his secret, reclusive hideaway—he’d no longer be able to keep claiming he wasn’t John Hamilton. Because honestly, enough was enough.

She looked forward to watching him eat his own words.

The studio was in a very nice building. Shops filled the ground floor, and the two floors above were divided into large flats. Unfortunately, the studio was in a windowed garret above those, and it was no small feat helping Lord Lincolnshire up the many stairs.

Even though Mr. Hamilton took most of his uncle’s weight, they went very slowly, and Corinna found the man much heavier than she expected.

The minute they got inside, Lord Lincolnshire shuffled to a threadbare sofa and plopped down, wheezing. Corinna would have sat, too, but he was sprawled right in its center. And the studio had no other sofa or any chairs.

In fact, it hadn’t much of anything.

Six pictures rested on the floor, leaning against the bare walls. An easel held one more work of art in progress. Clearly it would be a lovely scene once it was finished, a beautiful meadow bordered by trees more realistic than any she’d ever seen rendered in paint. Tiny, individual leaves seemed to be rustling in the wind, casting shadows on the grass below. She looked forward to studying it, to figuring out how Mr. Hamilton had managed such incredible detail.

A small table sat beside it, with a few sketchbooks piled on top. But no pencils.

Odd, that.

Mr. Hamilton’s supplies were on the table, too. All of them. There was no cupboard, no shelves in the room, no place for anything to be hiding. She walked over to have a look and found a selection of various pigments, a big bottle of linseed oil, a pristine palette, and two—only two!—seemingly brand-new brushes. Neither of them was nearly fine enough to paint the tiny leaves she’d seen on the trees.

And that was it. There was nothing else. No extra jars to hold leftover mixed paint. No turpentine, no varnish.

No rags, no blank canvases, no knives.

No little spots of paint on the wooden floor.

When Corinna painted in her family’s drawing room, she always spread a large tarpaulin to prevent spotting, but the floor here was bare and clean. And no folded tarp was in sight.

“Where do you make your paints?” she asked.

Mr. Hamilton shifted uneasily. “Right here. Where else?”

“What do you use, then? What surface do you grind them against?”

“I make them directly on the palette,” he said, slanting a glance to his uncle.

She frowned. “Isn’t that too porous? I’ve always used glass. And a glass muller.”

“A muller?” Lord Lincolnshire asked.

“It’s sort of like a flat pestle,” she explained. “One has to grind the pigment into the oil in order to completely combine them.”

He looked to his nephew. Mr. Hamilton lifted a shoulder. “With enough elbow grease, one has no need of a muller.”

There were, she acknowledged, different methods. “I suppose a palette knife would do if one worked the mediums well,” she conceded.

Lord Lincolnshire nodded approvingly. “He’s very talented, you know.”

“Extremely talented,” she agreed. But there were no palette knives. And she still wondered how he could grind against a surface as permeable as wood. She wandered to the painting on the easel, admiring its incredibly detailed trees. “Which pigment do you use as the base for your greens?” she asked.

“The green one.”

“Hmm?” He had no green pigment. She turned and glanced back to the table to verify. Black, white, yellows, blues, reds, and earth tones. Other pigments were available for purchase, of course, but these were the basics, the same ones she used herself. With these colors, one could mix any other color one might want. Greens were created from blues and yellows.

When she’d asked which pigment was his base, she’d meant which blue. Ultramarine, Prussian, cerulean? “I’m partial to cobalt,” she said, “even though it’s the most expensive.”

“I can afford it,” he said haughtily. “I’m partial to cobalt green, too.”

Cobalt was blue. Transparent, neutral blue. The truest of all the blues, which was why she preferred it.

She thought a moment. And then she smoothed her pink skirts, moving closer to Mr. Hamilton so Lord Lincolnshire, who’d lain back on the sofa and closed his eyes for a spell, wouldn’t overhear. Walking right up to Mr. Hamilton, she rose to her toes and placed her mouth close by his ear.

“Do you like my new green dress?” she whispered.

FOURTEEN

“It’s a lovely dress,” Sean murmured, though he’d glanced away from it quickly. Her neckline wasn’t particularly low, but from this vantage point, close as she was, he could see a little ways down the front.

Sweet mercy. He stood tensely still, trying to keep his eyes locked on her face.

“But do you like the hue?” she asked.

“Oh, yes. It’s, um, a very flattering green.”

“Thank you,” she said, and stepped back.

He released the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

And after that, she miraculously stopped asking questions.

Over on the sofa, Lincolnshire was gingerly moving to sit up. ”May I see your paintings, Sean?” he asked, wheezing only a little.

“Of course, Uncle,” Sean said. Corinna helped the earl to a sitting position while Sean went to bring the paintings over, one by one.

The earl examined each picture minutely, making thoughtful and considered comments. John Hamilton might have argued or agreed, but Sean was only confused. His feeble responses earned one or two curious looks from Lincolnshire (or maybe suspicious looks?). Sean found the whole business exhausting. He was an entrepreneur, blast it, not an actor!

But at least Corinna had quit making things more difficult. He hadn’t heard a peep out of her in several minutes, for which he was thankful. She was just standing by the easel, watching him with the earl, a rather dumbstruck look on her face.

Huh. And all he’d done was say he liked her dress.

With her, apparently, flattery could get you anywhere.

After Lincolnshire finished rhapsodizing over the paintings, Corinna remained quiet while they assisted him back down the steps, a slow and painful process even with her help. She didn’t say much as they wheeled the chair home, and her farewell at Lincolnshire’s door was uncharacteristically reserved and polite.

Mystified by the change in her, Sean saw the wheezing, exhausted earl upstairs and into bed. With that accomplished, he stepped out into the corridor, closed the door, and slumped against it, shutting his eyes and willing his tense muscles to relax.

Begorrah, that had been the longest afternoon of his life.

This won’t interrupt your routine, Hamilton had promised. It shan’t affect Delaney and Company at all.

The weasel had been lying through his teeth.

Sean was seriously considering ending the whole thing now. Not only because he was constantly neglecting his work—which was no small nuisance—but also because the guilt of deceiving a saint was constantly weighing down on him. It felt like…

Like the Prince Regent was sitting on his chest.

With effort, he opened his eyes and straightened, telling himself he was at least free for the moment. Maybe he could finally attend to his own responsibilities. He tramped down the stairs, asked a footman to have his curricle brought round, and headed out of the house.

Then stopped dead on the doorstep.

“You’re not Hamilton,” Corinna said.

“Saints preserve us.” Sean blinked. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting to talk to you. You’re color-blind. Which means you cannot be Hamilton—or any painter at all. At least not a good one.”

Once the shock subsided, he cracked a smile. “I take exception to that. I expect I could paint a decently good brown scene. Assuming I had an artistic bone in my body, that is.” A stableman arrived with his curricle, but he ignored it. “What was the telltale sign, then?”

“My dress is pink, not green.”

“Ah.” It looked pale brown. (And so much for flattery getting him anywhere.) “After you figured that out, you didn’t say anything. Why did you keep the truth from Lincolnshire?”

“Are you jesting? The truth would destroy the poor man. He loves you.”

“He does seem to.”

“And he’d be crushed to learn you’re not his nephew.” She bit her lip.

He remembered how full and soft it had been.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Sean Delaney. Hamilton’s brother-in-law. As I’ve been telling you all along.”

“If you’re not an artist, what do you do?”

“I own property. I buy and sell buildings. Among other things.” He shifted uneasily. “I should explain. Not about that, but about how I ended up here. Will you walk with me in the square?”

She seemed to consider that for a moment. “Will you buy me an ice from Gunter’s?”

“You’re overwarm?” It wasn’t a particularly hot day.

“No, but Gunter’s Tea Shop is probably the only place in London where a girl can be seen alone with a gentleman without ruining her reputation.”

“Agreed, then,” he said when he stopped laughing.

She was a clever one.

Leaving the curricle in front of Lincolnshire House, they made their way across the square to Gunter’s, where he ordered a lemon ice for himself and a strawberry ice for Corinna. They took them back into the square.

“This is such a relief,” he said as they walked.

“The other fellow in the museum was really Hamilton, then. I’m guessing this was his plan?”

Sean nodded. ”I didn’t want to go along with it.“

“But you did it anyway.”

“For my sister.” Sean sighed. “Hamilton’s wife.”

By the time he explained, both their dishes were empty. They sat on a bench beneath a large London plane tree.

“So you’re not married, then?” she asked. “You don’t have a wife?”

“No,” he said vaguely, not really listening. He was watching Corinna lick her spoon. When it was spotless, she let it clatter into her bowl.

“Well, I don’t blame you for what you’re doing,” she declared. “I’d have done the same to save my sister from being unhappy all her days.”

“I feel terrible tricking Lincolnshire, though. I’m going to tell him the truth.”

“You cannot!” She turned to him urgently. “You’ll ruin your sister’s life, and—”

“I fear I’ve failed Deirdre already. When Hamilton learns I appeared as him in public, he’ll be furious. Think of the damage to his reputation.”

“But if you give up now, you’ll ruin the rest of Lord Lincolnshire’s life, too! He’s the most incredible man in the world, and he’s tragically lost everyone he loves, and he’s so thrilled to have his nephew with him in his final days. How can you even think of depriving him of his last chance at happiness?”

“It’s sorry I am for that. But I cannot go on lying to the poor fellow.” Sean thought of telling her how the guilt weighed on him, but that wasn’t really the point. “It just isn’t right—”

“It’s kind, and what’s so wrong about that? How is it hurting him? He’d be much more hurt to learn his real nephew is so very selfish, and there’d be nothing he could do about it anyway. The law is the law. John Hamilton is his nearest blood relative, his legal heir. He’ll inherit no matter what Lord Lincolnshire might prefer.”

“True he’d inherit the title and any entailed property. But Lincolnshire could will everything else to anyone he wanted.”

“I suppose he could, Mr. Delaney. But—”

“Sean.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My name is Sean. And I’m thinking we should have leave to call each other by our given names.”

He already called her Corinna in his head. He’d thought of her as Corinna ever since he’d heard her name called out in the British Museum. And having never spent much time around the peerage, he would probably forget to add the Lady.

“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “That seems rather…intimate.”

“You’re the only one who knows my secret,” he pointed out. “That’s a rather intimate thing, don’t you think? And we’ve kissed.”

Her blue eyes went wide and inscrutable.

“Not that that’s happening again,” he quickly added.

“But you’re not married,” she said just as quickly, and then, “Yes, of course that’s not happening again.” A charming little smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Now where were we…Sean?” She sobered. “Oh, yes. You’d said that if Lord Lincolnshire learned the truth, he’d be able to will most of his property to anyone he wanted. But at what cost? He’d be disappointed and unhappy the rest of his days, and once he’s gone, will it really matter whether Mr. Hamilton does or doesn’t inherit? Lord Lincolnshire deserves happiness,” she concluded with a decisive nod. “That’s the most important thing.” She looked thoughtful. “And at least there’s still a chance for your sister. If you abandon the plan on purpose, we know she’ll be lost.”

Corinna had a point. A lot of points, actually. Lincolnshire’s happiness was more important than depriving the weasel of his inheritance. But… “He’s going to find out anyway. You just saw for yourself how obvious it is that I’m not an artist. The earl may be wasting away physically, but his mind is sharp as a knife. He’s already growing suspicious. And how will he feel when he uncovers the truth? Wouldn’t it be better for me to break it to him gently?”

“I’m an artist. I can cover for you. I can help you keep up the act.”

“You’re not around enough to do that.”

“I can be around enough. I’ll visit Lord Lincolnshire every day. I’ll stay close. You won’t mind that, will you?”

Would he mind? Sean wanted to laugh. Whyever should he mind spending hours and hours every single day with a girl he couldn’t stop thinking about, couldn’t help wanting, and couldn’t ever have for his own?

Of course he wouldn’t mind—he loved torturing himself.

“I won’t mind,” he muttered, only adding to his legion of lies.

FIFTEEN

TEA BUNS

Mix a lot of Flower with some Sugar and a little Salt in a bowl, then put in Egges, Butter, halfe a cup of Milk and a measure of Yeast to make a thick dough. Allow to rise, then flatten and make rounde buns and allow to rise again before you bake.

A most genteel addition to afternoon tea, these buns encourage serenity.

—Georgiana, Countess of Greystone, 1806

Yesterday’s discovery that John Hamilton was really Sean Delaney—well, that and constantly reliving the kiss—had kept Corinna too distracted to take notice of the calendar. But today she’d realized it was May. The second of May, to be precise. Lady A’s reception was on the fourteenth, and Summer Exhibition submissions were due on the nineteenth.

It usually took her at least two weeks to complete a painting. And for this one, she hadn’t even chosen a subject.

Griffin had been gone a day longer than he’d said he would, yet with all the peace and quiet, she still wasn’t making progress. Her anxiety had kept her mind buzzing the entire afternoon at Juliana’s home. Family and friends had assembled there, in Stafford House’s beautiful Palm Room, to pen the invitations to the reception Lady A was planning to introduce Corinna to the art world.

All of Corinna’s female relations had come. Alexandra and Juliana, and their three cousins, Rachael, Claire, and Elizabeth. A hugely pregnant Aunt Frances. Lady Avonleigh, of course, and her two sisters, Lady Balmforth and Lady Cavanaugh, who was also Juliana’s mother-in-law.

It was touching. Corinna had never been the sentimental type, but the thought of all of them helping her made her throat feel tight.

And the thought of all their generous hard work going to waste if she didn’t finish her portrait in time made her stomach feel like rebelling.

“It was so kind of you all to come,” Lady A said now as she stacked the last of the completed invitations. “I was dreading this task, but with all you ladies here, it was nothing!”

Juliana piled the leftover tea buns she’d served into a basket. “Have you need of any more assistance, Lady Avonleigh? With anything else at all?”

“Just encourage everyone to attend, please, all of you. Royal Academicians in particular, but anyone else influential as well. You all know the wording for the invitations now, so feel free to write out more should you think of anyone else who might be able to further Corinna’s career. Above all, we must make certain the committee members all attend.” She rose to fetch her pelisse, saying to Corinna, “I’m sure John Hamilton will accept, as he’s your personal acquaintance—”

“I wouldn’t call him that,” Corinna interrupted. Her nervousness about charming the committee had suddenly returned, causing a fluttering in her stomach that mixed oh-so-nicely with the nausea.

“You’ve danced with him, my dear.”

“He’s very busy,“ Corinna insisted. Sean couldn’t attend the reception—the Academy members would surely expose him as a fraud. “And you know he doesn’t like to appear in public.”

“Now that he’s inheriting Lord Lincolnshire’s title, I’m certain that will change. Don’t fret, my dear; he shall attend.” Lady A came close and kissed Corinna’s cheek, enveloping her in a cloud of gardenia and camphor scent. Corinna quickly stepped away under the guise of retrieving her reticule; the unappealing fragrance had nearly been enough to bring her luncheon back up.

Luckily, Lady A didn’t seem to notice. ”Should you run into Mr. Hamilton,” she went on, buttoning her pelisse, “you might encourage him to see that the other committee members accept as well.”

“Maybe.…” Corinna said between taking deep, calming breaths.

Shrugging into her own light pelisse, Rachael paused. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Corinna fibbed. “Perfectly fine.”

She couldn’t help wondering if she’d done the right thing encouraging Sean to continue deceiving Lord Lincolnshire. In fact, it seemed she could think about little else. Besides the kiss. And the reception. And her looming deadline to finish her portrait.

But she was fine. Perfectly fine.

And there she went, lying to herself again.

Rachael patted her shoulder. “Don’t get yourself in a dither. I know this reception is important to you, but we shall all contrive to make certain it’s a wild success.”

Alexandra lifted baby Harry out of his pram. “Yes, we will.” The other ladies made noises of agreement.

Aunt Frances pushed slowly to her feet. “Yes, we will,” she echoed, sounding a bit out of breath.

Juliana laid a hand on the woman’s arm. “Are you all right, Auntie?”

“Yes, just fat and ugly and winded. My friend Lady Mabel swears this city isn’t good for the lungs once a lady reaches a certain age, but then again, she has asthma.” Frances gave a wheezy laugh. “I’m only with child.”

Elizabeth grabbed her cloak, but as it was a warm day she laid it over her arm. “Our mother always said that about the London air, too. But I don’t remember her ever having any trouble breathing.”

“That’s because Mama refused to come to London,” Claire said, and turned to Juliana. “I hope you put those extra tea buns in the basket for us.”

Juliana nodded. “I noticed the recipe in our family cookbook was your mother’s.”

Claire smiled, taking the offered basket. “She used to make them for us all the time, but we haven’t had any in years.”

”I hope you’ll enjoy them.” Leaving her two sisters behind, Juliana started walking the rest of her guests toward the door. “Your mother wrote that the tea buns encourage serenity.”

“Is that why you made them?” Rachael asked. “Do you think Corinna is in need of serenity?”

Before Corinna could go after them and speak for herself, Juliana answered. “Of course she’s in need of serenity. Her entire future hangs in the balance!”

Corinna heard everyone laugh before they said their good-byes. Then she heard the door shut, and Juliana returned to the Palm Room.

Going to a sideboard that had gilt legs carved to look like palm trees, Juliana poured three glasses of sherry before joining her sisters on one of the many sofas covered in palm tree-themed satin fabric. “Here,” she said, handing Corinna a glass. “I expect you’ll find this encourages serenity much more than tea buns.”

Corinna sipped gratefully.

“It’s natural to be nervous about the reception,” Alexandra said, shifting Harry on her lap to take a sip.

“And you’re nervous about something else, too.” Juliana crossed her legs. “I can tell. Out with it, Corinna.”

They knew her too well; there was no sense pretending. She sighed. “I have a secret.”

Her sisters exchanged meaningful glances. “Well?” Alexandra asked.

“Lord Lincolnshire’s nephew isn’t John Hamilton,” Corinna confessed in a rush. “I mean, John Hamilton is his nephew, but the gentleman you met at Lady Partridge’s ball isn’t. He’s his brother-in-law. He wanted to tell Lord Lincolnshire the truth, but I convinced him not to, and now I’m not sure that was right.”

“Whoa.” Juliana’s sip of sherry was more like a gulp. “Explain that again. Slowly, and with more detail.”

Corinna did so, telling the whole long complicated story. Then she held her breath before asking, “Was I wrong? Should he tell Lord Lincolnshire the truth?”

Juliana shook her head. “Absolutely not.”

“I agree.” Alexandra patted the baby’s back. “Lord Lincolnshire deserves a happy ending.”

Corinna blew the breath out. “You’re right. I love Lord Lincolnshire.”

“So do we,” Alexandra assured her.

“I’m going to visit him more often. I promised Mr. Delaney I would, to help him keep up the pretense that he’s an artist.”

“You’ll get to see more of Mr. Delaney that way too, hmm?” Juliana wiggled her eyebrows.

Corinna looked to Alexandra. “She’s meddling again, isn’t she?”

“Doesn’t she always?”

“I can tell you like him,” Juliana said defensively. “And I cannot say I blame you. He’s quite good-looking—”

“You’re a married woman!” Corinna interrupted.

“A very happy one,” her sister agreed. “But a lady doesn’t go blind when she takes her marriage vows. Or deaf, either. That accent—”

“You make him sound like a pretty box. You know nothing about the person inside.” Neither did she, for that matter.

“I know he’s being very nice to Lord Lincolnshire. And that his sister is married to John Hamilton, which means he’s connected to the right people.”

“He’s not a peer, Juliana. He owns property.”

“Doesn’t every gentleman own property?”

“Gentlemen inherit property. Mr. Delaney buys and sells it for a living. Among other things.” She wondered what the other things were.

“Well, that seems a very lucrative sort of career. And an impressive accomplishment for a young man his age. He must have quite the work ethic.”

Corinna rolled her eyes. ”And there’s the fact that he’s Irish.” With that accent. She’d gone back to the bookstore to buy Children of the Abbey this morning, and she was already up to page 43, where she’d thought of Sean instead of Lord Mortimer while reading about how the harmony of his voice imparted a charm that seldom failed of being irresistible.

“Does his being Irish bother you?” Juliana asked.

“Of course not. But it might bother Griffin.”

“Griffin would be a hypocrite if it did,” Juliana scoffed. “His own name comes from an Irish ancestor.”

“That’s right,” Alexandra put in. “Our sixth or seventh great-grandfather, wasn’t he? Aidan Griffin, Baron Kilcullen from Ballygriffin, Ireland.”

“How do you remember such things?” Corinna asked.

“Family is important to me.” She smiled at little Harry, who was named after her husband’s uncle. “Besides, you remember every word you’ve ever read.”

“That’s different. And far more irritating than it is helpful. My brain is always filled with all those stupid lines.” She sighed. “In any case, I’m not interested in Mr. Delaney that way.”

She wouldn’t say no to another kiss—now that she knew he wasn’t really married. But if she knew her sister, Juliana would stop at nothing to get him married now.

To Corinna.

She fixed Juliana with a serious stare. ”I have only seventeen days left to finish my portrait, and call on Lincolnshire House to make sure the earl’s last days go smoothly. I don’t have time for your matchmaking schemes.”

“Matchmaking schemes? I’ve no idea what you’re on about.” Juliana’s eyes were wide and innocent. “I happen to think it’s very kind of you to look after dear Lord Lincolnshire. You should bring him a sweet to comfort him in his illness.”

“Corinna doesn’t bake,” Alexandra reminded her.

Corinna couldn’t bake. The ladies of their family were famed for their sweets, and she was the only Chase lady in history with no talent in the kitchen. She couldn’t measure anything properly; she couldn’t mix without creating lumps. If she so much as looked at the oven, biscuits burned and cakes collapsed.

“I didn’t say she should make it,” Juliana pointed out. “I only said she should bring it. I shall do the baking for her.”

“Thank you,” Corinna said sweetly. It wasn’t so bad being a bungler in the kitchen, really. In truth, she’d much rather paint.

SIXTEEN

“I wonder why Corinna’s so nervous,” Rachael said to her sisters during the ride home in their carriage. “There’s the reception, of course, but she seems to be worrying about more than that.”

Corinna had been very far from calm and collected. As a person who wasn’t quite herself these days, Rachael recognized the signs. Griffin was supposed to have returned yesterday, and she was on pins and needles waiting to hear what he might have discovered.

“I don’t know what’s bothering Corinna.” Elizabeth shrugged. “But I’ve been thinking.”

“That’s a novelty,” Claire chimed in.

Elizabeth stuck out her tongue. “I meant I’ve been thinking about something else. I’ve been thinking about how Mama never wheezed like Lady Mabel.”

“I told you, that’s because she refused to come to London.” Claire fiddled with a new amethyst ring she’d made, twirling it on her finger. “She knew it wasn’t good for her.”

“But Mama was very quiet,” Elizabeth pointed out. “I’m wondering if she even had asthma at all. Maybe she just didn’t want to socialize, so she used that as an excuse.”

Claire stopped twirling. “You think Mama lied?”

“I didn’t say she lied. I said she might have made up an excuse.”

“That’s the same as a lie! And she would never—”

“Mama wasn’t perfect,” Rachael interrupted. An understatement, considering she’d hidden the truth of Rachael’s parentage all her life. “It’s possible Elizabeth could be right.” Thinking back, she couldn’t remember her mother ever having difficulty breathing. “Mama never attended large social gatherings. She always preferred to stay home with her needlework and her watercolors and us.”

“She went to Cainewood,” Claire argued. “Often.”

“But only to visit with family. Never for a ball or any other grand occasion.”

“I don’t believe it,” Claire said, looking pouty.

“Well, it doesn’t signify anyway, does it?” Rachael sighed. “We’ll never know for sure.”

They all rode in thoughtful silence until the carriage came to a stop before their town house in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Elizabeth climbed down first, then let out a little yelp.

“What are you doing here?” she cried.

Rachael followed Claire out to find Griffin standing in the courtyard.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” he said with the crooked smile that always made her feel flustered. But when his gaze swung to meet hers, his expression grew more serious. “I’ve been waiting for you. I have news.”

“What news?” Claire demanded.

“I’ll explain later,” Rachael told her sisters. She didn’t want an audience when she heard what Griffin had learned. “Go inside. Griffin and I will talk in the square.”

Grumbling all the way, her sisters entered the house while Rachael and Griffin crossed the street and went through the gate to the private park in the center of the square. It was a nice day, sunny but not hot, and Lincoln’s Inn Fields was filled with people enjoying the fine weather.

Choosing a bench beneath a large tree, where the shade would hide them from view of the houses all around, she sat and smoothed her pelisse’s lavender skirt. “You took longer than I expected.”

Angled toward her, he pulled her father’s jeweled badge from his pocket and placed it in her palm, folding her fingers around it. “Rachael…I know who he was.”

“Was,” she repeated. “He’s dead, then.”

In a cousinly, concerned way, he took one of her hands in both of his. “You knew that, didn’t you?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” But apparently part of her had hoped that wasn’t true, because a pang of disappointment seemed to spear her heart.

“There’s more,” he said, squeezing her fingers. “Not all of it good.”

She nodded and pulled her hand free, staring down at the badge she held. She couldn’t think straight with him touching her. “Start at the beginning. Please.”

He took a deep breath. “I searched all the records for the time in question and found a member of the Tenth who took leave to wed a woman the month before you were conceived. An officer, a lieutenant. His name was Thomas Grimbald.”

“Grimbald,” she echoed, testing the word on her tongue. She should have been Rachael Grimbald, but that sounded so very wrong. “Are you sure he was the right man?”

Griffin nodded. “He married a woman who was thereafter known as Lady Georgiana Grimbald.”

Startled, she looked up at him. “He was titled, then?”

“No. She must have been a peer’s daughter.”

“But my mother was a commoner. She was born plain Georgiana Woodby. She wasn’t a lady until she wed my fa—I mean, the Earl of Greystone. You found the wrong man.”

“I also thought so at first. That’s why I was gone the extra day. I combed the records going back years, in case your mother married long before conceiving you. But very few men from the Tenth wed in the correct time frame, and no one else married a woman named Georgiana.”

“You’re sure it was her, then?”

“There’s no other explanation. Your mother must have lied about being a commoner. She always acted like a true lady, didn’t she? And the timing of Grimbald’s wedding is perfect. It cannot be a coincidence that his wife had the same given name. He had to have been your father.”

“Maybe.” The name sounded wrong, but she still couldn’t seem to think straight. She focused on a wooden stand in the distance, where lemonade was sold in the square. “This Grimbald…did the records say how he died?”

“They did.”

She waited, but no more information seemed to be forthcoming. She waited some more. When she finally looked back to Griffin, his green eyes were flooded with sympathy.

She didn’t want sympathy; she wanted the truth.

“What?” she asked, but still he didn’t answer. She clenched her hand around the badge. “What in blazes are you hiding from me? I’ve already learned that my mother lied to me all of my life, came from a different family than she claimed, and my name should be Rachael Grimbald.” Grimbald, for pity’s sake! It wasn’t a cold day, and she was wearing a pelisse in any case, but she wrapped her arms around herself as though she might ward off a chill. “What could you possibly have to tell me that would be more upsetting than all of that?”

Griffin blew out a breath. “He was executed, Rachael. For treason.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but suddenly all the air seemed to have been sucked right out of her. The birds in the tree overhead sounded entirely too cheerful. The people strolling by, chatting and drinking lemonade, sounded too cheerful, too.

“Treason?” she finally managed to say, her voice thin and the opposite of cheerful. “What did he do?”

“That I don’t know; the records of the court-martial must be elsewhere. But he joined the Tenth in 1782—transferred from a disbanded regiment—and there was a notation of his family’s address at that time. In Yorkshire. I’ve hired a man to see whether they still live there. I’ll let you know when I find out. Then take you to meet them.”

Treason. She hugged herself tighter, the edges of the hard metal badge digging into her clenched fist. “I’m not sure I want to. Meet them, I mean. Not if their son committed treason.”

“You don’t have to, of course. It will be up to you. They’re your family, but I’m willing to wager they don’t know of your existence. Perhaps that’s why your mother used another name. So they couldn’t find you.”

“That makes sense.” As much sense as anything else he’d said to her today. “Treason,” she murmured. “My father was executed for treason.”

“I’m sorry.” He began to reach for her, then apparently thought better of it and crossed his arms instead. “It doesn’t change who you are, Rachael, or make you any less good than you are.”

“No,” she said, “it doesn’t.”

But she must not have sounded convincing.

“’Fathers shall not be put to death for their children,’” he quoted solemnly, “’nor children put to death for their fathers; each is to die for his own sins.’”

That dredged up a tiny smile. “Griffin Chase, referencing a Bible passage? There may be hope for you yet.”

“I live for your approval,” he said, his crooked smile reappearing in return.

”Thank you for finding my fa—Grimbald.” She rose and smoothed her pelisse. “I do appreciate your going out of your way to do me this favor. I’m sorry it proved so difficult.” She cleared her throat and started back home, taking a little comfort when he fell into step beside her. “My sisters must be half dead of curiosity by now.”

She wasn’t looking forward to telling them the awful truth.

SEVENTEEN

GINGERBREAD CAKES

Take four pints of Flower with Ginger and Nutmeg and rub Butter into it. Add to it Brandy and Treacle and mix it altogether. Let it lay till it grows stiffe then pinch pieces and make into little balls. Flatten cakes on a tin and add a Sweetmeat if you please and bake.

These spicy little cakes are known to raise the spirits. Not ghosts, that is, but spirits of the emotional variety. Excellent to bring when paying visits to the ill.

—Anne, Marchioness of Cainewood, 1775

Upon arriving at Lincolnshire House the next afternoon, Corinna was shown to a drawing room. She dragged her feet, not caring that it was unladylike. She felt creaky and headachy from being up all night trying to work on the portrait—but stupidly letting her worries distract her instead. A whole day wasted.

When she entered the room, Sean sat holding a book that he’d apparently been reading to Lord Lincolnshire.

He rose immediately. “I waited for you all yesterday. Where were you?”

He’d waited all day? “I was helping Lady Avonleigh make invitations for a reception. And I was painting. And earlier I went back to the colorman’s shop.” Well, really to the bookstore to buy Children of the Abbey. “What were you doing here all day? Didn’t you need to…ah”—she slanted a glance to Lord Lincolnshire—“paint?”

“Yes, I would have loved to paint. But my uncle is my priority,” he said pointedly.

“Of course.” Now she felt guilty on top of everything else. One might even say that, like the heroine of Pamela or Virtue and Reward, Corinna’s poor mind was all topsy-turv—

Oh, hang it! She shoved stupid Pamela from her mind. She simply couldn’t cope with that today.

Nor could she bring herself to face Sean’s crossness, so she turned to the earl instead. ”Good afternoon, Lord Lincolnshire. I brought you some gingerbread cakes. They’re supposed to raise one’s spirits.”

“Says who?” Sean asked, taking the basket.

“Says my family’s heirloom cookbook. Each lady in the family adds a recipe every year, and they all have legends attached. Not that I believe such nonsense,” she hastened to add. “My sister Juliana baked these. I’m hopeless in the kitchen.”

“I didn’t think any Mayfair ladies ever entered a kitchen.”

“The Chase ladies do,” Lord Lincolnshire said, pausing for a breath. “They’re famous for their sweets.”

“All except me,” Corinna said.

Sean handed Lord Lincolnshire a sweet and took one for himself. “Please, have a seat.”

Corinna looked around the room, which she’d never been in before. The butler, Quincy, had called it the “yellow drawing room” when he’d shown her in here. The walls were covered with yellow silk printed with pink roses, green leaves, and some blue flowers she couldn’t name. All the sofas, chairs, and footstools were upholstered in yellow brocade. Part of Lord Lincolnshire’s extensive Ming vase collection was in here, and there were several excellent paintings on the walls, including two Rembrandts.

She wished to study them, but Sean had asked her to sit. Ignoring his request might irritate him further, and that simply wouldn’t do.

Mostly because she’d decided she wanted another kiss.

Once she chose the seat with the best view of the Rembrandts, Sean reseated himself too. “This gingerbread is delicious,” he said.

“I’ll tell Juliana.” She turned to Lord Lincolnshire. He was covered to the waist with a heavy blanket, making her wonder what might be concealed underneath. His hands looked a little puffy, and he’d taken only a tiny bite of the cake. “How are you feeling today, my lord?”

“Better than one might expect, thanks to my nephew.” He smiled at Sean, apparently waiting to catch his breath before continuing. “I’m still thinking, nephew”—pause—“that I’d like to meet your wife.”

Sean exchanged a panicked look with Corinna. “I’m afraid my wife prefers to stay in the countryside, Uncle. She likes the quiet life.”

Lord Lincolnshire looked disappointed but seemed to accept the state of affairs, since his response was, “Very well.” But then he added, “As I was saying when Lady Corinna arrived—”

“Shall I continue reading?” Sean interrupted.

“Not now, nephew. We have a lovely…young lady visiting. And as I…was saying—”

“Would you care for another sweet, Uncle?”

“I haven’t finished this one.” Pause. “I’ve been—”

“Have you need of another pillow?”

“No.” The poor man was already leaning against at least five of them. “I’ve—”

“Are you certain—”

“Would you let a man finish a sentence?” Corinna snapped. Tearing her gaze from one of the Rembrandts, she turned to the earl and spoke in a kindlier tone. ”What did you want to say, Lord Lincolnshire?”

“I wanted to say…that I’ve been thinking I’d like Sean…to paint a portrait of me. One last portrait…before I depart this fine world.”

Sean glared at her. Apparently he’d realized this was coming. But how was she supposed to have known?

“I don’t think he can do that, Lord Lincolnshire,” she said carefully. “Mr. Hamilton paints only landscapes.”

“Surely he can paint…one portrait.”

Sean shook his head. “I’ve never painted a portrait.”

Truer words were never spoken, Corinna thought.

“You’re a skilled artist, nephew. One of the very best…in the land.” Lord Lincolnshire gasped and waited a moment. Corinna wracked her brain for a way to help Sean, as she’d promised she would. Chases always kept their promises. “Surely—”

“May I paint you, Lord Lincolnshire?” she cut him off. “Please? I’d be truly honored if you’d allow me. I’ve been dying to paint a portrait to submit to the Royal Academy for the Summer Exhibition. If it turns out well, perhaps it will be selected. A subject of your stature could make my career.”

“Me?” Lord Lincolnshire wheezed. “In the Summer Exhibition?”

“Possibly,” she reiterated. “None of my portraits have turned out great so far, since I haven’t had any anatomy lessons. But lately I’ve been sketching the Elgin Marbles for practice, and I shall try my best—”

“I’m certain,” Lord Lincolnshire interrupted, “it will turn out brilliant.” He smiled at her as though she’d brought the sun. “But my days are…numbered. Tomorrow being Sunday, I’m hoping…my dear nephew…will take me to church. May we begin Monday?”

“I think we should start now.” Her painting was due to the Royal Academy a scant sixteen days hence, and she hoped to show it at Lady A’s reception five days before that. “If you’ve some paper, I can begin sketching you immediately.”

“Excellent.” Lord Lincolnshire lifted a silver bell from a table beside him. “I shall have a footman…fetch paper…posthaste.”

While he rang the bell, Corinna glanced rather triumphantly to Sean. His answering smile was far warmer than she’d expected. Warm enough to make her feel warm. She had to look away.

It seemed he’d forgiven her.

Well, good. Now when was he going to kiss her?

She frowned, suddenly realizing he hadn’t even tried to kiss her since that day in the bookshop. Not once. Whatever could that mean? Had he not enjoyed kissing her?

He couldn’t have meant it when he said he’d never kiss her again, could he?

Holy Hannah, she hoped not.

A footman handed her a pencil and some paper. She blinked and looked back to Lord Lincolnshire. “What would you like to be doing?”

“Doing?”

“In your portrait. I don’t care for portraits where the subject simply stands there and stares at the viewer. I’d prefer for you to be doing something.”

“Well, I cannot…simply stand there…in any case.” With a faint but good-natured smile, Lord Lincolnshire gestured to his covered legs. “I shall…have to be sitting.” His expression turned contemplative. “I’ve always…enjoyed a good book. Perhaps I can be…reading a book.”

While she’d been hoping for something a bit more active, she decided that would have to do. If the man had always loved to read, it was suitable, after all. Thinking Sean had pleased the earl by reading aloud, she glanced back to him.

He was still smiling that same warm, dreamy smile.

Oh, very well, maybe it wasn’t dreamy; maybe it was only grateful that she’d managed to save his behind. But it was warm. And it was a smile. He was happy with her, at least for the moment.

She’d get him to kiss her one way or another.

She smiled back. “Would you care to read while I sketch, Mr. Hamilton?”

He nodded and opened the book.

Letting his harmonious voice wash over her, she settled back and put pencil to paper. And even though Sean wasn’t reading a romantic novel, she kept smiling as she listened and sketched.

EIGHTEEN

“Thank you,”Sean said simply as he walked Corinna toward the door later. “You saved my skin by offering to paint him.”

“I told you that you could count on me. May I look in here?” she asked, indicating another drawing room. Lincolnshire House seemed to have a surplus of drawing rooms. “I’d like to see if there are any more Rembrandts.”

“I can’t think why not.” He walked in with her. “What color is this room?”

“Mostly green. The walls are lined with bright green silk damask, and the draperies are green silk trimmed with black velvet. The furniture is all covered in golden and dark red brocade. It’s beautiful. I’m sorry you cannot see it.”

“I can see it,” he told her. “It just looks different to me. The color I can see best is blue. All the rooms in my house are blue, except for Deirdre’s.”

“Where is your house?”

“In Hampstead. Who painted that landscape you’re staring at?”

“John Hamilton.” She gave a merry laugh. “All the paintings in this room are Hamiltons. It seems Lord Lincolnshire truly is quite proud of his nephew.”

“Figures,” Sean muttered in disgust. “It’s good to know that, though. I imagine I’d make a holy show of myself if he took me in here and I didn’t recognize my own paintings.”

“A holy show?”

“A great fool of myself,” he translated. “A massive embarrassment.” Somehow, being around her seemed to bring out his Irishness. “Thank you again. I really do appreciate your help.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” she said. Moving to a fine Kent fireplace, she leaned against the mantel and glanced over her shoulder rather flirtatiously. Or not precisely flirtatiously, because she wasn’t a flirtatious girl. She seemed much more straightforward than that.

Was she meaning to flirt with him? On purpose?

His question was answered immediately, when she aimed another inviting look over her shoulder and said softly, “I think you owe me a kiss.”

He laughed. What else could he do? “I’m not John Hamilton, remember? I’m no longer a trophy. Why should you want to kiss me again?”

“Maybe I liked it the first time.” Her tone was casual, but Sean could tell it was an act to cover her embarrassment—her cheeks were reddening. Well, they were coloring, anyway, and he assumed the color was red. In any case, he felt sorry for laughing at her.

And he hoped she was telling the truth.

He peered into her blue, blue eyes, trying to figure out if she was indeed being truthful. Those eyes…they could make a fellow feel grateful for being color-blind. (What was he supposed to be figuring out, again…?) And then there was her voice. It was a low voice, sweet but not at all girlish. It had a tart edge when she was being cheeky, which was most of the time. He liked that, the way she said whatever she was thinking. He also liked watching her lips move when she talked. But he shouldn’t look at her lips, because whenever he did, it made him want to kiss her, which he couldn’t do because…

He looked at her lips.

“I told my sisters your secret,” said the lips. Full, beautiful, soft-looking—

Wait a second.

“You did what?” he roared, shaking his head to clear it. Thinking that this time, he really might strangle her.

He definitely wasn’t kissing her.

“I had to share it with someone,” she said defensively, pushing away from the mantle. “I had to. I feared I’d done wrong encouraging you to keep it up, and—”

“What did they say?”

“They heartily approved. They told me I’d done exactly the right thing. I’m not at all sorry I told them.”

“Don’t tell anyone else.”

“But—”

“Don’t.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “I won’t.”

“I want your promise.”

“I promise. And a Chase promise is never given lightly,” she added, her eyes wide and solemn.

“All right, then.” It seemed disaster had been averted. But that didn’t mean all was forgiven, no matter how wide she made her eyes. She wasn’t getting that kiss. “You’ll be back Monday to start the actual painting? Early, I hope?”

“First thing in the morning.”

“Excellent.” Maybe he’d be able to escape and get something done. “I—”

“Of course, morning for me starts at noon.”

“Noon?”

“At the earliest. I like to paint through the wee hours, so I sleep late.” She walked closer. Right up to him. So close he could see her blue irises were rimmed in a darker, midnight shade. So close he could smell her floral scent with that hint of paint underneath it.

She wasn’t getting that kiss.

“Do you know what else my sisters said?” she asked. Not-quite-flirtatiously.

“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

“Juliana said she was impressed by your connections. And the fact that you’ve made a success of yourself at such a young age.”

“She doesn’t know how successful I am,” he pointed out. “And neither do you.”

She waved that away. ”Houses in Hampstead aren’t cheap. And Alexandra reminded me that our brother, Griffin, is named for our ancestor, Aidan Griffin, Baron Kilcullen from Ballygriffin, Ireland.”

He narrowed his eyes. ”And the significance of all this is…?”

“They think it’s all right for you to kiss me.” She stepped even closer. “Are you certain you don’t want to? I might get up earlier in the morning for a kiss.”

He resolutely looked away from her lips. He needed to think. Not that he could think clearly anyway, with her standing so close and daring to make such an offer. He had to admit it was tempting. He did need to get to work earlier on Monday. And she had just eliminated every reason he’d considered her off-limits.

He sized her up shrewdly. “How much earlier?”

“Ten o’clock.”

“Eight.”

“Nine.”

He yanked her to him.

He would have cursed his weakness, but he was too busy enjoying himself. Or rather, enjoying her—her warmth, her hands drifting up to thread her fingers into his hair, her heart pounding like a drum against his own. Even though he’d been expecting it, he was still stunned by the unimaginable softness of her lips. Carefully, gingerly, he drew the bottom one between his teeth and, just as he’d watched her do a hundred times, bit down.

She gasped and pulled away, and for a panicked second he thought he’d hurt her.

But she was laughing, her lovely eyes sparkling up at him. He laughed along in relief.

She pressed two fingers to her bottom lip, as if she could still feel the bite. ”I’ll see you Monday at nine,” she said in her cheeky way, and quit the room.

He heard her footsteps cross the stone floor in the entrance hall, heard the door open, heard Quincy bid her a polite farewell. By the time the door closed, he’d gathered his wits.

Somewhat.

He went back to the other drawing room, where Lincolnshire was dozing, propped on his many pillows. Sean touched the earl gently on the shoulder and smiled when his eyes fluttered open. “Would you like me to see you to bed, Uncle? I think you could use the rest. And I could use a few hours to paint.”

“Very well,” Lincolnshire said. “But I really do…wish to meet your wife.”

Sean winced. He’d thought they’d dropped the subject. “It’s truly sorry I am, but as I told you, she prefers to stay in the countryside.”

“She can make an exception…just this once? She’ll be the next countess…and the mother of my eventual heirs. I wish to…get to know her.” The earl paused for a much-needed breath. And another. “Please, Sean.” His eyes shone with hope.

Saints preserve us.

Sean couldn’t refuse.

“No.” In her lovely floral-painted bedroom, the only room in Sean’s house that wasn’t blue—in fact, he wasn’t sure what color it was—Deirdre tossed a pile of shifts into the trunk she was filling. “I’ve told you twice already, no.”

It felt like days since Sean had been home. Begorrah, it had been days since he’d been home. He’d neglected his work yet again to come talk to his sister, and this wasn’t the welcome he’d hoped for. “Why are you packing your things, then?”

“I’m moving to Daniel’s house tomorrow. I’m bored out of my mind here alone in Hampstead. I’m going to live in the middle of London, where I can see another face once in a while.”

Oh, no, she wasn’t.

“You’ll live in London, all right, but with Lincolnshire.” He was shirking his own duties in order to obtain her precious divorce, and she couldn’t even wait to see this thing through? “I want you to arrive early Monday evening. That will make it believable that you had to come in from the countryside. You owe me, Deirdre. I’m doing a favor for you. Now you’ll do this favor for me.”

“I didn’t ask for any favors. I don’t want any favors.” She pulled three dresses out of her clothespress. Brown, brown, and brown. “I still cannot believe you allowed John to talk you into this ridiculous scheme.”

“Well, I did.” And didn’t he regret it even more than she? “And now Lincolnshire is insisting he meet Hamilton’s wife. Which is you, in case you don’t remember.”

“I remember, little brother,” Deirdre said dryly. “But I don’t care.” The dresses clenched in her hands, she turned to him. “What is the old man going to do, after all, if you fail to produce a wife?”

“He’ll be disappointed.”

“I’ve news for you, Sean: We’re all disappointed sometimes. The old man will survive.”

“He won’t survive, no. Either way. And he deserves happiness in his final days. He’s a nice man, Deirdre.”

“John never thought so.”

“John is an idiot.”

“You’ve a point there.” She folded the dresses, then sighed and went back for more. “But I don’t want to play your wife.”

Sean echoed her own words back to her. “I’ve news for you, Deirdre: We’re all forced to do things we’d rather not sometimes.”

“Sometimes, maybe. But not this time.”

“If I don’t fulfill his wishes,” he argued, “Lincolnshire may retaliate by withholding his fortune from your husband.”

“John deserves that. Nothing would make me happier.”

“Think again, dear sister. If your husband isn’t satisfied with my performance—if he loses his inheritance as a result—I’d lay odds he won’t grant you your divorce.”

She shrugged. “I don’t care. I told you not to do this in the first place. I’ll be happy living with Daniel whether I’m married to him or not.”

Sean kept silent a moment, deliberating. And then, “You won’t be living with Daniel Raleigh,” he said quietly.

“I will. Is something wrong with your ears, Sean? I told you, I’m moving to Daniel’s house tomorrow. And there’s nothing you can do about it!”

“No, you’re not. You’re moving to Lincolnshire House on Monday.”

“Something is wrong with your ears!”

He hesitated. He hadn’t wanted her to hear the whole truth, to know the worst of what might befall her. She’d only panic, or throw a fit, or feel guilty. He didn’t want any of that.

But he didn’t see where he had a choice.

As Deirdre flounced past, he caught her by the arm and made her look at him. ”Listen to me. Whether he inherits Lincolnshire’s fortune or not, Hamilton is going to be an earl. He’s going to need an heir. If he doesn’t divorce you, he’ll force you back into his house until you bear him a son.”

She wrenched her arm out of his grasp. “He wouldn’t.”

“He told me so himself.”

She rolled her eyes and continued on her way. “You’re making this up to get me to do what you want.”

“I’m not making anything up.” He blocked her path as she turned back from the clothespress, a blue dress and a brown one clutched tight to her middle. “He threatened you, Deirdre, because I wouldn’t go along with his plan. He knew I’d have to agree. And you know what the law says on the matter. He’s your husband. If he demands you back”—he nearly choked on the next words—“in his bed…”

“I’d have no choice,” she whispered, her face stark white.

She didn’t resist when Sean lifted the dresses from her arms. Nor when he led her to the bed and pushed her down to sit. All her usual spirit and fire had left her.

He hated to see his big sister like this.

If they failed, she might look like this for the rest of her life.

He sighed and sat beside her. “You’re already packed. Come play Mrs. Hamilton at Lincolnshire House. With any luck, it will be for the last time.”

She was staring down at her hands, folded demurely in her lap in a most un-Deirdre-like manner. “You win,” she said in a small voice.

But he didn’t feel like a winner.

NINETEEN

Early Monday evening at Lincolnshire House, Corinna was cleaning her palette when she felt her hair swept aside. Felt warm lips pressed to the nape of her neck. A little thrill rippling through her, she whirled around to see Sean

“I had a good day,” he said. “A productive day. Thank you.”

His eyes were so green, so genuine. She was suddenly aware of how comfortable she felt looking into them—just looking. She met most people’s eyes with a challenge or a jest. It felt strange and nice to be just looking.

He’d greeted her at the door at nine o’clock this morning, walked her into this salon, and laid a kiss on her that could have melted the Arctic.

“Was that worth getting up for?” he’d asked.

She’d nodded, having temporarily lost her powers of speech. And he’d laughed, then left to do whatever it was he did while she spent the whole day painting.

She felt melty again now, just looking into his eyes. She hoped he would kiss her again—on the lips instead of her neck—but instead he shifted his gaze past her. “I’m impressed.”

For a moment she thought he was impressed with the salon. It was a most unlikely room to use for painting, by far the most grandiose room in London’s most grandiose house.

The salon was mostly blue, so she knew Sean could see just how gorgeous it was. Designed for lavish entertainments, it was decorated in the Italian style. Splendid blue and gold furniture matched ornate blue and gold curtaining that hung from gilt rods. The coved ceiling was painted in the palazzo manner, and the walls were broken up by alternating silk panels and mirrors in highly ornamental frames, their surfaces reflecting the room’s sparkling gold and crystal chandeliers.

Though she’d laid down a tarpaulin, all day Corinna had feared she’d splatter paint and ruin something. But of all the rooms in the house, this one had the largest north-facing windows, so Lord Lincolnshire had insisted it was the best place to sit for his portrait.

Then her head cleared, and she realized Sean wasn’t impressed with the salon. He was looking at her painting.

“I’m glad you like it,” she said, turning to see it herself. She resumed wiping her palette. “But I’ve only just started, really.”

“You started this morning, before I left. You’ve been working all day.”

“Time flies when I’m involved in a painting. But I think I wore out poor Lord Lincolnshire. Two footmen helped him up to bed a couple of hours ago.” She set the palette on the mosaic table she’d covered for her use. “Do you think it would be all right for me to leave everything here overnight?”

“I’m sure it will be fine. The man’s unlikely to host a party anytime soon.” He walked closer to the painting, peering at it. “You’ve laid in the basics of him already. And the background is amazing. So detailed. How did you do that so quickly?”

“Oh, that was already done.” She began cleaning her brushes. “I’ve been working on it for days in the square. I just hadn’t decided who to put into it.”

He paused for a significant beat before he turned to her. “So you wanted to paint Lincolnshire. You didn’t offer only to save my skin.”

“You’ve caught me out.” Swirling three brushes in turpentine, she grinned. “I think I’m finally going to complete a good portrait. One fine enough to put on display. I’ve always wanted to, but…”

“But what?”

“Girls don’t usually, you know? Paint portraits, I mean. It’s not considered very ladylike. We’re supposed to paint only scenes and still lifes.” Setting the brushes aside, she sighed. “I’m tired of painting apples and bottles and trees.”

“You paint very good trees,” he pointed out, gesturing toward her picture.

“I’ve had lots of practice,” she said dryly.

“You have goals,” he said. “I admire that.”

“Everyone has goals. Of some sort.”

“But your goals go beyond what’s expected of a lady—of any woman. You’ll have to overcome great odds to achieve them, and you’re not letting that stop you. That’s very admirable.”

“Thank you,” Corinna said softly, feeling her face heat. She’d never had a fellow say he admired her goals, let alone act like he believed she might actually achieve them.

Griffin was supportive, of course, but that was his job. He was her brother. And while she was sure he wished her the best—while she knew he wanted her happy—she’d never felt he truly expected her dreams to come to fruition.

Griffin believed her art was a hobby, something to keep her occupied until she married.

Sean, on the other hand, seemed to believe in her. And for that she felt overflowing gratitude. In fact, her heart felt he was one of the most amiable, most pleasing of men, just as Amanda’s had in Children of the Abbey. Corinna feared she was staring in a most embarrassing, moony-eyed fashion, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.

Holy Hannah, what was she doing?

She was letting this go too far. Sean was a nice young man—and a spectacular kisser—but he couldn’t be anything more to her. She knew he wasn’t the sort of husband Griffin wanted for her, no matter what her sisters said. And Corinna wasn’t looking for a husband, anyway. Her art came first.

But she really wasn’t ready to give up the kissing yet. They could still do that, she decided, as long as there were no more moony eyes.

Excellent.

That settled, she cleared her throat. ”Thank you,” she repeated. “I’m finished here and expected home for dinner. I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

“At nine?”

”For another kiss, I’ll be here at nine.”

He laughed. “You aren’t anything like I expected a marquess’s daughter would be, do you know that?”

“I’m an artist,” she said.

And he laughed again. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

Unusually for this mansion full of servants, the entrance hall was empty. Quincy wasn’t there, and there were no footmen, no maids scurrying from one side of the house to the other.

“My sister will be here soon,” Sean said quietly. “She’s going to live here until this is all over.”

“Will she?” Corinna asked, surprised.

“Lincolnshire’s insisting upon meeting my wife. And she’s Hamilton’s actual wife, so…”

“So at least that one thing won’t be a lie?”

“Exactly.” Reaching the front door, he opened it. “But I’m afraid something will slip now that Deirdre’s getting involved.”

“You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”

He shrugged, making it obvious he was.

She touched his arm. “Please don’t reveal the secret. It might be easier, but it won’t be best. I don’t like keeping secrets either, you know. I feel terribly guilty keeping my brother in the dark.”

“Don’t tell him,” he warned under his breath. “You promised.”

“I remember. And that’s why I haven’t told him. But my sisters think we’re doing the right thing, and I’m certain he would, too—”

“He wouldn’t. He’d expose me posthaste; I’m sure of it.”

“You don’t know Griffin—”

“He’s a marquess, isn’t he? That’s all I need to know. I’m everything the ton despises.” Standing there in the open doorway, he raised a hand and began ticking off all the marks against him. “I’m Irish—”

“I told you, we’re part Irish, too.”

“What, a quarter?”

“Probably a tenth,” she admitted, thinking it was probably even less than that.

He rolled his eyes and ticked off more fingers. “I’m untitled, I’m in trade, I earn more in a month than most of them earn in a year—”

“Really?” She’d had no idea he had that much money.

He looked mortified. Apparently he hadn’t meant to let that slip.

She opened her mouth to question him further, but just then the wooden gate opened outside, and a young woman entered the courtyard.

Looking quite sure of herself, the woman crossed to the portico and mounted the steps. She was blond, green-eyed, and very pretty. Or at least, she looked like she’d be very pretty if she weren’t scowling.

“Corinna, this is my sis—” Sean started, then stopped when the woman gave him a discreet little smack on the shoulder.

He turned to see Quincy approaching from inside the house.

“My wife has arrived,” he said loudly instead.

TWENTY

After introducing his “wife” to Corinna, who then took her leave, Sean marched Deirdre straight up to Lincolnshire’s bedroom. He couldn’t wait to get this farce over with.

“Uncle,” he said, “this is Mrs. Hamilton. Deirdre, the Earl of Lincolnshire.”

Deirdre curtsied. “It’s pleased I am to meet you, Lord Lincolnshire.”

“I’m so very pleased you’ve come.” Struggling to sit taller against his mountain of pillows, Lincolnshire blinked and yawned. “Please excuse me. I sat all…day for a portrait, and I fear that…left me exhausted.”

To Sean’s relief, Deirdre didn’t seem fazed by the man’s shortness of breath. Nor did she seem repulsed by his ever-swelling body. “I understand that you’re ill, my lord.”

“I’m dying,” Lincolnshire said in his plainspoken way.

“That, too. And it’s sorry I am to hear it.”

“No fault of…yours.” The old man cocked his head. “You’re Irish.”

She exchanged a wary glance with Sean. “Born and raised in Kilburton, sir. Your nephew married me while he was living in Ireland.”

Lincolnshire nodded. “Kilburton is a pretty place.”

“And how would you know that?” Deirdre raised a brow. “I don’t recall your ever visiting.”

Sean flinched. Deirdre never had been one to mince words. But Lincolnshire only laughed—a laugh that ended in a wheeze. “Haven’t been there…since before you were born,” he told her, and then added to Sean, “I like her.”

Releasing a breath, Sean smiled and moved closer to his sister, wrapping an arm about her shoulders. “I like her, too.”

“You should, considering…she’s your wife. Whyever did you leave her in the countryside? She’s…lovely.” He grinned at Deirdre, the old flirt. “What a handsome couple you…two make. Give her a kiss!”

Sister and brother exchanged another look. One of panic.

“Go on,” Lincolnshire urged, his eyes dancing.

Sean leaned down to Deirdre and gave her a peck on the cheek.

“Hmmph, that will never do,” the earl said in disgust. “Word is you two…don’t get along. Rumor has it you live apart.”

Was that why Lincolnshire had insisted on meeting Hamilton’s wife? Was he determined to see a reconciliation? “You’ve said that before,” Sean reminded him. “Wherever did you hear it?”

“Everywhere. I’m dying, not deaf. And I won’t countenance…such a relationship in Lincolnshire House.” He paused, all but gasping for air, but when Deirdre went to open her mouth, he waved a hand to stop her. “All the Lincolnshire earls have been happily…married, and I mean to see…that tradition continue.”

“You shouldn’t listen to rumors,” Sean protested. “I love Deirdre.”

Which wasn’t exactly a lie. Maybe not in that way, but he did love her.

“Then…kiss her…like a man,” the old earl wheezed.

There was nothing for it.

Slowly, mournfully, Sean turned to face his doom. Deirdre looked as ill as he felt. She squeezed her eyes shut. He wished he could do the same, but he feared missing the target. Even worse than kissing his sister on the lips would be accidentally kissing her on the nostril…

He shuddered.

All right, man, just get it done. Sucking in a breath, he leaned down, fighting the nausea rising in his throat as he drew closer…and closer…until finally, with the lightest possible impact, and for the shortest possible instant, he touched his lips to hers.

When it was all over, Lincolnshire shook his head. “Before I expire…I want to see better than that.”

Saints preserve us. Sean and Deirdre studiously avoided eye contact with each other. Sean felt a strong urge to gargle with whiskey.

If there was anything on earth that could drive him to drink, this would be it.

“And I’ve a favor…to ask of you,” the earl went on.

“Anything, Uncle,” Sean said. “Anything at all.” So long as it didn’t involve kissing his sister.

A weak smile twitched on the man’s lips. “Were I you…I’d wait to hear it first.” He paused for a breath, and then another. “I wish you to…keep this house—”

“I will. You have my word.” Arrogant Hamilton wouldn’t be selling the most impressive house in all of London. “You won’t mind living here, will you, Deirdre?”

She glanced around in patent disbelief, taking in the towering damask-hung bed, the scenes painted on the ceiling, the gold-stamped leather wallcoverings. “What sort of knothead would mind living here?”

That prompted another smile. But Lincolnshire wasn’t finished. “And all of my staff…in perpetuity.”

Sean was tempted to agree for the sake of the old man’s peace of mind, but he couldn’t bring himself to add another lie to the heap. He glanced at Deirdre, murmuring, ”The property has more than a hundred servants.”

Her eyes widened. They both knew her husband didn’t keep many servants. He was a fellow who valued his privacy. Even considering the grandness of the house, he would probably dismiss well above half—without blinking an eye, of course.

The weasel.

“Oh, Lord Lincolnshire,” Deirdre said regretfully, “my husband doesn’t like spending much time in London. The scenes he paints are all in the countryside—”

“And as I’ve told you many times, Uncle,” Sean cut in, “my wife prefers the country as well.” He threw his sister a significant look.

She caught on. “Yes, that’s right. I’m just a country girl at heart. So you see, we won’t be needing so many servants when we’re not in residence here.”

“Won’t you keep them on anyway? For me, my dear. I cannot stand to think…these loyal people…my people…will be left out in the cold.”

Exchanging a glance with his sister, Sean pulled a face.

“I need to know…this house will remain in your hands. And my staff…will retain their employment.”

“I’ll keep the house,” Sean promised, “as I’ve said, although it’s overly large for just Mrs. Hamilton and myself.” Indeed, it would have been overly large for the entire village of Kilburton. “But as to the other—”

“Sean,” Lincolnshire cut in gently. Beseechingly. “Did you not say…you would do anything for me?”

In the long silence that stretched between them, Sean’s mind raced. Once the earl passed on, there was simply no way to force Hamilton’s hand. And they couldn’t hope to appeal to his better nature, since he hadn’t one to speak of. Was there another option? “What if I could find new employment for them all instead? Better employment?”

Lincolnshire gave a wee snort. “Better than working…for me?”

“Very well, I misspoke,” Sean conceded. “I agree there’s no kinder, more thoughtful employer. But—”

“There are humbler ones,” Deirdre chimed in, earning a chortle from the earl.

Sean shot her a warning look. “But more prestigious positions exist. And…”

“And I won’t…be here.”

Sean nodded.

“How can you find them all…employment? You’re an artist, not…a man of business.”

“I know people. Trust me.”

“I do,” Lincolnshire said sincerely, making Sean writhe inside with guilt. “But I want…I need to know they’re settled. That…they’ll be happy.”

“You will. I’ll find them all employment.”

“Better positions?”

“Better positions than they have now.”

“Before I’m gone?”

“Before you’re gone, Uncle. This I promise.”

One promise he could keep. One promise he would keep.

The man nodded, apparently satisfied. “Now, as to you two.”

Deirdre’s eyes widened again. “What now?”

“I want to see you dance…at the Billingsgate ball…on Saturday.”

TWENTY-ONE

APPLE PUFFS

Pare the fruit and bake them. When cold, mixe the pulp of the Apple with Sugar and lemon-peel shred fine, taking as little of the Apple-juice as you can. Orange marmalade is a great improvement. Put in paste with a little Sugar inside and on top. Bake in a quick oven a quarter hour until browne.

The homely apple is always dependable. Serve at family gatherings to assure harmony.

—Helena, Countess of Greystone, 1776

“A lovely first vintage.” Lamplight glinted off deep ruby as Alexandra held up her glass on Tuesday night, toasting her brother during their family dinner at his Berkeley Square town house. “You did it, Griffin.”

Her husband smiled. “A toast to England’s newest wine producer.”

“I don’t know that wine producer is an appropriate description.” Griffin grinned at his brother-in-law. Tristan had helped him save Cainewood’s ailing vineyard. “Doesn’t that imply producing enough wine that we could actually sell some of it? We’ll probably polish off this year’s entire production within a week. Perhaps tonight.”

Alexandra laughed. “You’ll make more next year, and still more the year after that. Eventually there will be enough to sell.”

“Charles would be proud,” Juliana said.

Charles, their eldest brother, had planted the vines when he was the marquess. But he hadn’t lived to see them bear fruit. Two years ago, when Charles died of consumption, Griffin had been forced to leave the cavalry. To come home to take Charles’s place. To accept Charles’s title. He’d also found himself saddled with the care of three unmarried sisters, a hodgepodge of mainly unprofitable properties, and a field full of dying grapevines.

Today the vines were thriving, he’d overhauled the family estate, and two of his sisters were happily wed. Not bad, Griffin thought, relishing a sip of the wine he’d helped create.

One by one, all of the pieces of his life were falling into place. Now he had only to find a husband for Corinna and puzzle out the mystery of Rachael’s parenthood. He was making good progress on the latter. Having heard from his man today, he looked forward to giving Rachael the news when he saw her at the Billingsgate ball on Saturday.

Corinna, however, was another matter altogether.

Paint, paint, paint…all she ever wanted to do was paint. She clearly had little interest in finding a husband. He’d introduced her to countless fine young men, and though on the surface she seemed to cooperate, she always danced and smiled and moved on, never giving any of them a second thought.

All he wanted was her happiness. And girls were happier married, weren’t they? But lately it seemed Corinna paid attention to just one gentleman. He’d be decent husband material, Griffin supposed—a little old, but wealthy, single, and kind…

If only he were expected to last out the week.

“Corinna has been spending a lot of time with Lord Lincolnshire,” he commented as Juliana served the apple puffs Alexandra had brought for dessert.

“I’m painting Lord Lincolnshire’s portrait. I hope to submit it for the Summer Exhibition.”

Juliana put another puff on a plate and moved to bring it to her husband, James. “How is the poor dear?” she asked.

“Well enough, under the circumstances. He seems to be holding his own.” Corinna paused for a sip of wine. “He’s very happy to have his nephew keeping him company.”

“His nephew?” James asked.

“Yes, his nephew,” Corinna said pointedly.

“Hmm?” James frowned, but then his face cleared. “Oh, you mean Mr. Delaney.”

Griffin cocked his head. “Who is Mr. Delaney?”

Juliana paused with the plate hovering over James, apparently torn between setting it before him or dropping it on his head. “That was a secret,” she said between gritted teeth.

“Oh.” He winced. “You didn’t tell me.”

Corinna glared daggers at her sister. “Why on earth did you tell him?”

“We don’t keep secrets.” Juliana wrung her hands with remorse. “We promised before our wedding.”

“Well, when you tell a secret, you could at least tell that it is a secret!”

“I’m sorry,” Juliana squeaked.

“Who is Mr. Delaney?” Griffin demanded.

Everyone else exchanged glances with each other, their expressions showing various levels of panic.

Corinna looked most anxious of all, so Griffin settled on her. ”What the devil is this about?”

She gulped. “Well…the gentleman you met at Lady Partridge’s ball—the one introduced to you as John Hamilton—is actually Mr. Hamilton’s brother-in-law, Sean Delaney. Mr. Hamilton asked him—”

“Blackmailed him,” Alexandra interrupted.

“Well, yes. He blackmailed him into posing as himself. As John Hamilton, I mean. Lord Lincolnshire’s nephew. But now he’s having second thoughts, even though it’s the right thing, and—”

“I beg your pardon?” Griffin cut in.

None of this made sense. The name, Sean Delaney, seemed familiar. Yet the gentleman introduced as John Hamilton at Lady Partridge’s ball hadn’t seemed familiar at all. In fact, Griffin was certain he’d never set eyes on that fellow before in his life.

More confused than ever, he swung toward his old friend Tristan. “Did you know about this, too?”

“Not all of it.” Looking down, Tristan speared a bite. “And only for a short while.”

“A short while,” Griffin growled.

“You told your husband, too?” Corinna turned her glare on Alexandra.

Alexandra released an exasperated sigh. “The apple puffs aren’t working.”

“Come again?” Tristan asked.

“They’re supposed to assure harmonious family gatherings.”

Tristan and James both looked amused. Griffin wasn’t. “Would someone please explain—”

“Excuse me a moment,” Juliana interrupted. “And don’t you dare discuss anything in my absence. I’ll be right back.”

While she was visiting the water closet, or wherever else she might have rushed off to—Juliana was a girl, so her brother didn’t dare inquire—Griffin shoveled apple puff into his mouth and fumed.

Everyone seemed to know what was going on except for him.

“Explain,” he demanded when she returned. “And don’t leave anything out.”

Between them, with much jumbled back-and-forthness, his three sisters explained.

And explained.

And explained.

A quarter hour later, when they finally finished, Corinna paused for a breath. “You won’t give away Mr. Delaney’s secret, will you? Not only would it threaten his sister’s divorce, but it would also upset poor Lord Lincolnshire.”

“I don’t know,” Griffin grated out. His sisters’ hearts seemed in the right place, but none of this sat quite right with him. “I don’t like tricking that kindly old man.”

“You’re not the one tricking him,” Juliana said. “You’re only allowing someone else to trick him.”

“Which is nearly as bad. And certainly not honorable.”

Alexandra shook her head. “Caring for Lord Lincolnshire’s happiness is the very definition of honor.”

“It’s lying,” Griffin said flatly.

Now Corinna shook her head. “It’s only failing to reveal the truth.”

Girls and their illogical logic.

Griffin was opening his mouth to say as much when a footman stepped into the dining room. “A caller, my lord. A Mr. Sean Delaney.”

“What a coincidence,” Griffin said. “Show him in.”

Corinna snorted. “It’s not a coincidence.”

“I sent a message to Lincolnshire House,” Juliana explained. “I told Mr. Delaney that you’re aware of his true identity and there’s something we need to discuss.”

“So that’s what you were doing when you went off.” Tristan said. “I wondered.”

James shrugged. “I thought she was visiting the water closet.”

“We should have guessed,” Griffin muttered. “It’s Juliana, after all.”

Both his brothers-in-law nodded in agreement. They well knew Juliana.

When Mr. Delaney walked in, Corinna motioned to a footman to fetch him a chair, then scooted over so it could be placed beside her own.

A tall young man, Delaney looked like he spent all his free hours in Gentleman Jackson’s boxing salon. Griffin wouldn’t care to challenge him to a match. And he was even more certain they weren’t acquainted. “Had we already met?” he asked him. “Before Lady Partridge’s ball?”

Delaney gave a little bow before he sat. “Not that I recall, my lord.”

The fellow had a distinct Irish accent, and Griffin hadn’t come across many Irishmen. “Yet your name seems familiar.”

“Is it?” Although he took the glass of wine Corinna handed him, Delaney didn’t drink from it as he seemed to consider. “I think I may have bought a piece of property from you. Last year, through your solicitor, which explains why we never met.”

“Ah.” Now Griffin remembered seeing the name on the contract. “A tumbledown boardinghouse near Lincoln’s Inn Fields, it was. Cannot imagine why my father and brother held on to it for so long. I was pleased to get rid of it.”

“I take it you haven’t been by there of late.” A corner of Delaney’s mouth twitched as though he were holding back a grin. Or a smirk. ”That tumbledown boardinghouse is now a beautifully restored four-story building with sixteen tenants. Shops and offices on the ground floor, residential above.” He looked to Corinna. “I received your note. What is it you feel we need to discuss?”

“It was my note,” Juliana said. “And you’ve been summoned in order to persuade both you and my brother that your posing as John Hamilton is the very best thing.”

Which she proceeded to do, of course, with the help of her sisters.

Though Griffin didn’t know Delaney, he thought him a quick-witted fellow. Together they put up a good fight. In the end, however, they both reluctantly agreed to preserve Lincolnshire’s happiness for his final few days.

It was inevitable, Griffin supposed.

Three stubborn Chase ladies against two hapless gentlemen was nowhere near a fair match.

TWENTY-TWO

“Very handsome gentleman,” Juliana commented as Corinna came off the Billingsgates’ dance floor Saturday night. “Who is he? Have you kissed him?”

“I cannot remember his name. Lord Stonehurst, or maybe Lord Brickhaven? Something to do with building materials.” Corinna watched the young man walk away, expecting Griffin to bring another one by at any moment. “And no, I didn’t kiss him,” she added. “I just met him, for heaven’s sake.”

“Tonight?” Juliana’s smile was a tad too innocent. “Then I expect you’ll make him wait a week?”

“At least,” Corinna confirmed, tilting her chin up. She’d once told her sister she never let gentlemen kiss her right after meeting them; she made them wait at least a week. But the awful truth was that since she’d started kissing Sean, she hadn’t wanted to kiss anyone else.

Which meant that for the last three days, she’d been rudely deprived of kissing altogether. Lord Lincolnshire was so anxious to see his portrait finished before he passed on that he’d been ready and waiting when she arrived each morning at nine, thwarting her usual morning kiss. And although the earl tired easily and went up to bed every afternoon, Sean never returned before it was time for Corinna to go home.

Lord Lincolnshire had taken his rest extra early today, because he was bringing Sean and Deirdre here tonight. He’d told Corinna he wanted to see his nephew “dance with his lovely wife.” Corinna was very much looking forward to their arrival, not least because she hoped to get Sean alone and make up for lost time.

The odd thing was, normally when one of her favorites was making himself scarce, she’d lose interest and move on to someone else. But tonight she couldn’t seem to muster even a thimbleful of admiration for any other gentleman. It seemed she belonged to Sean in a sense, or he to her.

For now.

It was just a bit of harmless fun, after all.

But perhaps that was what made it so thrilling—the illicit and fleeting nature of their relationship made her feel like a true, free-spirited artist. All this passion and yearning was sure to enhance her work! Hopefully it was already serving to improve Lord Lincolnshire’s portrait.

Although, she couldn’t say she’d been feeling particularly passionate while painting it. But maybe it wasn’t a conscious thing?

In any case, she felt just like a Minerva Press heroine caught up in a torrid affair, and she was enjoying herself immensely. Especially now that the danger of the moony eyes had passed. She hadn’t mooned even once since that day in the salon. She was completely in control.

And even if she wasn’t…

Well, yesterday she’d casually—just out of curiosity—asked Griffin what he thought of Mr. Delaney, and he’d said he was impressed with the fellow’s business sense and was hoping to buttonhole him sometime soon to ask him for advice regarding property management.

In other words, he hadn’t sounded at all disapproving.

Which didn’t mean she wanted to marry Sean. She didn’t. It just meant that she maybe could. If, one day—after she’d accomplished everything she’d set out to do with her art—she happened to change her mind.

It was just nice to have options, that was all.

Thinking of her brother made her realize he seemed to have abandoned the Billingsgate ballroom. For now, at least, he wasn’t shoving any potential suitors at her. She relaxed a little bit. “Do you know where Griffin went off to?” she asked her sister.

“I don’t. Who is that woman?” Juliana gestured with a flick of her dark blond head. “The one who just came in with Lord Lincolnshire and Mr. Del—um…Mr. Hamilton.”

They were here! And fortunately no one was nearby to hear Juliana’s stumble. “That’s Deirdre,” Corinna whispered. “His sister. We were introduced earlier this week, but I haven’t found a chance to actually talk to her. She never seems to be around in the daytimes when I’m at Lincolnshire House painting.”

“Let’s talk to her now,” Juliana said.

Corinna wasn’t sure that was a good idea, since Sean feared his sister might slip up and give them away in front of Lord Lincolnshire. But she had no choice. In her usual decisive manner, Juliana was already heading their way.

“Lady Corinna!” he wheezed when they arrived, grinning up at her from his wheelchair. “And Lady Stafford. Please…allow me to introduce Mrs. Hamilton, the next…Countess of Lincolnshire.”

Behind him, Sean shifted uncomfortably. But Deirdre was Mrs. Hamilton, after all. And she would be the next Countess of Lincolnshire—at least until she managed to secure her divorce.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Juliana told Deirdre.

“It’s my pleasure to meet you. I’ve been hearing so much about your family, especially your sister.”

Corinna flushed, wondering what Sean might have told his sister about her. But then she realized it was probably Lord Lincolnshire who’d done the talking. She was painting him, after all, and he was rather thrilled about that.

“Mr. Hamilton!” Lady Ainsworth, a tall woman who looked even taller wearing a golden turban, bustled over. “What a delight to see you again! What are you painting these days, if I might ask?”

“A landscape,” Sean said.

“A landscape!” Lady Ainsworth’s loud guffaw drew more people to their circle. Apparently Sean’s celebrity had yet to wear off. “Have you ever painted anything that wasn’t a landscape, Mr. Hamilton?”

“I suppose I haven’t.”

“You suppose?” Lady Ainsworth’s laugh was really quite annoying. “What is it a landscape of?” she asked.

“It’s a meadow scene,” Corinna said.

Lady Hartshorn turned to her. She was a short, round woman who had very arched brows at the moment. “You’ve seen it?”

“I have.” Corinna smiled at Lady Hartshorn’s obvious envy. “The trees are exquisite, their shadows most intriguing.”

“Speaking of intriguing shadows,” a gentleman said, looking to Sean, “I’ve been wondering about Allegory of Shadow.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Allegory of Shadow. Your most famous painting?”

“Oh, yes.” Sean’s own laugh sounded rather forced. “Of course. I was still thinking about my new painting, I fear. Once I finish a piece, I tend to put it out of my mind.”

“May I ask what inspired you? What made you decide to focus so on the shadows?”

“The, ah…the trees. I’ve always found trees very inspiring. Lush trees of the English countryside that grow from wee acorns to cast large shadows—”

“But Mr. Hamilton,” Lady Ainsworth interrupted, her turban bobbing indignantly. “I don’t recall seeing any trees in Allegory of Shadow. Its central subject is a stone circle, isn’t it? And not in England, but in Ireland, I do believe?”

“Well, I was raised in Ireland—”

“Exactly,” Corinna cut in. “Allegories are symbolic representations, as you know. If one looks closely, one will see that the shadows cast by the standing stones resemble trees. English trees.”

“Oh,” the woman said.

“I cannot believe you didn’t know that,” Lady Hartshorn scoffed. “It’s brilliant, Mr. Hamilton. Simply brilliant. How long did you take to paint it?”

“Three days, my lady.”

“Three days? The thing is the size of a drawing room wall! The largest painting in the history of the Summer Exhibition, wasn’t it?”

“When one is inspired,” Corinna said, “the image simply flows from the hand through the brush. I myself have completed a painting in a single day.” Once. One tiny painting, no more than eight inches square. Allegory of Shadow was eight feet by sixteen, at the very least. “Have you ever painted, Lady Hartshorn?”

“No. No, I haven’t.”

“I thought not,” Corinna said in a superior tone of voice that shut her up.

Just then Lord Lincolnshire coughed. And coughed again.

“Do you need something to drink, Uncle?” Sean took the back of his chair, looking not at all upset to have a route of escaping this conversation. “Let me bring you to the refreshment room.”

Without the celebrated Mr. Hamilton as a point of focus, the gathering quickly dispersed. Shifting uneasily, Deirdre watched her brother wheel the earl off.

“Would you like to go outside, Mrs. Hamilton?” Juliana asked her kindly. “Lord Billingsgate has a lovely garden.”

“Oh, yes,” Deirdre said, sounding grateful. “I would like that very much.”

“Why don’t you take her?” Juliana suggested to Corinna, her gaze straying to where her husband stood in a circle of men engaged in a heated argument. All members of Parliament, no doubt. “I think I shall rescue James by asking him for a dance.”

Corinna nodded, taking Deirdre’s arm to steer her around the perimeter of the dance floor, toward French doors that opened to the terrace. “Thank you,” Sean’s sister breathed when they finally made it outside. “I’m thinking I don’t really belong in there, do I?”

Corinna led her down a path where twinkling lanterns hung overhead. “Whyever would you say that?”

“I’m a vicar’s daughter from a tiny village in Ireland. I’ve no place in London society.”

“You’re married to John Hamilton.”

“In name only,” Deirdre said darkly. “He hasn’t paid me any mind since…well, for a long time.”

In all the time since Deirdre lost their baby, Corinna knew. Although Sean had told her little about himself, he’d spent much time explaining Deirdre’s situation and how it had led to the mess they were in now. She wasn’t surprised Deirdre didn’t wish to speak of it. “You have every right to be here. And at least you probably know more about art than your brother.”

“I know less about my husband’s art than you might think. You did a grand job deflecting those questions. I can see why Sean admires you.”

Sean had told her that? Corinna’s heart skipped at the thought. “I’m surprised to hear he said so.”

“Not in so many words, mind you. But he told me all about you, and I know my little brother.”

“He likes my paintings.”

Deirdre laughed. “He doesn’t care a fig about art. But he likes that you aren’t afraid to have big dreams and work hard to achieve them. He’s the same himself, you know. Everyone in Kilburton thought he was daft to come to London. He told us all—this skinny sixteen-year-old who could barely even grow a mustache—he told us all he was going to ‘build an empire.’ And that’s exactly what he did.”

Corinna was impressed. She’d had no idea Sean began his operation at sixteen. Why, he’d been younger than she was now! She hadn’t brought Deirdre out here for an interrogation, but since the topic had been introduced…

“However did he manage it?” Corinna asked eagerly.

Deirdre shrugged. “He says he has a knack.”

“A knack?”

“I don’t know what he means, exactly. All I can tell you is that right after I wed John, Sean left our village, Kilburton, with a small inheritance he’d received from our uncle.”

“And?”

“The next time I saw him, he owned several properties, including his own house. Eighteen years old, and he had his own house.” She shook her head disbelievingly. “I didn’t get to see Sean often, since John hates London. Once a year, maybe, if that. But the next time I saw Sean, he owned more property, and some manufactories, and any number of other businesses. Ships, too. And a bigger house. And, a couple years later, a bigger one still.”

“Holy Hannah, he owns all of that? No wonder he’s so busy! He must work very hard,” Corinna marveled. “Tell me more.”

Deirdre looked her up and down, her lips stretching into a wide, knowing smile. “I think you should ask him yourself.”

TWENTY-THREE

“Griffin,” Rachael said. “What are you doing here?”

In his cousins’ Lincoln’s Inn Fields town house, Griffin stopped pacing the drawing room and turned to see her leaning against the doorjamb. Even in a simple day dress, she looked utterly, unmistakably sultry. Her lips had a rosy-red sheen. Her dark hair fell in soft waves around her face. Her eyes looked large and luminous.

And sad.

“I’m waiting for you, as I suspect your butler told you. Why aren’t you at the Billingsgate ball?”

“I didn’t feel like going,” she said.

The look on her face was gut-wrenching, but Griffin welcomed the anxiety it sparked in him. Concern was much safer than lust. “You cannot withdraw from life, Rachael.”

“I’m not.” She took in his evening clothes. “Why did you leave the Billingsgate ball?”

“To fetch you.”

“What if I don’t want to be fetched?”

He shrugged and said nonchalantly, “Then I won’t tell you my news.”

“What news?” she demanded, straightening and coming toward him. “Tell me.”

“I’ll tell you on the way to the ball,” he promised her with a smile—the charming smile that worked on everyone.

But it didn’t work on Rachael. Not tonight. “I don’t want to go to the ball.”

“Then I don’t want to tell you my news. I’ll stop by again tomorrow.”

“Griffin!” Moving closer, she laughingly punched him on the shoulder. “You cannot do this to me!”

He was happy to see her more animated, but that wasn’t enough. He wanted her joyful. He wanted her socializing. He wanted to see her dancing with eligible gentlemen and getting on with her life.

“Would you care to bet?” he asked, starting from the room.

She grabbed his arm. “All right, I’ll go to the ball.”

“Excellent.” With any luck, she’d meet a fellow this very night. Then it wouldn’t matter that she wasn’t his cousin, because she’d be taken anyway. “I’ll wait here while you change.”

“Oh, no, you won’t.” Still holding his arm, she pulled him toward a sofa. “Tell me what you learned. Now.” With both hands, she pushed him to sit. “What in blazes are you waiting for?”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re demanding?”

“Most everyone.” She sat beside him and licked her lips. “Did the man you hired find my father’s parents?”

“Hmm? Oh, right, the news.” He cleared his throat. “Grimbald’s mother is dead, but my man found his father. His name is Thomas, same as his son. Colonel Thomas Grimbald—he was a military man, too.”

She nodded, looking vulnerable in a way that made him want to hug her. “Is he still living in Yorkshire?”

“Not anymore. He’s living at the Royal Hospital in Chelsea.”

“So close,” she murmured. The Royal Hospital wasn’t a hospital for the ill, but rather a government-funded home for pensioned soldiers. “I have a grandfather so close, and I never knew it.” She licked her lips again, making Griffin clench his teeth. “I want to see him. I want to meet him and find out if my father really committed treason.”

“I’m glad,” he said. It was better to know than to stay in denial. “I’ll take you Monday. No, Tuesday. I’ve got a meeting with my solicitor on Monday. I’m sorry.”

“You’re entitled to live your own life. I can wait. I’ve waited twenty-one years already.”

“I guess you have. Now I’ll wait while you change for the ball.”

She sighed. “You’re not really going to hold me to that, are you? I don’t want to dance, so what’s the point in going? I don’t feel up to having men paw me.”

“They wouldn’t dare. I’d issue a challenge on the spot.”

“To a duel? Just what I need…your death on my head.”

“You think I would lose? You wound me.” He playfully clutched his heart. “Get changed. You can dance with me,” he offered, vaguely wondering why on earth he was doing this to himself. “Nothing but innocent, cousinly dances.”

And more teeth clenching.

TWENTY-FOUR

The Billingsgates had a rather impressive art collection, one Corinna had spent several happy hours viewing during the Billingsgates’ ball last season. But this year, although she once again found herself stationed in their picture gallery, she hadn’t the time to look at any paintings.

She was too busy trying to keep Sean afloat.

A pack of eager Hamilton admirers had managed to herd the poor fellow in here over many polite protests. To say he was unhappy with this turn of events would be an understatement—from the look on his face, you’d think he was having his teeth pulled out one by one. Corinna was frankly astonished he hadn’t yet bolted for the door.

And she wasn’t enjoying herself any more than he was. All she’d wanted was a few minutes alone with Sean—and his lips. She wanted to talk to him without everyone’s eyes on the two of them. She wanted him to look at her without it being a look of panic. Was that so much to ask?

Apparently, it was, because they’d been stuck here for over an hour with no end in sight. Every excuse for escape that Sean and Corinna could think of had been brushed aside by his hangers-on. And Lord Lincolnshire was being equally uncooperative.

“Wouldn’t you care for some air, Uncle?” Sean asked for the third time.

“Oh, no. I’m…enjoying this conversation.”

No doubt he was basking in the reflected glow of his nephew’s greatness. Well, good for him. But Corinna was beginning to run out of creative interpretations for Sean’s brilliant “insights.” Among other blunders, he’d mistaken a watercolor for an oil painting and described a William Hogarth piece as a “groundbreaking new work.”

When Hogarth had been dead since 1764.

“It was groundbreaking when it was a new work,” Corinna explained. Everyone nodded, their faces arranged into intelligent-looking expressions, as if they’d got his meaning all along and, incidentally, quite agreed.

“Oh, I do adore mythology as the subject for a painting,” Lady Trevelyan said as they moved on to the next piece of art. “What do you think of this one by Kauffmann, Mr. Hamilton?”

“Very detailed,” Sean said—a safe enough comment. But then he added, “I admire his—”

“His?”

“Joshua Reynolds, he means,” Corinna rushed to say. “Am I right, Mr. Hamilton? You were referring to Sir Joshua Reynolds, since Angelica Kauffmann was one of his protégées?”

“Joshua Reynolds, yes.” He sent her a grateful smile. “As I was saying, I admire Reynolds for being open-minded enough to recognize a talented female artist.”

“Indeed.” Corinna nodded, wondering if he might be talking about her. “Although, of course, Kauffmann was widely recognized as one of the founders of the Royal Academy. One of only two female Academicians in its history, in fact.”

Sean’s smile widened. “I look forward to your being the third.”

He really did want to see her succeed. She held his gaze. ”I appreciate your support,” she said softly.

Drat. She was moony-eyed again, wasn’t she?

She blinked the expression away fiercely.

A gentleman cleared his throat. “Speaking of Reynolds,” he said, moving along to stand before two large portraits. “What do you think, Mr. Hamilton, of Reynolds’s work as compared to Gainsborough’s?”

“Hmm.” Corinna saw Sean glance at the artists’ signatures. “This Gainsborough is rather sentimental, is it not, while the Reynolds here is, ah, more grand. Establishing the importance of the man portrayed rather than sympathy with the subject.”

Though Sean looked rather proud of his analysis, the questioner frowned. “I meant in general, Mr. Hamilton, not these particular portraits. One man’s body of work juxtaposed against the other.”

“I do not judge entire bodies of work, sir. I never seek signatures prior to evaluating a painting. Each work should stand on its own—the artist’s identity shouldn’t influence my opinion of any specific picture.”

The gentleman was clearly taken aback. “I thought all artists studied the masters’ techniques.”

Corinna didn’t quite know what to say to that, so she was relieved when Juliana stepped in. “Ah, there is your mistake, Lord Prescott,” she called out charmingly. “You suppose there are conventions that all artists conform to. But seeing as they’re known to be unconventional creatures, wouldn’t it be rather safer to suppose that whenever a particular approach becomes a convention, the artist will instantly cease employing it?”

A round of laughter followed this speech, and the original question was quite forgotten.

Thank goodness for sisters, Corinna thought. She smiled at Lord Lincolnshire, who was laughing as heartily as anyone. He blinked madly. And then he coughed. And coughed again. A bit of froth appeared on his lips.

The laughter died down as, looking anxious, Sean dug out a handkerchief and dabbed at the earl’s mouth. “I really think you need some air, Uncle. I insist.”

“Take me to the…doors, then. And…let me see…you dance”—gasping, he looked to Deirdre—“with your wife.”

Corinna was anxious, too. “He cannot even get three syllables out before needing a breath,” she said to Juliana as they followed Sean, Deirdre, and Lord Lincolnshire into the ballroom. “Maybe you should ask James to have a look at him.” Besides being an earl, Juliana’s husband was also a physician.

“I’m sure Lord Lincolnshire has his own doctors.”

“But he’s getting worse.”

“He’s dying,” her sister reminded her gently.

“But he might die before I finish his portrait, and he really wants to see it completed.”

Juliana sighed. “All right. I’ll ask James.”

“Thank you,” Corinna said.

They watched Sean wheel Lord Lincolnshire over to the open French doors, then turn to Deirdre and reluctantly escort her to the dance floor. The musicians struck up a country tune.

Corinna breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness it isn’t a waltz.”

“Why is that?” Juliana asked.

“Sean cannot waltz to save his life.”

“Sean?”

“Mr. Delaney,” Corinna corrected quickly. “And thank you for stepping in to save him. With any luck, that was the last in our long series of close calls.”

A slow smile curved her sister’s lips. “Our, hmm?”

“Yes, our. You, me, Mr. Delaney, Alexandra, Griffin. We’re all in this together. All of us who know the secret.”

Juliana’s smile remained. “Our could also mean just you and Sean—I mean, Mr. Delaney.” Now her smile widened at her own deliberate mistake. “The two of you belong together, you know. Anyone can see it.”

“We do not.” The last thing Corinna wanted was her meddlesome sister interfering. “He’s not from our world, Juliana. Griffin would never agree.”

“Griffin has nothing against the gentleman. In fact, he said he admires him. I asked him what he thought of Mr. Delaney earlier this evening, before he left and came back with Rachael.”

Rachael and Griffin were dancing together now. Of course, Juliana was looking rather smug about that relationship’s progress. And Corinna wasn’t at all surprised to hear her sister had questioned Griffin about Sean, either. “Mr. Delaney is color-blind. He cannot even appreciate my paintings.”

“There’s something between the two of you,” Juliana insisted.

“A mutual desire to see Lord Lincolnshire happily through his last days, that’s all.”

Her sister shrugged. “If you say so,” she said agreeably, without sounding like she really agreed at all.

“Holy Hannah,” Corinna muttered. “Go dance with your husband, will you? And don’t forget to ask him to have a look at Lord Lincolnshire.”

TWENTY-FIVE

Sean had decided that the day he’d brought Lincolnshire to Hamilton’s studio hadn’t been the longest one of his life, after all.

This blasted ball felt at least a week longer.

Escorting Deirdre off the dance floor, he noticed Corinna standing by the open French doors. She caught his eye, motioning her head toward the Billingsgates’ garden before slipping outside.

Sean brought Deirdre in the same direction, walking her back to Lincolnshire. “Are you enjoying the fresh air, Uncle?”

“Very much. And…I enjoyed…seeing you dance.”

“We enjoyed the dance, too.” For the earl’s benefit, Sean smiled at his sister and kissed her on the cheek. “I’m feeling a wee bit overheated, though. Would you mind keeping my wife company while I step outdoors for a moment?”

“Not at all,” Lincolnshire said, reaching for Deirdre’s hand.

Leaving the two of them, Sean entered the garden, knowing he definitely shouldn’t, and immediately spotted Corinna on a path lit with twinkling lanterns. Beckoning for him to follow, she disappeared.

He considered turning back, but having come this far, he didn’t think it fair to leave her waiting. Following the sound of her light, running footsteps, he found her quite a distance down the path and off to the side, in the darkness of a small stand of trees. Though the area was shadowed, he could see the outline of a familiar, shapely figure in a slim, high-waisted dress. He walked closer, telling himself he shouldn’t touch her, knowing he would anyway.

Her scent drifted to him through the starlit night, flowery and sweet, with that barest trace of astringent that reminded him she wasn’t just a normal girl. She was an artist, a talented young woman who went her own way. But beneath that, she was also an aristocrat, sheltered and immaculate, a girl who had never wanted for anything. Like a bright, shiny new coin, her perfection drew him. She was part of a world that was so high above him, so out of reach.

A world where he’d never belong.

He knew that, and it was the reason he’d done his best to stay away from her the past few days. He’d kissed her three times already—four if he counted kissing her neck—and he knew that was three or four times times too many.

He also knew she didn’t feel the same hesitation. She was impulsive and eager. When he drew close and she playfully reached out to run a fingertip along his jaw, he wasn’t the least bit surprised. She smiled warmly, impishly, and that made him smile too, drawing him even closer. She went straight into his arms.

It was overwhelming, almost frightening, the effect her nearness had on him. But the fear didn’t stop him from giving in and taking what he wanted. It didn’t stop him from running his hands down her back to feel the warmth of her skin through the thin material of her dress, from wrapping her in his arms and dragging her body against him, from slanting his mouth so he could press her even closer.

When they broke apart, they were both breathless. She stayed near and laid her head upon his chest. “I’ve missed you these past three days,” she said softly.

“It’s sorry I am for that.” He was sorry for disappointing her, and also for letting things get to the point where she’d miss him. But weak-willed as he was, he couldn’t stop his arms from stealing around her anyway. “I’ve had things I’ve had to do.”

“What things?” She pulled back far enough to gaze up at him, her blue eyes looking black in the darkness. “What do you do, Sean, exactly?”

“Lately, very little of what I should be doing. Now Lincolnshire has asked me to find new positions for all of his many servants. Well, actually he asked me to keep all his servants after he passed, but Hamilton isn’t going to do that, so I told him I’d find positions for them instead. So that’s what I’ve been doing. Finding placements for them all.” He smiled down at her, and because he couldn’t help himself, he gave her another kiss. A short, gentle one. “Thank you for keeping him busy and making that possible.”

“It sounds like a horrible imposition. You’ll be glad when this is all over, won’t you?”

“Very glad.” Although he wondered if he would ever see her again. How he possibly could. And how he would bear it if he couldn’t. “I’ll miss seeing you, though, when it’s over,” he admitted.

She sighed and laid her head back down. Her arms stole back around him. ”I think we’ll see each other again. My brother wants to talk to you. He wants to ask your advice about property management.”

“Does he now?”

“He likes you. He’s impressed with your business sense.”

“I didn’t think marquesses were interested in business.”

“They’re not, mostly, but Griffin’s a little different. He never wanted to be the marquess. He likes keeping busy. He was in the cavalry, you know, before our older brother died. An officer. He led campaigns in the Peninsular War. And he complains about the burden of a marquess’s responsibilities, but I think the truth is he feels a bit useless now. He’d much rather be challenged, be doing something that feels important.”

“Managing property can be very challenging.” Cainewood sounded like a fellow he might get along with. And if the fellow got along with him as well, then…

There was no sense thinking in that direction. There were other obstacles to consider besides Cainewood’s approval. Many obstacles. ”We’d best get back,” he said reluctantly, pulling away and taking her hand to lead her out of the trees. “Or people will come looking for us.”

“That wouldn’t be good,” she agreed, trailing along without resistance. “Juliana would come looking for us first, and then who knows what would happen.” While he was wondering what she meant by that, they turned onto the path. “I liked what you said in the picture gallery.”

“In the picture gallery? Saints preserve us. You liked the part where I was blathering like an idiot or the part where I was tongue-tied like an idiot?”

“The part where you said that an artist’s work should stand on its own, that his identity—or hers—shouldn’t dictate the viewer’s opinion of any particular piece.” Her small hand soft and warm in his, she looked up at him and smiled. “Wherever did you come up with that?”

“Hamilton,” he admitted, not bothering to hide his disgust. “Hamilton said something very like that, and I remembered it. In my desperation to sound artistic, I just blurted it out.”

“I know he’s a despicable human being, but I’m so very glad to hear that. It makes it so much more likely that he’ll vote for my painting.”

Sean didn’t think so. She didn’t know the rest of what Hamilton had said—the part about girls never painting good portraits. But he wasn’t going to tell her that, not now. He wasn’t going to ruin whatever time they had left together.

“He should be back by now,” he told her instead, pulling his hand from hers as the house came into sight. Faint snatches of music floated to them from the open French doors. “He said he’d be gone two weeks, and it was two weeks on Thursday. But instead of coming home to deal with the mess he caused, he sent a letter.”

She clasped her hands before her, as if to make sure she kept them to herself. “That’s just as well. If he came home now, he might ruin his uncle’s last days. What did the letter say?”

“He’s painting the Lady of the Waterfall, and he doesn’t want to leave. But I’m suspecting the lady he doesn’t want to leave is the lady of the house.” The weasel. “He told me not to worry; he’ll be home well before the Summer Exhibition vote.”

“I don’t expect you were worrying,” Corinna said. “You obviously cannot do the voting for him. Just like you cannot come to Lady Avonleigh’s reception next week in his place. Ten days,” she added with a sigh as they approached the open French doors, instinctively moving to put an appropriate amount of distance between them. “In ten days my painting will be turned in and Mr. Hamilton will come home.”

“He should return before that. He said he’d be here well before the vote.”

“Then in fewer than ten days, you’ll be free.”

Sean wouldn’t be free until Lincolnshire passed, whether or not Hamilton had arrived.

But he didn’t want to say so. He didn’t want to think about losing the dear, sainted old earl. He would miss him.

But not as much as he’d miss Corinna.

TWENTY-SIX

“How does Lord Lincolnshire fare today?” Sean asked as he returned to the earl’s house late Monday afternoon.

Quincy sighed mournfully. “I know not. Perhaps you should ask his new physician.”

“New physician?”

“He’s with him now. Second doctor to visit today.”

Alarmed, Sean headed for the crystal staircase. Glimpsing Corinna inside the salon as he passed, he was tempted to stop. But her back was to him, and she looked absorbed, humming tunelessly while dabbing at her canvas.

And the earl’s health took precedence anyway.

Sean took the steps two at a time, wincing at the sound of Lincolnshire’s cough. Apparently hearing her brother’s footsteps, Deirdre hurried out into the corridor. “You’re back early today,” she whispered.

“He wasn’t doing well this morning.”

“That’s why I decided to stay home with him. He was sitting for Lady Corinna when he started coughing blood. Just a wee bit, but…”

“A wee bit is too much.”

She nodded. “Lady Corinna sent him upstairs. Nurse Skeffington summoned his doctor, and then Lord Stafford arrived, too. Dr. Dalton was livid.” Her eyes were wide. “He packed up his leeches and left.”

“His leeches?” Sean pulled a face before registering the rest of Deirdre’s words. “Lord Stafford? Corinna’s brother-in-law?”

She nodded again. “Lady Corinna sent him a note. He’s in with Lord Lincolnshire now.” She ushered Sean into the room.

“My recommendation is that the leeches and bleeding and blistering be stopped,” Lord Stafford was telling the earl as they walked in. “It’s your choice, of course, but I don’t believe those treatments will accomplish anything, except to make you even more uncomfortable.”

Lincolnshire’s nod set off another fit of coughing.

“There now.” Lifting a cup off the earl’s bedside table, Lord Stafford leaned closer and held it to his lips. “Have a little sip for me, will you? It will soothe your throat, and the warmth will ease your lungs.” He straightened and looked to Sean. “Good afternoon, Mr. Hamilton.”

Considering the gentleman knew he wasn’t Hamilton, he’d said that smoothly, Sean thought. “Thank you for attending him. I thought you ran a smallpox facility?”

“I do spend most days vaccinating. But I also see a few very special patients.” He looked back to Lincolnshire with a kind smile. “Another sip for me, as a favor?”

The earl took a very tiny one.

“He doesn’t have but a wee appetite,” Deirdre said.

“He’s sure to be nauseous,” Stafford explained. “Although we cannot see it, of course, his internal organs will be swelling along with those parts we can see. He won’t be wanting to eat much, but you should encourage him to take what he can. Especially the tea.”

“We will,” Sean said. “And we shouldn’t allow Dr. Dalton to apply more leeches, then?”

Stafford shook his head. “In my opinion, they’re ineffective at best.”

“And at worst?”

“They’d only bring on the end faster,” he said grimly. “Better to let things progress naturally and do what we can to keep the patient comfortable. But I don’t expect Dr. Dalton will be returning in any case.” Stafford set a gentle hand on the earl’s shoulder. “I’ll be attending Lord Lincolnshire now.”

Lincolnshire gave him a fatigued smile. “Thank you,” he whispered, closing his eyes.

“Think nothing of it. I’d do anything for you—just like everyone else who’s had the good fortune to be part of your life.”

Not Hamilton, Sean thought darkly, watching the earl’s breathing even out as he drifted off to sleep. His head lolled against the pillows. Despite his show of good cheer, Lincolnshire was weakening. He wouldn’t last much longer. Though Sean regretted spending the day out of the house, he’d needed to talk to his people, to figure out where more of Lincolnshire’s servants could be placed. He wanted to fulfill the earl’s wishes before he passed.

Stafford dropped his stethoscope into his black leather bag and fastened it with a snap. “I’ll return in the morning. I trust Nurse Skeffington to take good care of him in the meantime.”

Deirdre nodded at the sturdy woman hovering nearby. “Sure, and she will. And Sean and I will be caring for him, too.”

Lord Lincolnshire’s actual niece by marriage, Deirdre was proving more devoted than Sean had expected. More trustworthy than he’d expected. Perhaps his big sister had grown up more than he’d thought. He gave her a faint smile of approval before following Stafford downstairs.

The two gentleman paused at the salon door. Corinna still had her back turned, but she wasn’t painting anymore. She wasn’t humming, either. She just stood there, gazing at her canvas.

Her hair was swept up, and the nape of her neck looked exposed. Vulnerable. Sean couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from the sight.

As though she could sense his gaze on her, she turned. “Sean. And James.” Joining them in the entry hall, she looked to her brother-in-law with a question in her eyes.

“Lord Lincolnshire has fallen asleep. I put a drop of laudanum in his tea. He’s resting easily for now.”

“Might he get better, then, do you think?”

“I fear not,” Lord Stafford said gently. “It is, of course, difficult to predict the path of an illness. He could have an hour or a day when he seems better, but overall he’ll continue to decline.” He leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. “You were right to send for me. Juliana suggested I see him, but I didn’t realize the situation was so urgent.”

“Thank you for coming.” She walked him to the front door, which the competent Quincy was already holding open. “I know Lord Lincolnshire is in the best of hands,” she added.

Watching him go down the steps, then waiting for Quincy to close the door, she finally turned to Sean. “When did you get home?”

This wasn’t home, but he didn’t correct her. “A while ago. You looked very busy.”

“I’m finished.”

“Leaving for the evening, then?”

“I’m finished. With the painting.”

“Oh.” He blinked. “May I have a look?”

“Yes, I was hoping you would.” She hesitated a moment before heading back to the salon, motioning him to follow. As they drew near the canvas, she seemed to hold her breath. “What do you think?”

“It looks just like Lincolnshire. A much healthier Lincolnshire.” The man who’d sat for her, blended together with the younger Lincolnshire of her memories, Sean guessed.

It was a full-body portrait, a natural pose in lieu of the typical head-and-torso formality. The painting showed the earl seated on a bench beneath a plane tree in Berkeley Square—perhaps the same bench where Sean had explained the truth to Corinna. Lincolnshire wasn’t eating a Gunter’s ice, though; instead he held a weighty, leather-bound book. Rather than reading it, he looked like he’d just glanced up, distracted by the viewer walking by. He seemed relaxed and contemplative. And very much alive.

“It’s good,” Sean said simply.

She exhaled in a rush. “You know nothing about art.”

He snorted, knowing better than to take offense—it was true, after all. ”I know what I like, and it looks very well done to me. You’ll submit it for the Summer Exhibition, won’t you?”

“I hope to. But first I’m going to show it at Lady Avonleigh’s reception on Wednesday.” She’d have it delivered, along with a selection of her other paintings, to Lady A’s house tomorrow. “I want to see what the artists think of it.”

“The judges.”

“Yes.” Corinna bit her lip and met his gaze, nerves suddenly jumping in her stomach. “I hope they’ll like it.”

Her voice quavered, and she wondered if he’d heard it. He didn’t say anything, so she couldn’t tell. He only looked at her for a moment. Just looked at her, while she stood there wishing she hadn’t eaten any luncheon, because she felt like the cold meat and fruit she’d nibbled on was about to come back up.

Abruptly he turned and walked back to the salon’s huge carved and gilded door. Shut it with a heavy thump. Then turned to face her. “You’re nervous,” he said in that melodic voice that made everything shift inside her. “Come here, Corinna.”

She rushed into his arms, lifting her chin for a kiss. The kiss was short and fiercely sweet, and then he only held her. He only held her tight, swaying slightly, murmuring comforting words she didn’t recognize, perhaps Irish words or perhaps just nonsense ones—she didn’t know. But just at that moment, she fell in love.

The realization made her heart stutter. Then it raced. She slid her hands beneath his tailcoat, wrapping her arms around him as if she could keep him here. Squeezing him as he was squeezing her, as hard as she could.

“There’s nothing to be nervous about,” he said soothingly, skimming his hands up and down her back. “It’s a beautiful painting.”

She turned her head to lay her cheek against his warm, comforting chest. “I know.”

“And you’ve many more paintings at home, don’t you? So if the judges don’t agree, they could choose another one.”

He smelled like starch and soap and something else. “I know.” Something she couldn’t put a name to.

“And if they don’t choose another one, there’s always next year. You won’t give up. I know you.”

She knew him, too. And she loved him. She didn’t think she could tell him now—there was so much happening around them, so much complicating their lives. But she loved him. She lifted her chin, wanting to tell him without words.

She hoped he’d get the message.

It was different from their other kisses—different from any kiss she’d shared with anyone. It wasn’t urgent or forceful. It was slow and tranquil and lingering, as though they had all the time in the world. As though they were getting to know each other. She didn’t feel the same desperate excitement she’d felt the other times they’d kissed, but she felt something better. Something that made her skin prickle from head to toe. Something that made her feel as if she were floating.

She heard a low sort of moan escape her throat, but she was floating too high to get embarrassed. It just seemed natural and right. Or maybe it was just that nothing could embarrass her or bother her, not here. Not now that she knew she loved him.

A knock came at the door, and they jerked apart. Sean whirled and opened it. “Deirdre.”

His sister blinked, looking between them. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t meaning to interrupt.”

“No, no.” He drew her inside. “Lady Corinna was just showing me her finished picture.”

Corinna feared Deirdre could see the truth on her face—or rather her lips, which felt puffy and thoroughly kissed. But if Deirdre could tell, she didn’t let on. Her attention was on the painting, her face lighting up as she walked forward.

“Oh, Lady Corinna, it’s absolutely stunning. Tell me about it, will you?”

Behind Deirdre’s back, Corinna shared one last look with Sean. His eyes were unreadable, but she was sure her own were moonier than ever. She wasn’t worried about that anymore. Nor about the reception. She felt so much better about everything. She was in love, and she knew that mattered more than any painting. She could always try again next year.

Hugging her new secret to herself, she went to join his sister.

TWENTY-SEVEN

ALMOND CAKES

Grinde halfe a pound of Almonds and mixe with halfe a pound of Sugar and Orange or Lemon Water. To this add ten Yolks of Egges beaten and the boiled skins of two Oranges or Lemons grounde fine. Mixe together with stiff Egge Whites and melted Butter gone cold and bake it all in a good Crust.

Good for nibbling during nervous occasions, such as when my daughter brought my first grandchild into the world earlier this year. Oh, my, what a day and night. I think I'd much rather give birth myself!

—Elizabeth, Countess of Greystone, 1736

As was customary, the furniture in Aunt Frances’s Hanover Square home had been rearranged to prepare for the birth of her child.

On the ground floor of Malmsey House, a room had been designated as the lying-in chamber, and a portable folding bed had been brought in for the occasion. A larger connecting room provided a gathering place for relations during the labor, and more rooms across the corridor had been outfitted to house the accoucheur—the obstetrical doctor—and the monthly nurse, called such because she not only assisted the accoucheur and attended the mother during the birth, but stayed for a month afterward to care for the baby.

The accoucheur and monthly nurse had arrived yesterday in anticipation of Aunt Frances’s due date a week hence. But apparently Dr. Holmes had reckoned incorrectly, because today, while Corinna and her family nibbled on the almond cakes Juliana had brought, Frances was laboring in the inner chamber.

As she had been for half a day already.

Corinna had been forced to rush this morning to get her paintings sent to Lady A’s house before coming here to be with Aunt Frances. Along with the portrait, she’d chosen all her best landscapes and a few of her favorite still lifes. At least waiting for the birth was stopping her from fretting over whether she’d made the right selections.

Well, it was slowing her down, anyway.

Hearing more moans and murmurs through the door, she winced. “How long is this going to take?”

“It hasn’t been that long.” Alexandra smiled down at Harry, settled in her lap. “If you’d attended my son’s birth, you’d know that.”

Alexandra had delivered in the wintertime, at Hawkridge House in the countryside. Two weeks early, a full week before her sisters had planned to arrive. Her accoucheur had miscalculated, too, and at the moment, Corinna was grateful for that. The thought of Alexandra wailing like poor Aunt Frances made her want to wail herself.

“Oh, hang it,” Griffin suddenly said.

“What is it?” Corinna asked, her heart jumping into her throat. Did he know something she didn’t about their aunt’s condition? Something bad? Something dire?

“It’s nothing,” he said. “I just forgot something.” He rose and went over to a little desk in a corner of the room, where he started pulling drawers open. “I need to send a message.”

Juliana rose, too, and found paper and quill for him. “It seems this is taking forever,” she said, looking rather pale as she returned to her seat. “James, maybe you should help.”

James rolled his eyes. ”I don’t deliver babies,” he said for the fifth time. “But there’s no need to fret. Dr. Holmes is the very best.”

“He could take some measures,” Griffin muttered as he scribbled.

“It’s usually better not to intervene as long as the labor is making progress. What would you have him do?”

“Bloodletting, perhaps.”

“James doesn’t believe in bleeding,” Juliana said quickly. Juliana couldn’t stand the sight of blood. She said it made her sick to her stomach.

Griffin folded his letter and began scribbling again, adding the direction to the outside. “Then maybe forceps.”

“Using forceps,” James said, “can result in tearing the mother.”

“I don’t want to hear this,” Corinna said, jumping out of her seat and going to the window. The sight of blood didn’t bother her, but all of this talk—labor pains, bloodletting, forceps, tearing—coupled with Aunt Frances’s intermittent cries…

Well, it was enough to make a girl keep her legs crossed for the rest of her life.

“Are you all right?” Juliana asked her.

“I’m fine. I just never, ever want to give birth.”

Everyone laughed. But this was no laughing matter. She was never going to tell Sean she loved him, because what if he wanted to get married? And though Griffin probably wouldn’t assent, what if he did? She could end up wedded and bedded and howling behind a birthing room door herself.

A particularly piercing scream came from the lying-in chamber, and she felt the blood drain from her face.

“It’s worth it,” Alexandra said softly, still smiling down at her child.

“I think I’ll stick to making pictures,” Corinna muttered.

“Your husband may have something to say about that,” Griffin said, rising from the desk. He strode toward the room’s door. “I’ll be right back. I need to pass this off to a footman.”

I believe all men are deceitful, Corinna remembered Amanda saying in Children of the Abbey. But Griffin wasn’t deceitful. Oh, no, he was perfectly straightforward. He was determined to marry her off even if it meant she’d suffer like Aunt Frances was suffering. And he wasn’t afraid to tell her so right to her face.

Your husband may have something to say about that.

Her blood boiling, Corinna waited impatiently for her brother’s return, knowing exactly what she would yell right in his face make it clear to him, once and for all, that she wasn’t looking for a husband in the first place, and wouldn’t accept one who didn’t support her art career in any case—when the wailing and screaming suddenly stopped.

Corinna’s breathing stopped, too. “Is Aunt Frances…?”

She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence. And evidently no one else could, either, because a tense silence flooded the room.

And then a thin cry came through the closed door.

“Of course not, you goose.” Juliana grinned, though she’d looked just as anxious a second ago. “She’s had her baby.”

“Thank goodness.” Corinna bit off a hunk of almond cake, suddenly ravenous. The ordeal was over. “When can we see it?”

“Not for a while,” Alexandra told her. “The baby will be covered in mucus and blood, so it will need to be cleaned up first, and Aunt Frances will need to deliver the afterbirth—”

“Stop.” Griffin walked back in, looking rather green. “I don’t think Corinna needs to hear this.”

Corinna giggled. She was feeling better already, if a little hysterical. Her stomach fluttered with excitement as they all waited to be called inside. The baby stopped crying, and the murmurs that came through the door sounded contented rather than distressed. She heard Frances’s familiar laugh and knew everything was going to be all right.

At last the connecting door opened. From the bed Frances smiled, propped comfortably against her pillows. Lord Malmsey came out of the room, a short man with a receding hairline, a wide smile, and a pink bundle cradled in his arms.

“It’s a girl,” he said, sounding bemused.

Everyone seemed to sigh in unison.

Slowly he unwrapped the blanket, revealing a little heart-shaped face, a shock of straight dark hair, and large, unfocused blue eyes.

Corinna rose and walked toward him.

“What are you calling her?” she asked.

“Belinda,” he said quietly.

“Oh, my.” Frances’s older sister’s name. Corinna’s mother’s. “May I hold her?”

Griffin laughed. “I thought you didn’t want a baby.”

“There’s a big difference between having one and holding one,” she retorted, opening her arms.

Lord Malmsey reluctantly handed his daughter over. Belinda felt warm and impossibly tiny. And holding her squirmy little body close, Corinna fell in love for the second time in two days.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Hanover Square, Tuesday 13 May

My dear Cousin,

I regret that I shall be unable to accompany you to Chelsea today, as my Aunt Frances is most inconveniently delivering a child. I shall take you tomorrow if that agrees with you.

Fondly,

Cainewood

“A useful skill indeed, miss.” Sean made a notation in his notebook. “Perhaps I can find a position for you cleaning Delaney and Company’s main offices.”

“Offices?” the maid squealed, her cracked and work-reddened hands flying up to her cheeks. Cleaning offices was a huge step up from the scullery. “A place of business? Not a kitchen?”

“I cannot make any promises, since decisions have yet to be made. But you won’t be working in a kitchen.” One business he wasn’t involved in was food service. He stood, and when she stood too, he stuck out his hand. “Whatever your final assignment, you should expect to begin the Monday following Lord Lincolnshire’s passing.” He’d had enough practice saying it that his voice no longer cracked on the last word.

“Will I still live here?”

“I’m afraid not.” Sean was certain Hamilton would never allow it. “But have no fear, miss. I shall arrange lodging in a boardinghouse for you until you can find a situation of your own.”

She clutched his hand in both of hers, her eyes filled with awe. “Thank you, my lord. You cannot imagine—”

“I’m not a lord,” he interrupted. “Merely a mister.”

“You’ll be a lord soon—”

“And you’re very welcome. Before you return to the kitchens, please ask Mr. Higginbotham to step in.”

Sean sat and made a few more notes while she all but danced out of the room. When the house steward entered, he rose again. “Was she the last one then, Mr. Higginbotham?”

A tall, thin man with a gaze that didn’t miss anything, Higginbotham ran Lincolnshire’s household like clockwork. “Other than Eugene Scott, one of the gardeners, yes. I allowed him the day off to sit with his ailing mother.”

“A gardener.” Sean nodded and made another note. Perhaps Mr. Scott could be assigned to work with the crews that landscaped new buildings following construction. “Please sit down, Mr. Higginbotham.”

The steward did so, smoothing his palms on his striped trousers. “I must tell you, sir, that everyone, from the basement of this house to the attics, is extremely grateful for your seeing to their continued employment.”

“Think nothing of it. They’re remarkably loyal employees, and as such, will surely be assets to their new employers.”

Now that Sean had interviewed them all—mostly in the evening hours over more than a week—he would assess their relative strengths so he could place them strategically among the different businesses he owned. Some would be involved in property management, others in import or export, manufacturing, construction, and many other of his endeavors.

“I hope everyone will be pleased with their final assignments,” he said.

“I’m certain they will be pleased to have any employment at all. Although they wish to remain with Lord Lincolnshire until he’s gone, of course.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Higginbotham hesitated. “If you don’t mind my asking, Mr. Hamilton…” He cleared his throat. “How is it you’ve come to know of enough available positions? And come by the authority to hire—”

“I know a lot of people,” Sean interrupted firmly.

“I expect as a well-known artist you’ve had commissions from all the best—”

“Something like that.” He tapped his quill on the notebook. “As for your future, Mr. Higginbotham…”

The man sat forward, apprehension crossing his long face. “I assumed I’d remain here. If I may say so, Mr. Hamilton, you’re going to require a minimum of staff at the least.”

Sean wouldn’t think of leaving such a fine man at the mercy of the weasel. “I’ve been impressed by your efficiency. I know of a factory in Surrey in need of a foreman. If you’re willing, I’d like to see you in that position.”

Higginbotham’s eyes widened. “A factory?”

“They manufacture lamps, the new gaslights. As it’s a growing industry, it’s a very large factory, with upwards of three hundred employees.”

The steward squared his shoulders. “I have managed a sizable staff here.”

“More than a hundred, by my estimate.” Sean felt like he’d interviewed a thousand. “You’ll have to relocate outside London, of course, but compensation will include a foreman’s house and the staff to manage it, leaving you free to focus on the factory’s needs.”

“I’m to have my own servants?”

“You’ll need them. The factory is a major responsibility.”

Higginbotham’s face set with determination—and perhaps a touch of excitement. A house steward was a respectable position, but managing a factory was something else altogether. Rather than a glorified servant, he’d be a man of industry, a man of business. “I’m up to it, sir, I assure you.”

“I’ve no doubt.” Sean snapped the notebook closed. “We’re agreed, then, and I’m finished here. Let Lord Lincolnshire know, if you please. I’m off to…paint.”

Lincoln's Inn Fields, Tuesday 13 May

My dear Cousin,

It should have been better had you notified me of your delay sooner than four hours after I expected you. You seem to have forgotten that Lady A is holding her reception tomorrow, possibly the most important day of your sister's life. As I plan to attend, Thursday afternoon will be more agreeable for Chelsea.

Yours very sincerely,

Rachael

P.S. I wish Lady Malmsey the best.

TWENTY-NINE

ROUT CAKES

Take Flour and mix with Butter and Sugar and Currants clean and dry. Make into a paste with Eggs and Orange Flower Water, Rose-water, sweet Wine, and Brandy. Drop on a floured tin-plate and bake them for a very short time.

My mother said these cakes bring luck, and indeed, I fed them to my husband the day he proposed! Serve to ensure the success of your rout or any other event you'd like to see turn out well.

—Katherine, Countess of Greystone, 1765

Finally, the day of the reception dawned. Corinna arrived at Lady Avonleigh’s town house, where an ancient butler ushered her inside. Her knees were shaking. Lady Balmforth, who shared the house with her sister, came to greet her and bring her to the drawing room.

“Welcome, my dear. Where is Mr. Hamilton?”

“He…ah…he couldn’t come,” she said, which was the truth. Mr. Hamilton couldn’t come, as he was in Wales, and Sean couldn’t come in his place, either. “I haven’t seen him the past few days, Lady B. Apparently he’s very busy.”

That was true, too. She hadn’t seen Sean since she’d finished the portrait.

“Well.” The older woman huffed, sucking in her already thin cheeks. Lady B was as skinny as Lady A was plump. “My sister is not going to be happy about this.”

Some of the ladies’ friends were already there, exclaiming over Corinna’s paintings. Lady A and Lady B had taken all the other pictures off their peach-painted walls and hung Corinna’s art there instead.

Everything in their house seemed to be peach. The color unfortunately clashed with some of Corinna’s work, but there was nothing she could do about that. Nothing but cross her fingers and hope that the artists would like what they saw when they arrived.

And hope that they would like her.

Alexandra showed up next, a platter in her hands. “Rout cakes,” she explained. “They’re supposed to ensure the success of your rout.”

“It isn’t my rout. In fact, it isn’t a rout at all. It’s a reception.”

“It’s a fashionable gathering, and as Lady A’s home isn’t overly large, it’s bound to be a crush. That’s a rout in my book.” Alexandra leaned to kiss her sister’s cheek. “You look nervous.”

A sarcastic retort hung on the tip of Corinna’s tongue, but she felt too on edge to make jests. “I am,” she admitted instead. She abruptly realized that, other than the rout cakes, Alexandra held…nothing. And there was a decided lack of squeaky wheels. “You left Harry at home.”

“Babies don’t belong at routs.” Alexandra set the platter on a side table of mahogany inlaid with lighter, peach-colored wood. “Show me your newest painting.”

But before Corinna could do so, Juliana walked in. Then Rachael and Claire and Elizabeth. Then more of Lady A’s and B’s friends, and their other sister, Lady Cavanaugh, and the first of the Exhibition judges.

Suddenly, it was a rout.

Corinna could barely move among all the people. Lady A pushed through the crowd to give her a hug. Corinna held her breath as she was enveloped in camphor and gardenias. “Our honored guest! Where is Mr. Hamilton, my dear?”

“He couldn’t come.”

“Well. I…well. I never—” More guests were arriving, cramming the drawing room. Her plump cheeks quivering with indignation, she turned to the nearest new arrival. “Have you heard, Mr. West, that Mr. Hamilton isn’t coming?”

Benjamin West! The president of the Royal Academy! Corinna found herself speechless with terror.

“I’m sorry to hear that, madam, but it’s hardly a surprise, considering he’s currently in Wales.”

“When did he leave for Wales?”

“Last month, I do believe.”

“Last month? I think not.” Lady A looked confused. “Lady Rachael,” she called, motioning her over. “Did we not see Mr. Hamilton last Saturday at the Billingsgate ball?”

“Why—”

“No,” Corinna cut in, sending her cousin a pitiful, pleading look. Although Rachael didn’t know the truth, surely she’d respond to such obvious silent begging. “That was Sean Hamilton, remember? Sean, not John.” Before Rachael could disagree or Lady A could protest further, Corinna clutched Mr. West’s arm and began pulling him toward her painting of Lord Lincolnshire.

Though she was no shrinking violet, she surprised herself with her boldness. But she didn’t see where she had much of a choice. She had to get Mr. West out of there before—as Rachael would put it—everything went to blazes.

“Will you have a look at my newest painting, Mr. West?” she asked, coming to a stop before the portrait and flashing what she hoped was a charming smile. ”As I’m considering submitting it to the Summer Exhibition, I’d surely appreciate your thoughts.”

Before commenting, he studied the picture quite a while. Corinna studied him. He was balding, what was left of his hair was gray, and he looked rather solemn overall. But not really unkind, she decided with some relief.

Mr. West was famous for his paintings of recent battles that depicted their heroes wearing modern dress rather than traditional, classical garb. Since Corinna thought it rather silly to paint contemporary men sporting flowing Roman robes, she heartily approved—and she hoped his willingness to take the less traveled road meant he was more open-minded than most.

“It’s very nice, Lady…Corinna, is it?” he said at last in his disarming American accent. “Your basic techniques demonstrate fine skills. But I’m not certain your model’s form looks quite realistic.”

“His form?”

“His body, under his clothing. Not quite natural, I’m afraid.”

Her heart turned to lead in her chest. She’d done her best, considering the Academy refused girls access to anatomy lessons. Maybe she should point that out to him. As the Academy’s president, maybe he would see how unfair that was, how detrimental to a girl’s chances, and decide to change the Academy’s rules.

No, that would never happen. And he might consider such a request to be very bad form. She’d never get elected to the Academy if its president found her vulgar.

On the other hand, maybe he was wrong. Maybe Lord Lincolnshire’s form looked perfectly fine. West was known for painting all of his subjects with large almond-shaped eyes, so maybe he wasn’t one to judge. Although his portrait clients thought those eyes most dashing—and surely commissioned him for that reason—it wasn’t realistic, after all. Some of them had narrow, squinty eyes, or small round ones.

“Thank you very much for your opinion,” she told him as nicely as she could manage. “I quite appreciate it, and I shall take your thoughts under consideration.”

Suppressing a sigh, she returned to Rachael after he took leave. “Well, that didn’t go well.”

Rachael’s sisters came to join them. “Who was he?” Claire asked.

“Benjamin West, the president of the Royal Academy. He said Lord Lincolnshire’s body doesn’t look natural beneath his clothing.”

Elizabeth glanced over toward the painting and shrugged. “Looks fine to me. Rather more impressive than the earl’s real body, in fact.”

“He did say I have fine skills. And maybe he’s wrong about the other, but that doesn’t really matter, does it? Either way he won’t vote for my painting. Unless I change it.”

“His is just one opinion.” Rachael touched her arm. “There are other committee members, aren’t there? How many in total?”

“Nine. The president plus eight elected Academicians.”

“So you have eight more men to influence. Seven if you count Mr. Hamilton as being on your side. And he should be, considering you’ve become friends with him.”

“I’m not sure friends is an accurate description of our relationship.” But although Rachael didn’t know the truth, in a sense she was right. The real Mr. Hamilton should be on Corinna’s side, considering how hard she’d been working to keep his uncle happy. And he believed each work should stand on its own and not be judged by the gender of its creator. “However, I think he probably will vote for me,” she decided.

“So you’ve already balanced Mr. West’s negative opinion with a positive.” Rachael smiled; but then her brows drew together in a frown. “Why did you claim you didn’t see Mr. Hamilton at the Billingsgate ball on Saturday? That he was Sean Hamilton, not John? I’ve heard you call him Sean, and Lord Lincolnshire calls him that as well, but I thought it was just a nickname?”

“Mr. West seems to think Mr. Hamilton is in Wales for some reason. I didn’t want to argue with the president of the Royal Academy. Better to go along with what he said, I was thinking.”

Rachael exchanged dubious glances with her sisters. “I don’t know about that.”

Corinna gave what she hoped was a casual shrug, then smiled at Lady A, who was approaching with another gentleman trailing her.

“I cannot understand why everyone thinks Mr. Hamilton is in Wales,” the older woman muttered darkly. And then more graciously as she drew near, “Mr. Mulready, I’d be pleased for you to meet Lady Corinna Chase. Lady Corinna, this is William Mulready.”

Mr. Mulready looked much younger than Mr. West, probably not much more than a decade older than Corinna herself. “A pleasure to meet you, my dear,” he said in an accent that reminded her of Sean.

That thought made her smile. “Oh, Mr. Mulready, your painting in last year’s Summer Exhibition was my absolute favorite!”

She wasn’t making that up; the enthusiasm in her voice was genuine. And judging from the man’s expression, he rather liked hearing it. “Which one, my dear?” he asked.

Academicians were allowed to display six paintings each—works that were hung without question, without being judged by the committee. “The Fight Interrupted. I adore the seventeenth-century Dutch masters, and it reminded me of their work. An updated version, of course.”

“I too admire the Dutch masters,” he said, sounding like he also admired her for admiring them. “Their work inspired The Fight Interrupted.”

Encouraged by how much better this was going than her last conversation, Corinna started inching Mr. Mulready toward her painting of Lord Lincolnshire. “I also much admire your wife’s landscapes, Mr. Mulready.”

“Elizabeth does lovely work.”

“Since you married a female artist, may I assume you don’t disapprove of us?”

He laughed, which was a relief. It had been a rather saucy question. “A valid assumption. I’ve had a look at your paintings, my dear. Your own landscapes are quite remarkable.”

Oh, this was going astoundingly better. “Here is my latest portrait. What do you think?”

“Lord Lincolnshire, isn’t it?” Cocking his head, he perused the picture. “I think, Lady Corinna, that you’ve truly captured the essence of the man.”

Corinna couldn’t help but grin. She couldn’t think of a more glorious compliment than hearing she’d captured the essence. That was exactly what she tried to accomplish, not only with this portrait but with all of her paintings.

And the score was now two to one. Mulready and Hamilton on her side, and only Benjamin West on the other. Clearly her chances were good.

She loved William Mulready.

Until she heard the next words out of his mouth. “But he seems a wee bit…stiff.”

“Stiff?”

“Yes, stiff. I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Lord Lincolnshire—quite the art collector, isn’t he?—and he struck me as a relaxed sort of fellow. It’s something about this fellow’s frame beneath his clothing that looks stiff, I think…” Smiling, he patted her on the shoulder. “Not to fret, Lady Corinna. Your landscapes are brilliant. I’m sure the committee will be more than pleased to choose one of them.”

She didn’t want them to choose a landscape. She was no longer sure she even wanted to submit any. She was going to have to fix Lord Lincolnshire’s portrait.

“How is it going?” Alexandra came and asked when Mr. Mulready had walked away.

“He likes my landscapes.”

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”

“He’s not nearly as impressed with my portrait. He thinks Lord Lincolnshire looks unnatural beneath his clothes. And Benjamin West said the same thing.”

“Oh, my. I think you need a rout cake.”

Alexandra fetched one from the platter and handed it over. Corinna bit into it morosely, thinking she could use their luck.

No matter that she didn’t believe in that nonsense.

“How many works will be chosen?” Alexandra asked.

“There were nearly a thousand in last summer’s Exhibition.”

“Well, then, I should think your chances will be good.”

“But there were more than eight thousand submitted. And there are eighty Academicians who get to show six pieces each, which leaves only five hundred twenty for the rest of us.”

“Only five hundred twenty,” Juliana said with a laugh as she joined them. “I should think there’d be room for one of yours in all of that. And I cannot believe you did that calculation that fast.”

Juliana never had been very quick with numbers, but that was beside the point. “I’ve done that calculation a hundred times,” Corinna admitted. “At the very least.”

“How are the pieces chosen?” Juliana asked.

Shrugging, Corinna was about to confess ignorance when a stranger interrupted her. Giving a little bow, the gentleman said, “I could not help but overhear the lady’s question, and I’d be more than happy to provide an explanation.” Although he was older and not nearly as handsome as Sean, he too spoke with a similar lilt. She’d had no idea so many Academicians were Irish. “Martin Archer Shee, at your service,” he added with a merry wink.

Martin Archer Shee had studied with the late, great Sir Joshua Reynolds. Corinna was awed to find such a man speaking to her, let alone flirting with her. If only she had Juliana’s abilities, she could turn that to her advantage.

But since she was merely Corinna, she said, “I’m Corinna Chase, and it’s an honor to meet you, sir. We’d be delighted to hear your account.”

“It’s very pleased I am to meet you, Lady Corinna. The process is a simple one, if a wee bit tedious. The works are marched past the Committee by a chain of human art handlers. The first round cuts the mass of submissions to about two thousand, and the next round is much more rigorous. From the Academy’s earliest days, two metal wands have been used to stamp labels attached to each painting. One wand is surmounted by a letter D, the other by an X. A work which receives the vote of three or more Academicians is awarded a D for ‘Doubtful’ and passes to the next round of selection. Works which get the X are eliminated. The rounds are repeated until the paintings that remain are reduced to a reasonable number. Beef tea is always served to keep the Academicians’ spirits up during the ordeal.” His eyes twinkled. “Which isn’t really very much of one, in reality. Hanging the exhibition is a much more arduous affair.”

“That takes days,” Corinna told her sisters. “More than a week.”

“With much politics involved regarding whose picture goes where. All done in a veil of secrecy, to protect the Hanging Committee from being hanged ourselves.”

Mr. Shee smiled at his own joke, while the three ladies tittered politely. Corinna laughed loudest of all, hoping she sounded convincing. “Thank you kindly for your insight, sir.”

“My pleasure.” He winked again. ”I’m much impressed by your work, Lady Corinna. Your textures are quite admirable. I wish you the best of luck in the selection process,” he added before taking his leave.

Corinna turned to her sisters. “He likes my work!” she squealed. Maybe her prospects weren’t so grim, after all. “Martin Archer Shee likes my work. And he studied with none other than Reynolds!”

“Ah, but I wrote Life of Reynolds,” another stranger said.

This one was accompanied by Lady A, who’d evidently brought him over for an introduction. In fact, when the gentleman joined Corinna’s circle directly, without waiting to be introduced, Lady A looked slightly put out. But Corinna couldn’t worry about offending the woman’s sensibilities when there was such a man as James Northcote in their midst! “Mr. Northcote, it’s truly an honor,” she gushed. “I read your book four years ago, when it first came out, and I found your recollections of your old master tremendously enlightening.”

“He was an enlightening man,” Northcote said. “And a discerning one. He’d have been impressed, as I am, with your portrait, Lady Corinna. The subject’s suit looks like real velvet, his lace genuinely handmade, the trees in the background wet and glistening. An admirable endeavor, Lady Corinna. Not perfect, of course. The underlying anatomy seems a mite off, and—”

“I’m so pleased you think well of it,” Corinna interrupted before she was forced to hear that complaint again. “I realize it’s not usual for a woman to paint portraits.”

“Half the things that people do not succeed in are through fear of making an attempt,” he told her solemnly. “You’ve an excellent start. I wish you well in proceeding with your portrait career.”

“I think you have a good chance,” Juliana said as he walked away. “He seemed very impressed with your realism.”

Corinna smiled at her sister’s use of the latest jargon, wondering where she’d read about realism. But then she sighed. “He didn’t think the underlying anatomy looked very real.”

“He said you have an excellent start.”

“Exactly. One doesn’t submit a painting that looks like a start. Clearly he was saying I need more practice.”

She mentally counted her votes. Against: Benjamin West and James Northcote. For: John Hamilton and Martin Archer Shee. William Mulready would vote for a landscape but not for a portrait.

She wanted to submit a portrait.

Well, maybe Mr. Mulready or Mr. Northcote would vote for her portrait if she fixed it. And there were four other committee members. With either Mulready or Northcote on her side, she needed only two of them to swing the vote.

“How are things going?” Lady A asked, joining their little circle.

“All right,” Corinna said. “Mr. West was lukewarm, but Mr. Shee said he was impressed by my work, and so did James Northcote.” She wouldn’t mention Mr. Northcote’s other comments.

“Mr. Hamilton will certainly vote for you, although I’m still miffed with him for not attending. He could have influenced the others positively. What did William Mulready have to say, my dear?”

“He loves my landscapes, but he’s not as enthusiastic about the portrait.”

“Well, that doesn’t signify, now, does it? My daughter painted wonderful landscapes. You should be happy enough to get a landscape into the Summer Exhibition.”

Corinna wasn’t certain that would make her happy, but she didn’t say so. She didn’t want to sound ungrateful. She was thankful to Lady A for giving her the opportunity to meet all the committee members, even if things weren’t working out quite as she’d hoped.

Besides, things weren’t looking all that dreadful, either. She needed only two more artists to love her work, and she had four more chances to find them.

“I spoke with William Beechey,” Lady A added. “I’m sorry to tell you, my dear, that it doesn’t seem he approves of ladies painting portraits.”

Corinna couldn’t say she was surprised. Disappointed, but not surprised. A portrait painter himself, Mr. Beechey had painted the royal family and nearly all the most famous and fashionable people. A steady stream of very sober portraits. Obviously he took life seriously and probably didn’t relish competition from anyone, let alone from female artists. “Well, then, I don’t need to meet him. There are still three committee members I’ve yet to speak with.”

Lady Balmforth threaded her way to them. “I talked to William Owen,” she reported. He was principal portrait painter to the Prince Regent.

“And?” her sister asked.

Lady B just shook her head. Woefully.

Another artist to cross off Corinna’s list. Now there were just two left…and her stomach felt as though rocks were collecting inside it.

“How about Henry Fuseli?” she asked. “Or John James Chalon? Have either of you talked to either of them?”

“Our sister has one of Mr. Fuseli’s pictures in her bedroom,” Lady B said. “Let’s ask her if she’ll introduce you.”

Lady A nodded. “That would be good. I’ll find Mr. Chalon in the meanwhile.”

As Lady B took her to find Lady C, Corinna wondered what sort of picture Juliana’s mother-in-law had in her bedroom. That she had a Fuseli at all was rather intriguing. Mr. Fuseli painted weird, haunting images, daring fantasies. His most acclaimed painting, The Nightmare, depicted a woman in the throes of a bizarre dream.

Griffin would throw a fit if he knew his innocent little sister had ever even glanced at one of his pieces.

To be honest, she was a bit nervous to meet Mr. Fuseli. Though she admired his creativity, she wasn’t sure how she felt about some of his subject matter, and she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to encounter the man who’d dreamed it up. She almost hoped Lady Cavanaugh would be too hard to find.

But she wasn’t, of course. The peach house simply wasn’t large enough to get lost in it. Lady B found her sister very easily, and Lady C was delighted to provide the introduction.

Corinna steeled herself.

Mr. Fuseli had masses of curly white hair and a face that looked oddly like a lion’s. He’d apparently already examined Corinna’s artwork.

“Your paintings are very well done, Lady Corinna,” he told her in a booming voice. “Very accurate.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fuseli. I admire your paintings, too. They’re so inventive. Very visionary.”

“I do believe that a certain amount of exaggeration improves a picture.”

Was that a criticism? He’d described her work as very accurate. She always did her best to portray the truth or, as William Mulready had put it, to capture the essence. There was nothing exaggerated in her pictures at all.

“Our ideas are the offspring of our senses,” he continued.

What was that supposed to mean?

“It was lovely speaking with you, Lady Corinna,” he concluded. “I wish you the best of luck.”

That was it? He was done? She hadn’t the slightest idea what he’d been talking about, or whether he’d liked her pictures.

Her sisters descended on her immediately. “What did he say?” Alexandra asked.

“I don’t know, exactly. He didn’t quite make sense. But he did wish me the best of luck.”

“Then he goes in the for column,” Juliana said firmly, being the type to always look on the bright side.

Corinna wished she could be half so optimistic. But maybe Juliana was right, and there was still John James Chalon.

The crowd seemed to be thinning out. Spotting Lady A, who was looking rather flustered, Corinna made her way over, her sisters following in her wake.

“Did you talk to Mr. Chalon? Did he say he was willing to meet me?”

“I couldn’t find him,” Lady A said. “It seems he’s left.”

“Oh, no. He was the last committee member.” Her final opportunity to convince herself she still had a chance. “Now I won’t know if he liked my portrait.”

“It’s all right, dear.” Lady A beamed. “Everyone loved your landscapes. This all went brilliantly, don’t you think?”

Corinna nodded, for Lady A’s sake.

But that was the best she could manage.

Juliana jumped in to save her once again. “Yes, Auntie, it was an absolute triumph! Well done! Corinna was just telling us how overwhelmed she’s feeling. We’re all so very grateful to you for taking her under your wing.”

Corinna nodded again. She was incredibly grateful, and happy to see her kindly benefactress flushed with pride and confidence.

But she feared that if she opened her mouth, all that would come out would be a sob or a scream.

“Have another rout cake,” Alexandra said.

THIRTY

The earl’s health had taken a decided turn for the worse.

Lord Lincolnshire hadn’t left his bedroom in two days…two days during which he wanted his nephew nearby. Stuck in the house for hour upon hour, Sean was at his wit’s end. He had so much he should be accomplishing, so much that wasn’t getting done.

And he missed Corinna.

He’d become used to having her at Lincolnshire House. For an entire week she’d been there, painting in the salon, morning to evening. Though he hadn’t been there with her very often, he’d liked examining her portrait every night, checking her progress. He’d liked thinking that if he wanted to see her, he knew exactly where to find her.

She’d been a fixture. A comfort.

But since she’d finished the portrait, all her time had been spent with her aunt and new baby cousin, or with Lady Avonleigh. Now that he was here at the house, she was gone. He didn’t know when he might see her next. And the house felt empty.

Yesterday Sean had finally accepted he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon, and asked Higginbotham to have his art supplies fetched from the studio on Piccadilly Street. Thinking it was what the weasel would do himself, he’d set everything up in the drawing room that had Hamilton’s pictures all over the walls. Then he’d summoned his secretary, Mr. Sykes.

Sykes had been working with Sean for nearly seven years. He was a short, dark fellow with round gold spectacles, a quick, precise mind, and an encyclopedic knowledge of Sean’s many and varied enterprises. During the hours the earl slept, the two of them worked quietly behind closed doors in the drawing room. The staff had been told that Sykes was Sean’s assistant, there to mix paint for him and such. In reality, they were allocating positions for all of Lincolnshire’s many servants.

Sean was thankful that was now done. He’d begun notifying each member of the staff of their final assignments. Were it not for the melancholy of Lincolnshire’s failing health, he reckoned many of them might be singing as they worked. They were obviously looking forward to what lay ahead. And very relieved overall.

But Sean was neither of those things. In fact, he was the exact opposite.

His life was a disaster. Days—weeks—behind on his work, his affairs were in complete disarray. And it would probably all be for naught, once Hamilton found out Sean had defied his wishes by appearing as him in public. And he’d managed to get himself into a truly dreadful romantic quandary, on top of everything else.

Great work, Delaney. Just grand.

After days of not seeing Corinna, he was only just beginning to realize how hard he’d fallen for her. Lately he’d found himself wondering if maybe—somehow—he could stay with her. Marry her. He kept thinking about how Cainewood apparently thought him a decent fellow, and attaching way too much significance to that.

This had to stop.

When she showed up unexpectedly Thursday morning, he was far too happy to see her.

“How is he?” she asked quietly, poking her head into the earl’s room.

“The same.” Sean waved her to the chair next to him beside the towering bed, where Lincolnshire slumbered upright, his back propped against a dozen pillows. It seemed the only way the earl could sleep these days, the only way he could breathe.

“You look upset.”

“It’s not pleasant,” he said with a shrug, “but it cannot last much longer.” He looked closer at her, noticing her tense jaw and a certain wildness in her eyes. “You look upset, too.”

Lowering herself to the chair, she sighed. “Lady Avonleigh’s reception didn’t go well.”

“What happened?”

“She kept asking why you weren’t there,” she said, keeping her voice low. “Or rather, why Mr. Hamilton wasn’t there.” She winced and flicked a wary glance at Lincolnshire, apparently worried he might have overheard. “Sorry.”

“He’s asleep. Though we should be careful.”

She nodded. “The committee members were mystified, since they believe Mr. Hamilton to be in Wales. Lady A and her sisters and my cousins and others all kept saying he’d been seen at various social events, and the artists kept saying that was impossible…” She clenched her hands together in her lap. “It was a mess, Sean.”

“It’s sorry I am about that.” Not that there was anything he could have done. But it was his fault. He tried to put it out of his mind. ”How about the rest? Did the committee members like your new painting?”

She sighed again. “A couple of them liked it. The rest, not really.”

“Why not?” he demanded, outraged. Who was running that Academy she was so enamored of, anyway? Because whoever they were, they sounded like idiots. “It’s brilliant!”

“It isn’t.” To stifle his protests, she unclenched her hands and laid one on his arm. “They liked Lord Lincolnshire’s expression well enough. William Mulready said I captured the essence of the man.” A hint of a smile transformed her face; she’d obviously liked hearing that. “And they admired the textures and the techniques.”

“But…?” All of that sounded sensational. Which meant there had to be a but.

“But they claimed Lord Lincolnshire’s form doesn’t seem real beneath his clothes. He looks stiff and unnatural.”

“Did they?” Sean blinked. He hadn’t noticed any such thing. But then, he hadn’t known to look for any such thing. He’d been impressed with the quality and detail of Lincolnshire’s face, and aye, his clothes and the background. Even color-blind, he could see all of that was exquisite. But he’d paid no attention to the earl’s body.

Hurting for her, he tried for a positive angle. “It doesn’t sound all that bad. They had lots of good things to say.”

“One of them really loved my work—”

“One?”

“Yes, one. Or rather, only one had no reservations about it. Martin Archer Shee, that was.”

“How about the rest?”

“Benjamin West liked my basic technique but didn’t have anything else good to say. William Mulready and James Northcote both think I paint excellent landscapes, but they weren’t so enthusiastic about the portrait.”

He didn’t know any of those names, but he wasn’t about to tell her so. He tried to commit them to memory so he could look them up later. “That’s four out of how many?”

“Eight, not counting Mr. Hamilton. Two were hopeless. William Owen and William Beechey. They don’t approve of girls painting portraits. I have no idea what the last two thought. I found Henry Fuseli’s comments completely indecipherable, and John James Chalon left before I could hear his opinion.”

“They might approve, then, the both of them.”

“They might. But they might not. Or they might, like some of the others, like my landscapes but not my portrait.”

“You can submit landscapes, then, can’t you? Or landscapes along with your portrait? How many paintings are you allowed to turn in?”

“Three. Non-Academicians are allowed to submit three…”

She trailed off with yet another sigh, though she looked as if she wanted to say more.

And she looked wretched, which seemed to make his heart squeeze in his chest. He wanted to hold her, but he couldn’t do that in Lincolnshire’s bedroom. He curled his hands into fists to keep from reaching for her. “What is it, cuisle mo chroí?”

Now she looked puzzled instead of wretched. “Cooshla-macree? Whatever does that mean?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “Just nonsense. It just slipped out.” Heat rose in his cheeks.

He shouldn’t be calling her that. Not as a slip of the tongue or anything else.

The wretched look had returned to her eyes. “What is it?” he repeated, without the stupid Gaelic this time. “What has you so troubled?”

“I don’t know how to explain it,” she said slowly, her gaze focused on the canopy above the earl’s bed. “I don’t quite understand it myself. As the reception wore on, it became more and more obvious that one of my landscapes would surely be accepted. Which has been my goal all these years, hasn’t it? Yet it seemed the more they said they liked my landscapes, the more I wanted to submit a portrait. Only a portrait.” She lowered her gaze, finally meeting his eyes. “I want to be known as a portrait painter. I’m going to try to fix Lord Lincolnshire’s portrait.”

“Can you do that?”

“I hope so. I think so. I have four days before the submission is due. I painted him into the scene in a week, so I should be able to fix him in a shorter time.”

“That sounds hopeful.” It made sense. But she still didn’t look very sure of herself. “Well then, is there another problem?”

“There is.” The two wee words sounded so despondent. “Even should I fix it, two of the committee members will refuse to vote for it just on the grounds that I’m female. And I cannot count on all six of the other members, either. If it’s better—if it’s brilliant—I imagine some of them may come around. But others may not. I’m counting on Mr. Hamilton to be the deciding vote, but that will work only if three others besides Mr. Shee vote for me, too. So I was wondering…”

“Wondering what?”

She glanced toward the bed uneasily. ”When he gets here, before the vote, do you think you could ask him to talk to the committee?” she whispered in a rush. “I don’t want my painting selected if it doesn’t merit the honor, but if he could just ask them to seriously reconsider it even though they’ve seen it before, to give the revised version a fair look even though I haven’t made a name for myself yet. Do you expect he might be willing to talk to them, as a favor? After all, you and I have done him a big favor by caring for his uncle.”

Sean couldn’t believe she’d said that in the earl’s bedroom, even in a whisper. He slanted a nervous glance toward Lincolnshire, but the man was snoring peacefully. Or at least as peacefully as a dying man could.

Their secret was still safe.

But he wasn’t at all sure Hamilton would vote for Corinna’s portrait, let alone encourage others to do the same. I seriously doubt I will vote for that girl’s painting, he remembered Hamilton saying. I’m certain her paintings won’t be good, because she’s never studied anatomy. Sketching statues is not going to help her learn anything.

“I’m not sure,” he said fretfully. “Hamilton isn’t known for being cooperative.”

“But we saved his inheritance.”

Darting another glance toward Lincolnshire, he rose. “Let’s discuss this somewhere else, shall we?”

“We cannot leave him alone.”

“I told Mrs. Skeffington to take a rest, but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind returning.”

Fortunately, Mrs. Skeffington was coming down the corridor when Sean peeked out. He thanked his lucky stars she hadn’t returned a minute earlier and overheard Corinna. After seeing the nurse settled by Lincolnshire’s side, he guided Corinna downstairs and into the salon.

He closed the door behind them both. Took a seat on a blue-and-gold sofa. Smoothed his palms against his thighs.

Cleared his throat.

Corinna settled beside him, closer than he would have liked. Well, he liked it, but he needed to keep a clear head for this conversation.

“I’m sorry I said that out loud,” she began. “It was foolish.”

“No harm done.” He drew and released a breath. “I have an idea.”

“For what?”

“For helping you fix the earl’s portrait.”

“Helping me? How can you possibly help with that? I only want you to have a talk with Mr. Hamilton.”

“You need to learn anatomy, don’t you? Since you’re wanting to make him look more natural?”

She looked perplexed. “That’s why I sketched all those Elgin Marbles.”

“But that wasn’t good enough, was it?”

Begorrah, he couldn’t believe what he was about to say. He’d spent the last two days thinking about how he’d let himself get too close to her, and this would make it even harder to keep away. But he saw no other way to help her win Hamilton’s vote. No other way to repay her for everything she’d done for him.

He drew another deep breath. “I’m thinking I can pose for you.”

“What?”

THIRTY-ONE

Holy Hannah.

Corinna couldn’t seem to close her mouth.

“I can pose for you,” Sean repeated. “You’ll practice painting me, and that will help you learn anatomy so you can fix the portrait.”

There was a long pause, during which Corinna struggled to gather up the pieces of her mind from where they’d splattered all over the walls.

“You want to pose for me,” she finally said. “So I can learn anatomy.”

His chin jutted out. “I said so, aye.”

Aye. Sean never said aye. “You do realize…”

Though his green eyes looked apprehensive, a corner of his mouth turned up in a half smile. “That I shall have to take off my clothes?”

She glanced away, heat rushing into her cheeks. It was the most scandalous thing she’d ever heard. But she recognized a good opportunity when she saw one. She needed to fix Lord Lincolnshire’s portrait, make his body look more realistic, and sketching marble gods clearly hadn’t taught her enough.

And here was the chance to sketch a real Greek god instead.

She would never have asked him to pose for her. Never. Not even after a hundred more kisses. The very idea was unthinkable. But now that he’d offered…

Well, how could she possibly refuse?

She glanced furtively over her shoulder, as if Griffin might somehow be standing there, ready to box her ears for even considering such a thing.

But this could be her one and only chance to study male anatomy. And it was certainly her only chance before this year’s Summer Exhibition. There’d be no time for more than a session or two, of course. But if there was any chance it’d be enough to make the difference, how could she not at least try?

Though she was staring through the large windows that overlooked the garden, she wasn’t seeing trees and flowers and blue sky. Instead she was imagining the sofa where Lincolnshire had sat for her…with Sean on it instead.

Naked as the day he was born.

She swallowed hard. Her heart thumped unevenly. She flushed even hotter.

Biting her lip, she met his gaze again. “You won’t have to take off all of your clothes.”

“Will I not?” He raised a brow. “Lord Lincolnshire’s portrait isn’t just head and shoulders. His body wouldn’t look ‘stiff and unnatural’ had it not been shown, would it?”

“But there’s no need to sketch all of you at once. I can do parts.”

“Parts?” The corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement.

“A part at a time. You can undress just a little bit.”

“If you say so.” He looked dubious, but also distinctly relieved. “Where shall we do it?”

“Not here. And not in my brother’s drawing room.”

Heaven forbid.

“In the square, then? Where the painting is set?” At her look of shock, he released a shaky laugh. “I was jesting, mo chroí. We can use Hamilton’s studio.”

Macree again…what did that mean? “That sounds good. When shall we meet?”

“Time is of the essence, is it not?”

“I have four days to fix the painting. I’d best not sketch more than two.”

“We shan’t delay, then. I’ll meet you there in an hour.”

“So soon?” Time might be of the essence, but she wasn’t at all sure she was ready for this. “Can you leave Lord Lincolnshire? I thought he wanted you to stay here.”

“Let’s make it in the evening, then. Lincolnshire’s been falling asleep early these days. And if he doesn’t, I’ll come up with an excuse.”

“What excuse can I give Griffin to leave the house alone in the evening?” She preferred, of course, to be honest with her brother, but she could hardly tell him she was going out to sketch a nude man.

“Tell him Lincolnshire’s invited you for dinner. I’ll come for you, and we’ll walk to the studio together.” Sean grabbed her by the shoulders and pressed a quick kiss to her lips. “It’ll be fine, Corinna. Don’t worry. This plan is going to work.”

THIRTY-TWO

Her grandfather was here somewhere.

Nervously smoothing the lavender dress she’d chosen to wear—after trying and rejecting six others—Rachael gazed down the length of the Royal Hospital’s great hall. The black-and-white marble floor seemed to stretch forever. “Which one is Colonel Thomas Grimbald?” she asked the guard at the door.

It was early evening—dinnertime, to be precise. Covered in spotless white cloth, sixteen long tables crowded the hall, each seating twenty-six pensioners. Every man wore the same outfit: a scarlet coat and tricorn hat based on the service uniform of the Duke of Marlborough’s time. They were all sixty-five or older, and they all, to Rachael’s eye, looked alike.

Maybe none of them was her grandfather. Maybe Griffin had been wrong.

“I’ll show you to Grimbald, milady,” the guard said. Griffin offered his arm, and she clutched it tightly as they followed him. Cutlery clinked, and the hall rang with the deep voices of so many men. The chandeliers overhead seemed too few to light the towering chamber, but the last of the day’s sunshine streamed through its many tall, arched windows.

The guard stopped at one end of a table. “Colonel Grimbald?”

A gray-haired man glanced up—a man who looked eerily familiar.

Griffin hadn’t been wrong.

“This fine lady and gentleman are here to see you,” the guard told him and walked off.

The man blinked and rose, standing at attention, his narrow chest puffed out in the smart red coat. He was medium height, with a long nose in a long, pleasant face. He had Rachael’s dented chin and, beneath the black tricorn, Rachael’s sky blue eyes.

But they were blank.

“Who are you?” he asked, not rudely but not in a welcoming tone, either.

Griffin took Rachael’s hand. “I’m the Marquess of Cainewood, and this is my cousin, Lady Rachael Chase. Your son’s daughter.”

“Hmmph.” He reclaimed his seat and picked up his fork, silently dismissing them. “My son has no daughter.”

Would he send her away without even listening? Rachael looked to Griffin and back to the man. Her grandfather. “Sir.” She swallowed hard. “I know this must come as a shock, since your son—my father—is dead, but—”

“Thomas isn’t dead.” He lifted a tankard and took a swallow of beer.

“Sir.” Rachael felt tears sting her eyes and cursed herself. It would have been nice to be welcomed with open arms, but if that wasn’t to be, she at least wanted some answers. “I know your son did something shameful, but I just want to ask you—”

“My son has done nothing wrong.” The words weren’t said angrily but rather matter-of-factly, his blue gaze unfocused on his dinner. “Thomas will be an important man someday; just you wait and see. He’ll be marrying John Cartwright’s daughter, he will. Lord John Cartwright’s daughter. Course, the gel ain’t yet born, so I cannot be telling you her name.” He glanced back up, cocking his head in apparent confusion. “Who are you?”

Flustered, Rachael freed her hand from Griffin’s so she could dig in the beaded reticule that matched her lavender dress. “I’m your granddaughter.” She pulled out her father’s badge and held it out toward the man. “See, this is your son’s badge.”

“My son has no badge,” he said flatly. “Where would he get such a thing? The lad isn’t even a year old.”

The man across from him, an aging fellow with big ears and a hooked nose, reached to take the badge and examined it with a low whistle. “Tenth Hussars. Old Grimbald’s son must have done well for himself.” He handed it back. “He don’t mean to be uncivil, milady,” he said sympathetically. “Colonel Grimbald, he’s not quite here, if you catch my drift. Thinks it’s 1760. If you stay long enough, he’ll start nattering on about how he just saved some fellow’s life and the bloke promised his firstborn daughter to his infant son.”

“John Cartwright,” Grimbald confirmed with a nod. “A bloomin’ a-ris-to-crat.” He drew the word out into four distinct syllables and ended it with a chortle. “My name will be connected to nobility.”

Rachael dropped the badge back into her reticule. “Thunderation,” she muttered under her breath. She stared down the hall toward an old, faded mural of King Charles II on a horse with the Royal Hospital in the background. He’d commissioned these buildings, she suddenly remembered—a disjointed thought that came out of nowhere—but never lived to see them finished.

Like her father hadn’t lived to see her.

Disappointment knotted her stomach. She looked back to her grandfather and tried again. “Sir—”

“Yes?” He looked up, appearing startled to find her there, blinking at her through eyes just like her own. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Our thanks for your time, sir.” Griffin curved an arm around her shoulders. “Let’s go,” he murmured in her ear. “Staying here will accomplish nothing.”

She nodded and allowed him to draw her back toward the door. Suddenly the huge room felt close and stifling, making her grateful to step out into the cool evening air. In the center of the deserted courtyard, a grand, bronze statue of King Charles thrust toward the sky, and she sat on its marble base, smoothing her dress over her knees and hugging them to her chest.

“He’s gone,” she said. “He’s there, but he’s gone.”

“I’m sorry.” Griffin stood gazing down at her. “I should have come to see him myself before bringing you.”

“No. I’d have wanted to see him, anyway. Just to convince myself he was my grandfather.”

“He has your eyes.”

“And my chin. We’re related; I’ve no doubt of that at all.” She hugged her knees tighter. “But he’ll never be able to tell me what happened to my father.”

“No, he won’t.” Griffin lowered his rangy frame to sit beside her. “He thinks your father is still a child.”

A lone hawk circled overhead, looking as solitary as Rachael felt. “I’ll never really know who I am.”

“Ah, Rachael.” He shifted closer, wrapping an arm about her to pull her against him. “What your father did, however awful or not, has nothing to do with who you are.”

She dropped her head to his shoulder, taking comfort from his nearness. “I know. I just wanted to know. I assure you, even if the truth was terrible, I wouldn’t have fallen apart.”

“I never thought you would. You’re strong, Rachael.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

There was conviction in his voice, and admiration, and a warmth that helped the knot in her middle loosen a little. It helped to have Griffin here. She’d always considered him a bit of a rascal, and she’d certainly never imagined she’d find herself depending on him. Yet he’d been by her side all through this. Which seemed to lend her the strength she’d been missing. The strength he seemed to believe she had.

It was amazing what a difference it made to have someone believe in her.

THIRTY-THREE

“How shall we work this?” Setting his large case full of art supplies on the table, Sean glanced around the sparsely furnished garret studio. “Will you sit on the sofa?”

“Lord Lincolnshire sat on a sofa for the portrait,” Corinna pointed out, “so I think you should pose there. Did he fall asleep?”

“He didn’t. I think he might be getting better.” Sean had mixed feelings about that. Happy to see the earl looking stronger, sad to think the poor man’s suffering would be prolonged. Anxious that it meant his own life would remain on hold. Hopeful that it might give him a few days more with Corinna.

“Then how did you manage to leave him? What excuse did you give?”

“I told him my painting wasn’t going well at Lincolnshire House, so I needed to work here instead. That’s why I brought along the supplies. I’d have looked a liar otherwise.”

He’d brought candles, too, knowing it would grow dark as the evening wore on. He pulled them out of the case and began setting them up around the room.

“Lord Lincolnshire didn’t mind, then?”

“I sent for Deirdre to keep him company.”

Though his sister was technically living at Lincolnshire House, she spent most of her waking hours at Daniel Raleigh’s house. Sean was less than thrilled about that, but he didn’t want to fight with his sister. He’d told the earl his wife was very fond of shopping.

Yet another lie, he thought grimly. “She wasn’t happy, but she agreed.”

“She should. You’re doing all this for her benefit.”

If only Deirdre saw it that way. “Lincolnshire likes her,” he said dryly. “Thinks I chose a fine wife.”

“That’s good,” she said distractedly. “I usually paint standing, but I like to sit when I sketch.” She moved his case to the floor and sat herself on the small table. “This should do fine.”

He lit the last candle. “I’ll get you a chair.”

“From where?”

“From one of my tenants.” At her blank look, he smiled. “I own this building, Corinna. And half the others on this street.”

“Oh.” Now she looked impressed, which he couldn’t help enjoying. “I thought you said the studio was Mr. Hamilton’s. I guess you didn’t mean literally.”

“Hamilton plans to lease it when he returns. And I plan to charge him a small fortune for the privilege. I’ll be right back.”

He ran downstairs and borrowed a chair from one of the shopkeepers on the ground floor. When he returned, Corinna had her sketchbook open and her bottom lip between her teeth. She’d chewed it puffy and pink.

At least, he assumed it was pink. It definitely looked darker than usual. He had to tear his gaze away from it while he moved the chair before the sofa. If he kissed her now, he knew, this session would get way out of hand.

“Sit,” he said, and sat himself, reaching down to pull off his boots.

“No need to undress all the way,” she quickly reminded him.

As she settled in her chair he removed his stockings as well. “Will this do?”

She stared at his bare feet as if she’d never seen a pair before. “Lord Lincolnshire’s feet aren’t in the picture,” she finally said. “Just a little more.”

Keeping a straight face, he rose and shrugged out of his tailcoat. “Will this do, then?”

She cracked a smile. “A little more.”

He unbuttoned and took off his waistcoat.

“More.”

He untied and drew off his cravat.

“A little more.”

He unfastened the top button on his shirt.

“Wait.”

“Wait?” His fingers paused on the second button, he raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to draw this wee bit of my throat?”

A nervous laugh escaped her. “Your hands. Lord Lincolnshire’s hands are in the picture. I’ve decided to start with your hands.”

“I’m thinking you’ve sketched hands before. Your sisters’, perhaps?”

“Yes, of course. But I need male hands.”

“Lincolnshire had two, I believe. Quite naked at the time he sat for you.”

“Old hands. I painted him younger.”

“Your brother’s hands, then. Surely he’s sat for you.”

“Not without grumbling. And never long enough.”

“I don’t remember you mentioning that any of the artists criticized Lincolnshire’s hands. I’m thinking you’ve probably mastered the painting of hands.”

“It’s notoriously difficult to paint hands,” she said haughtily. “Will you just sit down and show me your hands?”

He knew she was postponing the rest of the undressing due to nerves, but perhaps she needed a moment to ease into things. “All right,” he said, sitting and placing his hands on his spread knees. “Will this do?”

“That will do fine.” She blew out a breath. “Just relax.”

“I might suggest you do the same.”

“Yes. Of course. Right.” She scooted her chair closer and bent over her sketchbook. “However did you come to own half this neighborhood?”

He hesitated. He didn’t usually like talking to people about his work or his prosperity. He’d learned that when others discovered someone who looked like him (young, unassuming, Irish) was actually one of the wealthiest entrepreneurs in London, they tended to have rather strong reactions.

To say the least.

Some, like Corinna, were just surprised or impressed. But others reacted negatively. They were envious or suspicious or resentful. They didn’t see how someone like him could have built something like Delaney & Company. At least, not without resorting to dishonest means.

It was those people Sean feared. Those people he tried to keep in the dark.

But Corinna wasn’t one of those people, so he supposed it was high time he stopped dodging her questions.

“I have a knack,” he finally said.

Her gaze stayed on her sketch, but a faint smile curved her lips. “Deirdre said you’d say that.”

“When was that?”

“At the Billingsgate ball.” Focusing on his left hand, she deftly penciled a few lines. “She told me you left Ireland with nothing, and the next time she saw you, you owned a bunch of property.”

“I didn’t start with nothing,” he corrected. “My uncle left me an inheritance.”

“How much?”

He laughed. “You surely don’t beat about the bush.”

She looked up, all wide blue eyes. “I—”

“It’s all right. I don’t mind. Your bluntness is one of my favorite things about you.” As her face melted into a smile, he added, “It’s an endless source of amusement.”

She stuck her tongue out at him and returned to her sketch.

He laughed again. “It was ten thousand pounds.”

She didn’t even blink. Not that Sean had expected her to. Ten thousand might be an unimaginable fortune to a vicar’s son in Ireland, but to a marquess’s daughter in Mayfair?

It might as well be pocket money.

Such different people they were, from such different places. He might be wealthy now, and he might dress like a gentleman, but still, if not for Hamilton’s antics, he’d never have crossed paths with a girl like Corinna. They’d never have spoken. Never have danced or shared ices in Berkeley Square.

And they definitely would never have kissed.

He looked down at his hands—the ones she was sketching—thinking he shouldn’t be doing this. Knowing he shouldn’t be doing this. What would her brother say if he knew what his sweet, innocent little sister was doing at this very moment? Just the thought of Cainewood finding out made Sean squirm on the sofa.

She frowned. “Hold still.”

He obeyed.

“What happened after you received the inheritance?” she asked.

“I left my family and came to London. I bought a small, run-down building. By myself I fixed it up and sold it for a profit. That’s when I discovered I have a knack.”

“For buying and selling property?”

”For making money,” he told her with a grin.

He couldn’t help himself. He was proud of what he’d achieved. The seventh deadly sin, his father would have reminded him had he been alive to see how far his son had risen. But Sean didn’t think this was the sort of pride God meant to condemn. Sean worked hard for what he earned, after all, and he never forgot that God had a hand in his success. He still tithed, and he contributed staggering sums to charity besides. He took at least as much satisfaction from using his money to help people as he had from earning it in the first place.

So he grinned, and he didn’t feel bad about it, either. “I bought a larger building and did it again,” he went on. “And again. After a while, I had enough resources to hire more people to fix up more buildings, so I could buy and sell them faster, and after that, I realized it might be more profitable to keep some of the buildings—certain ones, that fit certain criteria—and make money leasing them out.”

“Deirdre said you own more than buildings. Businesses. Manufactories. And also ships, she told me.”

His sister had a big mouth. No wonder Corinna had been so curious. “One of the tenants I leased to had a business that was about to fail, and I realized I could fix that up, too. So I bought the business and made it profitable. And then I bought other businesses. And started some. Some of the businesses needed supplies that came from outside the country, and I realized I could make more profit by importing the supplies myself. And importing supplies for other people. And exporting some of the things I was manufacturing, and some other things other people were manufacturing…” He shrugged. “There are all sorts of ways to make money.”

Corinna was frozen midsketch, more than a little stunned. All the gentlemen she knew were rich, of course—but their money came from owning land. In most cases, their families had owned the same land for hundreds of years. No one she knew had started with nothing, or even with just ten thousand pounds. No one she knew had built their fortune all by themselves.

She’d never met someone like Sean, someone with a “knack” for making money. Or a knack for much of anything, come to think of it. Except maybe sitting a horse or tying a perfect cravat.

No, wait. They all had valets to tie their cravats for them.

“How is it coming?” Sean asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The hands.”

“Oh. They’re…they’re fine.”

“You need to see more than hands, Corinna, if you’re going to fix Lincolnshire’s portrait.”

She nodded slowly, reluctantly, knowing he was right.

He rose immediately and, as if hurrying to get it over with before he could change his mind, finished unbuttoning his shirt. He pulled it off over his head. Then he draped it over the arm of the sofa and…just stood there.

Half naked.

Corinna held her breath. Held herself still. Tried to keep her face blank and unreadable. She didn’t want him to know what she was thinking.

Which was that he truly was a Greek god.

Or even better, because he was human instead of marble.

She’d never seen a real man without his shirt before. Did they all look like this? Somehow, she thought not. His skin looked young and smooth, encasing all sorts of interesting ridges and planes. Muscles, they were, she supposed. It appeared that men had many more of them than women—or at least men like Sean did. Men who fixed buildings and worked hard instead of leading soft lives of leisure.

His hands moved to the buttons on his trousers.

“No!” She swallowed hard. “That’s enough for now.” Plenty for now. “You need a book.”

“A book?”

“In the painting, Lord Lincolnshire is holding a book.”

He reached for one of the sketchbooks Mr. Hamilton had left behind. With fascination, she watched his skin moving over his abdominal muscles. “Will this do?”

“What? Oh, yes. Have a seat. Like Lord Lincolnshire did, if you’ll remember.”

He sat and held the book, looking nothing like Lord Lincolnshire, although the pose was similar. She sketched a few lines. Shaky lines, since she couldn’t seem to take her eyes off him long enough to look down at the paper.

“I fear you don’t really look like Lord Lincolnshire.”

“You’re painting him younger, aren’t you?“

“I thought the portrait would be more appealing that way. And more pleasing to Lord Lincolnshire as well. But I seriously doubt he ever looked like you.”

Though her thoughts were still a jumble, her fingers began to fly over the page. She felt compelled to capture every detail of what she was seeing, while she had the chance. It was just so unlike anything she’d ever seen or experienced before. To think this was what Sean saw every day when he looked in the mirror…

She laughed at the thought.

“What?” he asked.

“Hmm? Oh, nothing.“

He smiled and settled back. “How many sessions do you expect you’ll need?”

A thousand. At least. “I’ve time for only two,” she said regretfully. “After that I’ll really need to paint. I hope Mr. Hamilton won’t return and expect to use this studio before then.”

“Don’t worry yourself about that.” He shook his head. “I got another letter from him yesterday. He’s staying longer. Claims he’s seeing fairies in the falls or some such blarney,” he added with disgust. “But of course he’s really lingering with his lover.”

His lover. Corinna felt her face heat. Her eyes skimmed Sean’s form, her pencil traced the lines on the paper, and her mind imagined kissing him.

Her lips tingled.

She released a tense breath.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“I’m just concentrating.”

They sat in silence for a while. As time wore on, he slowly shifted position. The book began to droop. He reclined a little to one side. He laid an arm along the back of the sofa. Soon his pose had nothing in common with Lord Lincolnshire’s. He looked far too relaxed. She considered asking him to move back, but she didn’t want him to. This pose was far more interesting.

She was shifting too, her pencil slowing, slowing, until finally it stopped moving entirely. She just looked at him in the flickering candlelight. Looked at him and thought about kissing him.

Oh, hang it.

This would never do.

“Is something wrong, a rún?”

Oh, yes, something was wrong. He kept saying words she didn’t understand, for one thing. Words that sounded lovely and melodic and made her want to launch herself at him, even not knowing what they meant. And the way he was looking at her, the way she was looking at him. She wanted to kiss him, and she needed to sketch.

It was all just impossible.

Her sketchbook and pencil both slipped from her hands. “I don’t think I can do this anymore. Not tonight.”

“Why not?”

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t tell him. He sat up, looking concerned. “What is it?”

“I cannot concentrate,” she said in a small voice. “All I…all I can think of is kissing you.”

“Oh. Well, then. I think we can fix that.” She thought he might smile, but he didn’t. He looked uneasy instead. “Why don’t you come over here and give me a kiss, then? Get it out of your system?”

It would have been nice if he’d sounded a bit more eager than that. But, again, she wasn’t one to ignore a good opportunity when it came her way. She was out of the chair faster than you could say shameless.

He’d intended it to be a brief kiss. A get-it-out-of-your-system kiss. She knew that.

She didn’t care. She sprawled herself over him.

His resistance didn’t last long.

I am yours whenever you come to claim me. The words from Ethelinde rippled through her mind as he gave in and claimed her lips. And then there was, blissfully, nothing in her mind at all. Nothing but warmth and melting and floating. Nothing to hold her back.

Until he pushed her away.

“We cannot,” he whispered, taking her hands. Taking them and moving them off him. “I want to, but we mustn’t do this.” He sat up, lifted her easily, set her down on the sofa. “Not now, not before…this isn’t right, Corinna.” A strand of her hair had come loose, probably when she’d leapt on top of him, and he reached to tuck it back.

She ducked his hand. “What’s not right?” she demanded. “It’s only kissing, for heaven’s sake. It’s innocent.”

Sighing, he dragged the hand through his own crisp black hair. “Innocent, is it? With me half-dressed, and the two of us alone up here in the dark?”

She couldn’t look at him. She stared at the floor, chewing her lip. Part of her felt mortified. Rejected. But she knew that wasn’t fair. It wasn’t that he didn’t want her. She could tell from the frustration in his voice that he wanted her, even if he was apparently much better able to control himself than she was.

He was just too honorable to let things get out of hand.

Too dratted honorable.

But she’d already known that about him, hadn’t she? He’d proved his honor so many times, in so many ways. The way he’d tried to tell her his true identity from the very beginning, and kept at her until she believed him. The way he still felt guilty deceiving Lord Lincolnshire, even though he knew it was best.

And then there was the way he didn’t want Deirdre to be with the man she loved until they could marry. She should hardly be surprised that he held himself to the same standard. That his honor wouldn’t let them get into a position where they might get carried away.

Sean was the most honorable young man she knew.

That was one of the many reasons she loved him.

And those two little words hadn’t escaped her notice: not now, he’d said. Meaning there would be a now sometime in the future—meaning he was planning a future with her! He hadn’t told her yet, just like she hadn’t told him she loved him. All of that had to wait until the deception was over, until they could put this mess behind them. She was just going to have to keep her hands to herself until they could be properly wed.

Unfortunately, patience wasn’t her primary virtue…or even a secondary one, really. But she would try.

“You’re right, of course,” she said quietly. “I understand why we mustn’t.” And then because she couldn’t help herself, she added: “I was just surprised that…well…that it was so easy for you to stop.”

“You think that was easy?“ he burst out, sounding exasperated, sounding like he couldn’t believe he had to explain this. “You obviously don’t understand. It’s never easy to keep away from you. It’s not easy now, it wasn’t easy a minute ago, and it won’t be easy a minute from now. Being near you is all I ever think about. The only thing I care about more than being near you, isyou.”

And when those words came out of his mouth, that was when Sean knew.

He loved her.

Yes, he’d fallen hard for her; yes, he admired her ambition; yes, he wished to be near her, always. But it was more than that, much more. Because when he’d pushed her away, he hadn’t done it out of some sense of honor or integrity—he’d done it for her. Because as much as he wanted her—and he wanted her more than he’d known it was possible to want anything—he wanted what was best for her even more.

And if that wasn’t the definition of love, he didn’t know what was.

He loved her. He was going to ask her to marry him.

Not now, not until all of this was over. Not until he’d fulfilled his obligations to Lincolnshire, dealt with the aftermath, and settled things between Deirdre and her husband. Not until he had something to offer Corinna besides lies and complications. Not until he could approach her brother with his head held high.

Even then, Cainewood would probably refuse him. But he was going to ask.

And, vicar’s son that he was, he was going to pray harder than he ever had that the answer would be yes.

He kissed her, because he couldn’t tell her he loved her. Not yet. But he kept the kiss chaste, because he really had meant it when he’d said they should wait.

Then he rose and reached for his shirt. “I’m thinking it’s a good idea for us to stop, as you said. We’ll finish tomorrow afternoon.”

THIRTY-FOUR

The next day, Lincolnshire perked up.

When Lord Stafford made his usual early morning call, he was pleased to see his patient more comfortable. “He’s more awake than he’s been for days,” he reported when he came out of the earl’s bedroom following his examination. “And he can speak whole sentences—entire paragraphs—without pausing for breaths between words.”

Sean had suspected the man might be getting better. “Do you expect all the sleep has revived him?”

“Perhaps, but only temporarily,” the doctor reminded him. A gentle warning. “This sort of disease tends to progress and regress in uneven waves, but he’s not recovering by any means.” His brown eyes met Sean’s with sympathy. “You’d best enjoy your uncle’s alertness while you can.”

Lincolnshire wasn’t his uncle, but Sean nodded and thanked Stafford and saw him out. Only to find someone else coming in.

The tall man carried a leather valise. A quite official-looking one. “I’m Mr. Lawrence Lawless,” he said by way of introduction. “Lord Lincolnshire’s solicitor. Here to consult with him at his request.”

Lawless seemed a very sober sort of man, but Sean couldn’t suppress a smile at meeting a lawyer named Lawless. He turned away to hide it, allowing Quincy to escort the man upstairs.

It was the last time Sean smiled that day.

The solicitor spent a full hour closeted in Lincolnshire’s bedroom, and no sooner had he left than the earl summoned his nephew. On her way out to go to Raleigh, Deirdre turned back and went upstairs with Sean.

“Good day to you, Lord Lincolnshire,” she said warmly as they entered his room.

“Good day to you, my dear,” the earl wheezed. Sean was amused to hear him echo Deirdre’s Irish phrasing rather than saying good morning in the English way. And pleased that Lincolnshire had managed to complete the sentence without pausing for breath.

But when the earl added, “I’m getting my affairs in order,” Sean’s good humor vanished.

That sounded so dire. So final. Despite the doctor’s warning, despite his need to get on with his own life, Sean must have been holding on to some small hope that Lincolnshire might recover after all, because suddenly he felt an ache in his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“For what?” The older man coughed. “Sit…both of you.”

Sean and his sister exchanged a glance. Playacting, or perhaps sensing Sean’s distress, Deirdre took his hand as they slowly lowered themselves in unison.

The earl swiped the back of a swollen hand across his face, clearing his mouth of a bit of froth he’d coughed up. When his hand dropped, his lips were curved in a half smile of his own. “I’m pleased to see the two of you holding hands. I cannot imagine why those infidelity rumors persist, when I’ve seen for myself you’ve a wonderful marriage. Devoted, close…understanding.”

Sean’s guilt spiked to record levels. He’d have dropped Deirdre’s hand like a hot coal, except she sensed that and gripped his tighter.

“Give her a kiss,” Lincolnshire coaxed.

Sean turned to his sister and gave her a wee peck on the cheek.

Lincolnshire nodded, still smiling. “Discreet in public, as usual. But I’d wager that behind closed doors—”

“Uncle,” Sean cut in. He couldn’t take hearing more about his wonderful marriage to Deirdre. Not without losing his breakfast. “Was there something else you wished to tell me?”

“Indeed. I wanted you to know that I’m pleased—or shall I say overjoyed—at the success you’ve had finding new positions for all of my staff.”

“It was nothing,” Sean muttered.

“It was everything,” Lincolnshire disagreed. “My heart sings to know all my holdings will be going to such a worthy young man. My nephew—my blood.” Tears sprang to the older man’s eyes: not tears of pain, but tears of regret. “I’m so sorry I never came to know you before this. That your undeserved reputation and my unresolved feelings about my brother kept me from seeking you out earlier—”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Sean interrupted, having had enough of this guilt-inducing affection. “I’m glad we’ve had this time together. But your brother…this is the first you’ve mentioned these ‘unresolved feelings’ concerning him.”

Lincolnshire shrugged. “I loved him, of course. He was my twin—”

“Your twin?” This was the first Sean had heard that.

“Surely you’ve noticed your father and I look identical?”

“I hadn’t…thought about it.” Now he was the one pausing between words. “My, uh…father…died years ago. He never mentioned you were twins. What happened between you? What made you banish your twin brother to the backwoods of Ireland?”

“Banish him?” Lincolnshire snorted. “He should have been down on his knees kissing my feet. I saved the ungrateful son of a gun.” He cocked his head, measuring Sean for a long moment. “He never told you what happened?”

“Never.” And Sean would wager that Deirdre’s weasel of a husband wasn’t aware of the facts, either. “What happened?”

“You honestly don’t know?”

Sean shook his head.

Lincolnshire sighed. ”When we were young men,” he said, settling back against his pillows, “our father died, leaving me the earl. Your father was less than happy I inherited everything and he nothing. He was furious, as a matter of fact. A mere five minutes’ difference in our births made me the heir and him the second son.”

“It’s understandable he might feel that way,” Deirdre said, perhaps in leftover deference to her father-in-law.

“I agree. But that’s the way our world works. I assured him I’d take care of him, support him and his new child and his young wife—a wife he’d been forced to wed after getting her in the family way, I might add.”

“Like father, like son,” Sean whispered beneath his breath.

“Why do you say that?” the earl asked, proving his hearing wasn’t affected by the dropsy. “My father’s marriage was a love match. No one forced him to wed our mother.”

“No, of course not,” Sean said quickly, thinking back. Hamilton’s parents’ marriage hadn’t been a happy one, from what he remembered. He’d always figured the discord was caused by their misery at being stuck in Ireland, but maybe it had been more than that. “Just a slip of the tongue. Pray, go on.”

“Well, promising to support my brother and his family wasn’t enough. He wanted more than just a generous allowance. Shortly after I inherited, I went off to Ireland, to Kilburton, to see my steward, meet my villagers and tenants. I returned to a scandal of unimaginable proportions.”

“What?” Deirdre breathed.

“In my absence, William had decided to take some of what he considered his due. He’d pretended to be me, and we looked so much alike that people had believed him. He’d lived in this house, worn my clothes, gone to my club. He’d attended dinners and card parties and breakfasts and balls and soirees. He’d even paid my respects to King George at court, and while doing all of this, he’d run up debts that amounted to thousands. The biggest gaming debt in all of London, in my name. He couldn’t pay it, of course. And a man’s vowels, a debt of honor, is expected to be paid before any other.”

“They must have been livid,” Deirdre said. “All those men to whom he owed money.”

“Oh, they were livid, all right. All the gentlemen and the ladies, too. But not because of the debt. I paid that immediately upon my return.”

“Why then?” Sean asked. “Why should they remain angry after having been paid?”

“Because he’d tricked them,” the earl said. “Made fools of them, one and all. He’d made them believe he was me, and for that they would never forgive him. Society has a long memory, and they hold a grudge even longer.” Lincolnshire’s sigh was one of heartache, of sorrow and deepest regret. “Only the gravest misdeeds will warrant the cut direct, but my brother had crossed that line.”

“He had to leave,” Deirdre concluded. “He couldn’t stay any longer in London.”

“Indeed, he couldn’t. Many wanted him banished to the countryside, to live in poverty and anonymity, or even better, they’d have preferred to have seen him shipped off to America. He hadn’t the option of entering the clergy, and I couldn’t buy him a commission in the military—the peerage is too well connected to both for him to have held posts in either. So I did what I could. I sent him to Ireland, where no one knew him. Where he could hold up his head and play the lord in Kilburton. Live in the drafty old castle—”

“He built an enormous new manor house.”

“I know that, my dear.” Lincolnshire smiled sadly at Deirdre. “He wanted a fancy new house, and I wanted him to be happy. Or at least as happy as possible. He was my brother, after all, my twin. If I never fully forgave him, it wasn’t because of what he did, but because I lost him as a result.”

“He never forgave you, either,” Deirdre said.

“I know that, too. But I also know I did my best.” He looked to Sean, who hadn’t said anything for quite a while. “I hope you don’t blame me for your father’s disgrace. Under the circumstances—”

“No,” Sean said in a dead tone. It was the only tone he could manage, because he felt dead inside. “I don’t blame you.”

“You understand, then?” Lincolnshire pressed.

Sean nodded. He understood perfectly.

He understood that the aristocracy wouldn’t tolerate deception. He understood they held grudges forever. He understood that, having impersonated Hamilton, Lincolnshire’s nephew and heir, he’d soon be earning the cut direct himself.

Once Mayfair learned the truth, no member of society would speak to him ever again. They’d look right through him as though he weren’t there. And should he marry Corinna, she and all of her family would be rejected along with him.

How had he not realized this? How had he convinced himself that he, an Irish vicar’s son, could ever presume to wed the daughter of an English marquess? He and Corinna had been doomed from the first. If not by his background, then by Hamilton’s schemes. Blast the weasel.

Blast him to blazes and beyond.

The fact that Sean would never have met Corinna if not for Hamilton was irrelevant. He’d been happy before he met her, or if not happy, at least content. But now…

How could he ever hope to be either again?

And how was he going to tell her? They’d never discussed marriage, but he wasn’t a knothead. He knew that she cared for him—he’d seen the dreamy look she sometimes got in her eyes.

And she had only three days to fix Lincolnshire’s portrait. After she sketched Sean this afternoon, she’d have only two days left to paint. The truth could devastate her, break her concentration, destroy any chance she had of achieving her lifelong dream. How could he tell her now?

He couldn’t.

He couldn’t tell her for three whole days, until after the painting was finished. He was going to have to lie again, for her sake. He hated lying. And lying to the girl he loved seemed the worst lie possible.

His gut felt heavy. Like an anvil was lodged in it.

“Nephew… Sean.” The earl was tiring. And clearly struggling to make amends. His eyes were pleading. “I wish I’d…known you all these years. I’m so…sorry—”

“Please, Uncle,” Sean ordered himself to focus on the dear old man. “I can’t bear to see you in such distress. We’ve come to know each other now, haven’t we? And nothing could make me happier than bringing what cheer I can to you in your time of need.”

“Cheer? I am…euphoric. You came running when I asked…you’ve cared for me like a son. You’ve found positions…for my servants…seen all my concerns…are alleviated.”

Lincolnshire wheezed, then coughed, then placed a hand on his chest. His lids fluttered, then slowly shut. Before he drifted off to sleep, he uttered one last sentence in a ragged whisper.

“You’re the best man…I’ve ever had…the privilege of knowing.”

But Sean felt like the worst person who’d ever lived.

THIRTY-FIVE

ICED CAKES

Mix sugar together with butter and rose-water. Mix this together with six eggs leaving out two whites and beat for a quarter of an hour. Put in your flour and mix them together well. Put them in your patty pans in an oven as hot as for manchet. Then make your icing. Put fine sugar in a mortar with rose-water and the white of an egg. When the cakes are cold put them on a tin then dip a feather in the icing and cover them well. Set the cakes back in the oven to harden.

These are sweet as a newborn baby. Eat them for the baby's health.

—Belinda, Marchioness of Cainewood, 1799

“Oh, Auntie, she’s beautiful.” Balancing Harry on her hip, Alexandra leaned to run a finger down her new cousin’s tiny, downy cheek. “Is she a good baby?”

“When she isn’t crying.” Aunt Frances was reclining on a chaise longue that had been moved to her drawing room, holding Belinda close. She smiled a weary smile at all the visiting ladies seated around her. “Which seems to be most of the time.”

“For her first three months, my youngest daughter cried all the time too,” Lady A said. “She nearly drove me to Bedlam. Luckily she soon outgrew that and was a lovely child thereafter.”

“I’m certain Belinda will outgrow it, too,” Claire said.

Elizabeth nodded. “And you do have the monthly nurse.”

Rachael took an iced cake from the plate Juliana offered. “I expect the nurse sees to the baby’s needs?”

“True,” Aunt Frances said wryly. “The monthly nurse currently sees to her needs, and she’s instructing the permanent day nurse and the night nurse. I’m only surprised Theodore hasn’t hired a governess to start teaching Belinda her letters and numbers already. Nothing is too much for his daughter.”

“As it should be,” Lady A said approvingly. “It was the same with mine.”

“But three nurses? When I’d as soon care for Belinda myself?”

“Alexandra feels the same way.” Juliana set down the platter. “I expect I shall be that way, too. May I hold her?”

“Of course.” Aunt Frances held out the baby. “Support her head.”

“I know,” Juliana said, taking Belinda like an expert. “I learned that with little Harry.”

Bouncing her son, Alexandra watched her sister and smiled. “Does she make you want one of your own?”

“I’m going to have one of my own,” Juliana murmured, gazing down at Belinda’s tiny face. “In the winter.”

A hush fell over the room. Someone let loose an excited squeal. Then it seemed everyone was talking at once, exclaiming and congratulating and jumping from their seats to rush over and give Juliana hugs.

Except for Corinna, who seemed riveted in place. She was very happy for her sister. But she was also very confused.

Suddenly, despite the horror of little Belinda’s birth, she was quite certain she wanted a child after all.

She supposed somewhere in the back of her mind, she’d known all along she would have children someday. Someday unimaginably far away, that was—after she’d made her mark on the art world. And because starting a family seemed such a vague and distant event, because she had no mental picture of her prospective family, it had been easy to dismiss the whole idea when she’d been frightened by Aunt Frances’s ordeal. But now her future children didn’t seem so vague.

Because she knew who she wanted their father to be.

He had dark hair and perfectly clear, deep green eyes. A charming grin. An irresistible accent.

And Sean Delaney’s face.

Sean was exactly what had been missing from the picture. He was honorable and kind and supportive. He would make such an amazing father.

Of course, she’d have to marry him first, but she’d already been thinking about that, hadn’t she? And she couldn’t imagine having a child with anyone else. No one else had ever made her feel like Sean did. No one else ever would.

And giving birth with him by her side, soothing her and encouraging her the way he had when she was nervous about the reception, suddenly didn’t seem so bad.

Oh, very well, it still seemed hideously awful. But she knew she could trust Sean to get her through it.

“Are you all right?” Juliana asked, interrupting her reverie. She waved a hand in front of Corinna’s face. She had handed the baby to Rachael at some point. “You look odd.”

That made sense, because Corinna felt odd. Or at least different from how she’d ever felt before. She cleared her head with a little shake, and smiled. “I’m sorry, I must have drifted off for a moment. I’m so excited!” She threw her arms around her sister.

It was true. She was excited. For Juliana, James, and the whole family. And for this afternoon, when she’d see Sean in the garret again. But there was something—something unpleasant—niggling at her. It wasn’t childbirth. She’d put those worries aside for now. It was something more immediate, but she couldn’t seem to quite put her finger on it.

She must have tensed up, because Juliana pulled away, looking suspicious. “You’re sure you’re excited?”

“Of course I am.” Corinna forced a laugh. ”I’m just being selfish as usual. Thinking about my upcoming submissions. I need to bring my paintings to Somerset House on Monday.”

“Who is going with you?” Lady A asked.

Corinna hadn’t thought that far ahead, but of course she couldn’t go alone. It wouldn’t be proper. Being a girl could be terribly inconvenient at times. “I suppose I’ll ask Griffin.”

“I’d be honored to accompany you, my dear.” Lady A’s smile looked wistful. “It would be my pleasure. I’m supposed to assist my nephew at the Institute until four o’clock on Monday, but I can tell him I need to leave at noon.” The New Hope Institute was James’s facility, where he provided smallpox vaccinations for the poor. Lady B was his assistant today—she and Lady A took turns. “Will that be early enough?”

“That will be fine.” Considering all that kind Lady A had done for her, Corinna wouldn’t think of denying her wish. “I’ll come for you in my brother’s carriage at one o’clock. The submission deadline isn’t until five.”

“Oh, then two o’clock would be better, if you wouldn’t mind. That way I’ll have time for luncheon first. And there’s nothing to worry about.” Lady A leaned to give Corinna’s hand a pat. “The committee members said lovely things about your paintings. My daughter would have been overjoyed to have such important men admire her work,” she added with a sigh.

Corinna didn’t know whether Lady A’s sigh was a hopeful one or a regretful one. But regardless, she sighed along with her. “Most of them did say nice things, but they also said my portrait wasn’t quite right. I need to fix it before Monday.”

“You’re not going to skip the Teddington ball tomorrow night, are you?” Juliana asked. “Or Lady Hartley’s breakfast on Sunday? It’s the event of the season.”

“I probably should skip both.” Which meant Griffin would be hovering over her all weekend, badgering her to leave the house and meet more gentlemen. “I wish I could find somewhere peaceful to paint.”

“Chelsea Physic Garden is very peaceful.” Sitting beside Corinna on the sofa, Juliana rubbed her belly, even though it was still flat as a canvas. “Only physicians and apothecaries can usually gain entrance, but James could request a ticket for you.”

“I was just in Chelsea yesterday,” Rachael commented a bit absently, bouncing Belinda on Corinna’s other side. “At the Royal Hospital.”

“Why was that?” Corinna asked.

When Rachael hesitated, looking flustered—which was unusual for self-assured Rachael—her younger sister Claire answered for her. “It was a charitable visit. She brought books for the pensioners.”

“That was very kind,” Lady C said.

A footman came in and set a tray of tea things on a table by the door.

“Would anyone like tea?” Since Aunt Frances wasn’t up to acting as hostess, Lady A rose and made her way toward the teapot, saying, “My younger daughter’s father-in-law is a Chelsea Pensioner. But I haven’t heard from him in years.”

While Lady A was across the room, Rachael nudged Corinna. “Lady A seems to take any excuse to mention her younger daughter,” she whispered. “I think the poor woman really misses her.”

“You don’t say,” Corinna whispered dryly.

“James told me Lady A’s younger daughter took her own life,” Juliana said quietly. “Lady A doesn’t have any grandchildren. Her oldest daughter eloped against her father’s wishes, and he banished her from their lives. Her middle child, a son, drank too much and accidentally drowned. And her younger daughter was in the family way when she jumped off the London Bridge, taking Lady A’s last chance at having a grandchild with her.”

“Oh, poor, poor woman!” Rachael sighed. “I really like Lady A. She reminds me of my mother. I think it’s the gardenia scent she wears. Mama always loved gardenia perfume.” Though she smiled, the expression looked sad. “I think I’ll go help her pour tea.”

As their cousin went off to return Belinda to Frances and join Lady A, Corinna nudged Juliana. “I think Lady A smells as much of camphor as gardenias.”

“I agree.” They pulled faces at each other. “But as Rachael’s spirits are still low,” Juliana added, “I don’t think we should say anything to ruin her comforting illusion.”

Corinna wished she had a comforting illusion. All the way through the rest of the visit, and all the way home, she tried to figure out what it was that could be niggling her. As she went up to her bedroom to ready herself before meeting Sean, she told herself things weren’t that bad.

She was in love, and she still had time to fix Lord Lincolnshire’s picture. And her life certainly wasn’t as tragic as Lady A’s. She’d lost her parents and a brother, yes, but to illness, which was sad but not completely unexpected. She hadn’t lost anyone to drink, or to suicide, or because they’d eloped without permission and been banished from the family. And someday, she’d start her very own family, and—

She plopped onto her bed, suddenly realizing what was bothering her.

She’d decided she wanted to marry Sean. She wanted to have children with him. But what if the only way to accomplish that was to elope?

She hoped Griffin would agree to their marriage, but what if he didn’t? Sean wasn’t anything like the gentlemen her brother pushed on her, and not only because he was Irish. He could certainly support her—after what she’d learned yesterday, she suspected he could support half of London. But he wasn’t from their world. He wasn’t an aristocrat. Griffin’s saying he admired Sean and wanted his advice didn’t mean he’d support their marriage.

She was willing to defy her brother’s wishes to marry Sean, should it come to that. She was willing to run off to Gretna Green to elope. Her family wasn’t the type to banish her. And she was an artist, after all, wasn’t she? Freethinking, a rebel, unconventional.

But none of that mattered…because Sean was conventional.

He wouldn’t elope with her against her brother’s wishes. She knew him well enough to be certain of that. He was too honorable.

Too dratted honorable, again! She was beginning to think honor might be overrated.

The niggling feeling grew now that she’d pinpointed its cause. The iced cakes she’d eaten felt like they were congealing in her stomach, the tea she’d sipped sloshing around.

How could she force her brother to give his blessing? She didn’t know. This was more Juliana’s field of expertise. All Corinna knew was that unless she came up with a plan, her future with Sean was uncertain. This might be the last time they were alone together, ever.

She’d best make the most of it.

She’d work on a plan, she decided as she rose to change and gather her things. But in case she failed, she wanted one last kiss.

And it had better be a good one.

She’d just have to make Sean comfortable so he wouldn’t fear things going too far. And she couldn’t afford to be nervous about sketching him today, either. If she were to have a prayer of fixing Lord Lincolnshire’s portrait, she needed to study Sean. All of him.

Her stomach churned with a mixture of anxiety and anticipation and ice cakes. Thinking she might need what she’d sometimes heard referred to as “Dutch courage,” she grabbed a bottle of her brother’s first vintage on her way out.

THIRTY-SIX

There was plenty of light streaming in through the garret’s north-facing windows, so Sean didn’t bother lighting candles this time. The atmosphere wasn’t nearly as romantic, which suited his intentions perfectly.

Unfortunately, Corinna seemed to have some rather different intentions.

He’d noticed she’d brought two glasses and a bottle of wine, and now she was looking him up and down with that not-quite-flirtatious look on her face. “The light is perfect,” she said, confirming his assessment. “I can see all of you.”

He swallowed hard.

How on earth were they going to get through this session without any impropriety? Or rather, without any unnecessary impropriety—taking off his clothes was plenty improper all on its own. But yesterday, he’d only removed his shirt, and today she wanted to see all of him.

“This is a business meeting,” he reminded her.

“A what?”

“We’re here to get sketching done. There won’t be any kissing. And I’m thinking you won’t need to see all of me at once.” He watched her set out the wine glasses. “I’m remembering you said you wanted to sketch part of me at a time.”

“I really need to see all of you if I’m to fix Lord Lincolnshire’s portrait.” Turning away, Corinna made herself busy pouring the wine. “Male artists get to sketch live models day in and day out. I have only these two sittings to get it right.” With an apologetic smile, she turned back and held out a glass filled to the brim. “I brought some of my brother’s wine to help us both relax.”

Sean accepted the wine reluctantly. He needed to keep a clear head. He took a tiny sip, just to be polite.

She took a much larger gulp. “Don’t you like the wine?”

“I like it fine. But I don’t drink very much, so it goes straight to my head.”

“Now I’m remembering you drank only a little that night you were summoned to our family dinner. Just a couple of sips.”

“I watched my mother’s father drink himself into the grave. An effective advertisement for moderation.”

She touched his hand, a brief contact that still gave him a jolt. “I’m sorry.”

He’d felt the warmth of her fingers, and now he smelled her sweet floral fragrance and the hint of paint underneath. He loved that hint of paint, because it was uniquely Corinna and he loved her.

But he couldn’t kiss her. They couldn’t end up together, so kissing her would be wrong.

He couldn’t kiss her. Kissing her would be wrong.

He’d just have to keep repeating that to himself until he accepted it.

He moved toward the sofa as an excuse to put more distance between them. “Grandpapa was a happy drunk, but he never made anything of himself,” he said, taking another polite sip before sitting down.

“You’ve made a lot of yourself,” she said, moving to sit across from him. After another big gulp, she set her glass on the floor. It was already half empty. “You’re the best person I know.”

She was the second person to tell him that today, which served to remind him of the first, and then the rest of what Lincolnshire had revealed. He tried to shove it all from his mind. He couldn’t stand to think of it right now, of losing her, of—

He took a more generous sip of wine.

Her blue, blue eyes locked on his, she opened the sketchbook. “You can undress now. I’m ready.”

He wasn’t ready—he didn’t think he’d ever be ready—but there was nothing for it. He’d offered to pose for her, and he wanted her painting to be a success. He took another swallow of wine and put his glass down carefully, then stood and tugged off his boots and stockings, his cravat, his coat, his waistcoat. Feeling her gaze on him, he unbuttoned his shirt and stripped it off over his head.

Like last night, his hands moved to the buttons on his trousers. But this time she didn’t stop him.

He stopped himself instead.

Gulping air, he wished it were wine. So he reached for his glass and took one more sip.

“Sean?” she whispered, then bit her lip. She looked as tense as he felt. And as full of…well, to be perfectly honest, lust. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes wide and dreamy…

The sight devastated him.

Their gazes were locked together, and it could be only a matter of time before they were locked together, too. The pull between them was uncanny. Overwhelming. Even preposterous…he almost wanted to laugh. He couldn’t cope with these feelings—was there any human who could? It was extraordinary. It was a nightmare. He was breaking apart at the seams.

But somehow they had to keep it together. Or was it that they needed to stay apart? He couldn’t seem to think straight. (How much wine had he drunk?) Maybe he should just tell her the truth right now. Tell her they had no future together. Cut this off before he completely lost his head.

No, he couldn’t tell her, not until she’d finished the portrait. Telling her wouldn’t just cut this off; it would devastate her. He was devastated already, so he knew exactly how she would feel. Completely, utterly devastated.

And she wouldn’t be able to paint…

THIRTY-SEVEN

Corinna couldn’t sketch.

She could only stare. At Sean. It was taking everything she had to stop herself from leaping across the space between them.

It seemed the wine was going to her head instead of his. She gnawed her bottom lip, feeling a bit woozy. He’d said he wouldn’t kiss her, but she wouldn’t settle for that. What if this was the last time they were ever alone together? This could be their last chance to kiss. Ever.

How could she get him to kiss her?

Again, this was Juliana’s sphere. Juliana was the beguiling sister. What would she do?

As soon as Corinna asked the question, she knew the answer.

Juliana would use the look.

Yuck. Corinna cringed just thinking about it. The look was a sort of choreographed flirtation that Juliana swore by. She said it would make men fall at one’s feet. And Corinna had seen it work, more than once. But still, she’d never imagined trying it herself. She’d always found it too laughably contrived.

Maybe it was the Dutch courage or the desperation—or both—but suddenly she didn’t care.

Remembering her sister’s instructions, she glanced down, letting her lashes flutter, and then swept her gaze up, looking Sean dead in the eye as she curved her lips very slowly in a seductive smile. At least she hoped it was seductive…

His pupils dilated, and he sucked in his breath.

Huh. Perhaps she could be beguiling, after all.

Or perhaps it was just Sean. He was so beguiling himself that any girl would feel beguiling around him. Every word he said in that lyrical Irish voice seeped right into her, melting her insides. She hadn’t even touched him yet, nor had he touched her, but her body was already humming.

Soft light slanted through the north-facing windows, highlighting his sculpted cheek, his crisp hair, the faint dark stubble on his chin. She wondered what the stubble felt like.

She breathed slowly in and out, watching Sean’s face. He was watching her too, watching her with the most impassioned look, just like Lord Mortimer in Children of the Abbey.

It was a look more potent than any wine…

Sean stood riveted, transfixed, waiting for Corinna to do something. To start sketching or try to kiss him, so he could tell her to stop. Because he had to tell her to stop.

He couldn’t kiss her. Kissing her would be wrong.

But he couldn’t stop it until it started, and the waiting was excruciating. The waiting and the wondering and the wanting. With an effort he tore his gaze away and turned to squint into the afternoon sun, as if perhaps he could burn the image of her off his retinas.

It didn’t work. All he could see was that devastating look in her eyes.

“Sean,” she said finally, her voice coming out a little hoarse. She rose, and he heard the sketchbook slide from her lap to the floor. She stepped over it and right up to him, so close he could feel the heat shimmering off her skin. Lifting a hand to his cheek, she turned his head to face her. “Are you all right, Sean?”

He wasn’t all right, no. His heart hurt. He was devastated.

“Sean,” she whispered, brushing her fingers on his face so gently he wondered that he could feel it. But he did feel it, so strongly the feeling seemed to spread all through him. She leaned closer. “Sean, will you kiss me? Please?”

Saints preserve us.

It was so forthright, so Corinna. It reminded him of everything he loved about her. He saw fathomless blue, and he smelled paint, and he heard her low, sweet voice, which right now was hoarse with emotion and need. How could he push her away when she needed him so much?

But he couldn’t kiss her. Kissing her would be wrong.

He kissed her.

It was a defensive move, because he couldn’t look into her eyes a moment longer without the devastation ripping him apart. But the instant his lips touched hers, he lost his head completely.

Somehow they made it down to the sofa, and she was pushing him back and crawling over him. Time slowed, or maybe it sped, or maybe it ceased to have any meaning at all. His world was reduced to the softness of her mouth, and the sensation of her fingers on his bare skin, and the warmth of her body pressing him into the sofa.

And though none of it felt wrong, he was devastated.

But he couldn’t stop, couldn’t let go of her. He knew that once he let go, he’d never touch her again. They kissed their lips raw, and when they couldn’t kiss anymore, they just lay together on the sofa, her head on his chest, his hands in her hair, saying nothing, scarcely moving.

They stayed like that for a long time. When Sean opened his eyes, the sun was beginning to dip.

“Are you awake, críona?”

She nodded without lifting her cheek from his chest.

“I’m sorry.” He wrapped his arms around her, still not ready to let her go, and pressed his sore lips to the top of her head. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured against her hair.

“I’m not sorry,” she said. “I know you think this is wrong, but I don’t. I think it’s exactly right. I feel like I’ve been waiting for you forever.”

Hearing her say those words, he discovered he still had a wee shred of clarity. The wispiest shred, the barest fog, but just enough to bring him back to the real world. The world where he couldn’t be with her, not forever, not for a moment, not at all.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, and sat up, moving her off him. His throat felt tight, making it difficult to breathe.

He was devastated.

They had no future together.

But he couldn’t tell her, not now, not until her painting was finished.

And he still had to help her fix the painting. She hadn’t sketched yet, and she needed to sketch. He couldn’t marry her, he would never be with her, but he could still do what he’d come here to do. Three days from now, when he told her the truth, when he devastated her, at least she would have her art. She’d have fixed her painting, and when it was accepted for the Summer Exhibition, she would still have her dreams, and they would help console her.

That thought in mind, he rose from the sofa and pulled her up, too. He gripped her shoulders and turned her around. “Go sit in the chair, Corinna.”

She looked back at him. ”What?”

“It’s time to sketch now.” He started unbuttoning the left side of the falls on his trousers.

“I feel hazy now.” She turned to face him. “I think we should do this tomorrow.”

“We came here so you can sketch,” he said, unbuttoning the right side. “This is a business meeting, remember? Go sit down.”

She backed up, watching him shuck his trousers. When her legs hit the chair, she dropped onto it, her eyes as wide as he’d ever seen them. Thank goodness he’d remembered to wear short drawers, he thought, because like many a fellow, he often went without. Tucking one’s shirt tails under and over was generally much more comfortable.

“This is all I’m taking off,” he said, grabbing a used sketchbook off the table. “I trust it will be enough. Sketch, Corinna.” He sat, holding the book as the earl had in her picture, arranging himself in a similar pose. “I want you to sketch.”

Her gaze wandered over him. Wandered everywhere. That dreamy look returned to her eyes.

She devastated him.

But he hadn’t the luxury of being devastated, not now. “Start sketching.”

“I really don’t think I can concentrate. I drank too much wine. We’ll have to do this again tomorrow.”

“We’re not doing this again, Corinna. I’m not leaving here until you’ve sketched enough anatomy to fix Lincolnshire’s portrait. And I’m not kissing you again, that I promise…so sketch.”

THIRTY-EIGHT

Corinna had never painted so fast in her life.

As she swept her brush along the canvas, she remembered all the hours she’d spent sketching earlier tonight. Intense hours. She hadn’t thought she’d be able to concentrate, but she’d found herself focusing, fascinated, sinking into the experience. After sketching a full hour and realizing that wasn’t nearly enough, she’d sent home a note, and Sean had lit candles, and she’d kept sketching.

She’d captured him, all of him, head to bare toe. Captured his essence, she was sure of it. Her painting instructors had spoken of this, but studying a real, live man had made the difference. Finally, after months and years of trying, it had all clicked into place. She’d come home with page after page of sketches that she knew would help her fix Lincolnshire’s body beneath his clothes.

She wouldn’t see Sean again until the portrait was finished. He’d made it clear, very clear, that he expected her to spend the entire weekend painting. Knowing she needed that time, she hadn’t argued. Much as she would miss seeing him, she had but two days left to paint.

Three hours ago, in the darkness, Sean had walked her to her doorstep, kissed her forehead, and sent her inside to fix the portrait. Instead, without conscious thought, she’d grabbed a blank canvas. In the quiet house, while Griffin and his staff slumbered upstairs, she’d surrounded it with lanterns.

And started another portrait, more vivid than any she’d ever painted before.

Now, in the middle of the night, the picture was pouring out of her, the brush flying over the canvas. Hour by hour, stroke by stroke, the portrait was taking form, coming to life.

Unlike most of the portraits she’d ever seen, this portrait wasn’t posed; it wasn’t contrived; it wasn’t meant to convey the importance of its subject. The gentleman’s clothing wasn’t carefully chosen to indicate his level of status or wealth. He wasn’t meticulously groomed, nor did he hold objects imbued with significance. His gaze didn’t issue a challenge. It didn’t say: Look at me. I’m superior and distinguished.

Instead, the subject reclined half-clothed, sprawled with casual abandon on a sofa upholstered in sumptuous velvet. He held nothing, one arm relaxed along the back edge of the furniture, the other on a bent knee. His shirt had been removed and draped negligently on the sofa, revealing a toned chest and smooth skin that gleamed in the candlelight. His feet were bare, his legs clad in form-fitting trousers. His gaze was focused off-canvas, lost in contemplation. It didn’t say anything direct at all, allowing the viewer to draw his own conclusions.

It was Sean, of course. Sean in a richer version of the garret studio, Sean in Corinna’s mind’s eye. Young, taut golden skin. Crisp black hair. Eyes of the deepest emerald green edging toward black, a shadowed hint of stubble on his chin. All she’d touched, all she’d experienced, all her emotions, all she wanted…

Exposed for all to see.

As she created, snatches of prose tumbled through her mind.

…a passion which virtue cannot sanction or reason justify…

…the soul-soothing certainty of being beloved by him…

…life, without him, would lose far more than half of its charms…

She painted without thinking, only feeling. Flesh tones, candlelight and shade, starched white linen, velvet-dark fabric. The sofa, ruby red and decadent. Richly paneled walls in the background, an exotic carpet underfoot.

Her brush followed the ridge of a thigh, the slope of a shoulder. The jaw, the cheek, the flexed and bended knee. Her insides were melting again. Melting right onto the canvas.

She was going to marry him.

She had a plan now, a solution, something to guarantee Griffin’s cooperation.

This painting.

An hour ago, well into painting it, she’d suddenly realized that all she needed to ensure Griffin’s blessing was to tell him the truth—and prove it. If he knew that Sean had posed for her half-naked in the garret, he’d have to agree to their marriage. If he saw this portrait, he’d insist on it.

He’d insisted Tristan marry Alexandra after they were caught together in her chamber, even though they’d both sworn nothing had happened in her bed. The sight of this portrait would make Griffin think she and Sean had shared a bed, too.

And if she didn’t correct that assumption, well, it would serve him right for jumping to conclusions.

She stepped back and examined her work.

It was spectacular. The portrait looked breathtaking in the lanternlight, like a window into another world. Though still quite unfinished, she had no doubt it would be the most inspired thing she’d ever painted. It was provocative and scandalous and altogether brilliant.

It would be the talk of the Summer Exhibition.

No!

Blinking, she took another step back.

She couldn’t.

If it were selected, it would be hung for all to see. Sean would be mortified. And everyone—Griffin!—would know that he had posed for her half-undressed. It would be like announcing to the world that she and Sean were…

Unless…

Unless nobody knew it was Sean.

What if she were to change the hair color, the eyes? Then no one would recognize him. There might be whispered speculation about the artist’s love interest, but she could laugh it off, because no one would find a young man who looked like him anywhere.

That was an idea. She held her breath, thinking it over.

Was she bold enough to actually go through with it?

As soon as she asked the question, she knew the answer. Or rather, she knew that she’d asked herself the wrong question.

The right question was: Did she want to be an artist, or not?

She was going to forget Lincolnshire’s portrait. Forget her landscapes and still lifes. This would be the painting she submitted for the Summer Exhibition.

The one she wanted to be known for, the one that would launch her career.

Sean was in a beastly mood when he joined Deirdre for breakfast the next morning. A cup of coffee was waiting on the table, strong and black the way he liked it, and she pushed it toward him after he slammed into his chair.

“You look upset,” she said mildly, sipping her tea.

Upset didn’t begin to describe his feelings. It didn’t so much as scratch the surface. Allowing wine and weakness to overcome him last night, he’d kissed Corinna again when he’d promised himself he wouldn’t. And keeping the truth from her was tearing him up inside, like coarse gravel tumbling around in his gut.

He’d been fooling himself all along, of course. There’d never been a chance for him and Corinna. And Deirdre wasn’t going to get her divorce, either. The moment Sean had appeared as Hamilton in public, he’d sealed his sister’s fate. All that was left was seeing Lincolnshire through his last days. There was nothing else of worth he could do.

But he wasn’t going to tell Deirdre any of that.

“Lincolnshire’s sliding downhill again,” he said instead, taking a gulp of the hot, bracing coffee. “He’s too tired to come down and join us.”

“Someone to see you, Mr. Hamilton.” A footman appeared in the doorway. “Your assistant, Mr. Sykes.”

“Mr. Sykes? Send him in. At once. Please,” he added as an afterthought.

“By all means,” the man said, and left.

“Just what I need,” Sean muttered.

Deirdre frowned. “What could he want?”

“I haven’t a clue. But it’s Saturday. Sykes doesn’t work on Saturday. Which means whatever it is can’t be good.”

“You can’t know that. It might not be bad.”

“Maybe it isn’t.”

And maybe the sun would fail to rise tomorrow. Maybe it wouldn’t rain in London for the whole of the summer. Maybe a marquess’s daughter would marry a backwoods Irish nobody.

“Will you shut the door?” he requested when Sykes walked in.

The secretary obliged. ”I apologize for the interruption.”

“I’m certain you’ve a good reason. Do sit down.”

After pulling out a chair, Sykes wasted no time coming to the point. “All of your concerns are being investigated. Inquiries are being made.” He pushed up on his round spectacles. “Not only at your main offices, but at your factories, your shipyards, your—”

“I get the picture,” Sean interrupted.

The timing was awful, but he wasn’t all that surprised.

It was one of those people Sean feared, probably someone he’d done business with. Perhaps someone whose failing enterprise he’d purchased for next to nothing and turned into a success. Or someone whose property he’d bought and improved and made profitable. Or someone whose employees he’d hired and paid better, or…

The possibilities were endless.

He liked to think he was a likable person, if maybe a bit driven. All of his business dealings were honest and straightforward, and, even more important, they were fair. He didn’t cheat people, he didn’t try to wring every penny he could get from them.

But this wasn’t the first time someone had tried to ruin him, and he knew it wouldn’t be the last.

“I’ll get on it.” Downing the rest of his coffee, he pushed back from the table. “If Lincolnshire needs me,” he told Deirdre, “send for me. You know where I’ll be.”

He was out the door, on his way to Delaney & Company’s main offices, before the cup stopped rattling in its saucer.

THIRTY-NINE

Berkeley Square, Saturday 17 May

My dear Cousin,

I have an idea I wish to discuss with you. As I'll be bringing Corinna to the Teddington ball tonight, I hope you will also be attending.

Fondly,

Cainewood

Arriving at the Teddington Ball on Saturday night, Rachael waved to Lady A and looked around for Griffin. She found him in the refreshment room, talking to Juliana.

Or rather, complaining to Juliana.

“I cannot believe she refused to come tonight. How on earth am I supposed to find her a husband?”

“Corinna’s submissions are due on Monday, Griffin. This is important to her.”

“Well, she said she doesn’t want to go to Lady Hartley’s breakfast tomorrow, either, but I won’t hear of it. It’s the event of the season, and I’ve already lined up three young men for her to meet.”

Juliana looked ready to argue, but then she noticed Rachael standing there. “Good evening, Rachael.”

Griffin turned and looked at Rachael, too. Or rather, he skimmed her from her toes on up, his gaze taking in her sky blue silk dress before it reached her face. The rascal. ”What are you doing here?”

“You sent me a note,” she said, confused. “You asked me to come.” What kind of a fool would ask her to come and then ask her why she was here?

“Well, I didn’t ask you to wear a dress like that.”

“It’s a ballgown. This is a ball.” What else was she supposed to wear? “Your note sounded important.” She glanced around at the crush of people. “Is it something we should talk about privately?”

“Let’s go to Lord Teddington’s library.”

“All right.” They’d gone to the library during the Teddingtons’ ball last year, too—in fact, it was where she’d first asked Griffin if he might help her find her father—so she knew exactly where to find it. Slipping inside, she walked over to a leather sofa and sat, irritated that she’d responded to his note. “What did you want to discuss with me?”

Leaving the door open, Griffin joined her on the sofa, sitting sideways to face her. “I thought of something,” he said quietly. “Maybe your grandfather wasn’t the last chance to learn what became of your father. If we can find your mother’s family, perhaps they will know the truth.”

She stared at him. “We cannot find her family.”

“We have a name now. John Cartwright. If we can believe your grandfather’s ramblings, he saved John Cartwright’s life and Cartwright promised his daughter in return. I know your mother called herself Georgiana Woodby, but she must have been Georgiana Cartwright.”

Rachael could see the sense in Griffin’s reasoning. “But even if she was Georgiana Cartwright, she had no family left. There’s no family to find.”

“Maybe that’s not the case. If she gave a false name, she might have told other untruths. She might have had living family, after all.”

“Maybe.” Though the implications made her reel, she was willing to concede the possibility. “But how would you find them with just a name, and such a common one at that?” The man who’d raised her had also been called John, as were many other gentlemen of her acquaintance. John Hamilton, for instance. “There must be a hundred John Cartwrights.” Maybe more.

“But how many of them are titled? At the time of her marriage, your mother was Lady Georgiana, which means her father was an earl at the very least. We can look him up in Debrett’s Peerage. Even if he did die young, the succession will be listed in the pedigree. If you have any living relations, I can find them.”

Of course he could. “I’m a blazing idiot.” It was so simple. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

He shrugged. “I expect your mind was on other things. Your life has been rather traumatic lately. Besides,” he added artlessly, “I’m here to think for you.”

She preferred to think for herself, but she had to admit—if only to herself—that it was comforting to have Griffin’s support. And surprising. Never in a million years had she thought she’d lean on Griffin.

A fellow dumb enough to ask her to a ball and then ask her why she’d come wearing a ballgown.

“I’m going to go home right now and consult Debrett’s,” she said. “Do you want to come with me?”

“There’s no need to go anywhere,” he said, rising from the sofa. “Why do you think I suggested we discuss this in Lord Teddington’s library?”

She was a blazing idiot. Everyone had a copy of Debrett’s. It didn’t take long for Griffin to find the Teddingtons’. He drew it off a shelf and came back with it in his hands, a small but very fat volume bound in deep green leather.

“Here,” he said, handing it to her as he reclaimed his seat by her side. “You look it up.”

With shaking fingers she opened the cover and turned to the table of contents. All they had to go on was a last name.

“There,” Griffin said. “‘Surnames and the Superior Titles of the Peers and Peeresses of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland.’ That’s the section you want.”

“I know,” she said dryly. “I’ve looked in Debrett’s before.” She turned to that section and flipped to the second page, where the Cs were listed. “Cartwright—Avonleigh.”

There was a little e by the listing, indicating Cartwright was an earl. “Your mother’s father was the Earl of Avonleigh,” Griffin said.

“Maybe.” She wouldn’t believe it until she saw her mother’s name in the Earl of Avonleigh’s pedigree. She simply couldn’t make herself believe it.

Although the earls were all listed in one section, they were in no particular order that she’d ever been able to discern, so she went back to the front, where all the titles were indexed.

“Avonleigh,” Griffin said. “There it is. Page two thirty-three.”

“I can read, Griffin.” He may have done all the research up until now, but she could do this. She turned to page 233. “‘Robert Cartwright, Earl of Avonleigh…’” She scanned down past the current earl’s birth and marriage dates. “‘… succeeded his uncle, John, the late earl, born 1739, married 1765 to Aurelia Egerton, daughter of William, Earl of Wilton, by whom he has issue Alice, born 1767, married 1785 to George Egerton, youngest son of John, Earl of Wilton, died 1799; Harold, born 1770, died 1791; Georgiana—’”

She broke off.

“There she is,” Griffin said softly.

“Yes.” There it was, in black and white, her mother’s name.

“What does it say about her?” he prompted.

She swallowed hard and refocused on the tiny print. “‘Georgiana, born 1777, married 1795 to Thomas Grimbald, died 1796.’”

“The year you were born,” he said.

“Yes. She didn’t die. She married my father—Lord Greystone—and had me.” Something seemed to be tugging at her mind. Something significant. Confused again, she glanced up at Griffin.

His green gaze was unfocused, as though he were deep in thought. “Everyone believed she’d died, obviously. She was officially dead. Then she married Greystone and hid herself in the countryside.”

“She pretended she had asthma and couldn’t go to London because the air here was bad for her. She never liked to socialize.”

“Are you sure?” Griffin asked. “I’m thinking she never came to London because someone here might have recognized her. Someone here would have realized she wasn’t actually dead.”

“Maybe,” she said. “That does make sense. Maybe her family was here in London. John Cartwright, the Earl of Avonleigh, my grandfather. And his wife”—she glanced back to the pedigree to find the name—“Aurelia…”

When she trailed off, Griffin laid a gentle hand on her arm. “What?”

“Aurelia, Lady Avonleigh. I don’t believe it.” That was what had been tugging at her mind. “We know her, Griffin! She’s Juliana’s aunt by marriage, one of the ABC sisters. She hosted the art reception for Corinna. She smells of gardenias, like my mother. Lady Avonleigh is my grandmother!”

At ten o’clock,Sean arrived back at Lincolnshire House, exhausted. Deirdre met him at the door and hurried him into what he thought of as the Hamilton drawing room. “What did you learn?” she asked, closing the door.

He shut his eyes, not wanting to see all of Hamilton’s blasted pictures. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I spoke with dozens of my people around London and learned nothing helpful,” he told her, opening his eyes. “Whoever is making inquiries is going about it very discreetly. Asking who owns each place and what sort of fellow I am—but nothing else. Nothing to help me figure out what he’s actually looking for. Or so my people told me.”

“They haven’t any reason to lie to you, have they?”

“I wouldn’t think so, but even good people sometimes do wrong.” Another lesson he’d learned. “They could have been bribed, or…oh, I don’t know. Nothing surprises me anymore.” He wandered to an armchair and dropped onto it.

“What happens now?”

“I’ve asked for reports from the operations farther out, but I won’t be hearing anything back until tomorrow, at the earliest. More likely Monday and later in the week. I’d go interview them myself, but I cannot leave Lincolnshire.”

“You cannot, no.” She patted his shoulder sympathetically. “I’m sorry, little brother.”

It was a chilly night, and someone had laid a fire on the hearth. He stared at the dancing flames for a while, wondering how Corinna was doing with the painting. Wishing she were here. She’d be far more of a comfort to him than Deirdre (though Deirdre was doing her best).

But he didn’t deserve Corinna’s comfort, he reminded himself. He’d be breaking her heart any day now.

“You didn’t send for me,” he said finally. “How is Lincolnshire? I suppose I should go up and talk to him.”

“He’s with Mr. Lawless. His solicitor.”

“Again? This late at night?”

“The man’s been here for hours. I cannot imagine what the two of them are doing in there.”

“Getting Lincolnshire’s affairs in order.” Wishing he could get his affairs in order, Sean sighed and rose. “I’m after going up to bed.”

“Good night. I hope tomorrow will be a better day.”

“I hope so, too,” he said.

But hoping, he knew, never accomplished anything. He was a doer, not a hoper…but there seemed nothing he could do these days to make things right.

FORTY

“I saw her here earlier,” Rachael said, wandering the Teddington ballroom for the second time.

Griffin walked with her, keeping his eyes off her accursed clingy dress. Or at least trying to. “I saw her here as well, I think.” He wasn’t exactly sure which woman was the Dowager Countess of Avonleigh. He realized she was one of the ABC sisters, but Lady C, Juliana’s mother-in-law, was the only one of them he knew at all well. He’d always thought of Lady A and Lady B sort of lumped together. One was plump and one was skinny, but he wasn’t sure which was which. “Has she got some meat on her bones, or is she a stick?”

“Really, Griffin. She’s a perfectly lovely, kind, healthy-looking woman.”

The plump one, then. The other one looked like she hadn't eaten in a week, which couldn't possibly be healthy. “Let’s check the refreshment room again. And then you can check the ladies’ retiring room again.”

“And we should check the garden again, too.” Rachael turned toward the refreshment room, then turned back. “There’s Lady C. I bet she’ll know where her sister went. Lady Cavanaugh!” She waved, and Lady C started walking toward them.

They met her halfway. “You look lovely tonight, dear,” Lady C told her. “That’s a stunning ballgown, and it matches your eyes, which are sparkling like diamonds.”

“Thank you,” Rachael said, her eyes sparkling even more. “I’m looking for your sister, Lady Avonleigh. Do you know where she might have gone off to?”

“I’m afraid she went home, dear.”

“Oh, no. Is she unwell?”

“Not at all. But my sisters are older and don’t stay out as late as they used to, especially since they began helping my son run his Institute. I expect she’s sound asleep by now.” Lady C put a hand on Rachael’s arm. “What did you want with her? Is it something I can help you with?”

“No. I…well, I just need to talk to her. Do you think she’d mind my paying a call on her tomorrow?”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t mind at all,” Lady C said, looking curious but obviously much too polite to press. She pulled her reticule off her wrist and opened it, fishing out a scrap of paper and a pencil. “She lives just off Oxford Street. I’ll write down her direction for you.”

“I know where she lives. I was at her house for Corinna’s art reception.”

“How could I have forgotten that?” With a charming laugh, Lady C dropped the items back into her fancy little purse. “I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you again.”

“Thank you so much,” Rachael said, and waited patiently while Lady C walked off. Or at least, she looked patient. No sooner had the woman got out of earshot than she whirled to Griffin. “Lady Cavanaugh is my aunt—can you believe it? She’s such a nice lady. The wait is going to kill me. Can we visit Lady Avonleigh first thing tomorrow? You’ll come with me, won’t you?”

“I need to take Corinna to Lady Hartley’s breakfast.”

“That doesn’t start until half past one. The best people won’t get there until three o’clock. It isn’t fashionable to arrive at parties on time.”

He’d never understand why a garden party that started after one o’clock was called a breakfast. He ate breakfast every morning at eight. And why on earth was it fashionable to arrive late? But maybe Corinna would be more cooperative if he allowed her to paint until three. “Very well, then. We’ll go see Lady Avonleigh right after church.”

“How about before church?”

“You can’t wake up an old lady to give her this news, Rachael. Or interrupt her toilette. And then no doubt she’ll be in church, and then she’ll want luncheon.” Lady A was the one who liked to eat, after all, and Lady Hartley wouldn’t be serving “breakfast” until the fashionable people arrived. “I’ll pick you up at one o’clock.”

“Then we won’t get to Lady A’s until half past one. What if she’s left for Lady Hartley’s house already?”

“You just told me people won’t arrive until three. Half past noon, then. That ought to be safe.”

“I cannot wait that long.”

“You’ve already waited twenty-one years, remember? I expect you’ll survive.”

“All right,” Rachael muttered, sounding more than disgruntled. But her eyes were still sparkling. She looked better than she had in months, as though she were blossoming, as though a weight had lifted off her shoulders. Not that she’d looked bad before…

She licked her lips.

Hang it, he would really be in trouble now.

“How is it going?” Griffin asked.

Startled, Corinna jumped, then quickly stepped from behind her easel, struggling out of the fog she’d been working in all day.

“All right,” she said, though the painting was going brilliantly.

Although it was faced away from him, she raised her palette before it like a shield. She couldn’t risk Griffin’s seeing it before she’d changed Sean’s hair and eyes—she didn’t want him to know Sean was her model unless he had to know. Unless she had no choice but to tell him. With any luck, Griffin might decide she could marry Sean without ever learning about her “anatomy lessons.”

“I don’t want you to see it until it’s finished.”

He only shrugged. He’d never cared overmuch about her art. “I’m glad to hear it’s going well. I want you to attend Lady Hartley’s breakfast tomorrow.”

“I’m not going, Griffin. I already told you that. How was the Teddington ball?”

“It went well. I lined up four gentlemen there for you to meet tomorrow. You should go up to bed now, so you’ll be fresh.”

She glanced toward the clock on the drawing room’s mantel. “It’s only one in the morning, and you know I rarely stop painting before three. And I don’t need to be fresh tomorrow, because I’m not going to the breakfast.”

“How about if we compromise and you paint until three o’clock tomorrow afternoon? That sounds fair, doesn’t it? It’s the event of the season.”

“The Summer Exhibition is the event of my life.” He was such a brother. And a bother. She decided to change the subject. “Have you asked Mr. Delaney’s advice yet regarding property management?”

“I’ve been too busy. And why do you care?” His eyes narrowed. “Juliana asked me about Mr. Delaney, too. You’re not interested in him, are you?”

She wondered whether he would consider that a good thing or a bad one. “Interested in what way?”

“As a suitor. A potential husband.”

She still couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Better to play it safe, she decided; better he should get to know Sean before she admitted anything. “Of course not. I just remembered you’d said you wanted to talk to him, and I wondered if you had yet, that’s all.” She hoped that when he did talk to Sean he’d be impressed. “Now leave me alone, Griffin. I need to paint. And I’m not going to Lady Hartley’s breakfast.”

“I’ll send our regrets,” he gritted out, and then, as he walked off, Corinna heard him mutter, “Why do girls always seem to get the best of me?”

Fog-free for the first time all day, she returned to her easel to examine her progress. It really was coming along brilliantly, she thought, smiling. Just brilliantly.

But oh, my.

This was one extremely sensual painting.

It wasn’t due to the model’s state of undress—after all, artists had been depicting the human form for thousands of years, and besides, he was only uncovered from the waist up. No, what made the picture shocking wasn’t the bare skin…it was the emotions laid bare on the canvas.

It was obvious—in fact, the painting positively screamed—that the artist was in love with her subject. Wildly, passionately in love. The painting was a moony-eyed vision of the world.

She decided no one besides the committee should see it before it was hung. Yes, it was her best work ever, and yes, nudity in art was nothing new, but regardless, showing the portrait to her friends and family would be risky. Even though they were lovely, relatively broad-minded people, she felt certain they’d have trouble supporting her in this. Society was barely beginning to tolerate ladies painting regular, fully-clothed portraits, let alone sensual, half-nude ones! And even though he wouldn’t recognize Sean, she shuddered to think how Griffin would react…

But after all was said and done, after her work had been honored by the Selection Committee, it would be a different story. Surely he would be proud of her then.

Wouldn’t he?

Thanks heavens Lady A had offered to go with her to deliver it. She’d have to cover it up so the dear woman wouldn’t be able to inspect it in the carriage. Then somehow get through the submission process without her ever seeing it.

How she’d manage that, she couldn’t imagine, but she’d worry about that later. After the painting was finished, after she’d changed Sean’s hair and eyes.

Until then, she wanted him just as he looked now, she thought, raising her brush to the canvas and letting the fog close in again.

FORTY-ONE

“Did you not sleep well?” Deirdre asked when Sean slammed into the breakfast room again Sunday morning.

“I didn’t sleep at all.”

He’d spent the entire night alternating between worrying about Delaney & Company and arguing with himself over whether to devastate Corinna now or let her paint in peace.

There was nothing he could do about the former that he wasn’t already doing. He knew that. As for the latter, he also knew what was kinder to Corinna. But it didn’t feel kind to himself.

The gravel had torn his insides to a pulp.

Still deliberating, he gulped down coffee and little else, then stomped upstairs to play nephew to Lincolnshire.

Coming to a halt in the earl’s doorway, he listened to the man’s ragged snores for a long minute. “How is he doing?” he finally asked Mrs. Skeffington quietly.

Sadness etched on her face, the nurse shook her head.

The ragged snores ceased, making them both turn. “Cainewood?” Lincolnshire croaked.

“I’m here, Uncle.” Sean walked closer and touched the man’s hand, wincing when his fingers left indentations in the swollen flesh. “It’s Sean.”

Lincolnshire slitted his eyes, but just for a bare moment. “Cainewood?”

“He’s not here, Uncle. But I am.”

“Wake me…when…Cainewood…arrives,” he wheezed again, and drifted off.

Sean looked to Mrs. Skeffington. “He thought I was Cainewood. Is he delirious, then?”

“Not delirious, but very tired. He was up quite late last night, closeted with his solicitor. And I fear…” She sighed and shook her head again. “I cannot say it.”

Sean also feared the earl’s time was short. “I cannot say it, either,” he muttered. “Why would he want to see Cainewood?”

She shrugged. “Lord Lincolnshire asked for the marquess last night. Instructed Mr. Lawless to summon him first thing in the morning. I expect he wants to say good-bye. They’ve been neighbors for twenty-six years, after all, since the marquess was born.” She forced a smile and patted Sean’s hand with her own sturdy one. “I’ll watch your uncle, Mr. Hamilton. You go paint. There’s nothing you can do for him now.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Perhaps I will.” The earl didn’t seem to want or need him right at the moment. He wouldn’t paint, of course, but he might go talk to Corinna or return to his offices. See if any reports had come in yet from outside London. “Please ask my wife to send for me if my uncle has need of me. She’ll know where to find me.”

He went downstairs and asked a footman to see that his curricle was brought round. As he headed for the door, the knocker banged, and Quincy opened it to reveal Corinna’s brother.

Cainewood stood stiffly, his arms folded behind him. He looked impatient, or maybe furious. Sean didn’t know him well enough to be sure which, but he was worn down and muddled from sleeplessness and guilt—guilt over lying to (and sneaking around with) Cainewood’s sister. Had the marquess somehow found out?

For one wild moment, he expected Cainewood was hiding a pistol behind his back.

“It won’t happen again,” he blurted out.

As Cainewood raised his hands, Sean’s last thought was: She was worth it.

Until he saw that the hands were, of course, empty. Then he thought: I’m an idiot.

Cainewood frowned down at the watch fob he’d lifted in order to check the time. “I beg your pardon?” he said absently.

Sean blew out a breath, remembering Lincolnshire. “The earl has been asking for you.”

“Yes, his solicitor summoned me. I don’t know why. But I’ve another appointment this morning, so I’m hoping this won’t take long.”

“I think he just wants to say good-bye,” Sean assured him, moving past him.

On the street, waiting for his curricle, he found his gaze drifting to the town house with the blue door on the west side of the square. As though drawn by unseen cords, he walked toward it, stopping on the pavement in front of the large window that fronted the drawing room.

Corinna wasn’t in the drawing room, of course. It wasn’t even ten o’clock, and she slept until noon unless someone offered her a kiss for getting up early. Her easel was visible, though, so he walked closer to have a look at how Lincolnshire’s portrait was coming along. But it sat sideways, and the painting was covered by a crisp white sheet.

And it wasn’t finished. He knew that. She’d use every minute she had left before it was due. It wouldn’t be finished before tomorrow, which meant he couldn’t devastate her until then. He couldn’t wake her—that wouldn’t be fair.

He needed to see this thing through the right way, he lectured himself, heading back to where his curricle waited. He’d known that all along. There had been no use losing sleep over a decision so obvious.

Lady Avonleigh’s town house was near all of Oxford Street’s many shops. As Griffin banged the knocker, Rachael couldn’t help hoping that Lady A might invite her to visit often. They could go shopping and get to know each other. It would be such fun. She’d never had any living grandparents to spend time with—at least, not any she’d known of.

The butler who answered the door looked as old as Lady A and Lady B put together. “Yes?” he croaked.

“I’ve come to call on Lady Avonleigh,” Rachael said.

He cleared his throat. “She’s not here. She’s left for Lady Hartley’s breakfast.”

“But it’s not even one o’clock.”

He shrugged his bony shoulders. “She doesn’t like to be late, my lady.”

Her heart sinking, she swiveled to Griffin. “I told you we should have come first thing in the morning.”

When he also shrugged, she couldn’t help noticing his shoulders were much wider than the butler’s. “I don’t mind waiting,” he said.

“Lady Hartley’s breakfast will probably last until midnight! It’s the event of the season.”

“We’ll change our clothes, then, and go to the breakfast.”

“I’ve already sent my regrets. And it’s in a garden, under a tent. There will be no place to talk privately.”

“We could walk with Lady Avonleigh in the garden.”

“Any number of people might be walking as well and overhear us.”

“Then we could take her into Lady Hartley’s house.”

“You cannot go into someone’s house during a garden party, Griffin. It’s not polite to go where you’re not invited.”

“Juliana went into Lady Hartley’s house during last year’s breakfast,” he pointed out.

“And look what happened! It was the scandal of the season!” When it came to the social niceties, men didn’t know anything. She sighed. “We’ll come back tomorrow. In the morning.”

FORTY-TWO

As the clock on the mantel struck ten on Sunday night, Corinna dipped her smallest brush in coffee-colored paint and carefully covered the green irises on her canvas. Over the next quarter hour, she added black pupils, curvature, depth and highlights, and glints where the flame of a candle reflected.

Blowing out a breath, she stepped back.

Sean’s eyes were brown now, and the portrait was done.

She’d already changed his dark hair to a streaky blond, made it a little wavier and a little longer, made it positively glow in the candlelight. The rest of the picture remained the same—the informal pose; the sculpted, faintly stubbled face; the gorgeous body; the heart-stopping gaze—but she was sure no one would recognize Sean now.

The painting was going to be a sensation.

Blond or black-haired, brown-eyed or green, the portrait looked compelling. Captivating. Spellbinding. Seductive. Like Sean himself.

She’d never completed such a large painting in only two days before, and she could hardly believe she was finished. The hours had sped by in such a frenzy since late Friday night. But done was done, and there was no sense in fiddling with it any longer. She’d be as likely to ruin it as she was to improve it.

Although she couldn’t show it to Sean, of course—she wasn’t yet ready for anyone, including him, to learn he was her portrait’s inspiration—she couldn’t wait to tell him it was complete. He’d be so surprised to hear she’d finished half a day early. Bursting with happiness and excitement and energy, she hefted the canvas off her easel and started upstairs, holding it at arm’s length, where she could smile at it as she went.

She was hauling it down the corridor toward her bedroom when the door to Griffin’s study opened. Whirling to face him, she watched him raise his hands to grip the jamb on either side of his head. Such a casual pose, when she was feeling her heart pound in her throat.

“What are you doing, Corinna?”

“Bringing this to my room. I’m finished.”

“Are you?” He looked pleased. Probably because he could get back to shoving men at her now. “Let’s see it,” he said, moving into the corridor.

“No!” In reaction, she pulled the canvas closer to her body, nearly smearing paint against her apron. She’d have killed him if that had happened, just killed him. “Not yet. It isn’t varnished yet.”

Artists rarely varnished their paintings before submitting them to the Summer Exhibition. There was a tradition called Varnishing Day, after the selected pictures were hung but before the Exhibition opened, when all the artists came to make last minute changes and coat their works in varnish.

“I don’t want anyone to see it until after it’s varnished,” she added. “If it’s accepted, you can see it in the Exhibition.”

“Well, that’s just silly.”

She shrugged. “I’m an artist, temperamental and all that.” She began backing down the corridor. “I’m going to put this in my room now, and you’d better not go looking at it.”

It was his turn to shrug, as though he couldn’t be bothered to walk that far to look at a silly painting. He backed into his study, and she backed into her room and closed the door behind her. After leaning the painting against a wall, facing in, she covered it with a sheet. Then she balanced a hairpin precariously on the top edge, where it would be knocked off if anyone disturbed it.

There, she thought with a grin.

Impatient to see Sean, she ripped off her apron, smoothed her dress, left her room, and poked her head into Griffin’s study. “I’m going to tell Lord Lincolnshire his portrait is finished,” she said, although, of course, it wasn’t.

Scribbling on some paperwork, Griffin didn’t look up. “Lincolnshire will be sleeping now, Corinna.”

“Maybe, but maybe not. I won’t wake him. If he’s sleeping, I’ll go back in the morning.”

“Take a footman with you. I won’t have you walking alone in Berkeley Square in the middle of the night.”

She rolled her eyes. ”I’m not the ninnyhammer you seem to think I am,” she informed him. “I won’t be long.” Then she all but ran down the stairs, pausing just long enough to request a footman before running all the way to Lincolnshire House. Leaving the footman panting at Lincolnshire’s gate, she lifted her skirts, raced up the portico steps, and banged the knocker.

Quincy answered. “Good evening.”

“I wish a word with Mr. Hamilton.”

“I’m sorry, but he’s not at home, milady.”

“He isn’t? Oh.” Disappointment was a sudden ache in her middle. How many hours must intervene ere she could press him to her throbbing heart, as the sweet partner of her future days? She gave her head a little shake to dispel Children of the Abbey. “I’ll return tomorrow then, I guess.”

She had just started to turn away when Deirdre came to the door. “Lady Corinna?”

Turning back, she dredged up a smile. “I was hoping to see your…your husband, Mrs. Hamilton. I have something exciting to tell him.”

“He’s been gone all day. A wee bit of trouble with his, ah…his latest painting.” Deirdre slanted a look at Quincy. “Would you care to come in?”

“Is Lord Lincolnshire awake?”

“I fear not.” Sean’s sister sighed. “He spent the morning closeted with his solicitor yet again. Then he complained of some pain—claimed the Regent was sitting on his chest again or some such thing. He passed out for a moment, then woke and fell asleep. He’s been sleeping ever since.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Corinna said, the ache of disappointment growing sharper. “I’ll return tomorrow, when I hope he’ll be better.”

Deirdre nodded and took a step back to allow Quincy to shut the door.

“Wait,” Corinna said, remembering something. “I’ve a question, if you wouldn’t mind. About a word or a phrase I’m thinking might be Irish.”

“Is that so?” Coming forward again, Deirdre looked curious. “What is it, then?”

“Cooshla-macree. Does that mean something? Or is it only a few syllables of nonsense?”

Sean’s sister frowned a moment before her expression cleared. “Cuisle mo chroí,” she repeated, the words sounding a bit different as they rolled off her tongue. “It means ‘pulse of my heart.’ Or ‘sweetheart,’ I suppose you might say.”

“Sweetheart,” Corinna breathed. “How about creena?”

“Críona, ‘my heart.’”

“Ahroon?”

“A rún, ‘my love.’” Sean’s sister cocked her pretty blond head. “I find myself wondering where you heard these words, I do confess.”

“I expect you know.” Bursting with happiness once more, Corinna gave a startled Deirdre an impulsive hug before she ran back home.

FORTY-THREE

Sean didn’t slam into the breakfast room Monday morning. He was much too drained, much too discouraged for so much emotion. At half past seven, he simply walked in and slowly sat down, feeling brittle, as though his bones might crack in the process.

Deirdre slid his cup of coffee toward him just as slowly. “No good news?”

“No news at all.” He reached for the cup but didn’t drink from it, just cradled its warmth between his palms. “No helpful news, at any rate. Maybe today.”

She sipped her tea, watching him. “Lady Corinna came by to see you last night before you returned. Late, but I hadn’t yet gone up to bed. She seemed rather…excited. Out of breath. She must have run all the way here from her house. She said she had something to tell you.”

“Her painting must be finished,” he said glumly. She’d completed it half a day early, which meant it must have gone well. But it also meant it was time to explain the facts.

“You don’t sound happy for her. It’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

“Sure, and it’s excellent.” Now he could devastate the love of his life.

They both glanced over as the door opened. “Mr. Hamilton?”

A maid entered. The one who’d shown Sean upstairs the first day he arrived, the little bird of a middle-aged woman who’d informed him Lincolnshire was the most wonderful man in all of England.

Today she looked like an old woman, her face drawn in tight lines. “Nurse Skeffington asked me to fetch you,” she said. “Your uncle is dying.”

In her family’s Lincoln’s Inn Fields town house, Rachael was going downstairs to have breakfast when her brother started up. “Oh, there you are,” Noah said. “I was coming to look for you.”

“You’re up and about early.” Pausing on the steps, she noted he was wearing shoes rather than boots, and a double-breasted tailcoat rather than a riding coat. “And isn’t it Monday morning, Noah?”

“Of course it is, yes.”

“I thought all you horse-mad young bucks met at Tattersall’s on Mondays to settle your accounts. Or is Monday an auction day? Either way, you always seem to head for Tattersall’s every Monday, but you’re not dressed for that.”

“Maybe I’m not horse-mad anymore,” he suggested, a challenge in his blue eyes.

Hearing a challenge in his voice, too, she wondered if he could possibly be serious. “You’re off to your club, then, I expect?”

“No, I’m not.” Noah lifted his square chin. “I was hoping you’d come with me to Oxford Street. To Robert Gillow and Company, to be more precise, to pick out a new desk.”

“Did you say a desk?” She must have heard him wrong. “What kind of a desk?”

“An oak one, I’m thinking. Something sturdy, in any case, with many drawers. The one in the study seems to be growing rather rickety.”

“I imagine it’s a hundred years old, at the very least. But however did you come to notice it’s rickety?”

He rolled his eyes. “I used it, Rachael. Is that such a surprise?”

“Frankly, yes.” Surprise seemed too mild a word—she was positively shocked. First he’d asked for an inventory at Greystone, and now this. Could it be her little brother was growing up? At twenty, he was looking like a man, but was he actually becoming one?

“Well?” he asked, still looking like a man, but one who was rather annoyed. “Will you come with me or not?”

“Oh, I wish I could.” The sight of Noah inspecting desks rather than horseflesh was bound to be a spectacle. But she expected Griffin to arrive in half an hour. “I’ve other plans for today, I’m afraid, but let me talk to Claire and Elizabeth about going with you to Gillow’s instead.”

“Lord Lincolnshire!” Corinna called excitedly. “Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton!”

She hurried toward Lord Lincolnshire’s bedroom, having been told at the front door that Sean and Deirdre were with him. She’d risen at the crack of dawn this morning and come before even eating breakfast, because she couldn’t wait a moment longer to share her news.

“I finished my portrait!” she announced, stopping in the doorway. “I’m going to submit it this…”

The sentence trailed off when she saw her brother-in-law James by the bed, leaning over the earl with his stethoscope. All her excitement dissipated along with the words.

“… afternoon,” she finished in a small voice. “How is he?”

Sean rose from where he sat by Deirdre. “I think Lord Stafford is just about finished and ready to tell us.”

“I am, yes.” James drew the covers up to the earl’s chin and straightened, looking grim. “I fear the end is imminent. He may last the night, but not any longer. I don’t believe he’ll wake, either. He’ll likely just continue like this until his breathing and his heart simply stop. I’m sorry,” he concluded with a sigh. “We’ll all miss him.”

Corinna looked back to the huge crimson-draped bed where Lord Lincolnshire slumbered, propped upright against a dozen pillows. When the covers were down, she’d noticed his belly appeared swollen now, along with the rest of him. His skin looked tight and wet, as though it were weeping fluid. Gurgling noises came from his throat.

Her heart sank even lower. “That sounds dreadful. He must be suffering so.”

“He sounds like that because his lungs are filling,” James explained gently. “But he’s sleeping. I don’t think he’s really suffering in the sense you imagine.” He dropped the stethoscope in his leather bag and snapped it closed, looking to Sean. “I can stay if you wish, but there isn’t anything I can do. It’s only a matter of time now.”

“I understand,” Sean said. “We won’t be needing you to stay, though I appreciate the offer. I’ll be with him.”

“I’ll stay with him, too,” Deirdre added softly. “And Nurse Skeffington will be back within the hour.”

“All right, then.” James moved to Corinna and lightly kissed her cheek. “I’m sorry,” he said again, and left.

For a moment, Corinna just gazed at Lord Lincolnshire. Hot tears pricked her eyes. Deirdre rose and came to place a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sure he knows you finished his portrait.”

Guilt flooded her. She hadn’t finished it. But she would. She’d promised to paint his final portrait, and she’d follow through with that. She had only to fix the underlying anatomy, and she knew how to do that now. His portrait wouldn’t be exhibited at the Royal Academy, but it would hang here at Lincolnshire House.

Which would be John Hamilton’s house, unfortunately. At that thought, a rush of anger tempered her guilt. But it would be Deirdre’s house, too, at least until she got her divorce, and that helped a little.

She raised a hand to touch Deirdre’s where it rested on her shoulder. “Thank you for saying that.”

“Which other pictures will you submit along with the portrait today?” Sean asked.

“I’m not submitting any other pictures,” she told him, turning to him. “I’ve decided to submit the portrait alone.” She neglected to mention it wasn’t the one he expected. “It’s my best work, the painting I wish to exhibit as my debut. If it isn’t chosen, I’ll try again next year.”

“It’s pleased I am to hear you’re that happy with the way it turned out,” he said.

But he didn’t look pleased. Or sound pleased.

At all.

“I’m sorry you’re losing Lord Lincolnshire,” she said, her heart breaking for him. “I know you’ve grown close.”

He nodded. “I need to talk to you about something. Something important. Not here, though,” he said, slanting a glance to his sister. “Later.”

“Take her out of the room,” Deirdre said. “I’ll stay with Lord Lincolnshire.” When he hesitated, she added, “Go,” and waved a hand. “Lord Stafford said he might last the whole night. Nothing will be happening in a few minutes.”

After hesitating a moment more, Sean took Corinna’s arm and drew her out and down the corridor. But when he turned to her, he didn’t say anything. He just looked at her, his heart in his deep green eyes.

“What is it?” she asked. Remembering he’d called her sweetheart and my heart and my love, she raised a hand to his cheek. “You look so sad.”

“I am sad.” Turning his face, he raised his own hand to hold hers to his mouth and pressed a warm kiss to her palm before releasing it. “I’m very sad, Corinna. I cannot do this standing outside Lincolnshire’s bedroom. Will you meet me at Hamilton’s studio one last time?”

“Of course.” She’d soothe his sadness then, show him how much she loved him. She’d kiss him and…he was right: None of that could happen here. “What time?”

“In an hour,” he said, and then: “No. I need to stay with Lincolnshire right now. I’d never forgive myself if he—”

“I understand.” He looked tortured. “James said Lord Lincolnshire wouldn’t last the night, and you need to be with him until then. And I need to submit my portrait later this afternoon. How about tomorrow?”

“That’s too long…but all right.”

“I don’t want to wait that long, either.” It seemed so very long since they’d last been together. Only two and a half days, but it felt like forever.

“Shall we say ten o’clock?” he asked.

“All the ladies are visiting Aunt Frances tomorrow at eleven, but I can—”

“Let’s make it in the afternoon, then.” He shut his eyes briefly, then opened them with a sigh. “This will probably be best,” he said as though trying to convince himself. “I’ll spend the morning making arrangements for Lincolnshire’s funeral.”

“But you won’t need to play his nephew once he’s gone,” she said, then clapped a hand over her mouth.

He glanced quickly around, but fortunately no servants had overheard. Looking relieved, he ran his hands slowly down her arms, then linked his fingers with hers, lacing them together. “I owe him that, at least,” he said softly. “And who else is going to do it?”

He was so good. And he looked even more upset. She didn’t want to wait until tomorrow afternoon to comfort him. She couldn’t kiss him here outside Lincolnshire’s bedroom, but she slipped her arms around him, squeezing him tight. “This will all be over soon,” she murmured against his chest, thinking much better times lay ahead.

“Yes,” he said in a flat tone. “It will.”

FORTY-FOUR

Half an hour later, Griffin found himself on Lady Avonleigh’s doorstep again. In the morning.

The ancient butler opened the door. “Yes?” he croaked.

“I’ve come to call on Lady Avonleigh,” Rachael said.

He cleared his throat. “She’s left the house, milady.”

“I don’t believe this!” She turned to Griffin. “We should have come earlier.”

He’d picked her up at nine o’clock, and now it was half past. “How much earlier could we have come?” He’d been sure they’d be dragging poor Lady A from her bed. In his experience, ladies slept until at least ten. Except Corinna, who slept until at least noon. “What time does Lady Avonleigh rise?” he asked the old geezer at the door.

“Six o’clock,” Lady Balmforth said, apparently having overheard them and come to see what was up. She looked curious. “When you get to a certain age, dear, you won’t sleep late in the morning, either.”

“Good morning, Lady Balmforth,” Rachael said before swinging to Griffin again. “I told you we should have come earlier.”

“We’ll come earlier tomorrow.” With any luck, he wouldn’t receive another surprise summons from Lincolnshire.

“I’m not waiting until tomorrow. We’ll wait here today.”

Yesterday he’d been willing to wait, and she hadn’t wanted to. Today he’d assumed she wanted to leave, but she wanted to wait. He would never understand women. “Fine,” he said, “we’ll wait.”

“Well, maybe we shouldn’t wait.” She turned to Lady B. “When will Lady Avonleigh be back?”

“Aurelia is assisting our James today at his Institute,” Lady B said. “Then she’s accompanying Lady Corinna to the Royal Academy this afternoon.”

“Thunderation,” Rachael said softly, making the older woman’s eyes widen at her language. “I’d forgotten about that. The two of them planned that right in front of me, too, when we were visiting Lady Malmsey and the new baby.”

Lady B briefly touched Rachael’s hand. “My sister will be at home for a short while in between. She told our nephew she had to leave before luncheon.” The skinny lady leaned closer. “Aurelia never likes to miss her luncheon.”

Griffin stifled a snort of laughter.

“What did you want to talk to my sister about?” Lady B asked, looking very curious. “Is it important?”

Rachael nodded. “Very. But I…well…you’re welcome to listen, but I’d rather wait until Lady Avonleigh is here to talk about it.”

Lady Balmforth looked even more curious. “If it’s that important, perhaps you ought to send Lady Corinna a note, saying she should find someone else to accompany her to Somerset House.”

“That’s an excellent idea,” Rachael said, “but I think you need to write the note. That way Corinna won’t be suspicious about what I’m doing with Lady Avonleigh.”

“She’s not going to be suspicious,” Griffin said.

“Yes, she is. Your sisters aren’t stupid, Griffin.”

“Why don’t you just tell them the truth?”

“I’m still not ready,” Rachael said.

And Lady Balmforth looked very, very curious. “I think we’d better send for Cornelia, too,” she said.

At one o’clock,Corinna came downstairs with a footman carrying her painting, which she’d framed—by borrowing one off a family portrait—and wrapped in brown paper. “I need a hackney coach,” she told Adamson, their butler. “My brother took the carriage, and I must pick up Lady Avonleigh.”

Though Adamson was a very short man, he prided himself on being quite dignified and proper. “I don’t know if that’s wise, Lady Corinna.”

“It’s necessary. Please hail a hackney.”

“Lord Cainewood has been gone since the morning. He’s likely to be home soon.”

She was early, true. It wouldn’t take an hour to reach Lady A’s house, and the woman had said two o’clock. But she was too anxious to wait. “Hail a hackney,” she repeated, and paused before adding, “now.”

He hemmed and hawed and clucked his tongue, clearly reluctant to put Lord Cainewood’s sister in a hackney coach. Corinna crossed her arms, knowing he would eventually comply. But before that happened, the knocker banged, and Adamson opened the door to reveal a messenger with a letter.

“Ah,” the butler said, looking not at all displeased to have an excuse to put off hailing a cab. “It’s directed to you, Lady Corinna.”

She grabbed it and broke the seal, swiftly scanning the missive.

My Dear Lady Corinna,

I am sorry to inform you that circumstances prevent my sister, Lady Avonleigh, from accompanying you to the Royal Academy this afternoon. Unfortunately, I cannot do so in her place. Please accept my sincerest apologies.

Yours sincerely,

Lady Balmforth

“Circumstances? What’s that supposed to mean?” Corinna sighed. “It seems I need paper instead of a hackney. I must send a note to Alexandra.”

FORTY-FIVE

“I don’t know where to begin, Lady Avonleigh.”

Rachael hadn’t expected to be nervous. But now that Lady A was finally home and they were all seated in her peach drawing room, she didn’t know what to say.

Sitting across from her in a peach wing chair, Lady A gave her a kind smile. “Through the years I’ve learned what’s important. Both of my sisters are here, and I just came from seeing James, which means all the people I love most are healthy. I cannot imagine anything you could tell me that could be so terribly bad.”

“Oh, it isn’t bad.” Rachael clenched her hands in her lap. “At least, I’m hoping you won’t think it’s bad. I’m hoping you’ll think—”

“Say it already,” Griffin interjected, sitting on the sofa beside her. He’d seemed a bit annoyed that they’d had to wait so long, but that was his fault; if they’d come early, as she’d wanted to, they wouldn’t have had to wait at all. “Good gracious, I’ve never seen you so flustered. You’re always so levelheaded and composed.”

Was that what he thought? She’d never felt like that inside. But she rather liked him seeing her that way. And he was right: She needed to just say it.

“You’re my grandmother,” she told Lady Avonleigh in a rush. “I’m Georgiana’s daughter.”

Lady A looked at her. Her face went white, and from across the room she just looked at Rachael, staring at her in a way that made her feel very uneasy. It was terribly awkward. She’d been picturing Lady Avonleigh welcoming her with open arms. She’d been picturing them shopping together.

Griffin leaned closer. “Maybe she’s a bit peeved because she hasn’t had her luncheon yet,” he whispered.

What a stupid comment. Rachael was about to elbow him when Lady Balmforth finally broke the silence. “You cannot be Georgiana’s daughter,” she said, not unkindly. “Our Georgiana jumped off the London Bridge.”

“She must have pretended to jump off the London Bridge and then run away and married my father. I mean, not my real father, but the man who raised me.”

The awkward silence resumed. Rachael glanced back to Lady A, but her grandmother was still just looking at her. No matter how much she wanted to be welcomed with open arms, it was clear that wasn’t going to happen. Griffin wrapped one of his own arms around her shoulders, and she leaned into him, taking the comfort he offered, forgiving him for being annoyed and saying the stupid things he often said.

“Who is that, dear?” Lady Cavanaugh asked. “Who was the father who raised you?”

“John Chase,” Rachael replied. “The Earl of Greystone.”

And Lady Avonleigh suddenly came to life. “What did you say?”

“John Chase, the Earl—”

“Oh, my goodness!” she squealed, and then she leapt from her chair and rushed over to the sofa and welcomed Rachael with open arms. Probably the most welcoming arms Rachael had ever felt. They clung together, and Rachael inhaled her grandmother’s gardenia perfume, remembering her mother smelling the same.

Griffin moved to Lady A’s chair so she could share the sofa with her granddaughter. Tears ran down both their faces, and they just held on to each other for a good long while. Until Lady B leaned over and tapped her older sister on the shoulder.

“What convinced you?” she demanded.

“My daughter was in love with John Chase,” Lady A said tearily. At last she released Rachael and held her hand tightly instead. “My husband and I wouldn’t let her marry him.”

“That’s right!” Lady C exclaimed. “I’d forgotten.”

The whole story came out.

John Cartwright had been a second son. While a young man in the army before his marriage, a soldier named Thomas Grimbald had saved his life on a battlefield in Germany during the Seven Years’ War. Cartwright had granted the man a boon, and Grimbald wanted his newborn son married to the aristocrat’s firstborn daughter. After Cartwright’s older brother died, he’d sold out of the military and become the Earl of Avonleigh and married Aurelia. They’d had a daughter, Alice, who was promised to Grimbald’s son. And a son, who’d sadly drowned at twenty-one, and another daughter, Georgiana.

“How did Georgiana end up married to Grimbald,” Griffin asked, “if Alice was promised to him?”

“Alice fell in love with her cousin,” Lady A explained. “Her father forbade her to marry him, but they eloped to Gretna Green. Then my husband cut her out of our lives. I’ve heard she eventually died, but I’ve never really known what happened to her—”

“I know!” Rachael said. “I knew Aunt Alice. We saw her all the time. I know what happened to her. She had a child before she died, a little boy named Edmund.” She wouldn’t tell Lady A that the child had been crippled and unable to talk. Not now, at least. “After that, Mama raised Edmund, but he, too, died a few years later.”

Her grandmother’s eyes glazed with tears. “Was she happy in her marriage, my Alice?”

“I think so. I was young when she passed away, but she never seemed unhappy to me.” Even though having Edmund must have been heartbreaking. “She and Mama visited often. They loved each other very much. And I loved Aunt Alice, too.” She squeezed her grandmother’s hand. “Go on, please.”

But it seemed Lady A couldn’t. “I’m so happy to know Alice and Georgiana were together,” she whispered, and waved her free hand toward her sisters.

With a teary smile, Lady C took over the story. “After Alice failed to follow through with the betrothal, Georgiana was next in line. When she turned sixteen, she begged for one London season before marrying Grimbald—”

“I never had been able to deny her anything,” Lady A interrupted. “Georgiana was the sweetest child.”

“I’m sure she was,” Rachael said. Maybe Mama had lied to her—a lie by omission—but she’d loved Rachael and her siblings dearly. She’d been a wonderful mother. In the past months, it seemed she’d forgotten that. “She loved you, too, Lady Avon—”

“Grandmama. Please call me Grandmama.”

Rachael’s heart swelled. “She loved you, too, Grandmama. She always wore gardenia perfume. I think that must have been because she missed you. Did she meet my father that season?”

Her grandmother waved a hand again, overtaken by emotion.

“That’s when she met John Chase, yes,” Lady B said. “She begged to marry him, but my sister’s husband wouldn’t hear of it. He’d made a promise and had no other daughters left to satisfy his debt to the man who had saved his life. Georgiana hadn’t seen her sister in seven years, and she didn’t want to disobey her parents and end up estranged like Alice. So she reluctantly agreed to go through with the ceremony.”

“That sounds like Mama,” Rachael said. “What happened then?”

Her grandmother was recovered enough to continue. “Like his father, Grimbald was an army man. He took a leave of absence to wed Georgiana and got her with child right away. Then he went back to his regiment, and she came home to London to live with us.” Her voice dropped. “She didn’t love him, so she didn’t mind, really, and she was so looking forward to having her baby.”

“Me,” Rachael whispered.

“Yes. And then she received a letter saying her husband had been executed for treason. No details. She was furious with us, I’m afraid, for making her abandon her love and wed a traitor. She wrote a suicide note and jumped off the London Bridge, taking her baby with her. Her body was never found.”

“Because she didn’t jump off the London Bridge,” Griffin said, “no matter that the note said she would. She ran to the countryside and married John Chase instead.”

They could only guess what had happened after that. She hadn’t wanted her baby to grow up as the child of a traitor. She’d claimed she was Georgiana Woodby, a commoner, and stayed far away from London in order to avoid ever seeing her parents. Far away from any social situation, to avoid running into anyone she might have known in her previous life.

“Did she have asthma?” Rachael asked.

“Not at all,” Lady Avonleigh said. “She was the healthiest of all my children.”

“I thought so,” Rachael said with a sigh. “So no one ever learned what had become of my real father. How he came to be labeled a traitor.” She sighed again, but supposed it wasn’t all that important. She’d been making much too much of the whole thing. Her mother had only wanted to protect her from being tainted by her father’s shame, and she had new family now, and—

“Oh, I know what happened,” her grandmother said. “After my younger daughter’s death, I paid a visit to Grimbald’s father.”

“My grandfather? I met him at the Royal Hospital. But—”

“He’s lost his mind, poor man, yes. But I talked to him a long time before that.” Lady Avonleigh—Grandmama—shifted on the sofa to face Rachael and took her other hand. “It wasn’t all that bad, my dear. If Georgiana had known, she might have forgiven him. Although I suspect she would never have loved him. She was in love with the Earl of Greystone.”

Rachael’s parents—the two she’d grown up with—had been very much in love. No matter how angry she’d been with her mother, she’d never forgotten that. “What did Grimbald do?” she asked. “What did he do that wasn’t so bad?”

“It was during the war against the colonies in North America, just three years after Georgiana was born. He was much older than she was, you see—probably another reason she preferred the earl. In any event, he and a fellow soldier, one William Smith, killed a British officer to keep him from murdering a number of American civilians. They managed to convince the authorities that the man was shot by a revolutionary. And all was well for fifteen years, until Smith fell ill in 1795 and revealed in a deathbed confession that the two of them had killed the officer.”

“But if they killed him to save innocent people,” Rachael said, looking to Griffin, “the officer might have been a bad man. They might have done a good thing.”

“That officer probably was a bad man,” Griffin said sympathetically. “But that wouldn’t matter. If Grimbald killed a superior, he’d have been arrested, court-martialed, and convicted—regardless of how bad the man had been.”

“It doesn’t signify,” Lady A said. “Not now. Instead of being sorry for everything that happened, let’s just be glad we’ve found each other.” She squeezed Rachael’s hands, and her smile reminded Rachael of her mother. “I have a granddaughter.”

“You have three granddaughters,” Rachael said. “Don’t forget Claire and Elizabeth. They’re Georgiana’s daughters, too.” Watching her grandmother’s soft blue eyes widen, she added, “And you’ve a grandson as well. Our brother, Noah.”

Lady A was holding Rachael’s hands so tightly, her own were beginning to hurt. But she didn’t care. Her mother had only wanted to protect her, and her father hadn’t really done wrong, and Grandmama had welcomed her with open arms.

“I cannot wait to see your sisters and brother again.” Lady B’s smile resembled Georgiana’s, too. Rachael wondered how she’d never noticed. “I’m their aunt, you know,” Lady B added. “And yours. And so is Cornelia.”

Lady C, being the youngest, looked closest to her mother of all. “I never had a daughter until Juliana,” she said. “I’m so happy that now I’ll have nieces again. And a nephew, too. Oh, my.”

“My sisters are out with Noah at present,” Rachael told her new family. “They’re helping him choose a new desk. But they should be at home later, so we can go tell them our good news.”

There were numerous murmurs of agreement to that plan.

“Maybe we’ll all go shopping,” Grandmama suggested. “I want to spoil my grandchildren. But first, let’s have luncheon.”

FORTY-SIX

Corinna paced the foyer, watching the clock tick toward the hour when it would be too late to submit her painting. Two hours earlier, the messenger she’d dispatched to Alexandra’s house had returned with the news that her eldest sister wasn’t at home. Corinna had then sent a desperate note to Juliana and another to Rachael, Claire, and Elizabeth.

Since then she’d heard nothing. Nothing. Nothing at all.

“What is taking them all so long?”

“Pardon, my lady?”

“Nothing, Adamson.” She paused midpace. “No, not nothing,” she revised, glancing at the tall-case clock once again. It was four o’clock, and she had to get to Somerset House by five, or she’d have to wait a whole year for another chance to submit to the Summer Exhibition. “Hail a hackney now, please. I shall have to take a footman. I cannot wait any longer.”

Adamson opened his mouth to protest, but the knocker banged once again. He opened the door to reveal another messenger with a note—and Juliana out in the street, just alighting from the Stafford carriage.

“Thank heavens,” Corinna breathed. “I won’t need a hackney after all. Adamson, do please see my painting put in the Stafford carriage immediately. And carefully. The paper shouldn’t be allowed to touch the paint, because it isn’t dry yet.”

The butler handed her the note. “It’s for you, Lady Corinna. Surely you want to read it?”

“Oh, very well.” She broke the seal and scanned it as Juliana joined her on the doorstep. “None of the cousins are at home, either,” she reported with little surprise.

“Either?” Juliana echoed.

“Alexandra wasn’t home, and neither is Griffin. And Lady A and Lady B are both busy this afternoon. And apparently Rachael, Claire, and Elizabeth are all busy, too. I’m grateful you could accompany me. Let’s go.”

“Everyone else was busy? Everyone? Dear heavens, what are the odds of such a coincidence?”

“I don’t know, but I can’t think about that now. We’ll find out what everyone was doing tomorrow when we all visit Aunt Frances and the baby.” She ushered her sister toward the carriage, where the painting was already tucked inside. “I must get to the Royal Academy before five o’clock.”

They settled against the squabs, side by side facing forward, with the painting leaning against the other seat. As the carriage lurched into traffic, Juliana patted her sister’s knee. “You aren’t nervous, are you?”

“No,” Corinna lied. “Just rushed. I feared no one would get here in time to accompany me. You weren’t arriving, and the cousins live all the way in Lincoln’s Inn—”

“Mr. Delaney is right nearby, along with his sister. Did you think to ask them?”

“I couldn’t.”

“Why is that?”

“Lord Lincolnshire is fading, and they have to stay with him. And besides, I couldn’t let them see the painting.”

“Why is that?”

Holy Hannah, Corinna thought, why had she blurted that out? She really needed to practice thinking before she spoke.

“Why?” Juliana demanded. “You’re hiding something, Corinna; I can tell.”

There was nothing for it. Her sister would never give up badgering her, and if her painting was accepted, everyone was going to see it in the Summer Exhibition, anyway.

Corinna drew and held a breath. “Have a look,” she finally said, reaching across to tear off the brown paper. But she paused mid-tear. She couldn’t do it.

”It’s not varnished,” she hedged.

Juliana shrugged. “All right.”

“If it’s accepted—if it’s hung—I’ll get a chance to make last minute changes and then varnish it right there on the wall.”

“All right,” Juliana repeated, and then, when Corinna failed to respond, she added, “So…?”

“Very well,” Corinna said, and ripped the rest of the paper off, quickly, before she could change her mind.

Juliana’s eyes widened. “Oh, my goodness.”

“Is that all you have to say?”

“It’s…well, it’s different.” She stared at the painting. “I’ve heard of men painting nude women, but never…”

“He’s not nude,” Corinna pointed out, feeling a bit queasy. “He’s wearing trousers.”

“True,” her sister agreed. “He’s absolutely…” She blinked. “Faith, don’t you just want to take a bite out of him?”

Well, yes, as a matter of fact…but Corinna wasn’t sure she liked to hear her sister speaking speaking that way about Sean. Not that Juliana knew it was Sean she was speaking of.

“He’s compelling,” Juliana murmured. “I cannot seem to take my eyes off of him.” But she did, finally, meeting Corinna’s. “It’s magnificent. You’ve always been good, but this time you’ve outdone yourself.”

Corinna’s breath went out in a rush. “Do you really think so?”

“I know so. It’s remarkable.” She shifted her gaze back to the painting. “Why didn’t you want Mr. Delaney to see it?”

“Does it perhaps…remind you of anyone you know?”

Juliana tilted her head. “Blond hair and brown eyes. That’s an unusual combination, isn’t it? I don’t think so.”

Corinna had counted on no one looking past the coloring, but she must not have been completely confident, because relief flooded through her now. “I feared Mr. Delaney would find it shocking, that’s all. His father was a vicar, you know.”

“Really? I suppose I know very little about him.”

“I don’t know much about him, either,” Corinna said, averting her gaze.

FORTY-SEVEN

In the wee hours, the earl died.

He slipped off peacefully, leaving the world in his sleep as Lord Stafford had said he would. One instant his breathing rattled noisily; the next he went eerily silent.

Sean and Deirdre both held their breaths for a tense moment, then turned to each other, embracing and holding tight. Deirdre’s tears wet her brother’s shirtfront, but they were quiet tears. Tears born of grief mixed with relief.

Sean felt exactly the same.

He sat by the earl’s side the balance of the night, because it seemed like the right thing to do. And because he wasn’t ready to begin what he needed to do next. Because eventually he would finish with that.

And then…

Dawn was a faint glow through the bedroom window when the household stirred to life. Mrs. Skeffington appeared on the threshold, holding an ewer of fresh water. “Is he…?”

“With the angels,” Sean said quietly.

A sound of sorrow escaped her throat, and she turned and fled, returning a few minutes later with Higginbotham.

“My lord,” the steward said, “what shall we do?”

For a moment Sean was nonplussed. He wasn’t a lord; he didn’t belong here. But Higginbotham didn’t know that, of course, and no one else at Lincolnshire House did, either. The lot of them wandered at loose ends, passing by the earl’s chamber as though they were all ghosts themselves.

When Sean failed to respond, Higginbotham released a shuddering breath. “There must needs be funeral arrangements, and—”

“I’ll see to everything,” Sean assured him.

It would be a busy morning.

And then…

“Thank you, my lord earl.” Higginbotham forced a wan half smile of gratitude. “I fear I am…numb.”

Sean wished he could say the same. He wasn’t numb. He was in agony. He had to force himself to move, to do what needed to be done.

And then…

Then his empty life stretched ahead.

Seemingly forever.

FORTY-EIGHT

ORANGE CUSTARD

Boil a pint of Cream with a little sack. When it be cold, take four Yolks and two whites of Eggs, a little juice of Orange and peel of Orange and Sugar to your palate. Mix them well together, and bake them in cups. Before serving, put your cups on ice.

This custard tastes lovely, and it brings love as well. My sisters and I each made this when we were looking for love, and we all found it.

—Anne, Marchioness of Cainewood, 1772

Excitement still simmered in Corinna on Tuesday when she arrived to visit Frances and the new baby. Her submission had gone even better than she’d hoped. Though she’d half expected to be asked what made her think she, seventeen-year-old Corinna Chase, was worthy of submitting to the Summer Exhibition, nothing of the like had occurred. No one had looked askance. Not only had her painting been accepted for consideration, but Henry Fuseli, who’d taken possession of it, had exclaimed loudly over its brilliance.

She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised that a man who painted weird, daring fantasies might approve a portrait like hers.

And she was very much looking forward to this afternoon, when she would meet Sean at Hamilton’s studio. She wasn’t sure whether Lord Lincolnshire had passed away yet or not, but she knew he probably had, and that was the only thing that marred her happiness.

When she entered Aunt Frances’s drawing room, Ladies A, B, and C were the only ones there, and they were chattering enthusiastically. Corinna wondered what they were so excited about it, but when they noticed her in the doorway they all fell silent. She saw the three of them exchange meaningful glances before Lady Avonleigh met her gaze.

“Oh, my dear!” she cried. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t accompany you to Somerset House yesterday. Did the submission go all right?”

“Yes, it did,” Corinna assured her. She was eager to relay Mr. Fuseli’s reaction, but then Aunt Frances came slowly downstairs, supported by her maid and a footman, followed by a nurse with the baby. It took quite some time for her to get settled on her chaise longue with Belinda in her arms. Then Alexandra arrived with her baby, and Juliana showed up with a huge, flat basket filled with cups of orange custard, which she claimed would assist Corinna in finding love with a “certain someone.”

“Which will make my sister’s life complete,” she added with a smile, handing the basket to a maid so the cups could be taken down to the basement kitchen and put on ice, “because her new portrait, which I have had the pleasure of seeing, is going to be the sensation of the Summer Exhibition.”

“I cannot wait to see it,” Lady A declared, which made Corinna a little nervous. She was grateful when the talk turned to Belinda’s first smile—which Alexandra claimed could be caused only by indigestion—and on to Juliana’s burgeoning belly. Not that Juliana’s belly was actually protruding yet, but she kept rubbing it as though she could feel the baby inside.

Corinna wondered how long it would be before Griffin talked to Sean, before she could broach the subject of their marriage. Her stomach fluttered at the thought, with both anticipation and a touch of nerves.

Soon Rachael arrived with her sisters, the three of them chattering enthusiastically as they made their way through the foyer. Corinna wondered what they were so excited about, but at the drawing room’s doorway they all fell silent. She saw the three of them exchange meaningful glances before Lady A exchanged meaningful glances with her sisters…

And even distracted by her own excited and nervous thoughts, Corinna couldn’t help thinking something mysterious must be happening under her very nose.

“Good afternoon,” Rachael said, breaking the silence.

“Good afternoon,” Corinna returned. She watched Claire and Elizabeth make their way to two chairs and sit down, clucking over the new baby. And then she watched Rachael choose a seat on the sofa beside Lady Avonleigh.

Rachael paid no attention to the new baby. Instead she leaned close to embrace Lady A, and she seemed to be breathing in the lady’s scent. She closed her eyes momentarily, and a faint smile curved her lips as she sighed a contented sigh, even though that odd mixture of camphor and gardenias couldn’t possibly be pleasing.

And odder still, Lady A was smiling a matching smile and sighing an identical contented sigh. Although, Corinna supposed, Rachael’s jasmine perfume was more pleasant than Lady A’s.

Lady C pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes and nose. “Oh, dear. I seem to be coming down with the sniffles.”

“Me, too,” Lady B said, although she looked perfectly fine. In fact, she and Lady C were both smiling. And so were Claire and Elizabeth. And they weren’t faint smiles. They were smiles a mile wide.

“Would anyone care for some orange custard?” Juliana asked, rising from her seat. “Corinna, could you come with me to the kitchen to fetch it? And Claire and Elizabeth? I cannot carry ten cups all by myself, and James said that I shouldn’t overexert myself in my delicate condition.”

Juliana could certainly carry all ten cups in the same basket she’d brought them in, Corinna thought, and she hadn’t seemed to overexert herself doing so earlier. But she rose and followed her sister anyway.

With a decided lack of regard for her delicate condition, Juliana hurried Corinna and their cousins from the drawing room and through the foyer. Halfway down the steps to the basement, she stopped and turned to them. “What in heaven’s name is going on here? What on earth am I missing? Something has happened between Rachael and Lady Avonleigh. Something significant. I can tell.”

“A blind and deaf person would be able to tell,” Corinna put in.

Elizabeth coughed a little sniffly cough. “Lady A is Rachael’s grandmother.”

“What?” Juliana and Corinna burst out together.

Claire nudged her sister in the ribs. “Now you’ve done it, Elizabeth!” She sighed. “Rachael is Lady Avonleigh’s granddaughter. And we’re her granddaughters, too. We’ve discovered our mother was Lady A’s younger daughter—the one who jumped off the London Bridge. Only she didn’t, not really. She married our father and moved to Greystone instead. And she never went back to London, because she was afraid someone there would recognize her, and her family would know she was alive.”

This was what had made the two sets of sisters chatter like that, Corinna realized. And no wonder—the six of them turning out to be related was a positively astounding coincidence. Even more astounding than everyone’s being too busy to accompany her to Somerset House at the same time.

“That’s why everyone was busy yesterday,” Juliana marveled. “You two and Rachael and Ladies A, B, and C were all together, discovering all of this.”

“Your mother didn’t have asthma, then,” Corinna said.

“No, she didn’t. That was just an excuse.” Claire pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve and blew her nose—because she was overcome with emotion, not because she was coming down with the sniffles. “Please don’t tell Rachael you know. She’d be mortified.”

“Why?” Corinna asked. “None of this is any fault of hers. Does she think so little of us that she believes Aunt Georgiana’s deception would change our feelings towards her?”

“I fear she’s not thinking at all right now.” Claire crossed her arms over her amethyst bodice and leveled a familiar glare at her sister. “Much like Elizabeth. Again.”

Elizabeth sniffled, too. “I’m sorry.”

“We promise not to tell a soul.” Corinna turned to Juliana. “Don’t we?”

Juliana reached to touch both her cousins’ arms reassuringly. “We love Rachael, and we’re thrilled that she’s found more family to love. And do you realize this means James is your first cousin? How amazing is that?”

Juliana sounded sincere, but Corinna couldn’t help noticing that she hadn’t actually promised not to tell. She suspected her sister had her fingers mentally crossed. There was a little thrill in the tone of her voice that made Corinna sure she was already plotting her next move.

Juliana was a born meddler, after all, and no doubt she thought this news splendid for all concerned. For their cousins, of course, and also for Lady A, who’d sorely missed her younger daughter and now had grandchildren at long last. But mostly for Griffin and Rachael, because Rachael’s newfound happiness put Juliana that much closer to her goal of seeing the two of them together as a couple.

Corinna had no doubt Juliana would accomplish that goal, because her sister wasn’t only a born meddler, she was an obnoxiously good one—and anyone with two eyes in her head could see that Rachael and Griffin did belong together.

Just like Corinna belonged with Sean.

Sean, of course, was the “certain someone,” because Juliana believed they belonged together, too. She’d made orange custard to bring them love. Though it was a silly superstition that would have no impact whatsoever, it was still a meddlesome thing, and Corinna was certain Juliana had plenty more meddling planned.

But for the very first time in her life, she found herself hoping Juliana’s meddling would work.

Juliana would be smug beyond belief, of course, but it would save Corinna from having to reveal that Sean was the model in her portrait.

To avoid Griffin’s wrath, Corinna would gladly put up with a whole heap of smugness.

FORTY-NINE

An earl’s funeral bore little resemblance to the simple ceremonies performed by a country vicar like Sean’s father. Lord Lincolnshire was to be buried in Westminster Abbey on Friday, and Sean had also arranged for a reception at Lincolnshire House afterward.

Getting everything in place took the better part of the day, and it was late afternoon by the time he trudged up the steps to the garret studio, hoping Corinna wasn’t already waiting. A small part of him couldn’t wait to see her, but most of him dreaded her arrival. He wanted a few minutes to prepare himself, to steel himself for what lay ahead.

He didn’t have to do this, he knew. There were other, easier ways out. Soon the truth would be revealed, as Hamilton was due in town for the judging and would waste no time claiming his new title. Once that happened, society would make it clear to Corinna that Sean was unacceptable. Or he could allow her brother to explain the facts. But he wasn’t the sort of fellow who expected others to do his dirty work. He still picked up a hammer if he saw the need on a construction site, and he wouldn’t leave this task to others, either.

And he had to say good-bye. He needed to tell Corinna just how much he wished things were different. He’d brought something to give her to remember him by, and he’d do that first, while she was still clearheaded enough to be capable of understanding what it meant. He wanted one last kiss—even knowing it was wrong—and he wanted, one last time, to have her look at him in that dreamy way, and speak to him in that low, sweet voice.

Reaching the top of the stairway, he opened the door to the garret and heard a harsh voice instead. “Go away!” it barked.

“I beg your pardon?” Thinking for a moment that he must have entered the wrong building, Sean took a step back. Then the voice’s owner turned to face him, paintbrush in hand. Sean blinked. “Hamilton? What are you doing here?”

“Working. I’m going to lease this space, if you’ll remember, so I consider it mine.” He gestured to a large canvas on the easel, where the beginnings of a scene were already taking form. “The falls, with the Lady of the Waterfall visible in the towering gush. Inspired, isn’t it? What do you think?”

Sean shut the door behind him. “I think you were due back weeks ago.”

The weasel merely shrugged. “I arrived early today, in time to vote on the submissions for the Summer Exhibition this morning.” He turned back to his canvas and began adding mist rising at the bottom of the falls. “I told you I would.”

“You also told me your uncle would die within days.”

“He didn’t?”

“Not until this morning.”

Sean wasn’t surprised to see the weasel display no emotion at the news of his uncle’s passing. But Hamilton wouldn’t stay calm for long—not once he heard what had gone on since he left the country.

Having long since accepted that it would all come to nothing—Deirdre wasn’t getting her divorce—Sean’s main regret was that he hadn’t managed to speak with Hamilton before the Summer Exhibition selection. He hadn’t realized it would take place the very day after the submissions were due. “Did you vote for Lady Corinna Chase’s painting?” he asked with a sigh.

“Who the deuce is Corinna Chase?”

“The girl we met in the British Museum. The one who said she wanted to paint portraits.”

“I don’t remember her. And I haven’t the slightest idea. As usual, I voted for my favorites without looking at any signatures.” He added more mist. “The whole exercise was very tedious. No less than fourteen rounds before the final selection was decided on, and all the while all I wanted was to work on this picture.”

“It was a portrait of Lincolnshire. Seated on a bench in Berkeley Square, holding a book—”

“I don’t recall anything like that. Not that I would have recognized the old beast in any case. I haven’t set eyes on him since I was a—”

“Sweet mercy, he was your father’s identical twin! And she painted him looking younger, probably very much as you remember your own father.”

“I didn’t see any portraits of my father, Delaney. And I voted for very few portraits altogether—you know I prefer landscapes.” Having finished adding the mist, he started on some water splashing back up. “My favorite canvas, however,” he mused, “did turn out to be a portrait. I’m not sure whether it made the final cut—it may not have, because it was very unusual. A rather outrageous depiction of a golden-haired young man, half-clothed and bathed in candlelight. Henry Fuseli was quite taken with it as well.”

That certainly wasn’t Corinna’s. Which meant Sean was finished with this discussion. “Nothing went the way you said it would, Hamilton. Nothing went as planned.”

The fellow cocked his head, then added a wee smidge of white to a brown blob on his palette. “What could possibly have gone so wrong?” he asked vaguely, focused on mixing the colors together.

“Everything,” Sean snapped. “To begin with, all of London believes I’m you.”

“What?” His attention finally snagged, Hamilton whirled to face him. “How in blazes did that happen?”

“Lincolnshire asked me to take him to a ball, promising to keep my identity a secret. My identity as you, you understand. Once there, however…”

While he explained everything, Hamilton slowly lowered his palette and dropped heavily to the threadbare sofa, covering his lowered face with his hands.

When Sean finished, the weasel finally, inevitably, exploded, springing off the sofa. “You blasted son of a vicar! You were supposed to keep the mean old brute happy and stay out of public entirely!” He paced here and there, fuming. “Since you didn’t keep your end of the bargain, I’ll clearly not be keeping mine.” Stomping right up to Sean, he growled, “Deirdre will never see her divorce! She’ll bear the next Lincolnshire earl if it’s the last thing she does—and with any luck, she’ll die in childbirth, so it will be.”

Hamilton stormed out, leaving Sean standing still, rooted to the spot, his hands clenched into fists. It was a good thing the weasel had left. If he’d stayed, Sean might not have stopped himself from beating the shorter fellow to a pulp.

He told himself he should’ve expected no less from the weasel, but still, it took him several minutes to calm down. Finally he drew off his coat and draped it over the arm of the sofa, then slowly lowered himself to sit and wait for Corinna to arrive.

FIFTY

“Corinna,” Sean said when she walked in.

Just Corinna. Nothing else. He rose from the battered sofa and walked toward her, and she could see sadness on his face, weariness in his eyes. He looked battered himself, his coat off, his cravat askew, his hair disheveled as though he’d run his hands through it over and over.

“Lord Lincolnshire is gone, isn’t he?” she said quietly, but it wasn’t really a question. “Did you stay up all night with him before he passed?”

In answer he stepped closer and took her in his arms. They stood there like that for a very long while, Corinna’s eyes closed, her ear pressed to his chest where his heart beat steadily through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“I don’t know what happened with your painting,” he said at last in a bleak tone of voice.

“Something happened?” she asked, confused.

She felt rather than saw him shake his head. “Hamilton voted before I could speak to him, so he didn’t speak to any of the other committee members about you, either. And he said he mostly voted for landscapes.”

She opened her eyes, her gaze falling on a large canvas propped on the easel, a scene of a waterfall. Proof of Hamilton’s return. Unfinished though it was, the painting was impressive…but the selfishness of its creator made it ugly to her.

And she couldn’t care how the vote had turned out, not now. Maybe tomorrow it would matter, but right now all that mattered was Sean. And he was hurting.

“It’s not important. Whatever happened will be.” She sighed and pulled away. “It’s all over. I know you’re sad that Lord Lincolnshire is gone, and I am, too. But you can get back to your life now, and that’s good, isn’t it? The sadness will pass, and you’ll be able to focus on your work, and…”

She couldn’t bring herself to say that now they could be together. Sure as she was that he cared for her, he hadn’t asked her to marry him yet.

“Corinna. Críona. I need to talk to you. But first I want to give you something,” he said, reaching into a pocket. He pulled out a fine link chain with a pendant attached, but she didn’t get a chance to see what it looked like before he took her hand and put the necklace in her palm, folding her fingers around it. “It’s only silver. My family could never afford anything made of gold. I’ve the money now to have bought you something fancier, but I wanted you to have this.”

He still held her hand with both of his wrapped tightly around it. His hands felt warm, and whatever was inside her fist felt hard but delicate. “This belongs to your family?”

“For a hundred years or more.” His lyrical words came slower than usual, and his voice was a bit rough, the sound of it making her heart hitch. “It was my mother’s, and my grandmother’s before her, and so on going back for generations.”

“Oh, then it should be Deirdre’s now, shouldn’t it?”

“I want you to have it,” he repeated, releasing her hand.

Slowly she unfurled her fingers and drew out the necklace, raising it by the chain so the pendant dangled at the bottom. A symbol. Two hands holding a stone heart, surmounted by a crown studded with a few tiny gems.

“They’re not diamonds,” he told her, “only marcasite. I cannot tell you what the heart is made from, because I don’t know.”

“It’s green.” She smiled. “Like your eyes.”

“Is it? I never knew that. But I can assure you it isn’t an emerald.”

“No, it wouldn’t be, because it’s opaque. And I don’t care what it’s made from, anyway. It’s beautiful. And it’s from you.” Anything Sean had given her would have been beautiful to her, of course, but it really was a very pretty charm. “Does the symbol have a special meaning?”

“It does, aye. It’s called a claddagh. The hands signify friendship, the crown loyalty, and the heart love. All the things I feel for you, a rún.”

A rún meant my love—she remembered that—and he’d said love in English, too. “It’s perfect. So much better than diamonds or gold.” He loved her. She’d thought so for some time now, but hearing the words made it more real. “I love you, too. I love you so much I feel like I might burst, like I cannot hold it all inside me.” Happy tears welled in her eyes. “Will you put this on me?”

She turned around, and he clasped the chain around her neck, his warm fingers brushing her nape. When she turned back, he held her face in his hands and lowered his lips to meet hers. It was a long kiss but a gentle one, heartfelt and tender, the tenderest kiss she’d ever received.

When he drew back, his eyes burned into hers. “We need to talk now,” he said. “Let’s sit down.”

“All right.” Suddenly feeling apprehensive, she walked the few feet to the sofa and sat. He sank down beside her, angling himself so he could see her. “What is it?” she asked.

He took both her hands. “Corinna. Críona.” She watched him swallow hard. “Lincolnshire told me a story last Friday. That seems so long ago, doesn’t it?”

She nodded, her heart pounding with love or trepidation, or maybe a mixture. It was only Tuesday, but last Friday, the night she’d sketched him, seemed a lifetime ago.

“It was a story about his twin brother, John Hamilton’s father, and why he sent him to Ireland,” he began.

And then it all poured out.

She listened silently, taking it all in, until he finished. Until his hands squeezed hers hard, so hard her own hands hurt. “Corinna. That will happen to me now. Once society finds out I impersonated Hamilton, they will never accept me.”

She knew he was right. The ton wouldn’t look kindly upon someone who had tricked Lord Lincolnshire. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“I didn’t think of it, either. I knew all along that Hamilton was risking his reputation as an artist by participating in the hoax. I even warned him of that, and I worried that if the truth came out, he’d retaliate against Deirdre. But I never considered how it would affect me. Or maybe I didn’t think it would matter. Not being part of society, I didn’t care what they thought of me—not until I fell in love with you.”

I fell in love with you. She was so thrilled to hear those words that she leapt the small distance between them, wrapping her arms around him, burrowing her nose into the crook of his neck. “I love you, too,” she told him again, the words muffled against his skin. “I was waiting to tell you. Everything was so complicated. But now it’s over, and we’ll work this out. It will be difficult, but—”

“Corinna. You don’t understand.” He unwrapped her arms and set her away, far enough to meet her eyes. “I cannot marry you. There isn’t anything I want more in the world, but it’s impossible.”

“No.” That couldn’t be. “This wasn’t your fault. You didn’t even want to do it. You did it for your sister, and for Lincolnshire—you made him happy. You shouldn’t have to suffer—we shouldn’t have to suffer—because you did the right thing.”

“I’m not saying I did the wrong thing. I did the only thing I could. But no one ever promised life would be fair. Your people aren’t ever going to forgive me for what I’ve done.”

“I don’t care. I don’t need those people. I love you. I only need you. If they won’t forgive you, if they make our life here too uncomfortable, we’ll go to Ireland—”

“Your art would be shunned no matter where you made it. You’d never be admitted to the Royal Academy.”

“You’re more important to me than the Royal Academy. I don’t care about that, either.”

“I care.” He took her hands again. “And if you married me, Corinna, you and I aren’t the only ones who would be cut out of society. Your family would be ostracized as well.”

A hole seemed to open up inside her.

Alexandra and Juliana, Griffin and Rachael, Frances and the cousins…if she stayed with Sean and bore the consequences, they, too, would be rejected by all of society.

She couldn’t do that to them.

She was willing to give up everything she knew for Sean, to start over with him in a place she’d never seen. That would be rather artistic…wild, passionate, romantic. But she couldn’t take her family with her.

That would make her more selfish than John Hamilton.

Her heart cracked, and she could see in Sean’s eyes that his was already rent. His overwhelming sadness, his weariness, his battered appearance…she understood all of that now. She felt it herself.

He gathered her into his arms, and they clutched each other, held each other close for a long, long time, while sobs racked her body.

And then, when she’d cried herself dry, when there was nothing left inside her but a vast, aching emptiness, he walked her home in silence, careful not to touch her.

FIFTY-ONE

As Friday afternoon slid into evening, Corinna stood alone in Lincolnshire House’s yellow drawing room, wearing a black dress that matched her mood.

Excited voices drifted from the crowded salon, where a reception was being held following Lord Lincolnshire’s burial. More chatter came from the entrance hall, where the crowd spilled out. Women very rarely attended funerals, so Sean had arranged the reception to allow the ladies a chance to pay their respects.

She’d wager he hadn’t anticipated such a crush. He wasn’t part of the crush, of course, and she’d been told he hadn’t attended the ceremony, either. The reception should have been a polite gathering, the guests soft-spoken and sober rather than excited. But tongues had been wagging ever since this morning, when John Hamilton had shown up at Westminster Abbey and announced he was the next Earl of Lincolnshire.

Being female, Corinna hadn’t witnessed that, of course, but she’d already heard all about it. The new Lord Lincolnshire had informed the astonished gentlemen at the funeral that his impostor’s name was Sean Delaney, and Sean’s reputation had been torn to shreds before the reception even began.

Just as he’d predicted, she thought now with a heavyhearted sigh.

For the past two days, lines from Minerva Press novels had been running through her head annoyingly, unceasingly. Pamela thinking life is no life without you, and Ethelinde deciding hope seemed to be excluded from her heart, and, in Children of the Abbey, Amanda crying, the hand of fate is against our union, and we must part, never, never more to meet!

But although she’d known Sean was right and there was no way they could be together, some small part of her must have been holding out hope, because somehow she’d managed to get through those two days without completely falling apart.

She’d locked herself in her room and buried herself in her art. Fixing Lord Lincolnshire’s portrait had kept her from thinking too much and from having to face her brother or anyone else. The picture was finished, and she’d brought it over this morning while Griffin was away at the funeral.

Lord Lincolnshire’s house steward, Mr. Higginbotham, had praised the portrait mightily and promised to find somewhere to hang it immediately. Unaware at the time of the trouble brewing in Westminster Abbey, he’d also praised “Mr. Hamilton,” telling her each of the staff had been thrilled to receive letters that morning with details of their new assignments, to begin Monday.

After she’d left, Mr. Higginbotham had hung the portrait in the yellow drawing room, on the wall behind the armchair where Lord Lincolnshire had been sitting when Corinna first offered to paint it. She gazed at it now, thinking it seemed the right place for it. Above the chair like that, it almost seemed as though the dear earl were still sitting there.

The portrait was mounted beside a Rembrandt, and it should have been a thrill to see one of her own paintings next to an old master. But she hadn’t the capacity to feel thrilled when everything else had gone so very wrong.

Even Mr. Higginbotham was scandalized by the news. A few minutes earlier, when she’d asked him where to find the painting, he’d been sputtering with indignation. From this day forward, Sean would be shunned by society, and that meant she could never see him again without ruining her family. That was the only thing that mattered to her now. She didn’t know yet whether her picture had been accepted for the Summer Exhibition, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.

“Corinna?”

Hearing footsteps behind her, she turned to see Griffin enter the room, holding a glass of liquor the color of raw sienna pigment.

“What are you doing in here all alone?” He came to a stop before her, his gaze drifting up to the painting over her head. “Isn’t that the portrait you did of Lord Lincolnshire?” When she didn’t answer, he looked back down to her. “I thought you submitted it for the Summer Exhibition.”

“I didn’t. I submitted something else.”

“Really?” Sipping, he looked curious. “What?”

A picture of the love of her life, the love she’d lost. That thought brought a flood of pain. As she couldn’t tell her brother she loved Sean, instead she lashed out at him. “Why should you care what I submitted? All you’re concerned with is getting me married off!”

He looked hurt. ”That’s not true, Corinna. All I’m concerned with is your happiness. I want to see you happy.”

Seeing his hurt made her hurt even more. “Well, you have an odd way of showing it,” she cried, tears flooding her eyes.

She couldn’t take this anymore. Not any of it.

Pushing past him, she ran from the room and out into the entrance hall. The grand, pillared area was crowded with people dressed in black—people gossiping—people drinking up the contents of Lord Lincolnshire’s liquor cabinet while annihilating Sean’s future—and hers.

Their faces blurred as she charged toward the front door, her brother at her heels.

“Griffin!” Rachael said as he shoved a glass at her. “Where are you going?”

“After my sister!” Having passed Rachael already, he wove through the mass of guests. “I’m going home,” he called back.

Rachael watched him follow Corinna at a run, then just stood there for a moment, feeling a bit dazed. She raised the glass to her lips and took a sip, hoping whatever was in it would be bracing.

Brandy. It burned a path down her throat and felt warm in her stomach.

She sipped again.

Juliana walked up. “Where did Griffin go off to?”

“He went after Corinna. I believe he was concerned for her well-being.” She shook her head. “He seems more responsible than I remember.”

Her cousin smiled. “You seem to like him much more than you used to.”

Rachael shrugged a shoulder—casually, she hoped. “I guess he’s changed over the years.”

“Yes, he has. He’d make an excellent husband now, don’t you think?”

“For someone else,” Rachael said warily.

“For you. I think you two would get along splendidly together.”

“He’s my cousin. You know I won’t marry a cousin.”

“Rachael…”

Juliana glanced away, her gaze sweeping the thronged entrance hall. Her husband was talking to Alexandra and Tristan, and Rachael’s sisters and Noah were in the salon. Apparently satisfied that no one important was watching, she took Rachael’s arm and drew her into the room Griffin and Corinna had vacated.

“I know your secret,” she said in a low voice.

Feeling blindsided, Rachael struggled to look normal while she sipped more brandy. “What secret?”

“I know John Chase wasn’t your father,” Juliana said gently. “And I know you’re Lady A’s granddaughter.”

Rachael relaxed a little, and not just due to the brandy. Apparently her cousin didn’t know her real father had committed treason, or surely she would have mentioned that, too—because if there was one thing Juliana loved, it was a juicy secret like that.

And she supposed it wasn’t all that dreadful for people to know the rest. Her mother had been married when Rachael was conceived, after all—it wasn’t as though Georgiana had been carrying an illegitimate child when she married the Earl of Greystone. And while not being John Chase’s true daughter was a disappointment, being Lady A’s granddaughter was a joy.

Still and all, it had been a secret. “Who told you?” she asked.

“It doesn’t signify. It was an accident, and the person I learned it from wished you no harm. But, Rachael, I…well, I realize you wanted it kept secret, but I thought it best to reveal I know, because there’s something you apparently don’t know. Or haven’t realized yet.”

Juliana paused for effect, or maybe to give Rachael a moment to absorb what she’d already said. Because what she said next seemed somewhat confusing.

“You’re not Griffin’s cousin.”

Rachael hadn’t thought much about that, but it was true, of course. “I know we’re not blood related, since I’m not really a Chase, but…”

“But what?”

“He’s still family. Griffin is Griffin. My cousin. We grew up together.”

“Why should that matter? There would be no risk of you two conceiving a tragic child like your cousin Edmund, and that was your issue, wasn’t it? You wouldn’t have to worry about having a child like that with Griffin.”

She’d never thought about that, either. Two years ago, when Griffin had first come home from the cavalry, she’d found herself stunned by how much he had changed. He’d fascinated her, she recalled. The reckless, gangly youth she’d remembered had grown tall, dark, and broad-shouldered, and she’d been surprised to find herself attracted to him. But she’d told herself he was her cousin—not knowing any different at the time—and that had been that.

That wasn’t that, though, was it?

“Oh, drat,” she finally said softly. “I’ve been such a blazing idiot.”

“We all are sometimes,” Juliana soothed.

But Rachael wasn’t listening. She’d shoved the glass at Juliana, her black skirts rustling as she ran from the room.

FIFTY-TWO

“Can I not just be sad over the loss of Lord Lincolnshire?”

“Not this sad. You’ve been hiding in this room since Tuesday.” Griffin gazed down at his sister lying on her bed, her back to him. Her knees were hugged to her chest. He couldn’t see her face, but she didn’t strike him as sad.

More like devastated.

“I’ll miss the earl, too,” he added, “but it has to be more than that.”

She heaved a sigh so pathetic it broke his heart. “All right, it’s more than that,” she admitted, tears in her voice. “The Summer Exhibition committee did the judging on Tuesday, and my painting wasn’t accepted.”

“Have you received a letter saying so?”

“No. Not yet. The Exhibition won’t open until the first Monday in June, and until the Hanging Committee has finished arranging all the selections on the walls, a few pieces may be in question. So I wouldn’t expect a letter yet.”

“That’s good news, then,” he told her, trying to cheer her. “Acceptance must at least be a possibility. Surely they’d have sent a letter by now if the answer were a definite no.”

“You don’t know that. And I’ve heard that Mr. Hamilton—I mean, Lord Lincolnshire”—this pronounced with an abundance of disgust—“didn’t vote for any portraits.”

“He’s not the only man on the committee.”

“No, there are eight others, two of whom abhor female painters. Another three didn’t like my portrait of Lord Lincolnshire, and two more gave me no opinion at all.”

“So you’ll try again next year.” Griffin sat on the edge of the bed and awkwardly patted her shoulder. “Maybe you should sign a man’s name next time.”

She rolled over, and the glare she gave him made it clear this had been a poor time to jest.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered quickly.

Now that he could see it, her tear-streaked face made him feel like the worst brother on earth. He’d known her art was important to her, but he honestly hadn’t known it meant so much that she’d be completely crushed by a temporary setback. He couldn’t remember her ever being this upset before, not even the two times he’d come home, taking short leaves from the cavalry, to mourn their father and mother.

“I know this is important to you,” he said carefully, “and I’m sorry if I’ve ignored your art while trying to find you a husband. That wasn’t my intention. I’ve just been a little…focused. Too focused, apparently. I promise not to do that from now on, all right? I won’t push suitors on you. When you see someone you’re interested in, just let me know, and—”

“Leave me alone, Griffin,” she snapped.

“But—”

“Now.”

“Very well.” He rose and backed away, his hands held up defensively. “I’m sorry, Corinna, truly I am. But I wish you would believe me when I say I want to see you happy.”

Rolling to face away from him again, she said, “I know that,” in a wan little voice.

He supposed it was the best he could expect for now.

He’d done all he could, he told himself as he left, softly closing the door between them. Too bad it wasn’t good enough. Turning to face the door, he banged his forehead against the polished wood, pressing hard.

He would never understand girls.

He felt bad that he’d made light of Corinna’s art, and he would pay more attention in the future. Make more of an effort to show her he cared and help advance her career, if he could think of a way to do that. But he still felt that finding her a husband to love would make her happier.

Or at the very least, make someone else responsible for her happiness.

He banged his head against the wood again.

“Griffin, are you all right?” said a voice behind him.

A sultry voice.

He straightened and turned to see its owner, standing there in a modest black dress that should have made her look drab, or at least less alluring than usual. But it didn’t. It had a wide neckline, and it rustled as she moved closer, the bodice clinging to her figure. Her hair had been done up formally for the reception at Lincolnshire House, leaving just a few loose chestnut tendrils that fell in soft waves around her face.

He swallowed hard and took an uneasy step back, bumping against Corinna’s door.

“May I have a word with you?” Rachael glanced around the corridor. “In private?”

He nodded and led the way to his study, aware all the while of her heady, floral scent following behind him. Would she never leave him in peace? He’d found her grandmother, hadn’t he? He’d tracked her mysterious origins, discovered what had become of her father. What more did she want from him? Why wasn’t she with Lady Avonleigh over at Lincolnshire House, together with her happy new family?

After ushering her into the study, he shut the door and turned to her. “What do you want, Rachael?”

She blinked, no doubt taken aback by his unintended harshness. But she recovered her composure quickly. “I want you to kiss me.”

His pulse seemed to stutter. He definitely stopped breathing.

She licked her lips.

“Corinna?”

A knock sounded on her closed door.

“Are you all right?” Juliana called.

Corinna might have ignored anyone else, but there was no putting off Juliana. “I’ll live,” she muttered, rolling over and levering herself to sit on the edge of the bed. Realizing she was clutching the claddagh necklace, she shoved it under her pillow, then mopped the last of the tears off her face with the back of her hand. “Come in.”

Juliana did, holding up a piece of heavy cream-colored paper with a large, broken red seal. “A letter came for you.”

Just what she needed now, the news of her rejection. Well, at least the suspense would be over. “From the Royal Academy?”

“From the former Lord Lincolnshire’s solicitor. Addressed to ‘The Marquess of Cainewood.’ And then inside it says, ‘My Lord Marquess and Lady Corinna Chase.’”

“What does the solicitor want?” Not that Corinna really cared.

“You’re requested to attend the reading of the late earl’s will at Mr. Lawless’s Queen Street offices on Monday at noon.”

Corinna shrugged. “Lord Lincolnshire probably left us a trinket. One of his four hundred Ming vases or some such. For being kind through his last few days.”

“I don’t think he’d leave you and Griffin one vase. Two, maybe.” Juliana smiled, a transparent effort to raise Corinna’s spirits. “I’m famished. The reception at Lincolnshire House is winding down, so I walked over here to ask the staff to serve a family dinner before the rest of us go home. Will you come down and join us? And where’s Griffin?”

“How should I know?” Corinna paused. “And how did you come to read a letter addressed to Griffin if you haven’t seen him?”

“Well, obviously,” Juliana said airily, “I opened it.”

FIFTY-THREE

Griffin had kissed Rachael in his study. He’d kissed her across his study. He’d kissed her as he’d maneuvered her down to the long leather sofa, and now, a good thirty minutes later, he was lying half on top of her, still kissing her.

She’d been kissed before, but not by anyone who kissed anything like Griffin. He seemed to put his entire heart and soul into a kiss. When Griffin was kissing her, she was wholly convinced his mind was on nothing but that. On nothing but her. Which made it difficult to think about anything but him, either.

In fact, he made it difficult to think at all.

His kisses went from sweet to warm to burning and back again. From gentle to deep, from rushed to unhurried to frantic. Her senses were reeling, swirling with the heat of his mouth and the scent of his skin and the taste of brandy. Her blood coursed through her veins, beating an electrifying rhythm in her ears.

When it was over, when he finally lifted his head, looking utterly disoriented, when he struggled to his elbows and gazed down at her, she still found it hard to think. His eyes were so very intense, his mouth—the same mouth that had just been kissing her senseless—curved into that slightly crooked smile. Hooking a hand behind his neck, she pulled him back down and kissed him some more.

A long while later he lifted his head back up again, and her own head finally cleared.

A little.

“You’re not my cousin,” she murmured, looking up at him, feeling a little smile tug at her own mouth.

“I know.”

“That means we can marry.”

He was off of her like a shot. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, no?” She raised herself to a sitting position. She’d probably shocked herself as much as him by saying that. But it was true.

She wanted to marry Griffin.

She loved him.

She wasn’t sure when she’d fallen in love, because she’d never admitted that to herself before—she hadn’t been able to, having never overcome thinking of him as a cousin. But she knew she could lean on Griffin; she knew she could depend on him. He’d always be there for her—he’d shown her that, hadn’t he? And wasn’t that the most important quality in a husband?

And it certainly didn’t hurt that he was so nice to look at. So tall and lean, so broad-shouldered and masculine. His eyes such a gorgeous green, his jaw so strong and square, that crooked smile so irresistible.

“Oh, yes,” she said, “I want to marry you.”

“You don’t want to marry me,” he said at once, a hint of panic in those green eyes. “You think I’m an irresponsible scapegrace.”

“Not anymore.” Or not exactly. Yes, he said stupid things, and he did stupid things sometimes, too. He had his flaws. But who didn’t? At least she knew Griffin’s flaws—she knew what she was getting into with him.

And she’d never felt such a force of attraction with anyone but Griffin.

She loved him just as he was, flaws and all.

“I do want to marry you,” she disagreed, “and, really, how can you refuse me? You’ve been kissing me for half an hour.”

He shifted on his feet, glancing away from her. “It was only kissing, Rachael. And you invited it. You cannot expect a man to turn down an offer like that.”

He hadn’t kissed her only because she’d invited him. She might be a blazing idiot for not realizing there was no reason she couldn’t marry him, but she wasn’t so bird-witted she didn’t know when someone wanted her.

Griffin had been wanting her for two years, at the very least. A gentleman didn’t look at a lady the way he looked at her—or kiss her the way he just had—unless he wanted her. And he loved her, too. She was sure of it. Look at all the trouble he’d gone to in order to find her family. A fellow didn’t go to such trouble for a girl he didn’t love.

And she couldn’t let him get away with saying it had been only kissing. “Are you telling me all that kissing meant nothing?”

He looked back to her. “That’s what I just said, isn’t it?”

Oh, that had come too easily. She’d asked the wrong question. “You didn’t enjoy it, then? Not at all?”

He hadn’t an answer for that, which didn’t surprise her. He’d be lying if he claimed he hadn’t enjoyed himself.

“Tell me, Griffin,” she drawled, rather amused by his increasing discomfort, “would you approve of a gentleman kissing Corinna for half an hour if he had no intention of marrying her?”

He couldn’t say that without lying, either, of course. To his credit, he didn’t. “No, I wouldn’t approve. But she’s my sister.”

“Well, I think I deserve the same respect as your sister.” Rising from the sofa, she reached for her reticule. “So unless you change your mind and declare your intentions, I trust you won’t ever kiss me again.”

She wanted him to kiss her again, of course. But she wasn’t worried she wouldn’t get what she wanted. Another of Griffin’s flaws was resisting change, but he’d come around eventually.

She’d lay odds he’d be kissing her inside of a week.

He jumped out of her way as she headed for the door. Reaching it, she placed her hand on the knob and glanced over her shoulder. “Will you be attending Lady Hammersmithe’s ball tomorrow night?”

“I’m planning to bring Corinna.”

She licked her lips, suppressing a smile when his eyes widened. “I’ll see you there, then,” she practically purred as she opened the door and waltzed out.

FIFTY-FOUR

The atmosphere in Hampstead was very thick that Friday evening. So thick it seemed an effort to breathe. Just drawing air in and out of his lungs seemed to take everything Sean had.

Sitting opposite Deirdre in his dining room, he set down his knife and fork with a sigh. “I’m not hungry.” He’d scarcely eaten in three days, but he wasn’t hungry.

His sister knew what he’d lost. When he’d asked her where he could find the claddagh necklace, she hadn’t asked why. “It’s sorry I am for you, Sean,” she said quietly, her eyes full of sympathy.

He didn’t want sympathy—he wanted the calendar flipped back to April, to before he’d received that blasted letter from Hamilton. Shifting his gaze away, he stared at a blue wall. “I’m not the one who has to go back to a husband I despise.”

“At least the man I love isn’t forbidden to me forever, as Corinna is to you. I’ll give John a son and then I’ll move in with Daniel.”

Skeptical, he looked back to her. “You’d leave your child?”

Her chin in the air was so familiar. “Rather than stay with John, yes.”

“If you say so,” he murmured. But he knew she wouldn’t. Once she had a son or a daughter, she’d change her mind. Hamilton would banish Deirdre and their offspring to the countryside, and she’d live there, bored out of her mind, for the rest of her life.

And even should she find the will to leave her child, would Daniel Raleigh wait a year or two or more while she made a son with Hamilton?

He doubted that as well.

“Two letters, sir.” A footman walked in, holding them out. “One for you and one for the lady.”

With its large red seal, Sean’s letter looked important. As the servant left, he cracked the wax and unfolded the paper.

“Who is it from?” Deirdre asked.

“A solicitor on Queen Street in Cheapside. A Mr. Peregrine Peabody. He’s wishing to meet with me Monday at noon.”

“Regarding what?”

“He doesn’t say.” Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good. “I assume I will finally learn who’s been poking around in my business, and what he’s managed to trump up to ruin me or put me in prison. And what it’s going to take to prove him wrong.” He glanced at the folded paper Deirdre held, recognizing the scrawl on the outside as the same on the blasted letter he’d received back in April. “What does your husband want now? His uncle isn’t in the grave even a full day. Is the weasel forcing you back to his house already?”

She broke the seal and scanned it. “He isn’t, no. Not yet. He says I’m to attend the reading of the late Lord Lincolnshire’s will on Monday. He’s sending a carriage to fetch me at eleven o’clock.”

“Where is the reading being held?”

“John doesn’t say. Just that the carriage will come in the morning.” She glanced up from the paper, looking nervous. “Remember that ball Lord Lincolnshire took us to? What if someone who was there recognizes me as the woman introduced as your wife?”

Sean reached to lay his hand over hers on the table. “I don’t expect the Billingsgates’ guests will be at the reading, Deirdre. It will likely be just you and Hamilton and that lawyer named Lawless.”

“I’m not sure that lawyer ever got a good look at me. We were never formally introduced.”

“You’ve nothing to worry yourself about, then.” He patted her hand. “Even if Lawless recalls seeing you at Lincolnshire House, you are Hamilton’s wife. Lincolnshire’s niece by marriage. It’s not unbelievable you’d be at the man’s deathbed.”

“That’s right.” He saw her relax a little. “I wish you could come with me, though.”

“I wish I could, too,” he said dryly. “I also wasn’t formally introduced, but I’ve no doubt Lawless saw me. And if he doesn’t remember me, I’m certain Hamilton would be happy to remind him. And in any case, I cannot go with you because I’ll be busy Monday at that time.”

Feeling yet more incapable of breathing than earlier, he heaved another sigh. The atmosphere seemed to be getting even thicker.

“The way my luck has been going lately,” he added grimly, “I’ll probably be busy getting arrested.”

When Rachael and her siblings returned home from the reception at Lincolnshire House, their butler handed a folded paper to her brother. “A letter, my lord.”

With its large red seal, it looked important. “What does it say?” Rachael asked as the butler closed the door.

Pausing in the foyer, Noah raised the letter to his forehead. “Hmm. I’m getting a vision. I think it says—”

“Noah.” She whacked him with her reticule, feeling giddy. She was in love, and she was going to get married. Griffin was going to be kissing her inside of a week. Maybe tomorrow night. “Open it, you fool.”

“If you insist.” He broke the seal and scanned down the page. “It’s from a solicitor in Cheapside, Mr. Lawrence Lawless. He wants us to attend the reading of Lord Lincolnshire’s will Monday at noon.”

“Us?” Elizabeth slid off her pelisse. “What do you mean by us?”

“All of us.” Shrugging, Noah looked up. “It’s addressed to all four of us.”

FIFTY-FIVE

“You’re late,” Juliana said when Griffin arrived at Lady Hammersmithe’s ball Saturday night.

“Fashionably late,” he corrected, spotting Rachael talking to her sisters. She was wearing another clingy dress, a sapphire blue one with tiny sleeves that left most of her arms bare.

“Where’s Corinna?”

“Still in the doldrums.” He looked back to Juliana. “You can blame her for making me fashionable. She refused to leave the house.”

“Yet you came anyway,” she said, appearing speculative. “Why is that?”

He wasn’t about to tell her he’d come to see Rachael. Juliana meddled enough without his encouragement. “Am I not allowed to socialize without an agenda?” Since she looked even more speculative, he changed the subject. “I expect tonight’s buzz is still all about yesterday’s revelations?”

“Mr. Delaney, you mean? Actually, no. The gossip tonight is about how everyone’s been invited to the reading of Lord Lincolnshire’s will on Monday.”

“Everyone?”

“When James and I arrived home last night, there was a letter waiting. Alexandra and Tristan got one, too. As did every other household in Mayfair, if one can believe the talk.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“The reading is going to be a shocking squeeze.” Juliana sounded thrilled at the prospect. “Lord Lincolnshire cannot have left bequests to everyone, so I wonder what could be the reason.”

“You’ll know soon enough.” He looked over toward Rachael, only to find she was gone. “Have you seen Noah or any of his sisters?”

“Last I noticed, Rachael was talking to Claire and Elizabeth.” She glanced around. “Oh, Rachael’s dancing now. And Noah just walked into the refreshment room.” That speculative look came into her eyes again. “Why do you ask?”

“I was just wondering if they received a letter, too,” he said casually. “I’ll go ask Noah.”

Leaving Juliana, he ambled toward the refreshment room—then went right past it. And around to the far side of the ballroom, where she couldn’t see him. He couldn’t care less whether his cousins had received a letter. But Rachael dancing…

Well, that was another matter altogether.

He shifted uneasily, watching the fellow Rachael was dancing with pull her closer, watching him run a hand slowly down the back of her clingy dress. When the music ended and she curtsied to the son of a gun, Griffin moved quickly to block her path off the dance floor.

“What are you doing, Rachael?”

“What do you mean, what am I doing?”

“Why are you dancing?”

“I’m at a ball, if you haven’t noticed. What else should I be doing but dancing?”

“I don’t remember you dancing at a ball in the last two seasons, except with me. You told me you didn’t like men pawing you.”

“Well, I thought I didn’t, at the time.” Watching him, she licked her lips. “But a certain experience last night changed my mind.”

“I didn’t paw you last night,” he protested, though he felt an urge to paw her now.

“Maybe I wanted you to paw me,” she suggested. “Maybe it crossed my mind that might have been enjoyable.”

Clenching his jaw, he looked away. Blast it, she’d accused him of disrespecting her and all he’d done was kiss her for half an hour. After she’d asked. Now he wasn’t allowed to kiss her again unless he proposed first, but it was all right if another man pawed her?

In the distance, Juliana caught his eye. Standing in a clutch of jabbering chatterboxes, she glanced between him and Rachael and raised a speculative eyebrow.

“Instead of dancing,” he gritted out, “why don’t you just gossip like every other girl?”

Rachael followed his gaze. “I’m not Juliana, if you haven’t noticed.”

Now, that he’d noticed. He’d never once been tempted to kiss his sister for half an hour.

“I prefer dancing to gossiping,” Rachael informed him archly. “Especially now, since I’m looking for a husband.”

“You’re doing what?”

“You heard me. Since you don’t want to marry me, I’ve decided to find someone who’s ready to make me his wife.” The lips he’d kissed last night curved into a satisfied smile. “Stop gaping, Griffin. You look better with your mouth closed. Not that I care what you look like anymore,” she added, and sailed off.

Three minutes later Griffin was still standing there, and Rachael was dancing with another man. Another son of a gun. This one seemed to be whispering secrets in her ear.

Ten minutes later, another son of a gun was holding her too close.

Ten minutes after that, another another son of a gun was making her laugh. Had Griffin ever made her laugh? With him, that was, not at him?

When she came off the dance floor for the third time, he pulled her aside again. “Why all of a sudden do you want to get married?”

“I’m twenty-one years old, Griffin, and I wasted two seasons chasing down my father. I’ll be on the shelf if I don’t marry soon. That’s what decided me.”

“You don’t just decide to find a husband, Rachael.”

“Odd statement, coming from you. Is that not what you’ve decided for Corinna?”

“I’ve changed my mind. I’m thinking it would be better to wait until she falls in love. I’d suggest you do the same yourself.”

“I have fallen in love,” she informed him. “But since it took twenty-one years to happen, I don’t think I can afford to wait for it to happen another time. Your mouth is open again,” she added before she turned in a swish of clingy skirts and walked away.

Not a minute later, she was dancing once more.

Griffin’s mouth remained open for quite a while.

She loved him? Hardly a word passed her lips that didn’t disparage him. And if she loved him, why the deuce was she dancing with yet another son of a gun? One with the gall to put a hand where it didn’t belong, no less? Just for a split second, but Griffin had seen it. He wanted to strangle the man.

Juliana sauntered by. “Close your mouth, Griffin,” she said as she passed, her voice filled with speculation. She turned to walk backward, a smug smile emerging as she studied him. “You look jealous,” she said before turning again and walking away.

Now he wanted to strangle her.

Was he jealous? Could he possibly love Rachael? He’d thought what he felt for her was just lust, but mere lust shouldn’t incite jealousy. And if this was what jealousy felt like, he didn’t care for it one bit.

By the time Rachael curtsied to the son of a gun who’d put a hand where it didn’t belong, Griffin was standing next to her. “You must have misunderstood me yesterday, Rachael.”

She turned to him. “How is that?”

“It isn’t that I don’t want to marry you. I just don’t want to marry you now. I’m not ready to take a wife. At the moment, I’ve too many other responsibilities. I’m quite concerned about Corinna. Before I even think about settling down myself, I need to concentrate on getting her married. To someone she loves.”

“I’ll tell you what you need to concentrate on, Griffin, and that’s growing up. You’re twenty-six years old. For heaven’s sake, Noah’s growing up, and he’s only twenty. If I wait until you’re ready, I’ll be waiting forever.”

“I’m not asking for forever, Rachael. Just until Corinna’s married.”

“Corinna won’t be married for another year at least. The season’s more than half over, and she hasn’t shown interest in anyone yet. In fact, your sister seems rather wed to her art career, which means she may not ever marry. Have you considered that?”

He hadn’t, and the thought struck terror in his heart.

And Rachael wasn’t finished. “If I agree to wait until she’s married, I could end up a shriveled old lady, and you’ll still be asking for time.” She shook her beautiful head. “Thank you for the offer, but no.”

“But I love you.”

He couldn’t believe those words had come out of his mouth, but even more than that, he couldn’t believe her response.

“I know that, Griffin. But I want children. I’m going to find someone who’s willing to marry me while I’m still young enough to have them.” She rose to her toes and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll see you at Lincolnshire’s solicitor’s office on Monday.”

FIFTY-SIX

When Sean arrived in Queen Street on Monday at noon, he found it clogged with traffic and pedestrians. He’d never seen any street in Cheapside so busy. He felt lucky when he found a place to leave his curricle in a mews only two blocks away.

Walking back, he fretted over what trouble he might be facing. At the bottom of the three steps that led to the solicitor’s office, he stopped to check the plaque mounted by the building’s door to make sure he was in the right place.

88 QUEEN STREET

PEABODY & LAWLESS

ATTORNEYS-AT-LAW

Mr. Peregrine Peabody being the solicitor he was supposed to meet, he nodded to himself and started up.

Then stopped again, ignoring a steady stream of people pushing past him up the steps.

Peabody and Lawless?

Lincolnshire’s solicitor?

His first thought was to slink away. A summons issued by Lincolnshire’s solicitor was potentially much worse than being summoned to discuss an accusation against Delaney & Company. He knew all his company’s dealings were honest, after all. No matter who accused him of what, he ought to be able to prove his innocence, even if it doing so might be a colossal nuisance. When he’d told Deirdre he might be busy getting arrested today, he hadn’t really meant it.

But had impersonating John Hamilton been an actual crime?

Had he been summoned here to be arrested?

“Sean!” Coming up the steps, Deirdre looked astonished to see him. “What are you doing here?”

“I wish I knew.” He gestured toward the plaque. “These are Peregrine Peabody’s offices, too.”

A woman mounting the steps did a double take, then turned to face him. “Mr. Delaney, isn’t it? You have quite the nerve showing up here. Hmmph,” she added, pushing through the door, no doubt to spread the news that he’d arrived.

There was nothing for it. There would be no slinking away. “Come along,” he muttered, taking Deirdre’s arm and steeling himself to face the fire.

But instead he came face-to-face with Corinna.

At first, Corinna thought Sean was a figment of her imagination. She wasn’t ever supposed to see him again, and he very especially wasn’t supposed to be here. But then she met his eyes, and the anguish in them was so poignant that she knew he had to be real.

And it wasn’t just anguish she saw. It was a mixture of anguish and love and regret that matched her own feelings.

Seeing him made her happy and sad and excited and apprehensive, all in a single instant. Her hand went up to touch the claddagh necklace, but it wasn’t there, of course. She could wear it only in her room at night, where no one would see it and ask questions.

She started toward him.

“You need to come inside now, Corinna.” Griffin appeared, took her arm, and began weaving her through the crowded corridor. “Mr. Lawless is about to begin, and you’ve been directed to sit in the front.”

She looked back, but Sean was already lost in the crowd. She could only hope he was following.

When Griffin had told her that everyone they knew had been asked to attend the reading, she’d figured he’d been exaggerating. She’d had no idea just how many people would show up. They crammed the large chamber where the reading was to be held and spilled out into the corridor, filling the building all the way back to the front door. With all the bodies in the way, she and Griffin barely managed to squeeze into the room.

Mr. Lawless was a very tall, very serious-looking man. Over a sea of chattering heads, Corinna could see him from where she was stuck in the back. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he called. “I beg your attention! Will the following individuals please make their way to the front row. John Hamilton, the ninth Earl of Lincolnshire. His wife, Deirdre, the ninth Countess of Lincolnshire. Lady Corinna Chase. And Mr. Sean Delaney.”

The crowd suddenly parted like the Red Sea, letting Corinna through. Griffin followed and went to stand at the left end of the front row, against the wall. Corinna noticed that the rest of her family already waited there. Four chairs at the front sat empty save for small signs set upon them that said RESERVED. Corinna dropped gratefully onto one of them, and a moment later the new Lord Lincolnshire lowered himself to the chair on her left, and Sean took the seat to her right.

Deirdre sat beside Sean rather than her husband.

“Why were you asked here?” Corinna whispered to Sean.

He looked pale. “I wish I knew. I assumed—”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the solicitor interrupted. “Although the eighth Lord Lincolnshire requested your presence, I feel compelled to inform you at the outset that you did not all receive bequests. Alas, while he was well-known for his generosity, Lord Lincolnshire’s largesse did not extend quite that far.” He paused while an amused titter ran through the room. “Rather, Lord Lincolnshire asked you here to stand as witnesses to his final wishes.”

Now a speculative murmur circulated the room instead. Mr. Lawless waited for that to die down before continuing.

“Let us begin.” A suspenseful hush fell as he raised a large document. “‘I, Samuel Hamilton, eighth Earl of Lincolnshire, being of sound mind and failing body, declare that this is my last will and testament. I revoke all prior wills and codicils. I wish to thank everyone who has assembled to bear witness to my wishes. I have instructed Mr. Lawrence Lawless not to schedule the reading of this will until my nephew, John Hamilton, has arrived in London and presented himself as my heir, which I hope will prove to be sooner rather than later. I assume that doubtless scandalous event has by now taken place.’”

Shocked whispers buzzed around the room, accompanied by a few more titters. Corinna and Sean exchanged wide-eyed glances.

“‘I imagine it came as a surprise that an impostor has been posing as my nephew. It certainly came as a surprise to me. What may come as a larger surprise indeed is that I also discovered my true nephew, John Hamilton, was responsible for the deceit. He demanded another individual impersonate him and made certain said individual did so by means of blackmail.’”

Gasps filled the room, and John Hamilton jumped from his seat. “I object to that slander!”

Griffin stepped forward. “This isn’t a trial, you fool. You have no right to object to anything.” He shoved the fellow back down. “Stay, Lincolnshire,” he ordered as though the new earl were a misbehaving dog.

Which he wasn’t, Corinna thought fiercely. He was much worse than that.

Mr. Lawless cleared his throat and continued. “‘Needless to say, I was disappointed to learn my nephew is truly as deplorable as the reputation that precedes him. For him I wish all the censure he deserves. Contrarily, I wish everyone to know that his impostor, whom I am now identifying as Mr. Sean Delaney, proved one of the best young men I’ve ever had the privilege to meet. He treated me better than an uncle—indeed, better than a father—and were I to be granted one impossible wish, it would be to have had such as him for my son.’”

Corinna’s heart had stuttered when Sean’s name was read off, and it was racing now. An expectant silence filled the room as Mr. Lawless lowered the document and looked around as though making sure everyone had heard his words. He nodded slowly before raising the will once more.

“‘And so, my dear friends, I have summoned you to this event in order to beseech you to treat Mr. Delaney as I believe he deserves to be treated. Rather than persecuting the young man, I beg you to accept him into our circle. I will remind you that you’ve all claimed numerous times that you’d do anything for me, and this is my most fervent request.’”

The solicitor glanced up again, this time looking directly at Corinna and Sean.

“‘In addition…’”

At the significant pause, everyone sat up straighter.

“‘In addition, although I will not put any conditions in this will stipulating the matter, as I believe such decisions are best left to those whose hearts are involved, I wish to publicly convey my hopes that Mr. Delaney will propose marriage to Lady Corinna Chase.’”

If Corinna thought everyone’s gasps were loud before, the ones they emitted now sounded like nothing less than a roar. And the loudest gasps of all came from her family. Meeting Griffin’s eyes first and then those of her sisters, she reached for Sean’s hand.

“And now, for the bequests…”

She hardly heard what came next, at least not at first. She felt faint. Her blood was thundering in her ears. Sean’s hand felt warm in hers, and when she squeezed it and he squeezed back, she feared her heart might burst.

She glanced back to her family. Griffin’s mouth was open in shock, Alexandra nodded approvingly, and Juliana’s grin was smug beyond belief.

And the reading wasn’t yet finished.

“‘… only my title as required by law and the small amount of entailed property that goes along with it,’” Mr. Lawless was saying. Given the indignant huff to Corinna’s left, she guessed that was the new Lord Lincolnshire’s punishment. “‘The balance of my fortune will be held in trust, the income to go to charity. I name Mr. Sean Delaney as trustee to oversee all investments and distribution, because I know him to be a person who has no need for the income himself, a person with an excellent head for business, and most important, a person who is eminently fair and makes decisions for the right reasons.’” The solicitor paused for effect. “‘Unless…’”

Skirts rustled and shoes shuffled. Everyone sat on the edge of their seats.

“‘Unless,’” he repeated, “‘my errant nephew, John Hamilton, grants Deirdre Hamilton a divorce, in which case he shall receive half the income of the trust in perpetuity.’”

John Hamilton stalked out of the room as Deirdre collapsed in a swoon.

FIFTY-SEVEN

Still holding Corinna’s hand, Sean walked with her and Deirdre toward Mr. Lawless, who stood by the door where he’d been busy ushering everyone out. Although Sean’s little party was the last to leave the chamber, excited chatter could be heard from the corridor. The reading of Lord Lincolnshire’s will would doubtless be talked about for weeks.

“I’ll be setting up the trust in the next few days,” the solicitor said. “I’ll need to meet with you to go over the details. Shall we say next Monday, at the same time?”

Sean nodded. “Agreed. But I’ve one question I’d like answered today.”

“I have lots of questions,” Corinna said.

“I’m thinking your brother can answer most of them,” Sean told her, and looked back to Lawless. “Why did the letter I received requesting my presence here come from your partner rather than yourself?”

“Those were Lord Lincolnshire’s instructions. He didn’t want my name on the letter. He thought you might not show, fearing arrest.”

“Lincolnshire was a clever man,” Sean said, as arrest was exactly what he’d feared on seeing Lawless’s name. “My thanks.” He held out his free hand, and the solicitor gave it a firm shake. “I shall see you a week from today.”

As Sean, Corinna, and Deirdre stepped into the corridor, the chatter ceased. Apparently a nosy lot, most of the people followed them outside, where Corinna’s family waited bunched together on the pavement.

Sean tried to drop Corinna’s hand as they approached, but she tightened her grip. Lady Stafford, Corinna’s middle sister, elbowed their brother when she noticed the two of them walk up.

Cainewood turned. “Ah, there you are, Corinna. Since the atmosphere here on Queen Street is a little tense”—he waved a hand, indicating all the busybodies—“we’ve decided to discuss these developments at home.” He looked to Sean. “If you could follow us there, I’d appreciate your participation in the discussion.”

“I’m riding home with Sean,” Corinna announced.

“Sean? Since when do you call the fellow Sean?” Glancing down to their clasped hands, her brother’s eyes widened. “It isn’t proper for you to ride alone with an unmarried gentleman.”

“Sean has an open curricle, so I can assure you nothing improper will happen.”

Snickers came from all around them, this sort of exchange being exactly what nosy busybodies loved to overhear. Cainewood’s jaw seemed to be clenched. Suspecting none of this was helping him earn the marquess’s approval, Sean turned to Corinna. “I need to take Deirdre with me, a rún,” he told her apologetically. “The curricle seats only two.”

“Your sister is welcome to ride with my husband and myself,” Lady Stafford piped up at the same time Cainewood said, “What did you just call my sister?”

Deirdre smiled. “A rún. It means ‘my love.’” She didn’t seem to notice Cainewood’s reaction as she turned to his middle sister. “And I would be pleased to ride with you, Lady Stafford. Thank you for the offer.”

“I think you should call me Juliana,” Lady Stafford told her. “I’ve a feeling we’ll be related soon.”

The buzz around their little group was becoming deafening. Cainewood’s next words came from between his teeth. “I think—”

“Oh, let them ride together, Griffin,” Corinna’s eldest sister interrupted, wheeling a squeaky perambulator back and forth. “My goodness, what do you think could happen in an open curricle? There’s my carriage now.” A large vehicle crept to a stop in the snarl of traffic. “Let’s all go,” she said, pushing the perambulator toward it.

Her husband followed. Lady Stafford took her own husband’s arm and smiled at Deirdre. “Our carriage is this way, Lady Lincolnshire.”

“Call me Deirdre,” Deirdre said. “I won’t be Lady Lincolnshire for long.”

As the three of them walked off, a lovely young woman moved to stand squarely before Corinna’s fuming brother. “It seems your sister may be getting married a lot sooner than you expected, hmm?” she purred.

“Good gracious,” Cainewood said, blanching, and walked off, too.

A delighted smile on her face, the girl joined three others that looked like they might be her sisters and brother. “I want you to drop me off at Griffin’s house,” she said as they all departed.

Leaving Sean and Corinna alone.

Well, except for the dozens of buzzing busybodies.

“Who was that?” Sean asked.

“My cousin Rachael. I think Juliana is about to get even more smug. Where is your curricle?”

“In a mews about two blocks from here.” Still holding her hand, he drew her in the right direction. The crowd parted to let them through, but Sean felt at least a hundred eyes on his back.

“Am I dreaming?” Corinna asked, seemingly oblivious to all the curious gazes. “Just an hour ago, all was lost. Now suddenly your reputation is restored—no, more than that, it’s golden—and we can get…”

Her voice trailed off, as though she were afraid to say what came next.

“Married?” Sean supplied.

“You never actually asked me.” They turned a corner, and she threw herself into his arms. “Oh, Sean, I’ve never been so happy!”

He held her tight and risked a short kiss, since they’d escaped the prying eyes. She felt incredible in his arms and against his lips. But he couldn’t bring himself to share in her happiness quite yet.

“Let’s not count our chickens before they’re hatched,” he advised, remembering Cainewood’s clenched jaw. “Lincolnshire’s endorsement notwithstanding, your brother may not approve.”

“Oh, don’t worry about Griffin,” she said gaily, rising to her toes for another quick kiss. He obliged her, of course. “I have a plan to persuade him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Never mind.” A bounce in her step, she turned and resumed walking. “We’re all going to live happily ever after, just like in a Minerva Press novel.”

“Not all of us,” he pointed out. “Not Hamilton.”

“No one will buy his paintings now, will they? He’s going to need half the income from his uncle’s trust.”

“Very clever, that stipulation.” They turned into the mews where his curricle was waiting. “Lincolnshire knew it would get him to free Deirdre.”

“She looked so happy.”

“Believe me, she is.” Digging a coin from his pocket, he handed it to one groom as another helped Corinna climb up. Sean walked around to the driver’s side and swung up beside her. “And I’m relieved to know she won’t be living in sin,” he added as he lifted the reins. “Or at least, not for long.”

As the horses clip-clopped out of the mews, Corinna leaned against him, sighing contentedly. “What do you mean?”

“Deirdre won’t be waiting for the divorce to come through before she moves in with Raleigh,” he said with a sigh, turning onto the street. “That will take a long while, and she won’t be patient. Impulsive, my sister is, not to mention a wee bit wild.”

“I guess wildness runs in your family,” Corinna said, grinning up at him. “Her brother posed nearly naked for an artist, you know.”

FIFTY-EIGHT

A short time later, Griffin found himself seated on a sofa in his drawing room, surrounded by members of his family and a couple of near strangers with Irish accents. And each and every one of them—except for the baby—wanted something.

His two brothers-in-law wanted to go home. That he could understand. If he weren’t already home, he would want to go home now, too.

Alexandra wanted to know how Lincolnshire had come to learn everything his will had revealed. He couldn’t blame her for that, as he’d be clamoring for the information himself if he didn’t already have it.

Juliana wanted Corinna to marry Delaney. Corinna wanted to marry Delaney. Delaney’s sister wanted Delaney to marry Corinna. And Delaney wanted to marry Corinna.

These four people were responsible for half of the new cracks in his teeth.

And then there was Rachael, sitting beside him on the sofa, enveloping him in her heady, floral scent. She wanted to marry him.

Which made her responsible for the rest of the cracks.

The beginnings of a headache pulsed in his temples. Alexandra wasn’t seated. Holding little Harry, she was bouncing him unceasingly in a rather frantic, rhythmic fashion. While it worked to keep the baby from crying, Griffin’s headache escalated just watching her.

“How on earth did Lord Lincolnshire learn everything?” she asked for the third time.

He decided to give her what she wanted first.

But before he could unclench his jaw to do so, Delaney answered. “I’m thinking Lincolnshire got the facts from your brother,” the fellow told her. “A mere two days before he died.” Sitting on a sofa across the drawing room, with Corinna beside him—right beside him—he looked to Griffin for confirmation. “That morning he summoned you…it wasn’t to say good-bye, was it?”

“No, it wasn’t,” Griffin said. “He wanted information. I take it he asked you to find future employment for all of his staff?”

“He asked me to continue employing them all at Lincolnshire House, which I knew his real nephew wouldn’t agree to. So I offered to find alternative employment for them instead.”

“Well, you did too good a job of it, raising his suspicions. He subsequently requested that Mr. Lawless hire someone to investigate the various concerns where his servants would eventually work, to make certain they all existed and his people would be treated well. In the process, Lawless discovered all of the establishments were owned by a single man, a certain Mr. Sean Delaney.” Griffin paused, rather impressed despite his hunch that this fellow might have kissed his little sister. “You own a lot of property, Delaney.”

“Among other things. You needn’t worry that your sister might ever want for anything.”

Griffin snorted. “You’ll keep her in dresses, I expect—if I agree to let you have her.” When Corinna opened her mouth to protest, he forged ahead. “From there, Lawless made further inquiries and learned you were posing as Hamilton, and furthermore, that Hamilton was your brother-in-law. Feeling you were a good man”—this uttered with more than a little irony—“Lincolnshire summoned me to ask if I knew why you might have done such a thing.”

“And you confirmed his suspicions?” Corinna asked.

“He was close enough to confirming them for himself. I told him Delaney agreed to the hoax for his sister’s sake and attested that Hamilton was quite deserving of his less-than-stellar reputation. Lincolnshire seemed especially furious that his nephew had refused Mrs. Hamilton the divorce she wanted.” He looked to Delaney’s sister. “He was quite taken with you, if you didn’t know.”

“I loved him, too,” she whispered, tears in her eyes.

“He considered your brother a saint, and he compared you to the angels. He wanted you happy. And he requested that I not reveal what he knew. He wanted to settle everything his own way. I expect his will was rewritten that very afternoon.”

“Didn’t you think we’d have wanted to know?” Corinna asked rather indignantly. “I was devastated, and Sean thought he was being set up to take a fall—”

“I agreed to keep the secret in order to make Lincolnshire happy. The exact reason you kept secrets, if you’ll recall. I followed through after his death because I like to think I’m a man of my word. I felt Lincolnshire deserved to resolve the matter as he wished. And furthermore”—he glared daggers at her—“I had no knowledge the two of you were involved with each other, so I had no reason to worry for your happiness, Corinna. You denied any interest in him, and you told me you were upset over the loss of Lord Lincolnshire and because your painting isn’t likely to be accepted for the Summer Exhibition, if you’ll remember.”

That tirade rendered his youngest sister speechless, a rare state for Corinna. Griffin found a measure of satisfaction in that.

He was going to allow her to marry Delaney, of course. He was thinking a late summer wedding at Cainewood Castle, after the season ended, would be perfect. While he wished he knew Delaney better, he liked what he’d learned of the fellow thus far. Lincolnshire had considered him worthy, and Griffin trusted the earl’s judgment. Most important, Corinna was in love, and Griffin wanted to see her happy.

But he was sick and tired of being manipulated by all the women in his life.

Before he granted his permission, he planned to make everyone else squirm for a change. And he planned to enjoy it.

“Do you not like Sean?” Corinna finally asked.

“I would like to have his skill at investing,” Griffin said dryly, leaving it at that for now. He shifted to look at Delaney. “Given Lincolnshire’s reaction, I assumed he wasn’t planning to punish you for lying to him. But I felt no responsibility, anyway. As far as I was concerned, you had made your bed.”

Slowly Delaney nodded. “And now I expect I shall have to lie in it.”

“No, you won’t,” Corinna disagreed heatedly. “Griffin will allow us to marry. I have a secret that will ensure it.”

“Another secret?” Suddenly Griffin wasn’t finding this so enjoyable. His headache was getting worse. “What sort of blasted secret?”

“Maybe he kissed her for half an hour,” Rachael suggested sweetly.

Griffin nearly cracked another tooth.

“Open your eyes, Griffin,” Juliana put in. “A blind man could see they belong together.”

“I see they seem to be glued together,” he said sharply.

Delaney immediately put space between himself and Corinna, and Corinna immediately scooted right back against him. Griffin found that amusing, which helped to calm him down a bit.

Delaney’s pretty blond sister cleared her throat. “Lord Cainewood, you admired Lord Lincolnshire, didn’t you? I’m thinking you should trust his judgment regarding my brother.”

“I’m thinking this is none of your concern,” he said, thinking she was the only one with an intelligent argument.

Unsurprisingly, Juliana wasn’t ready to give up. “What do you think, James?”

Her husband looked at her as though doves had just flown out of her ears. “I think I’m staying out of this.”

“Alexandra, Tristan?”

They both shook their heads, Alexandra doing so while still maniacally bouncing the baby.

Crossing her arms, Juliana looked back to Griffin. “You have to let them marry.”

“I don’t have to do anything.”

“They can elope to Gretna Green,” she pointed out with more than a little smugness.

“I won’t do that,” Delaney put in quickly. “I won’t go behind her brother’s back.”

“I knew you’d say that,” Corinna said. “That’s why I’m prepared to use the secret.”

Griffin swung back to her. “What secret?”

“Maybe he kissed her for more than half an hour,” Rachael suggested.

Which made Griffin wonder if maybe things had gone beyond kissing. “Did he paw you, Corinna?”

She looked confused. “Did he what?”

An awful thought occurred to him. “You aren’t in the family way, are you?”

“No, I’m not in the family way!” Her cheeks flushed red with anger or embarrassment. Perhaps both. “He didn’t do anything that could get me in the family way. Sean’s much too honorable to even consider such a thing. He’s the son of a vicar, you know.”

Griffin hadn’t known, and he was rather pleased to hear it. “So, then, what’s the secret? What did he do?”

She hesitated, her gaze darting about the room. She appeared to be holding her breath. Beside her, Delaney looked like he wished the floor would open up and swallow him. Alexandra stopped bouncing, and the baby began crying.

Griffin saw Corinna’s breath rush out, saw her suck in another one—a single, shuddering, ragged breath—and then she opened her mouth—

“You know what? I don’t want to hear it.” Suddenly, he didn’t. He was absolutely certain it was something that would make him furious, something that would make him demand the fellow marry his sister immediately.

In fact, he was going to do just that, just in case.

So much for a late summer wedding at Cainewood.

“You two will be married tomorrow.”

Corinna finally left Delaney’s side, rushing over to smother Griffin in a hug. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you for not making me use my secret. You won’t be sorry.”

“I’m sorry already,” he muttered. “It’s a miracle I have any teeth left in my mouth.”

“They cannot marry tomorrow,” Juliana said. Smugly. “They’ll need a special license. And she’ll need a dress.”

“She has dozens of dresses. I know, because I paid for all of them.” Griffin disentangled himself from his sister and set her away. “Very well, then, you have until Friday to get a license and pick a dress. Not a day later. And you and the vicar’s son will not be alone together until then.” The baby was still bawling, a racket loud enough to rattle his aching teeth. He had a raging headache. “Leave, all of you, please. Except for Corinna. Now.”

Most of the family shuffled out. Mercifully, the baby’s cries faded away with them, and as they left the house, the noise ceased altogether.

“I’m going to walk Sean and Deirdre to the door,” Corinna said quietly. “I’m not leaving.” The three of them walked into the foyer.

Rachael had stayed put, naturally. Now she moved closer, enveloping Griffin in her blasted floral scent again. Against his better judgment, he shifted to face her.

“I’ve reconsidered your offer,” she said in her low, sultry voice.

“What do you mean?” he asked, fearing he knew what she meant.

“I said I wouldn’t wait until your sister married. But as I can wait until Friday without becoming a shriveled old lady, I’ve changed my mind.”

She moved closer, so close her mouth was a whisper from his.

And she licked her lips.

“Do you want to kiss me, Griffin?”

His head hurt. He felt beaten down. And he was being manipulated again, blast it.

But he very much wanted to kiss her.

He loved Rachael. She was clever and beautiful. Open and refreshing. Having managed an earldom for a number of years, she would make a fine partner, helping him manage the Cainewood holdings. He didn’t want to lose her to some son of a gun with the gall to put his hand where it didn’t belong.

The next fellow to put his hand where it didn’t belong was going to be him.

Her lovely blue eyes bore into his, her lips curving into a tantalizing smile. Struggling for control, his heart and head pounding in unison, he moved closer. She met him halfway and brushed her lips over his, and he yanked her close, feeling his restraint snap, crushing her to him.

A bloodcurdling scream came from the foyer.

He jumped to his feet and rushed out to see who was being murdered.

No one was dead. But it was difficult to be thankful for that when he saw the way Corinna was wrapped around Delaney. No one should ever have to see his sister in such an embrace. She was literally hanging on the fellow, her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist.

She was sobbing, and she clutched a crumpled letter. Delaney’s sister plucked it out of her hand and brought it to Griffin.

Somerset House, Monday 26 May

Lady Corinna Chase:

The Royal Academy’s Summer Exhibition Committee is pleased to inform you that your painting has been accepted for our 1817 Exhibition. Please be advised that Varnishing Day will take place Friday 30 May in preparation for the Exhibition’s opening on Monday 2 June.

Congratulations,

Benjamin West

President

“I cannot believe it,” Corinna choked out through a sob.

“I’m not at all surprised,” Griffin said.

She slid off Delaney, thank heavens, and dashed the tears from her face. “You’re not?”

“You’re very talented, Corinna.” He was ecstatic for her. “Since Varnishing Day is Friday, we’ll move the wedding to Saturday.”

“And make it a double wedding,” a sultry voice added behind him.

FIFTY-NINE

The great room, which housed the Summer Exhibition, had been built at the very top of Somerset House so it could be illuminated by skylights. It was accessed by a wide, winding staircase that seemed endless. Corinna’s knees trembled as she climbed up it on Friday afternoon, gripping her paint box like a life preserver.

“Are you getting tired?” Sean asked, taking her arm to steady her.

“A little,” she said.

She was glad Griffin had relented and allowed Sean to accompany her. But unfortunately, he’d done so only after extracting a solemn promise from the “vicar’s son” that he would bring her here and straight back, and she knew Sean was so honorable he’d stick to that promise.

Which meant this would be another day without any kissing.

The four days since Griffin had agreed to their marriage seemed the longest four days of her life. Two special licenses had been procured, and the minister booked, and nothing much more had happened. The double wedding tomorrow was going to be a very quiet affair, even smaller than Lady Cavanaugh’s. Besides the two brides and grooms, only Corinna’s family and Deirdre, Rachael’s siblings, and the ABC sisters would be attending. Aunt Frances couldn’t come, as she was still in confinement—new mothers stayed at home for the first month.

The wedding would take place in the afternoon in the Berkeley Square house’s drawing room, and then they’d have a little dinner, and then everyone would go home.

Juliana was very disappointed. She’d wanted more of a fuss made about everything. But Corinna didn’t care about the wedding, just like she didn’t care that she didn’t have a new dress to wear for it. The wedding was only something to get past.

“I’m a little tired and a little nervous,” she admitted, still climbing. “What if my painting is hung up very high? Or down near the floor?”

“Why should it matter where it’s hung? It’s an honor just to be in the Exhibition, isn’t it?”

“The room is designed with a line going around it, a strip of molding mounted eight feet above the floor. The pictures placed with the bottom edges of their frames along the line are considered the best. It’s an extra honor to be hung not high or low, but right there in the middle. I’m afraid to look.”

“Well, I don’t see how not looking is going to change anything. But if you want, I’ll look for you and let you know.”

“You can’t.” On the landing, she stopped before the Great Room’s open door to catch her breath. “You won’t recognize my painting.” That was another thing she was nervous about. “It’s not Lord Lincolnshire’s portrait.”

“It’s not?” He looked totally nonplussed. “Well, what is it, then?”

“My secret,” she said and stepped in, hurrying to the center of the room.

Varnishing Day seemed to be chaos. Artists were everywhere, on chairs and ladders and their knees, blocking Corinna’s view of all the pictures on the soaring walls. They hung frame-to-frame, fitted like puzzle pieces floor to ceiling. She turned in circles, frantically searching for her own.

“Sweet mercy!” Sean burst out.

“Where? Where is it?”

He took her by the shoulders and swung her around. “There. And begorrah, it’s quite some secret.”

She stared at it, feeling breathless, and not because she’d climbed a hundred stairs. “They liked it.”

“They wouldn’t have accepted it had they not liked it, críona.”

“But it’s on the line. In the place of honor. They really liked it.”

“Hamilton loved it,” he said dryly. “He described his favorite submission to me precisely. ‘A rather outrageous depiction of a golden-haired young man, half-clothed and bathed in candlelight.’ I had no idea the half-clothed young man was me.”

“And neither did he, a person who’s known you since childhood. No one will recognize you, Sean.” Tearing her gaze from her picture, she turned to him. “I changed your coloring.”

“But Deirdre will want to come see it, and your brother—”

“I didn’t end up telling Griffin my secret,” she reminded him, extremely thankful she hadn’t needed to. “It won’t occur to them it could be you. You’re not angry with me, are you? No one here is recognizing you, either. And it’s not because they haven’t noticed the painting.” Indeed, several artists not involved in their own work stood before it, discussing it, a sight that made her heart sing. “Why didn’t you tell me Hamilton liked it so much?”

“Well, I had no idea he was speaking of your painting, did I?“

He shook his head in apparent disbelief, but he didn’t seem truly upset. Her hand went up to touch her claddagh necklace. She was so lucky to have him.

“Are you going to varnish it now, then?” he asked.

“In a minute.” She wanted to let it all sink in for a while first. She shifted her paint box to her other hand, looking around. “Sean,” she whispered, thrilled. “It’s J.M.W. Turner. There, in the top hat and tails. I’ve heard he always dresses like that.”

“His painting doesn’t look finished.”

The artist had hung an all but monochrome canvas. “You’re color-blind. How can you tell?”

“It’s a landscape, and the sky isn’t even blue. How on earth did it get accepted?”

“Academicians are allowed to hang six paintings each without going through the selection process,” Corinna explained in an undertone. “And Varnishing Day isn’t just for varnishing; it’s also for fixing little things. Turner is rather famous for this trick. While his fellow artists—”

“That’s you,” Sean interrupted.

“Holy Hannah, it is, isn’t it?” She beamed. “While the rest of us struggle to fix some tiny mistake, he practically paints an entire picture.”

“Thus proving his technical virtuosity?”

“And awing everyone else in the process.” She watched the dull painting blaze to life as Turner swiftly transformed it with glorious chrome and brilliant vermilion and costly ultramarine. He stood so close to his canvas he appeared to paint with his eyes and nose as well as his hands. “He’s legendary,” she whispered. “They call him the painter of light. He first exhibited here at the age of fifteen.”

“While you’re an ancient seventeen?”

“I suppose I should feel lucky you’re willing to marry such an old hag.”

“We’d best wed quickly, a rún, before you get any older.”

“Is tomorrow soon enough?”

“An hour from now wouldn’t be soon enough.”

She laughed, a joyous sound that felt like a cool breeze across Sean’s soul. To think, only four days ago, he’d believed he’d never hear that laugh again.

“I don’t know how Turner does it,” she said. “He’s been known to produce two hundred and fifty pictures in a single year. It takes me at least two weeks to complete a painting.”

“Not that one.” Sean gestured to his image on the wall.

“That one was rather quick,” she admitted, her cheeks flushing. “I guess I’ll varnish it now.”

She looked nervous as she walked toward it, paint box in hand. Sean followed, moving a step stool so that she could reach it.

“Is that yours?” someone asked as she climbed up, setting off a volley of comments.

“She’s unknown!”

“A woman painted that?”

“She’s a genius.”

“I think it’s shameful,” a disgruntled man disagreed.

Through it all, Corinna held her head high, nerves notwithstanding. She made her own way in the world, just like Sean did. That was why he loved her.

Well, that and because she was the most captivating girl he’d ever met.

Only one more day until he made her his forever. Standing back, he smiled as she dipped her brush in varnish and began swiping it over his bare chest.

SIXTY

“Well,” Griffin said. “That’s it.” Upstairs in the Berkeley Square town house, he shut the master bedroom door and leaned his hands against it. “Corinna is on her way to Hampstead, to a house I’ve never even seen.”

“You’ll see it soon,” Rachael said behind him, where he knew she was slipping off her shoes.

He heard the soft give of the mattress as she sat on the bed across the room, and he imagined her rolling down her stockings. He remained facing away, listening to the sound of swishing silk.

“And I’m sure it’s a fine house,” she continued, her sultry voice settling around him like a blanket. “Deirdre told me it’s enormous, and set in acres of gardens and woodland, and it was built by Robert Adams. She said her brother has more money than a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.”

“I swear, Rachael, that fellow could eat a pot of gold for breakfast and never notice it was missing. But it doesn’t matter. He has Corinna now, and that’s all that counts. Corinna wanted him, and I wanted her happy.”

“You did the right thing, Griffin. She loves him, and he loves her. And I love you.”

“I love you, too.” He straightened and turned to look at her. She rose and took a few slow steps toward him, barefooted and gorgeous. Hopping on one foot and then the other, he pulled off his own boots and stockings, then shrugged out of his tailcoat and waistcoat, leaving it all littering the floor as he went.

He couldn’t believe he’d wed Rachael. He couldn’t believe anything that had happened this week, all the incredible events that had led to him marrying his last, youngest sister to someone he hardly knew and simultaneously getting married himself.

“You’re wearing your mother’s wedding dress,” he said, walking toward her, remembering her pulling it out of the heavy oak trunk, and how he’d thought it looked lacy and beautiful. It fit her perfectly, as he’d known it would. Rachael was all willowy, graceful curves, and the sight of her in his bedroom, in the white dress, made his skin heat. It made his palms itch.

He couldn’t believe she’d been his for half a day and he still hadn’t touched her.

“You look lovely,” he told her.

“You look better.” She was standing before him now, so close their noses nearly touched. “I’m a Chase now,” she said.

Her heady scent was overwhelming him, making him dizzy. “Is that why you wanted to marry me? So you could think of yourself as a Chase again?”

“No, that’s just a bonus. I wanted to marry you because I love you.”

He loved her, too. And she was his.

And he still hadn’t touched her.

Her face was raised, her cerulean eyes fastened on his. They sparkled with mischief as she licked her lips. “Do you want to kiss me, Griffin?”

“I do,” he said.

But first he wanted to put his hands where they belonged.

He did that, and then he used his hands to yank her against him, and then he kissed her. He was mad for her. He’d always been mad for her, it seemed, but now she was his.

Rachael kissed him back with abandon, wanting to belong to him, wanting him to belong to her. She’d thought she’d been in control of this relationship, but something about the way Griffin was holding her, like she was precious—but not fragile, not at all—seemed to flip a switch inside her, and suddenly she was heedless, senseless, frantic. She wasn’t losing herself in him, not exactly. Maybe they were losing themselves in each other. It didn’t signify, and she didn’t care.

He’d always been the one for her. Realizing that now, she cursed herself for all the wasted time, all the months she’d spent denying her feelings, thinking of him as a cousin or a brother and concentrating on things that didn’t really matter. Happy as she was to have discovered Mama’s family, the person most important to her had been by her side all that time, and she was grateful beyond belief that she’d seen the truth before it was too late.

He broke the kiss and pulled back, his intense green gaze burning into hers. What she saw there made her heart squeeze. Lust, yes, but also devotion and affection and understanding. And most of all love.

She grinned and pulled his head back down to press her lips to his. Her heart singing, she held him tight and knew she would never let go.

Although Sean’s house was just a few minutes’ walk from Hampstead Heath and the High Street, Corinna found herself amazed when the curricle started up the long, serpentine drive. The property seemed in a different world, the setting idyllic, a picturesque, pastoral landscape. As they approached the classical villa, the sun was setting low on the horizon, its last rays glinting off glossy arched windows in the creamy white building.

“Oh,” she breathed, “it’s beautiful.”

“It’s glad I am it pleases you, a rún,” Sean said in his melodic Irish lilt.

She nestled against him with a happy sigh. “We’re almost there. You’ll be able to kiss me.”

His arm tightened around her shoulders. “I can kiss you now,” he said, and gave her a peck on the cheek.

“Not the way I want.”

“My straightforward Corinna.” A low chuckle rumbled in his throat as he grabbed her hand and kissed the back. “Like that? Is that how you want me to kiss you?”

“Not quite,” she said tartly.

He turned her hand over and kissed her palm. “Here, then?”

“Sean…”

He leaned sideways and took his eyes off the lane for half a second, just long enough to plant a kiss on her neck. “Closer?”

“You’re getting closer.” Her stomach did a little flip-flop. “I feel like I’ve been waiting forever.”

He pulled the curricle to a halt. “Well, you won’t have to wait much longer, críona.”

He leapt down and came around to her side, but instead of handing her down, he scooped her into his arms.

“Put me down!” she said with a laugh.

“Oh, no,” he said, striding toward the house. “They say the groom must carry the bride over the threshold to protect her from evil spirits.”

He carried her so easily. Feeling cradled against his warm body, she linked her arms about his neck. “Do you believe in evil spirits, Sean?”

“I believe they’re a good excuse to carry you.” He dropped a kiss on her chin as the door opened, revealing a portly, gray-haired servant. “Good evening to you, Simpson,” Sean said, stepping inside. “This is your new mistress, Lady Corinna Delaney.”

Simpson kept an admirably straight face as he shut the door. “Welcome, my lady.”

“I’m pleased to meet you.” Corinna glanced around the entrance hall, a square room with a polished wooden floor and pale blue walls trimmed in white. “Put me down, Sean.”

He didn’t. “If the bedroom is ready, Simpson, I’ll thank you to make yourself scarce and see that everyone else does as well.”

“Sean!” Corinna shrieked, laughing at the expression on Simpson’s face.

While the butler walked off in one direction, Sean carried Corinna in another. “You’ll meet the rest of the staff tomorrow, mo chroí.”

She wondered what he meant by the bedroom being ready. “We’re inside now, so you can put me down.”

“I think not.” Holding her close, he carried her through a dining room with blue walls and a crystal chandelier. “I’m finding I rather like carrying you.”

In truth, she rather liked being carried. No one had carried her since she was a child, and the pure romance of it made her head swim. Sean swept her through a drawing room carpeted in blue with blue sofas. “I don’t need a tour tonight,” she said breathlessly. “Just your bedroom will do. I’m ready for a real kiss.”

“Our bedroom, you mean,” he said, his voice deep with meaning. He carried her past a library with white columns and plush ultramarine-blue velvet chairs, and on into a small, cobalt-blue lobby. “There’s another wing and two more levels you can see tomorrow.”

“I expect all of those rooms are blue, too?”

“Except for Deirdre’s. I don’t know what color it is. Maybe you can tell me.”

“Not tonight,” she said, thankful his sister had gone to Daniel Raleigh’s house.

“I haven’t any paintings,” he said apologetically as he started up a grand staircase with a blue runner. “You can buy any paintings you want and hang them wherever you’d like.”

She turned her face into his neck, inhaling his clean, soapy scent. “I don’t care about paintings, Sean.”

“And everything doesn’t have to stay blue. You can have the rooms repainted any colors you’d like. You can have the furniture reupholstered or buy all new things.”

“I don’t care what color the rooms are.” She was melting. Liquefying in his arms. “All I care about is you,” she told him as they finally reached the master bedroom.

Set before a huge blue-toned tapestry, the bed was covered with a plush, sapphire blue counterpane and piled with lighter blue pillows. He walked to it, laying her upon it so gently, so reverently, that she could swear every bone in her body dissolved.

She gazed up at him as he stepped back. He looked better than a Greek god, but even better than that, he was the best person she’d ever known.

And she saw what he’d meant by ready. Candles flickered everywhere—on the windowsill, along the marble mantel, atop every piece of furniture—bathing the room in shadows and dancing light. Dozens of them. He must have set them about before leaving for the wedding and instructed a servant to light them when they arrived. Like a Minerva Press hero, she thought, her heart doing a slow roll in her chest.

“It’s a wonderland,” she breathed.

“Every bride should have a wonderland, mo chroí.”

Sean thought she was a wonder herself, a vision in a simple white dress, those brilliant blue eyes looking dreamy as he’d ever seen them. His necklace glinted silver against her skin, and he loved the way it seemed to mark her as his own. He couldn’t believe dear Lincolnshire had fixed everything, had made it work out so he could have her—it seemed a miracle, and much more than he deserved. She was his, and he was hers, and nothing had ever been so right.

Watching her face, which glowed with candlelight and love, he slowly leaned down and finally kissed her the way she wanted.

For his part, he just wanted this night to be perfect.

And it was.

THANK YOU!

Thank you for reading Corinna! We hope you enjoyed it!

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Corinna is the third book in our Regency Chase Brides series. If you haven’t read the others, you might want to start with Book 1, Alexandra, which is free! We also have a connected seven-book historical romance series titled simply The Chase Brides, which features Chases of an earlier era.

If you'd like to learn more about the real people, places, and events in Corinna, turn the page for Lauren’s Author's Note...

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Dear Readers,

During the Regency, a female artist like Corinna might have had her picture accepted for the Summer Exhibition—but it's a sad truth that she probably never would have been elected to the Royal Academy of Arts. In 1768, the founding membership did include two women, Angelica Kauffmann and Mary Moser. However, ladies weren't admitted to the Royal Academy schools until 1861, and the next female Academician, Dame Laura Knight, wasn't elected until 1936.

Although we think of art from Corinna's era as classic, it was the contemporary art of its time, and the Royal Academy's Summer Exhibition is the largest contemporary art show in the world. Held every year since 1769, the Exhibition is and always has been the place to see a wide range of new work by both established and unknown living artists. Admission cost one shilling in the nineteenth century, and the exhibit has been extraordinarily popular all along. Attendance grew from 60,000 in 1780 to 390,000 by 1879. In 2006, the show drew over 150,000 visitors (including us!), and more than 1,200 works were included.

The Summer Exhibition Selection Committee members who attended Lady A's reception were the actual committee members in 1817, with the exception of Thomas Phillips. We removed him to make room for the fictional John Hamilton. We do apologize to Mr. Phillips, but we had to choose someone, and he was the man with the least biographical information to draw on.

It's been said that the modern novel was born in 1740, when Samuel Richardson wrote Pamela or Virtue and Reward. A tale of frustrated desires, it sparked controversy that created a thirst for more of the same. As a result, reading Gothic and romance fiction became a decades-long craze. Or maybe it still is a craze…as a romance reader, what do you think?

In about 1790, an Englishman named William Lane saw an opportunity and established Minerva Press. For a number of years, Lane dominated the novel publishing industry. Over half the popular books were printed by Minerva Press, and Lane reportedly made a fortune. According to the poet Samuel Rogers, Lane was often seen tooling around London in a splendid carriage, attended by footmen with cockades and gold-headed canes. All of the lines from books that Corinna recalls in her story are real quotes from Minerva Press novels that she could have purchased in 1817.

Most of the homes in our books are inspired by real places. We modeled Lincolnshire House on Devonshire House, which was designed by William Kent and served as the London residence of the Dukes of Devonshire for nearly two hundred years. Because we wanted Lord Lincolnshire to live in Berkeley Square, we turned this house around—in reality, the house fronted on Piccadilly Street and its gardens backed up to the square. Devonshire House is no longer standing, but before it was demolished in the 1920s, many of the interior furnishings were moved to Chatsworth, the duke's residence in the countryside. You can still see some of them there.

Sean's house was inspired by Kenwood House in Hampstead. Set in an idyllic landscape beside Hampstead Heath, the house was expanded by Robert Adam between 1764 and 1779. Although Sean didn't have any paintings, the real house is a veritable gallery. Edward Cecil Guinness, brewing magnate and first Earl of Iveagh, bought Kenwood House in 1925, and when he died in 1927, he bequeathed the estate and part of his art collection to Britain. The house is open daily all year round, and if you visit you will see important paintings by many great artists including Rembrandt, Vermeer, Constable, Turner, Reynolds, and Gainsborough. We like to imagine that, with Sean's vast fortune at her disposal, Corinna might have put together such a collection!

The Chases' town house at 44 Berkeley Square has been described as "the finest terrace house of London." It was designed in 1742 by William Kent for Lady Isabella Finch. Unfortunately, you cannot visit, because the building is currently being used as a private club, but if you go to Berkeley Square, you can see it from the outside. Look for the blue door.

Stafford House, Juliana's home in St. James's Place, is based on Spencer House, one of the great architectural landmarks of London. Built in the eighteenth century by John, 1st Earl Spencer (an ancestor of Diana, Princess of Wales), it was immediately recognized as a building of major importance. Should you ever find yourself in London, we highly recommend a visit. Spencer House is open to the public every Sunday except during January and August.

I hope you enjoyed Corinna!

Always,

MORE IN THIS SERIES

Regency Chase Brides

Alexandra

Juliana

Corinna

ABOUT LAUREN & DEVON ROYAL

LAUREN ROYAL decided to become a writer in the third grade, after winning a “Why My Mother is the Greatest” essay contest. Now she’s a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of humorous historical romance novels. Lauren lives in Southern California with her family and their constantly shedding cat. She still thinks her mother is the greatest.

DEVON ROYAL is the daughter of romance novelist Lauren Royal. After attending film school, she wrote an award-winning TV comedy pilot and spent several years working in digital video production before turning her focus to fiction writing. Devon lives in Southern California with her fiancé. She also thinks her mother is the greatest.

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THANK YOU FOR READING

THE HERO LEAST LIKELY!

We hope you enjoyed our books!

Darcy Burke

Christi Caldwell

Rose Gordon

Sue London

Ruth Ann Nordin

Erica Ridley

and

Lauren & Devon Royal

THE HERO LEAST LIKELY by Darcy Burke, Christi Caldwell, Rose Gordon, Sue London, Ruth Ann Nordin, Erica Ridley and Lauren & Devon Royal

Published by Parchment & Plume, LLC & Novelty Books

ISBN 9781938352768

1st Edition, June 2016

Cover by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

Book Design by Brent Royal-Gordon

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Scoundrel Ever After © 2014 Darcy Burke

Forever Betrothed, Never The Bride © 2013 Christi Caldwell

Desires of a Baron © 2014 C. Rose Gordon

Athena’s Ordeal © 2013 Sue London

The Earl’s Scandalous Wife © 2014 by Ruth Ann Nordin

The Major’s Faux Fiancée © 2015 Erica Ridley

Corinna © 2015 Lauren Royal & Devon Royal

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any manner whatsoever, electronically, in print, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of Darcy Burke, Christi Caldwell, Rose Gordon, Sue London, Ruth Ann Nordin, Erica Ridley and Lauren & Devon Royal, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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

Table of Contents

Title Page

Cover Image

Books in This Boxed Set

SCOUNDREL EVER AFTER by Darcy Burke

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Epilogue

Thank You!

Acknowledgements

More in This Series

About Darcy Burke

FOREVER BETROTHED, NEVER THE BRIDE by Christi Caldwell

Dedications

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Epilogue

More in This Series

About Christi Caldwell

DESIRES OF A BARON by Rose Gordon

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Epilogue

More in this Series

About Rose Gordon

ATHENA'S ORDEAL by Sue London

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Author’s Note

More in This Series

About Sue London

THE EARL'S SCANDALOUS WIFE by Ruth Ann Nordin

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Epilogue

More in This Series

About Ruth Ann Nordin

THE MAJOR’S FAUX FIANCÉE by Erica Ridley

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Epilogue

Thank You For Reading

Acknowledgments

More in This Series

About Erica Ridley

CORINNA by Lauren & Devon Royal

Chase Family Tree

Acknowledgments

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Thank You!

Author's Note

More in This Series

About Lauren & Devon Royal

Thank You for Reading

Copyright Page