Praise for Cheryl Bolen's novels:

Cheryl Bolen's books are going to be keepers. – Christina Dodd, NY Times Bestseller

Once again the author has proven herself to be one of the best authors in the Regency romance field today. – Huntress Reviews

. . .a rising star in the historical/regency romance genre. – A Romance Review

Bolen. . .does a wonderful job of building simmering sexual tension. – Booklist

***

My Lord Wicked...

What woman would dare make her home at eerie Marshbanks Abbey, perched on a stony hill in remote Northumbria? It is said its owner, the brilliant botanist, Lord Stacks, killed his beautiful bride there ten years earlier.

Unaware of the tales of Lord Stacks' wickedness, Freddie Lambeth comes to live with her guardian, and through his caring blossoms from a plain, shabbily dressed girl to a lovely young woman. Freddie and Lord Stacks come to need each other as his flowers need sunshine, but Stacks cannot allow himself to love her. His own wickedness has destroyed any chance for happiness.

E-books available from award-winning author Cheryl Bolen

A Lady by Chance*

The Brides of Bath Series

The Bride Wore Blue*

With His Ring*

A Fallen Woman*

To Take This Lord (previously titled An Improper Proposal)*

With His Lady's Assistance

My Lord Wicked

Lady Sophia's Rescue

The Earl's Bargain

It Had to Be You (previously titled Nisei)

A Duke Deceived*

* Previously published in paperback

My Lord Wicked

Cheryl Bolen

Copyright 2011 by Cheryl Bolen

Table of Contents

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

Epilogue

Chapter 1

Miss Freddie Lambeth barged into her aunt’s drawing room and launched into a rant. "Had I no home but a hollowed-out tree, no food but swine’s intestines, no shoes to trudge through knee-high snow and clothes thin enough to read through, I still would NOT be desperate enough to marry Mr. Hastings!" Her voice — like every inch of her — quivered with rage.

Aunt Dorothea’s open mouth froze. Her narrowed eyes froze. Her hand clutching the teapot froze. Finally, she gathered her composure and spoke to the vicar and his wife, who sat opposite her. "It appears my ill-mannered niece was eavesdropping."

Freddie had not intended to eavesdrop. Not until her name was linked to the lecherous Mr. Hastings, a most disagreeable man born some fifty years before her. "It is my intention," Aunt Dorothea had said, "that Frederica marry Mr. Hastings."

Had her aunt sold her into slavery with a shipload of Hottentots, Freddie could not have been more outraged. Everything about the odious Mr. Hastings repelled her, from the shiny top of his bald head to his rotting teeth to his corpulent body — a body he most decidedly had tried to press against hers when she’d brought him a special elixir for his gout.

Freddie’s shallow breath coming in quick gasps, tears gathering in her eyes, she spun away and stormed from the drawing room. Why waste her breath trying to justify the eavesdropping to her unreasonable aunt?

She strode across the broad, checkered marble entry hall, still reeling over Aunt Dorothea’s disclosure. Freddie would rather follow her recently departed father to the grave than marry Mr. Hastings.

She kicked one of the legs of Aunt Dorothea’s new Sheraton sideboard and mumbled under her breath.

Here at Chilton Manor she was as unwanted as the pox. If only she were Catholic. She could enter a convent. But what was she to do?

Her father had never seen fit to have her instructed in the feminine arts. She could not play the pianoforte. She could not render elegant watercolors. She could not speak a single word of French. And her skill at needlework was nonexistent. Being a governess was, lamentably, out of the question.

Perhaps she could tutor young gentlemen. She could read Latin and Greek fluently and was uncommonly good at mathematics. But who would hire a girl not quite eighteen to tutor boys nearly her own age?

Tears clouding her vision, she stumbled to the newel post, grabbed it to steady herself, then began to mount the staircase, anger pouring deep inside her like bubbling, molten lava. As had so often been the case these three months past, her initial fury was directed at her aunt, but Freddie herself bore the brunt of the second wave of anger. Why had she raced into her aunt’s drawing room like a deranged banshee? When would she ever learn that an unattractive, penniless orphan devoid of feminine accomplishments must suppress her own opinions, must be subservient to those whose charity she was forced to accept?

Freddie the Proud. She had the devil of a time casting off her indomitable pride. Even when she came abreast of her cousin Roxanne.

"I beg that you take off that pathetic dress before any of my friends see you, Frederica." Roxanne came to an abrupt halt and glared down at Freddie. "I shall have my maid bring you my castoffs. Anything would be preferable to that ghastly faded muslin you wear every single day."

Freddie’s spine straightened, and she lifted her defiant chin. "Don't bother." Even though Roxanne's hand-me-downs would likely have been the finest garments ever to grace Freddie's gawky body, she was far too proud to accept them. "I shan't embarrass you. I plan to stay in my chamber the remainder of the afternoon."

The fair Roxanne gazed down her aquiline nose at her cousin. "What ever can you find to do in your chamber all afternoon?"

"I have my books, and I shall write to my guardian, Lord Stacks." There went her blasted pride again, flaunting the baron's title! One bound to live off others' charity would do well to learn humility.

Roxanne's perfectly shaped flaxen brows rose. "I would have thought your father's solicitor the one to communicate with your guardian."

Her cousin had the right of it. Previously Freddie had written to Lord Stacks only to thank him for the birthday gifts he sent her each year.

She sailed past her petite cousin, past the brightly lit, opulent second floor with its baroque chandeliers and gleaming wainscoting and plush Persian carpets, then trod up a narrower wooden staircase to the dark and dreary third floor and the welcome sanctuary of her tiny room in the damp servants' wing.

In most respects, Freddie’s narrow bedchamber was indistinguishable from the other third-floor rooms with their skinny, austere beds on cold stone floors, their tiny bedside tables splotched with spilled candle wax, their lone dormer windows that let in small squares of gray sky.

Only Freddie’s room held treasures far beyond the grasp of the servants who occupied the third floor. For Miss Freddie Lambeth’s room stored an impressive library of fine, leather-bound books. All of them — save her mother’s Bible which held the place of honor on her bedside table — were birthday gifts from Lord Stacks, the guardian she had never met.

From end to end, the books filled the top of the simple scrubbed wood table that served as her writing desk. She pulled a rickety chair up to the table, sat down, and gathered her black knit shawl tightly about her to abate the room’s persistent chill. Her gaze scanned the fine gilt-tooled volumes, but her mind would not settle on any of them. Not when her situation at Chilton Manor was more untenable than ever now that she had been so disrespectful to Aunt Dorothea.

Were she not such a coward, she would run away, but how did one run away without two shillings to rub together?

It did seem as if marriage was the only way out of Chilton Manor and away from her unpleasant aunt and taunting cousins. A pity her only prospect was seventy-year-old Mr. Hastings.

She rather thought plighting her life to someone whom she could care about, someone who could give her children, would be the greatest joy on earth. But marriages to eligible young men were not an option for plain girls without dowries.

More’s the pity.

No matter how much she desired matrimony, she knew she inhabited a netherworld where marriage was not obtainable. Her matrimonial prospects would have been higher were her birth lower. As a baronet’s granddaughter, she was too well born, too well educated, and, unfortunately, too discerning to find contentment with the kind of simple-minded man who married a simple-minded woman with no dowry.

When she had come to Chilton Manor she had hoped her uncle, Sir Harold, would see that she moved in the kind of society where she might have had the opportunity to meet younger sons of country squires or village solicitors — young men whose expectations were not high. But her uncle must have been too embarrassed over her appearance and lack of accomplishments to aid in her matrimonial quest.

Now, it would never happen. Freddie would never find a life’s mate.

But must it be so? Hope leaping to her breast, she suddenly realized she was not bound to stay here, after all. Her pulse accelerated with excitement. Perhaps she could persuade her guardian to invite her to Marshbanks Abbey. Lord Stacks was a very wealthy man who had no children of his own. Could he be her savior from Chilton Manor? Perhaps he could even be persuaded to present his ward. It need not be in the cream of London society. Especially since she would never belong in such society. She wished only to meet an intelligent gentleman of modest means.

She would swallow her blasted pride and appeal to Lord Stacks. Hopefully, he would take pity on her and ask her to Marshbanks Abbey. She could easily tolerate life in remote North Yorkshire with a brooding man. After all, she had spent her entire life cloistered with a brooding father who held her responsible for her mother's death in childbed.

She picked up her pen and began to write.

***

Thomas Winthrop, who had inherited the title Baron Stacks just after his twenty-first birthday, sat on a tufted seat in his carpeted dressing room while Roberts removed his muddied boots.

"Has your lordship considered erecting an orangery for your botanical studies?" the valet asked.

The baron drew an impatient breath but refrained from rebuking Roberts, having long ago realized it was his unfortunate lot to be saddled with a highly opinionated valet. When Roberts prefaced a statement with, "Has your lordship considered," he actually meant, "your lordship should."

Stacks contemplated his response while studying the gaunt valet who stooped to slide on his master's Hessians. A protruding chin was the most distinguishing feature on Roberts' gaunt face. Funny, Stacks thought, that Roberts' chin should stick out while his frail chest sank in. "I much prefer the outdoors, even if my boots do get sullied." After putting on boots that Roberts had spent the better part of the morning polishing, Stacks got to his feet.

"Is your lordship contemplating a visit to London to patronize your tailor?"

Stacks' brows drew together, and he cast a scornful glance at his valet. "All I could wish for is here at Marshbanks Abbey." He would not admit his reluctance to face the London gossips, the mothers who quickly removed their daughters from his presence. "It is said Lord Stacks killed his lovely wife," they would say. And though similar remarks were undoubtedly uttered in his home county, his reclusiveness shielded him from them. During the past decade he had grown content with the quiet life here in the north.

And contentment was the most a man like him could ever hope to obtain.

Roberts, who only vaguely concealed his preference for London, straightened his back. His face — like his tone — was without expression. "Very good, my lord."

"By the way, is this not the day when young Mr. Lambeth arrives?"

"Indeed it is, my lord. Your ward arrives by the post chaise this afternoon."

Stacks nodded. "I have instructed Mrs. Greenwood to ready the red room for him."

"Has your lordship remembered to procure a birthday gift for the lad?"

Stacks hissed an oath. "I completely forgot. How old will he be?"

"He turned eighteen yesterday, my lord."

What would a fellow of eighteen value, Stacks wondered as he paced to the arched, gothic window, his face clinched in thought. As he looked out over the thicket, an answer came to him. "I shall present the boy with the musket I received on my eighteenth birthday. If he's anything like his father, he's an uncommonly good sportsman. I'm rather looking forward to having the young fellow around." Walking away, he spoke in a barely audible voice thick with emotion. "God knows I shall never have a son of my own."

The letter from young Freddie made Stacks remember the lad’s father. They had met at Oxford, but their real closeness came after they left university, after their disastrous marriages. Stacks had never met the young woman for whom Frederick had cut short his studies to marry. Nor had Frederick met the beautiful Elizabeth, who became Lady Stacks a few years later. Yet it was these brides — or more precisely, their early deaths — that united in grief the two widowers. Through letters, they had laid bare their anguished souls. Frederick vowed never to marry again after losing his cherished Rosemary to childbed fever. Stacks, too, knew he would never marry after Elizabeth. Her needless, violent death still had the power to coil his hands into angry fists, still sent waves of nausea rushing over him, still tormented though ten years had since passed.

***

The third day into her journey north Freddie rested her weary head against the coach's grimy interior wall and finally admitted that she was wretchedly uncomfortable. She was especially angry at herself for purposely leaving behind her faded black shawl simply because she deemed it too shabby to wear in front of her guardian. That blasted pride of hers cost dearly as chilling March winds assaulted the coach.

Before she'd left Chilton Manor Freddie had repeatedly defended the traveling accommodations Aunt Dorothea smugly criticized. "Some peer of the realm his fancy lordship is," Aunt Dorothea had complained, "not even sending his own carriage for his ward, making her ride in a vulgar post chaise. And letting a young lady of quality travel without a maid! Why, it's the outside of propriety!"

It was all Freddie could do not to protest that she had no maid, had never had a maid, and was unlikely to ever have one.

Even while Sir Harold's family gathered to bid Freddie farewell as the Lambeth coach rattled up to take her to the nearest posting inn, Aunt Dorothea droned on. "I suppose it's just as well you will not be going in the grand Lord Stacks' undoubtedly luxurious coach, what with the way you look and dress."

At the parting there had been no hugs. No tears. No feigned affection.

To spite her aunt, Freddie had determined to enjoy the ride in the "vulgar" post chaise. Having never before been farther north than Tunbridge Wells, she pressed her face to the window and delighted in the varying scenery that flashed before her. Spring showers marred just one day, and the blossoming flowers along the way, especially the buttery yellow daffodils poking through new green grass, gave pleasure at every bend of the road. The new sights and sounds and smells kept Freddie's head spinning for days. She had marveled at sooty London with its hundreds of conveyances and thousands of people and splendid sailing vessels powering along the River Thames. North of the capital she eagerly watched as soft hills leveled out to rolling pastures.

But her delight over all the new experiences could not dispel the discomforts of her lengthy, tedious journey. Of being crushed against her fellow passengers — all of them male — as if they were kittens huddled together for warmth. Of her body begging to be stretched, walked, scratched, cleaned. Of spending nights in drafty posting inns that smelled of mildew, of sleeping on linens of dubious laundering.

As the journey wore on she had grown acutely aware of her gnawing loneliness. Each churn of the wheels seemed to say alone, alone, alone. The loneliness ingrained into her since birth had intensified since Papa’s death. With his death, she lost, too, the villagers whom her father had attended. Would the new surgeon provide as good of care? It was not likely he would have a daughter as skilled an assistant as Freddie had been. Who would tend her herbs and make the poultices and elixirs that sped her father's patients to recovery?

Underlying all her loneliness was grief over her father's death. She missed him like a toothache that no longer gave pain. For the two had never been affectionate. Never had he told her he loved her. He had neither complimented her appearance nor given her the means by which to improve it. And always he lamented that she was not beautiful as her mother had been. Then he would peer at her with hatred in his eyes, and she could read his thoughts as if they were her own. Why couldn't it have been you and not Rosemary?

Though he had neglected Freddie's feminine education, she had learned from him. By watching him — for he rarely instructed her — she learned about medicine. She learned too, to ride as a man and to play chess cunningly. She committed to memory every book in his library and accompanied him wherever he went, largely because there was no nurse to care for her.

And he had at least thought fleetingly of her future when he asked Lord Stacks to be her guardian.

It wasn’t until she reached the blustery, gray North Country that she no longer felt like an observer behind the glass window of a passing carriage. For among the misty moors and loneliness of the bleak, rocky terrain of North Yorkshire she felt a deep connection, a feeling that she had been there before though she knew with certainty she had not.

She felt as if she had climbed the smoothly rounded barren hills that led to nowhere, had tossed stones into the rock streams that rushed between graphite crevices, had touched the fuzzy stems of silvery thistle that spiked along the bleached grasses. She could not understand the profound feelings that swamped her: the feeling that here in the rugged land which bore little stamp of man she had found her home.

The next stop would be Morton, the closest village to Lord Stacks' Marshbanks Abbey. That realization created the same thumping in her thoracic cavity as the waning heartbeat of one of Papa’s patients.

Would her guardian meet her himself? Or would he send one of his servants?

Lord Stacks had been all that was amiable in his reply to her letter that begged a visit to the abbey. She could stay at Marshbanks Abbey for as long as she wanted, he had said, and he had sent her more than enough money to meet her needs throughout the journey.

She hated being dependent on Lord Stacks, but she had no choice. Her pride’s only consolation was the determination that she would find some way to repay her guardian’s kindness.

Her fondest wish was that Lord Stacks bring her into fashion. Not the same kind of fashion well-born beauties like her cousin Roxanne. Never that. But with a modicum of effort, Freddie might be put forward, might be in a position to meet a man with whom she would be pleased to share her life. She would never expect her prospective husband to be rich or handsome, but she did want to enjoy being with him, to care for him and — God willing — the children, her children, who would so enrich her life.

How she wished for a babe of her own, a real person who loved her by the sheer virtue of its birth. What would it be like to be loved, she wondered wistfully. In all her life only one earthly being had ever truly loved her. Champs had lived for her touch, for her kindly murmurs of affection. Now, she had lost him, too. Aunt Dorothea had forced her to leave the dog behind in Chelseymeade.

Would that a man could care for her with Champs’ fidelity. She longed to care for someone — a real human being — so greatly that it gave pain.

Beneath gray skies, a profusion of gray stone buildings and gray stone streets marked the entrance to Morton. Her stomach gave an odd flip. She sat up straight, smoothing back the hair she always wore in an effortless bun. A pity nothing could be done about her dress that was now hopelessly wrinkled. The black serge pelisse she would wear over it was equally as unattractive. And both were shabby. Whatever would Lord Stacks think of her?

She was not to find out immediately. For when she disembarked from the coach, no one seemed to be waiting for her. There was one well-dressed gentleman who eyed the two passengers who got off at Morton, but he made no attempt to introduce himself to her or to the bearded man who had ridden in the cheap seats on top the coach.

Though the gentleman appeared to be Quality, he could not be Lord Stacks for he appeared younger than her father's eight and thirty years. He was tall like her father, but did not have the thickened waist and sagging chin her father and other men of his age possessed. Neither gray nor thinning were evident in his full head of black hair.

She turned away from the gentleman. She would have to hire a ride to Marshbanks Abbey. While deciding how to go about the daunting task of hiring a conveyance, she heard the gentleman query the coachman.

"Did you not give transport to a young gentleman of seventeen or eighteen? Name of Freddie Lambeth."

Chapter 2

A cool wind pierced through Freddie's threadbare pelisse, chilling the very blood in her veins as she stood incredulous in front of the inn at Morton, staring at the gentleman. Finally, she clamped shut her mouth and approached him. Her chest tightened, and she was not sure she could summon her voice. "Pardon, but would you be Lord Stacks?"

He spun around to face her, his eyes taking in the shabby clothes she wore. His face was burnished by the sun she had been told never shone here in the North Country. He was not classically handsome but most pleasant to look at. "I am."

"I, sir, am Freddie Lambeth," she said as she curtsied.

His mouth dropped open, then shut, all expression erased from his angular face. He glanced down at the tattered bag she carried. "May I carry your valise?"

She handed over the bag that held all she possessed.

"Please follow me to the chaise."

Four matched bays stood ceremonially in front of a glistening gilt-trimmed black carriage. His lordship handed her up into the most plush interior she had ever seen. She sank into royal blue velvet cushions, luxuriating in the softness after so many days on the hard cracked leather seats of the public coach.

Lord Stacks sat across from her, his face stern. "It appears I have been under the misapprehension that you were a---"

"A boy," she finished.

His black eyes flashed with emotion. Was it disgust? "Exactly."

He must not suspect how vulnerable she was. Above all, she would not allow herself to be the object of his pity. Her spine went straight as a poker. "I completely understand if your lordship wishes to retract your offer," she began.

"You have had a long journey, Miss Lambeth," he said, his voice inscrutable. "You will need to rest at Marshbanks Abbey. Once you are refreshed, we will discuss your stay."

As he gazed at the smoky-colored landscape out the coach window, Freddie took the opportunity to covertly study his appearance. He was as different from the fatherly guardian she had pictured as she was to the lad he had imagined her to be. That he did not at all look like the aging, pasty-skinned intellectual she had expected, unsettled her. He was neither collegiately young, nor did he look old enough to be her father. And nothing about him hinted at the scholar. His dark skin and lithe, athletic body were at odds with the picture her father had drawn of Lord Stacks. Lord Stacks the Recluse. Lord Stacks the Intellectual. In her mind’s eye she had foolishly conjured a bespectacled, gray-haired main lounging in a library, his gouty foot propped up on a stack of musty books.

The man sitting opposite her dressed in finely made soft leather Hessians, well-cut breeches with cut-away coat of rich camel color, and crisp ivory shirt and cravat, looked as if he belonged in the finest London drawing rooms, not in remote Northumbria. He displayed the agreeable looks and breeding of a man over whom young women like her beautiful cousin Roxanne would make a cake of themselves.

How foolish Freddie had been to secretly hope that Lord Stacks might be happy to have someone as plain and unaccomplished as she come to give him companionship in his lonely abbey!

As her gaze flicked once more to her guardian, he looked up, his black eyes holding hers. Embarrassed, Freddie quickly averted her gaze and rubbed her arms for warmth. The chill seemed to intensify by the howling winds outside the carriage. A pity her pelisse had worn so thin.

Now off the major posting roads, Freddie inhaled the scent of peat bogs and was able to observe the moors up close. How very well the solitary landscape suited her. Not even a tree grew here in the craggy land of wailing winds. Nor were there any stone cottages or low stone walls here like she had seen scattered around Yorkshire. The forlornness was unlike anything she could ever have imagined growing up among the sunny meadows of Sussex.

This was not the place for delicate flowers. The biting winds demanded the hardiness of the spiny gorse and thorny thistle that shimmered and waved along the rippling moors. She would never have been able to imagine how such a landscape could hold such vast allure for her, but it did.

Without being told by her stone-faced companion, Freddie knew when the abbey came into view. From her coach window she saw its gray mass rising from the top of a rocky hill. The ancient fortress-like structure had to be Marshbanks Abbey.

The building did not seem to be unmanageably large — just two stories with small, gothic windows punctuating solid stone walls that had undoubtedly remained unchanged for centuries. A clock tower with medieval spires marked the midpoint of the front of the building.

As the coach came to a stop on the abbey's gravel drive and the coachman let down the steps, Lord Stacks departed the chaise first, then turned back to take Freddie's hand. He led her up the steps, through a timbered doorway held open by a footman in lime green livery, then into a vestibule constructed of huge blocks of gray stone.

"This is the great hall," he informed her as they entered a room twice as large as Freddie's home chapel.

"Before the Dissolution it was a church, but one of my ancestors persuaded the king to give him the abbey in exchange for services rendered. I expect that's how it escaped being destroyed. My kinsman removed all the ecclesiastical trappings. In former times the present clock tower held a church bell."

She had always thought great halls to be banqueting rooms, but this was a reception area, with various furniture groupings scattered within the room. Here a pair of Jacobean sofas on a Turkey rug. Over there a game table of fine oak turned nearly black with the patina of age. A lovely three-legged pianoforte hugged a wall. A pair of large, throne-like chairs faced the chimney. She could almost imagine a whole ox roasting in its huge pit.

A lady in black servant's garb noiselessly entered the vast room. The slightly built woman had brown hair generously threaded with gray.

Lord Stacks’s gaze swung from her to Freddie. "Miss Lambeth, I should like to present my housekeeper, Mrs. Greenwood."

The woman curtsied but did not smile either at her employer or at Freddie. The expression on her face was more akin to scorn than to welcome.

"I will show my ward to her rooms," Stacks informed Mrs. Greenwood, who merely inclined her head.

The two of them walked across the chilly room, her guardian’s boots tapping on the cold stone floors like a blacksmith striking an anvil.

"We'll pass through the tapestry room on the way to the library," Stacks said.

The walls there were almost entirely covered with tapestries, each of which was large enough to roof her entire cottage back in Chelseymeade. They depicted hunt scenes and the Nativity and celestial celebrations.

Next, Lord Stacks led her to the library, another room of massive proportions, but this one less chilly due to the red carpet which stretched from wall to wall. Like in the great hall, the ceilings here reached the full two stories, but the rich wood bookcases lined with leather volumes gave the room warmth. A spiraled ladder curved up to a catwalk that ran along an upper gallery of books. The room itself had two fireplaces, a game table, several sofas and a large rococo desk.

Freddie thought Lord Stacks would stop here for the room looked lived in, but he kept walking. Beyond the library they entered the outdoors where cloisters formed a square surrounding the quadrangle.

Marshbanks Abbey was much larger than it appeared from the front.

Lord Stacks pointed out the heavily vegetated quadrangle. "That is where I spend most of my time. Botany holds great interest for me."

She recalled her father's words: "Stacks is the most intelligent man I have ever known."

They walked under the timber-roofed cloister and past several doors. "I fear you will find Marshbanks Abbey hopelessly out of date," Lord Stacks said. "The rooms are much the same as they were when this was an abbey. Your room is a former Cistercian monk's." He came to a stop and grasped the old black iron handle on a door. "These are your chambers, Miss Lambeth."

She stepped into a warm chamber, her eyes sparkling as she strode across more red carpet. Unlike the rest of the abbey, this room was small and offered a genuine coziness. There was a high tester bed draped in deep crimson velvet and a writing desk with a comfortable-looking arm chair pulled up to it. A fire blazed at the modest hearth. "This, my lord, does not look like a monk's room."

The adjoining room had been apportioned for a dressing room, and her valise was already there — empty — a man servant placing her meager garments in the linen press.

Lord Stacks watched the servant. "We must secure a maid for you."

"That won't be necessary," she said. "I assure you I am quite accustomed to seeing to my own needs."

Glancing at the bed, then to Freddie, Lord Stacks started backing up. "I don't seem to have considered the impropriety of being here with you." He was almost at the door.

Freddie studied the well worn shoes poking out beneath the hem of her dress.

"We keep country hours at Marshbanks Abbey," he stammered. "Dinner is served at four. Are you certain you don't need me to send up a maid to help with your hair or anything?"

"I'm certain."

***

Stacks strode angrily into the library, pulled the bell rope and flung himself down at his desk. When Eason appeared, Stacks said, "Bring me a glass of Madeira."

As Eason moved toward the door, Stacks amended his order. "No, make that a bottle."

Damn Frederick, he thought. Why hadn't the man told him his child was not a son? Stacks tried to think back to when Frederick had besieged him to stand as guardian to his child. It was so very many years ago. Just after Elizabeth died. Frederick had said since you have no children of your own, you would be a most desirable guardian for my own offspring--Freddie--provided you would be so gracious as to consent. That was it. Stacks had been flattered and immediately agreed, but never again did Frederick mention his child.

All these years Stacks had assumed young Freddie was what his name implied: a male. And now he had invited the youth to live at Marshbanks Abbey! That, of course, would never do. A bachelor most decidedly could not have a young maiden living under his roof. Especially a bachelor of his repute.

He would have to send her back. The thought of rejecting her ignited feelings of guilt. Damn that pathetic letter she had written. She had so carefully tried to sound proud and independent, but had in reality been so very vulnerable. Since it is so terribly crowded here at my uncle's house, she had written, I thought perhaps a visit to Marshbanks Abbey would give them relief from what is undoubtedly my burdensome presence.

In his mind's eye, he pictured the girl. Proud and tall in her shabby clothes. So very plain looking with her nondescript light brown hair slicked away from her face. Her eyes, too, were so ordinary. A cat's eye green. A scattering of freckles across her straight nose lent her only touch of youth.

At least he could deck her out in unaccustomed finery before sending her back down South. Tomorrow, they would leave early and go to York. There she could be outfitted in lovely clothes. Perhaps with suitable dresses and a fashionable hair arrangement, she could attract a husband, thus releasing him of responsibility toward her. He might even settle a modest dowry on the poor orphan.

Tonight he would tell her he was sending her back. With those thoughts, and three glasses of Madeira, the anger began to drain from his tense body.

***

At four o'clock Freddie strolled through the abbey to the dining room as if she knew very well where it was located. She was much too proud to ask any of the hovering footmen where to find the room. If the tapestry room and library were located on one side of the great hall, she reasoned, the other common rooms would surely be found on its other side in the symmetrical abbey.

Her instincts were correct. The first room on the sea side of the great hall was a generous Elizabethan dining room where Lord Stacks sat at the head of the long mahogany table.

"Come sit beside me, Miss Lambeth," he said.

Though she wore her best dress, she felt terribly shabby to be dining in so formal a setting. Her dress was an outmoded one of faded rose silk that had been her mother's during the 1790's. Of course, Freddie had been obliged to let out the hem. As she crossed the room and sat down beside her guardian, Freddie willed herself to look composed.

To avoid staring at her host, her gaze scanned the room but came to a stop on the wall behind Lord Stacks. There hung a portrait of the most beautiful woman Freddie had ever beheld. From the woman’s empress-style dress, Freddie knew the painting could not date back much more than ten years, knew the flawless woman in the dress had to be Lady Stacks. The lovely lady oozed an elegance that obviously came easily to her despite that at the time the portrait was painted she could not have been much older than Freddie was now. There was about her well-favored face a confidence, a sense of playful mischief.

Freddie studied the painting as if it were some curious phenomenon to never more be beheld by mortal eyes. Though all the lady's features if taken individually would have been considerably beautiful, the whole was mesmerizing, unforgettable. Freddie's gaze flicked to the exquisite creature's flaxen hair, the indigo eyes, then whisked over the pearly skin, the graceful neck.

Just looking at her perfection made Freddie feel even more uncomfortable.

A footman silently appeared beside Freddie, filling her glass with wine. How ridiculous it was to have two footmen for two diners, she thought. And she was stunned over the number of tapers lighting the room--enough to have lighted her old cottage for a year. Her thoughts immediately turned to the parsimonious Aunt Dorothea. She could almost hear the woman bemoan the cost of the tallows.

"I trust you rested well after your tedious journey," Lord Stacks said as a footman spooned soup into his master's bowl.

"Yes, my lord. The bed is quite the most comfortable one I've ever used." She thought back to the straw mattress she had slept on back at Chilton Manor.

"I must extend my sincerest apologies for not treating you with the accordance a young lady deserves. I regret that you had to travel by post chaise. Had I known you were not a young man--"

"Pray, do not give it another thought. I assure you I am not accustomed to being treated as a lady."

His brows rose. "It is my ardent desire you be accorded every courtesy here at Marshbanks Abbey."

"You are much too kind, my lord."

She kept looking at the portrait which must be of Lord Stack's dead wife. It dominated the room like a full moon in a black sky. She was drawn to the woman's clear blue eyes that seemed to dance with mischievous delight. Unconsciously, Freddie sensed the woman's closeness. She could almost feel the sheer fabric of her elegant gown. She could almost hear the soft chink of pearls at her smooth throat as she tossed her head in laughter during a jolly gathering around this very table. Undoubtedly, her conversations had been clever and gay. Not silent and plain like Freddie.

Freddie felt more self conscious than ever. How dull she must appear when he was used to someone who sparkled like the woman in the painting.

The footman cleared away the soup bowls and placed a dozen or more covered serving dishes between Lord Stacks and Freddie.

She was astonished over the plentitude. Mutton chops. Boar's head. Beef rounds. Pheasant pie. Haddock. And every vegetable that was currently in season, many of these swimming in French sauces. Did all noblemen eat like this?

If the lovely woman of the portrait had not succeeded in making Freddie feel like a fish out of water, the richness of Lord Stacks' table certainly did.

Freddie lifted first one cover, then another, dishing modest portions onto her fine porcelain plate, wondering if the vast amount of leftovers would later serve the legions of servants.

After dinner—mostly eaten in silence—Lord Stacks invited her to join him in the great hall.

"You must play for me," he encouraged when they reached the room.

Her heart beat wildly. "I fear I cannot, my lord."

"Come now, Miss Lambeth. You obviously display feminine modesty."

She met his gaze squarely. "I assure you I have neither the desire nor the patience for such coquetry."

"Very well," he said, thumbing through a stack of sheet music. "Play something simple so your lack of skill will not be apparent."

"I cannot."

He dropped the dog-eared pages and spun to face Freddie. "You mean you do not play at all?"

She slowly nodded. "I know nothing of music."

He looked at her, his expression puzzled, then soft, as if he pitied her. "Your home must have been quite somber without music."

Defiance flashed in her eyes. "Quite."

"Tell me, what did you do for amusement in the evenings?"

"Like my father, I am rather fond of parlor games."

"Indeed? If I remember correctly, Frederick was extremely competitive in his play. And you?"

"I fear I'm unfemininely competitive." It seemed everything about her lacked femininity. Not like the woman in the portrait.

He began walking to a square game table. "What I crave is a good game of whist. German whist is good for two players. Can you oblige?"

Her lips curled into a smile. "I should be happy to, my lord."

It was the first time he had seen her smile. The rare smile was almost seductive. It seemed to belong to someone else. A woman, perhaps. Not a girl barely eighteen.

He won the first game, she the second. He admired her play. Damned if he wasn't enjoying every minute. He could not remember the last time he had played with as skillful a player. Damned if he could remember the last time anyone had beat him.

As she warned, she took her play seriously. No feminine batting of the eyelashes. No giggling. No exasperated bemusings. Just quiet, competent play.

There was something so different in her manner now, a self assurance that was absent today and at dinner. Even without fashionable clothing, she seemed almost regal, sitting there so straight, her expression intent, her slender fingers arranging the cards. Nothing about her belied her lack of years.

During their play, he told her he wanted to take her to York on the morrow. He wouldn't tell her now that he intended to get her a new wardrobe. Somehow he knew if he told the girl about the shopping tonight, her fierce pride would cause her to protest. Just like she had done about the maid. He could wait until they got there, then he would just happen to lead her into one of those shops Elizabeth used to frequent.

He had avoided York since Elizabeth's death. Too many painful memories. But if he could continue on at Marshbanks Abbey where even the very walls seemed to echo Elizabeth's horrifying death, he could stomach the sight of the places that had once brought her joy.

He had intended to inform Freddie at dinner that he was sending her back. Then he planned to casually mention it when they were playing cards. But the play came to an end--with him barely taking the third game--and still he had failed to tell her.

He walked her to the door of her room, fully intending to tell her, but still did not do so.

He would ply her with beautiful clothes tomorrow. Then he would tell her.

Chapter 3

After several days traveling in a coach, the last thing Freddie desired was to take a long coach ride to York. Nevertheless, she was. She had been touched that Lord Stacks offered to personally accompany her. And she could not deny that seeing York held great allure for her.

She rose early after an exceptionally good night's sleep--most likely the result of the wine she had consumed at dinner--and dressed in her only day dress, the faded muslin. Then she strolled into the dining room five minutes earlier than the eight o'clock time her guardian had set for breakfast.

A curious conversation was being conducted at the opposite end of the room between Lord Stacks and Mrs. Greenwood, neither of whom appeared to hear Freddie approach.

"You have instructed Cook to prepare a luncheon for our journey?" Stacks inquired.

"I have," Mrs. Greenwood said icily. "I requested lunch for three. Surely you forgot to mention a maid to accompany Miss Lambeth."

"Miss Lambeth has no maid," he answered sharply.

"But, my lord---"

"You think the girl will be in danger alone with me, Mrs. Greenwood?"

Freddie's step froze.

"No, my lord," Mrs. Greenwood said feebly. "It is only the propriety."

He glared at the housekeeper, his black eyes flashing in molten anger. "I assure you Miss Lambeth's virtue will remain intact."

Freddie coughed. "Good morning." She tried to sound cheerful.

Mrs. Greenwood shot a steely glance at her, spun around to present her back to Freddie, and went off toward the room Freddie guessed was the kitchen.

During breakfast Lord Stacks spoke little. Freddie attributed his sulkiness to the confrontation with his housekeeper.

Freddie, too, did not feel like talking. Her mind whirled with Mrs. Greenwood's unspoken accusations. The woman's impertinence shocked Freddie, but not as much as her implications. Did his lordship have a reputation for seducing young servants? Is that why Mrs. Greenwood could speak in such a manner to her employer?

Would her guardian try to make Freddie his mistress? She doubted it. The man had treated her as if she were a child. And God knows, she was not the least bit attractive. A man who had loved the woman in the painting could never be attracted to her, the unfemininely tall Freddie Lambeth. And though Lord Stacks could have called her Freddie, he was careful to call her Miss Lambeth, to erect a formal barrier between them. He did not at all seem the type to seduce young maidens.

Nevertheless, she would be very careful.

During the ride to York her guardian enlightened her on the local history as he enthusiastically showed her his beloved countryside and its landmarks along the way. The low rock walls that criss-crossed the pastures fascinated her. Lord Stacks had explained that they had been constructed generations ago without the use of mortar. With their even rows of variegated stone, they were a work of art.

It was easy for her to understand why he shunned London society when the North Country so obviously owned his heart.

"I daresay," he said to her, "a girl such as yourself would find nothing to admire here. No young people or gaiety."

Her eyes flashed. "On the contrary. Its isolation from the masses is what gives the North Country is own peculiar charm - - -" She clenched shut her mouth, angry with her own traitorous tongue. She had not meant to tell her guardian how appealing she found Yorkshire. She had not wanted him to ever know she wished to stay here where she was undoubtedly not wanted. She would rather live in a hollowed-out tree than be the object of her guardian’s — or anyone’s — pity.

"Is that because you can never be comfortable in fashionable drawing rooms, Miss Lambeth?"

Her gaze connected with the solemnity of Lord Stacks’. How well her guardian understood her. Not that digging into her thoughts was necessary to comprehend her social inferiorities.

One had only to look at her.

She shrugged. "It is not so much a matter of being comfortable in those drawing rooms, my lord," she said. "It’s more a matter of having a desire to be there in the first place. I don’t. I won’t. And I never shall."

He regarded her with amusement. "Do you mean to say you prefer the solitude of a place like Marshbanks Abbey?"

She did not know how to respond. She could not wound him by disparaging his home, nor did she wish to sound a pathetic note by extolling her fondness for his home — hence, making him feel compelled to keep her there against his own wishes. "Allow me to say I completely understand why you never visit London, my lord. Were I you, I would be perfectly happy at Marshbanks Abbey."

Those black eyes of his flashed, and one side of his mouth lifted ever so slightly. "But, my dear Miss Lambeth, I asked what you prefer."

Freddie could not tell a lie. "A lonely landscape like the one outside our window suits me most agreeably."

He leaned back into the squabs and stretched out his long legs, an inscrutable look on his face as his gaze returned to the window.

Despite her fascination over the stony coastal land, the incident with Mrs. Greenwood in the dining room occupied much of Freddie's thoughts during the journey. It made her conscious that she was no longer a girl but a young woman, though she did not feel particularly feminine. She had only to look at her worn, unfashionable clothing to know she was utterly unattractive. Surely she did not have to worry about Lord Stacks pressing unwanted attentions upon her.

Not when he had loved the woman in the painting.

The carriage followed the River Ouse until the spires of a great cathedral came into view. York. Her heart fluttered with excitement as she sat up and pressed her face against the cool glass.

Even from this distance it was apparent that York was a great deal smaller than London. Yet there were similarities between the two. Both had once been walled cities, and both straddled a river.

They drew closer to the quaint medieval town of intersecting alleyways too narrow for Lord Stacks’ fine carriage.

When her guardian began to show her York from their carriage, Freddie was surprised he had so long stayed away from the quaint medieval town of intersecting alleyways too narrow for a carriage such as Lord Stacks'. She could see he held great affection for the city.

Once they left the carriage to explore the city she could well understand its charms. They walked along the great wall which enclosed the city, and she could almost imagine what it must have been like to gaze down at assaulting marauders many centuries earlier. Then they followed the walk beside the River Ouse. Later, he showed her York Minster.

"It's larger than Westminster Abbey," he said calmly.

Yes, she could believe that. The church was immense. She came to the huge altar and fell to her knees to offer a prayer of thanks for the gift of this day. This day in splendid York. How wondrous it was for a girl who, until three months ago, had never been outside of the rural village of Chelseymeade.

They left the cathedral and began walking down High Petergate.

"It seems every street in York has the word gate in it," Freddie mused aloud.

He nodded. "That comes from the old Norse word gata for street."

"So York dates to before the Conquest."

"Well before."

On a small alleyway off Low Petergate, she grew alarmed when he suggested they pay a visit to Mrs. Baron's modiste shop. She bristled. He does want to make me more attractive. "I cannot allow you to buy me clothing, my lord," she protested.

He came to an abrupt halt and gazed down at her. She felt the scrutiny of his all-seeing eyes. "Your present state of attire embarrasses me, Miss Lambeth," he said bluntly. "A poor guardian I would be were I to allow my ward to walk about in rags, and I assure you the money is a pittance to a man of my wealth."

When he spoke to her like that, she knew he would never consider her for a mistress. His tone was too much like that of a scolding father, and she felt like a naughty child even though she had done nothing wrong, save that for which she was powerless to control: her pitiable appearance.

How could she refuse when she knew her present appearance was an embarrassment? Her face flaming, she nodded in surrender.

Mrs. Baron herself came flying to the front of the shop when she was told Lord Stacks was gracing her establishment with his presence.

"My lord!" the plump redheaded modiste shrieked happily. "'Tis so very good to see you again. It broke my heart to learn of Lady Stacks' passing." She raised her eyes heavenward. "Such a beauty."

Her gaze turned to Freddie as Freddie removed her old bonnet which was covered in black crepe to signify mourning. To Freddie's relief, the modiste did not recoil at her dowdiness. "And who have we here?"

"My ward, Miss Freddie Lambeth. Her father was at Oxford with me. As you can see, she is in need of clothing appropriate to her station."

Mrs. Baron stared at Freddie for a moment, nodding approvingly. "I think we will make her into something very lovely. She will wear clothes quite well with her height." She smoothed Freddie's hair with a gentle hand. "You will need to cut this, my dear."

Freddie knew shorter, curly hair was all the rage with women of fashion. She knew, too, that her own hair was a fright. But having no desire to look as if she had been attacked by a drunken barber, Freddie would entrust the cutting of her hair to no one back in Caldwell.

She nodded.

During the next hour she tried on lovely day and evening dresses in every color and allowed Mrs. Baron to take her measure. Freddie's embarrassment bordered on humiliation. What a burden she must be to Lord Stacks! If only she were lovely when attired in all the finery. Perhaps that would have compensated for her many deficiencies. But despite her proud bearing and Mrs. Baron's artistry with the needle, Freddie was sure she would resemble nothing so much as a well clothed flag pole. A pity she compared so poorly to the beautiful Lady Stacks.

Lord Stacks stayed, approving and rejecting the dresses Mrs. Baron brought out. A heavily flounced pink he deemed not in her style at all and a gray wool he found much too severe. "Since you have so little color, I should think the blues and greens and colors of the earth would do well for you, Miss Lambeth," he said.

His observation on her lack of color made Freddie lament that she could not be more like the woman in the portrait. The woman with the innocent blue eyes and soft pink cheeks. The woman with hair sparkling like spun gold.

For herself, Freddie thought one new muslin day dress and one gown for dinner would suit her meager needs, but his lordship insisted she possess morning dresses in every color, several pelisses, a spencer and three evening gowns though she protested that she had nowhere to wear ball gowns.

"Perhaps you will have some kind of a season, Miss Lambeth," he said. It was as if he were grooming her to be a mistress. She wanted to refuse his generosity, but she did not want to cause a scene in Mrs. Baron's establishment.

Freddie stood before him in a rust-colored muslin, feeling oddly elegant. The color complemented her, as did the dress. Its bodice was lower than anything Freddie had ever worn, but she did not feel self conscious. She felt feminine for the first time in her life. She actually possessed a bosom, small as it may be. And the dress made it look rather nice.

"It would please me greatly, Miss Lambeth, if you would wear that dress today," Lord Stacks said. He pointed out a nearby chocolate colored pelisse trimmed in rust ribbands and rust velvet collar. "With that pelisse."

"A most satisfactory choice, my lord," Mrs. Baron said with sincerity.

"But the expense---" Freddie protested.

"My dear child," Lord Stacks said, "your father left you in the care of a very wealthy man. And since I have no children of my own, indulge me."

Freddie nodded silently, secretly glowing over the prospect of wearing the lovely ensemble. Despite that Freddie had never owned beautiful clothing, she possessed a strong sense of what she liked--and disliked--and was pleased that her taste nearly coincided with her guardian's. She agreed that pink was not at all right for her and neither were ruffles and flounces.

"Now that you have my ward's measure, Mrs. Baron," Lord Stacks said, "I would like for you to appropriately size the garments we selected, and I will have a servant pick them up later this week."

After they left Mrs. Baron's shop, Lord Stacks insisted they patronize a milliner's establishment on Goodram Gate. Truth be told, Freddie was thankful to discard her old black bonnet. Here, too, Stacks selected wonderfully fashionable hats to complement each new dress. He even chose--against Freddie's protestations--a plumed band for evening wear. A bonnet with a rich chocolate colored brim was selected to match the new dress she was wearing.

Lord Stacks was not content to stop with the milliner. Freddie must have new gloves, new boots and a reticule, he said. Lastly he recommended new undergarments. While he sent her to the shop to get undergarments, he forced coins into her hand and begged off. "I must patronize my tobacconist. Bore you to death, I daresay. Shall we meet at the lending library at the foot of this street?"

The lending library was their last stop before going home. Already, the sky was growing darker, so they each selected just one book, hoping to make it back to the abbey before night set in.

He helped her into the carriage and sat across from her. "May I see what book you selected, Miss Lambeth?"

He scanned the title of the book she handed him, then looked up. "You like astronomy?"

Her eyes shone with enthusiasm. "Oh, yes. One cannot have a passion for medicine without a knowledge of astronomy."

He raised an eyebrow. "Am I to understand you assisted your father with his medical practice?"

She nodded. "I read every one of his books and I came to enjoy learning about herbs and medicines and making potions and poultices that would help my father's patients."

"Then you read Latin?"

"Oh, yes."

"And Greek?"

She nodded meekly, as if such an admission were something a girl should be ashamed of.

He chuckled. A deep hardy, masculine chuckle. "But you cannot play the piano. Tell me, do you speak French?"

Her eyelids lowered. "No, my lord."

"Do you dance?"

She shook her head.

"And let me guess. You do not do fine embroidery or water colors."

"How did you know?" she asked, her eyes widening.

He laughed. "It is obvious, my dear Miss Lambeth, that you were brought up as one brings up a lad. And I suppose you fish."

She nodded.

"And swim?"

She nodded again.

"And ride?"

"I never owned a horse, my lord, but riding is something I enjoy very much."

"Then you shall have your own horse while you are at Marshbanks Abbey."

He did not have the heart to tell her now that she would not be at Marshbanks Abbey for long. He knew he had to tell her. Indeed, he had planned to tell her as soon as he had bought her new finery. But now he would wait until all the packages arrived from Mrs. Baron's. Surely Freddie would be so happy then, she would not care.

The girl obviously had a fine eye for quality. And she wore her clothes well. Damned if she didn't look a hell of a lot older than a girl just turned eighteen. She looked like a woman. Mrs. Greenwood, blast her, had been correct. He had no right to traipse about the countryside with a young maiden without benefit of a chaperon. Until he sent her back, he would have to get the girl a maid. "Like it or not, my dear Miss Lambeth, I believe you need a maid."

"I fear it is a luxury that I could not possibly maintain later in life, my lord."

She seemed a rather selfless girl. He would appeal to her sense of charity. "But you would be doing one of the undermaids a great service by elevating her to the position of lady's maid. Wouldn't that please you, Miss Lambeth?"

"Since you put it that way . . ."

"Good. I will select one who is young and has an idea about the new fashions. I shall want her to dress your hair."

Those green eyes of hers looked startled. "How long has Mrs. Greenwood been in your employ, my lord?"

So she was troubled over the blasted woman's comments this morning, he thought. "Our old housekeeper was pensioned off when I married, so my bride hired Mrs. Greenwood. That was eleven years ago."

"Were you married long, my lord?"

"Less than a year."

"To the woman in the painting in the dining room?"

He nodded grimly. It still pained him that a creature as lovely as Elizabeth had to die.

"She was extremely beautiful," Freddie said.

"Yes. I was totally captivated by her. I wed her scarcely two months after our first meeting."

"I can understand such haste. Every man who saw her must have wanted to possess her."

Possess her. A strange choice of words for a maiden, he thought. Yet they so captured what he had felt for Elizabeth. He nodded, desperately wanting to change the subject."I met her during her season. Would that you could have a season, Miss Lambeth. I don't know how to manage it, though. Since my unfortunate parents lost five children, I lack sisters and sisters-in-law who could properly present you. I'm afraid my sponsorship would be a curse. I no longer go to London, you know."

"I have no desire to be presented to the ton, my lord. It would only strengthen my sense of inferiority."

"Never feel inferior, Miss Lambeth," he said firmly. "You are the daughter of Frederick Lambeth, the niece of Sir Harold Lambeth and the great great granddaughter of Lord Clarence Holcombe. You read Latin and Greek and are an uncommonly good whist player. I know no woman who is your intellectual match." She looked down at her new beige gloves. "I am greatly indebted to you, my lord."

She was neither small nor child-like, yet she solicited in him an urge to protect her. Perhaps she could be the child he would never have.

But why was it he did not think of her as a child at all?

Chapter 4

"Now that you've nourishment, we'll go to the stable and select a mount for you," Lord Stacks informed Freddie as she pushed aside her unfinished breakfast on the gleaming mahogany table the following morning.

A smile sprang to her face as she threw down her napkin and rose from her chair.

They walked through the great hall, Stack's heels striking its stone floors. Freddie turned toward the vestibule.

"You'll need a cloak."

"But it's spring," she objected, meeting her guardian's stern gaze.

"You've spent your life in the south. Spring here in the North Country can still be rather cold." He instructed a footman to have Miss Lambeth's maid bring a cloak.

"I---I have only my serge pelisse," Freddie said. How embarrassing it was to admit to the impeccably dressed Lord Stacks that she had no cloak.

"Very well," he said. "The black pelisse Miss Lambeth arrived in."

So he remembered her shabby pelisse. Did nothing escape his scrutiny?

By the time the footman returned with the weathered pelisse Freddie was appreciative when he assisted her into it. A chill seemed to settle in the great hall. She and Lord Stacks embarked on their walk to the stables. Despite that it was nearly mid day, a misty dampness hung in the air as she and Lord Stacks strolled across a small park behind the abbey.

The park's broad rectangle of velvety green grass looked like something found at the great English estates, not at a medieval abbey tucked into the rocky crags of Yorkshire.

Strong winds ruffled her skirts, and were her hair not swept back into a bun it would have blown like sheaths of wheat in the gusts. She was glad for the meager warmth the pelisse offered. "Think you it will rain?" she inquired.

He looked up at the heavy clouds. "Hopefully not before we get in a good ride."

She noted that her guardian was a great deal taller than she, a fact that should have made her feel more feminine. But, remembering the beauty of Lord Stacks' wife, she felt nothing but gawky.

"You kept no horse in Chelseymeade," he remarked. "Did you have a pet?"

"A dog." She swallowed hard.

"Had you him long?"

Her voice trembled when she spoke. "Since I was eight, my lord."

"It must have been very difficult for you to leave him."

Sensing pity in his voice, she lifted her shoulders proudly. "I am sure my cousin Jim--who holds a great fondness for dogs--will be kind to him."

"No doubt."

They had reached the edge of the park and still no buildings were in sight. They followed an unlevel stone path through a glen where daffodils grew wild and a chorus of birds sang their sweet songs.

"Does Maggie please you?" Stacks asked.

"She seems most amiable. As to her skills, I am ill prepared to offer judgment, having no basis of comparison."

"Always remember, Miss Lambeth, that you are the mistress. Never defer to a servant."

"It is indeed difficult for me to command."

"Having no experience---" he said with mirth.

She looked up at him, his black eyes shining mischievously, and she felt rather comfortable.

Still there were no buildings, no patches of farmland. "Do you farm, my lord?"

"Only modestly. This land is far better suited for raising sheep."

On the other side of the glen they came to a large stable. He led her through a doorway large enough for a carriage, past the tack room and along the dirt floors where he greeted a groom brushing down a roan gelding. "Good morning, Jacob. Saddle Lucifer for me while my ward selects a mount."

The lame man scurried to the third stall and stroked a black stallion.

Freddie had never dreamed one man could own so large a stable. She counted fourteen stalls, with horses of every color. Beyond the stalls, another room housed the carriage and a phaeton. She and her guardian strolled the length of the stable which smelled of fresh hay and rich manure. It seemed a warm and comforting place to be. He told her a little about each horse. When they got to the other end, he asked, "Do any of them strike your fancy?"

She turned to gaze at her choice. "The bay in the first stall."

A slow smile covered his tanned face as he nodded. "A wise choice. She's not too spirited and is, after all, quite lovely."

Jacob had finished saddling Lucifer. "Put Lady Stacks' saddle on Bay Lady," Stacks ordered.

"Oh, but I don't need a side saddle," Freddie protested.

Stacks leveled a stern gaze on her. "At Marshbanks Abbey you will be a lady."

Freddie had the odd feeling she were a child being scolded by an overbearing schoolmaster.

He would probably scold her if she told him she could saddle her own horse. She held her tongue and watched the groom — a young man just a few years older than she — perform his duties. The lame fellow was so solemn he did not even respond to her thanks when he gave her a leg up.

She did not at all like the feel of riding side saddle. She felt as if she would topple off on the first turn. She gazed forward at her guardian who was cantering on his black stallion. "I daresay it may take a while for me to grow accustomed to riding sidesaddle. Pray, do not think me an utter novice."

He reined in until she came along side of him. "I offer you my sympathy, Miss Lambeth. I never could understand how women could tolerate riding sidesaddle." He smiled at her again.

Despite her many insecurities and despite her guardian's exalted position, she did not feel uncomfortable with him. He offered something she had never before had. He cared. He knew full well she had no feminine skills. He knew she was neither lovely nor fashionable. Yet still she was a real person to him. He solicited her opinion. He asked her questions about her life. He desired that she be treated as a lady.

As they rode around the perimeter of the lonely moors, she became accustomed to the feel of the sidesaddle and her former ease with horses returned even though she would have preferred to straddle the proud beast, to feels its girth firmly under her.

"It is obvious you have been instructed to ride as a man," he said. Lifting his gaze to her, he added, "You ride very well, Miss Lambeth. Of course, your father was a noted whip."

She grimaced. "The apple seems not to fall far from the tree."

He gave her a quick, puzzled glance, then continued climbing northward, the terrain having turned rockier and more hilly, the sky steadily darker. He looked up at the threatening clouds. "We had best turn back. Before the rains come."

She could feel and smell rain in the air. They galloped back toward the abbey, Freddie exhilarated by the speed. But they were not to reach shelter before the skies erupted.

Within minutes, the sky turned black. Sheets of rain drenched her, and chill winds cut through them like an icy knife. The rains came down so heavily she had to close her eyes, following Lord Stacks not by sound, which was lost to the pounding fury of wind and rain, but by sheer instinct. Before long he reined in.

She wiped her eyes with wet hands and looked up to see a stately summer house ringed by statuary columns and topped with a copper dome. Its classical architecture was out of place in so rugged a terrain.

Her teeth chattering, she sat on a stone bench that was still dry. She could not have been wetter had she been pulled from a lake. Her guardian took off his great coat and moved to wrap it around her.

She stiffened. "I cannot allow you to give me your coat, my lord."

"But unlike yours, my coat has served its purpose. I am quite dry underneath whereas you are totally drenched, Miss Lambeth."

He came closer and placed the coat around her. As his arm came across her back, a queer feeling came over her, like comforting warmth blossoming within her. Another feeling--an eerie bliss she could not put a name to--overcame her. She needed neither flowing robes nor specter and crown to feel more like a queen than she felt this very minute. It was as if a flame warmed her very soul.

He sat next to her, and neither spoke for a minute. Then he said, "You must be thinking how out of place this summer house is with a medieval abbey." He eyed the columns surrounding them.

She gazed at his craggy face and fought the urge to sweep back the wet, dark hair from his brow. She nodded.

"It was built fifty years ago when my father returned from his tour. I always thought it rather pretentious, but today I find it most welcome."

"As do I," she said, her teeth no longer chattering. She pulled the coat closely about her. "I fear you are cold, my lord."

"I am much more used to this damp climate than you, Miss Lambeth. I fear you will take a fever."

"I assure you I never get sick," she said confidently.

The rain began to come down even harder, thudding so loudly they dared not attempt conversation and so thick they could not see their horses tied up not twenty feet away. Her guardian was no longer dry. The slanting rains began to pelt him.

"Please," she shouted, "share the coat with me."

He gave her a wondrous look, his eyes moving down the length of her body, and he shook his head. "I can tolerate this tedious wetness quite well, thank you." He did not have to raise his deep voice to be heard.

The rains moved quickly northward, allowing them to mount their horses and return to the abbey, Stacks insisting she wear his coat. A footman bearing an umbrella met them on the puddled drive in front of the abbey and helped Freddie down from her horse.

In her room a fire blazed, and Maggie had dry clothes laid out for her. With her maid's assistance, Freddie donned the rust colored dress her guardian had purchased for her the day before. Maggie brushed out her wet hair and put it in curl papers as Freddie sat in front of the fire. She watched Maggie's deft fingers do their work with Freddie's challenging mop of lifeless hair. She was incredibly drowsy, and as soon as Maggie finished, Freddie slipped under her covers and immediately fell into a deep sleep.

When she awoke it was dark, and she still felt chilled. Her hair was now dry, and Maggie arranged it for her. The maid did have a flair. Somehow she managed to make it look like a Grecian goddess. The freckled young abigail stood back and gazed at her mistress. "There, now, don't you look elegant, miss. His lordship will be pleased, I am sure."

At the thought of Lord Stacks' opinion of her, Freddie's stomach jumped. Running her hand across her damp forehead, Freddie said, "I'll go on down to dinner now. It's like an oven in this room."

Maggie gave her a puzzled look as Freddie left the room.

How very odd, Freddie thought. When she woke up minutes ago, she was still chilled. She was so cold, her teeth chattered. Now she was sweating!

Lord Stacks rose from the table when she walked into the dining room. "How lovely you look, Miss Lambeth."

Freddie blushed. "'Tis merely Maggie's artistry. She is quite talented arranging hair." A footman held out her seat, and she sat down. "I have decided to let her cut my hair."

"It pleases me that you have confidence in her."

A footman placed a bowl of turtle soup in front of her. Her throat felt raw, and the soup soothed it. But when the other foods were set before her, she suddenly lost all appetite. A pity there was no fire in this room, she thought wistfully. Now she was chilled again. Very chilled. The candles in ornate silver candelabra in front of her beckoned. She waved her hands in front of them for warmth.

"Are you cold, Miss Lambeth?" Stacks asked.

She nodded.

He turned to the nearest footman. "Go to Lady Stacks' old room and fetch a Kashmir shawl for Miss Lambeth."

She wanted to protest, but the thought of the shawl was much too welcome. She hugged herself to keep warm as she watched her guardian eat hardily.

"I see you are not eating, Miss Lambeth," he said.

"I fear I have a sore throat. A pity it is too early for butterwort, for nothing soothes an inflamed throat better than a concoction of its leaves and roots--gargled with a bit of honey."

He shot her a concerned glance. "Should you like some tea?"

"I should love a cup of tea."

Lord Stacks ordered another footman to instruct Cook to bring a pot of tea for Miss Lambeth.

How odd it felt to have someone solicitous of her comforts, Freddie thought, a warm feeling blanketing her inside and out. By the time the footman returned with the cream-colored shawl, she felt she no longer needed it, but allowed him to wrap it around her for politeness. Now she felt horridly hot again, but the tea felt good on her irritated throat.

She continued to watch her guardian eat as she sipped the warm tea.

"Do you play cribbage, Miss Lambeth?" he asked between bites of pickled beets.

She nodded. Now she felt chilled again. She pulled the soft shawl around her, imagining how lovely it must have looked with Lady Stack's blond hair. Freddie wrapped her hands around the porcelain teacup for warmth.

He instructed a footman to set up a game table in front of the fire in the library. "You'll be warm there, Miss Lambeth," Lord Stacks said.

She was warm there. Hot actually. Terribly hot. Sweat began to run from her forehead as she peered at the hazy cards in her hand.

Lord Stacks watched her with concern. "Are you feeling well, Miss Lambeth?"

She gazed at him with sad eyes. "Not altogether. I do not understand it at all. I am never sick."

He sprang to his feet, moved to her side, and stroked her forehead. "You're burning with fever!"

She suddenly went limp.

He scooped her into his arms and strode with her across the broad room, calling for a servant to open the door. The footman just outside the door complied, and a bevy of servants followed in his wake as he carried his ward to her room where Maggie awaited her mistress.

Worry flashed across Maggie's face when she saw Freddie limp in Lord Stacks' arms. "Oh, my dear, whatever is the matter?"

"I fear Miss Lambeth has taken a fever."

Scurrying to the bed and pulling back the heavy counterpane, Maggie said, "I daresay it's them wet clothes she was a wearin' today."

Stacks folded his lips into a grim line. "I daresay you're correct."

"She'll be better in the morn," Maggie said reassuringly.

"You will stay beside her tonight?"

Maggie nodded. "Oh, yes, milord." She moved to the clothes press to fetch Freddie's night lawn.

A forlorn feeling washed over Stacks as he closed Freddie's door behind him, leaving her to Maggie's care. The girl was very sick. And it was all his fault. Allowing her to go galloping across the countryside in that flimsy, threadbare garb, knowing the clouds were blackening.

Surely Maggie was right. The girl would be good as new in the morning.

But when morning came, she was no better. Her fever still raged, and Maggie imparted tales of Freddie's delirious, uncomfortable night.

He walked to Freddie's bedside. She looked so very pale and wan lying there, her nettled tresses fanned out on the rumpled pillow. She reminded him of a helpless child. "Good morning, Miss Lambeth."

She mumbled something incoherent.

He turned frightened eyes on Maggie. "I'll send for Dr. Edgekirth."

"But I thought---"

"Never mind that!" He turned on his heel and hurried from the oppressive room.

Never mind that he had vowed never to have Edgekirth set foot inside Marshbanks Abbey again. Would Edgekirth even come?

There was nothing to do but go to Edgekirth himself. Forget his own pride.

For the girl. She was very sick, and it was terribly important to him that she get well.

Chapter 5

Dr. Edgekirth, stirring up a cloud of dust from the other direction, was approaching his stone cottage at the same time as Stacks. He eyed the baron suspiciously. "Good day, Stacks," the physician said curtly, dismounting.

Blast the man's infernal insolence, Stacks thought. Edgekirth was the only man in these parts who refused to address him as my lord. Of course, there had been a time when Edgekirth had spoken to him with more courtesy.

Before Elizabeth's death.

Edgekirth refused to meet Stacks' eyes. "What brings you here?"

The man did get right to the point, Stacks thought. "I--that is, my ward--has urgent need of your services." Stacks paused, his brow furrowed. "Your professional ethics will no doubt force you to deliver aid, even though it be at Marshbanks Abbey."

Edgekirth eyed Stacks warily. He was a few years younger than Stacks, with a muscular frame and healthy, blond good looks. Too proud and too frank, of course.

The young doctor untied the roan gelding he had just tethered. "What is the lad's ailment?"

Stacks coughed. "My ward is a girl. She runs a dangerously high fever."

The physician, his eyes flashing with anger, muttered an oath under his breath, then asked, "Had your ward any complaints before?"

Stacks thought for a moment, remembering Freddie lapping up last night's soup. "Her throat."

Edgekirth nodded, throwing a leg over his horse.

***

Impervious to the chilling winds, Stacks paced the cloister outside Freddie's chamber as Edgekirth examined her. Stacks had wanted to be present during the examination, but then remembering that Freddie was a young lady, knew his presence would be totally improper.

Why was the blasted man taking such a wretchedly long time, Stack wondered, thrusting his frigid hands into his coat's pockets. The longer the physician was with her, Stacks feared, the more grave her prognosis.

His sickening worry chiseled into a rockbed of painful emotions buried deep and undisturbed since Elizabeth’s death ten years earlier. Undisturbed until the previous night. As soon as he’d realized fever ravaged poor Freddie, a scorching fear gripped him. He would lose her, too, just as he’d lost Elizabeth.

He remembered how she had looked as she seemed to float into the dining room the night before, her posture regal, her light brown hair curled, gleaming golden highlights. She looked very fine indeed in that rust colored dress they had selected in York. Mrs. Baron had been quite correct. The girl did wear clothes well. Very well indeed.

And now she lay lifeless, a raging fever sapping the life from her.

After what seemed to Stacks to be an interminable length of time, Edgekirth emerged from the room, a grim expression on his golden face. He met Stacks' anxious gaze icily. "Why did you not tell me the patient is a young woman, not a girl?"

"She is merely a child."

"I think not," Edgekirth said, his voice harsh. "What I want to know is how can a man such as you be allowed to have a young maiden under his roof?"

"That is no concern of yours," Stacks snapped. "What is your concern is the girl's prospects of recovery." Stacks' eyes softened. "How serious is it, Edgekirth?"

The doctor shrugged. "It could go either way. I've bled her. What do you know of her constitution?"

"She has always enjoyed good health. In fact, she was used to being around sick people as she assisted her father with his surgery since she was nine years old. Even the fever that took his life spared her."

Edgekirth nodded and spoke more to himself than to the man he abhorred. "That is in her favor." He moved away. "Have someone with her at all times. Try to keep her hydrated." He handed a Stacks a bottle of elixir. "See that she takes this twice a day. I fear her lungs may be inflamed. Expect me again in the morning."

Freddie's delirium and fever raged all through the day. Her fine dresses and bonnets arrived from York. This was the day he had planned to tell her she was going back down south, he thought morosely. Stacks' eyes moistened when he remembered of how sweet she would have looked in the fine dresses. Swallowing hard, he hoped she would recover to wear them.

Having sat all night with her mistress, Maggie's step was weary, her voice haggard. When evening came, Stacks told the young servant he would stay the night with Freddie.

He pulled up a chair beside her bed and watched her sleep fitfully. How very thin she looked now. He longed to see the green flash in her eyes, not the dark, sunken circles beneath her pallid lids. At times she lay as still as the dead, her labored breathing the only sign of life. After a few hours of troubled sleep, she began to flail about violently, her hair and bedclothes damp and hot, her teeth chattering uncontrollably. She rambled incoherently, her eyes not seeing, her words unintelligible.

Remembering Edgekirth's orders about keeping her hydrated, Stacks would place a gentle arm around her to lift her as he forced cool water through her parched lips. Several times during the night, he thought of calling for Edgekirth, her condition seemed so dangerous. But he knew there was nothing more Edgekirth could do. He would wait until morning. Throughout the long night, Stacks found himself saying a silent prayer for Freddie's recovery.

Not long past dawn, Edgekirth arrived to check on his patient. Casting an angry glance at Stacks, the doctor ordered the baron out of the room while he performed an examination. When he was finished, he met the worried Stacks in the windy corridor outside her room and reported no change. "I will return late in the afternoon. Let us hope the girl shows improvement by then."

But there was no improvement.

Days passed, and her fever persisted. In his heart, Stacks feared Freddie was going to die. But he fought it. He doggedly went about his affairs as if Freddie were going to get well. Since the poor girl would not be able to travel, he had determined to keep her at Marshbanks Abbey. Therefore, he would have to hire a companion for the maiden. He wrote to his solicitor in London and asked him to procure the services of a woman of good birth.

A heavy lump in his throat, Stacks sealed the letter. He desperately hoped the woman's presence would be needed.

By day, he found himself furiously tending his garden, by night he sat at Freddie's bedside, a single taper allowing him to watch her now-peaceful face. How young and utterly helpless she looked. So very childlike. Then in a fit of labored breathing, she would throw off the covers to reveal her drenched shift, and he could see her nipples clinging to the wet linen. Then he would jarringly be reminded Freddie was not a girl but a young woman.

If only she would recognize him. He craved any semblance of her former self.

Stacks had to admire Edgekirth's professionalism. He came every morning and evening to check on Freddie. Even if it was at Marshbanks Abbey. Though the two men were bitter enemies, they forged a bond over the helpless orphan girl.

One afternoon as Stacks was cross pollinating two flowers, he heard a squeaky meow and turned to see a thin orange kitten with white markings. He called to the cat in a softened voice, but it shied away. Immediately, he thought how alike the kitten and Freddie were. Too proud to be pitied, to proud to accept favors.

The next day, the kitten returned. Stacks spoke softly to it, and it came closer, then skittered away.

On the following day, the kitten came close enough for Stacks to grab it and hold the little fur ball in his big hands. He remembered Freddie telling him about her dog, Champs. She had even called out the dog's name during one of her delirious nights.

If only this little kitten could replace her long-revered dog.

That evening when he entered Freddie's chamber, Stacks took the kitten with him. His voice soft, he approached her bed and said, "I've brought you a present."

Her lids slowly lifted.

He placed the fluffy kitten on her pillow and watched as a smile came to Freddie's pale, dry lips. To his surprise, the cat did not run away.

Freddie's thin hand came up to stroke the kitten's white neck. She looked up and met Stack's beaming gaze. "For my very own?"

He nodded, moisture coming to his eyes.

"I shall call him Marmalade," she said in a hoarse whisper, petting the kitten's soft coat.

"Your clothes have arrived," Stacks informed her, trying to sound cheerful.

She began to cough. When the coughing subsided, she sighed. "I fear I have no strength to put them on."

"You will get stronger," he said convincingly. And he believed it.

***

The following morning Freddie was strong enough to sit up in bed and drink broth Maggie offered. Marmalade lay beside her, curled up in a snug ball, purring softly. The sun shone through the room's gothic windows, and a fire blazed at her hearth. No longer suffocating with fever, she felt a comforting warmth, especially over the revelation that her guardian himself had tended her during her illness.

Bent on conversation, Maggie prattled on incessantly. "Whoever would have thought--what with the abbey full of servants--his lordship himself would see fit to sit by your bedside all them nights. I don't believe for a minute those wicked things they say about him."

Freddie stroked her kitten, her brows lowering, worry pounding in her breast. "What wicked things?"

"I ---uh, I really couldn't say, miss."

Just then the door swung open, and a strange man entered her bedchamber.

"How very good it is to see you up, Miss Lambeth," he proclaimed, crossing paths with Maggie, who left the room.

She shot a quizzing glance at him, bringing her blanket up to cover her breasts which showed under the thin linen of her shift. "And you are?" A deep, wracking cough sapped her strength.

"Dr. Edgekirth," he said, strolling confidently to her bedside.

"You have been very sick," he told Freddie.

"For how long?" She watched as his hand came to rest on her forehead. It felt strong, yet gentle. Like she sensed he was.

"Nearly two weeks."

"You bled me?"

"I did."

She nodded. "And you came every day?"

"Twice each day."

"You gave me lungwort?" she asked, her voice hoarse.

"I did."

"And aqua cordials?"

He nodded.

"Then you must be a good doctor."

"And on what do you base that determination?"

"On the fact that I've spent my entire life administering to the infirm. My father was a surgeon."

"Where?"

"In Sussex. A village known as Chelseymeade."

"He attended Oxford?"

She nodded. "Until he fell in love with my mother and cut short his studies. He had hoped to be a physician."

"When did he attend Oxford?"

"At the same time as Lord Stacks. They were the greatest of friends."

He nodded firmly and moved to lift her cover.

She pulled it tightly over her chest. "As you can see, Dr. Edgemont, that is totally unnecessary. I am quite on the road to recovery."

"Edgekirth," he said with a grin. "Tell me, how would your father have acted had a female patient treated him as you are treating me?"

She thought for a moment. "He would have lectured her sternly until the poor woman felt like an utter baboon."

"Lecturing is not my method."

She met his mischievous gaze. "You charm your patients into compliance."

"I see you are quite perceptive, Miss Lambeth," he said, smiling.

"And I see you know what you are doing," Freddie countered, still clutching the blanket to her bosom.

He grinned and turned toward the door. "I'll report to your guardian now." He turned back and met her eyes. "I'll look in on you again in the morning."

***

Stacks no longer anxiously paced the cloister like he had done for nearly two weeks. Now he stood watering a clump of herbs growing in the quadrangle, coatless on this sunny morning. He needed to be with the sprouting, blooming, glorious evidence of life. To celebrate life. For now he knew Freddie would live.

He looked up as Edgekirth moved toward him. "My ward grows stronger," he said flatly. "It seems I am greatly indebted to you, Edgekirth. How can I ever repay you?"

"By sending her back," Edgekirth said through compressed lips.

Stacks threw down his pail. "But you and I both know she's far too weak to travel."

"She will regain her strength," the doctor said. "Even robust strength, I fear, would be no defense against your cruelty. Let her go before you destroy her, too."

"You have once again overstepped your bounds," Stacks said, dismissal in his voice as he turned back to his herbs.

Edgekirth stalked up to the baron. "I will not allow you to kill her as you killed Elizabeth!"

Stacks spun around. "You dare to call Lady Stacks Elizabeth!"

Edgekirth's posture slackened. "Never to her face."

"But you thought of her as Elizabeth. You coveted her, did you not?" His flashing black eyes held Edgekirth's.

The physician swallowed. "She was the most beautiful, vibrant woman I have ever seen. And you destroyed her, damn you, Stacks."

Stacks turned back to his herbs, fighting the overwhelming urge to run his fist through the insolent doctor's face. "My man has been instructed to present you with a bag of coins for your excellent services." Edgekirth had been diligent and competent.

"Take your damned money and go to hell!"

Chapter 6

Stacks closed the library door and settled back in his red leather chair, opening the thick packet newly arrived from his solicitor. He thumbed through the letters of application for the position of companion to his ward and counted fourteen. The first, from an orphaned girl fresh from the schoolroom, he dismissed. Freddie would need someone with town bronze to groom her, an older lady who had been through a few seasons. Another was from a matron near Bath. She would not do at all. He sought a woman who knew London ways. Tossing aside undesirable applicants, his attention was drawn to a letter from a Marie Dewhurst. He read on. The woman was the daughter of Sir Manley Moreland and the recent widow of Captain Michael Dewhurst, who had distinguished himself in the Peninsula. She had been presented the year after Elizabeth. Stacks' attention perked. Though her letter seemed more concerned with titled persons of whom she was acquainted than of herself, Stacks thought the widow would serve his purposes well.

He began to see that a widow would be an excellent choice. Just as he was about to dash off a letter to his solicitor to instruct him to hire Mrs. Dewhurst, he came to a sudden stop, the tip of his pen poised over his paper.

Though a widow would suit his needs, something told him that Mrs. Dewhurst was not the right widow. Why have a woman who had been on the fringe of the ton when he might have one who had been at its very core? His thoughts flitted to that long ago Season when he had found a bride, despite his reluctance to do so. The fair and lovely Elizabeth Binghampton had burst on the scene with her beauty and flirtatious ways, leaving an army of admirers in her wake.

And everywhere Elizabeth went, her mousy companion, Julia Smith, had followed. Even after Elizabeth became Lady Stacks, Julia continued to accompany her, making her home at Marshbanks Abbey.

Julia had stayed on after Elizabeth died, and only on Stacks' firmest insistence did she leave.

It was not until much later that Julia Smith finally married a much older man who made her a widow only two years after marrying her. It was said she was bitterly disappointed in the expectations of her husband's estate.

Stacks leaned back in his chair, rolling the pen between his palms. He pictured Julia Smith as she had looked as a maiden some ten years earlier. She had dark hair and shrewd eyes that were nearly black. Though she was not fat, her fleshy chin and neck had given her the appearance of being overweight, which coupled with her hawk-like nose, dismally reduced her marital prospects. Stacks had often wondered why she chose to align herself to one as beautiful as Elizabeth.

He tried to recall her married name. Something like Weaver or Taylor or something that reminded him of the guilds.

Where was she now? She would be the ideal companion for poor Freddie. She had travelled within the upper echelons of society, yet pecuniary circumstances kept her from being too proud to be a paid companion.

And the woman had enjoyed living at Marshbanks Abbey. He recalled that she had not wanted to leave.

If only he could remember her name. He began to fumble in his desk. She had written him a couple of years ago to tell him of her widowhood and to commiserate with him about grief over losing life's mate.

Thankfully, his desk was cluttered with many papers which should have been discarded long ago. Among them was a letter from Mrs. Julia Taylor.

He drafted a letter to Mrs. Taylor, imploring her to come make her home once more at Marshbanks Abbey.

With the letter dispatched, his thoughts turned to Freddie. She was much too weak to travel but too pure to stay at Marshbanks Abbey without proper chaperonage. The girl grew stronger daily. She was now out of bed for hours at a time, reading before the fire, little Marmalade curled on her lap. Her cough was less wracking, and the hoarseness in her voice grew less pronounced each new day. He did, indeed, owe much to Edgekirth.

Though the two men despised each other, Edgekirth came daily to check his patient's progress. Stacks accepted--even welcomed--Edgekirth's presence. It was good that Freddie have the society of a learned gentleman since he himself could not taint her with his presence. Not until Mrs. Taylor arrived.

***

Edgekirth tucked the blanket around Freddie in her invalid's chair. Maggie had helped her into a new sprigged muslin morning dress, and she did not at all think she needed the blanket, but the doctor had insisted. He pushed her chair across the red carpet that now held elongated patches of sunlight the exact shape of her gothic windows. The two of them settled before the fire in her chamber, and Marmalade contentedly hopped on Freddie's lap.

Freddie studied Edgekirth's tanned face. "I am wondering how the complaints of your patients differ from those we had in Chelseymeade."

The doctor ran his hand through his golden hair and smiled at her. "I believe illnesses are the same the world over."

"But your climate here is so much damper," Freddie said, coughing. Her coughs no longer seemed to raise the phlegm from her very toes. "Surely that predisposes one to chills and lung fever."

"It is my belief that the body regulates itself to its environment. Those raised in a moist climate are better able to endure it, not like you--who was unused to it--and took a fever your first week here while Lord Stacks remained perfectly healthy."

She noted that he only addressed her guardian as Lord Stacks when talking about him, but never to his face. "There is merit in what you say. It has been my observation that those who are daily exposed to poison ivy suffer no complaint whereas if you or I would come into contact with it, we would scratch with uncommon vigor."

He nodded. "It is unfortunate for the profession that you are a woman, Miss Lambeth, for you would have made an excellent physician."

She sipped her tea. "Tell me, is there an apothecary in Morton?"

"No. It is too small and too remote."

"Then where do you procure your remedies, pray tell?" she asked.

"From a shop in London."

"In Spitafields?"

"Why, yes," he said, puzzled.

She took a bite of biscuit. "I know it well."

He reached for a biscuit himself, admiration in his gaze.

"Do you not find elixirs made of fresh plants and herbs to be far more satisfactory than those potions procured from London?"

"How could I know when no one here grows such plants?"

"But if it can grow anywhere in England, it grows in my guardian's garden. He is a noted botanist."

Edgekirth frowned. "Your guardian is hardly willing to share his bounty with me."

How wrong he was about her guardian! Why the generous Lord Stacks would likely go to any lengths to help the less fortunate, including Dr. Edgekirth's patients. She sat down her cup and gazed up at the doctor. "You and Lord Stacks do not get on, do you?"

He laughed. "How observant you are, Miss Lambeth."

She wondered how a man such as her guardian could have an enemy. He was so very kind. Then she remembered Maggie's words. People said wicked things about Lord Stacks. "Why do you dislike Lord Stacks?" She watched him as his crooked grin vanished, the features of his agreeable face hardening.

He did not answer for a moment. "That is a matter between your guardian and myself," he said firmly. "It does not concern you."

She decided not to press further. If her plans came to fruition, she could learn more later. "When I am well, I hope to work with Lord Stacks' plants. Perhaps I can make elixirs for you."

"I had thought you would not be staying at Marshbanks Abbey when you get your strength back."

The idea of leaving Marshbanks Abbey stirred fury in her breast. Her eyes flashed defiantly. "But Lord Stacks plans to hire a lady to be my companion--a chaperon for propriety's sake, I daresay. I think, too, he wants her to teach me to behave as a lady. I fear I am a terrible embarrassment to him."

He gave her a wistful look. "Never that, Miss Lambeth."

***

Tonight she was going down to dine in the dining room for the first time since her illness. She could not have been more excited were she going to be presented to the queen. Maggie had curled her hair and arranged it in a swept back style with tendrils spiraling about her face. Freddie thought the style rather flattering. Together they selected one of her new gowns from Mrs. Baron, one of lilac sarcenet with a low-cut neckline. She stood back to peer in the small looking glass above her dresser.

"You look beautiful, miss," Maggie said, admiration in her voice.

Freddie thought the compliment exaggerated, but she was pleased with her reflection. Gazing at the sweep of her breasts, she felt like a woman. The feeling gave her a heady sense of femininity.

She kept staring at her reflection, feeling something was missing. If only she possessed a necklace of purple stones to draw attention to her décolletage. Then she remembered a small pair of amethyst earrings that had been her mother's. She found them in a drawer where Maggie had unpacked them and fastened them to her ears.

"The perfect touch!" Maggie exclaimed, moving closer to tuck back a stray strand of Freddie's toast-colored hair. "Won't his lordship be proud of you!"

Freddie sighed. Would that he show any emotion toward her. Since she started mending, she had scarcely seen her guardian, a fact that wounded considerably. It seemed hard to believe that he had sat at her sickbed night after night when now he made no effort to seek her company.

Freddie moved toward the door.

"You'll need the Kashmir shawl, miss. The dining room can be as damp as a seaside cave."

"I will not wear it," Freddie snapped. She had no desire to be compared to the lovely woman in the portrait, the woman whose lovely shoulders the shawl had once draped.

"But, Miss--"

"Say no more, Maggie," Freddie said firmly. She remembered her guardian's advice. She was always to be in command of Maggie. Heretofore, she had deferred to her maid in all decisions. But not this one.

She strode to the door and made her way to the dining room. It was the farthest she had walked since she had fallen ill, and she was breathless by the time his lordship rose from the table to greet her, a satisfied look in his eyes as he gazed admiringly at her. "How well you look, Miss Lambeth."

A footman assisted her to a chair beside her guardian.

She wondered if it would be inappropriate to commend him on his gentlemanly appearance for he looked like one born to rule in his ruffled sleeves and fitted velvet coat, so different now from the shirtsleeves she had glimpsed as he poked about in his garden.

She decided to say nothing.

They ate their meal in relative silence, Freddie feeling as if they were playing make believe. The table and the many courses of food seemed so extravagant. "It seems queer to have so grand a table for only the two of us," she said.

"It's one more than my staff is used to."

"You never entertain?"

"Never."

An awkward silence followed. Freddie could not imagine why a man of wealth and position chose to live so solitary a life.

"Mrs. Taylor arrives tomorrow," he said complacently over the roast duck.

"Mrs. Taylor?"

"Your companion."

That she would have a companion made her excessively grateful. Not, per se, because she liked the idea of having a companion. She didn’t. But she knew that if Lord Stacks procured her a companion, she would be allowed to make her home at Marshbanks Abbey, and that pleased her very much.

Would it be too much to hope for a companion closer to her own age? "Of what age is she?"

"She is nearer my age than yours."

"And what duties is she to perform?"

"She is to make a lady of you."

His words utterly deflated her. She had actually felt attractive. Not beautiful, but attractive. And now he reminded her of how very unaccomplished she was.

As dinner ended, he said, "I suggest we take up that game of cribbage we never finished when you took sick."

The thought pleased her. She enjoyed being with him, even if he did think her unfeminine.

He brought her to the library where a card table had been placed before the fire and settled her into a comfortable chair. They played one long game, with him barely reaching the home hole before her.

When they finished, he said he would play the pianoforte for her. She watched his long fingers move fluidly across the keys and though she had never heard more beautiful music in her life. She remembered her father telling her there was nothing requiring intellect that his friend Stacks could not master.

"I should love to play as you, my lord," she told him when his playing concluded.

"I will teach you," he said gently. "Come sit beside me."

She came and settled on the bench beside him, a strange feeling washing over her at being so near to him.

He explained the correlation between the actual keys and the letters they stood for. "Now show me middle C, Miss Lambeth," he said gently.

She struck the key, and he nodded.

"Now G."

She struck the G.

He looked pleased, then he thumbed through yellowed pages of sheet music until he pulled out one. "This is a simple tune. A nursery rhyme, actually. The very piece I first learned. Before you were born. Do you know it?" He began to hum "Sing a Song of Sixpence."

She tossed back her head in laughter.

"With your facility for learning, you should be able to learn it within the week," he said.

"I fear your confidence in me is misplaced, my lord," she protested.

"Practice is all it takes to learn the pianoforte, Miss Lambeth. If you truly want to learn, you will."

She looked up at his weathered but strangely handsome face. "I want very much to learn."

"It will be my pleasure to teach you."

She and he, side by side, practiced for nearly an hour before he urged her to bed. "I am tiring you, Miss Lambeth."

"But I declare I have enjoyed this excessively." She meant every word. He was a patient teacher, a skilled musician. The time had passed all too quickly.

"Then we will play again tomorrow."

The thought comforted her.

He strolled with her to her room. When they entered the outdoor cloister, he asked, "Why did you not wear the shawl?"

"The Kashmir one that was your wife's?"

He nodded grimly.

"I do not wish to be compared to so lovely a woman, my lord."

"But she is long dead. I can scarcely even remember the sound of her voice. You are young and vibrant and lovely in your own right. It would please me if you would wear the shawl. Else I will be forced to send to India for a replacement for I do not like you to go uncovered. You seem not to have a disposition for our damp climate."

She was touched by his concern for her and greatly moved by his praise. She lay in bed thinking of him for a long while, remembering the soothing feel of his sinewy body so close to her as they sat in front of the pianoforte, his gentle voice in her ear. And when he had walked her to her chamber he had said she was lovely.

Chapter 7

Though Freddie had wanted to ride into Morton with him to greet Mrs. Taylor, Stacks had refused to take her, citing the strenuousness of the journey and her recent ill health. But his real reason for denying her was his fierce desire to protect Freddie's reputation. Riding alone with him in his coach would undoubtedly tarnish the poor girl. He was determined that his own repute not attach to her. For Freddie elicited in him a deep protectiveness.

He stood beside his own fine coach and watched the weary passengers disembark from the afternoon mail coach. He almost did not recognize Julia Smith--now Mrs. Taylor--for he pictured her as she had looked at twenty. These past ten years had been cruel to the girl who had already been dealt an unfortunate hand by nature. For the girl whose only girth had been in the sloping flesh beneath her chin had now grown quite plump.

As if to ignore the unwanted march of age, she clung to youthful fashions. She wore a traveling gown of pastel muslin--much too maidenly a hue for her and much too light for this dank climate. He fleetingly questioned his decision to bring her to Marshbanks Abbey. If she had no more sense than to dress as she did, she was hardly a fitting example for Freddie.

He put aside his doubts and rushed forward to greet her. "How good it is to see you once again, Mrs. Taylor."

A coy smile played at her lips as she fluttered her eyelashes and offered him her chunky hand. "How good it is to be here in Yorkshire once again."

He touched his lips to the proffered hand, then bowed. "It was very good of you to come." Turning away, he instructed the coachman to procure Mrs. Taylor's baggage, which was no small feat since the woman had brought a trunk as well as two bulging valises.

They then settled in his coach, facing one another, Mrs. Taylor's eyes flitting from the coachman in lime-colored livery, to the tiger, to the plush velvet seats.

"How very kind it is of you to meet me yourself, my lord." She patted her well coifed hair and beamed at him. "I think we will be good together, you and I. Now that I've lost my dear Mr. Taylor I know only too well the terrible loss you suffered when sweet Elizabeth passed on."

"It's been ten years, Mrs. Taylor. I assure you I have recovered."

"You must call me Julia."

"I think it only proper to address you as my ward will."

He took note that the fabric of her clothing was of an inferior quality. She must have found the offer to come to Marshbanks most welcome.

The plumpish matron settled back comfortably on the soft squabs. "Now you must tell me all about my little girl. It was a great sadness that Mr. Taylor and I had no children for I should love to have had a little girl of my own. I remember learning so many of the feminine arts at my own grandmother's knee." She threw him a haughty look. "My grandmother was a Meriwether, you know."

"Actually, my ward is not a little girl. She is eighteen, but her education has been sadly neglected, having been raised by a widowed father. He had been my great friend at Oxford."

"What is the girl's name?"

"Miss Lambeth."

"What is her Christian name?"

"Fredericka, but she is known as Freddie." His voice softened when he said her name.

She grimaced. "Well, we must do something about that horrid name."

"I think not," he said firmly. "Freddie suits her."

Her eyes widened. "Then she is a tomboy?"

He nodded. "With a quickness for learning. You will be able to make a lady of her easily, I am sure."

She gave him a puzzled glance. "What is it you wish her to learn, my lord?"

"Well," he began, then faltered. What did he want for the girl? Freddie repeatedly told him she did not need to learn the ways of the ton since she would never be one of them. But she deserved the best he could offer. "She has no knowledge of those things most young ladies have been instructed in. She does no needlework and has no experience with watercolors. She cannot speak French or play the pianoforte. She has never danced."

"Oh, the poor creature!"

Her words irritated him. "Do not pity her, Mrs. Taylor," he said, his lips compressed. "You will have much to work with."

She cocked her head and gave him a quizzing gaze. "What of her appearance?"

"It improves. I helped her select a suitable wardrobe and have procured a maid who has a talent with hair. Miss Lambeth is tolerably good looking now."

The coach slowed as the horses made their ascent up the steep rocks to Marshbanks Abbey. Mrs. Taylor scooted closer to the window. "How wonderful to see the abbey again!"

***

The sound of Freddie's erratic playing echoed throughout the great hall as Stacks led Mrs. Taylor into the room to introduce the two women.

Freddie, self conscious that they had heard her inexperienced efforts at the pianoforte, quickly got to her feet, pulling the Kashmir shawl about her to ward off the room's chill. Marmalade remained curled on top the pianoforte.

"How delighted I am to be here, my dear," Mrs. Taylor purred. "I have always wanted to have a girl of my own to mentor, so to speak. Of course, you are much older than one I would have borne," she amended.

Freddie met her guardian's gaze and understood the devilish flare in his dark eyes.

Mrs. Taylor strolled to the pianoforte and examined the sheet of music Freddie had been playing. Freddie had the feeling the woman knew she was being watched and held her breath so as to subtract girth from her midsection.

"This song will never do!" Mrs. Taylor said authoritatively.

Lord Stacks' voice was unfamiliarly commanding when he said, "I selected it myself."

Mrs. Taylor stood frozen for a moment, then turned to Stacks, a wide smile on her face. "Of course, it would be excellent for a beginner. So short and all."

"You need not bother with teaching Miss Lambeth to play," Stacks said. "I plan to do that myself."

"An ambitious undertaking, I am sure," Freddie said with a laugh. Her voice was less hoarse now, and her coughing spells reduced to an occasional covered sputter.

"I will leave you two," he said. "I am not such an ogre that I expect Mrs. Taylor to begin her tasks today after her tedious journey. I suggest you set aside afternoons for your sessions together."

Freddie was thankful he had said sessions. She disliked excessively to think that she were being tutored at her age.

Mrs. Taylor threw an admiring glance at Stacks. "You go on now. I will take a moment to get acquainted with dear Fredericka."

***

Roberts gave his master's cravat a final twist before standing back to admire his creation.

"Edgekirth comes to dinner tonight," Stacks said flatly.

Roberts' eyes rounded. "But the man is despicable! He maligns you greatly."

"My dear Roberts, Edgekirth is too much the gentleman to sully me in public. He has the courage to tell me to my face what he thinks."

"How you can have him under your roof is beyond me," Roberts murmured.

"He has made Miss Lambeth well."

"With your diligent care, I daresay the young lady would have mended without the arrogant doctor's help. And you certainly don't have to have him at your table."

"But I long for a good game of whist, and with the addition of Mrs. Taylor, Edgekirth will make a fourth."

Roberts nodded grimly. "It's been many a year since you've had four to dinner. I daresay that at least is a good thing for you, milord."

"A good valet, I have been told, never expresses his opinion," Stacks said. "You, my dear Roberts, must be a most inferior servant." The mirth in Stacks' voice belied his words.

***

Despite that Edgekirth would generally be considered a far better looking man than Stacks, Julia Taylor ignored him and directed her full attention to the head of the table throughout the long dinner. "My dear Papa--he was Sir Manley Morehead, you will remember--always said a good host was one who provided a different wine for each course," she said, complimenting Stacks on the quality of his wine.

"You found the Sauternes adequate, ma'am?" he asked, knowing full well Sauternes had not been served but wickedly unable to resist trapping the matron in her own net of superiority.

"Oh, quite exceptional, I should say," she said, shooting a self-satisfied smile at her host.

Why was it he had never before noticed how hard the woman tried to fit into the ton? He supposed he had been much too besotted over Elizabeth then.

While she praised Stacks on everything from the comfort of her chambers to the tie of his cravat, Edgekirth and Freddie discussed the influence of the stars on herbs as well as man's body.

"I cannot tell you how delighted I am, Miss Lambeth," Edgekirth said, "to find someone with your understanding of astronomy."

"But I am sure my guardian is far more knowledgeable than I. My father said Lord Stacks was the most brilliant man he had ever known, and my father was rather well read himself."

Edgekirth stiffened, taking in a mouthful of the plum cake being served for dessert. "Though I am delighted with your return to good health, I shall miss our daily visits, Miss Lambeth."

"They need not end," she said. "We have become friends, have we not?"

"Yes, but--" he glanced at Stacks.

"But you will come visit me," she said firmly. "I told you I would like to assist with your potions."

"I should like that exceedingly, Miss Lambeth." Dimples creased his cheeks when he smiled.

After dinner, Stacks declined to share port with Edgekirth while the women retired to the great hall. Instead, he suggested the four of them immediately try their hands at a game of whist.

The gaming table was no longer by the fire, Freddie noticed. It was back on a Persian carpet near the outer wall where it had been the first time Freddie had walked into the great hall.

Stacks offered to take Mrs. Taylor as his partner. Freddie, knowing her guardian's hunger for good game of whist, silently commended him for his supreme sacrifice to good manners. For she did not believe Mrs. Taylor could possibly have any great skill at cards.

"Oh, dear me!" Mrs. Taylor exclaimed, smoothing her white silk skirts beneath her as she sat opposite Stacks. "My dear Mr. Taylor used to admonish me over my lack of skill. I am forever forgetting about those trump things!"

Freddie shot a devilish smile at her guardian, who met her gaze, raising a single eyebrow.

Stacks' skill could not compensate against the adeptness of his opponents.

"It seems you do everything well, Miss Lambeth," Edgekirth said, admiration in his voice, a wistful appreciation in his clear green eyes.

"Were that true, I would not need Mrs. Taylor as desperately as I do," Freddie said, glancing at the rounded matron whose dress was outmoded and much too small on her. Freddie guessed the woman had worn it when she was much younger.

Mrs. Taylor favored Freddie with a smile, then settled her gloved hand across the table on Stacks' arm. "Trust me, my lord, to make poor Fredericka into a lady."

Freddie bristled and tossed out a card.

An awkward silence followed, which Edgekirth broke by saying, "May I say you look extremely lovely tonight, Miss Lambeth?"

Freddie thanked him meekly, feeling Mrs. Taylor's scrutiny.

The woman ran her eyes over the cream crepe gown Freddie wore. "Oh, yes. Quite a lovely dress!" Mrs. Taylor said, casting her glance to Stacks. "You must have helped to pick it out, my lord."

"My ward has excellent taste," Stacks stated.

Mrs. Taylor turned her attention back to Freddie. "Yes, you look quite lovely though it is a pity you've been so ill." She sighed. "You're quite too thin!"

At that point Mrs. Taylor dropped a card from her hand. "Dear me," she said as she bent to pick it up. Freddie was certain she positioned herself to give Stacks an advantageous view of her cleavage. Freddie's glance darted to her guardian.

He did indeed note the woman's ample bosom, one corner of his lips turned up in a wicked smile.

After Freddie and Edgekirth soundly beat Stacks and Mrs. Taylor, Freddie suggested they switch partners.

"No," Stacks said, rising. "I feel like some music." Directing his glance to his rotund partner, he said, "Will you favor us with a tune, Mrs. Taylor?"

She fluttered her rather long eyelashes at him and nodded flirtatiously before she swept up and waddled across the stone floors to settle herself at the pianoforte. From memory she played a love song that had been popular during Freddie's parents' youth.

"You play well," Stacks said when she finished. He turned to Freddie. "I said last night that you would know your tune by week's end, but I suspect you mastered it today."

"I hardly think I could master anything, my lord," Freddie replied. "However, I think I have learned it as well today as I would given an entire month."

"Please," her guardian said gently, "won't you show our visitors how far you have come in just one day?"

Freddie smiled, hoping they would not notice her trembling. She rose from her chair and slowly crossed the room, pulling the Kashmir shawl about her bare shoulders, and sat down in front of the pianoforte. It seemed a dragon that would rear its ugly head and devour her.

She no longer needed the yellowed sheets of paper to read the music. She had committed the silly notes to memory. She drew a deep breath and placed her shaking fingers on the keys. She tried to blot everything from her mind, save the cheerful little song she had played throughout the day. Her fingers began to play, and it was if they took over her whole being. They fluttered across the newly discovered keys as if they were old friends.

When she finished, she turned to her guardian and nearly erupted with joy.

He stood up applauding her, true appreciation in his dancing black eyes.

Chapter 8

Since Mrs. Taylor had made it perfectly clear that she was a lady, and ladies were never seen in the mornings, Freddie determined to rise early in order to enjoy her guardian's society while her companion was certain to be sleeping.

"I had not expected to see you here this morning," Lord Stacks greeted from the head of the table, laying down his newspaper and favoring her with a mischievous smile.

Freddie grabbed a warm scone and plopped down beside her guardian. "I have decided to only be a lady in the afternoons. In the mornings I should like to join you in the quadrangle."

His lordship's brows drew together. "Dr. Edgekirth allows you out of doors?"

"I hardly call the quadrangle out of doors. It is, after all, rather shielded from the coastal winds, and I promise to dress warmly."

"What is it you desire to do in the quadrangle?"

"I had hoped you would allow me the use of your herbs. I should wish to make medicinals for Dr. Edgekirth."

"I daresay you did so back in Chelseymeade," he said with resignation.

She nodded. The man knew her far better than anyone ever had.

"Very well--if you promise to dress warmly."

She sipped tea, a warm glow seeming to reach her very soul. It mattered to him that she dress warmly. No one had ever cared about her, and she basked gloriously in her guardian's protective cocoon. She craved being with him as flowers craved sunshine. "When will we resume my instruction on the pianoforte, my lord?"

"If it would not be too trying on you, I thought perhaps we could meet each afternoon when Mrs. Taylor finishes with you."

She threw him a grateful smile. "I would never be too tired to play, for it brings me great satisfaction."

"Today I shall introduce you to chords."

"You say that as if they are something to be feared."

"I do not wish to frighten you, Miss Lambeth. We shall take them slowly, and I have every confidence you will have no difficulty."

"I look forward to it--as I also look forward to being able to ride with you again, my lord," Freddie said, embarrassed over her own boldness. "Despite the storm and my illness, I look back on our day of riding with great fondness. I enjoyed it very much." She couldn't tell him how special she had felt when he had covered her drenched body with his own coat, how a satisfying glow had filled her body and her senses, how the touch of his hand on her shoulder nearly caused her to rupture with delight.

There was a grim set to his mouth before he said, "No riding until Dr. Edgekirth gives his approval."

"But summer is almost here. It grows warmer each day."

"We will see what Edgekirth says," he said firmly.

Her eyes softened as she watched her guardian peruse his newspaper. It was hard to believe he was her father's age. She supposed he did not look young, but he seemed utterly handsome to her with his sturdy face and piercing black eyes, his head of thick dark hair, his long sinewy body. She had grown to appreciate his commanding voice and his protectiveness toward her. "My lord---"

His gaze lifted to her, a black eyebrow raised.

"I have never told you how much being here at Marshbanks Abbey has meant to me. I have enjoyed it excessively. I've been a burden, and I don't know how I can ever repay your kindness."

"It pleases me that Frederick entrusted his only child to my care, for I shall never have children of my own. I treat you as I would my own daughter." He had not met her gaze and quickly picked up his newspaper and began to read.

She  knew she should be happy over his words. After all, no one ever before had been pleased to be burdened with her. So why did she resent him thinking of her as a daughter?

***

After breakfast, Lord Stacks led Freddie along the gravel paths of his garden. On each side of the dozen paths, flowers and shrubs grew in raised beds of rich, dark soil. Flowers from bulbs which could thrive in shade had been planted in the first rows, then buttercups and cowslips and other colorful blooms grew further away from the cloisters. Green herbs of every shape and size sprouted close to the ground in the middle of the quadrangle, which was less shaded from the abbey's tall stone walls. Beyond the herbs a variety of shrubs grew strong and sturdy.

Offering his arm to her, he strolled the paths, telling her about the plants. Where he got them. Their peculiar soil and watering needs. Warmed by the sun, which was almost overhead now, and listening to the chorus of spring birds, Freddie felt an intoxication that sprang from her senses, from her singing soul.

Lord Stacks stopped at a smallish tree like nothing Freddie had ever seen before, picked a fragrant yellowish bloom and presented it to Freddie. "This, to my knowledge, is the only plumera in England. It grows in tropical regions. I am rather proud that, with the help of my conservatory, it has been able to thrive in the gloomy North Country."

She held the flower to her nose and sniffed its heavy fragrance. "I don't for a moment believe you think it gloomy here, my lord," Freddie challenged. "I daresay you could live anywhere, but you choose to live here because this country has claimed your heart."

He looked down at her, his face pensive, and continued on. "It is lovely here today, is it not?"

"There is nowhere I would prefer to be."

He patted her hand which curled around his arm. His touch caused her nearly to lose her breath.

"Of course," he said, "many of the plants I obtained from the Orient do not do well in our English climate. I had no luck with banyon trees or orchids. The only reason the plumera has continued to thrive is that I protect it from frosts."

When they reached the north end of the quadrangle, Freddie said, "It is an impressive body of work, my lord. Do you write books?"

"I have written some articles on hybridization, but no books."

"Why have you not put your knowledge into a book?"

He shook his head. "I fear no one would be able to read my notes. Penmanship was always difficult for me."

She smiled. "I am glad to know you are not perfect. I thought there was nothing you could not master."

He gave her a queer look and strolled on. "It has always been my greatest regret that I cannot draw for I should have liked to do a botanical book."

She squeezed his arm and whispered. "It would have been a wonderful book, too." Now, she felt saddened for him. She knew his weaknesses--as he knew hers only too well.

From the day she had met him, she had opened her soul to him. She had always been totally honest with him. He knew her inadequacies and insecurities. And he did not hate her. Now that he had shared with her the place dearest to his heart, she felt even closer to him.

"Pray, do not let me keep you from your work, my lord. I will snip some white mullein while you return to your plantings. A distillation of its flowers makes an excellent remedy for gout--a complaint Dr. Edgekirth is called on to treat all too regularly."

Lord Stacks came to a stop and beamed down at her. "I have enjoyed showing you my garden. No one else has ever seen it."

Then he must have begun it after he lost his wife, Freddie thought. Had the garden been his way to purge the lovely Elizabeth from his heart? "But you have gardeners," she said.

"For the park beyond the abbey's walls. The quadrangle is my domain. I do allow the gardeners to work in my orchard and occasionally in the conservatory."

She remembered seeing the orchard and conservatory west of the abbey. "I thought this must be the work of half a dozen gardeners. I haven't seen a single weed nor a wilted vine."

An earnest smile crossed his angular face.

She was truly impressed. Her guardian did nothing by halves.

***

The afternoon sessions between Freddie and Mrs. Taylor were to take place in the small drawing room accessible from a staircase in the corner of the great room.

Freddie mounted the stairs, one hand on the thickly carved wooden banister, the other holding a contented Marmalade to her breast.

A fire was just being laid in the grate when Freddie entered the drawing room. Mrs. Greenwood, who stood on the room's Oriental carpet directing three maids, smiled at Freddie when she entered. It was the first time Mrs. Greenwood had favored Freddie with a smile.

"His lordship should be most pleased, indeed, with the room. He was particularly anxious there should be no dust--because of your recent lung complaints." The middle-aged housekeeper stood back and beamed. "You could run a white glove across anything in the room and nary a spot would appear on it, I daresay."

Freddie's gaze swept across the room that held a table with four chairs and a damask sofa flanked by two French chairs and a tea table. She felt as if Mrs. Greenwood awaited her approval, but Freddie felt utterly unable to wear a mantle of authority. "His lordship should be much pleased," Freddie echoed. "The room is lovely."

"You should have seen it two days ago, miss," Mrs. Greenwood said. "The dust you wouldn't believe! Not a soul here for these ten years past. It's good to see life returning to Marshbanks Abbey. And all thanks to you."

It was the most words Freddie had ever heard the housekeeper utter. She not only no longer objected to Freddie's presence at the abbey, but she seemed now to welcome it.

Because Freddie cared so deeply for her guardian, she was happy life had been restored to his home after a decade of unutterable loneliness. But, oh, how she lamented that she would now have to share him with countless others. "It's not for me so much as that his mourning has at long last been cast aside," Freddie told the housekeeper.

At that moment Mrs. Taylor, carrying several books and a small bag, came into the room, panting from her ascent up the steep stairs. She put her books down on the table, ignoring Mrs. Greenwood. "Good afternoon, Fredericka. How nice and cozy it is in here!"

"His lordship insisted on a fire," Mrs. Greenwood said. "Because of Miss Lambeth's recent illness."

Mrs. Taylor did not reply to the housekeeper. Meeting Freddie's gaze, she said, "Well, my dear, are you ready to begin?"

Mrs. Greenwood and the maids left the room, closing the door behind them.

"Come sit at the table," Mrs. Taylor directed Freddie. "I have decided on a schedule. We will begin every session with a short lesson on etiquette. Then you will do a French lesson. I've brought my old book. Then you will practice drawing. We will finish every day with needlework instruction. I have selected a simple pattern for you to begin embroidering."

The etiquette lesson for the day dealt with titles and how to address those of the peerage. Mrs. Taylor went through each title, instructing Freddie on the proper address. When she finished, she quizzed Freddie, and Freddie answered every question correctly.

The French lesson did not actually involve Mrs. Taylor, since she had Freddie read the book and copy the exercises. With Marmalade curled on her lap, Freddie undertook the first lesson and was struck by how similar French was to the Latin which she knew so well.

"Now as to the drawing," Mrs. Taylor said, "I'm having to send to London for the water colors. Today I will have you draw some simple objects, and I will give you my opinion."

First, she asked Freddie to draw a bowl of fruit. She reached into the bag she had brought with her and took out a small ironstone bowl, three apples of different colors, some grapes and a pear. "Lord Stacks allowed me to raid his garden," she explained. "Now, my dear, let's see how well you can draw these." She gave Freddie a sketch book and a soft-leaded pencil.

Freddie hurried through the task and presented her work to Mrs. Taylor, who took the sketchbook and stared at it for a long moment. Finally, she said, "Remarkable. You have a high degree of artistic talent."

"Drawing has always come easily to me," Freddie said without boasting. "What I need is someone to teach me to paint. I've never even owned a brush."

"It will be a delight to see what you can do," the woman said, putting away the sketch book.

Next, she pulled out some small pieces of fabric and embroidery thread of every color and began to show Freddie how to get started on the floral scene she was to embroider.

The door creaked open, and Lord Stacks stuck in his head. "How goes my ward's progress, Mrs. Taylor?"

"Well, I most certainly have my work cut out for me," she said, throwing him a martyred expression. "Fredericka does have a gift for drawing, though. I cannot get the paints soon enough."

"I shall endeavor to get them with all haste," he said, turning his gaze to Freddie. "What say you we have your pianoforte lesson now, Miss Lambeth?"

Freddie flung down her embroidery, gathered up Marmalade, and leapt to her feet.

Mrs. Taylor snatched the needlework. "I'll bring this along tonight. A proper young lady should never sit idle."

Downstairs in the great hall, Freddie slid onto the pianoforte bench beside her guardian, feeling strangely exhilarated, not over the impending lesson but over the nearness to Lord Stacks.

As he showed her the C chord she stole a glance at his face, admiring his dark good looks. And understanding how a beautiful woman like the late Lady Stacks could have fallen in love with him. She looked away, only to find her gaze on his long, brown fingers so knowingly striking the keys. She wondered how it would feel for her small hand to be held by his, to feel him sweeping her into his bulk as he had the day she got sick in the rain. Could anything on earth be more satisfactory than to feel protected--even cherished--by Lord Thomas Stacks?

Her gaze shifted to his muscled thigh, and she experienced a fluttering low in her body and a racing of her heart. It was hard for her to concentrate on what Lord Stacks was telling her when so many alien emotions seemed to swamp her.

Then Eason entered the room and announced Dr. Edgekirth.

Lord Stacks got to his feet as Freddie remained seated in front of the pianoforte, turning toward the doctor.

"Good day, Edgekirth," Stacks said, his manner stiff.

Edgekirth bowed. "I wish to check Miss Lambeth's progress. I feared we kept her too long from her bed last night."

"I wasn't tired one bit," Freddie retorted, standing and offering the doctor her hand. "I even went outside today--inside the quadrangle, which is quite sheltered from the winds--and declare I am as good as new. I haven't coughed once all day." She turned to Stacks. "I was telling my guardian I long for another good ride, and he said I was not to get back on a horse until you give your approval." She threw a hopeful look at the doctor, whose height matched her own.

"If you had no ill effects from visiting the quadrangle, I pronounce you well, Miss Lambeth," Edgekirth said. "In that case, let me be the first to accompany you on a stroll through the park."

"Oh, but I was just beginning my pianoforte lesson--"

"I have remembered some papers that require my attention," Lord Stacks said curtly. "Please, Miss Lambeth, enjoy the lovely afternoon." His Hessians struck the stone floors as he moved away toward the library.

She would have preferred to have stayed with him, but turned to Edgekirth, a smile on her face.

"You must get your pelisse and bonnet," he ordered. "It would not do for you to take a chill."

Eason sent a footman to get Maggie to procure Miss Lambeth's hat and pelisse, and within minutes, Freddie and the doctor were strolling across the neatly clipped grass. The doctor presented his arm to her. The contact with him did not make her feel the same way the contact with Lord Stacks made her feel. How funny it seemed, a month ago she had never taken a man's arm, and now she had strolled with two different men--each of whom treated her with concern. How good Yorkshire had been for her!

"Lord Stacks has given me permission to use whatever herbs and plants I wish for medicinals to help you," she informed Edgekirth proudly. "I told you he would want to share."

"His generosity is for you, Miss Lambeth, not me."

She gave him a pout. "He could have refused."

Edgekirth's voice was inscrutable when he said, "That is true."

"Anyway, I have procured white mullein to make a potion which has great success treating gout. By week's end I should have some elixir for you."

His green eyes danced as she spoke and a slow smile creased his dimpled face. "It will be my pleasure to come back and take possession of it. Now that you are no longer ill, I had feared I would not be seeing you again."

"I told you last night we are friends. You are to come whenever you like."

The vivid life drained from his face. "Yes, we are to be friends," he said grimly.

***

During dinner Freddie missed the doctor's company, for now she was forced to listen to Mrs. Taylor recant the many important tables she had dined at during her youth as companion to Elizabeth.

Freddie admired her guardian all the more for his patience and courtesy toward the insufferable Mrs. Taylor. From his bemused expression when the woman was talking, Freddie knew he found her as tiring as she.

After dinner they retired into the great hall, Mrs. Taylor sending for her and Freddie's needlework. Stacks played at the pianoforte. While Freddie was hopelessly trying to copy one of Mrs. Taylor's perfect stitches, an idea came to her. An idea that lifted her spirits to the heavens. The idea would not only help her dear guardian. It would also bring her together more with him. And that idea made her very happy indeed.

She wanted immediately to share her idea with her guardian. Then, she thought she would wait until Mrs. Taylor was not present, for Freddie held a strong notion that Mrs. Taylor would not like Freddie's plan. The woman seemed bent on winning the baron's approval only for herself.

Freddie decided to make her idea known to her guardian at breakfast.

Chapter 9

So exhilarated was she that Freddie had scarcely slept a wink all night. She had hit upon a plan—a very exciting plan that--if approved by her guardian--would be beneficial to both of them. Her thoughts whirled with her bold proposal, so much so that she was surprised to see the sun straining through her tiny gothic windows at dawn. She rose much earlier than usual and instructed Maggie to cut her hair and curl the newly shorn tresses. It was important to Freddie that she appear mature--and hopefully attractive--when she met with her guardian at the breakfast table. She selected a new peach colored day dress but left off the gloves. She would want her hands bare in order to work in the garden.

Her chest tightened when she thought of the exciting proposal she would make to her guardian this morning. Not once since she arrived at Marshbanks Abbey had he refused her. She hoped today would not break his record.

He was reading the paper as she stepped into the dining room, nervous. She hoped he would notice her hair.

He looked up and held her gaze, unconsciously tossing aside the paper while not removing his eyes from hers. "How lovely you look, Miss Lambeth. The short hair becomes you."

She felt feather light as she moved to sit beside him, but she caught a glimpse of Elizabeth's portrait and suddenly felt awkward, even ugly, as she sat down, those sparkling blue eyes of Elizabeth's--though long ago stilled--seeming to follow her, seeming to validate Freddie's ugliness.

If she could not match Elizabeth in beauty, she would in intellect. She could not wait to tell her guardian of her plan and began to blurt it out. "My lord, an idea has occurred to me which I think will be most satisfactory to both you and me."

A bemused smile on his face, he said, "Enlighten me, Miss Lambeth."

She felt he was laughing at her. "It is just that since Mrs. Taylor confirmed that I have artistic talent, I propose to assist with your botanical book."

His brows drew together as he considered her proposal.

She must persuade him, she thought nervously. "My penmanship is tolerable, too. And if I could read my father's handwriting, I daresay I could read anyone's. There is nothing I would enjoy more, my lord," she said, her voice low with humility.

She felt his scrutiny as she sat nervously waiting for his response.

"I'm the devil to work with, you know," he said.

"Not so much as my father, I am sure."

"I am cursed with a bent for perfectionism and am intolerable with those who do not share my sense of precision."

"Then you will often find me intolerable, but I should not be sensitive. I know my own faults only too well."

"You are much too humble, Miss Lambeth," he said in that authoritative voice of his.

His fine black eyes sparkling, he threw down his napkin, rose to his feet and spoke with excitement in his voice. "Come with me to the library, Miss Lambeth!"

She forgot all about breakfast and followed her guardian with enthusiasm. He had looked favorably upon her proposal! Nothing had ever made her so happy.

In the library, he commanded her to sit down and gave her a sheet of paper and pencil. She looked up at him towering above her, the expression on his face unreadable. She had the feeling he was a giant, a benevolent king. And she was nothing more than a paltry subject.

"Draw for me, if you will, whatever plant pops into your mind," he said, his voice less commanding than usual.

She thought for a moment, visualizing a purple foxglove rising magnificently from among lesser flowers in the English garden. Then, she began to transfer her vision to her paper. When she finished, she meekly handed it to him. "When I learn to watercolor," she said apologetically, "the pictures will be much better."

He took the drawing and stared at it.

Her heart pounded as she waited for his opinion.

"My dear Miss Lambeth," he said, excitement in his resonant voice, "you are precisely what I need!"

Her heart soared. "You, my lord, have for the past two months been precisely what I need."

He gave her a puzzled look, then rang for Eason. "Fetch Miss Lambeth's breakfast," he ordered the butler. "She will eat in the library with me."

For the next two hours, he imparted to her his ideas for the book, how he planned to divide it by genus, with drawings of all species within the genus.

"I am sure you are familiar with Nicholas Culpeper's work," Freddie said.

Lord Stacks frowned. "The man's contribution is significant, but he borrowed much too heavily on the ancients. Had you been to Greece, my dear Miss Lambeth, you would know how vastly different their climate and their plant life is from ours. What is needed is a comprehensive guide to those plants that grow on English soil."

She agreed with him. Getting to her feet, she stood behind him as he sat at his desk and proceeded to read aloud his notes, proving to him that she had no difficulty reading his scratchy handwriting. She found herself putting her hand on his shoulder and reacting to the feel of him in a profound, unexplainable manner. Deep within her stirred a strange, satisfying craving. She found herself wondering what it would feel like to be held in his strong embrace. And she blushed at her outrageous thoughts.

***

During her session with Mrs. Taylor that afternoon, Freddie was thankful to be interrupted by Eason, who informed her that Dr. Edgekirth awaited downstairs, wishing to pay her a call.

She tossed aside the tedious French lesson, grabbed Marmalade, and scurried downstairs to meet the doctor.

He stood in the great hall, his riding crop in his hand. "Knowing how much you like to ride, Miss Lambeth, I thought perhaps you would favor me by accompanying me. It's quite lovely today."

"I shall ask my guardian for permission to saddle Bay Lady," Freddie said excitedly, running off to the quadrangle where she knew Lord Stacks was working.

She found him there, his sleeves pushed up, kneeling beside a patch of rhododendron, working some dried particles from a pail into the rich, dark soil. He looked up at her, a lock of his black hair falling carelessly across his forehead. She fought the urge to smooth it away, to stoke the planes of his rugged face. "I have come to get your permission have Bay Lady saddled. Dr. Edgekirth has done me the goodness to invite me for a ride."

"You do not need my permission, Miss Lambeth. The horse is now yours." Then, his brows drew together. "But we shall instruct Jacob to saddle up two horses--one for Maggie."

"For Maggie?" she questioned.

He nodded grimly. "A proper young lady does not go off alone with a man. You need a chaperon."

"A man! Why, I assure I never thought of the doctor as a man. I mean, he is but a friend." She started to say like you and me, but she could not. For Lord Stacks was so much more than a friend.

Maggie was as nervous as a long-tailed cat near a rocking chair as she mounted the placid roan gelding. "I'm not used to horses, Miss," she said, taking the proffered reins with trembling hands.

"I promise no harm will come to you," Edgekirth said reassuringly, coming up beside her on his horse while Freddie confidently mounted Bay Lady.

It was a beautiful day for a ride, Freddie mused, as they rode past her guardian's orchard and she noted no two trees were alike, though they grew in precise rows. There was a peach tree, an apple tree, a walnut and plum, and many others she was unable to identify.

They rode on past the park and past the stables, taking it slowly for Maggie's benefit. Freddie was glad she had not worn a pelisse for it was a very warm day, and she loved the feel of the sun. Before long, they rode past the summer house. She remembered the day she had sat under its copper dome, warmed by her guardian's great coat, and remembered how happy she had been despite the blustery winds and her drenched clothing.

The doctor broke into her reverie. "I haven't remarked on how very fine your hair looks short, Miss Lambeth."

She nodded toward Maggie. "I have Maggie to thank. She has uncommon talent fashioning hair."

"She has a lovely subject to work with."

Why was it when her guardian paid her a compliment, she glowed, but when Dr. Edgekirth did so she wanted always to change the subject? "I am distilling the white mullein now," she said. "The elixir should be ready for you the day after tomorrow."

"Ah, another excuse to pay you a visit."

When they reached the moors, they turned back toward the abbey. She and the doctor talked at length about herbs and remedies, but for some unknown reason, Freddie had no wish to share with him her work with Lord Stacks.

As he left her on the steps to the abbey, she invited him to dine with them that night, knowing that her guardian would enjoy having a fourth to play whist. Only tonight, she would offer to partner with Mrs. Taylor. Were the physician and her guardian still as stiff and cold to one another as they had been, she would never have insisted on throwing them together, but their animosity was lessening. For which she was grateful. Her dear Lord Stacks needed the camaraderie of other men. And he did love a good game of whist. He had done so much for her, she wanted always to think of little ways in which she could repay him.

***

In the days that followed, Freddie and her guardian spent every morning together working both in the library and in the quadrangle, with no one the wiser regarding the many hours they spent in one another's company. Since each of them was an early riser, they would meet for breakfast, take coffee into the library and spend a couple of hours on the book. As the sun grew higher in the sky, they would finish out the mornings in the quadrangle.

On this morning, Freddie lounged on a sofa in the library, alternately copying her guardian's notes while stealing glances at him as he sat at his desk writing. The more she looked at him, the handsomer he grew. Though too slender to be considered rugged in the accepted sense, he conveyed a raw masculinity with his dark, sinewy good looks, his keen intelligence, and his solid dependability. She wondered if his leadership abilities were the result of being a lord or if he would have commanded fealty had he been a mere laborer.

He looked up from his notes to watch Marmalade skitter beneath his desk. "That cat of yours seems to have developed a great fondness for the cubicle under my desk."

Freddie screwed up her face. "He has a name."

A slow grin spread across Stacks' face. "I'm not about to call the creature Fluff Muffin."

She tossed her papers aside and affixed hands to her hips. "That is merely an endearment. You know very well his name is Marmalade."

"I much prefer That Cat."

She picked up her papers and pretended exaggerated interest in them. "And I suppose you'd spell cat with K," she muttered.

Now he faced her with an impish grin. "I've been waiting for that."

She threw a defiant glance at him. "For what?"

"For you to find fault with my spelling."

She laughed. "It's not your spelling I find fault with, my lord, but your misspelling."

"Ouch!"

She snatched up the papers, got to her feet and walked to his desk. She pointed to the word l-e-a-v. "What is this word, if you please?"

"Leaf," he replied matter-of-factly.

"In the singular it is spelled l-e-a-f. In the plural---"

"L-e-a-v-e-s. Now that you mention it, I seem to recall some such blasted rule, like in knife and knives."

"But a mind crowded with so much more important information simply cannot be bothered to retain anything so inconsequential as a ridiculous spelling rule."

He nodded sincerely. "I told you no one could read my writing."

"Give me a magnifying glass and lots of time, and I have no problem. Your script is so very small."

"I will have to try writing larger."

"But you won't," she lamented. "It was the same with my father. I fail to understand why the most petite women have bold flourishes to their handwriting while the most masculine men persist in their tediously tiny lettering."

The crooked grin reappeared on his face. "I thank you for at least thinking me masculine."

An uncomfortable silence came between them like an invisible curtain. Freddie looked down at her guardian's notes and pointed to another word. "What, pray tell, is that?"

He looked at the word, then at the sentence it appeared in. "Oh," he said solemnly. "It's supposed to be s-a-p."

"Very glad I am to hear of it, since I have never heard of the word s-a-b."

He gulped. "Careless of me."

Freddie broke out in peals of laughter.

"What's so funny?"

Wiping tears from her eyes, Freddie met his gaze. "It's just that in so many respects you are a devil of a perfectionist, but I do believe, my lord, you need me in this one respect." Without knowing what she was doing, she placed a gentle hand on his arm. "And I'm so very glad."

Just then Marmalade came out from under the desk, rushing toward the open casements as if he were on fire. Stacks looked up at Freddie. "I fear I've kicked your cat."

Freddie's face fell, and she scurried after the cat, cooing endearments.

***

Upon entering the dining room for dinner, Mrs. Taylor raced to plop down in the chair next to Stacks and throughout dinner directed all her conversation toward him, much of the time while possessively settling her hand on his ruffled sleeve. It seemed to him Freddie bristled when the woman would lament over how very much she had to impart to "Poor Fredericka."

He was pleased that Freddie did not speak of the work she was doing with him on the book. But, then, it was difficult for anyone save Mrs. Taylor to talk. The woman had no skill at polite conversation wherein others were solicited to talk. Rather, she felt every word that came from her mouth to be of monumental import to all at the table. Did not everyone wish to know about the time she had actually gotten to speak French to an exiled French nobleman? And did not everyone want to know in just what way she was related to the renowned Meriwethers? When she was not talking about what she believed to be her own superiority, she used her untiring breath to point out Freddie's inadequacies.

"It is a good thing you have no social festivities here at your wonderful abbey," Mrs. Taylor said to Stacks, "for poor Fredericka is not at all ready to be presented to polite society."

"I beg to differ," Edgekirth snapped. "I find Miss Lambeth to be in possession of all the graces any lady of quality could desire."

"You have lived too long in the country, I fear," Freddie said with a laugh.

Stacks' gaze moved from Edgekirth to Freddie, his lips compressed. The damned doctor was falling in love with Freddie! He would not do at all for her. Stacks desired nothing so much as to prohibit the insufferable doctor's visits to the abbey this very night. But he could not do so were it to cause Freddie distress. After all, the girl professed to be great friends with the outspoken doctor.

Stacks found himself paired with Edgekirth for whist after dinner. The doctor was a skilled player--as skilled as Freddie. Stacks never thought he would say a woman had skill at whist. Elizabeth had been no better at the game than Julia Taylor. But Elizabeth had other admirable attributes, he thought with hazy longing, remembering the pleasure of removing her gown on the night of their wedding. He remembered how beautiful she looked beneath him. Then, he remembered thoughts he had long tried to purge from his existence, thoughts that were too painful to be remembered.

"Isn't that right, my lord?" Mrs. Taylor asked, breaking his reverie.

"I'm sorry, what was that you were saying?" Stacks asked.

"I said women in polite society are never to discuss the gaming hells men frequent."

"Quite right," he said, eyeing Freddie and feeling badly that the poor girl had to be straddled with Mrs. Taylor. He must have been so totally bewitched by Elizabeth that he had given no thought to her plain companion. Had she always been so obnoxious?

"I don't know that I even like you discussing them in front of Miss Lambeth," Edgekirth said defensively.

"You, Dr. Edgekirth, are not my ward's protector," Stacks hissed through gritted teeth.

"But you have credited him with making me well," Freddie countered in an effort to quell an argument.

"For which, I might add, he has been handsomely paid--against his protestations, though it may have been," Stacks said.

"I did not use the money for myself," Edgekirth countered. "It went to buy medicinals and to help some of my patients who lost their livelihood due to ill health."

"How very commendable!" Mrs. Taylor said, looking at Edgekirth with admiration.

Stacks held the doctor with his fiery gaze. "If anyone in Morton needs assistance in the future," Stacks said, "I wish to know about it."

Freddie gazed at Stacks with warmth. "My guardian is wonderfully generous."

***

Roberts always stayed up to help his master undress. This night, Stacks was in a bleak mood.

"Would you believe that obnoxious doctor is falling in love with my ward!" Stacks said vehemently. "He will never do for her."

"What type of gentleman would, milord?" Roberts asked.

"Well, one who is a gentleman. Who is intelligent. Of good birth, of course. Younger, too. Why Edgekirth is almost as old as me!"

"Does your lordship plan to find a husband for Miss Lambeth?"

"Yes, by God, I believe I do. We shall have an assembly here at the abbey. Every young man of suitable birth around will come, by Jove!"

"If you begin having assemblies, you will have to integrate back into society, you know."

"I know. I know." There was a grim set to Stacks' mouth.

"It is time, my lord, to put the painful past behind you. It is to be hoped, others will be able to as well."

"In London, they may not. But here I hold the highest rank. No one near Morton would dare refuse a request to take amusement at Marshbanks Abbey."

"A privilege, indeed, for them," Roberts said, carefully hanging his master's jacket. "And I daresay, many a maiden and widow will be setting their caps for you."

Stacks' eyes went cold as agate. "I meant it when I said I would never marry again."

Chapter 10

Marmalade, no longer a tiny kitten but now a round ball of orange and white fur, wanted nothing so much as to plop down on Freddie's sketch pad as she worked.

Freddie held the pad to her breast. "No, sweet fluff muffin, you are not to put those paws on my work." She stroked the soft hair under the cat's white neck, then scooped him up and firmly placed him beside her on the bed, once again attempting to complete her final drawing in the Vaccinium genus. She eyed the moist blueberries reposing in a bowl on her breakfast tray and took up her pencil. She deftly drew a bunch of the purplish berries, shading them in for depth. This time Marmalade stayed beside her, curled and sleeping.

She sighed in deep contentment, knowing Lord Stacks would be pleased when he saw her complete work. Below each picture she had carefully printed in meticulous black ink a description of the fruit from her guardian's notes. She was pleased with her printing, which closely resembled that stamped by a printing press.

Though she much preferred working beside Lord Stacks, he had cancelled the session this day in order to meet with his steward. She found she could work more quickly when she did not have his lordship's unsettling presence to distract her. Not that he in any way was less than exemplary in his manner to her, but she constantly fretted over the impression she was making on him. The very thought of him caused her heartbeat to accelerate.

Eason knocked at her door, informing her that Dr. Edgekirth awaited in the great room.

Two months ago, not cognizant of being fashionable, she would have hurried to him. Now, she knew better. She was not at all dressed to be presented to a gentleman. "Tell him I will be there in half an hour," Freddie said with authority. "And send for Maggie, if you please, to help me dress. And tell Mrs. Taylor she will need to meet me in the great room in thirty minutes." Her guardian had impressed upon her that she never be alone with Edgekirth--or any other man. She rather liked the thought of Lord Stacks caring about her reputation, something she herself had never considered before coming to Marshbanks Abbey.

Freddie wore a cotton dress the color of goldenrod, and Maggie arranged her hair fashionably. In twenty-five minutes, she strolled into the great room and dropped a curtsy to the doctor.

His sea green eyes shone with admiration. "You grow prettier each day, Miss Lambeth."

"Won't you sit down?" she asked, absently looking over her shoulder for Mrs. Taylor.

He sat, and Freddie asked Eason to get them tea-- "with three cups, if you please."

"I shan't stay long," Edgekirth told Freddie. "Mrs. Campbell's time grows near, and I promised to check in on her this afternoon. Since I was so near the abbey, I thought to come by for the gout remedy you so hardily endorse."

Her eyes sparkled. "Oh, yes, it is ready now." She instructed a footman to procure it from the kitchen. "Cook will know which bottles they are," Freddie said to the liveried servant.

Eason brought the tea, but Mrs. Taylor never came. Freddie and the doctor conversed politely before he took his leave with the four bottles of elixir Freddie had prepared for him.

"Do not forget," she told him as he walked away, "twice a day until the gout improves."

***

For the first time since she had started her sessions with Mrs. Taylor, Freddie was sincerely enjoying herself. The water colors had arrived, and Mrs. Taylor remembered well the techniques she had mastered at an early age. "My sisters and I had a drawing master, you know. Cost my parents a guinea per quarter. If I do say so myself, I was the best of the three of us. I remember Mr. De Gracca saying so. Miss Julia has the talent most commendable, he said."

After practicing just a short while, Freddie began to color in the sketches of fruit that had completely filled her first sketch book.

As they were cleaning up, Lord Stacks entered the drawing room. "If it would not inconvenience you too excessively," he said to Mrs. Taylor, "I should like to borrow Miss Lambeth."

Mrs. Taylor smoothed out her silk skirt, held her bosom high and favored him with a beaming smile. "You must see how successful I've been with dear Fredericka." She walked to Freddie's sketch book and flipped it open to show him Freddie's work.

He glanced at it approvingly. "You have done a most commendable job, indeed, Mrs. Taylor," he said, shooting Freddie a bemused smile.

With the sketch book in hand, Freddie followed her guardian to his library where he drew open the heavy red velvet draperies, then sat at his huge rococo desk, beckoning Freddie to pull up a chair beside him.

Taking her sketch book, he began to flip through the pages. "Mrs. Taylor dazzles me with her talent," he said mischievously.

"You odious man!" Freddie protested in jest.

He set down the book. "Seriously, my dear, your work pleases me excessively." His black eyes held hers for only a few seconds but held her as securely as chains.

She could scarcely get her breath. He had called her my dear. In his letters to her mother, her father had called his bride my dear. And Uncle Harold called his long-standing wife my dear. But no one had ever called Freddie my dear.

"Once you color these, we will be able to begin the genus Viola. I thought drawing flowers might be a welcome diversion from the tedious berries you have been laboring on."

She smiled at him. "I assure you there is nothing whatsoever tedious about drawing berries." She winked. "I have embraced every single colored sphere."

He ruffled her hair. "You're much too compliant, my dear."

"'Tis not being compliant but being content, my lord." She cast her lids down and changed the subject. "Is not the violet in the genus Viola?"

"Indeed it is."

"I hope the genuses never end," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She lived for every minute they brought her together with her guardian.

"It is my hope you feel the same a month from now."

"I will five years from now. I may be young, but I know my heart." She colored at her own words. Why had she used the word heart? To cover up her embarrassment, she asked, "Tell me, Lord Stacks, why is it you haven't told anyone else about your book?"

"You mean our book?"

"I am merely the instrument that translates your knowledge into a readable form, my lord," she said meekly.

"Tell me, why is it you have not told anyone about the book?"

How could she tell him when she herself did not know how to put those strange, private feelings into words? "I suppose it's because I fear others wouldn't understand the relationship we have developed through the book, and I don't want anyone to try and destroy it." Sweet heaven! There she went--bearing her soul to him. He could see through her like gossamer. Never had she felt so open with another human being.

His large hand covered hers. "I feel the same," he admitted, his voice husky with emotion.

Her heart pounded so thoroughly, she feared he could hear it.

He removed his hand from hers. "There is another matter I wish to discuss with you, Miss Lambeth."

She was disappointed. She had gone from my dear back to Miss Lambeth.

"I will require your presence--along with that of Mrs. Taylor--tomorrow morning."

"But tomorrow's Sunday!"

"Precisely. I wish for us to attend church."

"But I thought you never went to church."

"You are correct. I have not been in ten years."

"Then I am most joyous you renew your bonds with the Almighty."

"I do not go to embrace the Lord. My Lord turned his back on me long ago," he said, his voice harsh.

Did her guardian hold his Lord responsible for Elizabeth's death? How tortured he must be, Freddie mused with deep sadness.

She swallowed hard and timidly met his earnest gaze.

"I go to the blasted church to introduce you to society, Miss Lambeth."

She was flattered he broke a decade-long pattern solely for what he perceived for her welfare, but she could not like his scheme. Indeed, she could not like anything that would intrude on the isolation which had melded the two of them together. Frowning, she refused to meet his gaze. "Mrs. Taylor thinks me not ready for society."

"Mrs. Taylor is an idiot."

Freddie tried to stifle a muffled giggle. "Ah, we are in agreement on still another matter," Freddie said with levity.

He cast Freddie a sidelong glance. "You must forgive me for saddling you with her."

"She serves a purpose."

They both knew the woman's presence freed Stacks to spend time in Freddie's company without causing a scandal.

"Despite what the odious woman says, you are ready for society, and it is my desire that you find a suitable husband."

Her heart sank. He was growing tired of her. He wanted her gone from Marshbanks Abbey. "But what of the book?" she asked hopefully.

"Of course, I will not give my consent to your marriage until our book is finished."

"I had expected the book to take years, which truly does not distress me in the least."

"I cannot deprive the good men of Yorkshire of your company for years."

"Do you not think I am too young to marry? I would be happy to wait until I'm much older--provided my presence here at the abbey is not too burdensome."

"Your presence is indeed not burdensome, Miss Lambeth. It is just that I have an obligation to your father to see you suitably matched."

She had until the book was finished! She would no longer race through her drawings. She would draw them slowly and meticulously, cherishing every remaining minute at Marshbanks Abbey.

And she would be sure to find fault with any man foolish enough to be attracted to her.

***

The hum of voices at St. Mary's stilled when Lord Stacks, accompanied by Freddie and the brightly dressed Mrs. Taylor, strolled down the wooden floors of the church's nave, every step resonating throughout the hushed church. His lordship took his place in the Stacks family pew on the front row.

The church seemed especially tiny to Freddie after the magnificence of York Minster, but it was probably larger than her church back in Chelseymeade. She gazed at the arched stained glass windows of New Testament scenes that brought light into the darkened sanctuary from the sides of the building. Below the nearest window was an inscription that read In Memory of Elizabeth, Lady Stacks, 1779-1799.

A huge lump formed in Freddie's throat.

Though he had been away ten years, Lord Stacks remembered all the Psalms and sang with an admirable baritone. Then Freddie remembered how very well he played the pianoforte. Music, like so much else, came easily to him.

When the middle-aged vicar began to deliver his sermon on the vice of greed, Freddie noticed he seemed nervous and cast many a glance at the tall nobleman who sat beside her.

Following the service, Lord Stacks made polite conversation to those gathered outside the little chapel in Morton. "May I present my ward, Miss Lambeth, and her companion, Mrs. Taylor," he said countless times. Freddie had curtsied so much she wondered if her stockings would hold beneath the garter and if her asparagus green dress was getting hopelessly wrinkled. She met so many new people, she feared she would never remember all their names. There was the squire, Tobias Whitcombe, recently widowed and holding the hands of his two young progeny. And a very good looking Mr. Rountree fresh up from Cambridge. And Mr. and Mrs. Meresham, the innkeepers. And so very many more. Freddie knew she could not possibly remember all of them.

Maggie's words kept intruding on Freddie's thoughts. They say wicked things about him. She found it difficult to believe Maggie could possibly be referring to these people in Morton, for everyone they encountered behaved with the utmost respect toward her guardian.

Wearing silken robes, the vicar met Lord Stacks on the steps. "How very good it is to see you here again, my lord," he said to the baron.

Lord Stacks introduced him to Freddie and Mrs. Taylor.

Meeting Freddie's gaze, the vicar said, "Your guardian has been most generous to St. Mary's."

"My guardian is the most generous person I have ever known," Freddie stated flatly.

Turning to Lord Stacks, the vicar said, "It is a pleasure to thank you personally for all you have done for St. Mary's, my lord."

Freddie felt eyes on her and looked up to meet the honey-colored eyes of Mr. Rountree, who smiled approvingly at her. She guessed him to be in his early twenties and quite proud of his undoubtedly fashionable dress. For Freddie's taste, the man's appearance was far too loud, not of the subtle quality of her guardian's. However, Freddie thought wickedly, Mrs. Taylor would probably look most favorably upon the young man's silk jacket of royal blue with extremely large brass buttons and his red waistcoat. After all, Mrs. Taylor was equally as colorful in her puce silk dress with a bright orange bonnet adorned with purple plumes.

"You must permit me to call on you, Miss Lambeth," Mr. Rountree said.

"I would be delighted to entertain guests and show them my guardian's prodigious garden and orchard," she replied.

The vicar introduced his wife and three pretty daughters to Lord Stacks. Two of the daughters were very young girls dressed in dainty pale blue dresses, but the eldest, Catherine, was probably older than Freddie.

"You and your lovely wife--and Miss Farraday, too--must come to the abbey for dinner tonight," Lord Stacks said.

"We would be honored," the vicar said humbly.

By this time, Edgekirth had shaken off all the gathering townspeople who sought free advice about their medical complaints and managed to come to Freddie's side.

Lord Stacks turned to him. "The vicar has agreed to have dinner at the abbey tonight. Would you honor us with your presence, Edgekirth?"

The physician bowed and accepted the invitation.

Chapter 11

"I cannot tell you how wonderful it is to see Marshbanks Abbey come to life again," the vicar's wife, Mrs. Farraday, told Lord Stacks at dinner that night. "Oh, the wonderful balls you used to have here. I declare, things have certainly not been the same since--since you lost your wife." Her eyes leapt to Elizabeth's portrait, and she bowed her head reverently.

Mrs. Taylor did not give their host an opportunity to reply. "One cannot mourn forever," she said, sighing heavily. "Despite my dear Mr. Taylor's memory, I should like to marry again." She threw a coy glance at Lord Stacks. "As I am sure Lord Stacks will. After all, he is yet a young man and could make some fortunate woman most happy indeed."

Lord Stacks' mouth tightened. "I shall never marry again."

The words tore at Freddie's heart. Was he so tortured still over the loss of his lovely Elizabeth? The lovely Elizabeth whose beauty no woman could ever match. Freddie's gaze lifted to the portrait behind her guardian, and Elizabeth's elegant presence seemed to fill the room, smothering the desolate Freddie.

"You must only allow yourself to fall in love with the right woman, my dear Lord Stacks," Mrs. Taylor said confidently, helping herself to a second bowl of soup.

"Some men are not suited to marry," Edgekirth said, his hostile gaze shooting toward Lord Stacks.

"Have you determined not to marry?" the pretty Catherine Farraday asked the doctor, concern in her voice.

"I have been far too busy to even contemplate courting," Edgekirth said, "but I have a strong desire to marry and have a family." He peered at Freddie, but she feigned great interest in stirring her soup.

"Well, even if you do not plan to remarry," the gray-haired Mrs. Farraday said to Lord Stacks, "it is hoped you will honor us with your presence at church more often than you have this decade past."

"Yes, quite," the well-fed vicar mumbled, stabbing the broiled mutton with his fork. "Should love to see the abbey bustling with people and festivities as it once was. Oh, but those were the days!" he said wistfully.

Their host's gaze shifted from the vicar to Mrs. Farraday. "Think you people would actually attend were I to hold a ball?"

Mrs. Farraday's hands flew to her breast. "Oh, mercy me, yes!"

"Then I should like to have a ball," Lord Stacks stated. "I am desirous of introducing my ward to the good people here in Yorkshire."

Freddie supposed she should be flattered. For her sake, he would abandon what had been his way of life for ten years. She should be happy for him, too. How lonely he must have been all these years, and now he would be able to embrace long lost friends. She swallowed hard, hating herself for being so wretchedly selfish, for wanting the abbey to stay as it was now, to have her guardian to herself, to spend her mornings with him in the quadrangle or working quietly beside him in the library, to sit beside him on the pianoforte bench in the afternoons, warmed thoroughly by the sheer virtue of his closeness. Those days would likely end when he became reacquainted with friends and filled his calendar with morning visits and plans for assemblies and routs.

When dinner came to an end, the gentlemen gathered in Lord Stacks' billiards room to smoke cigars and drink port while the ladies assembled in the great hall.

It was all Stacks could do to be civil to the vicar and doctor. They bloody well bored him. After just one glass of port, he suggested they rejoin the women.

In the great room, where they settled on sofas and sturdy Tudor chairs upholstered in jewel-toned brocades, Stacks turned to Catherine. "Won't you play for us, Miss Faraday?"

The young lady rose gracefully, crossed the room, and sat down at the pianoforte. She played beautifully, and it was a difficult number, too, Stacks realized. The girl was quite pretty. And accomplished, as well. She also dressed nicely in a pale blue sarcenet. Appropriate attire, indeed, for a young maiden. He guessed her to be nineteen, a year older than Freddie. Would Freddie be as polished at nineteen?

Perhaps he was rushing his fences, trying to bring Freddie out before she was ready. But if he did not, she would probably marry Edgekirth, for the man clearly was in love with her.

Why was he so set against the girl marrying the outspoken doctor? Edgekirth and Freddie had much in common. And Edgekirth was an intelligent, well educated man. He would probably make Freddie a good husband. Nevertheless, for some inexplicable reason, Stacks could not tolerate the thought of Edgekirth marrying Freddie. The man would not do at all for her.

Why could Edgekirth not be attracted to Miss Farraday? Stacks turned his gaze to the doctor, who watched Catherine play. Though he gave her his full attention, Stacks did not see the gleam that was in Edgekirth's eye when he watched Freddie.

A pity.

When Catherine finished, Stacks said with genuine appreciation, "You play beautifully, Miss Farraday."

Her mother answered. "I should not boast about my dear Catherine, but the girl is wonderfully accomplished. She will make some fortunate man a very fine wife."

Stacks watched while color rose in the maiden's face as she glided across the room on light feet and sat on the sofa next to Freddie.

The vicar looked at Freddie. "Will you not honor us with a tune, Miss Lambeth?"

"My ward has hurt her hand," Stacks snapped. He would be damned before he allowed Freddie to reveal her lack of accomplishment. The girl was not ready for a public performance.

"Why I am sure Fredericka can play," Mrs. Taylor said mischievously. "Why don't you grant us the pleasure of that adorable little nursery song you play so well?" Mrs. Taylor's brown eyes glinted wickedly as she watched Freddie sit uncomfortably.

"Nothing could persuade me to embarrass myself after hearing how very well Miss Farraday plays," Freddie said, smiling at Catherine.

Stacks's black eyes flared. "Why do you not play for us, Mrs. Taylor," he said with controlled anger.

The woman, undoubtedly proud of her appearance in a pink silk gown like something a debutante would wear, rose slowly and made her way to the pianoforte. She played the same old love song she had played the last time, the one she knew by heart. Was that the only tune in the woman's repertoire, Stacks wondered.

When she finished, Stacks thanked her curtly, then suggested a game of whist for the three gentlemen and Freddie, and he insisted Freddie be his partner.

The vicar and Edgekirth were a poor match for Stacks and Freddie, but Stacks felt the doctor was distracted and not playing his best. It was obvious he was totally besotted over Freddie and could scarcely remove his eyes from her.

Stacks himself took a long look at his ward. She wore the ivory crepe gown again. Its neckline was low and rather flattering to her youthful breasts. Her creamy shoulders showed off to advantage, as did her graceful neck. He continued to watch her as she tossed her head back in laughter, her face lively and not at all unattractive. As he listened to her gentle voice he formed a mental picture of her toting around that little orange cat, stroking it and talking sweetly to the creature.

But it was Freddie's bearing Stacks found so utterly captivating. So proud and defiant, even when she arrived on his doorstep dressed in those insufferably shabby clothes.

And a lump came to his throat. He understood why the doctor was in love with her.

But the man simply wouldn't do. Stacks must find a suitable young man for her.

The vicar tossed out a card. "I say, Stacks, Miss Lambeth is uncommonly good at whist. Didn't know a mere girl--or a woman for that matter--could be so skilled."

Stacks smiled. "It was not for politeness I desired her to be my partner."

"How is it you came to be Miss Lambeth's guardian?" the vicar asked, scooping up a discard.

"I was at Oxford with her father. We were the greatest of friends."

"Her father was a surgeon," Edgekirth told the vicar, "and Miss Lambeth knows as much of medicine as any physician I know."

"That so?" the vicar mumbled.

"In fact," Edgekirth said with pride, "Miss Lambeth has prepared for me some elixirs that are said to have great success with treating gout."

The vicar took his eyes off his cards and spoke to Freddie. "Delicate subject, I know, but have you a remedy for troubling wind? It is an affliction which causes me a great deal of distress, and I get no relief whatsoever with Modd's lozenges."

"Oh, yes," Freddie answered, not embarrassed at all. "I shall prepare a decoction of boiled dill seed with white wine for you. It is a gallant expeller of wind."

Stacks cast a bemused glance at Freddie, who was intent on studying her cards.

At the end of the game--which Stacks and Freddie easily won-- the guests left, and Stacks bid Freddie a good-night, then said to Mrs. Taylor, "I beg a private word with you. Won't you join me in the library?"

"I should be exceedingly happy to do so, my lord," she said, a broad smile covering her round face as she followed him.

"Sit down," he told her icily when they reached his library.

She took a seat and gazed up at him hopefully as he stood in front of her. "I am very displeased with you," he said sternly, beginning to pace the room.

The complacent smile vanished from her face. "Whatever for, my lord?"

"It is my belief that you undermine my ward's efforts to be accepted into society as a lady."

"How can you say so?" she shrieked in indignation. "Why, I work very diligently every day to make a lady of the girl, and I tell you, it is no easy task."

He came back to stand in front of Mrs. Taylor. "I do not know what motivates you, but I believe you scheme to tarnish Miss Lambeth's reputation."

"Never!" she protested.

"Then why did you not accompany Edgekirth and Miss Lambeth in the great room the other day when Eason tells me he himself informed you that your presence was required? I believe you hoped to compromise Miss Lambeth."

"That is outrageous! I merely forgot. I would never wish to sully Miss Lambeth. It would only reflect poorly on me."

His eyes smoldered. "Precisely."

"Surely that one little slip does not merit such rancor from you my lord."

"That--and what you did tonight."

"What I did tonight?" she questioned, outrage in her voice.

"I clearly did not want Miss Lambeth to play the pianoforte and be compared to the superior skill of Miss Farraday." He glowered at her. "But you did. It was obvious you wanted my ward to appear in an unfavorable light."

Tears began to drop to her rouged cheeks. "I am deeply offended by your charges."

"And I am deeply offended by your conduct," he countered. "If such incidents occur again, I shall be forced to dismiss you."

A cry broke from her throat. "Is that all, my lord?" she asked, her voice shaking with emotion.

"Yes. You may leave."

He would have dismissed her that very night were it not for his desire to lend propriety to his ward's situation here. He could never let it be said that Freddie lived alone with the man who had murdered his wife. He could not allow his own vileness to tarnish Freddie's innocence.

He enjoyed Freddie's company too much. He enjoyed playing chess and other games with her. He enjoyed seeing her haul around that skinny cat. He enjoyed seeing her transformation from ugly duckling to . . . what was she? Not a beauty like Elizabeth, certainly. But he found her appearance most agreeable. In fact, he took entirely too much pleasure in gazing upon her youthful countenance. Though he had never before thought tall women attractive, he now believed women with long, slender limbs like Freddie quite elegant.

Not that she was elegant, exactly. It was deuced difficult to be elegant when one's nose was dusted with freckles, and he really did not approve of the new fashion of short hair on a woman. Though he had to admit now that Freddie had cut her hair, she did look older.

With her long, graceful neck, she did wear her clothing with the grace of a princess. She'd had that same proud bearing when dressed in the rags she had arrived in at Marshbanks three months earlier.

For ten long years, he's been more dead than alive. Until Freddie. Was she the reason he had not followed Elizabeth to the grave? Had it been God's plan for him to redeem himself by caring for something far more precious than his plants? He'd never felt more alive, all because Freddie Lambeth had brightened his dreary existence.

He thought he could be completely happy were it just he and Freddie rattling around the cavernous abbey. And he did not mean that in a prurient way.

Because of her innocence, though, he was plagued to have put up with the blasted Julia Taylor and the odious Edgekirth. Because of his deference to Freddie's unblemished reputation, he would be forced to open his home to activities that would showcase his ward. Which he really did not wish to do.

All he really wanted was to keep her to himself. He could not understand how a girl of such tender years could convey such maturity. Not once had she ever bored him. She did not prattle. She did not bat her lashes. She did not speak in hyperbole. In short, she did not act like other maidens of eighteen.

She was as intelligent as any learned man he'd ever known.

In fact, she reminded him greatly of her father. A high degree of intelligence and capability had intertwined in Frederick Lambeth. A pity he was dead.

A pity everyone Stacks had ever loved was dead.

Save Freddie.

Not that he loved her as a man loves a woman. No, what he felt for her was more like what a father feels for a daughter.

But altogether different.

To do justice to his position as her guardian, though, he knew it was his duty to see her marry well.

No matter how painful it would be for him to lose her.

First, though, he wished he could expel Edgekirth. Would Freddie be terribly offended if the physician came no more?

He had been fuming all day over the man's visit to Freddie that very afternoon. Since he'd left open his library door, he'd heard Eason announce the visitor, had heard Freddie beckon Mrs. Taylor, too, just as Stacks had instructed. She was not to meet any man alone.

But Julia Taylor had failed to perform her most important duty.

Damn the insufferable woman!

He, at least, could uphold his duties as the guardian to whom her father had entrusted his only child.

Even if she was not precisely a child any more.

Chapter 12

Freddie sat contentedly in the library, her guardian working silently behind his desk, facing her as she sketched the delicate petals of the violet. After she finished the page and was about to begin a new page, she glanced up at Stacks. He was neither reading nor writing but staring blankly in front of him.

"Anything I can help you with?" she questioned.

A pensive grin replaced his stare as he met her gaze and shook his head. "Actually I was thinking of John Donne's wisdom for I have learned that no man, indeed, is an island."

"And what does that have to do with your book?"

"Everything," he said softly, warmth in his eyes. "The book would never be more than a distant dream had I continued to live as a soul far apart from others of like mind." His eyes held hers intently, and she felt as if the very air was draining from her body. "You have been very good for me," he said.

"I've done nothing a good secretary could not have done," she answered.

"I'm not just talking about the book. You've brought life to the abbey--and you amuse me. I now have a partner for backgammon and cribbage and chess--"

"And Sunday morning worship service. The pious Mr. Donne would be happy indeed in my influence," she said lightly.

He frowned. "You take compliments poorly, Miss Lambeth."

He was right! While she felt coming to Marshbanks Abbey the best thing that had ever happened to her, she found it hard to believe Lord Stacks could reap any benefit from her. "It is just that I cannot imagine your lordship needing the society of anyone, much less an unaccomplished girl such as myself."

"You underestimate your many accomplishments." He took up his pen, but instead of resuming his writing, he continued. "Until you came I had no idea how lonely the abbey was."

Now she was sure the air necessary for speech had been sapped from her. She could not have replied had her very life depended on it.

Eason knocked, then entered the room. "A Mr. John Rountree begs a visit with Miss Lambeth."

Freddie's glance darted to her guardian.

He smiled. "Miss Lambeth will meet with the gentleman presently. Tell Mrs. Taylor her presence is immediately desired in the great room."

Once Eason closed the door, Lord Stacks smiled. "My plan goes well."

She placed her hands on her hips in mock indignation, and had no trouble now finding her voice. "And what plan might that be?"

"My scheme to find you a suitable husband, Miss Lambeth."

"I beg you not have me at the altar with the unfortunate Mr. Rountree. I daresay he is only being courteous."

"Stand up and let me see if you will do."

She rose and turned around gracefully, dipping him a curtsey as she finished. She wore a simple rose-colored muslin day dress of good lines. It accentuated the blush of her cheeks. "I feel like a horse at Tattersall's being auctioned to the highest bidder."

"The analogy does not apply at all. You are a lovely young lady." A flicker of a smile passed across his face. "Maggie has once again done well with your hair." His eyes followed the length of her body. "The dress is passable for a morning call. Enjoy yourself with Mr. Rountree. He is said to be a most eligible catch." Lord Stacks lifted his pen.

"But I, my lord, am not fishing," she snapped as she proudly strode to the door.

Much to her surprise, Mrs. Taylor had reached the great hall before Freddie. To Freddie's even greater surprise, Mrs. Taylor had taken no pains with her hair but had swept it under a widow's cap. It was the first time Freddie had ever seen her wear the cap.

"Here's Miss Lambeth," Mrs. Taylor announced in sugary tones as Rountree got to his feet and bowed to her. How grandly he dressed for a morning call in his gray pantaloons, a double-breasted scarlet velvet top coat with a black satin waistcoat. Freddie found herself wondering if such dress was derigueur for the country.

"At your service, Miss Lambeth."

She dropped a quick curtsey, then sat on the sofa by Mrs. Taylor as he returned to his chair facing them.

"I was just inquiring about Mr. Rountree's family," said Mrs. Taylor. "Unfortunately, he lost his papa rather recently and, being the eldest son, cut short his studies at Cambridge to come home and oversee his family's holdings."

"My sympathies on the loss of your father," Freddie said softly.

"And such a distress it must have been to suddenly be forced to leave your friends at school," Mrs. Taylor added.

"Yes, quite," the young man said. "Miss my friends dreadfully. Was particular friends with the Viscount Mannington, you know."

"How delightful!" Mrs. Taylor said.

Freddie wondered if that were a name she was supposed to know.

"Actually," he said, "can't say that I miss the studies. Deuced difficult they were. Glad I am to be away from them."

"Are there many people of your age hereabouts?" Freddie inquired. She guessed him to be a year or two older than she.

"Company is bloody thin here," he answered.

"Lord Stacks plans to hold a ball," Mrs. Taylor announced proudly.

The young gentleman's eyes lit up. "That so?"

"It will be a good way for me to meet what my guardian calls the good people of Yorkshire."

"I daresay the field of genteel young people hereabouts is slim," he said, a frown on his face. "My brother, Luke, I am sure, would treasure an invitation to the ball. He is a curate at a village about twenty miles away."

Mrs. Taylor raised an inquisitive brow. "Is he married?"

Mr. Rountree shook his head.

"What age is he?" Freddie asked.

"Twenty-two. He's just a year younger than I."

"I suspect the two of you are very close," Freddie said.

He nodded. "Have you brothers and sisters, Miss Lambeth?"

"No," she answered. "I envy you that. I cannot tell you how I have always longed to have brothers and sisters."

"I should be most happy to give you one of mine," he said, a smile covering his nice looking face. For Rountree was quite handsome, a fact that had not escaped Freddie's notice at church the day before. He was as tall as Lord Stacks and had dark hair, also, though Rountree's hair layered so carelessly she knew he must have spent a great deal of time to achieve so casual an effect. He was more powerfully built than her guardian, and she suspected he would grow fat by the time he was the age of Lord Stacks. His laughing, perfectly chiseled face featured the most extraordinary set of white teeth she had ever seen. And the man--who smiled readily--was well aware of his dazzling smile.

"I've three brothers and five sisters," he continued.

"Your family alone assures our ball great success," Freddie said, a gleam in her eye.

Eason stepped into the room and announced that Dr. Edgekirth was calling.

Freddie was growing more comfortable commanding servants. "Ask him to come in here," she instructed Eason.

Edgekirth swept into the room, his eyes alight until he saw Rountree stand. He bowed first to Freddie, then to Mrs. Taylor. Lastly, he turned to Rountree. "Your servant, Rountree," he said, a hostile edge to his voice.

"I am just becoming acquainted with Mr. Rountree," Freddie told the doctor as he sat in another chair facing the sofa.

"We informed him of the ball," Mrs. Taylor added, her face glowing. "Mr. Rountree's sisters should assure many young ladies in attendance. Do you know them, Doctor?"

"Yes," he said, his smoldering eyes on Freddie.

Freddie noted the difference between the doctor's simple country clothes and Mr. Rountree's. She thought she preferred the doctor's.

"Dr. Edgekirth and I have become great friends," Freddie told her caller. "We have discovered we have much in common since my father was a surgeon, and I assisted him from my earliest youth."

Edgekirth smiled. "If you put it that way, Rountree will think you're a novice since you're still so very young."

Freddie frowned at the doctor. "You've never before remarked on my youth. I had hoped you thought me quite mature." That was the way she wanted to appear. Especially to her guardian. She wished he were here now. What was he doing? Was he working in the garden? She pictured him, coat off, sleeves pushed up, stooped over one of his plants, and she wished she could be with him this very minute and not here in the great room with two men who were doing their best to win her favor. A favor she could never grant either of them.

"You are wise beyond your years," Edgekirth said gently.

Looking at Rountree, Freddie said proudly, "I have made some elixir for Dr. Edgekirth's gout patients."

"She is as learned as any apothecary in London, I'll wager," Edgekirth said.

Rountree frowned. "Never heard of a woman doctoring."

Freddie ignored the rebuke and addressed the doctor again. "Did you know the vicar asked me to provide him with a remedy for the wind that plagues him."

Mrs. Taylor coughed.

"I shall make a distillation of dill and white wine," Freddie added, "for the vicar's wind complaints."

"Did you not tell me, Miss Lambeth, you would show me your guardian's garden?" Rountree asked.

"Oh, yes." Freddie stood. "Come with me now."

"You must first get your bonnet," Mrs. Taylor reminded.

***

Though Stacks would have preferred a titled gentleman for Freddie, he knew he was aiming too high. But the Rountree family was one of the most respected in the area. They had been landed gentry in these parts since the first Baron Stacks had settled Marshbanks Abbey. And the eldest son, John, would do well for Freddie. Quite a handsome young man. Just the right age for her. He dressed as a pink of the ton--too showy for Stacks' taste--but, then, Stacks had been long from London. The fellow was likely the first stare of fashion.

Stacks plucked some bulbs from the fertile soil. He would put those away in order to plant summer blooms.

"There you are!" Freddie said to him. "I've brought visitors to see your garden. Would it be excessively rude of me to ask you to show them around?"

"Not at all," Stacks said, swiping his hands together to remove the dirt before he stood up.

"I will pinch off some dill for the vicar's decoction," Freddie said, skittering off to the other side of the quadrangle, Marmalade following her until he got the scent of catmint and stopped to attack the bush.

Stacks began to walk the paths and discuss his plantings with the two men. He launched into a discussion of the genuses and species. "Of which I am sure you'll readily recall, Rountree, coming so freshly from Cambridge."

"Can't say as I do," Rountree answered. "Bloody boring to me. Never could master all those Latin terms. Daresay we've no use whatsoever for the language. My poor father, bless his departed soul, spent twenty quid on tutors for me, and still it's all bloody Greek to me, if you know what I mean."

Stacks' brows drew together as he strode along. No, Stacks thought, Rountree would not do at all for Freddie. The man would bore her to distraction.

Stacks bent to snap off an orange rose, his finger impaling a long thorn. He issued a curse.

Freddie dashed over to him. "Are you hurt, my lord?"

A narrow stream of blood flowed from his finger. "It's merely a prick," he said. "Forgive my language, Miss Lambeth. I am unused to having a lady around."

"La!" Freddie said, taking his hand and pulling the large thorn out. A smaller one remained embedded in the skin. "I shall procure a piece of Scabious. Applied directly to your finger, it will draw out that nasty thorn."

She scurried off to find the Scabious and was back a minute later, clutching the fuzzy stalk in her slender hand. She took his hand in hers, her brows lowered, as she worked on his hand. Her touch was light and gentle, like her voice. Against every shred of decency within him, Stacks found himself stirred by her touch. His breath grew short, and he felt himself hardening. He thought of having her youthful body beneath him.

Then Freddie's face turned to Elizabeth's and he remembered lying over her, her naked body writhing under him, satin bands tying her wrists to the bed. And he was utterly sickened.

He jerked his hand from Freddie. "Allow me to clean up. I fear the blood has gotten on my clothes." He spun on his boot heel and left the quadrangle.

***

When she finished showing the gentlemen the garden, Mr. Rountree politely took his leave, telling Freddie he would enjoy calling on her again.

Edgekirth was not so polite. "Could you honor me with a walk about the park, Miss Lambeth?" he asked.

Would she need to send back for Mrs. Taylor to accompany them, Freddie wondered. The park was not the woods. They would be on plain view from all the windows on the abbey's rear wall. "A short walk," Freddie said. "A thrilling French lesson awaits me."

He offered her his arm. "You do have my sympathy, Miss Lambeth. I found French extremely challenging and never gained any proficiency."

"With Mrs. Taylor as my model," Freddie said with a little laugh, "I fear I will never speak with even a remotely correct accent."

Freddie had determined they would walk the perimeter of the park just one time, then she would beg to return to the abbey.

"I did not at all like to see Mr. Rountree here today," Edgekirth said straight away.

"The man is not objectionable, otherwise my guardian would not have allowed the visit."

"He is objectionable only to me, as is any man who pays you court," Edgekirth said.

Her pulse beat rapidly. Was Edgekirth going to declare himself? She took great interest in watching her slippers slap at the pebbled path. "I hardly think one friendly visit could be called paying court."

"I should not like any man to pay you court, you know." He placed a hand over hers.

She quickened her step, hoping to get back to the abbey before he addressed her romantically. "If only my guardian shared your feelings," Freddie said lightly. "I fear he would consider himself blessed were men to fall at my feet, begging my hand. And, I assure you, it is the last thing I should want."

"You do not want to wed?"

"Oh goodness no! I am but eighteen. I am ill prepared to select a life's mate."

"I must say that news distresses me, Miss Lambeth, for I have known for some time that you are precisely the one I would select for a life's mate, but I am prepared to wait until you are ready, my dear."

They were almost back to the abbey. She stopped and peered into his earnest gaze. "I beg you say no more. I don't know if I'll ever be ready."

He raised a brow, a look of concern sweeping across his face. "Is there someone else?"

Was there, she wondered. She compared every man to her guardian. And they all came up wanting. No man could ever measure up to him.

Suddenly, like a meteor streaking through the inky heavens, she realized she was, indeed, in love with her guardian. She loved him as deeply as the need to draw breath. And she had not even a flicker of hope she could ever attach his feelings.

She could not answer Edgekirth.

"Is it Stacks?"

"I assure you, Lord Stacks thinks of me as he would a daughter. He has told me so. He would be angered by your accusation."

"But I didn't ask about his feelings," he said sternly. "I asked about yours."

Freddie could not lie. She had never lied in her life. "I think my guardian is the most wonderful man who ever lived."

Edgekirth's face clouded, a flash of anger in his eyes. "Stacks is a cruel man, and I fear for your very safety while you live under his roof."

Her eyes rounded. "My safety? Pray tell, why?"

"Because of the horrible things that happened to his wife."

Her heart hammered. "What horrible things?"

"When she walked along the lake with her husband, she fell down the embankment, bruising herself horribly, before nearly drowning."

"But I am sure Lord Stacks would have pulled her from the water, even at risk of his own safety!" Freddie defended, her chin high, her voice shaking with anger.

"He did," Edgekirth said grimly. "Then another time as Stacks drove his wife in his curricle, she fell out and broke several bones."

"Accidents do occur, doctor," Freddie said harshly.

"The poor woman was so horribly abused I cannot but believe her husband was responsible for her death."

By now they had circled the park and had come back to the abbey. Freddie wanted to know how the beautiful Elizabeth had died. Yet she didn't. Placing her hand on the door, she turned to Edgekirth. "Were you in love with Elizabeth?"

He swallowed. "Yes."

She swept open the door that had been cut into the bricks on the rear of the abbey and strode purposely toward the great room, her whole body trembling from Edgekirth's accusations.

***

The girl didn't look anything like Elizabeth, Stacks thought, sitting at his desk, cursing himself for having had sexual feelings for sweet, innocent Freddie. Why had the girl reminded him of Elizabeth? It was the way her touch made him feel. Like when he was young and panting after Elizabeth. Before Elizabeth was his wife and became demanding in bed.

Freddie opened the door to his library. "Would it inconvenience you, my lord, to give me a lesson on the pianoforte now?"

God but she looked innocent standing there with her windswept sable hair gently curling about her youthful face. How young she seemed with faint freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose! Far too innocent for the likes of him.

He rose and walked toward her. "It is a pleasure to witness your progress, Miss Lambeth. You are an apt student. Then, too, I know you spend much time practicing." Watching her progress at her playing had brought him great satisfaction. He felt like a sculptor encouraging his creation to take shape. Knowing he had some small part in her glorious metamorphosis pleased him enormously.

"You said that was the only way to improve."

He studied her with curious intensity. "Do you do everything I say?"

"I try to, my lord."

"Please, my dear, don't! I should not like it at all were you to think I am infallible. I have a great many faults."

They reached the great room.

"Then I look forward to learning them," she said laughingly. "For your vast abilities make me feel most inferior."

They sat on the bench in front of the pianoforte. "Remember what I told you about never feeling inferior to anyone?"

"Yes, my lord," she whispered, her lids lowered.

He demonstrated a portion of a piece, showed her the written music, then asked her to play a few bars. She played very slowly. The tempo was off, but she did not hit a single incorrect note.

When she finished, she burst out laughing.

"And what are you laughing at?" he asked with affection.

"I was remembering the dowdy little woman back in Chelseymeade who gave pianoforte lessons. Of course, not owning an instrument, I was never fortunate enough to patronize her. But I was just thinking how unlikely it is that a baron is giving lessons at the pianoforte."

He laughed, too. "I'm likely the only peer of the realm ever to instruct young ladies on the instrument."

She set a hand on his sleeve. "You are so very giving, my lord. I cannot tell you how indebted I am to you for your many kindnesses to me."

God's teeth, but the girl's touch had the same effect on him again! He fought a strong urge to take her in his arms. He must have been too long without a woman. "You repay me most generously with your adeptness--as well as with your excellent drawings for our book."

"Your book," she insisted, "on which I am only too honored to be an insignificant worker."

He was drawn by her sweet, gentle voice and humble ways. But he must think of her as one thinks of a daughter. "Back to the music."

She removed her hand from his sleeve, and he congratulated himself on his resolve not to sully her.

***

When her lesson was finished Freddie remained in the great hall, furiously practicing at the pianoforte, driven by a raging need to cleanse her mind of Dr. Edgekirth's outrageous charges against her guardian. Staying occupied with challenging work was the only way she knew to push away troubling thoughts.

She commended herself on how well she had hidden her distressed state from Lord Stacks. She had even been able to laugh and to make him laugh.

After she finished at the musical instrument, she went to her room and sat at her desk to sketch more flowers. She had long since dismissed trying to sketch on her bed for Marmalade simply could not resist plopping himself squarely in the middle of her pad. Now she set down her pencil and gazed at her cat, curled in a sleeping ball on her bed. She smiled, remembering how well he liked to nestle under the covers with her each night, even resting his head on her pillow.

But her smile vanished when she thought of Lord Stacks. Despite all her efforts to keep so busy she could not possibly think of him, Freddie realized she could no easier forget him than she could cease to draw breath.

Her talk with the doctor had left her shaken. Not only had she realized that she loved Lord Stacks, but she also knew with the clarity of spring water how hopeless a situation hers was. First, Lord Stacks would never consider her as anything but a girl--never a suitable candidate to replace the beautiful Lady Stacks.

Then, too, the man himself had insisted he would never marry again.

This she could accept. All she asked was that she be allowed to stay with him. She needed him as his plants needed soil and water.

But underlying all of today's troubling revelations were the accusations Dr. Edgekirth made against her guardian. Should she believe him or dismiss his charges as the rantings of a jealous man? She knew the doctor to be an honest man. She did not believe Dr. Edgekirth would make up so grave an accusation.

She knew, too, there was plausibility to his accusations. They would explain Mrs. Greenwood's behavior, why she had been so hostile when Freddie first came. And, now that Freddie had Mrs. Taylor to protect her against Lord Stacks, Mrs. Greenwood treated Freddie with civility.

There was, too, Maggie's chance comment about the wicked things said about Lord Stacks. And--most incriminating of all--there were Lord Stacks' own words. Hadn't he told her himself he was not worthy of her adulation? Hadn't he admitted that God himself had turned his back on him?

What was not plausible to contemplate was that in his wildest, bleakest mood, Lord Stacks could ever harm anyone. The very idea rankled every instinct in her being.

Though she knew the doctor's words to most likely be true, Freddie knew, too, there had to be another explanation for Elizabeth's injuries--mere chance perhaps?

Never would Freddie believe her guardian capable of inflicting injury on anyone.

If she asked him for an explanation, Lord Stacks likely would give it. But Freddie wondered if she had the right to demand it.

Perhaps she would.

Chapter  13

As she was standing back to gaze at her work-in-progress — a watercolor of Marmalade playing with a ball of yarn — Eason strode into the chamber. "A package has arrived for you, miss."

Her eyes widened. She had never received a package. Never. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, miss, his lordship said to bring it to you."

"It's from Lord Stacks?"

"From his solicitor, I believe."

Why would Lord Stacks's solicitor be sending her a package? She eyed the box Eason was setting on the table. It was the size of a small desk drawer. Perhaps it had something to do with her father's papers, though she'd thought she had all of them.

After setting down her brush and cleaning her hands, she opened the box. Not papers. Something much more exquisite, a shawl perhaps. No nubby wool, either. Her fingers sank into the incredibly soft, asparagus colored knit. A Kashmir shawl. She had never owned anything so beautiful. Or so costly.

A diamond necklace could not have been more appreciated. Though she had long needed a shawl, she had never thought to have one this fine. Powerful emotions nearly swamped her. More than its beauty, more than the excitement of receiving a gift, she was deeply moved by her guardian's thoughtfulness.

She hurried to drape it over her shoulders, unable to resist stroking its softness. Not normally one to peer at herself in a looking glass, she rushed to the gilt mirror and stared. The color of her eyes perfectly matched the shawl. She had always thought her eyes ugly, but not now.

Her guardian must be thanked.

She bent to scoop up Marmalade, but stopped. His claws might get caught in the fine knit and ruin it. "You're to stay here, Mister Fluff Muffin."

Leaving the cat behind, she rushed to the quadrangle. Lord Stacks, looking devilishly handsome, his muscled arms flexed over his head, stood pruning a rhododendron which had spent the last of its scarlet blooms.

When he heard her approaching, he turned. The sunlight stamped into his tanned face. For the briefest of seconds, his eyes glittered and his mouth curved into a satisfied smile as his lazy gaze fell on her, then his face went somber. "I see you got the shawl."

"Oh, yes, my lord!" She twirled around, lifting the shawl as if it were bat's wings. "It's quite the loveliest thing I've ever possessed. I don't know how I can ever thank you."

"I don't wish to be thanked. As your guardian, it's my duty to see to your needs, and you needed a shawl."

"But not one so fine."

His gaze lit on the shawl. "It's you, Miss Lambeth, who make it look fine. It becomes you."

She shook her head. "A beggar would look like a queen in this."

Despite his stiffness, his mouth eased into a smile. "I had hoped it would match your eyes."

It seemed unfathomable to Freddie that he had ever noticed her eyes. And even more surprising, he must like them, or else he would not have wished to accentuate them! She wanted to reiterate her thanks, but she knew it would make him uncomfortable. "It was very thoughtful of you, my lord."

He returned to his pruning. With his back to her, he said, "I'm glad you like it."

She was clearly being dismissed.

***

The abbey seemed unusually noisy the following morning, Freddie mused as she made her way from the cloister toward the great room amidst the steady hum of busy servants and the sounds of furniture scraping against the stone floors of the great hall. On entering the great hall, she stopped and gazed at the small army of servants scurrying back and forth. Sunlight bathed the normally dark room from windows now bare of their heavy velvet draperies.

One crew of footmen, having shed their lime liveried tail coats, removed the dusty Turkey carpets just after another crew had removed the furniture, stacking it against the north wall. Housemaids in caps teetered on tall ladders to clean chandeliers while others were in the process of polishing the vast stone floors.

Freddie was puzzled. She knew it was too late for spring cleaning.

"We're getting the abbey ready for a grand ball!" a nearby maid happily informed Freddie.

An older maid looked up from her floor scrubbing, a smile on her ruddy face. "It'll be just like in the old days," she said. "The abbey's coming to life again."

"Yes, indeed," the first maid said, "Marshbanks Abbey will be filled with grand ladies and gents dressed in their fancy clothes, and the front drive will be lined with fine carriages." The maid's eyes sparkled as brightly as the chandelier she was cleaning.

"How many you reckon can dance in this room?" one of the footman asked his partner.

"They said over three hundred have attended balls here in the past," the other footman answered.

Freddie raised a brow. A significant number, indeed. "Tell me," Freddie asked, "is this the room that will serve as the ballroom?"

"Indeed it is, miss," the second footman answered.

She sidestepped her way across the room, avoiding rolled carpets and piles of dusty velvet draperies. She did not wish to get in the way of the workers as she picked her way to the breakfast room. There she found her guardian perusing his newspaper.

"I trust you slept well, Miss Lambeth," he asked, not really removing his eyes from his paper.

"Yes, thank you." She sat beside him and poured herself a cup of steaming tea. "Your preparations for the ball have not escaped my notice. When is it to take place?"

He put down his paper. "Three weeks from tonight."

"Why--why so soon?" she asked, deeply disappointed. Was her guardian in so great a hurry to be rid of her? And why must he fill his life with varied social obligations that would rob her of his time?

Concern etched across his rugged face. "I had thought you would be pleased. After all, the abbey is rather a gloomy place to raise an eligible young lady. I want you to be surrounded by people who are of your own age." His face went soft, reminding her of a kindly uncle. But a kindly uncle was the last thing she wanted Lord Stacks to be. "It does you no good to spend so much time with me, Miss Lambeth."

Her back went ramrod straight. "I beg to differ," she responded firmly. "My happiest moments are when it is just you and I."

He gave her a strange look that she was unable to read. "You have, unfortunately, led an extremely dull life if that is the case."

She grabbed her cup and a scone and followed him to his library.

Indignation in her face and in her stance, she crossed the room and settled comfortably on the settee near his desk before taking up her notes. "Either you have been taking extra care with your handwriting or I have become most adept at deciphering, for there were only three words in the new chapter I was unable to read."

"Come now, Miss Lambeth," he said, an amused expression on his face, "only three?"

"Not counting your inability to correctly spell the plurals," she added, a giggle in her voice.

"Now that's more like it. I suppose you're referring to gladiolas. I never can remember the confounded spellings of those wretched plants. Why can't one just stick an "s" on every word to make a plural is beyond me."

"You must remember, my lord, that you do not make the rules."

"Have I told you that you remind me very much of my old governess, Miss Linscombe?"

She sighed and put down her papers. "Many times, my lord. You also told me you called her Dragon Lady. Fortunate I am that you have yet to add that moniker to me."

"I may yet," he grumbled. "Bring those notes here and let me tell you what they are."

She rose, notes in hand, and walked to him. Flipping through her papers, she came to her first question mark. Leaning over him, she pointed to it.

"That," he announced triumphantly, "is hog's fennel, you know, like sow's fennel."

She burst out giggling. "But you wrote hawgsfinal--one word. It's two words, my lord, neither of which you spelled correctly."

"That is why I have you, Dragon Lady," he grumbled. He took the other papers from her and ran his eyes over them until he found her question marks. The first was beside i-b-r-y-t. "That is eye bright," he told her.

A gleam in her eye, she nodded. "Two words."

He ignored her while searching for the last question mark beside see holy. "And this is sea holly," he proclaimed.

She burst out laughing. "I am convinced you truly do need me," she said as she went back to her seat and took up her pen and paper.

The two worked quietly, facing each other.

Stacks felt exceedingly sorry for the girl if she was so unused to people her own age that she found his company desirous. He had done her a great disservice by monopolizing her time. A girl her age should be entertaining morning callers daily. She should have young lady friends with whom to share confidences. And she should have soirees and fetes and balls galore to attend. Her head should be filled with ball gowns and beaus. Not with genuses and species and preparing elixirs for old men plagued by gout and foul-smelling wind.

Above all, he needed to find her a husband who would be worthy of the girl. He had already dismissed Edgekirth and John Rountree. What of Rountree's brother who was a curate? Surely he was a learned man. Stacks had already established that the Rountree family lineage was perfectly acceptable for his young ward.

He smiled to himself. Luke Rountree might just be the very man for Freddie. Would that he were not a second son.

Many preparations needed to be made between now and the night of the ball. Stacks lifted his quill to begin compiling a list of those who would be sent invitations. Lamentably, he would need to discuss the menu with Mrs. Greenwood. A pity Freddie had not the experience to take over that chore from him. A pity, too, that Mrs. Taylor was so utterly incapable.

He supposed he would have to trust the woman to help Freddie select a ball gown at Mrs. Baron's for he could no longer commence on a journey to York with his ward now that he had decided not to send her back down south. Remembering Freddie's unerring judgments during their first visit to York, Stacks did not really worry about Freddie selecting an unsuitable gown. The girl did possess extraordinary taste. Far better than that odious companion of hers. He supposed he would have to pay for a gown for Mrs. Taylor, too, he thought grimly. That meant she would be underfoot the night of the ball, no doubt babbling about her glorious season of indeterminate years ago.

He would also need to retain the services of an orchestra. All of a sudden, a frightening thought occurred to him. He leveled a gaze at Freddie across the broad desk from him. "Can you dance, Miss Lambeth?"

She put down her sketch pad and met his gaze with a challenging spark in her green eyes. "Not at all, my lord."

He a mumbled curse under his breath. "I shall have to teach you myself for there is no time to send for a dancing master." He rang for Eason.

When Eason responded to the call, Stacks told him to have the pianoforte moved into the library from the disheveled great hall.

Eason lifted a quizzing brow but only said, "Very well, my lord."

Within minutes, a half a dozen footmen carried the instrument into the library, and Stacks directed them to place it on the west wall. "While you men are here," he instructed, "I desire that you remove the rug from the center of this room in order that we can dance."

The servants removed the furniture, then rolled up the rug. "And," Stacks said, "please inform Mrs. Taylor that her presence is required in the library immediately."

Turning to Freddie, he said, "She will play while I teach you to dance."

Momentarily, Mrs. Taylor entered the library, once again with the widow's cap smashed on her head, and Stacks told her what he desired. He thumbed through a great stack of music and made several selections.

"We shall practice every day until the ball," he told Freddie, meeting her frightened gaze. "You will know the steps so very well that on the night of the ball, you will not have to give them a thought. They will be second nature to you."

"Pray, I hope you are right," Freddie said.

"Dancing is really rather simple. It's all in the counting," he said. "And one counts to the tempo of the music."

He turned to Mrs. Taylor, who had settled on the bench in front of the pianoforte. "Play the one on top, if you please."

The first tune was quite slow. He demonstrated the steps to Freddie, showing her the count. "Now, we will do it together, Miss Lambeth," he said, facing her.

She slid her feet to the steps and count.

"No, Miss Lambeth," he said patiently. "Your feet actually leave the floor."

They did the first sequence of steps again. This time her feet lifted from the floor but in too exaggerated a fashion.

"Remember, Miss Lambeth, one's head is not to bob about when one is dancing gracefully," he said. "Were I to place a board over your head, it should scarcely move as you dance if your movements are to convey the necessary grace."

After nearly two hours, Freddie had come close to mastering the country dances. Stacks vowed to reinforce what she had learned every single day until the ball.

Perhaps next week he would introduce her to the waltz, he thought, his heart racing as he recalled waltzing in the capitals of Europe with many a beautiful woman held close as they danced to heavenly music. Of course, that was before the wicked dance had been permitted at decent English assemblies.

Would he be able to hold Freddie in his arms and not want to ravish her? he wondered grimly.

***

Freddie could not fight the inevitable. So she might as well embrace the idea of the ball and use it to her advantage. Though her chances of engaging her guardian's amorous affections were no greater than the likelihood she would marry the Prince of Wales, Freddie allowed herself the luxury of dreaming. Dreaming that she would look so beautiful on the night of the ball, Lord Stacks would only have eyes for her. They would dance together every dance, and everyone would say what a lovely couple they made.

With that fantasy dream in mind, she searched through fashion magazines until she found a picture of a dress that was exactly what she wanted. She took it to Mrs. Baron on the day she and Mrs. Taylor rode into York. She and Mrs. Baron selected a pristine white satin covered with Alencon lace against the protestations of Mrs. Taylor, whose color choice was fuchsia.

"No, that will not quite do for a maiden," Mrs. Baron kindly rebuked Mrs. Taylor. "She must wear white to her first ball."

"Well, it isn't as if this were London," Mrs. Taylor had snippily replied before settling on the fuchsia for herself.

After returning to the abbey and on subsequent afternoons, Mrs. Taylor would play the pianoforte while Freddie and Lord Stacks danced. The only physical contact between the dancing partners occurred the few times their hands would touch for the briefest of seconds. Freddie realized the touch meant nothing to him, but to her it was magical. Ethereal.

She looked forward to learning the waltz.

***

He could put it off no longer, Stacks decided. He would have to demonstrate the waltz to Freddie. He threw a hesitant glance at Mrs. Taylor, whose girth took up a goodly portion of the pianoforte bench. "Play the number on top," he commanded.

Her fingers struck the keys and the up tempo tune filled the library with light, gay music.

Stacks came to stand in front of Freddie. "Unlike the dances you have learned previously, Miss Lambeth," he said stiffly, "the waltz is performed between a man and a woman who rather hold on to one another. Let me show you the steps first." He moved his feet. "One, two, three. One, two, three."

Without being asked to do so, Freddie followed his movement.

He nodded approval. "Very good, Miss Lambeth." His black eyes locked with hers. He stood facing her, less than a foot away. "Would you give me the pleasure of standing up with me?" He told Mrs. Taylor to begin the number again.

Freddie smiled and offered him a dainty hand. He felt his resolve melting with the glow of her smile. His pulse quickened as he placed an arm around her, his hand clasping hers warmly. To cover his feelings of awkwardness, he continued to count. "One, two, three." He could not allow himself to think of her. Of how very good she felt in his arms. Of the soft, gentle feel of her hand.

To his utter humiliation, he felt himself growing hard beneath his breeches and prayed that Freddie would not notice. Ordinarily, most maidens would be unaware of men's bodily actions, but he doubted Freddie's ignorance. After all, she had been at birthing beds and men's sick rooms all of her life. Doubtless, she knew much about the human body.

How could he extricate himself from this situation without her realizing his motive for so doing?

He held her at arm's length. "Well, Miss Lambeth," he said formally, "I think you get the idea. That's enough for today. I need to get with Simpson about the invitations."

He quickly turned on his heel and hastened to his chair behind the massive walnut desk before she could glimpse his crotch.

And he congratulated himself on not giving in to his body.

If only he'd had such resolve with Elizabeth. She might very well still be alive.

Chapter 14

Maggie was fastening a plumed band in Freddie's hair when a knock sounded at the door. Against all logic, Freddie hoped it might be Lord Stacks wanting to see her in private before the guests arrived. She threw a quick glance into the looking glass, her chest heaving with trepidation. It amazed her enormously what a fat purse could do to transform an extremely plain girl into a tolerable looking belle. And Mrs. Baron must be an absolute genius, for the gown she fashioned after Freddie's cut-out magazine picture would undoubtedly dazzle the Princess of Wales herself! The neckline dipped quite low, gathering just below the bosom, and the effect was to make Freddie's breasts appear much larger than they were. Even her bare shoulders looked graceful, sloping into the tiniest puffed sleeves that covered a scant portion of her upper arms.

The lace over the gossamer satin was very sheer and unadorned until it sculpted into an elaborate garland effect at the hemline and the border of the train. Long, white opera-length gloves provided the last elegant touch. She hoped Lord Stacks would be as pleased with her appearance as she was.

"Who is it?" Freddie asked, her heart drumming wildly.

The knob turned. "It's just me," Mrs. Taylor said, sweeping into the room in her fuchsia gown. "I dare not sit for fear of wrinkling."

"How lovely you look," Freddie said. And she really meant it. This was the first time the woman dressed appropriate to her age, no doubt a tribute to Mrs. Baron's excellent ministrations. Mrs. Taylor's eyes narrowed as she watched Maggie spiral wisps of Freddie's errant hair into curls. "I daresay the ugliest duckling could become quite the swan with a skilled abigail and the finest mantuamaker in all of Yorkshire."

Freddie supposed she had just been the recipient of a compliment. "Maggie is talented, is she not?"

Mrs. Taylor nodded. "It would not do to rely on her too much, you know."

"I am well aware that my station will not permit such a luxury indefinitely, if that is what you allude to."

"Dear me," Mrs. Taylor said in her best martyr's voice. "I have had to do my own hair always."

"You do it very well," Freddie said.

The older woman's face brightened. "I did take extra pains tonight since his lordship has asked you and I to stand with him as he greets the guests."

All Freddie could think of was that Lord Stacks had said he would lead her out for the first dance. "Shall we go?"

The two women left the room and walked along the cloister without wraps.

"You are most fortunate, indeed, to have Lord Stacks as your guardian," Mrs. Taylor said.

"I am well aware of the fact, ma'am."

"I daresay you are the charity case to assuage his conscience."

Freddie felt her heart pounding. She knew now to what the odious woman alluded. Had everyone but her known? Still, Freddie refused to nibble at the bait. "Perhaps you are right." Freddie willed herself not to probe. To act as if she knew all there was to know about her guardian. To show that she had no problem whatsoever living under his roof, despite the horrendous things that were said of him.

"Does it not bother you that he strangled his wife with her own sash?"

Freddie's heart drummed madly. By now they had reached the door into the main part of the abbey. Freddie came to an abrupt halt and turned to glare at Mrs. Taylor, whose face was a malevolent mask. Freddie tried to control her own rage and to suppress the anger in her shaking voice. "If I believed such baseless gossip I would hardly still be here, ma'am."

Though she trembled to her very toes, Freddie glided through the library and the tapestry room before meeting her guardian in the great room and forcing a smile.

***

Dressed impeccably in a black velvet top coat, white brocade waistcoat and gray breeches, Stacks made last-minute inspections of the great room-turned-ballroom. He glanced at the five huge chandeliers that hung from the blocked wood of the great hall's ceiling twenty-five feet overhead. Hundreds of candles blazed, casting a yellow glow over the room. A satisfied smile lifted the corner of his mouth.

All that was needed now were the guests. His chest tightened when he thought of them. Not a single regret had been received, yet Stacks feared no one would come. After all, who would want to associate with a murderer?

He tried to tell himself that if no one came, it would be all right. He had managed without society for ten years. And, to be honest, he preferred his garden to balls and routs. He did not really enjoy the paying of false compliments, the dancing with fat matrons, the tediousness of sitting in others' drawing rooms. He'd been perfectly happy without people.

No, that was not entirely true. Though he did not miss the balls and soirees and routs, he had hungered for companionship. He had been terribly lonely. But not since Freddie had come. She had filled that void. She was his intellectual equal. She was skilled at games. She enjoyed working on their book. She seemed perfectly happy to sit with him for hours without uttering a single word.

While he was thinking of her, he heard her gentle voice complimenting one of the footmen, and he turned to look at her. It was Freddie, yet it wasn't. She looked too elegant. Too mature. Too worldly. She looked. . .she looked very lovely. He could not remove his eyes from her as she moved toward him. He'd never thought her a beauty, not like Elizabeth. Yet tonight she was a beauty in her own right.

She sailed up to him and coyly presented her hand. Bowing, he brushed his lips across her dainty fingers. "I find I am quite robbed of words to describe your loveliness, Miss Lambeth."

She smiled and came to stand beside him as Eason announced the first guests.

For the next half hour, he greeted smiling guests and introduced them to his ward and her companion. There was the squire and the vicar and his wife, along with Catherine. Dr. Edgekirth, dressed rather formally, arrived, as did John Rountree with two carriages bearing his siblings and their widowed mother.

Stacks wanted to size up Luke Rountree. He was not quite as handsome as his brother, being a much smaller man. And his dress was far plainer than his brother's--a fact of which Stacks hardily approved. "I understand you're curate at Landsdowne," Stacks said to him.

"Yes, my lord."

"You must come to visit Marshbanks Abbey more."

Casting a quick glance at Freddie, Luke said, "I should like to very much."

"I would hope you are better at whist than your brother."

Luke smiled. "I fear John is the better player."

"A pity," Stacks said. "What are your interests, Mr. Rountree?"

"I'm a tolerable sportsman--and I enjoy turning my pen to poetic pursuits."

Stacks hoped his disappointment did not show as his eyes moved to the person in line behind Mr. Luke Rountree, and he issued a greeting to the young lady dressed in pink.

Stacks' fears of failure were unfounded. Every single person invited came. The hall buzzed with gay voices and rustled with the silk of ball gowns. Stacks found that he was pleased, after all.

When the orchestra started playing, he led Freddie out for the first dance, a quadrille. He did not trust himself to waltz with her. Especially the way she looked tonight. She looked no more like a girl than Mrs. Taylor did. As they danced, he found himself staring at her bosom. Had it always been that big? He watched with pride as she stood in the ladies' line, so much taller than the others. And so much prettier.

Later, he watched as Edgekirth crossed the crowded room at the first strains of the first waltz to solicit Freddie as his partner. Stacks did not at all like watching Edgekirth make a cake of himself over Freddie yet he was unable to remove his eyes from them. He thought the man stood entirely too close to Freddie throughout the intimate dance.

Stacks liked it better when she danced with John Rountree. Of course, she could never be attracted to the nitwit. Stacks watched with interest as Freddie danced with Luke Rountree. He looked for signs that Freddie was in any way enamored of the young curate, but he saw nothing but bland courtesy on her part.

He was angered again when Edgekirth claimed Freddie for the supper dance and watched icily throughout the meal as the doctor solicitously hung on Freddie's every word, hovering over her like a blasted nurse.

Half way through the late-night supper, Mrs. Taylor addressed hi. "I notice you're not dancing." He had particularly requested that the woman's seat be removed from his, but the three guests between them did not deter the woman from talking to him.

"I danced the first dance," he reminded her.

"It is just that I believed you to be mad over dancing," she said. "You're so very good at it." Drawing the attention of Mrs. Farraday, who sat between them, Mrs. Taylor said, "Lord Stacks personally taught Miss Lambeth how to dance."

The vicar's wife raised her brows.

"I must say Miss Farraday looks lovely tonight," Stacks said, rapidly changing the conversation to a topic he knew Mrs. Farraday would welcome.

She broke into an open, friendly smile. "Why, thank you, my lord."

"I must persuade her to stand up with me after supper."

He performed the obligatory dance with Catherine Farraday immediately after supper.

***

A lump in her throat, Freddie watched the long and lean body of her guardian waltz with the lovely Catherine Farraday. He had neither waltzed with nor dined near Freddie. Though she had confidence in her own appearance tonight, Freddie knew she was no match against Catherine's blond beauty. And Catherine was even older than Freddie! Freddie's eyes followed the swirling dancers through eyes blurred with unspilt tears. And she found herself unconsciously counting to the fluid strains of the violins. One, two, three.

Mrs. Taylor came to stand beside Freddie and was there when Edgekirth returned with two glasses of ratafia, promptly offering one of them to Mrs. Taylor. "Fredericka," she said, taking the glass without protest, "you must demonstrate for Dr. Edgekirth how well you do the waltz. He will never believe that you did not dance a single step three weeks ago. I declare, one would think you were straight from the assembly rooms of Almacks!"

"Dare I hope you would so honor me again?" Edgekirth asked. "You are, after all, the most sought after lady here tonight."

It was true. She had danced every dance and been paid more compliments in one evening than she had received in an entire lifetime. Then why did she feel so bereft?

The waltz ended, and a quadrille began. Freddie could consent to a quadrille with the doctor. It wasn't like the waltz. How uncomfortable she had been waltzing with the obviously lovelorn doctor, imagining how glorious it would have been to float around the dance floor in Lord Stack's capable arms.

She could not expel the vision of her guardian waltzing, his arm slipping quite naturally around Catherine Farraday's slender waist.

Freddie faced Edgekirth with chin lifted. "I should be happy to stand up with you once more."

***

It was so very hot, Stacks thought. He had to get out of the room. He pushed through the noisy crowds and past the liveried footmen, through the open doors of the vestibule and settled on the front steps, where he lit a cigar. Better the smoke to shoot from his mouth than his ears. For he was utterly furious. If Freddie herself had not signaled out the blasted doctor, Stacks would bloody well want to call him out. The very gall of the man! Dancing three times with Freddie in one night!

He might as well tell the entire county they were betrothed!

Of all the men for her to lose her heart to, Edgekirth was the least acceptable. John Rountree would have been easier to palate. But, then, Rountree had not the brains to attract Freddie. Unlike Edgekirth. Damn him.

Stacks drew in the pungent tobacco smoke, then expelled it, cursing under his breath. He would be forced to accept what was as plain as the nose on his face. Freddie and Edgekirth were in love. Still. . .Edgekirth should have come to him before flaunting the relationship before all one hundred guests. Stacks would have to speak to him now.

Or should he speak to Freddie first?

Chapter 15

In her state of exhaustion, sleep should have swallowed Freddie like a dark cave. After all, she had never before stayed up all night. Just before dawn she had come to her chamber and undressed herself, having told Maggie not to wait up. Then Freddie and Marmalade slipped beneath the covers of her bed. But unlike Marmalade, who quietly slept beside her, Freddie had not been able to sleep.

It wasn't the hazy early morning sun slanting in her windows that kept her awake. Nor was it the exhilaration of her first dance. Truth be told, she had found herself questioning why all the young ladies of her acquaintance delighted over such events. Perhaps they enjoyed the gaiety and society of fresh faces more than she.

There was only one person whose companionship Freddie craved. And Lord Stacks obviously did not feel the same about her. Only one dance with her all night! On the bright side, he had danced half of his dances with her, for he danced but twice during the course of the ball.

Still, she simmered with resentment that he claimed Catherine Farraday and not her for the waltz. She would positively hate the pretty blond if it weren't for the fact the girl--who seemed of a very sweet nature--gave every indication of being excessively uncomfortable while dancing with the lord of the abbey. The blonde's body was unnaturally rigid and her face lacked animation as she moved stiffly around the dance floor in Lord Stacks' embrace. Not at all like the young lady was when she stood up with Dr. Edgekirth. Then her eyes had danced, her step seemed light, her smile gay.

Freddie wondered why her guardian had not danced more. She had thought during their dancing sessions of the past three weeks that he must enjoy dancing. Perhaps it was that as host he sought to personally talk with every guest. He had seemed rather intent on making his way around the lively ballroom, pausing to pose solicitous inquiries of each attendee. What did she know of the protocol of being a host? Lord Stacks was no doubt doing what was expected of him.

Though he had smiled and was all that was gracious, she sensed her guardian would have preferred to have been elsewhere. He obviously had taken great pains to hold a successful ball for the sole purpose of presenting her to society. Her heart melted at the thought. He was so very good to her.

She could never tell him that she had not found the ball the most heavenly night of her life. His disappointment would crush her. She would have to tell him the evening had been most delightful.

She was expected to sleep until early afternoon. But her mind whirled with visions from the evening past. She remembered how unpleasant it was to be held by Dr. Edgekirth during the waltz. A pity she could not return his ardor. She understood his agony only too keenly, for she dealt with the same unanswered hunger every minute she was with Lord Stacks.

After more than an hour of lying in bed, turning over the same thoughts again and again, she decided to get up. She would merely go to bed early tonight to compensate for the loss of sleep. She threw on a plain muslin day dress and did not bother with her hair. She did not care what she looked like. Only servants would see her. Lord Stacks was sure to be sleeping, as was Mrs. Taylor.

As she stirred around in her chamber, Marmalade leaped from the bed, skimmed across the soft carpet as lightly as a feather, and rubbed his body against Freddie's leg. "Okay, sweet baby," Freddie crooned, stooping to pick him up. "You and I shall go to the library."

***

Still wearing his black evening clothes, Stacks sat behind his desk in the library. He had known sleep would be impossible. He was far too angry. First, there was the business with the unlikable Mrs. Taylor. Why did the woman go out of her way to impute both Freddie and him? Telling Mrs. Farraday that he had been instructing Freddie on the art of dance was no accidental remark. It had been calculated to reveal an unhealthy intimacy between himself and Freddie.

What could be the woman's motivation, other than anger at him for the set-down he had given her? But why did she desire to malign Freddie? He would wager Freddie had never been anything but amiable to her companion. Could it be the wretched woman was jealous of the poor orphan? Why would a woman who had been a debutant, who had seen a good bit of the world, who had been loved by a man, envy a girl who lacked fortune and love and was not even possessed of great beauty?

He had warned Mrs. Taylor that he would dismiss her if she erred in judgment again. But to dismiss her was to make Freddie the brunt of malicious gossip.

The other person rankling him was Edgekirth. And this matter troubled him more gravely than the Mrs. Taylor situation, for it could not be resolved as satisfactorily. Though Stacks despised Edgekirth, he was surprised the doctor would promote so clandestine a courtship with Freddie. After all, Edgekirth had always been noted for his honesty and integrity. Slyly wooing an eighteen-year-old maiden was an act unworthy of an honorable man.

If Freddie was in love with Edgekirth, Stacks had no recourse but to bless the union. But then he would never be able to see her again. The muscle in his jaw tightened at the thought.

The library door slowly opened, and he looked up to see Freddie. She carried that orange cat against her breast. Unlike last night, her breasts were well covered today in a cotton dress that came up to her throat and covered her arms all the way to her wrists. All her bareness of last night was now covered. And Freddie once again looked like a girl. Not the seductress of last night. He pictured her waltzing with the Edgekirth, and his fury grew. He remembered with hostility the hunger that leapt to Edgekirth's eyes when he had placed his arm around Freddie's bare back. And the look of contentment that had washed across Edgekirth's face as he sat next to Freddie during dinner was etched on Stack's memory like a bad dream. He could gladly run his sword cleanly through Edgekirth!

"Good morning, Miss Lambeth," he said. Funny, whenever he thought of her, he thought of her as Freddie, but when he spoke, he addressed her as Miss Lambeth. It was just as well. There were already enough evil things said about him without adding child molestation to the list.

She looked surprised to see him in the library. "My lord! You have not gone to bed?"

"It appears I share your malady."

She came to sit in the chair where she usually sat facing his desk. She began to stroke the soft white fur that grew under Marmalade's neck as the cat curled in her lap, purring contentedly. "There is much too much on my mind for me to possibly sleep."

He sat back in his red leather chair. "You enjoyed yourself last night?"

"Oh yes, my lord. It was a wonderful evening. Thank you for everything."

He watched her intently. He could put it off no longer. He would ask her now about Edgekirth. He really did not want to hear the answer, but he had to know. "Is there anything you have been wanting to tell me, Miss Lambeth?"

Her clear green eyes studied him. She looked nervous. His heart hammered.

"Yes, actually," she said in a hoarse whisper.

She looked to be shaking.

"Come, Miss Lambeth, I won't bite."

She tried to smile, but her lips were stiff. "It's about the late Lady Stacks."

His brows drew together, and he felt the blood drain from his face.

"Some people say you killed her. I would like you to tell me if that is true."

God but she had asked him so earnestly! Leave it to her with her purity and honesty to come to him with the accusations. So trusting and open. Slowly he raised his eyes and looked at her squarely. "I could never murder anyone."

She smiled. A little half smile. "Then I believe you, my lord."

Her faith in him was a heavy burden, indeed. If only he could be worthy of it.

He steepled his hands, still watching her. "Is there nothing else you wish to tell me?" he asked.

Her eyes travelled lazily over his features, and she swallowed. "No," she said shyly.

"Are you not in love with Edgekirth?"

"Of course not!" she shrieked. "Whatever would make you think that?"

"The fact that you danced with him three times, my dear. Did Mrs. Taylor not tell you that is simply not done? Not unless there is an understanding."

"Goodness no!" Freddie said with indignation. "Mrs. Taylor not only neglected to tell me that rule," she said angrily, "but she gave me encouragement to dance the third dance with Dr. Edgekirth."

"And you have never given her any reason to believe that you and the doctor have an understanding?"

"Never," she said loudly and distinctly, an alien harshness in her voice.

Stacks ran his hand through his thick hair. "It seems I need to talk with Mrs. Taylor."

Freddie smiled. "I perceive you would have been an indulgent but firm father." Her voice softened. "Has that ever bothered you--not having children?"

He avoided her gaze. "Yes," he confessed. "I suppose that's why I was delighted to learn Frederick's child was to come live with me."

"And how disappointed you must have been to learn that child was a girl."

"I was not disappointed in your gender but in the fact that because of your gender you would not be able to stay at the abbey." He gave her a reassuring smile.

"Because of your reputation?"

God, but she spoke bluntly. "That. And the fact that it's not proper for an unmarried man and an unmarried maiden to live under the same roof without benefit of a chaperon."

"There you have it!" Freddie said mischievously. "Mrs. Taylor has been good for something, after all."

"You wicked girl," he said playfully. He was concerned Freddie would not feel wanted. "I want you to know that no lad could have been more to my liking than you. It seems we have much in common."

"Thank you, my lord," she said shyly. "It is my good fortune you had no family, though it is regrettable for you. You would have been a wonderful husband and father."

"You see none of my many faults," he said, flipping through papers, trying to keep her from delving so closely into his inner self.

"I should not like to share you with a family, you know," she said frankly, peering earnestly at him.

Marmalade got up, stretched, then trotted toward the window wall and leaped to the window's ledge, where he promptly lay in the warm sunshine.

He watched the cat in order to keep from staring at the precious girl who sat before him. The girl who gripped his heart so thoroughly. The girl he could never hurt.

He forced a cough and got to his feet. "If you'll excuse me, I need to speak with Mrs. Taylor."

***

He drummed his fingers angrily on the walnut desk in the upstairs drawing room. He had dispatched a letter to his solicitor regarding a replacement for Mrs. Taylor, he'd had Simpson get the coins ready with which to pay Mrs. Taylor and sent Roberts to Morton to determine when the next coach to London would be.

Stacks was far too dissatisfied and too angry to consider keeping the woman any longer, even if dismissing her would harm Freddie's reputation. Perhaps no one need learn of Mrs. Taylor's departure until her replacement came. Except for the faux pas last night of dancing thrice with Edgekirth, Freddie's position in society seemed firmly established, Stacks thought with satisfaction. Several men had already come today to leave their cards and posies for her. She was safely launched--provided the vicar's wife did not repeat the tale of him dancing for three weeks with Freddie. He silently implored the lady to hold her tongue.

Wearing her widow's cap, probably because she had no time to arrange her hair, Mrs. Taylor let herself into the upstairs drawing room where Stacks awaited. "You wished to see me?"

"Sit down," he commanded, indicating a chair a few feet from him.

Mrs. Taylor did as bid and looked up at him, fear in her eyes.

He shot her a cold look. "You will recall I warned you of dismissal if there was another breach of propriety on your part."

"But I've done nothing!"

He squared his shoulders and leaned toward her, his voice stern when he spoke. "Twice last night you schemed to place my ward in an unfavorable position."

Her brows plunged together, and her mouth dropped open. "How?"

"First, at supper. Do you not recall," he said icily, "telling Mrs. Farraday that I personally taught Miss Lambeth to dance? As a mature woman, you should know that such an activity might be considered inappropriate in some circles. I, for one, would never have considered instructing my ward had there been time to send to London for a dancing master."

"If you did not want it known that you instructed Miss Lambeth at dance, you should have told me. I am not clairvoyant," she said haughtily.

He gave her a hostile glare. "But you are insolent." He fingered the ruffled cuff he still wore from the night before. "Secondly, you encouraged Miss Lambeth to dance a third dance with Dr. Edgekirth. Do not tell me you did not know the rules of etiquette regarding dance for I specifically hired you because of your background."

Her black eyes flashed with anger. "My, aren't you a fine one to be talking of proper behavior, what with your wicked ways."

He tossed a bag of coins at her. "That will be all! You are paid through the quarter and will leave on the first coach to London."

She rose, her round face contorted with evil. "Oh, I'll leave all right. But I'll tell everyone about you and your little ward. And don't be surprised if her high and mighty uncle doesn't come down on you."

"Madam," he said evenly, the veins at his temple tightening, "you have overstayed your welcome."

Chapter 16

Stacks glanced in the looking glass. "We've done a tolerable job of getting the dirt off me," he told Roberts as the valet grimaced at the muddied boots and put them aside. "It's time I make a fatherly appearance in the drawing room where Miss Lambeth is holding court with her admirers."

"You're not a father, and if you ask me, Miss Freddie Lambeth doesn't wish you to be," the valet said.

Stacks strolled from the dressing room, looking back over his shoulder. "No one asked you." He walked through the great hall and up the stairs to the drawing room, chiding himself every step of the way. Freddie was entertaining callers only because it was his wish to find her a husband to keep her from marrying Edgekirth.

And now Freddie had informed him she had no understanding with the doctor. Why had he not talked to her before jumping his gun? Now, he had expended a great deal of energy and a substantial sum of money to hold a ball to introduce his ward. To make the situation even more unpalatable, he was being forced to leave what he enjoyed most on earth in order to sit in a blasted drawing room and pretend to appreciate the conversation of young bucks and misses barely out of the schoolroom. Yesterday, the squire, newly widowed at age twenty-seven, had called on Freddie. Today it was a slew of Rountrees--John, his curate brother, and three of their sisters.

Added to that were the daily visits of Edgekirth, whose excuses for foisting himself upon Freddie were becoming ridiculous.

As soon as Stacks reached the top of the stairs he heard their laughter. He should be pleased Freddie was mixing with those of her own age. Yet something bothered him. Though she was most amiable when with the others, he always felt her pleasantness was not sincere--unlike the natural gaiety that came so readily when she was playing cards with him and working alongside him in the quadrangle.

It seemed hard to remember how quiet and lonely Marshbanks Abbey was before Freddie came, before each new day opened with excitement and anticipation, each night ending with camaraderie. He and Freddie had grown familiar and comfortable with one another.

Was this how it was with parents and their children? Was it a filial bond between him and Frederick's girl?

"Lord Stacks!" Freddie shrieked as he walked into the room. "How very good of you to come visit with us."

He noted with approval that Maggie sat in a corner of the room, sewing. Freddie had been instructed to tell her acquaintances that Mrs. Taylor had been called away to her aunt's sick bed. Freddie had assured Stacks she preferred Maggie's company to Mrs. Taylor's tenfold. Though not once had Freddie complained about the afternoon sessions with Mrs. Taylor, she now confessed that she had held neither them, nor her companion, in high regard.

On the first afternoon after Mrs. Taylor left, a smiling Freddie confided to her guardian that she felt like a bird released from captivity. His feelings, exactly, though he would be loathe to admit it.

Stacks sat down in a sturdy Tudor chair near Freddie, who was seated on a silk damask sofa.

"You remember Miss Cynthia Rountree and the other sister, Josephine Rountree," she said, indicating the two young blond ladies who shared the sofa with her. He fleetingly wondered if they were twins.

He smiled and greeted them, then Freddie introduced the third sister, Denise, who had dark hair like the brothers she sat between. Stacks greeted them all.

"I vow, my lord," Josephine said, "I don't know when I ever had so much fun as at your ball."

Denise giggled. "We cannot wait for you to host another one."

"There's to be an assembly in Landsdowne early next month," Luke Rountree said, a hopeful arch to his brow.

"You must come, Miss Lambeth," John Rountree said with excitement.

Freddie looked at her guardian.

He smiled. "I should like for my ward to participate."

"And you too, Lord Stacks," Denise said, fluttering her dark lashes.

Freddie poured him tea. She did not have to ask how he liked it. It seemed she knew so much about him, she could communicate without words. Two heaping spoons of sugar. And--appalling to her--no milk.

She smiled as she handed it to him.

"In fact," Denise said, directing her attention at Stacks, "it would please Mama ever so much if Lord Stacks and Miss Lambeth would call at Thistledown. We so rarely have interesting company."

"We should like that," Stacks said, "however, at this time I've been rather busy with my botanical book."

Denise and Josephine threw admiring looks at Stacks. "You're writing a book?" Josephine asked.

"My guardian is one of the country's leading experts on flora and fauna," Freddie said with pride.

"Do not place too much credence in my ward's hyperbole. I daresay she is not totally impartial."

Freddie shot him a look of mock reproach, then turned to the Misses Rountree. "He has written many ground-breaking articles on hybridization."

"Fauna and hy-bird-zation!" Denise said. "I declare, I am quite mystified by such talk though I daresay his lordship is vastly intelligent. Everyone says so."

A look of pride swept across Freddie's face. "His book is to be the most comprehensive ever published on plant life in England."

"Miss Lambeth is doing the book's illustrations," Stacks added.

Luke Rountree turned appreciative eyes on Freddie. "I should be honored to see some of the pictures you have done, Miss Lambeth."

"You shan't until the book is published," Freddie said. "I have no other watercolors to display."

"Miss Lambeth is a very gifted artist," Stacks said. "She has only recently learned to paint though she has always drawn exceptionally well."

"How envious I am!" Josephine said. "I adore painting, but I fear my finished product never looks like my model, nor does it look anything like what I wish it to resemble."

Her sisters nodded in agreement.

"Miss Lambeth is wonderfully talented," John Rountree said. "Did you know she has assisted Dr. Edgekirth by preparing many of the elixirs and poultices he uses? She is knowledgeable about astrology and herbs and any manner of things."

"Not to mention that she can read Latin and Greek, too," Luke Rountree said.

Cynthia's mouth dropped open. "I'm in utter awe. However did you learn such skills?"

"From my father," Freddie answered. "He was a surgeon."

"He attended Oxford with me," Stacks interjected.

"Dr. Edgekirth informs us that she knows as much about doctoring and apothecary as anyone he's ever known," John Rountree said.

Eason knocked on the door, entered the drawing room and addressed Freddie. "Dr. Edgekirth to see you, miss."

"Show him up, if you please," Freddie said as if she had been commanding servants all her life, a fact that amused Stacks. Though he still detested the doctor, he no longer wanted to run his sword through him. He did not have to worry he would immediately marry Freddie.

Was Edgekirth the one who had told Freddie about Elizabeth's death? Or had it been Mrs. Taylor? Or one of the servants, Stacks wondered.

He supposed he should not take such keen delight in Edgekirth's suffering. For the man was so besotted over Freddie, Stacks wondered how he ate or slept at all. It was obvious he could not stand the sight on John and Luke Rountree sitting in Freddie's drawing room. Yesterday, he had bristled over the squire's presence in the parlor.

Stacks sat back and watched Edgekirth's discomfort, a smile on his face. He smiled, too, as he wondered what excuse Edgekirth would have for today's visit.

He did not have to wait long to find out. As the Rountrees got up to take their leave, Edgekirth said, "Miss Lambeth, there is a case I wish to consult you about. I had hoped you and I could discuss it while we take a walk around the park."

Freddie threw an almost panicked glance at Stacks, but he was not going to interfere. "It's a lovely day for a walk, Miss Lambeth," Stacks said.

***

It had been Freddie's ardent hope that Lord Stacks would intercede, telling the doctor that Freddie would not be able to walk with him today. But, alas, she was once again on her own with Dr. Edgekirth. She hoped they would talk professionally and that he would not mention again his desire to wed her, for that was a subject which caused her great distress.

She wore a green cotton summer dress with a coordinating bonnet, and hooked her arm through the doctor's as they took their first lap around the park. The gardeners were working, and dogwoods were in full bloom now, their beds a showy pink. She and Edgekirth travelled slowly along the gravel path that circled the park.

"About that case?" Freddie began.

"Yes. Well, my patient, I'll call Mrs. Jones, is thirty years old and has been married for eleven years. To have a child is her fondest wish, but she has not been able to carry one."

"She has conceived?"

He nodded. "Many times, but they seem always to end in miscarriage."

"Oh, the poor woman," Freddie lamented. After a moment of consideration, she said, "Because of her delicate constitution for carrying babes, I believe she should take to her bed at the first sign of pregnancy. It is my belief that the wombs of women who are predisposed to miscarriages are too thin, and the act of standing puts excessive strain on them."

He slapped a hand to his forehead. "That seems such a matter of common sense I cannot believe I had never considered it before."

"Have you given Mrs. Jones any remedies while she was still with child?"

"No."

"We have had some success with a plaister made of the fruit of the medlar tree, but the fruit must be applied before it rots, even if they are quite hard. The plaister needs to placed in the reins of the back."

"Where can I find a medlar tree?"

"I'm sure my guardian must have one somewhere. The problem is, they do not bear fruit until September."

"A pity."

"Then she is with child again?"

He nodded.

"Get her to bed at once and insist that she stay there. At the first sign of fruit--if she is still with child--I will help with the plaister."

He laid his hand atop hers. "It is such a comfort to have you to talk with."

She had to change the subject. But the only thing she could think of was her burning desire to find out how Elizabeth had died. Not that Freddie in any way felt Lord Stacks could possibly be to blame. He had told her he did not kill his wife. And she believed him.

She drew a deep breath, then tilted her face toward Edgekirth's. "You said you were in love with Elizabeth. Did you have an affair with her?"

He removed his hand from hers, his lips thinned. "No."

"Did she know how you felt?"

"I'm not sure. I never told her."

Freddie thought about all the accidents that had befallen Elizabeth. "Do you think she was in love with her husband?"

His face was grim. "No. For if she had, she would not have asked me to be her lover."

Chapter 17

Freddie watched as a gardener sculpted a tall yew with his pruning shears. She swallowed over the lump in her throat, trying to absorb the doctor's words. Elizabeth had wanted to be lovers with Dr. Edgekirth! Had the woman been utterly mad? How could she not worship the man who was her husband? Then, jarringly, Freddie thought of what Dr. Edgekirth had said about Lord Stacks' supposed cruelties. Could he possibly have been cruel to his wife? Such acts were alien to his caring nature. But then Freddie remembered how shocked everyone in Chelseymeade had been when it was learned Abe Livingston, an elder of the church, a gentle man who took in stray dogs, had for years been beating his wife senseless. Still, there was no way Freddie would ever believe Lord Stacks capable of harming anyone.

"It's such a delicate matter to be speaking to a young lady about," Edgekirth said. "But I never think of you as a young lady. You have such a great maturity."

She gave a little squeeze to his arm. "I feel much older than my years. Until I came to Marshbanks Abbey I had never in my life been babied."

He gave her a puzzled glance, then continued. "I really should not speak to you about Elizabeth."

Freddie studied his tanned face, the lock of golden hair that fell across his brow. And she understood how a woman could be attracted to the doctor. But not if that woman had lived under the same roof with Thomas Winthrop, the Baron of Stacks. To know him was to love him. "You called her Elizabeth?"

He shook his head. "Never."

"Yet she wanted to be your lover." Freddie released her words to the air. She could neither glance at nor quite believe Dr. Edgekirth stood beside her, that they were having this conversation.

He did not look at her either as they strolled along the sloped park. His voice was uneven when he spoke. "I was forever attending Lady Stacks for her never-ending injuries. Toward the end, she told me she and her husband did not have sexual relations." Edgekirth swallowed hard. "She stroked my arm and said she needed me."

The beauty of the portrait came even more alive now. Freddie could picture Elizabeth reaching out to Edgekirth, her voice smooth, her blue eyes simmering with desire. Desire that was not for her husband. For an instant, Freddie hated the woman. She supposed she had always hated her, but the current intensity of the hatred surprised her. "It must have been very difficult for you to refuse her."

"It was the hardest thing I've ever done."

"But a man of honor cannot take another man's wife--even if he despises the other man."

He did not answer. "I despise him to the very core of my soul." His eyes were hot and angry when he kicked gravel and turned smoldering eyes on Freddie. "I cannot bear having you under that man's roof."

"He will never harm me," she said softly. Speaking of her guardian, like thinking of him, demanded soft words and mellow thoughts. "You saw for yourself how he worried about me when I was sick."

His lips thinned. "It was the same with Elizabeth."

"It is his nature to administer care. Not just with his purse but in the little things. Like giving me the kitten. He is forever thoughtful."

"But there is another side to him."

"I cannot believe that."

"His wife told me that he would not make love to her. Doesn't that show you he didn't care for her? That he could do those terrible things to her?"

"It does not! If he did not partake of his conjugal rights, there had to be a reason--something she did perhaps." She stopped to snap off a pink bloom, then she shot a questioning glance at the doctor. "How did she die?"

"She was hanged."

Freddie spun around, a flicker of triumph in her eyes. "See! She killed herself!"

"That was the ruling at the inquest. But there were just too many cases of abuse before the ultimate act. There were stories, too, about her death."

She linked her arm through his again. "What kind of stories?"

"They say she was completely unclothed when her body was found." He kept walking forward, his vision straight ahead.

"Who found the body?"

"Stacks."

"Was he upset?"

"How would it have looked if he wasn't? Oh yes, he put on a show of grief."

"I don't believe it was a show."

He patted her hand. "You're so trusting. I suppose that's one of the things I love about you, Freddie."

Her throat constricted. "My guardian would not like for you to call me Freddie."

"To hell with your guardian!"

She stiffened. "To lambast him is to alienate me."

"Damn him."

They walked their final lap in silence.

***

Her hands thrust on her hips, Freddie shot a gleeful look at Marmalade, who was playing with a plant. "I daresay Mr. Marmalade has all but destroyed your catmint plant, my lord."

Stacks stopped his toil, wiped his brow, and cast a bemused glance at the cat. "It will grow back." He watched Freddie move along the garden path. She wore a saffron colored muslin today and looked incredibly graceful. How correct Mrs. Baron had been when she said Freddie would wear clothes well because of her height. Even in the shabby clothes she had arrived in, she had possessed an odd elegance that had transcended her faded being.

"Have you any burnet saxifrage?" Freddie asked.

A half smile broke across his face. "And what potion do you plan to make with it?"

"I plan to use it to remove these hideous freckles that insist on dotting my nose."

He got to his feet, brushed off the dirt from his knees and hands, and walked over to Freddie. "Allow me," he said, lifting back her bonnet. He scrutinized her face. It was but inches from him. He could smell the light scent of lavender on her and see the golden specks in her eyes. He could hear the heaving of her breathing and feel her warm breath. And he was swamped by powerful emotions he could not put into words. He had an overwhelming desire to kiss her.

Then he was sickened by the thought. Would he destroy her, like he had Elizabeth?

"Oblige me by not removing the freckles. I find them delightful."

She pouted. "I assure you a lady does not want to be delightful. She wants to be pretty."

He stood back. "You are pretty. Your freckles are part of your allure."

Her eyes sparkled. "I have allure?"

"You have allure."

"You are sure I do not need the burnet saxifrage?"

"You do not need the burnet saxifrage."

She stooped to lift Marmalade, rubbing her own cheek against his, her face alight with happiness. "Dare we hope we have no callers today? I long for it to be just you and I and Marmalade under the sun and sky."

Had she invaded his very thoughts? "Shall I tell Eason we are not at home?"

A wicked smile played at her lips. "Oh yes!"

So he had been right about her. She enjoyed the boring acquaintances no more than he. Just one more tie binding them. Freddie and him. Sometimes it was hard to believe she was only eighteen. She seemed equal to his own thirty-seven years.

Yet at other times, he was convinced he thought of her as a child. As the child he would never have. He delighted in giving her shelter and making it possible for her to have fine clothes, but his possessiveness toward her went far deeper than the external. He sometimes felt she was his child, she was so very much like him. Her interest in his garden and in his book was genuine. A warmth spread over him when he thought of how competitive she was when they played with the pasteboards. Exactly like him. And she was skilled, too.

But then he thought of the unnatural waves of desire she elicited in him. Surely no father would ever...should ever...Dare he even put his thoughts to words?

Then, a self-loathing swept over him. How could he feel that way toward Frederick's child? How could he feel that way over any woman after what had happened to Elizabeth?

Always his thoughts went back to Elizabeth. He rued the day he first beheld her laughing blue eyes.

***

Astride Bay Lady, riding next to her guardian, Freddie's heart soared. A warmth, not just from the glowing sun overhead, seeped into her like smooth brandy. He had said she was pretty! He had said she had allure! He liked her freckles! Surely her looking glass lied. She must be the most beautiful girl ever. At least that was how she felt at this minute under the cerulean skies, the sea breezes blowing through her wavy tresses, the tang of salt water in the air, the heron lazily meandering overhead.

And just the two of them.

"Think you this a promising place for our picnic?" he asked, his gaze alighting on a single elm, its limbs reaching out over a clump of verdant grass like an umbrella. It was a short distance off their bridle path.

She looked at the stern cut of Lord Stacks' jaw, his pensive jet eyes, and she nodded.

He helped her down from Bay Lady before he spread out the picnic offerings. She smoothed out her skirts on the blanket, watching him unpack the basket Cook had packed. There was a bottle of wine, two hard-cooked eggs, a half loaf of bread, and two plums.

When he finished, he sat down facing her. She would have preferred him at her side. He poured a glass of wine and handed it to her. Then he poured one for himself.

"I feel as if we should be toasting something," she said.

He held out his glass. "Shall we wish for you a sensational mate, Miss Lambeth?"

She slowly clanged her glass to his, her face worried. Was he in a hurry to be rid of her? At least he wanted a sensational mate for her. There was only one mate for her, she thought morosely. And he would be sensational. She closed her eyes and thought of being enfolded in Lord Stack's strong embrace, of resting her face against his chest, of lifting her lips to his. She grew hot as she imagined what it would feel like to have his mouth on hers, his tongue parting her lips. A wet heat centered between her legs. Her thoughts drifted even further away. She thought of lying with him, wet flesh against wet flesh. She could almost feel his mouth close around one breast.

"You do not look happy," he said to her.

She drew a deep breath and faced him. "It seems my company grows tedious for you. You are in so great a haste to marry me off, to be rid of me."

He reached out and touched a finger to her cheek. "I attempt to be selfless, Miss Lambeth. I want what is best for you. For myself, I would have you at Marshbanks Abbey until the end of my days."

Until the end of his days. If only. . . "Imagine how many books we could do, given that length of time, my lord." A smile shone in her eyes, in the uplifted tilt of her mouth.

He studied her face for a moment. "I believe the prospect does not offend you."

"You must believe me when I tell you I've never been happier than in these past few months at the abbey." She had wanted to say these past few months with you.

"Then your life must have been singularly uneventful before."

She smiled. "That, too."

He took a sip of wine, peering at her over the rim of his glass. "Do you miss your father?"

She gathered a handful of soft fabric from her skirt into her hand. "To be honest, no."

His brows lowered. "How can that be? You seem to worry over every creature. You are so very caring."

"The exact word I would use to describe you, my lord. However, caring is not a word I would use to describe my father, although he did care very much for my mother. Unfortunately, he held me responsible for taking her from him."

"But that's ridiculous! You didn't ask to be born!"

"He did not see it that way."

Stacks watched the leaves of the tree shimmer in the breeze and did not speak for a moment. "So that explains why your education in the feminine arts was so neglected."

She nodded. "You have shown me more love in these past few months than I received in an entire lifetime." She felt her cheeks growing hot. Why had she used the word love? She had not meant to burden him with details of her unhappy life, but she felt incredibly open whenever she was with him. "That is why I've been so happy here, why I am in no hurry to leave the walls of Marshbanks Abbey."

He reached out and took her hand. "You have a home here for as long as you want."

She looked up at him, her eyes swimming in pools of unshed tears.

Lord Stacks was moving to her. She felt his arms close around her. She felt his warm breath on her cheek, and she lifted her face to receive his kiss.

Chapter 18

In the quadrangle, he had told her she had allure. But never had she been possessed of more allure than when she sat there under the elm tree, sun dappling her pretty face through the tree's leaves. And she told him she had never been loved until she came to Marshbanks Abbey. Not until she uttered those words could he have realized the powerful emotions that had been battling within him since the ragged orphan had shown up at his home, so proud and vulnerable.

He had wanted to blanket her with his care, to let her know that he did, indeed, love her as her father never had.

But not as a lover.

Then why, he asked himself, did he force what must have been his repugnant physical presence on her? Why had he kissed her so seductively?

Their lips had come together as bees to nectar, his breathing heavy and urgent, his tongue reaching deep inside her.

In a frenzy of mindless passion, he suddenly had seemed detached from the physical act he participated in. It was like he was a great omniscient being looking down at a mortal man who had fallen prey to his own selfish cravings and trapped a helpless, grateful maiden in his vile clutches.

With that disturbing vision impressed into his mind, Stacks had been able to pull away from Freddie, to gaze at her stunned face with a semblance of somber dignity despite the disturbing sexual stirrings within him.

He had withdrawn from her and attempted to still the rapid beating of his heart, to allow his breath to grow even before he spoke. At first he could not look at her. He busied himself with putting back the remnants of their lunch. Eventually he had found his voice. "I cannot ask your forgiveness, Miss Lambeth. What I have done is unpardonable." He had gotten to his feet and mounted Lucifer.

"I shall have a footman come back for the leavings of our picnic." Looking off into the distance, he spoke quietly. "Now you must understand why a woman such as Mrs. Taylor was necessary to protect you from me. I find I must remove myself from your presence, Miss Lambeth. I owe you respect. You, dear one, owe me nothing."

***

He had ridden off. From the depths of her befuddled soul, Freddie had wanted to call after him. His name, Thomas, had fallen softly from her lips as his vision on the stormy black stallion grew dimmer. Come back, Thomas, my love. But she had been too timid to speak her mind, to speak her heart.

She sat there on the blanket, their blanket, the sensations of his powerful kiss numbing her. She could still feel the softness of his lips on hers, the waves of delight washing over her as she felt his long arms wrap about her. She could still fee his satisfying warmth and smell his musky scent, could taste the wine on his breath.

For a mindless moment she had known a satisfaction so deep it reached into her very heart. But as quickly as it had come, it had vanished, leaving her completely bereft. The wind from the sea began to chill her. Thomas, Thomas, she cried from her soul.

Then, like a hug from a favorite grandmother, she felt comforted. She remembered his last words to her. Dear one. Would that his words rang true.

Great tears began to fall. She could not tell if they were from the emptiness caused by his absence or if they were tears of happiness over being called his dear one.

After she allowed herself the satisfaction of a good cry, she mounted Bay Lady and rode back in the direction of the abbey. When she got to the park, she came abreast of Dr. Edgekirth, who was on foot.

He helped her dismount. "Lord Stacks informed me you stayed behind from a picnic to study Yorkshire plant life."

She nodded self consciously.

"I don't believe him," Edgekirth said, stopping abruptly and spinning toward Freddie, anger flashing in his eyes. "Did the fiend harm you?" He watched her grimly.

Her face colored. "Oh course not!"

He continued to study her, his eyes simmering. "I'll kill him if he harmed you in any way."

"How many times do I have to tell you Lord Stacks is incapable of harming anyone?"

Edgekirth had neither taken a step nor removed his gaze from her. "Something's wrong," he said. "Something happened between you and Stacks. Out there."

"Nonsense!" Freddie said defensively.

"I'll kill him if he laid a finger on you."

"He did not lay a finger on me."

He lifted her chin with a firm hand. "Then why do you blush?"

"It is merely the sun on my face."

"Did he kiss you?"

She felt as if he could see the imprint of Lord Stacks' lips upon hers, and she refused to answer.

"Your silence tells me what I want to know. No," he amended, his mouth twisted with anger, "let that be what I did not want to know."

She laid a hand on his arm. "Do not think ill of Lord Stacks. He is truly a gentleman. He suffers great distress over his action."

"As well he should," Edgekirth snapped. "The man is as a father to you, which is fitting, given his age."

"And how old are you, doctor?" she challenged.

"I'm thirty-five."

"And his lordship is thirty-seven."

"But you are only eighteen!"

"You yourself said I seem much older. You would not allow my age to be a barrier to a relationship, would you?"

"But that's different. I am not your guardian."

She shrugged. "It matters not. My guardian looks at things as you do. He does not want to feel any attraction to me. I am merely a child who is in his care."

"As it should be," Edgekirth said, offering his arm to Freddie.

He folded his mouth grimly and did not speak for some time. "If he ever hurts you, I will know," he said. "And I will retaliate this time."

"Your fears are completely unfounded."

"I hope you're right, Freddie."

"I told you Lord Stacks would not like for you to call me Freddie."

"Has he ever called you that?"

"Of course not!" But he had called her dear one. The thought brought happiness.

"I can be a very patient man. I plan to wait however long it takes to get what I want." His voice softened. "Just know I will always be here for you."

They took two turns about the park before he walked her back to the abbey where Eason awaited.

Turning his attention to the doctor, Eason said, "Lord Stacks requests the pleasure of your company for dinner tonight."

A smile flickered across the doctor's face. "I should be delighted to oblige."

"His lordship hopes for a good turnout," Eason said.

***

When Freddie came to dinner she was surprised to find not only the doctor there, but Squire Whitcombe, the vicar and Mrs. Farraday along with their daughter Catherine, and five Rountrees. To Freddie's chagrin, Denise Rountree wore a fetching peach silk dress with an uncommonly low neckline, and she directed her full attention at Lord Stacks.

To distress Freddie even further, she found herself at the opposite end of the table from her guardian, and saw that Denise Rountree was seated at her guardian's left hand.

Luke Rountree was on one side of Freddie, Tobias Whitcombe on the other, and both men seemed bent on fixing her attention.

"Allow me to say that color becomes you, Miss Lambeth," Mr. Whitcombe said of Freddie's pea green dress. "Methinks it would look very fine on my little girl." Freddie tried to remember back to the only time she had seen the squire's two children on the steps of the church. She vaguely recalled that the little girl was freckled with great green eyes.

"To be sure," Freddie said. "How long has it been since she lost her mother?"

"Fifteen months."

"How very hard it must be on the children," Freddie said with true feeling.

"Indeed it is," Mr. Whitcombe said.

"Do you plan to attend the assembly at Landsdowne?" Luke Rountree asked the squire.

"First I've heard of it," Mr. Whitcombe said.

"I believe Miss Lambeth and her guardian plan to attend," Luke said.

Freddie's only recollection of the event was when Luke had brought it up at their last dinner here, and Lord Stacks had displayed nothing more than mild courtesy.

"When is it to be?" Freddie asked.

"Next Friday."

Ten days away, Freddie thought. "You must be sure to remind Lord Stacks again of the event."

Throughout dinner Freddie noticed that John Rountree paid her only minimal attention, no more than he gave to Catherine Farraday. It was in marked contrast to his overtures the last night they had dined together. On the other hand, Luke Rountree's interest in her had greatly increased. Was there a pact between the brothers? Had Luke selected her for particular intentions? She thought for a moment on what kind of wife would do for a country cleric with slim financial prospects. She supposed she was made to order for him. John had likely given her up readily. A first son could do better.

She studied her guardian to see if he watched her and Luke. Would the curate be to his liking for her prospective husband? But Lord Stacks hardly glanced in her direction all night.

After dinner the women advanced to the great room while the men stayed behind to drink port and smoke cigars.

"Such a lovely dinner!" Mrs. Farraday exclaimed. "You must enjoy having the opportunity to make your home here, Miss Lambeth."

"Indeed. The abbey is a fine place, and Lord Stacks a solicitous guardian."

"The dining room is positively spectacular," Josephine Rountree said. "I daresay, forty could be seated at the magnificent table."

"The most beautiful thing in the room is the portrait of Lady Stacks," Denise said thoughtfully. "I never met her--being but a child when she died--but Mama said she was the most beautiful woman ever."

Throughout dinner Freddie had avoided looking at Elizabeth's portrait, preferring to imagine she herself was as lovely as Elizabeth, that she had dazzled Lord Stacks. But now she realized with the cool clarity of a country church bell that she could never replace the devotion demanded of the woman in the portrait.

"If the painting captures even part of her beauty, she must have been the most beautiful creature to ever have drawn breath," Josephine Rountree said. "You know, it is said. . ." She stopped abruptly, coloring.

"Well, dear me," Mrs. Farraday said. "What a very fine dinner it was. Should you like to play for us, my dear," she asked her daughter. Catherine Farraday moved gracefully to the pianoforte and played until the men entered the room.

Lord Stacks applauded her play, then asked each Miss Rountree, in turn, to favor the group with a performance.

When they finished, Freddie timidly met her guardian's gaze and said, "I am but a novice, even more so compared to the gifted performers we have heard tonight, but I should like to surprise you with a new piece I have learned."

"Please, Miss Lambeth," he encouraged.

Her heart raced as she moved soundlessly across the Oriental carpet, lowered herself onto the pianoforte bench and began to play by heart. Since her days were no longer filled with sessions with Mrs. Taylor, Freddie had spent hours practicing her music. She had learned from memory a song titled Bough of Love. Her guardian had deemed it too difficult for her, therefore, she had learned it on her own to surprise him. She had practiced it hundreds of times while he tended his garden. Eventually, her fingers glided over the keys familiarly, as they did tonight.

When she finished, she met his admiring gaze and smiled.

He clapped, sheer admiration in his eyes. "Well done, indeed, Miss Lambeth."

She looked at Dr. Edgekirth, who also applauded her. "You realize I did not know a piano key from a gate latch when I came here," she said. "Lord Stacks, who is blessed with overwhelming patience, has instructed me on the instrument."

"His efforts have paid off most admiringly," the doctor said.

"I say, a most impressive performance," Luke Rountree agreed. "Surely you jest about not having years of experience."

"It is the truth," Lord Stacks said, watching Freddie. "Now, how about a game of whist?"

"Miss Lambeth shall be my partner tonight," Edgekirth said.

Her guardian looked from the Rountree Brothers, to the vicar to the squire. "Would one of you men do me the goodness to be my partner?"

John nudged his brother. "Go on, Luke."

Though he had claimed otherwise, Luke Rountree was a better player than his brother, but he was still the weakest player at the table. The doctor's game was better tonight than the last time they had played, but Lord Stacks' play was uncommonly good, his attention riveted almost fanatically on the game at hand to the exclusion of any conversation at all.

The squire stood over Freddie's shoulder and displayed a hearty interest and a better than adequate knowledge of the game.

Despite being paired with Luke Rountree, Stacks won the game. The squire had asked to play the winner, and he selected Freddie for his partner. Now the doctor stood behind her, nodding his head approvingly over each of her moves. Freddie noted with hostility that Denise stood over Stacks' shoulder, lavishing praise at him over each turn of the cards. The woman dressed positively indecently and put forth a disgraceful degree of forwardness.

Lord Stacks won the second rubber but credited Luke with the success.

Before the Rountrees left, Luke extracted a promise from Lord Stacks that he and Freddie would attend the assembly the following week in Landsdowne. Out of what Freddie suspected was kindness, Luke extended the invitation to the Farradays and to the squire and the doctor, all of whom agreed to attend.

After everyone left, Lord Stacks turned to Freddie. "It seems you have captured more than your share of hearts, Miss Lambeth. I wonder which one shall lead you onto the dance floor next Friday. Luke? Edgekirth? Or Mr. Wentworth?"

"Have you not forgotten someone?" Freddie challenged, turning on her heel and leaving her guardian behind.

Chapter 19

Dampness hung in the air. Freddie listened to the rain pelting the cloisters. Her chamber was dark, even though it was but early afternoon. This was the third straight day of rain. The third straight day of not being able to work in the quadrangle alongside her guardian. Thomas. She would say his name reverently to herself over and over, as if by evoking it she could recall that special moment when his lips had touched hers, when his arms came around her in a protective cocoon.

Sitting upright on her bed, she pulled Marmalade to her breast and stroked his soft coat. His purr grew louder and within minutes was a steady drone. She held him gently, unconsciously stroking him. She did not feel like sketching. Nor did she feel like practicing at the pianoforte. She would have gladly worked in the library with him, but he had not asked. He had barely spoken to her since the day of the picnic. He had taken great pains to avoid being alone with her. That very night of the picnic he had filled the abbey with every bachelor in the county. It was as if he could not marry her off fast enough.

From the apology he had uttered self consciously the day he kissed her, she knew he regretted his action. More than that, he was ashamed of himself. Had she any sense at all at that moment, she should have admitted her joy. Would that have relieved him of guilt? A pity she would never know. She had been unable to find her own voice, to exonerate him of his self-loathing. And now it was too late.

That he regretted his actions was obvious. He had stayed in his library night and day, even in the darkness of these bleak, rainy days that seemed so endless. Would the sun never shine again, she wondered.

Not once had he asked her to join him. Was he no longer intent on the book because it would force him to work with her? Not once had he attempted to resume her instruction on the pianoforte. And not once had nature offered them the opportunity to work in the garden or to ride along the moors, or even to walk the gravel paths of the park.

Freddie thought she would go mad. She was bored. Her mood was as dreary as the skies. Her old companion, Loneliness, had once again visited her. A hopelessness engulfed her. She had missed her opportunity to declare to Thomas her undying love.

She swallowed hard. Her opportunity would never again come. She had the feeling she would never again be alone with him. With her Thomas.

She set Marmalade down on her velvet coverlet. He stretched and yawned, then settled against her and promptly went back to sleep. She barely moved, trying not to wake him as she reached for her sketch pad. She began to draw more flowers, thinking of her guardian all the while.

Was it the weather or was she undeniably drab? Not like the woman in the painting. Not like Elizabeth. Is that why her guardian had fled so promptly after kissing her? That he regretted the act was obvious. But did he regret it because Freddie was so very plain?

She took a deep breath. Marmalade stirred, then went back to his slumber. Lord Stacks had said she was pretty. She had allure.

Now she had nothing.

***

The following morning the rain had stopped, but gray still blanketed the skies. After breakfast--which Freddie ate alone--she gathered up her sketch pad and notes and Marmalade and went to the chilly library.

Lord Stacks looked up from behind his desk, and she perceived a flicker of welcome on his stern face.

"Good morning, my lord. I missed you at breakfast. Are you well?"

"Of course I'm well," he barked.

She noticed there was no fire in the hearth and rang for Eason.

"What do you think you're doing?" Lord Stacks snapped.

"I'm going to order a fire for this room. You won't remain well for long in this frigid chamber."

An amused smile curved Lord Stacks' lips as he watched Freddie tell the butler to build a fire.

After Eason left, Freddie turned her attention to her guardian. "What, may I ask, do you find so amusing?"

"How much you have changed since you've come to Marshbanks Abbey."

"I hope it is for the good," Freddie said, displaying a confidence she was far from feeling.

"Indeed." He quickly looked down at his papers again.

Freddie and Marmalade settled on the sofa closest to Lord Stacks. She had decided to act as if the kiss had never happened. Her guardian was still the most precious person in her life, and she was not willing to give up the relationship they had shared.

"Have you accomplished much during these dreary days?" she asked.

He shrugged.

"Well, today we shall make up for our idleness."

"Yes, Dragon Lady," he said, the sparkle in his eye refuting his words.

She looked up and smiled at him, willing herself to act normally, not to melt over the sensual smile he gave her. "Have you more notes for me to copy?"

He rifled through a stack of papers until he found what he was looking for, then brought them to her. The unexpected movement caused Marmalade to leap from the sofa and trot over to the window, where he leaped upon its sill.

Stacks returned to his desk and took up his pen. A moment later, he said, "I suppose we'll be able to attend the assembly at Landsdowne tomorrow night after all. The rain has let up. Have you something suitable to wear?"

"Oh yes," she said confidently. "Thanks to you, my lord."

"Do quit thanking me."

She continued with her sketching. "Very well."

***

If the girl was going to force him back to working on the book, then he might as well oblige her, Stacks thought as he wrote furiously, referring to notes he had compiled in the last decade.

He hadn't meant to be alone with her again, yet here he was. And it felt right. They could work side by side on any number of tasks, always with a deep sense of contentment washing over him.

The room that had been cold and lonely the past three days now filled with warmth and the rich smell of a peat fire--and most of, with Freddie. Dear, sweet, wonderful Freddie. How had he lived without her? If only he could keep her here forever.

But that was not to be. He loved her too much for that.

***

It was but a short drive to the vicarage where Lord Stacks, accompanied by Freddie, had offered to pick up the vicar's family for the twenty-mile drive to Landsdowne for the assembly Luke Rountree had been promulgating for weeks.

If his sermons were half as fiery as his hardy endorsement of the assembly, Luke must be possessed of powerful persuasive abilities, Freddie mused.

Lord Stacks had barely spoken to Freddie during the short drive to the vicarage. She faced him across the seat from her.

"One is to be grateful the rain has finally come to a stop," Freddie said.

"Indeed," Lord Stacks answered, failing to meet her gaze.

"We should not be too crowded if the three females sit on one side of the coach," Freddie offered.

"Yes, none of you will take up that much of the seat."

"Now, the vicar. . .oh, how very unkind of me!" Freddie said, her cheeks coloring.

Lord Stacks watched her intently, a corner of his mouth lifting into a smile. "I cannot imagine you ever being unkind, Miss Lambeth."

How she wanted to speak of the picnic, but she was too shy. They were soon at the vicarage, and Mrs. Farraday and Catherine squeezed in beside Freddie while the vicar sat next to Lord Stacks.

"How fetching you look, Miss Farraday," Lord Stacks said. His voice lacked sincerity, though the young blonde did look lovely. Freddie noted she wore pink, a color Freddie avoided but which looked good on Catherine.

Freddie wore the cream crepe again. "Your dress is most becoming," Catherine told Freddie with conviction.

"Yes, it is," Mrs. Farraday said. "You must go to York for such fine gowns."

Freddie nodded. "I have been quite pleased with Mrs. Baron. She is the same mantuamaker patronized by the late Lady Stacks."

Mrs. Farraday's gaze locked with her husband's for a few seconds. "Well, well, Stacks," the vicar said, almost in embarrassment, "hopefully we can get up a good game of whist tonight. I daresay you care no more for dancing than I."

"Whist is an excellent idea," his lordship agreed.

Freddie drew in her breath, gathered her courage, then said, "I had hoped for a dance with you, Lord Stacks."

He met her eyes for the first time. "Of course, Miss Lambeth. It will be my pleasure."

She wanted to beg for a waltz, but again her nerve failed her.

***

Since the roads were still mired in mud, the Stacks barouche was late arriving at Landsdowne, and the dancing had already begun. John Rountree had apparently been looking out for the arrivals from Morton while his brother played at host.

John greeted them warmly, throwing a glance over his shoulder at his brother, who was dancing a quadrille. "It seems my brother is the most eligible man in Landsdowne. He has been surrounded by lovely young ladies since we walked in." He nodded to the vicar and to Stacks, then took Catherine's hand and Freddie's and brushed his lips across them before paying homage to their beauty.

"Squire Whitcombe has arrived," he informed them.

"What of Dr. Edgekirth?" Catherine asked.

"I have not seen him," John said.

"No doubt a babe desiring entry into this world could not oblige Dr. Edgekirth's schedule," Freddie quipped.

Catherine looked disappointed.

"Do me the goodness to stand up with me, Miss Lambeth," John said, offering Freddie his hand.

She still got nervous every time she stepped onto a dance floor, afraid her feet would not coordinate with her mind's instructions. Surely all these people here had far more experience dancing than she. But as soon as she took her place in the queue of elegantly clothed and elaborately coifed dancers, the steps came back to her, and she performed them flawlessly. She felt her guardian's eyes on her and looked up once to meet his somber gaze. He stood but a few steps from a bench of large bosomed matrons whose interest in the dancers was strongly rivaled by the hum of their own voices. She quickly looked away from him.

After the first set, Luke Rountree solicited Freddie as his partner. The orchestra struck up a waltz. Freddie was nervous as she fell into Luke's embrace, but she soon relaxed when she realized the trembling Luke was far more nervous than she. "Allow me to remark on your loveliness tonight, Miss Lambeth," he said stiffly. "I cannot tell you how pleased I am that you have honored us with your presence."

"We were honored to be asked, Mr. Rountree."

They were eye to eye, his height no greater than hers, and she could smell his Hungary water and feel his solidness. She sensed that his character was as solid as his powerful chest.

"It is my hope," he said, his voice rocky, "that I may soon be permitted to call you Fredericka."

"I beg that you do not," Freddie said, a little laugh to her voice. A laugh she did not at all feel. The last thing she desired was for another man to be hopelessly in love with her. Which is what she strongly suspected was happening to Luke Rountree. "I forbid anyone to call me such a ridiculous a name."

"Then you actually do not object to being called Freddie?"

"Not by my friends."

"Does your guardian never address you thusly?"

"Never," she said. "He is always rather formal. I perceive it is because he wishes to protect my reputation. What with him being single---"

"And with his wife's--" His hand flew to his mouth. "Forgive me, Miss Lambeth, for mentioning the unmentionable." Luke seemed genuinely embarrassed.

"My guardian is the one from whom you should beg forgiveness," Freddie said dispassionately. "However, I do not at all appreciate you or anyone else doubting my guardian's goodness. I assure you he is the kindest, dearest, most considerate man ever."

"I am sure," he said shyly.

Freddie disliked being held close to Mr. Rountree as strongly as she had disliked being held against the doctor. There was only one man she wanted to hold her.

And he wanted to hold no woman.

***

That wasn't exactly true. Watching Freddie being held in Luke's incipient embrace irked Stacks. Why had he never before noticed that her dress was indecently low? He would have to speak to her. She must not wear the dress again. Especially around the smitten Luke Rountree.

Stacks himself had been increasingly daunted over the powerful emotions that seemed to be overpowering him of late. It surely had been too long since he'd been with a woman. Ten long years. What he needed was a quick romp in the hay. Denise Rountree gave every indication of being a willing participant, but the brunette was not in his style. Her fair sisters were more to his liking. But all the Rountrees were too high of birth for a merely sexual liaison. What he needed was a wench of dubious parentage. A woman to lift her skirts and offer him quick release from these powerful urges which debilitated him, which made him lust after Frederick's child.

The problem was, no other woman aroused him as Freddie did. He turned to his elbow, where the available Denise gazed up at him with searing honey-colored eyes, and he asked her to dance.

He held her as close as the strictures of society would allow. But he felt nothing. Not even a shred of arousal. It was far better this way.

As if from a grotesque nightmare, he remembered the last time he had made love to a woman.

The day he killed Elizabeth with his lust.

After the waltz, he joined the vicar in the card room. Much later, he heard that Edgekirth had arrived. Another man who was totally enamored of Freddie.

Stacks got up to stretch his legs, to go outside to smoke a cigar. And he saw that Freddie now waltzed with the doctor. Edgekirth had on his face a look of contentment mingled with torture. Not like Freddie. She smiled a meaningless smile at the doctor, keeping him at a stiff arm's length. She did not look comfortable at all. Stacks' heart raced when she caught his eye and smiled. He couldn't seem to look away.

And when she finished the dance, she came straight to him.

"You have not obliged me with a single dance tonight, my lord."

"I shall have to rectify my omissions," he said smoothly. He hoped the next dance would not be a waltz. He doubted he could keep lustful thoughts at bay if he held the girl next to him.

The following dance was a quadrille. He led her out and was pleased with the graceful manner in which she executed her steps. In everything, she had been an apt pupil. And for some inexplicable reason he took utter pleasure in her accomplishments.

After the set, he returned to the card room, watching from the corner of his eye as Luke claimed Freddie for a second waltz.

The young curate was obviously smitten.

Chapter 20

"The quadrangle after a good rain is no place for a lady," Stacks informed Freddie the day after the assembly in Landsdowne. They had met in the dining room at the unlikely hour of noon after both of them slept quite late, having arrived home shortly before dawn. Their ride home had been impeded by the muddied roads.

Freddie's hands flew to her hips, and she cocked her head angrily. "And why, may I ask, am I not permitted in your garden, my lord?"

"Because your skirts will drag in the mud, and your hands will become filthy, with dark brown soil embedding itself under your nails."

"I am not so frail that a little mud would scare me off."

"Ah, but I am your lord and master, and I do not permit you in the garden today."

"Why, pray tell?"

"I have no desire to see mud smeared over your adorable freckles, Miss Lambeth."

She grinned. "A pity, for I would very much like to see you covered in mud from head to toe."

He gulped down his tea. "You shall, my dear Miss Lambeth."

"If it is so very muddy, why do you not wait until the earth dries?"

"Because the absolute best time to extract weeds is when the soil is mushy after a thorough soaking."

She nodded in agreement, then snatched up his newspaper the instant he flung it down.

Eason walked into the dining room, bearing a gentleman's card. "A Mr. Luke Rountree desires a private audience with you, my lord."

Stacks shot Freddie a bemused glance, dabbed his mouth with his napkin, then rose. "Show him into my library," he told Eason.

***

Luke was already seated at a large Jacobean chair when Stacks strode into the room. The velvet draperies had been drawn open, and the room was brighter than it had been in days. Stacks sat down on the other side of the imposing desk from Luke and gave the younger man a scrutinizing look.

Of all Freddie's suitors, this man was the closest to her in age, but he did not act particularly young. Perhaps that was because of the sobriety of his chosen profession.

He had a swarthier complexion than any of the Rountree family, but Stacks suspected women would find him attractive. Though not tall, he was of a muscular build and was possessed of a kindly, serious face.

"What can I do for you?" Stacks asked.

"You can give me permission to pay address to your ward."

"You certainly don't mince words."

"No, my lord, I do not. I believe in honesty above all else."

"Then you have chosen a most appropriate profession."

"One wonders if that is putting the cart behind the horse or the horse in front of the cart."

Stacks grinned. "Exactly." He settled back in his chair and folded his hands. "About my ward. . .Are you aware she has no dowry to speak of?"

Luke nodded. "I did not know, nor is it a matter I find important. Were I interested in mere money, I should have answered a different call."

Stacks nodded. "What can you offer my ward that no other man can?"

Luke thought for a moment. "I can offer neither money nor a permanent home. But I can provide her with a heart that's true, with a large family that will embrace her as its own, and I will treat her as if she was descended from King George himself. She will be respected, and her odd ideas nurtured."

Stacks arched a brow. "Odd ideas?"

"You must admit that it is not generally accepted that women carry on the duties of an apothecary."

Stacks nodded. "Have you discussed your feelings toward her with Miss Lambeth?"

A look of outrage swept across the young curate's face. "Of course not! I would never consider addressing her without your consent."

"You're a good man, Rountree. However, I am sorry to say this has been a great waste of your time." He felt uncomfortable looking at Luke's cleric's collar.

"How so?"

"I would never pretend to know my ward's mind nor would I presume to force my selections upon her. Miss Lambeth has free choice in the selection of a mate. I trust her completely."

Luke nodded thoughtfully.

"There is just one matter," Stacks said seriously.

"Yes?"

"Have you spoken to anyone in your family about this?"

Luke waited a moment before answering. "Only my brother John--him being the head of the family and all."

"Do I perceive correctly that John was interested in Miss Lambeth first?"

"Until he realized what an excellent wife she would make for a curate."

"You pointed that out, did you not?" Stacks asked

"Why, yes," Luke said, clearly puzzled.

"And John hoped to aim a little higher, being the first born."

The younger man nodded. "John aspires to marry a woman of some wealth."

"Is John not bothered by the gossip that concerns me and my former wife?"

"I, uh, I couldn't say what John thinks, my lord."

"But you are not concerned over Freddie living under my roof?"

"No, I am not. After all, she's not actually related to you..." He colored. "Forgive me, Lord Stacks, I meant nothing by my careless words."

Stacks got to his feet. "I believe you to be an extremely honest man. You have my blessings to pursue my ward, but as I said, I cannot influence her."

Luke also stood up. "Thank you, my lord."

"By the way," Stacks said, "you might wish to take my ward for a walk. The park is excellent for just such a pursuit."

***

A knock sounded on Freddie's chamber door. She knew it would be Eason telling her that Mr. Luke Rountree desired a word with her. She gathered Marmalade to her breast and listened while Eason spoke the expected message. Her heart pounding uncomfortably, she strolled to her door, walked along the cloisters, past the library and the tapestry room and met Mr. Luke Rountree in the great room, where he stood, holding his hat in his hand.

He bowed to Freddie. "A lovely day, is it not Miss Lambeth?"

She dipped a curtsey. "Indeed, it is a welcome change from the recent dreariness."

"Would you honor me with a walk about the park?"

"Allow me to get a bonnet," she said.

Eason coughed. "I have taken the liberty to send a footman to Miss Maggie, requesting your bonnet."

Freddie bestowed a smile on the competent Eason.

Moments later, she chose to enter the park by way of the quadrangle in order to peek in on her guardian.

"You are not brown from head to toe yet?" she queried, a devilish smile on her face.

He flung down a handful of weeds, smooth balls of moist black soil around their roots. His hands were black, his face alight as he looked up. "Not yet." He nodded at Luke, then added, "Is it your custom to take the cat walking?"

Freddie held Marmalade closer and stroked his coat, pouting. "He does have a name, my lord. Mr. Marmalade felt like a little sunshine, did you not, fluff muffin?"

Stacks shot an amused glance at Luke. "She apparently communicates with beasts."

"Miss Lambeth's many talents have not escaped my notice."

The two young people strolled on through the quadrangle and to the park.

"You must be wondering why I sought a private audience with your guardian."

Should she be coy or speak honestly? "Since you went directly from that audience to seek my company, I can surmise, Mr. Rountree."

"Does your surmise tell you that I have thought of nothing but you day and night since the first time I met you?"

The very feelings she had toward Lord Stacks. She would have to let the young curate down gently. "Until today, I had no idea of the depth of your feelings, and I am totally unprepared to give you encouragement."

He placed a hand over hers. "I had no plan to rush your feelings, Miss Lambeth. I am prepared to wait for as long as it takes. To be honest, I am not in a position to marry at this time, having only recently received my living. The reason I spoke to your guardian is that I desire frequent contact with you in the absence of malicious gossip."

"Is that because of consideration toward me or because of vicious things that are said of my guardian?" She looked at him challengingly.

"To be honest, both."

"To be honest with you, Mr. Rountree, I must tell you my heart is already engaged."

He swallowed, and she felt his hand tremble. "Who is the fortunate man?"

"A man I cannot name. A man who does not know of my love and who probably will not return it."

"Then the door has not necessarily slammed on me?"

"Not necessarily, but I could not come to you or to any man without a heart full of love."

"As I would expect."

Freddie listened to the crunch of gravel beneath their feet as they continued along the path, a brisk wind carrying with it a salty tang. "Tell me," she said, "What did my guardian say to you when you asked permission to court me? Did he ask how much a year you have or if you would cherish me until the end of your days?" She tried to put mirth into her words.

"He did not. He merely told me that you were free to select the man of your choice. I do not believe he means to interfere."

She nodded thoughtfully. Marmalade's back arched, and he stretched out his legs in an attempt to walk over Freddie's shoulders. She put him down, expecting him to tag along like a dog, like Champs had always done. But Marmalade's interest was suddenly captured by an insect which he proceeded to chase, much to Freddie's amusement.

"I wonder if you are as good with children as you are with animals," Luke said.

"I hope to fill whatever home I have with blessedly spoiled children I have brought into the world."

He squeezed her hand. "I hope they are my children."

She colored at the thought of being that intimate with Luke Rountree.

He saw the flame in her cheeks. "I must beg your forgiveness, Miss Lambeth, for speaking so personally."

"I assure you, I am not at all ready for such talk, Mr. Rountree. I feel I barely know you. And I know you cannot have any great knowledge of me."

"I feel I've known you forever," he said thoughtfully. "I know that you enjoy astronomy, the making of elixirs, the growing of herbs, nurturing stray cats, that you are only just learning to play the pianoforte, that you possess true artistic talent, and that Dr. Malcolm Edgekirth is in love with you."

Her eyes rounded.

"Has he also asked for your hand?"

"Dr. Edgekirth has not spoken to my guardian," she answered truthfully.

"Ah, but that was not my question."

She felt the scrutiny of his brown eyes. "You are far more perceptive than I had thought, Mr. Rountree."

"And you, Miss Lambeth, are wonderfully evasive."

"I think you will be very successful in your profession, Reverend."

A smile tipped the corners of his mouth. "Do you fancy being a bishop's wife?"

She was evasive once more--this time with a mischievous glint in her eyes when she said, "You have great persistence."

By now they had rounded the park and were walking back to the abbey, when Edgekirth walked forward to meet them.

He was all smiles for Freddie but gave only a curt nod to Luke as he came to walk on Freddie's other side.

"You might be interested to know, Edgekirth," Luke said, "that I have spoken to Miss Lambeth's guardian."

Freddie, catching her breath at the curate's boldness and outspoken honesty, gave a quick look at the doctor, who muttered an oath under his breath. "Damn you, Rountree!

"Please," Luke said, "a lady is present."

"Miss Lambeth is well acquainted with my foul outbursts," Edgekirth barked.

Luke spoke with controlled anger. "I would have you apologize."

"No, really," Freddie protested. "It is true. I am so accustomed to the doctor's ill humor that I think nothing of it."

"She will have your apology," Luke repeated.

"Of course, Miss Lambeth, I am sorry for speaking so coarsely in your presence," Edgekirth said.

"Does that mean you shall not do so again?" Freddie asked with amusement.

Edgekirth shot a disgruntled gaze at Luke. "Not in the presence of a curate, at least." He held Freddie exclusively in his gaze. "Am I to be privy to your guardian's answer to Mr. Rountree's petition?"

She looked straight ahead. "My guardian said I am free to choose my own husband."

"And," Luke added, "Miss Lambeth has given me little encouragement, but I am a patient man."

"Patience, my dear Mr. Rountree, is waiting until one is five and thirty to select a mate," Edgekirth said. "What can a man of your age know of love?"

"If you think to disparage me over my lack of years, remember I have many, many more years ahead than a man of five and thirty summers."

They came back to the drawing room and had tea. It was obvious the doctor intended to stay until Luke took his leave, but Luke was just as stubborn. They sat in the drawing room long after the teapot had been emptied, and the plate of cakes held nothing but crumbs, but still neither of them left.

Finally, Freddie got to her feet. "Forgive me, gentlemen, but I have matters which require my attention. I thank you for your visits." And she swept from the room.

Invited or not, she intended to force her company of Lord Stacks.

Chapter 21

Freddie's response to Luke Rountree's suit only mildly aroused Stacks' interest. He would have known it had she a marked preference for the young man. Stacks strongly suspected the poor curate would be dismissed as Edgekirth had been. Perhaps the girl was too young to be considering a husband--as she had said--but he thought not. There was something else preventing her from looking favorably on her suitors. He felt it as surely as he sensed a storm rising when nary a cloud darkened the sky. But he did not know what it was.

Eason brought the post, and Stacks sat behind his desk to read the letter from his solicitor, surprised the packet was so slender. Were there not a bevy of applicants for the position of companion to his ward as there was the last time? He unfolded the velum. There was only one sheet. His gaze skipped over the page, his pulse racing in anger.

Mr. Lindsley wrote that he was still in the process of collecting applications but that he had some very distressing news to impart to Lord Stacks. "It seems," he had written, "that a Mrs. Taylor, lately of your employ, has bandied your lordship's name about London in the most negligent, appalling manner. With this being the case, it grows increasingly difficult to procure the services of a well qualified lady."

Stacks issued a curse, then wadded the letter into a ball and flung it across the room. "Damn her black soul to hell!" he shouted. He regretted his generosity in paying her for the entire quarter when she had served only a month.

Why had Lindsley been so blasted vague about what the woman was saying? It mattered not a whit to Stacks what was being said of him. After all, he had chosen to absent himself from the ton for the past decade. But he was gravely concerned over the possibility of Freddie being slandered. She did not deserve to be tainted merely by her association with him.

What if the vile Julia Taylor was suggesting that he and Freddie. . .Suddenly he remembered his dream from the night before, the dream that resurfaced painful memories he had tried desperately to suppress. Only this time Freddie--not Elizabeth--was in this dream.

She had lifted her youthful face to him. She did not look like a young girl any longer. Her eyes simmered with a smoldering passion. Her tongue provocatively moistened her lips, and she held her arms up to him. He bent to kiss her, his breath labored, as she opened her mouth to him. In frenzied sucking gestures, he drew in her warm breath and circled inside her soft lips with his tongue. The power of the kiss weakened him.

They fell back on his bed--it was daytime--and his knee parted her legs. She moaned softly and arched into him. Suddenly, as happens in the fragments of dreams, they were both naked, their moist flesh merging in one primeval rhythm. Her body was beautiful. His eyes trailed lazily over its lithe, ivory leanness, her supple little breasts, the thatch of brown between her legs. He thought he would explode from his hard, engorged need.

As if it dropped from the heavens, a black silk sash twisted about her neck, wrapped by and guided with his hand.

She spread her long legs to receive him, and he lowered himself into her slick sheath, plunging into an abyss of paralyzing pleasure, holding her moist body ever tighter. He was aware of her lavender scent, her softness, of the urgency of her movement beneath his muscled torso. Yet he wasn't aware. He was dazed by own powerlessness, his mindless need to blend his body and his soul with this woman/child who shuddered beneath him.

She cried out with pleasure, raising her hips to meet him. With each plunge, the sash tightened. Plunge, gasp, twist. Plunge, gasp, twist. Plunge, gasp, twist.

He opened his eyes, and her eyes were no longer Freddie's green but had become clear and blue. And the face was not Freddie's but Elizabeth's.

Then he woke up. His heart was beating so rapidly his chest heaved. He looked quickly at the bed to assure himself it had only been a dream, that no one was there.

He had not been able to close his eyes again the rest of the night. Just as frightening as the nightmare recurring was the fear of abusing Freddie. Freddie who had come to him as an innocent filled with trust and blind love. But not the kind of love that occurred between a man and a woman.

The terrifying truth, he realized as he got to his feet and began to pace the library, was that he did not think of Freddie as a child. He had come to desire her as a man desires a woman. Just thinking about her caused life to spring to his groin.

He had been right to want to send her back when she first came to Marshbanks Abbey. If only he had done so then. If only she hadn't almost died with fever. Now it was too late.

She had confided that she had never been happier than she had at Marshbanks Abbey. She had never been shown love until she came here. And now she had eligible suitors and a cat she loved fiercely. And she even gave every indication she thoroughly relished working on his book.

To send her away would destroy her.

There was only one thing to do. He must go away.

***

She let herself into his library, stormed across the room and plopped down in the chair facing his desk.

His back had been to her as he stood looking out the window. "Has no one ever told you how rude it is to enter a room without knocking first on the door?" he asked before spinning around to face her. "Is that another omission I am to lay at the feet of the very unsatisfactory Mrs. Taylor?"

She burst out laughing. "Oh, do let's blame the maddening woman!"

A smile crossed his face, and he came to sit at his desk and face her, lifting a brow. "Am I to offer you felicitations?"

She gave him a hostile stare. "No, you most certainly are not! Do not weep over the fact I turned down Mr. Rountree."

"I fully expect tomorrow to find Tobias Whitcombe on bended knee in front of you."

Her eyes flashed and she raised her chin defiantly. "Playing with hearts is no laughing matter, I assure you. I have just left two extremely unhappy suitors in the drawing room and have come to chastise you."

"Me?"

She nodded. "Was it not your great plan to find me a suitable husband?"

"And what is wrong with that? Isn't a guardian supposed to see to the happiness of his ward?"

"Putting aside the fact that your ward had no desire to wed, think of the gentlemen's feelings. First Dr. Edgekirth, and now poor Mr. Rountree are both rather miserable, and I feel wretchedly guilty over it.

"I know you think I am nothing but a child, but I assure you I very much understand what it is to suffer unrequited love, and I find it highly regrettable that these men are forced to suffer such feelings of devastation merely because the mighty Lord Stacks desired to play matchmaker."

His face grew somber. "Freddie, I only wanted what was best for you."

He had called her Freddie!

"How was I to know that you would not hold the men in favor?" he asked. "And I'm deuced surprised to learn of this unrequited love of yours. I assume it was in the past. Before you came to Marshbanks Abbey."

She had been unable to remove her eyes from his since he had unknowingly called her Freddie. It seemed such an intimate gesture.

Her mind whirled over her next move. She had arrived at Marshbanks Abbey with nothing but her implacable pride. Should she throw it away for the man she loved more than life? If he denied her, she would be left with nothing. She might as well die. But, then, surely she would die if she had to live without him.

"Well," he said, his voice just short of being harsh, "was it in the past?"

Her eyes were swimming when she answered. "No, Thomas, my love."

Chapter 22

He could no more remove his eyes from her--his child/woman--than he could suppress the powerful emotions which raged within him. With loving thoroughness, he searched her innocent face, the warm green eyes moist with unshed tears, the freckles which bridged her straight nose, her full mouth he longed to feel under his. Her cork-colored hair wisped about her fair temple. She sat in her proud and stately manner gazing at him, waiting for his response. He could hallelujah! the heavens for giving him so precious a gift, for righting the sensual desire she had aroused in him.

He raised himself to unsteady legs, walked to her chair and dropped to his knees. His face level with hers, he took both her hands in his ever so gently and pressed kisses into the hollow of her palms. Great tears filled his eyes a moment later when he reached to stroke her cheek. "I hold you more dear than anything on this earth. I love you more deeply than any man has ever loved. There can never be happiness for me without you by my side. But I love you too dearly to make you mine. To do so would destroy you."

Now her tears rolled freely upon pale cheeks, but she did not move to wipe them away. "How can I be destroyed by receiving the only thing I desire from life?"

He got up and took a few steps to a nearby chair, scooted it beside Freddie and took her hand in his. "The sins of my past prevent me from seeking happiness."

She held him in her steady, somber gaze. "Is it true you did not have sexual relations with Elizabeth?"

How had she known what he had never told anyone? All those months he denied himself of Elizabeth's beautiful body. "This is not a subject which I can discuss with a young maiden."

"But I am not a child, Thomas. I am a woman, a woman with passions and feelings. Though I am a virgin, I know of the desires between a man and a woman."

She was an extraordinarily precocious eighteen-year-old, and he wanted her more than ever. "You have no doubt heard about the many injuries my wife sustained."

"I have."

"You know it is said that I inflicted the injuries on her."

"I don't believe you're capable of it."

He smiled. It was a bitter smile. "I never knowingly injured Elizabeth."

"You did not want to hurt her nor did you desire to make love to her."

"I did make love to her." He closed his eyes as if he were in great pain. "There was a period of time when I was absent from her bed. Several months. I denied myself to protect her."

She looked away from him for a moment. When she turned back, her voice quivered with emotion. "Even if you were capable of inflicting pain on me, I would endure it for the pleasure of your love."

How could someone as evil as him ever deserve such devotion? "As I live, I do not deserve your sacred love," he cried out, springing from his chair to move to her.

She raised herself and flowed into his arms as he closed them about her. He wanted to savor the heavenly torture of her compliant body against his, the feel of her warm breath against his chest. The fingers of one hand drifted through her silken hair. She slowly, seductively lifted her head for a kiss. With an insatiable hunger borne of ten years of denial, borne of a love as pure as country air, he kissed her with incredible tenderness. His tongue slipped between parted lips, and he kissed her with all his heart.

Though his enlarged need caused him agony, he broke away from her, holding her at arm's length. "I cannot make love to you, my dear cherished one. I love you too dearly."

Her breathing labored, her eyes misty with despair and passion, she spoke with a quivering voice. "You shall never be free of me, Thomas. I was put on this earth to love you."

"You don't understand." He turned from her and walked to the window. With his back to her, he spoke. "I killed Elizabeth."

He turned to face her, to see horror flare in her searing eyes.

A knock sounded on the door, and Stacks told Eason to enter.

"A Sir Harold Lambeth, accompanied by two ladies, awaits your lordship in the great room."

Stacks and Freddie exchanged startled looks.

Stacks' eyes turned cold as agate. "Damn Julia Taylor!"

***

With each step Freddie took toward the great room, her heart pounded harder, her fear mounted. Had they come to take her away from Thomas? Could they? Mingled with her fears were the stunning revelations of the past hour. Thomas loved her!

Thomas had kissed her.

Thomas could not wed her.

Thomas had killed Elizabeth.

Uncle Harold, Aunt Dorothea and cousin Roxanne sat rigidly on one of the great room's sofas as she and Lord Stacks entered the room. Flashing broad smiles, all of them dressed far more formally than they would for travelling. Roxanne looked especially fetching in a lavender summer dress with a low neckline. Freddie, in a fickle pendulum swing, went from feeling like the most beautiful woman in the world to feeling quite ugly in her puritanical brown print muslin which came to her throat.

Uncle Harold leapt to his feet and bowed at Lord Stacks. "A pleasure to meet you, my lord. My brother spoke so very highly of you for so many years, I feel as if I know you."

Lord Stacks was all that was courteous. "A pleasure it is indeed to welcome you and your family to Marshbanks Abbey."

Uncle Harold turned to present his wife and daughter to the baron.

Aunt Dorothea curtseyed gracefully while babbling on and on about how happy she was to meet the fine gentleman who was so kind to her dear niece.

Freddie wanted to protest.

Then Roxanne dipped a curtsey, fluttered her long lashes, and spoke in her velvety voice. "How very pleased I am to make your acquaintance, Lord Stacks."

None of them had thought to offer greetings to Freddie.

"Do sit down and make yourselves comfortable," Lord Stacks said, taking a seat in a nearby chair.

Freddie also sat in a chair near the grouping of upholstered furniture.

"To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?" their host asked.

"We have been visiting friends in the Lake District, and I told Dorothea, 'why don't we just swing on over to see Freddie' being so close and all." Now he peered at Freddie. "How splendid you look, my dear. Yorkshire must agree with you very well."

Freddie smiled. "Very well indeed. And as you can see, Lord Stacks has kindly provided me with very fine clothing."

Roxanne ran her eyes over Freddie's well constructed dress and dainty slippers. "I had no idea such quality was available here in the North."

Freddie could not resist a reply. "You would not believe the beautiful ball gowns I possess!"

Roxanne's lovely blue eyes almost turned green with unspoken envy. "You have balls here?"

"We do," Stacks said. "If you stay long enough at Marshbanks Abbey we will hold one to honor you. I held one to introduce Miss Lambeth, and she has been a great success. I believe there are three men dancing attendance upon her at the present."

A sincere smile swept across Uncle Harold's round face. "That is gratifying news indeed."

"I am so very happy for you, Fredericka," Roxanne said insincerely.

"You must be fatigued from your journey," Stacks told them. "Allow me to have rooms prepared for you." He turned to Freddie.

"Yes, you really must stay," she offered without a smile. She watched as Dorothea's gaze swept over the fine paintings and the impressive chandeliers that suspended from the ceilings of richly blocked wood.

"How very kind of you, Lord Stacks," Dorothea said in her disturbingly nasal voice. "We would dearly love to be shown about the abbey. Do you have public days?"

"No," he answered. "The abbey's really not that grand. It's rather primitive and too ecclesiastical." He asked Eason to request Mrs. Greenwood prepare rooms in the cloister near Freddie for Miss Lambeth's family, then began to explain how the great room had formerly been a chapel as he showed them about the room. Though Freddie could have used her time more productively working on her drawings, she dared not leave for fear of missing something. Would Uncle Harold mention the gossip of Mrs. Taylor?

"Very good of you, Lord Stacks, to invite us for a stay," Uncle Harold said. "Just might take you up on it. It's so much cooler here than it is down South. Don't mind absenting myself from Chilton Manor for a spell--if you're certain we won't be imposing."

"I am certain," Stacks said, his lips compressed.

"Do tell me about this painting," Roxanne commanded Stacks as she slithered to stand beside him, gazing up at him with admiration.

Freddie could gladly have strangled her.

Stacks explained the large Italian canvas and the many ancestral portraits that hung on the stone walls while his visitors overly praised every painting.

With Uncle Harold at his side and the ladies following, Lord Stacks guided the visitors through the abbey, pausing to explain interesting aspects of the centuries-old landmark. The historical tidbits held little interest for Aunt Dorothea and Roxanne, who were more interested in the present day, particularly in the baron's obvious wealth. They commented on the abundance of servants and the magnificence of their livery. They asked questions about what other facilities were on Lord Stacks' property and about his habits regarding entertaining.

By the time they had seen all of the abbey, Lord Stacks personally showed them to the cloister where their rooms were located.

Glancing at the quadrangle, Roxanne said, "Why is that such a hodgepodge of unsightly vegetation when a nice lawn would be so much more preferable?"

Stacks came to an abrupt halt and directed an amused gaze at Roxanne. "That, Miss Lambeth--Miss Roxanne Lambeth--is where I pursue my botanical studies."

She was silent a moment before adding, "Dear me, I had no notion you were so utterly talented, Lord Stacks."

Freddie had to fight the urge to boast on her guardian's accomplishments. She had no desire to place him any higher on Roxanne's pedestal. Aunt and Uncle's loveliest daughter had made no secret last year that she would accept offers only from gentlemen who were either enormously wealthy or titled, preferably both.

***

With Freddie's encouragement, Maggie did an especially good job on Freddie's hair for dinner that night. She wore a white gown appropriate to what a young lady should wear. Never let her uncle say she had been encouraged to lascivious ways in her guardian's home. Though the dress would not arouse her Thomas, she felt confident in her appearance as she left her room.

Roxanne and her mother did not hear her enter the cloister. They walked a short distance ahead of Freddie, and Freddie overheard Aunt Dorothea say, "Lord Stacks is the very man for you, my dear."

Once again, Freddie's hands itched to wrap around Roxanne's lovely neck as she listened to her cousin's reply. "My feelings exactly, Mama."

To Freddie, dinner was interminable. She was forced to suffer through Uncle Harold's dull conversation while she watched her guardian chatting gaily with Aunt Dorothea on his left and Roxanne on his right.

"I notice that as evening nears, the servants lay fires in all the fireplaces, my lord," Aunt Dorothea said.

Stacks nodded. "Yes, the nights here--even in summer--can be quite cold."

Aunt Dorothea's eyes flashed with admiration. "Such an expense!"

"Not in these parts," Lord Stacks said. "We have an abundance of peat on my lands, which as I have told you, consist largely of moors. My servants make the peat bricks themselves."

"How utterly delightful," Roxanne said. "Will you please take me to see your moors. I cannot tell you how I have longed to see them forever."

"I should be happy to take all of you," Lord Stacks said.

"Did you not tell us your stables are located some distance from the abbey?" Roxanne asked.

The baron nodded.

"Have you enough horses for all four of us?"

"Five, counting the other Miss Lambeth," Stacks said, meeting Freddie's gaze with a kindly smile.

"Oh, yes, poor Fredericka," Roxanne said, casting her eyes furtively at Freddie.

Freddie noticed Roxanne's keen interest in the painting of Elizabeth.

Toward the end of dinner Roxanne asked, "Who, pray tell, is the lovely woman in the painting?"

Stacks' face went hard. "That was the late Lady Stacks."

"Your wife?" Aunt Dorothea asked.

"Yes," Stacks said grimly.

"I think she was in much the same style as our Roxanne," Aunt Dorothea said.

Freddie suddenly realized how correct he aunt's observation was. Roxanne was blond and blue eyed and beautiful.

And Freddie was miserable.

After dinner, Aunt Dorothea insisted Roxanne play and sing for Lord Stacks.

He applauded her adequate talent, then informed them that Miss Freddie Lambeth was proving to be an adept pupil at the pianoforte.

"We are most grateful for your many kindnesses to my brother's child," Uncle Harold said. "I hardly recognized the girl today in all her finery."

"I must say," Lord Stacks said, "I was surprised to see how well your own daughter dresses when Freddie, who also lived in your house, dressed so shabbily when she arrived at the abbey."

Touché, thought Freddie.

They all glanced into their laps at Stacks' words.

After a moment Roxanne flashed a condescending smile at Freddie. "Why don't you play for us, Fredericka."

Freddie colored. "I am hardly qualified to perform in public."

"She underestimates her talents," Stacks said, "But I will not push her into performing."

"I am surprised you find someone to impart pianoforte instruction in this remote location," Aunt Dorothea said.

"Actually, I am teaching her myself," Stacks replied.

"I have never heard anyone play with more skill than Lord Stacks," Freddie said with pride.

Roxanne smiled coyly at Stacks. "Next time I sing, I shall have you play for me."

"It will be my pleasure," Stacks said.

They played loo for an hour before retiring for the night.

***

After Maggie helped Freddie into her night clothes and brushed her hair, Freddie sank into her bed and was free at last to ponder the days' events.

Thomas loved her! Even if he could never offer marriage, it was enough for her to know he loved her. Even tonight, he had championed her to her uncle. She could scarcely believe that she was the recipient of his love. For the first time in her life, happiness had come her way.

Then there was the unspeakable. He told her he killed Elizabeth. He had also said he never knowingly hurt Elizabeth. If he killed Elizabeth, Freddie knew he had never intended to hurt his wife. He was incapable of cruelty.

Her last thoughts as she fell into slumber were of Uncle Harold. Why had he come? Did he plan to challenge Stacks for her care because of the rumors? Or did he desire Lord Stacks for Roxanne?

Chapter 23

Eason stood just inside the library. "Does your lordship require anything else?"

Stacks looked at the case clock on the wall. It was after midnight. "No, I'll stay here and work since I'm not tired. Please inform Roberts he need not wait up for me."

Once the door was closed behind Eason, Stacks poured himself another glass of brandy. There was no way he could sleep tonight. He still reeled from the stunning, albeit joyous, revelation that Freddie loved him. When she had admitted her love, it was as if a heavy dark cloud lifted from over his head. In a flash of blinding realization, he knew he had loved her for some time, the way a man loves a woman. And now it was nothing to be ashamed of.

He thought back, trying to remember when he began to feel such deep attachment toward her and realized he had sensed something special in her since the first day. Yet there was no magic moment he could point to and say that is when I knew I loved her. It was as if he loved everything about her. Each day he loved her a little more than he had the day before. Had she felt the same way?

He wished she were here in the library with him now. He remembered the torturing bliss of their kiss today and longed to feel her in his arms this very minute. He wondered what she was doing. Was she lying in her bed thinking of him? He listened to the lonely howl of the winds. Was she hearing the same lonesome sound?

More than anything on earth, he wanted to be able to lie beside her, to make her his wife. But that he could never do. He had already killed one woman he loved.

He thought of his lovely Elizabeth and for the first time in his life knew that he had not really loved her. Not like he loved Freddie. He took another drink of brandy and tried to remember Elizabeth and how he had felt about her. All Elizabeth possessed was beauty. Freddie offered so much more. Even a heart that was true.

If Freddie knew about the months he had not made love to Elizabeth, she had to have learned from Edgekirth. Did that mean that Edgekirth and Elizabeth had been lovers? He would not doubt it. Unlike Freddie, Elizabeth was not the kind of woman to be content with no men lusting after her. Elizabeth craved the attention of men, their admiration, their desire.

She had peculiar, destructive cravings, too. Cravings he could never reveal to an innocent like Freddie.

His thoughts turned to Harold Lambeth and his unlikable family. Why had the man come? One did not simply swing over from the Lake Country. They had been quite vague about just who they had visited there when Stacks asked.

Had Sir Lambeth listened to Julia Taylor's gossip? Had he come to Marshbanks Abbey prepared to do battle with a deranged murderer for custody of Freddie?

Somehow, that scenario lacked realism. No one in that family gave a fig leaf over Freddie's welfare. A more despicable bunch he had never seen. They almost completely ignored Freddie's existence. No wonder the poor orphan had been so grateful for his attentions.

He could almost cry when he thought of what she looked like that day she had come to Marshbanks Abbey. She would have been pitiful except for the defiant flash in her eye and her proud bearing. One would have thought she wore regal robes the way she walked through the abbey that first day. She defied anyone to feel pity for her.

He honestly did not think her uncle meant to take her away. Even so, Stacks had no desire to stoke the fires of gossip. He would be overly amiable to the visitors. He would see that Freddie's suitors made their presence known to her uncle. He must not let Sir Lambeth suspect he cared for Freddie in any way except as her guardian.

If the man could but see that Stacks was not a fiendish monster who seduced maidens, perhaps he would return to Sussex.

All Stacks could desire was to live in peace with Freddie at his side. Just like it had been before.

If he had no dark past, he could have told her uncle that he wished to marry Freddie. But now he could never do that.

Would he be able to be with Freddie day in and day out without desiring to bed her? Could the sun cease to shine, he wondered bitterly, peering into his empty snifter.

***

To appease the demanding Roxanne, Stacks agreed to escort the Lambeths on a ride along the moors. Also to placate Roxanne, Cook packed a picnic for the sojourn.

As the group was preparing to mount the horses held by the groom and footmen, Edgekirth rode up and dismounted.

"You are just in time to join us, Edgekirth," Stacks said, shading his eyes from the sun as he gazed at the doctor.

Edgekirth glanced over the gathering. "Where are you going?"

"I am going to show Miss Lambeth's family the moors."

Freddie stepped forward. "Do let me introduce you to my relatives." After the introductions, she told her family, "Dr. Edgekirth is credited with saving my life after I took a fever."

Roxanne smiled appreciatively at the handsome doctor. "It appears we are greatly indebted to you, Dr. Edgekirth."

"I thought Freddie was never sick," Uncle Harold said.

"I fear your niece had no tolerance for our damp climate," Edgekirth said. He gave Freddie a tender glance. "If you do not object to adding another to your party, I should like to join you."

The group mounted their horses and rode off in pairs, Roxanne beside Stacks followed by her parents, and Freddie and the doctor next to each other behind her aunt and uncle.

"I did not know you were expecting a visit from your uncle," Edgekirth said.

"It's really quite peculiar. They just showed up at the abbey, and now it appears they plan to stay for some time."

"Somehow I can tell that this does not please you."

She smiled at the doctor. "How well you know me, Malcolm." Immediately, she regretted the slip of her tongue which caused her to address him by his first name. She hoped he had not noticed.

"I've never felt so close to any woman before, my dear Freddie." A wistful smile lighted his face.

She looked straight ahead at the backs of her guardian and Roxanne. Thomas so tall in his saddle, his darkness a complement to Roxanne's fairness. The lovely blonde rode with grace in her sapphire riding habit, a matching hat askance on her silky, white-gold hair. How good they looked together, Freddie thought bitterly.

"I am truly sorry I cannot return your regard, Doctor. But, as you know, my heart belongs to another, and I shouldn't like for you to call me Freddie in front of Lord Stacks."

"I thought when you called me Malcolm. . ."

She flinched from the pain she saw in his face. "I must apologize for igniting false hopes. It is just that I do feel so very close to you. You are a great, dear friend."

He frowned and looked ahead at Stacks and Roxanne. "It seems your lovely cousin aspires to a title."

Freddie swallowed and nodded solemnly. The day would have been perfect if it was just Thomas and herself in their universe of two. The sky was blue and cloudless, the sun warm and comforting. There was no sound other than the soft thud of the horse hooves meeting the time-worn path and herons chirping from a distant perch. A sea of the heather's purple glory rippled from a coastal breeze and yellow flowers spiked the top of spiny gorse.

Then the glorious silence was broken with Roxanne's exaggerated tributes to the loveliness of the moors. Freddie felt as if she could gladly push her cousin into the slushy bog.

"By the way," Edgekirth said, "Mr. Sedgwick claims his gout has all but disappeared since he started your medicine."

"That is good news, indeed."

"Have you similarly miraculous remedies for asthma? I have many afflicted patients."

A lively expression swept over her face. "I know of no better cure for asthma than a conserve made of honeysuckle flowers, and happily, they are in bloom now. I'll mix some for you."

Before long, Lord Stacks found a spot for their picnic, and they settled down on blankets to eat. Freddie was peeling a hard cooked egg when her uncle, a peeled egg in his hand, stood up and said, "I beg a walk with you, Freddie."

She shot a worried glance at Stacks, got to her feet, and joined her uncle. They walked some distance, finishing their eggs, before he spoke.

"I must confess that my visit to Marshbanks Abbey was not by pure chance. I desired to come here--unannounced--to investigate for myself the contents of a distressing letter I received from a Mrs. Julia Taylor."

Freddie heaved a sigh. "Mrs. Taylor is hardly reliable, Uncle. She was dismissed from her employment here because of her total incompetence."

"She was your companion?"

"Yes. Apparently Lord Stacks would never have invited me to the abbey because of the impropriety of having an unmarried woman living under the same roof as an unmarried man. You see, he thought because of my name that I was lad."

"I had no idea."

Freddie nodded. "So after I fell ill, he hired Mrs. Taylor. It is my belief that she turned bitter toward Lord Stacks when she realized he was not going to fall in love with her and make her his lady."

"So she harbored the same hopes as Dorothea has for Roxanne. I had intended to ride here alone for I did not share the contents of the letter with Dorothea, but nothing would do but that she and Roxanne come with me. You know how long those two have schemed to make Roxanne a duchess or some such peeress."

There was a grim set to Freddie's mouth. "Lord Stacks does not wish to marry."

They came within feet of a family of ducks, who scattered as they neared.

"Distressing about his wife. Any truth to this business of her being murdered by Lord Stacks?"

"Of course not!" Freddie protested. "An inquest found that she died of suicide. Lord Stacks is the kindest, gentlest man alive."

"I suppose you would know. How long have you been here now?"

"Almost five months."

Uncle Harold cleared his throat. "I don't suppose he's made any unwanted advances toward you?"

"No," she said, not any unwanted. "He's a perfect gentleman."

He turned back toward the others, "I feel much better now that I've had this little talk with you. I want to do toward you as I would to my own daughters, and I don't have to tell you how upset I would be if a man of Stacks' age tried to force himself on one of my little girls."

"How are Jenny and Abigail?"

"Pouting when we left them. They wanted to come--anything to get out of their studies."

Freddie smiled.

When they returned to the others, they finished eating, then mounted their horses for the ride back to the abbey. The three couples paired up in the same way again.

The longer Freddie watched the fair Roxanne beaming her dazzling smiles at Thomas, the angrier she became. Though she had never cared for Roxanne, the intensity of her present dislike could have been fired by her similarity to Elizabeth. She was so very much in the same style as the beautiful Elizabeth. Was that the style Thomas would pick, given the chance of free choice?

Though Freddie held his love now, she wondered if it was because she was the first woman he had been exposed to in a decade.

Freddie was surrounded by gaiety. Roxanne flirted and giggled and repeatedly praised the weather. Aunt Dorothea, a smile stretching from ear to ear, was in raptures. Freddie was suffocated by gloom.

When they returned to the abbey, Edgekirth left after being invited for dinner. As they walked toward their own chambers, Lord Stacks stayed back to speak privately to Freddie.

"Could you join me in the library for a moment, Miss Lambeth?" he asked Freddie.

Chapter 24

Stacks closed the library door behind them. Freddie turned to him, her green eyes sorrowful. "Hold me." She sounded like a lost waif.

Despite his resolve, despite his best intentions, he drew her into his arms. She slid her arms beneath his coat and closed them tightly around him, her face snuggled into his chest. He held her for a moment, exulting in the feel of her. By her simple need, she had shown him she loved him still, even after knowing he killed Elizabeth. God's eyes, but he loved her. He loved her to the depths of his soul. But because he loved her so dearly, he had to deny himself the agonizing pleasure of her.

He loosened his hold, standing back and lifting her chin with a knuckle. "I can't touch you and keep my head straight enough to remember what I called you here for. Let's sit down."

She went to the sofa and sat on one side of it, obviously intending for him to sit beside her.

He could not allow himself such luxury. He sat in a chair facing her. "It's about your uncle," he said, trying to purge himself of the shattering feel of her.

She looked at him solemnly. "You want to know what we talked about."

"Julia Taylor has talked to him, I am sure."

"Actually, she wrote him. I told my uncle she was bitter over being dismissed for being unreliable and incompetent."

"Did your uncle ask if I had forced myself on you?"

"He phrased it unwanted intentions. So of course I told him no," she said with a little laugh. "I told him you were the perfect gentleman, that all the rumors were false, that an inquest found Elizabeth had died by her own hand."

"You did not tell him about us?" What about us, he wondered. That they loved each other? That he could never offer marriage. That Freddie was as much a part of him as his very flesh and bones?

"I would not do so without your permission, Thomas. After all, there is no formal understanding between us. From her grave, Elizabeth reaches her tentacles to keep us apart."

How could one so young have such keen understanding, he wondered. She instinctively knew he could never marry her because he had killed Elizabeth. Ten tortuous years ago.

Freddie lowered her lashes. "I did tell Uncle Harold that you said you'd never marry again."

"That is the unfortunate truth."

Her eyes moist, she gazed at him. "I don't mind as long as I can stay with you. That's all I ask."

He was nearly overcome with emotion. His heart's desire loved him, not his riches, not his title. She had lifted him from the valleys of hell.

But he could never drag her into his sordid world of anguish.

"You're far better off without me. You'd do better to accept Edgekirth--damn his eligibility--or Luke Rountree. They can give you their name, children, all the respectability a woman could want--none of which I can offer."

"But I don't want them! I could never, ever love them, and I would beggar myself before I'd marry without love. Would you condemn me to so miserable a life?"

He averted his gaze from her anguished face for it pained him too deeply. "I want only what's best for you," he said throatily.

He got up and crossed the room, nervous over what he was going to have to say. He poured himself a glass of brandy, took a long drink from it, then turned to face her. "You can't possibly still love me, knowing I killed Elizabeth."

She nodded simply. "You have punished yourself long enough, my love. I will not let Elizabeth come between us."

He laughed a bitter laugh. "Would that you had such power." If his poor Freddie had anywhere to go, he would have sent her packing to protect her from himself. But he knew he could never send her back to Sir Harold.

And she hadn't given him only her heart; she had lain her child-like trust on him, and he could not let her down.

He would have to keep her here, even if her presence tortured him with every breath he drew.

"Oh, Thomas, I wish they had never come," she said, her voice forlorn.

He sat back in the chair facing her, fighting the urge to move the few steps to her and take her in his arms. He must deny his desire to smother her body with his own. "We cannot worry over what cannot be changed," he said. "We must endeavor to speed them back to Sussex."

"But how? I don't believe they plan to leave until Roxanne snares your heart."

"That she can never do." He swallowed hard as he watched his cherished child/woman, the only one who had ever really owned his heart. "I had asked you here to discuss how to get rid of your unpleasant family. Do you think your uncle is satisfied that I am not a monster who seduces young ladies?"

"I believe he is. He doesn't suspect there's anything between us."

"As there cannot be. For you own good, Freddie." He bit at his lip. "I shall tell them I am giving them a farewell ball before they leave. I believe your cousin would relish the young gentlemen dancing attendance upon her. Perhaps she will develop an affection for one of them."

"Not unless they're titled. She's already turned down many offers."

"That is, indeed, unfortunate. Nevertheless, I shall have it understood that they leave after the ball."

"When will the ball be?"

He folded his lips in thought. "Next week. In the meantime, no working in the garden, no working in the library, no private conversations. Your uncle is to suspect nothing."

She nodded and got to her feet. She started for the door, then turned back to face him. "If it takes a lifetime, I will defeat Elizabeth." Then she turned back and swept from the room.

***

At dinner Stacks had Edgekirth on his left, Dorothea on his right. He seated Roxanne next to Edgekirth. Ever the gentleman, Edgekirth conversed politely with Roxanne throughout dinner. From the foot of the table, Freddie took in the proceedings, talking occasionally to Uncle Harold.

As the dinner drew to an end Stacks addressed Uncle Harold. "I plan to throw a ball next week as a farewell to our fine visitors."

Uncle Harold seemed taken aback by the news, but Roxanne embraced the idea with enthusiasm. "How delightful!" She turned to Stacks. "I hope to have the honor of dancing with you, Lord Stacks."

"Lord Stacks dances only rarely," Edgekirth said.

Roxanne directed her attention at Freddie. "Have you ever danced with your guardian?"

"A quadrille, once, at the ball he gave to introduce me." She wanted them to know their dance had been the totally asexual quadrille.

"My, my," Uncle Harold said. "One ball to say hello and another to say goodbye."

"Whatever will you wear, my dear?" Aunt Dorothea asked her daughter.

"I am told Fredericka has many lovely ball gowns," Roxanne said. "Perhaps one of them could be hemmed for me. Freddie's so much taller than I."

Freddie took a deep breath. "A grand plan. You're free to take your pick, Roxanne."

Roxanne ran her eyes jealously over the sea green gown Freddie wore.

After dinner Roxanne sang while Lord Stacks played the pianoforte. She stood possessively beside him and turned the pages of his music.

Freddie fumed.

Edgekirth scarcely removed his eyes from Freddie while Roxanne sang.

When the entertainment was finished, Uncle Harold proposed that the three gentlemen and Freddie play a rubber of whist.

"But what of your wife and daughter?" Stacks asked.

"They always have embroidery they can work on."

Roxanne glared at her father.

Stacks ignored her and moved to the game table. "A fine idea, Sir Harold."

"Lord Stacks loves nothing so much as a game a whist, Uncle," Freddie said, smiling, knowing that Roxanne had never made a secret of her dislike of the game.

Uncle Harold pulled out a chair for Freddie. "I want you for my partner, my dear." He settled in the seat opposite of her. "That daughter of mine never could tolerate sitting still for so long. She's always got to be busy doing something. None of my girls, for that matter, have any inclination for study. Miss Rogers, their governess, has lamented the fact now for many a year."

Freddie and her uncle won the first game, but Stacks and Edgekirth won the next two. When they finished, Edgekirth left, and all the others went to bed.

***

During the next week, rain prevented them from going out of doors. It wasn't a hard rain, just a steady drizzle, not enough to prevent callers. Both Rountree brothers paid morning calls--without their sisters, who had no desire to expose their fashionable hair to the wet weather. John Rountree took a decided interest in Roxanne, and begged her to stand up with him at the ball.

Edgekirth called every day, and Tobias Whitcombe once.

While the others entertained callers, Stacks drew up a list of people to be sent invitations to the ball and busied himself with a variety of duties pertaining to the fete.

Roxanne had wasted no time in seeking the opportunity to peruse Freddie's wardrobe to select a ball gown.

Freddie held up the white gown she wore to the previous ball. "You probably won't want to wear this one since I wore it to the last ball."

Roxanne's eyes lingered over every detail of the dress. She took its fine fabric within her fingers. "I've never seen a lovelier dress, but you are right. I cannot wear it."

Freddie then showed Roxanne four other gowns of equal quality. "They're all so beautiful," Roxanne whispered, "but none of them are my colors."

"In case you haven't noticed, I am not your color," Freddie said. "Lord Stacks suggested colors of the earth for my complexion."

Roxanne held out the skirt of a rose-colored gown Stacks had ordered for Freddie during the first visit to Mrs. Baron, a gown Freddie had never worn. "Such lovely silk," Roxanne said. "Though I prefer pinks and sky blues, I think this will do very well for me."

"Anything would do well for you, Roxanne," Freddie said truthfully. "You couldn't look bad if you dressed as a scullery maid."

Roxanne's eyes danced. "Let us hope one particular gentleman feels the same." She took the gown and marched to the door of Freddie's chamber. "I will have Mama hem it for me. She has uncommonly good skill with the needle."

That left Freddie with the choice of two dresses, one the color of goldenrod, the other ivory. She chose the ivory.

Chapter 25

She tried to look happy by plastering a smile to her face and chatting merrily with Dr. Edgekirth, but Freddie's eyes seldom left Lord Stacks. He stood greeting guests near the great room's huge marble fireplace--where he had stood with her but two months earlier. Only now Aunt Dorothea and Uncle Harold stood at his left, and Roxanne, wearing Freddie's unworn rose gown, on his right. Their gaiety depressed Freddie.

Roxanne had never looked lovelier, Freddie admitted bitterly. She looked more than ever like Elizabeth. Once again, Freddie was struck by the contrast of Thomas's darkness to Roxanne's delicate fairness. Swallowing bitterly, she admitted to herself how very good they looked together.

Edgekirth leaned toward her and whispered, "You're the loveliest one here tonight, Freddie."

She scowled at him. "You are positively odious."

He feigned a reproachful look. "Why would you say that to me?"

"Because you are. You know very well my cousin's the prettiest one here. And I have told you repeatedly not to call me Freddie."

"Well, Miss Lambeth," he said in mock sincerity, "It is my opinion as a learned member of the Royal College of Surgeons that you are possessed of the greater beauty. Yours is a beauty that will endure as the years advance whereas I see your cousin as a short, fat matron a decade from now. And coming from one who is more than I decade your senior, you must trust my words as oath."

She smiled into his warm green eyes. He looked terribly handsome tonight. He had obviously been to an excellent tailor since the last ball for he dressed elegantly--in much the same style as Lord Stacks. Had he copied his rival, she wondered. His black coat was of excellent quality and was complemented by pale gray breeches. His muscular body filled them out perfectly. To use his own comparison, she would have to say the golden haired, golden skinned doctor was the most handsome man at the ball.

How unfortunate that Roxanne was more attracted to a title.

"Well, oh mighty doctor from the Royal College of Surgeons, it might interest you to know that I braved the week's dreary weather and ventured out in the drizzle to procure honeysuckle flowers to make the asthma elixir for you."

His tanned face crinkled when he smiled down at her. "That news distresses me. I care much more for your continued good health. I fear the dampness will cause you to take a fever again."

"Pooh," she said, watching the Rountree brothers making their way across the now-full room to them. John Rountree, tall and dark and young, was every bit as good looking as the doctor, but the loudness in his choice of clothing made him look like a buffoon in her eyes. Tonight he had chosen a purple satin coat set off with large brass buttons. His curate brother wore a simple black coat of not especially good tailoring.

The brothers bowed to Freddie and Edgekirth, and the four of them began to converse. John Rountree seemed distracted with watching Roxanne. "Tell me your lovely cousin is not leaving," he pleaded with Freddie.

"I can tell you no such thing," Freddie said. "I'm not sure when she goes, but it should be soon."

His face fell even lower.

"You could see her in London if you would go," Freddie offered. "She very much enjoys the society there."

Luke Rountree came to stand beside Freddie. "Tell me you are not going to London, Miss Lambeth."

"You can be assured of that!" Freddie said with a broad smile. "All I could ever want is here in Yorkshire." Her eyes moved to look at her guardian while Edgekirth's gaze followed hers, his mouth compressed tightly.

By now all the guests had arrived and Lord Stacks ordered the orchestra to begin playing.

Freddie watched morosely as her guardian went back to Roxanne and asked her to stand up with him.

It was then that she allowed herself to gaze at Edgekirth, who promptly asked her to dance a set with him.

***

Damn the girl's impudence, Stacks thought as he watched his dancing partner flawlessly executing the intricate steps of the quadrangle. His demure Freddie never would have been so bold as to ask a gentleman to dance as the fair Roxanne had done. He watched Roxanne in the rose colored dress he had selected for Freddie. He thought of the rose that had been in Freddie's cheeks that day in York. How he longed to see her get her color back. His mind began to drift to that day he and Freddie had walked through the streets of the old walled city. They were but strangers then. It seemed like a lifetime ago yet it had been but a few months.

That day had been the beginning of his rebirth. He had never thought to feel again. And now he felt so deeply it hurt.

Without being obvious, he watched Freddie and that damned Edgekirth dance. She did well, and he delighted in her accomplishment.

***

As Edgekirth led her from the dance floor, Freddie saw Catherine Farraday watching him with longing in her eyes. "You must dance the next set with Miss Farraday," Freddie told him.

"And I suppose you'll dance with Luke Rountree?" he answered.

She shrugged. The room was growing hotter since it was now quite full of beautifully dressed ladies and equally fashionable gentlemen.

"Should you care for some ratafia?" Edgekirth asked.

She nodded gratefully.

As Edgekirth left to procure refreshments, Luke Rountree came to stand beside Freddie. "May I have the honor of dancing the next set with you, Miss Lambeth?"

She glanced quickly at Lord Stacks before she replied. He was slowly making his way around the room, chatting with guests, and looked as if he had no intentions of dancing any more. "I would be delighted," Freddie said, offering Luke a meager smile.

Edgekirth returned with the drinks, and the three of them talked for a moment before the orchestra started up again.

As Luke led her to the dance floor, Freddie overheard two women whose names she could not recall speaking. "I think Lord Stacks has finally found the one to replace his wife," one of the women said.

"You might be right," the other said. "Do you not find that she looks very much like his wife?"

Freddie felt almost physically ill as Luke took her hand when the music started. The set seemed interminably long. She grew hotter and hotter and felt almost as if she would faint. She prayed she could make it through the dance.

When the dance was over, Edgekirth met her when she came off the dance floor. He had not taken her advice and asked Catherine to dance. Instead, he had watched Freddie throughout the dance. "You are feeling ill," he said to her.

She shook her head. "It's just that it's terribly hot in here."

"Sit down," he ordered. "I'll get some more ratafia for you."

She was still seated when he returned and gladly took the drank he offered.

"I only hope it wasn't getting the honeysuckle that has made you sick."

"Nonsense," she said. "Does it not seem incredibly hot in here to you?" She looked up at him. His brow was moist, as was his golden hair. Huge circles of perspiration showed through his coat where his arms joined his torso.

"That is the problem with summer balls," he said. "Why don't we step outside for a moment?"

Though Mrs. Taylor had displayed enough good sense to warn Freddie against leaving a ball unescorted with a gentleman, Freddie knew there could be no impropriety at Marshbanks Abbey because the guests merely walked out the front door where a small army of footmen stood as sentry. "Very well," she said.

They pushed through the crowded ballroom, through the vestibule that was lit only from a pair of flaming wall sconces on either side, down the front steps and began to pace on the gravel drive.

On the seaside there was a tern's nesting area that Stacks had once brought her to. For some inexplicable reason, she gazed in that direction.

And her heart shattered at what she saw.

Shining in the moonlight was Roxanne's white-gold hair and Freddie's rose colored gown outlined on the tall frame of Lord Stacks. Roxanne's fair head tilted upward to kiss him.

A cry broke from Freddie's throat, and Edgekirth placed an arm around her to turn her away from the disturbing sight.

"Come, let us go back in," Edgekirth said gently.

As if she were a zombie, Freddie allowed Edgekirth to guide her. She was blinded by the tears which stung her eyes, and she shook in disbelief. Her Thomas was kissing Roxanne! It couldn't be. Surely her eyes had deceived her. Thomas loved her. More dearly than any man has ever loved he had told her. He couldn't have been lying. She had believed him and believed in him.

And now it felt as if she were bleeding inside.

"You've got to try to get a hold of yourself," Edgekirth said gently. "Don't let him see how he's hurt you."

She really didn't care. She didn't care about anything. As they walked back into the ballroom, the squire, Tobias Whitcombe, greeted them. He didn't appear to notice any change in Freddie's manner. "I say, Miss Lambeth, I've been searching for you. The orchestra is beginning a waltz, and it would please me excessively if you'd be my partner.

Freddie nodded slowly, and allowed the man to lead her away from Edgekirth. She felt as if she were walking through Purgatory as they meandered their way through the crowds and at last reached the dance floor. The two were at eye level with one another as he set his arm about her and took one hand to begin the waltz. Several times her step faltered for her mind was too numb for her to count the steps. She did not even apologize.

She watched the door to the vestibule for Thomas and Roxanne. Roxanne came first, her face flushed. A moment later, Stacks strode in, as tall and lithe and powerful and handsome as ever. Only, she thought bitterly, he was no longer her Thomas.

Somehow she got through the dance without crying in public. Perhaps she was too numb to cry. The squire, commenting on how pale Miss Lambeth was, meekly ordered her to sit down while he fetched ratafia.

As she was sitting there, Roxanne moved to her side and sat next to her. "Oh, Fredericka, I simply must tell someone my wonderful news, though it is not an announcement we plan to make just yet!"

Freddie stared at her cousin, no emotion on her face.

"Lord Stacks has done me the goodness to ask me to be his wife! Isn't it just wonderful?"

Before Freddie could attempt to gather her wits, Tobias Whitcombe extended her the glass and asked Roxanne if she would like some.

Freddie took the glass, took a quick sip, then announced to no one in particular, "If you will forgive me, I must seek my chamber. I'm not feeling at all well." She rose swiftly and left.

"I thought something was wrong with her," Tobias Whitcombe said to Roxanne and Edgekirth, who had now joined them. "She wasn't at all herself when we were dancing. And her coloring was off, too."

Chapter 26

Violent rain pelted her tiny arched windows, and the wind swooped fiercely beyond the abbey walls. Despite the fire in her hearth, a chill permeated Freddie's chamber. She pulled the covers more tightly around her, disturbing Marmalade, who slept beside her. She had lain there all night and all day unable to sleep, barely able to think, she was so completely numbed over Roxanne's agonizing revelation.

Maggie noiselessly entered the dreary room. The meager light from the cloudy skies allowed Freddie to see that her abigail brought a tray of food. Freddie had never taken meals in her room as Mrs. Taylor had told her proper ladies did.

"Lord Stacks is worried over you, Miss Lambeth," Maggie said. "He insisted I bring you a tray."

Freddie propped herself up on one elbow. "I'm not hungry."

"The other Miss Lambeth told him you got sick at the ball and came to your chamber early. Are you still feeling poorly?" Maggie asked with concern.

Freddie nodded. It wasn't really that she was sick. Unless she was sick of life. It was just that she could never again sit at his table. She didn't even know how she could ever look at him again. She went limp just thinking about his pensive face, his all-knowing black eyes, his sinewy dark body she would never feel against hers.

"Poor dear," Maggie said soothingly. "Couldn't you at least drink some nice hot tea?"

Freddie shook her head solemnly.

"His lordship's going to be mighty unhappy," Maggie said, gathering up the tray. "Is there anything I can get for you?"

"I just want to lie here," Freddie answered lamely.

Maggie silently left the room.

Freddie stayed in her bed, stroking Marmalade's soft fur, listening to the wind whistling outside the abbey, the abbey that had been her shelter from life's storms. Like her moroseness, the rain gathered strength, now fiercely splatting against her small windows. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and lightning flashed it brightness into her gloomy chamber.

It was hard to know when night fell for the storm had darkened the entire day. When her room grew as black as a grave, she refused to light a tallow but lay there in her cave-dark room until sleep finally overcame her weary body.

She woke the next morning to the sound of the rain's steady pounding. The day was as gloomy as her life. But she was less numb this day, more able to think.

Maggie came, bearing a breakfast tray. "His lordship is right concerned about you."

"I'm still not hungry," Freddie informed her.

With the tray halfway between herself and Freddie, Maggie froze, looking taken aback. "But, miss, it will help you get your strength back."

I don't want my strength back, Freddie thought. I don't want to ever leave this room, to ever see any of them again. "I'm still not feeling up to eating, Maggie," Freddie rasped. "But leave the tea. I'll try to drink it."

After Maggie closed the door, Freddie propped herself up on her bed and took a sip of tea. She began to think clearly for the first time in almost two days.

Of course she could not go on living at Marshbanks Abbey after Thomas married Roxanne. The thought of them marrying tore at her heart. There was no way she would be able to watch him with another.

And she could never return to Chilton Manor.

She fleetingly hoped she could starve herself to death so she wouldn't have to worry about what to do next. There were so few options. She was totally unequipped to make her living. She even considered masquerading as a man to apply for an apothecary's apprentice position, but she knew that would not work.

There were the two gentlemen who would offer her marriage. She had only to accept one of them. But she had vowed to never marry without love.

She did hold especially deep affection for Dr. Edgekirth. Perhaps she could grow to love him. She loathed herself for giving vent to so selfish an idea.

But what was a girl like her to do?

***

"Damn the rain!" Stacks thought. Another day the blasted Lambeth family was forced to remain at the abbey. He couldn't be rid of them too soon. It was getting harder and harder to avoid being alone with the wretched Roxanne. She followed him everywhere. Even when he had left the hot ballroom and had taken a stroll to smoke his cigar, she had followed him. He recoiled when he remembered her standing on her tiptoes and forcing her lips on his. It was nothing like the bliss of Freddie's innocent passion.

He knew he would have to be careful to prevent Roxanne from forcing him into a compromising position. The girl obviously schemed to become his baroness. To discourage so repugnant a notion, he'd even resorted to keeping his bed chamber locked. It would not have surprised him to find her in his bed. Anything to make her father demand a wedding.

His only protection was to shadow her father. He had played enough billiards with Sir Harold in the last two days to make up for the room's ten years of disuse.

While he was dodging every situation which might throw him together with Roxanne, he was fighting with himself not to storm into Freddie's chamber. Damn, but he was worried about her. Two full days and two full nights now and she had neither eaten a single bite nor left her bed. If the Lambeths hadn't been there, he would have rushed to her chamber. But neither he nor Freddie could risk such impropriety under her uncle's scrutiny.

He'd repeatedly sent Maggie to check on Freddie. And Maggie repeatedly told him she was no better and no worse. Dorothea Lambeth had offered to visit her, but Stacks refused to let her, knowing such a visit might cause his beloved Freddie to get worse.

On the third day when Maggie reported Freddie could not eat, he grew even more alarmed. She must be gravely ill.

He'd worried about her throughout the long night, sitting beside the fire in his bed chamber, drinking brandy and resisting the nagging urge to go to her room, to defy convention even knowing Dorothea slept in the very next room to Freddie. His more noble side won. He did not go to Freddie. Nor had he gone to his own bed.

His eyes were shadowed from lack of sleep as he played billiards with Sir Harold, his fatigue causing him to miss shots he normally made.

Roberts, wearing a great coat and hat, entered the billiards room and cleared his throat. "A word with you, my lord, if I may."

Stacks' brows drew together when he looked up and saw his valet dressed for braving the violent weather. He excused himself to Sir Harold, stepped outside the room and closed the door. "And just where do you think you are going in this weather?" Stacks asked.

"To Dr. Edgekirth, of course. I know you want him to look in on Miss Freddie."

"And how do you know that?"

"Because your bed was not slept in," Roberts replied.

Stacks laid a hand on Roberts' shoulder. "You're a good man."

***

Freddie's stomach gnawed from hunger. Perhaps she would eat something the next time Maggie brought her a tray. But she'd never again step foot in the dining room, his dining room.

There was no more lightning or thunder, and the rain's fury had lessened. But a dank smell and a chill still hung over her darkened chamber.

She heard a knock on her door and looked up to see Maggie enter. Only this time she was accompanied by Edgekirth.

Freddie shot up, lifting the covers to cover her thin shift. She eyed Edgekirth. "What are you doing here?"

"Your guardian is worried about you. It seems you have neither eaten nor left your bed for three days now." He turned to Maggie. "I'll call if I have further need of you."

The abigail left the room.

Edgekirth came to sit on the side of Freddie's bed, his brow furrowed, his gaze somber. "I know you're not sick. Except of the heart."

She swallowed hard, then began to cry. He drew her into his muscular arms and patted her. "I know. I know," he soothed.

The more he soothed, the harder she cried. Great tears flowed, wetting his coat, and her sobs kept coming.

He held her for a very long time. Neither of them uttered a word. Finally, she stopped crying, dried her face on his proffered handkerchief and looked at him with mournful eyes. "What am I to do, Malcolm? He's going to marry Roxanne." This time it did not matter that she had called him by his first name. Nothing really mattered any more.

"You're going to marry me."

She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off.

"I know you don't love me, Freddie," he said softly, stroking her cheek with a feather-like finger. "But I love enough for both of us. You don't find my personality repulsive, do you?"

"Of course not."

"Then I'm ugly," he said, a mischievous twinkle in his warm eyes.

She smiled finally. "You know better than that."

"Well, let's see. I'm not bad looking. We have much in common. You do not shriek from my company. I love you to distraction. That's not a bad start for a marriage."

"It wouldn't be fair to you, Malcolm. You know I'm in love with someone else."

He took her hand in his. "Time, my dear, precious Freddie, is life's great healer. I know it's hard for you to believe it now, but the sun will shine again. Stacks will marry, and eventually you will be able to think of him without pain." He brought her hand to his lips and gently kissed it. "And given time, you will come to love me. We'll have children, too, though I won't press you at first. I won't ask you to share my bed until you come of your own free will. And you will."

Her eyes filled with tears again. "Oh, Malcolm."

Once again he drew her to him. "Then you'll say yes?"

She nodded into his wet chest.

"When?" he asked, smoothing her tousled hair with his strong but gentle hand.

"Soon, please."

***

Edgekirth walked into the billiards room, his face solemn.

Stacks looked up at him and dropped his cue stick. "How is she?"

"May I speak to you privately?" Edgekirth asked, his voice somber.

His face ashen, Stacks led the doctor from the room toward his library. The walk along the wide hallway, down the stone steps, through the great room and tapestry room seemed like the longest walk Stacks had ever taken. Each strike of his Hessians against the cold stone floors sounded another death knoll. Freddie was dying. Freddie was dying. And if she died, the core of his own life ended.

He closed the library door, crossed the room and sat at his desk. Edgekirth took a chair facing from him.

A trembling Stacks could wait no longer. "What's wrong with Freddie?" he asked, unconscious that he had done what he had never before done. He had called her Freddie to someone else.

Edgekirth cleared his throat. "She's going to be all right."

A veil of death lifted from Stacks' face, and he smiled.

"I speak to you as her guardian," Edgekirth said. "Freddie is love sick. It is my pleasure to tell you she has done me the honor of accepting my offer of marriage."

It was as if the very chair Stacks sat in collapsed. The room reeled around him. He couldn't be hearing this! Freddie loved him. She had said she wanted to spend her life with him. Not with the damned doctor. "I don't believe you," Stacks hissed.

"You can ask her yourself."

Stacks reached for the brandy and poured himself a drink. He did not offer any to Edgekirth. "And I suppose you want my permission." He spat out the words.

Edgekirth nodded. "I know you told Luke Rountree Freddie was free to marry whomever she wanted. Does that still hold?"

He wanted to sling his drink into Edgekirth's face. "You know she's under age?"

"Of course."

Stacks took another drink, then slammed his glass down, shattering its fine crystal stem. Not moving to clear it up, he watched as the pool of rich, dark liquid grew larger on his desk. He would not meet Edgekirth's gaze. "If Freddie really wants to marry you, you have my permission."

Chapter 27

Despite that Sir Harold awaited in the billiard room, a stunned Stacks remained in his library and filled another glass with brandy. He no longer cared what Sir Harold thought of him. Stacks was released from his duties as Freddie's guardian once she married Edgekirth.

If he were a woman, he would have cried bitterly. This day was blacker than the day he killed Elizabeth. Just as he had begun to live again, his lifeline was snatched away.

He finished the brandy and rose from his chair, walking to the great marble fireplace. He slung his glass into the golden flames and watched it shatter into a hundred pieces of jagged crystal. Like his heart.

His sense of propriety dimmed by the brandy, he stalked to Freddie's chamber and flung open the door. He didn't see her at first because the room was so dark. He took a few steps and saw that she moved in her bed. She sat up and looked at him through red-rimmed eyes as Marmalade climbed on her lap from beneath her covers.

"Is it true that you plan to marry Edgekirth?" She had not covered herself, and he saw her nipples beneath the thin linen of her shift. She looked at him with hollow eyes. She didn't seem at all like his Freddie.

Finally, she nodded.

He thought for a moment she would burst into tears, but she didn't as their eyes remained locked, so much unsaid.

"That's all I needed to know," he said viciously, turning his back on her and slamming the door behind him.

He slammed his library door behind him as he strode to his desk, poured another glass of brandy and drank.

Edgekirth had told the truth. Damn him. Freddie would marry him though she had told Stacks she could never, ever marry the doctor, that she could never love anyone but Stacks. So much for her being different from other women. She was as lying and scheming as the lot of them.

But why had she changed? And why so quickly? Was it because what she really had wanted was marriage? Even when she'd told him all she could ever want was to stay by his side until the end of her days?

God in heaven, how it hurt to recall those intimate talks he had shared with her.

It hurt even more to know they would never again have them.

***

She had been so stunned to see Thomas in her chamber, she'd been unable to think, unable to speak. When she had looked up and seen him standing so near her bed, he had looked like a tall, angry dark knight. She had never seen him in a rage before, and she'd been frightened. Frightened and bitter over his traitorous heart.

Now that he was gone, she could think clearly. He'd been angry, no doubt disappointed, thinking that she had lied when she had told him she could never marry Edgekirth. Why hadn't she flung her own anger at him? Why hadn't she accused him of lying about never marrying again, about loving only her? Even if Roxanne had said they were not going to tell anyone just yet about their engagement, he owed it to Freddie to tell her.

Well, she thought, seething with anger, she had seen him. It had not been as difficult as she had thought. Perhaps she could see him between now and her wedding without swooning or crying or some other utterly embarrassing display.

Her wedding! The thought brought anguish. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be. She was going to become the wife of a man she didn't love. A fine, decent man who deserved a loving wife. She felt like a thief, stealing a love she could never return.

And she was leaving behind the only happiness she had ever known—though she could never again be happy there again. She had always known their world--hers and Thomas's--had been too perfect. It couldn't last. She was not entitled to happiness. Happiness was for other people. People who had been loved since the cradle.

Drawing Marmalade to her bosom, she began to cry. She had nothing when she came here. Now she had Marmalade. Thomas had said the tiny kitten was her very own. She would take him when she left Marshbanks Abbey. As much as she loved the animal, he was small consolation.

The following morning, she allowed Maggie to help her dress. "It's good that you're getting up again, Miss Lambeth. You need to get the blush back in your cheeks." She stood back a step and peered at Freddie. "I can tell by your eyes you didn't sleep well."

She not only had not slept well, she had not slept at all. She could not get away from the abbey too soon. Being so close to Thomas was entirely too painful. Freddie saw that Edgekirth had been right. The sun did shine again. "Has the rain gone?"

"Oh yes, miss, and the Lambeths, too, thank goodness."

Freddie spun away from her looking glass. "All of them?"

Maggie nodded. "And good riddance to them. I suppose Sir Harold was nice enough, but his two ladies were positive witches, I do declare."

"I won't argue with that," Freddie said as she stood and left the room.

She looked into Thomas's library as she walked by, but he was not in it. She hoped he would not be in the dining room. She wished to avoid conversation with him.

To her satisfaction, he was not. She took a seat and poured herself a cup of tea while a footman placed toast and other breakfast foods she did not feel like eating on the table. She looked up at him. "Has Lord Stacks eaten yet?"

"Yes, miss, he ate before he left for Morton."

"He's gone into Morton?"

The young man nodded. "About an hour after Sir Harold's family left."

She told herself she should be pleased she would not have to see him, but she was mildly disappointed. On the other hand, she was elated over the departure of Uncle Harold's family.

After breakfast, she resisted the temptation to work in the quadrangle. Thomas had expressed a strong dislike of her working there after a heavy rain. He disliked to see mud on her hands and on the hems of the dresses he had paid for. She went back to her chamber and got her sketch book and Marmalade and relocated to the upstairs drawing room where the light was better than in her room.

With Marmalade on her lap, she attempted to sketch, but he was particularly frisky, wanting to plop himself on the pad. She put the sketch pad down and played with her cat. With a heavy heart, she wondered what would become of Thomas' book. There really would be no need for her to sketch any more of her botanical drawings, for she refused to work with him after they married.

Eason knocked on the door and entered. "I'm in a bit of a quandary, miss," he said. "I've shown Mr. Binghampton, who is the brother of the late Lady Stacks, into the great hall, but I don't know when his lordship plans to return. Mr. Binghampton is but passing through and wanted to look in on his lordship for a few hours."

"Would you like for me to entertain him until Lord Stacks returns?"

"Yes, Miss Lambeth," he said gratefully, an unusual smile sweeping across his face.

"Why don't you ask him to come up here where it's more cozy? And please bring some tea." She had started to send for Maggie to provide chaperonage, but she really did not care a tuppence about her reputation any more. Malcolm would still marry her.

She looked up when the well dressed Mr. Binghampton entered. He was blond and bronzy and small boned, and she guessed him to be thirty. "Please sit down, Mr. Binghampton," she said, indicating a chair near her. "I am Lord Stacks' ward. My father, Frederick Lambeth, was best friends with Lord Stacks at Oxford."

"It's very good to see there is some one here for old Thomas," the man said. "The last time I saw him--five years ago--he was entirely too solitary."

Freddie had no desire to discuss Thomas and his loneliness. He seemed to have taken care of that matter. "Tell me, Mr. Binghampton, where are you from?"

"The Midlands. I'm on my way to inspect a hunting lodge that I'm thinking about buying in Scotland."

Eason brought the tea and set up the tea table. When he left, Freddie poured it into two delicate porcelain cups and handed one to the visitor.

"I suppose you were utterly devastated to lose your sister at so young an age," Freddie said.

He frowned. "It was, indeed, devastating, but not altogether unexpected."

Freddie's heart hammered. Had Elizabeth's family learned of her accidents, too? Did they suspect Thomas of murder? She tried to still her racing heart and speak without her voice trembling. "Indeed?"

He nodded simply.

But, Freddie reasoned, if Elizabeth's family held Thomas responsible for her death, Mr. Binghampton would hardly be sitting here telling her how glad he was that Thomas was not as lonely as he had been five years earlier. She had to probe further. "Was Elizabeth sickly?"

He laughed a bitter laugh and met her gaze. His eyes were blue like Elizabeth's. "How much do you know about her death?"

"A good bit, I suppose."

"And had you heard about her accidents?"

Now her pulse beat drummed. She nodded, her eyes wide.

He bit at his lip and looked down into his cup. "Thomas is a good man. A noble man. I know he has blamed himself for Elizabeth's death."

Freddie felt her breath growing short.

"He has never uttered a bad word against Elizabeth," he continued. "Terrible rumors about him have reached as far away as London."

She could barely get her breath as she watched Mr. Binghampton set his cup on the table and gaze up at her. "I wanted to talk to Thomas, to put his mind at ease, but it seems I may have to leave before he returns. I'll tell him what he needs to know in a letter."

Freddie's own cup began to rattle against her saucer.

He gazed at her. "As his ward, I think you have a right to know the truth. It's not something our family wishes known, but it is something my father should have informed Thomas of when drawing up the marriage contracts, and I've always been ashamed that he did not."

What was the man trying to say?

"Elizabeth--from the time she was a small girl--had a rare disorder," he said.

Freddie's brows arched.

He refused to look at her as he spoke. "She had a bent for self mutilation. She was forever purposely injuring herself."

Her mouth dropped open. "So all the those accidents Lord Stacks was accused of--"

"He was innocent of."

"Do you know how this man has suffered for ten years?" she said angrily. "Why did you not tell him sooner?"

"While my father lived, I couldn't. He died last month."

Freddie picked up her cup and saucer as an excuse to gather her thoughts before she spoke again. She took a sip of tea, looking at him over the rim of her cup. At least he had finally spoken. "It was good of you to come," she said softly.

He stood up. "I will write that letter to Thomas. Tell him I came, won't you?"

"Yes, of course," Freddie said, watching him leave the room.

***

While she and Marmalade were still sharing the sofa in the drawing room, Eason announced that Dr. Edgekirth was calling.

Her pulse accelerated with dread. "Send him up," she said gloomily.

Edgekirth rushed to Freddie's side on the damask sofa, took her hand, pressing it with soft lips.

It sickened her, and the fact that it sickened her angered her even more. Malcolm Edgekirth was a perfectly handsome, very fine man. Why couldn't she fall in love with him? Why did it have to be Thomas?

"I didn't sleep all night," he told her. "I cannot believe such happiness has been bestowed upon me."

"How can you be happy, under the circumstances?"

"Because I will have the joy of knowing you're mine, of seeing you every day of my life. I have dispatched a request for a special license."

"And how long will that take?"

He shrugged. "It's my goal we be wed by the end of next week."

"Good," she said, her lips tight.

"Eason tells me Stacks is in Morton. A very rare outing for him, to be sure."

"I think he wants to see me no more than I wish to see him." She stroked Marmalade, who slept curled in her lap. "You will never guess who left just moments before you arrived."

He took her hand in his. "Who?"

"Elizabeth's brother. I think you owe Lord Stacks an apology."

He eyed her suspiciously. "Why?"

"Because he never injured Elizabeth, and he didn't kill her." But why, Freddie wondered, had he told her he had killed his wife?

"How could her brother possibly know that? He wasn't here. I was."

"He confessed that the family had always hidden the fact she had a rare disorder which caused her to inflict pain upon herself."

"No!"

"Yes," Freddie countered. "From the time she was a small girl she injured herself. Her brother said he was not a bit surprised when she killed herself. I think he'd rather been expecting it."

Edgekirth's eyes widened. "I never---Oh, yes, I actually remember reading something when I was at university about the disorder. . ." His voice trailed off. "I never would have expected it of Elizabeth."

"Do you not agree that you owe Lord Stacks an apology?"

It was a full minute before he nodded.

Chapter 28

All these years Thomas had lived with the shame of Elizabeth's death. Never had he sullied the memory of the lovely blond with the dancing the blue eyes. And for as many years he had endured the whispered innuendos even from his own servants. He had, indeed, been noble, Freddie thought. How could that man be the same one who had toyed with her heart while offering his name to another?

Never mind her own hurt. She could at least remove some of the stain that had soiled his life. She pulled the bell rope in the drawing room. When Eason answered, she instructed, "Please tell Mrs. Greenwood I beg a word with her."

When Mrs. Greenwood entered the drawing room Freddie asked her to close the door and have a seat beside her.

The woman did as she was instructed, her eyes fixed on Freddie's as she crossed the room and sat down. She looked nervous.

"When I first came here," Freddie began, "you seemed very displeased, but since Mrs. Taylor came your resentment vanished, which led me to believe that you had at first feared for my safety. Am I correct, Mrs. Greenwood?"

She nodded. "I never meant to offend you, miss."

Freddie gently patted the woman's solid arm. "It's all right. I think you suspected Lord Stacks was responsible for his wife's death."

The two women's eyes locked, but the housekeeper refused comment.

"That's why I called you here for this little talk. Do you know who visited here today beside Dr. Edgekirth?"

"I heard it was Lady Stacks's brother."

"Yes. He came to make a confession about his sister. According to Mr. Binghampton, Elizabeth had a life-long disorder which caused her to inflict pain on herself."

Mrs. Greenwood's eyes widened. "You mean like the sex maniacs that kill women in London?"

Freddie nodded. "Probably. Although I don't think Elizabeth ever meant to harm anyone but herself. Unfortunately, Lord Stacks has been paying for his wife's misdeeds for the last ten years."

"I'm truly sorry," Mrs. Greenwood whispered, looking into the bony hands folded in her lap. "I should have known his lordship was too kind. It was just that I was very fond of Lady Stacks. I still can't believe she. . ."

"I know. It is an extremely rare disorder, one that most of us have never heard of. Lord Stacks does not even know his wife suffered from it."

"That's not right for him not to know."

Freddie looked kindly at her. "I will tell him. I wanted you to know the truth, to no longer blame your employer for something he did not do. He has protected a dead woman for far too many years."

The housekeeper's face was grim. "He certainly has. The Lord bless him."

***

The sun was low, shading the twilight sky with pinks and oranges as Stacks rode back to the abbey from Morton. He had stayed away as long as he could. He had paid a long overdue visit to the vicarage. He had gone to see Mrs. Rountree at Thistledowne and offered belated condolences over the death of her husband the previous year. He had visited some of his cottagers.

And now he had to go back to the abbey where he hoped to avoid Freddie's presence. Eason greeted him at the door, informing Stacks he had missed a visit from Mr. Binghampton. Stacks raised his brows and handed the butler his hat and coat. "Any other visitors?"

"Only Dr. Edgekirth."

That was a given, Stacks thought bitterly. "And where is Miss Lambeth?" he asked as he strode from the vestibule and into the great room.

"She is in the dining room. You're just in time to join her for dinner."

"Actually," Stacks said hesitantly, walking in the other direction from the dining room, "I don't feel like dressing, and I have work to catch up on. Have a tray sent to the library for me, won't you?"

He sat at the desk in his library, only picking at his dinner, his gloomy thoughts on Freddie and her marriage. He remembered when he had planned to make a settlement on Freddie at her marriage. Not any longer. Edgekirth would get nothing from him. Besides, he had wanted to make a settlement on the old Freddie, the one who was honest and loving. Not the lying creature she had turned into.

He pushed aside the unfinished dinner and poured himself a glass of brandy, noticing that the servants had already replaced the two shattered snifters. He had been drinking entirely too much the past several days, but he didn't care. The fact was, he didn't care what happened to him any more. It had been the same when Elizabeth died.

He laughed a bitter laugh. It was as if his vibrant Freddie was dead.

A pity he had missed Timmy Binghampton. He had always liked the lad.

If Freddie had thought it ridiculous for just the two of them to sit at the magnificent table with two footmen in attendance, it was far more ridiculous tonight.

She sat completely alone, except, of course, for the footman. At least there was only one. Though she had little appetite, she tried to stretch out the dinner in hopes of getting a chance to talk to Thomas.

He needed to know about Elizabeth. Freddie was still puzzled over how he could blame himself for Elizabeth's suicide.

Had he felt she had been driven to it by something he had done? Or not done, she thought, remembering that he had stayed from her bed for months at a time.

Eason walked through the dining room, and she heard him tell someone in the kitchen that Lord Stacks desired a tray in the library. She watched sadly as Eason walked back through the dining room, carrying his master's tray. Was her presence so repugnant to Thomas that he couldn't eat with her?

She pushed aside her plate and left the room, intending to go to the shelter of her room and the comfort of sweet Marmalade. She crossed the darkened great room, so different now than it was the last time she saw it at night, the night of wretched ball. She looked at the pianoforte, turned to a footman, and asked him to light candles in the candelabra on top the pianoforte.

She hadn't played since Uncle Harold had come. Concentrating on so many different things as the music demanded would keep away thoughts of Thomas.

She sat down at the instrument and began to play. She played for over two hours just to get back the level of skill she had acquired when her uncle came.

***

She kept playing the same song. Terribly at first, then better and better until she finally got it right. He had listened from his dimly lit library as he drank too much brandy once again.

Finally, he got up to go to bed. But he chose not to cross the great room as he usually did to reach his chamber on the other side of the abbey. This time he went through the cloisters, across the soggy quadrangle, into the refectory and up a servants' stairway to his room.

The waiting Roberts assisted him in removing the same clothing he had helped him don that morning.

"Don't say it," Stacks told his valet.

Roberts looked offended. "Say what, my lord?"

"Chide me for not changing my clothes when I returned from Morton."

Roberts took a whiff of his master's brandy-scented breath and pulled back ever so slightly. "I'm far more likely to chide you for overdrinking."

Stacks laughed and plopped on his stuffed chair while Roberts removed his boots. "You certainly aren't subtle, my man."

"Eason said you did not eat with Miss Freddie. I have deduced that your trouble lies with the young woman."

Stacks focused his black eyes on his valet and sneered. "Who says I'm troubled?"

"I do, my lord."

"You know that Miss Lambeth is to wed the wretched Edgekirth?"

Roberts' brows lifted. "I am shocked, indeed. Have you not told her how you feel about her?"

Stacks kicked his boot across the dressing room. "She knows, damn it!"

"Have you told her since the beautiful Miss Roxanne Lambeth left?"

Stacks angrily kicked off the other boot. "I haven't spoken to her."

"May I suggest you do so?"

"I cannot beg her. Besides, I cannot offer marriage as Edgekirth can."

"I fail to see why the doctor can propose and you cannot."

"Because of Elizabeth."

"Oh, I had almost forgotten!" Roberts said, his eyes alight. "Mrs. Greenwood has informed several members of the staff that you did not harm the late Lady Stacks. She said Miss Lambeth told her that Mr. Binghampton confessed that his sister had always suffered from some peculiar mental disease that caused her to inflict pain on herself. Mrs. Greenwood compared it to those sex killers we hear about from time to time in London. Anyway, Mrs. Greenwood has at long last been able to exonerate you from any blame in Lady Stacks' death. Of course, I reminded her that I always knew you couldn't have hurt your wife."

Stacks closed his eyes, and the room tended to spin around him. Would that he could be exonerated from actually killing Elizabeth. "Help me to my bed, my good man."

"Very well, my lord," Roberts said, giving Stacks a helping hand as he got to his feet. He held onto Stacks as they walked into the huge chamber where Stacks slept. The forest green velvet bed covering had already been pulled back to form a triangle against the white linen sheets.

Stacks climbed up on the bed.

Roberts cleared his throat. "If I might be so bold as to make a suggestion, my lord."

Stacks looked at his man servant out of bleary eyes and cocked a brow.

"I beg that you talk to Miss Freddie tomorrow. One last time you need to let her know how you feel about her."

"She knows," Stacks murmured.

"Tell her again, please."

Stacks shook his head as it drifted into the downy pillows.

Chapter 29

When he lifted his head from his pillow the following morning, it felt as if it had been smashed by a brick. He eased himself back down and from the corner of his eye saw Roberts smiling at him.

"I have taken the liberty of bringing a balm of sickle-wort which Miss Freddie assures will relieve the headache if anointed on the temples and forehead."

"Do I have to get up?"

"No, my lord," Roberts said, dabbing the potion on his master's brow.

Despite that he teased Roberts for his overbearingness, Stacks knew how fortunate he was to have him. "If you'd thought to force breakfast down me, think again."

Roberts's face grew pensive. "It would do you good to eat."

"Perhaps later. I fancy a romp on Lucifer first thing this morning. Have Jacob bring him around."

After Roberts helped his master into riding clothes, Stacks left through the quadrangle, met his groom at the back of the abbey, and mounted Lucifer. He rode to the moors. It always had done him good to go riding early in the day when wet dew still hung over the landscape. And always the lonely moors matched his melancholy mood.

***

Freddie had stayed cooped up indoors far too long. The low hanging sun was doing its best to harden the earth after over a week of relentless rains.

After breakfast--solitary in the dining room again--she returned to her chamber, draped her new shawl over her shoulders and scooped up Marmalade. "Come, Mr. Marmalade. We shall enjoy the outdoors today." Though she knew she could not really enjoy anything ever again.

She went through the vestibule to the front of the abbey and circled it, coming to the park. She let Marmalade down, and he promptly skittered after a flying insect Freddie could barely see, much less identify. She smiled at him and began to crunch along the gravel path that crossed the park, then along the path that circled it. The crocus leaves were still wet with dew, and a chorus of birds sang. The sun felt good. She must have circled the park a half dozen time when she heard a clopping noise from beyond the thicket at the rear edge of the park. She looked up to see her guardian on Lucifer. Her heart pounded, and she turned back to see where Marmalade was. "Come here, fluff muffin," she crooned. Anything to take her mind from what was obviously going to be a meeting with Lord Stacks.

He rode into the park and came to a stop when he saw her. She looked up just then, and their eyes met. And froze. A powerful intensity fired his gaze. She couldn't seem to remove her eyes from his. Nor could she summon her voice.

He broke eye contact when he dismounted. Holding the reins, he strode toward her. She watched his long, muscled legs moving closer. Her insides quivered and shook as an earthquake surging its fury within her.

"Good morning, Miss Lambeth," he said when he came to stand in front of her. Once more he reminded her of a dark knight, so brooding and tall and powerful.

"Hello, my lord."

"Will you sit with me at the bench?" He threw his glance at a wooden garden bench not twenty feet away.

She nodded solemnly, and bent to pick up Marmalade. It was as if the tiny cat would shield her from a stormy confrontation.

They sat down. Now they were tense and antagonistic, so different than it had been before when their thoughts had meshed together in unspoken harmony.

His voice was low when he spoke. "Why are you marrying Edgekirth when you told me you never would?"

"It is something which causes me to feel extreme guilt, but I had nowhere else to go. I could not live here after you marry Roxanne."

"After I what?" he shouted, anger flashing in his eyes.

"After you marry Roxanne," she said meekly, meeting his searing gaze.

"Who in the hell told you I was marrying that wretched female?"

"She did."

"And you didn't ask me?"

"I. ..I was too hurt, too humiliated after seeing you kiss her in the heron's nesting area."

He closed his eyes, a pained look on his face. "I did not kiss her. She kissed me, and it was repugnant."

"But she told me--"

"How could you possibly think I would ask her to marry me when I loved you?"

She gazed at him through happy eyes, tears flowing as if from a bucket. "I. . .I've never, ever cried," she sniffed. "In my whole life. Now in the past month I've cried enough to fill the River Tyne."

He lifted her chin gently, his black eyes seeming to see into her soul. "Understand this. I never asked Roxanne to marry me. I detest her. Her words were wicked lies."

She sniffed and smiled. "Oh, Thomas, I do believe you. I'm sorry I ever lost faith in you."

"And I'm sorry I lost faith in you," he said softly, brushing away her tears with his handkerchief. "Must I write it down before you'll believe I am in love with you?"

"Oh, Thomas!" she said joyfully, throwing her arms around him.

He nuzzled his mouth into her soft neck, working his way around front until he kissed a trail of feathery kisses to her mouth, then claimed her lips for a hungry, probing kiss. A deep warmth spread from her lips to encompass all of her.

There was the crunch of gravel, and she broke away, turning to gaze at Edgekirth.

He stopped dead in his stride and stared at them, a wounded look on his tanned face.

She whispered to Stacks. "Please, I need to talk to him privately."

Stacks left silently, walking across the grass to avoid walking past Edgekirth.

Edgekirth came and sat beside Freddie on the garden bench, taking her hand in his. "I was afraid this would happen."

Freddie nodded. "Lord Stacks never asked Roxanne to marry him. For some reason I will never understand, she lied to me about it."

"I suppose that means he's still in love with you."

"I believe so," Freddie whispered. "And, of course, I never stopped loving him."

"Of course."

"So I suppose I won't be able to marry you after all."

"I suppose not."

Grabbing Marmalade, Freddie rose. "Come, I'll walk you to your horse." She felt feather light, her heart exploding with the joy of Thomas's love. Yet there was an aching, too, for the hurt she was heaping on Malcolm.

He walked along the crunching path with her. "You know I'll always be there if you need me."

"You don't still think Lord Stacks will inflict pain on me, do you?"

"Not physically."

She understood what he meant. He must know about Thomas's resolve to never wed. The thought opened a sensitive wound. She sighed and tried to speak cheerily. "It's a great comfort to know you will always be there," she said solemnly. "But for your own sake, I hope that is not the case. You need to marry and forget I ever existed."

"Removing my limbs would be easier," he said bitterly.

She looked ahead through moist eyes and saw an ostler walking with Edgekirth's roan gelding. "I suppose this is good-bye."

He nodded and left her.

She watched him take the reins and mount his horse, and she stood on the front steps of the abbey and watched him ride down the rocky drive until he disappeared from sight.

Without being told, she knew Thomas would be in the library, the room where they had first declared their love. She nearly flew to him, her heart light and singing.

He sat on the sofa in his library. The heavy red velvet draperies had been opened, and the room was bright with sunlight. She was glad he was not behind his huge wooden desk. She closed the door behind her and slowly crossed the room to him, never removing her eyes from his steady, loving gaze. She lowered herself onto the sofa, and he took her hand, enclosing it with both of his long-fingered, bronzed ones.

He began to rub the back of her hand with his thumb. "May I hope you are free of Edgekirth?"

"He has released me from the engagement."

"I know how painful that must have been for you," he said softly. "You never like to see any creature in pain."

"No, I don't," she said, her lashes low, like her voice.

He brought her hand to his mouth and pressed kisses into the sensitive hollow of her palm. "I shall endeavor to make it up to you."

She looked up at him with smiling eyes. "I have some very good news for you, my love. Elizabeth's brother--"

"Timmy Binghampton."

"Yes, of course you knew he had called yesterday. He's a very sweet man. A man of fairness and integrity. He has been greatly disturbed over the terrible rumors about you killing Elizabeth."

He squeezed her hand. "It was a very considerate thing you did, Freddie, imparting his revelations to Mrs. Greenwood. I'm sure you knew that by telling one noted for her propensity to gossip that you would exonerate me."

"Then you've already heard?" she asked, her face open and happy before she broke out laughing. "I had not thought the news would spread that quickly. I suppose by today, half of Morton has heard the good news."

There was a troubled look on his face. "I would hardly call it good news. It distresses me to drag Elizabeth's memory through the mud."

Freddie's brows lowered, her voice laced with emotion. "Then you loved her that greatly?"

He set both arms on Freddie's shoulders. "Never as deeply as I love you, my little one. She offered only beauty. You, on the other hand, share my life, my every interest. I almost believe you finish my thoughts for me. Despite that we haven't been sexually intimate, I almost feel as if we share one body, one heart."

"I feel the same," she whispered. She reached up and stroked the fine planes of his dark face. She wanted that sexual intimacy. She felt tingling stirrings deep within her, low in her body. "You have suffered for too long, my love. I knew what I was doing when I told Mrs. Greenwood about Elizabeth. You have paid for too many years for what happened to a woman who is long dead. It's time for you."

He removed his arms from her shoulders and looked at the row of arched windows that allowed sunlight into the room. "Do you not understand? I did kill Elizabeth."

Chapter 30

The singing in her heart silenced. His words slashed into her happiness. Her poor tortured Thomas. "I need to know," she said, her voice trembling.

He took a deep breath and stood up, his muscled back to her as he paced the room. "The details of Elizabeth's death cannot be shared with you. Anything else I will gladly offer. But you're much too innocent to know about sexual cravings between a man and a woman."

"But I have sexual cravings whenever I am with you."

He whirled around and faced her.

She winced from the pain she saw in his face.

"I don't even know if I could make love to you if it were sanctioned by the church," he said.

"I care not whether it's sanctioned by the church. I don't care if I have your title. All I want is you. All of you."

God, but she looked like a woman. A woman raw with need. "You must know it is different with men."

"I know that men don't have to be in love to crave a sexual union with a woman. For them it is purely physical. Not like the way it is with me. How was it with Elizabeth?"

Freddie was entitled to an explanation. He walked to the window and was tall enough to look out at the tops of elms below. "I did not know of Elizabeth's propensity for self-destruction. She was a virgin on our wedding night. I went gently with her. After that first time, she craved more . . .she wanted me to make love over and over that night, but she didn't want me to be gentle. At first, she just wanted me to tie her hands to the bed while we made love."

The sound of Freddie sucking in her breath disturbed him, but he needed to go on. He couldn't turn to face her. "She asked me to bite her breasts," he said hesitantly. "I refused. She wanted me to . . .to do other things which would cause her pain, things I cannot tell you about."

Stacks slowly turned around to face Freddie. Her eyes were hollow, intense. "I could not do them. After that night, I couldn't bring myself to come to her bed. I began to treat her as a good friend, a visitor in the abbey.

He began to pace the room. "The first time she hurt herself badly was when we were walking along a small river which flows through my property. It was after a heavy rain, and the stream was swollen, the water quite rapid. We were some distance away when she went careening off the embankment, tumbling on rocks until she landed in the water. She was unable to swim. I rescued her and later called for Edgekirth to treat her wounds.

"That first time, I thought it was an accident. But the second time, I knew without a doubt she purposely wanted to hurt herself. We were riding my phaeton into Morton when she stood up and leaped from the moving vehicle. She broke several bones that time."

"And you still were not making love to her?" Freddie asked.

He shook his head. "By the time she mended, I was . . .this is the difficult part, my dear," he said, looking at Freddie with tenderness.

"You had gone without sex for a very long time by then. Your desire was acute."

He had always known Freddie reached into his very thoughts. He smiled at her. "How can one so inexperienced be so excessively wise?"

"Your constant observations on my youth grow tedious, Thomas." Then her eyes turned solemn. "Despite my inexperience and my youth, I have acute desire for you, Thomas."

"Yes," he answered, his black eyes twinkling at her. "My desire was acute." Then he turned serious. Gravely so.

"Apparently Elizabeth's desires were equally acute for she had been extremely seductive for some time. One afternoon--on a day very much like today--I succumbed. I brought her to my chamber, to my bed. And I ended up killing her."

Freddie crossed the room to him. She faced him for the briefest of seconds before melting her body into his, slipping her arms under his jacket and stroking him lovingly. "I know it's difficult for you to talk about it, but I need to know what happened in your room that day."

He held her close, his voice hoarse when he began to speak. "I removed her clothing, then mine. I could barely wait to . . "

"To bury your seed in her?"

He lifted Freddie's face and began to see heated desire in her eyes. He nodded slowly. "Elizabeth knew how badly I needed her. She removed a silken sash from her discarded dress. 'I want you to wrap this about my neck as you thrust into me,' she said. I told her it was too dangerous, but she assured me that it would only heighten her sexual intensity. It would not kill her. By that time I was ready to explode from my great need, and I agreed. When I entered her, she urged me to twist the sash. I did. And with each thrust, she begged for another twist. I kept twisting and twisting until she was dead. I was so damned bent on my own fleeting pleasure," he cried. "I didn't even know I had killed her. When I discovered that she was dead later, I put her clothes on and tried to make it appear that she hung herself with the bell chord."

Freddie wiped away his tears with a tender hand. "What a horrible, horrible thing to have gone through."

He brought both her hands to his lips and pressed them with gentle kisses.

"Don't you see, Thomas, you didn't initiate the deviant activity. It wasn't you who removed the sash from the dress. It wasn't you who asked for the twisting."

"But it was me who did the killing," he said harshly.

"It was not murder. At the most, it was an accident." Freddie's eyes widened. She looked away from him quickly. Was it now repugnant for her to face him? "Julia Taylor!" she said, her voice hissing.

"What does Julia Taylor have to do with this?"

It was as if Freddie had not heard him. "Did you leave Elizabeth after making love to her?"

"How did you know? I thought she was fine. I went to my dressing room and dressed myself. When I came back, she was dead."

"Don't you see, you didn't kill her! She was alive when you left."

"What makes you so certain?"

"Julia Taylor told me you strangled Elizabeth with her own silk sash. Not a bell chord. Only the true murderer would know how she really died."

He felt stricken. "Then you think Julia Taylor entered the chamber while I was in the dressing room?"

"I do."

"But why would she want to kill her best friend?"

"It should be obvious to you that Julia Taylor hoped to snare you for herself."

His mind flitted back over the many instances in which Julia Taylor thrust herself on him. Especially after Elizabeth's funeral when she showed a great reluctance to leave Marshbanks Abbey. He had to be openly hostile with her in order to get her to leave. It all fit together like pieces in a puzzle.

As sun breaks through menacing clouds, he knew he had not killed Elizabeth. It had always bothered him that she was softly breathing when he left her to get dressed but that she was stone cold when he returned. Damn, damn Julia Taylor. He'd see her wicked soul in hell.

He grieved not only for the lovely Elizabeth but for all the years of agonizing torture he had put himself through. And all because of one evil woman.

Freddie drew toward him, her breasts pushing into his chest, her arms encircling him. "It's time for me to breathe my life into you and for you to fill me with your love."

Her words were seductive, as were her actions when her torso rubbed into his, her arms holding him firmly.

"I am afraid of being mentally incapable of completing the sexual act. That's another reason why I cannot offer marriage."

"There's only one way to find out," she groaned, lifting her face to his for a kiss.

Chapter 31

He couldn't string two thoughts together as long as her body kept doing what it was doing to his, yet he had to try. He needed to be certain this was what she wanted before he took the irrevocable step that would steal her innocence. She had given him her trust; he could not trample it.

Cradling her face in his hands, he asked, "Are you sure?"

She nodded, her eyes glazed with passion.

His breath grew short as his hands lazily trailed down the slope of her breasts to fasten on her slim waist. Gripping her waist, he pulled her fast and hard into his swelling need. He heard the breath expel from her as she pressed firmly against him with her lower torso. His hands moved to her hips, cupping them, rhythmically lifting her into himself.

He was glad she was tall. She fit to him as if she had been made for his pleasure. He was glad, too, that his apt pupil was so compliant, rolling into him with revolving hips, then rolling again, and again and again. Now her breathing became ragged.

Her face lifted to his for a wet, passionate kiss as his fingers fumbled with the row of buttons at the back of her dress. To his surprise, her tongue slid through his parted lips, showing none of the repulsion most maidens did over open-mouthed kissing.

When he had finished with all the buttons, she surprised him again by lifting off the dress. Then, balancing herself on one leg then the other, removed her shoes and stockings. Wearing only her shift, she merged her body into his once more. He felt the milk of life flowing, zinging through him. He was lost to sanity, mindful only of the cries of his starved body, his need to become one with her. He inched up the shift until he splayed his hand on the smooth flesh of her thigh. And she moaned a throaty approval.

Goaded on by her insatiable rhythm, his hand went higher. Then higher still until his fingers dipped into her slickness. And she moaned again, this time widening her thighs.

He had to keep telling himself this was for her. It was her pleasure, not his, that he sought. She was tight. Very tight. And, thank God, blessedly lubricated.

His voice was husky and low. "May I undress you?"

"Yes, please."

He removed his coat first, then her shift, throwing it on his discarded coat. Next, he began to unlace her stays. When her breasts sprang free, he nearly lost his breath. His eyes slowly, agonizingly travelled over the length of her slender, milky flesh, taking in the glory of her peach-sized breasts, the smooth curve of her waist, then lower, the crevice of brown above her long shapely legs. And he thought he'd never before beheld so innocent a beauty.

He dropped to his knees as if he were worshipping her, as, indeed, he was. She moved to him and his mouth covered one breast, his hands stroking her, kneading her, playing with her as he languidly sucked at a her nipple and his fingers once again slipped into her warmth, taking up where they had lift off.

And once again her lower torso began to roll toward him, slowly at first, then faster and at last in jerky, thrusting motions.

It was time.

He stood up, planting his still-booted feet in front of her. She moved closer and began to unfasten the buttons of his shirt. "It grows terribly hot in here." Her voice was a growl. His Freddie was no child but a full-fledged woman with a woman's body, a woman's needs.

And he wanted her not just for his surging need but for his life and all the days it had yet to yield.

Once she helped him remove his shirt, he lifted her and carried her to the sofa. She lay on it, scooting back to make room for him. He sat on the edge and removed his boots, then stretched his body beside her, clad only in breeches. Her hands glided over his heated flesh as she arched toward him, urging him on with her maddening, erratic rhythm. He drew her ever closer, exulting in the feel of her, the taste, the light lavender scent.

Now, if he could but complete the act they both desired so excruciatingly.

He kissed her gently at first, then hungrily, his hand cupping her low, stroking her until she cried out. Then he adjusted his breeches. She widened herself for him and he eased into her.

***

She had wanted to show him how good it was for a man and woman who loved each other to make love. She had planned to offer herself on the altar of his redemption. But never in her wildest fantasies had she ever imagined it could be like this, that she could ever feel so thoroughly complete, so utterly sated.

Her hands glided possessively over the powerful muscles of his back, urging him deeper and deeper until she had called out his name as if he were her savior. She contracted herself around his movement, euphoric over the groans she had brought to his lips. And when she had felt his liquid heat flowing into her core, the primitive, breathless panting from deep within him, she trembled violently. Not just there, low in her body, but in shuddering waves washing over her from head to foot, leaving her hot and wet and satisfied beyond comprehension.

Long after the gush of frenzied love making had stilled, he stayed within her, stroking her, smoothing the damp hair from her face. She took the hand that had touched her there and sucked his fingers into her mouth.

He propped himself up on one arm and gazed into her heated eyes. "The next time you do this, my love, it shall be in my bed as my much cherished wife."

"Then you have at last dispelled your aberration over ever marrying again?"

"No, woman of mine, you have dispelled it. And most thoroughly, I might add."

Her mouth curved into a smile.

EPILOGUE

"Has the post come, Eason?" Freddie asked.

"Yes, Lady Stacks. I was just going to bring it to his lordship."

Freddie held out a slim hand. "I'll take it to him." As she strode through the great room, she rifled through the letters. Two caught her eye. One was from Perth, the other she recognized as being from Thomas's publisher. She broke the seal, running her eyes over the text as she made her way to the library.

When the door opened Stacks looked up from the papers on his desk. "Tommy down for his nap?" he queried.

She smiled. "Thank goodness for his poor nurse and for Marmalade. Your son has been a holy terror today." She handed him the letters, then plopped down on the sofa.

She watched as he opened the one from Australia. "Why are you receiving mail from Australia?"

He finished reading the letter but he still did not answer her.

"It's not the first letter you've received from Perth."

He took a deep breath. "When we were first married I made the decision not prosecute Julia Taylor for Elizabeth's murder. I wanted to spare you the scandal."

"I wish to God she could hang for what she did to Elizabeth--and to you."

"It was also my intent that she be punished for her crime, and I have no remorse that I had one of my men abduct her and put her on a ship bound for Australia--where I had arranged for her to serve as an indentured servant."

Freddie's hand flew to her mouth.

His eyes ran over the script on the letter before him. "My man in Australia writes that Mrs. Taylor burned to death in a house fire some months ago."

"I'm not sorry," Freddie said with defiance.

He put aside the letter. "Nor am I." Then he took up the letter from his publisher.

"Are you reading the post from your publisher?"

"Our publisher," he corrected. "Mr. Symmington informs me they've gone into another printing on the book, and he wants to know when he can expect the next."

"If you didn't spend so much time indulging Tommy--and me," she said, her eyes alight. "I declare, Thomas, your mission on earth is to smooth away life's bumps for Tommy and me. You're far too indulgent."

He shrugged. "It's not indulgent to make my wife labor on my boring botany notes day in and day out. You should be spending my money frivolously as other wives do--not working in my dreary library all your waking hours."

"I will have you know I do not think your notes boring or your library dreary." Her voice softer, she added, "I am happiest here in this room where we first declared our love."

"And where we first made love." His voice was throaty, his eyes smoldering.

"Yes," she whispered, getting up and moving to him. She placed her hand gently on his chiseled cheek, then linked her hands behind his neck as he pulled her onto his lap. "When shall we tell Mr. Symmington to look for the next book?"

"If my wife would quit distracting me I might could finish the book this week." He covered her lips with his.

When he was finished, she spoke. "Shall we go upstairs for a nap?"

He scooted his chair back. "A very good plan, my love."

"Your book can wait."

"Our book," he said, lifting her hand to his lips.

THE END

Other Cheryl Bolen eBooks:

With His Lady's Assistance

(Book 1, The Regent Mysteries)

(Humorous Regency Romance Mystery)

With His Lady’s Assistance is a delightful blend of humor, romance, and mystery, a romp through Regency society, sprinkled with appealing characters and colorful figures from British history. Protecting the eccentric Prince Regent from an unknown assassin has never been so entertaining. – In Print

This is a highly enjoyable read. There is mystery, humour and romance – a winning combination. I eagerly await the next installment. – Amazon Reviewer

* * *

To help him mingle in the highest echelons of English society to investigate threats on the Prince Regent's life, super spy Captain Jack Dryden must feign an engagement to the exceedingly plain spinster, Lady Daphne Chalmers. Together they embark on an investigation which brings them into grave peril – and makes the captain reevaluate the skinny maiden who has a most amorous effect upon him.

Buy at Amazon.com.

Lady Sophia's Rescue

There's a lot packed into this novella. There's a wonderful and appealing hero, a funny and charming heroine, a dastardly villain, a good amount of humor, and a perfectly developed romance. – Amazon Reviewer

* * *

As Lady Sophia passes through the gates of her new bridegroom’s country estate and he begins to whisper in her ear the delights that await her in his bed, Lady Sophia realizes she has made a most dreadful mistake. There’s only one thing to do. She must bolt.

The bride-on-the-run is rescued by the exceedingly handsome William Birmingham who thinks she’s a woman named Isadore, and though he’s the richest man in England, she mistakes him for a common (but well-to-do) criminal. Since she’d rather be dead than wed to her wretched bridegroom, Sophia pretends to be Isadore and take her chances with the provocative Mr. Birmingham. But how could she have known that her ruse would bring the gallant Mr. Birmingham into such peril from the wicked man she married? And how could she have known her enigmatic rescuer would ignite passions she never knew she possessed?

Buy at Amazon.com.

A Lady by Chance

Cheryl Bolen has done it again with another sparkling Regency romance. . .I highly recommend it. – Happily Ever After

Anna de Mouchet has the stuff of which Regency heroines are made – the right stuff, that is! – In Print

* * *

The Marquess of Haverstock is incensed when he learns the money he needed to buy crucial war information for the Foreign Office has been lost at cards to the illegitimate daughter of an English duke and French noblewoman. When the bewitchingly beautiful woman informs him the only way to reclaim the funds is to wed her, he has little choice but to agree.

Shunned by the ton, Anna de Mouchet agrees to a bizarre proposal that has her using her skill at cards to force the marquess – whom she’s been told is a traitor – to marry her. As his wife, she will be free to spy on him and prove her patriotism to England. But once she marries the handsome lord, she’s less sure of her loyalties. Especially when she feels her husband’s silken touch.

Buy at Amazon.com.

The Bride Wore Blue (The Brides of Bath Series #1)

Cheryl Bolen's writing draws you into her fast-paced story. 4 Stars – Romantic Times

Cheryl Bolen returns to the Regency England she knows so well. . .If you love a steamy Regency with a fast pace, be sure to pick up The Bride Wore Blue. – Happily Ever After

* * *

For six long years Thomas Moreland has dreamed of the beautiful young noblewoman who rescued him from death. While amassing his fortune in India, not a day passed he did not recall Felicity's fair loveliness, did not recall the silken tones of her sweet voice, did not desire to possess her.

Now a widow, Felicity Harrison does not recognize the handsome nabob as the young man left for dead by highwayman years earlier. Though she wants nothing more than to snub the arrogant man who promises to rescue her family from financial ruin in exchange for presenting his sister to Society, she cannot snub him. She must force herself to bear his company. But the longer she is with him, the more she has to force herself to remain true to her dead husband's memory. Why is it the humbly born Thomas Moreland possesses more nobility that any man of her class? And why is it she finds it harder and harder to mourn a dead man when Thomas's virility awakens her deepest desires?

Buy at Amazon.com.

With His Ring (The Brides of Bath Series #2)

Texas Gold's Runner-up for Best Historical Romance 2002

Highly recommended. – Under the Covers

Cheryl Bolen does it again! There is laughter, and the interaction of the characters pulls you right into the book. I look forward to the next in this series. 4 Stars – Romantic Times

With His Ring is a good book. Once you start reading you will not want to put it down. . .The secondary characters are a blast. They will have you laughing right along with Glee's stunts. – The Romance Readers Connection

If you liked Cheryl Bolen's first installment in her Brides of Bath series set in Regency England, you'll like this one. With His Ring has plenty of sensuality. – Happily Ever After

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Glee Pembroke has turned down countless offers of marriage because she has secretly been in love with her brother's best friend, Gregory Blankenship, all her life. When she learns Gregory will lose his considerable fortune if he's not wed by his twenty-fifth birthday, she persuades him to enter into a sham marriage with her. What he doesn't know is that she plans to win his heart. She will do everything in her power to make him happy – including mimicking the ways of a "fast" woman since he's noted for alliances with women of that sort.

Why did he ever allow himself to marry the maddening Glee? He'd thought they would have great fun, but at every turn, she exasperates him. Why does she persist in wearing the bodice of her dresses so blasted low? Why do other men persist in flirting with her, his wife? And why in the blazes has his heretofore complacent life been turned upside down by this sham marriage? He finds himself longing for a real marriage, but for reasons he cannot divulge, that can never happen.

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A Fallen Woman (The Brides of Bath Series #3)

You'll fall for A Fallen Woman, the latest Regency romance by Cheryl Bolen. .this emotional story of a woman's journey from despair to triumph has what we all want from a love story. – In Print

A story of healing, forgiveness and change that will make readers cheer. – Romantic Times

I would recommend A Fallen Woman to anyone." – Escape to Romance

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Since his commanding officer in the Peninsula took a bullet meant for him, James Moore, now the Earl of Rutledge, feels responsible for the dead man's young son and the boy's exquisite mother, Carlotta Ennis – so responsible that he offers to marry the lavender-eyed beauty. Though their marriage was not to be a love match, Carlotta's torturing presence has James yearning to make her his true wife.

Though she did not love his lordship, her desperate situation forced her to accept his proposal. Little did she know she would come to crave being with him, would hunger for his every touch. If only she could be worthy of the fine man she's married, if only she can keep him from learning her dark secret . . .

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To Take This Lord (The Brides of Bath Series #4)

(previously titled An Improper Proposal)

"Wonderfully Crafted... Highly recommended... 5 stars." – Huntress Book Reviews

"Bolen's writing... creates the perfect atmosphere for her enchanting romances." –

Romantic Times

"Bolen does a wonderful job building simmering sexual tension." – Booklist

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Even though it's been two years since his cherished wife died on childbed, George Pembroke, the Viscount Sedgewick, continues to rely on liquor to blunt his grief.

Worried about him and his children, George's sisters urge him to ask spinster Sally Spenser--a longtime family friend--to help care for his daughter and son. Sally's the perfect person. She's of high birth (but has no money) and she adores Lord Sedgewick's children. It's her deep love of the motherless children and fear that their father might marry an unfeeling stepmother that prompt Sally to consider George's proposal. Even though it will be unbearable living under the roof of the man she loves and knowing she can never have him.

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The Earl's Bargain

Bolen writes with both poetic ease and a good sense of historical correctness. Another great book by Bolen with enchanting characters you actually fall in love with. – Amazon Reviewer

The Earl and lady "bluestocking" provide fun, adventure, and romance, and I loved the Cornwall locations. I've been to Cornwall and Ms. Bolen's descriptions were right on. – Amazon Reviewer

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The impossibly young, stunningly beautiful widow Louisa Phillips finds herself penniless upon the death of her no-good husband. What's a man-hating bluestocking to do?

Enter the Earl of Wycliff, who offers her financial security for life. All she has to do is travel across England posing as his wife. They're both hiding secrets – not the least of which is their budding love for each other.

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My Lord Wicked

This terrific regency novel has Gothic elements: the eerie abbey; the gloomy weather; the portrait of his wife seeming to watch over everyone; and his dark, twisted memories of her. Ms. Bolen's novel has it all. A great romance with spooky elements and the mystery surrounding the wife, the author could not have done a better job. I loved this book, and I hope you will love it also. Very highly recommended! – Amazon Reviewer

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What woman would dare make her home at eerie Marshbanks Abbey, perched on a stony hill in remote Northumbria? It is said its owner, the brilliant botanist, Lord Stacks, killed his beautiful bride there ten years earlier.

Unaware of the tales of Lord Stacks' wickedness, Freddie Lambeth comes to live with her guardian, and through his caring blossoms from a plain, shabbily dressed girl to a lovely young woman. Freddie and Lord Stacks come to need each other as his flowers need sunshine, but Stacks cannot allow himself to love her. His own wickedness has destroyed any chance for happiness.

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It Had To Be You (A World War II Romance)

The kind of book that you think about afterward. . .They [hero/heroine] grip your heart and make you weep.—In Print

It is definitely one for the keeper shelf.—Margaret Lawrence

I highly recommend It Had to Be You for an all-consuming and powerful love story.—Romance Communications Reviews*

Best Mainstream Novel – Golden Triangle*

Runner-up Best Mainstream Novel – Book of Your Heart*

Runner-up Best Historical – Now and Then*

Runner-up Best Historical – Show Me More*

*under various previous titles

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The time is 1937. Journalist Dianne Castle mixes with Hollywood's elite post-Prohibition hedonists at the popular Club Borneo, owned by handsome Japanese American, Johnny Honda. Amidst the threat of war and chants of Yellow Peril, Dianne and Johnny fall in love, but it's a love not to be.

How can Johnny let his beloved Dianne throw her life away on the likes of him?

Dianne stubbornly vows to follow him to the ends of the earth-even if it means entering an internment camp.

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A Duke Deceived (Harlequin Historical)

Notable New Author Award Winner

Holt Medallion Honorable Mention, Best First Book

Reissued by Harlequin Historical as ebook

Full of intrigue and excitement, A Duke Deceived is a tender love story that will capture the reader's heart from page one. Cheryl Bolen is sure to please those who enjoy historical romances set in Regency England." -- Barbara Dawson Smith, bestselling author of ONCE UPON A SCANDAL

"The charm and grace of the regency period is present in this sweetly told debut novel. Regency fans will find the conflict traditional but enjoyable." -- Romantic Times

" A Duke Deceived  is a gem. If you like a genuinely sensuous love story, pick up this first novel by Cheryl Bolen." -- Happily Ever After

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At her mother's deathbed, Bonny Barbara Allan weds the Duke of Radcliff in what Bonny perceives as a totally unequal match. Though she adores Radcliff, Bonny is embarrassed over her dowryless state and inadequate pedigree to be his duchess. To make matters even worse, she believes her enigmatic husband has married her out of compassion toward her dying mother. Nothing could be further from the truth. Radcliff fell in love with the incomparable Bonny the first time he saw her, but how can he reveal his love when his bride is secretly meeting another man?

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Table of Contents

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

Epilogue