MY FAVORITE ROGUE

8 Wicked, Witty, and Swoon-Worthy Heroes

8 New York Times and USA Today

Bestselling Authors

Courtney Milan

Lauren Royal

Grace Burrowes

Christi Caldwell

Jess Michaels

Erica Ridley

Delilah Marvelle

Eva Devon

THE GOVERNESS AFFAIR

by Courtney Milan

For Amy, Tessa, and Leigh.

I’m never “scared” with you all around.

Chapter One

London, October, 1835.

THE DOOR TO THE UPSTAIRS library slammed viciously, rattling in its frame. Heavy steps marched across the room, bearing down on Hugo’s desk. Fists slammed against the wood surface.

“Damn it, Marshall. I need you to fix this.”

Despite that dramatic production, Hugo Marshall did not look up from the books. Instead he waited silently, listening to boots marking a path upon the carpet. He wasn’t a servant; he refused to be treated as one.

After a moment, his patience was rewarded. “Fix it, please,” the Duke of Clermont muttered.

Hugo raised his head. An untutored observer would focus on the Duke of Clermont, apparently in full command, resplendent in a waistcoat so shot with gold thread that it almost hurt the eyes. This observer would dismiss the drab Mr. Marshall, arrayed as he was in clothing spanning the spectrum from brown to browner.

The comparison wouldn’t stop at clothing. The duke was respectably bulky without running to fat; his patrician features were sharp and aristocratic. He had mobile, ice-blue eyes that seemed to take in everything. Compared with Hugo’s own unprepossessing expression and sandy brown hair, the untutored observer would have concluded that the duke was in charge.

The untutored observer, Hugo thought, was an idiot.

Hugo set his pen down. “I wasn’t aware there was anything in need of fixing.” Except the matter of Her Grace. “Anything within my purview, that is.”

Clermont positively bristled with an edgy nervousness. He rubbed his nose in a manner that was decidedly unmannered. “There’s something else. It’s come up just this morning.” He glanced out the window, and his frown grew.

The library in Clermont’s London home was two floors off the ground, and claimed an uninspiring view. There was nothing to see out the window but a Mayfair square. Autumn had turned green leaves to brown and yellow. A small bit of fading grass and a few dingy shrubberies ringed a wrought-iron bench, upon which a woman was seated. Her face was occluded by a wide-brimmed bonnet decorated with a thin pink ribbon.

Clermont clenched his hands. Hugo could almost hear the grinding of his teeth.

But his words were casual. “So, if I refuse to pander to the duchess’s ridiculous demands, you’d still work everything out, wouldn’t you?”

Hugo gave him a stern look. “Don’t even consider it, Your Grace. You know what’s at stake.”

The other man folded his arms in denial. His Grace really didn’t understand the situation; that was the problem. He was a duke, and dukes had no notion of economization. Were it not for Hugo, Clermont’s vast estates would have collapsed years before under the weight of his debt. As it was, the books barely balanced—and they only did that because of the man’s recent marriage.

“But she’s so unamusing,” Clermont protested.

“Yes, and a fine joke it will be to have your unentailed property repossessed. Convince your duchess that she well and truly wishes you back in her life. After that, you may laugh all you wish, Your Grace.”

There had been money up front in the marriage settlement. But that had disappeared quickly, paying off lingering mortgages and troubling debts. The remainder of the duchess’s substantial dowry had been tied up in trust by the girl’s father—the funds to be released on a regular schedule, so long as the duke kept his wife happy.

Alas. The duchess had decamped four months ago.

Clermont pouted. There was no other word for it; his shoulders slumped and he kicked at the edge of the carpet like a petulant child. “And here I thought all my money worries were over. What do I hire you for, if not to—”

“All your money worries were over, Your Grace.” Hugo drummed his fingers on the table. “And how many times must I remind you? You don’t hire me. If you hired me, you’d pay me wages.”

Hugo knew too much about the duke’s prospects to accept anything so futile as a promise of salary. Salaries could be delayed; wagers, on the other hand, sanctified by the betting book at White’s, were inviolable.

“Yes,” the duke groused, “and about that. You said that all I had to do was find an heiress and say whatever it took to make her happy.” He scowled at the carpet underfoot. “I did. Now look where it’s got me—every shrewish bitch in the world thinks it her right to harp at me, over and over. When will it end?”

Hugo raised his head and looked Clermont in the eyes. It didn’t take long—just a few seconds of an intent stare—and the man dropped his chin and looked away, as if he were the employee and Hugo his master.

It was embarrassing. A duke should have known how to take charge. But no; Clermont was so used to having others bow before his title that he’d never learned to command by force of personality.

“There appears to have been a miscommunication.” Hugo steepled his fingers. “I never told you to say whatever it took to make her happy.”

“You did! You said—”

“I told you to do whatever it took to make her happy.”

Sometimes, Clermont was like a little child—as if nobody had ever taught him right from wrong. At this, he wrinkled up his nose. “What’s the difference?”

“What you said was that you’d love her forever. What you actually did was marry her and take up with an opera singer three weeks later. You knew you had to keep that girl happy. What were you thinking?”

“I bought her a bracelet when she complained! How was I supposed to know she wanted fidelity from me?”

Hugo focused on the papers on his desk. Even his own late, unlamented father had managed fidelity: sixteen children worth of it, to be precise. But this was no time to remind the duke of his wedding vows. He sighed.

“Win her back,” he said softly. It was his future at stake, too. After all, he wasn’t an employee, receiving a salary for his hard work. He operated on a form of commission—on wagers, to be exact, in the language of the financially incompetent duke. If he brought the duke through the end of this year in one piece, he’d win five hundred pounds. That wasn’t just money; those five hundred pounds would be the means to begin his own empire.

He’d worked three years on that hope. When he considered, briefly, the possibility that he might lose… He could almost see the shadowy figure of his father standing over him. You bloody useless git. You’ll never be anybody.

He shook his head, sending those darker thoughts scattering. He wasn’t going to be just anybody. He was going to be the wealthiest coal miner’s son in all of England.

But Clermont wasn’t meeting his eyes. Instead, he frowned and looked out the window. “It’s not quite so simple.”

That woman was still sitting on the bench. She’d turned her head to the side, and Hugo caught a glimpse of profile—snub nose, a smudge of pink for her lips.

“You see,” Clermont muttered, “there was this governess.”

Hugo rolled his eyes. Any confession that started thus could not end well.

Clermont gestured. “It happened over the summer, when I was seeing to business at Wolverton Hall.”

Hugo translated this mentally: The duke had been drinking himself silly with his useless friends after his wife had flounced off and his father-in-law had tied off the once-generous purse strings. But no point in insisting on honesty from the man. He’d never get it.

“In any event,” Clermont said, pointing to the bench outside, “that’s her, now. Waiting. Demanding compensation from me.”

“Your pardon?” Hugo shook his head in confusion.

The duke huffed. “Must I spell it out? She wants things from me.”

Had he thought the duke a child? An infant, more like. Hugo kept his voice calm. “Between seeing to business at Wolverton Hall and a governess waiting outside your home demanding compensation, there are a great many events missing. For what is she demanding compensation? Who brought this matter to your attention?”

“She caught me just now, when I was returning from…well, never mind where I was,” the duke said. “She was on the street, waiting for the carriage to arrive.”

“And what does she want?” Hugo persisted.

Clermont gave an unconvincing laugh. “Nothing! Nothing, really. I, uh, at Wolverton Hall, I saw that she was good with the younger children. So I offered her a position taking care of my son.”

“Your as-yet-unborn child.”

“Yes,” Clermont mumbled. “Exactly. And so she quit her position at Wolverton. And then I had no work to offer her because the duchess had left. Now she’s angry, too.”

The story didn’t sound remotely plausible. Hugo considered, briefly, calling His Grace a liar. But it wouldn’t do any good; long experience had taught him that once the duke made up a story, he’d hold to it doggedly, no matter how many holes one poked in it.

“She says she’ll sit there until she receives compensation,” Clermont said. “I do believe she means it. You see my dilemma. If everything works out well, I’ll be bringing back the duchess in a matter of weeks. This is devilishly awkward timing. The old girl will think…”

“…That you seduced and ruined a servant?” Hugo asked dryly. That was where he would place his money.

But Clermont didn’t even blush. “Right,” he said. “You can see the very idea is absurd. And of course I did no such thing—you know that, Marshall. But matters being what they are, she needs to be gone by the time I return.”

“Did you force her?” Hugo asked.

Clermont did flush at that. “Gad, Marshall. I’m a duke. I have no need to force women.” He frowned. “What do you care anyway? They don’t call you the Wolf of Clermont for your conscience.”

No. They didn’t. But Hugo still had one. He just tried not to remember it.

Hugo looked out the window. “Easy enough. I’ll have the constables take her in for vagrancy or disturbing the peace.”

“Ah…no.” Clermont coughed lightly.

“No?”

“I wouldn’t precisely say it was a good idea to put her into a courtroom. You know how they have those reporters there, writing a few lines for the papers. Someone might ask questions. She might invent stories. And while I could certainly quash any legal inquiry, what if word of this got back to Helen? You know how touchy she is on the subject of other women.”

No, he wasn’t getting anything useful from the man. Hugo sighed. “You talked to her. What kind of compensation does she want?”

“Fifty pounds.”

“Is that all? We can—”

But Clermont shook his head. “She doesn’t just want the money. I can’t give her what she wants. You’ll have to persuade her to go. And keep my name out of the gossip papers, will you?”

Hugo pressed his lips together in annoyance.

“After all,” Clermont said, striding to the door, “it’s my entire future that’s at stake. When I return, I expect that you’ll have sorted out this entire unfortunate affair with the governess.”

It wasn’t as if Hugo had any choice in the matter. His future was at stake, too, every bit as much as Clermont’s. “Consider her gone.”

Clermont simply nodded and exited the room, leaving Hugo to contemplate the bench in the square below.

The governess sat, turning her head to watch people passing on the pavement. She did not look as if she were about to burst into hysterics. Perhaps Clermont hadn’t wronged her all that much, and he could solve this over the course of one conversation. He hoped so, for her sake.

Because if talk didn’t work, he was going to have to make her life hell.

He hated having to do that.

* * *

IT WAS HARD FOR MISS Serena Barton to keep from fidgeting at the best of times; today, a chill wind had arisen in the afternoon, sending clouds scudding overhead and robbing the day of sunshine. The breeze sent autumn leaves rattling across the cobblestones. It sliced through her inadequate pelisse, and it was all she could do to refrain from wrapping her arms around herself. Still, she forced herself to sit, her spine straight. She wasn’t going to freeze to death; she was just going to get very, very cold. Nothing that a cup of hot tea wouldn’t fix when she returned to her sister’s rooms that evening.

She glanced sidelong at the small cluster that had gathered on the gangway in front of the Duke of Clermont’s home. In the lull of the late afternoon, a few servants had come by; they huddled in a little knot to gawk at her. No doubt they knew she’d talked to Clermont. She was counting on their gossip. Speculation would embarrass the man more than a simple recounting of the truth, and her only hope was to embarrass him a great deal. Speculation bred gossip; gossip gave rise to censure.

Three maids in ruffled aprons were whispering to one another when a man turned the corner onto the street. He scarcely seemed to notice them, but the group of women took one look at him and scattered to their respective houses, like hens fleeing a hawk overhead.

He didn’t look like an aristocrat. He wore a brown suit, simply made, and a cravat, plainly tied. His linen was not the snowy-white that the wealthy insisted upon; his cuffs looked clean, but—as whites were wont to do upon washing—faded to a less respectable ivory. He stopped on the street just opposite her, and raised his head to meet her eyes.

For three months, Serena had wondered where she had gone wrong—what she could have done to avoid this fate. She’d retraced her steps a thousand times, searching for her error.

She’d been weak three months ago, when the duke had first found her—dropping her eyes for every man simply because he was bigger and stronger, holding her silence merely because it was improper to scream. Serena was done being weak.

She’d met the duke’s gaze this morning, not flinching when she looked in his eyes and issued her threats. After that, she could do anything.

And this man wasn’t a duke.

So she met his gaze. I’m not afraid of you, she thought. And if the clamminess of her palms declared otherwise, there was no need to tell him that.

But he was only a working man, if she read the middling-quality fabric of his jacket aright. Everything about him was middling. He wasn’t particularly tall, nor was he short. He was neither skinny nor fat. The most that she could imagine anyone saying about him was that he was virulently moderate.

He looked safe. An utterly ridiculous thing to think, of course. Still, Serena held his eyes, smiled, and gave the fellow a polite, dismissive nod.

He crossed the street toward her.

He was as unremarkable as the shrubbery that edged the square. He had a nondescript face, so familiar that it might have belonged to anyone. He gave her a friendly, unassuming smile.

She did not respond in kind. She wasn’t nice, she wasn’t easy, and she was done being a target. She gave him a pointed look—a raise of her eyebrow that signified don’t you impinge on my time.

A man as ordinary as this one should have flinched from her expression. But this one came right up to her bench and, without so much as asking her leave, sat next to her.

“Nice day,” he commented.

His voice was like his face: not too high and not too deep. His accent was not the drawl of aristocratic syllables trained to lazy perfection, but a hint of something from the north.

“Is it?” It wasn’t—not when she’d been sitting outside long enough to turn her nose red. Not when an unfamiliar man sat next to her and started a conversation.

She turned to frown at him.

He was watching her with a quizzical little smile. “I believe there is no good way to continue.”

She sighed. “You’ve come for gossip, haven’t you?”

“You could say that.” He tensed, and then met her eyes. “It’s Hugo Marshall, by the way.” He tossed the introduction out, and then leaned back, as if waiting for her response.

Was he an important man? She remembered the servants scattering as he’d approached. Maybe he was a solicitor, who might carry tales. Or a butler, who enforced rules. He looked rather young to be a Mayfair butler, but whatever he was, he wasn’t going away.

She would have preferred a woman to start the gossip—she found it easier to talk to women. But perhaps this fellow would do.

“Miss Serena Barton,” she finally offered. “I suppose everyone wants to know why I’m here.”

He shrugged, and gave her another one of those pleasant smiles. “I have no interest in everyone,” he responded smoothly. “But I do wish you’d satisfy my individual curiosity. The accounts I have heard are quite garbled.”

She had no intention of satisfying anything of his. She’d been cut deep by her own silence—cut to the point of shame. Now it was her turn to wield that knife.

The Duke of Clermont had told her to stay quiet. So she would.

“Accounts? What accounts?” she asked.

“I’ve heard you’re Clermont’s former mistress.”

She raised a single eyebrow at that. Silence could cut both ways—for instance, when one failed to repudiate rumors that might cause damage. She wished Clermont much joy of her silence.

He tapped his fingers against the arm of the bench, holding her gaze. “I’ve heard you’re a governess, and that Clermont promised you a position looking after his unborn child. When he reneged, you took to sitting outside here to shame him for not honoring his contracts.”

That was so absurd that she couldn’t stop herself from laughing.

He simply sighed. “No,” he said. “Of course not.”

If gossip was running to breach of contract, she needed a new strategy. But Serena simply smoothed her skirts over her knees. “My,” she said. “Do keep talking. What else?”

He pushed his gloved hands together and looked down. “I’ve heard that Clermont forced himself on you.” This last came out in a low growl.

Serena repressed a shiver. She didn’t flinch—not even from the shadow that passed over her at that. “You believe all of this?”

“I believe none of it, not without proof. Tell me what really happened, Miss Barton, and perhaps I can help.”

She’d told the duke everything that morning. He’d laughed and told her to take herself off and keep quiet. It was the second time he’d demanded her silence. So she’d promised to return it to him—silence, accusing silence. Weeks and weeks of it, sitting practically on his doorstep with everyone wondering. If the gossip threatened to reach his wife, he’d have to take responsibility.

She regarded Mr. Marshall now. For all his smiling affability, he was direct. He’d simply jumped into the matter and asked her right out. By the way he was watching her, he expected an answer.

On a second inspection, she decided he was not as ordinary as she’d supposed. His nose had been broken. It had also been set, but not very well, and so there was a bump in the middle of it. And while he wasn’t fat, he was broader across the shoulders than any butler she’d seen.

But he was giving her an encouraging smile, and the warning prickle in her palms had faded to almost nothing. He was safe. Gossipy, perhaps, but safe.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Marshall,” she said. “I really will not say.”

“Oh?” He looked mildly puzzled. “You won’t tell even me?”

“I don’t dare.” She gave him another smile. “I do apologize for piquing your curiosity, but I’ll be unable to oblige it. Good day.”

He took off his hat and rubbed his brown hair. “Is there some need for secrecy? I’ll meet you in the dead of night, if that’s what it takes to resolve the matter. I was hoping this would be simple.”

Her smile froze. “No,” she heard herself say distinctly. “These days, I only meet in sunlight. I don’t mean to be so circumspect, but if I air my grievances to the public, it is possible that I could be charged with defamation of character. I must be careful.” That was the right note to strike with the gossips—imply that she had the capacity to blacken the duke’s name, without ever listing specifics.

But he didn’t speculate. He leaned back, and the iron bench creaked. “You think Clermont would have you brought up for talking to me?”

“Oh, surely not Clermont himself. But his man… Who knows what he might do to keep the duke’s secret?”

“His man,” Mr. Marshall repeated, setting his hat next to him on the bench. “You won’t talk to me because you’re frightened of Clermont’s man.”

“Surely you’ve heard of him. They call him the Wolf of Clermont.”

“They—what?” He pulled back.

“The Wolf of Clermont,” she repeated. “The duke hires him to get things done, things that an ordinary man, fettered by a conscience, would not do.”

He stared at her for a few moments. Then, ever so slowly, Mr. Marshall picked up his hat once more and turned it in his hands. “Ah,” he said. “That Wolf of Clermont. You’re acquainted with the fellow?”

“Oh, yes.”

He made a polite sound of disbelief.

“From the gossip papers only,” she explained. “I’ve never met him, of course. But he has the blackest of reputations. He was a pugilist before he took over the duke’s affairs, and from what I’ve heard, he’s handled His Grace’s matters with all the aplomb that one could expect from a man who made his living prizefighting. They say that he’s utterly ruthless. I can see him now: some squat, stocky man, all shoulders, no neck.”

“All shoulders,” he repeated softly. “No neck.” His own hand rose, as if of its own accord, to touch his cravat. “Fascinating.”

“But if you work near here, surely you must have seen him. Do I have the right of it?”

He gave her another one of his friendly smiles.

“Yes,” he said softly. “You’ve described him precisely. If I were you, I’d not want to set myself opposite him. I’d think long and hard about that. And as you’re not talking…” He picked up his hat and set it on his head. “I’ll wish you a good day, Miss Barton. And much luck.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” he replied. “If you’re in opposition to the Wolf of Clermont, luck won’t do you any good. It will just make his chase interesting.”

Chapter Two

ONCE AGAIN, SERENA’S SISTER HAD not left home all day.

Serena could tell because Frederica’s cloak and gloves were still gathering dust on the small table in the entry. A bit of a stretch, to call this haphazardly walled-off section of hallway an “entry.” The word brought to mind marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and liveried butlers who whisked hats and gloves away.

Here, there was only the rickety wood table and yellowing whitewash of an old house, once grand, now little better than tenement housing for women who had slipped into the depths of genteel poverty. The air was cold and musty.

Nonetheless, Serena removed her own cloak and gloves and set them next to Freddy’s, and then peered into the adjoining chamber. She could scarcely make out the silhouettes of furniture in the unlit room. Oil and candles were dear, when one scraped by on fifteen pounds a year.

Freddy sat before the window, holding her sewing up so that the faint illumination from the street lamp shone on her work. Serena had been told she looked like her sister, but Freddy’s skin was pale and her hair was orange, like their mother; Serena took her darker hair and skin from their father. If there was a resemblance, she’d never seen it.

“Good evening, dear,” Freddy said absently, as she worked her needle through the cloth.

Serena came to stand behind her. “Good evening.” She set her hands on her sister’s shoulders, and gave her a light squeeze. “You’ve been working on this all day, haven’t you? Your shoulders are so stiff.”

“Just a few moments longer.”

“You’ll ruin your eyesight, sewing in this failing light.”

“Mmm.” Freddy made another precise stitch.

She was piecing together another quilt of interlocking rings. She didn’t sell her work—that would have made her a laborer, and ladies, as Freddy so often explained, did not labor. Instead, Freddy gave her quilts away to charitable organizations. Almost half her extra income went to scraps and second-quality yarn for the deserving poor. More than half her time was spent knitting scarves and sewing blankets for babies. It didn’t seem quite fair to Serena; without stirring from her rooms, her elder sister managed to make her feel both exhausted and inadequate.

Serena sighed.

“You don’t have to do this, Freddy. Why do you force yourself to it?”

“Don’t call me Freddy. You know I hate that name.” Freddy laid down her work. “You don’t have to do this, either. Serena, you know I love you, but this is not what we were born to do. Why must you bother Clermont? He hurt you once; why give him the chance to do so again?”

An image of a dark room tucked under the eaves darted into Serena’s head. She could see Clermont ducking through the too-short doorway, could hear the sound of the door shutting behind him.

She shivered.

She wanted proof that she wasn’t the sort to cower in the corner, no matter what had happened to her. She wanted to conquer that complex burden of shame and confusion and anger.

Serena set her hand over her still-flat belly. She had enough to contend with as it was.

“I want justice.” The words were flat in her mouth, and yet sharp, so sharp. “I want to show that he can’t win.” Her fingers curled with want. “That he can’t just—”

Freddy sniffed dismissively. “We’ve enough to survive on,” she said as if money were a substitute for fair play. “Stay with me. I always said you should. But no; you had to run off governessing, when we were left with the sort of competence that could see us through our lives, if we economized.”

“We were left fifteen pounds a year,” Serena protested. Enough to avoid starvation; enough to have a roof over their heads. But every year, costs went up. It hadn’t taken much forethought to see that in twenty years, expenses would outrun income.

“But,” Freddy said, continuing with the lecture, “you had to want more. You’ve always wanted more. And see where it’s left you? You can’t eat justice.”

No. But at least she wouldn’t choke on it. Serena unclenched the fist she’d made at her side.

“By the by,” Freddy said more casually, “where has it left you?”

“Without a position,” Serena snapped. “With no hope of a character reference.”

“All your fine plans,” Freddy said, half scolding, half comforting, “and they’ve come to naught. Best not to dream, dear. If you don’t, there’s nothing that can be taken from you.”

Pure cowardice, that. Freddy fretted when she had to cross the street to purchase milk. When she’d gone to meet Serena at the yard where the stagecoach had left her, she’d been white-lipped and trembling. She’d complained of pains in her chest all the way home. Freddy didn’t handle change well, and nothing changed so often as the world outside her door.

There was a reason that Serena had signed away her portion of their father’s bequest. Freddy could not have survived on her half, and she was incapable of making up the shortfall.

“All of your fine plans,” Freddy repeated gently, “and here you are. With nothing. Less than nothing.”

“No,” she said thickly. “Not…not nothing.”

“With nightmares and a babe on the way.”

Serena kept her eyes wide open. Her hands trembled; she forced them to stillness, pushing them against her skirts until they grew steady. She imagined the spark of life growing inside her, gestating next to her bitter fury. Sometimes, she feared that all of that cold, trembling anger would eat her child alive. Not after I win. Then I’ll be safe, and I’ll never be hurt again.

“I told you already,” she said. To her own ear, her voice seemed to come from very far away. “I don’t have nightmares. I don’t have time to be frightened of anything.”

At her last position, the Wolvertons had obtained a microscope for their children’s instruction in the natural world. They’d magnified everything. Sometimes, the memory that played itself through her dreams seemed like those enlarged images. The edges danced, overhung with the chromatic effect of a dark, shadowing halo. She felt as if she were looking at something very small, something very far away. So distant that it almost wasn’t happening.

She had felt so helpless then, so utterly without recourse. She should have screamed. She should have bashed the duke over the head. She should have fought. In her memory of that night, her own silence mocked her most of all.

She hadn’t screamed, and because she hadn’t, she’d felt silent ever since.

Freddy simply sighed. “When you’re ready to give up,” she said, “I’ll be here. But I don’t know what you hope to accomplish, except to bring that horrid wolf-man down on both our heads.”

This, at least, Serena could answer. “I have it on the best of authority,” she said, “that he’s a thickheaded fellow. All brawn and no brains. When it comes down to it, I’ll simply outsmart him.”

“Oh, dear.” Freddy leaned over and tapped Serena’s cheek. “When you fail, I’ll be here to pick up the pieces. As usual.”

* * *

HUGO HAD MORE THAN enough to do the following day. Nonetheless, thoughts of the governess followed him throughout his work. He sent out a man to discover what had really happened between his employer and Miss Serena Barton at Wolverton Hall. If she wouldn’t tell him and Clermont wouldn’t say, he’d have to find out on his own.

He spent the morning attempting to banish thoughts of her—of that chestnut hair, bound into a loose knot, waiting to become unpinned. Her eyes were gray and still, like water too long undisturbed. Her hands had been quiet—unmoving.

By the afternoon, he gave up the cause of work as hopeless and wandered to the window. He’d caught glimpses of her sitting on her bench all morning. Now, she sat still as a statue, scarcely moving, scarcely breathing, and yet somehow completely alive.

She wasn’t what he would have called pretty. Handsome, yes. And there was something about her eyes… He shook his head; her appearance was hardly relevant.

He’d been testing her yesterday, mentioning rape. It was…horrifyingly possible. He wasn’t sure what he would have done if she’d confirmed his fears. He’d done a great many things on Clermont’s behalf, but he’d never hurt a woman. Even his wounded conscience had its limits.

But she’d not even flinched when he’d said the word. She hadn’t reacted to anything at all.

And therein lay his second problem. When he’d introduced himself, he’d assumed that she would recognize his name. But she had apparently gleaned his reputation entirely through gossip columns, and they only ever referred to him as the Wolf of Clermont. There was no reason anyone who had just arrived in London would know his name.

He should have corrected her misapprehension.

He hadn’t, and he wasn’t sure why. Just an instinct. For all the duke’s blasé reassurances, he suspected that whatever was at the heart of this quarrel was a scandal—and one that could undo all of Hugo’s fine work. He couldn’t fix the problem if he didn’t know what he was facing, and if she worked herself up into a fear of him, he might never learn the truth—not until he saw it on the front page of a newspaper.

Still, he didn’t like lying. Not even by implication.

“Whatever you are up to, Miss Barton,” he whispered, “you will not cost me my five hundred pounds. I have worked too hard for it.”

Fifty yards on the other side of the pane of glass, she swung her head, startling him with the sudden movement. He stepped back—but she was only watching a bird that had landed on the ground in front of her.

With a sigh, Hugo pushed the rest of his papers aside. No sense wasting any more time wondering, when he could be finding out.

He exited the house via the servants’ door, tromped back through the mews, and then back ’round to the street. Miss Barton was still sitting there when he crossed into the square. She gave him a smile, this one a little warmer than the one he’d received yesterday.

There was something about her that drew his eye.

“Mr. Marshall,” she said. “I did say you wouldn’t be successful in your quest for gossip, did I not?”

“You wound me.” He didn’t smile, and her own expression fluttered uncertainly. “You assume that I only have interest in gossip, when in fact, I might just be searching out your company for the sheer pleasure of it.”

She thought this over, tilting her head to one side. Then: “I have now considered that possibility. I reject it. Come, Mr. Marshall. Tell me you didn’t come out here hoping for some sordid story.”

“So you admit the story is sordid.”

She wagged her finger at him. “I am guessing as to your own thoughts. There’s no need to prevaricate. I know what people are saying about me. Secretly, you’re judging me, and you’ve already found me wanting. You’re all saying that I’m no better than I should be.”

Hugo shrugged. “I’ve never understood that saying—no better than you should be. Why would anyone want to be better than required? I only behave when it counts; I wouldn’t begrudge you similar conduct.”

She stared at him a moment.

He was misleading her enough as it is. He had no intention of outright lying to her. “You don’t believe me,” he said. “I can’t help it—it’s my face. It makes everyone think that I’m quite friendly, when anyone who knows better will warn you off. I’m entirely ruthless. Quite without morals.”

The smile she gave him was patronizing. “Is that so? Well. I’m sure you’re a very, very bad man. I’m so scared.”

Hugo looked upward. “Drat.”

“Drat?” She hid a smile. “Surely a man as awful as you could conjure up a ‘damn’ in mixed company.”

“I don’t swear,” he explained. “Not in any company.”

“I see. You are bad.”

He glanced at the sky in exasperation. “I am aware that this fact in isolation hardly proves my point. Which is this: If you wish to speak to me in confidence, if you wish to tell your tale without fear of judgment, I’m your man. Nobody would dare to gossip with me.”

She stared at him. “You’re very convincing,” she said, in a tone that implied she believed anything but. “But you are…what, an accountant? Someone who keeps the household books?”

He nearly choked. “You could say that,” he finally said. “I suppose I make sure the books balance at the end of the day.”

She gave him a patronizing nod of the head. “All that ruthlessness, and only the books to balance. Poor Mr. Marshall.” She smiled at him. “I consider myself a good judge of character. And you, sir, are safe.”

Safe.

It had been so long since someone hadn’t taken him seriously that he’d forgotten what it was like. But here she was, dismissing him.

He sat gingerly on the edge of her bench.

“Maybe I am safe,” he said. “I don’t swear. I don’t drink spirits, either.” He took a deep breath. “You’re sitting here for a reason, though, Miss Barton, and I doubt it’s for your health. Is it so wrong of me to want to help?”

All the latent humor bled from her face. “Help,” she repeated blankly. “You want to help.”

“This is no triviality before you. A lady does not risk the wrath of a duke without reason. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

“Why not?” she asked. “If you’re so ruthless.”

He smiled in spite of himself. “Ruthless doesn’t mean that I survey the available options and gleefully choose the cruelest one. It means that I solve problems, whatever the cost. I’m good at that.”

“And so out of the goodness of your heart, you’re offering—”

“No,” he said, leaning in. “You misunderstand. There’s no goodness in my heart—that’s what I keep trying to explain to you. You are a problem. It distracts me from my work to think of you here. To wonder…”

She sucked in her breath and pulled away from him slightly. Her eyes seemed round and very gray. She scarcely moved. The air around them seemed suddenly charged. He couldn’t look away from her, and he could almost hear his words echoed back at him.

It distracts me to think of you.

It was almost nothing, that faint sense of attraction he felt. It was no more than the scarcely-heard hum of an insect. Insignificant enough that he waved it away. But she had just noticed, and that small hint of interest, mild though it had been, had washed the smile from her face.

“Go away,” she said, her voice flat.

No, she wasn’t here because of an employment dispute. Clermont had a great deal to answer for.

Hugo reached down and plucked a spare twig from the ground and set it on the bench between them. “This,” he said, “is a wall, and I will not cross it.”

Her eyes fixed on that piece of wood, a few scant inches in length.

“I don’t believe in hurting women,” he said.

She did not respond.

“I do a great many things, and I’m not proud of many of them. But I don’t swear. I don’t drink. And I don’t hurt women. I don’t do any of those things because my father did every one.” He held her eyes as he spoke. “Now I’ve told you something that nobody else in London knows. Surely you can return the favor. What is it you want?”

She shook her head slowly. “No, Mr. Marshall. I will not be browbeaten, however nicely you do it. I am done with things happening to me. From here on out, I am going to happen to things.”

She raised her head as she spoke. And that annoying hum—that gnat-like buzz of attraction that he had so easily brushed away—seemed to swell around him like a growing murmur of wind.

Her features seemed so crisp, outlined against the cool air. She had not a hair out of place. Still, she made him think of a bear, strong and certain, claiming her territory at the top of a mountain.

Here, he thought, finally, was a match for him.

There was no point being fanciful. What use had he with a bear? Still… Surely he could appreciate one when he saw it.

“Brave words,” he said softly. “That’s what it means to be ruthless. After all, I happen to other people on a regular basis.”

She glanced pointedly at the twig between them.

Hugo made no move toward her. “I don’t suppose you know why they call him the Wolf of Clermont.”

“His ruthlessness.”

“But the specifics. You know how he came to work with Clermont?”

She shook her head.

He steepled his fingers and looked away from her. “Clermont would never have hired a pugilist as his man of business. But he always did like prizefights. And drinking; all dukes love to drink. He became inebriated one day after a fight, and spilled all his troubles to the champion.”

“Dukes surely have a great many troubles.” She rolled her eyes.

“It was the usual litany: old title, nothing but bills to show for it, and a less than sterling reputation to boot. The Wolf wagered him one hundred pounds that in six months, he could rearrange everything so that he’d have no more bill collectors hammering on his doors.”

She was watching him. “How do you know this?”

He waved his hand. “Everyone knows this—all the servants around here, in any event.”

She nodded. “Go on. If this Wolf is to be my nemesis, I need to know everything about him.”

“Clermont was not without resources. His estates brought in a pittance—with a few months’ grace, and the benevolence of a few lenders, all might have been brought around. But the duke didn’t have a few months. And so the Wolf focused on the duke’s most prominent creditor. Everyone has secrets, and that creditor’s secret was that his money had been made in the slave trade years after it had been banned. The Wolf made sure every sordid detail went to the papers. The family was shunned. And do you know what the Wolf did then?”

She shook her head.

He looked her in the eyes. “He paid the debt,” he said. “Publicly. Without once having to voice a threat, the Wolf made Clermont untouchable. Insist on payment, the gossips said, and he’d ruin you. Startling, the number of people who are willing to agree to easier terms of payment when their own future is on the line.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Miss Barton,” he said quietly, “with whom do you think you are speaking?”

She sucked in air. But her expression did not change one iota at that confession.

“You see how it is,” Hugo said. “I am going to get rid of you. But ruining someone is a messy, complicated business. It is much less work to help you than to break you. Let me help.”

She had not taken her eyes off him during that speech.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I want him to pay.” Her chin lifted. She folded her hands—a dainty motion—but there was nothing dainty in the determined way her fingers tangled together.

“Money?”

“Recognition.” Her jaw squared. “He wants me to stay silent. Well, I want him to speak out. To feel one-tenth of the censure that I have.”

There was no chance of that. No wonder Clermont had passed this woman’s demands on to Hugo. Any form of recognition would destroy the duke’s chances at reconciling with his duchess. With so much at stake, including Hugo’s own five hundred pounds…

“He’ll never do that,” he said. “I like you, Miss Barton. I don’t wish to have you on my conscience.”

She picked up the twig he’d laid across the bench and held it out to him.

“Do your worst,” she said. “That is what you’re known for, is it not?”

He stared at the twig in her hand for a few moments before taking it from her and laying it back across the bench. “I will,” he said. “If I have to. I’d prefer not to.”

* * *

THE INK FROM THE EVENING paper had stained Serena’s gloves black, but still she stood on the street corner, trying to make out the advertisements on the back page without straining her eyes.

Rents for properties with small acreage were close to fifteen pounds per annum, and with expenses calculated at almost twice that, plus sustenance and the cost of someone to stay with her…

Once, she’d dreamed of what she’d do with the money she carefully set aside from the wages she earned as a governess. She’d planned to lease a small farm, to grow lavender, when she had saved enough. From there, her wistful hopes had built a thousand possibilities. Freddy had pooh-poohed her ambitions, and perhaps she had the right of it. Purchasing a paper now, when her dreams had never been so far away, was the height of foolishness. It served only to underscore how much she had lost—how far removed her girlish dreams were from reality.

Serena had forty pounds saved from three years of wages. She had enough for the present, but not so much that she could afford to dwell on the past. But she could not get free of her situation by escaping into an elaborate day-dream. Reality waited for her: She was pregnant, and she had no income.

Serena folded the paper in quarters, hiding away the list of properties for lease and looked up into the darkening night.

She made herself repeat those damning words. She was pregnant. She had no income. And she had just suffered a blow—a terrible blow.

Mr. Marshall had seemed so safe, so ordinary. She had not felt so comfortable around a man in months. When he’d picked up that twig and set it between them, some foolish part of her had really believed it was a wall, and that she might breathe easily.

He’d made her dream of a might-have-been: an afternoon spent with a man who made her smile, who didn’t look at her as if she were some ruined thing. She’d dreamed of a world where any future could be open, if only she could find the right key. She’d wanted attraction. Affection. Security.

Love.

Foolish to leap from a conversation in a square to love. But if one man might smile and converse with her, a second could as well.

As she’d sat on that bench, her might-have-beens had glowed with sunlight.

But Mr. Marshall was no smiling, friendly fellow. He was the Wolf of Clermont, a man known for his mercilessness. With a few sparse sentences he’d smashed all her hopeful might-have-beens into a single wasn’t.

Her future stretched like a dark road before her: all hope in eclipse.

He’d fooled her. I do not curse. I do not drink spirits. And I don’t hurt women. I don’t do any of those things because my father did every one.

Serena crumpled the paper.

He was good—very good. And she was the damned fool who had teetered on the brink of trusting him. But he’d offered to help not because he took an interest in her affairs, or because he cared about her welfare. It was just because it was simpler to buy her off than ruin her.

Black clouds loomed on her horizon.

Serena set her hand on her stomach. Despair couldn’t be good for the baby. When she let it settle around her, it seemed to fill her belly with a bitter, starving impossibility. She could scarcely digest it; how could a life so fragile and tiny manage what she could not?

No. Her baby would have no nightmares, no doubts, no fears.

When one climbed trees, it was a fool’s game to look down. If one did, one risked vertigo. So Serena looked up now, past the oncoming gloom of the night. She focused on the warm orange glow of the lamp and the dimmer light of the stars beyond. She looked up and refused to think of falling.

Chapter Three

PERHAPS HE WAS GROWING SOFT, but Hugo started with the most simple of expedients. He tried to rid himself of Miss Barton by taking her seat. It cost him all of six shillings to hire four pensioners to sit on her spot on the bench. He watched her arrive early the next morning. She drew up when she saw that the bench was occupied, and then set her hand in the small of her back. Just that little note of complaint. Then she smiled, shook her head, and walked idly around the square, as if she’d planned to perambulate in any event. She glanced at the old men as she walked. She made another slow circuit, and then another. After half an hour, she seemed to realize they weren’t leaving.

Her chin lifted. She looked over at Clermont’s house as if she could see Hugo inside. As if she were daring him to do worse. She stood all day, her head held high, and if she occasionally rubbed her hips when she thought nobody was looking, or shifted from foot to foot in discomfort, it only served to make Hugo feel worse about what he was doing.

On the second day, she arrived an hour earlier, while the streetlamps were still lit. She strode sedately toward the bench—and stopped abruptly.

Hugo had anticipated her early arrival, of course, and he’d offered the pensioners seven shillings for that extra hour. Once again, she stayed standing on her feet for nine straight hours—disappearing only, he supposed, to use the necessary. Once again, he found himself admiring her obstinacy.

On the third day, it rained. The rain fell in great gusting torrents, and the pensioners couldn’t be had. Still, Hugo managed to round up a few laborers dressed in mackintosh—and scarcely in time. They had just settled in when Miss Barton arrived. She was swathed in a cloak of dark wool, one that covered her gown. He couldn’t see her hair, couldn’t see her hands.

After an hour, her umbrella was so sodden that it no longer repelled water; she abandoned it next to a tree. But she didn’t let the wet stop her. She scarcely looked at the bench. Instead, she stood next to a tree, her lips set in grim determination.

He watched her throughout the morning. Midday, he stopped work for a bowl of soup. She was still there; he ate, standing at the window, watching as she pulled her arms around herself and rubbed briskly, trying to stay warm.

She was going to catch her death. The wind was blowing leaves about; it had to be bitter cold. Noon turned to one o’clock, and then two. She hadn’t left when the clock in the hall chimed three, even though her cloak had turned dark with rain. She huddled in on herself more and more.

Anyone else would have gone home at the first sign of inclement weather. He wasn’t sure if he should applaud her tenacity or rage at how impossible she’d made the situation. Down in the square, she swiped a hand over her face, brushing away rainwater.

This was something that Hugo was going to have to fix, if for no other reason than that he didn’t want her life on his head.

* * *

BEFORE SERENA’S CLOAK SOAKED THROUGH, it hadn’t been so bad. She’d been damp and rather cold. But having to stand had been a blessing in disguise; she’d been able to warm herself by walking.

By the time the clock struck three, though, she could scarcely feel her feet. Her hands were frozen inside her gloves.

Go home. It’s only one afternoon.

It wasn’t loud, that impulse. Just insidious. She’d heard it too often. Keep quiet now, and you’ll be taken care of. Don’t scream tonight; it will stop soon enough. But that voice was a lie. Those who did nothing lost. There was nothing so cold as regret.

If she walked away now, Mr. Marshall would know that he could drive her away. It would just spur him on to greater efforts.

And so she chafed her hands together and paced.

Nobody was out unless he had to be. And so that was why, when a figure came around the corner, she turned to look—and then froze. It was Mr. Marshall—the Wolf of Clermont, she reminded herself—looking very grim. He had a bundle under his arm. He walked, head down. When he came abreast of her, he glanced down the street and crossed quickly.

He walked right past her without saying a word, and instead marched up to the men sitting on the bench. She had struggled to see the Wolf of Clermont in him when he’d confessed his identity three days past, but in that instant, she saw it. His ordinariness was an illusion, a cloak of normalcy that he donned for politeness’s sake. Now, he projected a quiet menace—one so palpable that she stepped back, raising her hand to her throat, even though his ire wasn’t directed at her. He fixed the men on the bench with a look.

“Well?” he asked. “Get out of here.”

“But—” said one.

“You heard what I said. It’s over. I have no more need of you. Get out of here.” He gave his head a little jerk.

The men exchanged glances, and then, one by one, they stood and filed out of the square. Serena raised her hands to her lips and blew on them, trying to warm them through her sodden gloves. But Mr. Marshall didn’t look at her. He unfolded his bundle. It was, oddly enough, a load of towels wrapped around an umbrella. He laid the towels out on the bench, drying the seat. Then he popped open the umbrella and motioned her over.

“Sit,” he said. His features were stone.

She was too bedraggled—and too cold—to object to being ordered about. She came over and sat. He hooked the umbrella to the back of the seat, fastening it in place with a bit of rope so that it shielded her half of the bench from rain. Then he unrolled a second towel and took out a metal flask, an irregular package wrapped in wax paper, and, inexplicably, a teacup. He handed her the cup. “Hold this.”

She tried to take it in her hands, but her fingers were too cold to grasp properly and it slipped away.

He caught it midair and glared at her, as if it were her fault her hands could not grip. Without saying a word, he took hold of her wrist and, before she could protest, he had slipped a finger beneath her glove.

She jerked spasmodically away; his grip tightened in reaction. He raised his head, met her eyes, and became very still.

She could count his breaths. She could feel her pulse thrumming in her wrist, encased in his fingers.

Slowly, he let go.

“My apologies,” he said. “I was not thinking. I was going to take off your gloves and rub some sensation into your fingers. Can you do it on your own?”

She fumbled with her own glove, but the material clung to her skin and she could scarcely feel what she was doing.

“Will you let me?” he asked.

Serena met his eyes. He’d dropped his air of menace, and—even knowing full well how wrong the notion was—that same sense returned to her. Safe. Safe. This man is safe.

Ridiculous.

Nonetheless, Serena held out her hands to him.

He took off one glove and then the other, touching her only long enough to work the fabric down her fingers.

The air was cold against her bare skin, but the sensation lasted only a few seconds. He set her gloves aside, wrapped her hands in a towel and rubbed them vigorously.

The touch should have felt intimate and invasive. His hands engulfed hers. And he’d practically disrobed her—well, maybe disgloved her. But he was so matter-of-fact about it that his touch felt…normal.

Safe, the back of her mind whispered.

He left her hands wrapped in the towel, like some oversized muff, and then picked up the metal flask. It looked like the sort of container in which gentlemen stored gin—flat and thin. But he unscrewed the cap and a curl of steam escaped.

Serena sighed in longing. He poured the contents—a glorious golden-brown—into the teacup, and then held it out to her. “I don’t know how you take your tea,” he said, “and I had no way to bring the cream and sugar out here. I added both. I can only hope the result is palatable.”

She maneuvered a hand out of the towel and took the cup. Her hand was still shaking; he watched her with narrowed eyes. But the cup was warm—so warm that it seared her skin. And the tea… Oh, it was lovely. Strong and sweet, with a generous dollop of creamy milk.

The first sip seemed to thaw the ice in her fingers.

“Why are you doing this?”

“I told you,” he said. “I don’t hurt women.”

“You’re hardly responsible for my presence here. I’m here by dint of my own willful stubbornness.” She took another gulp of tea.

“Semantics,” he returned. “You’re here. Who is to blame, if I am not?”

“The Duke of Clermont comes to mind. You’re his charge, not the other way around.”

Mr. Marshall snorted. “Is that what you think?”

She took another swallow of tea rather than answer the question. “This is the best tea I have ever had,” she said. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.”

Her gaze locked with his, and she found herself unable to look away. His eyes were brown—light, like the color of sunlight filtered through autumn leaves. He was so focused on her, the entire world seemed to melt away—the dark clouds overhead, the puddles underfoot. There was nothing but him.

It had been more than three months since she’d felt even the mildest hints of sexual attraction. She’d thought it had been burned from her for good, stolen by fear and the cold, clutching hands of dark memory. Apparently not. Her better sense could be swayed by two swallows of tea and an umbrella.

Safe. He is safe.

But no matter that he’d brought her shelter and warmth, there was nothing safe about him.

Mr. Marshall smiled at her—not the easy smile of a mild acquaintance, but a smile with a sharp edge. Still, he stayed on his half of the bench. Rain collected on the brim of his hat and dripped over the edges, but it did not make him look in the least disheveled.

“You could have sent another servant out with an umbrella. You didn’t have to come yourself.”

“I assumed it would unsettle you more if I fed you in person,” he answered.

“Feed me? You haven’t—”

“Ah. Thank you for the reminder.” He unfolded a package wrapped in waxed paper, revealing some squashed sandwiches filled with a strange green and pink mixture.

“I shouldn’t.”

He snorted. “You shouldn’t be standing in a square in the rain. Your hands shouldn’t be so cold that you can’t properly wrap them around a teacup. I hate to think what you are doing to your lungs, breathing this cold, wet air for hours on end. You’re risking your health. In what possible world can you do all those things and yet not have a sandwich?” He held out the waxed paper to her. “Eat.”

“You’re trying to browbeat me again.” Still, she took his offering and nibbled at the edge. She wasn’t sure what was in it—some kind of smoked ham, maybe. Diced cucumber was easier to recognize. It was delicious, although she suspected that had more to do with her hunger and the cold than the actual sandwich.

He refilled her teacup.

She swallowed. “You’re too kind.”

“No, I’m not,” he contradicted. “I’m deliberately confusing you out of a desire to assuage my own meager excuse for a conscience. To add to my sins, in defiance of all society’s rules, I wish to become better acquainted with you. Don’t imagine there’s anything akin to kindness behind my selfish behavior.”

The umbrella had slowly tilted to one side behind them, and it had begun to drip on the towel—plop, plop, plop, slow and steady.

“Society’s rules?” she said. “When a gentleman condescends to a ruined woman, it’s called kindness. No matter what his motives might be.”

He straightened the umbrella. “I’m no gentleman.”

She stared at him—at his well-made coat and the half-sandwich still wrapped in waxed paper, set off to his side. “You work for a duke.”

“You’re a lady who had to stoop to governessing. I make a good game of it, but my father was a coal miner in Yorkshire. I’m the fourteenth of sixteen children. I made my living with my fists for a handful of years.”

“You sound as if you’re from the north.” But not quite. He spoke in a clipped rhythm that made her think of London—fast and frenetic. There was a hint of a burr there, a roll to his words. But it had softened and smoothed out. “But how does a miner become a…a…”

He smiled. “I don’t know what I am, either.”

“Nonetheless. You’re in charge of a duke’s finances. I would have thought one required a certain amount of education in order to do that.”

“Charity school,” he said. “Also, I was small for my age, and so my mother convinced my father I was too young to go into the mines. She did that for years. He never could keep track of all his children. So when my younger brothers passed away, he became confused as to my age. I got rather a better education than might otherwise have been usual.”

He was looking off into the distance as he spoke. But for all that his words seemed matter-of-fact, there was something about what he’d said—the thought of his mother lying to his father for the sake of his education, and his father not noticing—that sent a chill down her spine.

“I was fourteen when they first expected me to go into the mines.” He turned back to her. “Old, really. Old enough to know better. I had watched the mines age men before their time. A year in the mines was worth ten years out. It was death working there—the only question was whether that death came slow or came on quick.” He handed her another sandwich. “I was a miner for three days. I couldn’t stand feeling that I was enclosed on all sides. So I ran away from home.”

“What did you do instead?”

“Any work I could get my hands on.” He looked away. She had no idea what kind of work a fourteen-year-old child would do, but she suspected that this man, dressed in clean and sober clothing, might not want to admit to being a common laborer. “But I knew what I wanted. I’ve always known what I wanted, ever since I left.”

“You wanted to be a duke’s right-hand man?” she asked dubiously.

“This?” He looked down, as if surprised to see himself, and then shook his head. “No. I’ve never aspired to serve anyone. But it’s as good a way as any to meet those involved in business. And the money… By the time I’m forty, I’m going to have my own empire. I intend to be the richest coal miner’s son in all of England. This is just the first step in getting there.” He grinned at her. “Did I shock you? I know I’m supposed to declare my undying devotion to the man I serve.”

“I have no fondness for that particular man,” Serena said. “As you may recall.”

He was smiling at her. He shouldn’t be doing that. He shouldn’t be doing any of this. Her hands tingled where his had so recently touched her. Her breath caught with the normalcy of this.

Well. Perhaps normalcy was not the right word. There was nothing ordinary about being seated next to her enemy in a driving rainstorm, drinking tea and chatting about life in the mines.

But there was his smile. She’d thought of the Wolf of Clermont as the duke’s tool, his thing. Yet Mr. Marshall was sitting in the rain feeding her sandwiches. Maybe this was some twisted, diabolical strategy on his part. It seemed unlikely. It would have made more sense to keep her cold and hungry.

Her heart beat hard, half fear, half excitement. This was the man who, if the gossip papers had it right, had brought Clermont’s estates back from the verge of imminent doom. The duke relied on him for everything. Without him, Clermont was nothing.

She could steal him away.

That thought—that she might rob the duke of someone so valuable—put her in sympathy with Mr. Marshall. He didn’t want to be her enemy. Well, he didn’t have to be.

Serena took a deep breath.

“I was never good at devotion myself,” she admitted. “When I was a governess, I saved money because I wanted my own farm. Not a large one,” she added, as he cocked his head in puzzlement. “I wanted to grow lavender and lilac. I taught myself how to extract the essence of the lavender plant. I was going to make fine-milled soaps and package them in dainty boxes and sell them at a tremendous profit to ladies who did not know any better.”

His eyebrow twitched upward. “Ambitious,” he remarked.

“Why do it, then?” she asked him. “Why drive me away, if not out of loyalty to the duke?”

He hesitated a beat before answering. “As it is,” he finally said, “I have granted my unswerving devotion to someone.”

He was looking at her with a steadfast, earnest look. Her heart fluttered. He couldn’t mean her. It was too soon—they scarcely knew one another. And yet the way he was looking at her…

“Oh?” she heard herself answer.

He gave her a wicked smile and leaned an inch closer. She felt as if she were the only person in the world—as if the rain and cold had disappeared in the blaze of his eyes.

“I am devoted to me,” he said. “My fortune rises and falls with the duke’s. I do not wish to see your life in ruins, but I will not give up my chance to be someone just for you.”

Serena swallowed.

“Your tea is getting cold.” He gestured.

She took a sip. The liquid had cooled. With the edge off her appetite, she became aware that the tea was not perfect. She could taste a faintly metallic tang, and it had grown tepid and slightly bitter.

But there was nothing tepid about the attraction between them. She could steal him, if only she knew how.

He sat back, crossing his arms, and that moment of warmth passed. “Miss Barton,” he said, slowly and distinctly, “do not make this any worse for yourself than it must be. I’ll give you fifty pounds, and we’ll manufacture a reference for you so that you may obtain another position.”

She met his eyes. “That’s all you want with me—to convince me to leave?”

“No.” He spoke calmly. “But what I want with you is neither here nor there. I need you to go away, and so go away you shall.”

“Not for fifty pounds and a reference,” Serena answered just as calmly. “How could you think a reference would paper over what happened to me? I want justice, Mr. Marshall. Not a reference.”

He leaned toward her. “Did he force you?” There was something of a snarl in his voice.

Her breath caught. That night—that horrible night—recreated itself in her mind, filling her with shame and guilt and regret. She was temporarily robbed of speech, consumed by the unending silence.

She forced herself to swallow that bitter swirl of emotion. She raised her chin and looked him in the eyes.

“No.” Her voice broke on the word, but she did not look down. “He did not force me.”

I let him do it.

There may have been a touch of pity in his eyes, a hint of gentleness as he took the teacup from her hands. But there was not the slightest trace of charity in his voice when he spoke. “Then it’s fifty pounds and a reference,” he said. “And not one iota of revenge.”

Chapter Four

THE MESSENGER RETURNED FROM WOLVERTON Hall the day after the rain. Hugo stood at the window of his office, looking over the square below.

It was dry today, and the pensioners were back on the solitary bench. If he read a rebellious cast into her stance… What did it matter? It would change nothing.

He didn’t take his eyes from her, but he was still aware of the messenger standing behind him.

“So,” he finally said. “What happened?”

He’d sent Charles Gordon to find things out. The man was thin and weedy, and more than a little scared of Hugo. From the corner of his eye, Hugo saw the other man swallow, and stare straight in front of him.

“She didn’t leave,” Gordon said, licking his lips. “She was turned off for immoral behavior.”

“Lying? Thievery?” Hugo’s voice was even—all too even. He knew what was coming; she’d told him herself.

“The general gist of the gossip is that she took a man to her bed. In the house, if you’ll believe it.”

“She was caught in the act?”

“Someone saw him leaving her rooms.”

“Ah.” Hugo touched his fingertips together. “When you say, someone saw him…was the man in question identified?”

“No. The second housemaid saw a darkened figure leaving the female servants’ quarters.”

“Why did suspicion fall upon her, then? Had she a beau? A flirtation of some kind with a man?”

He asked the questions, but his mind was already racing far ahead. She’d admitted the duke hadn’t forced her. Had he made her promises? Seduced her?

“No,” Gordon said. “But when the matter was raised, they checked. There was blood on her sheets, and it wasn’t her time.”

A little shock went through him at all that implied. In the square below, Miss Barton raised her chin. He couldn’t make out her features, but he could remember her gray eyes snapping at him as she spoke.

How could you imagine that fifty pounds and a reference would paper over what happened to me? she’d asked.

She’d been a virgin. That meant that Clermont had acted badly—even worse than Hugo had supposed. She’d claimed she hadn’t been forced. But there were degrees of force, and all the ones that suggested themselves here made Hugo the villain in this particular drama.

He resented that Clermont had foisted that role upon him.

“If you need to rid yourself of her,” Gordon said, “a few words about this in the right ears, and she’ll be driven off in no time at all.”

She would be. There had been a similar case last year—a lady’s maid dismissed for indecent conduct. He’d seen the whole thing from his window. The other servants had crowded around her in the square when she left with her single valise. They’d jostled her. They’d called her names, ones he’d heard from even this distance, with a pane of glass and fifty feet between them. They’d called her whore and slut, and those had hardly been the worst of the epithets hurled. He’d been halfway down the stairs to put an end to the riot when someone had thrown a rock.

Somehow, the sight of her blood had been as effective at dispersing the crowd as a legion of constables wielding billyclubs.

Hugo had few pretensions about his own morals. He’d done a number of things that didn’t skirt the boundaries of ethical conduct so much as trample through them. But he didn’t like thinking of Miss Barton at the center of such a crowd. It wasn’t a faceless throng that he saw around her when he envisioned that, but his own father looming, broom in hand.

You’ll never bloody amount to anything, boy, so get back out there—

“Well?” Gordon asked. “Am I to spread the story?”

“No.”

“That seems…awfully kind,” Gordon said dubiously.

“Nothing of the sort.”

It was simple self-preservation. If someone threw a rock at Miss Barton, Hugo was liable to kill him in cold blood. He would never achieve any of his ambitions if he hanged for murder.

Besides, the whole point was to keep Clermont’s name out of the business. If she were labeled a slut, it would take the gossips a few short hours to decide who she’d been playing the slut with.

There were better ways to drive her away. The pressure he’d applied so far was mere child’s play.

He didn’t want to do it. He liked her. He admired her. There was something about her that wouldn’t leave him alone. It ran entirely against his grain to crush the dreams and ambitions of a woman like her.

All the more reason she had to go. Every time he talked to her, he became more entangled.

It was time to truly flex his muscle. Gordon was not the only man he’d sent out to make inquiries. He waved the other man back a few steps, turned from the window, and opened the file he’d made on Miss Barton.

For the moment, Miss Barton lived with her sister, Miss Frederica Barton, in an attic room in Cheapside. The elder Miss Barton subsisted on the income from an annuity deposited at Daughtry’s Bank.

“No,” he repeated, more to convince himself than anything. “It’s time to end the matter.”

She was lovely and brave and all too stubborn. In some other world, he would have pursued a woman like her until he won her for his own. He would have stoked the attraction between them until it grew to a crackling heat. But he had no patience for wistful imaginings. It wasn’t companionship that he hungered for deep down.

It might be fine indeed to take her for his own. But it wasn’t the want of a woman that stole his sleep. He woke up remembering his father standing over him broom in hand, the smell of liquor on his breath.

You’ll never amount to anything. Your filthy life isn’t worth the bloody rags you’re wearing.

No. There was an abyss of need inside him, but no woman could fill it. No matter how resolutely this one looked into his eyes.

Hugo reached for his inkwell and dipped his pen. Gordon watched as he scrawled something on the paper, sealed it, added the direction, and then handed it over.

“Deliver this,” he said.

* * *

IT HAD BEEN A LONG day for Serena, made longer by the simple fact that nothing had happened. She’d told Mr. Marshall to do his worst. But he’d simply filled the bench with other people and left her alone.

After their tête-à-tête on the bench, she’d expected something. Anything other than nothing.

She opened the door to her sister’s apartment with a sigh.

“Freddy?” she called.

Freddy didn’t answer. The room was too silent. There was no clicking of knitting needles, no rustling of fabric. But her sister’s things were still hanging in the entryway, and besides, she wouldn’t have gone out. Not this close to dusk. Serena frowned and walked into the other room.

Freddy sat in her chair, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She rocked back and forth ever so slightly, her whole body trembling. On the floor, lying in a forlorn heap, was a half-finished baby’s blanket.

“Freddy, whatever is the matter?”

“Read it,” Freddy said. Her voice shook. She jerked her chin at the table before her. “Read it.”

There was a letter on the table. Serena didn’t know what to think. She snatched it up and skimmed it quickly. It was from Freddy’s landlord. “It has come to my attention…” she muttered, reading aloud at first. But her breath caught on the next sentence. She couldn’t even speak those words. By the time she got to the end, she was breathless with rage.

She’d thought that the Wolf of Clermont had left her alone today. Ha. She looked at her sister, her arms wrapped about herself. It was one thing to annoy Serena herself. It was quite another to do harm to Freddy.

Freddy wasn’t involved in this dispute. She’d never done anything—not since the dreadful night when she’d been in the carriage with their mother when it was robbed. She’d been sitting right next to her when the highwayman had taken his shot.

Freddy had never spoken of the event—but she’d scarcely been able to leave the house after. Serena had thought her distress would fade, but as the years went by, her sister had only come to fear the world outside her door more and more. Striking at her, and in this despicable way…

Mr. Marshall had a great deal to answer for.

Serena set the letter on the table.

“I have had quite enough,” she said, her voice shaking with rage. “I will not—will not—let this happen to you, Freddy. I promise.”

* * *

THE DOOR AT CLERMONT HOUSE was hard, but Serena pounded on it with all the force she could muster.

It was the third time that she’d knocked, and she wasn’t expecting an answer. Still, she wasn’t leaving until she obtained one. After what she’d come home to last night…

She raised her hand once more, and the door swung open. A gray-haired man peered down at her. Serena drew herself up to the full extent of her height—which unfortunately, didn’t even bring her to the other man’s shoulder.

“I demand to speak to Mr. Marshall,” she said, with as much dignity as she could muster. “I demand to speak to him now.”

The footman looked down his nose at her. “He is unavailable at the moment.”

“Make him available. If he doesn’t speak to me—”

“I have been instructed to give you this.” The footman held out one hand; a crisp piece of white paper was folded in his fingers.

Slowly, she reached out and took it. It had been folded in a square; a firm hand had written “Miss Barton” across the front.

“And this,” the footman said.

She looked up. The man held a pencil. It looked out of place in his white-gloved hands—too mundane to exist in such close proximity to a duke’s livery. She took that, too, and was unfolding the missive when the door shut, firmly and irrevocably, behind her. Serena took the letter across the street and broke the seal.

Miss Serena Barton, she read. It will behoove you to calm yourself. Convincing Frederica’s landlord to toss the two of you out was the work of a moment. Consider it a warning only.

As you have little to do with your days, the inconvenience of moving houses is, I am sure, nothing. A woman of your fortitude will find the task poses little problem. If, however, I am forced to inconvenience myself to the extent of ruining Daughtry’s Bank—where your sister draws her annuity—you can rest assured I will not remain so pleasant.

My offer still stands: fifty pounds and a reference. I can, perhaps, increase the monetary compensation somewhat.

I’d rather not cause you any further disruption, but I will not hesitate, should it prove necessary.

As always, I am

Yours.

There was no signature.

Serena stared at the offending missive, anger growing in her heart. She’d been prepared to have any threat leveled at her. But to threaten Freddy once again? It was like abusing baby squirrels.

She flipped the paper over, and on the blank reverse, scrawled her response.

Cut line, sir. My sister and I have scarcely a hundred pounds to lose between the two of us. Such infinitesimal reserves will hardly be missed.

Not true, but in her experience, wealthy men never understood the value of money. She nodded fiercely at that, and then played the card that she’d been holding in abeyance for this moment.

But you know—and I know—and all of Mayfair knows—that the duchess will not be pleased if she hears my story. I am not frightened of you; how could I be? I have nothing to lose. I am already ruined.

Clermont, on the other hand… Do remind me. Is it twenty thousand pounds at stake if his wife deserts him, or forty? The gossips never get the figures clear.

I address one final thing. You are not mine, and I’ll thank you not to address me in so familiar a fashion.

S. Barton

She handed her response off to the footman, who actually answered the door for her this time around, and returned to her bench—today, it was vacant. It was cold, but her rage kept her warm. And in any event, she wasn’t kept waiting long. The footman brought Mr. Marshall’s response out to her around noon.

Dear Serena, he had written.

She was sure he’d addressed her by her Christian name solely to irritate her.

You may pretend all you wish, but you and I both know that no matter how you protest, your resources are all that stand between you and a life on the streets. The duke, of course, might be inconvenienced by a lack of money, but he will be shielded from the true cost of poverty.

Will you?

Still yours,

Hugo.

Serena’s hands had grown cold as she read, but she grabbed her pencil and scrawled a response.

I, at least, have some experience with poverty. I don’t relish repeating it, but I am positive I will make do. Can your duke?

I have some tips for him on frugal living; I shall be sure to pass them along if his wife abandons him completely. Here’s one: Did you know that a mixture of two parts vinegar, two parts oil, and one part treacle makes a passable lemonade?

S. Barton

It took a little more than half an hour for a response to arrive.

Serena—

The vinegar solution was actually quite disgusting, which I presume was your intent. In the interest of fairness and gentlemanly conduct—two things that I cannot pretend that I normally aspire to—I must award you the upper hand in that particular bout.

I say this in all seriousness: It would give me the greatest sorrow to destroy your future and crush your spirit.

Yours.

There was a line crossed out beneath that, so darkly that she couldn’t read the original words, and then:

Postscript. I am not indifferent to your welfare, even if it seems otherwise. I can see you from my office window. It cannot be good for you to pace so frantically.

Serena swallowed, and then glanced up. The windows of Clermont House reflected the dying afternoon sun. She could see movement behind the curtains—vague shadowy figures, as of housemaids going about their duties dusting—but nobody that looked like Mr. Marshall.

I see, she wrote slowly on the reverse of his letter. You’ve been watching me. If you’ll look out your window now, I have a special surprise for you.

She handed this to the butler and then stood by her bench, waiting. Her heart pounded. Her hands were clammy. God, Freddy had it right—she jumped into everything without thinking, and now look what—

Her breath caught. A figure appeared in a window on the second floor. She couldn’t make out any features, just a dark silhouette. Still, he could probably see her in sunlit detail. Serena forced her lips to curve into a smile.

The Wolf of Clermont raised his hand.

Before she could lose her nerve, Serena made a fist and delivered an extremely rude gesture. He stood at the window, stock-still, before turning away.

She received his note not two minutes later. She opened it, her heart pounding. But there were only two words on the paper.

Marry me.

She stared at the page for a few moments longer, struggling to make sense of it all. He’d threatened her sister. He’d threatened her well-being. But this…this was, perhaps, the most sinister thing that he’d said.

It reminded her of the foolish, inexplicable sense of security that she felt in his presence, of the sense of attraction that pulsed between them. Those words took her most vulnerable self and made a mockery of her desires.

But then, she would not be cowed. She would not be vulnerable. Her child’s future was at stake, and no matter what weapon Mr. Marshall leveled at her, she would not flinch.

Serena raised her chin, and scrawled her response.

I was wondering when you would start threatening me with fates worse than death. Congratulations, Mr. Marshall. I am now officially frightened.

Chapter Five

IT WAS LONG PAST DARK by the time Hugo left work, whistling tunelessly.

He shouldn’t have felt so ridiculously pleased with himself—he still had no idea what he was going to do about Miss Barton. Still, by the time she’d bested him—for the third time!—with that snipe about fates worse than death, he’d had an enormous grin on his face. It hadn’t faded, not through the hours that passed, not even though he’d needed to stay long past his usual time to finish his work.

He came out from the mews, turning onto the street, tapping his walking stick against the ground in a happy rhythm. And then he stopped.

Miss Barton was still sitting on the bench.

He’d not seen her in the dark from his window. He’d assumed she was gone. If he’d known she was still present… No. He wasn’t sure what he would have done, if he’d known she was waiting in the dark where any blackguard might prey upon her. He crossed the street slowly.

“Miss Barton?” he asked, his voice low and threatening. “What are you still doing here?”

She stood at his approach. Her face was grim. “What do you think? I’m waiting to speak to you.”

“Me?” He took another step toward her. “Why?”

He couldn’t see her expression. The street lamp was ten feet behind him, casting her face into shadow. She started toward him, and his latent awareness of her roared to life. She was a good bit shorter than he was. The fabric of her skirts rustled in the darkness. Her strides were sure and confident; her kiss would be as certain. His skin prickled in anticipation as she came up to him, within touching distance.

Before he had a chance to think, she made a fist and punched him in the jaw.

He caught her hand before she could do it again. “Never hit a man with a closed fist,” he told her.

He could feel her pulse.

“Why? Because it gives you an excuse to manhandle me?”

He let go. “Slap his face instead.”

“Ha.”

“It will make him take you less seriously, and then he won’t be expecting it when you knee him in the groin.”

She let out a surprised burst of laughter at that.

“That’s better,” Hugo heard himself say. “I spent my day flirting with a beautiful, maddening woman,” he told her. “How was yours?”

She snorted. “I spent mine receiving cowardly threats of violence,” she tossed back. “Other than that, it was just lovely.”

Hugo’s bright, pleasant mood grew a shade darker. “Did you, then.”

“Yes,” she said passionately. “And as soon as he lets down his guard, I’m going to smack some sense into the fellow who threatened me.”

“Was I as bad as all that, then?” Was he apologizing to her for doing his work? No. Of course he wasn’t. That would be ludicrous.

She set her hands on her hips. “You convinced my sister’s landlord to toss her out on her ear with almost no notice. We must vacate in two days. Two days.”

“Have you nowhere else to go?”

“You don’t understand. Were it just me, this would pose no difficulty at all. But my sister…she doesn’t leave her rooms, not unless she has to. When she met me at an inn a few weeks ago, she almost fainted in the crowds. It will kill her to leave.”

“I’m sorry,” he said before he could think better of it.

Apparently, he was apologizing. Apparently, he even meant it.

“You should be.”

To his horror, he heard a faint sniff. That quiet suggestion of tears was quite possibly the worst thing she could have done.

He stepped closer to her. “You’re not letting me get you down, are you? I have it on the best of authority that the Wolf of Clermont is all shoulders, no neck. He doesn’t deserve an inch of your sentiment.”

“Make up your mind,” she snapped. “Either threaten me with bodily harm or be kind to me. Don’t do both. It’s bewildering.”

“Don’t exaggerate. I threatened to destroy your livelihood. But I don’t threaten women with physical violence.”

“Oh?” she demanded. “How do you explain your last message, then?”

It took Hugo a moment to recall what he’d said. Those impulsive two words—he’d not even known what he meant by them.

“You cannot tell me it was a serious proposal of marriage,” she said. “It was intended to intimidate. And I will not be intimidated.”

Hugo swallowed. “Marriage—to anyone—has never entered my mind. I am not the sort of man who is destined for matrimonial bliss. I have too much I wish to do with my life to saddle myself with the expense of a wife and children. Take those words as they were intended—as my frankest expression of admiration for a worthy opponent.”

“You’re a clever fellow,” she retorted. “Express your admiration some other way. It makes me think—” She cut off, and took a step back. “What are you doing?”

He took another step toward her. She held up her hands to ward him off. Slowly, Hugo extended his walking stick to her. “Take it,” he said.

“But—”

“Stop arguing, Serena, and take it.”

Her hand closed around the head, and she pulled it from him.

“That,” he said, “is a weapon. If I do anything you don’t like, hit me on the head. It’s dark. You’re unaccompanied. And I am seeing you home.”

She looked up at him. “I don’t understand.”

He didn’t, either. “Don’t make too much of it.” Hugo shrugged and set off down the street.

* * *

SERENA DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TO think as she trotted down the street beside the Wolf of Clermont, swinging his heavy walking stick. His strides were not long, but they were quick and steady, and her heart beat quickly as she kept pace with him. Her mind was whirling nearly as fast.

When they slowed to pick their way across a street, Serena tried again. “I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”

“Yes, you do,” he said, not looking at her. “You understand perfectly well what is happening. We’re attracted to one other, and it’s inconvenient.”

She sucked in a breath.

“Don’t act so surprised. If I were a greengrocer, and you the charming shopkeeper’s daughter across the street, we’d be calling the banns this Sunday. Likely we’d anticipate our marriage vows while our parents looked the other way.”

“I wasn’t acting surprised. But you’re trying to unsettle me again, and I—”

“I am not. I am as far out to sea as you are.” He spoke in a rumble so deep she almost didn’t notice the complaint in his voice.

Serena halted on the street corner; he turned to look at her. “If I were a footman,” he said, “and you a maid, we’d know every nook, every closet where we might hide away together.”

Safe, her dastardly senses whispered. He’s safe. There was something comforting about his forthright recital—comfort with an edge that only sharpened when he took a step closer to her.

“If I were a cobbler,” he said, “I’d offer you a discount on shoes.”

“Now you’ve completely lost your mind.”

“No. It would give me an excuse to measure your feet with my bare hands.” His lip twitched up. “And don’t think I’d stop at your toes.”

She had both her hands on top of his walking stick. She felt herself lean toward him, ever so slightly.

“But you’re not,” she said. “You’re the Wolf of Clermont, and I’m the woman you cannot drive away.”

“Can’t is such an unforgiving word,” he said. “I prefer do not wish to.”

This was a man who had walked away from his family at fourteen. He had a reputation for getting what he wanted.

But there was so much more to him than the boorish drone she’d once envisioned. He had talked about crushing her hopes and dreams, but when he stood next to her, he drove away the despair she’d carried for so long.

She wanted to steal him away—not to deprive Clermont of his use, but to have him for herself.

“Don’t tell me I can’t,” he was saying. “It implies an incapacity.”

“Can’t,” Serena repeated with a smile. “Can’t can’t can’t.”

“Ah, now you’re just taunting me.” He reached out and touched the side of the walking stick. “It’s a good thing this is between us, because otherwise I might forget that I’m not a footman. Or a cobbler.” He took another step in, and he was so close now that he warmed the night air around her. It scalded her lungs.

She’d thought him safe. She was wrong; there was nothing safe about him. But he stood along the path to safety. If she could steal his loyalty for her own…

For a brief moment, a dark shadow passed over her at all that would entail.

She squelched it. Never mind how she was to accomplish it. There was no point looking down when climbing. She’d repeated the word can’t, but after months of can’t, she was just going to have to prove that she could.

She uncurled one of her hands from the walking stick and laid it against his cheek. His jaw was rough and stubbled under her touch.

His breath sucked in. “Not a good idea, Serena. I’m no simple grocer. I don’t intend to marry, and even if I did, it is my job to thwart you.”

But he didn’t move back. He didn’t move forward, either. He simply waited, his eyes dark in the night.

Serena let go of the walking stick; it balanced on end, momentarily, before crashing to the ground.

And then he did move, slowly, leaning those final inches toward her.

At first it was just his lips that brushed hers, warm and certain, a fleeting pressure, swiftly removed. Then he rested his hand on her hip, drawing her to him. His mouth brushed hers once more; his lips parted, nipped at hers, and then again. Her whole body warmed.

She mimicked his motion—parting her lips—only to have him take them between his own, nibbling at her. She could have lost herself in that back-and-forth—the warmth of his breath, the taste of his mouth on hers. Shockingly, overwhelmingly sweet.

She’d thought of a kiss as the passive pressing together of lips—not this exchange of caresses. She was coming to life beside him—parts she’d never paid much mind to hummed in desire. The back of her neck tingled as he drew her close. The bottoms of her feet prickled with anticipation, as he kissed her again.

He licked at her lips, and she opened her mouth in shock. And as she did, he swept his tongue inside.

That act should have disgusted her. It didn’t. It felt amazing. Wonderful. She opened herself up to him, and then, tentatively, reached out her own tongue. His hands slid up her body, up the curve of her buttocks to clasp her spine. One of them caressed her arm, her elbow. And then his fingers cupped her breast. Lightly, slowly, and then, when she didn’t move away—when she pressed against him—with greater firmness.

And even though she knew that touch was a dreadful liberty, it felt right to have him touch her there—a heated counterpoint to the play of their lips.

“Ah, Serena,” he murmured. “This is not a good idea.” But he didn’t stop.

His hand slid slowly down her torso to the curve of her belly. And there his fingers came to a halt.

Serena froze. She swiftly covered his hand with hers, and just as abruptly pulled away. Her heart raced.

“What is it?” he said. His voice was husky, but his eyes narrowed. The streetlamp stood behind him, coloring his dark hair with warm tones.

And then he frowned and reached out once more—tentatively this time, and feathered his hand across her stomach. One couldn’t see it, not with corsets and petticoats being what they were. But a man who was pressed up against a woman, his hand caressing her, might feel it.

“Miss Barton,” he said slowly. “You have neglected to tell me something. Two somethings.”

“No.” She was unable to meet his eyes.

“That was your first kiss, was it not?”

She couldn’t bring herself to nod. Instead, she looked away.

“You said he didn’t force you.”

Her mouth went dry.

He shook his head. “Setting that aside—and how I can set that aside, I do not know… In all our discussions, in all the barbs we traded, was it not once relevant for you to mention that you were pregnant?”

Chapter Six

HUGO WAITED FOR HER TO deny the accusation.

She didn’t. Instead, she leaned over and picked up his walking stick. He wasn’t sure if she was simply holding it between them to signal that their truce was over, or if she intended to hit him with it and walk away.

She let out a long breath. “And here I thought you knew.”

“How would I know? Magic?”

“I told Clermont,” she tossed back. “I assumed that what he knew, you—”

“Whatever made you imagine that he would be forthright with me? He told me this was an employment dispute. He told me that he’d hired you to take care of his unborn child.”

She raised her chin. “Well,” she bit off. “The position is unpaid, and he wasn’t referring to his heir. But that much was true.” Her hand had crept back to cover her belly. “Why do you think I’m here now? Why do you think I’ve spent days standing in the park? It certainly wasn’t for my own benefit. I am not going to fail my child.”

“Yes, and that’s the other thing. What sort of promises did the duke make to get you in bed?”

She was looking off into the distance. Her nostrils flared, and then she turned to him. “He promised not to wake the household.” There was a hint of a catch in her voice.

“No.”

She’d given voice to his blackest suspicions and painted them blacker still. Yet she stood out against that darkness like a blinding beacon. He already flinched from the thought of hurting a woman. But everything in him rebelled at the thought of causing harm to a mother. And by the ferocity of her words—the tell-tale touch of her fingers to her abdomen—she was that.

“He had made a few comments during the day,” she continued starkly. “I tried to ignore him, although it’s hard to ignore a duke who is a guest of the household. He made me uneasy, though. And then he came to my room at night.” The bareness of her recital was almost worse than the words she was saying. “I told him no; he insisted. I threatened to scream, and he said that if I did, the whole household would wake and they would blame me anyway. I had just started the position. If I lost it under such circumstances, I might not have found another.”

He swallowed back anger. “Why did you tell me you weren’t forced?”

She shook her head in confusion. “I wasn’t forced. I didn’t fight him.”

Hugo looked over at her. She seemed to be in earnest about the last. He wasn’t so certain. What the duke had done was not punishable by law, even if she had dared to bring felony charges to the House of Lords. If she couldn’t prove that she’d fought back, they would never convict him.

It didn’t mean she wasn’t forced. Somehow, what had happened seemed even worse than physical violence—as if Clermont had taken not only his pleasure and her future, but had robbed her of the right to believe herself blameless.

“I didn’t scream,” she repeated. “You tell me that you admire me as a worthy opponent. But you don’t understand. The only reason I refuse to back down now is because I refuse to let my child drown in silence.”

“You should have told me.”

“What would it have changed?”

Everything. There was a counterpoint to his father’s vicious words. It was neither loud nor insistent, but sometimes when he closed his eyes, he could remember his mother singing.

“At least I wouldn’t have made you stand all day, four days running,” he shot back. “I’d have understood that when you asked for recognition, you were not speaking solely about revenge. Tell me, Miss Barton, and tell me plainly. What is it you want?”

“I want funds enough for the future.”

“You’re looking for perpetual support?”

“No. That farm I told you about—I want to grow lavender, make soaps, and take them to market.”

He inclined his head.

“I want my child to be able to overcome the circumstances of his birth. If he is to be a duke’s son, he should have some advantages. I want him to go to Eton. Or, if she’s a girl, to have a Season. Clermont is the father. He owes his child some sort of future, and I will not go away until it’s secured.”

Hugo exhaled and tried to imagine the duke taking responsibility. He tried to imagine the duchess understanding. No use; it would never happen.

He tried to imagine himself driving Serena away—but that was an even more futile prospect. He was trapped between an improbability and an unlikelihood.

He frowned. “I’ll need to look into a few things,” he said. “But we’ll talk tomorrow—let us say at eleven in the morning. And this time I mean it. No threats—not from either of us. This is a problem.”

He reached out and set his hand over hers on the walking stick. She raised her eyes to his, wide and luminous.

“I solve problems,” he said.

* * *

FREDDY HAD BEEN IN BED when Serena arrived last evening; she was still sleeping when Serena awoke, early in the morning.

Serena was just slipping into her shoes in the entry when a querulous note sounded behind her.

“Serena? Are you sneaking out already? Where were you so late last night?”

Serena’s heart skipped a beat. “Out,” she said.

“Out doing what?”

“Out being…out.”

There sounded the thump of feet hitting the floor, and then Freddy turned the corner. Her countenance was screwed into worried little lines.

“You arrived in someone’s company,” she said. “I watched you.”

And she’d thought Freddy asleep. Her sister had likely been too upset to speak. There was no use denying the accusation, though, so Serena simply picked up her cloak.

“A man. Haven’t men caused you enough trouble?”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Don’t you know how men are? It is always like that with them. Is that how you got in trouble? Walking out with a man after dark?” Freddy grimaced. “You’ve never learned your lesson.”

“What lesson should I have learned?”

Freddy straightened and set her hands on her hips. “I scarcely said a word when you flaunted your problems before all of Mayfair. And now I’m being forced to vacate the home I hold dear. I am made homeless, and you are out at all hours of the night cavorting with men.”

“I wasn’t cavorting. It was the Wolf of Clermont, if you must know. I have to speak with him. And even if it wasn’t, what do you expect me to do? Hide for the rest of my life, because something bad happened to me?”

Freddy’s lips compressed.

“If you’re worried about where to stay, I’ve a few leads on rooms. I’ll have us a new place by nightfall. I was just headed out to—”

As she spoke, Freddy reached down and picked up a pair of slippers. “Us?” she said. “We won’t have anything.” And then she threw the slippers at Serena.

They were made of wool and therefore bounced ineffectually off Serena’s forehead. Still, she was aghast. Mild-mannered Freddy, tossing things at her?

“How dare you?” Freddy said. “How dare you bring me into this?”

“Freddy—it’s just a place to stay. We’ll find a new one, just as good.”

“You don’t understand!” Freddy looked about the entry. “You’ve never understood. I have only ever had one safe place—these rooms—and now you’ve taken them from me.”

Freddy reached down and picked up the tired valise that stood next to the table.

“Listen to yourself,” Serena said. “You want me to hide, just like you do—hurt once, never risking anything else again. You won’t be satisfied until you’ve brought me down to your level.”

Freddy’s eyes flashed. Her lips pressed together, and in that moment, Serena had the horrible, awful feeling of having said too much. Freddy hurled the valise at her. It traveled only a few feet, lacking the basic capabilities to sustain long flight, and landed in a discordant crumple of leather and buckles.

“Do you not understand what happened to you?” Freddy glared at her. “You suffered a fate worse than death, and still you—”

“I am alive,” Serena said. “My child is alive. I intend to carry on living. Can you say that much?”

At that, Freddy swiped her hand across the side-table, tipping it over. It fell with a resounding crash.

Serena stepped forward and bent awkwardly to right the furniture. Her sister let out a sniff. “Oh, don’t bother,” she said crossly. “I’ll clean it up. I always do clean up after your messes. You would do it wrong, anyway. Go and dally with an entire company of men. I don’t care.”

Chapter Seven

AT ELEVEN O’CLOCK PRECISELY, SERENA was met at her bench by a man she had never seen before. He looked precisely the sort of man she would have imagined as the Wolf of Clermont a month ago—tall and muscular, eyes set close together, neck disappearing into broad shoulders.

“Miss Barton?” he asked.

Serena stood, folding the list of housing advertisements that she’d been perusing.

“I’m to show you around the back.”

She followed. It was foolish to be nervous. She’d talked with Mr. Marshall before. But not since he’d kissed her. Not since he’d discovered she was pregnant with another man’s child, and he’d drawn back.

He led her around the street and into a mews in back. From there, they ducked into the servants’ entrance in one of the white stone houses. The door opened onto a cellar. This he passed through swiftly, taking her up several flights of a narrow stair, and from there, into a richly carpeted hall, paintings on the walls.

All around her, the surroundings echoed wealth and generations of power—everything that had aligned itself against her. This was what she’d been fighting against. Not just the Duke of Clermont, or Mr. Marshall, but an entire country’s worth of opinion. She was as nothing compared to this sort of power—nothing more than a single grain in an entire sack of wheat. Nobody cared whether kernels wished to be ground into flour. It didn’t matter if she spoke or stayed silent; she had no voice either way.

Well, it mattered to her.

The servant came to a stop in front of a door, and Serena drew in a breath.

Her escort rapped on the door, once.

“Come in,” a voice said.

The man beside her opened the door. He held it for her, expectantly, and she realized that he wasn’t going to be entering with her.

She stepped into the room. Big strides. Head high. Breathe, she reminded herself. She was in an office—or at least she assumed it was an office. It could have been a library, with those books on the shelves. But there was paper everywhere—not only strewn about in loose stacks, but also set in cunning little shelves and tied up with different colors of cotton tape, all of which seemed to have some meaning. Blue there, yellow here, red spread out on the desk.

She couldn’t see Hugo—the high back of the black leather chair was turned to shield him.

“Well, Mr. Marshall,” she said, walking into the room with more bravery then she felt, “So this is where you crush hopes and shatter dreams.”

“Very droll.” He rose to his feet. Despite his words, there was no indication that he saw anything amusing at all. His mouth was set in one firm, sober line. And when he’d caught her attention, he gestured to the solitary wooden chair that stood across the desk from him. “Sit,” he commanded.

Serena smoothed her palms over her skirt and complied.

He sank into his chair. But he didn’t start the conversation. He simply steepled his fingers and looked at her silently. She wondered what he was seeing. The woman he’d kissed last night? A lady of easy virtue? Or someone else entirely?

He frowned and then pushed back in his chair. “Well,” he said. “We appear to have found ourselves in a bit of a difficulty.”

“You don’t seem to have done too badly for yourself.”

“I haven’t even—” He broke off and blew out a frustrated puff of air. “Never mind. Here is what we are going to offer you.”

“Who do you mean by we?”

Mr. Marshall ignored this. “We can’t provide what you ask for—no Eton, no Season. To give that much, the duke would have to exert himself for the child. His wife would discover it, and he has too much to lose.”

“Then I shall continue to sit outside his house. What do you suppose the gossip will run to once I begin to show?” She began to stand.

He slammed his hand against the table with a resounding thud. “Wait.”

“Don’t you screech at me,” Serena snapped. “Not you of all people.”

He stared at her a moment and then let out a breath. “My apologies,” he said stiffly. “I am rather on edge at the moment. I suspect we both are.” A muscle twitched in his cheek. “We are prepared to give you your fifty pounds, and then an extra fifty beyond that. Enough for you to live on, if you manage your resources judiciously. Enough to pay for a solid education or a finishing school. It’s not what you hoped for, but it is the best I can manage.”

She would be a fool not to take it. Anyone would say so.

But if she agreed, she’d no doubt be setting her name to more silence—a hundred supercilious looks, a lifetime of shaking heads. And her child…he would still be some nameless, unprotected bastard.

“What about my sister?” she asked.

He waved his hand. “She may stay where she is or live with you, as is her preference. This has already been communicated to her landlord; Miss Frederica Barton knows by now that she need not leave.”

She should take what he’d offered. Still, Serena met his eyes and held them. “Is that all you’ve got to offer? It isn’t enough.”

He’d been watching her the entire time. But now, for the first time, he looked away.

“As it happens, there is something else.” He played with the handle of a desk drawer uneasily. “What you wanted for your child was acceptance. That will be unattainable if your child is born a bastard. Eton would have been a futile promise in any event, as the founding statutes say quite clearly that any boy who attends must be legitimate. Have you any plans to marry at present?”

“You know I haven’t.”

He was still looking away, addressing the desk. “Consider acquiring some.”

Serena felt herself flush.

“Mr. Marshall, recall the circumstances in which I find myself. I have no great wealth, no family name to shield me. I am pregnant with another man’s child. Marriage is simply not an option.”

His expression did not change. “On the contrary, Miss Barton. You have a pending proposal of marriage—one you have not yet answered.”

“What are you talking about? I think I would know better than you if someone had proposed.”

“Think harder, Miss Barton. I know the circumstances of the offer quite well. I should. After all, I made it.”

Her heart came to a standstill. That note, that confusing, heart-rending note that he’d sent her…was it just yesterday afternoon?

“That wasn’t seriously meant,” she protested. “You don’t want to get married.”

“Don’t imagine it would be the usual kind of marriage.” He seemed to withdraw even more. “It needn’t even be consummated. Any woman I liked well enough to marry doesn’t deserve to be saddled with me. If we marry, it will be a quiet wedding by special license in a back room. At the end, we’ll go our separate ways—you, to your farm, and me…” He looked around the small room at the messy piles of paper. “I’m not offering to make a life with you. I am merely giving you the chance to make your child legitimate. Nothing more.”

He watched her, his eyes hooded and wary. And deep inside… She had no notion as to what to say.

She let out a long breath. “Oh, you are romantic.”

His lips compressed. “Grow accustomed to it. This is business, not romance.”

He glanced down, avoiding her eyes, and sifted through papers on the desk before him. “You wanted a lease on a farm within your means, did you not? Shall I look out for properties for you, or would you like to conduct the search yourself?”

“I would hate to put you to any trouble.”

“No trouble.” He glanced up warily at her. “As it happens, I’ve already started. There are some possibilities detailed here.” He rescued a sheaf of papers teetering on the edge of the desk and slid them over to her.

No; it wasn’t coldness she detected in his manner. He was nervous. And if he was nervous…

Serena had never been able to suppress hope for long. It filled her now.

There were no fates worse than death. There were only temporary setbacks on the road to victory. And no matter how coldly he phrased the prospect of their marriage, one thing was quite clear. She had won.

He was hers. Not Clermont’s. Not anyone else’s. No matter what he said, one didn’t tie oneself to a woman for life without granting her one’s loyalty. She stood, ignoring the papers he’d shoved over to her.

“The key to picking a good property,” he said, reaching across the desk to shuffle the pages, “is to think of where you’ll have water and sunlight and to look at prior crop yields. Those will tell you much about the quality of the soil.”

She stepped around the desk and set her hands on his shoulders.

He stopped. Swallowed. “Lavender—you did say lavender, did you not?—grows best in dry, sandy soils, neither alkaline nor acidic in nature. You might start looking at the properties in Cambridgeshire—that’s one of the driest parts of all of England, you know. Search out a soil that produces carrots on a regular basis, and…” He trailed off as she leaned toward him.

“You would be giving up all chance at marriage, Hugo. If you met someone and fell in love…”

“Will never happen. Never wanted it.” He let out a shaky puff of air, and Serena realized that he had been holding his breath.

“I have no time for women.” He raised his hand to her face and skimmed his fingertips down the line of her jaw, trailing them along her skin, until his index finger reached her chin. “Not even for you,” he whispered.

She raised her eyes to his. “Are you telling me I can’t?”

He made a confused, scalded noise—and then his arms came around her, catching her to him, pulling her down to sit on his lap. His lips were soft on hers—soft and sweet, but oh so hungry.

He’d claimed there was nothing of romance in this, but she wouldn’t have known it from his kiss. It wasn’t just his tightly-constrained want. A man who was driven solely by physical lust would have tried to seduce her first and marry her never. Instead, he kissed her as if it were his last time. As if she were a glass of water, and he the man about to embark on a trek across the desert. He savored her with his lips.

For a moment, she believed that no matter what he’d said, their marriage might become real. He was going to change his mind. She could taste it in his kiss.

But then he pulled away. “As you can see,” he said hoarsely, “this is nothing more than selfishness on my part. There’s no room for you in my life. But this way, at least I’ll know that you’re safe.”

He was fooling himself if he thought she would settle for a half-marriage. She’d vowed to win him from Clermont. She’d be damned if she stopped with less than full victory. She’d brought him this far. He would change his mind.

“I see,” Serena said softly, setting her palm against his cheek. “There’s no romance at all.”

“None.” And this time, his eyes didn’t drop from hers.

Chapter Eight

SERENA HAD LEFT HER SISTER this morning with everything between them unsettled. She hadn’t known what would happen to her, what Hugo Marshall intended, and whether Freddy would ever speak to her again. And so when she pushed the door to her sister’s room open, she held her breath.

Everything appeared to be back to strict order. Freddy’s gloves were neatly laid atop one another on the table in the entry; her half boots, dry and unused, stood underneath. When she peered around the doorframe, there was no sign of the clothing that Freddy had flung at her, nor of the valise that had landed at her feet. It had all been packed away.

Serena stepped cautiously into the front room.

Freddy was sitting at the window, her hands full of linen that seemed far finer than the usual charity work she did. The fabric was a golden-orange, with a subtle damask pattern woven into it.

“Frederica?” Serena asked.

“There’s bread in the box and fresh milk,” Freddy said. “And apples—I had Jimmy bring up some apples from the green grocer. I thought we might make us a supper of that.”

Jimmy was the boy who lived downstairs; Freddy paid him to fetch things. But even thirteen-year-old Jimmy was sometimes too much for Freddy. If she’d been willing to talk to him…

Serena had almost hoped that Freddy would stay angry. Instead, she was hiding behind a façade composed of the commonplace. She had already retreated inside a thick shell built from these rooms. Nothing Serena said—nor anger, nor tears—would coax her out.

“Freddy,” Serena tried, “I’m sorry.”

Freddy looked up from her work long enough to frown. “You should be. I’ve told you not to call me Freddy time and time again.” She glanced down sharply and smoothed out the fabric she was working on. “It’s not ladylike. I don’t wish to answer to such an appellation.”

“You were right. I put you at risk, and—”

“You always put things at risk. If you fell out of a tree as a child, I’d clean you up and bandage your knees, and next I looked you’d be out climbing again. You never learned your lesson.”

Oh, she’d learned her lesson: Climb harder.

Somehow, Serena didn’t think that was the lesson Freddy had expected her to learn.

“It’s always the same thing,” Freddy said. “You fall, I catch. And before you’ve even healed up properly, you’re out looking for a new way to fall.”

Freddy clucked her tongue disapprovingly, and Serena stared at her.

Here she’d been thinking that Freddy was damaged beyond repair, hiding from the world. Freddy thought that Serena was unprotected. Was that how she seemed to Freddy? Some strange, impetuous creature, launching from disaster to disaster, simply because she refused to give up? The vision this invoked of herself was so alien that Serena was robbed of a response.

How could they be sisters? It seemed impossible that they should view the world with such fundamentally different eyes.

And yet there was Freddy—Freddy, who hadn’t stirred from these rooms since she met Serena at the inn where the stagecoach had deposited her—shaking her head as if Serena were the one on the brink of commitment to Bedlam.

There was no way to give voice to her thoughts.

No, Freddy. You appear to be mistaken. I am not mad; you are.

“What are you working on?” Serena finally asked instead. “That fabric’s beautiful.”

“It’s one of Mother’s old dresses,” Freddy said calmly. “I’m making it over. I thought it would do for a wedding dress for you.”

Serena choked. “How did you know?”

“I’m your sister, Serena.” Freddy spoke with a smile that was as annoying as it was mysterious. “I know everything.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Your Mr. Marshall paid me a visit this morning. Just after you left. He told me he was going to ask.” Freddy pulled a face. “I suspect you’re going to say yes. It’s the sort of fool thing you would do—trusting your entire fate and future to some man you scarcely know, when you could stay here in perfect safety.”

Safety? Immobility seemed a better word.

“In any event,” Freddy said, “when it all falls apart, I’ll be here to catch you and pick up the pieces. Again.”

Freddy would never shatter. She couldn’t; she’d never ascend to any great heights. One day, though, she’d come to the plodding end of her resources. She would suffocate in her tiny room.

“What if it doesn’t fall apart?” Serena asked.

Freddy stared at her, her gray eyes narrowing. “How you can still ask that, when—” She exhaled deeply and rolled her eyes. “Never mind. Now are you going to try this dress on, so we can see where it needs pinning?”

There was no winning this one.

“Thank you,” Serena finally said. “Help me with my buttons, please.”

* * *

THE WEEK BEFORE THE WEDDING flew by in a frenzy of licenses and leases. Hugo found it better to keep himself busy with details, rather than ponder the impenetrable mystery of his impending nuptials.

Whenever the thought crossed his mind—you’re getting married—he thrust it away.

Marriage was an entanglement. This was simply a business commitment.

To a woman.

Just your everyday, average business arrangement—except this one gave him the right to take her to bed.

That was the reason why he didn’t dare think about what he was doing—because once he thought of Serena Barton as his wife-to-be instead of as a partner in an arms’-length arrangement, his imagination wandered.

It wasn’t the thought of bedding her—repeatedly—that most caught his fancy.

It was the thought that for the first time in years, he might have someone. Marriage became companionship. Companionship became a reason to give up his fight, to spend evenings with her instead of poring over shipping records, searching for a pattern that would yield profit.

No. He couldn’t let himself dwell on that.

But not thinking about his inchoate wishes left him unprepared when he reached the church where they were to be married. He felt off balance throughout the ceremony—as if he were on the brink of stumbling and couldn’t reach out to catch himself.

He couldn’t bring himself to look directly at her. Her gown was the color of daylight just before sunset; if he looked at her too long, he feared he might be left blind once she was gone. The vicar stood between them, reciting words that Hugo couldn’t comprehend—richer and poorer, troth, wife. He repeated his vows in a dream; he barely heard her answers.

But when he took her hand to slip his ring onto her finger, she was solid and warm—the only real thing in the room. He almost didn’t want to let go of her. The vicar gave him permission and he kissed her—not hard, for lust, nor long, for love, but a light brush of his lips for the brief space of time that she would stay in his life.

In the hired carriage after, as he returned Serena and her sister to her home, he could not help but think of what he would not have. The carriage drew up; her sister disembarked.

Serena did not move.

“The lease is in order,” Hugo said, “and I’ve arranged your passage on the stage. I hired a woman to see you through the next year. Don’t argue; you shouldn’t be alone under the circumstances.”

She was turned away from him.

“Thank you,” she said. Her hand clenched in the fabric of her skirts convulsively.

“If you need me for anything, you have only to ask.” A foolish offer, but then, he was used to turning into a fool around her.

“I…that is…” Her voice quivered and deep inside, some part of him quailed.

“What?” The word came out cold, but he didn’t care.

She turned to him. “I think we should consummate the marriage after all.”

Yes, some possessive beast inside him growled. But what came out was the clipped version: “Why? Is this some sort of misguided thanks? I don’t want—”

Her lips thinned. “Because maybe you can pretend that this is solely a business transaction, but I cannot. Consummation will provide us both with some protection, should the marriage be challenged. More than that. We are married—and maybe this is no conventional arrangement, but it is still real.”

“It isn’t,” he said.

“It is. What is a husband, but the man who offers you support when all the world turns you away?”

Was that what he was to her? He couldn’t look at her now, or she’d see how much those words affected him.

She continued. “What is a wife, but a partner who will see you through to your deepest wishes? We have promised each other our deepest wishes.”

“Have we?”

“You will be my protection from the world. And I…” She set her hand on his arm, and a prickle ran up his neck. “Legally, you’re obligated by my actions. Another woman might take advantage. You’ve trusted me not to thwart your ambition. Let me trust you with this, too.”

Yes.

He couldn’t make his lips form the word. He couldn’t even bring up his hands to touch her. Instead, he gripped the edge of the seat. “Have no hope of me, darling. I have none to give you.”

“Liar.” Her voice shook, but her hands were steady on his shoulder. And then slowly, ever so slowly, she leaned in to him. She smelled of bergamot and soap, of sunshine and sugar. He was so, so lost.

He met her lips with his own, settled his hands about her waist and drew her in. He held her close—as close as he’d wanted all these past days.

She nestled against him, her lips soft against his. He didn’t want to let go. He could have kissed her forever.

Instead, the carriage door swung open.

“Guv’nor?” It was the driver. “Oh—uh—oh.”

Hugo looked up, his arm full of woman.

“I don’t—this isn’t—” The cabbie was sputtering.

“Calm yourself,” Hugo said. “We’ve just married.” He didn’t meet Serena’s eyes. “Take us to Norwich Court.”

Serena’s hands stilled in unspoken question.

But he couldn’t bring himself to make an answer. Not when he had nothing to offer.

* * *

THE CARRIAGE PULLED UP OUTSIDE a bleak, thin row house.

Serena had expected something more sumptuous from the man who was responsible for Clermont’s fortune. But Hugo made no apology for the dark, narrow stair he led her up, nor for the haphazard disarray of the rooms beyond the door that he unlocked. There were two low openings off the main room—so low that Hugo would have to stoop to get through them.

He wasn’t neat. Truthfully, after staying with Freddy, Serena suspected that nobody would ever seem neat again. A jacket hung on a chair; a pair of stockings was strewn across the floor.

She peered into one of the neighboring rooms and found stray barrels and a trunk. In the other was a bed—heaped haphazardly in bedclothes and tousled sheets.

Neither of them said a word.

She wasn’t sure what she’d expected—that she’d offer herself to him and win him from the duke? That he’d become her husband in truth, cleaving unto her as the words of the wedding ceremony suggested he should?

But there was no cleaving. They felt awkwardly, painfully separate.

Before Serena could lose her nerve, she ducked into his bedchamber. Her heart pounded, but she unbuttoned the pelisse that covered her gown and set it over a chair, then tugged off her gloves. Her hands were shaking by the time she undid the sash on her gown, but still she started to unhook the bodice. It was foolish for her hands to shake—foolish, because she felt no trepidation.

She couldn’t feel trepidation. She wouldn’t let herself. As long as she didn’t look down…

But she looked up from her buttons to see Hugo standing in the doorway, watching her. There was a point, she’d discovered climbing trees as a child, when she reached the end of the branches. When the leaves gave way to sun, and the breeze blew fresh and unhindered upon her face.

For a few seconds when she reached the top, she would feel the finest sense of accomplishment. But that was also the moment when she first looked at the distant ground between her feet. And when she did, what came to mind was not the thrill of victory, but: Now how am I going to get down?

She’d been outrunning her fears for so long, pushing them away, pretending the ground didn’t exist below her. But now she’d secured her farm and saved her child from bastardy. She’d set everything else aside for later. And now, with nothing left to reach for, later had come.

He didn’t move toward her, but he didn’t have to. The dark recesses of her imagination took hold anyway. He was going to push himself on top of her. His weight would pin her down. She could hear herself breathing overloud; her vision darkened at the edges.

She wasn’t sure where the first tear came from, or the second. She wasn’t the sort of woman to do anything so useless as weep.

But the next thing she knew, she was crying into the orange linen of her wedding gown. And these were no demure, dainty tears; they were great gasping sobs that she couldn’t hold back.

She wasn’t sure when he came to sit next to her on the bed, when his arms went around her. When he started to wipe away her tears.

He didn’t offer useless platitudes, promising that all would be well. He didn’t murmur sweet nothings. He simply held her. It felt as if his warmth enfolded her for hours. When the storm began to fade to hiccoughing sobs, he handed her a clean handkerchief.

“Uncomfortable memories?” he finally asked.

Those. Impossible emotions, too. Guilt. Fear. Anger. All the things that she had put off like so many unpaid bills had returned to hammer on her door, insisting on immediate collection of all amounts owed.

Serena blew her nose. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about me. Just—can you just get on with it?”

“No, sweetheart. I have to be aroused to get on with anything, and I find nothing to desire in laboring over a woman who wishes herself elsewhere.” He touched her nose. She was sure it must have been red. But he didn’t comment on her looks. “Even if she is you,” he said.

“I’m well now.”

He shook his head. “I don’t think this should happen.”

He started to stand, but she set her hand on his arm. “You don’t understand. I only have the one memory of Clermont. I need…” She gulped air. “When I wake up at night, remembering his weight upon me, I want another memory I can hold to, so that I might banish the thought. I need you to drive him out.”

She gathered all her nerve and stood. The bodice of her gown was already undone. All she had to do was slide the sleeves off her shoulders and let the fabric fall. Like that, she was left in corset and chemise.

She had hoped that disrobing would do the trick. But he was not overcome by lust at seeing her in dishabille. He simply walked to her.

He was warm against her, warm and close; he parted her hair briefly and then, pulled a hairpin free.

“We’re not going to be doing this that way, Serena,” he said.

She swallowed. “Which way is that way?” Her voice was unsteady.

He removed another hairpin. “Whichever way you’re thinking of right now. Your hands are shaking.”

“What—how—I don’t know—” She choked on her uncertainty, on the dark fears that rose up inside her.

But he kept removing her pins, one by one, scarcely touching her as he did so. Her coiffure tilted alarmingly, and then, as he freed a particularly crucial bit of iron, her hair tumbled down to her shoulders.

“What do you intend?” she asked.

“I am not going to consummate this marriage.” He found one last pin, dangling in her curls, and set this against the others that he’d gathered. He arranged them in his hand, a neat row of gray metal.

“You’re not going to consummate the marriage,” she repeated.

“I’m not.” He held out his hand, and when she reached out to take it, he dumped the hairpins in her palm. “But you are.”

The heat of his body had warmed the pins. While she was staring at them in confusion, he closed her fingers around them.

“This is how it works,” he said. “You may trade a pin for a favor. If you want me to unlace your corset, you can give me a pin. If you want me to give you a kiss, it will cost you a pin. But until you ask, I can’t touch you.”

Serena swallowed.

“Once I have a pin from you,” he said—and this time, he gave her that long, slow smile that she remembered so well—“I can trade it back.”

“For a favor?” Her voice was still shaking. “You could trade a pin for the right to—”

“Ah, yes. You can make me touch you. But I can only make you touch yourself.”

“That hardly seems fair.”

His smile quirked up at one end. “I’m not known for fairness.”

Safe. Safe. It was coming back, that impulse—slowing her heart, driving her darkest fears from the odd corners of her body. He didn’t move. The dark images that had begun to infest her slowly dissipated. And in their place was…confusion.

Still, she knew where to start.

“Take off your coat.” Her voice shook as she did.

He held out his hand. “A pin, please.” She handed one over. Her fingers brushed his palm as she did.

He undid the buttons down his front and then shrugged out of the dark brown material in one smooth motion. His shirt was white underneath; it clung briefly to muscle as he wrestled his coat to the side. He let it fall to the floor in an untidy mess, and turned to face her in his shirtsleeves. Somehow, taking off that outer layer made him seem bigger than before—perhaps because all that impressive breadth of shoulder was that much closer to her.

Serena’s pulse beat harder, but still he didn’t move.

“Aren’t you going to ask for anything with your pin?” she finally managed.

“No,” he said, with infinite casualness. “I want to build up a store of them first.” He didn’t elaborate, but her breath caught. Not, this time, in trepidation. No; this time she felt the first tendrils of curiosity curling about her.

She pointed a pin at him. “Your waistcoat, then, if you please.”

He complied. She couldn’t see through the linen of his shirt, but she could make out the form of his muscles as he worked—strong, defined curves.

She was growing braver now, and handed him another pin when he finished. “Your shirt.”

Wordlessly, he doffed that. As he pulled the fabric over his head, the muscles of his chest flexed and rippled, and Serena stared. She’d known he was a pugilist—his shoulders were broad—but there was nothing quite like seeing the truth of his former profession laid out in the flesh. Those shoulders had tensed when he’d struck another man. He’d taken blows against the hard ridges of his belly. A faint, pink scar traveled in a curving line up from his navel to halfway up his chest; a more ragged red line marked his ribs. There was an entire story written in his skin, and she wanted to learn it all.

He hadn’t said anything as she looked him over, but he was hardly unaware of her perusal.

“Are you flexing your muscles for me?” she asked.

“That,” he said smoothly, “would be vanity.”

She felt herself smile in response—the first smile since she’d entered his room. “So, yes, then.”

He gave her a darkly wicked grin. “Should have known better than to try to bamboozle the governess.”

Serena took a step toward him, and his smile froze. She reached out and touched the point of the pin to his abdomen. His breath stopped. She trailed it up his ribs, and had the pleasure of seeing him break out in gooseflesh.

“I want your shoes.” Her mouth was dry; she could scarcely swallow around the words.

He bent to remove them. As he did, his trousers grew tight around his buttocks, and the muscles in his behind shivered.

So did she. She waited until he straightened before handing him another pin. “Do it again. I want your stockings.”

This time, when he bent, he showed off for her—turning at an angle, flexing precisely so. He had to know how his thighs looked with all that wool hugging them. He didn’t say a word, but when he’d discarded the knit wool of his stockings, he met her eyes and winked.

He’d made a game with the pins, one that stole her dread away. Still, she handed him another hairpin. “Do you have enough yet for your nefarious plan?”

“Not quite.” He grinned. “Besides, you’re doing so well on your own. I’d hate to interrupt you.”

Her confidence was coming back. Serena tapped him on the chin with a head of a pin. “For that impertinence, sir, I demand your belt.”

“You demand it, do you?” He set his hands on the buckle, and tightened it. “Then I suppose I am bound to comply.” The tongue of the belt came loose, and then he pulled the belt slowly away. His trousers slipped down his hips a few inches as he did, revealing a dark arrow of hair, dotting down the front of his stomach.

She wanted to know where that trail of coarse hair led.

“Now,” she began, “I want—”

“Now,” he interrupted smoothly, “it’s time for me to redeem my pins.” He fixed her with a steady look.

It was only a moment that he looked into her eyes—half a second, scarcely even long enough to blink—but already her pulse jumped in response. His smile broadened. Her skin tingled. She was aware of every inch of her skin—her shift scarcely covered her limbs; her corset bound her breasts tightly. She wasn’t sure if it was fear or arousal that had her so suddenly on edge.

“My first order.” He set a pin in the palm of her hand. “Wait right there until I come back.”

She blinked, but he ducked out of the room before she could gather breath to protest. She took one step forward, before remembering that he’d asked with a pin, and under the rules of the game, she couldn’t follow. But he didn’t return—not for several minutes. She heard the clanking of metal and the working of a bellows—what in God’s name was he doing? Eventually, there was a hiss like steam and his muffled oath.

He finally returned bearing a towel. A steaming towel.

“This is a trick,” he said. “I learned it prize-fighting. Lie down on the bed.”

At that bare command, Serena froze. He paused and cocked his head, and then set a pin on the table beside her. “I’m not touching you—recall that I can’t until you ask. Lie down on the bed.”

Serena swallowed and complied. He sat next to her; the mattress gave way beneath his weight.

“Put this over your face.”

He handed over the cloth, hot and moist—almost too hot to touch. She unfolded it gingerly and then laid it over her eyes, covering her nose.

“Breathe in,” he said. “Slowly, now.”

The air was humid; she could feel the heat penetrating her skin, relaxing muscles she had not realized she’d tensed.

“Now exhale.” She did; the air beneath the towel cooled temporarily.

“Inhale.”

She was drifting away on warmth with every breath. “This is lovely.”

“Yes,” he said. “The more limber you are before a fight, the less likely you are to be hurt. Don’t know why that would be, but I suspect the same might hold true here as well.”

She let out a little sigh of contentment. “What now?”

“I couldn’t say,” he replied. “I’m out of pins.”

She pulled the towel from her face. “How can that be?”

He was watching her intently—his eyes dark, his mouth set in a determined line. He gestured to the table where he’d been laying pins the whole time. “I told you to breathe.”

She had thought that lust would be selfish, no matter who entertained it. But there was a decided lift to his chin, a look in his eyes. He’d done all that for her—to steal the tension from her muscles, the fear from her heart.

She was safe. This was the man she’d come to know. Determined, yes, and ambitious, too. But also playful and kind. He hadn’t hurt her. He’d seen her distress and he’d soothed it away.

She pushed one of the pins he’d piled up over to his side and took a deep breath for courage. “Take off my corset, Hugo.”

He’d scarcely touched her since he’d taken her hair down—just the brush of his fingers against hers as the pins had changed ownership.

He touched her now, curling one hand around her hip. His other rose to address the knot of her front-lacing corset. He loosened the garment almost reverently. His fingertips seemed almost to scorch her, even through the stiff fabric of her undergarment. Her lungs caught fire as he loosened the laces. She took a deep breath and inhaled his smell—something like salt and citrus.

Slowly, he undid the fastenings, peeling her corset from her. Released from confinement, her breasts swelled out in front of her, covered only by the thin fabric of her chemise. The air was cool against her skin, but she could scarcely feel it.

His breathing had grown ragged. His gaze rested on the swell of her breasts, where her nipples made sharp peaks in the linen of her undergarment. His eyes moved in time with the cycle of her breath—up and down, as if he were already joined with her on some level.

He slid her pin back to lie next to the others. “Touch your breasts.”

His voice was rough; his words sent a current of heat through her. She brought her hand up, never taking her eyes from his. She cupped the curve of one breast in the palm of her hand and his pupils dilated. She ran her thumb along the upper slope and he licked his lips. Her own touch sent a weak spark of pleasure pulsing through her, but it was his gaze—worshipful, almost devout—that magnified the thread of pleasure, encouraging it to grow.

She made another circle with her thumb, and he drew in another breath. And then, because her body begged for it—because his eyes pleaded for it—she teased her nipple with her fingertips. Desire shot through her, taking up an insistent, liquid beat between her legs.

He didn’t move to touch, to take. He just watched, his breath growing ragged. Her pleasure was his.

“Now…” She swallowed, and gathered her nerve. “Now you touch my breasts.”

He leaned over her, setting his warm hand where hers had been. His thumb was rougher and more callused, brushing her nipple through the fabric of her shift. If her own touch had brought on a shock of pleasure, his called up a rough well of desire, dark and needy, from deep within. He leaned down and touched his lips to her other nipple. His breath was hot and humid; his tongue outlined the dark, puckered skin. She gave herself over to the sensation of being touched by him—small caresses still urgent with want; tongue and then teeth, teasing her, bringing her to the edge of her want.

“Stop,” she panted.

He pulled away. The muscles of his arm strained, holding himself in place.

“I want your trousers,” she told him.

“I want your chemise.”

They’d stopped exchanging pins, Serena realized—just slipped into one request given for another. She took a deep breath and pulled her chemise over her head. She freed her arms just in time to see him kicking his trousers and undergarments away. Now she could follow that dark line etched on his belly all the way down to a curly nest of hair, from which jutted his erection. He was hard and long, and so thick her fingers would scarcely meet if she were to place her hand around his member.

She reached out experimentally—yes—her thumb just overlapped her forefinger. He hissed as she touched him, but did not otherwise move. She stroked down his length, wondering at the contrast—warm and soft at first touch, yet hard as steel when she squeezed him. He made a noise in the back of his throat, something akin to a growl, and his hands gripped the bed sheets, but he didn’t move. He didn’t kiss her. He didn’t take her in his arms. He simply shut his eyes and let her explore.

She let go of his erection and ran her hands up his body: up the rippling muscles of his abdomen, up the expanse of his chest. She rested her hands on his shoulders and then pushed onto her knees and kissed him.

As she did, she stretched out against him full-length. All that warm skin, all that hard muscle pressed flush against her body.

His mouth took hers with bruising force. Her tongue darted out to his, and he met her, stroke for stroke, kiss for kiss. She felt herself turning to liquid, each heated kiss stoking a building fire. But still he didn’t wrap his arms around her.

She closed her hand around his member once more and he jerked almost spasmodically. “Ah, sweet—” he said, low and hoarse. She burned all over, from head to foot. But pressing herself against his hardness wasn’t enough. She needed more—needed his arms around her, his body demanding more of her. She wasn’t sure when her bravado had turned into brazenness.

“Touch my breasts again,” she said.

The command was less shy; his response was more certain. He set his hands on her waist and slid them up her ribs to cup her naked breasts. No teasing caress, now; he leaned to kiss one, then the other—first just lips touching, and then the entirety of his mouth, hot, his tongue stroking her nipple. So good—he felt so good.

Her thighs began to tremble; he sank to sit on the bed, and pulled her to straddle him. That put her breasts right in front of him, and he took them again, tasting them. His hard erection fitted against the juncture of her thighs. Her want had gone beyond the tingle of her skin. It swelled to fill her all over. She was wet between her legs. She shifted against him, sliding against his hardness, and her desire intensified.

Again. Again. She rose up on him to press once more, and the head of his member pushed into place. She opened her eyes to regard him. His hand found hers; their fingers tangled.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Her limbs seemed to melt. She could not hold herself in place, poised as she was.

And so she let go, relaxing the muscles that held her over him. She simply let herself sink onto his length. He was so big inside her. But the sensation wasn’t unpleasant. It was…lovely.

She was safe. Safe to simply experience the hardness of him, the stretch of her body, the growing pulse of her desire. It was safe to want—to rise up on her knees and then engulf him once more.

Their eyes met as she did; he let out a breath, long and deep, and his hands clenched around hers.

Her body knew what to do without any need for instruction. Deep instinct led her to grind against his pelvis, to search out the right rhythm, the right friction. She lost herself in the feel of them—in the subtle satisfaction that swept over her at the look on his face as she moved faster.

“You lovely thing,” he growled.

Passion built until it became an immense pressure, demanding release. She tried and tried, but no matter how she reached for it, it eluded her. Just when her want hit the edge of splintering frustration, he slid his hand between her legs and stroked her right where she needed it.

His touch was sure and unerring. The heat that had built released all at once, an inferno engulfing her from head to toe. She lost sight of everything but the pleasure that raged through her.

And then, when the whirlwind had passed, his hands fell on her hips and he drove into her from beneath, hammering home the echoes of her pleasure with his own. He let out a hoarse cry while she was still shuddering in the aftermath of her orgasm.

They sank to the mattress afterward. His arms came around her, warm and comforting. This was right—precisely what she’d needed.

He cupped her cheek.

It was a moment of precious, perfect togetherness. No wonder they referred to the act as intimacy. She had never felt so closely entangled with anyone before. His breaths were hers. His body…

She opened her eyes and looked into his dark gaze.

He wasn’t smiling at her. If anything, his intensity had grown. “There now,” he said softly. “Now you understand why I didn’t want to consummate the marriage.”

Chapter Nine

SHE HAD BEEN ALMOST LIQUID, molded against Hugo’s chest. But he had no sooner spoken then all the tension crept back into her limbs. She stiffened atop him, then pulled away.

“Hugo. It doesn’t have to be—”

He set his fingers across her lips before she could give voice to his deepest wants. “It does.”

“That meant something to you. Something real.”

“Of course it did.” He sat up and took her hand. “I won’t tell falsehoods about this. What we have is a species of love.”

She let out a breath in surprise.

“A transitory, short-lived one,” he explained. “A perfect sunrise—seen once, remembered always. Never duplicated.”

“Never duplicated?” Her fingers bit into his. “Why ever not?”

“Because tomorrow you’ll go to your farm. And I—”

“It doesn’t have to be that way.” Her hair was in wild, chestnut disarray around her shoulders and her eyes were wide and gray.

Hugo moved a lock of her hair aside. “You can’t stay with me, Serena.” His words sounded harsh. “Recall who I work for.”

She blanched, but hesitated only a moment before raising her chin. “You could—”

“I could what? Come with you? I suppose I could, at that. But I won’t. I have five hundred pounds waiting on the outcome of this affair with the duke. That’s the only chance a pugilist like me has to come into that much money. With that, I can truly become someone. If I go with you—”

“You are someone.” She frowned.

You’ll never amount to anything. Hugo let out a breath. “Not enough.”

“You are. Hugo, if you’d only—”

“It’s not enough,” he repeated grimly. He pushed away from her and swung his feet over the edge of the bed. “Do you hear? It’s not enough for me.”

“Not enough what?”

Such a reasonable question.

“Because you’re intelligent and successful,” Serena was saying, “and you’re a good man. That thing with the pins—it was lovely. You have a way of putting me at ease.”

“That’s nothing,” he said. “My mother was always doing things like that for me. She gave me a magic rock when I was young, and told me if I slept with it under my pillow, nothing would happen on the next day that I couldn’t bear.”

Beside him, Serena sucked in a breath. But he wasn’t ashamed of telling her the truth. He had suffered through days that had made him doubt his mother’s stone.

He brushed those memories away. “When I was older, she took an old pickle jar to the park. She told me to fill it with all the most important things. Then she buried it deep, deep, where my father couldn’t find it no matter what he did.”

It had been drizzling, but he’d scarcely felt the wet.

Do you have a jar, Mama?

She’d smiled and shook her head.

We should make one for you.

Her smile had fixed in place. Then she’d let out a sigh. I’ve buried too many children, she’d finally said. I’m not burying anything else that matters. Never again.

“Your mother sounds like a lovely woman,” Serena said beside him.

“My mother told me I would be somebody.” It had been reflexive soothing on her part—sheer contradiction after his father’s tirades.

“Maybe you should listen to her.”

You can be anyone, she’d told him, over and over.

A rich man? he’d asked.

The richest coal miner’s son in all of England, she promised.

“When I left home,” he finally said, “I was fourteen. I’d gone into the mines for the first time three days before, and there had been an accident. A little cave-in, nothing serious, but I was caught in the dark for five hours with nothing to do but imagine my air slowly being used up. After I got out, I said I wasn’t going back.” He inhaled. “My father disagreed. He broke my nose and three ribs with a broomstick. He told me I wasn’t good enough, that I’d never amount to anything.”

“Oh, Hugo.” Her hand rose to trace along his jaw. “You can’t still believe him—not after all these years.”

He shook his head. “I got away because my mother stepped in—drawing my father’s anger down on her. The last thing I remember, scrambling out the door, is the sound of her screams.”

Her arm crept around him. “Oh, Hugo,” she repeated.

“She passed away a few weeks later.” He could scarcely draw breath. “So it’s not enough yet, what I’ve managed.” He balled his hands. “It’s not enough to make up for leaving her. She could not have lost so much for a mere nobody.”

He’d gone back to the park when he’d heard the news, and dug for that jar.

I’m going to be the richest coal miner’s son in all England, he’d promised the grubby glass. And then he’d buried it again where she’d once left it—and hidden his other desires so deep that even Serena could not unearth them.

“And so that’s where we are.” He put his arm around her and inhaled the sweet, lingering scent of her perfume. “You can’t stay. I won’t leave. And now we both know precisely what it is we’re giving up. It wasn’t a good idea.”

She let out a breath.

“But you’ll be safe and you’ll be well.” He kissed her forehead lightly. “And that will be enough.”

* * *

THE STORY, SERENA BELIEVED, WOULD go like this: Hugo would change his mind.

She first believed he would change it when he woke up next to her, blinking away his morning bleariness. And yet he didn’t.

Next she told herself he’d wash his insistence on their separation away with soap and water, or scrape it off alongside the bristles he’d acquired overnight.

He didn’t; he washed and shaved and changed his clothing without once altering his decision.

He would change his mind, Serena decided, in the hack he’d hire to deliver her to the stagecoach yard.

But he said only a few words on the journey—just enough to deliver a quiet greeting when they stopped along the way for Freddy. The three of them traveled in unspeaking silence—Freddy clutching the strap, her gloves wrinkling under the ferocity of her grip, even though their conveyance scarcely swayed.

When they arrived, he made no attempt to purchase passage for himself. Instead, Hugo stood back, pretending to busy himself with Serena’s trunk so that the sisters might speak.

“Well.” Freddy peered around the crowded yard of the inn with a deeply suspicious look, frowning at the ostlers. “I suppose you have to thrust yourself out there, do you not?” She punctuated the end of this sentence with a deep, speaking sigh.

“Yes. I must.”

“You always were an unnatural thing.” Freddy raised a handkerchief to her nose as if she could blot the horses from her senses. “Still, I’ll miss you. Things can be rather dull when you’re not present.”

Serena hugged her sister. “Take care,” she said.

Freddy embraced her in return. “I always do. It’s you I worry about.”

Maybe Freddy would always think Serena strangely broken, and Serena would always cringe, thinking of her sister ensconced in her rooms, slowly turning to stone. There was no convincing one another, no understanding one another.

But when Serena had most needed it, her sister had given her a place to stay. For all that Freddy made her stomach hurt, they still shared an affection made bittersweet by all that divided them. Perhaps God gave one sisters to teach one to love the inexplicable.

“Be well,” Serena said. “And go straight home, do you hear? No waiting around until the coach is out of sight.”

Freddy sniffed at that and didn’t answer, but she was pale and perspiring.

And then Serena turned her attention to Hugo.

His posture was forbidding—arms crossed as if to bar her way forward, his lips thinned in disapproval. There was almost no sign of the man who’d smiled and made her feel so easy—so wonderful—on the previous evening.

“Hugo,” she said. Even his Christian name sounded needlessly formal. Now was the time for him to change his mind—now, as the driver called out for the passengers to board.

“Serena.” His voice was as off-putting as his stance, but his eyes…oh, his eyes. He drank her in, as if he could gather her up.

He was going to say it. He was going to ask her not to leave.

But instead of telling her that he couldn’t live without her—“Farewell,” he said.

And then, before she could fumble for the right words—the words that would bridge the gap between the two of them and make this stunted marriage whole—he hefted her trunk with one hand and handed it into the boot of the coach. “Farewell,” he repeated.

She boarded in a daze, refusing to let her confusion and numbness set in. This wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t. She fought her way to a seat near the door so that she could make out his form. He was bent over her sister, saying something she could not hear over the din of the other passengers.

Freddy actually smiled in response.

It would happen now. He would turn and see her. He had to. She set her fingers on the handle of the door.

Don’t walk away. Her eyes clouded with tears. You can’t walk away. I love you.

It was a revelation. She didn’t know where it had come from. She only knew that it meant he couldn’t walk away. He’d look over and see her, and then he’d realize that he loved her, too.

But in the end, that wasn’t what happened. He didn’t look up. He didn’t see her. He didn’t love her. He simply offered Freddy his arm. They turned, and the two of them vanished into the crowd.

Like that, he was gone.

Chapter Ten

IN THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED Serena’s departure, Hugo struggled to find normalcy. He failed. It was almost impossible to care about the details of the duke’s finances. Food lost its savor. And all too often, he found himself standing by the window in his office—not working, not thinking, just staring at the empty iron bench in the square.

On the third day, he decided that speculation over how she was doing was likely distracting him, and he resolved to write her a simple letter. But when he started, he found that his pen did not obey.

Miss Barton, he wrote.

I spent my day as I normally spend my days: threatening suppliers, bullying those who are not in line with my expectations, and generally creating havoc in the lives of others. The square across the street is empty of all but the pigeons. I find myself resenting them.

He stopped and stared at the paper. Too revealing. Too friendly. And more importantly... There was that all-too-annoying error he’d made in the salutation. He crumpled it up and tossed it into the waste bin and started over.

Mrs. Marshall, he started, and found a grim satisfaction in addressing her with his name. I hope that you are settling into your new home, and that all is to your satisfaction. Do please let me know if anything is amiss, and I shall see to it.

He signed this, sealed it, and before he could think better of it, had it posted.

He tried not to think of her in the coming days, but it was rather like trying not to think of an elephant: One couldn’t tell oneself not to think of elephants without bringing to mind large, gray creatures.

Her reply came a few days later.

Mr. Marshall, she wrote. My new home is all that I had hoped for. Everything is to my satisfaction. Nothing is amiss. Thank you very much for your concern.

He stared at those words in frustration. There was absolutely nothing to respond to there—nothing he could say without volunteering his own unsettled thoughts or asking questions that might reveal feelings that he was better off not sharing.

They’d married. He’d chosen to do without her. Anything else he might communicate would just hurt them both more. The best thing for all would be to keep this perfunctory—an occasional letter, from month to month, just to see how she fared.

And yet when he left work that evening, he didn’t go directly to his home. He found himself meandering about the streets. Everywhere he looked, he saw couples together. Husbands and wives, seated next to each other in open barouches; young courting couples, sending one another flirtatious glances. Everyone was pairing up like turtledoves in the autumn chill. Only he was alone.

He’d never cared about such a thing before. He wasn’t the sort to dwell on what wasn’t. But truthfully, it was easier to think of Serena—who was no longer in his life—than to contemplate the Duke of Clermont—who was.

He found himself standing in front of a shop, staring at a sky-blue silk shawl, wondering how it would look against her skin. And then, to his great amazement, he found himself purchasing it. He watched himself in bemusement. Had he really come to this?

When he finally made his way home in the deep darkness, he found himself sitting at his desk and dipping his steel nib in the ink once again.

Mrs. Marshall, he inscribed. I am delighted that your new home is what you wished for, and that everything is as you’ve hoped. Please accept my best wishes for your happiness.

He didn’t send the shawl. He couldn’t think of a way to do it—what, admit that he was thinking of her? That would have been the height of foolishness. The last thing he needed was to mislead her into believing that he would make a proper husband. It wouldn’t be kind to raise false hopes—not in her, and certainly not in himself.

But perhaps she sensed it anyway, because a few days after that, he received her next response.

Mr. Marshall, she wrote, I am delighted that you are delighted that I am delighted with my new home. Can I predict the substance of your next missive? That you are delighted that I am delighted that you are delighted, et cetera.

I have just saved us both a great deal of postage and awkward conversation. If we keep this up, we shall quickly run through our ink. And so I shall say this as simply as I can, without once hinting that I expect any more of you. I am glad—damnably glad—that I had one night with you. There are dark times in the evening when I imagine your arms around me. For all you claim to be ruthless, you have been my shining, guiding star. Let us not pretend that we mean nothing to one another. We may not be husband and wife in the truest sense, but we have been friends and we have been lovers, and I hope that we may be friends still.

His lungs ached when he read that. His entire body ached, truth be told, from his toes to his heart.

Still, the next morning, he spent an immense sum shipping the shawl to New Shaling, along with a note: Bought this a few days ago. It made me think of you.

His days passed by rote. Everything was now falling into place. He’d had a message from the duke, indicating that he’d managed to smooth things over with his recalcitrant wife. Investments were coming through. In three months’ time, with the duchess’s revenue finally secured, he’d have made the duke more than a thousand pounds—more than five thousand pounds. He’d win his wager. From there, he’d begin to expand his empire.

The problem was that his heart wasn’t in it any longer. He’d spent his entire life focused on making something of himself: on the thought that he might one day argue his father’s voice into silence.

That evening, before he’d heard back from her about the shawl, he wrote to her again: You can call me your friend if you like, but I think of you when I stroke myself. When last I checked, that points to feelings that are decidedly more than friendly. Have I horrified you too much?

He waited days for her reply. When it finally came he read it instantly: Sir: I am a respectable married woman. I cannot express in words the horror and revulsion that arise in me upon reading the sentiments you have communicated.

Hugo raised his head from the letter. But he hadn’t finished, and some penchant for punishment forced him to continue: Your letter only underscored my own failings. After all, as your wife, it is my duty to stroke you. Is it not?”

It was all Hugo could do not to leave for New Shaling on the spot.

* * *

THE HOUSE WAS BUSTLING IN preparation for the duke’s return. Hugo couldn’t find it in him to care about much of anything. He could scarcely make himself bother over even the basics of the accounts; he didn’t want to think of the future.

It was Clermont’s fault—all of it. These last months had robbed him of his certainty. And what he’d taken from Serena…

Hugo shook his head. It didn’t matter. He had only a few months to go. If he could stomach that, he’d win his wager, collect his money, and never see the man again.

He heard the carriage arrive below. All the other servants must have gone down to greet their master; Hugo stayed up in the office, sorting through bills and payments, reports from estates. It seemed rather ironic that even though Hugo had almost stopped exerting himself, everything prospered. Ships had come in ahead of schedule, bearing cargo that was vastly more valuable than what had been paid on the other end. The price of wheat was rising; wool was doing even better.

It was as if the entire universe was rewarding him. If this luck held up once Hugo started investing his own money, he’d be a wealthy man by the age of forty. He’d have servants and his own estate. He would beat back that dark, dismal voice inside of him by the sheer dint of his accomplishment. Perhaps in ten years, he might make another visit to New Shaling, and see if he could rekindle...

No. No. He couldn’t think that way.

It took hours for the duke to recover from his journey—eating and cleansing himself, or whatever it was that dukes did after retrieving their errant wives. Hugo sat in his office, waiting for the duke to show his face. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to confront him about his lies, or if he hoped the man kept away, so he didn’t have to look at him.

Eventually, the man wandered into Hugo’s office.

The Duke of Clermont hadn’t changed. He was still a big, solid mass of a man. He hadn’t grown any fatter; his eyes weren’t any narrower. And yet Hugo’s first thought was that the man seemed a hundred times more swinish.

“I see the governess is gone,” he said cheerily. “And the duchess is back, and in a few months, assuming all is well, I’ll have another payment from the trust.”

“Yes,” Hugo said tersely. “Good.”

But the duke was in a voluble mood today. “What do you think I should buy, first thing?” he mused. “Horses? Or a mistress?”

He couldn’t believe the man was still talking that way—not after all he’d been through.

“I have a better idea,” Hugo heard himself say. “You could go on a journey.”

“A journey? Now, there’s a capital idea for escaping my wife. Brighton, perhaps? Or France?”

“None of those,” Hugo said. “I was thinking that you could go to hell.”

He didn’t curse. He didn’t. And yet he could not make himself regret those words. A fierce sense of rightness beat in his chest, alongside his awakening heart.

His pronouncement was met with flat silence. Clermont cocked his head in disbelief, and then slowly—ever so slowly—shook it. “I’m not—I’m rather certain”—he spluttered—“I don’t believe you should address me in that fashion.”

Hugo stood. He wasn’t taller than the duke, but still the other man took a step back.

“You told me that you wanted me to take care of an employment matter. An employment matter. Do you have any idea what I might have done to her?”

“Oh, come now, Marshall. You’re not going and getting a conscience on me, are you?” Clermont pouted. “It’s so inconvenient, and I’ve had to listen to Her Grace harping on and on for the last three weeks about this and that and morals and love. My head is sick of nodding to the tune of nonsense. I have had nothing but lectures for days and days now. Is it never going to end?”

Hugo gritted his teeth. If he wanted those five hundred pounds, he had to work with this man for the next few months. He had to.

He clenched his hands and stood, turning away.

That sense of his own worthlessness had wormed its way under his skin until he believed it. In his mind’s eye, he saw the silhouette of his father looming over him. He felt the solid weight of the broom smashing into his ribs.

You’ll never make anything of yourself, you useless bloody bastard.

“There,” Clermont was saying behind him, “I’m the better person. I’ll forgive you for that unkind remark, and you’ll forgive me for my little falsehood—and we’ll be even, won’t we?”

He’d never been able to get those words out of his head; his mother’s intervention had driven them deep into his flesh, buried them where he couldn’t touch them.

You’ll never amount to anything.

And because of that, he was…what, going to walk away from the woman he loved?

No.

All the logic in the world could not stand up to one fact: He simply could not stomach Clermont’s presence any longer.

“We’re not even,” he said in a surprisingly calm voice. He turned back around.

Clermont was watching him with those ice-blue eyes of his—clear, and yet all too confused.

“We are not anywhere near even. Tell me what you did to her—admit it aloud, you coward.”

Clermont licked his lips in confusion. “She wanted it.”

Hugo reached out and grabbed the other man by the collar.

“The truth, Clermont.”

“She was a hot little—”

He hit the man in the stomach. He didn’t bother to pull the punch, and Clermont, who had likely never been struck before in his life, went green. There was a time for subtlety. There was a time to hold back his anger. But right now, he couldn’t see the point of it.

“The truth, Clermont, or next time, I’ll rip your stones out with my bare hands.”

The duke whimpered. “I was so bored, and she was the closest thing to a woman around. What would it hurt?”

Hugo struck him again.

“What was that for? I’m telling the truth, now!”

“That wasn’t for what you said. It was for what you did.” Hugo let the man go, but only long enough to grab a piece of paper and a pen and set it in front of him. “I want you to admit that on paper.”

“On paper? But—”

“On paper,” Hugo said. “I want you to write on paper that you forced her to it, and that in reparation for your crime, you agree that you will send your son to Eton—or sponsor your daughter for a Season.”

“But—”

“Do it,” Hugo said, with every ounce of menace he could muster. “And stop sniveling about it, you worthless buffoon. Think for one second about what I know about you—what I could do to you. You more than anyone know what I’m capable of. This lets you off rather easily. If you keep your end of the bargain, the paper need never be made public. If you don’t…”

He could see the duke making his sordid calculation. If the duchess found out… There were, after all, forty thousand pounds on the line. Perhaps, Hugo imagined the duke thinking with his typical cowardice, he might keep the whole thing quiet long enough to fool his wife and guarantee himself funds for years to come.

With a nod, the other man reached for the paper and wrote his confession. When he was done, Hugo sanded it carefully and folded it in half.

“If you think that I’ll honor our wager after this...” the duke threatened.

Hugo walked to the door. “I have no doubts about that,” he said frostily. “But then, you’ll have no need to honor the wager.”

“Why would that be?”

Hugo gave him one last wolfish smile and brandished the paper. “Because you’d have to be in funds for me to win. I promised I wouldn’t make this paper public. I didn’t promise not to show Her Grace. I think you’ve lied to quite enough women.”

Fear shot into the duke’s eyes. “Oh, God. Wait. Marshall!”

But Hugo was already through the door.

Chapter Eleven

IN THE END, HUGO COULDN’T bring himself to go directly to New Shaling. It added almost a week to his journey, but first he went north to the place of his birth and tracked down the parish records.

His father had passed away almost a decade ago, but Hugo didn’t bother to find where he had been laid. Better to let him pass out of memory. He’d let the man linger on too long as it was.

He visited the park where he’d buried his jar. But fifteen years later, there was nothing to be found—only shards of glass and tree roots. Fitting.

Instead, he tracked down an unmarked stone outside a tiny church and pulled the weeds off his mother’s grave. She’d had the right of it, all those years ago. You buried the dead and cared for the living.

As for the living… Three of his sisters had survived to adulthood. Of those, two had left for America; the third had simply disappeared. Out of sixteen children, Hugo was the only one who remained. All these years, he’d hefted his ambition like a heavy burden. He’d been wrong. He had been given a tremendous gift, one that he didn’t plan to squander. Even though the trees had lost all their leaves and frost was beginning to nip at the fields, it felt like spring had come.

The coach that took him to Cambridge was advertised as swift, but it seemed to dawdle endlessly along the way. A cart took him the rest of the way to Serena’s land.

The farm was small—scarcely two acres in size. He’d seen the maps and the markings when he’d helped Serena finalize the lease, but this was the first time that Hugo had seen the property in person. He stood back on the road a ways, wondering about his welcome. There was a single field off to the side, planted for now with winter wheat. But he could sketch in the improvements that she’d talked about building—a shed, where she might isolate and extract the essence of lavender, a coop with a gaggle of chickens, and a kitchen-garden, over by that patch of weeds just behind the house.

As he watched, the door opened, and she walked swiftly out to the well that stood on the right side of the property. He could see her pregnancy now—it was all too obvious in the way that she moved, in the slight curve of her stomach. He caught his breath.

God, he’d missed her.

She tossed the bucket in the well and then began to draw it up. She was wearing a sky-blue shawl—a familiar sky-blue shawl. The ends flapped in the breeze.

Hugo found himself crossing the road slowly, coming up behind her. “Nice shawl,” he remarked.

She let out a little shriek and dropped the chain; a splash sounded, as the bucket plummeted to the bottom of the well.

“Good Lord,” she said. “Hugo. Whatever are you doing here?”

He met her eyes. “What do you think?”

“I...I think...”

“I’m here to horrify you,” he said. And then, because he couldn’t bear it any longer, he reached out and pulled her to him. She was warm and soft in his arms, and she smelled so deliciously right. He could have inhaled her scent for hours.

“Hugo—”

He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to answer any questions. He didn’t know who he was or what he wanted or what dreams would come to fill his heart. He only knew that if he couldn’t have her, nothing would ever be right again. And so he kissed her. He tasted her, sweet and steady against him, put his hand in the small of her back and drew her toward him.

She kissed him back.

“I love you,” he said. The truth took root inside him. For the first time in years, the dark words of his past receded.

“But, Hugo…”

He set his fingers over her lips. “Let me do this,” he said. “I thought I had to prove myself with money and accomplishments. But those will always ring hollow. They will never be enough. I want to be somebody. Let me be your husband. Let me be the father of your child—of all your children. I got more satisfaction from striking Clermont than I did from any success I found in business.”

She pulled back from him. “You struck Clermont?”

“Twice. And—that reminds me—I blackmailed him into promising to send your child to Eton.” Hugo tightened his grip around her. “I’ve never pretended to be a good man, you know. It’s just that…I’m yours.” He leaned his head against hers.

Her breath was warm against his face. “Did you hit him hard?”

“I’m afraid I did.”

“That’s my Hugo.” There was a grim satisfaction in her voice. “I love you, you know. If you hadn’t come, as soon as winter set in and the ground became too hard to work, I’d planned to come for you.”

“Well, I’m glad I came to my senses,” Hugo said. “You shouldn’t have traveled, not in your condition. Yet curiosity impels me to inquire. What did you plan to do, once you arrived?”

“Allow me to demonstrate.” She lifted her face to his, traced the line of his jaw with her fingers. “This.” She pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “And this.” She kissed the other corner. “And…” She took his mouth full on, her lips soft against his, tasting of all the things he’d most wanted.

“I’d do that,” she whispered, “until you were forced to admit you loved me.”

“I love you.”

“Well, that’s no fun.” She kissed him again. “Now what excuse do I have?”

He drew in a shuddering breath and pulled her closer. “You could make me say it again,” he whispered. “Make me say it always. Make me say it so often that you never have cause to doubt. I love you.”

Aftermaths & Beginnings

Eton, not quite twelve years later.

“‘PEACE SHALL GO SLEEP WITH Turks and infidels, and in this seat of peace tumultuous wars shall kin with kin and kind with kind confound…’”

Robert Blaisdell, the Marquess of Waring and also the eleven-year-old heir to the Duke of Clermont, looked up from his seat at the window. Sebastian Malheur, his cousin, paused in the midst of reading his lesson in Shakespeare aloud.

The other boy frowned at his book. “What does tumultuous mean?”

What flashed through Robert’s head was not a definition, but a series of noises: the sound of china crashing against a wall; his father’s shouts, the words rendered indistinct through the walls, but the intent still clear. Tumultuous meant the slam of a door and the quiet sound of his mother’s sobs. But most of all, it was the long silence that followed: the servants not daring to draw attention to themselves by speaking, and Robert, holding his breath, hoping that maybe if he was very quiet and very good, it might not happen again.

“Tumultuous,” he said, “means broken to bits.”

Sebastian wrinkled his nose. “That doesn’t make any sense. How can a war be broken into pieces?”

Robert was saved from answering by a shout in the yard below, and then a great clamor. The other boys who were studying in this upstairs library—all four of them—were only too happy to leave their books and press their noses to the windows that overlooked the fracas.

A crowd was forming on the green below: a mix of boys of all ages gathering in a circle around one child. While Robert watched, an older boy grabbed the child by the collar; another hit him.

“Someone should stop that,” Sebastian said next to him.

Someone was going to have to be Robert. He usually did put a stop to these rows; it was what a knight-errant would do. And while Robert would never admit it to the other boys, he still fancied himself one.

“Who is it?” Sebastian added, peering down at the crowd. “Is he new?”

“Yes. He’s a first form lag,” someone else said. “A Colleger.”

“Ah,” one of the older boys said. “A scholarship student. No wonder. Who are his parents?”

“Some kind of farmers. Or soap-makers.”

A derisive noise came at that. But Robert brushed his hands and stood up. Knights protected the weak, after all.

“Even worse,” the older boy was saying. “Davenant asked the boy who his father was, and he said, ‘Hugo Marshall.’ When Davenant said he’d never heard of him, the little lag said, ‘It doesn’t matter; he’s a better man than your sire, anyway.”

Robert froze.

Sebastian hadn’t moved from the window, but the other boy snorted. “He’s got stones, that’s for sure. Not so clear on the brains, unfortunately.”

Robert’s own brain fogged over. He set his fingertips against the glass and peered down once more. “Who did you say his father was again?”

“Hugo Marshall.”

Robert had heard that name before. He had heard it a few years ago, after another awful round of arguments ended in vicious separation. That time, it had been his mother who had left the house in a slamming of doors and a pointed ordering of carriages; his father had stayed morosely behind in the study.

Robert had tiptoed into the room, and, gathering up all his courage, he’d spoken. “Father, why is Mother always sad?”

Sad wasn’t the right word, but at the time he hadn’t yet learned tumultuous.

His father had tipped back his glass of spirits and stared at the ceiling. “It’s Hugo Marshall’s fault,” he’d said after a while. “It’s all Hugo Marshall’s fault.”

Robert hadn’t known what to make of that. What he’d finally ventured was: “Is Hugo Marshall a villain?”

“Yes,” his father had said with a bitter laugh. “He’s a villain. A knave. A cur. A right bloody bastard.”

That right bloody bastard had a son, and at the moment, that son was surrounded by other boys. In the upstairs room, his friends all turned to Robert. The library seemed too small, the air too hot.

“Never say you know who this Hugo Marshall is,” the older boy said.

“I have no idea.” It was the first time in a very long time that Robert had told a lie. “I’ve never heard of him,” he added swiftly, hoping the burn of his cheeks wouldn’t give him away.

On fine summer days after his talk with his father, Robert had wandered in the paddocks outside, wielding a switch instead of a sword, and challenging white-headed daisies to duels. Sometimes, he imagined himself fighting dragons. But usually, he fought villains—villains and knaves and curs, all named Hugo Marshall. When he defeated him—and Sir Robert always defeated his villains—he brought the right bloody bastard home, trembling and bound, and laid the cur at his mother’s feet.

After that, they all lived happily ever after. No more shouts. No more silences. No more separations.

“Do we stop it?” Sebastian asked.

Three boys turned to look at Robert. Possibly, Robert conceded, they might have looked to him because he was the only duke’s heir at Eton. Maybe it had to do with the clear, blue eyes he’d inherited from his father—eyes that he’d learned made other boys nervous, if he simply stared. But the most likely reason they looked to Robert—or so he told himself—was that they sensed he was innately a knight, and therefore superior in morals and worthy of following.

“No,” he said. “We encourage it. The little lag thinks he’s superior to us. When he’s drummed out, he’ll know better.”

Beside him, Sebastian frowned in puzzlement.

Robert turned away sharply. “You don’t have any questions, Malheur, do you?”

“No,” his cousin said after a long pause. “None at all.”

* * *

ROBERT MADE IT A POINT to avoid Marshall for as long as he could. It wasn’t hard—he’d been attending Eton for quite a while now, and the other boy was just starting. Normally, a new boy who arrived might go through the usual rounds of roughhousing, while everyone figured out where he stood. Once he found his place in the pecking order, he might keep it with a minimum of fuss and scarcely a blackened eye.

But Marshall had no place at Eton. Robert was determined that this would be the case. He chanced to remark on the boy’s jacket, and someone cracked an egg on it. He made a comment about how amusing it would be if a soap-seller’s son had to bathe in slops, and Marshall’s soap was replaced with bars of mud.

He had never expected Marshall to recognize that Robert was the instigator of his problems. He was even more surprised when the boy started to fight back like the ill-mannered cur that he was. Marshall began to construct snide insults in Latin—clever enough that the other boys sniggered about them. And after that incident with the mud, someone crept into Robert’s room and stole all his undergarments. He found them in the larder, stuffed into a barrel of pickles—wet, cold, and salty. No amount of laundering could remove the smell of vinegar.

Some things were not to be borne. That was when Robert knew he was going to have to confront the boy directly.

He found his quarry against the far stone wall of the cricket field. He wasn’t the first to have at him; by the time he got there, the boy had his back against the wall. He’d set his spectacles a few feet behind him, and he held his fists in the air.

“Come on, you cowards,” Marshall was saying. “Three-on-one not good enough odds for you?” It was the first time that Robert had seen Marshall this close. His hair was a thin, light orange; his skin was pale and freckled. His eye was ringed with a virulent red bruise; it would be purple in the morning. He spat pink and turned lightly on his feet, facing his attackers. That was when the boy caught sight of Robert.

“Speaking of cowards,” he said.

“I’m no coward.” Robert rolled up his sleeves and stepped forward. “Call me a coward again—I dare you. Don’t you know who I am?”

Everyone else stepped back, giving the two of them a wide berth. Robert circled the other boy, holding his fists up. And that was when he noticed something curious. Marshall’s eyes were blue—an icy blue.

A familiar icy blue. Robert saw eyes like that in the mirror every day.

“I know who you are,” Marshall said with disdain. “You’re my brother.”

Robert had always thought it a ridiculous thing to say in stories—that someone’s world turned upside down. But there was no other way to describe what happened. The other boy’s words hit with the force of a cannonball, crashing through everything he’d known.

“You can’t be my brother.”

But he recalled too clearly the crash of china, his mother’s shouts. Philanderer! Whoreson!

Philanderer. Marshall had Robert’s eyes. He had his father’s eyes.

Marshall sniffed and wiped at his nose. “Don’t your parents tell you anything?”

“No!” He wasn’t sure if it was an answer or a denial. And the other boy said that with such a matter-of-fact air—as if his parents were a single unit, who might sit a boy down and have a conversation with him.

Robert’s head was whirling. “How can you be my brother if your father is Hugo Marshall?”

The other boy spat once again and didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to. Robert had only the faintest notion of what philandering entailed—gambling and drinking and getting wenches with child. He’d never given much thought to the possibility that wenches who were gotten with child ended up having them.

The other boy simply shrugged all this away.

Five hundred days playing alone in the paddock, and he had a brother? It was not just his mother and father who were broken to bits. He was, too. Robert thought of soap turned to mud, of fights, of Marshall’s eye—which would be black by morning.

He thought of the three boys who had been fighting him when Robert arrived. They’d done that ungentlemanly thing because Robert had encouraged it.

Even if this boy wasn’t his brother, Robert was the villain in this piece. And if what Marshall said was true…

Robert was the knave, the cur, the right bloody bastard. Nothing would ever end happily ever after again. Not unless—

Some decisions were not difficult at all. “Hit me,” he said urgently, low enough that the other boys couldn’t hear. “Hit me hard. Knock me down.”

Marshall didn’t even hesitate. He stepped forward and smashed his fist against Robert’s nose. Robert didn’t need to pretend to fall; his legs crumpled of their own accord. When he picked himself off the ground, his nose was running red. He swiped the blood away and pushed himself to his feet.

“Did you really not know?” Marshall asked him.

He’d hit with his left hand.

“Can you hit harder with your right?” Robert asked.

Marshall’s chin went up. “I can hit hard enough with both.”

“Because I’m left-handed, too. You’ve just knocked me down, and I’ve acknowledged it. They shouldn’t bother you anymore. Not after that.” He was babbling. He gingerly extended his hand—his left hand. “Pax?”

The other boy stared at him for a moment. Then, finally, he extended his own left hand. “Pax,” he agreed. “But you break the peace, and I’ll break you.”

“Well,” Sebastian said, coming up from behind them. “This is going to be interesting.”

Author’s Note

Thank you!

Thanks for reading The Governess Affair. I hope you enjoyed it!

If you want to get the next book in the series absolutely FREE, visit http://www.courtneymilan.com/tgafreelandingpage.php to sign up for my reader list.

Find out more about me and my books at http://www.courtneymilan.com, follow me on twitter at @courtneymilan, or like my Facebook page at http://facebook.com/courtneymilanauthor.

You’ve just read the prequel to the Brothers Sinister series. The other books in the series are The Duchess War, A Kiss for Midwinter, The Heiress Effect, The Countess Conspiracy, The Suffragette Scandal, and Talk Sweetly to Me. I hope you enjoy them all!

You can find all my books here: http://www.courtneymilan.com/byseries.php

TEMPTING JULIANA

by Lauren Royal

Author’s Cut Edition

Novelty Books

TEMPTING JULIANA by Lauren Royal - Author's Cut Edition

Published by Novelty Books, a division of Novelty Publishers, LLC

205 Avenida Del Mar #275, San Clemente, CA 92674

Originally published by Penguin Putnam Inc.

COPYRIGHT © Lauren Royal 2006, 2012

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any manner whatsoever, electronically, in print, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of both Lauren Royal and Novelty Books, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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

For my best friend and fellow author

Glynnis Campbell,

because she hates stories that include dancing at balls,

so I couldn't resist dedicating this one to her.

Thanks for your friendship—it means more than I can say.

Chapter One

The Foundling Hospital, London

Saturday, June 8, 1816

LADY JULIANA CHASE'S FAMILY OFTEN accused her of looking for trouble. Of sticking her nose where it didn't belong. Of exaggerating—if not outright imagining—other people's problems and sorrows and miseries.

But she would swear she'd never seen anything quite so sad in her life.

Upstairs in the Foundling Hospital's picture gallery, she stared through the window down into the courtyard. There, arranged in six neat, regimented lines, a hundred or more young girls performed calisthenics, resignation written on their faces. In all of her twenty-two years, Juliana couldn't remember ever feeling that grim.

"William Hogarth was a genius."

Sighing, she turned from the window to see her younger sister scrutinizing the art on the gallery's pale green walls. "I thought you preferred the Dutch masters."

"I do," Corinna said. "But look at the characters in this painting."

The work was titled The March of the Guards to Finchley, and the people depicted were, indeed, characters. Humor, rowdiness, and disorder abounded. "The drummer looks quite amused," Juliana said, swiveling back to look out the window.

The painting seemed a complete contrast to the figures outside.

Miss Emily Neville, Juliana's eight-year-old next-door neighbor, stood gazing through the glass beside her. "The girls don't appear to be ill. So why are they in hospital?"

"Hospital is an old word that originally meant 'guesthouse,'" Miss Strickland, the battle-axe of a woman assigned to shepherd visitors through the orphanage, explained in her no-nonsense way. "This is a charitable institution for children whose mothers couldn't keep them."

"My mother died." Still gazing outdoors, Emily absentmindedly raised a hand to stroke a slim, olive green snake that rested upon her shoulders. "May I play with the girls?"

Ranging in age from about five to perhaps fourteen, the children all had identical haircuts and wore aprons of stiff, unbleached linen over brown serge dresses. Juliana smoothed her palms over her own soft yellow skirts. "I'm afraid your snake might scare them."

"The girls aren't playing." Miss Strickland crossed her arms across her ample bosom. "They're exercising. Outdoor exercise is advocated for maximum health. And you couldn't play with them in any case, young lady, with or without that horrid creature."

"Herman isn't horrid," Emily said, slipping her hand into Juliana's. "He's just a common grass snake. Can't you tell by the black bars along his sides and the yellow collar behind his head? He's absolutely harmless, I assure you."

Juliana hid a smile. My, such a vocabulary for a girl of eight. Emily certainly was articulate.

But carrying a snake around was just not done.

Emily was Juliana's latest project, and Juliana was sure—positively sure—that with a bit of patience she could turn the girl into a perfect little lady. A few more outings with Herman ought to convince the child that the creature wasn't welcome in public.

She squeezed Emily's hand and turned back to Miss Strickland. "Do the girls ever play?"

"Of course they do," Miss Strickland said. "For an hour every Sunday." As though suddenly remembering her duty—principally to encourage donations—she stretched her lips in a smile that appeared rather forced. "Are you ladies enjoying your visit to the gallery?"

"Very much." Corinna moved to view the next painting. "George Lambert," she breathed. An artist herself, she'd suggested this day's outing to the Foundling Hospital's gallery. "What a lovely scene."

Mr. Lambert's picture was lovely, but Juliana couldn't peruse the painted people for long. Not when there were real people—disadvantaged children—to consider.

"What do the foundlings do all day?" she asked. "If they don't play?"

Miss Strickland squared her shoulders and began reciting by rote. "They rise at six and prepare for the day, the older girls dressing the younger children, the boys pumping water and such. At half past seven they breakfast, and at half past eight they begin school. At one o'clock they dine and return to school from two until dusk." She paused for a much-needed breath. "After supper, those not employed about the buildings are instructed in singing the Foundling Hymns and anthems, and in their catechism. At eight they go to bed."

What a life. Thinking about her own days and nights filled with parties and shopping and dancing, Juliana swallowed a lump in her throat. Still, the children looked healthy, warmly clothed, and well fed—which she supposed was more than could be said for much of London's youth.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" she asked.

"Certainly, my lady. We are always pleased to accept monetary donations."

Juliana knew that was one of the purposes of the gallery. Popular artists donated paintings and sculpture, a scheme that not only gave the artists a chance to cement their social positions through well-publicized acts of charity, but also ensured that their work would be seen by those most wealthy and aristocratic—exactly the sort of people who might commission works of art for themselves and be persuaded to become patrons of the Hospital.

It was a most satisfactory arrangement for all concerned. But unfortunately Juliana hadn't the option to become a patroness at present. While it was true that her late father had provided a substantial dowry, and she wasn't in any way deprived—quite the opposite, in fact—as an unmarried woman she had no money of her own, other than a small allowance granted by her brother, Griffin. "I cannot donate significant funds," she said apologetically.

Miss Strickland aimed a rather disbelieving look down her knife-edged nose, pointedly skimming her gaze over Juliana's fashionable dress.

"I cannot," Juliana repeated. "But I should like to do something." She could ask Griffin to donate, of course—and she would. But she wanted to do something herself. "Perhaps I could make clothing for the children." Surely her allowance would cover the fabric.

"The children have no need of clothing. They wear uniforms, as you've seen."

Juliana had seen the boys eating luncheon in their dining room, all wearing white linen shirts with military-style suits made of the same brown serge as the girls' dresses. "But someone has to make the uniforms."

"The girls make and repair them during their sewing lessons."

"Then perhaps I can make treats," she suggested. "The ladies in my family are rather renowned for our sweets."

"The children are all fed a plain, wholesome diet. Sweets aren't allowed except on very special occasions. However, food does account for a large proportion of the Hospital's budget, so your monetary donation would be much appreciated." Before Juliana could repeat that she had no money to give, Miss Strickland continued. "This is a reception day. Perhaps seeing some infants might change your mind."

Though Juliana knew nothing could change her mind, she loved babies and could scarcely wait to have one of her own. "We should very much like to see the infants," she said, drawing Emily toward the door.

"I'm not finished looking," Corinna said, finally moving to view the next painting.

The battle-axe cast her a speculative glance. "Well, then, the horrid snake can stay with you."

"Herman isn't horrid!" Emily said, pulling her hand from Juliana's. "If Herman stays, I shall stay." She marched over to take Corinna's hand instead. "There's an infant right here in this picture."

Corinna nodded her dark head. "It's Andrea Casali's Adoration of the Magi."

Juliana would never understand how anyone could stare at a single painting for so long. Two minutes with any painting, and she was finished. But then, she'd never been as interested in things as she'd been in people. "What's a reception day?" she asked, following the battle-axe from the room.

Miss Strickland led her down a corridor. "On the second Saturday of every month, mothers are invited to bring their babies for possible admission."

"Possible?"

"They must meet specific criteria. An acceptable candidate must be under twelve months of age, the mother's first child, and healthy, so as not to risk infecting other children. In addition, although only illegitimate offspring are admitted, the mother must establish her good character. A secondary purpose of the Hospital, you see, is the restoration of the mother to work and a life of virtue. Some children are the result of rape, but most petitions come from women who claim to have been seduced with promises of marriage and then deserted when they became pregnant. In such cases, many mothers can avoid disgrace and find employment only if they don't have to care for their children."

"A sad truth," Juliana said, her heart hurting at the thought of women being forced to give up their babies.

Miss Strickland opened a door. "The Committee Room," she whispered.

And Juliana's hurting heart broke clear in two.

Inside the elegant chamber, a queue of young mothers clutched their infants tightly, the expressions on their faces a mixture of anguish and hope. Their simple cloaks and aprons were a poignant contrast to the silk gowns of a few fashionable lady patronesses who'd come to observe the spectacle.

And what a spectacle it was.

As Juliana watched, a young woman was invited to the front, where a well-dressed man held out a cloth bag. Shifting her whimpering baby, the woman reached a trembling hand into the bag and pulled out a little red ball. She swallowed hard and, gripping the ball in her white-knuckled fist, stepped off to join a small group of mothers and babies huddled at one side.

Abandoning the battle-axe, Juliana walked over to join the other spectators. "What does the ball mean?" she asked in a whisper.

A tall, middle-aged woman answered in kindly tones. "The system is called balloting. These mothers have already been screened and deemed acceptable. But the Governors can accept only ten infants at a time, and many more qualified mothers wish placement for their children. Balloting is the fairest method of allocating places."

As she finished her explanation, another young woman drew a ball—a black one—and dropped it to the floor, sudden tears spilling down her cheeks as she ran from the room, taking her baby with her.

"Black is bad?" Juliana asked.

"Mothers who draw black balls are immediately turned out of the Hospital. A white ball means the baby will be examined and admitted if it is healthy. Mothers who draw red balls are invited to wait to see whether any babies are refused admittance, in which case they are given a second chance to enter the lottery."

An agonizing lottery. Juliana watched as two more mothers drew black balls and one lucky woman nabbed a white one. "How many mothers are hoping for placement today?"

"About a hundred, which is typical."

And only ten would see their babies admitted. The fortunate woman with the white ball was ushered toward a corner, where a doctor waited to evaluate her child—a girl, if Juliana could judge by the scrap of ribbon crookedly tied in the baby's sparse, downy hair.

During the short examination, a dozen more mothers drew balls—nine chose black, one red, and two jubilant women got white. When the first baby was declared healthy, the mothers waiting with red balls visibly drooped, gripping their infants more tightly. The lucky mother—if one could call her that—was given a numbered document that certified the Hospital's acceptance of her baby, and a lead tag with a corresponding number was threaded on a necklace and placed around the child's neck.

A tightness squeezed Juliana's chest as she watched the tearful parting, the mother kissing her baby girl over and over before regretfully surrendering her to a Hospital employee. "Is she given that paper so she can reclaim her child?"

"Partly. The babies are baptized with Hospital names—the child is never told the identity of the mother, and the mother won't know her child's new name. But if at a later date she can convince the Governors of her reformed character and improved circumstances, the paper and matching necklace number will prove they restore the right child to her."

"But you said partly," Juliana prompted.

The woman sighed. "Truthfully, that seldom happens. She's more likely to use the paper for her own defense; if she's accused of having disposed of her baby by murder, the certificate might save her from the gallows."

"Dear heavens." None of the mothers looked like criminals—they were just women in tragic circumstances. "I saw no infants in either the girls' building or the boys'. Have the babies lodgings of their own?"

"The babies aren't kept at the Hospital. They'll be baptized with their new names at Sunday services tomorrow and then placed with wet nurses in the countryside on Monday. The nurses receive a monthly wage and keep the children until they are five years or thereabouts, at which time they return to live here."

Juliana watched as the infant was carried off. "Does anyone make sure the babies are treated well?"

"Oh, yes. Inspectors visit regularly. They're responsible for the nurse's pay and the child's medical fees, and for purchasing clothes for the infants—"

"Purchasing clothes?"

"Baby clothes. Babies are sent to their new 'mothers' with frocks and caps and clouts and coats and blankets—"

"Don't the girls make these in their sewing lessons?"

"The baby clothes aren't uniforms—"

"Then I can provide them, then!"

"Pardon?"

"I can make them. I can make baby clothes and donate them to the Hospital."

The kindly woman blinked at her. "I don't know about that. I don't believe anyone donates anything besides money."

Juliana watched another mother draw a red ball and, trembling, take her baby to join the small group of hopefuls. She imagined having to wish someone else's child proved ill so her own child could have a chance at a decent life. Or at least she tried to imagine it. The very thought was heartrending.

She turned back to the lady patroness beside her. "The fact that the Hospital hasn't accepted nonmonetary donations in the past doesn't mean it cannot do so in future." Maybe providing baby clothing would free enough funds for the Governors to accept another child or two. She wouldn't allow them to refuse her. "There's a first time for everything, isn't there?"

Chapter Two

SPICE CAKES

Take three scoops of Flower and put into it a Spoon of ale-barm, crushed cloves, mace, and a goode deal of cinnamon. To a halfe Pound of sweet Butter add a goode deal of Sugar and mixe together. Stir in three Eggs and work until good and stiff, then add a little cold Rosewater and knead well. Knead again, pull it all in Pieces and bake your Cakes in a warm oven.

I've heard tell that should you eat one of these before a gathering where you are likely to meet available men, their spiciness will clear your head and allow you to choose wisely. This did not, however, work when I baked them for my daughter. In any case, they are delicious.

—Amethyst, Countess of Greystone, 1690

“HOW MANY BABY CLOTHES DO you need to make?"

"A lot." In her bedroom at the Chase town house in Berkeley Square early that evening, Juliana set down her little pot of lip pomade and picked up the list the Governors had given her. "Three frocks, three caps, three nightshirts, one mantle, one coat, one petticoat, two blankets, and ten clouts. And that's per child. There will be ten babies."

Emily bit into one of the spice cakes she and Juliana had baked after returning from the Foundling Hospital. "So you need to make thirty frocks?"

"Yes." The girl was articulate and good with arithmetic. "And thirty caps, thirty nightshirts, ten mantles, ten coats, ten petticoats, twenty blankets, and a hundred clouts. All within a month, before the next reception day."

Juliana set the list on her dressing table. Upside down, so it would stop taunting her. Whatever had she got herself into? She'd been thrilled when the Governors accepted her offer to provide clothing for the next intake of infants—until she'd realized just how many clothes she'd need.

She wasn't worried about the cost of the materials, because she was certain she could cajole Griffin into paying for whatever her allowance wouldn't cover. But the mere thought of making so many items was daunting. "You'll help me, won't you?"

Emily frowned. "I'm not very good with a needle."

"You can hem blankets and sew clouts. That's not very difficult, and it will be good practice." Reaching over the girl's snake, Juliana wiped a few spice cake crumbs off her mouth. "I'm going to invite my sisters to help, too. We'll have a sewing party. It will be fun to work together." She dipped a finger into the lip pomade. "But I think you'll need to leave Herman home."

"I told you, he's not dangerous."

"His danger, or lack thereof," she told the child, watching her in the dressing table's mirror as she slicked pomade on her lips, "is not the point. Little ladies do not carry snakes."

Emily's delicate chin went into the air. "I do." She adjusted the long, olive green reptile where it was wound around her neck, the better to eat another spice cake. "What are these cakes supposed to do again?"

"Help me choose a husband wisely."

"All the gentlemen will want you. You look beautiful tonight, Lady Juliana. Of course, you always look beautiful," Emily added with a wistful sigh.

Juliana lifted a pot of rouge. "You'll look beautiful when you're my age."

It was true. Other than her unfortunate attachment to the reptile, the child was a model of femininity. She always wore pink. Emily's blond hair and large, luminous gray eyes held much promise, and she was tall for her age. Since Juliana was slightly built, the girl was nearly her height already.

"I'm certain you'll be wildly popular," she assured the child, "if only you'll get rid of the snake."

"Mama and I found baby Herman in our garden," Emily told Juliana for perhaps the hundredth time. "She said we could keep him and watch him grow."

Emily's mother had been dead some four years. Having lost her own mother three years prior—although, thankfully, at age nineteen, not age four—Juliana felt for the young girl.

"Your mother would understand," she told her gently. "Surely she didn't intend to keep Herman long. I'd wager she hadn't an inkling that little baby snake would grow to be five feet long, and I'm certain she didn't make a habit of carrying him around. Why, I'd warrant she's looking down on you right now, waiting for you to grow up and stop toting that horror-inducing creature everywhere."

"Herman isn't a creature. He's a pet."

"A cuddly kitten is a pet. A rambunctious dog is a pet. A snake isn't—"

"Are you ready yet?" Corinna arrived in the doorway and frowned. "A Lady of Distinction doesn't hold with wearing rouge."

Juliana's gaze flicked involuntarily to a book on her bedside table, The Mirror of the Graces by A Lady of Distinction. Their brother had given them both copies, hoping that learning deportment would help them find husbands more quickly.

"A Lady of Distinction is a twit," Juliana said. To emphasize her point, she brushed more color on her cheeks before rising. "Yes, I'm ready. Have a spice cake while I deliver Emily home."

Corinna took one. "Aunt Frances is already waiting in the carriage. You know she abhors being late to balls."

"Aunt Frances abhors being late to anything." Aunt Frances liked everything just so. But she was an endearing lady nonetheless, and it was quite kind of her to act as their sponsor and chaperone for the season, so Juliana didn't grumble. She took Emily by the hand and led her downstairs, Corinna following in their wake.

It was raining—it seemed to rain every day this summer—but a quick walk next door brought Emily safely to the house she usually shared with only her father and a gaggle of aging servants. Emily had two older brothers, products of two earlier marriages, but one was married and the other was away at Cambridge most of the year.

Their gaunt butler, a man who must have been eighty if he were a day, swung the door open as they arrived.

Emily stepped inside. "When shall I see you again, Lady Juliana?"

Who could deny that adorable, pleading face, even if it was framed by a snake? "Monday," she promised the girl. Rain pattered onto her parasol and puddled at her feet. "I'm sure your father is looking forward to being with you tomorrow, but on Monday the two of us shall visit the shops and choose fabric for the baby clothes."

"Will Lady Corinna wish to come, too?"

"I believe she'll prefer to paint." Corinna always preferred to paint; she was happiest when filling her days with color, oils, and turpentine. "I shall see you Monday," Juliana promised softly and headed through the drizzle to the carriage.

Inside, Corinna waited with Aunt Frances, their matching deep-blue eyes impatient. The women's eyes, however, were their only similarity. Aunt Frances's peered from behind round spectacles in a face surrounded by clouds of soft gray hair—prematurely gray hair, considering she was still in her forties. Corinna's hair was a swing of wavy brown, her face as fresh as only a twenty-one-year-old woman's could be. She had no need of cosmetics.

Juliana, on the other hand, figured she needed all the help she could get. Due to circumstances beyond her control—namely, several successive deaths in the family, which had kept her in mourning for many years—this was her first season. At twenty-two! And the season was more than halfway over already, yet she'd failed to find a man to catch her interest.

Not that her brother hadn't been trying his damnedest to locate one.

He was waiting at the ball when they arrived, looking over the crop of men. Unfortunately, this far into the season, Juliana had already met nearly everyone there was to meet. The ton comprised all the people who mattered in society, but that was a limited social group, after all. Yet he'd managed to line up candidates for her first three dances and was keeping an eye out for more.

Griffin was leaving no stone unturned in his quest to marry her off. She wasn't sure whether she appreciated her brother's efforts. But she knew his heart was in the right place, and she did enjoy dancing, so she dutifully danced with the three men, smiling and chatting pleasantly, even though none of them was even remotely what she was looking for.

Lord Henderson was too tall. Lord Barkely was too dark. And Mr. Farringdon was kind but a mite dim, not to mention he had a most unfortunate, distracting tic. She could hardly keep her eyes off his twitching cheek.

The spice cakes weren't going to help her choose wisely, she thought with a sigh, if no acceptable men bothered to attend this ball.

Chapter Three

JAMES TREVOR, THE EARL OF Stafford, hadn't been to a ball in years. And he hadn't particularly wanted to come to this one. However, being a man who liked to look for the good in things, he'd decided to regard tonight as an opportunity to renew a few acquaintances. Griffin Chase, the Marquess of Cainewood, was one of them.

But his old chum didn't look very happy.

"Whom are you glaring at, Cainewood?"

"My sister." Cainewood's frown deepened. "She's not dancing."

James's gaze followed the marquess's across the ballroom, landing on what looked like a dainty sprite. He lifted his quizzing glass and squinted through it. "That wheaten-haired little thing?"

"Wearing yellow? Yes, that would be Juliana, wasting precious time."

"She's conversing with another woman—"

"Another sister. But Juliana is supposed to be meeting men. I despair of ever finding her a husband."

"Ah." Dropping the quizzing glass, James let it dangle on its long silver chain and focused on Cainewood, who'd been a boon companion in their days at Oxford. He hadn't seen the man in years, and he'd never met his family, but in an odd way he felt he still knew him. He couldn't help but smile at his old friend's consternation.

"Juliana is twenty-two," Cainewood added as though that explained everything.

"That doesn't sound particularly old." James himself was twenty-nine.

"I'll have to marry Corinna off after her." Cainewood gestured toward his other sister, a pretty girl with long, wavy brown hair. "I'd hoped to get them both settled this season, but Juliana isn't cooperating. And unfortunately, I believe she's already met everyone here, except…" His green gaze narrowed on James. "Perhaps you."

"Me?"

"Yes, you," Cainewood said with the easy smile that had won him so many women in their university years. "Will you at least suffer an introduction to Juliana? You're an earl now, aren't you? An earl needing a wife."

An earl needing a wife—the exact same words James's mother had used to describe him earlier this evening as she'd all but dragged him from the carriage into this house.

But although James had inherited the title nearly three years ago, he still had a hard time thinking of himself as an earl, let alone an earl needing a wife.

A second son raised in a close family, James had never thought he'd become the Earl of Stafford. That had been his older brother's future, not his. Following university, James's father had bought him a commission in the army. He hadn't ever minded being an officer. It was expected. He wasn't drawn toward the clergy, and many of his friends—Cainewood included—had embraced the military life. After less than two years, though, James had been wounded and sent home.

Thinking back to those days now, he shifted and flexed his left knee, which always ached in the sort of cold, wet weather London had seen this summer. On days like this he still walked with a slight limp, but he was profoundly grateful the army surgeons had managed to save his leg rather than amputating it. So grateful that, needing another profession after his recovery, he'd become a physician. He hadn't been long out of medical school before he'd realized he'd found his true calling. In the years following his return to England, James had been a man completely happy with his choice of work and his life, especially after he fell in love and married.

Then everything had fallen apart.

His brother had died first, leaving James reeling with the realization that he'd someday be the earl. He didn't want to be an earl—he liked being a physician. He liked helping people, and he liked feeling that he made a difference. Every day was unique and challenging, and there were always successes to balance the disappointments. Managing an earldom seemed such a tedious, thankless task in comparison.

Then, while he was still coping with the loss of his brother, his father's heart had stopped, and suddenly James was the earl, like it or not.

The first months after that had passed in a dark, painful blur, but his young wife had helped him through those days and weeks, until one morning James had awakened and realized he was happy. Perhaps a bit guiltily happy—he still mourned his brother and father, after all—but happy nonetheless. He'd found he quite liked sitting in the House of Lords—it was another chance to make a difference—and managing the earldom wasn't as thankless a task as he'd believed. And, in addition, his wife had convinced him that he could be a physician as well as an earl, regardless of the narrow views of society, and help more people than ever, now that he had no need of the income.

Utilizing the vast fortune left to him, James had opened a facility in London where children whose families were too poor to pay for doctors could get smallpox vaccinations, an endeavor dear to his heart. Life had been good again. And he and his wife were expecting a baby, their first child.

What man wouldn't have been happy?

Then his wife had died in childbirth, and their baby, born too early, had died along with her. All the physicians, James included, hadn't made a bit of a difference. And James had wondered if he'd ever be happy again.

Now, two years later, he was still wondering. But his mother was pressuring him to remarry and sire some heirs, and although he didn't expect to find happiness or love again, he figured he might as well at least consider making her happy. She was a good, caring mother, after all, and perhaps a wife, even one not loved, would ease some of the loneliness he'd suffered these two years past. So he'd allowed himself to be dragged to this ball. And now he forced himself to smile and answer Cainewood.

"Yes, I'm an earl. And I'd be pleased to meet your sister."

Cainewood wasted no time marching him across the room and introducing him to both of his sisters. As James bowed over Juliana's hand, he caught himself gazing into dancing eyes that were full of life. He'd thought he'd be immune to Cainewood's sister, so he found himself surprised. Or perhaps shocked would be a better word.

And it felt wrong somehow.

But Cainewood's sister was a pretty thing, and he couldn't seem to wrench his gaze from those eyes. Green eyes. No, blue. He couldn't decide. They seemed to change as he watched.

"Will you honor me with a dance?" he asked, bemused.

"It would be my pleasure," she assured him.

He hadn't danced since his wife died. He wondered if he remembered how. But there was a waltz playing, and Juliana fairly melted into his arms.

He remembered.

"What color are your eyes?" he asked.

She laughed, a joyful, tinkling sound. "Hazel. Why?"

"I couldn't tell. They looked green at first, but now they look blue."

"Well, they're hazel," Juliana repeated, wishing he would stop staring at them. It seemed almost as though he could see right through them, as though he could see into her head. As though he could glimpse her very soul. And that was an unnerving thought, no matter that she had nothing to hide.

She glanced away, her gaze landing on her married sister. Alexandra had come to town for the season while her new husband claimed his seat in the House of Lords. How happy they looked dancing together, Alexandra's dark eyes locked on Tristan's steady gray gaze. Their road to romance had been a rocky one, but they'd been fated to be together from the first—and Juliana had known that, of course.

If only she could find such a love for herself.

Still feeling Lord Stafford's gaze on her, she shifted in his arms and met his eyes, mentally daring him to look away. He didn't. His eyes were a warm brown, reminding her of chocolate. She loved chocolate. But she had to look up to see those eyes. Way up.

She could get a crick in her neck dancing with such a man.

"I haven't seen you at any other balls," she commented. "You must take your duty to Parliament seriously."

The corners of those warm eyes crinkled when he smiled. "That and my profession."

"Your profession?"

"I'm a physician."

"I thought you were an earl," she said.

One of his dark brows went up. "Can I not be both?"

"Of course you can," she said quickly, although she'd never heard of an earl-physician. "What do you do, exactly? Have you many patients?"

"Some, although I'm not taking on any new ones. Most of my time is spent at my facility, the New Hope Institute."

"New Hope," she mused. "I've heard of that. Something to do with smallpox?"

"I provide vaccinations, yes. To anyone willing to receive one, regardless of the ability to pay."

"That sounds like very important work," she allowed. He was a most unusual man. And an excellent dancer. Having noticed a slight limp as he'd initially approached her, she wouldn't have thought he'd dance so gracefully.

However, much as she enjoyed dancing, finding a man who excelled at it wasn't her priority. After all, it wasn't as though she had a shortage of dance invitations—she danced her feet off at every ball, with or without Griffin in attendance. She had no problem attracting men; the problem was finding one she considered husband material. And Lord Stafford had many shortcomings.

When the music came to an end, he led her by the hand off the dance floor. "It was a pleasure, my lady."

His voice was warm like his eyes, low and smooth, reminding her again of rich chocolate. The very sound of it seemed to weaken her knees. "Thank you," she said.

The musicians struck up a country dance, and as he was still holding her hand, she half expected him to lead her straight back to the dance floor. Instead, he raised her fingers toward his mouth. Then, rather than pucker his lips in the customary salute in the air above her hand, he lowered them to actually touch her glove.

Scandalous. She could have sworn she felt the kiss through the white silk. A tingly sensation.

"Thank you," she repeated more faintly.

"Thank you," he echoed with a smile.

A smile that looked as dazed as she felt.

No sooner had he turned to leave than Griffin descended, snapping her back to reality. "Well?" he asked.

She watched Lord Stafford walk away, shoulders broad beneath his tailcoat. Loose, tousled curls grazed his black velvet collar. Many fashionable men achieved a similar look with pomade and curl papers, but his hair looked naturally tousled. Like he was too busy to bother to control it.

"He's too dark," she said.

"Pardon?"

"You know I prefer golden-haired men. And he's entirely too tall—I felt like a child dancing with him."

Griffin looked down on her, both literally and figuratively. "Face it, Juliana—you're short."

As though she hadn't noticed most of the world towered over her. "He works," she said. "He has a profession."

"And this makes him unacceptable as a husband?"

"Should I marry him, he wouldn't have any time for me." She wanted a grand love, like Alexandra and Tristan's; she wanted a husband who loved her to distraction. She wanted endless hours spent in passion with the man she decided to marry. And for heaven's sake, this man couldn't even find a few minutes to comb his hair. "I'm sorry, but he just won't do."

The fact that Lord Stafford's work was important was hardly a mitigating factor—and the fact that her heart had stuttered when he'd so impertinently kissed her hand had no bearing whatsoever.

Griffin released a long-suffering sigh. "I shall keep looking."

"You do that," she said, patting his arm and silently wishing him luck. The spice cakes had clearly been a waste. Poor Griffin. "In the meantime, I must speak with Alexandra."

She scanned the ballroom in search of her older sister and finally found her talking to Aunt Frances.

"Who was that you were dancing with?" Alexandra asked as she approached.

"Lord Stafford."

"He's very handsome."

"His hair is too dark." At Alexandra's blank look, Juliana shrugged. "Can you come to the Berkeley Square house this Wednesday afternoon?"

"I expect so. Why?"

"I need help making clothes for the Foundling Hospital babies."

"Your newest project, I take it?" Alexandra's brown eyes sparkled with mischief. "What have you got yourself into this time?"

If only she knew. "Corinna wanted to see the Hospital's art gallery, but oh, the poor foundlings were heartbreaking. And their mothers." Just thinking back on the balloting, Juliana wanted to cry. "I must do something to help them."

"Of course you must," Aunt Frances said. "With you, it's always something."

That much was true; Juliana couldn't deny it. "And what does that make me?" she wondered. "Impulsive? Melodramatic? Judgmental, overwrought, overemotional?" She stopped there, knowing she was all of those and more. Honestly, she could go on and on.

Which was why she wanted to hug Alexandra when she said, "No. That makes you compassionate, giving, hopeful. Kind and unselfish and vulnerable." Her perfect, responsible, married sister gifted her with a quiet smile. "It makes you lovable, Juliana. That's what it makes you the most."

She did hug her sister then, and her aunt, too, her heart not broken now but aching with warmth and affection instead. Yet all the while she was wondering: If I'm so lovable, why can't I find a husband to love?

Chapter Four

“THIS PINK IS PRETTY," EMILY said Monday at Grafton House, a draper's shop in New Bond Street.

"It is," Juliana agreed, watching a snooty woman give the girl and her ever-present snake a wide berth. "But silk isn't sturdy enough for babies. And pink won't do." She fingered a length of thick white wool. "The Governors want white, so all the clothes will suit both girls and boys."

Emily cocked her golden head. "Won't the babies be overly warm in frocks made of that?"

"I'm considering this for the blankets. We'll buy linsey for the frocks."

"I'll look for linsey, then," Emily said and walked away.

Juliana nodded absently, deciding the wool would do fine. She was about to ask the price when she heard a little shriek, followed by a familiar voice. "Gracious me, Miss Neville! Are you still carrying that varmint everywhere?"

Juliana turned, surprised to see another Berkeley Square neighbor, Lady Amanda Wolverston.

Young Emily looked much more affronted than surprised, however. "Herman isn't a varmint," she protested, returning to slip her hand into Juliana's. "He's a pet."

"Not a very proper one," Lady Amanda said.

Although she agreed, Juliana squeezed Emily's hand. Amanda could sometimes be a bit too proper. But she and Amanda had grown up as neighbors and played together as small children, so Juliana considered her a good friend.

"I'm so glad you've come to town," she told her with a smile. "I've invited my sisters to a little sewing party on Wednesday afternoon, to make some clothing for the Foundling Hospital babies. I do hope you'll join us."

Juliana's tall blond friend was slouching—a habitual posture for her. But she seemed to be slouching even more than normal, and she looked uncommonly pale.

Blinking, Juliana peered up at Amanda's wan face. "Where have you been hiding all season?"

"In the countryside. My father is still excavating the Roman ruins he found on the estate." Amanda gestured toward a chair in a corner of the shop, where her aunt sat primly. "Aunt Mabel came with me, which was very kind. She didn't want to come to town this year at all."

A slight, pinch-faced woman in a baggy gown, the poor lady was as pink-cheeked as Amanda was pale. She seemed to be wheezing a little. "You know she's always suffered from asthma," Juliana said sympathetically, vaguely musing that Amanda must have inherited her fashion sense—or rather, lack thereof—from her aunt. "The London air doesn't agree with her. However did you persuade her to come?"

"Father persuaded her. Or rather, he ordered her." Amanda took a deep breath. "Because…" Her gaze slid to Emily and back, wordlessly telling Juliana she had something to confide.

Dying to hear the news, Juliana squeezed the little girl's hand again. "Could you do me an important favor, sweetheart, and see if you can find that linsey?"

"All right," Emily said, happily wandering off.

"Well?" Juliana asked when Emily was out of earshot.

Amanda's voice dropped to a whisper. "Father has arranged my marriage. He sent me and Aunt Mabel to put together a trousseau, which is why I'm here at Grafton Hou—"

"He's arranged your marriage?" Juliana interrupted. "To whom?"

Amanda closed her blue-gray eyes for a moment and released a slow breath before she reopened them. "Lord Malmsey," she said despondently.

"Lord Malmsey?"

The man was shorter than Amanda, quiet, mild-mannered, and meek. But the predominant image in Juliana's mind was that of a creased forehead beneath a receding hairline.

"The man must be forty, at least!"

"Forty-five," Amanda corrected. Nearly twice her age. She was a year older than Juliana, which made her all of twenty-three. "I met with him last evening—not that either of us had much to say to each other. We're to be married four weeks from Saturday, in a private ceremony by special license."

The same day as the next Foundling Hospital intake, when Juliana had to have all the baby clothes ready. Amanda looked to be in the dismals, which was no wonder. "Can you refuse to wed him?"

She shook her head. "Father has made it clear that if I fail to go through with this wedding, he'll disinherit me—which would leave me slim chances of ever wedding at all."

It was on the tip of Juliana's tongue to argue the point, but she wasn't one to lie—not outright, anyway—and Amanda was only stating the truth. In five seasons, no one else had offered for her, and without her substantial inheritance, it was unlikely any man ever would.

"I'm miserable," Amanda added unnecessarily.

One thing Juliana was sure of: Griffin would never expect her to wed other than where her heart led her. For that, she was grateful. "Have you told your father how you feel?"

"Countless times. My protests fall on deaf ears. Nothing I can say will make him breach a contract. His honor is more important to him than my happiness."

Lord Wolverston had always been rather emotionless and uncaring, but this went beyond that. It was downright cruel. "There's nothing at all honorable about putting his reputation before his own daughter. He should want to see you in love."

"He believes that when it comes to marriage, there are much more important matters to consider."

Juliana couldn't disagree more—concerning her own marriage, at least. Her parents had wed for practical reasons, and her mother had never known true happiness. While she did realize that much of society had other priorities for evaluating matches, for her, love came first.

Amanda slouched even more. "He's pleased beyond belief to have an offer for my hand at all, let alone one from a baron. I suppose he's right when he says I'm lucky Lord Malmsey is willing to marry me."

"Amanda!"

"I'm a confirmed wallflower, Juliana."

Amanda did look rather plain, but Juliana had always assumed that was because her mother had died giving birth to her. Much like little Emily, she'd grown up without anyone to offer guidance. Her Aunt Mabel was certainly no help. Amanda wore dowdy clothes in all the wrong colors, her brows were too heavy, her blond hair was pulled back into an excruciatingly tight braided bun, and she never met anyone's eyes—not even Juliana's now. Her blue-gray gaze was focused in the vicinity of her unfashionably shod feet.

In short, Amanda was a project just waiting to be tackled.

"Who else knows about your engagement?" Juliana asked.

"We arrived only yesterday. You're the first one I've told."

"Excellent." Lord Malmsey wasn't the type to spread news, either. Although the man was a fixture at society gatherings, Juliana couldn't recall more than a dozen words ever leaving his mouth. "Don't tell anyone else. I shall save you from this dismal fate."

The older girl glanced up. "How? Do you truly believe it possible?"

"Without a doubt." Juliana had never been one to disregard anyone in need. "Let me think on the matter."

"Look here, Lady Juliana!" Emily returned, holding forth Herman coiled upon an armful of white fabric.

"Perfect, sweetheart." Juliana smiled, hoping the clerk wouldn't faint when she asked for a length to be cut. Or maybe hoping the clerk would faint, because that might convince the girl, once and for all, that carrying a snake around wasn't a good idea. She looked back to Amanda. "You'll come to the sewing party Wednesday, won't you? One o'clock. By the time you arrive, I'm certain to have a solution."

Chapter Five

“WHERE IS AMANDA?" JULIANA SAID Wednesday afternoon in the drawing room.

Rain pattered outside the windows. "You've asked that more times than Emily's pricked herself," Alexandra observed as she patiently knotted a thread.

Alexandra could afford to be patient, Juliana thought, stitching a tiny frock more frantically than patiently. Alexandra wasn't the one who'd promised to deliver twenty dozen articles of baby clothing in one short month. "Amanda said she'd be here."

"No, she didn't," Emily pointed out, rearranging Herman on her shoulders. Unfortunately, the clerk at Grafton House hadn't fainted. She'd only glared, which had done little toward convincing Emily to part with the dratted snake. "You invited her, but she never actually said she would come."

"Perhaps not in so many words. But she'll come." Amanda had to come. Juliana had devised a plan. An excellent plan, which she couldn't wait to explain—

"Ouch!" Emily exclaimed for the fifth time, sticking her pricked finger in her mouth. She really wasn't very good with a needle. "This blanket is turning out dreadful."

Juliana leaned over to inspect the girl's handiwork. "It isn't that bad." The hem was rather uneven, but it wasn't dreadful. Luckily babies couldn't criticize. "The blanket will keep an infant warm no matter what it looks like."

"But I want it to look good."

"With more practice, it will," Corinna said. "You need to practice to become good at anything." She stopped sewing long enough to gesture toward an easel set up by the large picture window. Even in the dim rainy-day light, the scene on the canvas—a man pushing a laughing lady on a swing by a reflective lake—conveyed movement, vibrancy, a sense of life. "My first painting didn't look like that."

Still patiently working her own needle into the little cap she was making, Alexandra smiled. "If I recall correctly, your first painting was a willow tree that looked more like a haystack."

"We're none of us expert seamstresses, Miss Emily." Aunt Frances squinted at her own handiwork through her spectacles. "We've only ever done samplers and embroidery. After a few more practice blankets—"

"This isn't practice," Juliana interrupted. "Every single item will be used." If she was lucky, today's efforts would produce five or six finished garments. And she needed two hundred and forty! Although it was a bit early to panic, she realized already, less than an hour into her first sewing party, that she was going to have to host many more of them. "Where is Amanda?"

Just then the knocker sounded in the foyer.

"That must be Amanda," she said, the frock falling to the floor as she jumped up and rushed from the room.

Though their butler, Adamson, was nearly as short as Juliana, he always managed to look dignified nonetheless. "Good afternoon, Lady Amanda," he intoned as he opened the door.

"Good afternoon, Adamson," Amanda replied formally.

"Where on earth have you been?" Juliana asked, very informally indeed.

"Playing chess with Aunt Mabel. I couldn't leave in the middle of such an exciting game."

"Exciting?" Juliana could think of little less exciting than chess. She preferred games that were light and relaxing, not so cerebral. Even sewing was more fun. "Come into the library."

Amanda peeked through the open door across the way. "Isn't everyone in the drawing room?"

"Yes. That's exactly the point." Juliana took her in the opposite direction, closing the door behind them and ushering her friend toward two leather wingback chairs. "We must keep your engagement a secret. I've a plan to break it."

Amanda sat and clasped her hands in her lap, suddenly looking nervous. She blew out a breath. "All right. What's the plan?"

Picturing her sisters with their ears to the door—after all, she'd often done so along with them—Juliana lowered her voice. "We shall arrange to get you compromised by—and therefore betrothed to—a man closer to your age than Lord Malmsey. Once the public has seen you and this other man in a compromising position, your father will be forced to agree."

"A compromising position?" Amanda's sudden laugh was shrill enough to make Juliana wince. "Gracious me, I've never even been kissed!"

"I haven't been kissed, either," Juliana said. "Not that men haven't tried, mind you." To the contrary, men tried all the time. But she always managed to duck them, because as much as she wanted to experience her first kiss, she wished for it to be with someone she cared for, at least a little.

"Well, no one's tried with me," Amanda said dourly. "And it will take more than a kiss to force my father's hand. There's not a chance a young, eligible man is going to compromise me. Not willingly, anyway."

"I didn't mean unwillingly." Juliana would never be party to such a devious plot, and furthermore, such a thing wouldn't be necessary. When she was finished with Amanda, men would be falling over themselves trying to compromise her. "Not to worry, my dear." She leaned closer to pat her hand. "Are you free tomorrow and the day after?"

"To be compromised?"

"To be fitted for a few ball gowns. You'll require a new wardrobe, among other things. We'll need to visit a seamstress as well as comb all the shops."

Amanda appeared both dubious and hopeful, if such an expression were possible. "My father did give me leave to assemble a trousseau."

"Excellent." There was little Juliana enjoyed more than transforming an ugly duckling into a lovely swan. "We have a lot of work to do before Lady Hammersmithe's ball on Saturday."

"I cannot attend Lady Hammersmithe's ball."

"Of course you can. I shall summon Madame Bellefleur to trim your hair—"

"My hair has never been cut." Amanda's hands went protectively to her head. "And I cannot attend—"

"Ouuuccch!" The howl was so piercing, it shot from the drawing room, across the foyer, and through the library's closed door.

"That's Emily!" Juliana exclaimed, bolting from her chair. Lifting her skirts, she dashed out the door. "Emily!" she shouted, running through the foyer and bursting into the drawing room. "Emily, what's happened?"

And there she stopped, a sudden sickness in her middle, a disturbing lightness in her head.

Emily was bleeding.

"It hurts," the girl wailed, bent over her hand. Tiny red spots dotted her pink skirts. Although the injury clearly wasn't serious—they were tiny spots, not a stream—Juliana knew she should hurry to help. To comfort. To make everything all better.

But she couldn't. Because the sight of those red spots seemed to make it hard to breathe.

Thank goodness everyone else was helping. Well, maybe not helping, precisely, but at least they weren't riveted in place. In the scant seconds Juliana stood there—because that's all the time it was, really—her sisters and Aunt Frances leapt up and surrounded Emily, making all sorts of clucking, compassionate noises.

Thankfully, that hid the sight of Emily's wound. But all that sympathy seemed to do little but make the girl sob harder. "M-my needle s-slipped. It-it didn't just poke me this time, it ripped—"

"Gracious me," Amanda said in a rather disgusted tone, pushing past Juliana and into the little cluster of females. "It's just a little blood. For goodness' sake. Someone take the snake." While Corinna moved to do so, Amanda reached for some linsey and tore off a strip, then drew Emily to her feet. "Let's clean it up and bandage it, shall we?" she said, leading her from the room.

Juliana walked to her chair, her knees feeling shaky. Which was ridiculous, and she knew it. As Corinna seemed to delight in pointing out to her, it was absurd for any female past puberty to find the sight of blood distressing. But her own monthlies never bothered her. A woman's periodic blood was natural; other bleeding wasn't.

She was grateful Corinna hadn't seemed to notice her abysmal lack of action, and neither had anyone else.

"Emily will be fine." Corinna held Herman at arm's length, looking almost as ridiculous as Juliana felt. "Why didn't you bring Amanda straight in here?"

"I wanted to talk to her regarding Lady Hammersmithe's ball on Saturday. Talk her into attending, I mean."

"Why wouldn't she?" Alexandra asked.

Juliana shrugged—casually, she hoped. "She's rather shy around eligible gentlemen. I've offered to help her with a new wardrobe, which I'm hoping will boost her confidence."

"That's kind of you," Alexandra said.

Corinna looked suspicious. Or maybe just wary of the snake. "Whyever did you feel the need to talk privately? We could've helped you convince her—"

"Here she is, all repaired," Amanda announced, walking back in with Emily.

Emily sported a neat little linsey bandage wrapped around her finger. When she reached for Herman, Corinna didn't hesitate to hand him over. Juliana's sister still looked wary, though. Or suspicious.

Drat.

"Shall we get back to work?" Juliana asked cheerfully.

Emily shook her head. "I'm not sewing anymore."

"You can start cutting the clouts," Juliana suggested, handing her a bundle of cotton fabric, a pair of scissors, and a simple pattern. She hoped that when the cut rectangles were folded and sewn, they would turn out the right size to cover a baby's bottom. Refusing to even think about doing that a hundred times, she gave Emily's half-finished blanket to Amanda. "Here. This is almost done."

It wasn't, of course, and Amanda proved to be no handier with a needle than the rest of them. Not only was Juliana going to have to host more sewing parties, she was also going to have to invite more women—with luck including some who had sewn more than samplers. "I hope you'll all help me recruit more ladies at Almack's tonight."

"I'm not attending," Alexandra said, a sparkle in her brandy-brown eyes. "Since Parliament isn't sitting, Tristan wants to stay home, just the two of us."

It wouldn't be just the two of them, of course—a marquess had a bevy of household help. But still, Juliana envied her sister's settled life. Since Almack's was foremost a matrimonial bazaar, Alexandra could afford to skip going and spend a relaxing evening at home instead. At the rate Juliana wasn't finding a husband, she wondered if she'd ever have that luxury for herself.

Corinna looked up from the petticoat she was stitching. Suspiciously. "Amanda, you'll be attending Almack's, won't you?"

"No," Amanda said. Juliana held her breath, half expecting her to blurt out that she had no need to attend given that she was already engaged. To her great relief, Amanda added instead, "Aunt Mabel isn't feeling up to chaperoning me these days."

"Is it the asthma again?" Aunt Frances sighed. "Poor Lady Mabel. I shall have to pay her a call."

"She'd appreciate that very much," Amanda said, hemming the blanket almost as crookedly as Emily.

If anything, Corinna looked even more suspicious. "But Juliana said you're going to Lady Hammersmithe's ball."

"As I tried to explain to her, I don't expect Aunt Mabel will be well enough by Saturday, either. The London air—"

"Aunt Frances can chaperone you along with us," Juliana said.

Amanda's needle slowed, not that she'd been plying it with masterful speed in the first place. "There's no point in going to the ball. No one will ask me to dance anyway."

"Oh, yes, they will." Alexandra smiled down at her handiwork. "Juliana will teach you the look."

Now Amanda's needle stopped. "What look?"

"Allow me to demonstrate." Juliana looked up from her little frock. "First you choose a man you wish to entice—"

"Entice?"

"Enticement is the objective of the look. Trust me, should you do it properly, men are guaranteed to fall at your feet."

"Are they?"

"Positively," Alexandra declared, making Juliana speculate on her sister's life with her new husband.

Jealously speculate.

Amanda looked from one sister to the other. "I'm listening."

"Excellent. First you choose a man and command his gaze." Juliana focused on Amanda, making her eyes blatantly sensuous.

The older girl swallowed hard. "And then?"

"Glance down, bowing your head a little to display your lashes against your cheeks. Then sweep your eyelids up, gaze at the man full on again, and slowly—very slowly—curve your lips in a seductive smile."

Amanda's forehead wrinkled. "Show me again."

"Watch closely." Taking her time, Juliana silently repeated the demonstration.

Corinna snickered, but Amanda and Emily both sighed. "Can I learn, too?" Emily asked.

"It's never too early to begin practicing. Amanda, give it a try."

Amanda stared hard at Juliana, closed her eyes, popped them open, and stretched her mouth into a wide grin.

It was Juliana's turn to sigh. She had her work cut out for her.

Chapter Six

“I REALLY MUST BE ON my way, Aunt Aurelia." James forced his lips to curve in a smile. "You're healthy as the day you were born."

"Are you certain?" A tad plump but elegant nonetheless, Aurelia reclined on her peach-draped bed. Her entire house was decorated in peach. In fact, sometimes when James was here—which seemed to be way too often lately—he fancied he was in a peach. "My heart was paining me so," she continued. "I tell you I could barely breathe. Won't you check it one more time with that ingenious new instrument of yours?"

"If you insist." Suppressing a sigh, he opened his black leather bag and drew out the ingenious instrument, which really wasn't ingenious at all. It was simply a foot-long cylinder of wood. One end had a hole to place against the ear, and the inside was hollowed out in the shape of a cone. The thing was so uningenious, in fact, that James was tempted to kick himself for not thinking of something like it years ago. Instead, just this past March, a young French physician named Laennec had invented the instrument and christened it the stethoscope, derived from the Greek words for "I see" and "the chest."

James leaned close and placed the wider end of the instrument over his aunt's heart. Her scent wafted to him, a unique combination of camphor and gardenias, the latter applied a little too liberally. On second thought, he silently thanked Laennec for his brilliance. Without the stethoscope, he'd have to press his ear to Aunt Aurelia's potent, pillowy chest.

Her heartbeat sounded strong through the tube, the thump-thump clear and distinct. "Regular as Grandmother's clock," he assured her.

"You're certain?" She shook her coiffed gray head disbelievingly. "And my lungs?"

"Sit up, if you will." Bracing a hand on the headboard, he applied the stethoscope to her corseted back. "Breathe in," he said as patiently as he could. "Out. In. Perfect. As I said, you're healthy as a newborn babe." He dropped the instrument back in his bag and fastened the clasp. "Now I really must leave, Auntie."

She climbed from her bed and accompanied him downstairs. "You're expected in Parliament?"

"Not today. It's Wednesday." The House of Lords sat on Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. "But I was expected at the Institute hours ago. Only one other doctor volunteered for the early shift today."

"I do appreciate your visit." She squeezed his hand, making his heart squeeze as well. Aunt Aurelia was a dear, even if she was a hypochondriac. In the foyer, she glanced at Grandmother's tall-case clock. "Such a shame that Bedelia hasn't returned. She'll surely want to see you, too. She had a horrid case of the putrid sore throat this morning."

Bedelia, his mother's other sister, shared the house with Aurelia. Two childless widows whose lives centered on their imaginary physical ailments.

"Tell Aunt Bedelia to gargle with salted water. I'm certain that will cure her."

"Do you expect so?" Aurelia's blue eyes looked dubious.

"Absolutely." James doubted Bedelia's throat was putrid; if her throat hurt her at all, it was likely due to nothing more serious than incessant chattering. "I'll see you again soon," he added, escaping to his carriage before Aurelia could ask him to clarify what he meant by soon. If she had her way, soon would be tomorrow—if not an hour from now.

On the way to New Hope Institute, he scribbled more notes for the speech he planned to deliver in Parliament, recommending compulsory smallpox vaccinations for infants. So immersed was he in his work, his carriage drew up to the door of the Institute before he noticed all the people queued in a line that stretched down the street.

Way down the street.

They might be London's poor, but they were good people, trying to do their best for their children. Mothers shivered in the cold, damp air, their expressions unhappy and resigned. Babies cried. Small children whined, and restless older children taunted one another. Rather than wait, people were giving up and leaving, walking away from the Institute.

For the second time within a month.

Without waiting for the steps to be lowered, James bounded from the carriage and dashed through the drizzle into the building. In the reception area, more babies wailed on impatient mothers' laps. Two boys playing tag raced around the room, bumping into the knees of those seated.

Slipping off his tailcoat, James looked to the counter for help. No one was behind it. He untied his cravat as he pushed through the door into the back.

His private office was tiny—not much more than a desk and chair, since he preferred to do paperwork in his study at home. He tossed his coat and cravat onto the chair, then poked his head into the first of three treatment rooms, finding it empty although the next patient should be waiting there. The second room held one harried-looking physician along with a mother and her teary-eyed three-year-old.

Unfastening the top button of his shirt, James frowned. The vaccination procedure went more smoothly with a cooperative patient, and candy—a real treat for a poor child—usually proved a good distraction. "Where are the sugar sticks?" he asked.

Dr. Hanley shrugged, setting aside the ivory lancet he'd used to inoculate the little girl. "I haven't a clue where…what is that new assistant's name?"

"Miss Chumford."

"Ah, yes. " He tied a fresh bandage around the girl's arm. "I haven't a clue where Miss Chumford keeps the sugar sticks. I cannot seem to locate anything on those shelves. I consider myself lucky to have found a supply of the vaccine."

"Where is Miss Chumford?"

"In the next room. Crying her eyes out. And I don't expect a sugar stick will help." Dr. Hanley stood the sniffling child on her feet. "There you go, sweetheart. If you want a sugar stick, follow Lord Stafford."

"Dr. Trevor," James reminded him. He preferred not to be called Lord at the Institute—it intimidated the patients. As did his aristocratic clothing, which was why he always shed the more formal items. "I shall send in the next patient," he added as he ushered the girl toward the reception area. "Did Dr. Hanley tell you what to expect?" he asked her mother.

Clearly awed to be in a peer's presence, the woman answered shyly. "Yes, my lord. A big blister but no pox."

"That's correct. It may take some weeks for the blister to heal, and it will leave a scar. But your daughter will be spared from the smallpox."

"Thank you," she breathed, lifting the little girl and holding her close. "If I could pay you, I would."

Noting the telltale pox scars on her face, he knew her words came from the heart. He usually encouraged parents to be vaccinated along with their children, but that had obviously been unnecessary in her case.

"Thank you," he returned, "for doing your part. We're not in need of your money. But please tell your friends and neighbors about New Hope Institute. With your help, we can annihilate this dreadful scourge once and for all."

James would be happy with no less. It was his belief that if only everyone everywhere were vaccinated, smallpox could be wiped off the globe. It was a daunting task, he knew, but he was determined to do his part in London.

Unfortunately, London wasn't particularly cooperative. The poor were sadly skeptical and uninformed, and some churchmen preached that vaccination interfered with the will of God, believing smallpox was sent to chasten the population. In addition, the Institute could handle only a certain number of people per day. But James paid men to canvass the poorer parishes and talk people into bringing their children, which made it all the more frustrating when those who agreed were forced to stand out in the cold and rain.

He found a box of sugar sticks and sent the girl and her mother on their way, then settled the next patients in the two vacant treatment rooms. Once he ascertained that Dr. Hanley had a quantity of vaccine, sugar sticks, and other necessary supplies, he knocked on the door to the third room. "Miss Chumford?"

A prolonged sniffle was the only answer.

"Miss Chumford, may I come in?"

"It's your Institute," the young woman pointed out in a tiny voice.

Yes, it was. He opened the door. Then almost closed it at the sight of Miss Chumford's red, splotchy face.

There were few things James avoided more than a female's tears. Emotional tears, in any case. As a physician, he'd learned to endure tears caused by pain, but the other sort was another matter altogether.

With a sigh, he stepped into the room. "There's a queue outside, and if it grows any longer it's likely to reach all the way to Surrey."

"I'm sorry," she whimpered.

"Whatever could be amiss?"

Both of her hands pressed to her middle, she raised flooded eyes to meet his. A lone tear trickled down her cheek. She said nothing.

He shifted uncomfortably, torn between heartrending sympathy and heart-hardening annoyance. He had the Institute to run. People in need. He'd employed her to keep the physicians well supplied and make sure the patients were seen as quickly and efficiently as possible. A simple job, really, and necessary to the smooth operation of the facility. And she was the second assistant within a month to…

He looked back to her hands, which were rubbing her middle now. "You're with child, aren't you?" he suddenly realized, even though her belly looked flat.

After all, that was the reason his last assistant had left.

She nodded miserably, with the longest, most pathetic sniffle yet.

"And you're not wed, of course," he surmised less than brilliantly. After all, she was Miss Chumford.

This time she nodded and words tumbled out of her mouth. "Papa will k-kill me, or at least throw me out of the house. Harry, my…the f-father of my child, cannot afford a home of his own. We shall have to live with his p-parents, and his mother hates me, and his father—"

"Your Harry is willing to marry you?" James interrupted. "To take responsibility for his offspring?"

She nodded again, still blubbering. "H-Harry is a good man, m-my lord, and a hard worker. B-but—"

"Wait here, Miss Chumford." He could take no more of her tears. There were plenty of things to be miserable about that couldn't be fixed. Fixing this would be a simple enough matter.

He had a small safe in his private office, from which he withdrew fifty pounds. A pittance to him, but enough to cover a small family's rent and food for two years or more. It would provide Miss Chumford and her baby's father with a start, and should Harry be as good a man and hardworking as she claimed, he and his new wife and child would weather this disaster quite well.

After Miss Chumford left—tearfully blubbering her thanks—James sighed and lettered a HELP WANTED sign, propped it in the Institute's front window, and settled down behind the counter for what he knew from experience was likely to be many hours spent interviewing candidates.

Well, at least his mother wouldn't be able to drag him to Almack's tonight.

Chapter Seven

TRIFLE

Take yokes of four egges and a pinte of thicke Creame, and season it with Sugar and Ginger and Rosewater, so stirre it as you would then have it and make it warme on a chafing dishe and coales, and after put it into a Silver piece or a Bowle, and so serve it to the board.

Extra-strong Rosewater will put Roses into your cheeks.

—Lady Jewel Chase, 1687

OVER THE NEXT TWO DAYS, Juliana helped Amanda order an entire new wardrobe. They shopped for cosmetics, hats, shoes, hosiery, and other assorted fripperies. They practiced posture and walking, devised new alluring smiles, and perfected the look. Juliana taught Amanda how to apply the cosmetics so skillfully that no one would notice she was wearing any. She plucked Amanda's heavy brows, hardening her heart to the older girl's squeals of pain and protest—after all, all but the luckiest of women suffered for their beauty.

With each hour, Amanda's confidence grew, as did Juliana's certainty that her plan was going to work.

At last, Saturday dawned.

Juliana dragged Corinna out of bed early—at noon—to help her make trifle before Amanda arrived to dress for Lady Hammersmithe's ball. Unfortunately, Corinna was hopeless in the kitchen on the best of days. And considering she'd stayed up until seven o'clock in the morning to finish a painting, this day wasn't her best.

"My arm hurts," she complained. "And I'm tired."

"Just keep beating those eggs until they're creamy, please." Juliana added two more handfuls of rose petals to the water she had boiled. She was determined to make sure Amanda's cheeks would be nice and rosy. "I cannot understand why you won't go to bed at a reasonable hour."

"I'm not a reasonable person—I'm an artist," Corinna reminded her. "I cannot understand why you won't ask a kitchen maid to beat these eggs."

Juliana consulted their family's heirloom cookbook, an ancient volume to which each lady in the family had traditionally added a recipe every Christmas since the seventeenth century. Many of the sweets were thought to be magic charms. She poured the rosewater into a pot of cream and sprinkled it with a bit of ginger. "How many times must I tell you that the Chase family recipes must be made by Chase family members if they're to work?"

Corinna rolled her eyes. "You and your traditions. I cannot countenance why you and Alexandra believe such nonsense."

"It hurts no one to try. Besides, the trifle will be delicious—you'll have some, won't you? If you and I and Amanda all have rosy cheeks tonight, perhaps we'll all find husbands."

"A rouge pot would be a more efficient method of obtaining rosy cheeks, regardless of A Lady of Distinction's opinions on the matter." Corinna began grating sugar into the eggs. "Although I suppose poor Amanda can use all the help she can get."

"I've worked wonders with her," Juliana said, giving her mixture a vigorous stir. "Wait until you see. Her gown will be exquisite, her complexion flawless. I've summoned a hairdresser—"

"Just don't make Amanda so beautiful she steals your own suitors."

"That's an unkind thought." Juliana snatched the sugar loaf from her sister before she could add too much as usual; Corinna's sweet tooth was legendary even among the sweets-loving Chases, and she had no concept of the proper amount of any ingredient. "I've no suitors I wish to marry anyway," she added with a sigh.

"You're trying too hard," Corinna said. "Just relax and enjoy all the attention."

But how could Juliana relax? Next year she'd be twenty-three. Twenty-three and unmarried. At what age did one become a spinster, and how did one know when one reached it? Had Aunt Frances simply awakened one morning and decided to put on a spinster's cap?

"There, it's creamy." Corinna banged the bowl onto the big wooden table and rubbed her arm. "Am I finished? Assuming I can still hold a brush, I'd like to varnish my painting."

"Varnish away," Juliana said and watched her sister leave the kitchen.

Even without the security of a happy marriage like Alexandra's, Corinna seemed content with her life.

She wished she could say the same for herself.

* * *

THE TRIFLE WAS CHILLED IN its silver bowl by the time Amanda arrived with two footmen carrying boxes. The French hairdresser was waiting, and less than an hour later, Amanda's once knee-length hair reached only the middle of her back. She watched in Juliana's dressing table mirror as her golden tresses fluttered to the floor, her face white as linsey, her eyes wide and apprehensive.

Juliana scooped trifle into a cup, thinking it might distract her friend. "Eat this. It will make your cheeks rosy."

"What is it?" Emily asked, adjusting Herman on her shoulder. "May I have some?"

"It's trifle, and yes, you may."

The girl cocked her blond head. "Our cook's trifle has cake and fruit."

"This is a very old recipe."

"Our cook is probably older," Emily said, then spooned the sweet into her mouth and smiled. "It's good. Your hair looks pretty, Lady Amanda."

Amanda drew a sharp breath. "Do you truly think so, Miss Neville?"

"Absolutely," Juliana answered for the girl. "Shorter hair is the thing. I cannot imagine why you hid those gorgeous curls in that plait." Juliana had always despaired of her own stick-straight hair, but at least she knew better than to scrape it all back into a braid so tight it looked plastered to her head.

Amanda grimaced at another snip.

"Hold your head still, if you will." Madame Bellefleur clipped off a final inch. "Parfait."

"It's trifle," Emily corrected. "Not a parfait."

"In French," Juliana told her, "parfait means 'perfect.' That length will be so much lighter and easier to put up."

Madame smiled and nodded. "Now, some shorter tendrils around the face, oui?"

"Brilliant." Juliana resumed unpacking the boxes, admiring all the dresses they'd ordered. The seamstress had sent only one of the ball gowns, but promised the rest would be ready next week. "Your hair will be stunning," she assured Amanda.

Amanda responded with a rather maniacal laugh.

Juliana winced. "You must practice a new laugh. An alluring laugh, like tinkling bells."

"Like this?" Amanda attempted a girlish giggle—and even Herman recoiled.

By the time they'd perfected the new laugh, Madame Bellefleur had experimented with different hairstyles, ultimately choosing one in which Amanda's blond mane was loosely gathered, twisted up, and pinned, with the remaining curls arranged artistically on top of her head. The hairdresser left, and Juliana swept the ball gown off her bed.

Amanda looked from the lavender silk dress, to Emily and Herman, and back to Juliana. "I'd prefer not to disrobe in front of a snake," she said stiffly.

"So that's why you refused to strip to your chemise in order to be measured." Juliana saw a chance to use this as an example. "The seamstress, Mrs. Huntley, also wasn't very keen on working with Herman in attendance. People don't wish to be in the company of your snake," she pointed out to Emily.

"I don't care," Emily said.

Juliana called her maid and asked her to walk Emily and the creature home. But after Juliana and Amanda were alone, it turned out Amanda didn't want to undress in front of her, either.

"Turn around," the older girl instructed.

"It's just me."

"Turn around."

Sighing, Juliana did so, hoping this didn't mean Amanda would be unwilling to bare a little skin in front of the man she chose to compromise her.

Much rustling followed, evidence of Amanda's struggles dealing with garments that weren't meant to be donned without help. "Gracious me!" she finally exclaimed, sounding anything but gracious. "I cannot wear this."

Juliana spun around to find her friend staring down at her chest in dismay. "Of course you can. You look beautiful." She could hardly wait to see society's reaction to the new Amanda. "Turn around and let me button you up in back. Once you see the dress properly fastened, you're going to love it."

Unfortunately, turning around brought Amanda face-to-face with the looking glass. Her hands flew up to cover her cleavage. "This is entirely too low," she complained. "I'll have to wear a different gown."

"You have no other suitable gowns. Besides this, Mrs. Huntley sent only a few day dresses. The rest of your order won't be ready until next week."

Frowning, Amanda yanked up on the bodice. "I'm certain the example Mrs. Huntley showed me had a much more modest neckline."

Of course it had, else Amanda would never have approved it. But that was before Juliana gave Mrs. Huntley her instructions, which, thankfully, the seamstress had followed to the letter.

Although Juliana had always considered her friend a bit chubby, Amanda had a surprisingly lovely shape once she was rid of her baggy clothes. And Juliana intended to show that off, the better to snag a young husband. "It's not too low," she said, reaching around to tug the bodice back down.

"It is so." Amanda pulled it higher.

Watching her friend in the mirror, Juliana could only laugh. "Look at yourself!"

Amanda's neckline was indeed very near her neck—which meant the ribbon sash that was supposed to ride beneath her breasts was perched absurdly on top of them. Her mouth quirked, then spread into a reluctant smile, followed by a nervous titter.

"Tinkling bells," Juliana reminded her, and Amanda responded with her new, practiced laugh.

"Much better." Juliana reached once more to pull the bodice into place, dragging it a bit too low in the process. When an unusual fleur-de-lis shaped birthmark was revealed on Amanda's left breast, a delighted smile curved Juliana's lips. "Quite seductive," she murmured, raising a brow.

"Pardon?" Amanda looked down, then tugged the lace-trimmed bodice up to cover it. "You weren't supposed to see that."

"Whyever not? It's a delicate, pretty thing. I'm sure a man would find it enticing."

"Enticing?" Clearly scandalized, Amanda blushed. "It's private."

Tying the sash, Juliana sighed, wondering again if—in spite of her newfound beauty—Amanda might be rather too reserved to attract men. But at least the blush brought out the roses in her cheeks.

She gave her more trifle, just in case. And brushed on a little extra rouge, as Corinna had suggested. As she applied the rest of her friend's cosmetics—as artfully as her sister painted—she drilled Amanda over and over. "Let me see your smiles one more time. And you must practice the look again before we leave."

All of this preparation was not going to be for nothing.

Chapter Eight

“THERE HE IS," AMANDA SAID dourly as they stepped into Lady Hammersmithe's ballroom.

"There's who?" Juliana asked.

"Lord Malmsey." A frown marred Amanda's newly flawless complexion. Apparently questioning Juliana's plan, she turned to her surrogate chaperone. "Should I dance with him, Lady Frances?"

Unaware that Amanda was engaged to him, Aunt Frances patted her hand. "I expect someone younger would suit you better, my dear. But if you've already been introduced, of course you should dance with him if he asks."

Juliana doubted Lord Malmsey would ask—although if she could judge by the man's pained expression, he was attempting to screw up his courage. Figuring ten seconds in his arms would cure Amanda's second thoughts, she laid a gentle hand on her friend's back. "You definitely should dance with him," she declared, subtly steering her protégé toward her ill-chosen fiancé. "It would be the polite thing, after all. And after that, we'll see about having Aunt Frances introduce you to some more-promising men."

Lord Malmsey's eyes widened as they approached, and Juliana saw him swallow hard. Taking pity on the poor man, she smiled when they drew near. "Good evening, Lord Malmsey. Lady Amanda was just telling me she hoped you'd ask her to dance."

"Very well," he said.

Amanda said nothing.

The strains of a waltz rose into the air, and the two of them walked off.

Or rather, they shuffled off.

Frances joined Juliana and watched them face each other and begin dancing. "They don't seem a proper match."

"No, they don't," Juliana agreed. She'd never seen a more awkward couple. Due to Amanda's height, she and Lord Malmsey danced eye to eye. But beneath his high, creased forehead, Lord Malmsey's gaze looked shy and hooded, flicking only briefly toward his fiancée. Amanda looked utterly despondent.

On the other side of the ballroom, Juliana spotted Lord Neville ambling out of the refreshment room. "Wait here," she told Frances. "I see Emily's father, and he rarely stays long at any ball." Since the man had two heirs and no plans to take a fourth wife, he spent his evenings with various mistresses or gambling at his club. "I simply must speak to him about that snake before he leaves. It will take but a moment, and then as soon as Amanda is finished dancing, we'll find some men who are more suitable."

What a lucky thing Aunt Frances had her head perpetually in the clouds. Amanda's own aunt would have been unlikely to cooperate with undermining her father's plans, Juliana thought as she made a beeline for Viscount Neville.

"Lord Neville, if I may speak with you for a moment?"

"Ah, yes, my dear, of course." Emily's father was blond and gray-eyed like his daughter, tall and a bit hefty—not fat, but a big man. As he seemed to overindulge in everything, Juliana wasn't surprised to see a plate in his hand, filled with a variety of morsels from the refreshment room. He took a hearty bite of a biscuit. "What can I do to help you?"

"It's about Emily—"

"Ah, yes. I do appreciate the interest you've taken in my girl."

"She's a delight." Juliana smiled as he swallowed the biscuit and followed it with a grape. "But I'm wondering if I can prevail on you to discourage her from taking Herman out in public. It's not the thing for a young lady to carry a snake."

"Ah, yes," he repeated. "But my Emily is very attached to Herman. She and her mother found him in the garden the very day before my wife died." He plucked three more grapes off the bunch and popped them into his mouth.

"I'm aware of that, sir. But earlier this week when we visited the shops, a patron at Grafton House fainted dead away at the sight of Emily's snake." While that wasn't precisely true, it could have been true. A number of customers at Grafton House had been horrified, not to mention the poor seamstress, Mrs. Huntley. "If only you'd heard the shrieks of dismay, Lord Neville. It wasn't the sort of scene a young lady should inspire."

Apparently the viscount found that more amusing than distressing, because he laughed.

And then he stopped.

In fact, not only had he stopped laughing, it looked as though he'd stopped breathing. The plate dropped from his hands, shattering on the parquet floor as he clutched at his throat and chest. His mouth was open, but he seemed unable to speak. His skin was turning blue.

"Dear heavens!" Juliana exclaimed loudly enough to make the people nearby look over. "Lord Neville, are you all right?"

Clearly he wasn't.

"Help!" she yelled, moving to thump him on the back, the way people did when someone swallowed the wrong way and went into a coughing fit. But it seemed he couldn't even cough. His eyes bugged out in his blue face, panicked.

Just then, Griffin ran up with his friend Lord Stafford in tow. "A chair," Lord Stafford instructed. "Now."

Griffin rushed to do his bidding. In the meantime, Lord Stafford very quickly—and rather calmly, under the circumstances—untied the viscount's cravat and loosened the buttons at his throat. All the while, he murmured soothing words in the same smooth, chocolatey voice that had weakened Juliana's knees when they danced together last week.

But Lord Neville didn't look soothed. In fact, Juliana feared he might die right there on the spot. Lord Stafford didn't seem to think so, though. Decidedly unpanicked, he continued to murmur calmly while he waited for Griffin to bring him the chair.

She couldn't imagine why Lord Stafford wanted a chair, but when it appeared a moment later, he plunked it down in front of the viscount and shoved the man's big body to lean over the back. Quickly, again and again. After several thrusts, an intact red grape shot out of Lord Neville's mouth and landed at Juliana's feet.

The viscount took several gasping, gulping breaths while Lord Stafford moved the chair around and helped the man lower himself onto it. Lord Neville slumped there, the color returning to his face while he breathed deeply, as though the simple act of drawing air was the most satisfying thing he'd ever done.

Juliana released a long sigh of relief, in concert with several other people who had become riveted by the emergency.

"You saved his life," she told Lord Stafford, impressed. After all, she was a woman intent on helping others, and Lord Stafford clearly did the same. But rather than acknowledge her compliment, he only shrugged and crouched down by Lord Neville, asking to have a look in his throat.

Supposing now was not the time to press Lord Neville about his daughter's snake, Juliana turned to see how Amanda was faring on the dance floor. But apparently the waltz had ended sometime during the excitement. A quadrille was playing instead, and Amanda was nowhere to be seen.

"I told you Lord Stafford was a good man," Griffin said beside her.

She glanced at the man, who was now examining the back of Lord Neville's throat through a silver quizzing glass attached to a chain around his neck. His dark, tousled curls flopped over his forehead.

"He saved the viscount's life," Griffin added.

"That's his job," she snapped. Lord Stafford's quick, skillful actions didn't mitigate his shortcomings. He was not what she was looking for in a husband. "Where in heaven's name is Amanda?"

"Right there," Griffin said, gesturing toward a cluster of men across the room.

If Amanda hadn't been tall enough that Juliana could glimpse the blond curls piled on her head, she'd never have believed it. And to think she'd fretted earlier concerning Amanda's ability to attract suitors. Her worries had proved to be groundless.

The trifle was clearly working.

By all appearances, Amanda hadn't needed Aunt Frances to make any introductions. She was completely surrounded by men. Old men, young men, and men in between. Even Lord Malmsey was there. He stood at the edge of the clutch of admirers, looking somewhat disconcerted to find his betrothed suddenly commanding so much attention.

Juliana went over and wormed her way into the crowd. She touched Amanda on the arm, and when Amanda glanced down, she whispered, "The look." Evidently flustered by her new popularity, Amanda appeared nonplussed for a moment, but quickly smiled one of the smiles Juliana had made her practice over and over, then chose a man and flirted through her newly darkened lashes.

"Would you honor me with a dance?" he asked immediately.

"With pleasure, my lord," Amanda said, just as Juliana had taught her. As she went off on the man's arm, she glanced back to meet Juliana's gaze, her own eyes filled with wonder. "They're falling at my feet," she mouthed silently.

Of course they were. Hadn't Juliana told her that would happen?

It certainly looked as though they'd be able to find a man willing to compromise Amanda. Now all Juliana had to do was find the right man—a man who would make her friend happy.

More than a dozen men were showing keen interest in Amanda. The fact that Juliana herself had rejected each and every one of them had no bearing whatsoever. She and Amanda were very different women, with very different requirements in a husband. And half of the men met Amanda's foremost requirement—that is, they were young men, or significantly younger than Lord Malmsey, at least.

One of them ought to do just fine.

Without Amanda at the center of it, the group slowly dispersed. But Lord Malmsey still stood there, gazing toward the dance floor dejectedly. Although Juliana didn't know him well, he'd always seemed a kindly man. If he wasn't precisely handsome, at least he was pleasant-looking, even now, with his mouth set in a straight line. But his pale green eyes seemed haunted.

Quite suddenly, Juliana realized there was a flaw in her perfect plan. In seeing to Amanda's happiness, she was making Lord Malmsey unhappy. And that would never do.

"What are you plotting now, Juliana?"

She looked over to see Corinna and Alexandra. "Nothing," she told them both.

"I recognize that look on your face," Alexandra said.

Juliana never had been able to fool her older sister. "Oh, very well," she admitted. "I'm trying to find a match for Lord Malmsey."

Looking startled, Corinna glanced to the melancholy man and back. "Holy Hannah, what put that thought into your head?"

Juliana had no answer for that—at least no answer that wouldn't reveal her friend's predicament.

"Something is going on." Corinna narrowed her eyes. "Something to do with Amanda."

Juliana sighed. She should have known Corinna would weasel the truth out of her one way or another. "Can you keep a secret?"

"Of course we can," Alexandra said, looking a little hurt. "Have we broken a confidence ever?"

Well, no, neither of them had. Not to Juliana's knowledge, anyway. She leaned in closer and lowered her voice. "Amanda's father has betrothed her to Lord Malmsey."

"I knew it!" Corinna exclaimed at the same time Alexandra said, "That's dreadful."

"Quite. Amanda is understandably upset, but Lord Wolverston will hear nothing of it. He's told her that if she refuses to go through with the wedding, he'll disinherit her."

Corinna gasped. "Then no one else will ever offer for her."

Of the three of them, she always had been the most blunt.

"Precisely," Juliana said. "Which is why I'm engaged in helping Amanda entice a younger man, in the hopes that he'll offer for her before it's too late." While that wasn't the complete plan, it was close enough. She wasn't about to admit that they'd also have to persuade the man to publicly compromise her friend in order to force Lord Wolverston's hand. "But I cannot find love for Amanda at Lord Malmsey's expense. That would be terribly unfair."

"Juliana always wants to see everyone happy," Alexandra reminded their sister.

"In all his many years," Corinna pointed out, "Lord Malmsey has never proposed to anyone before Amanda. He's too shy to approach another woman."

"Then a shy spinster will be a perfect match." Juliana's gaze wandered the ballroom. Miss Hartshorn was too old; Lady Sarah Ballister was too young; Miss Ashton was entirely too outgoing. She scanned past her chaperone, then back. "Aunt Frances," she said, nodding to herself with more than a little satisfaction.

"Aunt Frances?" Corinna's brilliant blue eyes widened. "You're thinking to match Aunt Frances with Lord Malmsey?"

Alexandra frowned toward their aunt, no doubt considering her spectacles and unstylish gray hair. "I've never seen Aunt Frances show romantic interest in a man."

"That's only because no man has ever shown an interest in her," Juliana said. "And that will all change when she receives Lord Malmsey's love letter."

"What love letter?" Alexandra and Corinna asked in unison.

Juliana shook her head. "The one I'm going to write, of course."

Her sisters had no imagination.

She spotted one of their cousins, looking lost. "Rachael!" she called with a wave, starting toward her.

Corinna grabbed her arm. "Are you plotting something else now?"

"Of course not," Juliana said, although she hoped to get her brother to dance with her cousin.

Rachael and Griffin belonged together, but Rachael had seemed a bit down lately and hadn't attended many events, which had hampered Juliana's efforts to match them.

"I just want to invite Rachael, Claire, and Elizabeth to my next sewing party," she explained with an innocent smile.

Chapter Nine

WARY OF JULIANA'S GRIN, GRIFFIN watched her heading his way with their cousin.

"Oh, there you are," she said. "Rachael would love to dance with you."

Rachael's gorgeous sky blue eyes narrowed, making Griffin suspect she found Juliana's statement as preposterous as he did. An awkward moment passed while he shifted uncomfortably. But there was nothing for it—no way to duck out of this situation gracefully.

Sometime in the years he'd spent in the military, Juliana had completely mastered the art of meddling.

"I would be honored, Lady Rachael," he said at last, "if you would join me for the next dance."

"Splendid," Juliana said as the musicians struck up a waltz. "Please excuse me." She waved them toward the dance floor. "I must speak with Alexandra."

"She was just speaking with Alexandra," Rachael informed him as they began waltzing. "Do you always allow your sisters to run roughshod over you?"

Griffin refused to take offense at her question. For one thing, she felt entirely too good in his arms—which was completely inappropriate—and for another, the remark was made with good humor. "Only Juliana," he told her lightly.

"Like hell," she said. Rachael could curse like a sailor, but he considered that part of her charm. "Alexandra and Corinna know how to play you just as well."

Since he couldn't really argue, he twirled her and changed the subject. "You've been hiding this season."

The good humor vanished, replaced by a melancholy air. Even the chestnut tendrils around her face seemed to droop. "I haven't felt much like mingling."

She didn't have to say why. Griffin knew—although his sisters didn't—that Rachael had been dealt a blow several months earlier when she'd learned the man she'd called "Papa" since birth hadn't actually been her father.

"It doesn't signify," he said quietly.

"It signifies to me. I feel like my life has been a lie."

"Has something changed at home? Is Noah treating you differently? Or Claire or Elizabeth?"

"No. Not at all. But I feel as though they should."

"You all shared a mother. They're still your brother and sisters."

She sighed, obviously shaken. "I know." Her eyes grew suspiciously moist, making him fear that her chin—her adorable, dented chin—might begin to wobble next.

And Griffin found himself wanting to help her.

The entire affair was none of his business. Between running a marquessate and marrying off his sisters, God knew he already had enough on his plate. But Rachael was young and beautiful. She should be enjoying herself, searching for a husband, falling in love. She was his cousin—in name, if not by blood—and he wanted to see her happy.

The haunted look in her cerulean eyes caused a tightness in his chest.

"Do you want me to help you find your father?" he asked.

"No," she said unequivocally. "He's dead."

He thought about pointing out that, whether her father was dead or not, learning his identity might afford her some peace. But the music ended, and she drew back and dipped into a curtsy.

"Thank you, Lord Cainewood," she said without meeting his eyes. And then she walked away.

Given their shared childhood, her curtsy had been way too formal. But Griffin decided it was for the best. He shouldn't have offered to help her anyway—he always found himself clenching his teeth when she was around. The last thing he needed was a woman like Rachael complicating his life.

As he made his way from the dance floor, the Duke of Castleton walked up. "When are you going to sell me Velocity?"

Grateful for the distraction, Griffin laughed. "Never. When are you going to give up asking?"

"Never." Although Castleton gave a determined nod, not a hair on his carefully coiffed blond head moved. "I heard he made a good showing at Ascot."

"A pity you missed the meet," Griffin said, remembering Juliana preferred fair men. "You've a fine stable, Castleton."

"It would be finer with Velocity."

"Velocity—as I've told you at least a dozen times—isn't for sale." Considering the subject closed, Griffin gestured across the room. "I say, would you care to meet my sister Juliana?"

* * *

EVERYONE WHO WAS ANYONE WAS at Lady Hammersmithe's ball. Including James's mother, Cornelia—the Dowager Countess of Stafford—and her older sisters, Aurelia and Bedelia.

In the refreshment room, James handed them all glasses of champagne. "How is your throat, Aunt Bedelia?"

"Better. But my chest has been paining me." She put a narrow hand to her flat bosom—Bedelia was as skinny as a rail. "Perhaps you should stop by Monday morning and have a listen to my heart with your new stethoscope."

Doing his best to appear concerned, James sipped champagne. "Perhaps I'll do that."

"Certainly you will," his mother said, but she softened that with a smile that reached her brown eyes.

Besides sharing James's eyes, she had the same dark hair, and he thought, not for the first time, that she was quite attractive for a woman of her years. Aurelia might be a mite plump, and Bedelia a bit too thin, but Cornelia was perfectly in between.

"Have you enjoyed the dancing this evening?" she asked him.

"Am I supposed to?" he responded dryly. "I thought marriage was the object, not enjoyment."

"Grandchildren are the object," Aurelia put in. "And grandnephews and grandnieces."

He'd thought as much. But he couldn't imagine marrying any of the women he'd danced with tonight, let alone siring offspring with any of them. Try as he might—and he was trying, for his mother's sake if not his own—he feared he couldn't imagine marrying again at all.

The problem was, he'd had love and marriage once. So now one without the other—marriage without the love—just seemed plain…impossible. But a loveless marriage was all he could ever have, because loving a woman besides Anne was unthinkable. Even considering it felt disrespectful, as though he would be desecrating Anne's memory.

Not that she'd have objected, mind you. Anne had been generous and giving. She wouldn't have wanted him to be unhappy or lonely all his life. If he'd asked her permission—which he hadn't, of course—she would certainly have said he could fall in love with someone else after she was gone.

But that wasn't going to happen. Whenever he'd danced with a lady tonight, Anne's serious, loyal face had seemed to shimmer before his eyes.

"I only want you to be happy," his mother said.

"I know." He knew, too, that she understood how he felt. Or at least she should. She'd also loved and lost a spouse. "Why aren't you dancing, Mother?"

"Me?"

Perhaps if he turned the tables, she might realize she was pushing too hard. That he wasn't yet ready. "Yes, you. "

Aurelia and Bedelia tittered. Maybe it was the champagne, but he thought not.

"What?" he said, turning to confront them. "Father has been gone longer than Anne. And your husbands have been gone even longer. All three of you should be dancing."

The sisters exchanged startled glances. "We're too old," Aurelia said for all of them.

"Nonsense." Aurelia and Bedelia were well into their sixties, but his mother was only fifty-six. He put down his champagne, then took their three glasses and set them down, too. "You're not going to find new husbands while standing around the refreshment table. Come along."

Grabbing his mother's hand, he drew her toward the ballroom, trusting her sisters to follow. After all, the three of them stuck together as tightly as a bandage to a wound.

His profession required prescribing medicine…perhaps it was time they got a taste of their own.

Chapter Ten

WHILE AMANDA WAS OFF DANCING with her fourth or fifth potential suitor, and Juliana was inviting—well, perhaps begging—Rachael's two sisters to attend her little sewing party tomorrow, Griffin brought a strange man to meet her.

Not that he was actually strange, mind you. But he was definitely a stranger. Which Juliana found intriguing, because, honestly, she'd thought she'd already met every eligible man who'd bothered to come to town this season.

"My sister," Griffin said by way of introduction. "Lady Juliana."

The man was handsome, fair-haired, and not too tall. Juliana smiled and curtsied.

"Juliana, I'd be pleased for you to meet the Duke of Castleton."

A duke! Handsome, fair-haired, not too tall, and wealthy and well connected. Juliana's heart fluttered with excitement as the duke bowed over her hand. "Would you honor me with a dance, Lady Juliana?"

"It would be my pleasure," she said and let him lead her onto the floor.

The duke's dress and bearing were both impeccable, and he proved to be a fine dancer. "Where have you been all season?" she asked.

"Abroad, seeing to some of my interests now that the war with France has come to an end."

"Ah." Though he wasn't holding her very closely, she could smell his costly eau de cologne. "All your many interests keep you busy, then?"

"Not usually." He had calm, pale blue eyes. "It's been years since I've been overseas. I much prefer to stay here in town and fill my life with amusements."

No profession, nothing to keep him from spending lots of time with her. His blond hair was neatly groomed—unlike tousled Lord Stafford, he obviously had time to tend to it. He was sounding better and better. Perfect, as a matter of fact.

"I adore being amused," she told him and gave him the look.

Unfortunately, he didn't fall at her feet. In fact, he appeared rather discomfited. "It was cold on the Continent," he said, as though she hadn't just tried to attract him.

So he was proper and reserved. She supposed she could deal with that. "As cold as it's been here?"

"Not quite. And certainly not as rainy."

"It snowed this month. In June!"

"Amazing, isn't it?"

"Yes, amazing."

Not exactly scintillating conversation, but then, they didn't know each other yet. There would be plenty of time later to speak of deeper things, Juliana told herself.

When the dance ended, the duke quite properly delivered her back to her brother.

"Well?" Griffin asked after the man had bowed and walked away. "I suppose you want me to keep looking?"

"To the contrary," she said. "I expect it's likely no more introductions will be necessary. How old is the duke? Do you know?" He didn't look terribly ancient, but most of the dukes she knew were in their dotage.

"You're not dismissing him out of hand?" Griffin looked vastly surprised—and pleased, not to mention relieved. "I believe he's thirty-two."

While she'd prefer a man in his twenties—she was searching for love, not early widowhood—thirty-two wasn't so very old. "You didn't mention his given name."

"It's David. And his family name is Harcourt."

Harcourt—a nice, simple surname for her children. And his title, Castleton, sounded rather romantic, didn't it? And he was a duke.

The man seemed more ideal by the moment.

A deep voice interrupted her musings. "Good evening, Lady Juliana."

She glanced over to see Lord Stafford. "Good evening," she returned.

"Cainewood," he said, addressing Griffin, "you wouldn't happen to know any aging widowers, would you?"

"Looking for more patients, Stafford? Old ones, with many ailments?"

"No." He gestured toward three mature women standing in a tight cluster. "I'm looking for dance partners for my mother and her sisters, Lady Avonleigh and Lady Balmforth."

"Dance partners?" Juliana asked, her interest piqued. "Or possible suitors?"

"My sister fancies herself a matchmaker," Griffin explained.

"I do not," she retorted. "I simply try to help people. I endeavor to make people happy."

"A noble undertaking," Lord Stafford assured her. "However, I'm not looking for husbands for my mother and aunts. Dance partners will do."

Lord Malmsey came to mind, but although he was too old for Amanda, he was too young for Lord Stafford's mother. And besides, she'd already decided he belonged with Aunt Frances.

"May I borrow your quizzing glass?" she asked.

Instead of taking it off, Lord Stafford handed it to her with the long chain still around his neck. She leaned closer to raise it to her left eye. He smelled not of costly eau de cologne but of something closer to soap.

Very male soap.

A quick scan of the room through the quizzing glass revealed a few likely dance partners for his relations, and she wasted no time corralling them and introducing them to the three women. Not five minutes later, she stood hip to hip with Lord Stafford, the two of them watching his mother and aunts perform a quadrille.

Or at least they would have been hip to hip had he not been so overly tall.

"That," Lord Stafford said, looking a little stunned, "was impressive."

Juliana shrugged, much the same as he had when she'd remarked that he'd saved Lord Neville's life. "I'm good at what I do."

"You certainly are." The musicians finished the quadrille and struck up a lilting waltz. "May I have this dance?" he suddenly asked.

Although she would rather have danced again with the duke, it wouldn't be seemly to refuse. So she said, "It would be my pleasure."

When he took her hand, a peculiar flutter erupted in her middle. That had nothing to do with him, of course. It was just because everything was going so well. She'd found the duke, and Amanda had her pick of young suitors, and Lord Malmsey was going to fall head over heels for Aunt Frances. She might even be able to match Lord Stafford's mother and aunts with eligible widowers this season, no matter that he only wanted them to dance. All of her projects were beginning to work.

No, that flutter had nothing to do with Lord Stafford. She had no interest in him whatsoever. In fact, he might well be the ideal man for Amanda. He was a doctor, after all, and Amanda wasn't sickened by blood. She would make him a good wife. And Amanda was tall, so the two of them would look excellent together.

And perhaps she, Juliana, would be a duchess! She could already picture herself walking down the aisle with the duke.

She glanced up to find Lord Stafford staring at her again, like he had last week when they'd danced. And again she found that unnerving. He seemed a very intense sort of man.

She wracked her brain for something to say that would get him talking instead of staring. "I missed you at Almack's last Wednesday."

His chocolate eyes widened. "You missed me?"

She hadn't meant it like that. "You weren't there. Do you not like Almack's?"

James abhorred the very idea of the place—it was a veritable marriage mart, the men in attendance little more than targets for young girls and their scheming mamas—but he wouldn't say that to Juliana. "My mother obtained a voucher for me," he said instead, which was nothing less than the truth, "but there was trouble at the Institute that night, so I was unable to attend."

That was nothing less than the truth as well, although another truth was that he'd have found a different excuse to back out had that one not presented itself.

"How unfortunate," she said. "I hope the trouble wasn't too dreadful."

"A shortage of staff. I had to fill in myself, as well as interview new candidates."

"What sort of staff were you looking for? Did you find anyone?"

Given her inclination toward helping people, he wouldn't be surprised should she offer to find someone for him. "I needed a young woman to act as an assistant. To keep the physicians well supplied and make sure the patients are seen as quickly and efficiently as possible. And yes, I found someone. I wouldn't be here tonight if I hadn't."

Her blue-green eyes narrowed. "You would work on a Saturday evening?"

"Smallpox doesn't know the day of the week; we must immunize as many as possible. And working people cannot visit during normal working hours. When I'm in town, New Hope is open from ten o'clock in the morning until ten o'clock at night, every day except Sunday."

Most shops kept the same hours, so he wondered why she looked so disapproving. And he wished she didn't. Because, truthfully, the more he saw of her, the more he liked her. She was so full of good intentions and the liveliness that had been missing from his life.

He realized, quite suddenly, that Anne's face wasn't shimmering before his eyes. In fact, he hadn't thought about Anne at all while dancing with Juliana. Not for the barest moment. Although Juliana couldn't be more different from Anne—his wife had been a very serious young lady—he could almost imagine marrying her.

Almost. But not quite. Because he'd want to fall in love with her first, and that wasn't going to happen.

Even should he someday feel ready to fall in love—even should he someday manage to get over the notion that it would be too much of a betrayal—love would never happen with Juliana. She wasn't right for him, no matter how appealing he found her. Although she might be "good at what she did," what she did was entirely too frivolous for a man of his demeanor.

But she felt rather good in his arms. In the light from the chandeliers overhead, her hair gleamed, a intriguing mix of pale gold and light brown and every shade in between. And those blue-green-hazel eyes…he couldn't stop himself from gazing into them, trying to figure out what color they were.

When the dance came to an end, he wasn't sure whether he was sorry or relieved.

"I have someone I'd like you to meet," she said.

He didn't want to meet anyone. He wanted to go home to Stafford House. Without his mother. Maybe she'd sleep at her sisters' town house tonight, the three of them giggling like young girls discussing their latest conquests. A man could hope.

But no, she'd come home as always, probably vexed with him for making her dance with a man who wasn't her husband. That had been the whole idea, hadn't it? To make her realize grieving spouses didn't belong on the marriage mart?

"You don't mind, do you?" Juliana's enthusiastic voice snapped him back to attention. "Lady Amanda is really quite lovely."

Oh, yes, she wanted him to meet someone. Lady Amanda. Right. "I don't mind at all," he lied. "Where is this lovely lady?"

She shot him an unreadable glance before heading across the ballroom. "Follow me, Lord Stafford."

"James."

"Pardon?"

He watched her shapely, swaying bottom as he followed her. "My given name is James."

She slowed down until he caught up. "We scarcely know each other, Lord Stafford."

True. But he'd been thinking of her as Juliana practically since the moment they'd met. Not Lady Juliana, just Juliana.

Odd, that.

"We've danced together twice," he pointed out.

"That hardly makes us intimates."

Intimates. The word caused a vision to swim through his head. A very inappropriate vision, even though he'd already decided she was entirely too frivolous. "Just call me James," he snapped.

"Very well." She huffed out an impatient sigh and came to a stop before a clutch of men. "Come along," she said and pushed in.

A blond woman was in the center. A lovely blond woman. A lovely blond woman who caused no visions to swim through his head.

Juliana smiled. "Lord Stafford—James—this is Lady Amanda Wolverston. Amanda, Lord Stafford."

"Lady Amanda," he said with a proper bow. He wasn't tempted to call her just Amanda. Or even think of her as just Amanda. She was Lady Amanda through and through.

But Juliana was just Juliana.

This entire evening was proving most disconcerting.

"Lord Stafford," Lady Amanda returned formally. "I'm delighted to meet you."

She was lovely and delighted. Being a gentleman, he had to do the polite thing. "May I have the honor of the next dance?"

Lady Amanda smiled a lovely smile, though it looked a tad forced. "With pleasure, my lord," she said, sounding much less delighted than she claimed.

Juliana shot them both a grin.

At least someone was happy.

Lady Amanda was a fine dancer. But she didn't feel particularly good in James's arms. Although she wasn't nearly as animated as Juliana, she chatted amiably enough, and she was quite lovely, but when the dance ended he wasn't sorry; he was only relieved.

Another man claimed her immediately. James's mother sidled near, breathless. "What a lovely girl."

"Yes. Did you enjoy your dance?" he asked, expecting to hear she hadn't. Expecting to hear she wasn't ready to think of men other than her departed husband. Expecting to hear her apologize for encouraging him to court women when he clearly wasn't ready, either.

"They were delightful," she said instead.

"They?"

"The dances. All three of them. And all three men. Aurelia and Bedelia thought one dance quite enough, so I danced with their men, too." She took both his hands in hers. "Thank you, my dear. I'll admit I thought the very idea was daft, but it's high time I resumed a social life, and I appreciate your little push."

He groaned. Silently, of course.

"I'm going to spend the night with Aurelia and Bedelia," she added, looking happier than he'd seen her in ages. "Good evening, dear. I'll see you tomorrow."

He certainly wanted her to be happy, he thought as she walked off, and he'd been wishing for a night at home alone.

So why did her news make him grit his teeth?

"Well, Stafford, you've certainly danced with your share of the ladies."

He turned to see Cainewood. "I'm finished," he said, relieved to be out from under Cornelia's watchful eye. But he wasn't ready to go home yet—suddenly home alone sounded lonely. "Can I interest you in a game of chess?"

"Chess? Haven't touched a board since I left the army." Cainewood sipped some of the concoction in his half-empty glass. "Sure. For how much?"

"You want to wager?"

"Afraid you're going to lose?" Grinning, he sipped again. "Ten guineas."

"Deal." The stake was steep—certainly much more than they'd ever bet in their schooldays—but James grinned in return. "Follow me," he said, leading his friend toward the card room.

He wasn't going to lose. Cainewood was looking a bit foxed.

* * *

"I SAY, CAINEWOOD. YOU'RE LOOKING a little foxed."

Griffin looked up from the chessboard where he and Stafford were playing, to find Castleton standing over them. "I'm quite sober, I assure you," he told the duke, fascinated to hear a slur in his own voice. But just a bit of a slur, because he was just a bit foxed. Which was perfectly understandable, since he'd had much to celebrate this evening.

Juliana had finally—finally—found a man she wanted.

This man right here.

He took a sip of the Regent's Punch in his glass, an inspired mix of six different spirits. "What do you think of my sister, Castleton?"

The duke shrugged. "She's a little lively."

"Yes, isn't that nice? Nothing like a lively young lady." Griffin blinked his eyes. Castleton looked a bit blurred. And a bit stiff.

He wondered what his sister saw in the man.

Castleton was a keen judge of horseflesh—a fine recommendation, to Griffin's mind—but surely Juliana cared little about that. She sat a mount well and certainly enjoyed riding up and down Rotten Row in Hyde Park, the fashionable place to see and be seen, but she'd never been a particularly horsey sort of girl.

Griffin supposed, however, that a lady might think Castleton handsome in a pale, pasty sort of way. And, oh, yes, he was a duke. There was that.

Hell, did it matter why Juliana wanted him? The fact that she did was good enough.

"It's your turn," Stafford said.

"So it is." Griffin focused on the board—or at least he tried to focus. He was losing, but what the hell. Life was too good at the moment to worry overmuch about a chess game or a few guineas.

Pondering his strategy, he took another sip to celebrate. He'd never cared much for punch until tonight, but it was astonishingly good stuff.

He moved a rook and looked back up at Castleton. "I suppose you've come over to ask for permission to call on my sister?"

"Actually, I didn't. I was just sitting over there playing cards and noticed you looked foxed."

Castleton sounded a bit pompous and disapproving. The prig. Why again did Juliana like him? Oh, yes, he was a duke. And her reason didn't matter. Griffin wanted his sister to be happy—he wanted all of his sisters to be happy. If Juliana had her heart set on Castleton, he'd do whatever it would take to see her marry the prig.

"Did you know," he said, noticing that slur again in a detached, amused sort of way, "that Velocity is part of Juliana's dowry?"

The horse wasn't, of course. Until now.

"You don't say," Castleton mused, suddenly looking much more lively himself. "I hadn't heard that."

Chapter Eleven

SHREWSBURY CAKES

Beat half a pound of Butter to a fine cream, and put in the same weight of Flour, one Egg, a measure of grated loaf Sugar, and small spoons of Nutmeg and Cinnamon. Mix them into a paste, roll them thin, and cut them with a small glass or little tins, prick them, lay them on sheets of tin, and bake them in a slow oven. Serve spread with raspberry Jam if you wish.

Should you wish to convince someone of something, these cakes will do the trick.

—Helena, Countess of Greystone, 1784

DESPITE HAVING PERSUADED HER COUSINS to attend her party, Juliana had no more ladies sewing than last week. Corinna, while present today in the drawing room, was "involved" with her latest painting and refused to pick up a needle. Aunt Frances was at Amanda's house, visiting with Lady Mabel. And Sunday was the one day of the week Emily's father made sure to spend time with her.

Luckily, Rachael's mother had been artistic and had taught her girls to sew. Since Rachael, Claire, and Elizabeth were sewing much faster—not to mention better—than last week's crew, Juliana was able to avoid panicking. And since Aunt Frances and Emily were missing, she took advantage of their absence to explain Amanda's situation to her cousins.

After hearing of Amanda's woes, Rachael sighed. But then her smile made Juliana hopeful she was becoming a little cheerier. "Well, you certainly were last night's Incomparable, Lady Amanda." Her needle flew in and out of the miniature coat she was making. "Were you enthralled by any particular gentleman?"

"Lord Stafford," Juliana answered for Amanda. "He's absolutely perfect."

"I'm not certain." Seated on the drawing room sofa between Juliana and Alexandra, Amanda stitched as slowly and clumsily as ever. Juliana doubted she'd ever progress beyond blankets. Perhaps this blanket. "Lord Stafford is handsome," Amanda admitted.

"He's gorgeous," Corinna corrected from where she was painting by the picture window.

"Quite," Juliana agreed, reaching toward the platter of Shrewsbury cakes. She might not personally prefer James's dark looks, she thought as she spread raspberry jam on one of the sweets, but she couldn't argue with her sister's assessment.

"But I'm not struck by love," Amanda said, her stitches getting shakier.

Fearing her friend might stab herself and bleed, Juliana pulled the needle from her hand and put the cake into it instead. "It might take a while," she said gently.

"Not everyone marries for love," Claire pointed out, her unusual amethyst gaze fastened on her expert handiwork.

Elizabeth reached for a spool of white thread. "Your parents didn't marry for love, did they, Juliana?"

"No," Juliana said. "And that was a big mistake."

"Not this again." Corinna frowned at her painting. "Our family was perfectly happy."

"Not Mama. She loved Father desperately, and he never returned her feelings." As Juliana had grown older and more aware, she'd found her mother's unrequited love painful to watch. "Although he gave her children, he never found any other use for her. Never spent time with her, never truly made her part of his life."

She wouldn't let that happen to her. Until she found a man she loved—a man she knew loved her madly in return—she was determined to remain unwed.

"Mama's life wasn't that tragic," Corinna argued. "Amanda cannot afford to wait to fall deeply in love."

Claire nodded. "Her wedding is quickly approaching."

Perhaps they were right. Unfortunately, Amanda didn't have enough time to get to know Lord Stafford well. Juliana patted her friend's hand. "You might have to find someone you like a lot and marry him, then be struck by love later."

Amanda took a bite of cake and swallowed convulsively. "Grow into love, you mean?"

"Exactly." Juliana spread jam on another cake. "Lord Stafford isn't only handsome, he's also young and well-off."

"What are you looking for in a man?" Alexandra asked Amanda. "Besides appearance and status, that is. Looks fade, after all. Shared values and interests are much more important."

"Very true," Elizabeth said.

They all deferred to Alexandra as the expert among them on marriage.

Amanda seemed to consider that question for a minute. "I would like a man who is interested in Roman antiquities."

Juliana looked up from the cake, startled. "Since when are you intrigued by Roman antiquities?"

"Since my father found the ruins on our property."

"Three years?"

"More or less. It's a fascinating subject."

"Hmm," Juliana said.

While she suspected Amanda's interest had begun as a hopeless attempt to win her father's favor, she supposed it might have transformed into a sincere fascination. After all, the girl had to find something to amuse herself during all those months and years stuck in the countryside.

However, she sincerely doubted James shared an interest in Roman antiquities. When would he have time to pursue it? The man couldn't even find a few minutes to comb his hair.

"What else are you looking for in a husband?" she asked.

Amanda pondered the question a moment more. "I would like for him to play chess. If I'm to live away from Aunt Mabel, I'd like someone with whom to play chess."

Juliana doubted James had time for chess, either. Which was why she was surprised to hear Rachael say, "Lord Stafford definitely plays chess."

"However do you know that?" she asked.

Having finished sewing the coat, Rachael knotted the thread. "When Griffin came out of the card room last night, I overheard him saying he'd lost thirty guineas to Lord Stafford playing chess."

"Thirty guineas!" Although Juliana enjoyed a hand of cards now and then and certainly understood the appeal of a bet, she wasn't sure she approved of wagering significant sums. Surely that sort of money could be better spent elsewhere—donated to the Foundling Hospital, for instance. "I had no idea Griffin gambled such high stakes."

"I don't expect he usually does," Rachael said, looking amused. "He seemed a bit foxed, which isn't usual for him, either. In any case"—she smiled at Amanda—"Lord Stafford does enjoy chess."

Juliana jumped on that positive attribute. "See, there's more to him than appearance and status."

"He's also a physician," Claire reminded her.

"That, too. Which means he's intelligent and he cares for people."

"He limps," Amanda pointed out.

"Only slightly. And does it signify?"

"Indeed, it shouldn't." Corinna looked up from her easel. "He sounds like a paragon. Why don't you marry him, Juliana?"

"Don't be a goose. I have a duke courting me."

How quickly her dismal prospects had changed. Was it only yesterday she'd despaired of finding a husband? Not only had the duke danced with her twice at Lady Hammersmithe's ball—making brows rise and tongues wag—but toward the end of the evening he'd very kindly asked if he might pay her a call tomorrow afternoon.

She'd accepted, of course. She wasn't an idiot. There wasn't a man in London more perfect than the duke. Maybe she wasn't in love yet, but she was certain she would be soon.

"By the end of the season, I may be the Duchess of Castleton."

Amanda's mouth dropped open. "You'd marry the Duke of Castleton?"

"Wouldn't you?"

"No!" She looked horrified at the mere idea. "Everyone knows he's a by-blow."

Everyone but Juliana, evidently. During all those seasons she'd missed while in mourning, it seemed she'd also missed some fascinating gossip. "What do you mean?"

"It's an open secret," Rachael explained. "The previous duke was away for a year, looking after his interests on the Continent, when his wife conceived a child here in London. To this day, no one knows who sired the child. It really doesn't signify, though, since the last duke arrived home before the current duke was born and acknowledged him as his son."

"It signifies to me," Amanda disagreed. "Marriage to a known by-blow would taint my family."

"How?" Juliana asked. "He's a duke, for heaven's sake. His parentage hasn't affected his standing in society. He's accepted in the best circles."

"I'd never be certain of my children's true heritage. For all we know, the duke could have been fathered by a footman!"

"I cannot see why that makes a difference," Rachael said, "considering the last duke claimed him for a son."

"I'd never trust him to be true to me."

"Why would he be unfaithful?" Juliana wondered. "I imagine the last thing he'd want would be to subject his own children to the shame he's had to live with."

Amanda raised one of her newly plucked brows. "You know what they say: like father, like son."

"They also say the sins of the father shouldn't be visited on the child." Juliana felt sorry the man had been forced to grow up under this cloud. "The circumstances weren't any fault of his. He was a victim, not to blame. You're being entirely too judgmental."

But facts were facts, and the fact was that straitlaced Amanda would never consent to marry the duke. Of course, that didn't matter, since Juliana wanted him for herself. Amanda belonged with Lord Stafford.

Juliana handed her the second Shrewsbury cake, hoping it would help convince her that James was the right man for her. That was why she'd risen at dawn this morning to bake them, after all—they were supposed to help convince people. "Did you meet a man you liked better than Lord Stafford?"

"No," Amanda said. "But there are many more men to meet."

"Not this season. They seem to be staying home." Juliana smeared jam on a cake for herself. "I wonder if it's because of all the cold and wet."

"Now you're being a goose." Corinna swirled her brush in green paint. "I'm having a marvelous time this season—there are plenty of eligible men."

Of course she was having a marvelous time. It was her first season, and Griffin wasn't pressuring her to marry. Not yet, anyway. Juliana was supposed to wed first. "Don't tell me you've fallen in love."

"I'm not in any hurry." Corinna dabbed at her canvas, creating a grassy field out of nothing.

Juliana would never figure out how she did that. Feeling edgy, she rose and wandered closer to scrutinize the bucolic scene. A man and a woman walked hand in hand over rolling hills. Corinna never used to paint people—only landscapes and still lifes. But this past year she'd been adding people to her paintings more and more often.

And not just any people. Lovers. Maybe she was falling in love. "Are you sure?" Juliana asked.

"I don't have time to fall in love right now." Corinna added a dab of white to the green paint on her palette. "My art is more important. Next year, I plan to submit to the Royal Academy."

Juliana nearly choked on her cake. "No women have been elected to the Royal Academy for years."

"Forty-eight years, to be exact. Not since 1768." Corinna mixed the colors together, creating a lighter shade of green. "But I'm not expecting to be elected immediately. My first step is to submit several paintings for next year's Summer Exhibition, in the hopes that one will be selected."

It was a preposterous plan, but apparently the Shrewsbury cakes were somewhat effective, because Juliana was half convinced it might work. However, the cakes didn't seem to be affecting Amanda's view of James, and Juliana wasn't about to see her own project fail.

Although she knew she should resume sewing, she stepped to the window and gazed out at the unceasing rain. The trouble was, unless the Shrewsbury cakes worked magic, there was only so much she could do herself. James would have to do the rest.

Obviously his good looks weren't enough to do the trick. Maybe she should coach him in the ways of wooing. He was, after all, a man consumed by his avocation—with all the time he spent doctoring, perhaps he hadn't had the opportunity to acquire the sort of aristocratic polish necessary to win a lady like Amanda.

Of course, getting him to agree to such training could prove a delicate matter, since, in her experience, the male of the species was often reluctant to admit to any deficiency. But she would bring along some of the Shrewsbury cakes and hope they'd help convince him.

She turned from the window, returning to her chair and the third of thirty frocks. New Hope Institute was closed on Sundays, but she'd pay James a visit tomorrow.

Chapter Twelve

“WHAT DO YOU THINK OF this dress, dear?" Sitting across from James at the breakfast table Monday morning, Cornelia held up her copy of La Belle Assemblée, open to one of the hand-colored fashion plates. "Shall I order something like it for the next ball?"

"It's lovely, Mother." Given that his mother hadn't shown any interest in clothes since his father died, James knew he should be pleased to see her enjoying life again. But instead he was rather annoyed that his plot to convince her to stop pressuring him had failed so miserably.

"I had a wonderful time dancing," she said for at least the dozenth time since the ball.

The only respite he'd received from her happiness was the few hours she'd spent overnight with her sisters. She'd enjoyed that, too, to hear her tell of it. Aurelia and Bedelia's peach-ridden town house was near Oxford Street with all its shops. A perfect distance from his own mansion in St. James's Place—close enough for an easy visit but far enough that he didn't see his aunts every time he stepped out the door.

He folded the Morning Chronicle and set it carefully by his plate. "I have an idea, Mother."

"Hmm?" She flipped a page of her magazine.

"Why don't you move back in with your sisters? You could help them redecorate and get rid of some of that peach. I'm sure you'd enjoy that more than living here with me."

Cornelia hadn't always lived with him. When he'd returned to England following his years in the army and at medical school in Edinburgh, he'd established his own household. After his father's death, when James inherited Stafford House and the country estate that went along with his title, his mother had moved in with her widowed sisters, wishing not to intrude on his life with his wife. But then Anne died two years ago, and Cornelia came running back home to "help" him.

And here she'd stayed. For too long. He loved her dearly, but a man was entitled to some privacy and autonomy. He'd truly appreciated her "help" while he'd needed it, but he'd long since recovered some semblance of a life, even if he didn't feel ready to fall in love and remarry.

"Don't be foolish, James. Should my sisters ever decide to redecorate, I can help them from here. Who would run this household if I abandoned you? Stafford House is one of the largest homes in London."

One thing he wasn't lacking was money. "I have a staff. And I can hire more people should I need to."

"That's not the same as having family oversee matters." She flipped another page, tilting her head to peruse the dress pictured. "I won't even think about moving out until you have a wife."

Yet another reason to marry. But he'd want to fall in love first, and that wasn't going to happen.

"Very well, then," he said. It was senseless to pursue this any longer. That would only cause hard feelings, and the last thing he wanted was to hurt his mother. "I must be off." He pushed back from the table and rose. "I wish you a pleasant day."

She looked up. "I trust you haven't forgotten that Bedelia is expecting you this morning?"

Damnation. He had. His mind had been on other things. Especially a hazel-eyed sprite he had no business thinking about.

Most annoying.

"I haven't time, I'm afraid." He shrugged into the tailcoat a footman held out. "Only one doctor volunteered today, so I must fill the other spot," he said, buttoning the coat. "I'm expected at the Institute by ten."

"The people can wait a little longer for their vaccinations. Bedelia has been suffering with chest pains."

"Bedelia is fine, Mother."

"I'm sure you're right." She paused for a sip of her tea. "But what if she isn't?"

* * *

"THIS DOESN'T LOOK LIKE A nice neighborhood," Aunt Frances said with a worried frown.

"It's perfectly safe, I assure you." Reaching over the basket of Shrewsbury cakes on her lap, Juliana pulled the carriage's curtains closed.

"Herman doesn't like the dark," Emily said, reopening them.

"Herman should have stayed home," Juliana told her. Aunt Frances was peering out the window again, looking even more nervous, so she dug into her reticule for something to distract her. "Here, Auntie. I forgot to give you this letter. It arrived in the morning mail."

Emily stroked Herman's olive green scales, for all the world like he was a real pet. "I never get letters."

"I never get letters, either." Eyes wide behind her spectacles, Aunt Frances broke the seal and held the paper up to the light. As she scanned the single page, she sucked in a breath. "Goodness gracious!"

Juliana stifled a smile. "What does it say, Auntie?"

Frances's cheeks were suddenly so rosy, she looked like she'd eaten an entire bowl of trifle. "It's a poem."

"A poem? Does it rhyme?"

Frances nodded violently.

"Who is it from?"

"I'm not at all certain. He didn't sign his name."

"How do you know it's a he, then?" Emily asked. "It might be from a girl."

The older woman raised a hand to pat her modestly covered bosom. "He signed it"—her voice dropped conspiratorially—"Your Secret Admirer."

"Oh, Aunt Frances! That's so romantic!" Juliana sneaked a glance out the window, wondering how much longer she could distract her. "Whoever he is, he must have been at Lady Hammersmithe's ball Saturday night and seen you in that beautiful brown dress."

Frances looked doubtful. "I've worn that dress dozens of times."

"Well, then, we must order you new ones, don't you think? Before next Saturday's ball."

Though she hadn't bought a new dress all season—or, for that matter, all decade—Frances nodded. "I suppose we must."

Juliana toyed with the handle of her basket, finding it harder and harder not to grin. To her vast relief, the carriage drew to a stop before a small, neat building with a sign that said NEW HOPE INSTITUTE.

The neighborhood hadn't improved, but her aunt no longer seemed to care. When a footman lowered the steps, Frances all but floated down to the street. Carrying the basket, Juliana climbed out after her, and Emily and Herman followed.

The door to the Institute opened, and a woman came out and down the steps, holding two children by the hand. The three of them were clothed rather poorly, but Aunt Frances didn't seem to notice. "What color dresses shall we order?" she asked Juliana.

"Pastels will look best with your golden-brown hair."

On the Institute's steps, Emily turned and frowned. "Her hair isn't brown."

Juliana smiled. "It will be after I summon Madame Bellefleur to dye it."

They all went inside. The reception area was noisy but looked very new and clean, especially compared to the people waiting there on the chairs. "A snake!" a boy exclaimed, and several children ran over to cluster around Emily and Herman.

A young woman with an air of authority walked out from behind a counter. She was dressed a little better than the patients, which wasn't saying much. "Twenty-three!" she called.

A mother stood up with a baby and followed her through a door into the back.

When the young woman returned to the counter and began adding some rather scary-looking supplies to the jumble already on the shelves, Juliana went over to her. She handed Juliana a worn square of paper with a big black 36 written on it. "You're number thirty-six," she said very slowly and clearly, as though Juliana couldn't read it for herself. "Please be seated. I'll call you when it's your turn."

Juliana put the paper in her basket. "I wish to have a word with Lord Stafford, if I may."

"Lord Stafford?" The woman blinked. "Oh, you mean Dr. Trevor. He isn't here, milady."

Drat! Juliana hadn't even considered the possibility. "Do you know when he's expected?"

"I'm sorry, milady, but I don't. Only one doctor volunteered for today, so he should be here to vaccinate the other half of the patients. But his note said only that he'd be delayed—"

Just then the door opened, and in walked James, his coat and cravat draped over one arm. Even though he was scandalously undressed, Juliana couldn't have been more delighted. "Lord Stafford!" she exclaimed. "I'm so glad to see you!"

He looked shocked—and maybe pleased. "I'm glad to see you, too."

She hadn't meant it like that. "I thought you'd be here, but you weren't."

"I was examining my Aunt Bedelia. She's been suffering with imaginary chest pains."

"The poor, sweet lady." She paused, just realizing what he'd said. "Imaginary?"

"Aunt Bedelia is the healthiest woman I know. Except possibly Aunt Aurelia." Unfastening the top button of his shirt, he cleared his throat. "What can I do for you this fine afternoon?"

Frances suddenly turned to her. "I was wondering that myself. Why are we here, Juliana?"

The woman could be oblivious at times, but Juliana had found she could use that to her advantage. "Aunt Frances, have you met Lord Stafford?"

James offered Frances a bow. "Good afternoon, Lady Frances."

"Good afternoon, my lord." She looked at him sharply. "Did I see you at Lady Hammersmithe's ball?"

"I had the pleasure of attending, yes."

Frances's gaze grew more focused. At first Juliana assumed she was staring at the little V of exposed skin where James's shirt was unbuttoned, which Juliana found rather fascinating herself. Other than her brothers'—and they hardly counted—she'd never seen any part of a man's chest. Of course, her dress left much more of her own chest bare, but that was different. She had to force her eyes away from that intriguing bit of golden skin.

But then she realized Frances wasn't specifically looking at that little V, and, in fact, her blue eyes had turned speculative behind their lenses. Dear heavens, her aunt must be wondering if James was her secret admirer! How oblivious could the woman get? She'd have to write another love letter from Lord Malmsey and sign his name to it this time—before Aunt Frances set her hopes on someone much younger and better-looking.

A little gasp from James interrupted her thoughts. "Is that a snake in my reception room?"

Across the room, the children were still gathered around Herman, enthralled, while Emily, in her glory, proudly lectured them on his care and allowed them turns to touch.

Juliana smiled. "That's Viscount Neville's daughter, Miss Emily, and—"

"Get it out of here."

"No need to worry." The light in here was odd; James was looking rather pale. "It's perfectly harmless, Lord Stafford."

"James," he corrected distractedly. "And I want it out. It's frightening the children."

It was doing no such thing, but Juliana wasn't about to argue. She had much more important matters to discuss with him. "Aunt Frances, would you please take Emily and Herman outside?"

Frances was still gazing speculatively at James. "It's dreadfully cold out there," she said without taking her eyes off him.

"You can wait inside the carriage. I won't be long, I promise."

"The neighborhood—"

"The coachman and three footmen are there for your protection." Juliana took her aunt's arm and began easing her toward Emily. "You'll be safe. I'll be out in five minutes."

Her gaze no longer focused on James, Frances consulted the little watch pinned to her dress. "You'd better not take any more time. The Duke of Castleton is calling at half past two."

Following a short negotiation, Juliana finally shut the door behind Aunt Frances, Emily, Herman, and several children who refused to stay inside when there was a snake outside to admire. "Now, if I could have just a few moments of your time, Lord Stafford—"

"James," he interrupted.

"James." She looked around. "Is there someplace private we could speak?"

Chapter Thirteen

WONDERING WHAT JULIANA WANTED OF him, James led her to an empty treatment room. He also wondered why the thought of Castleton calling on her was so annoying. It must be because Castleton was so very wrong for her. The duke was a prig; she was much too lively for such a stuffy fellow.

Not to mention the prig wanted her only because she came with a celebrated racehorse.

The treatment room held nothing but a chair and a table with the necessary implements, but Juliana glanced around as though she found it interesting. She was wearing a dress with a very tiny bodice.

Well, in truth it wasn't any tinier than the bodices other young ladies of her class wore—high-waisted dresses with low necklines were in fashion, after all—but James wasn't used to seeing women in fashionable dresses at the Institute. The women who came to the Institute generally wore very frumpy clothes. He wouldn't have noticed Juliana's tiny bodice at a ball, but here at the Institute it made him suddenly—uncomfortably—aware that he was alone in a room with an eligible young lady.

An eligible young lady he found entirely too attractive.

He left the door open.

"That child doesn't sound happy," she said, referring to the sobbing girl in the next room.

"Dr. Hanley will give her a sugar stick."

Sure enough, the sobbing stopped. Juliana smiled. "I love sweets." She handed him the small basket she was carrying. "I brought you these."

He lifted the number 36 on top and peered underneath. Appetizing scents of cinnamon and raspberry wafted out.

"They're Shrewsbury cakes," she said. "Chase ladies always bring sweets when we pay calls."

"People don't generally call at the Institute."

"It's not in a very nice neighborhood," she allowed. "Why is that?" "Those who live in nice neighborhoods are vaccinated by their own doctors. The patients we serve cannot afford to take a hackney coach to Mayfair."

"Oh," she said, looking abashed. "That does make perfect sense."

He offered her an amiable smile. "Have you been vaccinated?"

She glanced warily toward the instruments. "Actually, I was variolated as a small child, before Dr. Jenner invented vaccination."

Variolation was an older procedure, a method of taking pus from the pocks of someone suffering from smallpox and inoculating healthy people with it. James was both surprised and impressed that she knew the difference. Perhaps she wasn't quite as frivolous as he'd thought. "Where did you learn about Edward Jenner?"

"I do read newspapers and magazines, and not just to see the latest fashions. It was quite brilliant of him to figure out that giving people cowpox could keep them from getting smallpox." She glanced toward the instruments again. "I don't need a vaccination, do I?"

"Not if you were variolated. Smallpox variolation grants lifelong immunity. You're lucky you lived through it, though." Variolation usually caused only a mild case of smallpox, but about two patients in a hundred developed a severe case and died. Because those odds were much better than when one caught smallpox naturally—which carried a thirty percent risk of death—many well-informed upper-class parents did have their children variolated throughout most of the eighteenth century. But vaccination with cowpox was much safer.

Juliana looked relieved. "Were you variolated as a child?"

"No, but I was vaccinated while in the army. My commanding officer didn't want his men dying of smallpox." He set the basket on the table. "Can you enlighten me as to the nature of this unexpected call?"

"Try a Shrewsbury cake." She waited while he chose one and took a bite. "I was wondering what you thought of Lady Amanda."

He hadn't thought of Lady Amanda even once since Saturday's ball. "She's lovely," he said tactfully.

Juliana beamed. "I'm so glad you think so."

She was much more interesting than Lady Amanda. "That was delicious," he said, polishing off her cake.

"Have another." She reached into the basket and put one into his hand. "Do you expect you might wish to marry Lady Amanda?"

He nearly choked but managed to cover it with a cough. "I've only danced with her once," he pointed out.

"Quite true," she admitted. "I expect you'll want to court her for a while before making such a decision."

He didn't want to court Lady Amanda at all. But it wouldn't be very seemly to say that out loud, so instead he said, "Yes, one doesn't come to such a decision lightly."

The yes was a mistake. Juliana's lips curved in a delighted smile. "I'm so happy to hear that. I've been wondering, though…since you spend so much time here at the Institute, have you much practice at wooing ladies?"

"Practice?" What man needed practice at such a thing?

"I just thought that since you've been too busy to court many women, it might help if I give you a few lessons."

Lessons? "What sort of lessons?"

"Have another Shrewsbury cake, will you?" She shoved the basket toward him. "The lessons wouldn't be very strenuous, I assure you. I'm thinking you could simply accompany me on a few occasions, such as to the theater. I could show you the proper seats to purchase and what sort of refreshments to fetch for Lady Amanda during the intermission. And if we went riding in Hyde Park, I could point out the popular places and you could practice being gallant."

James didn't know whether to be insulted or amused, but either way he was going to refuse her offer. Certainly he didn't need lessons in gallantry and wooing women.

He hadn't taken a third cake, so she selected one for him. "The lessons won't require too many outings," she added soothingly. "After all, if plans with you fill my calendar, I won't be available for the duke to pay court to me."

The cake halfway to his mouth, he froze. She thought she was offering him a favor, but actually, the opposite was true. If he played along, he'd be saving her from wasting her time with Castleton.

She and the duke were extremely ill-suited. Nothing between the two of them could possibly work out. So therefore, by agreeing to her "lessons," he'd be doing her a favor.

He did like helping people. It was very gallant.

"Fine," he said. "When shall our first outing be?"

She actually clapped her hands. "How about tomorrow? Are you needed here at the Institute?"

"I have two doctors scheduled from ten o'clock to four, and another two from four o'clock to ten. So I should be able to get away."

"Excellent. We can visit the shops and select a few gifts for Lady Amanda."

Shops? He hated visiting shops. "I thought we were going to the theater."

"I have plans for tomorrow evening, so our lesson will have to be earlier. Shall we say after luncheon, at one o'clock?" She smiled sympathetically. "Worry not, James. We'll be done in plenty of time for Parliament. Choosing a few appropriate gifts shouldn't take very long at all."

Chapter Fourteen

BEFORE THE DUKE LEFT ON Monday afternoon, he'd asked if he might pay Juliana another call on Tuesday. Two calls in two days! Since she already had plans with James at one o'clock, she'd suggested noon.

Which is how it happened that, on Tuesday, as the duke was leaving and James was arriving, they crossed paths.

"Castleton," James said with a curt nod.

"Stafford," the duke returned. And with a stiff little bow, he left.

As the butler closed the door behind him, Juliana turned to James. "Do you not like the duke?"

He shrugged. "I don't know him very well. But he seems a bit stuffy."

She was about to disagree when Aunt Frances came down the stairs, her footfalls so light she seemed almost to be skipping. A piece of paper fluttered in one of her hands. "Juliana! You'll never believe what arrived in the morning mail!"

"What is it, Auntie?"

"Another love letter from my secret admirer! Only"—as she reached the foyer, she paused for dramatic effect—"his name is no longer a secret."

"Who is he?" Juliana crossed her fingers behind her back. "Is he anyone I know?"

"Oh, yes," Frances said. "It's Lord—"

She cut off, finally noticing James.

Oblivious as always, Juliana thought.

Two rosy spots appearing on her cheeks, her aunt clutched the letter to her bosom. "Good afternoon, Lord Stafford."

"Good afternoon, Lady Frances."

"Who's your admirer, Auntie? Lord Stafford will keep your secret."

James nodded. "My lips are sealed."

Though Frances hesitated a moment more, it was obvious she was dying to tell. She leaned closer to Juliana. "It's Lord Malmsey," she whispered, her lips curving in a thrilled smile that made her look ten years younger.

"Aunt Frances, how wonderful!"

"Isn't it, though?" Clearly Frances didn't mind Lord Malmsey's age or appearance. In fact, judging by her expression, one would think she'd been pining after the man for years. "I'm so glad you made plans to visit the shops this afternoon. I must order a few new dresses, and at least one must be ready by Saturday. Lord Malmsey indicated in his letter that he will be attending Lady Partridge's ball."

James cleared his throat.

"Yes?" Juliana asked.

"I thought we were going to quickly choose a gift?"

"Several gifts," she corrected. "You'll want an assortment so that you can give one to Lady Amanda every few days over the next two weeks."

"Several?" He didn't look happy. "What happens after two weeks?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

He'd indicated he needed a while to court Amanda before proposing marriage, but a fortnight would have to do. With Amanda's wedding approaching, they simply hadn't any more time. Juliana had high hopes he'd win Amanda's affections by then, and vice versa, because the three of them needed time to plot Amanda's public compromise before she was married to Lord Malmsey.

James still didn't look happy, though, and Juliana liked the people around her to be happy. "You won't mind if Aunt Frances orders a few dresses, will you? It shouldn't take long, and she'll be coming along in any case, to chaperone." Regardless of the fact that this outing with James wasn't romantic in any sense, it wouldn't do for the two of them to gad about town together unescorted.

Before James formulated an answer, a knock came at the door. The butler opened it. On the other side stood a footman in Neville livery with young Emily. And Herman, of course.

The pink parasol Emily was twirling clashed horribly with the olive green reptile. "Is it time to leave, Lady Juliana?"

James took a step back. "Don't tell me she's coming, too."

"I'm giving her lessons as well," Juliana explained. "In being more ladylike. An outing like this can be very instructional."

In the gray light of the rainy day, he looked pale. "Surely she won't be bringing that snake."

Emily stopped twirling. "If Herman doesn't go, I don't go."

"That's fine by me," James said.

He seemed unhappy again. Concerned, Juliana laid a hand on his arm. "James, do you not like children?"

When he glanced down at her hand, she snatched it away, appalled at herself. Her hand was gloved, and his arm was sleeved, but it still wasn't proper to be touching him.

And the look on his face was worrisome. Although she and Amanda had never discussed children, she was sure Amanda wanted some. Every woman did.

"Of course I like children," he said. "I vaccinate children every day at the Institute."

"Of course," she echoed, relieved. She should have realized that. "Amanda is good with children," she told him, remembering how well Amanda had handled Emily that day she'd bled.

Motioning for him to follow, she stepped farther away from the little girl.

"I know you're worried that some patrons of the shops might be upset by Emily's snake," she said quietly. "But that's the whole idea, don't you see? She needs to learn that it's not ladylike to carry a snake, and the only way that will happen is by demonstration. Once she's convinced that Herman upsets people, she'll realize she should leave him at home."

"I see," he said tightly.

They headed outside to where James's carriage was waiting. It was splendid—all polished rosewood and rich green velvet—and the pair of matched bays drawing it looked to be prime horseflesh.

Juliana meant to sit beside Aunt Frances, but somehow she ended up beside James instead. Aunt Frances sat opposite James, with Emily catercorner from him. When he squished himself into the corner, as far away from Juliana as possible, she supposed that was to make sure he wouldn't touch her inadvertently.

But then he kept touching her anyway.

During the drive to Pall Mall, he touched her three times on the arm, in the bare area between where her short puffed sleeve ended and her short white glove began. The touches were all accidental and innocent, of course, but the little jolt she felt every time was…well, not bothersome exactly, but disquieting. Or exciting in an odd sort of way.

Of course, she wasn't used to being touched by men. All those deaths in the family had kept her and Corinna from socializing for so long, she was certain she was the oldest unkissed woman in all of England.

Well, except for Amanda. And maybe Aunt Frances.

In any case, she had to assume she'd feel this way if she were touched by any man. Most especially if she were touched by the duke. In fact, she was certain the duke's touches would be even more exciting, because, after all, he was the ideal man for her. But despite two social calls in two days, the duke hadn't touched her since they'd danced at the ball last Saturday night. And that had been over her clothes while they were both wearing gloves, which was quite different.

He hadn't touched her bare skin. He hadn't even kissed her gloved hand. He respected her too much to do any such thing.

He was as proper and reserved as Amanda, but he definitely wasn't stuffy.

Aunt Frances was so anxious to order her dresses, Juliana decided they should do that first. Mrs. Huntley sighed when she saw Emily and her snake again, but after all, Juliana and Amanda had ordered a lot of dresses, and no shopkeeper with half a brain would turn away that sort of business. So she pressed her thin lips together and pulled out her measuring tape.

"Sit over there, Emily," Juliana instructed, waving her toward where two chairs sat against a wall. "And James, you sit beside her. When you visit the shops with a lady, you must wait patiently until she's finished."

"I'll wait outside," he said.

"You shouldn't do that if you wish to please Lady Amanda. A man should appear interested in a lady's purchases."

"I'll keep that in mind," he said, heading toward the door.

"It's raining out there," she reminded him.

"I won't melt."

True to his word, James didn't melt. It took so long to order Aunt Frances's dresses that it had stopped raining by the time the ladies joined him outside. And he certainly didn't look melted—in fact, he looked like he might be frozen solid.

Well, even if wasn't raining, it still was quite cold.

"Where to now?" he asked dourly.

"I believe you should send Lady Amanda some flowers." Juliana indicated a florist's shop across the street, and they all started toward it.

"What sort?" he asked, sounding resigned.

"Red roses," Emily suggested beside him. "My mother loved red roses."

"Red roses it is, then." He crossed to Juliana's other side and took her left arm. When she glanced up at him, startled, he said, "A gentleman should escort a lady across the street."

"Excellent," she said, pleased with his progress. "That's very gallant. But I don't think red roses would be appropriate. They symbolize love, and it's a little too soon for that. You wouldn't want to appear too forward. Pink or yellow would be perfect."

James's arm felt tense beneath hers, and she was aware of their contact all the way into the shop. She guessed Amanda would find that awareness very pleasurable, which would help James persuade her to marry him.

When they entered, a woman shrieked and ran past them out the door. Three other patrons left directly, muttering to one another.

The florist was a tall, thin man with a long, narrow nose and eyes that looked hard as he glared at Emily. "Take that snake outside, young lady."

Emily stroked Herman. "Snakes don't eat flowers, Mr. Flower-Man. Only frogs and mice."

Aunt Frances took Emily outside, and James ordered an arrangement of two dozen pink roses. Quickly.

Back outdoors, the people walking along Pall Mall were giving Emily and Herman a wide berth, and there was a lot of "Well!" and "I never!" to be heard.

"She should have left that snake at home," James said.

"She will next time, I'm sure." Juliana offered him her left arm again, thinking some more practice in escorting ladies might be appropriate.

"Where are we going now?" Emily asked beside him.

He crossed to Juliana's other side and took her right arm instead.

Juliana thought he seemed a little impatient. "Harding, Howell and Company," she decided. Down the street just a bit, Harding, Howell & Company was a big department store that took up all the floors of an old mansion that used to be called Schomberg House. Perhaps James would be happier if they could find the rest of Amanda's presents all in one place. "You don't enjoy shops very much, do you?" she asked as they began walking toward it.

"I'm a man," he said.

She'd noticed. She'd walked arm in arm with women before, but it had never felt like this. The tingly sensation rather stole one's breath. Amanda was going to love it.

Aunt Frances and Emily walked in front of them, the two of them getting more and more ahead. People were crossing the street to avoid them. "We should catch up to them," Juliana said.

James didn't change his pace. "I believe a gentleman should walk leisurely with a lady, to accommodate her shorter stride."

"That's considerate," she allowed. "You really are quite an apt pupil, James."

Amanda was going to fall in love with him for certain.

"I'm famished," Emily announced the moment they stepped through Harding, Howell & Company's grand mahogany double doors. "May we visit Mr. Cosway's Breakfast Room?"

"It's not breakfast time," James said, "and, in fact, it's past luncheon."

Juliana laughed. "Mr. Cosway's Breakfast Room serves refreshments all day long." Located on the floor above, the restaurant offered wines, teas, coffee, and sweetmeats. "Have you never been here before, James?"

"I'm a man," he said.

The department store was patronized mostly by women. Juliana hadn't ever noticed that before, but she did now. Especially because a good number of the women were emitting little squeals and hiding behind the delicate pieces of furniture that were for sale.

Emily started up the wide staircase with Herman and Aunt Frances. When Juliana went to follow them, James held her back. "She really should leave that snake at home," he said once Emily was far enough ahead of them to be out of earshot.

Juliana was getting a bit tired of hearing that. "Are you hungry?" she asked.

"I'm a man," he said, and she laughed.

He really was quite a man.

Upstairs, Mr. Cosway's Breakfast Room had a glorious view over St. James's Park to Westminster and the Surrey hills beyond. Aunt Frances and Emily were already seated across from each other at a table for four. Juliana slid into the chair beside Aunt Frances, but James just stood there, more frozen than the ice cream in the restaurant's glass display case.

And that's when Juliana realized he didn't want to sit beside Emily. Or walk beside Emily. Or have anything to do with Emily at all—at least not while she was holding a snake.

Though it wasn't very kind or ladylike, Juliana couldn't help herself. A little smile quirked on her lips. A tiny giggle escaped. And finally—inevitably—she burst out laughing.

Chapter Fifteen

“YOU-YOU-YOU'RE AFRAID OF Emily's snake," Juliana chortled. "Don't tell me you're not."

James felt heat creep up his neck and into his face. He'd never seen a woman quite so consumed by hilarity. It was humiliating.

Every diner in Mr. Cosway's Breakfast Room was staring at them, and he wasn't sure whether that was because of Emily's snake or Juliana's laughter. Either way, it was humiliating, possibly the most humiliating moment of his life. Juliana thought him laughable.

But he couldn't deny her accusation. "Deathly afraid," he confirmed with as much dignity as he could muster. "I was bitten by an adder at the age of seven."

"Oh, my," Juliana said. Her peals of laughter dwindled to giggles as she apparently tried to control herself. "That must have been dreadful."

"Very. It was quite painful, and my ankle swelled up horridly, and I was consumed by fever." He had also cast up his accounts several times, but he wouldn't say so in the presence of ladies. "I should never want to experience that again," he added, eyeing the damned snake with contempt.

"But Herman isn't an adder," Emily said, stroking the terrorizing creature with gentle fingers. "He's a harmless grass snake. He doesn't have any poison, and he doesn't bite."

James knew that. He was well aware that adders were the only venomous snakes in England, and Herman was quite obviously not an adder. Herman was longer and more slender than an adder and had different markings. James knew his fear was irrational.

But irrational as it was—and he was cognizant of the fact that, in the twenty-two years since he'd been bitten, his fear had expanded beyond all proportion to the incident—he couldn't bring himself to get close to Herman or any other snake.

Even now, though he was standing a good six feet away, the sight of Herman made his pulse feel thready and his guts clench. If he got any closer, he feared he might cast up his accounts right here in Harding, Howell & Company's froufrou little restaurant.

Juliana was no longer laughing. Instead, she was watching him very closely, so closely he was half convinced she could see right into him, see his churning stomach and his racing heart. See just how pathetic a man he was, a man too weak to conquer his fear of a simple grass snake.

Still watching him, she suddenly pushed back from the table. "I've just realized I'm not hungry."

"But I am," Emily said.

Juliana turned to her with a bright smile. "You can stay here with Aunt Frances while Lord Stafford and I find a few gifts for Lady Amanda."

Lady Frances began rising. "You and Lord Stafford cannot go off alone."

"Of course we can." Juliana eased her aunt back onto the chair. "We're in a public place, surrounded by dozens of people. We'll be back in a few minutes." And with that, before Lady Frances could voice another protest, Juliana placed her arm in James's and headed out of Mr. Cosway's Breakfast Room.

James wasn't certain, but he thought Juliana might have just saved him from complete humiliation. In any case, she'd definitely saved him from losing his luncheon. His stomach was feeling better already, and his pulse had gone back to normal.

"Thank you," he said as they headed down the staircase. "You must think me an utter coward."

"Don't be silly. We all have our fears."

He doubted that. "What's yours, then?"

"Blood," she said without hesitation. "I would make a terrible doctor. And unlike you, I don't have a legitimate reason for my fear. No traumatizing bloody events in my childhood."

She laughed, but this time it was at herself, not him. Which made all the difference.

Which made him like her even more.

"Lady Amanda isn't afraid of blood," she informed him. "I should think you'd be pleased to know that, since I expect it's an important attribute for a physician's wife."

"I don't think that really matters," he told her. An affinity for blood wasn't on his list of wifely requirements. Not that he was looking for a wife, anyway. He tightened his grip on Juliana's arm, smiling to himself when she leaned closer to him. Even though it was cold and rainy outside, she seemed to smell of sunshine and flowers.

"I think Lady Amanda would like a fan," she said, guiding him past the glazed mahogany partition that separated the fur and fan departments.

He didn't want to buy Lady Amanda a fan, but he didn't want to disappoint Juliana, either. And he especially didn't want her to give up on their "lessons," because then she'd have more time to spend with stuffy Castleton, who was entirely the wrong man for her. So he bought a fan.

"I think Lady Amanda would like gloves," she said next. And although he didn't want to buy gloves for Lady Amanda—although he didn't want to buy anything for Lady Amanda—he dutifully paid for the lacy pair she picked out.

She thought Lady Amanda would like perfume, so they stopped by the perfumery department. She thought Lady Amanda would like candy, so they visited the confectioners. In no time at all, he was burdened with bags and boxes.

He'd always hated shopping—and he knew very well he'd had a horrible attitude from the beginning—but all in all, Emily and her snake aside, this day wasn't turning out nearly as badly as he'd anticipated. He rather enjoyed being gallant and saving Juliana from stuffy Castleton.

Seeing that man at her house earlier had made him grit his teeth.

They were buying some fancy writing paper when Lady Frances and Emily sought them out. "Lady Juliana," Emily said, "you are taking forever."

Looking startled, Juliana turned from the stationery counter. And the next thing she did was immediately move to put herself between Emily and James. He could have kissed her for that.

Not that he'd actually kiss her, of course—that would be highly improper.

But he wanted to…and that was scary as hell.

More frightening than Emily's snake.

He wasn't ready for this. He didn't think he'd ever be ready. He might be getting used to the idea of remarrying someday, but only to make his mother happy. And because he needed an heir.

Not because he wanted to kiss someone. And certainly not because he'd fallen in love.

Juliana looked between him and Herman. "Goodness, Emily," she said, "you're right. We have taken forever. In fact, we've taken so long that Lord Stafford is going to be late for Parliament. We'll have to take a hackney coach home so he can go there straightaway."

James might have been a coward, but he wasn't a fool. He knew she'd said that to save him from riding with Herman in his carriage.

He could have kissed her for that, too.

Chapter Sixteen

ALMOND MACAROONS

Beat Whites of Eggs with salt until stiff, then add Almonds ground fine, Sugar and a bit of ground Rice. Put in little mounds and make flat on Paper, then add an Almond in each middle before baking in your oven.

When I wish to see my husband amorous, I feed him these macaroons.

They've never failed me yet.

—Katherine, Countess of Greystone, 1763

JULIANA PLACED LITTLE MOUNDS of dough on a paper-lined baking tin, spacing them carefully while she hid a yawn. She'd been up since dawn. After spending the morning with Emily—who still refused to relinquish Herman—now she was making almond macaroons with Amanda.

According to Chase family legend, the macaroons were supposed to make men amorous. Juliana planned to give some to James and tell him to eat them tomorrow, hoping they would induce him to act warmly toward Amanda at Lady Partridge's ball later that evening. Since she wasn't certain whether the macaroons needed to be made by the woman seeking attention—her grandmother, who'd penned the recipe, hadn't been clear—she'd decided to ask for Amanda's help just in case.

"Put an almond in the center of each macaroon," she said through another yawn.

"That's the third time you've yawned," Amanda observed, plopping the nuts on top rather haphazardly. "Are you sleepy?"

Juliana's fourth yawn seemed to echo off the basement kitchen's walls. "This week has been exhausting."

She'd been very busy since Monday's visit to the Institute and Tuesday's jaunt to the shops. Not only had she hosted another sewing party and spent every free minute stitching, but the duke had called on her every single day and danced with her twice at Almack's on Wednesday evening. He said the nicest things to her. His attentiveness was encouraging, and she was certain it was only a matter of time before he asked for her hand. A perfect gentleman, he remained careful not to touch her, demonstrating the respect due a lady.

James, on the other hand, touched her so often she was beginning to think the incidents might not all be accidental.

On Wednesday afternoon, when she and James had taken advantage of a few glorious dry hours to go riding in Hyde Park, he'd found excuses to help her on and off her horse on six different occasions—to buy refreshments from a stand, to look at some flowers, to take a stroll by the Serpentine—and his hands had seemed to rest on her waist longer and longer each time.

James had missed attending Almack's again Wednesday night—apparently he'd had another problem at the Institute—but Thursday evening, when they'd attended the theater, he'd set his chair so close to hers in the box that his thigh was against her skirts during much of the performance. In the intermission, he'd brought her a syllabub and then claimed twice that she had white cream on her face and wiped it off with his thumb.

"Did I tell you I received another gift from Lord Stafford?" Amanda flattened a macaroon and stuck a piece of almond in it. "Three gifts in one week!"

"Use the whole almonds, Amanda. You want the macaroons to look pretty, don't you?" Juliana picked out the broken nut and replaced it with a perfect one, thinking Amanda was almost as hopeless at cooking as Corinna. It was a good thing that an earl's wife wouldn't be expected to set foot in the kitchen. "What did he send you this time?" she asked.

"The most elegant lace gloves. I'm not sure Aunt Mabel would approve of something so personal. Fortunately she was napping when the package arrived. I suggested maybe she should return to the countryside, since Lady Frances is doing such a fine job as chaperone."

Juliana supposed Aunt Frances was a fine chaperone, if one considered oblivious to be synonymous with fine. "I'm glad Lady Mabel doesn't mind Aunt Frances filling in for her." Not least because it would be impossible to carry out their plan with the dear lady watching over Amanda. "Still, I hope she isn't feeling poorly enough to leave London. I enjoyed her company at Wednesday's sewing party."

"She surely enjoyed attending, too. It was much less strenuous than going on outings. Why, she hardly even wheezed."

And she'd proved a much better seamstress than her niece, completing four blankets in two hours. Unfortunately, even with Lady Mabel's help, Juliana had so far collected only thirty-three of the two hundred forty items she needed. And she had just three weeks left—the same three weeks Amanda had to find a new fiancé before she was forced to marry Lord Malmsey. "You're planning to keep the gloves, then?"

"I wouldn't dream of returning them. The workmanship is utterly stunning. The pink roses were beautiful, too. And I adore the painted fan," Amanda added as she placed another almond off-center. "Lord Stafford has exquisite taste, don't you think? Especially for a man."

Juliana was glad she'd taken it upon herself to have each of James's gifts delivered rather than trusting him to remember. Tomorrow evening, she would make sure Amanda wore the gloves and carried the fan, which should please him. She could scarcely wait until the ball, when he'd dance again with Amanda and ask for permission to court her. She was certain Amanda would agree.

Everything was going perfectly.

Hearing the tall-case clock chime upstairs, she hurried to place the last almonds. She had only half an hour to ready herself before James arrived for today's excursion to the Egyptian Hall. "Thank you for your help," she told Amanda as she shoved the pans into the oven. "I'll have a footman deliver half the macaroons to your house as soon as they're finished."

Not usually one to show affection, Amanda wrapped Juliana in a loose, awkward embrace. "Thank you," she said. "I had no idea that macaroons make one's eyes sparkle, but I appreciate your telling me and letting me help bake them."

"You're very welcome," Juliana murmured, feeling a bit guilty about misleading her. But only a bit. Honestly, she'd had no choice. Amanda was entirely too proper and reserved to bake macaroons with the intention of making a man amorous.

After Amanda took her leave, Juliana went upstairs to change her dress and put on a little rouge and lip salve. She was on her way back down when she heard the knocker bang. As she arrived in the foyer, expecting to see James, Adamson opened the door to reveal a deliveryman holding an enormous arrangement of red roses.

"Holy Hannah!" Paintbrush in hand, Corinna came in from the drawing room. "There must be five dozen!"

Aunt Frances came in from the library. "Goodness gracious, I can smell them from here. And just look at that gorgeous silver vase!"

"Do you expect they're from the duke?" Corinna asked.

"They must be," Juliana breathed, setting the gloves she was carrying on the marble-topped hall table. Red roses. The duke must be even more enamored than she'd hoped.

The heady scent was almost overwhelming. After tipping the deliveryman, the butler put the arrangement on the table. She plucked the card from it with shaking hands.

"A small token in comparison to the great love I hold in my heart," she read aloud, her pulse pounding harder with each precious word. "And it's signed—"

Her mouth gaped open, mute.

"Who signed it?" Corinna demanded. "Are the flowers not from the duke?"

Juliana closed her mouth and held the card out to Aunt Frances. "They're from Lord Malmsey. They're for you."

Frances's hand flew up to cover her heart. She looked like she might swoon for a moment, but in the end she just said, "For me?" in a squeaky little voice.

"For you," Juliana repeated, thrilled at this evidence her project was working. And thrilled for Frances, too, of course. Seeing her aunt sway on her feet, she eased her onto the striped satin chair that sat by the table. "Are you all right, Auntie?"

Her hand still splayed on her bosom, Frances blew out a breath. "Heavens, child, I've never been better." Her eyes looked misty behind their lenses. "But I do feel just a bit faint."

A kitchen maid came up from the basement and handed Juliana a small basket covered with a lace doily. "Your macaroons, my lady. A dozen, as you requested."

"Thank you," Juliana said and set the basket beside the flowers.

"May I speak with you a moment?" Without waiting for her to answer, Corinna took her by the arm. "In the drawing room."

They left Frances gazing at her roses.

"Do you not think," Corinna said once they were behind closed doors, "that this is going a little too far?"

"What?" Juliana asked, feeling bewildered.

"Sending Aunt Frances flowers and claiming they're from Lord Malmsey. Really, Juliana, what do you think is going to happen tomorrow at the ball when she thanks him for them and he tells her he didn't send them to her?"

"He did send them to her," Juliana said.

"He didn't."

"Well, who did, then? Because I didn't. I had nothing to do with those flowers."

Corinna eyed her skeptically, rather as if she were a very bad painting. "He's engaged to marry Amanda. Why would he send flowers to Aunt Frances? What would make him think she'd be receptive to receiving them?"

"The love letters he received from her."

"What love letters?"

"The ones I sent," Juliana said, exasperated that she would have to explain such an obvious thing. "It wouldn't do to have Aunt Frances be the only one getting mail. A true love must be two-sided."

She'd never written so many sappy letters in her life. In a week of incessant activity, Aunt Frances's romance had proved to be her most exhausting project.

Besides writing all the letters, she'd had to take Frances shopping for shoes, bonnets, and accessories to match all of her new dresses; buy cosmetics and practice applying them; and hire a dancing master to teach Frances all the new steps. And Frances's hair—oh, her hair! Madame Bellefleur had had to visit not once, but twice—the first time to dye Frances's hair with henna and walnuts, and the second to trim it and tinker with various styles.

But it was all worth it. Aunt Frances was going to look beautiful tomorrow night. And Lord Malmsey was already in love with her.

He'd sent red roses.

"You sent fake letters to both of them?" Corinna pointed the paintbrush she was still holding at her. "What do you think will happen when they compare notes?"

"They won't," Juliana said confidently. "Neither of them will be willing to question their good fortune." The knocker sounded again. "Excuse me. That will be James."

She returned to the foyer, but it wasn't James at the door. It was another deliveryman with flowers. White roses, and there were only a dozen, but they were in a beautiful crystal vase.

"What does the card say?" Corinna asked behind her.

Not assuming anything this time, Juliana pulled it from the arrangement. "The Duke of Castleton," she read with some relief.

And happiness, of course.

"That's it? No message?"

"The flowers say it all, do they not?" She gestured grandly toward the arrangement, which, in truth, looked rather paltry next to the extravagant one Lord Malmsey had sent. But the duke wasn't an extravagant man. He was restrained and refined and everything that was good and proper. "I don't need a written message," she said. "I know perfectly well how he feels."

"How who feels?" James asked, walking in the still-open door.

"The Duke of Castleton," Corinna informed him. "He sent flowers to Juliana."

"Did he?" James scanned the foyer, blinking as his gaze landed on the hall table. "That's a lot of roses. Red roses."

His tone implied he found something objectionable about the roses, although Juliana wasn't sure whether it was the amount of them or their color. Or both. And why would he care, anyway?

Frances's hand was still over her heart. "They're mine," she said, sounding awed.

Corinna nodded. "The other arrangement is from the duke."

"White," James said with a raised brow. He turned to Juliana. "He must think you're very pure."

What on earth did he mean by that? She was pure. Not that that was entirely by choice. The only man she had an interest in respected her too much to touch her.

Which was more than she could say for James.

She swept the little basket off the table and thrust it at him. "Here," she said rather ungraciously. "I baked macaroons for you."

"Why?" he asked, looking nonplussed.

She hadn't anticipated that question. She didn't want him to think she'd made them as a gift, because he might take that the wrong way. But she couldn't very well tell him she hoped they'd make him amorous toward Amanda.

Or that they'd make his eyes sparkle.

"I thought you'd want to eat them tomorrow. They're reputed to give a man stamina."

That brow went up again. "Stamina of what sort?"

How many sorts were there? "Extra strength and endurance."

"I see." His lips quirked, as though he were trying not to laugh. "But pray tell, why should I need extra endurance tomorrow?"

"For the dancing," she said. "At the ball. You're not accustomed to hours on your feet."

"Ah," he said. Just ah. But something about the way he said it told her he was well aware she was making all of this up as she went along. "In all my years in medicine," he drawled, "I've never heard macaroons prescribed to improve stamina. I shall have to pass this wisdom along to my colleagues."

He wouldn't, of course; she was sure of it. He'd be laughed out of the Royal College of Physicians. "You do that," she said, snatching up her parasol and turning to Frances. "Are you ready to leave, Auntie?"

Chapter Seventeen

AS JAMES'S CARRIAGE CRAWLED TOWARD the Egyptian Hall through the miserable London traffic, he smiled to himself. Juliana couldn't fool him. Although she claimed these outings were meant only to give him practice so he could court Lady Amanda, she enjoyed his company. She liked him, whether she was willing to say so out loud or not.

The proof? She'd baked him macaroons.

Feeling much more pleased about that than he probably should, he lifted the froufrou doily and pulled one out.

"No!" Juliana cried. "You're supposed to save them for tomorrow."

"There are plenty of them," he said, popping the little macaroon into his mouth. It was so light and toothsome it all but melted on his tongue. He'd never heard of a lady of the ton making sweets—or anything else that required entering a kitchen—but given Juliana's talents, he found her unusual hobby charming. "These are delicious," he told her and pulled out another.

"Please don't eat them," she pleaded, sounding concerned.

Quite concerned. Certainly much more concerned than the occasion warranted. They were just macaroons, after all. Since he hadn't believed for a moment that she really thought they lent a man stamina, why should it possibly matter whether he ate them today or tomorrow?

He reached for a third.

"I'd prefer you save them," she said firmly, taking the basket right out of his hands. She set it on the seat beside her, scooting closer to him in order to do so.

Not that he minded that. To the contrary. But as he finished the third macaroon, he glanced across to Lady Frances, thinking she might object to her charge sitting all but on his lap. Fortunately, Lady Frances seemed to be off in another world. Behind her spectacles, her blue gaze looked dazed.

Once again, although it was a rainy, gray day, Juliana smelled like sunshine. And flowers. So good and sweet it took everything he had not to sneak his arm around her shoulders and pull her even closer. Which he would never do. At least not with Juliana's chaperone watching, even if her eyes were unfocused.

Maybe Lady Frances would fall asleep. It seemed unlikely, but a man could hope.

For he did want to pull Juliana closer. Ever since that day in Harding, Howell & Company when he'd realized he wanted to kiss her, he'd thought of little else. Although the very idea had seemed appalling at first, it didn't any longer, because in the interim—during the hours he'd spent riding with her and accompanying her to the theater—he'd come to realize something else: He was no longer going on these outings to prevent her from wasting her time with Castleton.

Not that he wanted her to spend time with Castleton. Seeing the flowers the man had sent her had made him grit his teeth, because he knew for a fact that the prig was only courting her for a damned horse. He wished he'd told Juliana as much in the beginning, but news like that could deal a serious blow to a woman's self-regard, and he hadn't wanted to hurt her. He wanted even less to hurt her now. But the man wasn't only a prig—he was an ass.

Yet the fact remained that James was no longer going on these outings to save her from the ass—or at least not only to save her from the ass. He enjoyed being with her. She was bright and enthusiastic, and she cared about other people. She'd cared about him when he'd feared a stupid snake. And, all right, she was attractive. Very attractive. Excessively, utterly attractive. Any man with eyes in his head would be hard put to argue with that. Especially considering she always seemed to wear dresses with tiny bodices.

All of which added up to a simple truth: He desired Juliana Chase.

It had been a long time since James had felt desire. It made him feel more alive, like something in him that had lain dormant for two years was beginning to wake up. And the way he saw it, there was little he could do about it.

He didn't love Juliana—he didn't want to love her or anyone else. But love and desire were two very different and distinct emotions. And simply desiring another woman wasn't a betrayal of Anne. He was a man, after all, and everyone knew a man had little control over his desires. Surely he could kiss Juliana even though he wasn't in love.

Was all of that rationalization? Possibly, he acknowledged with a yawn. But he couldn't bring himself to care. Juliana had baked him macaroons, and that meant he was one step closer to kissing her.

Life wasn't too bad right at the moment.

She followed his yawn with one of her own and tried to cover it with a hand.

"I saw that," he said.

"I'm not bored, I promise."

"I didn't think so," he assured her. "It's a medical fact that yawns are contagious."

She smiled, making him smile, too. He appreciated a woman who appreciated his admittedly weak attempts at humor.

"Are you as short on sleep as I?" she asked.

"I'm afraid I am. I was up half the night finishing the speech I plan to deliver this evening in the House of Lords."

"A speech?" She looked impressed, which he found much more encouraging than he probably ought. "What does it concern?"

"A bill I've put forth to publicly fund smallpox vaccinations and make them compulsory for infants."

"Compulsory?" Her blue-green-hazel eyes widened. "That's a rather radical idea, don't you think?"

"Not at all. England is terribly behind the times. Vaccinations were made compulsory in Bavaria in 1807, Denmark in 1810, Norway in 1811, Bohemia and Russia in 1812, and now this year in Sweden." He hoped he had all those dates right; he'd had to memorize them for the speech. "If we're to wipe this scourge off the face of the earth, everyone must cooperate."

She seemed to mull that over for a minute. "This is very important to you, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's very important."

"Why is that?"

"Must there be a reason? Can't it just be for the good of humanity?"

"I think not," she said. "Not when you're so vehement about the subject."

He mentally added perceptive to the list of her qualities. "My brother died of smallpox."

"Oh," she said quietly. "I'm sorry."

"There was nothing I could do to help him. Nothing I could do but watch him die. It's a terrible, horrible disease. Have you ever seen someone suffering with it?"

She shook her head. "No, I don't think so. At least not in the final stages."

"I hope you never will. The pain is excruciating, and the pocks—well, never mind." He wouldn't sicken her by describing the way they'd proliferated on Philip's body until he'd looked like little more than one huge, oozing pustule. "Suffice it to say that I'm hoping someday no one will ever suffer with it again. And I wish to do my part to make that happen."

Her gaze was full of admiration. "You're a good man, James."

Although the tone of her voice made his heart swell, he shrugged. "This is a unique circumstance. Vaccination has given us an opportunity we've never had before—a chance to destroy something that has afflicted mankind for centuries. We'd be fools not to take advantage of it."

"I hope you can convince Parliament, then," she said and reached to take his hand.

She'd actually reached to take his hand. She was holding it. He was afraid to react, for fear she might notice and snatch hers away. Keeping himself still, he shifted his gaze toward her chaperone, but Lady Frances was humming softly under her breath and gazing out the window.

He looked down at their joined hands. Juliana wasn't wearing gloves. Prior to flouncing out to the carriage, she'd grabbed her umbrella but left a pair of white gloves sitting on the marble-topped table. Lady Frances hadn't noticed in her current, bemused state, and James hadn't thought to remind Juliana to take them, either.

Or maybe he hadn't wanted to.

Her hand felt small in his, her palm smooth and warm. He couldn't remember ever being so aware of anyone touching him before. It was a wonder she didn't seem to be feeling it, too.

"I see now," she said. "Your brother's death is why you became a physician. I've been wondering what would compel an earl to take up doctoring," she added, squeezing his fingers with kindly understanding.

He tried not to squeeze back, lest she realize she was touching him. "That's sound reasoning, but not the way it happened. Philip was my older brother—he was supposed to be the earl. I became a physician before his death, not after, because, as a second son, I needed a profession. I was at his bedside as his physician when he died."

"You don't blame yourself for his death, do you?" Concerned sympathy flooded her eyes. "Just because you're a doctor—"

"Good God, no." Even in his darkest days, he hadn't tortured himself with that. "Variola major—the more severe form of smallpox—defies treatment. There is really little a physician can do but keep the patient as comfortable as possible and hope for the best."

"So doctors do nothing?"

"Oh, there are things physicians try, but they generally involve bleeding, emetics, and purgatives—treatments I fear weaken a patient rather than strengthening him." He'd done everything he'd thought could conceivably help his brother; he was totally at peace on that score. "I don't blame myself at all. But I would blame myself if I allowed more people to contract smallpox without trying to do anything to stop it."

"I understand." Her eyes looked blue now, a blue softened by compassion. "I'm truly sorry you lost your brother to such a devastating disease."

"You must have lost a brother, too," he realized suddenly. "Else Griffin wouldn't be the marquess. He wasn't meant to be, was he? After Oxford, he joined the military, same as I did."

"Our brother Charles died of consumption," she said. "A year after our mother succumbed to it first."

They called consumption a "gentle death," but James knew better. Its victims might fade away rather slowly and gracefully, but watching a loved one die was never easy. And Juliana had suffered through that twice.

"Consumption seems to descend upon certain families," he told her. "Probably because it's not easily transmitted like smallpox, but after weeks and months in the same home—"

"I thought it wasn't contagious." She looked shocked. "We all cared for my mother and brother with no concern of risking our own health. The doctors told us consumption is caused by the patient's own constitution and runs in families only because relations are so often alike."

"That may be the prevailing wisdom, but I don't believe it. And I'm not alone. More than two thousand years ago, Hippocrates himself warned doctors to be wary of contracting it from patients. And early in the last century, Benjamin Marten wrote a paper theorizing that consumption is caused by 'wonderfully minute living creatures' that can pass from one person to another, although rarely without extended periods of contact." His explanation didn't seem to be making her rest any easier, so he tried a different approach. "I don't expect you need to worry about catching it now if you haven't already. Nor should your sisters or Griffin. Whatever 'minute creatures' might have been in your home are long gone, I'm certain, and you needn't fret that you were all born with constitutions that will cause you to develop it, either."

"So Charles caught it from our mother, but none of the rest of us did." She drew and released a breath. "I've been wondering if we all might succumb eventually. Is it wicked of me to be relieved that we won't?"

"It's natural to be relieved," he said. "And I could be wrong. Most physicians wouldn't agree with me."

"I think you're right," she said. "I think you're a man who thinks for himself, who looks for his own answers instead of blindly accepting what others claim. We need your sort of men—and women. You're the people who discover things that make the world better for all of us."

If she was wicked to be relieved, he must be even more wicked to want to kiss her because she believed in him. He'd faced a lot of censure over the years from colleagues who scoffed at his refusal to bleed patients and his unorthodox insistence that cleanliness helped prevent infection. Not that he was the only physician to believe such things—it had been nearly sixty-five years since Sir John Pringle, a former Surgeon General of the Army, had coined the word antiseptic. But he certainly went against the norm.

"Thank you," he said, squeezing her hand.

A mistake. Looking startled, she pulled it away. "So." She cleared her throat. "Tomorrow evening at the ball…just how are you planning to ask Lady Amanda if you might court her?"

The quick change of subject made him feel as though his brain had just fallen off a cliff. How did women manage to do that? How had Juliana gone from holding his hand to assuming he was still planning to court Lady Amanda?

He wasn't. He'd decided he'd rather court Juliana—or rather, tempt her into letting him kiss her.

But he didn't quite know how to answer her question, because she hadn't asked him if he was planning to court Lady Amanda. She'd asked him how he was planning to ask for permission.

She must have taken his silence to mean he couldn't figure out how, because when he didn't immediately respond, she added, "Perhaps I can help you devise some particularly gallant method."

"Like what? Shall I ride into the ball on a charger, dressed in armor?"

"Really, now, James, be serious."

He was serious. He was serious about wanting to kiss Juliana. And touch her. And do all sorts of other things with her that would make Lady Frances faint dead away if she ever managed to come out of her fog enough to notice.

"James?" Juliana asked. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Another question he couldn't answer. He could hardly tell her the truth…that he was looking at her while imagining scenarios that would ruin her reputation beyond repair.

Lucky for him, the carriage rolled to a halt in front of the Egyptian Hall.

Chapter Eighteen

THE EXTERIOR OF THE MUSEUM at Number Twenty-two Piccadilly bore a vague resemblance to an Egyptian temple. A very vague resemblance. In fact, it would look rather Palladian, Juliana thought, were it not for the ankhs along the cornice and the two full-length statues that flanked a window above the entrance.

"Are those sculptures supposed to be Egyptian?" Frances asked.

"An Egyptian god and goddess." James gestured toward the figures. "That's Isis on the left, and her brother and husband, Osiris, on the right."

Juliana wondered how he'd come to know such things. "They look like American Indians with headcloths," she said.

He laughed. "I suppose they do. Shall we have a look inside?"

He gave the doorman three shillings for their admission, took a guidebook and handed it to Juliana, and ushered her and Aunt Frances into the museum.

"So many people," Frances said, looking dazed as they jostled their way down a corridor.

"They've all come to see Napoleon's carriage," Juliana told her. "And Captain Cook's artifacts. And," she added, reading off the cover of the guidebook, "'the Collection of Fifteen Thousand Natural and Foreign Curiosities, Antiques, and Productions of the Fine Arts.'"

"I'm feeling faint," Frances said.

"You don't have to look at all of them, Auntie. Listen to this." Pausing in the first of the exhibition rooms, Juliana quoted from the introduction. "'The museum's owner, William Bullock, formed his collection during seventeen years of arduous research at a cost of thirty thousand pounds.'"

"Thirty thousand pounds," James said in wonder. "Just think how many vaccinations all that money could have provided."

Or how many foundlings it could have fed, Juliana thought. But there were other good uses for money. "Widening the horizons of the man in the street is also a worthy cause. Don't you agree, Aunt Frances?" She glanced around. "Aunt Frances?"

"There she is." James pointed toward an exhibit of stuffed African animals. "On that bench, by the rail."

Juliana wove through the crowd to sit beside her, beneath the raised trunk of a massive gray elephant. "Are you unwell, Auntie?"

"I'm fine, child. I thought I'd sit here a while and rest." Frances patted her chest with a happy sigh, and Juliana knew she was thinking about Lord Malmsey and his red roses. "You young people go ahead and start looking. I'll join you in a few minutes."

"We cannot just leave you here," Juliana said.

"Of course we can," James disagreed. "You wouldn't want to risk your aunt's health by taxing her, would you?"

"She doesn't look unhealthy to me. Her cheeks are rosier than I've ever seen them."

"Fever," James said succinctly.

Concerned, Juliana turned to feel her aunt's forehead. "She's not hot."

"Impending fever, then. She needs to rest as a preventative measure." When Juliana failed to rise, he reached for her hand and pulled her from the bench. "Will you argue with a physician?"

"Go on," Aunt Frances put in, waving her gloved hand in encouragement.

Juliana suddenly realized her own hand was bare, and James's felt very strong and warm.

"Come along." He tugged on her hand. "Your aunt will be fine. I believe Captain Cook's artifacts are in the next room."

She pulled her fingers free. Holding her hand in the carriage was one thing—and no doubt the result of those macaroons—but she shouldn't allow him to do so in public. "We haven't seen the things in this room yet."

"A bevy of stuffed animals," he said dismissively. Besides the African display in the center, the walls were lined from floor to ceiling with creatures in glass cases, stacked one on top of another. "What's so interesting about that?"

"There are hundreds of different species."

"You're too short to see most of them," he said. Then, apparently deciding the discussion was over, he draped an arm about her shoulders and began drawing her from the room.

Shocked, she darted a glance to her aunt, but Frances was staring into space, a vague smile curving her lips. Daydreaming, no doubt. She certainly wouldn't be smiling if she'd seen James's arm around her.

Unless, on second thought, seeing James's arm around her had made Frances begin fantasizing about Lord Malmsey holding her in the same fashion. Because Juliana had to admit that being tucked up against a man like this was a pleasurable sensation.

She wondered if Amanda would like it. Probably not, she decided. James was acting a bit more amorous than she'd had in mind. She'd had no idea the macaroons would prove to be so potent.

The next chamber's walls were covered with historical arms and armor. Still attached to her, James walked slowly, admiring the collection as though nothing were out of the ordinary.

"James," she said quietly.

"Hmm?"

"You have your arm about my shoulders."

"I know. I'm practicing for wooing Lady Amanda."

Oh, dear, just as she'd feared. She'd known she shouldn't have let him eat those macaroons. "I don't think Lady Amanda would want you to do this."

"Why not? It feels good, doesn't it?"

She couldn't argue with that, so she didn't.

"We fit perfectly," he added, studying a curved sword.

They did fit perfectly. She'd thought him too tall, but he was just the right height for her to fit perfectly under his arm. Not, of course, that that made it at all proper. And in any case, he wouldn't fit perfectly with Amanda, since Amanda was much taller.

"Um, James?"

"Hmm?"

"People are going to see us and assume you're courting me instead of Lady Amanda."

"We aren't acquainted with anyone here," he said easily, "so they're not going to assume anything." He looked up higher, to peruse a battered shield. "Fascinating, isn't it?"

Unsure whether he was referring to the armor or to the fact that no one would make assumptions, she tried to wriggle away without looking conspicuous. "I cannot really see it. I'm too short. Perhaps we should go see Napoleon's carriage instead."

"Use my quizzing glass," he offered, handing it to her with a smile.

She really had no choice but to take it. Like at the ball, he'd left the long chain around his neck, so she had to lean yet closer to raise the glass to her eye. Dear heavens, he smelled good. She couldn't seem to focus on the shield.

He moved behind her, which was a relief. But then his fingers brushed her neck, and a little shiver ran through her. She blinked through the lens at an ancient, pitted rifle. "What are you doing, James?"

"Just pinning up a strand of your hair that's fallen down."

Her hair was so straight it sometimes slid right out of its pins. But she'd never had a man fix it before. Studying the rusty edge of a cutlass, she wondered if she should stop him.

"I'd do the same thing for Lady Amanda," he said, apparently reading her mind. "It's very gallant, don't you think? I'm getting some excellent practice."

She switched to examine an old flintlock. "Are you finished yet?"

"Not quite."

That deep, chocolatey voice was making it difficult to pay attention, especially since it seemed to be coming from right behind her ear. "You're standing a bit close to me, James."

"You're holding my quizzing glass," he pointed out.

And whose idea had that been? "Do you expect Captain Cook used this pistol?"

"What pistol?" he asked, his hands leaving her hair to rest lightly on her shoulders.

She could feel his breath, warm on the back of her neck. "This pistol I'm looking at on the wall."

"That's part of Bullock's collection." His voice sounded even closer. "Captain Cook's artifacts are in a case to your right."

She turned her head to the right, and his lips met her nape.

Heavens, they felt hot and soft. She nearly groaned when the brief contact ended.

"You shouldn't do that," she whispered, scandalized—although, to be honest, she was mostly scandalized because it had felt so good. "I understand that you wish to practice, but you're taking things too far."

"What things?" James asked.

She dropped the quizzing glass and whirled to face him. "You kissed my neck."

"In public? I think not." His expression was one of studied innocence. "You have an active imagination, Juliana."

She'd been told that before, but she hadn't imagined this. "You'd better not do that to Lady Amanda," she warned. "She wouldn't like it."

"I wouldn't presume to kiss Lady Amanda. She's rather stuffy, isn't she? Rather like Castleton."

"The duke is not stuffy!"

He shrugged and motioned toward a glass case with a few people standing before it. "Did you want to see Captain Cook's artifacts?"

"Yes," she said and made her way over.

She'd wanted for months to see Captain Cook's artifacts, ever since the Morning Post had printed an article about their arrival at the Egyptian Hall. But they weren't nearly as interesting as she'd expected. As she stood before the glass case, her gaze wandering over yellowed shark's teeth and ugly specimens of cloth made from bark, she wondered how it would feel should the duke kiss her neck like James had.

Perhaps she ought to give the duke a few macaroons so she could find out.

"Do you expect those old bones are really from the grave of an ancient Hawaiian chief?" she asked.

"If Captain Cook said so, I'm sure they are."

She wondered if Amanda would find all of this more interesting. Probably, considering she was fascinated with crusty objects from ancient ruins. "Are there any Roman antiquities in this museum?"

"I haven't noticed any yet, but there might be." James slipped an arm around her waist. "Would you like to have a look around and see?"

"Not particularly." Remembering that he'd known the identities of the Egyptian statues outside, she asked, "Would you recognize Roman antiquities?"

"Most certainly," he said dryly. "My father and grandfather were both obsessed with the things."

"Really? Lady Amanda is, too." What an amazing coincidence. "Do you find Roman antiquities fascinating?"

"I wouldn't put it so strongly," he said, drawing her closer against his side. "Mildly interesting, perhaps."

Perfect. Amanda had said she wanted a man who was interested in Roman antiquities. Her friend was going to love coming here with him—as long as he didn't eat so many macaroons first. "Shall we go see Napoleon's carriage now?" she suggested, sidestepping away.

He sidestepped with her. "Absolutely, if that's what you wish."

As they headed to the next room, he kept his arm firmly around her. Endeavoring to ignore that, she opened the guidebook and read from it. "The Emperor's carriage was captured at Waterloo and later purchased from the Prince Regent for twenty-five hundred pounds," she reported. "And it's bulletproof."

"A wise precaution on Napoleon's part." He halted in the archway. "Good God, would you look at all those people?" The carriage was completely surrounded. "Perhaps it would be better to return another time."

She wouldn't be returning with him—his next visit here would be with Amanda. They would look at Roman antiquities.

"I want to see the carriage now," she said, picturing his arm around Amanda's waist instead of hers and wondering why that vision was so unsettling. Probably because Amanda wouldn't approve, she decided as she broke away from him and he followed her to the front of the crowd.

"Pardon me," he kept saying in a tone that sounded half exasperated, half apologetic. "Excuse me. Pardon." Short as she was, she was very good at burrowing her way through a pack of people, but apparently he wasn't.

Up close, the vehicle was beautiful, painted a rich dark blue and ornamented in gold. She looked up and back at James, who had come to a stop behind her. "Even the wheels are gold," she said.

James examined it over her head. "It's such a crush in here," he complained.

"The newspaper reported that ten thousand a day are visiting just to see this carriage."

"There seem to be twenty thousand today." He bumped into her from behind, then placed his hands on her waist to steady her. "My apologies," he murmured by her ear. "These people have no manners."

Although nobody seemed to be jostling, she let him keep his hands there, just in case. "There's a blanket inside, embroidered with the initials NB. Do you expect Napoleon actually slept in here?"

"He'd have been smart to, considering it's bulletproof." He wrapped his arms further around her, overlapping them under her breasts. "There's a desk inside, too."

It was built in below the front window, with many compartments for maps and telescopes. "Very clever," she murmured, leaning back into him so no one would nudge her. His body was warm. His scent swamped her again, making her curiously dizzy. She felt very cozy and safe.

"Do you think Lady Amanda would like this?" he whispered.

"The clever desk?"

"No, me. Holding her like this."

"Oh, yes," she breathed, followed by a horrified, "No!"

What had she been thinking? She could feel his quizzing glass against her spine, which she was certain Amanda would find quite uncomfortable. "Lady Amanda wouldn't like this at all," she said, twisting out of his embrace. "You're right. It's entirely too crowded here today." She pushed through the throng and began retracing their steps back to Frances. "I believe we should fetch my aunt and leave. You cannot be late to Parliament if you're giving a speech tonight."

Frances was still sitting where they'd left her, gazing happily into space.

"Come along, Auntie," Juliana said.

It took a few minutes for the coachman to bring James's carriage around—a few minutes during which she marveled that her macaroons had had such an astounding effect. No sooner had they climbed into the carriage than she burrowed into the basket to count how many macaroons were left.

"What are you doing?" James asked.

"I forgot to keep some for myself." She pulled a handkerchief out of her reticule. "I'm sure Aunt Frances will want some."

"I don't need any macaroons, child." Her aunt patted her newly golden-brown hair. "A lady should keep a trim figure."

Frances had never had a care for her figure before. "Corinna will want some, then," Juliana said, piling them onto her handkerchief. She couldn't leave all the macaroons for James. She needed some for the duke, and besides, the mere thought of James eating nine macaroons made her cringe. Nine! If three had made him so amorous, nine would likely bring on behavior Amanda might never forgive.

James took the basket and peeked inside. "One? You cannot leave me just one."

Maybe he was right. She did want him to act warmly toward Amanda tomorrow night—just not as warmly as in the museum. "Two, then." She put one back in the basket and folded the handkerchief around the remaining seven. "But don't eat them until right before the ball tomorrow," she instructed as she slipped the bundle into her reticule. "You're going to need extra stamina, so you mustn't forget."

Chapter Nineteen

“I CANNOT SEE," FRANCES COMPLAINED. "I should never have let you talk me into taking off my spectacles."

"But you look beautiful, Auntie." Juliana patted her on the arm. "Just wait until Lord Malmsey gazes into your big blue eyes. You won't be sorry then." Having just arrived at Lady Partridge's ball, she looked around for the man in question, smiling when she spotted him across the room. "There he is."

"Where?" Frances glanced around wildly. "I cannot see him."

"Right there, Auntie. Leaning on the mantel." Since it was quite cold for June, Lady Partridge had ordered the fireplaces lit on both ends of her impressive ballroom. "Come along. I'll take you to him."

Frances drew a deep breath and smoothed her soft peach dress down her sides, eyeing her lower-than-usual décolletage—although it wasn't very low compared to what most of the ladies were wearing tonight. "Do I look all right?"

"You look perfect," Juliana assured her, taking her arm as they started across the room. It was true. Frances looked much younger in the fashionable dress with her hair dyed and styled, and Juliana's skillful hand with the cosmetics had completed her transformation. She seemed to be trembling, but there was nothing Juliana could do to help that.

Standing in the glow of the fire, Lord Malmsey also looked nervous. Well, he should be. Not only was he falling in love for the first time in his life, but he was doing so while betrothed to another lady—and while Juliana knew that would soon cease to be a problem, he didn't.

It was unfortunate a gentleman couldn't call off a wedding, because that would solve everything. He'd be free to marry Aunt Frances, and Amanda's father would have no grounds to disinherit her, leaving her free to find another suitor without so much pressure. But it just wasn't done. Although a lady could back out of an engagement—assuming she was willing to be labeled a jilt—a gentleman had no honorable way to withdraw an offer of marriage.

As Lord Malmsey noticed them approaching, a tentative smile spread on his face. While it didn't quite transform him—it didn't, after all, smooth his creased forehead or improve his unfortunate receding hairline—he did seem more attractive than Juliana remembered. Perhaps it was his stylish suit, which was obviously brand-new, or perhaps it was because what was left of his hair had been neatly trimmed. Or perhaps it was a glow that came from knowing someone of the opposite sex cared for him.

Love could change a person.

When they reached him, his anxious gaze met her aunt's. "Good evening, Lady Frances," he said shyly.

A youthful blush blossomed on Frances's cheeks, making her even more alluring. "Good evening, Lord Malmsey."

"Please," he said, gazing into her big blue eyes, "call me Theodore."

Juliana had never heard the man's given name—in fact, she felt somewhat surprised to hear he even had one. But Aunt Frances stopped shaking, and her lips curved in a timid smile. "Call me Frances, then, please."

Lord Malmsey held out his arm. "Would you honor me with a dance…Frances?"

"My goodness, I'd love nothing more," she gushed, which sounded nothing like the formal words of acceptance she'd practiced with Juliana. But it sounded better, more genuine, and made Lord Malmsey grin in response. Shooting Juliana a disbelieving—and myopic—glance, Frances took his arm and sailed off with him.

Juliana sighed as she watched them drift toward the dance floor. Love was so inspiring.

"Did the macaroons work? Are my eyes sparkling?"

She turned to find Amanda standing beside her, wearing the dress Juliana had chosen because its gray-blue hue intensified the color of her eyes. Alas, those eyes weren't noticeably sparkling, but Juliana wouldn't tell her so.

"You look lovely," she said instead. Amanda did look lovely, actually, whether her eyes sparkled or not. Juliana's hard work with her had definitely paid off. "Are you carrying your new fan?"

Amanda held it up. "And I'm wearing the gloves, like you told me to."

"Excellent. Have you seen James—I mean, Lord Stafford—yet?"

"No. I don't think he's arrived." Amanda's not-sparkling eyes looked apprehensive. "His gifts are wonderful, but what if I still don't like him particularly?"

"You will." How could anyone not like James? He was warm, intelligent, kind, and caring, and even though he didn't have time to go out much in society, Amanda shouldn't care a fig about that. It wasn't as though she was a social butterfly herself.

If anything, Juliana was more concerned about James liking Amanda, mostly because he seemed much more affectionate than Amanda. But soon he would discover they had interests in common—chess and antiquities—and hopefully the macaroons would work to make Amanda warmer than usual. Or at least more receptive to his warmth.

Amanda frowned toward the dance floor. "Is Lord Malmsey waltzing with your aunt?"

"Yes. Isn't it wonderful?"

"He's engaged to me," she said.

It was Juliana's turn to frown. "You're planning to break that engagement, aren't you? Under the circumstances, I should think you'd be happy to see him showing interest in another woman. It's not your goal to devastate him, is it? Besides, you've spent the last week dancing with other men."

In fact, two other men were approaching now. As Rachael had said, Amanda looked to be this season's Incomparable—at least until her novelty wore off.

"Smile, Amanda," Juliana instructed through a fixed smile of her own. "You're not engaged to Lord Stafford yet, so you might need one of these gentlemen."

Before she turned her new, practiced smile on the potential suitors, Amanda at least had the grace to look chagrined. Which was a good thing, because given her earlier attitude, Juliana had been tempted to call the whole plan off. Except then Lord Malmsey would have to marry Amanda, which would hardly be fair to either him or Aunt Frances.

Having multiple projects was proving to be complicated.

As Amanda went off to dance with the luckier of the two men, Juliana sensed a presence behind her and turned to see the Duke of Castleton. "Lady Juliana," he said, his tone cultured and reserved as always, "may I beg the honor of your company for a dance?"

"By all means, your grace." She loved calling him your grace and thinking that someday—maybe someday soon—other people would say that to her. She took the duke's arm and headed toward the dance floor. "A waltz," she said happily, shooting him a smile. "Now you'll have an excuse to touch me."

She'd uttered the words in a flirtatious manner, but although she was an accomplished flirt, the duke didn't seem to take her hint. "You're looking beautiful tonight, my dear," he said, and then he held her at a respectable distance throughout the entirety of the dance, and he didn't touch her anywhere that wasn't strictly necessary.

None of that meant he wasn't enamored. He'd sent her flowers, after all. And he'd called her my dear. But all the same, Juliana had enjoyed the affection she'd received from James, and she wished the duke would loosen up a bit and show a little physical affection, too. Even a smidgen would be encouraging.

Luckily, she'd transferred the handkerchief-wrapped macaroons into the pretty yellow reticule that matched her dress. As they came off the dance floor, she slid the beaded purse off her wrist and opened it.

"Thank you for the waltz, my dear," the duke said very formally.

"It was my pleasure." She pulled out the bundle and handed it to him. "I baked macaroons for you."

He looked startled. "In the kitchen?" he asked, as though there were somewhere else—someplace more acceptable—a proper lady of the ton might bake.

"Yes, in the kitchen. Chase ladies are known for making all sorts of sweets." Since he wasn't moving to do so, she unwrapped the macaroons for him. "Won't you try one?"

Looking discomfited, he selected an especially small one and surreptitiously slipped it into his mouth, then chewed and swallowed thoroughly before stating his opinion. "They're absolutely delicious," he said. "I can see why the Chase ladies are known for their sweets." He held forth the handkerchief with the rest of them.

She didn't take it. "I'm so glad they meet with your approval. I hope you'll enjoy all of them." Seven macaroons might seem a bit much, considering three had made James overly affectionate, but she suspected it could take at least that many to ease a manner as reserved as the duke's. "Thank you for the dance," she added, with a very proper curtsy. Then she took her leave, before he could try to hand them to her again.

Men didn't carry reticules—and the duke was entirely too fastidious to put a bundle of macaroons in his pocket.

He'd have no choice but to eat them.

Chapter Twenty

THE WEATHER WAS ALWAYS A popular topic of conversation, but it seemed even more so this unusually cold year. In fact, James reflected as he stood in a circle of men at Lady Partridge's ball, it seemed that lately people talked of little else.

"The sunspots are responsible for the cold," Lord Cravenhurst was saying. "Clearly there is something amiss with the universe."

Lord Davenport inclined his head sagely. "Nine groups of sunspots have been counted, plus several single ones scattered from the eastern to the western side of the sun. I fear they portend the end of the world. The sun is cooling off."

"I think not." James found himself half amused by these absurd theories, but his other half was rather disturbed to think the country was being run by the crackpots expounding them. "Sunspots are hardly new. Galileo noted them more than two hundred years ago. If you'll but examine the temperature records, you'll find Britain has seen both uncommonly cold and uncommonly warm summers since then, and such periods have nothing to do with sunspots."

Lord Hawkridge nodded. "Stafford is right."

James gave the man a subtle nod in return, glad to have another non-crackpot in the discussion. He knew Hawkridge from his Oxford days, although not terribly well—the man had been a much closer friend of Griffin's. A newcomer to Parliament and a fellow Whig, Hawkridge had impressed James so far on the floor. He seemed a true gentleman with a clear head and a keen sense of honor.

"I agree with Hawkridge and Stafford," Lord Haversham announced. "Sunspots aren't responsible for the cold. The moon is to blame."

"And how is that?" Hawkridge asked.

Apparently not scientifically minded, Haversham shrugged. "It's common knowledge that the cycles of the moon affect everything."

"Nonsense." Everyone turned to Lord Occlestone, a man who sadly—or fittingly, depending on one's estimation of the fellow—resembled nothing so much as a pink-faced porker. "It's not the moon or sunspots," he declared loudly, spewing sputum on everyone else in the process. "It's the fault of those upstart Americans."

James wiped his face. "How the devil can you blame this on the Americans?" Occlestone had been another classmate at Oxford—one James hadn't liked then and liked even less now. A staunch Tory and generally against any progress or reform, Occlestone was doing everything he could to block James's bill to make smallpox vaccinations government-funded and mandatory for infants.

"North America is suffering even colder weather than ours," Hawkridge pointed out. "Their newspapers have been predicting famine in the coming months due to crop failure."

"I've seen reports of famine in Switzerland as well," Davenport put in.

"Famine or not," Occlestone said, plainly disinterested in something so unlikely to affect him personally, "we can lay the blame at the feet of an American. Benjamin Franklin, to be precise."

"At the feet of Benjamin Franklin?" Incredulous, James blinked. "I expect Mr. Franklin's feet are decomposed by now. He's been dead more than twenty-five years."

The others laughed, but Occlestone's porcine eyes narrowed. "Dead or not, he invented the lightning rod, didn't he? I'll have you know that the interior of the earth is hot due to electrical fluids circulating about beneath the surface. That heat is usually discharged into the air around us, but because of Franklin's lightning rods—which are now being installed all over not only his country but ours as well—the earth's process of releasing heat into the atmosphere has been interrupted."

"That's not how I've heard it explained," Cravenhurst said. "Quite the opposite, in fact. Since lightning is heat, the lightning rods have taken the heat from the air. Hence we shall never again see summer."

Davenport rubbed his balding pate. "Either way, Franklin would be responsible. But I still blame the sunspots."

James decided that, Hawkridge excepted, they all had more hair than sense—even shiny-headed Davenport. Still, it wouldn't do to call them idiots to their faces.

"Like all of you," he said carefully, "I've given this much thought. And that, coupled with keen observation, has led me to dismiss these predictions of doom. There's been a haze overhead the last months. I believe that haze is temporarily blocking the sun."

Occlestone crossed his arms. "A haze?"

"Yes, a haze. Or a fog, if you will, or perhaps it's some sort of dust, since it appears to be dry. Unlike the way the sun easily dissipates a moist fog arising from the water, its warmth seems to have little effect on this haze. Therefore it logically follows that its rays aren't reaching the earth and warming it as usual."

"And to what do you attribute this haze?" Occlestone demanded.

"That I couldn't tell you. I'm a physician, not a meteorologist. But I see no reason to jump to the conclusion that the condition will continue indefinitely."

"Do you expect there's a haze above America as well? I think not." Occlestone's pinkish face was turning rather purple. "I was forced to listen to your damned two-hour speech in Parliament, Stafford, but I don't have to listen to you here." And with that, he walked off, muttering so loudly James suspected he was audible halfway across the ballroom.

"Good evening, Tristan," James heard a familiar feminine voice say behind him.

He turned to see Juliana, dressed in such a cheerful bright yellow she seemed to make up for all the missing sunshine. But he didn't like hearing her address Hawkridge by his given name, and he liked even less seeing her smile when the man walked closer, raised her hand, and pressed a kiss to the back of it. "You're looking lovely tonight, Juliana."

James didn't hear what they said next. He was too busy telling himself he had no business caring who courted Juliana, and she was entitled to have genuine suitors, and at least Hawkridge wasn't a prig and an ass. The next thing he knew, Hawkridge was gone—and Juliana was looking at him with a puzzled expression.

"Are you all right, James?"

He blinked. "Of course. Why shouldn't I be?"

"You just looked…odd."

He shrugged. "Hawkridge is a fine fellow, isn't he?"

"Yes. It's a shame he was shunned by society for so long. I'm very glad Alexandra managed to clear his name."

"Alexandra?"

"My older sister. His wife."

"Oh." Whatever scandal had afflicted Hawkridge, it must have happened while James was preoccupied by grief. Feeling an absurd rush of relief, it was all he could do to hold back a grin. Hawkridge wasn't Juliana's suitor—he was her brother-in-law. "I didn't realize he was married to your sister."

"I forgot you've met only Corinna. I shall have to introduce you to Alexandra." She caught sight of someone and frowned. "That man doesn't like you much, does he?"

Awestruck once again at her lightning-fast change of subject, James followed her gaze. "Occlestone?" He hadn't realized she'd overheard their conversation. "He doesn't like any of the bills I propose in Parliament. But I don't like him much, either, so we're even."

"Two hours," she said, looking impressed. "How was your speech received? Other than by Lord Occlestone, I mean."

He sighed. "I don't think the House of Lords is prepared to expend more money fighting smallpox. They awarded two grants to fund Edward Jenner's research—in 1802 and again in 1806—and they consider that enough. In addition, there are those who feel that making immunization obligatory would be a problem in itself. A matter of civil liberty. They believe imposing vaccinations isn't acceptable in a country with a tradition of freedom."

"They have a point," she said thoughtfully.

He nodded. "When it comes to weighing personal freedom against the greater good, I admit to some ambivalence." Very little in this world was black and white. "But I do wish there was more support for public funding of the effort to eradicate the disease."

"Has your bill come to a vote?"

"Not yet, but I fear I know the outcome already." His two-hour speech had been followed by four hours of debate—mostly not in his favor. "I shall try again next year. Perhaps for funding alone, given the resistance to making vaccination compulsory."

"You're a reasonable man, James."

He shrugged. "Merely pragmatic. No matter how strongly I feel about conquering smallpox, I'm coming to believe there's nothing I can say that will override others' desire to protect individual rights. And I'm not even sure their position isn't legitimate."

"But will money alone help? You're already paying for other people's vaccinations."

"Only here in London. My income, after all, though not insubstantial, is limited. But government funds would go toward more than doctors and supplies—they would also pay for education. If everyone learned the importance of immunization and therefore decided to have their children vaccinated, the end result would be the same as if it were required." Thinking this was quite a serious discussion for a young lady at a social event, he smiled and changed the subject. "Are you enjoying Lady Partridge's ball?"

"Of course. I didn't see you arrive."

"That's because you were dancing with Castleton." The ass had looked as stuffy as ever, even with Juliana in his arms, which had cheered James tremendously. "Can I convince you to dance with me instead?"

"You're here to dance with Lady Amanda," she reminded him. "Did you eat the macaroons before you came?"

"Absolutely. I assure you, I shall have enough stamina to dance with you both."

"Very well," she said with a laugh. "We can talk about your strategy as we dance."

James didn't want to talk about strategy. But he did want to get his hands on Juliana, with the intention of making more progress toward eventually kissing her, so he mumbled something that sounded like consent and drew her toward the dance floor.

Chapter Twenty-One

“SO," JULIANA SAID TO JAMES as they waltzed, "have you decided how you're going to ask Lady Amanda's permission to court her?"

He pulled her closer. "I thought I'd start with 'May I have this dance?' and take it from there."

"That doesn't sound particularly gallant."

"I think it will work," he said dismissively. "After all, I bought her several gifts." He pulled her closer still, until their bodies were nearly touching, which had the odd effect of making her tingle. "Have I sent her all of the gifts yet, or just some?"

"Only the fan and the gloves so far," she said, feeling breathless as his hand smoothed slowly down her back. "And the flowers, of course. You'll send the rest next week."

"You'll see to that, I presume," he said dryly as he slid his hand back up. "Sending the gifts is a very gallant gesture, isn't it?"

"That's why I suggested them."

"Well, then," he said, skimming his fingers down again and making her pulse race a little faster, "shouldn't that be enough? They do say that actions speak louder than words."

His actions were speaking volumes. He shouldn't be rubbing her back in the middle of a crowded dance floor, but she expected the macaroons were to blame for such forward behavior—and she had to admit it felt very nice. If he did the same to Amanda, that, coupled with the gifts, could very well be enough to make her want to marry him.

As the waltz came to an end, she was pleased to notice her older sister conversing with Amanda. "There's Alexandra now," she said, maneuvering so that James would lead her off the dance floor in their direction. "Let me introduce you."

James told Alexandra he'd been delighted to learn Lord Hawkridge had wed—in fact, he seemed more happy about that than was warranted—and Alexandra was glad to meet the man who'd been discussed so avidly at Juliana's sewing parties, although she didn't say so, of course.

After the introductions were complete, it was a simple matter to suggest that James and Amanda dance. Unfortunately, the musicians struck up a country tune, not a waltz, but the two of them headed off, looking very good together. They were both tall, and James's dark handsomeness contrasted with Amanda's pale beauty. Anyone would agree they made a perfect couple.

Juliana turned and spotted James's mother gazing happily toward her son, clearly pleased to see him with the lovely Amanda. Lady Stafford looked different tonight—or younger, maybe—wearing a fashionable dress of deep rose with almond trim. Juliana recalled seeing something similar in the latest issue of La Belle Assemblée. Remembering that James wanted his mother to dance, she looked around for an eligible gentleman and found one nearby.

"Lord Cavanaugh," she said, smiling when he shifted to face her. A dapper widower in his mid-fifties with a patrician nose and silver hair, he was ideal for Lady Stafford. "Are you enjoying the evening?"

He grinned down at her, looking surprised to have a lady so much younger engage him in conversation. "Very much, Lady Juliana. And you?"

"Very much as well." She started edging toward James's mother. "Have you been dancing much tonight?"

"Not yet," he said, interpreting her question as an invitation, just as she'd intended. "But I'd be honored to—"

"Excellent," she said, walking him right up to Lady Stafford. "Good evening, Lady Stafford."

James's mother turned, the smile still on her face. "Good evening, Lady Juliana."

"Your dress is beautiful. Is it new?"

Her warm brown eyes, so like her son's, sparkled much more than Amanda's. She reached to touch Juliana's arm. "Why, thank you, and yes, it is."

"I believe you know Lord Cavanaugh?" Juliana smiled in the man's direction. "He would love to dance with you. I hope you enjoy yourselves," she added and sailed off.

Corinna stepped into her path. "Very smooth, Juliana."

Since she was so happy with the way everything was going, she ignored her sister's sarcastic tone. "Thank you."

"Has it ever occurred to you that some people might not appreciate your meddling?"

"I'm not meddling. I'm helping." She gestured toward the dance floor, where Lady Stafford was performing a quadrille with Lord Cavanaugh. "They're both smiling."

"They're being polite."

"They're happy. He's a wealthy widower; she's a lonely widow. Why shouldn't they be happy to dance together?"

"Maybe because you pushed them into it?"

"Some people need a little pushing." She eyed her sister, thinking she looked a bit lonely. "Shall I find a dance partner for you?"

"Holy Hannah," Corinna said and walked off.

Juliana looked back to the dance floor. No matter what her sister said, it was obvious Lord Cavanaugh and James's mother were thoroughly enjoying their dance. And Lord Malmsey and Aunt Frances were dancing again, their eyes locked on each other in a way that made Juliana sigh with envy. If only the duke would look at her like that. Well, maybe he would now, having eaten the macaroons.

She was looking around for him when Amanda walked up. "I talked to Lord Malmsey."

"About what?" Juliana gasped, picturing her giving him a piece of her mind about dancing with Frances.

But Amanda surprised her. "About our betrothal. You were right—I had no call to disapprove of him showing interest in another woman. I told him that I understand his change of heart, and feel the same, and I'm going to find a way out of the marriage that will leave him with his honor intact."

Juliana slumped in relief. "You've decided to marry Lord Stafford, then."

Amanda shook her head. "I'm still not struck by love."

Impossible. "Did Lord Stafford touch you?" Juliana asked.

"Touch me? He touched my hand, of course, during the dance when we progressed."

"But nothing else? Nothing more…amorous?"

"Amorous?" Amanda's eyes widened. "I should hope not! It's not as though we're engaged."

They'd never get engaged if she didn't let him touch her. "The plan was to find someone willing to compromise you," Juliana reminded her. "And some touching, after all, will be necessary in order to convince your father that you're compromised. Perhaps a little experimentation would be wise."

Amanda appeared to quail at the very idea. "It's too soon. I've yet to decide if Lord Stafford is the man I wish to have compromise me."

"Well, your wedding is only three weeks off. You'd best make your decision quickly, or it will be Lord Malmsey touching you instead of someone of your own choosing."

The poor girl's face went white, and Juliana's heart went out to her. How a woman as reserved as Amanda would get through her wedding night was something she didn't even want to contemplate.

"We'll find someone," she promised, reaching to pat Amanda's hand. "I'm just not sure it's realistic to expect to be struck by love in so little time."

Amanda bit her lip, looking more reserved than ever. "Perhaps you're right."

"If you'd allow Lord Stafford to touch you, that might help."

"He hasn't tried," Amanda said.

Surely the effect of the macaroons hadn't worn off that quickly. "Perhaps if you were a bit more receptive."

"I'll try." Amanda fiddled with her fan. "Do you enjoy it when the duke touches you?"

"Very much," Juliana assured her, wishing the duke had actually touched her so she wouldn't have to fib. "Listen. The musicians are starting a waltz. That's an excellent dance for touching."

She took Amanda's arm and marched her to where James was talking to his mother. "Lady Amanda would love to waltz," she said.

When he didn't move, Lady Stafford nudged him. "Go on, James. We can finish this discussion at home."

"Very well," he said stiffly, offering Amanda his arm. "Shall we dance again?"

As the young couple walked off, Lady Stafford gave a happy sigh and smiled at Juliana, looking as though she had something to say to her. Something nice. But just then, Lord Cavanaugh came up and smartly bowed before the older woman.

"Shall we dance again?" he asked.

Shooting Juliana an even wider smile over her shoulder, Lady Stafford went off with him.

Juliana looked around and spotted the Duke of Castleton walking out of the card room. Aiming her best, practiced smile at him, she went up and tapped him on the arm. "Shall we dance again?"

That line had worked well for everyone else, but the duke looked startled. Juliana supposed it wasn't proper for a lady to do the asking, but she was dying to see how well the macaroons had worked, so she started toward the dance floor, knowing he would follow.

And he did follow, of course. But when they started to waltz, his arms were rigid, and he held her just as far away as ever.

"Who is that dancing with Stafford?" he asked. "Do you know her?"

"That's Lady Amanda Wolverston, and I know her very well. We grew up together as neighbors."

"I've never noticed her before."

Well, of course he hadn't. No one had noticed Amanda before Juliana took her in hand. "What did you think of Lord Stafford's controversial speech?"

"To which speech do you refer?"

"Yesterday's. In Parliament. Concerning smallpox vaccinations."

"How would you come to know of that?" he asked, but apparently the question was rhetorical, because he didn't wait for an answer. "I was at my club all day and night," he told her. "Playing cards."

She wondered why she found that disturbing. After all, she wanted a man who had plenty of time for her, and clearly he put pleasure before more serious pursuits. "Did you win?"

"Does it matter? It was an amusing way to pass the hours." He smiled down on her indulgently. "I can afford to lose, I assure you. I have plenty of money to both gamble and buy flowers for a special lady."

She was glad he thought she was special, but if he had extra funds, perhaps they'd be better spent on something more meaningful. A worthy cause. The Foundling Hospital, perhaps, or smallpox vaccinations.

Once she knew him better, she'd make the suggestion. She wished he would loosen up so she could get to know him better. "Did you eat any more of my macaroons?" she asked, concluding he hadn't.

"All of them," he said, surprising her. "They tasted so wonderful, and I couldn't find anywhere to put them to save them for later."

That was as she'd expected. But why weren't they working? "I'm glad you enjoyed them."

"They were truly very good."

Apparently they weren't good enough. They didn't seem to make him amorous at all. She moved a little bit closer, but he stiffened his arms until they were once more at a proper distance.

Lord Cavanaugh, she noticed, wasn't dancing nearly so properly with Lady Stafford. The two of them looked rather cozy. And Aunt Frances and Lord Malmsey were so close they were all but tromping on each other's toes. Amanda, however, was dancing at a proper distance from James.

She should have left James more macaroons, considering two had worn off too quickly and even seven hadn't affected the duke. What would make a man so resistant? Since the duke was a by-blow, she imagined his father might have acted distant, knowing his son was actually sired by another. But a good mother should have made up for that.

"Was your mother very affectionate?" she asked.

"Affectionate?" He looked taken aback by the mere question. "I wouldn't know. I never knew either of my parents."

Oh, how tragic. "Why was that?"

"They died when I was six months old. Drowned in a storm while crossing the Channel."

"I'm so sorry." Juliana had lost her parents as a young adult—she could hardly imagine growing up without parents altogether. Even motherless Emily and Amanda had fathers in their lives. "Who raised you, then?"

His handsome mouth compressed into a thin line. "My uncle and aunt—my father's brother and his wife. Did you know I was born in your house? The first thing they did as my guardians was sell that house to your father and then buy my current, more splendid house in Grosvenor Square. I was well satisfied to turn them out of it when I gained my majority."

She was happy to hear he had a splendid house, but she wondered at the bitterness in his tone. "Were they not nice to you?"

"Nice?" He laughed, but it was a laugh devoid of humor. "If I hadn't been born half a year before my parents died, my uncle and aunt would have been the duke and duchess. They never forgave me for robbing them of that."

He didn't offer any details, but Juliana could imagine them for herself. His uncle and aunt had been cold, cruel, and resentful. He'd received no hugs growing up, no physical affection.

No wonder he wasn't affectionate himself. No one had ever shown him how. "I'm so sorry you had a sad childhood," she told him.

"You're so caring, my dear," he said, giving her a fond smile.

Now she understood. No one had cared for him throughout his childhood, which was why he had a hard time getting close to others now. Like all people, he'd learned by example, and he needed a new example to learn by.

Human touch could go a long way. Once he learned to be more affectionate, he would also be more charitable. The poor man needed someone in his life to gently guide him, to help his softer side come to the fore.

He needed her. With her in his life, demonstrating affection and giving to others—

The dance came to an end. Before she could finish formulating her plan, he bowed formally and thanked her.

No sooner had he walked away than Lady Stafford walked up. "I must thank you for introducing me to Lord Cavanaugh."

"I thought you already knew him."

"Reintroducing me, then." She smiled, her kindly eyes reminding Juliana of her own mother. "I'm giving a little dinner party tomorrow evening at Stafford House, and Lord Cavanaugh has agreed to attend. My son will be there, too. Might I have the pleasure of your company as well?"

"I'd be delighted to attend." She liked James's mother. Lady Stafford was very motherly, and Juliana missed her mother rather a lot. Plus the dinner would give her a chance to ask James how his courtship of Amanda was proceeding and remind him to invite her to visit the Egyptian Hall. Once Amanda discovered their shared interest in Roman antiquities, she was certain to fall in love.

"I'm also going to ask the young lady with whom my son has been dancing." Lady Stafford's gaze slid to Amanda and back. "Shall I invite the Duke of Castleton to round out our party?"

"That would be lovely," Juliana said.

That would be perfect, in fact. The duke never called on Sundays, so the dinner would give her a chance to begin helping him right away. She'd be able to direct the conversation to James's cause and perhaps persuade him to contribute.

She hoped the duke would come to like James, and vice versa. Perhaps, in the long run, she and the duke could become fast friends with James and Amanda and have more dinner parties after both couples were married. That would be an ideal situation, because she'd come to enjoy James's company in the time they'd spent together.

"Eight o'clock, then?" the older woman asked. "Lady Amanda lives on your street, doesn't she? On the west side of Berkeley Square? I'll have the Stafford carriage sent round for you both."

Chapter Twenty-Two

APPLE AND ORANGE TART

Peel two Oranges and make into pieces, then peel some Apples into thin slices. Put in a bowle with a smidgen of Flour, a cup of Sugar, some Cinnamon and Ginger. Put into your paste with pieces of Butter all over. Cover with more paste and some Sugar and bake in your oven until browne.

Excellent to bring to a party with friends. As the apples and oranges in this tart go together, so do the people who eat it.

—Eleanor, Marchioness of Cainewood, 1735

“ISN'T THIS A STUNNING CARRIAGE?" Juliana asked as she and Amanda neared Stafford House.

"Lord Stafford is an earl." Amanda absentmindedly ran a hand over the deep green velvet upholstery. "I'd expect him to have a nice carriage."

The well-sprung vehicle rocked, making Juliana tighten her grip on the tart she'd baked that afternoon. Was there nothing about the man that would impress her friend? "He likes chess," she reminded her, and then, even though she'd meant to let Amanda discover they had more in common at the Egyptian Hall, she added, "And you might want to ask him if he's interested in Roman antiq—"

She cut off mid-word as the carriage came to a stop and the door opened, revealing a footman dressed in crimson livery trimmed in gold. "Welcome to Stafford House," he said, offering a gloved hand to help them down.

"Gracious me," Amanda breathed, her eyes widening as she stepped out and stood before the mansion. "I've noticed this house from Green Park, but I had no idea it belonged to Lord Stafford." It was three stories tall, the facade clad in brilliant white Portland stone. "Would you look at those statues on top of that Roman Doric portico? Bacchus, Flora, and Ceres."

Juliana hadn't a clue who Bacchus, Flora, and Ceres were, but she smiled all the same. "Lord Stafford can name ancient gods and goddesses, just like you."

A butler ushered them inside an impressive entrance hall with curved walls, a pale marble floor, and an arched window looking out on a resplendent central courtyard garden.

"Gracious me," Amanda repeated, staring up at a strip of decorations that ran around the room below the carved oval ceiling. "That frieze looks like the one in the Temple of Jupiter." Slowly, reverently, she walked toward a large marble bust that sat on a pedestal before the window. "This is amazing." She reached a hand as though to touch it, then stopped herself. "It must be priceless."

"He doesn't look like a god," Juliana said.

"He isn't. That's Emperor Lucius Verus, the adopted brother of Marcus Aurelius who ruled with him."

Juliana examined the haughty, bearded fellow. "He's very handsome."

"He was said to be weak and indulgent. I understand that his death was rather a relief to the Empire."

"How do you know such things?" Juliana asked.

"From books, of course. My father's library has grown by leaps and bounds since he discovered the ruins on the property. Do you not read, too?"

"Most certainly." Newspapers, because she liked to keep up with what was going on in the world. Magazines by the dozen. Poetry and the latest novels discussed in polite company. And those discussed in whispers, such as the torrid Minerva Press romance currently hidden beneath her pillow. But Roman history and mythology?

She'd had no idea Amanda was so bookish.

After collecting their pelisses and umbrellas, the butler led them through a staircase hall. Or at least he tried to lead them through a staircase hall. Amanda stopped in her tracks, staring at a statue that was larger-than-life.

"It's a centaur," she said.

"Even I know that. My education isn't totally lacking." Juliana was rather fascinated by all the ridges on the creature's bare, toned chest. But Amanda had already moved on, kneeling down by a large fragment of carved stone that sat beneath an inlaid wooden side table.

"Part of a sarcophagus, I'd guess." She ran her fingers across the piece. "First century."

"How do you know?" Juliana wondered.

Amanda just shrugged as she rose, gesturing to two more carved stone pieces on either side of the table. "Funerary altars. Also first century. The flat surface was used for sacrificial ceremonies." She sighed expansively. "This house is just full of treasures."

The butler continued on, leading them down a corridor lined with gilt-framed paintings of Stafford ancestors, then turning into the most gorgeous room Juliana had ever seen. Between arched walls painted a soft pistachio green, gilded columns looked like golden palm trees, their fronds projecting high overhead. In the back of the room, a large alcove was crowned with a domed ceiling, divided into small gilt-edged squares alternately tinted green and pink.

Dressed in a burgundy gown with pink trim, Lady Stafford rose from where she faced Lord Cavanaugh across a chessboard and greeted them with a smile. "Good evening. I'm so pleased you could both come." She moved to take the dish Juliana was holding out. "What is this, my dear?"

"An apple and orange tart. The recipe was my great-grandmother's."

She lifted the lace doily that covered it. "Oh, my. It smells delicious."

"It's supposed to promote friendship," Amanda informed her, gazing down at the chess set.

"Lovely!" Lady Stafford set the tart on a marble side table. "We shall serve it after dinner."

"What a beautiful chess set," Juliana said, amused by Amanda's fascination. "Roman gladiators, aren't they? Do the pieces date back to that time?"

"No, they look much newer," Amanda said. "And besides, chess isn't that old. It wasn't invented until after the Empire fell."

"My father-in-law commissioned the set to be carved." Lady Stafford lifted a crystal decanter. "Would you care for some sherry?"

"A little, please." Juliana took the first glass she poured and perched herself on a pale green satin love seat with gilt palm tree legs that had obviously been designed to match the room. "Thank you so much for inviting us to your home."

"It's my son's home," Lady Stafford said, handing Amanda another glass.

That son walked into the room with the duke, the two of them deep in conversation. Juliana was thrilled to see the men were becoming friends already. She smoothed the skirts of her white dress, which she'd chosen hoping the duke would think it proper and ladylike.

Very pure, as James had said.

Sipping sherry, Amanda sat beside her. "He's so much taller," she whispered.

James was much taller than the duke. Which was why he and Amanda looked so good together.

"And darker," Amanda added.

Yes, James was dark. The duke looked pasty in comparison. Pasty and pale-haired. But only in comparison. And Juliana preferred pale hair.

"And much more handsome."

"It isn't polite to whisper," Juliana whispered back. She didn't want to think about James being much more handsome. And it wasn't true, anyway.

Was it?

"Good evening, ladies," James said, his voice low and chocolate-smooth as always. On hearing it, Juliana felt her knees weaken as always, too, even though she was sitting down.

"Good evening," the duke said in his perfectly normal voice. He smiled at Juliana. "It's lovely to see you again, my dear."

Well, why should a voice matter, anyway? The duke was a duke. And it was obvious he cared for her, even if he didn't touch her.

A footman appeared in the doorway and announced dinner. Lord Cavanaugh offered Lady Stafford his arm. "Shall we?"

The rest of them followed the older couple into a large formal dining room. The extra leaves had been removed from the mahogany table to make it an oval for six. While a footman drew back Juliana's chair, she took a moment to look around. The dining room featured Roman-looking marble columns, a beautiful Turkey carpet, and a carved marble fireplace. But the most impressive thing was the ceiling, a scalloped design with round inset panels representing classical scenes, all decorated in gold.

"This is exquisite," she said as she sank onto her forest green velvet seat.

"My late husband's pride and joy." Lady Stafford sat, too. "It was based on a ceiling in the Baths of Augustus in Rome."

Gazing up at it, Amanda sighed. "This is the most magnificent house I've ever seen. Everything in it is absolutely splendid." She turned to James beside her. "You have wonderful taste, Lord Stafford."

His mother laughed. "The taste was his grandfather's. The man hired the venerable Henry Holland as his designer. Were it up to my son, he'd probably sell the whole lot and use the money to vaccinate every last soul in England."

James frowned. "The sale of this house and its contents wouldn't begin to cover—"

"I was jesting," Lady Stafford broke in with the sort of fond smile a mother gives her exasperating-but-adored son. "I trust you not to sell off the family treasures."

Juliana saw an opportunity to segue into a matter she'd hoped to discuss. "If others would help with Lord Stafford's cause," she said as asparagus soup was served in porcelain bowls with gold Stafford crests on their crimson rims, "there would be no need to sell anything." Lifting her spoon, which was gold, too, she turned to the duke. "Eradicating smallpox is a worthy goal that all should contribute toward, don't you think?"

"All?" The duke raised his own gold spoon. "Worthy or not, I don't expect everyone can afford to donate."

"Certainly you can," she said sweetly.

She thought she heard choking sounds from James. Or maybe a muffled chortle.

Lord Cavanaugh took a sip of wine. "I'd be pleased to contribute."

"Thank you very much," James said with an expression of startled approval. "That would be greatly appreciated."

Lady Stafford looked quite delighted.

Amanda turned a smile on James. "I should like to contribute, too," she said prettily, "but alas, I shall need to ask my father for the funds."

Knowing Amanda's father, Juliana suspected he wouldn't donate a penny. And she was sure Amanda knew that, too. "Time is also valuable," she said. "You could volunteer your aid in lieu of money."

Amanda blinked and pressed a hand to her pale blue muslin bodice. "Are you suggesting I give smallpox vaccinations?"

"No, of course not. Doctors give the vaccinations. But I imagine there are other tasks you could do that would prove helpful."

"Certainly," James put in, setting down his spoon, which Juliana had decided was actually sterling plated in gold, because, really, solid gold spoons were a little much, even for people as rich as the Staffords. "There are always new supplies arriving that need to be unpacked and arranged on the shelves behind the counter, and schedules to be made out in a hand neater than mine, and treatment rooms to be cleaned, and—"

"You're looking for people to clean rooms?" Amanda interrupted. She pinned Juliana with a pointed gaze. "Are you going to volunteer, too, then?"

In truth, Juliana hadn't a clue why she'd suggested Amanda volunteer in the first place. She certainly didn't expect her to clean treatment rooms—she doubted the woman had cleaned anything in her life, with the possible exception of her own teeth. But something about Amanda's disingenuous offer of money had rubbed her the wrong way.

And now she'd backed herself into a corner. "I'd be happy to volunteer," Juliana found herself saying. She lifted her chin. She did like helping people, and while she was quite busy sewing baby clothes, she imagined she could spare a little time. "As I said, it's a worthy cause."

"Capital!" James exclaimed so enthusiastically she half expected him to break into applause. "How about Wednesday at one o'clock?"

"She can't," Amanda said. "She has a sewing party every Wednesday at one."

Drat. "I'll move this week's party to tomorrow."

"Sewing party?" Lady Stafford asked.

"Lady Juliana supports many worthy causes," Amanda said. "She's making baby clothes for the Foundling Hospital."

Juliana had a sudden thought. "It might be a good idea," she suggested to James, "for you to vaccinate the foundlings."

"I already do," he said, which made her admire him even more. "I visit there twice every year. "

Lady Stafford looked to Juliana. "Do you need more help sewing the baby clothes, dear? I'd be pleased to attend your party tomorrow."

"That would be wonderful," Juliana said.

And it was. But she spent the rest of dinner wondering how it happened that she'd ended up volunteering to help at the Institute when she'd suggested Amanda do so, and Lord Cavanaugh had ended up donating money when she'd asked that of the duke.

Maybe she was losing her touch.

Chapter Twenty-Three

AFTER DINNER, WHEN THE LADIES would usually have left the men alone with their port, Lady Stafford suggested they all adjourn to the Palm Room instead. While the men poured and Lady Stafford busied herself serving the apple and orange tart, Amanda drew Juliana into the alcove at the back of the room.

"Can you believe this house?" she whispered, her eyes sparkling at last. "Is it not the most amazing thing you've ever seen?"

Juliana's gaze wandered the gold palm fronds, the gold and crystal chandeliers, the gold-trimmed ceiling. "There's a lot of gold."

Smiling, Amanda nodded. "Even the silverware is gold."

"It's sterling plated in gold," Juliana informed her.

"Regardless. What's truly amazing is all the antiquities. They make the terracotta pots and glass flasks my father's uncovered look like so much rubbish." Her whisper dropped even lower. "I want to marry Lord Stafford."

The words Juliana had been waiting to hear. But her friend's sudden change of heart was…well, it was very sudden. "You cannot marry for antiquities," she whispered back, fearing Amanda was making this decision for all the wrong reasons. "I would hope you would like the man more than his possessions."

"Oh, I do. I've decided you're right. My wedding is drawing ever closer, and Lord Stafford and I suit well. We're compatible. He likes chess, and he's clearly interested in all things Roman. Maybe my father was right—maybe there are more important considerations than love. Besides, you said I will learn to love Lord Stafford, and I believe you."

Amanda sounded sincere, Juliana thought. Perhaps she should stop worrying about the reasons and just be relieved her friend was finally consenting to marry James. They did share common interests, and Amanda didn't sicken at the sight of blood. She'd make an excellent physician's wife. It was unfortunate they hadn't the luxury to get to know each other leisurely, but the two of them had been destined to fall in love from the first. She'd said so all along, hadn't she?

She was relieved, she decided.

In fact, she was thrilled. How could she not be thrilled? With the possible exception of civilizing young Emily, all of her projects were progressing perfectly.

Lord Malmsey and Lady Frances were getting along swimmingly. Indeed, at the ball last night, their aging eyes had been glittering with the discovery of new love. Now that Lord Malmsey would no longer need to wed Amanda, the charmingly shy couple would live happily ever after.

The duke didn't seem to mind the company of James and Amanda, which meant that after Juliana married him, she could remain friends with James. She and the duke would have to fall in love before marrying, of course, but maybe they were in love already. How was a woman with her lack of experience supposed to know? And in any case, love was bound to happen soon. The duke cared for her, and he needed her. On the surface, he was perfect—everything she'd been looking for in a man—but inside, he was hurt. With her help, he was going to learn to be affectionate and more charitable. She was going to be a duchess! Her grace, Juliana, the Duchess of Castleton. The name had such a lovely ring to it.

And on top of all of that good news, it looked as though she may have managed to match Lady Stafford with Lord Cavanaugh, even though she'd only intended for them to enjoy a dance.

Everything was going to work out exactly as it should.

Lady Stafford came into the alcove and handed Juliana and Amanda each a crested plate with a slice of the tart and a gold fork. "Your great-grandmother's tart is delicious," she gushed. "Thank you so much for making and bringing it."

"You're very welcome," Juliana said, following her back to the main part of the room. Plate in hand, the duke wandered into the alcove and began chatting with Amanda. As promised in the recipe, the tart was promoting new friendships already.

Lady Stafford seated herself on a chair covered in pale green satin with a palm tree design worked into the fabric. Lord Cavanaugh took the chair nearest hers. James was already sitting on the love seat, digging happily into a slice of tart. There were six more palm tree-decorated chairs and four matching stools, but Juliana sat on the love seat by James, even though she knew that place should be reserved for Amanda.

It would be for but a moment. She had something very important to discuss.

James didn't seem to find anything amiss with her sitting beside him. In fact, he shifted to face her, which put him rather too close. "This tart is excellent," he said. "Did you make it?"

"Of course," she said, trying to scoot a little to the side. Apparently the love seat was too small to share with a man of his size. "Your mother is getting along very well with Lord Cavanaugh, isn't she?"

"She seems to be, yes."

"They seem perfect for each other. His title even begins with C."

"C?"

"Like her sisters, don't you see? Aurelia is Lady Avonleigh, Bedelia is Lady Balmforth, and your mother would be—"

"Cornelia, Lady Cavanaugh. Yes, I see." Looking amused, he swallowed another bite. "But I should think there are more important things for a couple to share than matching names."

"Of course there are," she said, pleased to hear he agreed that couples should have things in common. "They should share interests—for example, chess and antiquities. And in your case especially, I should think you would want a wife who isn't sickened by the sight of blood."

"I'm not a surgeon," he pointed out, "and I don't believe in bleeding patients. Nor would I expect a wife to assist me with my practice. So there's virtually no chance she would have to deal with blood."

That was a bit of a relief, although there was no reason it should be. "James…"

"You mentioned chess," he said. "Would you care for a game?"

"Lady Amanda adores chess." She really had something she needed to discuss. "I prefer playing cards, especially casino."

"I enjoy whist," he said. "Perhaps someday you can teach me casino. When is our next outing?" He reached for his glass of port, rubbing up against her in the process.

Thinking he should be touching Amanda instead, she suppressed a pleasurable but rather disturbing shiver. She could smell his scent again. Very male soap, with a little starch, maybe, and something else she couldn't identify. She leaned closer, in order to keep their conversation private. "You don't need any more lessons."

"Oh." He took a sip and set down the glass, looking relieved. Or maybe disappointed.

No, relieved. There was no reason for him to be disappointed, after all.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Quite. I've been thinking…"

"Yes?" Grazing her again, he forked up another bite.

Juliana lowered her voice. "We need to plan a way for you to publicly compromise Lady Amanda."

The fork clattered back to the plate. "Compromise Lady Amanda? Whyever would I do that?"

"In order to get her father to agree to your marrying her."

"I would never do such an underhanded thing," he whispered fiercely. Juliana couldn't decide whether he looked more shocked or affronted. "And besides, why should her father not accept my suit, should I choose to marry her? I may be engaged in a profession, but I'm an earl as well. It's not as though I'm a pauper."

That much was clear—a pauper didn't set his table with gold spoons. But if James refused to even entertain the thought of compromising Amanda, what would he do if he found out she was already engaged? What would he do if he realized that in order to marry her, he'd have to trick Lord Wolverston into breaking a contract with another man?

He'd refuse to marry her, that was what. He was entirely too honorable to have anything to do with something as underhanded as what Juliana and Amanda had planned. But their plan wasn't underhanded—it was…what was that word James had used to describe his own willingness to bow to Parliament's opposition to making vaccinations compulsory?

Pragmatic, that was it. Her plan was pragmatic. And justified, under the circumstances.

Lord Wolverston wasn't honorable—he was treating his daughter abominably—which meant dishonorable means were entirely justifiable if necessary to stop him.

But she knew James wouldn't see it that way. He was too good a man. Too good for his own good.

As Amanda and the duke stepped into the room from the alcove, Juliana sighed and moved to a chair so Amanda could sit beside James. But Amanda didn't, choosing another chair to sit upon instead, because, after all, she was a reserved sort of woman, and James didn't leave very much room on the cozy love seat.

Heaven forbid Amanda should sit too close to a man—even a man she was planning to marry.

Juliana shrugged and took a bite of her tart, thinking that if James and Amanda weren't going to share the love seat, she should share it herself with the duke so she could start teaching him to be more affectionate. He'd chosen the chair beside her, unsurprisingly, but that wasn't close enough to show him how good being truly close could feel. Of course, before she could share the love seat with the duke, she'd have to get James to move off of it. But that shouldn't be any problem at all.

"Lord Stafford would like to pass some time playing chess," she told Amanda.

"Another time," James disagreed. "An evening is never long in good company."

"An ancient proverb," Amanda said with a small smile.

Whether it was a proverb or not, Juliana had failed to get James off the love seat. Oh, well, she thought with an internal sigh, she'd have to sit closer to the duke next time. And so she spent the evening being good company…all the while pondering what she could do to help a good man like James win the happiness he deserved.

And failing utterly to come up with anything.

* * *

"WHAT A LOVELY GIRL," CORNELIA said after closing the door behind their guests.

James turned to her wearily. Spending time with Juliana—without touching her as he itched to—seemed to wear him out. "Yes, Mother," he said. "Lady Amanda is quite lovely."

"Well, yes, she is, but I was speaking of Lady Juliana." She started up the wide, cantilevered stone staircase that led to the upper floors. "Lady Juliana is lovely inside, don't you think? Not that she isn't pretty, mind you—she's a darling little thing—but I think the way she tries so hard to help is lovely in itself. She really cares about people. She brought us all a sweet she made from her great-grandmother's recipe. She makes clothing for the Foundling Hospital. And she even volunteered to help at the New Hope Institute." Halfway up, she paused and turned to look back at him, her hand on the trompe l'oeil-painted metal balustrade. "A lady of the ton, helping at your Institute!"

James was quite aware that Juliana had mistakenly manipulated herself into that position, but he wouldn't say so to his mother. Because Cornelia was right. Juliana was lovely inside. She wasn't nearly as frivolous as he'd once thought.

"She's a treasure," his mother declared. "I think you should marry her instead of Lady Amanda."

"I never said I was marrying anyone!" James burst out, shocked for the second time in one night. Or maybe the third. In fact, when Juliana had shocked him the first time by suggesting he compromise Amanda in order to marry her, he'd shocked himself by almost saying, What if I want to marry you instead?

But he wasn't ready to marry anyone. He wasn't mentally prepared yet to marry without love. And he couldn't fall in love with anyone besides Anne—not even if she was a treasure.

"Good night, Mother," he said, suddenly even wearier than he'd been earlier. But he resumed his climb, taking the steps two at a time so he could escape before Cornelia said anything more. "Sleep well," he called on the landing. Then he made his way down the corridor, ducked into his study, closed the door behind him, and dropped to the long leather sofa that sat before his father's big oak desk.

And there, without undressing, he slept.

Not in the elegant brown-and-plum bedchamber his grandfather had hired the venerable Henry Holland to decorate.

Not in the brown-and-plum-curtained tester bed he'd been born in…the same bed he'd later shared with Anne.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU DIDN'T tell me you'd talked to Lord Stafford," Amanda said the next afternoon. "What did he say, then?"

The day had dawned bright and sunny for a change, and if it wasn't exactly warm, at least it wasn't freezing. Following Juliana's rescheduled sewing party—after which, despite everyone's help, Emily had calculated that Juliana still needed a hundred and seventy-eight items of baby clothes—she'd taken Amanda across the street into Berkeley Square, where they sat on a bench beneath a plane tree, eating ices from Gunter's Tea Shop.

Or at least Juliana was eating hers.

"Do you know," she said, "this is the first ice I've had all summer." She scooped up the last of the frosty treat and spooned it into her mouth, savoring the heavenly flavor. "Delicious. White currant is the best."

Amanda's strawberry ice sat in her dish untouched. "What did he say?" she repeated. "When does he think we should carry out our plan?"

Juliana sighed and licked her spoon. "He doesn't think we should carry out our plan at all. He called it underhanded."

"Underhanded?"

"Yes. He wants to ask for your hand outright. He says there's no reason your father shouldn't agree."

"He doesn't know my father, then," Amanda said dejectedly. She poked her spoon at her melty pink ice, staring at the statue of King George in the middle of the square. "What did he say when you told him Father is too stubborn to break the agreement with Lord Malmsey?"

"I didn't tell him that. James—I mean, Lord Stafford—would never pursue marriage if he knew you're already engaged. He's entirely too honorable."

"Like my father, putting his honor before my happiness."

"Lord Stafford isn't selfish, just principled. It's not the same."

"Maybe not." Amanda slowly stirred what was now strawberry soup. "Why didn't you tell me this last night? On the way home in Lord Stafford's carriage?"

"I don't know," Juliana admitted. She shifted her gaze from Amanda's disappointed face to the likeness of their monarch. His Majesty was mounted on a horse, wearing some sort of drapey garment she supposed was intended to be Greek or Roman but instead made the poor man look like he was bundled against the cold. "I guess I was trying to figure out how to fix this."

"And what did you come up with?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" Amanda set the dish on the bench beside her. "You always have a plan."

"No, I don't." Juliana sighed. "I don't have a plan this time."

"Well, I do," Amanda declared.

Juliana couldn't have been more surprised if the statue of King George had suddenly come to life and galloped off. "You have a plan?"

"Yes. We shall trick Lord Stafford into compromising me."

"We shall do no such thing." Juliana wasn't sure which shocked her more: prissy Amanda suggesting such a plan or the thought of tricking a man who'd become her friend. "That would be reprehensible. Unethical. Completely disgraceful."

"Why? You said he wanted to marry me. If his supposed honor is standing in the way, we'd be doing him a favor, wouldn't we?"

"No," Juliana said, and then, "Well, maybe."

Amanda had a point. James did want to marry her. He'd said as much, hadn't he? He'd said Amanda was lovely—many times—and he'd said her father would accept his suit. He wouldn't have a suit if he wasn't wanting to marry her. Why else would he be courting her? He'd bought her gifts, and he'd asked her to dance. More than once. At every ball, as a matter of fact. And he'd invited Amanda to his home.

Well, technically his mother had done the inviting. But it was his home, and most certainly he'd approved. "Do you enjoy playing whist?" she suddenly asked.

"Yes, but what does that have to do with anything?"

Amanda liked whist, as did James. And chess. And she wasn't sickened by blood. No wonder James loved her and wished to marry her. And the only way to make his wish come true was to—

"I think we should do it this Saturday," Amanda said, interrupting Juliana's line of reasoning. "At the Billingsgate ball."

Apparently Amanda had destroyed Juliana's line of reasoning, not just interrupted it. Because suddenly she wasn't sure everything quite made sense. "I don't know," she said. "It just seems wrong somehow to plot behind Lord Stafford's back. It makes me feel guilty."

"Guilty? I think not." Juliana couldn't remember Amanda ever sounding so sure of herself. "I told you, we'll be doing him a favor."

There it was, that we again. That guilty-making we. "Maybe you should do this alone, Amanda."

"Why?" Amanda shifted to face her on the bench, her eyes not sparkling but pleading. "I cannot plan this alone. I need your help, Juliana—you're the bright one of us, after all."

Well, Amanda had that right. The girl might be bookish, but that wasn't the same as bright.

"You cannot really feel guilty," Amanda added.

"Maybe just a tad."

"Well, you shouldn't."

Maybe Amanda's arguments were valid. After all, James wanted to marry her. And Lord Malmsey certainly didn't. And Aunt Frances—dear, myopic Aunt Frances—would be devastated if Amanda married Lord Malmsey. The only person who would be happy if Amanda didn't trick James was her dratted, conniving father. Surely that would be the greater wrong.

That all sounded well justified, didn't it?

Juliana's sisters often said that justification was one of her many talents.

"Well?" Amanda asked.

"All right. We'll make a plan."

"Gracious me." Amanda lifted her dish and happily scooped up a spoonful of strawberry soup. "I thought you'd never agree."

Wondering if she should have agreed, Juliana began plotting.

Chapter Twenty-Five

ORANGE JUMBLES

Mixe a cup of Flower with Almonds ground fine and Sugar, then add two spoones of grated rinde of Oranges and Salt. Rub in some Butter and binde with beaten whites of two Egges. When smooth, make into pieces and roll each out in the shape of an S. Bake on a greased tin until browne and golden.

This receipt has been in our family for a very long time. They are a homely sort of biscuit, good for taking to ailing villagers or anyone you like to make comfortable.

—Lady Diana Caldwell, 1689

JAMES HANDED THE HOPEFUL YOUNG woman a pencil and slid a piece of paper across the counter. "Write your name here, please, on line fourteen."

She squinted at the page.

"There," he elaborated, indicating the number 14.

She bit her lip and wrote an awkward X beside it.

The eleventh X on the page.

"Thank you," he said, suppressing a sigh, "but I don't believe you will find this position suitable."

Her shoulders slumped as she turned, and he wished he could help. The introduction of new machinery was causing massive unemployment all over England, but his concern about that problem didn't change the fact that he required an assistant who could read and write.

As she plodded out of the New Hope Institute, Juliana danced in, gave a jaunty wave toward the Chase carriage outside, and stuck her umbrella in the stand by the door.

It was Wednesday, and—James checked his pocket watch—precisely one o'clock. Having not seen Juliana since the dinner at Stafford House on Sunday, he'd been wondering if she would actually show up. As she walked toward him, her smile seemed to brighten the entire reception room, some feat considering his current mood.

Though it was raining outside—of course—she was wearing a thin, sunny yellow dress that did nothing to disguise her curves. Which meant it did nothing to help contain his ever-growing lust, either. The bodice was small, as usual, which made him envision her lovely breasts popping right out of it.

Bloody hell.

"Good afternoon," he said. "No Lady Frances?"

"Oh, she'd be bored, and she doesn't care for this neighborhood. Besides, this is hardly a situation that requires a chaperone." She seemed to be staring at the area below his throat. "The carriage will return for me at four o'clock. Why are you out here?" Raising her gaze to his face—with some effort, it appeared—she placed the basket she was carrying on the counter between them. "Shouldn't you be in one of the treatment rooms, giving vaccinations?"

"I'm interviewing for a new assistant." He gestured toward the HELP WANTED sign he'd once again placed in the window. "And playing the part of assistant myself until I find one."

"Did the last one you hired leave, then?"

"Yes. This morning." The pouring rain had kept a queue from forming all the way to Surrey today, but that also meant potential new employees were staying home. Juliana seemed to be waiting for an explanation, so he added, "She found herself with child unexpectedly."

"Unexpectedly? How can it be that a woman does what it takes to get a child without expecting to find herself with one?"

He knew quite a few ways, actually—he was a physician, after all—but he wouldn't explain them to an innocent young lady. Not even one unreserved enough to raise the question while wearing a dress with a tiny bodice and staring at the little bit of skin that was exposed where he'd left his top button undone.

"She has no husband," he said, unfastening a second button to see her reaction. "The father of her child cannot afford to support a wife."

"Oh." She looked a mite scandalized, but he wasn't sure whether to attribute that to his unbuttoning or to the news that his unwed assistant had got herself with child. "She must feel perfectly dreadful."

"Less dreadful, I expect, since I gave her fifty pounds and sent her off to get married."

Her entire face lit up. "Then she won't have to give her child to the Foundling Hospital. That was wonderful, James."

He hadn't been feeling very wonderful until now, but the admiration in her voice made him want to kiss her. Hell, the mere sight of her made him want to kiss her. The tiny bodice didn't help, and neither did her obvious interest in his bare skin. He shifted uncomfortably, wishing they were someplace besides the Institute.

Although it was probably best that they weren't.

"I brought you orange jumbles," she said, lifting the cloth that covered the basket to reveal biscuits that smelled almost as good as she did. "They're supposed to be good for the ailing." She glanced around the crowded reception area. "Though I suppose these people aren't ailing, really, are they?"

"My goal is to keep them from ailing."

"Yes, of course. Well, the jumbles are supposed to help keep one comfortable as well. Try one."

As he took one of the sweets—wondering if it was so apparent that he was uncomfortable—a woman and her newly vaccinated son walked out, the youngster sucking a sugar stick.

"Excuse me," James said and stepped from behind the counter. "Number forty-three!"

Another woman and her two children rose and followed him into the back. Taking the biscuit with him, he showed them to a treatment room. The orange jumble was crisp and tasted sweet and citrusy, but it wasn't comforting.

When he returned, Juliana was behind the counter, handing a number to a dripping family of four. "You're number fifty-seven," she said loudly and clearly. "Please be seated. Lord Stafford will call you when it's your turn."

James watched the family try and fail to find seats, then turned to Juliana. "I prefer to be called Dr. Trevor while I'm here. 'Lord Stafford' intimidates the patients."

"I'll try to remember that. There's a young woman waiting for an interview—I told her to sit until you were ready. Which of the treatment rooms shall I clean?"

"Pardon?"

"I came to clean treatment rooms, remember?" She pulled off her gloves. "I wore my oldest dress."

He eyed her oldest dress. It had a tiny bodice and looked no more shabby than the one she'd worn to his house for dinner, which meant, of course, that it didn't look shabby at all.

"What makes you think I would expect a lady to clean anything?" he asked. "The Stafford House maids take turns coming here to clean. Three times a week."

Her pretty brow creased. "Why did you tell Lady Amanda she could clean, then?"

He shrugged, remembering Lady Amanda's attitude at dinner. Very ladylike and rather snobbish. "I just wanted to see her reaction."

"Oh." Juliana looked thoughtful, or apprehensive—he wasn't sure which. "And what did you think of how she reacted?"

"Very much like a lady," he said, leaving out the word snobbish.

Now she looked relieved. "Amanda is very much a lovely lady," she said. "What shall you have me do if not clean treatment rooms?"

"You seem to make an excellent assistant. Why don't you keep doing that?"

She did prove to be an excellent assistant, which allowed him to vaccinate patients between interviewing candidates. Two hours later, the number of people in the reception room had dwindled to something approaching normal. The orange jumbles were all gone, and they'd indeed seemed to comfort some of the patients. People waiting to be infected tended to be somewhat nervous.

He'd talked to three more women who wanted the job, but they'd all been underqualified.

"The tasks aren't very difficult," Juliana said during a rare lull. Her gaze flicked toward his open collar and back up. "Why is it that you find it so hard to hire someone acceptable?"

"My assistant must be able to read and write."

"Many women can read and write—"

"But many of those don't need employment. Educated women are likely to have fathers or husbands to support them."

"Oh. I hadn't thought of that." She handed him the box of sugar sticks he'd asked her to fetch. "I shall screen the applicants for you and let you know if I find someone acceptable. That way you can keep administering vaccinations."

He wished he could find someone as efficient as Juliana. An hour later, she announced she'd found the perfect replacement, a young woman that Miss Smith, his last morning assistant, had apparently sent and recommended. All the supplies in the treatment rooms were restocked, the storage shelves were organized, Juliana had rewritten his scribbled July schedule in a neat, legible hand, and—in part thanks to the rain—only five patients were waiting for vaccinations.

Even better, it was now four o'clock, which meant his second-shift assistant had arrived, as well as two fresh physicians. He was free, and it was Wednesday, so Parliament wasn't in session. Juliana's carriage was due to return any moment, but she had no chaperone, for once. She was still glancing where his shirt was unbuttoned whenever she thought he wasn't looking.

Maybe he could get her alone someplace where he could kiss her, he thought as he followed her toward the door. Maybe he could talk her into going somewhere besides home.

She pulled on her gloves. "Will I see you at Almack's tonight?"

Somewhere besides Almack's.

The door opened, admitting two new patients, a footman in Chase livery, and a messenger boy. "Lord Stafford?" the messenger boy inquired.

"Yes." James took the note, broke the seal, and scanned the single page. "Damn."

"Is it something dreadful?" Juliana asked, splaying a gloved hand over her breasts in their tiny yellow bodice.

Which only made him notice them more. Hell. Was she trying to kill him?

"No. Aunt Bedelia fears some ailment and wishes to see me."

"I hope she'll turn out to be well."

"She will, I assure you. But I'm afraid I won't make it to Almack's tonight."

"It's only four o'clock. How long can it take to examine her?"

"Very long," he fibbed. "I fear Aunt Aurelia will wish to be examined, too."

"How very unfortunate." She sighed so prettily that her breasts rose and fell beneath their little yellow bodice. Apparently she was trying to kill him. She pulled her umbrella out of the stand. "Shall I see you at the Billingsgate ball on Saturday, then?"

There was no way his mother would accept an excuse for not attending the Billingsgate ball. His aunts would be there, after all, so he could hardly claim they'd summoned him to deal with imaginary aches and pains. "I'll be there," he promised.

It wasn't Almack's. And Juliana would be there, too. In another tiny bodice.

Too bad he wouldn't be able to unbutton his shirt.

Chapter Twenty-Six

THE BILLINGSGATE BALL WAS IN full swing, and music floated through the open door of Lord Billingsgate's library. "This will be perfect," Juliana said, glancing around. "It's close to the ballroom, so as soon as there's a commotion, plenty of people will come running to witness your disgrace."

In a hopeless attempt to cover her bare shoulders, Amanda tugged on the little puffed sleeves of the pale green dress Juliana had suggested she wear. "Shall I have to kiss Lord Stafford for long?"

"I shouldn't think so. As soon as he starts kissing you, I shall fetch Lady Billingsgate to assure your ruin."

"What if he doesn't wish to kiss me?"

"Of course he wishes to kiss you! He's courting you, isn't he? Men are always looking to kiss ladies."

Except for the duke.

Juliana was beginning to wonder if she'd ever be kissed. The duke had been too busy to pay her any calls this week—doing what, she couldn't imagine—so she had yet to find an opportunity to start showing him how to be more affectionate. She knew he liked her more than ever, though, because he'd sent roses twice. That made three times he'd sent her roses! They were all white roses of course, since he was proper and reserved. But he'd included notes these last two times—proper notes, very kind and complimentary—so she had high hopes he was falling in love with her. After all, even Aunt Frances had received roses only once.

She turned her thoughts back to Amanda. "Remove your gloves so Lord Stafford can feel the warmth of your skin," she advised. "Drape yourself elegantly on the sofa. Before you lie down, douse two of the lamps. Low lighting is more romantic."

"Douse the lamps," Amanda repeated as though trying to memorize Juliana's instructions. "And take off my gloves." She tugged up the edge of her low bodice.

"And stop playing with your dress." Juliana headed back to the ball, Amanda following at her heels. "It makes you look nervous."

"I am nervous." Entering the ballroom, Amanda paused. "Lord Stafford still isn't here. What if he doesn't come?"

"It's not even ten o'clock yet," Juliana said soothingly, scanning the glittering crush. James's mother wasn't here yet, either. Lord Cavanaugh was pacing like a caged animal waiting for food, looking as anxious to see Lady Stafford as Amanda was to see the lady's son. For different reasons, of course. "Stop worrying. Lord Stafford assured me he was attending."

"Then why isn't he here?" Amanda asked for the tenth time.

Or maybe the twentieth. Honestly, Juliana could hardly wait until midnight when James would compromise her friend, because even though tricking him still didn't sit quite right with her, it would be such a relief to have this whole business over and done with.

"Here comes the duke," Amanda said.

Juliana turned and smiled. She'd worn her most seductive dress, a pale rose confection with a neckline so wide it left her shoulders bare and enticing.

But he didn't look enticed.

He did return her smile, though. "Good evening, my dear." His gaze shifted to her friend. "Good evening, Lady Amanda," he added formally.

"Good evening, your grace," Amanda replied, sounding every bit as formal.

And that was when Juliana had a sudden bright idea.

She would encourage the duke to dance with Amanda. Seeing how tiresome it was to dance with someone so reserved might help him loosen up a bit. And in the meantime, while he was dancing with Amanda in a tiresome manner, she would dance with other men in her usual vivacious way.

After all, she had no shortage of dance invitations. Perhaps a few less than normal, since she'd been dancing so often with the duke lately, but that hadn't stopped men from asking when the duke wasn't nearby to intimidate them. Dancing with other men would not only make the duke notice how much more pleasant it was to dance with a modicum of enthusiasm; it would also make him jealous and possessive. Possessive men tended to touch the ladies they were possessive of, didn't they?

"Lady Amanda would love to dance," she told him with a sweet smile. "Why don't you ask her for the next waltz?"

She didn't know who looked more startled, the duke or Amanda. But as the musicians struck up the waltz, he bowed to Amanda very properly—no surprise there—and escorted her to the dance floor.

Juliana turned, expecting to be inundated with invitations as soon as the other men noticed the duke wasn't nearby and, indeed, was dancing with another woman.

Unfortunately, Corinna noticed first. "Is your duke courting Amanda now?"

"Of course he isn't. Amanda would never consent to marry him—he's a by-blow, remember? But I thought it would be a good idea for them to get to know each other better, so I suggested they dance."

"If you wish to marry the man, you shouldn't shove him at other women. What if he kisses her? He might decide he wants her, and Amanda could change her mind—"

"He's not going to kiss her," Juliana interrupted.

Corinna measured her a moment. "How can you be so sure?"

"He isn't interested in her. He doesn't call her my dear. And the man is more reserved than Amanda. He hasn't even kissed me."

"Then how on earth do you know you love him?" Corinna asked, and while Juliana was wondering yet again how an inexperienced woman was supposed to know when she was in love, her sister added, "How do you know you want to marry him?"

"What do you mean, how do I know?" He was kind. He sent her flowers. He enjoyed amusements, fine horses, balls, and entertainments. He had wealth to support himself in style. He was classically handsome, as only an aristocratic Englishman could be. And he was a duke. "Who—besides Amanda—wouldn't want to marry him?"

"You really must kiss a man before you marry him. Believe me, it makes all the difference. Since kissing several men myself, I've discovered—"

"What?" Corinna was a year younger than Juliana, not to mention more interested in paint than men. How was it that she'd been kissed, when Juliana had barely even been touched? "You've kissed men?"

"Yes." Corinna blinked. "Have you not?"

"No!"

"Well, what have you been doing all season, then? Alexandra kissed Tristan before marrying him," Corinna reminded her. "And Rachael has kissed several men, too. Gentlemen don't all kiss the same," she informed her with the surety of an experienced woman. "How is a lady to know she's found her prince if she hasn't kissed a few frogs first?"

It wasn't that Juliana hadn't been trying. But at least it was with a man who'd been courting her for longer than a dance. "Really, Corinna." Corinna always had been a bit of a rebel, but this was quite beyond the pale. "I'd be willing to wager Aunt Frances—your chaperone, in case you forgot?—wouldn't approve of you kissing men you've barely met."

"I don't let them kiss me when I've barely met them." Corinna's chin went into the air. "I make them wait at least a week."

"A week!" Juliana had known the duke much longer than a week.

"At least," Corinna repeated. "And as for Aunt Frances, she's known Lord Malmsey quite a bit longer than a week. Let's ask her if she's kissed him." She signaled to their aunt as she was coming off the dance floor.

Frances didn't notice. On Juliana's recommendation, she still wasn't wearing her spectacles. Which was a good thing, because Juliana figured such a question might make the poor spinster faint. "You cannot ask Aunt Frances that!"

"Why not?" Corinna said, marching toward her.

Juliana followed helplessly.

"Aunt Frances!" Corinna called.

"Yes?" Frances turned and squinted. "Oh, there you are, girls. Are you having a wonderful time?"

Corinna ignored her question, which was probably rhetorical anyway. "Aunt Frances, have you kissed Lord Malmsey?"

Two bright spots appeared on Frances's cheeks. "Well…"

"Have you?" Corinna demanded.

Frances squared her shoulders and lowered her voice. "I'm not a green girl, you know. It's no great sin. A woman should kiss a man before she decides to marry him."

Dear heavens, Frances had kissed Lord Malmsey. And she wanted to marry him. Juliana didn't know whether she was happy her project was so successful or shocked to hear that her spinster aunt had been kissed.

On second thought, she was neither happy nor shocked. She was depressed. Corinna and Frances had both kissed men. That meant she was the only grown female in all of England who remained unkissed.

Well, there was Amanda. But come midnight, when James compromised her, even straitlaced Amanda would be kissed. Which meant Juliana would stand alone as the last woman in England to feel a man's lips caress her own.

It was depressing beyond description.

"Aunt Frances!" Alexandra joined their circle with Tristan. "I've never seen you look so happy."

"I'm overjoyed, child." Frances kissed her on the cheek. "You look happy, too."

"I am, Auntie." Alexandra smiled up at Tristan. Love blazed in their eyes. "We are."

Splendid. Everyone was happy. Except Juliana.

James joined their circle next, squeezing in beside her. "Good evening, everyone."

While it was a relief that he'd finally arrived, Juliana was even more relieved to see he didn't look insanely happy. It was odd, because she usually wanted to see everybody happy. But honestly, right now the sight of one more blatantly happy person would likely make her gag.

"Are your aunts doing well?" she asked.

"They're fine. Not that they're convinced of that—they both believe they're at death's door, more's the pity." He gestured toward the edge of the dance floor, where the two older ladies were talking to his mother. "I had to examine them this afternoon before they'd agree to dress for the ball."

"They're keeping you from getting your important work done, aren't they?"

"Somewhat. But they're family." He shrugged philosophically. "What can I do?"

"There has to be something." Wishing she could figure out what, she watched Lord Cavanaugh claim Lady Stafford for a dance. "Maybe they need suitors, like your mother. She's happy."

"I'm happy," Frances said with a nod of approval. "A suitor will do that for a lady."

"But I'm happy," Corinna pointed out, "and I don't have a suitor."

No, but she'd been kissed. Juliana glared at her.

Corinna glared back, then smiled sweetly. "Alexandra's happy, too."

"That's because she's with child," James said.

A little hush fell over their circle. Juliana swung to her older sister. "Is that true?"

"It is," Tristan confirmed. Beaming, he slid an arm around his wife's waist. "We're both thrilled."

Corinna and Frances shrieked, engulfing the couple in a group hug.

Juliana took a step back. Corinna had been kissed, and Alexandra and Tristan were going to have a baby. She was happy for them. And for herself, for the whole family. She was pleased. Joyous. Jubilant. And something else. Something that made her fists clench at her sides.

"You're jealous," James said.

"I am not." Dismayed, she turned to him. "I'm happy for my sister. And for me. I'll have a niece or nephew to play with. How on earth did you know she's in the family way?"

James shrugged. "I'm a physician." She didn't look very happy. "Your turn will come," he said in his best soothing doctor tone.

"Who said I wanted a turn?"

She protested too much. Of course she wanted a turn. All women wanted babies. She was jealous.

But the worst of it was, he was jealous, too.

The jealousy was a knot in his gut. It was unexpected, and sudden, but mostly it was ridiculous.

Ladies were supposed to pine for babies—men weren't. He certainly didn't want Lady Hawkridge's child, and he really couldn't say how he'd known she was breeding. It was the look of her, he supposed. And the look of her husband, the male pride evident in Hawkridge's gaze upon his wife. James had gazed at his own wife like that before he'd lost her and their child.

And then, when he'd lost them, it had all been mixed up together, his grief for Anne and for their baby. He hadn't been able to separate one from the other. They were both lost forever. He'd never have another love, which meant he'd never have another child. He hadn't thought he wanted another child.

But now he did.

The knot twisted tighter. Bloody hell.

"Excuse me," he said. "I think I need a drink."

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“YOU'RE FOXED," JULIANA TOLD JAMES later as they danced.

"Maybe." He slipped his thumb beneath the edge of her glove and teased the sensitive skin on the underside of her wrist. "Or maybe not."

"You are." She laughed, suppressing an entirely too delicious shiver. "You've had three cups of punch tonight already."

"Four," he corrected. "Small cups. In two hours, which, I might point out, could hardly be considered severe overindulging. And how would you come to know how much I'm drinking? Are you watching me, Juliana?"

"Of course not," she said quickly, avoiding his eyes. Her gaze fell on his cravat, and she found herself picturing the golden skin she'd seen beneath.

"Hmm," he said, a pleased rumble of a hmm that seemed to vibrate right through her. She looked up again to find him gazing at her in that way that made her fear he could read her mind. The pad of his thumb kept caressing her wrist.

By all indications, liquor made him even more amorous than macaroons. Which was uncomfortable in a sense, but also a good thing, because it meant Amanda would find it easier to seduce him and get herself compromised.

And poor, demure Amanda needed all the help she could get.

On the other side of the dance floor, Amanda was paired again with the duke, the both of them rigid as ever. In the two hours since Juliana suggested they dance together, she herself had danced with twelve other men. Vivaciously and enthusiastically. But the duke hadn't seemed to take note of any of those dozen dances.

It hadn't helped that he'd spent at least half of those two hours in the card room.

Between Juliana's dozen dances, the duke had emerged and danced with her twice, but despite all her efforts to draw him out, he still hadn't touched her, let alone kissed her. She tried to picture his skin in the open V of a shirt, but she imagined it would look rather pasty instead of golden. And he probably never loosened his collar, anyway. He probably went to bed fully dressed, with his shirt fastened up to his chin, a cravat knotted in layers to cover it, and a waistcoat and tailcoat besides. Both buttoned.

It was heartbreaking, really. He truly needed her in his life. She resolved to remain patient, to keep working toward his happiness, no matter how long the process took. After all, it had taken an entire childhood of cold treatment to turn him into the man he was today. She shouldn't be surprised if it took more than a few weeks of warmth to counteract that.

Thankfully, the rest of her projects were going well tonight. Aunt Frances and Lord Malmsey had kissed. Lord Cavanaugh had danced three times with Lady Stafford, and they'd probably kissed as well. And Amanda and James would be kissing soon.

Every woman in London would be kissed tonight except for Juliana.

Unless…

Maneuvering the last few steps of the dance to end up by Amanda and the duke, she curtsied to James and then turned to them. "Shall we exchange partners?"

The duke looked so startled at her forwardness, she nearly lost her nerve. But she'd never been one to just stand by and let things happen—or in this case, not happen—so when the musicians resumed playing and the duke took her gloved hands, she steeled herself, smiled at him, and began surreptitiously inching him toward a potted palm.

At least she tried to be surreptitious. Unfortunately, the tune wasn't a waltz but a minuet—which meant the dancers moved back and forth rather than progressing in a particular direction.

"I'm supposed to lead, my dear," the duke gently chided. "Why are you taking larger steps toward the right than the left?"

She mentally shrugged, deciding not to play coy. The duke never seemed to take a hint, so she'd best come out and say it. "I'm hoping to get you alone behind that potted palm."

"Pardon?"

"I'm hoping for a kiss."

He blinked. "Before marriage?"

Now she mentally rolled her eyes. "Yes, before marriage." And though she'd never expected to quote Aunt Frances regarding intimate matters, she found herself adding, "It's no great sin, you know."

"Perhaps not, my dear, but it also wouldn't be proper."

Her heart sank. "Don't you want to kiss me?" she asked. "You're courting me. You've sent me flowers three times. I thought you were falling in love with me."

She shocked even herself with that admission, but when he said, "Oh, but I am," her heart soared. The depression she'd felt earlier dissipated like a moist fog in the sun's rays. The duke was falling in love with her! It was only a matter of time until she knew for sure she was in love with him, too, and then everything would be wonderful—even if she did have to wait until her wedding night to experience a kiss.

As the dance ended, the clock struck midnight. Finally. After thanking the duke rather profusely, she hurried to meet Amanda.

"It's midnight."

"I know." Amanda looked paler than normal. Paler than the duke. Paler than Juliana felt.

Juliana didn't know how a person could feel pale, but suddenly, despite her recent elation, she did. "Are you sure you want to go through with this?"

"I cannot marry Lord Malmsey."

Of course she couldn't. That would be horrible for everyone involved. Especially dear Aunt Frances.

"You're going to have to kiss Lord Stafford," Juliana warned. The thought made her stomach turn. But only because she was about to be the only unkissed woman in London. "And you're going to have to make sure he undresses you, at least a little. A mere kiss won't be enough to guarantee a compromise."

"I know." Amanda looked quite determined. "I can do it."

"All right, then. I'll bring Lord Stafford to the library. Remember to take off your gloves. And make your voice a little breathy."

Amanda resolutely squared her shoulders as she walked off. Here she was, about to get herself engaged to a young, virile earl, and honestly, she looked about as excited as a woman going to her own funeral.

Clearly she wasn't ready for this.

If there weren't so many other people involved, Juliana would be tempted to postpone their plans. But postponement would put the compromise at risk of not happening altogether, and it wouldn't be fair to deprive James, Lord Malmsey, and Aunt Frances of their happiness just to save Amanda from a little discomfort.

Besides, Amanda would feel much better soon. There'd be a huge scandal following her compromise, of course—enough to make her father come running to London. But that was the whole idea. And once her father arrived and set everything to rights, Amanda would be happy. Happily married to James. She'd feel all tingly when he touched her and kissed her, and—

Juliana was growing all tingly just thinking about it.

She found James standing with some other men, sipping another drink while Lord Occlestone grumbled about unnecessary "reforms" that had recently been introduced in Parliament. She'd been planning to feign a troubled expression, but under the circumstances, she didn't need to. She tapped James on the shoulder.

He turned and looked down at her. "Juliana."

She pulled him away from the group. "What an unpleasant man. His face suits his personality. His nose is square, rather like a pig's."

"I've often thought that myself," James said, a tipsy smile curving his lips.

Excellent. She wanted him tipsy and amorous. "Lady Amanda is feeling ill."

"I was just dancing with her. She looked fine."

"Well, she's feeling ill now. She went to the library to lie down. Will you come and have a look at her?"

"Of course," he said, suddenly looking sober and concerned. So sober and concerned that Juliana felt a pang of…

Guilt? She could think of nothing else the sensation could be. But it was a ridiculous pang of guilt, because this was the right thing for everyone involved.

She led him to the library, where Amanda was draped elegantly on the sofa, emitting little moans. She'd followed Juliana's instructions exactly. Her gloves were on the desk, and the room was romantically lit, not too dark and not too light.

James set his drink and his own gloves beside Amanda's, then knelt by the sofa. "Lady Amanda, where does it hurt?"

"It's my heart," Amanda said breathily, laying a graceful bare hand on the expanse of bosom exposed in her low neckline. She was a surprisingly good actress. James didn't stand a chance. Any man would fall for that sensuous voice.

Except James didn't. "You're a mite young for heart trouble," he told her.

"But it aches," she insisted, implying it ached for him. "Won't you listen to it at least?"

"If you wish." He rose to his feet.

"You cannot listen from there." Amanda patted her bosom and arched herself toward him. Dear heavens, she was practically falling off the sofa. "You need to press your ear to my heart."

"No, I don't." Seemingly oblivious to her wanton display, he walked over to the writing desk. "I can hear it better through a tube."

"Are you sure?" Amanda asked.

"I'm positive." He opened a couple of drawers, then found a piece of paper and rolled it up. "This won't work as well as my new stethoscope, but it should be better than listening without it."

Crossing back to Amanda, he placed one end of the paper tube on her chest and lowered his ear to the other. Except for Amanda's breathy sighs, the room was silent for a moment.

"A little fast," he reported at last. No surprise, since she was likely scared out of her wits. "But strong and steady."

Apparently at a loss, Amanda looked toward Juliana.

"Maybe Lady Amanda has a rash," she said. "James, I think you should loosen her clothes and have a look."

He eyed Amanda's bare arms and low décolletage in an altogether clinical manner. "I see no evidence of a rash." He smiled at his patient, but it was a kind smile, not seductive in the least. "This ball is quite a crush. If you've no symptoms to report other than a vague ache in your chest, perhaps sitting quietly for a few minutes might help."

Juliana didn't know what to think. Amanda was doing everything right, yet James appeared unmoved. Which, oddly enough, seemed to relieve Juliana's guilt, but that was as ridiculous as feeling the guilt in the first place.

And it didn't explain why.

Then she suddenly realized why. "Please stay with her while she sits quietly, James. I'm going to fetch Lady Billingsgate."

She didn't, of course—there was no point in fetching Lady Billingsgate until James and Amanda got into a compromising position. Which clearly wasn't going to happen with her in the room. What a fool she'd been for not realizing James wouldn't seduce her friend with another woman watching.

She went out quietly, leaving the door slightly cracked so she could listen.

"I'm sure you'll feel better in no time," she heard James say.

"I'd feel better if you'd sit beside me."

"I cannot imagine how that could help," James said. But apparently he did sit down, because the next thing he said was, "There. Do you feel better?"

"No, not yet," Amanda said and paused. And then she added, "Why don't you kiss me to make me feel better?"

A shocked silence followed. Juliana was shocked, too. She hadn't thought Amanda had it in her to be so forward. But then the silence continued, and Juliana realized it wasn't a shocked silence. It was the silence that resulted when two people were kissing instead of talking.

Amanda's forwardness had worked.

Well, of course it had worked. James was a man, and what man alone in a room with a woman he loved would resist an invitation to kiss her? This behavior was exactly what Juliana had counted on when she'd plotted to trick him into compromising Amanda.

But now that her plot had worked, the pang returned again. The ridiculous pang of guilt at the thought of tricking a man she'd come to think of as a friend.

"I don't think that would be a good idea," James finally said.

Juliana couldn't figure out what he meant by that, exactly, but the pang subsided. She released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. He hadn't kissed Amanda. Not yet, anyway. She sagged against the door in relief.

Or rather, she thumped against the door in relief. And then it opened, and she all but fell into the library.

James caught her by her shoulders and grinned. "I thought you were Lady Billingsgate."

Of course he had. She'd said she was going to fetch Lady Billingsgate, after all. A mistake, she now realized, because of course James wouldn't kiss Amanda while expecting Lady Billingsgate to show up at any moment.

That was what he'd meant when he'd said it wouldn't be a good idea.

But his hands felt warm on her bare shoulders, and she couldn't be sorry she'd made the mistake. She didn't want to trick James. She hadn't wanted to from the first. She was furious with herself for allowing Amanda to talk her into it.

"I'll fetch Lady Billingsgate," he said, "while you sit with Lady Amanda." And then he left, taking his warm hands with him.

Juliana made her way to the sofa and collapsed beside her friend.

Poor Amanda was shaking. "I did it," she said. "I forced myself to do it. And it didn't work!"

"I'm glad it didn't work. It was unethical to begin with. We mustn't try it again." It had made her feel too guilty. In fact, she still felt guilty. She wondered if she'd ever be able to look at James again without feeling a pang of guilt.

"But why didn't it work? I did everything you said, but he wouldn't kiss me."

That was because Juliana had led him to think Lady Billingsgate was about to walk in, but she wouldn't admit that to Amanda. Besides, Amanda was equally at fault. If she had given James any indication that she wanted him—him, not his antiquities—he'd have reached for her the moment he entered the darkened library. "Maybe he wouldn't kiss you because you haven't allowed him to kiss you before."

"He never tried before," Amanda said. "He isn't a very warm person."

Juliana felt an urge to laugh, though she wasn't quite sure whether it was from the obvious absurdity of Amanda's statement or simply from hearing Amanda, of all people, claim someone else wasn't warm.

James was the warmest man she knew. She didn't believe for a moment that he'd never tried to kiss Amanda. Amanda was plainly too reserved to respond. "You need to act more warmly toward him. You have to make him believe you want him."

"I do want him. I cannot marry Lord Malmsey! And our wedding is only two weeks away! I must tell Lord Stafford about my engagement."

"You cannot. He's too honorable to cooperate with any plan to force your father's hand."

"Then how on earth am I to get him to compromise me in time?"

"You need to let him kiss you, and I don't mean as part of a plot. A few kisses will lead to more, and eventually you'll be discovered. Society is a nosy lot, in case you haven't noticed."

"That sounds like a plot," Amanda pointed out.

"It isn't." All right, maybe it was. But it wasn't the same sort of plot as the one they'd tried tonight. Corinna had said that a kiss made all the difference. Once James kissed Amanda, she'd fall in love with him, and they'd both want more kisses, and the rest would happen naturally.

Surely there was no reason to feel guilty about that.

"Lady Amanda!" Lady Billingsgate exclaimed, rushing in. "Are you unwell? Before Lord Stafford left, he told me you'd taken ill."

So James had left. Juliana wouldn't have to look at him again and feel a pang of guilt. But as Amanda explained to Lady Billingsgate that she was quite recovered, thank you, Juliana wondered why knowing she didn't have to face him failed to bring her a measure of relief.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

RICHMOND MAIDS OF HONOUR

Mix Curd with Butter and add 4 yolks of Eggs beaten with a glass of Brandy, half a cup of Sugar, fine white Breadcrumbs with some ground Almonds and a little Nutmeg. To this put the juice of one Lemon and the grated yellow of 2. Press puff paste into your tins and fill and bake.

These small, rich cheesecakes are from a recipe said to have been in the family since Queen Elizabeth's (my namesake's) time. They will melt anyone. Excellent for begging forgiveness.

—Elizabeth, Countess of Greystone, 1728

THE NEXT MORNING DAWNED BRIGHT and sunny, which should have made Juliana feel cheerful, but instead she still felt guilty. It being Sunday, she attended St. George's Hanover Square Church, where the sermon was all about truth, which made her feel even more guilty. So guilty that afterward she baked some Richmond Maids of Honour and asked Griffin to take her to Stafford House.

"Why?" he asked.

A perfectly reasonable question, but one she didn't want to answer. She was entirely too ashamed of her actions to admit them to her brother.

"I just want to ask Lord Stafford if he'd like me to volunteer next week at the Institute," she said. That wasn't quite a lie, since she'd been wondering when he might need her again. "I forgot to ask him last night." With all that had gone on at the ball, she really had forgotten.

"You could send him a note," Griffin suggested.

"Just take me, will you?"

"Very well." Griffin shook his head in that mystified, brotherly way of his. "I cannot imagine why a note won't do, but I'll take you."

"Thank you," she said.

When he was sitting across from her in the carriage, he stretched out his legs and steepled his fingers. "How is your romance with Castleton proceeding?"

She fiddled with the platter on her lap. "He says he's falling in love with me, but he hasn't kissed me yet."

"He's a gentleman," Griffin said, looking not at all unpleased with that news. "He shouldn't kiss you before you're wed. Or engaged at the very least."

Trust a brother to think that. She considered telling him Corinna believed a woman should kiss some frogs so she'll know when she's met her prince, but thought better of it. For one thing, getting Corinna in trouble served no point, and for another, she was beginning to believe her sister was right. If James and Amanda had already kissed, perhaps the plot would have proved successful.

Not that she wished it had, mind you. She felt guilty enough as it was.

"The duke believes a couple should wait to kiss, too," she said instead. "You must be the only two such men in all of London."

"I'm certain he'll ask for your hand soon." Griffin leaned closer and patted her knee. "I'll have a talk with him. In my stables."

"Pardon?" What did his stables have to do with anything?

"Never mind. We've arrived." The carriage pulled to a stop in St. James's Place, and Griffin began to climb out after her.

"Wait here," she said.

"Why?"

"Just wait, will you? I cannot stay long—I have ladies coming to sew at two o'clock." All of her projects were beginning to make her feel a bit frazzled. "It won't take me but a minute to ask one simple question."

"Very well," he said, again shaking his head in that mystified, brotherly way of his. He plopped back onto the seat.

She banged the knocker, and the door was opened by the same crimson-liveried footman who had welcomed her last week. Through the window in the back of the entrance hall, Lady Stafford waved from the courtyard garden. She hurried inside. "How are you, my dear? I didn't expect to see you until your sewing party this afternoon. What do you have there?"

Juliana handed her the platter. "Some Richmond Maids of Honour for Lord Stafford. And for you, too, of course."

"They smell divine."

"I've come to ask Lord Stafford a quick question. Is he at home?"

"He's upstairs in his study, spending this beautiful day going over the Institute's books." Shaking her head in a fond, motherly way, she started toward the staircase. "Follow me, if you will."

It was quite the most elegant staircase Juliana had ever seen. The metal balustrade was painted to look like festooned drapery. Above her head, a segmented barrel ceiling gave the impression of a classical temple interior with garlands swagged between Roman pilasters.

She assumed Lady Stafford was leading her toward the study, but instead she walked her through an impressive library and into a room so splendid it stole Juliana's breath. If she had been a fortune-hunting sort of woman, the very sight of it would have made her want to marry James. It put the gorgeous Palm Room below it to shame.

She'd never seen so much gilt in her life. It dazzled the eye. Fancy gilt columns supported a gilt ceiling. Between all the gleaming gilt, the walls were covered with painted scenes.

"We call this the Painted Room," Lady Stafford said. "Marriage is the theme."

Juliana nearly swooned over the frieze painted on the chimneypiece.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Lady Stafford set the platter of cheesecakes on a gilt-legged marble-topped table. "It's a copy of the celebrated Aldobrandini Wedding, a Roman fresco excavated in the early seventeenth century and exhibited in the Vatican."

"It's exquisite," Juliana breathed. The theme of marriage continued all around the room, with some of the scenes executed directly onto the plaster and others painted on gilt-framed canvas panels. Above a pier glass, a circular panel displayed a painting of another Roman wedding. Other panels depicted music, drinking, and dancing. There were paintings of Cupid and Venus. Nymphs danced on the ceiling, lovers courted on the walls, and a frieze of rose wreaths and garlands of flowers went all around the cornice.

The whole mood was festive and carefree.

"Isn't marriage wonderful?" Lady Stafford said. "Please have a seat. I'll send in my son."

Juliana perched herself on one of four green silk sofas with gilt arms carved to look like winged lions. She folded her hands in her lap. She crossed her feet and uncrossed them. She rose and peeked at her sweets.

The winged lion sofas had six matching chairs, and she was heading for one of them when James walked in.

"Here," she said, grabbing the platter. "I brought these cheesecakes for you."

He took them, looking as mystified as Griffin. But not at all brotherly. Perhaps that had something to do with the fact that not only was he without a coat or cravat and his shirt was unbuttoned at the neck again, but he'd rolled up his cuffs, too. A good six inches of his forearms were bare—muscled forearms, lightly sprinkled with dark hair.

"What are you doing here, Juliana?"

She jerked her gaze up to his face. There was no sense putting it off. "I came to apologize. Won't you have one of the cheesecakes? The recipe is said to have been in my family since Queen Elizabeth's time."

He set down the platter. "Apologize for what?"

He wasn't going to eat any Richmond Maids of Honour. She would have to hope he'd forgive her without their magic. "For plotting with Lady Amanda to trick you into compromising her," she confessed in a rush. "In the library last night. I was hoping you would kiss her, and then I'd bring Lady Billingsgate to witness Lady Amanda's disgrace, so her father would be forced to assent to your marriage." She drew a shaky breath. "Can you forgive me?"

"That's terrible." She'd known he would disapprove, but she hadn't expected he'd look quite so dour. His fists were clenched. "Whyever would you do that? I told you, I can see no reason Lord Wolverston would reject my suit should I decide to ask for his daughter's hand."

"She doesn't believe he'd agree. He isn't a very nice man."

"Surely he isn't stupid." He unclenched his fists, but only to cross his half-bare arms. "I'm excellent husband material."

He had a high opinion of himself, but it wasn't unjustified. There was no doubt he'd make an excellent husband for Amanda. "I'm sorry I went behind your back, but why are you so upset? However terrible the means, the outcome would have been to your benefit. You'd have found yourself married to the woman you love. Unless…"

An awful thought suddenly occurred to her.

She'd assumed that since he was still courting Amanda, he'd fallen in love with her. But what if he hadn't? What if her scheming had resulted in James being forced to marry a woman he didn't love?

"Do you not love Lady Amanda yet?" She held her breath, waiting for the answer.

"No," he said, looking quite sure. Not to mention horrified.

It was the wrong answer, so why did she feel relieved? "Maybe you're in love with her, but you don't know it," she suggested. "Maybe you don't know what love feels like." It was a reasonable question, certainly. She'd asked it of herself several times over the last few weeks.

But now he looked annoyed. "I know what love feels like, Juliana."

That surprising news made her a little uneasy. "You've been in love before?"

"Yes. With my wife."

She couldn't have been more shocked if he'd punched her in the stomach. In fact, it felt like he had punched her in the stomach. "You have a wife?"

"I had a wife," he corrected. "Her name was Anne. She died in childbirth, along with our baby. Two years ago."

"Dear heavens. I didn't know." The sharp pain in Juliana's middle shifted to an ache in her chest. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything."

She watched him walk to a chair and lower himself to it wearily. He no longer looked angry or annoyed; he just looked sad. "I forgive you," he said dully. "What you did was still terrible, but I know your heart was in the right place."

"Thank you," she said softly.

"As long as you promise not to try it ever again."

"I won't. I promise. And a Chase promise is never broken. That's been our family motto for centuries." She sat in the chair beside him, grasping the two lion heads at the ends of its arms as though they could lend her their strength. She was glad to have his forgiveness, but his pain ripped her up inside. He'd loved a wife, and she'd carried their baby, and they'd both died. "I'm so sorry you lost your family."

"You've lost family, too," he said.

"But not a child. It must be hardest to lose a child."

He nodded. "We're supposed to die before our children."

"A child is part of you, part of your future."

"It's only recently I've realized that," he said with a sigh. "Only recently I've realized I want to have another."

Of course he wanted another baby. She wanted a baby, too. And so, she was sure, did Amanda. But he needed more time to fall in love with her.

Juliana knew grief, knew how much it hurt, knew it took a long while to resume living life fully. He'd lost a wife. It would take him time to recover, to allow himself to love another.

She hadn't realized.

He needed more time. He'd said many wonderful things about Amanda, and he was still courting her, after all, so eventually he'd fall in love with her. But he needed more time.

A pity he had only two weeks.

Thirteen days, actually. Twelve days if he didn't see Amanda again until tomorrow. She couldn't let him wait any longer than that.

"You know," she said carefully, "you'll have to remarry to have a child."

"Not technically," he said with a hint of his normal good humor.

"James…"

"Yes, I shall have to remarry to have a child. My dear mother, bless her heart, reminds me of that fact on a daily basis." He paused and looked away, his voice going lower, quieter. "Even though I'll never fall in love again, someday I'll have to remarry."

How could he say such a thing? "You cannot marry without falling in love."

"People do it all the time," he said, looking back to her. "There are many reasons people marry. Wealth, ambition, position, security, duty, honor. And to have a child. While I'd never marry an enemy, I can certainly marry a friend. One can kiss a woman and make a child without falling in love."

Though his words made her blush, she persisted. "How can you possibly know you'll never fall in love again?"

"I just do," he said flatly. "Falling in love would mean betraying Anne, and that isn't going to happen."

Wealth, ambition, position, security, duty, honor…to have a child. Those were sad reasons to wed, Juliana thought—and old reasons as well. Her parents had married for such reasons. Today, in these modern times, young people preferred romantic love matches.

Except…maybe Amanda.

Lord Stafford and I suit well, she remembered Amanda saying. We're compatible. Maybe my father was right—maybe there are more important considerations than love. I cannot marry Lord Malmsey!

At the time, she'd worried that Amanda had decided to marry James for all the wrong reasons. But maybe the two were even better matched than she'd thought. Marriage would give them both what they wanted. Children for James, and a young, compatible man for Amanda.

"Juliana?" James said. "What are you thinking?"

Still sad for him, she forced a smile. "I'm thinking that the two of us went out often during your lessons, but since then you've had no outings with Lady Amanda."

"You want me to take Lady Amanda riding in Hyde Park? Or to the Egyptian Hall?"

"Not exactly." If he hoped to become friends with Amanda—if he hoped to kiss and eventually marry her—he needed to take her someplace much more romantic. "I was thinking Vauxhall Gardens would be perfect."

She'd never been to Vauxhall Gardens, but judging from what she'd heard, it seemed there was nowhere more suitable for lovers, most especially at night. The gardens were described as a paradise of lush paths with many private corners, their twelve acres lit by romantic lanterns—save for a few of the walkways that were deliberately left dark.

"Vauxhall Gardens?" James repeated skeptically. From what he'd heard, the gardens served mainly as a spot for illicit trysts. "I've never been to Vauxhall Gardens."

"Haven't you?" Juliana said. "It's a lovely place."

A lovely place to steal a lady's virtue, or at the very least a few kisses. Which James had no intention of doing with Lady Amanda.

On the other hand, it could be a lovely place to visit with Juliana.

Convincing her of that, however, might be a trick to rival hers.

In truth, James had felt rather dazed upon learning that, in her determination to match him with Amanda, Juliana had been willing to resort to trickery. Dazed and a little bit panicked. Although he realized meddling was in her blood—one didn't have to know Juliana more than a few minutes to conclude that—he'd thought he'd been making progress toward kissing her.

Had his efforts to tempt her accomplished nothing? Obviously, touching Juliana and unbuttoning his shirt were not enough. He'd have to employ stronger tactics if he wanted to kiss her and make sure she didn't ruin her life by marrying stuffy Castleton.

"I wouldn't know where to take Lady Amanda in Vauxhall Gardens," he told her, rolling his sleeves up a little more. "Perhaps you should come with me instead the first time, to show me the good places."

"I don't think—" Juliana's gaze was fastened on his arms. It wandered up to his open shirt. "The gardens are closed on Sundays. Shall we make it tomorrow night?"

"Parliament will be in session—"

"If you want a child, James," she said, finally looking him in the face, "you need to put courting ladies before the House of Lords."

Perhaps he should. Since he wasn't making any progress with his bill, perhaps it wasn't such a bad idea to make progress with Juliana his priority. For a day, at least. Or a night.

"Very well," he said.

"Good." She glanced at his arms again, which he found somewhat encouraging. "I must get home before the guests arrive for my sewing party."

He nodded and started from the room. "I'll come by for you at seven o'clock Monday."

"I'll see that Aunt Frances is ready," she said as they walked through the library.

Tempting Juliana was difficult even without an audience. The last thing he wanted was her chaperone hovering nearby. "Do you suppose Lord Malmsey would like to accompany your aunt?"

"I'm sure he would." She went lightly down the stairs, her renewed good cheer lifting James's heart. She was such a delight. A treasure. "That's a wonderful idea," she said.

Yes, it was. Lord Malmsey seemed quite enamored with Lady Frances, which meant he'd have an eye to getting her alone, which in turn would leave James alone with Juliana. The plan was sounding better and better.

"Until tomorrow, then," he said. His butler opened the front door, revealing Griffin outside pacing around the Cainewood carriage.

"Until tomorrow," Juliana echoed, starting toward her brother. "Wait," she said, turning back. "I forgot to ask if you'd like me to volunteer this week at the Institute."

She would come again without her aunt, James thought. If he failed to kiss her at Vauxhall, maybe he could get her alone in one of the treatment rooms. "Absolutely," he told her with a smile. "How about Friday?"

"Friday will be fine." Returning his smile, she headed toward the carriage.

The butler shut the door behind her, but not before James heard Griffin's impatient huff. "Why in blazes did it take you so long to ask the man one simple question?"

Chapter Twenty-Nine

DARK WAS FALLING.

Juliana had arrived at Vauxhall Gardens with James, Aunt Frances, and Lord Malmsey at about eight o'clock Monday night, while the sun was still gracing the summer sky. It was a fine July evening, perhaps a bit chillier than usual, but without the slightest hint of rain. The pleasure gardens had proved as lovely as she'd hoped, spacious and laid out in delightful walks, bordered with high hedges and towering trees, and paved with gravel that crunched beneath their shoes.

For the first half hour they'd strolled, finding something charming around every corner. Pavilions, grottoes, temples and cascades, porticos, colonnades and rotundas. Here was a striking pillar, there a wonderful statue, in the distance a series of large, picturesque murals. Throngs of visitors promenaded, showing off their finest clothing, their rowdy laughter and whispered endearments filling the night air.

Now, with the sun sinking low, they were seated at a table for four by the building that housed the orchestra, a structure that struck Juliana as Moorish or perhaps Gothic—she couldn't decide which, but regardless, it was magnificent. Its second story was open in the front so the musicians were visible inside.

While they listened to a pleasing variety of popular songs intermixed with serious compositions, they enjoyed a light supper of cold meats and bread and cheese accompanied by French claret. Aunt Frances was astounded at the exorbitant cost of the diminutive portions.

"My word," she said disapprovingly, "this Vauxhall ham is sliced so thin one could read a newspaper through it!"

Lord Malmsey laughed and motioned to a serving girl to order more. "Would you like some cheesecake, too, my dear?"

"It cannot be as good as Juliana's," James said, shooting her a warm smile.

So he'd eaten her Richmond Maids of Honour and enjoyed them. Feeling inordinately pleased about that, Juliana smiled back.

As the musicians played the last notes of a piece composed by Handel, a piercing whistle split the night. "What's that?" she asked.

Lord Malmsey cocked his balding head. "Have you never been here before, Lady Juliana?"

She was about to tell him she hadn't, but then she remembered James didn't know that. "Not at night," she said instead.

But a part of her wondered why she'd accepted James's invitation to show him around, knowing he should be escorting Amanda tonight. The two of them needed to spend more time together if he was to decide to marry her before her planned wedding in twelve days' time.

"Just watch, then," Lord Malmsey said.

And she stopped musing, sucking in a breath as a thousand oil lamps came to life, lit by myriad servants touching matches to their wicks in the same instant. The effect was nothing short of sensational, bathing the gardens in a warm light that must have been visible for miles around.

"Enchanting!" Aunt Frances exclaimed.

Lord Malmsey cocked his head again. "Have you never been here at night, either?"

"I've never been here at all," Frances said.

Shy, retiring Aunt Frances had missed out on a lot, Juliana thought as they finished their supper, but that was about to change. She'd never been happier to see one of her projects prove a success.

"Shall we walk again?" Lord Malmsey asked, rising from the table. "The gardens feel like a different place among the lanterns."

"A lovely idea." Frances rose, too, and pulled on her gloves.

Juliana reached for her own but found her lap empty. "Where are my gloves?" She was sure she'd placed them there when she took them off for supper—it was a lifelong habit, after all. She checked the ground on either side of her chair. "I cannot find them."

"How odd." Shifting his gaze to Lord Malmsey, James waved a hand toward the beckoning paths. "You two go on ahead. I'll help Lady Juliana find her gloves, and then we'll catch up to you."

As Frances and Lord Malmsey walked off, Juliana leaned to peek below the table. "I cannot imagine where they might have gone." She rose and looked under her chair. "They seem to have disappeared."

"Perhaps they're in my pocket," James said. "Right beside mine."

She looked up at him, startled. "How would they get there?"

He shrugged one shoulder, a corner of his mouth turning up in a half smile. "How indeed?"

She laughed. "Give them to me."

"I think not. I think you'll need to get them for yourself."

She eyed his striped silk waistcoat, his dark tailcoat, his crisp white trousers. She didn't know which of his pockets he'd hidden her gloves in, but she wasn't about to slip her hands into his clothing to find out. She laughed again. "James…"

He took her bare hand in his. "Your aunt and Lord Malmsey will get too far ahead if we don't go after them. Come along."

The paths seemed gayer now that it was dark, the company enlivened with mirth and good humor. Music drifted from the orchestra through the trees. Seemingly suspended everywhere, the lamps looked like little illuminated balls glowing every color of the rainbow. Some were arranged in lines or arches, others grouped to represent the starry heavens.

Juliana thought Vauxhall Gardens was the most wonderful place she'd ever been. Her heart felt light, and her hand felt warm in James's. She knew she shouldn't allow him to hold it, but just then she didn't care about proprieties. Ahead of them on the path, Aunt Frances leaned close to Lord Malmsey, oblivious to her charge.

When they caught up to the older couple, who had stopped by a tinkling fountain, Juliana pulled her hand free.

"Look!" Frances pointed overhead. "It's Madame Saqui!"

Wearing an outlandish dress decorated with tinsel, spangles, and plumes, the celebrated tightrope walker seemed to be dancing on air as she ascended a rope attached to a sixty-foot mast. Despite her glittery attire, her appearance was rather masculine. Juliana could see up her dress, and her legs were muscled like a circus strongman's. But her balance was impeccable, her steps graceful and seemingly timed to the orchestra's lilting music.

"It looks like a ballet, doesn't it?" Juliana said.

"A ballet for two," James replied as the dancer's husband mounted a second rope beside hers. "I've heard they earn a hundred guineas per week."

She slanted him a teasing smile. "A sum you'd like to see spent on smallpox vaccinations, no doubt."

He laughed. "Entertaining enchanting ladies is also a worthy cause."

A curious quiver rippled through her at the thought he might find her enchanting, although she knew quite well he was speaking of the company in general. They watched for a few minutes in breathless silence as the couple dipped and swayed, seemingly unworried they might plunge to their deaths. At the top, Madame Saqui performed an agile turn and saluted her husband as she passed him on her way down. When she reached the bottom, she sank into a theatrical curtsy and swept up a little girl, settling her small slippered feet on the tightrope.

"She cannot be more than four years old!" Juliana gasped at the sight of the young miss climbing the rope toward the stars. She covered her face with her hands. "I cannot watch."

"She's their daughter." James slipped an arm around her waist. "Performance is in her blood," he said, drawing her against himself.

She dropped her hands, glancing to see if her aunt had noticed James's bold move.

Her chaperone was no longer beside her.

"Aunt Frances?" She looked around. "Where is Aunt Frances?"

"She went off with Lord Malmsey," James said, the suggestive tone of his voice making her picture her aunt in a very compromising position. "Shall we resume our walk?"

As he drew her down a darkened lane, still holding her close, she was struck again, as she had been at the Egyptian Hall, by how well they fit together. He smelled of starch and soap, clean and fresh and masculine. He matched his longer gait to her shorter one, and it seemed the night was warmer, the gardens more lush and fragrant. Tall trees towered on both sides, their silhouettes dark against the lantern-hazed sky.

"When will you bring Lady Amanda here?" she asked.

"Hmm," he said noncommittally, turning into a tiny secluded pocket garden.

It had a stone bench and a single lantern, so it wasn't quite dark. But it was dim, with high hedges all around. She heard a couple walk by, gravel crunching beneath their feet. No one peeked in through the narrow opening.

James released her and walked over to the bench, she assumed to sit down. But he didn't. Instead, he slid off his tailcoat and draped it over the seat. "Do you think this would be a good spot to bring Lady Amanda?" he asked.

"Maybe." Amanda would surely grow closer to him in this private, hidden location. And he would grow closer to her. They'd become friends, and then they'd marry and have a child. "I mean, yes," she decided. "This would be an excellent place to bring Lady Amanda."

"I thought so." His long fingers worked at the knot in his cravat, the sight of which seemed to make butterflies flutter in her stomach. "What do you expect I should do with Lady Amanda when we're here?"

He should kiss her, of course, but Juliana wasn't about to say that out loud. She didn't know what to say, so she didn't say anything. She just watched him pull the cravat from around his neck, slowly and steadily, until it came off entirely and dangled from his fingers.

"Well?" His intense dark gaze was fastened on her in that way that made her wonder if he could read her mind. "Have you no suggestions?" He released the cravat, and it fluttered to the bench, a tumbled pile of white froth. "Do you think perhaps I should kiss her?"

He had read her mind.

She swallowed hard. "Maybe."

"I thought so." He eased open the top button of his shirt. And the second button. "I think we should practice," he said conversationally.

Her gaze was glued to the little V of golden skin where his shirt was unbuttoned. "Practice?"

"Yes, practice." He raised a wrist and unbuttoned a cuff. "You and me. Before I try it with Lady Amanda."

"You want to kiss me?" He couldn't. He shouldn't.

"Just for practice. Come here, Juliana."

His deep, chocolatey voice made another shiver ripple through her. The butterflies fluttered faster. He wanted to kiss her. Just for practice, but still…

James wanted to kiss her.

She wasn't supposed to kiss James—she was supposed to kiss the duke. But the duke had made it clear he wouldn't kiss her until they were married. He was so very, very proper. And Aunt Frances thought a kiss no great sin, and Corinna had told her she should kiss a few frogs so she'd know when she'd met her prince.

Not that James was a frog. He was…well, she didn't know what he was, precisely. A friend, she supposed. A friend who was rolling up his cuffs, exposing his muscled forearms to the innocent eyes of the last unkissed woman in all of England.

And unbuttoning the buttons that ran down the front of his waistcoat.

Dear heavens, if she didn't kiss him soon, he'd end up naked in the middle of Vauxhall Gardens.

"Very well," he said softly as the waistcoat fell open. "If you're not going to come to me, I will have to come to you."

And he did. He walked right up to her. She backed up, and he followed. She moved until her back was against a tall, fragrant hedge, and he followed until he was all but against her. Until there was a hairsbreadth between them, until his scent of starch and soap overwhelmed her, until her body tingled and the butterflies threatened to break free.

He was so close she could see golden flecks in his brown eyes. So close she could feel his breath upon her face. So close she found herself straining to get still closer.

"May I kiss you?" he asked, settling his hands on her shoulders.

She couldn't say yes and she couldn't say no. But she tilted her chin up, wondering, waiting, her heart pounding and her eyes drifting shut.

It was an invitation, albeit a silent one.

An invitation he accepted.

His hands drew her closer, then slipped down around her and pulled her closer still. His lips grazed hers, just a hint of a caress that left her desperate for more.

"May I?" he asked again in a husky whisper.

"Oh, yes," she whispered back, the words seemingly torn from her throat.

And his mouth settled warm upon hers.

It was a divine sensation, more lovely than she'd ever imagined. She swayed against him, feeling his hard body through her thin dress and his muslin shirt. She slid her hands beneath his loosened waistcoat and all the way around to his back, his muscles rippling under her fingers.

He slanted his head, changing the angle of the kiss. She felt as though she were melting, as though she couldn't tell where her lips ended and his started, as though she'd become a part of him.

And then he pulled back. Her heart still pounding, she opened her eyes and sighed. She wanted his mouth on hers again. It was a beautiful mouth, a sculpted mouth, the lower lip fuller than the top one. Above it, his eyes looked as dazed as she felt, warm pools of chocolate with golden flecks.

James was the handsomest man she'd ever seen.

She'd known he was handsome, of course. She'd told Amanda as much, many times. But his handsomeness had been just a fact like so many others. James was handsome. Corinna was a good painter. Griffin had been in the cavalry. All facts.

But now…

She looked at James. Really looked at him, seemingly for the first time. And what she saw made her want him to kiss her all over again.

She rose to her toes, and he met her halfway, crushing his mouth to hers. Not warm and caressing this time, but hot and demanding instead. His lips coaxed hers to part, and his tongue slipped inside, and it was shocking and exciting. Soft, slippery, sweet, tasting of the claret they'd sipped with supper. She was floating, whirling, she'd have spun right off her feet if he hadn't been holding her so tightly. One hand pressed the small of her back while the other drifted up to cradle her head, adjusting the angle so their lips meshed even more closely.

"Juliana!" It was Aunt Frances, her voice distant but recognizable. "Juliana, where are you?"

"Bloody hell," James grated out, breaking the kiss.

"Dear heavens!" Juliana stared at him a moment while her head cleared. He was standing there with half of his clothing unbuttoned. Aunt Frances was about to find them, and he was just standing there, unbuttoned.

"Dress yourself!" she hissed.

His fingers moved to the buttons of his waistcoat and began fastening them leisurely.

"Juliana!" her aunt called again.

She ran to the pocket garden's entrance and looked out onto the path. Frances was nowhere to be seen, thank heavens.

She turned back. "Hurry," she told James. "It's only a matter of time until she finds us."

Unrolling one of his sleeves, he shrugged and sauntered back to the bench, where his cravat lay atop his tailcoat in a jumbled pile. "Do I kiss better than Castleton?"

"I haven't kissed Castleton. He's too—"

"Stuffy?" he provided, looking all too pleased at that news.

"He's not stuffy! He's just—"

"A prig."

"He's not a prig! He's proper and reserved, which is more than I can say for you."

He grinned. "That's more than I can say for you as well. Which is a recommendation, to my mind—"

"Juliana!" Lord Malmsey's voice joined her aunt's this time. "Juliana!"

She peeked outside again. Still clear. Her heart pounding, now from panic instead of passion, she stalked over to James. He was buttoning his shirt so slowly it made her grit her teeth. "Hurry, will you?" She swept up his cravat, intending to throw it at him, but an enormous boom sounded overhead and she shrieked in alarm.

"Easy." The cravat drifted to the grass while James moved to wrap her in his arms. "It's just fireworks." Another boom exploded in the sky, accompanied by flashes of red and blue and white. "Your aunt will stop and watch," he said soothingly.

Knowing he was right, she pulled away and sat on the bench to watch the fireworks. But she wasn't soothed, and she didn't feel at ease. Not even after he'd retrieved the cravat and awkwardly knotted it and donned his tailcoat and buttoned it up. Her heart was still pounding, and her stomach felt queer.

Great, fiery streaks of light burst in the heavens, and all around she heard "ooh!" and "ahh!" from all the people in Vauxhall Gardens, but all she could think was thank heavens she hadn't been caught kissing James while half of his clothing was unbuttoned.

They'd have had to marry. And she couldn't marry James. She just couldn't.

I can certainly marry a friend, she remembered him saying. One can kiss a woman and make a child without falling in love.

The duke was falling in love with her, and James wouldn't. He'd said he'd never fall in love again. He'd only kissed her because they were friends and he wanted a child. And if he didn't marry Amanda, Amanda would have to marry Lord Malmsey—and Aunt Frances would be devastated.

She should never have let James kiss her.

Chapter Thirty

JAMES HAD FINALLY KISSED JULIANA, and it had been better than he'd ever imagined—and God knew he'd imagined it plenty.

Countless times, he'd imagined the feel of her in his arms. Day after day, he'd imagined the taste of her on his lips. Night after night, he'd imagined the heat that would flash between them.

And it had all been better. Amazingly, exceedingly better. So much better, in fact, that it had left him rather witless.

He vaguely wondered what had driven him to unbutton so many buttons. And why he hadn't felt compelled to button them back up particularly quickly. And, most confounding of all, why he hadn't been nearly as relieved as Juliana when, after the fireworks, they'd met the older couple at the front gate of Vauxhall Gardens and her aunt didn't seem to be suspicious.

Now they were in his carriage on their way back to Berkeley Square. Seated across from him and Juliana, Lady Frances giggled like an infatuated adolescent. "Goodness gracious," she said, "when we couldn't find you, I half expected I'd be forced to tell my nephew he would have to demand the two of you marry."

Given that Lady Frances's cheeks were much more flushed than Juliana's, James found that statement somewhat amusing.

But then Juliana smoothed her yellow dress. "We were only watching the fireworks, Auntie. Besides, you know I'm going to marry the Duke of Castleton."

And James found that statement supremely annoying.

And that's when everything began to slowly come clear in his mind.

It was a realization the likes of which he'd never experienced.

He'd unbuttoned so many buttons to tempt her, of course. And he hadn't felt compelled to button them back up particularly quickly because he hadn't been worried that the two of them might be caught and forced to marry.

No, that wasn't quite right. It wasn't that he hadn't been worried they might be caught and forced to marry…it was more like he'd been hoping they would be caught and forced to marry.

Because he wanted to marry her. But he hadn't been able to admit that, not even to himself, because it would be a betrayal of Anne.

Except…it wasn't.

He'd fallen in love with Juliana, and it wasn't a betrayal at all.

He felt like he should be appalled. Or guilty. Or disbelieving.

But he wasn't any of those things. He was in love. And he couldn't disbelieve it any more than he could disbelieve he had two hands and two feet.

He'd been telling himself all along this would never happen, but maybe some part of him had realized he could, indeed, fall in love again someday. Maybe he'd been in denial.

Maybe.

It was a possibility.

He was willing to admit to that.

But if he had thought such a thing—if he'd considered that someday he could fall in love with another woman without desecrating his first wife's memory—he'd thought it could happen only after Anne somehow granted him permission.

Exactly how he could receive permission from a dead woman wasn't something he'd really considered. Maybe he could have gone to her grave and talked to her—he'd read such scenarios in books. Or maybe she could have come to him in a dream—he'd read that in books, too. Or maybe she could have sent him a sign; maybe he could have just seen something—something seemingly insignificant—and somehow known what it meant.

But none of that had happened. Because he didn't need Anne's permission. Because his love for Juliana had nothing to do with Anne.

Nothing.

Loving Juliana didn't diminish the love he'd had for Anne. It didn't mean he wouldn't always cherish the memories of their time together. He didn't love Juliana more than he'd loved Anne or less than he'd loved Anne.

He loved her differently.

She was a different woman, and he loved her for different reasons. Which made sense, because he was different now, too. This new love wasn't better or worse, or deeper or shallower. It was just different.

And it was exactly what he needed right now. What he needed to make him feel whole again, to make his life complete.

Unfortunately, Juliana seemed bent on marrying stuffy Castleton, that ass who wanted her only because she came with a horse.

The carriage rolled to a stop in front of her brother's town house.

"Thank you," Lord Malmsey said as he stepped out.

"It was a lovely evening," Lady Frances said and stepped out, too.

Juliana didn't say anything as she stepped out to follow them. But before the footman could close the carriage door, she turned back to face James. "When are you going to take Lady Amanda to Vauxhall Gardens?"

He didn't want to take Lady Amanda to Vauxhall Gardens. He didn't want to take her anywhere. He'd never wanted to take her anywhere.

But he especially didn't want to take her to Vauxhall Gardens, the place where he'd discovered he was in love with Juliana.

"Never," he said. "I didn't enjoy Vauxhall Gardens much."

"Didn't you?" She narrowed her eyes as though she didn't believe him. Which was hardly surprising, since in truth he'd enjoyed himself immensely. "Well," she said, "then where shall you take her?"

He wanted to say nowhere, but he couldn't. Because then he'd have no excuse to see Juliana. She was bent on marrying the stuffy duke, which meant she wouldn't accept an invitation to accompany him anywhere unless it was for the sake of Lady Amanda.

That wasn't such a terrible thing, he consoled himself. He and Juliana were becoming fast friends, and that was good enough for now. If he continued the pretense that he was interested in Lady Amanda, he could keep touching Juliana, and kissing her, and tempting her. Juliana wouldn't try to trick him again—she'd promised not to, and he trusted her. He could afford to remain patient. Friendship in marriage was important, and there was plenty of time to make Juliana fall in love with him.

He was just getting used to the fact that he wanted to marry her. There was no reason to rush right into it.

"I'll take Lady Amanda wherever you'd like," he said. "Except Vauxhall Gardens. As long as you come along, too."

"I cannot come along!"

"You can if you're with Castleton." It galled him to say that, but he saw no other choice. No other way to keep touching and kissing and tempting Juliana.

Well, there was Friday, when he hoped to corner her in a treatment room. But that was four days away. Entirely too long to wait.

"If we go somewhere I've never been," he told her, "I'll need you there to provide guidance."

She mulled that over for a moment, and then she said, "Very well," just as he'd expected. He'd known he could appeal to her meddling nature. She'd probably never in her life come to believe he was capable of fending for himself, but he could live with that.

In fact, he looked forward to living with that. He rather liked having her look after him. It was a never-ending source of amusement, one of her many quirks he loved best.

"I think we should go see the new Battle of Waterloo panorama in Leicester Square tomorrow," she said. "I've heard it's very romantic."

Having witnessed war himself, James didn't think it was very romantic, and he had never heard the term romantic attached to the Leicester Square Panorama building, either. But he had heard it was rather dark, and he supposed darkness could lead to romance, and while he was well aware that Juliana expected him to find romance with Lady Amanda while she found romance with that ass Castleton, he knew that wouldn't happen, so her false expectations didn't dampen his spirits in the slightest.

"I believe it closes at four," he said, "so I shall return to fetch you and Lady Amanda at one o'clock."

"And Aunt Frances," she reminded him.

"And Lady Frances." Even that didn't dim his cheer. "Invite Lord Malmsey, too, will you?" he said, reaching into his pocket. "Here are your gloves, s—"

He cut off, turning the last sound into a very long s, as though there were more than two gloves.

He'd almost called her sweetheart.

He'd best be more careful; he wanted to tempt Juliana, not scare her away.

"Thank you," she said, taking them and going into the house.

James was in an excellent mood as his carriage continued on to Stafford House. Once there, he remained in an excellent mood as he searched the morning room and the music room and the Palm Room for his mother. He took the stairs two at a time, still in an excellent mood when he finally found her in her sitting room, reading a Minerva Press novel.

He'd never seen his mother read a Minerva Press novel. They were torrid romances, and he didn't quite know how he felt about her reading such a thing, but that didn't affect his excellent mood.

"Yes, James?" she said, shutting it quickly and setting it upside down on the table beside her. "How was your evening?"

"It was rather pleasant," he said, perhaps the greatest understatement of his life. "I want to renovate my bedroom."

"You cannot change that room. It was designed by Henry Holland!"

"I don't care who designed it. Brown and plum are too somber."

Cornelia loved redecorating, but James's father had never let her touch Stafford House, so she'd had to content herself with overhauling their manor house in the countryside. James had known she wouldn't argue long. Clearly excited, she rose, belted her dressing gown more tightly, and walked over to sit at her feminine writing desk.

"What colors would you like, then?" she asked, dipping her quill in the inkwell.

"Red," he decided.

"Your favorite color. Yes, I should have guessed." She scribbled. "Any other requests?"

"And yellow. Red and yellow." He'd noticed Juliana often wore yellow, but he wouldn't explain that to his mother. The last thing he needed was her figuring out he'd finally decided to remarry.

"We'll do stripes," she said, still scribbling. "Wide red and yellow stripes on the walls above the wainscoting."

"I want the wainscoting gone. It's dark wood, and I don't want anything dark in the room."

She frowned, then brightened. "We'll paint the wainscoting white, then. Bright white enamel. And use narrower stripes on the upholstery. But solid red bedclothing, I think. Perhaps with yellow pillows."

"Fine." Henry Holland's design had used floral fabrics, so stripes sounded perfect. As different as could be. "And get rid of that monstrous old-fashioned bed, will you?"

"It's been in the family since the sixteenth century."

"It looks it."

"Nine Stafford earls were born in that bed—"

"I want something modern. Without a canopy or stifling curtains."

She looked up. And then she gazed at him for a very long moment, while he wondered if she'd make the connection, if she'd realize that the bed, the curtains—all of it—held too many memories.

"Very well," she finally said. "If you insist, we'll move it to a guest room."

Chapter Thirty-One

“IT'S THE RHEUMATISM, I FEAR," Lady Avonleigh said the next afternoon.

"It's dreadful," Lady Balmforth added. "The two of us ache every morning."

When James had fetched Juliana and the others for their outing, he'd explained that he needed to stop by his aunts' house on their way to Leicester Square. Seated in his aunts' drawing room on a peach sofa, Juliana watched him walk them toward a large picture window.

"I'm afraid some morning stiffness is to be expected at your age," he said sympathetically. He lifted Lady Balmforth's narrow hand and examined it in the window's light.

"Don't you need to use your quizzing glass?" she asked.

"Not for this. I see no evidence of swelling, and your joints don't look reddened or feel overly warm. If the achiness wears off before noon, that's a good sign." He flexed her elbow. "Does this hurt?"

"He's patient," Amanda said quietly, sitting beside Juliana.

"Yes, he is," she whispered back, lifting an embroidery hoop one of James's aunts had left on the table. It wasn't a simple sampler but an amazingly detailed scene—a cottage in the woods with animals among the trees. Oddly enough, though, it seemed to smell faintly of camphor. "Isn't this exquisite?"

"I wish he'd be a little more impatient. We're going to be late."

"There's no need to worry." She sniffed the embroidery hoop before she set it back down. Definitely camphor. "The rotunda doesn't close until four."

"But the duke will be waiting."

"Not for so very long." Juliana raised a half-finished crewelwork seat cover and ran her fingers over the pattern, a veritable field of flowers. "Lord Stafford's aunts are very talented."

"Lord Stafford is on his knees," Amanda said. "That cannot be good for his injury."

James was crouched on the floor, obligingly examining Lady Avonleigh's plump ankles. Juliana didn't think about his injury much—it didn't seem to stop him from doing anything, so she couldn't see where it mattered. But apparently it mattered to Amanda.

"There's nothing Lord Stafford won't do for someone he cares for," Juliana told her, returning the crewelwork to the table. "You're lucky to have someone so wonderful courting you." Honestly, it was a bit annoying that Amanda didn't seem to realize how truly lucky she was. "It's nice of you to be concerned for him, though. Just remember to let him kiss you."

"What if he doesn't try?"

"He'll try. Parts of the rotunda are rumored to be very dark." James would take advantage of the darkness—Juliana knew this from experience.

"What if I don't like his kisses?"

Poor Amanda seemed even more afraid of kissing than before. The failed trick must have traumatized her. "You'll love his kisses," she assured her. Another thing she knew from experience. In fact, just thinking about that particular experience made her stomach feel all queer again.

Why was that?

Her puzzlement must have shown on her face, because the next thing she knew, James was standing over her, looking concerned. "Is something wrong?"

"No, not at all," she assured him—and herself. "Are you finished?"

"I've prescribed hot, damp towels for my aunts' aches. I'm certain they shall be fine."

She rose and walked over to where his aunts sat while their maids obligingly applied the towels. "I hope you'll both be feeling better soon."

"Oh, we shall," Lady Balmforth said as her maid wrapped one of her wrists. "Our James always knows what to do. I'm sure we'll feel better by the time Cornelia comes to fetch us in an hour. We're going to Gillow's to look at some new furniture for her house."

"Your needlework is lovely. I'm having a little sewing party tomorrow afternoon, to make some baby clothes for the Foundling Hospital. Would either of you be interested in joining me?"

"Cornelia told us about your sewing parties," Lady Avonleigh exclaimed, appearing better already. The odd camphor smell was hers—along with a rather strong scent of gardenias. "They sound delightful, my dear. I should love to attend."

Lady Balmforth clasped her hands together so enthusiastically she lost a towel in the process. "I should love to attend, too."

"Thank you so much. Shall I send my brother's carriage at one o'clock?"

"Oh, no," Lady Avonleigh said. "We have our own carriage, and John Coachman has much too much time on his hands."

"He naps," Lady Balmforth added. "Even more often than we do."

Juliana noticed James and Amanda both inching toward the door. "Excellent," she said before going after them. "I live at forty-four Berkeley Square, and I very much look forward to seeing you."

"That was rather presumptuous," Amanda said as they walked out to James's carriage where Frances and Lord Malmsey were waiting.

"I disagree," James said. "I think it was kind. My aunts were thrilled to be invited."

Juliana smiled. "They're very sweet."

"And very healthy," he said dryly. "Such a pity they don't know it."

"They just need something else to occupy their minds. That's why I invited them to my party—well, besides the fact that I do need their help. And I'm thinking I should introduce them to a few more charming gentlemen."

"I don't believe either of them is interested in gentlemen, charming or not."

"Have they never been wed?"

"Oh, yes. Aunt Bedelia was married four times."

"Four!" Amanda exclaimed.

"A baron, two viscounts, and an earl. They all died," he added as a footman opened the carriage door. "That sweet old lady must be toxic."

Juliana began to laugh, but ended up gasping instead. Inside James's opulent carriage, her aunt was kissing Lord Malmsey.

"Gracious me!" Amanda cried, clearly scandalized. Not because she cared that Lord Malmsey was courting Frances, Juliana thought. After all, Amanda wanted to marry James; she'd given Lord Malmsey permission to court other women; she'd told him she was going to find a way out of their marriage. Amanda would have been scandalized to see any two people kissing. She was scared to death of kisses.

The older couple jerked apart. A flush rushed up Frances's neck and spread to her cheeks. Not a delicate flush, either—it was more like a bright red flood.

But she kept her composure. "Are your aunts feeling better?" she asked James, folding her hands in her lap.

"Remarkably." He handed Amanda in first, then Juliana before himself. She left space for him in the middle, but it seemed there wasn't enough, because he ended up squished against her. "To the Leicester Square Panorama," he instructed and settled back.

They all rode in silence for a few awkward moments. James felt very warm against Juliana. Her stomach was feeling even more queer. "Lord Stafford was telling us his aunt Bedelia has been married four times," she told Frances.

"Oh, my," Frances said.

After a few more awkward moments, Juliana looked up to James. "Were there no children?"

"None that lived. And Aunt Aurelia's life has been even more tragic."

"How many husbands did she have?" Amanda asked in a tone that Juliana found rather disapproving.

James didn't seem to notice, however. "Only one, the Earl of Avonleigh. But their children failed to bring her happiness. Her eldest daughter eloped with a cousin, prompting her husband to disown the girl. Aurelia never heard from her again and learned she'd died a number of years later. Her middle child, a son, drank too much and accidentally drowned. And her youngest, another daughter, ended her own life soon after marrying. She jumped off the London Bridge, taking her unborn child with her."

"Oh, my," Frances said again.

"Aunt Aurelia's husband died soon thereafter. A 'visitation from God' was the coroner's official verdict, but I expect his spirit was broken."

"I don't doubt that," Lord Malmsey said.

Juliana nodded. "It's a wonder your aunt survived."

"She's a strong lady. They both are. It's a shame they have no children or grandchildren to dote upon."

"They have you," she pointed out.

"I know, and I adore them. I admire their pluck." The carriage came to a halt. "I just wish they had someone else to pluck at once in a while."

The door opened to Leicester Square and a huge round building. Over a rather nondescript entrance, a fancy marquee said PANORAMA. Before it stood the duke.

Juliana was relieved to see he didn't look perturbed. On the other hand, he didn't look happy, either. He looked the way he usually did: reserved and rather bland. His pale blue eyes calm, his expression pleasant.

Everyone clambered out of the carriage. "Good afternoon, my dear," the duke said to her. "I was very pleased to receive your invitation."

After everyone else exchanged greetings, the men bought tickets at the box office and they all proceeded inside. A long, narrow, dimly lit corridor stretched ahead, and it got even darker when the door shut behind them.

Amanda shrieked.

"There now," a voice said, soothing her. "Take my arm."

It was the duke, not James.

James took Juliana's arm instead. Even in the dark she knew it was James, because he smelled like soap and starch instead of eau de cologne. And because her stomach felt even queerer.

"You should be escorting Lady Amanda," she whispered as they all groped their way down the hall, laughing and feeling their way along the walls.

"She'll be fine," he said.

Of course Amanda would be fine. The duke was very kind to soothe her. It was somewhat of a shock going from the busy, open square to the dim, closed-in corridor, but it wasn't really scary. In fact, it was sort of fun. However, James could hardly kiss Amanda while she was with the duke, and that wasn't a good thing.

By the time they reached the end of the corridor, Juliana's eyes had adjusted to the low light and she could see somewhat. A tall staircase spiraled up. And up. And up. The light in the stairwell grew a little brighter as they went.

"My knees hurt," Amanda complained halfway up. "Can we please stop and rest?"

"Of course we can," the duke said.

Propelled by James, Juliana passed them and kept going.

Behind her, Frances giggled. "I cannot remember the last time I turned in so many circles!"

Indeed, Juliana felt like a blindfolded child being spun around as part of a game. It was a bit disorienting. She held tighter to James, noticing he seemed to be limping a little more than usual. Maybe Amanda had been right when she said he shouldn't have been kneeling.

Suddenly the staircase ended, and they emerged to find themselves transported to another time and place. Like magic, they'd gone from Leicester Square to Belgium in a matter of minutes.

Feeling like she was still spinning, Juliana wormed her way through the crowd and gripped the platform's rail. All around her, above and below, a battlefield stretched miles into the distance.

"Amazing," James breathed behind her.

It was overwhelming. She knew the panorama was only a giant painting, but everything in the rotunda was designed to trick the eyes. Indirect illumination, provided by narrow skylights beneath the edge of the domed ceiling, made it look like outdoors at dusk. Far below, a three-dimensional terrain stretched from under the platform up to the walls, filled with lifelike vegetation, objects, and figures that blended into the picture, making everything seem real.

And all around, the Battle of Waterloo raged.

Chaos reigned. Cavalrymen charged on horses with bayoneted infantry at their backs. Officers gave orders, soldiers aided the fallen, smoke rose from cannons in a stand of trees. The ground was low in places, muddy in others, fenced and open, brown and green, flat and rough and everything in between. Fields that should have been smooth were littered with the killed and wounded, the contents of their knapsacks strewn all over. As far as the eye could see, men scrambled and fought, their guns and swords flashing in the glistening haze made by spent artillery.

When Juliana finally felt steady enough to release the rail, she edged sideways around the platform, working her way through the other milling spectators. It seemed they were all standing in a pavilion on the top of a small hill in the center of the battle. The soldiers looked wet, dirty, and blue with cold. She could have sworn she saw a mounted officer raise a hat to signal an attack. A shiver ran down her spine.

"I feel seasick," Frances said from somewhere close on the platform.

"Hold on to me," Lord Malmsey said. "You have delicate nerves, my love."

His love? Blinking in the twilight, Juliana tore her gaze from the panorama and turned toward the voices.

But the couple was no longer nearby.

Chapter Thirty-Two

“WHERE'S MY AUNT?" JULIANA CRIED. "And Lord Malmsey?"

James curved an arm around her, pulling her close. "We'll find them later," he said, his low voice seeming to vibrate right through her.

Though she knew she shouldn't, she leaned into him. "Where are the duke and Lady Amanda?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes!" Amanda was supposed to be here with James in the dark. Kissing him. No matter that the thought of his kisses made Juliana's stomach feel queer.

She swayed.

"Are you feeling seasick, too?" he asked.

"No." It was just the sound of his deep chocolate voice making her dizzy. And the thought of kissing him. She couldn't kiss him. Not again. If she was going to kiss anyone, it should be the duke.

But the duke didn't want to kiss her until they were married, and in any case, he was with Amanda. In fact, Amanda had probably latched on to him knowing he wouldn't kiss her.

If a woman feared being kissed, the duke was a much safer bet than James.

"Do you see them?" she asked James, trying to peer around him.

He drew her toward the staircase. "Maybe they've gone downstairs. I think we should go and see."

They walked all the way down, around and around, but the others were nowhere to be found. At the bottom, they retraced their steps down the corridor, laughingly feeling their way along the walls again. James, Juliana noticed even in the darkness, was definitely limping more than usual. Reaching the end, they opened the door and looked out into Leicester Square.

She blinked in the bright sunshine. There was no sign of her aunt or Amanda or the other men. "They must still be upstairs," she said.

"They must." A family was approaching the door, so James drew her back inside to let them pass.

The children giggled when the door closed behind them and the corridor plunged into darkness. "Don't run!" the parents cautioned as their offspring made their way toward the staircase.

The youngsters giggled again and again, bumping each other and the walls. Still, when James took Juliana's hand and began to follow them, she could hear his uneven gait.

"Your leg is hurting you, isn't it?"

She felt rather than saw him shrug. "It was a tall staircase. I'm fine."

The vast number of steps hadn't occurred to her when she'd suggested today's outing. Unlike Amanda, she never really thought about James's limp at all. He never mentioned it, and it was usually so slight. "Does it hurt very often?"

"Only when it's cold and rainy."

"Dear heavens." She gripped his arm with her other hand, effectively dragging him to a stop. "It must hurt all the time this year."

His laughter echoed down the corridor. "It's not that painful. The limb is stiffer than I'd like, but the sensation is just a dull ache. Nothing to merit your concern. In a strange sort of way I actually embrace the discomfort—it reminds me how fortunate I am to still have it."

"When did it happen? And how?"

"Peninsular War," James explained. "Took a ball right below the knee." The giggles grew fainter as, at the other end of the corridor, the family started up the staircase. "The army surgeons wanted to amputate, but one managed to save it instead."

"I'm glad," Juliana murmured, thinking he was stoic and brave.

Amanda should be so grateful to have him.

"I was lucky." The footsteps faded away, and James continued walking down the corridor. "And extremely grateful for the man's skill. Since I could no longer march with the army, I needed another profession, and—"

"That's why you became a doctor," she interrupted softly.

"Have you still been puzzling over that?" he wondered with a low laugh as they neared the steps. "Yes, this time you're more or less correct. Eventually, though, I chose the life of a physician over that of a surgeon. I decided I'd rather work with stethoscopes than saws."

Suppressing a sickening vision of a surgeon's saw covered in blood, Juliana took a while to notice that instead of starting up the staircase, he'd drawn her around and underneath it.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"People will bump into us if we wait in the corridor. We'll wait here instead."

It was very dark under the steps, and James would take advantage of the dark. He'd claim he wanted to practice and try to kiss her again. She'd told Amanda as much, hadn't she, because she knew it to be true from experience. "I think we should go back upstairs."

"If we wait here," he argued, "your aunt and the others will surely come down."

"Aunt Frances won't be able to see us under here." Especially considering Frances was probably busy kissing Lord Malmsey. Bold men had a tendency to take advantage of the dark, and while Lord Malmsey might have started out rather shy, he was obviously getting bolder by the minute. Already today he'd been bold enough to kiss Frances in James's carriage and call her my love.

Juliana's stomach felt queer—and suddenly she knew why.

Lord Malmsey had called Aunt Frances my love.

Juliana wanted someone to call her my love.

She wanted James to call her my love.

Because she loved James, and she wanted him to love her back.

But that would never happen.

"I don't know what to do," she said.

She wanted to love the duke. But she loved James instead, because James was warm and affectionate and charitable and everything else the duke wasn't. It didn't matter anymore that James was too tall and had dark hair and a profession. He was brave and stoic. They fit perfectly together, and he was the most handsome man she knew, and as for his profession, well, he was trying to rid the world of the scourge of smallpox, and whatever could be wrong with that?

But she couldn't marry James, because he would never love her. Like her mother, she'd be unhappy all her days. And the duke needed her, and he was very kind, and he was sending her flowers and falling in love with her. James and Amanda belonged together. They shared interests that Juliana didn't. They filled each other's needs.

Juliana's stomach didn't just feel queer anymore—it hurt. And she wished she'd never said she didn't know what to do, because she couldn't possibly explain any of this to James.

Fortunately, he interpreted I don't know what to do in an entirely different context. "It doesn't make much sense to walk all the way up again only to turn around and come back down." Edging her even deeper under the steps, he raised a hand and traced one finger in a shivery line down her jaw. "Don't worry about whether your aunt will see us. I'll watch for her and the others. And while we're waiting, we can practice kissing."

She'd known he would say that, hadn't she? And she knew she shouldn't agree. But she also knew she shouldn't insist he walk up all those stairs again or his poor leg would pain him even more.

"You don't need to practice kissing," she told him with no small amount of conviction. James had been married, after all. She hadn't known that when she'd first suggested he might need lessons, but she knew it now. He'd had practice. He kissed so well a woman would have to be daft to think he needed practice.

His finger lingered at the base of her chin, tracing little circles there, threatening to break her resolve. At the far end of the corridor, the door opened, admitting more people and a little light, just enough so Juliana could see James's gaze, which was so intense she could tell he knew exactly the effect his actions were having on her.

Oh, yes, he'd had practice.

The door shut, plunging the corridor back into darkness as the people made their way to the stairwell. "It's been a long time since I've kissed a woman," he said quietly, apparently reading her mind again.

"It's been less than twenty-four hours."

"But before that, it was a long time."

His finger continued down her throat, slowly, slowly. Wishing she could see him, she swallowed hard. "You're not going to unbutton, are you?"

His laugh was quick, low, and pleased. "No, I'm not going to unbutton here." His finger zigzagged down her chest, lightly, lightly, making every nerve in her body sing. "Practice with me, Juliana," he murmured as it disappeared into the little valley between her breasts.

She couldn't breathe. No man had ever touched her there, and now his finger was tracing up and down, making her heart pound and her breasts ache.

More people were coming down the corridor, but she couldn't seem to care.

"They cannot see you," he whispered, bending his neck, angling his head, lowering his mouth toward hers. "Will you practice?" His breath whispered across her lips. "Will you?"

And she let him. She whispered, "Yes." God help her, though he clearly didn't need practice, she allowed him to practice anyway. Just once. Or maybe twice.

She lost count.

His kisses were drugging. Little nipping ones at first, and then deeper ones, until she opened her mouth and invited him in. People went up and down the stairs overhead while his tongue tangled with hers in a dance so exciting it made heat gather low in her middle. His finger still played between her breasts, and his other hand pressed against her back, pulling her closer.

Her pulse raced, and her head swam, and she didn't want him to stop. She wanted him to kiss her forever. She wanted him to make her forget that she shouldn't be wanting him.

He shifted his finger inside her bodice and touched a nipple.

She sucked in her breath, breaking the kiss.

"I'm not unbuttoning," he murmured, rubbing the sensitive crest.

No, what he was doing was much more effective. It made the heat down lower more urgent. She rocked against him as he kept rubbing and kissed a tingling trail down her throat.

She feared her knees might fail. "James!" she breathed.

"Hmm?" He placed little damp kisses all across her low neckline, maneuvering his hand inside her bodice until he managed to free her other breast.

And his warm mouth closed over it.

"James!"

"Juliana, is that you?"

His mouth left her. "Is that you, Lady Frances?" He whirled around and started down the corridor while Juliana yanked her dress back into place.

More footsteps sounded on the stairs, growing closer. Juliana stepped into the corridor just as four dark forms made it to the bottom. "There you all are!" she said.

At the other end, James opened the door, admitting a shaft of light. "We were looking for you."

"We were looking for you," Frances said, blinking madly. Well, it was dim, and she wasn't wearing her spectacles. "Lady Amanda wishes to return home."

"I was dizzy up there," Amanda said.

Juliana had felt a little dizzy up there, too, but she felt much more dizzy now. Dizzy and confused. She followed the others out into Leicester Square. Her knees still felt shaky. Her breasts ached as though James were still touching them.

She wished he were still touching them.

Her stomach was hurting again.

James would never love her. He needed to kiss Amanda and marry her, or everything would be ruined.

"Where should we go now?" she asked.

"Parliament," the duke said.

James pulled out his pocket watch, opened it, and snapped it shut. "Good God, it's nearly four o'clock." Indeed, people were starting to stream out of the Panorama. "The two of us should definitely go to Parliament."

How in heaven's name was James going to kiss Amanda and decide to marry her if he was always in Parliament? "I've a sewing party from one o'clock until three tomorrow, but how about if we go somewhere in the late afternoon or the evening? The House of Lords doesn't meet on Wednesdays."

"We can go to Almack's," Amanda suggested.

"No," James said at the same time Juliana said, "I think not."

She wondered why he didn't want to attend Almack's, but it didn't really signify, because Almack's was a bad idea. Aunt Frances might be rather blind these days, but the lady patronesses who ran Almack's had vision sharper than tacks. James would never be able to kiss Amanda there. "How about Vauxhall Gardens?" she suggested instead.

"I adore Vauxhall Gardens," Frances put in approvingly. "Especially at night."

"Only ladies of easy virtue attend Vauxhall Gardens at night," Amanda said, either unaware or unconcerned that she'd just insulted Frances. "I enjoy gardens, but I'd prefer to visit one that is more respectable."

"How about Chelsea Physic Garden, then?" James asked.

"Chelsea Physic Garden?" Juliana had never heard of the place. "Where is it?"

"In Chelsea," the duke said dryly.

Juliana shot him a peeved glance before turning back to James. "Is it very exciting?"

"It's very peaceful. If you haven't heard of it, that's because one must be a physician or apothecary to gain entrance. But I'm allowed to bring guests, and I think Lady Amanda would like it. I shall ask my cook to prepare a picnic supper."

"It sounds perfect," the duke said. "Shall we say five o'clock? Now I think we should be off."

Chapter Thirty-Three

JAMES'S AUNTS WERE EVEN BETTER seamstresses than Rachael and her sisters. Better and faster. As Juliana sat stitching like mad while her guests chatted, she tried to convince herself that, with Lady Avonleigh's and Lady Balmforth's help, she could successfully finish making all the baby clothes before her deadline a week from Saturday.

At the end of Monday's party, she'd had a hundred and twenty-one completed pieces and needed only a hundred and nineteen more. Well, perhaps the word only was a bit optimistic, especially considering a majority of the finished pieces were simple blankets and clouts. But it had been the first time the number of items accumulated exceeded the number of items still unmade, which seemed a milestone of sorts.

Counting today, she had six sewing parties left. Which meant if all twelve of her guests were willing to attend every time, she'd need them to finish…

Her head hurt. "Emily, how much is a hundred and nineteen divided by six?"

"Miss Emily isn't here," Lady Mabel wheezed.

Oh, that was right. Emily had finished cutting, and she still refused to sew, and she'd been busy lately anyway for some reason or another. Which meant Juliana had eleven ladies—well, twelve if she counted herself—and needed—

"Nineteen and five-sixths," Elizabeth said, interrupting her thoughts.

"Pardon?"

"One hundred nineteen divided by six is nineteen and five-sixths."

"You did that without paper?"

Elizabeth shrugged. "I like to exercise my brain."

"My younger daughter was like that," Lady Avonleigh said. "She could do any calculation in her head."

"Our mother was good at arithmetic, too," Rachael said. "I expect Elizabeth inherited that ability from her."

"Brains do tend to run in families." Lady Stafford smiled toward Juliana. "My James was Aurelia's daughter's cousin."

"Much younger cousin," Lady Balmforth pointed out.

"Yes, had she lived she'd have been a grandmother by now, I expect—unlike my James, who's of marriageable age." Lady Stafford shot another smile to Juliana. "I was noticing at my dinner party, my dear, that the Duke of Castleton seems a mite reserved for a young lady of your enthusiasm."

"Yes, the duke surely is reserved," Juliana said distractedly, trying to figure out if they could make nineteen and five-sixths items at each party. "But that's only to be expected, considering his lonely childhood. Did you know he was born in this house? His cruel uncle and aunt sold it and made him move. The thought of it quite breaks my heart."

Rachael nudged Juliana and leaned close to her ear. "I think Lady Stafford is hoping you'll marry her son."

Juliana wished things were different so she could. In fact, she wished so hard it made her grit her teeth. "Brilliant observation," she said tightly under her breath, "but much as I like Lady Stafford, her son doesn't love me. I'm marrying the duke. He's very nice and he needs me."

"For God's sake," Rachael whispered, "I should think you'd rather have a man who wants you."

"He does want me. He told me he's falling in love with me. He sends me roses. He dances with me at every event."

"From about three feet away. Don't you want a man who physically wants you?"

It wasn't the duke's fault he was physically undemonstrative. He'd never known anything else. That was why he needed her.

Juliana's stomach hurt. She turned away and raised her voice. "I cannot thank you enough for coming, Lady Avonleigh and Lady Balmforth. You're both excellent seamstresses."

"Our mother taught us both to sew," Lady Balmforth said, "along with Cornelia, of course."

Lady Avonleigh nodded. "Cornelia and Bedelia didn't have daughters, but I followed tradition and taught mine to sew. My younger daughter was quite artistic and especially good with a needle."

Juliana and Rachael turned toward Lady Stafford expectantly. She didn't disappoint them. "My son is good with a needle, too. He does excellent sutures."

The cousins shared a smile, but Juliana's faded. "Do you think that together we can finish nineteen and five-sixths items this afternoon?"

"Twenty," Elizabeth said. "It's close enough to call it twenty."

"Of course. Do you think we can finish twenty? Twelve of us?"

"Of course," Corinna echoed. "We did twenty-three on Monday, remember? Without Ladies A and B."

Ladies A and B smiled, their needles flashing.

"Those were all clouts," Juliana said. "Not frocks, coats, caps, and the like, which are more complicated and take much longer."

Alexandra rubbed her belly, even though it still looked flat. "We can finish twenty pieces, even if they're more difficult," she said soothingly. "We'll just stay later, until we're done."

"We can't," Amanda said. "Juliana and your aunt and I are leaving at five to go to Chelsea Physic Garden, and we'll need time to ready ourselves first."

"Chelsea Physic Garden?" Claire looked up from the little frock she was sewing. "What's that?"

"Some garden for doctors," Juliana said. "James thinks Amanda will like it."

Rachael tied off a thread. "You call him James?"

"Lord Stafford," Juliana gritted out, "said Chelsea Physic Garden is very peaceful."

"My son knows exactly what women enjoy," Lady Stafford said. "He's taken me to the garden in Chelsea, and it's lovely."

Reaching for a spool, Rachael leaned closer to Juliana. "So tell me about James," she whispered.

"There's nothing to tell," Juliana said. "And we must stop whispering. It's not polite."

"You're right," Rachael said louder as she threaded her needle. "I've been wondering," she said to the company in general, "whether it's a good idea to marry a man expecting him to change."

Elizabeth's eyes widened. "Whom are you thinking of marrying?"

"No one in particular. It's just a hypothetical question."

"No," Corinna said flatly. "You cannot change people. If you marry a man expecting him to change, you'll be disappointed."

"Not necessarily," Juliana disagreed. "People change all the time. Look at Amanda."

Amanda blushed.

"Amanda wanted to change," Corinna argued. "That's very different from expecting a change in someone who's happy with himself."

Claire nodded. "Just think, Juliana. How would you feel if someone married you expecting you to change? Or even hoping you would change? Wouldn't you prefer a man who wants you just the way you are without wishing you were different?"

"We're not talking about me," Juliana snapped. "It was Rachael asking the question."

But she knew they were talking about her. Or at least they could be. She was planning to marry the duke expecting him to change, and she knew the duke would probably hope she would change, too.

Whereas James liked her just the way she was. But only as a friend—he would never love her. If it seemed he wanted her in a physical sense, that was only because they were friends and he wanted a child.

And he had to marry Amanda, or else three other people's lives would be ruined.

Her stomach had never hurt so badly in her life.

Chapter Thirty-Four

AS JAMES WAS LEAVING THAT evening, Cornelia walked into Stafford House. "How did your day go, dear?"

"Very well." Pausing in the entrance hall, he shifted the picnic basket he was carrying. "I wasn't shorthanded today, so I was able to stop by Gillow's to see the bedroom furniture you and your sisters picked out. It looks fine."

"Good. I chose the fabrics this morning, and I have a painter coming by later this week. This is all coming together very quickly."

"Excellent," he told her. "I truly appreciate your help. Did your sisters enjoy today's sewing party?"

"Very much. They're looking forward to another one tomorrow." She reached up to smooth his hair, making him feel about six years old again. "I was surprised to learn this afternoon that you're going to the Physic Garden rather than Almack's."

He shrugged. "Lady Juliana and Lady Amanda said they'd prefer to visit the garden."

"You've been spending a lot of time with your lovely young ladies."

"They're not my ladies, Mother." He hoped Juliana was getting closer to becoming his lady—her reactions at the Panorama had been encouraging—but she wasn't his lady yet.

"Are you going to marry one of them?"

He leveled his gaze on her. "Are you going to marry Lord Cavanaugh?"

She blinked. "I'm not prepared to say. At the moment I'm just enjoying his company."

"Exactly." He bent to kiss her on the cheek. "Enjoy Almack's, will you?"

He whistled as he went out the door, whistled as his carriage made its way to Berkeley Square. Things were looking up. He might have just managed to get his mother off his back, and in any case, an hour from now he'd be kissing Juliana.

He stopped whistling out loud when his guests joined him in the carriage, of course, but he was still whistling in his head. And toying with the deck of playing cards he'd slipped into his pocket. It was nearly six o'clock by the time they reached Chelsea and alighted from the carriage on Swan Walk.

"Good evening," he said to the guard at the garden's entrance.

"Good evening, Lord Stafford." The man swung open the gate set into the old redbrick wall. "Sunset is at quarter to nine."

"The garden closes at sunset," James told his party. "Is Wheeler here?" he asked the guard.

"Not tonight. He left at four."

"Oh, that's a pity," James said, although it wasn't a pity at all. In fact, it was exactly what he was hoping to hear.

"Who is Wheeler?" Juliana asked as they walked in.

"Thomas Wheeler is the Physic Garden's Demonstrator. He's hired to explain the uses of the medicinal plants to visitors. I can do that, though." He led them along a tree-lined path to the center of the garden. "Would you all like a tour, or would you prefer to dine first?"

"I'm famished," Castleton said. "We can look at plants later."

James suspected the man didn't want to look at plants at all, which suited his plans just fine. He chose a grassy spot by the rockery and laid out a large blanket before opening the basket his servants had prepared. The duke and Lady Amanda hung back while James opened a bottle of wine and Juliana and her aunt unpacked cold chicken, bread, and cheese.

"I don't sit on the ground," Castleton said stuffily, taking his supper to a nearby bench.

What an ass, James thought for the umpteenth time.

Lady Amanda didn't seem to agree with his assessment, however. In fact, she appeared to breathe a sigh of relief. "Neither do I," she said and joined the ass.

"You should sit by her," Juliana whispered.

"There's no more room on the bench," James whispered back. Actually, there would have been room on the bench if the two of them weren't sitting primly spaced apart from each other. But it was just as well, since he had no intention of sitting with Lady Amanda anyway.

"No one else seems to be here," Lady Frances observed, happily settling close by Lord Malmsey on the blanket. "This place is so peaceful and enchanting."

Juliana pulled off her gloves as she sat down by them. "Corinna would love to come here and paint."

"I can obtain a ticket for her entrance," James said. He took glasses of wine to the ass and his companion, then lowered himself to the ground by Juliana.

"What is the purpose of the garden?" Lord Malmsey asked.

James swallowed a bite of bread. "Doctors and apothecaries can visit to obtain cuttings of medicinal plants. But mostly it's used for educational and training purposes. Hundreds of medical and apothecary students visit every year as part of their studies."

Juliana waved a chicken leg toward a white alabaster statue of a man holding a scroll, dressed in a fancy robe and a full, old-fashioned wig. "Who's that?"

"Dr. Hans Sloane, a former president of the Royal College of Physicians. In the late sixteen hundreds, he visited Jamaica and brought back a cinchona tree, having learned that the bark could be used to make quinine to treat malaria. Later, when the Society of Apothecaries was at risk of losing the garden, he bought the land and leased it back to them for only five pounds a year—they still pay the same price now."

"What an unusual rock garden," Lady Frances said, squinting toward it since she wasn't wearing her spectacles.

"The oldest in all of England, or so I've been told. It was built to provide a habitat for foreign plants that grow best in rocky soil. The white stones are from the Tower of London, the black from a volcano in Iceland, and that giant-clam shell is said to have been brought to England by Captain Cook."

"You seem to know everything," Juliana said, smiling over the rim of her wineglass. "We don't need a demonstrator, do we, Amanda?" She turned toward the bench. "Amanda?"

Amanda was gone. As was Castleton, the ass.

"Where did they go?" Juliana asked.

"I don't know," Lady Frances mused. She turned to Lord Malmsey. "Theodore, would you help me look for them?"

"With pleasure, my dear." Belying their age, the two rose agilely to their feet, and Lord Malmsey tucked Lady Frances's hand in the crook of his arm. "Shall we, my love?"

Juliana's jaw dropped open as she watched the older couple walk off. "I cannot believe it," she muttered when they were out of earshot.

James drained the rest of his wine and started putting the remains of their dinner back in the basket. "You cannot believe what?"

She looked up at him, a little frown between her brows. "I cannot believe Aunt Frances asked Lord Malmsey to go off alone with her. She's always been so shy. And I cannot believe everyone left us again."

Her eyes looked greenish, which was no surprise. After many hours of observation and analysis, James had finally puzzled out the mystery of Juliana's changeable irises: They were more blue when she was happy or aroused, more green when she was worried or angry. Right now he guessed she was rather distressed, which put their hue in the latter range.

The distress was a good sign. It wouldn't be long now before she figured out she'd be much happier with him than with Castleton. If his plans for this evening were realized, her eyes would be blue before he was finished. Deep, deep blue.

"Everyone will be back soon," he said. "Lady Frances and Lord Malmsey will find the others."

"They aren't looking for them. They're off somewhere kissing."

"Really?" he said, reaching a hand to help her rise. "I guess we should go look for Castleton and Lady Amanda ourselves, then."

"Yes, we should," she said. "You're supposed to be with Lady Amanda."

Having seen where her friend and the ass had gone, James led Juliana along a path in the opposite direction, which, happily, was the direction he wanted to take her. Trees lined both sides of the meandering gravel walkway, their leaves shimmering and fluttering overhead. The sun was dropping toward the horizon, making the walled garden shady and romantic.

The ambiance couldn't have been better.

"I don't see them," Juliana said after they wandered a few minutes in companionable silence. "I cannot imagine where they might have disappeared to."

"Me, neither," James said, taking her hand. She'd left her gloves on the blanket, and her fingers felt warm in his, especially compared to the air. Juliana was wearing a rather thin dress, and with the sun setting, it was getting a bit chilly. "Maybe they're in this greenhouse," he suggested, leading her off the path. "They might have gone inside to warm up."

"This greenhouse is warm," she said when they entered. Due to the abundance of glass, it was nearly as light inside as out. "It feels wonderful in here."

"I understand this was the first heated greenhouse in all of England," he told her, "and maybe the first in the whole world." He coaxed her between the rows of plants toward the back wall. "Hans Sloane wrote about this greenhouse back in 1684, marveling about the cleverness of putting ovens beneath the floor." Stopping before a door marked PRIVATE, he reached for the knob.

"What are you doing?" she asked. "I don't think we're supposed to go in there."

"Maybe Castleton is in there with Lady Amanda."

"I think not." Still holding his hand, she pulled him away from the door. "Amanda would never go into a room alone with him. She's much too reserved for that."

"She was in a room alone with me," he reminded her. "Lord Billingsgate's library. She even tried to kiss me."

Her cheeks flushed a becoming pink. "That's because she wants to marry you."

Thinking it was too bad Lady Amanda didn't want to marry the ass instead, he reached again for the knob. "Maybe your aunt and Lord Malmsey are in there," he suggested, "kissing."

The pink deepened. Her eyes were back to blue-green. She pulled on his hand again. "I don't think—" she started, and then she gave a little shriek when he opened the door.

Smiling, he stepped inside. "They're not in here. Come in and see, sw—"

Damn. He'd almost called her sweetheart again.

Luckily, she was so concerned about trespassing, she didn't notice. After peeking her head in, she breathed a sigh of relief. "We're not supposed to be in here, James. The door is marked private."

"It's Thomas Wheeler's office," he said with a shrug. "The Demonstrator who went home earlier. He's a friend; he wouldn't mind." He tugged on her hand. "Come in, Juliana."

Reluctantly, she came inside. "It is private."

It was a tiny cubby, with a compact desk against the inside wall and a small round wooden table with two chairs in the center. "The table is for demonstrations," he explained. "Private demonstrations." The exterior wall was glass, of course, it being part of the greenhouse. But trees grew so closely all around that no one could possibly see in, and plenty of light filtered in through the leaves and the glass ceiling overhead.

He shut the door, shutting them off from the world.

She whirled to face him, dropping his hand. "What are you doing, James?"

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the deck of cards. "Since we can't seem to find our companions, I remembered I wanted you to teach me to play casino," he said casually. "It's cold out there and warm in here, so I thought it might be nice to sit a while and play cards."

She eyed him warily, her gaze still blue-green. "Maybe for a minute."

"Excellent." He sat and waved her toward the second chair. After she sat, he slid his chair around the table and up against hers.

Taking the cards, she frowned. "You're supposed to sit across from me."

"I will after I learn. Right now I need to see your cards."

"Very well." When she shuffled the cards, he could feel the vibrations. They were that close. She dealt out four cards to each of them and four more faceup on the table, then put the rest aside. "Pick up your hand," she instructed, "and see if any of your cards match the ones on the table." Then she proceeded to explain all the rules, none of which he bothered listening to, since he already knew how to play casino.

As she talked and moved the cards around, he noticed her wheaten hair shining in the waning sunlight and thought about how much he wanted to see it slip from its pins. He leaned even closer to smell it, inhaling sunshine and flowers. He rubbed his shoulder against her arm and watched her eyes turn a little bluer. He pressed his thigh up against her thin skirts.

"Are you listening, James? Did you get all of that?"

"Of course." It was a very simple game, really. At least for him. He and his brother had kept a running score for years, and he'd always stayed miles ahead. "I think I'm ready to play now."

"All right." She gathered the cards and began reshuffling them. "You can move to the other side of the table."

"I'd rather stay here for the first couple of hands. In case I need your help. By the way, what shall we wager?"

"Wager? We don't need to wager."

"I never play games without a wager. A wager makes it much more interesting and fun."

"Is that so?" She stopped shuffling and slanted him a sideways glance. "I heard about how Griffin lost thirty guineas to you last month playing chess. I have no money."

"We'll wager something else, then," he said blithely.

"Like what?" She turned to him, looking wary again. But her eyes weren't turning green. They were staying rather blue. Amused, he ran a finger down her arm and watched them get even bluer.

"How about buttons?" he suggested.

"Buttons? We didn't bring buttons."

"We have buttons on our clothes. When one of us loses, he or she can unbutton a button."

Chapter Thirty-Five

JULIANA WAS SCANDALIZED. ABSOLUTELY, POSITIVELY scandalized. She'd never heard of wagering buttons. Amanda would faint dead away if James ever suggested wagering buttons with her. The mere idea seemed wicked and immoral and sinful and…

Tempting.

Dear heavens, it was tempting. It would teach James a lesson, that was for certain. After all, he was sure to lose, given that he didn't know how to play the game and he'd been daydreaming while she'd explained it to him. Daydreaming and touching her, making her stumble over her words. If she agreed, he would lose, and then he'd know not to wager buttons with Amanda. It was very, very tempting to say yes.

She did enjoy seeing James with his buttons unbuttoned. And since she was certain to win, she wouldn't have to unbutton any of her own. The whole thing could turn out to be rather pleasurable and amusing. And James would learn a lesson.

"All right," she said, "we'll wager buttons."

James looked surprised, but very pleased. After that, everything started happening rather quickly. His fingers went immediately to his neckcloth, working the knot.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Exposing my buttons. Go ahead and deal." He all but ripped off his tailcoat and dropped it to the floor. "Deal, Juliana."

She dealt. They picked up their cards. James spread his and smiled. "I go first—is that right?" She nodded, and he plucked a king from his hand and used it to claim the king on the table. "Aha," he said. "You have to unbutton a button."

"You haven't won yet!" she protested. "That was just a single trick." Anyone could win a trick; the real skill was winning the whole game. "Were you not listening, James? We have to play until all the cards are gone, and then we add up the points, and whoever has the most points wins. Then somebody unbuttons a button."

She'd almost said then you unbutton a button, but she'd stopped herself in time. Although she was going to win, there was no reason to sound smug about it.

"Oh, no," he said. "We don't have time for that. We're playing for only a few minutes, remember? It's getting dark, and we'll have to leave. We're wagering a button for each trick."

"We are not! We're wagering a button for each game."

"We don't have time to play more than one game. A Chase promise is never broken, remember? You promised you'd wager buttons, Juliana. Unbutton a button."

"Honestly, this is ridiculous." She'd never promised she'd wager buttons. Not exactly. But she didn't want to argue or look petulant, so she reached behind her back and unbuttoned a button, knowing James wouldn't win many more tricks. "There. Are you happy now? It's my turn." She took an eight out of her hand and claimed a seven and an ace with it, smiling because an ace was worth an extra point. "I took a trick," she said. "Unbutton."

James didn't seem at all reluctant to unbutton the top button of his shirt. He pulled a ten from his hand and took the ten of diamonds, which was worth two extra points. "I think you should unbutton two buttons," he said, grinning.

"I think not," she said, amazed that he'd remembered the value of that card when from all she could tell he hadn't even listened to her instructions. "When I took the ace, you unbuttoned only one button, same as I did when you took the first trick, which had no extra points. Each trick is worth only one button, no matter how many points it contains."

"Wrong," he said, flicking open another of his buttons. "There, now I've unbuttoned two buttons for your extra-point trick. And you owe me three buttons for my trick with the ten of diamonds."

"I cannot reach that many of my buttons," she said petulantly, even though she hadn't wanted to sound petulant.

He smiled, a very smug smile. "You poor thing. I'll unbutton them for you." And he reached behind her back and unbuttoned three buttons.

"Really, James, this is very childish." Since there were no cards left on the table, she plucked one from her hand and set it down faceup without even looking at it. Which was a mistake, because it turned out to be the two of spades, which was also worth an extra point.

James wasted no time taking it with the two of hearts. "Two buttons," he said with a grin.

"How did you remember the two of spades was worth an extra point?" she said slowly, and that's when she realized the truth. She turned to him, outraged. "You already knew how to play casino, didn't you?"

His grin widened as he unbuttoned two more of her buttons. "I never said I didn't."

Her dress was all unbuttoned down the back now. "You asked me to teach you!"

"Exactly. But I never said I didn't know how to play." His eyes gleaming, he watched her draw another card from her hand. "Too bad there's nothing on the table to match with that," he drawled as she tossed it down. "I don't have to unbutton any more buttons. On the other hand…" His last card matched that one, and he used it to claim it. "You owe me another button."

"You tricked me," she said. "After you got all mad at me for tricking you."

"Come, Juliana. This is a game. It's not at all the same as trying to trick someone into marriage."

He was right about that. Drat. Right enough to make her feel guilty. Right enough to make her drop that argument like a hot poker.

She set down her last card, grabbed the deck, and dealt them each four more cards. "I don't have any more buttons."

"Hmm." He set down a six. "Then I think you owe me a kiss instead."

"I do not." Drat, none of her new cards matched anything on the table. She had two aces in her hand and had to risk one if she wanted a chance to win both. She chose one and tossed it down. "It's your turn."

"An ace," he mused, "imagine that." He swept both it and the six up with a seven. "Two more points," he said with another smile. "Added to the button you haven't unbuttoned yet, that makes three."

"I have no more buttons," she reminded him. "And I'm not kissing you. What are you going to do," she added dryly, "open up my dress a little more by ripping it?"

"What an interesting idea," he said slowly. "I should have thought of that myself. But no, I don't think I'll rip it. I think your aunt might notice that."

And then his whole demeanor changed. His smile disappeared as he set his cards facedown on the table. He reached out and drew her loosened dress down her shoulders, leaving her breasts covered by only her filmy chemise.

"You owe me three kisses, Juliana," he said softly, gazing at them in a most arousing way.

Her skin prickled, and her nipples puckered, even though it was very warm in the greenhouse. "I do not."

"I think you do." He didn't sound smug now; he sounded raspy and seductive instead. His voice was making her lose her head. He skimmed his fingers along her face and down her neck almost to her cleavage, making her shiver. "I think you do, Juliana," he said in that low, chocolatey tone. "I think you owe me three kisses."

Dear heavens, she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted to kick herself for wanting him to kiss her, but she wanted him to kiss her nonetheless. Suddenly all she could think of was yesterday's kisses under the stairs, and she wanted him to kiss her in the worst way.

And touch her breasts, like he had yesterday, too. She wanted him to touch her in the worst way. With his hands and his mouth, like he'd done yesterday, only it had happened so quickly she'd hardly had a chance to enjoy it.

And she wanted to touch him. She wanted to touch him in the worst way. Despite herself, despite how he'd tricked her into it, she leaned closer and raised a hand to the little V of skin where he'd opened his measly two buttons.

A faint smile curving his lips, he moved closer. And closer still. Until she could feel his breath on her mouth where she wanted his kiss. "May I kiss you now?" he asked.

Why was he asking? Why didn't he just go ahead and kiss her? He'd done the same thing at Vauxhall Gardens and in the Panorama, asking her permission, making her agree.

She wished he'd just kiss her instead of asking, because she knew she should say no, but she couldn't help herself. She wanted James, and she wanted to kiss him, and she wanted to kick herself for being too weak to say no.

"May I?" he pressed. He was so close, there hardly seemed to be space to breathe between them. "May I kiss you now? Please let me kiss you, Juliana. I want to kiss you in the worst way."

In the worst way, just like she wanted. "Yes," she breathed. God help her, she said, "Yes, please kiss me."

And he did. His mouth crossed that last little space and settled on hers, and he proceeded to kiss her senseless. Positively senseless. The cards fluttered from her hand to the floor. Her senses began swirling, whirling, as she parted her lips and invited him in. His tongue swept her mouth, and she ached, positively ached, in her throat and her heart and, most curiously, in a place between her legs.

Still kissing her, he managed to maneuver her sideways onto his lap. She sighed and leaned into him, wrapping an arm around his neck, kissing him, kissing him. "I want to kiss you here," he whispered, trailing little kisses down her throat on his way to her cleavage. "I want to kiss you here, in the worst way."

Loving it, loving him, she tilted her head back to give him better access. And then his mouth was on a breast like she'd wanted, first kissing her through her chemise and then under it. He opened his mouth and drew in the crest, and dear heavens, it felt marvelous. Like a wanton, she arched her back, offering her breasts, offering herself, hoping he'd keep kissing them and do even more.

What she meant by more, she wasn't sure, but that curious ache between her legs was growing stronger. Stronger and hotter, more insistent. Dear heavens, she loved him. She knew she couldn't, knew she shouldn't, but she loved him nonetheless. And when he began caressing her, stroking her waist, her hips, her thighs, God knew she loved that, too.

And then his hand was underneath her dress, and he was stroking her thighs some more. Kissing her breasts and stroking her thighs, making her head swim. Making her heart pound and her breath come in little gasps. He abandoned her breast to recapture her lips, and her senses were spinning out of control. He was kissing her, stroking her, exploring her mouth with his tongue, and that curious ache between her legs was growing insistent to the point of being unbearable.

And then his hand skimmed the curls that guarded that ache, lightly, lightly, and he broke the kiss.

"Can I touch you here, Juliana? Can I touch you here?"

Dear heavens, why was he asking? She was gasping so quickly she could barely breathe, let alone talk. The ache was becoming so exquisite it seemed to be robbing her of speech.

She managed to nod, and he captured her mouth again, his tongue tangling with hers in a dance while his fingers danced below, parting her thighs and finally, finally touching her where she ached. A gentle slide of his fingers, just once, because once was all it took. He found a spot so sweet it made the breath catch in her throat, and she tumbled over a precipice, swirling, whirling, falling into pleasure fiercer than she'd ever known.

He kissed her and kissed her while she calmed, and then he kissed her again, and her head began to clear.

Dear heavens, what had she done? What had she allowed him to do? He was supposed to marry Amanda. He had to marry Amanda, or Aunt Frances would be devastated. He'd touched her in a place he should touch only Amanda, and even that only after they were married. And she'd not only let him touch her—she'd all but asked. Or rather, he'd asked her, but she hadn't hesitated to allow it. She'd nodded and kissed him, all but begging him to touch her where no man had touched her before.

She was appalled at herself. Absolutely, positively appalled. She'd wanted him to kiss her in the worst way, and she'd wanted him to touch her in the worst way, and it really had been the worst way.

He shifted her on his lap. "Are you all right, Juliana?" He lifted her chin, meeting her gaze. "Your eyes are blue," he whispered, sounding pleased. "Deep, deep blue."

She didn't want him pleased with her. He needed to be pleased with Amanda. "Obviously it's getting too dark for you to see," she snapped. "My eyes are hazel."

He laughed, a low, satisfied laugh, and then he kissed her again. And she let him, which made her feel better and worse all at the same time.

"It is getting dark," he finally admitted, sounding much too regretful. "We need to go find the others before the garden's gates are locked."

She slid off his lap, and he raised her chemise and bodice with gentle fingers, and then he turned her around and buttoned her dress. And tucked in the dratted, too-straight hair that had slipped from its pins. And buttoned his two buttons and shrugged into his tailcoat and knotted his neckcloth in place, haphazardly as usual. And she reached to straighten it, unable to help herself, even though she knew she shouldn't. And she let him kiss her again, a little sweet kiss that doubtless meant nothing to him but meant much too much to her.

She had to remember he would never love her. He was only kissing and touching her because they were friends and he wanted a child. He needed to become friends with Amanda instead.

She couldn't let him kiss her again after this. Or touch her again. Ever.

He gathered the cards from the table and the floor and slipped the deck back into his pocket, and then they left the greenhouse and went back to the middle of the garden where everyone else was waiting.

Aunt Frances had obviously been kissing Lord Malmsey; in the dim light of the setting sun, they both looked happy and flushed. Aunt Frances had finished packing up the basket, and Lord Malmsey had folded the blanket. He was holding it over his arm.

Naturally, the duke and Amanda had done nothing. The two of them were much too aristocratic to do the work of servants. And of course they hadn't kissed. Neither of them was flushed. No doubt Amanda had gone off with the duke purposely, specifically to avoid being kissed by James.

So Juliana had been kissed instead. And touched instead. And she very much feared she was flushed. She was appalled at herself.

It wouldn't happen again, she reminded herself fiercely. She would never again play cards with James.

"Where have you been?" Amanda asked. "David and I have been looking all over for you."

For a moment, Juliana felt puzzled, but then she remembered the duke's name was David. How could she have forgotten the name of the man she expected to marry? And when had Amanda—proper, reserved Amanda—begun calling the duke by his given name? She expected to marry James, and she was still calling him Lord Stafford.

Nothing was right tonight. Nothing. Nothing was going well; nothing was happening as planned.

Her stomach hurt.

"We were playing cards," James explained, pulling the deck out of his pocket to prove it. "All of you went off, so we decided to go in the greenhouse where it was warm and play cards."

Nobody looked suspicious. Apparently it was a reasonable explanation. Nobody, after all—most especially nobody as innocent as Frances and Amanda—would think playing cards could possibly lead to what had happened tonight.

But although that was a relief, Juliana's stomach still hurt. She had to fix everything. Somehow, some way, she had to get James together with Amanda.

"I'm going to the Pevenseys' tomorrow night," she said as they all started walking toward the Stafford carriage. "For a musical evening. I hope you'll all want to come."

What she would do when they got there, how she would get James together with Amanda, she hadn't a clue. But just getting them there would be a start.

"I would love to attend a musical evening," Aunt Frances said as she climbed in.

"I would love to attend, too," Lord Malmsey agreed, following her.

"So would I," Amanda said and climbed in next, sitting across from them.

Juliana's stomachache began to ease. She climbed in herself, taking the opposite end of the seat from Amanda in order to leave space in the middle for James. She gestured to the duke, indicating the spot across from her. "I hope you'll come, too."

"Much as I would be delighted to spend the evening with you, my dear, I think I should go to Parliament," he said as he took the place by Amanda.

How annoying. How absolutely annoying. He was supposed to sit across from her and leave the space by Amanda for James. "I should think you would prefer to attend a musical evening," she said rather peevishly.

"I abhor musical evenings," he said, not peevishly in the least. And then he smiled down at her apologetically, and she realized he wasn't sitting in the space by Amanda, he was sitting in the space by her. Rather close, as a matter of fact, so she probably shouldn't be so annoyed.

He was falling in love with her. He called her my dear and sent her flowers. He needed her, and this close proximity would allow her to finally start teaching him to be affectionate. She scooted a little closer, so they'd be touching.

And that was when she realized she couldn't marry him.

She wasn't going to be a duchess.

They were touching, but she didn't find it the least bit enjoyable. She couldn't even imagine letting him touch her the way James had in the greenhouse. Now that she knew what love felt like, she knew she would never have those feelings for the duke.

She felt terrible. The duke was so nice, and he was falling in love with her, but she couldn't love him back. He'd suffered hurt and rejection throughout his childhood, and now she was going to reject him again. How could she tell him? How could she cast him aside without destroying him completely?

And what about Griffin? Poor Griffin. He was going to be so disappointed; he was going to have to start looking for a husband for her again. She obviously wouldn't be marrying this season—it would probably be another year at least. How was she going to tell Griffin?

James climbed in. "I abhor musical evenings, too," he said as a footman shut the door. He took the place across from her and settled back, his legs so long his knees touched hers. How annoying when she was immersed in trying to figure out a gentle way to break this distressing news to her brother and the duke.

James smiled at her as though he could tell she was annoyed. As though he enjoyed annoying her. "No man worth his salt would choose a musical evening over Parliament," he informed her.

"A Roman proverb!" Amanda exclaimed.

"It is not!" Juliana snapped.

"It is," Amanda said reasonably, sounding very bookish. "It alludes to the practice of paying Roman soldiers with rations of salt. Our English word salary comes from the Latin word salarium, which means salt money."

"She's right," the duke said. "'A man worth his salt' has been a proverb for centuries."

Obviously he was bookish, too. How absolutely annoying.

Chapter Thirty-Six

LORD MALMSEY WAS THE YOUNGEST man at the Pevensey residence.

"Where is everyone?" Amanda asked.

A rather inane question, considering the Pevenseys' drawing room was teeming with people. But all of them—save Lord Malmsey and a few doddering old men—were female. Remembering the way James and the duke had reacted to her invitation last night, Juliana sighed. "I collect most gentlemen would prefer to sit through Parliament than an evening of music."

"Except for Lord Malmsey," Amanda said.

"If it weren't for Aunt Frances, he'd probably be at Parliament, too." Indeed, Lord Malmsey had made a beeline for Frances the moment they'd walked in the door. The two of them were off in a corner, whispering, even now.

Whispering endearments, no doubt. Lord Malmsey was looking more and more in love—and more miserable that he had to marry Amanda—every day. Juliana wished more than ever that Lord Malmsey could cry off the wedding, but wishing didn't change the facts. It just wasn't possible, not if he ever wanted to show his face in society again.

Amanda clutched Juliana's arm. "I need to talk to you."

"About what?"

"My father," she said, looking even more miserable than Lord Malmsey.

If Frances knew Lord Malmsey was engaged, she'd look more miserable than both of them put together. Juliana's projects all seemed to be falling apart. She still hadn't figured out how to break the news to the duke or her brother. "What about your father?" she asked Amanda.

But before Amanda could answer, Lady Stafford waltzed up. "Good evening, Lady Juliana!" All smiles in contrast to everyone else, James's mother was accompanied by Lord Cavanaugh, who, while older than Lord Malmsey, at least wasn't in his dotage. "It's a pleasure to see you here."

"I adore music," Juliana said. "I was pleased to receive an invitation to Lady Pevensey's musical evening."

"This is your first season, isn't it?" Lord Cavanaugh asked dryly.

"Oh, hush," Lady Stafford said. "Lady Pevensey's musical evenings are always enchanting." She turned back to Juliana. "Are you attending Lady Hartley's breakfast on Sunday?"

"I haven't decided. I'm supposed to have a sewing party."

"Oh, you must attend—it's the event of the season. Everyone will be there."

"Including your sisters?"

"Without a doubt. I must tell you, my sisters are thoroughly enjoying your sewing parties. They haven't called on my son for an examination in two entire days."

"I have only four sewing parties left before the baby clothes are due." Three if she went to Lady Hartley's breakfast, which she might as well do if no one would be available to attend her sewing party anyway. "I told Lord Stafford his aunts would have less time to ponder their health if gentlemen were courting them, but he said they wouldn't be interested."

Lady Stafford flashed Lord Cavanaugh, who was courting her, a fond smile. "My sisters are older and set in their ways."

"I believe they're bored and need something to do. Something to get them out of their house after my sewing project is complete."

"Perhaps you're right, dear. They've been helping me renovate one of Stafford House's bedrooms, but that will be finished soon, too. I cannot imagine what else to suggest to occupy them after that. I've tried to talk them into redecorating their own house, but they won't hear of it."

Standing on the temporary stage she'd had erected in her drawing room, Lady Pevensey clapped her hands. "If you'll all take your seats, we're ready to begin!"

"I shall think about your sisters," Juliana promised Lady Stafford before turning to find a seat. "There must be something they would find diverting."

Frances and Lord Malmsey had seated themselves in the last row, so she headed toward the front in order to give them some privacy. After this afternoon's party, she had a hundred and fifty-seven baby items completed, which meant she needed eighty-three more. That hadn't seemed an impossible task, with four parties remaining—slightly more than twenty items per party. Perfectly reasonable, especially if she made a few by herself in between. But with only three parties…

"We need to talk." As she slid onto a first-row chair, Amanda grabbed her arm. "We cannot talk in the front, right in the faces of the musicians."

Juliana didn't want to talk; she wanted to listen. Though she normally spent hours playing the harp, all her projects had left her scant time for any music of late. But her friend looked panicked. "Very well," she said, walking around to take a chair in a middle row. "What do you need to tell me about your father?"

Amanda took the chair beside her. "I've received word that he'll be arriving in three days. Early Sunday evening." She clutched her hands together in her lap, perhaps to keep them from trembling. "He's coming to see to the final details of my wedding."

Juliana patted her on the arm. "We still have time—"

"No, we don't! It's scheduled for a week from Saturday, and—"

"Ladies and gentlemen," Lady Pevensey announced, "I'm honored to introduce our first guest musicians. Miss Harriet Kent will perform Mozart's Sonata in C Major on the pianoforte, accompanied by her sister, Miss Hillary Kent, on the violin."

The room fell silent while the Kent sisters minced their way to the stage.

"A week from Saturday," Amanda repeated, "and—"

"Shh!" someone hissed behind them.

Juliana laid a hand over Amanda's clenched ones. "Wait," she whispered.

Her friend waited, tense as the younger Miss Kent's bowstrings. When the lively notes of the first movement filled the air, she wasted no time before resuming their conversation in a lower tone. "My wedding is a week from Saturday. My time is running out. I need James to compromise me—I must try again to trick him."

"You must not!"

"Shh!" someone else hissed.

"You must not," Juliana repeated in a whisper. "That would be unethical and dishonest. We shouldn't have tried it the first time, and I won't try it again."

"We have no choice!"

"Shh!"

"Shh!"

"Shh!"

Juliana twisted in her chair to glance behind her. Several people were glaring. All women. A couple of the aging men were already nodding off. "Hush," she murmured, turning back to Amanda. "Of course you have a choice. You can choose to act warmly toward James. Once you become friends, he'll propose to you and agree to the compromise."

She was beginning to think it would never happen. Or maybe she was beginning to hope it would never happen. Because James would have to kiss Amanda before he proposed to her, and even though Juliana couldn't marry him, the thought of James kissing anyone but herself—let alone touching anyone the way he'd touched her—made her stomach hurt.

She leaned closer. "I have an idea," she whispered in desperation. She knew her friend would refuse. But she'd feel much better about abandoning the duke if she could offer a replacement, and Amanda didn't seem to want to kiss James anyway. "Would you like to marry the duke?"

"No!" Amanda looked horrified. "I told you I would never marry a by-blow!"

Whispers broke out behind them, and a few more people hissed "Shh!"

Juliana wished Amanda hadn't said by-blow quite so loud. "Whyever do you keep going off with the duke, then?" she pressed. "Why have you begun calling him David?"

"Well, he's very nice. I think we're becoming friends. But there's a big difference between a friend and a husband."

Juliana was disappointed but not surprised. She'd known all along that Amanda was going off with the duke only to avoid kissing James. "Maybe you should choose another man," she suggested. Plenty of gentlemen were still asking Amanda to dance at every ball. "At the Teddington ball on Saturday, you—"

"I want Lord Stafford. Besides, there isn't enough time to choose another man and expect him to propose."

"We have a little more than a week—"

"No, we don't. My father will be here Sunday, and for all I know he may not let me out of the house after that."

Drat. Her friend was right. Lord Malmsey could marry Aunt Frances only if Juliana saw to it that James kissed Amanda—and not as part of a plot.

That wouldn't be easy, because Amanda feared kissing. Her reserved nature caused her to cling to people she felt safe with, allowing her to avoid intimacy. If James was to have a prayer of kissing Amanda, Juliana would have to make sure there was no one besides him for her to cling to. Not herself, not Frances, and not the duke.

Especially not the duke.

Amanda gravitated toward him, knowing instinctively he would never try to kiss her, thereby averting the closeness she feared. If James managed to kiss Amanda even once, however, all of that would change. His kisses were so wonderful, Amanda would surely want more. Then one thing would lead to another, and before Juliana knew it, James would unbutton and propose.

Her stomach hurt like the very dickens.

She would have to get Amanda alone with James. It was the only solution. Exactly how she would accomplish this, she couldn't imagine. Amanda wouldn't agree to see a man without a chaperone, but perhaps Juliana could plan another group outing and then claim Aunt Frances felt ill. And she felt ill. And the duke felt ill.

Oh, bother. That would never work. It felt like there was a dagger lodged in her stomach. She'd figure out something tomorrow. Right after she figured out how she would finish eighty-three more items of baby clothes with only three sewing parties instead of four.

"Are you all right?" Amanda asked.

"Shh!"

Amanda lowered her voice. "Why are you clutching your middle?"

Juliana unfolded her arms and tried to draw a calming breath. Another moment and she'd have found herself curled up on Lady Pevensey's exquisite Turkey carpet.

"I'm fine," she gritted out, ignoring another chorus of Shh! "Just fine."

But although she normally loved music and the Misses Kent were more than proficient performers, Mozart didn't prove enjoyable tonight. And neither did the Handel or Beethoven that came after. She almost envied all the men who had gone to Parliament instead of to the Pevenseys'.

She should have stayed home. She needed to sew; she should have spent these hours stitching rather than listening to music. Even more important, she needed to discourage James's attentions so he'd turn to Amanda instead. And for that, she needed a few hours in the kitchen.

It was time to bring out her secret weapon: Miss Rebecca Chase's lemon slices.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

LEMON SLICES

Take a measure of Butter and one of Sugar and mixe them together with the grated rinde of two Lemons. Put in two Eggs and then Flower, a spoon of leavening, and a little Milk. Put in a loaf tin and Bake until it rises and turns golde. Make holes with a skewer and pour in the juice of two Lemons. Leave the cake until colde and then turn from the tin and cut it into slices.

The sour lemons will turn a man sour to your charms. I thwarted my grandmother's matchmaking scheme twice by serving these slices to the dratted suitors.

—Miss Rebecca Chase, 1695

FOR FIVE DAYS—EVER SINCE she'd come to his house and offered to volunteer—James had been thinking about getting Juliana alone in one of his treatment rooms.

One would have expected the interludes at the Panorama and the Physic Garden to have slaked his passions, but the opposite was true. He'd spent yesterday's session in Parliament woolgathering instead of listening. Overnight, he'd dreamed impossible dreams. This morning, as he'd shaved and dressed, he'd concocted a fantasy so lurid he knew it would never happen. But he'd been looking forward to trying.

Unfortunately, life was conspiring against him.

Juliana rushed in as the clock struck one. Juggling two baskets while she folded her umbrella, she made her way through his crowded reception room. "I'm sorry, but I cannot stay long. I've instructed the driver to come back in three hours. I've too much sewing to do." She paused and blinked. "What are you doing behind the counter?"

"Playing assistant while I interview for a new one," he said, frowning at the front of her dress. For the first time ever—in his experience, anyway—she'd filled in her low neckline with some sort of froufrou scarf, which was hardly conducive to his fantasies.

"Another assistant has left?" She came around to join him and set down her baskets. "Again?"

"Unfortunately, yes. Another one found herself with child." He shook his head. "It's an epidemic."

"I suppose you gave her fifty pounds?"

"Yes. She was much relieved, but now I need to find someone new. What did you bring me?" he asked, lifting the doily that covered one of the baskets.

"Fabric." Laughing at the look on his face, she pulled out a handful of white material and waved it under his nose. "Would you care for some? Appetizing, isn't it?"

He gave her a wry smile. "I thought maybe you'd made some sweets."

"I don't have time to bake. I barely have time to breathe." She sighed and delved into the second basket. "But I baked anyway. Have a lemon slice." After he took one, she shooed him toward the back. "Go vaccinate some of these people before even more show up, or else they'll have to stand out in the rain. I'll take over here, and I'll let you know if anyone promising comes in to apply for the position."

James went, finding the lemon slice delicious but grumbling all the way nonetheless. He'd never resented having too many patients before—the more people who agreed to be immunized, after all, the sooner smallpox would become a thing of the past. But he hadn't been picturing sniffling children in his treatment rooms all week, damn it…Juliana was supposed to have been there.

Without a stupid scarf hiding her charms.

Between sewing baby clothes, Juliana proved a model of efficiency, but he and the other physician could vaccinate only so fast. Nearly three hours passed before the number of patients dwindled to the point where everyone waiting had a seat. When Dr. Payton left and two more doctors arrived for the second shift, James heaved a sigh of relief and joined Juliana behind the counter.

A frown creased the area between her brows, and though her gaze flicked to meet his for a moment, it was soon back on the task in her hands. Her shoulders looked stiff and hunched. He stepped behind her to rub them, finding her muscles tense and knotted.

"Come into the back with me," he murmured. "I'll make you feel better."

"I cannot. The carriage will be here any minute, and until then I must keep sewing." Though her needle stabs seemed frantic and rather random, she was getting the job done. "Besides, we really shouldn't be alone, James. You know what will happen."

Of course he knew what would happen. He would tempt her, and it would work, which would eventually lead to better things. Though he knew it was only a matter of time before she realized that she, not Lady Amanda, belonged with him, he was beginning to get impatient.

He kept massaging her, firmly but tenderly, wondering why her taut muscles weren't relaxing with his ministrations. "Just for a minute," he coaxed. "Nothing will happen in just a minute."

In two or three minutes, however…

"Your afternoon assistant has yet to arrive," she said toward her handiwork. "We cannot leave all these people out here unsupervised."

She was right about that. He kissed the top of her head and sighed. "No luck finding a new assistant?"

"Have another lemon slice, will you?"

He didn't take one, because he didn't want to let go of her to do so. Touching her was much more appealing than sweets. And her tenseness wasn't easing, which was worrisome. "I'm not hungry," he said.

Now she sighed. "Your last assistant sent in a friend, but I didn't think you should hire her."

"Why not? Could the woman not read?"

She bit off the end of a thread and leaned away from him to reach into her basket for a spool, sighing again when he leaned with her. "Yes, she could read. But I feared she'd find herself with child before long."

His fingers stilled. "What?"

"You heard me." She pulled off a length of thread. "You've lost two assistants due to pregnancy already. Why do you think that is?"

Actually, he'd lost four assistants, not two—but he wasn't about to admit that now. "The water?" he speculated.

"Your generosity," she declared. "You're too nice, James."

"Pardon?" He relinquished her shoulders and walked around to face her. "How the devil can a person be too nice?"

"These girls are taking advantage of your generosity," she said, sticking the end of the thread in her mouth to wet it. He wanted that mouth on him. "They're getting pregnant on purpose. I'd lay odds that last girl sent her friend here with a promise of fifty pounds. You need to find someone older, someone more responsible."

"Older women aren't seeking work. They're busy raising children."

"I mean much older women." Having threaded the needle, she looked up, and he found himself lost in her greenish eyes. "Like your aunts."

He blinked. "My aunts?"

"Excuse me," she said, turning away to hand a number to a woman waiting by the counter with two children.

He hadn't even noticed they were there.

"You're number forty-two," she told the woman. "I'll call you when it's your turn."

She looked back to him, meeting his gaze again, making him think she wanted to say something. But she didn't. Her eyes went even greener. She swallowed slowly and then gradually seemed to go limp, like a marionette whose strings had gone loose.

The chatter of the waiting patients grew louder in their personal silence.

He whipped out a hand and pulled the scarf from her dress.

"Hey!" She snatched it back. "Whyever did you do that?"

"You're not acting like Juliana. And you don't look like Juliana—not with that silly scarf or whatever it's called."

"It's a fichu," she informed him primly, stuffing it back into place.

Juliana was never prim. Or so tense and emotionally distant. Wondering what could be ailing her, he skimmed his knuckles along her chin. "What's wrong, Juliana?"

Her jaw set. "Nothing."

"You're working too hard. You're exhausted."

She reached into one of the baskets and handed him a lemon slice. "Eat this, please."

"I'm not hungry."

"Eat it," she demanded in a most un-Juliana-like way. Her gaze flicked to the door, where a footman in Chase livery had just entered. She waved to him, looking relieved. "My carriage is here. But your aunts are bored. They need something to do."

"They're both countesses, in case you've forgotten. They're not looking for employment."

"I'm not suggesting you pay them. Your mother told me they're enjoying my sewing parties, and even more significant, they've stopped calling on you to examine them. But I've only three more parties, and then they'll be bored again and back to their tricks. Unless they help you instead." She shoved the fabric, needle, and thread into the other basket. "Don't you see, James? They won't consider helping you to be employment or work; they'll see it as charity, an act of goodwill. And if they're busy helping here, they won't have time to fret about their health. They'll stop asking you to come examine them for one imagined ailment or another."

It was brilliant. In one fell swoop, Juliana might have solved both his problems, giving his aunts something to do and providing him with assistants who wouldn't find their bellies full of baby inside of a week. Or at all, for that matter. He'd never considered hiring women past their childbearing years.

Apparently Juliana's meddling really did help sometimes.

"How do you do it?" he asked. "How do you analyze what people need and put two and two together? Why are you so good at what you do?"

She shrugged. "I'm just attentive to the people around me."

It couldn't be that simple, that easy. "What if my aunts don't want to assist here?"

"They'll be thrilled at the very suggestion," she promised with a confidence that implied she positively knew. Which she very probably did. "Shall I ask them for you?"

"I can ask them. I'll stop by on my way to Parliament." When he reached to touch her arm, she flinched. A frisson of hurt took him by surprise, but then he reminded himself that she wasn't past her childbearing years, and if there was one thing he'd learned in his too-short marriage, it was that younger women were sometimes moody.

Although she'd never been moody with him.

"What's wrong, Juliana?"

"You're right. I'm exhausted. And overwhelmed. And the dratted lemon slices aren't working."

"Pardon?" He looked down to the uneaten slice in his hand and back up, horrified to see tears flooding her eyes. "What do lemon slices have to do with anything?"

"Nothing," she muttered. "I'm sorry." She inched around the counter and headed toward the door. "Eat the lemon slices, will you? All of them. I'll see you at the Teddington ball tomorrow. I must go home and sew."

Chapter Thirty-Eight

ON SATURDAY EVENING, GRIFFIN WATCHED Juliana scan the Teddingtons' ballroom. "Where's Lord Stafford?" she asked.

"Shouldn't you be looking for Castleton?"

"He's in the card room, gambling away his fortune."

Griffin wondered why she sounded so disapproving. "Castleton isn't an inveterate gambler. He plays only to amuse himself."

She shrugged. "He only ever does anything to amuse himself."

"And you find this objectionable?" He narrowed his gaze. "Since when?" She was supposed to be in love with the man. Good God, had she changed her mind? "Do you not want to marry him anymore?"

She looked away. "He needs me."

"I should hope you'd want to marry a man because you need him."

She cocked her head at him. "Rachael says people should marry because they want each other, not need each other."

If men married all the women they wanted, he thought, polygamy would be the norm. "Has Castleton kissed you yet?"

"Would you want to hear about it if he did?"

He supposed he didn't; there was little more uncomfortable than thinking about one's sister in a romantic embrace. However, he knew Juliana well enough to know she wouldn't hesitate to give him the details in all their embarrassing glory, so he had to figure her answering his question with another question meant the prig hadn't kissed her yet.

He'd meant to have a talk with Castleton in his stables the next time the man paid Juliana a call, but he hadn't run into him lately. "I think I'll go play cards," he told his sister.

"Just don't lose thirty guineas."

Wherever had that caustic comment come from? he wondered as he made his way to the card room. He very rarely gambled, and never for ridiculous stakes.

Castleton was playing whist. "Yes?" he asked when Griffin walked up.

"I heard from my stableman yesterday. Velocity has been running well. You still want him, don't you?"

He shifted, tossing a card on the table without meeting Griffin's gaze. "Very much."

"Excellent. You might try kissing my sister."

Griffin turned around to see Rachael standing there, wearing a dress the same sky blue color as her eyes. It was very low-cut. She looked like she had a slight cold—her nose was a little red, her eyes a bit glassy—but that didn't make her any less alluring.

It was a good thing he didn't make a habit of marrying all the women he wanted, because he would have married her seventeen times.

"What are you doing in here?" he asked through clenched teeth.

"My sisters dragged me here tonight. And then I saw you walk into the card room." She glanced around at all the people uneasily. "I have something I'd like to ask you. In private."

"Let's find Lord Teddington's library."

"All right." She walked beside him from the room. "What does Velocity have to do with the Duke of Castleton kissing your sister?"

He hadn't realized she'd overheard that conversation. "I promised him Velocity if he married her."

"You promised him a horse for marrying Juliana?" Her glassy eyes looked incredulous. "How could you do that, Griffin?"

He looked away from her, turning down a corridor he hoped would lead to the library. "She wants to marry him. I want to see her happy."

"How happy do you expect she'll be when she finds out her husband married her for a horse?"

He peeked in an open door to find a music room. "Whyever would she find that out?"

"Maybe because I told her?"

"You wouldn't." He turned to her. "Tell me you wouldn't."

"I'm not sure I shouldn't."

"Rachael, tell me you won't tell her. It would only hurt her feelings."

"You should have thought of that before you made the offer." She stared at him for a moment while he shifted uncomfortably. "All right. I won't tell her. Unless she ends up engaged to the man, at which point I think it will be in her best interests to know, whether it hurts her feelings or not."

"Thank you," he said, not sure what he was thanking her for, since in all likelihood Castleton would ask for Juliana's hand and then Rachael would go running to her. But maybe not. And at least she wasn't running to her now.

They walked to the next room, but it turned out to be a small family dining chamber. "Whatever made you think of offering a horse for your sister?" she asked, continuing down the corridor.

He shrugged. "It seemed like a good idea at the time. I think I was a little foxed."

"Well, it's a good thing you're not a heavy drinker." She stopped before another open door. "Ah, the library." Taking a deep breath, she entered and walked over to a long leather sofa. She turned and sat carefully, folding her hands in her lap. "A few weeks ago you asked if I wanted you to help me find my father. I was wondering how you'd propose to do that. Seeing as he's dead, I mean."

Although he was relieved to be on a different subject, he hated to see her so apprehensive. Leaving the door open, he joined her on the sofa. "He might not be dead," he suggested.

"In the letter I found, Mama referred to herself as a widow."

"The letter could have been deliberately misleading," Griffin pointed out, and then, seeing hope leap into her eyes, hurriedly added, "although it probably wasn't. But in either case, I may be able to help you discover his identity."

"How?" She coughed, then sniffled. "Mama left no other letters that mentioned anything about an earlier marriage. Her parents died young, and after her sister died when I was but a child, she had no family left. She never even had any close friends other than your folks—Mama always kept to herself, do you remember? I wouldn't know where to start."

"Her things? Did she keep nothing to remind her of her previous husband?"

"Nothing at all. I went through everything when I cleaned out her rooms to ready them for Noah."

Noah, Rachael's younger brother, had recently come of age and taken responsibility for the earldom—a responsibility Rachael had borne on her own since the tender age of fifteen. Rachael was intelligent and competent. If she'd found nothing, there was likely nothing to find.

But now that she was willing to pursue the subject, Griffin didn't want to give up so easily. "Perhaps you missed something. Or saw something but didn't recognize it as a clue."

She looked dubious. "There was nothing, Griffin."

"Would it hurt to look again?" If he could judge by her expression, it very well might. "I'll go through your mother's things with you," he offered. "I might notice something you missed."

She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her nose. "All of Mama's things are at Greystone," she said on a sigh, referring to her family's country estate. "Perhaps we can go through them at Christmas."

As much as Rachael clearly wished to put this off, he couldn't bear to see her unhappiness last until Christmas. It was so against her nature. "Christmas is six months away—"

"I'll think about it," she said, standing suddenly. "I'm not feeling well. I'm going home."

Chapter Thirty-Nine

AUNTS AURELIA AND BEDELIA HAD been thrilled when James asked them if they might help out at the Institute. They'd arrived at New Hope to be trained first thing after breakfast Saturday morning and taken to their tasks with great enthusiasm, running his reception room with a precision he hadn't witnessed since his stint in the military. As a result, James had vaccinated more patients in a day than he usually did in three.

At four o'clock, before his aunts departed to ready themselves for the Teddington ball, he'd penciled their names on his schedule, careful to make sure their assigned shifts wouldn't overlap and run him ragged. Then he'd gone home to change, decided to rest his feet and close his eyes for just a moment, and awakened four hours later.

By the time he dressed and left, it was past ten o'clock. He arrived at the ball very late and a tad grumpy. When Occlestone happened to swagger by the door as he walked in, his piggish nose high in the air, it took everything James had not to snarl. But he knew he'd feel better after sharing the day's success with Juliana, assuming she was no longer moody.

Unfortunately, Lady Amanda buttonholed him before he could find out.

He hadn't even been announced yet—he'd barely handed his things to the footman manning the cloakroom—when she approached him, wringing her hands. "Lord Stafford, where have you been? One of Lady Teddington's guests is terribly ill."

Absurdly, he noticed she wasn't wearing gloves. And she looked quite distressed. She was usually so cool and aloof, he couldn't imagine her caring enough about anyone's illness to appear so troubled. She seemed to have no close friends, except for—

"Is it Juliana?" he asked, his heart suddenly beating double time.

"No. Let me show you to her." Bypassing the ballroom, she hurried him down a corridor.

"It's another lady, then? What's wrong with her?"

"I don't know." She turned into a room and swung to him so fast he all but bumped into her. "Kiss me," she said, and then, throwing her arms around him, she pressed her lips to his.

Addled, he froze for a stunned moment. When his wits began returning, he seemed to have only enough brainpower to marvel that he'd never before kissed a woman and felt nothing. Or rather, something—her stiff, closed lips were mashed against his, after all—but nothing good.

Coming to his senses, he pushed her away. "What in blazes do you think you're doing?"

"Kissing you!" Her cheeks were pink; her chest heaved. "Have you fallen in love with me yet?"

"What?"

"Juliana said that after I'd kissed you, you'd fall in love with me. Have you?"

"Hell, no." She was a very lovely girl, even more lovely now that she was a little lively for once. Her blue-gray eyes were sparkling.

But he loved a girl with hazel eyes.

"Where is Juliana?" He glanced around, his own eyes widening. "Good God, this is the ladies' retiring room." The chamber was strewn with reticules and other feminine belongings. Screens in two corners most likely hid chamber pots—but he wasn't about to make his way over and find out. "It's a miracle no one else is in here. Someone could appear any minute."

"I know."

"Ladies tend to visit in bunches. Any number of guests could have seen us kissing!"

"I know."

"You know? You know?" He grabbed her by an arm and took a step back, and then another, and another, until they'd returned to the momentarily deserted but very public corridor. "Have you any idea what could have happened had we been caught?"

"What I was hoping would happen?"

"What you were hoping—" He broke off as the truth dawned on him. "You and Juliana planned to trick me again, didn't you?" The accusation came through clenched teeth. "I'm going to kill that meddling little chit."

Was it just yesterday he'd decided her meddling was actually helpful?

"She didn't meddle," Lady Amanda said, her eyes flooding. "It was my idea this time. All my idea. She refused to help me. She said it would be unethical."

"Damn right it is!" What was it with ladies crying in his presence? Yesterday Juliana, and now Lady Amanda. Was the female race unified in their efforts to cut him to pieces?

A tear overflowed and ran down her cheek, slicing him even more. "Why can't you just agree to kiss me, then? You want to, don't you? You've been courting me for weeks."

"I most certainly have…"

Not. He'd meant to say not. But the word wouldn't pass his lips. Good God, he abruptly realized, he had been courting her for weeks. Or at least it must have seemed that way to her. He'd sent gifts and asked her to dance and—

Suddenly he needed to sit down. But there were no chairs in the corridor, and he seemed to have lost the strength to propel himself to another location. He leaned against the wall instead. "Well, that is…"

How could he explain it? Although she and Juliana had certainly been wrong to trick him, what he'd done was just as bad in its own way. His actions had implied he was interested in Lady Amanda, so he could hardly be surprised she'd come to that conclusion. He'd had no right to mislead her in order to achieve his own ends with another woman.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I—"

"My father will be home tomorrow afternoon," she interrupted in clipped tones, clearly impatient with his half-assed efforts to explain himself. "For all I know, he may not let me out of the house again before my wedding. However will I escape marrying Lord Malmsey then?"

"Escape…what?" He blinked. "Your wedding? I don't understand. What on earth makes you think Lord Malmsey would marry you? He's in love with Lady Frances."

"Well, he offered for my hand before he met Lady Frances. And my father is going to make us marry, unless—"

"You're engaged?" he interrupted. "To Lord Malmsey?"

It was beyond his comprehension. All the time Juliana had been trying to match him with Lady Amanda, the woman had been engaged?

"We're to be wed a week from today. And the only way I can get out of it is if I'm caught with another man." She grabbed both his hands. Reserved Lady Amanda grabbed his hands, and she wasn't even wearing gloves. She was that desperate. "Could you please just cooperate?"

A better man would. A better man would make amends for his actions by following through. But he couldn't.

He just couldn't.

Two women entered the corridor, heading for the ladies' retiring room. He pulled his hands from Lady Amanda's and lowered his voice. "I cannot," he said. "I'm sorry, but I cannot cooperate. I cannot marry you. I'm in love with another woman."

He turned and stalked back to the cloakroom, unsure whether he was more furious with Lady Amanda for trying to trick him again, Juliana for trying to match him with an engaged woman, or himself for misleading them both. All he knew was he was in no state of mind to socialize. He wanted to go home.

"James!" he heard as he passed the ballroom.

He turned to see Juliana, a cautious smile on her face.

Cautious? Juliana? Was this another one of her mercurial moods?

"How did it go with your aunts?"

"Fine," he said shortly.

Her smile disappeared. "Is something wrong?"

"Your friend tried to trick me again. Your engaged friend."

"Oh." Her face went white. "Dear heavens. I can explain—"

"I'm sure you can, since you always have a plan to fix everything. But I don't want to hear it tonight. I'm going home."

Still deathly pale, she hesitated a moment.

She hesitated. Juliana hesitated. Confident, self-assured Juliana.

"All right," she said at last. "Can we discuss this tomorrow at Lady Hartley's breakfast?"

"I don't think so. I have more important things to do than attend a silly breakfast." The Institute would be closed since it was Sunday, but perhaps he'd work on the account books. Or clip his nails. Anything would be better than wasting half the day smiling at people he didn't care about. He'd never enjoyed garden parties or balls—he attended them only to placate his mother and, more recently, to see Juliana.

But he didn't want to see Juliana. Or more precisely, to have her see him. To face her in a tent full of nosy spectators.

Hell, he couldn't even face himself.

Chapter Forty

AFTER JAMES LEFT, JULIANA RETURNED to the ballroom, furious and intending to find Amanda.

Before she had a chance, Amanda found her.

"Whom?" the older girl asked, tears spilling from her red-rimmed eyes. "Whom is Lord Stafford in love with?"

"I told you not to try to trick him again! And why on earth did you tell him you're engaged?" People were gawking at them, so Juliana hurried her to a corner of the ballroom where they could talk behind a potted palm. "Now he'll never agree—" She stopped short, finally registering Amanda's question. "What makes you think Lord Stafford is in love with anyone?"

"He told me! I kissed him, and then—"

"You kissed him?" A stab of jealousy took Juliana by surprise. Or, all right, to be honest, she wasn't surprised. But it certainly felt bad and very wrong. "What did he do then?"

"He pushed me away. You said he would fall in love with me, but he pushed me away!"

The jealousy faded as quickly as it had flared, replaced instead by elation. Unmistakable, jubilant elation. Juliana had never felt more buffeted by uncontrollable emotions, and she wondered how she could feel so exultant when Amanda was clearly so desperate. But she couldn't seem to help herself. Amanda had kissed James, and he'd reacted by pushing her away.

She must be a bad, bad person, because she wanted to scream with joy.

"I asked him if he'd just cooperate," Amanda continued with a pathetic sniffle, "and compromise me so my father would have to let me marry him. But he said he couldn't, because he's in love with another woman." She heaved another prolonged, woebegone sniff. "Who is it?"

"I don't know," Juliana said. It wasn't a lie. She had her suspicions, but she didn't know.

James had claimed he would never fall in love with anyone. While he'd certainly never pushed her away, no declaration of love had passed his lips. He'd never called her my love or even my dear. He'd never sent her flowers. And he'd seemed very angry that she'd deceived him regarding Amanda's engagement.

"I don't know," she repeated, looking away.

Because although she didn't know, she couldn't help hoping…

Her gaze wandered the ballroom, past Lord Malmsey dancing with Aunt Frances. Had her meddling doomed them both to despair? Even if James did love her and eventually forgave her, how could she ever be happy with him while she knew other people she cared for were miserable?

And then there was the duke…

Having at last emerged from the card room, he stood gazing at her, a heated look in his eyes. He'd never looked at her with that sort of expression before. Just her luck, now that she'd decided she couldn't marry him, he'd finally decided he wanted her.

Amanda shifted uneasily beside her. "Why is David looking at me like that?"

"Like what?" Juliana asked. Then she blinked. And stared.

Dear heavens, the duke wasn't looking at her at all, let alone like that. He was looking at Amanda. Like that. Could the duke love Amanda?

Amanda?

Well, why not? she suddenly realized, glancing back and forth between them and recalling all of their interactions. Honestly, it was amazing she hadn't considered the possibility much earlier. The duke and Amanda were two peas in a pod. Two perfectly round, blemishless peas, with about as much passion between them as one would expect from a pair of legumes.

The duke and Amanda were ideal for each other. Absolutely ideal. He related better to Amanda than he ever had to her. Amanda's cold upbringing had matched his own, after all. The two of them understood each other.

She turned back to face Amanda. "It's a shame you won't marry a by-blow, because that would solve everything."

Amanda bit her lip. "I would marry a by-blow if the by-blow was the duke," she said meekly.

Juliana gasped. "Are my ears deceiving me? Did you just say you would marry the duke?"

"You were right all along." Instead of looking down at her feet as she used to, Amanda met Juliana's eyes. "He's not to blame for his parents' mistakes, and he's kind and a good man."

"Then whyever did you say no last night? With such vehemence, no less?"

"You want to marry him yourself. You've been trying so hard to help me. The last thing I want to do is repay you by stealing your intended. You're such a good friend."

"You're a good friend, too." Juliana took Amanda's hands. "I don't want to marry the duke. I want you to have him instead. Wait here," she added, squeezing her fingers before she released them. "I'm going to make it happen."

As she walked toward the duke, she couldn't help noticing that his blond, pristine handsomeness matched Amanda's pale beauty precisely. If he didn't realize they belonged together, she would see that he soon did.

Coming to a stop before him, she looked up into blue eyes as bland as Amanda's. "You're not in love with me," she said. Although he'd claimed he was falling in love with her, it was a statement, not a question. "You're in love with Lady Amanda."

"I wouldn't go so far as to call it love," he demurred. "But I hold her in some affection."

Juliana supposed it was the most Amanda could ever expect, since it was the most the woman could give herself. Neither of them possessed enough emotion for anything stronger.

"Would you like to marry her?" she asked.

He hesitated, but only a moment. "Very much. Even though she doesn't come with a horse."

"Pardon?"

"Never mind. I would definitely like to marry her. Unfortunately, I understand she's engaged to another."

"She told you that?" Juliana asked. But obviously, Amanda had. While Juliana and James were kissing, Amanda and the duke must have been talking. "We can fix her engagement," she said. "But first you need to ask her for her hand."

The duke nodded gravely.

"It might help to tell her how you feel," she advised as she walked him toward Amanda, thinking him the sort of man to forget that. "You may want to exaggerate a bit."

After delivering him to her friend, she backed away and watched from afar as he and Amanda conducted a conversation that looked more like a business discussion than a proposal. In the end, when Amanda nodded, he leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.

It seemed an auspicious beginning. Maybe after a year or two they'd progress to kissing on the lips.

Perhaps within a decade they'd make a child.

The negotiations complete, they summoned Juliana. In the course of the next half hour, the three of them came up with a plan. After church tomorrow, they would all attend Lady Hartley's breakfast party, where, at precisely three o'clock, Amanda would be caught in the library with the duke, her dress unbuttoned down the back.

Amanda blanched when Juliana suggested the last bit, but they all agreed it was necessary to assure her ruin. By the time Amanda's father arrived that evening, her compromise would be a fait accompli. He would have to allow her to marry the duke.

"Will you ask Lord Stafford to help 'discover' us?" Amanda asked.

"No. He told me he won't be in attendance." Juliana thanked goodness for that, because he'd never approve of their plot. "But I'm sure plenty of other people will come running when I call, so there's no need for him to be involved."

With any luck, James would never hear about what happened at all.

And after all was said and done, if she was fortunate enough to learn he loved her, she would never—never ever—meddle again.

Chapter Forty-One

IN HIS STUDY AT STAFFORD HOUSE the next day, James pushed aside his paperwork and sighed.

Sometime during the sleepless night, the hot fury had settled into a coldness deep inside him. Cornelia had the sniffles. He'd passed the morning in a haze, hoping she'd decide she was well enough to leave for Lady Hartley's breakfast. When she finally did, he'd sat down at his desk, added the same column of numbers three times, and come up with three different answers.

He couldn't concentrate. He still couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that Juliana had been hiding Amanda's engagement from him for all the time since they'd met. He'd thought he knew her.

But then again, he'd thought he knew himself, too. And when it came right down to it, his disappointment in himself was much harder to swallow.

True, Juliana had done wrong. But she was a meddler, and he'd known that all along. Sometimes her scheming worked—with his aunts, for example—and sometimes it didn't.

Everyone made mistakes, and as bad as her actions had been, his own had been no better. He was hardly in a position to judge. They'd both been playing games. His games had hurt Amanda, and Juliana's games had nearly saddled him with an unwanted wife.

But he loved her nonetheless. He loved every scheming, meddling inch of her. Should he be fortunate enough to marry her, he would gladly put up with her antics for the rest of his life.

And he, for one, was finished playing games.

Decision made, he pushed back from the desk, summoned his valet, and went to his newly renovated bedroom to change. The red-and-yellow-striped bedroom he hoped to share with Juliana.

It was time to buy her roses.

* * *

ONLY THE CREAM OF SOCIETY held "breakfasts" in the afternoon.

Beneath a tent in Lady Hartley's garden, the breakfast was well underway when James arrived just before three o'clock. As he scanned the several hundred guests seated at round tables, searching for Juliana, Lord Occlestone rose from one nearby.

"You owe some lady an apology, Stafford?"

James glanced down to the flowers he held, a dozen red roses. "Something like that." In his carriage between the florist's shop and Lady Hartley's, he'd unwrapped and nervously dethorned them. Now, rewrapped in the crumpled paper, they didn't look like much.

"I missed you in Parliament all this week. Or rather, I didn't miss you."

"I was there Thursday," James said mildly, still searching the crowd. He had more important things to do than bicker with Occlestone.

"Oh, yes, you were there Thursday. How could I have forgotten your arguments regarding your ridiculous notion that we should return the Elgin Marbles to Greece rather than purchase them for the British Museum?"

"It's a matter of morality," James snapped. "We have no right—"

"Where the devil is my daughter?" another gentleman cut in.

Grateful for the interruption, James turned to him, then blinked at his stern demeanor. "And your daughter is…?"

"Lady Amanda Wolverston," Occlestone answered for him, clapping the man on the shoulder. "Good to see you at long last, Wolverston. What has it been, two years? Three? We Tories have sorely missed your voice of reason."

While Lady Amanda's father muttered something about excavating antiquities on his property, James looked him over. He was rather short, with fair hair and beady, pale blue eyes. His mouth was compressed and turned downward, and deep lines on either side gave the distinct impression such a frown was his habitual expression.

He didn't look the least bit pleasant. Poor Lady Amanda. The thought of Wolverston as a father-in-law would make any man think twice before proposing to the unfortunate girl.

A flash of yellow caught James's eye. Juliana, leaving the tent. "Excuse me," he said quickly and moved to follow her.

He reached the garden just in time to see her enter the house. Wondering what could possibly compel to her to go into a house during a garden party, he crossed the threshold just in time to see her reach the other end of what seemed an impossibly long corridor. From there, best he could tell, she turned and stole into a room.

He hurried after her, composing apologies in his head, desperate words spilling from his brain in a rhythm that matched the cadence of his rushing feet.

Juliana, I shouldn't have judged—

Juliana, please listen—

Juliana, I love you—

Reaching the end of the corridor, he opened what he hoped was the right door and stepped into a library. As he quietly shut the door behind him, his mouth fell open.

It had been the right door. Between two deep red velvet curtains, Juliana stood facing a window, a dark silhouette against the light. Her dress was unbuttoned all down her back, and the bodice had slipped down her arms, revealing a slim column of tempting skin.

"Juliana," he gasped softly.

She turned and stepped forward, her hair glinting the palest blond.

It wasn't Juliana.

"Lord Stafford!" Lady Amanda's cheeks flushed bright red. She swiftly jerked her dress up to cover herself, but not before he glimpsed an oddly shaped birthmark on her left breast. "What are you doing here?"

"What are you doing here?" Had he entered the wrong room? What had happened to Juliana? "Fix your clothes, will you?"

"I—I cannot!"

She was clutching her bodice for dear life, unwilling to let go in order to button her dress. Vaguely wondering how she'd managed to unbutton it in the first place, James stalked across the room to fasten it for her.

The door opened and closed again. "What are you doing here?" the Duke of Castleton asked in an exceedingly stuffy manner.

The ass. "Buttoning the lady's dress," James spat, stating the obvious. "What are you doing here?" The paper-wrapped roses tucked under one arm, his fingers awkwardly worked up Lady Amanda's spine as quickly as possible.

But not quickly enough. Before he was anywhere near finishing—before Castleton could even open his mouth to answer James's question—the door flew open once more, and a flood of people poured in.

Led by Lord Occlestone.

"How dare you preach morality to the House of Lords, Stafford."

James's fingers fell from Lady Amanda's buttons, and the roses fell, too. He scooped them up. "This isn't what it looks like."

Occlestone's squarish nose went into the air. He'd never looked more like a pig. "I doubt the lady's father will agree."

"My father is here?" Lady Amanda squealed.

"Lord Wolverston is looking for you. I shall fetch him forthwith."

"Please don't," she said quickly, but he was already gone.

The onlookers turned as one to watch him, then broke out in excited whispers.

"Gracious me," Lady Amanda breathed, slowly turning to face James. "What an unpleasant man."

The woman was a master of understatement. Unpleasant, indeed. James hadn't missed the smirk on the man's face. Occlestone was enjoying this tiny bit of revenge.

And unfortunately, the revenge could turn out to be far more than tiny.

Lady Amanda's gaze darted about the whispering crowd. "What are we going to do?" she asked in a low, panicked tone.

"Nothing. There is nothing we can do." His instincts said to run. But escape was impossible. Alerted by Occlestone, Lady Hartley's guests were arriving in droves, filling the doorway, cramming the room. He could only be grateful his mother and aunts weren't among them. So far, anyway. Perhaps they'd all come down with the sniffles and gone home.

A long velvet curtain swished behind him, and he turned, shocked to see Juliana step from behind it. "What the devil is going on here?" he asked.

Her gaze swept the fascinated bystanders, then settled on him as though they were the only ones there. "I'm so sorry." She did look sorry, not that that did any good. "We'd planned for Lady Amanda to be discovered with the duke."

James swung to Castleton in disbelief. "You were party to this? You willingly—"

"Yes," Castleton interrupted stiffly, but before he could explain anything, more people streamed into the room—Cornelia and her sisters among them, damnation—as Lord Wolverston arrived with a roar.

"Stafford, you will pay for this!"

James's stomach sank. He'd never been formally introduced to Amanda's father—in fact, he'd never even laid eyes on the man until a few minutes earlier. But he wasn't surprised to find that Wolverston knew his name. Occlestone would have supplied him with all the lurid details as the two of them made their way from the tent to the library.

He should have run.

Although he was no taller than his offspring, Lord Wolverston was commanding in his fury. "You will wed my daughter in place of Lord Malmsey. Next Saturday, as planned."

A buzz filled the room. Gasps of surprise and astonished whispers. It seemed Lady Amanda's betrothal had been a well-kept secret.

"No!" she cried. "This is all a mistake!"

Her father turned to her, his jaw clenched. "A serious mistake indeed, young lady." He swung back to James. "I'll expect you at Wolverston House at noon with a special license."

James's gaze flicked to his horrified mother before he nodded. There was nothing else he could do. Having been witnessed buttoning Lady Amanda's dress at an event attended by half of the ton, he had no choice but to comply or lose all honor.

"What if Baron Malmsey still wants her?" someone shouted over the babble. "Will you deprive him of his betrothed bride?"

"I would never go back on my word." Lord Wolverston craned his neck, searching the crowd. "Malmsey!" he bellowed. "Do you still wish to wed my disgraced daughter?"

Someone pushed Lord Malmsey forward. "I—I—" he sputtered. A meek man to begin with, he seemed to have shrunk into himself. "I—"

"The baron doesn't want her," Wolverston said.

Well, of course he didn't. He wanted Lady Frances.

"She must wed the earl," Wolverston concluded, suddenly sounding less discontented. In fact, if the man were possessed of a more pleasant demeanor, James suspected he'd have looked positively delighted.

"Please, Father!" Lady Amanda begged. "This isn't fair! Father, you must listen! You must reconsider—"

"There will be no reconsidering." Lord Wolverston grabbed her by the arm, making her wince. "We're leaving."

"Please, Father!" she wailed as he dragged her through the crush. "Pleeeease!"

It was a wail James feared he would hear the rest of his life.

Literally.

Chapter Forty-Two

AS LADY HARTLEY'S GUESTS FOLLOWED the Wolverstons from the room like rats mesmerized by a piper—except in this case they were riveted by Amanda's dramatic pleadings—Juliana watched Lady Stafford push through them in the other direction.

"James!" she cried, throwing her arms around him.

He held her for a few seconds, but then extricated himself. "Please go, Mother. Take Aunt Aurelia and Aunt Bedelia back to the tent. I'll talk to you in a few minutes."

She looked to her sisters, who were standing there with their mouths open, and back to him. "But, James—"

"Go. Please. I need to talk to Lady Juliana."

As they departed, leaving the two of them alone, he turned to her.

She felt like she hadn't breathed in the last five minutes.

And like she might never breathe again.

She thought she should cry, but she felt numb. She didn't know what to say. She didn't know what she could say. All the words seemed to have been sucked right out of her.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. It was all she could manage.

James only nodded.

She'd never seen him look so pale, so lifeless. Not even when he'd been deathly afraid of Emily's snake. The very sight of him in that state made anger rise in her, which finally loosened her tongue.

"Lord Occlestone should be shot."

"I may not like the man," he said wearily, "but others followed us in here as well. Lady Amanda's father would have found out one way or another. Occlestone isn't to blame for this."

"I know. I'm to blame. But I'll fix it."

She had to fix it.

James's lips quirked to form something that might have been a sad smile. "You cannot fix everything, Juliana. But the fact that you never stop trying…well…it's one of the many things that made me fall in love with you."

There was no way she could live with herself if he had to marry Amanda. "I can fix this, and I will," she reiterated. "I have to." And then she froze. "One of the many things that made you…what?" She held her breath again, but for an entirely different reason, and then her gaze dropped to his hand. And her breath went out in a rush. "You brought roses."

He glanced down, as though he'd forgotten he was holding them. "They're a bit worse for the wear."

They did look a tad bedraggled. "But they're red roses."

"There aren't many of them. I couldn't easily carry more than a dozen. Not two dozen like we ordered for Lady Amanda, and compared to what Lord Malmsey sent to your aunt—"

"They're red roses." He wasn't handing them to her. "Are they for me?"

Abruptly, he held them out. "Who else could they possibly be for? For what other woman in all of London—nay, in all of the world—would I buy and dethorn red roses? Bloody hell, I must've nicked myself twenty times."

"You said you would never fall in love again." She grabbed the flowers and held them tight to her chest, the paper crinkling, their sweet scent wafting to her nose. "Oh, James, I love you, too."

He held out his arms, and she bolted into them, and he held her close, the bouquet crushed between them. And then the tears that wouldn't fall finally did, because really, it was just too much.

And too late.

He'd brought her red roses. She'd been hoping he loved her, but now that she knew he did, her meddling had ruined everything.

She was going to fix it, but for now she couldn't stop weeping. Couldn't stop sobbing. Couldn't stop.

"Hush," he murmured while her tears wet his waistcoat. And, "hush," while they soaked through to his shirt. And finally, "Do you know what I hate even more than snakes?"

She shook her head, rubbing her nose in the damp warmth.

He put a finger under her chin and lifted it, until her eyes were forced to meet his. "A woman's tears," he said. "I swear to God, sweetheart, they make me feel more helpless than anything."

"I'm sorry," she said, and she was. Sorry for crying, and sorry that made him uncomfortable. But mostly sorry James loved her and she loved him and everything was such a mess.

"Hush," he said one last time, and then he lowered his head and kissed her, a little soft kiss. And another one. And yet another, but it wasn't soft, it was devouring instead.

Juliana stopped crying, because she didn't want to upset James anymore. Or maybe it was because his kisses were such a distraction. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and leaned into him, and threaded her fingers into the dark curls that spilled over his collar. Everything was wrong, but this—this one thing—was heartbreakingly right.

She was in love.

She couldn't remember ever being so happy and so sad all at once.

"I'll fix this," she said when he finally allowed her to draw breath. "We have five days before Saturday."

He smoothed her hair back from her face, her dratted, slippery hair. "Five short days."

"Five and a half," she whispered, inhaling his scent, starch and soap mixed with roses. She wanted to hold that scent inside her. She hugged him tighter, wishing she didn't have to let go.

But she did have to. At least for now.

"Five and a half," she repeated.

It would have to be enough.

Chapter Forty-Three

THE NEXT DAY, JULIANA PACED around the drawing room while she waited for her guests to arrive for her one o'clock sewing party.

"I cannot concentrate." Seated at her easel, Corinna dabbed a bit of gray on the underside of a cloud. "I know you're going to make me sew all afternoon, so for now, will you please sit down?"

Juliana sat and stabbed her needle in and out of a little white nightshirt. For about a minute. Then she rose and began moving again, the nightshirt dangling from her clenched fingers. "There must be some way to fix this. It's disastrous for everyone involved."

"Aunt Frances doesn't think it's a disaster," Corinna pointed out.

That much was true. Although Frances had been shocked to learn Lord Malmsey was engaged, he'd managed to talk his way back into her good graces before Juliana even had a chance to help. In fact, last evening she'd returned to the tent in Lady Hartley's garden to find him proposing on bended knee—a proposal Aunt Frances had joyfully accepted.

But the fact that the two of them were thrilled hardly mitigated the disaster that had come of all her plotting.

She and James were devastated. The duke was devastated. No doubt Amanda was devastated, too, although Juliana hadn't seen her since last night. Lord Wolverston had taken his daughter straight home—proclaiming loudly, according to several eyewitnesses, that she wouldn't be seen again in public before she was a wife. Juliana had received an apologetic note from Amanda this morning, explaining that she wouldn't be able to attend any more of her sewing parties and her Aunt Mabel wouldn't be there, either.

Apparently, Lord Wolverston, having been less than impressed with his sister's chaperoning proficiency—or rather, her lack thereof—had given her such a lecture that she'd gone straight to bed with the asthma and expected to remain there for the week.

Out in the foyer, the knocker banged on the door. A few moments later, Adamson came into the drawing room with two letters for Juliana.

"Thank you," she said, breaking the seal on the first one and scanning the short message. "Drat!"

"What is it?" Corinna asked.

"Rachael cannot come today. She has a cold." She opened the second letter, her eyes widening as she read the words. "Double drat!"

"What now?"

"James's aunts are ill, too. And his mother. How in heaven's name am I going to make twenty-five items of baby clothes today with only you and Alexandra, Claire and Elizabeth, and Aunt Frances?"

Working feverishly in every free moment, Juliana had managed to complete seven garments on her own between her last sewing party and today, but she still needed to collect seventy-six pieces of baby clothes during just three more parties. That was more than twenty-five per party, and today she would have six fewer women contributing.

"In the scheme of things," Corinna said, "I should think those baby clothes are the least of your troubles."

"You're right." Ordering herself to stay composed and keep things in perspective, Juliana plopped down on the sofa and resumed sewing. Her gaze went to the bedraggled red roses sitting in a vase on the mantel. They looked nearly as droopy as she felt. "James's forced betrothal to Amanda is much more distressing."

"Perhaps Lord Wolverston has calmed down by now," Corinna suggested. "Maybe if Amanda explains that it was all a misunderstanding, he'll reconsider."

"I don't think so. For all his bluster, it was clear he was well satisfied to see her catch an earl in place of a lowly baron." Juliana's needle dropped from her fingers. "That's it!"

"What's it?" Corinna tilted her head, perusing her work in progress.

"If the Duke of Castleton offers to marry Amanda instead of James—"

"Her father would refuse, wouldn't he?" She dabbed at the cloud some more. "Isn't that why you plotted her compromise in the first place?"

"But everything's different now. Lord Wolverston wouldn't be breaking his word or breaching a contract. At this point, he only wants to see his ruined daughter wed and off his hands, and after all, if an earl is better than a baron, surely a duke is better still." It was so simple, Juliana wanted to kick herself for not thinking of it on the spot. All this worry could have been avoided. "Why on earth would he refuse?"

Corinna shrugged and dipped her brush. "Your logic seems sound, but Amanda thinks her father is unreasonable."

"I'll bake some wafers, then, just in case." According to the recipe in the family cookbook, wafers were reputed to have a calming effect and help make one reasonable. "But I cannot imagine why he would refuse."

"Well, then, I'm certain he won't. You always know best, after all."

Since Juliana obviously didn't always know best—as proven by last night's disaster—she found her sister's sarcasm somewhat annoying. But she was sure Lord Wolverston wouldn't refuse. The man would have to be an idiot to reject a duke as a son-in-law.

Five minutes later, Juliana was on Amanda's doorstep, explaining her new plan. "Why on earth would your father refuse?" she concluded.

"I cannot imagine." Amanda's eyes had been dull with despair, but now they shone with hope. "I wish he were home so we could ask him right now."

"The duke must be with us, in any case. Your father is a stickler, after all, so the duke will need to formally request your hand. And Lord Stafford should be in attendance as well, to confirm he agrees with the proposed solution. When will Lord Wolverston be home?"

"I'm not privy to his schedule. But I heard him instruct the cook to prepare roasted duck for his dinner, and he always insists on dining at precisely six o'clock."

"Perfect. I'll send a footman with notes to summon Lord Stafford and the duke, and we'll all be here at half past six."

"He won't take callers in the middle of dinner."

"Do you know for certain he'll stay home afterward?"

Amanda shook her head.

"Then inform your butler beforehand that we're expected. That way he won't go to your father to ask his permission." Juliana started down the steps, then turned. "Oh, bother. I'm sure Lord Stafford is at the Institute, but I have no idea where to send a note that will reach the duke."

"He'll be at his club," Amanda said, "playing cards."

"Which club?"

"White's, of course."

"Of course," Juliana echoed. She wasn't surprised to learn the duke belonged to a Tory establishment—he was the embodiment of the word conservative. What was surprising, however, was that Amanda knew where to find the man, while she didn't.

Despite expecting to marry him, it seemed she'd never really known him at all.

"Are you sure you're not upset that David loves me?" Amanda asked suddenly and rather warily. "I know you wanted to be the duchess."

While she wasn't sure the duke actually loved Amanda, Juliana shrugged. "No, I'm not upset. I believe the two of you belong together." Truer words were never spoken. "Um…if I told you I'm the woman Lord Stafford loves, would you be upset about that?"

"Gracious me," Amanda said, "you can have him. The man's chilly as a Gunter's ice."

Chapter Forty-Four

WAFERS

Rub Butter into Flour with some small amount of Salt. To this put Cream and Honey and roll out until very thin. Cut into small rounds and put them in your oven and eat them hot or cold.

A very simple treat, these have a calming effect. My grandmother used to serve them to my grandfather to make him reasonable.

—Anne, Marchioness of Cainewood, 1764

EVEN WITH A FLURRY OF activity, Juliana's afternoon had passed excruciatingly slowly. Despite the heroic efforts of her five guests, her sewing party had added only eight items to her stockpile, well short of the twenty-five she'd been hoping for. But she hadn't been able to prolong the gathering past her usual four o'clock stopping time, knowing the men would be arriving at quarter past six.

She'd shooed everyone out of the house and hurried to the kitchen to make the wafers. When the sweets came out of the oven, she donned her most modest dress—a white one—and applied just enough cosmetics to look fresh and innocent. Then she paced around the drawing room until Corinna grew irritated enough to set down her paintbrush and summon her maid to accompany her for a walk.

She hadn't meant to drive her sister away from the house. But all the same, she couldn't help but be a little pleased that she'd be able to explain her plan to James and the duke without enduring Corinna's usual caustic asides.

James arrived first. She hurried him into the drawing room, giving him the details as they went.

"Then Lady Amanda can marry the duke," she concluded, "which will leave you free to—" She clamped her lips shut. While James had proclaimed his love, he hadn't made an offer of marriage. "Why on earth would Lady Amanda's father refuse?" she added instead.

"I don't know." Sounding hopeful but maybe also a bit hesitant, he glanced toward the open door, then shrugged and drew her into his arms. "But I pray he won't, because Lady Amanda isn't the woman I wish to wed."

She laid her head against his chest, savoring his warmth, hoping she was the woman he wished to wed instead. Wishing he could be hers forever.

He would be hers forever. "Lord Wolverston won't refuse," she said firmly. "He'd be an idiot to reject a duke as a son-in-law."

"My confident Juliana." James tilted her chin up, and she found herself captured in his intense chocolate gaze. Something fluttered in her middle as he lowered his lips to meet hers.

He brushed her mouth with aching tenderness, then settled there, deepening the kiss. His hands skimmed down her sides and found hers, lacing their fingers together, squeezing tight. There was something different about their kisses now that they'd admitted their love, something possessive, something more meaningful.

Something she knew she'd never find with any other man.

"Ahem." They broke apart to find the duke standing in the doorway. "Your note said you have a plan?"

Though she blushed wildly, she kept one of James's hands in hers. "Yes," she said and quickly explained, finishing with "Why on earth would Lady Amanda's father refuse?"

"He shouldn't," the duke said stiffly, his disapproving gaze on their clasped hands. "He won't reject me as a son-in-law. He'd have to be dumber than a box of hair to do that."

* * *

JULIANA AND CASTLETON WERE BOTH sure Lord Wolverston wasn't stupid enough to reject a duke. And James had silently agreed with them—until they arrived in the man's dining room and he greeted them with all the warmth of an icicle.

"I don't recall issuing dinner invitations."

Lady Amanda set down her fork. "They're not here for dinner, Father."

"Excellent. Then I'm certain they'll have the good manners to leave."

"No, they won't." In all the weeks James had spent in Lady Amanda's company, he'd never seen her look so resolute. "The Duke of Castleton has something to ask you, Father."

"I don't choose to listen." Lord Wolverston leisurely drained his wineglass before setting it down. "Hastings, see these people to the door," he said and began to rise.

"No!" Amanda jumped from her chair and pushed him back down. "You will sit here and listen."

He gazed at his suddenly assertive daughter as though she'd grown an extra head. "Since when—"

"Lord Wolverston," Juliana interrupted, holding forth her basket. "If you're finished with your dinner, would you care for a sweet? I baked wafers this afternoon."

He stared at her as though she had three heads. "Ladies don't stoop to the level of kitchen maids."

An awkward silence filled the room. Even stuffy Castleton seemed discomfited by the man's attitude. But he stepped forward. "My lord," he said formally, "I assure you that my wife—my duchess—will never step foot in a kitchen. I would like to request the honor of your daughter's hand in marriage."

"My daughter is marrying Lord Stafford," Wolverston replied stiffly. "This Saturday." He rose again. "Now I expect you all to leave before I have to see that you're thrown out."

"Father!" Tears sprang to Lady Amanda's blue-gray eyes. "The Duke of Castleton is proposing marriage. A duke, Father! Surely you cannot refuse him!"

"I can, and I will." He looked to Castleton. "When next I see you at White's—this evening or another time—we shall pretend this interview never occurred," he said and turned to leave.

"No, we shall not." Castleton strode around the table and stood blocking the man's way to the door. "I wish to wed your daughter, and she wishes to wed me. If you've a valid reason to object, I want to hear it."

Wolverston hesitated a moment while his expression shifted to something resembling stone. "You don't want to hear it," he finally said mildly.

"I demand to hear it," the duke insisted through gritted teeth.

James had to give Castleton credit. In contrast to Wolverston's expressionless expression, the ass had never looked less reserved in his life. In fact, he looked formidable—and rather like he was preparing to strangle the older man.

Until he heard the next words from Wolverston's mouth.

"Very well, then." Calm, emotionless words. "I once had a liaison with your mother. Thirty-three years ago, to be precise. I fear you may be my son."

Juliana's basket dropped from her hand to the floor while the man pushed past Castleton as though the duke were about as substantial as a piece of paper.

"I expect you'll find that to be a valid reason for me to object to your marrying my daughter," Wolverston added as he went out the door.

For the next few moments, silence reigned.

"He didn't eat my wafers," Juliana finally whispered. "They were supposed to make him reasonable."

"They wouldn't have made a difference." James wrapped an arm around her shoulders—an arm that felt heavy as lead.

He glanced from her stunned face to the others. Castleton no longer looked formidable; instead, he looked as though he might crumple like that piece of paper. Lady Amanda had crumpled. In the shocked silence that had followed her father's confession, she'd folded back onto her chair and lowered her head to her lap.

"Gracious me," she breathed now, the words muffled in her skirts. "I cannot marry my brother."

"He said I might be his son," Castleton pointed out. But his voice sounded defeated.

"You and Amanda's father are both blond and blue-eyed," Juliana observed wanly.

There was no need for her to point out that Lady Amanda had blue-gray eyes and blond hair as well. Or that everyone had always known his natural father hadn't been the Duke of Castleton. The expression on his face made it clear he was all too aware of those facts.

He shifted uneasily. "Hair and eye color are hardly proof of paternity," he mumbled, sounding less sure of himself by the moment.

But it was more than coloring. Now that the possibility had been raised, James realized Castleton looked much more like Wolverston than the man's daughter did. It was something in the line of the jaw, something in the tilt of the head, something in the length of the nose. Something about the stiff carriage and the lack of stature.

Something twisted in James's gut.

"The thought of you two marrying now…" Swallowing hard, Juliana put a hand to her middle. "It makes me feel slightly ill."

"It makes me feel very ill," Lady Amanda muttered into her lap. She slowly lifted her head, looking very ill indeed. Avoiding Castleton's eyes, she gazed unfocused at James. "We shall have to marry—"

"There's still Lord Malmsey," Juliana cut in.

She was grasping at straws, and broken ones at that. His gut now sinking as well as twisted, James moved to face her and took both her hands. "Lady Amanda can no longer wed Lord Malmsey, my love. She's been publicly disgraced. Under the circumstances, Lord Malmsey is perfectly within his rights to terminate the engagement, and furthermore, he wishes to wed Lady Frances. You wouldn't want to see him ripped from your aunt's side, would you?"

She shook her head, tears glazing her suddenly green eyes. "No," she whispered.

He gathered her close, knowing it would be for the last time. Much as he hated tears, he wanted to cry with her. He would cry with her if he could.

But he felt dead inside. Sinking and twisted and dead.

There was no way out. He had to marry Lady Amanda.

He had to marry Lady Amanda.

He had to marry Lady Amanda.

No matter how many times he repeated the fact to himself, it seemed impossible to believe.

Impossible to accept.

But he had to.

Slowly he released Juliana, thinking it was the hardest thing he'd ever done…

…but not as hard as it would be to say "I will" to someone else.

"I'm going home," he said. "I'll be back Saturday at noon."

Chapter Forty-Five

CHOCOLATE CREAM

Take a Quart of Cream, a Pint of white Wine, and a little Juice of Lemon; sweeten it very well, lay in a sprig of Rosemary, grate some Chocolate, and mix all together; stir them over the Fire till it is thick, and pour it into your cups.

Chill your cups in ice before serving. A delicious cure for melancholy.

—Belinda, Marchioness of Cainewood, 1792

“WHY ARE YOU SO SAD, Lady Juliana?"

"I'm not sad, Emily." Sad was much too mild a word to describe how Juliana felt the next day. "You're doing very well. Keep mixing."

The little girl looked up from the cast-iron stove in Juliana's basement kitchen. "You look sad." Stirring with one hand, she stroked the snake draped over her shoulders with the other. "Herman, don't you think Lady Juliana looks sad?"

Juliana half expected the reptile to answer, considering nothing else in her life was going as expected. A talking snake would be less of a surprise than Lord Wolverston's revelation last night.

And James's reaction to it.

He'd left. He'd held her for a moment, but then he'd left. He'd apparently come to the conclusion that he had to marry Amanda, and accepted it, and just…left.

By all appearances, he had no intention of discussing this tragedy. He'd said he'd be back on Saturday. He'd made up his mind, and he wasn't planning to see her again until he was a married man.

If then.

She sighed and began grating chocolate into the triple batch of cream and sugar that Emily was stirring in the pot. "I haven't seen you in quite a few days, Emily."

"A new family moved in across the square. Lord and Lady Lambourne. And they have three children. Three girl children."

Another surprise. Juliana usually knew everything that went on in Mayfair. Evidently she'd been a tad preoccupied of late. "What are the girls' names, then?"

"Jane, Susan, and Kate. Susan is just my age."

"That must be lovely for you." She kept grating. "And what do the Lambourne girls think of Herman?"

"Oh, they find him bang up to the mark," Emily said enthusiastically.

Usually Juliana would have smiled at the girl's use of the newest slang. But she was too dejected. Not to mention this news didn't bode well for the success of her project to rid Emily of the horrid creature.

Emily stirred faster. "You're putting an awful lot of chocolate in, aren't you?"

"One can never have too much chocolate," Juliana said.

So what if she'd added twice as much as usual? She needed chocolate. Her mother had always said it was supposed to cure melancholy, and she'd never been more melancholy in her life.

How was she supposed to go on when the man she loved was marrying another woman? When four people's lives had been ruined? When it was all her fault?

Emily had stopped stirring. "You're crying," she said. "You are sad."

"I guess I am." Setting down the chocolate and the grater, she forced a smile. "I think we're finished here."

"What's wrong, Lady Juliana?"

What wasn't wrong? She couldn't marry the man she loved. She'd doomed him to a dreadful future with a woman reserved beyond belief, a future full of chess and antiquities and very little else. She was exhausted and overwhelmed—she hadn't slept last night at all—and somehow, some way—God only knew how, and apparently He wasn't telling—she had to produce sixty-two items of baby clothes in the next three days even though she'd made less than three times that many in the last month and a half.

"What's wrong?" She could barely push the words through her tight throat. "Everything, it seems."

"Is it about Lord Stafford?"

She blinked. "What makes you think that?"

The girl rolled her big gray eyes. "It's obvious you like him. I've known that for ages. And he likes you."

How ironic that the truth had been obvious to an eight-year-old but not to herself. Then again, Emily always had been rather precocious for a girl her tender age. "Well, he doesn't seem to want to see me right now."

"Then you must go see him. You have to talk to him. You cannot just stand here and mope. You have to do something, Lady Juliana."

Dear heavens, Emily was right. Juliana had never before just stood by and let things happen without trying to influence the outcome, and she couldn't imagine what had made her do so now. Melancholy, she supposed. But she couldn't allow melancholy to rule her.

Thank goodness she was making chocolate cream.

"Oh, you dear, dear child." She dashed the tears off her cheeks and wrapped Emily in a hug. "I'm supposed to be helping you, but you're helping me instead."

"Are you going to go see Lord Stafford now?"

"Not right now. I sent notes asking all the ladies to come sew today even though I've never held any parties on a Tuesday before. They'll be here in less than an hour, and I cannot get to the Institute and back in that short time." Dear heavens, James would be at Parliament by the time her sewing session was finished. "I shall have to go see him tomorrow. You'll stay for the sewing party, won't you?"

"Is there any more cutting to be done?"

"No. The cutting is all finished."

"Then I'm going to play with Jane, Susan, and Kate." When Juliana opened her mouth to protest, Emily held up one of her small hands—the one that wasn't stroking her snake. "You don't really want me to sew, do you? I'm sure to end up bleeding."

No, Juliana didn't want Emily to bleed. The mere thought of that made her feel sick. And the last thing she needed now was to spew a stomachful of chocolate over a stack of her hard-won baby clothes.

"Go ahead and play with the Lambourne girls. You have my blessing."

"Can I eat some chocolate cream before I leave?"

"I need to put it on ice first to make it cold. I'll bring you some tomorrow."

Emily helped her transfer the sweet pudding into three dozen cups before she departed to visit her friends across the square. After that, Juliana had just enough time to steal upstairs to her bedroom and wash her blotchy face before her guests arrived. She brushed on a little powder and went down to seat herself in the drawing room. As she picked up her sewing and Corinna kept painting without comment, she congratulated herself on how calm and composed she must seem.

Rachael was still ill, and now Claire and Elizabeth were, too. As were Lady Stafford and Lady Balmforth. Lady Avonleigh was feeling better, though, and she arrived first.

"Oh, my dear," she cried, "I'm so sorry." And she rushed across the room to enfold Juliana in her arms.

Juliana rose from the sofa and let herself be comforted by James's aunt. Except the embrace wasn't comforting. The harder Lady Avonleigh hugged her, the harder she had to fight to keep the tears from falling again.

"I wanted you to marry my nephew," Lady A murmured, tears in her voice, too. "I wanted you to be my niece."

"I wanted you to be my aunt. I wanted Lady Stafford to be my mother." It seemed forever since she'd had a mother, and Juliana knew no one warmer or more motherly than Lady Stafford. She shuddered in Lady A's arms, inhaling camphor and gardenias. "There has to be something we can do."

"Our James doesn't believe there's anything to be done. But if anyone can think of something, it's you, my dear." Lady Avonleigh pulled back and wiped the moisture from Juliana's cheeks with gentle fingers. "You keep thinking, and I will, too."

"Thank you," Juliana said wanly.

She was about to say something more, but then Aunt Frances came downstairs, and Alexandra arrived, and Corinna reluctantly abandoned her painting and came over to join them all and sew. And the talk turned to Frances's pending marriage and Alexandra's burgeoning belly. Not that Alexandra's belly was actually protruding yet, but she kept rubbing the dratted thing as though she could feel the baby inside, which made Juliana insanely jealous.

Yes, jealous.

James had been wrong when he'd said she was jealous before—when she'd first learned of Alexandra's pregnancy—but she was jealous now, because God only knew when she'd have a child of her own…the way things were going, probably never. And now Aunt Frances was talking about having a child. In her mid-forties! While Juliana doubted that would actually happen, she had to admit it was a possibility, since Frances still complained about her monthlies on a regular basis. She wondered if she'd have a child before forty. Probably not. But all the talk around her was happy talk, so she gritted her teeth and forced another smile and kept sewing, because they all had been kind enough to help her make baby clothes, and there was nothing more she wanted than for everyone to be happy.

But the smile wasn't just forced, it was downright rigid.

She rang for chocolate cream, but eating it didn't seem to help. The conversation flowed around her. Lady Avonleigh got up and wandered over to Corinna's easel, admiring her latest painting. "Very impressive, my dear."

"Thank you," Corinna said.

Alexandra smiled as she plied her needle. "Did you know Corinna plans to submit a painting to the Royal Academy next year?"

"Several," Corinna corrected. "I'm hoping one will be accepted for the Summer Exhibition."

"Really?" Lady A mused. "I did tell you my younger daughter was artistic, yes? Though it seemed unlikely, she always hoped to see one of her paintings in the Summer Exhibition, too. But her real dream was to be elected to the Royal Academy."

"That's my dream as well," Corinna said. "I know it won't be a simple matter, but I'm willing to work hard for the honor."

The older woman measured her for a moment, then returned to sit beside her. "I want to help you," she announced. "My daughter never attained her dream—I want to see you attain yours."

Aunt Frances knotted and snipped off a thread. "How can you help her?"

"I don't know, but I'll think of a way." Lady A picked up the little cap she was making and smiled at Juliana. "You're good at coming up with ideas. If you wouldn't mind helping, maybe together we can see that your sister becomes the next female member of the Academy."

That would be wonderful for Corinna. And of course Juliana wouldn't mind helping. She needed another project. It would be a lengthy project—it would likely take years—but keeping busy would make it easier to bear her and James's despair.

Well, not really. But she'd find a solution for their despair soon. She would talk to James tomorrow.

Damnation—make that dear heavens—she was not going to cry.

Chapter Forty-Six

THERE WERE DIFFERENT WAYS OF dealing with the blows life randomly chucked at some people. James's method—perfected during the years he mourned his brother, father, wife, and newborn child—was to bury himself in work.

Since Sunday he'd been operating in a blur—a dark, painful, all too familiar haze. The miasma had lifted momentarily on Monday, when it had seemed Juliana's plan might succeed. But since learning the truth of Castleton's birth, the dark had closed in again.

James couldn't say that what he faced now was worse than coping with death. Of course it wasn't worse. But it didn't seem better, either. Like loving Juliana compared to loving Anne, it was different.

Death was final. One mourned, one grieved, one eventually moved on. But what he faced now…it wasn't final—it was forever. It was a life sentence. It seemed so arbitrary, so accidental, so damned unfair.

And so bloody damned inescapable.

And so he'd worked. Because it seemed there was nothing else he could do.

He knew what he couldn't do. He couldn't abandon a fine young lady to a life of utter disgrace. He couldn't condemn himself to a future devoid of all honor. He couldn't make sense of anything in his irrational, haphazard world.

But he could work.

He could work at the Institute to save the world from smallpox. He could work in Parliament to better his country. He could work on his estate to improve the lives of those who depended on him.

He couldn't help himself, and he couldn't help Juliana. But there were other people he could help. Right here, right now, his work was the only thing that seemed to make sense.

One thing James knew—probably the only thing he knew for sure—was how to bury himself in his work to the exclusion of everything else. To the exclusion of everything painful. And so on Tuesday he'd risen at dawn and spent the entire day at the Institute. And the entire evening in Parliament. And then he'd gone back to the Institute and stayed there until the wee hours, finding things to do, until he could go home and fall into bed and get up and start all over again.

Today he'd risen at dawn and returned to the Institute, even though he had two physicians scheduled and wasn't really needed. There was no Parliament tonight, so he'd stay here until the wee hours, finding things to do, until he could go home and fall into bed and get up and start all over again.

He'd do the same tomorrow and Friday. Saturday would be a little different—there would be an interlude in the middle for his wedding. But then he'd come back here to the Institute and repeat the pattern again.

It wasn't an unbearable life. At least he had a purpose. And he was keeping himself so busy he didn't have time to think. Thinking threatened his mental health, and the busyness was a sort of medicine—a medicinal ointment he could smear all over everything to obscure the ills infecting his world.

The medicine, sadly, was an imperfect cure. As the Bible said—Ecclesiastes, if he remembered right—"Dead flies cause the ointment of the apothecary to send forth a stinking savor." Despite countless Sundays in church, he'd never quite understood what "stinking savor" was supposed to mean. But to put it another way, in simpler words, there was a fly in the ointment.

And the fly was women.

Women always—always, always—wanted to talk. Not the superficial talk of men—talk of news and the weather and horses—which didn't make one think. Men's talk could substitute for busyness. But women's talk was different. Because women didn't just talk.

Women wanted to discuss things. And discussions required him to think. Which in turn sent forth that stinking savor he was striving so hard to avoid.

If only he could avoid women.

Unfortunately, that was impossible, since approximately half the world's population was female. There was his mother, always wanting to discuss things. There were his assistants, always wanting to discuss things. The stinking savor was everywhere, threatening to make him think, bombarding him with stinking thoughts.

Since Aurelia was his only healthy relation, she was this morning's assistant and therefore his current threat.

"There must be something that can be done, James, something we haven't considered."

"There's nothing, Auntie. Would you hand me that box of sugar sticks?"

"Certainly." She reached to the shelves behind the counter. "But there must be something," she said, handing him the box. "We need to talk."

"I've got an Institute to run. I don't have time for a discussion."

"We'll have to talk later, then. I've promised to help Lady Juliana sew this afternoon, and then I was planning to stay home and nurse Bedelia this evening. But I suppose I can sneak out and meet you at Almack's."

"I won't be attending Almack's." If there was a place in London where the stinking savor was most prevalent, it had to be Almack's. And besides, the last thing he needed was a marriage mart. In three short days he'd be married.

Damnation, his pending marriage was the worst thought of all. He wasn't even really having a discussion, and yet Aurelia was making him think stinking thoughts.

Gritting his teeth, he turned from the counter. "Fifty-two! Follow me, please." A mother rose with her three little girls. Four more talking females. He led them to a treatment room as quickly as possible.

He walked another set of patients to the door and brought more patients to the room they'd just vacated. He restocked sugar sticks in all three treatment rooms. He unwrapped lancets and other supplies. He scribbled in his account books and revised next week's schedule. He returned to the reception room to fetch more patients.

"You're not needed here," Aurelia said. "You're not leaving me anything to do."

"Just keep handing out numbers. And smiling at patients. They appreciate the reassurance."

"You should go home, James. You've got dark circles under your eyes. Before you need a physician yourself, you should go home and rest."

Home? Where Cornelia was languishing in bed waiting to discuss things? "I think not." The door opened, and two people went out past another person waiting to come in. "Here comes another patient. You can give her a number." In fact, maybe he'd do that himself. Handing out numbers didn't require one to think. Turning away, he reached over the counter for one of the worn paper squares.

"You're number sixty-seven," he said as he turned back. "I'll call you when…Juliana…"

His voice trailed off, sinking along with his heart.

"James." Walking closer, she offered him a tentative smile, a sad smile, a smile that made his heart keep sinking until it dropped clear down to his toes. "We need to talk."

Oh, no. "Have you thought of a solution?"

"Not yet. We need to think together. We need to discuss—"

"There's nothing to discuss. Nothing will come of it, Juliana. What's the point?" It would make him think. It would make him think stinking thoughts.

"Can we go somewhere private?"

"I don't want to talk."

"Please, James." Her eyes were green, deep green, green and pleading. "Please, let's just go to a treatment room."

"James," Aurelia said softly, "your patients are staring. Take her to a treatment room."

Women. If only he could avoid women. "The treatment rooms are all in use."

"Take her to your office, then," Aurelia pressed.

"Don't you think that would be improper?" he asked his aunt, and to Juliana he added, "Don't you think Lady Frances would disapprove?"

"Bosh," they said in unison.

"We've been together in private before," Juliana reminded him, no doubt referring to not only a treatment room here at the Institute but also a secluded, lantern-lit pocket garden, a secret hideaway under a staircase, a warm cubby inside a greenhouse. "I didn't hear you protest then."

He hadn't been trying to avoid thinking then.

"It's not as though you're likely to ravish her," Aurelia pointed out. "You're marrying another woman."

There it was. That word marrying. A stinking thought. And he wasn't even having a discussion.

He gave up. "Very well," he said, "but there's nothing to discuss."

He hurried Juliana into the back, determined to avoid a discussion. There was only one way he knew of to do that. One way to avoid stinking thoughts.

He tugged her into his office, shut the door, and crushed her mouth with his.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a kiss born of frustration, of disillusion, of fury and pent-up lust. It was a kiss meant to distract, a kiss meant to devour. It was a kiss full of hurt and regret and indelible, immeasurable emotion.

A kiss that consumed them both.

Juliana's arms went around him. Her lips parted under his assault, her mouth warm and sweet and tasting of passion and promise. She smelled not of a stinking savor but of sunshine and flowers and everything he desired. He didn't think; he just felt. He just felt Juliana, and she felt impossibly wonderful.

Bodies straining, they fell together to the desktop that filled most of the tiny office. Papers flew. Buttons unbuttoned. Fingers skimmed, hearts pounded, skin prickled with delicious heat. He wanted her more than he wanted life, needed her more than he needed to breathe.

"Juliana," he choked on a shuddered sigh.

She sat up. "We cannot do this."

"We cannot not do this." He sat up, too, and brushed silky strands from her troubled eyes. "We cannot keep our hands off each other."

"You're right, but it's wrong." She slid from the desk, suddenly pale, her fingers shaking as she reached behind herself to fasten buttons. "We must talk—we must figure out—"

"We cannot change anything." Still sitting on the desk, he turned her around so he could button her dress for her. Between his spread knees, her hips felt warm through her thin dress, her back like silk beneath his fingers. "We cannot talk, not without touching, and we cannot touch, because that's wrong, and—" He swore under his breath and buttoned faster. "This is why I didn't want to see you until after Saturday."

"You were right." He heard tears in her voice, those blasted tears that seemed to rip him up inside. "I cannot see you again until after you're married, until after—"

"Don't say it." He couldn't stand that word married. After he was married, he'd never feel her warm body again. "I cannot bear to hear it."

"I'll go home," she said, trembling. "I have to make fifty-two more items of baby clothes by the day after tomorrow." Her voice wobbled. "Your mother is still ill, and so are Lady Balmforth and Rachael and Claire and Elizabeth." Her tone rose in pitch. "That leaves only Alexandra and Lady Avonleigh to help me, Corinna, and Frances, and of all of us, your aunt is the only decent seamstress."

He turned her to face him. "You're going to kill yourself, Juliana." Her chin was wobbling, too. Tears trickled down her cheeks. "You cannot sew in the state you're in. The Foundling Hospital can make do with a few less clothes."

"I promised. A Chase promise is never broken—have I ever told you that before, James? It's been our family motto for centuries. I have to make fifty-two items of baby clothes, even though I'll never have a baby."

"Is that what you're thinking?" He didn't know which ripped him up more, her tears or her line of thought. "You'll have a baby, Juliana." He pulled her close and felt the warm tears dampen his half-buttoned shirt. "You'll have a baby with another man."

"I don't want another man's baby," she whispered.

"You say that now, but you will." Another man would love her. Another man would make her his. Another man would join his body with hers and give her a child.

Those were among the most stinking thoughts he'd ever had, ever.

He'd known he shouldn't think.

Chapter Forty-Seven

FOR TWO DAYS, JULIANA HAD done little but sew baby clothes morning, noon, and night, but she still needed to complete thirty-three more pieces by the end of the day.

She didn't know how she was going to do it. Her sisters and Aunt Frances were sewing almost as much as she was, but none of them were very speedy or talented. Lady Avonleigh had helped them all morning, but James had needed her this afternoon at the Institute. And everyone else was still ill. Recovering—and thank heavens for that—but not yet strong enough to spend hours plying a needle.

Her fingers ached. Her vision was blurring. And she didn't have bad eyes.

"You're crying," Alexandra said sympathetically.

"I'm not. I think I must be catching everyone's sniffles."

"In your eyes?" Corinna asked with a smirk.

Alexandra nudged her. "I think Juliana needs chocolate."

"I'm not hungry." She hadn't felt much like eating the past couple of days, not even chocolate. "There are still cups of chocolate cream left, if you want some," she said, and that was when she remembered. "Oh, drat."

Aunt Frances looked up. "What's wrong, dear?"

Other than a dearth of baby clothes and the man she loved marrying another woman tomorrow? "I promised Emily I'd bring her chocolate cream. Three days ago."

"Take her some, then," Frances said. "The fresh air will do you good."

She couldn't spare the time. Could she? "Maybe I will," she decided. It would take but a few minutes. She set down her sewing, fetched two cups from the kitchen, and walked next door to knock on the Nevilles' door.

Their gaunt butler answered. "Yes?"

"I've come to call on Miss Neville."

"I fear Miss Neville isn't available."

"Is she playing with the Lambourne girls?" The fresh air did feel wonderful. Maybe she'd fetch three more cups and walk across the square to introduce herself. It would take only a few more minutes—a few more minutes she wouldn't be sewing in a melancholy fog.

"I'm afraid not, Lady Juliana." The old retainer looked mournful. "The poor child is in bed."

"In bed?" It was four o'clock in the afternoon, and Emily was well past the age for napping. "Is she ill?"

"Not yet, but she will be. The Lambourne girls came down with smallpox today."

"Smallpox!" Her heart suddenly beat double time. "Has Miss Neville not been vaccinated?"

He shrugged his thin shoulders. "I'm only the butler, my lady."

"I'd like to visit with her, if you please."

The butler, who was pock-scarred himself, eyed her smooth, unmarked skin. "She may be contag—"

"I've been variolated, so I cannot catch smallpox. Please show me to Miss Neville."

Juliana heard Emily's sobs before she even entered the room. In her bed, the girl was buried beneath a mountain of blankets. A fire blazed on the hearth, and the windows were closed and draped, making the chamber dim and stiflingly hot. The air smelled slightly of vomit.

And a man held Emily's arm over a small bowl with her blood dripping into it.

Juliana gulped convulsively. Her mouth felt dry, her breath came short, and her stomach clenched, making her fear she might vomit next. It was silly, and it was stupid, but she couldn't help herself.

She walked closer, forcing herself to focus on Emily's tear-streaked face. "Dear heavens, what is going on here?"

"The doctor is hurting me!" Emily wailed. "I want Herman!"

Her heart pounding, Juliana set the chocolate cream on the bedside table and smoothed Emily's hair back from her brow, seeing no sign of pocks. "Surely she hasn't fallen ill already?"

"Not yet," the doctor said. "I'm preparing her for the disease."

"Preparing her? I think not."

"She must be purged and bled and blistered. The procedures will help her body withstand the infection."

"They will not!" James didn't believe such things. "They will only weaken her." Juliana's gaze jerked back to the bowl of red fluid, and her head swam. She quickly looked away, but not before noticing the doctor's hands appeared none too clean. James wouldn't approve of that, either. He thought cleanliness helped prevent infection. "Please leave. Bandage Miss Neville's arm and—"

"Lord Neville sent for me—"

"Well, I'm sending you away!" Where was Lord Neville, anyway? Did he have any idea what this man was doing to his daughter?

"You have no authority—"

"I have every authority," Juliana lied. She squared her shoulders. "I'm Lady Neville, and I order you to unhand my daughter and leave at once."

She could hardly believe those words had come out of her mouth. And even more than that, she could hardly believe the doctor believed her.

But he did.

"Pardon me, my lady. My apologies." He set down the bowl and dug in his bag, removing a cloth. "I assumed you were naught but a visitor," he explained hurriedly as he pressed it to the cut he'd made in Emily's arm.

"That will teach you to make assumptions," Juliana said tightly, moving to hold the cloth in place. "Hush, Emily," she soothed. "You're going to be fine." At least she hoped Emily would be fine. She had no idea whether the girl might come down with smallpox, but she was certain the doctor's ministrations were of no help. "You may send a bill to Lord Neville," she instructed him, "but I'll thank you to leave now."

She kept herself busy tying the bandage while the doctor quickly gathered his things and left.

"I want Herman," Emily said as soon as he cleared the door. She struggled up to a sitting position and motioned toward a terrarium in the corner. "G-get me Herman. P-please."

Juliana walked over to the glass box, sighing as she reached in to lift the reptile. She'd never actually touched him before, and it really wasn't the thing for ladies to handle snakes. But Herman felt drier and warmer than she'd expected, and she smiled to see the little girl relax as he settled around her neck.

"Th-thank you," Emily breathed. Her sobs had diminished to shuddering sniffles. "I c-cannot believe that doctor be-believed you were my mother."

"I cannot believe it, either," Juliana said dryly. Honestly, she'd have had to have given birth at fourteen for Emily to be her daughter. Apparently the doctor thought she looked either very old or very fast, neither of which made her very happy.

But she was extremely happy he'd left.

"I don't want to get smallpox, Lady Juliana."

"Of course you don't. But I don't believe what that doctor was doing would prevent it."

She had a sinking feeling there was nothing that could prevent it other than luck, but there was someone who would know for sure. Someone who knew more about smallpox than anyone else in London.

"I'm going to send for Lord Stafford," she said. They'd agreed not to see each other until after tomorrow, but really, she had no choice. Emily's health was at stake—maybe even Emily's life. "Wait here while I write a note and give it to one of your father's footmen." She started out the door. "No, make that one of my brother's footmen," she amended. The Neville staff was so old, it would be tomorrow before one of them managed to shuffle to the Institute and back. And besides, she needed to send a note next door in any case, because they'd be wondering what was keeping her so long.

A few minutes later, she returned and peeled all the blankets off Emily. She banked the fire and drew back the curtains and opened the window. Gritting her teeth, she took the little bowl of blood and dumped it into the bushes outside, then rinsed it with water from Emily's washstand and dumped that out, too. When all that was finished, her heart calmed a little and her stomach felt much better. She dragged a chair to Emily's bedside, found a book, and read aloud for more than an hour until James arrived.

When the butler showed him to the room, he paused in the doorway and looked at her. Just looked at her, like he was drinking her in.

"Juliana," he said softly. He looked tired and disheveled, his hair tousled and his neckcloth askew. He'd probably donned that and his tailcoat in his carriage on the way from the Institute.

Her chest ached at the sight of him. "I know we said we wouldn't—"

She cut off, noticing his gaze had shifted to Emily. And Herman. A moment ago his heart had been in his eyes, but now those eyes were glazed, and he looked very much like she'd felt when she'd seen Emily's blood. Like his pulse was thready and his stomach was clenched.

Which was very probably true.

"Emily," she said carefully, rising from her chair, "you need to give Herman back to me now. I'm going to put him in his box until Lord Stafford is finished."

"No!" Emily clutched the olive green snake. "I want to keep him."

"Emily—"

"The other doctor took him, and then he hurt me. I want to keep Herman!"

"Emily—"

"It's all right," James said, looking pale as paper. "She can keep him." He drew a deep breath and looked back to Juliana. "Your note said she was ailing?" His gaze flicked to Emily's bandage and back again. "Did she hurt her arm?"

"Not exactly. The other doctor bled her. She's been exposed to smallpox, and—"

"Where? When?" He walked closer to the bed, seemingly unafraid of the snake. Except his hand was gripping the handle of his leather bag so tightly his knuckles had turned white. "Tell me what you know."

"She's been playing all week with three girls who came down with smallpox today."

"How do you know it's smallpox? Do they have spots, or only a fever?"

"Spots," Emily said. "But Susan told me she was hot the day before."

"Damn," he said under his breath. On the other side of the bed from where Juliana stood, he set his bag down on Emily's night table. "Do you feel hot?"

"No. Not now. I did before, but Lady Juliana took all the blankets off of me."

"The other doctor had her under seven of the things," Juliana explained disgustedly.

"Idiot." James leaned closer to Emily and reached toward her, flinching before he placed a hand on her forehead. "No fever," he reported, quickly pulling back from the girl and her snake. "That's a good sign. Smallpox usually isn't contagious for the first week or two after exposure, but one can never be certain."

"If it's a good sign," Juliana said cautiously, "does that mean you can do something to prevent her getting it?"

"Maybe." He opened his bag and drew out items she'd seen at the Institute. "Very possibly. Vaccination within three days of exposure will usually completely prevent it. Between four and seven days, vaccination still offers a chance of protection, and at the very least should modify the severity of the disease. Has she already been vaccinated?"

"I don't know," Juliana said. "The butler doesn't know, and Lord Neville isn't here."

"The doctor sent him to the apothecary," Emily said. "To get more purg—purg—"

"Purgative," James supplied.

"Lovely," Juliana muttered. "Do you think it's been less than three days since she was exposed? Since the Lambourne girls became contagious?"

"We don't know," he said. "It would be better if Emily's friends hadn't developed spots. But then I suppose we wouldn't be certain it was smallpox, so…" He shrugged and lifted the quizzing glass that dangled from the chain around his neck. "Open your mouth, sweetheart," he said, bending closer to Emily.

He held his breath as he examined her, his lips clamped tight. Knowing Herman must be scaring him to death, Juliana held her breath with him. Maybe it was a bit silly to be afraid of a harmless snake, but not any sillier than to feel ill at the sight of blood. Her heart cracked at the evidence of his bravery, his determination to put the girl's health before his own fears.

How could she have ever thought his having a profession was a bad thing? Amanda had better appreciate having such a wonderful husband, she thought fiercely.

When he straightened, they both blew out a breath. "What were you looking for?" she asked.

"Small red spots on her tongue and in her mouth. Pocks usually show up there first, although I wouldn't expect to see any this early, before the fever. In any case, she has none."

"That's good, right?"

He nodded and visibly steeled himself before leaning close again to unfasten the buttons that went down the front of Emily's nightgown. Herman was draped on either side of the placket, and his fingers shook a little. Regardless, Juliana had never seen anyone unbutton anything so quickly.

"I want to check the rest of her body. Spots most likely wouldn't appear there yet if she's contracted smallpox, but we can hope her friends actually have some other disease that presents differently—"

He snatched his hands back and froze, staring.

At first Juliana thought he'd gone rigid due to the snake. Then she noticed he wasn't staring at Herman, but at Emily's young, flat chest.

Or, to be more precise, at an odd, fleur-de-lis shaped birthmark on the left side.

He frowned and murmured, "I think I've seen a birthmark like this before."

Emily nodded. "My father has one, too. All the Nevilles have one. In exactly the same place."

"Oh," James said. Still staring at Emily's bared skin, he frowned again. "But I've never seen your father's chest."

"Yes, you did," Juliana reminded him. "At Lady Hammersmithe's ball, remember? Lord Neville was choking, and you saved his life."

"I removed his neckcloth but not his shirt. I only loosened a couple of buttons. I never saw—"

He blinked. And gasped.

"What?" Juliana asked.

His gaze flew to meet hers. "It's another birthmark I remember. Because another night—the night I was caught with Lady Am—" He broke off, glancing toward Emily and back again. "With your unbuttoned friend," he revised.

Then he paused before concluding, very slowly, "I saw that birthmark on her."

Dear heavens, he was right. Juliana suddenly remembered seeing it herself from where she'd been peeking from behind the curtain. A similar birthmark on Amanda's half bare, hastily covered breast.

No, she couldn't have seen it then. She'd been at entirely the wrong angle.

But she had seen that birthmark on Amanda.

Her brain felt fuzzy, but she knew she'd seen it. She closed her eyes and pictured it…in her very own bedroom, the night she'd presented the "new" Amanda to society, when she was dressing for Lady Hammersmithe's ball.

And that meant…

Something hovered in the back of Juliana's mind. Something significant. Across the bed from James, she followed his gaze down to Emily's chest. If all the Nevilles had that birthmark, and Amanda had that birthmark…

Then Amanda was Lord Neville's daughter, not Lord Wolverston's.

And that meant…

"Oh, my heavens," she breathed.

Chapter Forty-Eight

JAMES'S EYES MET JULIANA'S IN understanding, and it took everything they had not to voice their conclusions aloud in front of the little girl. Her father arrived, purgative in hand—muttering about hiring some servants young enough to run errands—and James asked him if his daughter had ever been vaccinated.

The answer was no, which James found rather annoying. If the educated upper class didn't make vaccination a priority, was there any hope for the common people?

To everyone's relief—except perhaps Emily's, since the last thing she wanted was to be cut again—the purgative was put aside, and James vaccinated her instead. A tiny incision, a little dip into the wound using an ivory lancet tipped with cowpox virus, and a swiftly applied bandage. It all went very quickly, even though James didn't have a sugar stick. In fact, he couldn't remember ever vaccinating anyone faster.

Herman might have had something to do with that, and it seemed the girl preferred chocolate cream, anyway.

There was nothing else to do but wait. The incubation period for smallpox generally ran seven to fourteen days, but occasionally went as long as seventeen. Emily had most likely been exposed two or three days earlier, which meant it would be at least two weeks before they knew for certain whether she was out of the woods.

But there was much reason to hope. And for now Emily was healthy, so even though she should stay at home to assure others' safety, there was no reason for her to remain in bed.

It was almost seven o'clock by the time all was said and done and James and Juliana left the Neville house. As soon as the door closed behind them, she turned to him on the doorstep. "Will Emily really be all right?"

"I cannot make any promises, but I think she will. She may not get smallpox at all, and if she does, it should be a very light case."

While even a light case of smallpox could be arduous, at least it wouldn't be fatal. And in any event, what would be would be. It was out of his hands at this point, and there were much more pressing matters to discuss.

Yes, he wanted a discussion.

He was ready—he needed—to think.

And after he and Juliana talked, he wanted to kiss her senseless. Or perhaps while they talked. Or before. All of the above wouldn't be a bad plan, either.

Easy, he told himself. Everything was still up in the air. Instead of kissing her, he took her hand. "Lady Amanda isn't Castleton's sister."

"I know. I figured that out." She squeezed his fingers, looking more lively than he'd seen her in days. "Isn't it wonderful?"

"She may not think so," he said cautiously. "A woman who's such a stickler for propriety may be unhappy to learn she's another man's daughter."

"She'll cope with the knowledge. She'll have to. And the best part of it is, you shouldn't have to marry her when there's no good reason for her not to marry the duke." She seemed to be holding her breath. "You won't, will you?"

Much as he wanted to make her that promise, he couldn't. His honor was at stake; there was no way for a man to honorably back out of a betrothal. And while he might back out anyway were it only his own reputation on the line, his mother and aunts would also be affected. "Lord Wolverston may still insist—"

"He can withhold Amanda's dowry and inheritance, but he cannot make her say 'I will.'" Sounding very sure of herself—well, she was Juliana—she finally released her breath. "Amanda won't need Wolverston's money if she's wed to the duke."

"The duke may not agree."

"He wants her. I think he'll agree. Let's find him and ask him now." She started down the steps, then stopped and turned back to him. "Oh, drat. We can't." Her newly recovered enthusiasm disappeared, replaced by something closer to panic. "I still have to make thirty-three pieces of baby clothes before tomorrow morning."

"No, you don't." He took her face in both hands and kissed her softly on the lips. "Relax."

"I cannot. Perhaps my sisters and Aunt Frances made three or four items in the past couple of hours, but that still leaves—"

"You don't have to make any more baby clothes, Juliana." Slowly, while she stood there looking puzzled—or maybe transfixed—he skimmed his hands along her neck, across her shoulders, down her arms. Lacing his fingers with hers, he eased her down the steps and next door, stopping on the pavement in front of the large window that fronted number forty-four's drawing room. "Look," he murmured.

On the other side of the glass, Corinna leisurely painted, a dreamy smile on her face. Behind her, Lady Frances stood with her back to the window, gesturing or perhaps explaining something. On the far side of her, a dozen young women were perched on the drawing room's chairs and sofas, hunched over the needlework in their hands.

Juliana turned to him, a bewildered frown creasing her brow. "Who are they?"

"My former assistants and a few friends they managed to scare up. Some of them may not be able to read and write, but the sort of women who live near the Institute all know how to sew."

She blinked. "How did they get here?"

"When Aunt Aurelia came to assist me today, she had such stories. Poor Lady Juliana is sewing her fingers to the bone, dear Lady Juliana will never finish in time." He shrugged. "So I hired them."

"You hired them?"

He nodded. "Before you summoned me to Emily's house."

"Dear heavens." Her eyes shone with disbelief and gratitude and something else. Something that made his heart sing. "Have I told you I love you?" she whispered through an obviously tight throat.

He squeezed her hand. "Yes, but I'll never tire of hearing it."

"I hope…" She bit her lip. "Thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart." She squeezed his hand back. "I must go help them now, but—"

"No. Oh, no. You're much too exhausted, and we have much more important things to do."

"James—"

"Go inside if you must, tell them Emily is all right and you've been invited to Stafford House for dinner."

"Aunt Frances might be oblivious, but she's not stupid. She knows your mother is still too ill to be inviting guests."

"I'm inviting you. We'll go there as soon as we've talked to Castleton. Your aunt is needed here to supervise, and this is no time to fret about proprieties, Juliana. I'm starved, and my mother is in bed. We shan't even wake her. Now, go. I'll wait here."

He leaned to give her a soft kiss, wanting so much more but knowing now was not the time. Her sister was ten feet away—thankfully absorbed in her artwork—and there was much that still needed settling.

Everything was still up in the air.

Juliana looked like she might argue for a moment, but then she nodded and went inside. It started raining while he waited on the doorstep, and when she came back out, they dashed to his carriage together.

"They've made twenty-one items of baby clothes already," she reported. "With only twelve to go, they really don't need me." Being Juliana, of course she already had a plan. "The House of Lords is in session. You'll have to go in alone to fetch the duke, but then you should bring him out to the carriage so we can talk to him together."

James sent an outrider to Stafford House to ask his cook to prepare a meal, and told his driver to head for Parliament.

Unfortunately, Castleton wasn't at Parliament.

He wasn't at his Grosvenor Square town house.

And he wasn't at White's, which was the final place Juliana could think to check.

It was rather disconcerting, really. Everything was still up in the air. They left notes at the last two locations, explaining all they'd learned, along with their conclusions, and requesting that Castleton notify them of his intentions at his earliest convenience. Then they went to Stafford House to wait, because there was nothing else they could do.

Dinner was ready when they arrived, and the table was set for two, one plate at either end of the oval table that seated six. "I'm not hungry," Juliana said.

"You have to eat," James told her, "or you'll fall ill."

He moved the dishes at the far end to the spot around the curve from his. And then they sat. Because there was nothing else to do.

James wasn't actually hungry, either. He'd lost his appetite. Everything was so up in the air. They both picked at their food, alternating between silence and spurts of forced conversation through three courses.

There was nothing else to do.

"Maybe we should go look for the duke again," Juliana suggested when they finished an hour later and James was pouring port.

He set down the bottle. "Where?" he asked, taking a rather large swallow from his glass.

"I'm not sure." She took a generous sip herself. "But there's nothing else to do."

Just then, a red-liveried footman walked in. "My lord." He set a letter on the corner of the table, gave a smart bow, and left.

It was a single sheet of heavy, cream-colored paper, folded in thirds and secured with a large red seal. James and Juliana stared at it for a moment, as though they were both afraid to touch it.

"The stationery is from White's," he finally said, pushing it toward her.

"It's from the duke." Her hand shook as she lifted it. "It has to be."

"Open it."

She turned it over, her eyes green and apprehensive. "It's addressed to you."

Obviously she felt it was his right to read it first, but James suspected she'd snatch it from his hands if he tried. "Open it," he repeated.

She nodded and broke the seal, slowly unfolding the single page. Before she even finished scanning it, she let out a little shriek and launched herself onto his lap, the letter landing on the floor as she wrapped her arms around him and held tight.

So tight he could barely breathe. "What does it say?" he asked, unsure whether her tears indicated happiness or despair. Her only answer was a heartfelt sob. Something tightened painfully in his chest as he leaned awkwardly with her attached to him, picked up the paper, and read it.

Lord Stafford,

I wish to wed Lady Amanda Wolverston with or without her dowry. No horse will be necessary, either. I would appreciate the assistance of yourself and Lady Juliana in explaining the matter, which I expect Lady Amanda will wish to verify with Lord Neville. To that end, I shall present myself at Cainewood's home at ten o'clock tomorrow morning, unless I hear from you otherwise.

Yours sincerely,

Castleton

The pain in James's chest eased as he dragged in two lungsful of the most delicious air he'd ever breathed. Apparently Castleton wasn't quite the ass he'd thought. Everything was going to work out. After the nightmare of the past week, it seemed a bloody miracle.

"No horse." Juliana sniffled into his shoulder. "He said that once before. What on earth could he possibly mean?"

He supposed it couldn't hurt to tell her now. "Your brother promised the duke a horse as part of your dowry if he'd marry you."

She raised her head. "You've got to be jesting. A horse?"

"I believe Griffin was rather foxed when he made the offer. The particular horse is named Velocity, if I'm not mistaken."

"Idiot."

"Griffin? Or the horse?"

"Griffin, of course. Velocity is a very intelligent horse."

He laughed and gave her a quick kiss. "Do you expect I will get Velocity when I marry you?"

"It would serve Griffin right if you insist on it. Although I didn't realize you cared for racehorses."

"I don't, particularly. But the sale of such a fine animal would pay for a lot of vaccinations. I expect Castleton would bid mightily—what?" Juliana had pulled back enough to stare at him, tears streaming down her cheeks again. "What could be wrong now?"

"Was that a proposal?"

He blinked. "I suppose so. But it wasn't a very good one, was it?" He rose and set her on the chair, then dropped to one knee. "Ouch."

"Try your good knee," she said with a watery laugh.

He did. Carefully. And then took both her hands in his. "My dear Juliana, my love…would you do me the very great honor of becoming my wife?"

"Oh, yes!" She launched herself at him again, with such force he fell back onto the floor, which, thankfully, was carpeted, since he banged his head so hard he saw stars. "I'm sorry," she said, crawling over him. "Are you hurt?"

"Not in the least." His head ached like the dickens, but he didn't care. "Are you?"

"No. I know you hate it when ladies cry, but I just can't seem to help myself."

"It's all right," he assured her, "as long as you're crying from happiness." Watching a fat drop fall from her chin to his neckcloth, he added, "You are happy?"

"Oh, yes," she breathed and leaned down to kiss him.

She kissed him. And he wasn't even unbuttoned.

He savored that for a moment, then gathered her close and kissed her back. Her lips first, then both cheeks and her forehead and chin. And then her lips again—

"Lord Stafford? Is everything all right?"

Juliana jumped up, and James turned his head to the side to see his housekeeper standing over him. "Very much so, Mrs. Hampton, I assure you." He pushed himself to sit and ran a hand through his hair. "We were just, um, going upstairs. Yes, that's it. We're going to drink our port in the Painted Room."

"Very well, my lord. Shall I have something brought to you?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all." Scrambling to his feet rather ungracefully, he took both their glasses. "We'll just go up now."

"Should you need anything, do let me know," Mrs. Hampton said. And just stood there.

"Of course. We're going up now." Handing Juliana a glass, he gestured with the other in a way he hoped looked suave and above suspicion. "Lady Juliana?"

Chapter Forty-Nine

AT THE TOP OF THE elegant staircase, James didn't walk Juliana through the library and into the gorgeous room with the lion head chairs. Instead, he took her the opposite direction.

"Um, James? Isn't the Painted Room the one with all the marriage scenes? The one where I gave you the Richmond Maids of Honour and—"

She broke off, thinking this might not be the best time to remind him she'd come to apologize for tricking him. To remind him she'd thought he was in love with her friend and hadn't known he'd once had a wife.

Thankfully, he didn't seem to notice the abrupt, awkward pause. "I thought I'd show you another room. Mine, to be precise. Though it will be ours very soon." Stopping by an open door, he gave her a quick kiss, a kiss that left her wanting more. "Close your eyes," he said, "and wait here."

The room beyond was so dark she couldn't see anything anyway. "Why do I have to close my eyes?"

"Just do it," he said. "Humor me, please."

So she did. She closed her eyes and waited. She heard some rustling, a dull thud, and finally a rush that she guessed was a fire coming to life. And then she waited a little longer, listening to him walk around, doing who knew what, until finally he came back to her.

"All right," he said, "You can open your eyes."

So she did. He was waiting on the threshold, the sheer size of him blocking her view. "I cannot see past you," she said.

Appearing to be holding his breath, he nodded and stepped aside. "What do you think?"

Beyond him, the room now glistened with light. On the tables, atop a bureau, on the nightstands, candles flickered. At least a dozen, or maybe more.

"Dear heavens," she breathed, "it's splendid." His bedroom looked nothing like the rest of the house; there was nary a hint of gilt and nothing ancient or ornamental. The furniture was all matched, modern Hepplewhite, the height of fashionable style, carved of light satinwood in lines that were gracefully curved and distinctive. The red and yellow fabrics all looked silky and sumptuous. Even the walls were covered with silk, wide stripes above enameled white wainscoting. Arranged before a white-manteled fireplace—the fireplace he'd lit on this cold, rainy night—sat a love seat and two plush chairs, upholstered with narrower stripes.

And then there was the bed. Covered in solid red damask and heaped with plump yellow pillows, it had slender, towering posts and positively dominated the room.

The very sight of it weakened her knees. Just realizing that someday—someday soon—she'd be in that bed with James, made her pulse start pounding, made her skin prickle with sudden, heated awareness.

She sipped some of the port in her glass, hoping the heady sweet wine might calm her. "It's the most beautiful bedroom I've ever seen."

Releasing a tense breath, he bent to press a warm kiss to the top of her head, a kiss so cherishing it made her insides clench. "I'm so glad you like it."

She turned and gazed up at him. "Everything looks brand-new."

"It is. I had it redecorated especially for you. For us. My favorite color is red, and you do like yellow, don't you?"

She sipped again, using her free hand to smooth her yellow skirts. "It's my favorite color." Her head swam with confusion. "But how…I mean…dear heavens, however did you redecorate it so fast?"

"I've known for weeks that I wanted to marry you, Juliana." His low, chocolatey voice seemed to vibrate right through her. "I'm only sorry it took me so long to tell you. We could have avoided so much heartache."

Tears sprang again to her eyes. Honestly, she was turning into a veritable waterworks. "I should have realized," she admitted, swallowing a lump in her throat. "But I was so sure you'd never love me. I was so set on marrying the duke and having you marry Amanda in place of Lord Malmsey."

"We both made mistakes, love. But everything's going to be fixed now."

Yes, they'd both made mistakes. She wasn't perfect; nobody was. She was human like everyone else, and the past few weeks had proved it.

It was disappointing in a way, but in another way she knew it had always been inevitable. And she was so, so thankful that everything was turning out all right. "Oh, James, I don't think I've ever, ever been so happy." Her heart was swelling so much she feared it might burst. "I can hardly wait to climb into that bed with you."

"Oh, my love." Putting the arm that held his wineglass around her, he pulled her close and cupped her chin in his free hand. And then he kissed her, his mouth hot, his tongue plunging deep. Her senses spun, and she knew it had nothing to do with the wine.

But the caress was over all too quickly.

He drew away, a captivating smile curving his lips. "I was hoping you'd say that." He grabbed her free hand and began pulling her into the room.

"What?" He couldn't mean to climb into the bed here and now. "Your mother is in the house!"

"Yes, and she's ill and no doubt sleeping soundly, and her bedroom is way down the hall." When she planted her feet and stopped going with him, he reversed direction and tugged her back into the corridor. "See? That very last door. There's not a chance in hell she'll hear us, sweetheart. No matter how loud I make you moan."

She blushed furiously, wondering if he'd ever made her moan before. Honestly, she couldn't remember, but she wouldn't be surprised. For all she knew, she could have been moaning thirty seconds ago. That kiss had certainly stolen her breath. If there was one thing James was proficient at, it was making her lose her head.

And it was a very long corridor, she conceded silently as she sipped more port. She'd noticed a door inside James's bedroom, which probably led to a sitting room or a dressing room. Or both. Doubtless his study was on the other side of those, and then his mother's dressing room before her bedroom, and maybe a sitting room for her besides. And perhaps some guest rooms in between. Stafford House was enormous.

But all of that was beside the point. "We cannot go to bed with your mother sleeping down the hall. Not before we're married. It's not the thing, James—it's highly improper."

"You've never worried about being improper before. As you pointed out to Aunt Aurelia just two days ago, we've been in private together more than once." His voice went even deeper, more seductive. "At Vauxhall, and the Panorama, and the Physic Garden…"

She blushed again, remembering all those times. Remembering the greenhouse in Chelsea especially. Remembering all those feelings he'd aroused in her. "But we weren't in a bed." She gulped more port.

"Do you really think a bed makes a difference, my love?" Easing her back into the room, he shut the door behind them. "I've kissed you before without a bed," he reminded her, edging her toward a table. He took her wineglass and set them both down. "If you'd prefer, I will kiss you right now without climbing into the bed. All right?"

And he did. He drew her against his hard, muscled form, and he kissed her, a kiss invitingly warm and deep. A kiss persuasive and divine. He tasted of lust and sweet wine and James, which made her senses begin whirling in an oh-so-familiar way.

Slowly, very slowly, he inched her toward the bed, and she moved with him, her arms going up and around him, her fingers plowing into his unruly hair. His hands wandered her back and worked their way down to her bottom, still moving her, pressing her closer, so close she felt the proof of his desire straining against her. It made answering emotions rush through her, made heat pool in that place between her legs that ached whenever he touched her.

And all the while, he kept inching them toward the bed.

Before she knew it, they were on the bed.

"It's only a bed," he murmured. "It really doesn't make a difference." And it didn't, not really. She knew that. "It's more comfortable here," he whispered, a whisper so raspy it made her melt.

It was more comfortable. There had to be a featherbed under the covers, because she sank right into it. He rolled closer, and closer still, until his body covered hers, pressing her farther into the plush, sensual mattress. It cradled her, cocooned her, and still he kept kissing her.

He felt warm on top of her, and heavy, but not too heavy; he had to be supporting himself somehow, because he was just heavy enough to feel deliciously exciting. And she wanted him to kiss her forever. She knew she shouldn't allow him to do anything else, but just the feel of his mouth on hers was enough to satisfy her every desire.

But then he abandoned her mouth to kiss her throat, finding an especially sensitive hollow. She moaned…oh, yes, he could make her moan. Thank heavens his mother was so far down the hall, because James was so excessively proficient at making her lose her head, there was no way on earth she could help herself. She moaned again, and her breath came faster, and she wanted him to kiss her there forever.

And then he kissed the wide expanse of skin framed by her low neckline, fluttery little kisses that went everywhere, and she wanted him to kiss her there forever. And he kissed the tops of her breasts, and she wanted him to kiss her there forever.

And then he worked a hand beneath her body, just long enough to unfasten a few buttons. And drew her bodice and chemise down, exposing her breasts.

He paused, his chocolate eyes going hazy with hunger. "Do you want me to kiss you here?" he asked in that raspy, heartrending whisper.

Her breasts tingled, and he hadn't even touched them yet. They tingled, and he was just looking. Their tips were puckering and making her squirm.

"Oh, yes," she breathed, and he kissed her there. One breast and then the other. And then back to the first, and his mouth opened, drawing her in, and the sensation was hot and so exciting that the aching place between her legs began to pulse.

And suddenly, remembering how he'd made her feel when he touched her there that one time, it wasn't enough to satisfy her every desire.

She wanted more.

"Oh, James," she breathed, "kiss me more."

He lifted his head, his warm breath wafting over her bare skin. "Should I kiss you here?" he asked, indicating her other breast.

"Oh, yes."

He did, and it felt even better, more amazing. Her blood was rushing, and her breath was coming in little panting bursts. Wanting to give him the same pleasure, she touched him everywhere she could reach. His springy, curly hair, the curve of his head underneath, the roughness on his cheeks. His hard, sculpted shoulders. The smooth, muscled expanse of his back beneath his clothing.

He felt wonderful, marvelous, but she couldn't reach any lower. Her arms simply weren't long enough. "More," she whispered. "Kiss me more." Thinking he would return to her mouth, thinking he would move up her so her hands could reach farther down, she breathed, "More. Kiss me more."

But he moved down instead of up. He kissed her through her thin yellow dress, down her middle and across her belly. And a hand went lower still, pulling off her slippers. And stealing beneath her skirts.

And skimming up her legs. And untying her garters and rolling her stockings down and off, a slippery, tingly slide of silk. And then his fingers danced up her calves, and over her knees, and around and behind them, teasing a ticklish place on the back. And higher, between her thighs, spreading her legs a little.

The place between them ached so badly and pulsed so persistently, she thought she might go out of her mind. But she knew she shouldn't let him touch her there again, not until they were married. She couldn't ask him to touch her. "More, James," she whispered instead. "Kiss me more."

And he did. He drew up her skirts, and he kissed her knees, swirling his tongue in tantalizing strokes. And he drew her skirts higher and kissed her thighs, all over and between them, little kisses that were melting her, melting her heart, melting her resolve. And then he drew her skirts higher still, higher and higher, until they were pooled around her middle. Without lifting his head, while he was still kissing her, he bared her all the way up to her waist.

She knew she should stop him, but she was moaning, and she couldn't seem to help herself. Though she knew she was wanton, she didn't care. And then he lifted his head and, using his hands to ease her legs wider, he looked at her there…and she knew it was wicked.

But she'd never experienced anything better or more exciting. Ever.

"Should I kiss you here?" he rasped.

She'd never heard of such a thing. Never even imagined it. But she wanted him to kiss her there more than she'd wanted anything in her life.

That place wasn't just pulsing now—it was throbbing.

"Should I?" he asked, and his hot breath made it throb more. "Should I kiss you here?"

She couldn't bring herself to say yes. She couldn't bring herself to agree to something so wicked. Even though she wanted him to kiss her there so badly that tears pricked in her eyes.

He lowered his head, but he didn't kiss her. His hair had flopped over his forehead, those dear, unruly curls, and she couldn't see his eyes. But she knew he was looking, and that knowledge made the throbbing mount unbearably.

"Should I?" he whispered, and his breath was hotter than ever, so hot it made her hips lift right off the bed.

"Yes!" she cried. "Oh, yes!"

And he kissed her there. He kissed her there over and over and over, his tongue finding that sweet spot that made her throb even more. It felt hot, slippery hot, little slippery hot strokes. She wanted to touch him more than ever, but she couldn't reach him anywhere, so her fingers curled into the damask beneath her instead. And he stroked and stroked until that slippery heat sent her flying into oblivion.

She had never, ever felt anything like it in her life. Not even in the greenhouse. She moaned. She moaned until James crawled up her body and captured the moans in his hot, talented mouth.

She thought she might calm then, like last time, but the opposite was true. His kisses were devouring her, making the ache build all over again. She tasted not only James now, not only lust and wine and James, but also the faintest hint of herself. A combination that proved the most delicious, most incredible, most arousing flavor ever.

It wasn't enough. She wanted that flavor forever, she wanted him to kiss her forever, but it wasn't enough.

And then he lifted his head and looked at her for a moment. Just looked at her. And kissed her again and lifted his head again and just looked at her again.

The expression in his eyes, the devotion and the love, was almost more than she could stand.

"Can I come inside you?" he whispered in that raspy, heartbreaking tone. "I swear, Juliana, I want you more than I want to breathe. More than I want my own life. Sweetheart, can I come inside you?"

She moaned again, but it was a silent moan, only a moan in her head. Why couldn't he just take her? Why did he always have to ask? Why did he make it her decision as much as his, make it so she couldn't claim he'd ever taken advantage, not even to herself?

Why, why, why?

But she knew why. It was because he was honorable. Because he was the best man she'd ever known. Because he was everything she'd ever wanted all along, even before she'd known herself enough to know it.

She loved him. She loved him more than she'd known it was possible to love another human being. And he was waiting. He was still waiting for her to answer. Waiting to hear she wanted him just as much as he wanted her. Patiently waiting, his heart in his chocolate brown eyes.

How could she deny him? How could she deny herself? They'd be married soon anyway, and if anyone deserved to hear the words he was waiting for, if anyone deserved to know she wanted him with all of her heart, it was James.

She drew in a breath. And, "Yes," she whispered. "Yes, please. Please make me yours."

He froze. He didn't move; he didn't even breathe. "Are you sure, love?"

Why did he have to ask?

But she knew why. "I'm sure. I want you more than I want my life."

He didn't ask her again. He rolled off of her, leaving her wanting, but only to rip off his cravat and tailcoat and waistcoat. And unbutton his shirt. And pull it off over his head. And then, while she drank in the mouthwatering sight of his firm, bare torso, his fingers went to the buttons on his falls, and she realized, somewhere in her hazy, love-drenched mind, that all this time he hadn't even unbuttoned. He'd kissed her and caressed her and sent her to oblivion without even unbuttoning.

He unbuttoned now, and before she knew it, he was naked. Dear heavens, he was magnificent. She wanted him even more, much more than she'd thought possible. He fell on her then, and took her mouth with his, and she could hardly wait to have him inside her. He kissed her, and kissed her, and—

"James? Are you home?"

It was his mother, out in the corridor.

"James, is that you?"

"Bloody hell," he gritted out and leapt off of Juliana. Muttering obscenities the likes of which she'd never heard, he stalked to the new Hepplewhite wardrobe and slammed the door open. And yanked out a red silk dressing gown. And shrugged into it so violently she feared he might rip it.

"James?" His mother knocked on the door.

"I'm coming, Mother."

Juliana had enjoyed seeing him without the dressing gown much more than with it. Looking furious, he tied the belt and tied it again, and knotted it with a jerk, and went to the door and opened it just enough to slip through—so his mother wouldn't see her inside, thank heavens—and shut it behind him.

And then Juliana lay there on the red damask, shaking, listening to their conversation.

"Oh, James, I thought I heard you. How are you feeling, dear?"

"Tired. I was sleeping."

"Poor dear." There was a pause, during which Juliana imagined Lady Stafford ruffling James's hair, even though he was much too old to have his hair ruffled. "I'm so sorry about everything that's happened. I so wanted you to marry Juliana."

"I know." She heard James sigh. "It may still happen."

"What do you mean?" Lady Stafford sounded very excited. "What do you mean, it may still happen?"

"I'm very tired, Mother, and I don't want to explain it now. Can we talk about this in the morning? How are you feeling?"

"Better. Much better. I think I'll be able to attend your wedding tomorrow."

"I'm hoping there won't be a wedding." His voice was getting fainter. "Let me take you back to bed, Mother. We'll talk in the morning."

"I really don't want to wait until morning to hear this, James," Juliana heard very faintly.

And then she heard nothing. He must have been walking his mother back to bed. It took him a very long time to return, and at first Juliana figured that was because it was a very long corridor, but when he took even longer, she figured he was probably explaining everything to his mother. Lady Stafford was rather persistent, after all. Most mothers were. Juliana figured she'd probably be a rather persistent mother herself. If she ever got to be a mother.

Dear heavens, what if everything didn't work out?

At last James hurried back into the room and shut the door behind him. His fingers went to the knot in his belt.

She sat up on the edge of the bed, pushing her skirts down and pulling her bodice back up. "What are you doing?"

"Getting out of this damned dressing gown." He seemed to be having trouble. Apparently he'd knotted the belt too tightly when he'd jerked it. "Getting back to what we were doing."

"We cannot do it, James."

"What?" He looked up, his fingers still working the knot. Or rather, not working it. It didn't look like it was going to budge. "Whyever would you say that? I realize you've probably cooled off some while I was talking to my mother, but I'll soon have you warm again, sweetheart. I'll have you moaning in no time—"

"What if everything doesn't work out?"

"What do you mean, what if everything doesn't work out?"

"I heard you, James. I heard you tell your mother it may still happen. I heard you tell her you're hoping there won't be a wedding tomorrow."

His fingers slipped on the knot, but he bent his head and resumed fighting with it. "I was just trying to get her back to bed. I didn't want to stop and explain everything. I didn't want to have a discussion. I wanted to get back to you."

"We cannot go back to doing that. What if everything doesn't work out? We cannot make love if you're going to marry Amanda."

He stopped working the knot and looked at her. "I'm not going to marry Lady Amanda. You read Castleton's note. Everyone is in agreement."

"Her father isn't."

"He isn't even her father!"

"That doesn't signify. He's legally her guardian. He might have another objection."

James plopped to sit on the bed beside her. "What could he possibly come up with now? Who could he possibly claim slept with whom in order to make Lady Amanda and Castleton's marriage impossible?"

"I don't know. All I know is we all thought he couldn't possibly have a valid objection before, and it turned out he did. So he could have another objection. Or someone else could have an objection. We don't know, James." She rubbed his back through the red silk, thinking he felt very tense and looked very frustrated. Well, she was frustrated, too, but that didn't change anything. "We're going to have to wait. It won't kill us. It won't be long."

"Damn right it won't be long. As soon as we straighten everything out, we'll be wed tomorrow. I was planning to get married tomorrow, anyway."

Despite her frustration, despite everything, she couldn't stop a soft laugh from escaping her throat. "Don't be ridiculous. We cannot get married tomorrow."

"Why not? It was ridiculously simple to get the special license to wed Lady Amanda—all it took was money. I can get another license with your name on it tomorrow with no trouble."

"We need more than a license, James. I need a wedding dress. And we have to deal with the whole mess regarding Amanda's parentage tomorrow, and I have to deliver the baby clothes. The Governors are expecting me at the Foundling Hospital tomorrow afternoon, with two hundred and forty items."

Thank heavens they were finished. The women James had hired had only needed to make twelve more. Everything was going to work out.

She hoped.

"All right," he said dourly. "We'll get married the Saturday after that. Can I kiss you now?"

"Yes, you can kiss me. And then we need to go let Amanda know what's happening."

He kissed her and he kissed her again, and all the while, all the time she had her arms around his neck and was kissing him, she was crossing her fingers and hoping everything would work out.

Chapter Fifty

AND SO IT WAS THAT James arrived at Lady Amanda's house on the day Lord Wolverston had commanded, but a full twelve hours before the man expected him. Also not according to plan, he didn't arrive by the front door.

"I think her bedroom is right there," Juliana whispered, peering up from the back garden. "That window with the pale blue drapes."

It was on the second floor. James eyed the wall, which was plain stucco with no footholds in sight. He bent down to gather some pebbles.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting Lady Amanda's attention." He tossed one, and the little clink sounded like it carried for miles.

She winced. "You're going to wake someone."

"Mmm-hmm. That's the whole idea." Clink.

"I thought you would scale the building."

Clink. "Sorry to disappoint you"—clink—"but you're marrying a physician, not a sportsman." Clink, clink. "I already have one bad knee."

"I'm marrying a physician," Juliana echoed as though she couldn't quite believe it.

James also thought it was too wonderful to quite believe. Especially since several people involved didn't know what was happening yet. Especially because someone might make an objection. That was the reason she'd insisted they couldn't make love, and she'd been right to insist.

But he still loved hearing those words from her mouth.

"James."

"Hmm?" Clink.

Before he could toss another pebble, she caught his hand. "I love you."

He turned and smiled down at her. The rain had stopped, and the sky had cleared, and the low light of the full moon gleamed off all her beautiful, straight hair that had slipped from its pins while they were on his bed. Her hair that was a million different colors of blond and brown. She reached her free hand to touch his cheek—he imagined she was feeling the slight roughness—and as he bent his head, she sucked in a breath of anticipation—

"Whatever is happening out there? Lord Stafford?" Lady Amanda had opened her window. "Whatever are you doing with Lady Juliana?" She didn't sound very approving.

James and Juliana jerked apart. "We came to wake you," he said.

They quickly explained their discovery, while Lady Amanda's eyes got wider and wider. At the end, Juliana sighed sympathetically. "I do hope you're not terribly distressed to learn you're…well…"

"A by-blow?" Lady Amanda supplied shakily. "I shouldn't be, should I? After all, the man I love is a by-blow, too."

"Dear heavens," Juliana exclaimed with a soft laugh. "You've surely had a change of heart. Meet us at my house at ten o'clock. The duke will be waiting, and we'll all go next door to Lord Neville and verify the truth."

"My father won't let me out of the house at ten. He's expecting me to marry at noon."

"He's not your father," Juliana reminded her. "You have no obligation to obey him. I'm sure you can find a way out."

"I cannot—"

"Tell Lord Wolverston you're dressing for the wedding," she said out loud, and then softly under her breath, "Honestly, do I have to plan everything?" She sighed and raised her voice again. "I'll make sure there's a ladder from your window down to here. I'll have one of my brother's footmen deliver it."

"I cannot climb through a window!"

"Then use the servants' exit. Either way, I'll expect you at my house at ten o'clock."

Muttering, Lady Amanda shut the window, and Juliana turned and looked at James for a moment. She raised her hands and placed them on his shoulders. "I was going to kiss you before Amanda opened the window," she said softly.

Actually, he'd been going to kiss her, but he didn't think it would be a good idea to argue. Especially when she was looking at him like that, with her eyes so very blue. Even with only the moonlight, he could tell they were blue.

"Can I kiss you now?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, and Juliana kissed him. After all the weeks he'd spent trying to tempt her into letting him kiss her, she kissed him. She kissed him as they walked back to the street, stumbling and kissing along the side of the house. And as they walked down the street, ignoring a carriage that rumbled by. And when they got to her doorstep, she still kept kissing him.

Finally, James pulled back with a low laugh. "You're wearing me out."

She pulled his head down and kissed him again, a quick, joyous kiss.

"I'm never going to last until next Saturday," he said. "I need macaroons for extra stamina."

"Oh," she said with a sigh, and then, "You know what, James? I don't want there to be any more secrets between us."

"I agree," he said. "No secrets, and no lies."

"I never lie," she said, sounding a little defensive. "Well, I did lie to that dratted doctor, but I never lie unless it's absolutely unavoidable. I don't want any lies, either, and no half-truths." She drew a deep breath. "The macaroons don't really lend a man stamina," she confessed in a rush.

"Oh, really?" He snickered.

"Did you snicker at me? Me, the woman you want to marry?"

Well, maybe he had, but only because he found her little superstitions so amusing. He wasn't superstitious at all, and he couldn't quite believe anyone would think macaroons could lend a man stamina. Or do anything else, either, other than taste delicious.

But he hadn't snickered in a nasty way; he'd only snickered because he loved her, and he loved all her little quirks, especially this one. "I didn't snicker," he said, although that meant he was already telling her a half-truth.

He'd been married before, so he knew some half-truths were necessary to sustain a harmonious relationship. But he wouldn't tell her a half-truth unless it was absolutely unavoidable.

"All right," she said, and then, in a lower tone, "I actually baked them to make you amorous."

"Oh, really?" he repeated, but he didn't snicker. He was actually feeling quite amorous at the moment, even without her macaroons, which made sense because there was no way macaroons could make a man amorous, either. But he loved that she thought they did. "You're a treasure, Juliana," he told her, hoping she'd bake him macaroons many, many times in the years to come.

Hoping very hard.

And then he kissed her again and left, and went home and spent the rest of the night with his fingers crossed, even though he wasn't superstitious.

Chapter Fifty-One

IN THE END, AMANDA WAS the one who objected.

Shaking like a leaf, she arrived at Juliana's house at quarter past ten. "What took you so long?" Juliana asked. "You were supposed to be here at ten. You only live down the street."

"It was this dress." She brushed at enormous, voluminous white skirts that were at least twenty years out of fashion. Dear heavens, they were so wide there had to be hoops under them. "Have you ever tried to climb down a ladder in a dress this big?"

"Why are you wearing it?"

Amanda looked at her like she'd lost her mind. "It's my grandmother's wedding dress. It's a tradition in my family to wear it."

Fifty years out of fashion, then. The skirts were actually somewhat yellowed, not pure white. "You're not getting married today, Amanda. That's the whole point of going to talk to Lord Neville."

"After I told my father I was getting dressed for my wedding, I couldn't very well not do that, could I?" She looked to the duke. "Besides, we're getting married today, aren't we?"

"Not today," the duke said stiffly. "A ducal wedding generally requires some months of preparation."

"If you love a woman," James said disparagingly, "I should think you'd want to marry her as soon as possible."

Juliana thought she heard him mutter "what an ass" under his breath, but surely he wouldn't say that. Not about a duke. And she worried for a moment that the duke would blurt out that he didn't actually love Amanda, but only held her in some affection, which could ruin everything.

But thankfully that didn't happen. They all walked next door to Lord Neville's house, and James banged the knocker.

The gaunt butler answered. "Yes?"

"We've come to call on Lord Neville," Juliana said.

The old fellow's eyes widened when he spotted Amanda in a wedding dress that his own bride could have worn fifty years ago, assuming he'd ever married, which he probably hadn't since most people required their butlers to remain bachelors. But he was a mannerly sort of butler, so he didn't say anything. About that, anyway. "Wait in the drawing room, if you please," he said instead, "and I shall see if Lord Neville is at home."

Viscount Neville was at home, of course. He spent his evenings with various mistresses or at his club, which meant he was never out and about very early. In fact, he came downstairs looking a bit rumpled, as though perhaps his valet had needed to drag him out of bed.

Juliana could see right off that he was Amanda's father. Amanda fit in age between Emily's two brothers, the one who was married and the other one who was away at Cambridge most of the year. Lord Neville was blond and gray-eyed like both of his daughters, and tall like both of his daughters, too. And as he seemed to overindulge in everything, Juliana wasn't surprised to learn that he'd slept with Amanda's mother.

Or at least not as surprised as she'd have been a few weeks ago. It seemed she lived on a very promiscuous street. Besides Lord Neville sleeping with Amanda's mother, Lord Wolverston had slept with the late Duchess of Castleton when she'd lived in Juliana's house.

It was a good thing she and James would be living in St. James's Place, not Berkeley Square. Assuming everything worked out, that was. She really couldn't wait any longer to find out.

No one was saying anything, and, in fact, Viscount Neville seemed a little mystified to find all these people in his house. He seemed especially fascinated by Amanda in her ancient wedding dress. Juliana was dying to resolve everything, so she figured she might as well just spit it out. "Lord Neville, are you Lady Amanda's father? She has a fleur-de-lis birthmark in the same place as you and Emily."

Amanda gasped and blushed wildly, and Juliana was sorry to embarrass her, because she knew Amanda considered that private. But she figured it was better to come out and say it than to wait and have Lord Neville ask to see it, which would have been even more embarrassing for Amanda.

"I've been wondering about that," Lord Neville said slowly, "for twenty-three years. Please, let me explain."

Lord Neville had been between wives when Amanda was conceived. He'd been very much in love with Lady Amanda's mother, but Lord Wolverston had refused her the divorce she wanted. Unfortunately, it was impossible for a woman to divorce a man, although a man could divorce his wife if she'd been unfaithful. Lord Neville and Lady Wolverston weren't precisely sure that the child she was carrying was the viscount's, so they'd been planning to wait to see if the baby had the Neville birthmark, and if that proved to be true, they'd planned to use it as leverage to pressure the earl for the divorce. He wasn't the sort of man who would have wanted word out on the street that he'd been cuckolded, especially if they'd had the proof to show all of society. His honor meant everything to him. He put his reputation before everyone else's happiness.

"Well, that's certainly the truth," Juliana muttered.

"I'm so sorry, my dear," Lord Neville said to Amanda. Her face had gone rather white, and she was looking at him. Just looking at him. He started walking toward her. "I was terribly distressed when your mother died giving birth and Lord Wolverston refused to let me even see you. He wasn't a very nice man."

"He still isn't," Juliana said.

"I never knew for sure whether you were my daughter," Lord Neville continued, still walking toward Amanda, who was still just looking at him. "I hoped you were, but there was no way to find out. As you grew, I would see you sometimes, and I thought more than once about asking you if you had the birthmark. But you seemed a very reserved young lady, and I feared such a question would shock you clear down to your toes."

"It would have," Juliana said.

Lord Neville was standing right in front of Amanda now. "I also feared Lord Wolverston might treat you harshly, suspecting you might not carry his blood in your veins—"

"He did," Juliana interrupted.

Lord Neville hung his head. "I'm so sorry."

Amanda suddenly came to life. She was a very reserved woman, so she didn't jump into Lord Neville's arms like Juliana might have done, but she finally opened her mouth.

"Don't be sorry," she said. "I understand. And I'm so glad you're my father instead of Lord Wolverston."

Lord Neville did gather her into his arms then, embracing her tightly. Amanda's arms went around him, too, although they stayed rather loose.

"I'm glad that's settled," the duke declared. "Now we can start planning our wedding for next summer."

And that's when Amanda objected.

She released Lord Neville—heaven forbid she should stay too close to a man, even a man she'd just discovered was her father—and turned to the duke. "I object to that plan," she said, and then she added disparagingly, "If you love me, I should think you'd want to marry me as soon as possible."

Once again, Juliana feared the duke might blurt out that he didn't precisely love Amanda, which could ruin everything. But he didn't. Instead he stood there with his mouth open, just looking at her.

Amanda lifted her chin. "I'm wearing my grandmother's wedding dress. I think we should elope right now to Gretna Green."

"That wouldn't be very ducal," he finally said, "and, in fact, it would be highly improper."

Amanda raised her chin higher. "I don't care," she said. "I'm tired of being proper. I want to marry you now."

And then she gave him the look. She glanced down, bowing her head a little to display her lashes against her cheeks. Then she swept her eyelids up, gazed at the duke full on again, and slowly—very slowly—curved her lips in a seductive smile.

The duke didn't fall at her feet. But he did sigh and say, "Very well, then."

Juliana was shocked. Positively shocked. When she'd tried that on the duke, he hadn't reacted at all.

Obviously she'd been right that he and Amanda were ideal for each other. The duke needed Amanda. With Amanda in his life, he might learn to be affectionate and manage to sire a child inside of a decade.

James's arm stole around Juliana's waist, in front of everyone. He pulled her against his side, where she fit perfectly. "Everything worked out," he said in that low, chocolatey voice that made a shiver run through her.

Though everything probably had worked out, it was too wonderful to quite believe. Especially because someone could still make an objection. "What about Lord Wolverston?" she asked Amanda, crossing her fingers. "He might still have an objection."

"He's not my father," Amanda reminded her, flashing a smile at Lord Neville. "I have no obligation to obey him. And I couldn't care a fig about my inheritance. David is all I need."

It was too bad Amanda didn't want the duke instead of needing him, Juliana thought. But neither of them possessed enough emotion for anything that strong. And with her help, Amanda was changing. Perhaps she wasn't quite a swan yet, but she was far from being an ugly duckling.

Juliana uncrossed her fingers, thinking she was so, so thankful that everything had turned out all right. "Oh, James, I'm sure I've never, ever been so happy," she breathed, turning to him and throwing her arms around him. And then, her heart swelling so much she feared it might burst, she kissed him in front of everyone.

It was a divine sensation. He tasted of love and lust and James, which made her senses begin whirling in an oh-so-familiar way.

"Ahem."

The caress was over all too quickly. She broke apart from James to find the duke gaping at them, looking very disapproving. Unlike Amanda, he hadn't changed much. But after all, it had taken an entire childhood of cold treatment to turn him into the man he was today. She shouldn't be surprised if it took more than a few years with Amanda to counteract that.

And Juliana had changed. She'd learned a lesson. And she had a declaration.

"I'm never going to meddle again," she said.

James snickered, and everyone else laughed.

* * *

"THANK YOU VERY MUCH," ONE of the Foundling Hospital's Governors said in the Committee Room that afternoon. "Our next reception day is the second Saturday in August."

"The tenth?" Juliana asked.

"Yes," another Governor confirmed. "We very much appreciate you donating the baby clothes, my dear."

James held his tongue until they were outside in the Hospital's courtyard. But he couldn't contain himself any longer than that. "I cannot believe you committed to making more baby clothes! You're exhausted and overwhelmed!"

"How can I deny these poor children anything I'm able to give?" Juliana gestured to all the girls exercising in their matching uniforms. "If, due to my donation, only one more baby can be accommodated, only one more mother restored to work and a life of virtue, it will be so worth it."

Apparently seeing he wasn't convinced, she moved closer and reached up to put her hands on his shoulders. She smelled of sunshine and flowers.

"I know what I'm getting into this time," she said. "I can pace myself better. Last time I started with just one party a week, but now I know—"

"You're not having any more sewing parties," he interrupted. "I'll hire people to make the baby clothes."

"Much as I love you for doing that yesterday, this shouldn't be your responsibility. You have enough trouble finding people to hire for the Institute."

"You solved that problem for me, and I won't have any trouble hiring seamstresses. My former assistants all owe me favors."

"I should say so. You gave them fifty pounds each! Do you realize that's enough to cover a small family's expenses for two years? You're too nice, James. You're too generous."

He could never be too nice or too generous to her. She deserved everything he could give her and more. Quirks and all, there couldn't be a more wonderful woman in all of London—nay, in all of the world—than Juliana.

She was a treasure. She was exactly what he'd needed to make his life complete. He didn't know how he was going to wait until next Saturday.

"None of those former assistants will have to give their babies to the Foundling Hospital," he reminded her. "But they cannot really work, either; no one will allow them to bring their children to a place of employment. Yet they can sew the baby clothes at home, and I'm sure they can use the extra income even with my fifty pounds."

"But you need to save your money to pay for smallpox vaccinations."

"Oh, my precious Juliana." Was there another woman anywhere as concerned for everyone else? "I don't have enough money to rid the world of smallpox by myself, but I can do my part here in London and still afford to pay a few seamstresses. And buy you beautiful dresses and anything else you ever want. I'm not a pauper, you know."

"I know. You set your table with gold spoons."

"They're sterling plated in gold," he informed her.

"I figured that out." She sighed. "Are you sure you don't want me to make baby clothes?"

She wasn't particularly good at it, and there wasn't another lady of the ton who wanted to do anything more with a needle than embroider and make samplers. But then, no other aristocratic ladies he knew set foot in the kitchen, either. Juliana was different, and that was why he loved her.

He smiled down at her, loving her more than he'd ever thought possible, wanting her more than he wanted his own life. The next seven days were going to be hell.

Sheer, utter, excruciating hell.

"Of course I want you to make baby clothes," he told her. "For our babies."

And he watched her eyes turn blue before he kissed her.

Chapter Fifty-Two

Saturday, August 10

Cainewood Castle

WHEN JULIANA HAD DREAMED OF walking down the aisle the past few weeks, she'd often pictured the duke. But she'd never imagined Amanda on the man's arm. Yet here in her family's ancient chapel, as she turned to face her guests after the ceremony, she glimpsed the two of them and realized her wedding picture was perfect.

Even with a snake accompanying the flower girl.

Everything had worked out. Emily had never come down with smallpox, and the Lambourne girls had recovered. Since Amanda and the duke had returned from Gretna Green, Juliana had sometimes seen them holding hands, and she was beginning to think they might make a child within a year. And miracle of miracles, Aunt Frances and Lord Malmsey had already started a child. Juliana had returned from delivering the baby clothes to find the two of them waiting in the drawing room with a minister and a special license. Two weeks later, Frances had missed her monthly.

Everyone was happy.

Except for James.

She could feel the tension in his arm, and, gazing up at him as they walked back up the aisle, she feared he was gritting his teeth. He'd been so frustrated when Frances, his aunts, and his mother had all insisted on having a full month to plan this wedding, and even more frustrated to find that the preparations had proved so consuming—and all the older women in his life suddenly so vigilant—that the two of them had found it impossible to steal even a moment of private time.

Well, she'd been frustrated, too, of course. But after all, she planned on marrying only once. She'd needed a wedding dress, and she'd wanted everything to be perfect. And although she knew James was so proficient at making her lose her head that she'd have been moaning and giving in had he managed to get her alone for thirty seconds, she'd suspected that waiting until they were married would make their wedding night that much more special.

Besides, sharing a bed before the wedding would have been highly improper. True, she wasn't reserved, but she did try her best to do what was right. She wasn't a rebel like Corinna. Kissing before marriage was one thing, making love quite another.

Still and all, waiting had been terribly difficult, and she'd found herself relieved a couple of weeks ago when Parliament adjourned, meaning the season ended and everyone dispersed to their estates in the countryside. James had stayed in London to help his mother move to his aunts' house, and the four of them had arrived here only last night.

The hours since then had proved to be sheer, utter, excruciating hell for them both.

As they emerged from the chapel into Cainewood's quadrangle, James ran his hand down all the little covered buttons on the back of her beautiful white wedding dress. "There. We're married. Can I make love to you now?"

Despite her frustration, she laughed. "We cannot leave our guests two minutes after the ceremony, James."

There hadn't been time to plan a large wedding—it would have taken much longer than a month for that—but everyone she cared about was here. Her gaze skimmed the clipped green lawn that sat in the middle of the castle's towering four stories of living quarters. There, in the shadows of the crenelated walls, stood her sisters. Corinna's eyes shone with something like wonder as she laid a hand on Alexandra's blue-silk-covered middle, which was protruding a little bit now. Beside them, Tristan beamed at his wife.

People Juliana had grown up with were scattered over the grounds, a contingent from Berkeley Square by the tumbledown keep, a few countryside neighbors walking the battlements. James's friends and associates were here, too. Claire and Elizabeth were sharing a confidence, their dark heads gleaming in the setting sun. Juliana's tall, handsome cousin Noah was chatting with James's aunts.

There was Lady Stafford—finally her mother-in-law—leaning much closer to Lord Cavanaugh than was strictly proper. There were the duke and Amanda, holding hands again and talking to Lord Neville and Emily. There was Lady Mabel, who wasn't wheezing out here in the countryside. There, standing in the untamed, ankle-high vegetation way over in the old tilting yard, were Lord Malmsey and Aunt Frances—

"James? May I borrow your quizzing glass?"

Dressed formally as he was, he had it in a pocket instead of hanging from a chain around his neck. When he pulled it out and handed it to her, she raised it to her left eye.

"Aunt Frances is wearing her spectacles!"

"Lord Malmsey doesn't seem to mind," James observed as they watched the older couple steal a kiss. "They do say love is blind."

"Who says it?" she asked, handing him back the quizzing glass. "Please don't tell me it's a Roman proverb."

His low laugh vibrated right through her. "I believe I heard it at the theater. Romeo and Juliet, if I'm not mistaken. I'm not all that bookish, you know. I mostly prefer newspapers and novels."

So did she. And she loved the theater. They did have common interests. With a happy sigh, she scanned all their guests again, noticing Rachael standing off by herself, watching Griffin mount the steps to the great hall.

James slipped the quizzing glass into his pocket and pulled something else out instead. Something that sparkled in the afternoon sun. "A little something to remember this day," he said with a smile.

"I have my ring," she pointed out. She twirled the plain gold band—a Stafford heirloom that she'd instantly adored—around her finger. "And I have you, which is the best thing of all."

"And now you have this." He held up the pendant, a white gold heart encrusted with diamonds.

Her breath caught at the sight of it.

James moved closer to fasten the delicate chain around her neck. "It's been at least five minutes," he murmured by her ear. "Can I make love to you now?"

"No," she said with another laugh, touching the gorgeous pendant where it was framed in her neckline. "I need to mingle with our guests."

With a finger on her chin, he lifted her face. She smelled soap and starch and James, and her heart squeezed in her chest. Suddenly, she felt breathless.

"I'll give you an hour," he warned softly against her lips. "But not a minute more." Then he quickly kissed her and sent her off.

* * *

GRIFFIN SCANNED THE GREAT HALL one final time, pleased with what he saw.

The chamber hadn't looked this good since the ball he'd thrown last year in hopes of finding Alexandra a husband. The enormous Gobelin tapestries on either end of the hall had been cleaned and rehung, their vibrant colors defying their age. Beneath the old hammerbeam roof, the ancient planked floor gleamed with polish. Servants were busy lighting the torches mounted between each of the arched stained-glass windows, and soon the huge chamber would be ablaze with light. Up in the minstrel's gallery, the musicians were tuning their instruments.

In a matter of minutes, the hall would be filled with music and dancing, laughter and glittering guests. He hoped it would be a night Juliana would remember forever. There was nothing he wanted more than to see his sisters happy.

Thank God he had only one more left to marry off.

"Griffin," he heard nearby. A low, sultry voice.

He turned to see its owner, finding her standing there in a red dress that clung to her seductive curves. Most of her hair was done up in a sophisticated style, leaving just a few loose chestnut tendrils to fall in soft waves around her face. A come-hither scent wafted from her skin, making him take an uneasy step back.

Since she'd dismissed his offer to help last month, he hadn't seen her. Juliana hadn't hostessed any more sewing parties, and he hadn't attended any more balls. He'd been wrapped up in the business of Parliament, followed by some mild problems here on the estate. All the damned responsibilities he'd found thrust on him along with the unwanted title had kept him too busy for any socializing.

Which had been fine by him. He hadn't clenched his teeth in five whole weeks.

"What do you want, Rachael?"

She blinked, no doubt taken aback by his unintended harshness. But she recovered her composure quickly. "If your offer is still open, then yes, I'd like your help going through my mother's things."

He smiled, his heart softening. "Before Christmas?"

She drew a deep breath and nodded. "How about next week?"

* * *

FIVE HOURS LATER, JAMES FOUND himself confronted by the most daunting column of buttons he'd ever seen.

During the last month—seemingly the longest month of his life—he'd imagined this night a hundred times, if not a thousand. And up until now, it had gone more or less as he'd planned.

He'd closed them both into this room—the Gold Chamber, Juliana had called it—and proceeded to kiss her senseless while faint snatches of romantic music drifted in from the great hall far down the corridor. Still kissing her as much as he could, he'd managed to rid himself of all his clothing save his trousers and his unbuttoned shirt. Still kissing her, he'd managed to remove some of her clothes, too—little essentials like her satin slippers and her stockings.

He'd been quite proud of himself, really, because he'd been determined to proceed slowly, because it was her first time, and if anyone deserved a first time that was slow and cherishing, a first time she'd remember forever, it was his precious Juliana. And so far, despite the fact that he'd been all but shaking with anticipation, all but trembling with need, he'd managed to keep going slowly.

But then he turned her around and saw all those tiny, fabric-covered buttons.

"What in heaven's name possessed you to order a dress with so many buttons?" he breathed through gritted teeth, more frustrated than he remembered ever being—ever. Good God, should he continue going as planned, should he continue going slowly, unbuttoning this damned dress was going to take all night. He would expire from want by the time he managed to unbutton all these buttons. He would perish of starvation. He would die from unrelenting need. "There must be at least a hundred buttons."

Juliana laughed, a low, frustrated laugh that made every nerve in his body sing. "I thought you liked buttons, James," she chided softly over her shoulder in a voice so heart-wrenchingly sensuous he feared he might go out of his mind. "For some reason, I've come to believe you like buttons. I instructed the seamstress to put so many buttons on my dress because I had the impression you'd enjoy unbuttoning all of them."

And in a sense, he did. Still clenching his jaw, he bent his head and steeled himself to the task. Slowly he swept the hair off the nape of her neck, slowly he placed a soft kiss on the sensitive, warm bit of skin above her top button. A cherishing kiss, drawing in her scent, that impossibly tempting scent of flowers and sunshine and Juliana. And then slowly he began unbuttoning the buttons, the never-ending column of buttons, kissing each precious new patch of skin as it was exposed along her sweet, slender back. And in a sense, he did enjoy it. But in another sense, the mounting pressure of anticipation seemed to be more, much more, than any man should have to bear.

It didn't take all night, but it took much, much longer than he wanted. Going slowly proved to be much, much harder than he'd hoped. Juliana sighed, and she moaned, and each of her sounds, each of her tiny, precious sounds seemed to crawl into him and lodge someplace in his heart. It seemed forever by the time he managed to unbutton all the buttons. It seemed longer than the longest month of his life.

After all the waiting, after all the torturous unbuttoning of buttons, he finally slid the loosened dress down her body, over curving hips, down silky limbs, her soft skin all burnished by the light of the flickering fire in the Gold Chamber. Finally, finally, he bore her down to the bed. And stood back, for what seemed like one everlasting moment, the last moment before he made Juliana his.

It was a moment he'd remember forever, a scene eternally imprinted in his mind. Cainewood Castle was filled with heavy, dark oak furnishings that had served her family well in the nearly six hundred years they'd owned the place, but this one room had been decorated for a royal visit in some previous century, and all the furniture was gilt, all the walls and the four-poster bed draped with heavy golden fabrics.

Everything seemed to glitter. Juliana's skin seemed to glitter, beckoning him. Juliana's eyes seemed to glitter, her passion-filled, half-closed eyes a deep, deep blue glitter that taunted him. Even her hair seemed to glitter. No sooner had they entered the room than he'd released it from its pins, and now all the shining straight tresses seemed to be shimmering over her shoulders, spread across the bedclothes, glimmering in the golden light.

An answering glimmer heating his body, he shucked the last of his clothes and lowered himself slowly to meet her. He didn't ask her this time. He knew what her answer would be, and he didn't want to hear any words. He wanted only to hear her soft cries as he finally, finally slid into her, as he finally, finally came home and made her his.

Juliana had dreamed of this moment, but nothing she'd imagined matched the feeling of completion when James joined his body with hers. Nothing had ever felt so beautiful, nothing had ever felt so right. Nothing had ever felt so perfect as the two of them together. It had been worth waiting for, she thought fiercely just before she seemed to burst into a million glittering pieces.

But still and all, as the million pieces slowly started drifting back together, as James kissed her again, his mouth a warm promise on hers, she couldn't help being thankful that she'd never have to wait again.

Author's Note

DEAR READER,

In April 1815, Mount Tambora erupted on the Indonesian island of Sumbawa, sending more ash into the air than any volcano in the last ten thousand years. Over the next year, the dust rose into the upper atmosphere and spread slowly across the planet, obscuring the sunlight to such an extent that extreme weather conditions prevailed in places halfway around the world. The growing season was plagued by a series of devastating cold waves that destroyed crops, greatly reducing the food supply and causing widespread famine. Snow fell in June, and 1816 came to be known as "The Year Without a Summer."

The people of the time hadn't the knowledge of our modern meteorologists, so they didn't know why the weather was so cold. Countless absurd theories were proposed, including those expounded by the guests at the balls in Tempting Juliana. Although some people did indeed blame Benjamin Franklin's lightning rods, had Franklin still been alive, he might have guessed the real reason. During a similar cold spell in 1784 caused by the great eruption of Mount Asama in Japan, Franklin wrote of a "constant fog over all Europe and a great part of North America," speculating that the dust he observed in the sky might be due to volcanic explosions or the breakup of meteorites.

In James's time, smallpox was sometimes called the Speckled Monster. Throughout recorded history, it killed ten percent of the population. As a youngster, before being variolated (intentionally infected with smallpox as a preventative measure), Edward Jenner was "prepared" by being starved, purged, and bled, and afterward he was locked in a stable with other ailing boys until the disease had run its course. All in all, it was an experience he would never forget—one that later inspired him to experiment and discover that immunization with cowpox prevented smallpox.

In 1801, after he pioneered vaccination, Jenner issued a pamphlet that ended with these words: "…the annihilation of the Small Pox, the most dreadful scourge of the human species, must be the final result of this practice." Unfortunately, almost 180 years went by before his prophecy came to pass.

In Tempting Juliana, James was too optimistic in hoping smallpox vaccinations would soon be made compulsory. England didn't pass such a law until 1853, and the World Health Organization (WHO) didn't launch its campaign to conquer smallpox until 1967. At that time, there were fifteen million cases of smallpox each year. The WHO's plan was to vaccinate everyone everywhere. Teams of vaccinators traveled the world to the remotest of communities.

The last documented case of smallpox occurred just eight years later, in 1975. After an anxious period of watching for new cases, in 1980 the WHO formally declared, "Smallpox is Dead!" Jenner's dream had come true: The most feared disease of all time had been eradicated.

The Foundling Hospital was established in 1739 by Captain Thomas Coram, a childless shipwright concerned about the plight of unwanted babies in London. In his time, seventy-four percent of the poor children born in London died before they turned five, and the death rate for children put in workhouses was more than ninety percent. In contrast, the Foundling Hospital's mortality rate was under thirty percent. If that sounds high, remember that smallpox, measles, tuberculosis (consumption), and other diseases were endemic during this period. Most people did not reach old age.

In 1740, artist William Hogarth, an early Governor of the Hospital, donated the first painting to the Hospital and encouraged other artists to follow his example—and thus England's first public art gallery was born. When the wealthy came to see the art or attend concerts given by another Governor, George Frideric Handel, they were encouraged to make charitable donations. Although there's no written record of anyone donating anything besides money, I like to think that the Governors would have been open to an idea like Juliana's.

By 1954, the year the Hospital closed, it had served more than 27,000 children. Today you can visit the Foundling Museum in London, which is on the site of the original Hospital and contains artifacts as well as the art collection, displayed in fully restored interiors.

Most of the homes in my books are inspired by real places you can see. Stafford House, James's home in St. James's Place, is based on Spencer House, one of the great architectural landmarks of London. Built in the eighteenth century by John, 1st Earl Spencer (an ancestor of Diana, Princess of Wales), it was immediately recognized as a building of major importance. Should you ever find yourself in London, I highly recommend a visit. Its exquisite rooms have all been restored, and you will see many of the antiquities Amanda admired in this book. Spencer House is open to the public every Sunday except during January and August.

The Chases' town house at 44 Berkeley Square has been described as "the finest terrace house of London." It was designed in 1742 by William Kent for Lady Isabella Finch. Unfortunately, you cannot visit, because the building is currently being used as a private club. But if you go to Berkeley Square, you can see it from the outside—look for the blue door.

Cainewood Castle, Griffin's home where Juliana and James married, is loosely modeled on Arundel Castle in West Sussex. It has been home to the Dukes of Norfolk and their family, the Fitzalan-Howards, since 1243, save for a short period during the Civil War. Although the family still resides there, portions of their magnificent home are open to visitors Sundays through Fridays from April to October.

I hope you enjoyed Tempting Juliana—thank you for reading!

Always,

Books by Lauren Royal

The Chase Family Series

Amethyst

Emerald

Forevermore (a Chase Family Series novella)

Amber

Violet

Lily

Rose

The Regency Chase Family Series

Lost in Temptation

Tempting Juliana

The Art of Temptation

Lauren's Books on Kobo

About Lauren Royal

I DECIDED TO BECOME A writer in the third grade (or, as my Canadian friends call it, grade three), after winning a "Why My Mother is the Greatest" essay contest and having my entry published in a major newspaper. Seeing my words in print was a thrill! But everyone told me it's too hard for novelists to get published, so after college I spent fourteen years as the CEO of my own jewelry store chain before writing my first book. A mistake? Maybe...but my first heroine, Amethyst, was a jeweler, so at least I took advantage of that wise old saying, "Write what you know." And I learned a good lesson: Don't let other people tell you what you can or can't do!

I write humorous historical romance mostly set in England and Scotland in the 17th and 19th centuries (Restoration and Regency periods). I've been oh-so-lucky to see my books hit bestseller lists all over the world, including the New York Times and USA Today lists, making this second career a real dream come true. I live in Southern California with my family and a constantly shedding cat, and I still think my mother is the greatest!

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WORTH: LORD OF RECKONING

by Grace Burrowes

To those who keep house

Chapter One

“I DO NOT HAVE A sister.”

Despite extensive experience with difficult situations and unruly clients, Worth Kettering kept his voice civil only by effort. “The topic is sensitive, you see, because I had a sister. You will note the past tense.”

Mrs. Peese heaved herself to her feet. “My condolences on your loss, but Yolanda was quite, quite clear that you are her brother. When I reviewed the correspondence in the school’s files, I found that his lordship did, indeed, name you as his alternate in the event of an emergency. This constitutes an emergency.”

In all of creation, was any being more difficult to enlighten than the headmistress of an exclusive boarding school for young ladies? Kettering paced to the spotless French doors, through which, he would neither plough his fist nor run bellowing for his horse.

“I do not have a sister living on this earth. How many times must I say it?”

Mrs. Peese reminded Kettering of how he pictured the housekeeper at Trysting. Jacaranda Wyeth would share with Mrs. Peese a stout physique, energetic competence, and inflexible opinions about idleness, dirt, and the divine right of kings. With women of that ilk, he’d get nowhere using reason and probably less than nowhere using threats of force.

He turned to face the old besom and focused on the practicalities.

“Why don’t I simply hire the young lady a coach and have her delivered to the earl at the family seat?” The preferred option, as far as Kettering was concerned, and it would serve Hess right for creating this mess.

“His lordship has left for Scotland, Mr. Kettering, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“For God’s sake, I am not aware of the earl’s holiday schedule!”

She folded her arms across an ample bosom. By her lights, Kettering had likely committed three mortal sins in one sentence: He’d raised his voice, taken the Lord’s name in vain, and disrespected a peer of the realm. God—gads, rather.

You are a gentleman, he reminded himself. You are always a gentleman when dealing with ladies, clients, and children.

Most ladies.

“Brother?” A coltish blonde stood in the doorway to Mrs. Peese’s office. “Do you denounce me out of ignorance or out of spite?”

“Who the dev—deuce?”

Mrs. Peese’s expression became long-suffering. “Yolanda, please return to your room. Your brother and I will negotiate the terms of your departure.”

“Not if he has anything to say to it.” The young lady advanced into the room, and on some level no man of business ever ignored, she upset Kettering. She was in the last throes of adolescence and tallish—all the Ketterings were tall—and she had blond hair and blue eyes highly reminiscent of Moira. This Yolanda person held out her hand, thrusting a signet ring with a unicorn crest under Kettering’s nose.

A ring of the same design graced the fourth finger of his left hand. He’d been wearing it when he’d marched away from Grampion all those years ago.

“Mrs. Peese, if you would excuse my…sister and me briefly?”

“The door is to remain open,” Mrs. Peese said. “Yolanda, Miss Snyder is across the hall in the guest parlor if you need her.”

Mrs. Peese inhaled through her nose at Kettering, a warning of some sort. He was male and, in her world, no doubt suspect on that ground alone, and then he was alone with a young female whose nose and chin bore an odd resemblance to his.

“What is your scheme, miss?”

In response, she began to recite the succession of the Grampion earldom right from the first baron, a wily young fellow who’d turned Good Queen Bess’s head, or so the story went. Generation by generation, the girl had it right.

“So you studied the Kettering line, because our looks resemble yours.” Kettering took a seat and gestured for her to do the same. “That hardly makes you my sister. I’m what? Twenty years your senior?”

“Not quite sixteen years older than I. A portrait of your mother hangs over the mantel at Grampion Hall. Our father had it painted when our brother was a toddler, but it still hangs there, unless Hess has moved it.”

“Hessian, who has conveniently decamped for points north, somewhat in advance of grouse season.”

She worried the signet ring with her thumb, a habit Kettering himself still exhibited when vexed.

“In the painting, your mother wears a blue turban, like the girl in the Vermeer, and she has only one earring. The earring hangs on her right ear, the left one as you face the portrait.”

“Anyone who has been to Grampion could describe that painting to you.” He’d forgotten about the painting, though her recitation brought the image to mind. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

Over years and years of dealing with the law and those who broke it, Kettering had developed a good instinct for who was telling a desperate lie and who was telling a desperate truth. Despite his impersonation of an ill-tempered prosecutor, his instincts put this girl in the latter group.

“Hess cannot be bothered,” Yolanda said. “He’s hunt mad and must be off tramping the grouse moors until cubbing starts in September. No one matters to him more than his hunters and his hounds, and the library will smell of dog all winter.”

Kettering rose and resumed pacing, because this would have been true of the old earl as well—and Kettering had also forgotten about the odor of hounds in the colder months. “So you’re my sister and we’ve never met, and now the school has sent for me. What do you want?”

“Do you believe we’re related?”

“Not for a moment,” Kettering said, not that he would admit, in any case, because with great wealth came great caution. “You’ve neatly boxed me into the classic riddle of having to prove something in the negative. Why summon me now, when I had no clue as to your existence?”

“Because you must take me away from here.”

“Must, Miss Yolanda?” Most females knew instinctively not to attempt imperatives where Worth Kettering was concerned.

Yolanda’s chin came up, and yet she remained seated—a lady’s prerogative. “I have nowhere to go, sir. Hess is off to the wilds of Aberdeenshire, and Mrs. Peese does not run a charitable institution. My continued presence here has become untenably awkward.”

Her bravado faltered as she twitched at her skirts, and that was when Kettering saw what the unseasonably long sleeves of her dress had kept hidden: bandages around her left wrist. Thick, fresh bandages.

At her age, he’d been hopelessly prone to histrionics.

“Perhaps you’d walk with me in the back gardens?” He put the question neutrally, for some stiff-rumped minion of Mrs. Peese’s was listening to every word from across the hall. “The day is pleasantly warm, and I have more questions for you.”

Without touching him, without even acknowledging his proffered arm, Yolanda led him through the French doors to the walkway outside the headmistress’s office.

He gestured away from the building and put her hand on his sleeve. “This way. Now, who are you really?”

“I’m your sister, Yolanda Kettering.”

“Half-sister?”

“Yes. Our father became my guardian when Mama died. I was in Papa’s will, and Hess has never questioned my paternity.”

The back gardens were surprisingly extensive and also well tended—a testament to the exorbitant sums charged for tuition, no doubt.

“Now you’re Hess’s responsibility?”

“I am not legitimate,” she said through gritted teeth. “I am acknowledged, though, and I am your half-sister. Papa assumed guardianship of me because it was the best way to secure my future when Mama died, and Hess has done his duty by me as well.”

“So, here you are, at one of the most exclusive boarding schools in the Midlands, and you developed a sudden urge to see your long-lost brother?”

She tugged the cuff of her sleeve down. “I don’t know you, sir, but my options were limited. They’re watching me all the time.”

Yolanda spoke quietly, though Kettering had escorted her a good thirty yards from the building, where only roses, giant topiary hounds, or the occasional bee might overhear her.

“They are watching you?”

“The teachers, the other girls, the staff. If I try to escape again, they’ll peach on me, and then they’ll tell Hess. I know what happens to people like me.”

“Dear girl, young ladies who tell great bouncers are usually thrashed soundly and given a few days of bread, water, and Bible verses.”

“I’m not lying.”

She wasn’t telling the entire truth, either.

“Prove you are my sister. Tell me something only family would know.”

She was drawing him in, just as his late sister—his late full sister—had drawn him in, until it was too late, until he’d been too far gone by fraternal sentiment and his heart had held sway over his common sense.

“Your full name is Worth Reverence Kettering,” she said. “Your first pony was Archibald, a piebald Shetland you were given at age six. Your second was Bucephalus, whom you were given at age nine because Archie came down with colic, and you insisted on staying at his side when Papa put him down. You told Papa you didn’t ever want another horse, but grew weary of walking everywhere by the end of that summer.”

“My third?”

“Ambergris,” she said, as they passed a bed of tall daisies. “You rode him until you turned seventeen, when you walked away from Grampion, vowing never to return.”

“I didn’t vow to anybody who’d recall such folly.” He hadn’t even made that vow out loud. “You found my journals.”

She flashed him a smile, one that exposed a terrible, winsome beauty in the near offing. “You were a dramatic young fellow.”

He’d been a heartbroken idiot. “I’m not sure you’re my sister, but I believe you’re in difficulties. Be honest with me now, and I’ll try to help you. Why do you need out of here so badly?”

“They’re kicking me out,” she said. “Some duke is thinking of putting his daughter here, and my unfortunate origins mean I’m de trop. If you can’t take me off Mrs. Peese’s hands, she might arrange for me to go to some sort of private sanitarium—the girls have been whispering about it all week.”

Whispering where they knew she could overhear, no doubt. The compassion of rich little girls hunting in a pack was a dismaying prospect, though Kettering didn’t believe for a moment the duke’s daughter was the sole explanation for the present situation.

“If a place like that gets hold of me,” Yolanda went on, “I’ll lose my reason in truth. In the alternative, if you walk out of here today without me, Mrs. Peese might put me in a coach with Miss Snyder and deliver me to your doorstep tomorrow. She isn’t about to send Miss Snyder all the way to The Lakes merely to see me safely home.”

Mrs. Peese appeared at the French doors thirty yards away, her demeanor that of a warden anticipating an escape from her population of felons.

Be damned if Kettering would leave any young female to Mrs. Peese’s tender mercies. “Are your reasoning powers intact, miss?”

“Not quite, but I’ll bear up long enough to impress your fraternal obligation upon you.”

She lifted her left hand to touch a single white rosebud, saw his gaze light on the bandages, and tucked her hand out of sight immediately.

“Pack your worldly goods,” Kettering said, “and be ready to leave this afternoon when my town coach arrives.”

* * *

“MRS. WYETH!” SIMMONS, THE BUTLER, tapped once on the open door of Jacaranda’s private sitting room. He tottered in, waving a piece of paper, his old-fashioned wig already askew at not even nine of the clock. “The most extraordinary thing has happened. Most extraordinary!”

Jacaranda gestured to her little sofa. “Please have a seat, Mr. Simmons. You must not excite your heart.”

“Sound as the day I was born.” He thumped his bony chest with his fist, then fell more or less bottom first onto the sofa. This was his typical method of taking a seat, the referenced natal day being a good eighty years past. “Best ring for your hartshorn, dear lady. This might overset even you.”

A cat peeing in the servants’ hall was enough to overset Simmons, and Jacaranda had never owned a personal stock of hartshorn, not even when she’d made her come out.

“Have some tea, sir, and calm yourself.”

“We’re to be visited, Mrs. Wyeth.” He flourished the letter again. “Visited!”

She passed him his tea. “By whom?”

The vicar occasionally rattled out this way when he was in need of fresh air and a good game of chess. A weary traveler might stop at the kitchen door for a meal or a drink. They had visitors from time to time, of a sort.

“Himself!” Mr. Simmons waved the letter again. “Mr. K! In person! He’s coming to visit, here, at Trysting!”

News, indeed, for Mr. Kettering hadn’t graced his country estate with a visitation in the entire five years of Jacaranda’s tenure there. Good news, in fact, for Jacaranda would enjoy at least one occasion of tending to her employer before she left her post. “Does he say if we’re to make ready the family rooms?”

“Bedrooms are not a butler’s concern, Mrs. W. Here, if you must have details.” He passed her the letter.

“He says to prepare the family quarters.” Knowing the state of Simmons’s sight and the more significant of Simmons’s agendas, she read the entire note aloud, “‘Please ready the private family rooms, for I will be in residence starting the first of the week. Alert the staff and lay in appropriate stores for an extended stay.’”

“Well, madam.” Simmons set down his tea cup, having drained it in one swallow. “You’d best get busy.” He reached for one of the three tea cakes Jacaranda had set out on her own plate, revealing a second and no less familiar reason for disturbing her morning break.

“Busy, Mr. Simmons?”

“Preparing the bedrooms, dusting the parlors, cleaning the windows, turning the sheets, polishing the silver, whatever it is you do.”

“That’s all done regularly, Mr. Simmons. You know the routine here.”

He looked disgruntled, as if somebody had stolen his mug of grog.

“The andirons might need blacking,” she offered. “Though that falls to the footmen, and they are strictly your province. I’ve no doubt you already have your fellows dusting the library and the estate office, cleaning the outside of the windows, and sanding and beating the rugs?”

He spoke around a mouthful of tea cake. “Of course, of course. Don’t suppose you could make me a list? In the excitement, a detail or two might slip from their lazy minds.”

She jotted him a list—in a large, printed hand—and made him finish another cup of tea before he tottered off with his list in one hand and a second tea cake in the other.

She would miss even Simmons when she left Trysting. Simmons was a dear, and no doubt a contemporary of old Mr. Kettering, whom she envisioned toiling away in the damp and chilly confines of the Inns of Court, a muffler around his neck even in high summer.

Surely Mr. Kettering had seen at least his three-score and ten years. Why else would such an otherwise modern estate sport an octogenarian butler?

* * *

“SUCH WRETCHED, WRETCHED NEWS!” MAMA set Jacaranda’s latest epistle aside and dabbed at the corners of her eyes with a lacy handkerchief.

“Is Jacaranda ill?” Daisy asked, though Jacaranda was something of a geological formation in human guise. She never took ill, never flew into hysterics, never hesitated once she’d made up her mind.

While Mama never enjoyed consistent good health.

Or a pleasant mood.

“The dratted girl reports that she’s quite in the pink, but she has put off her return home to spend her summer dusting a lot of chandeliers and counting drawers full of tarnished silver. Her employer is leaving Town to ruralize at Trysting, and nothing will do but she must remain in Surrey to ready the house for him. Again, she disappoints me, and for what—to sweep mouse droppings from some old man’s pantry!”

Readying the house was what a housekeeper generally did. Jacaranda probably even enjoyed doing it, and no mouse would dare set a paw in any pantry of hers.

“Would you like to hold the baby, Mama?”

Her ladyship rose, tucking the handkerchief into her bodice. “Keep that infant away from me. Children harbor illness, and my nerves are delicate right now. If Jacaranda won’t come home, I simply do not know what I will do.”

Daisy knew: Her ladyship would lament the disloyalty of a girl whom she’d raised like one of her own, ignore the requirements of a household much in need of a woman’s civilizing influence, and expect Daisy to sympathize by the hour.

While all Daisy wanted was a nap.

“You could mention this letter to Grey,” Daisy said, though her brother would wring her neck for that suggestion. “He misses Jacaranda, too.”

They all did, even Daisy. Maybe Daisy most of all.

“Perhaps I shall do that very thing,” her ladyship said, pausing in her pacing to inspect her reflection in the mirror over the parlor’s fireplace. She was tall, had a fine, sturdy bone-structure, and dealt ruthlessly with any dark hairs attempting to turn gray. “No one will believe I could be a grandmother, much less three times over. I bear up remarkably well amid the chaos and strife of your brother’s household, don’t you think?”

“You are a marvel, Mama.” Daisy had married five years ago and since saying her vows had presented her husband with two sons and a daughter. Mama had borne the late earl six children in nine years, which, as far as Daisy was concerned, qualified the countess for marvel status, at least.

“I must be going.” Mama swept up to Daisy’s seat and presented a smooth cheek for Daisy to kiss. “I vow this situation with your sister requires a resolution before I’m prostrate with nerves. Five years is far too long to indulge Jacaranda, and your brother will agree with me on this.”

Daisy rose, the baby feeling as if she weighed five stone in her arms, for all the child was only a few months old. “I’ll see you to the door, Mama. Please give my regards to the boys.”

“Hermione Swift asked after you in her last letter. She still hasn’t married off her youngest.”

Mama struck the perfect balance between commiseration and gloating, as the hordes of women with whom she corresponded probably did about poor, dear Francine’s step-daughter.

That headstrong Jacaranda, gone for a housekeeper, of all things!

“You must have a care for your appearance,” Mama said, as the butler held her ladyship’s cloak for her. “You are a bit pale, my dear, and that will never do. Eric deserves to find a pretty wife waiting for him when he comes home from his labors at the end of the day, not some drudge with”—she peered at Daisy’s sleeve—“preserves on her cuffs. Pray for me, dearest. My nerves are not strong. If Jacaranda must waste what remains of her youth counting silver, she should at least count ours. We are her family, after all.”

Another kiss, and Mama was off, the butler closing the door silently in her wake.

Daisy nuzzled the baby’s crown and started up the steps. “We’ll take a nap,” she whispered to the child. “We’ll dream sweet dreams and say a prayer for your Auntie Jack, because I may have just unleashed the press-gangs on her.”

* * *

THE DIFFICULTY WITH HAVING A household of elderly retainers was that one had to do many jobs without appearing to overstep the post for which one was hired. Jacaranda could point out to Cook that raspberries had a very short season and if not picked when ripe, the entire year’s opportunity for jam and pies was gone.

That way lay at least a week of cold soup, runny eggs, and weak tea.

So Jacaranda suggested the maids might enjoy a day outside and intimated that she herself would delight in the outing as well. Thus, she earned hours in the heat, keeping a half-dozen giggling, romance-obsessed girls at the task of picking berries.

Come winter, the raspberry jam would be worth the effort. At present, though, harvesting raspberries was a hot, buggy, thankless job, one that would tempt a devout Methodist out of her stays.

Jacaranda was neither Methodist nor especially devout, though on Sundays she was known to be sociable in the churchyard.

“I think that’s the lot of it,” the oldest of the housemaids said. “We’re for a swim now, Mrs. Wyeth. You promised.”

“I did promise, but keep quiet. You know the fellows will try to peek.”

“So tell old Simmons to give the good-looking ones a half-day.”

The women flounced off, teasing and laughing, and Jacaranda let them go without a scold. The day was broiling, and they’d picked a prodigious amount of fruit in a few hours. They’d done so, of course, because they’d been given an incentive for making haste.

With the maids off to splash about in the farm pond, Jacaranda hitched the pony grazing in the shade into the traces of the cart. She’d have to walk the little beast more than a mile to the manor house, a pony trot being a sure means of bruising fruit. The raspberries would be put up that afternoon, for even half a day in the pantry would see them mold.

Thus, Jacaranda spent the afternoon pretending she enjoyed helping with the preserves, pretending her step-mother had always made a day of such things, when in truth Step-Mama ventured no closer to making jam than when she applied preserves to her perfectly toasted bread each morning.

“Step-Mama is no fool,” Jacaranda muttered when the jam was made and she could finally take off her apron. Evening had fallen, the long, soft hours of gloaming when the sun had set but the earth held on to the light.

“Your back troubling ye?” Cook asked. She’d been in Surrey for decades, but the broad vowels of the north abided in her speech.

“A twinge,” Jacaranda allowed. “Putting up the fruit makes for long days.”

“Raspberries is the worst for spoiling,” Cook replied. “Good to have it done. Apples and pears is more forgiving. Even the cherries ain’t so finicky.”

“Raspberries are fragile, but we’ll have preserves to put in everybody’s basket at Yule.”

“And shortbread.” The gleam in Cook’s eyes was particularly satisfied, because she’d conspired with Jacaranda to have their dairyman stagger the breeding of the heifers so they didn’t all freshen at once. Staggering the herd meant Mr. Morse didn’t get three months off with no milking, but it also meant the estate always had fresh milk and butter without having to buy from the neighbors.

“Did I smell shortbread baking this very morning?”

Cook’s wide face split into a smile. “That you did, in anticipation of the blessed event.”

“He isn’t supposed to arrive for another day or two. The house hardly needed much attention to be ready to receive him.”

She stated a simple fact, though Simmons’s footmen had been putting in long days, indeed.

“Maybe not on your end.” Cook retrieved a plate of shortbread from the pantry. “I haven’t cooked for the Quality for going on five years. The larder needed attention, and I’ve yet to work out my menus past the first meal.”

Jacaranda accepted a piece of shortbread, only one, though Cook had cut pieces sized to appeal to hungry footmen, bless her. “I don’t suppose you’d show me what stores are on hand?”

“Put the kettle on, Mrs. Wyeth.” Cook popped a bite of shortbread into her mouth. “This might take a cup or two of tea.”

By the time Jacaranda had a week’s worth of summer menus planned with Cook, full darkness had fallen and bed beckoned. The moon was up, though, and rather than make the tired staff lug a tub and water up to her room, Jacaranda threw towels and soap into a wicker hamper, along with a dressing gown and summer-length chemise.

The pond nearest the house wasn’t merely ornamental. With a pump, cistern and an elaborate set of pipes, it served the stables, the laundry, and several other outbuildings. The pond was, however, relatively private, being ringed by tall hardwoods and fringed with rhododendrons on three sides.

On the fourth side was a grassy embankment, and there Jacaranda settled with her hamper. She’d done this before, usually on nights when she couldn’t sleep.

On nights without a moon.

On nights when dreams were something to avoid.

Tonight, even tired as she was, sleep wasn’t yet close at hand. She was ready for Mr. Kettering’s arrival, but others at the house were excited, as if some handsome prince had kissed the entire staff awake. Their anticipation was like that of unruly children—impossible to ignore—and resulted in an excitement foreign to Trysting’s usually placid demeanor.

Jacaranda resolved to swim away the staff’s vicarious nerves, get clean, and enjoy a little privacy.

Her dress came off, then her shift and stays, then sabots, leaving her naked in the moonlight and comfortable for the first time in a long, hot day. She dove in from the rock God had positioned for that purpose and made a long, slow circuit of the pond. When she’d done her lap, she put the soap to its intended use and prepared to leave the water.

Hoof beats interrupted her consideration of the next day’s list of things to do.

Hoof beats, coming up the driveway at a businesslike trot.

She was in the shallows before she realized the rider would come right past her corner of the pond on his way to the stables. Probably a truant groom who’d stayed too long at the posting inn in Least Wapping.

She toweled off hastily and shrugged into her nightgown and dressing gown, hoping the man’s guilty conscience and the befuddling effects of spirits might conspire to keep her from his notice.

And they might have, except the beast was apparently a Town horse. The handsome gelding looked like that type whom squawking chickens, crossing sweepers, runaway drays, and rioting mobs wouldn’t deter from his appointed rounds, but a pale blanket spread on the grass in the moonlight had the creature dancing sideways.

“Everlasting Powers, horse, it won’t eat you.”

A splash, as some frog took cover underwater, might have suggested to the horse his master was flat-out lying. Either that, or the animal sensed the proximity of hay, water, and fellow horses.

“Damn and blast, Goliath, would you settle?”

Goliath settled, albeit restively.

“Around to the stables with you, and at the walk if you know what’s good for you.” The beast must have known exactly that tone of voice, for it walked daintily on down the driveway.

Jacaranda blew out a breath of relief and folded her towel into the hamper. She did not recognize the horse, or the groom’s voice, but the stable master, Roberts, knew what he was about. Housekeepers might use a pond late at night, and the occasional stable lad might go courting.

A few minutes later, a lantern sparked to life in the stable yard and voices drifted across the water. Working quickly, Jacaranda began to plait her wet hair. Whoever had wakened the stables would likely quarter with the grooms at this hour, but she wasn’t about to be caught in dishabille.

“You there,” a masculine baritone said from the shadows of the rhododendrons. “Explain what you’re about, and explain now.”

The tone of voice—imperious, vaguely threatening, definitely intimidating—arrived at Jacaranda’s brain before the content of the words did. What registered was that she was alone, barely dressed, after dark, outside, with a strange man. The shadow detached itself from the surrounding darkness and proved to be of considerable size. She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out.

Her legs were not as unreliable. She would have pelted barefoot for the house, except the day before had been rainy, the bank was grassy, and Jacaranda’s feet were wet.

At the last instant before she toppled into the pond, her foot slipped. Instead of a graceful arc over the water, she tumbled and fell, pain exploding in her head as she went under with a great, ungainly splash.

Chapter Two

“BREATHE.” KETTERING PUSHED DARK, WET tendrils of hair off the woman’s forehead and spoke more sharply. “Madam, I told you to breathe.”

She coughed and rolled to her side, bringing up water and yet more water. Then she shivered, even as she tried to scramble away from him.

“None of that, or you’ll be back in the pond, and I am not rescuing you a second time.” He eased his hold, his mind insisting she was well, despite the galloping of his heart.

“Rescuing me?” This time she got as far as a sitting position, her mouth working like an indignant fish’s. “Rescuing me, though you all but pushed me into the water when I tried to evade your unwelcome company? I’ve never heard the like.”

Her pique was almost humorous, given that her nightclothes were sopping wet and her curves and hollows tantalizingly obvious in the moonlight.

And yet, she had dignity, too. Damp, disheveled dignity, but dignity nonetheless.

“Madam, you panicked,” Kettering said, retrieving his riding jacket from the grass farther up the bank. His coat was dusty, but he knelt and draped it over her shoulders in aid of her modesty, which would no doubt soon trouble her—for it already troubled him. “If I hadn’t hauled you out of the water, you’d be bathing with Saint Peter as we speak.”

“I am an excellent swimmer.”

“You are an excellent scold.” He settled his palm on the side of her head, brushing his thumb over her temple. “You’re also raising a bump the size of Northumbria. Nobody’s an excellent swimmer when they take a rap on the noggin like this.”

He took her fingers and gently guided them to the site of her injury.

“Angels abide.”

He rose, and she gaped up at him. He wasn’t that tall. He knew of at least one belted earl who was taller, several men who were as tall, and still the gaping abraded his nerves. He extended a hand down and drew her to her feet.

And gaped.

“I must look a fright,” she said, but to him…

She was tall for a woman, wonderfully, endlessly, curvaceously tall. When dragging her from the water, only vague impressions had registered—some size, some female parts, not enough breathing. His coat had slipped from her shoulders as she stood, and he might as well have seen the woman in her considerable naked glory.

He picked up his coat and dropped it over her shoulders again. “I’ll carry your effects, you keep the jacket, and we’ll find some ice for your bruise.”

“The ice stores are always low this time of year.”

“Then we’ll put the last of it to good use,” he said, gathering up her hamper and his boots. “I’m Kettering, by the way, at your service.”

When courtesy demanded that she give him at least one of her names, she remained quiet as they moved along the garden paths toward the back of the house.

The names he had for her would probably get his face slapped.

She came up almost to his chin, a nice, kissable height, and she moved with confident grace, though he kept their pace slow in deference to her injury. Truth be told, he rather liked that she didn’t chatter. He could only hope she lived on one of the neighboring estates and enjoyed the status of merry widow.

Worth Kettering had a particular fondness for merry widows, and they for him, over the short term in any case. He was good for an interlude, a spontaneous passion of short duration—short being sometimes less than a half hour but invariably less than a week.

He’d studied on the matter and concluded women wanted more than a little friendly, enthusiastic rogering—that was the trouble. They wanted gestures, feelings, sentimental notes, bouquets, and passion, and he was utterly incapable of all but the passion.

He was so lost in a mental description of the follies resulting from females embroidering on passion—the notes and waltzes and flowers and whatnot—that he nearly didn’t notice when the lady at his side preceded him into the back hallway leading to the kitchens.

Sconces were lit along the corridor, so he let her lead the way and used the time to admire the retreating view of her confident stride.

“You will please sit,” he instructed his companion.

Her lips thinned, but she plopped her wet self down at the long kitchen worktable, one that had been scarred and stained when Kettering had been a lad. He was pleased to note his initials had not been smoothed off the far corner in the years since his childhood.

“I suppose tea would be in order,” he decided, hands on hips. Thank a merciful God, the hearth held a bed of coals and a tea kettle ready to swing over the heat. He quickly assembled the required accoutrements, aware of his guest watching him the whole while.

“Perhaps you’d better speak,” he suggested, “lest I conclude a blow to the head has stolen your faculties. I’ll put some sustenance on a plate, if you don’t mind. The ride out from Town is damned long—pardon my language—and I didn’t intend to finish my journey with an impromptu rescue at sea.”

“You certainly make yourself at home in the kitchen,” the lady remarked, and her tone said clearly, she did not approve of his display of domesticity.

“I’m a bachelor, and most kitchens are organized along the dictates of common sense.” He demonstrated his bachelor savoir faire by opening drawers and cupboards rather than leering at Trysting’s cranky mermaid. “One learns to manage or one starves. Even the best staff is somewhat at a loss for how to cosset a man of my robust proportions.”

Her gaze drifted over him, calmly but thoroughly. He was nearly as wet as she, and he didn’t mind the inspecting—inspecting was all part of the dance—but he did mind being ravenous.

“You’ll pardon me while I nip out to the ice house to find something cold for your head.”

“That really won’t be necessary,” she said, starting to rise, only to sit right back down, her hand going to her temple.

He scowled in a manner guaranteed to silence prosy barristers and conjure files gone missing in the clerks’ chambers.

“Fainting on your part would be a damned nuisance all around, madam. Keep to your seat. No head wound can be considered trivial, and the welfare of guests is taken seriously at Trysting.”

“I’m not a guest.”

He cut her off with a wave of his hand as he made for the back door. “Guest, trespasser, vagrant, tinker, what have you. I’m off to fetch some ice, and you will await my return.”

* * *

COULD SHE MAKE IT AS far as her quarters unaided before Captain Imperious of the Surrey Mounted Flotilla returned?

Likely not—not yet.

This Kettering-at-your-service must be some arrogant younger relation of Jacaranda’s employer, an opportunistic nephew thinking to sponge off the old gentleman for the summer’s visit, or an heir eyeing his expectations. She’d set him to rights when her head stopped throbbing and the room stopped expanding and contracting every time she moved.

The fellow wasn’t entirely without use, though. He came back into the kitchen bearing a bowl of chipped ice, an incongruously cheerful red-checkered towel over his shoulder.

“Plenty enough ice left for our purposes,” he said. “I’ll have to speak to Simmons about ordering more.”

Jacaranda had printed a reminder for Simmons regarding the ice not two days past.

“Hold still, madam.”

That was all the warning Mr. Kettering gave Jacaranda before he held a towel full of ice firmly to the side of her head. The resulting pain caused her meager shortbread dinner to rebel and had her ears roaring again. When the roaring subsided, she was aware of the discomfort traveling even into her shoulder and of how the ice against her wound made her head both freeze and burn at the same time.

“Woman, you will hold still. You’re in no condition to be delivering set-downs or lectures or whatever it is you’re planning to deliver. Soon, your head won’t hurt so badly, I promise.”

His voice was brusque as he held the towel against her throbbing skull with one hand. With the other, he cradled her jaw, imprisoning her cheek against a washboard-firm stomach. His shirt was damp, of course, but through the dampness the heat of him warmed her jaw. Jacaranda should have shot to her feet with the indignity of it.

Should have scolded him smartly for his presumptuousness.

Should have delivered a set-down wrapped in a lecture tied up with a sermon.

She leaned closer to his warmth.

“Better, hmm?” He took the towel away. “Bleeding has stopped, too, thank the Everlasting Powers. Hold this here.” He took her hand in his and anchored the towel to her temple again. “I’ll fix us a spot of tea. You’re pale as a felon awaiting sentence.”

He moved off—a relief, that. Jacaranda held the melting ice for as long as she could, but the cold penetrated her hand as effectively as it had her head, and her teeth threatened to chatter. She distracted herself from the chill by watching Kettering bustle around the kitchen. For a big, rather wet man, he moved silently. He was in stocking feet—he must have left his footwear in the back hall for the Boots—breeches, waistcoat and shirt, and his clothing left nothing to the imagination.

This exponent of the Kettering male line wasn’t a retiring, scrawny functionary holed up at the Inns of Court with a flannel around his dear, wattled neck. This fellow looked like he split wood, shod horses, and loaded sea-going vessels in his spare time.

His height was the first thing Jacaranda had noticed. Added to his height was his darkness: dark hair—particularly when wet, of course—and a burnished cast to his neck and forearms that suggested he frequently went without his hat—and shirt.

Beyond his appearance, he bore an energy that would have had Jacaranda scooting out of his path, if dignity would allow such a thing. Coupled with that energy was a brisk competence, which, at the moment, she appreciated.

“Drink.” He put a cup of tea before her, as if she were a recalcitrant denizen of the nursery.

Jacaranda did not touch the tea cup.

“Oh, now.” He set the tea tray down and lowered his presuming self right beside her. “Settle your hackles, duchess. What self-respecting Englishwoman refuses a nice hot cup of tea?” He wrapped her hands around the cup, his own cradling hers on either side of the mug. “See? Feels good. Now, don’t be contrary when you know you’ll enjoy your tea.”

He took his hands away, having made his point, and Jacaranda’s inchoate chill was abruptly supplanted by a peculiar heat rising from her middle.

“You’re blushing,” Mr. Kettering informed her. “I’m charmed, but you’re still not drinking your tea, and until you have a sip, I can’t touch mine.”

She drank her tea, a cautious taste at first, but he was right: The tea was hot, strong and sweet, and the first cup of tea she’d ever had prepared by a man. The taste was disconcertingly good.

“Better, right?” He set his empty cup on the table. “I should have a housekeeper around here, and she might have something dry you could borrow to wear. It’s dark out, thank the Deity. No one need see you in a servant’s attire if we wrap you in a dark cloak and take you home in a closed carriage.”

“I beg your pardon?” Servant’s attire?

“I’m rather fond of the old dear,” he went on, “and one doesn’t want to give offense to loyal retainers. Mrs. Wyeth is the closest thing to a decent female on the premises, unless you want me canvassing the neighbors for some clothes?”

“I will wear my own clothes, thank you very much.” She pushed her half-finished tea away and made to rise, but he’d boxed her in on the bench, and as soon as she gained her feet, her head sounded a trumpet fanfare of pain that blared past her neck, into her chest and arm.

“Perishing damned females, excuse the language,” he muttered while he gently tugged her back down beside him. “I don’t suppose you’re married, and that’s what all this misguided dignity is about? You will tell me now if some anxious husband must be dealt with. I insist on honesty from the women I rescue, and have no patience for mornings wasted on the field of so-called honor.”

She sank onto the bench, mortified to feel another flush—it was not a blush—accompanying the pounding in her skull. How busy her bodily responses were after such an insignificant bump on the head.

“Naughty girl,” he chided, his arm around her waist. He used his free hand to sweep her wet hair back over her shoulder, the better to mortify her by studying her wound.

“Now listen to me, duchess, because I am not at all accustomed to explaining myself.” He drew his hand over her hair again, as if to move it, except the entire damp, curling mass of her sopping braid was already lying back over her shoulder. Then he did it again. And again.

“A newly discovered younger relation will join me here tomorrow—a schoolgirl, but at that dangerous, almost-hatched age, you know? Then, too, my niece will be coming along, and she’s a frightfully noticing little thing, much as my late sister was. I can’t offend my housekeeper’s sensibilities when I’ve all but ignored my own property for five years. We must see you returned to your proper residence, even if you’re a bit bedraggled and the worse for wear.”

Still that slow, beguiling caress continued over Jacaranda’s damp hair as Mr. Kettering went on. “A man has the right to ignore his possessions and estates, provided he’s not negligent, but housekeepers are women, and they take on about such things. They get attached to their routines, and I’ve every intention of ignoring the place for another five years once I get these infernal girls sorted out. So we’ll not be upsetting my dear Mrs. Wyeth, hmm?”

Jacaranda lifted her head from his shoulder, having no idea how she’d assumed such a misbegotten posture.

“You are without doubt the most conceited, managing excuse for a grown man it has ever been my misfortune to share a pond with.”

His hand disappeared. “Be that as it may, you will not upset my housekeeper with airs and ingratitude, regardless of your mood, station, or dented noggin.”

“There’s no need for me to upset her,” Jacaranda shot back. “You’ve already done a thorough job of it.”

* * *

WORTH’S MIDNIGHT MERMAID WAS ADDLING his tired wits.

She was pretty, which was likely the source of the problem. He had a weakness for pretty women, though he’d learned long ago that they had no weakness for him. The pretty ones fretted at the most inopportune times about whether their hair was mussed, and he, of course, liked to muss a lady’s hair. Then, too, pretty women were always looking past one’s shoulder to see who was watching and to whose more interesting, titled, or wealthy side they might flit.

Still, they were pretty, and beauty in a female could mesmerize him, despite common sense and humiliating experience in his youth to the contrary.

The lady in his kitchen bore a touch of the exotic, all of her features and colors one detail away from perfection. Her eyes were not the fashionable blue. They were gentian, almost lavender, and so luminous as to look as though they belonged to a temple cat in human form. Her hair was not quite black, but on the curling ends looked sable, and it fell down her back in a cascade of curls and twists and flyaway strands that begged a man to write sonnets and conjure naughty fantasies.

Her hair looked in want of taming, and he liked that. She probably hated her hair, being female. He knew better.

As he rose and mentally appreciated her too-generous mouth and somewhat Nordic nose, his solicitor’s brain also tried to assemble facts on a different level, for she’d intimated something about his dear Mrs. Wyeth.

“You knew how much ice was on hand,” he said, as if accusing a clerk of reading his private correspondence.

She accused right back. “You aren’t a little old fellow hunched over his desk at the Inns of Court.”

Whatever that meant. “You knew your way to my kitchen, without the least guidance.”

“I assumed you’d need somebody to keep you from stumbling into the butler’s pantry. I took pity on an absentee landlord.”

“Absentee owner,” he retorted, his brain still unhappy with the logical conclusion.

“Absentee, in any case.” Her humble bench might have been a throne for all the disdain in her glare.

“What is your name?” He softened his tone, in deference to another one of God’s impending nasty jokes. She might, were there a merciful Deity, be an acquaintance of his housekeeper’s, one accustomed to the friendly cup of tea after services.

Which were held five miles away, if memory served.

“My name is Jacaranda Wyeth.”

“I don’t suppose your dear mama is in my employ?” What sort of name was Jacaranda, and why was he doomed to deal with women who were unforthcoming regarding the simplest truths?

“I am in your employ, or I was as of recently.”

“You’re not quitting.” He used his best unruly-client voice. Settled ’em down instantly, though the effect on little Avery was less immediate with each application.

She tipped her chin up a mere but ominous quarter inch.

Damn and blast, she was magnificent. And troublesome.

The worst of his many weaknesses was for troublesome women.

“Drink your tea.” This earned him another quarter inch of chin-raising. “Please, Mrs. Wyeth, lest it grow cold.”

Then the thought of warming her up, warming up all that magnificent temple cat- beautiful-exotic-Celtic-woman rippled across his imagination, and he had to sit down again.

Beside her unforthcoming self.

Of course.

She drank her tea, proving even a joking God wasn’t without compassion, for Kettering needed the time to think of cold eel pie, privy rats, and those unruly clients.“You are my housekeeper, then?”

“And you are my employer.” She pushed her mug away.

Worth refilled it and stirred in cream and sugar. A bachelor developed such habits, or he’d start looking about for a hostess.

“How came you to be in the pond at such an hour?”

“Today was long and hot,” she said, taking a sip of her tea. “A little dip spares the maids having to lug water and the footmen having to haul the tub. The staff knows to leave me the privacy of the pond after dark.”

He believed her. Not a single underfootman would dare lurk among the bushes to spy on her, lest the lad find himself turned off without a character the next morning by the vision most likely to have haunted his dreams.

“The staff is all abed?”

“Carl will be on duty by the front door. He’s reliable, and we knew you might show up in advance of your coaches.”

“How did you know?”

“I am in correspondence with Lewis, your house steward, who suggested you might not travel in the coach with the young ladies. Horseback is faster and likely preferable in all but wet weather.”

He did not have a weakness for the managing variety of women, no matter how tall, pretty or troublesome. Particularly not for managing, unforthcoming women—though she’d suffered a knock on the head and hadn’t quite been deceitful.

“Can you call a maid to stay up with you? You might slip into a coma if we let you sleep through the night.”

“The blow to my temple didn’t render me insensate, so much as the prospect of your unwanted attentions disconcerted me.”

He was silent for a moment, trying to find a different meaning for her words and failing.

“My attentions, as you call them, were in aid of preserving your life. If you seek to put period to your existence, you have my condolences. I’m still not letting you quit, though. Not until my little family sortie in the teeming jungles of Surrey is complete.”

“You have a very crude grasp of the employer-employee relationship,” she informed him, finishing her tea. “Even you must understand I can give notice whenever I please.”

He considered her, considered she was pale and wet and cold, and probably in need of a hot bath and some cosseting, else she would not be so sour-natured in the face of his consideration and concern.

More than physical comforts, she probably wanted privacy.

“Come.” He rose and held out a hand. “I will escort you to your chambers and see you safely to bed. You can refine your insults and ingratitudes in lieu of sleep.”

She took his hand, but only after perusing it as if to examine him for scales, claws, or evidence of barnyard relatives. Then she weaved when she gained her feet, which necessitated Worth once more putting an arm around her waist. That she again permitted such behavior suggested she really wasn’t doing very well.

Served the ungrateful baggage right.

The housekeeper at Trysting had her own private parlor and sleeping chamber. Those hadn’t moved in the five years since Worth’s last visit, and Mrs. Wyeth let him escort her there without further comment.

He would not worry over her silence.

When they reached her door, he pushed it open, seeing no candle lit.

“This won’t do,” he muttered, propping her against the wall and taking down the lamp from the sconce. He lit a branch of candles in her parlor, enough that the room was minimally illuminated.

“Shall I light you a fire?”

“You shall not.” She stood by the door, his jacket closed about her in a two-handed grip.

“Then get you into bed. You’re one breeze away from the shivers.”

“You have my thanks for your efforts.” But, of course, she didn’t move.

“For God’s sake, woman, if I were intent on taking advantage, I’d have done so outside, in the dark, far from those who’d hear you scream, and well before you regained the use of your viper’s tongue.”

He moved to the bedroom and lit a candle beside her bed.

Other solicitors referred to Worth Kettering as “a detail man.” The compliment was grudging, usually offered by somebody who wasn’t a detail man. Sloppiness in a solicitor was a deadly sin, as far as Kettering was concerned, but he also understood that discipline took a man only so far toward cataloging every minute aspect of a situation.

Beyond that point, an ability to perceive details was a God-given gift.

Jacaranda Wyeth’s quarters revealed myriad details to him.

She was orderly, even in her privacy.

She liked pretty things, embroidered pillow cases, aromatic roses, a soft, quilted bedspread nearly the same color as her eyes, white lace curtains. Frilly, female things that belied the no-nonsense composure of her countenance.

He withdrew from the bedroom and found her still by the sitting room door, her teeth chattering.

“Get your wet things off. I’ll be back with some hot water for your ablutions, and a tray.”

He left her before she could insult him again, which meant he moved quickly, replacing the lamp on the sconce and heading for the kitchen. Putting together a tray of buttered bread, cheese, and raspberry jam took no time at all. Neither did filling an ewer of hot water from the well on the range.

He didn’t knock on Mrs. Wyeth’s door, because his hands were full. He pushed the door open with his hip to find the sitting room empty. The door to the bedroom was closed, so he put the tray on a low table—lacy runner, bouquet of roses in a crystal vase—and tapped on the bedroom door.

“Don’t you dare come in here.”

“I’ve brought you water and sustenance. I’m off to fetch a teapot. You’re quite welcome.”

He took the time to change into a dry shirt, pajama pants and dressing gown along the way, happy to find his trunks already waiting in his room. When he returned to Mrs. Wyeth’s suite with the tea tray and set it beside the food, she still hadn’t emerged.

“Either present yourself now or expect company in your bedroom, Mrs. Wyeth. I can’t have you falling and banging your head again.” He couldn’t shout, either, else he’d wake the house, and it wasn’t time for that maneuver in any case, because she opened the door, a wrapper having replaced his jacket.

But, still, she was cold. Her lips were blue, her teeth chattered, and her eyes had turned to chips of periwinkle ice, for her discomfort was no doubt all his fault.

“For God’s sake, come here.” He grasped her by one fine-boned wrist and pulled her into his embrace. “You will catch an ague with all this damned pride, pardon the language.” He scooped her up against his chest and settled with her on the sofa, her “d-d-don’t you d-d-dare” hissed right in his ear. He twitched an afghan down from the back of the sofa and draped it over her as she squirmed in his lap.

“Hush, woman. You’re cold, I’m warm, and a chill can be dangerous. Tolerate my proximity for five minutes, and I’ll leave you in peace.”

He ran his hand over her back, feeling the tremors of her shivering.

“Cuddle up and hold your tongue,” he admonished. “You know you will otherwise crawl between cold sheets and fall asleep without getting warm. That misery can be avoided if you’ll simply—”

“I hate you.”

Then she subsided against him and didn’t even lecture him when he rested his chin on her damp hair.

“Of course you do, but might you care to enlighten a fellow as to why?”

She burrowed closer and remained silent, suggesting her body didn’t hate him.

“I have it.” He gathered her into a more snug embrace as another chill shuddered through her. “If I have to ask, I don’t deserve to have it explained to me.”

“Brilliant.”

“But hardly original. One wants a little originality in a lady’s vituperations.”

She made a huffy noise against his chest, but at least she’d stopped shivering.

* * *

JACARANDA GAVE UP VERBALLY FENCING with the wonderful heat source in whose arms she was nearly drowsing. She’d pay a price for this folly tomorrow, and likely for the remaining weeks of her tenure in his employ, but Worth Kettering was wearing silk and velvet, he smelled like a fresh breeze through a cedar forest, and in his arms Jacaranda felt, at least for these moments, safe.

He was big, brusque, officious, and far too astute, but he was offering her—pushing on her, really—a comfort more seductive than wealth or chocolate.

How long had it been since she’d been held this way? Likely since infancy. In her childhood, her papa’s and step-mama’s energies had been taken up with the younger children, particularly with pretty little Daisy, who’d had weak lungs as a child.

Then had come the tribulations of adolescence—height, nicknames, and the odd attentions from boys much older than Jacaranda.

She shoved that thought and all the bewildered, shameful memories that went with it aside and rubbed her cheek against the silk of Mr. Kettering’s dressing gown.

He would have to wear silk.

“You’re falling asleep, Wyeth, my dear.”

Before she could struggle off his lap, he rose, easily, without grunting or straining or remarking on her size, and walked with her into her bedroom. He’d closed the window, probably in deference to the candle he’d lit by her bed, but that small consideration meant the room was free of drafts.

He set her on the edge of the bed, went around to the other side, and turned down the covers.

“Don’t suppose you’d invite me in to warm up your sheets? I excel at warming sheets.” He stacked throw pillows on a chair, a man at ease in a lady’s bedroom. “No witty rejoinder, Wyeth? Shall I worry about you in truth?”

“I am speechless at your crude suggestions,” she managed. “Both my bedroom and sitting room doors have stout locks. Must I use them, or have you acquired minimal notions of gentlemanly conduct at some point in your misspent youth?”

A housekeeper did not speak so disrespectfully to her employer, but he hadn’t been serious about joining her in bed—she hoped. He’d been offering an insult as a bracing conversational slap to one whose wits had been wandering.

Or perhaps—intriguing notion—his remark had been intended as flirtation, a sad comment on the realities of Town life.

“Many would agree with the misspent part,” he murmured, lifting back her covers. “Scoot in, my dear, or you’ll start shivering again, because your hair is still damp.” He frowned at that realization, the candlelight making him a displeased Bacchus. He took off his dressing gown and laid it over her pillows. “Your pillows won’t take the wet.”

“That dressing gown is silk.” She lifted her legs to get under the covers, else he’d stand there half-clothed all night waiting for her. “I’ll ruin it.”

“I can’t have you courting a chill. I thought we’d established that. A scrap of cloth matters little compared to the smooth running of my household.”

To her horror, he sat at her hip and brushed her hair back from her forehead, then turned her head gently with a thumb to her chin.

“This scrape might start bleeding again. Try to sleep on your right side.”

She obligingly shifted to her side—anything to make him go away.

“Good night, Wyeth.”

“Good night, Mr. Kettering.”

He rose and moved around the room, cracking her window a hair, blowing out the candle. She heard him moving in the other room, then felt the lovely weight of the afghan spread over her blankets. The light from the sitting room disappeared as he closed the bedroom door, and still she heard him, tidying up all the trays he’d brought in.

For nothing. She hadn’t eaten, hadn’t used the warm water, hadn’t had a final cup of tea.

But she did sleep.

Eventually.

Chapter Three

“THEY’LL BE FOREVER IN THERE.” Yolanda flopped back against the squabs and knew she was setting a bad example for her niece. Young ladies did not flop, and they did not gripe.

She had a niece, whom she hadn’t known about, just as her brother Worth hadn’t known he had a living half-sister. Having a niece was peculiar, when Avery seemed more like a younger sister and Worth Kettering more like an uncle. A grouchy uncle.

“Wickie won’t tarry,” Avery said in French. “She’s devoted to me, and now she’ll be devoted to you, too.”

“Miss Snyder has that honor,” Yolanda said, happy to practice her French on a native speaker. “At least until Michaelmas term. I wonder how much Mr. Kettering paid her for the trouble of babysitting me for three months.”

Mr. Kettering. Worth. Her brother.

“Uncle has pots of money.” Avery grinned as if Uncle had chocolates in his pockets. “Spending some on Miss Snyder won’t hurt him. She looks sad to me, or angry.”

“She’s nervous,” Yolanda said, switching to English. “She’s one of those mousy little women who toils away in thankless anonymity in the classroom, and dithers over which new sampler to start as if it’s a significant decision.”

“Uncle thanks Mrs. Hartwick, but I don’t know those other words you used—anom de something and blither,” Avery said, peering out the window. “They’re coming now.”

“With food, thank the gods.”

“Uncle says that. Thank the gods.”

Uncle this and Uncle that. The little magpie worshipped the ground the man strutted around on. Yolanda had heard in great, dramatic detail in at least two and a half languages why Avery had reason to appreciate him. Avery had been orphaned in Paris for almost a year after her mother, Moria, had died, but had memorized Worth’s direction, and eventually, thanks to the kindly intercession of her mother’s friends, had been sent to her uncle.

A tale worthy of one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels, right down to the way Worth doted on his niece.

Had he asked darling Avery for proof she was related to him?

To them?

Yolanda tucked into a hot, savory cottage pie, silently admitting that her brother may not have believed her, but he’d taken her in, bribed Miss Snyder to chaperone, and now they were off to the country.

He’d apparently bribed the coaching inns along the way, too, because the food was excellent, and the relief teams in harness in mere minutes.

Miss Snyder gave Yolanda a hesitant smile from the other bench. “It’s good to see you eating, my dear. Soon we’ll be at your brother’s estate, and you and Avery can have a nice stroll.”

She patted Yolanda’s knee and took a careful bite of her meat pastry. Miss Snyder slowly, thoroughly chewed her bite, patted her lips with a serviette, then took another slow, small bite.

Another hour, the coachman had said. One more hour, a mere ten miles, and they’d be free to leave the coach.

Had it been more than that, Yolanda doubted anything in the world could have stopped her from running screaming down the road. Miss Snyder, mousy, anonymous, and whatever else could be said about her, had at least chosen her path in life. She could have been a governess, a laundress, a paid companion, or some lusty yeoman’s wife—she was by no means ugly—while Yolanda was reduced to begging a berth from a brother nigh twice her age.

An earl’s daughter with a small fortune in trust—though not a lady by title—and she’d had nowhere to go.

She chewed mechanically, lest the lump in her throat rise up and humiliate her before the brat and the mouse. A young lady with nowhere else to go could not indulge in dramatics, not in the middle of the king’s highway, and not in her brother’s handsome traveling coach.

* * *

“YOLANDA HAD NOWHERE ELSE TO go, you see,” Mr. Kettering said. “May I top off your tea?”

“Was your upbringing so backward you believe an employer should wait on his staff?” Jacaranda’s tone was meant to be prim, condescending even, but what came through was sheer puzzlement. She’d been given to understand a title hung not too distant on Mr. Kettering’s family tree, and here he was, dragooning her into breakfast tête-à-tête and pouring her tea.

“You’ll take sugar with that, to sweeten your disposition,” he said, pushing the sugar bowl toward her. “My upbringing was the best that good coin and better tutors could pound into me, but my mother died when I was quite young, and her civilizing influence soon became a distant memory. Have another raspberry crepe.” He portioned one off his own plate and onto hers. “You’re too thin, Wyeth. Eat.” He sliced off a bite from the crepes remaining on his plate and gave every appearance of enjoying it.

Well. They were very good, the crepes, the fluffy omelet, the crispy bacon and golden toast. A piping-hot teapot nestled under embroidered white linen, and the room was redolent with the scrumptious scents of a kitchen determined to make a good showing before a long-absent master.

When had anybody, anybody ever, accused Jacaranda Wyeth of being too thin?

“Better,” Mr. Kettering said, when Jacaranda started on her crepes. “Back to Yolanda, if it won’t disturb your digestion?”

Rather than speak with her mouth full, Jacaranda made a small circle with her fork, and for some reason this had her host—her employer—smiling at her over his tea cup.

Gracious saints, that smile was sweet. Mr. Kettering was a dark man, dark-haired, dark-complected, dark-voiced, but that smile was light itself, crinkling the corners of startlingly blue eyes, putting dimples on either side of his mouth, and conveying such warmth and affection for life that Jacaranda had to look away.

Lewis had written that even ladies liked to have Mr. Kettering handle their private business, and in that smile, Jacaranda saw part of the reason why. Mr. Kettering was, damn and blast him, tall, dark and handsome, and blessed with that smile as well.

Thank heavens her term of employment at Trysting would soon be up.

“Your sister seems a typical young lady to me,” Jacaranda said. “Your family hails from the north, do they not?”

“They do, what few of us there are,” Mr. Kettering replied. “My older brother has had the keeping of the girl, but he’s managed it by shuffling her from one exclusive boarding school to another, and he’s lately seen to it she joined schoolmates on holidays and breaks.”

“I gather she will holiday with us here for the summer?”

“Just so.” His first name was Worth, Jacaranda recalled, apropos of absolutely nothing. She’d never met a man named Worth before, much less Worth Reverence.

“What can I do to make her summer more pleasant?” Jacaranda asked. “Young ladies in the area would enjoy meeting her, I’m sure.”

“Then you should take her to meet them.”

“Mr. Kettering, it might have escaped your shockingly egalitarian notice that I am your housekeeper, but your neighbors know my station. You will take your sister calling, not I.”

His tea cup was set down with a little plink! of…not surprise, but disgruntlement, perhaps.

“I hardly know my neighbors in these surrounds, dear lady. Between trying to keep up with my correspondence from Town and seeing to my property here, I do not intend to make time to remedy the oversight.”

Jacaranda had seven brothers, and Mr. Kettering’s tone had the effect of battle trumpets summoning an experienced war horse at a dead gallop.

“You’ve neglected this estate for years, and we’ve managed well enough in your absence,” Jacaranda shot back. “Your sister needs you, and no one else can see to her in this regard.”

He put another half a crepe on her plate. “You don’t spare your heavy guns, do you, Wyeth?”

“I have not the least idea what you mean, sir, except for a general notion that siblings ought to know and care for each other. Family ought to. I can and will make an effort to befriend the girl, and I can take Avery to play with the neighbor’s children, provided you visit them first and send the requisite inquiring notes.”

“I have to visit before my niece can even take her damned doll calling on other children?”

“You must make the girls think you’ll enjoy it,” Jacaranda added, just for spite. “I suggest you start with Squire Mullens immediately beyond the Millers’ tenant holding. He has six daughters.”

His eyes narrowed, and Jacaranda found her crepe wasn’t merely good, it was delicious.

“I have taken a viper to my bosom.” Mr. Kettering slathered butter on a piece of toast, then jam, then sliced it in half and put a triangle on Jacaranda’s plate. “Six daughters?”

“The Damuses have eight girls, but only two are marriageable age.”

“We’ll start with the Damuses, and you will join me for breakfast regularly, Wyeth. I’ll need your familiarity with the parish to plan the girls’ social calendar.” He bent to take a bite of his toast, while Jacaranda was sure he was hiding another smile.

He’d cornered her neatly, making her attendance at breakfast a show of consideration for the children, not an order.

“I will join you for breakfast.” She took another bite of a crepe so light it nearly levitated off of her fork. “And only breakfast.”

“Oh, fair enough, for the present. Now finish your meal. I’ve a notion to look at that bump on your head.”

As if Worth Kettering’s notions bore the same weight as celestial commandments or royal decrees.

“No need for that. I’ve quite recovered.” Jacaranda chewed her toast carefully, for even toast required mastication, and the effect was to pull on that area of her head still lightly throbbing.

“You’ve put every bite to the same side of your mouth, my dear. Your injury pains you. Did you sleep well?”

“I did.” After a time. “I usually do.” Particularly when her pillow was swathed in silk.

“I usually don’t,” he said, frowning at his tea cup.

“Perhaps the country air will agree with you.” She’d meant to say it maliciously, because he was so great a fool as to think correspondence from Town more important than a newly discovered sister.

“Intriguing thought. So what would a conscientious landowner do, were he facing my day?”

Papa had been nothing if not conscientious about his acres, and Grey followed very much in Papa’s footsteps.

“A conscientious landowner would ride out. He might take his land steward, particularly after an absence, or take a few of his favorite hounds.” Or he’d take a few of his more boisterous sons, and the house would, for a few short hours, be blessedly peaceful. “He’d look in on his tenants, especially those with new babies or a recent loss.”

“I like babies.”

Oh, he would. Jacaranda finished her toast.

“Will my steward know of such things? Babies and departed grannies?”

“The Hendersons lost a child this spring, a bad case of flu,” Jacaranda said, pushing her nearly empty plate away a few inches. “A little girl named Linda. She had always been sickly, but they’d got her through the winter and were hoping she’d turned a corner.”

He took a bite from the half crepe she’d left on her plate, chewed and arranged his fork and knife across the top of his plate. “You want me to call on these people?”

“I’ll pack you a hamper. They’ve many mouths to feed.”

“I can’t ride over with a hamper on Goliath’s quarters.” He lifted his tea cup, examined the dregs, set it down. “Come with me?”

A request, not an order. Good behavior must always be rewarded. “To call on a tenant, I can accompany you. Their wives will be glad of another woman to chat with.”

“You know their wives?”

“When your tenants have illnesses or particular needs, they send to us here and we provide what aid we can. The English countryside remains a place where one’s neighbors are a source of support, and of course I know their wives.”

He folded his serviette in precise thirds and laid it by his plate. “Where else do I need to show the flag?”

“These calls, the first you’ve made in years, aren’t showing the flag.” She regarded him with some displeasure, for the crepes had been very good, while the company was vexing. To deal with this man, she’d need her strength. “These people labor for your enrichment. Their welfare should concern you.”

“It should,” he agreed easily enough, giving Jacaranda the sense he’d lost interest in her scolds. “Let’s have a look at that knot on your head, hmm?” He rose to stand beside her chair, clearly prepared to hold it for her, as if she were…a lady.

He’d love nothing more than if she fussed at him for that while he stood over her, so she held her tongue.

“Over by the window.” He drew her to her feet and tugged her by the wrist to the light pouring in the east-facing window. “Turn yourself, just”—he took her by the shoulders and positioned her to his liking—“like that.”

When he stepped close, she got a fat whiff of delicious, clean man. He used some sort of shaving soap that made her want to lean closer and intoxicate her nose on his woodsy aroma. The fragrance had spicy little grace notes, as well—even his scent held unplumbed depths.

“You must have a busy day of your own,” he suggested, carefully tilting her head in his big hands.

“Industry is its own reward.” He had offered the gambit to distract Jacaranda from his fingers tunneling through her hair, and that was decent of him, so she rallied her manners. “In truth, I have done as much preparation for your visit as I possibly can, but the house is always kept in readiness, so the burden of additional work is not great.”

“Then you might enjoy coming along with me on these tenant calls?” Gently, gently, Mr. Kettering moved his touch over the knot at her temple. “Hurts, doesn’t it?”

“A little.” While his touch was lovely.

“The bleeding did not resume,” he said, slipping his fingers from her hair, but not stepping back. “I’m glad you won’t mind showing me about the farms.”

He was smiling down at her again, pleased with himself, the lout, and before Jacaranda could beg to differ with him, he patted her arm.

“We’ll wait until after lunch, so I can fire off a few letters first, otherwise I’ll never be up to dandling babies and pinching grannies.”

“Please say you would never pinch a grandmother!”

Now he did step back, his eyes dancing.

“My dear Mrs. Wyeth, I would pinch a granny, but only because she pinched me first. I know a number of grannies who aren’t to be trusted in this regard. A shameless lot, for the most part. Complete tarts. Makes one look forward to his own dotage. Shall we say, one of the clock?”

“I’ll have luncheon moved up to noon,” she said, not taking the bait no matter how succulent, no matter how close to her nose he dangled it while looking the picture of masculine innocence. “In deference to the fact that the girls traveled for much of the day yesterday, I’ve planned luncheon as a picnic meal on the back lawn.”

“I’m dining on the ground with children, being pinched by grannies, and acquiring a lot of smelly, drooling hounds, and you expect the country air to agree with me? You are an admirably cruel woman, Jacaranda Wyeth. I’ll meet you at the coach house at one.”

* * *

“HOW ARE YOU LADIES SETTLING in?” Worth put the question to his sister and his niece, who both looked quite pleased to be eating outside amid bugs and breezes, not a tablecloth in sight.

Avery, as was her habit, went chattering off in French, lightened by a dash of Italian, with the occasional foray into her expanding English vocabulary. The coach ride had been interminable; the horses had been very grand, but not as grand as Goliath; the coach fare had been very good, if difficult to tidily consume in a moving vehicle; and Miss Snyder had been as quiet as a moose.

“Mouse,” Yolanda corrected, smiling—the first time Worth had seen that expression on his sister’s face since her arrival at Trysting.

“What is the difference? Mouse, moose, you know I refer to a little creature for the cat to eat.”

“There is a difference,” Yolanda said. “Worth, have you pencil and paper?”

He passed over the contents of his breast pocket, and Yolanda started scribbling.

“Where have you seen a moose, Yolanda?” he asked, selecting a cold chicken leg to gnaw on.

“In books, unless you count Harolda Bigglesworth. Poor thing had a name like that and dimensions to match, but she was very merry.”

“Shall we invite her out to the country with us?” Worth had to admit the chicken was delicious, and with a serviette wrapped around one end, not so very messy.

“We shall not,” Yolanda said as she sketched. “She’s been engaged to some viscount since she was a child, and association with the likes of me would not do.”

“Your brother is a perishing earl.” Worth waved his chicken leg for emphasis. “Why not associate with you?”

“Your moose,” Yolanda said, passing the sketch over to her niece. “He’s a grand fellow, nigh as big as Goliath, and he lives in the Canadian woods.”

“My goodness, he looks like a cross between a cow and a deer, but what a nose he has!”

Worth peeked over Avery’s shoulder.

“You are talented,” he said. “Talent is worth money, you know. I have a client who will make a tidy living painting portraits, a very tidy living. You should develop your art, Yolanda.”

“Drawing is one thing they let you do,” she said, tucking the pencil behind her ear.

“They let you do?” Worth set aside the chicken bone, for he’d eaten every scrap of meat on it.

“When you’re on room restriction at school, you have your school supplies to entertain you, but only those, so I drew a great deal. Avery, will you eat every bite of that potato salad?”

Avery made Yolanda earn her salad by teaching her a half-dozen German words. Yolanda made Avery try to copy the moose, with comic results. All in all, it was a pleasurable, nutritious way for Worth to pass an hour with his…family, out of doors. On that thought, he pushed back to sit on his heels.

“My dears, I must away to impersonate a country squire. While I’m chatting up the neighbors, I can ask if any ponies are going begging in the surrounds.”

“Oh, Uncle!” Avery’s jubilation at the prospect of a pony knew no linguistic bounds, but Yolanda merely smiled at her niece and toyed with a bite of cheese.

“Yolanda? What say you? Shall we find you a gallant steed so you can canter about the countryside and turn all the lads’ heads?”

Yolanda studied her cheese. “Good heavens, no, thank you. I’ve heard regular riding can make a girl’s figure lopsided.”

“So we’ll teach you to drive,” Worth suggested, “or fit you out with a left-side saddle and a right-side saddle, and you can alternate.”

“That’s what I shall do,” Avery interjected. “I shall ride with Uncle every day.”

Worth drew a finger down her nose. “No, you shall not. This is England, and it rains too frequently for daily hacks. Well, think about it, Yolanda. I must call upon the neighbors, many of whom are possessed of offspring whose acquaintance you should make. We’ll be here for months, and I can’t have the two of you growing lonely or bored.”

Particularly not when Yolanda had been both at her fancy school.

He got to his feet and made for the coach house, but the meal, surprisingly pleasant though it had been, had left him more convinced than ever that Yolanda was hiding a great deal.

* * *

HESS KETTERING, MORE RIGHTLY, HESSIAN Pierpont Kettering, Earl of Grampion, perused the first correspondence he’d received from his baby brother in five years.

Get your lordly arse down to Trysting before Michaelmas or I’ll send Yolanda home on a mail coach.

“You’ll go, won’t you?” Lady Evers’s eyes held concern, but only the concern of a friend. They’d tried a dalliance years ago, but neither of them had put any heart into it, and the friendship remained. Now she was spending a pretty summer morning in his library, sipping tea with him at his desk, and fretting over him—to a friendly degree.

“Worth is telling me the girl is safe with him for at least another few months,” Hess said, “maybe even asking me to give him those months, but he’s also issuing an invitation.”

“He’s hurting, Grampion. You’re head of the family, and that puts the business of reconciliations squarely on your handsome shoulders. If this is the invitation you get, then this is the invitation you accept.”

Surely only a friend would address him with that blend of amusement and admonition?

“Worth was always prone to dramatics, and that’s what got us into this situation in the first place.”

Not quite true. A young woman’s duplicity had done more than a little to stir the pot of familial estrangement.

“You could have gone after him,” Lady Evers said, pulling on her gloves. “He wasn’t even quite an adult all those years ago.”

Hessian came around the desk to scoot her chair back, now that he’d endured tea, scones, and the beginnings of a scold.

“Papa decided against retrieving him—a younger son must be allowed his pride, according to the earl—though I think it broke his lordship’s heart, and then I was too busy marrying to go haring south on a goose chase.”

“Your only brother and heir is not a goose.”

“He acted like a goose.” So, apparently, had Hessian.

Her ladyship tactfully pretended to peruse a portrait of Hess’s mother hanging over the fireplace, one she’d seen dozens of times. The two bore a resemblance, something Hess noticed only now.

“Were you the soul of probity at age seventeen, Grampion?”

Yes, he had been, more fool him. He slipped her arm through his, because the time had come to gently herd her toward the door.

“I was seventeen, and that’s as much as I’ll admit. If I’m to heed Worth’s summons, a journey of two hundred miles will take some preparation. What have you heard from Lucas?”

She prattled on about her oldest son, spending a summer in the south between public school terms, and in her voice Hess heard pride, longing, and love. Not for the first time, Hess regretted the lack of children in his own household. Grampion was beautiful, the land graciously generous, the views spectacular.

But lonely. His only consolation was that Worth had no children either, no wife, no family about except a little niece who likely understood only French, and now Yolanda, a near adult and about as sunny-natured as a hurricane.

Still, Hess wouldn’t remain in the north, without niece or sister, while Worth had both, though neither would Hess go galloping south and solve all the family’s problems himself—again.

* * *

“TELL ME ABOUT THESE DAMUSES,” Worth said as he settled onto the seat of the dog cart beside Mrs. Wyeth. Goliath—trained to drive as well as ride, like any proper mount of his breeding and dimensions—was in the traces, which had required loosening the harness by a few holes in all directions.

“The Damuses are not an old local family,” Mrs. Wyeth said as they clattered out of the coach yard. “She was a Dacey, and he’s the second son of a baronet in Dorset. Their holding was willed to him by a grandmother, and she brought a good settlement to the union, so they prosper.”

“With twelve children, that’s not all they do. How about the Hendersons? Have they leporine inclinations?”

“Leporine?”

“In the nature of a hare, similar to caprine, or vulpine, in the nature of a goat, or a fox, you know?”

“My Latin is rusty. The Hendersons are a young couple who moved here from Dorset when his cousin left the property for London. They’ve three boys yet, now that Linda has passed on. The land is good, but they haven’t been farming it for long, and it takes time to learn the way of a piece of ground.”

What manner of housekeeper was brought up on Latin?

Worth turned Goliath onto the lane. “Ground is just there. What do you mean, learn the way of it?”

“This field tends to get boggy in spring, but mostly in the one corner, so you might plant that corner later. That field is perfect for oats, but doesn’t do quite such a good job with barley. A particular irrigation ditch is always the first to back up when the leaves come off in the fall. That sort of thing.”

Agricultural land was like women then, full of idiosyncrasies and quirks. “How come you, a housekeeper, to know about that sort of thing?”

“I wasn’t always a housekeeper, Mr. Kettering. My father was responsible for a great many acres, and land doesn’t farm itself.”

So her father was likely a steward to some lord. Worth hoarded up that information the way some of his clients hoarded their denarii and sesterces.

“What do the Hendersons do well?”

“Her people are Irish on her mother’s side, which is part of the reason they left their home county.”

“We’re superstitious about third-generation Irish, are we?”

“I haven’t asked her for the particulars, but Mrs. Henderson can tat lace so delicate it hardly catches sunlight. Mr. Henderson has a magnificent sow by the name of William.”

“A sow named William, and my livelihood depends on such as these?”

“The boys named the pig, because she lets them ride her, so she’s in the way of a porcine charger.”

“I hope you don’t expect me to ride this great pig?”

“Don’t let me stop you, if that’s your inclination.”

He deserved that, and it was worth the insult to know Wyeth was enjoying herself. “Goliath would never bear the shame if I rode a pig. Is there a marker for the child’s resting place?”

She was silent for a moment, and Worth was pleased to have surprised her. He’d surprised himself, but he knew what it was to lose a family member, and to some people, a marker would be important.

“We’ll go by the church on the way over,” Wyeth said. “We can look.”

They found the grave but no marker, and the curate intimated none had been ordered. Worth drew the man aside, made arrangements for something befitting a girl child, and handed Wyeth back into the gig.

“How is it you know French, Wyeth?” He slapped the reins on Goliath’s shiny black rump before his housekeeper could remark his discussion with the curate.

“I had a good upbringing, and French is not a difficult language.”

A steward’s daughter might have a good upbringing, if her father served the nobility. “Where did you have this good upbringing?”

“Dorset.”

Dorset, from whence the beleaguered Hendersons hailed, though from Worth’s observation, they did not know they were beleaguered. The lady of the house had a sadness in her eyes, but she was much loved by her beamish young spouse and doted on her menfolk. Worth dutifully asked to see the magnificent sow and, while the boys rode her around the yard, inquired of Mr. Henderson if Mrs. Henderson might consider parting with some of the exquisite lace gracing their spotless cottage.

“Whyever would a grand fellow like yourself be in want of lace?”

“I’m not, personally, but I’m also not such a grand fellow that I’d pass up an opportunity to make a coin or two. Lace like that is becoming scarce, and all the fine ladies in Town will pay dearly for flounces, ruffles and mantillas. I know modistes and tailors who’d die for as much of that lace as they could get their hands on.”

“You’d buy Trudy’s lace?” Henderson was tall, rangy, blond and ruddy. He was also besotted with his round, red-haired Trudy, and appropriately protective of her.

“If you’re willing to part with your goods,” Worth said. “I’d take a commission, for arranging the London end of things, but there’d be coin for you and yours as well.”

William came to a halt, like any well-trained mount, then—with the two little boys bouncing happily on her back—trotted off in the direction of the chicken coop.

“Trude’s proud of that lace,” Henderson said. “We’ve shown the boys how to tat a little, too.”

“You know your lady best. Discuss it with her and send word of your decision. Seems a shame to keep work that fine a secret, though, and I could use the coin.”

Henderson looked him up and down, from his brilliantly white cravat to his shiny riding boots and all the Bond Street finery in between. “Takes a bit of the ready to trick yourself out like a swell.”

“More than a bit. Now, you’re a married fellow. What is the secret to politely prying two women apart when a man needs to be on his way?”

Henderson’s expression turned sympathetic. “Can’t be done. Trude gets to visiting in the churchyard, too, and the boys have walked halfway home before I get her in the cart.”

“Don’t suppose that pig knows how to drive?”

“The boys are working on it. They want to be famous throughout the shire for training the realm’s first draft pig.”

Worth complimented the boys on William’s accomplishments, scratched the pig’s hairy chin, and took his housekeeper by the elbow to remove her from the Hendersons’ front porch.

“Mrs. Henderson’s a genius with her lace, isn’t she?” he observed when he’d handed Wyeth up.

“The whole family can do work like that, but it’s hard on the eyes. We’d best hurry. Looks like we’re in for a squall.”

“Goliath is the steady sort, and he must live up to the standards set by that pig. He’ll get us home safe and sound. What did you ladies talk about?”

“The usual.” She pulled her shawl closer. The temperature, which had been summery warm, was dropping as the breeze picked up. “The boys are growing, the crops are coming along, she misses her Linda, but may be carrying again already.”

“The fences were not in the best repair, and I suspect one corner of the cottage roof leaks.” Though Henderson hadn’t mentioned either problem.

“Your steward will have a list of tenant repairs for you,” Wyeth said, eyeing the sky. “A short list, but he’ll want to show it to you before he spends any coin on maintenance.”

“I know this steward you mention. Mr. Reilly sends me reports each month almost as detailed as yours. Is the weather always so changeable here?”

“This is England, so yes.”

It might have been Worth’s imagination—or wishful thinking—but it seemed to him she bundled closer to his side.

“Your bonnet might get a soaking.” She likely had only the one. “May we impose on a neighbor along the way to the manor?”

“The Hendersons are the closest tenants, and the church is kept locked on weekdays.”

“To prevent felons from taking refuge?”

She made no reply, and from the south came a long, low rumble of thunder.

Worth gestured with his chin, because his hands were on the reins. “A covered bridge, about half a mile ahead. We’ll make it.”

Goliath gave them his best bound-for-home trot, and a gust of rain spattered down, but they made the covered bridge before the heavens opened up. To Worth’s surprise, his housekeeper’s gloved hand was manacled around his arm when he drew the horse up in the middle of the bridge.

“You are pale as a winding-sheet, Wyeth. Is your head paining you?” He set the brake and wrapped the reins, unwilling to move until she loosened her grip.

She slipped her hands to her lap. “I hate to be out in storms. When I was a girl, I saw a tree struck by lightning, a lovely old oak I’d been playing in an hour earlier. The tree went up in flames and became an ugly, charred skeleton. My brothers thought it wonderfully dramatic. I hated it. The tree had been refuge for me.”

“Brothers can be the worst.” He climbed down and came around to her side of the gig. She sat straight as a lamp post, clutching her shawl around her as if a winter gale rather than a summer storm threatened. “Get you down, Wyeth. The weather must have its fifteen minutes, and Henderson said the corn can use the rain. Tell me more of these disgraceful brothers.”

He lifted her from the seat before she could protest, then she stood beside him, looking pale and shivery, while he untied her bonnet and set it on the seat.

“The one I’m closest to is Grey, and he’s a good brother.”

Worth settled his coat around her shoulders. He liked the look of her in his clothes already, and this was only the second time he’d offered her his coat.

Fast work, though, even for him.

Chapter Four

“TELL ME ABOUT YOUR BROTHER Grey,” Worth said, offering his arm to a woman who was not, after all, without a few human failings. “I have a perfectly useless brother in the north, and we’ve him to thank for Yolanda’s charming presence.”

“She is charming,” Wyeth said, sails filling, but then a loud crack of thunder sounded right overhead and she hunched into him.

“Silly woman,” Worth murmured, and his arms went around her without him thinking about it, the same as they might have gone around Avery after a nightmare. Then the rain was too loud on the roof to permit further conversation—or further endearments.

Wyeth stayed bundled against him, not quite shivering with cold, but twitchy with nerves. When the rain changed to hail, she tucked her nose against his neck and held on to him with gratifying tenacity, making no move to lecture or move off when Worth’s hand settled on the back of her head and stroked her hair.

He’d never quite appreciated the potential in rainy days before, nor the value of a horse who was blasé regarding the weather.

“I’m being ridiculous,” she said, when the rain slowed. “I can’t seem to let go of you, though.”

“You have a frightening association with storms like this, and I’m at least good for keeping off the chill.” He rested his chin on her hair, which smelled wonderfully of lavender and sunshine. “You were about to tell me of your brother.”

“Grey is older than I. He became head of the family quite young, and that’s a difficult role when a man has eight younger siblings and half-siblings.”

“You’re the oldest girl?”

“How did you know?”

“How else would you have learned how to command a regiment, hmm?”

“My mama died after my younger brother Will was born. When my step-mama came along, and all the little ones appeared, I enjoyed being the big sister.”

Little ones didn’t simply appear. “I’ve always wished I came from a large family,” Worth said, keeping an ear on the rain. “I have a brother and now a sister extant, and we have Avery. That’s it. While my brother and I are estranged, my sister and I are strangers.”

“Has your brother met Avery?”

“No, he has not, the wretch.”

“He didn’t tell you about Yolanda, did he?”

“Hard to say, because we don’t exactly correspond, though I’ve sent him an epistle over this folly with Yolanda. The storm is moving off.”

“I should move, too.”

No, she should not. “Soon, my dear.”

When she eased her grip a few drippy, quiet moments later, he let her step back, taking her warmth and a luscious abundance of female curves with her. Everlasting Powers, if he’d known his housekeeper was such a goddess, he’d have removed to the country years ago.

To do exactly what, he would not admit even to himself, but getting caught in storms with her was a delightful place to start.

“I’m much braver if I can remain indoors,” she said, moving off to pet his horse. “He’s a stalwart fellow. His name is Goliath?”

“He’s a big, stalwart fellow, so yes, he’s Goliath.”

“Some draft in his lineage?” She winced as thunder rumbled in the distance.

“On the dam side. Let’s watch the water rise.” He tugged her by the arm away from his horse and brought her to the upstream side of the bridge. “I have good memories of storms, of rafting down swollen streams immediately after a deluge, of seeing all my dams swept out to sea by a good downpour. As a boy, it was wonderful.”

“That must be the appeal of sons for many men,” she said, taking a place along the rail beside him. “Men talk of dynasty, legacies and successions, but what a son really means is more forts in the attics, toy soldiers, and dams.”

“How many brothers have you?”

“Seven, and one sister.”

“No doubt you and this sister are close?”

She peered down into the roiling water. “In a way. You’re being very kind.”

“How will I know whose pig to throw a saddle on if I let you come to harm in a storm, Wyeth? Besides, we aren’t enemies merely because we’re different genders.”

“Gender isn’t a detail, either.”

Her gender wasn’t a detail. “I like women, I’ll have you know, and not in the sense you’re about to accuse me of, or not exclusively in that sense.” He turned, resting his elbows on the railing, while she kept to her stream-facing position.

“You like women because they cook and clean and sew?”

“I’ve hired men to do those things in my London household, my dear, but no. I like women because they don’t fight stupid duels over inebriated insults nobody can recall the next morning. Women don’t make rude noises in public or relieve themselves against any handy wall. You have seven brothers, Wyeth, I know now you cannot be shocked. I like women—honest women, that is—because they smell good, because they give us babies, because they…what?”

“You are prissy and old-fashioned.”

“You think because I’m such a large fellow I can’t be fastidious?” He let her have her smirk, because it confirmed the weather was no longer unnerving her. “You think because I respect women for their inherent bravery I’m old-fashioned?”

“Bravery in what regard?”

“Leave childbearing to men and the race wouldn’t last a century. All children would have to be born capable of cutting their own meat, washing their own soiled nappies, and talking themselves out of nightmares—twenty times in a twenty-four-hour period, and multiply that times the number of toddlers underfoot. Don’t forget they’d have to teach themselves how to do sums and read, for men hardly know themselves after three years of university.”

She gave him a funny, half-smiling perusal, then pushed off the rail.

“If we keep Goliath to the walk, we can likely find our way home now.”

“You don’t mind the occasional shower when we pass under a tree? I can send a closed carriage back for you.” He didn’t want to. He wanted to settle her right beside him on the gig again, and abruptly, the prospect of visiting his tenants shifted from drudgery to something approximating a pleasant duty.

Particularly if he could manage to dodge a few more storms with Wyeth in the process.

“A little rain isn’t what unnerves me, Mr. Kettering, and I don’t melt.”

He handed her up, having sense enough to keep to himself the thought of circumstances under which she might, indeed, be made to melt.

* * *

WORTH KETTERING WAS KIND.

The realization disconcerted Jacaranda, because it required her to admit she’d been hell-bent on finding fault with him. He’d handed her down from the gig, bowed over her hand as if they’d been on a social outing, then winked at her and left her in peace.

She understood what that wink meant: The secret of your chicken-heartedness is safe with me.

Oh, but he didn’t know the half of it. Yes, she was uncomfortable out in storms, but he didn’t know she’d heard him call her “silly woman,” and the affection in his tone had sent her insides prancing about. Nobody referred to her as silly, though five years ago, she’d been worse than silly. Nobody held her, stroked her hair, or offered her their jacket when she took a chill.

And nobody on the entire face of the earth wore as enticing a scent as Worth Kettering.

He’d be gone soon, though. Trysting was merely a place to find his balance with Yolanda and Avery under the same roof. If Jacaranda were lucky, a few more weeks and Mr. Kettering of the warm jacket, delicious scent, and rogue’s wink would be on his way.

Then she would be on her way. She’d promised, after all, and the usual pleas and threats in Step-Mama’s last epistle had borne a desperate edge.

“Mrs. W!” Old Simmons’s voice was raised in a quavery approximation of a shout. “Mrs. W? Ye must come quick to the children’s rooms.”

He wheezed down the kitchen steps, looking mortally relieved to have found her.

“The young ladies be in a taking, Miss Snyder is wringing her hands, and ye must come.”

“You sit, Mr. Simmons, and catch your breath. I’m on my way.”

She did not run, though. Simmons had already set a questionable example for the junior staff with his haste and shouting. She also suspected Yolanda and Avery were engaged in a version of finding their balance with each other, and among young ladies who were family, that way would not always be smooth.

“Girls, please stop shouting,” Miss Snyder was saying when Jacaranda arrived at Avery’s room. “I meant no offense, not to anybody. We’re to help each other in this life and—Mrs. Wyeth, hello. I apologize on behalf of the children for the racket.”

“These two are old enough to make their own apologies for cutting up the king’s peace. Now what has caused this uproar? Avery, you first.” Jacaranda closed the door and stood with her arms crossed, barely resisting the urge to tap her foot.

Avery launched a righteous volley in English liberally garnished with French, explaining that dear Wickie was off in the village on her half day, but the Miss Snyder creature attempted to brush Avery’s hairs in Wickie’s absence, and while an aunt might brush a niece’s hairs, Miss Snyder was nobody to be assuming such privileges. Not nobody at all, of less consequence than a moose.

Yolanda looked abruptly away, and Miss Snyder looked down at her hands.

“Yolanda, what have you to say?”

Yolanda took a moment to compose herself, for which Jacaranda respected the girl.

“Miss Snyder was only offering to help, and Avery went off on a grand scold, and that was wrong. I am not brushing my niece’s hair until she apologizes.”

“I shall not apologize to somebody I don’t know for forbidding her to brush my hairs.”

“And yet,”—Jacaranda treated Avery’s tousled hair to a slow perusal—“you can hardly come to table with your hair looking like that, can you, child? The hedgehogs will ask to make the acquaintance of your hairdresser.”

Avery got a look at herself in the cheval mirror and was too young to hide a grin. “Wickie will be back, and she can brush my hairs.”

“If she pleases to,” Jacaranda said. “Who pays Wickie’s salary, Miss Avery?”

“Uncle.”

“So from whom will Wickie take her orders?”

“Uncle, but she listens to me, too.”

“Miss Snyder will listen to you, too, so what do you wish you’d said to her?”

Avery studied her reflection in the mirror, biting her lower lip.

“Miss Snyder, I do not know you, and you are not my Wickie. I would not have you brush my hairs. I will brush them myself, but thank you for wishing to help.”

“You love your Wickie,” Miss Snyder said. “Nobody should be insulted by that. Which brush would you like to use?”

Problem solved, Jacaranda repaired to her sitting room, intent on regaining her own balance, with herself, by herself. Alas, Mr. Reilly, the land steward, patrolled the door to her parlor, a relieved smile blooming on his face when he spotted her.

“Our dear Mrs. Wyeth! There you are, and how are you on this fine day?”

Subtlety was not Reilly’s forte, but he was good-hearted, if timorous. The middle of the month would soon be upon them, the master was in residence, and Reilly wasn’t about to forgo his monthly cup of tea.

“I am fine, sir, and you?”

“Ready to spend an hour with a gentle lady,” he said, bowing slightly. “I don’t suppose you have a pot of tea on hand?”

“We’ll ring for a tray.” Like Mr. Simmons and half the footmen, Mr. Reilly indulged a sweet tooth at every opportunity. “How is Mrs. Reilly?”

He prattled on about his wife’s sister’s cousin’s something or other, then wandered around to discussing his various children, at least one of whom was the brightest scholar ever to go up to university, then tiptoed up to the topic of the day with all the stealth of William, the amazing draft sow.

“I suppose I’ll be handing my report to his lordship this month rather than entrusting it to the king’s post. Quite a change, quite a change. But a good change, a happy change, one might say.”

“Tempus fugit, Mr. Reilly.” Jacaranda was spared further polite blather by the arrival of the tea tray. She served her guest his usual: no milk, three sugars, and six tea cakes. When Mr. Reilly was enthusiastically ruining his dinner, she started the list for him.

“The Hendersons’ cottage roof is starting to leak in the front room, and the Porters’ oldest son is making noises about going into London to look for work.”

“Is he now? The boy will need a character, and he’s a hard worker.”

“His mother is most anxious to think of him in London, when he’s never set foot from the shire before, but he’s a good man with a horse, and there are horses everywhere.”

“That he is.” Reilly held his cup out for another serving, for demolishing tea cakes at such a great rate was thirsty work. “Any other little details you’d like me to include?”

She went on, recounting progress made by the tenants on various projects and needs foreseeable in the upcoming month. Early summer was a lovely time of year, when the crops were ripening, the weather mild, and a thousand pesky repairs and put-off projects could be tended to if one were diligent and organized.

Reilly’s pencil and paper were out before she’d finished her list, as they usually were. He always thanked her for noting a few trivialities he’d missed and made noises about a woman’s eye being sharper about certain things. Then he showed up a month later, smiling, inhaling cakes and biscuits, and reducing ten flooded acres of barley to a triviality.

Jacaranda didn’t mind, really. An estate prospered when the senior staff were congenial and cooperative, and she was out and about with the tenants more than Reilly was. Her successor would be apprised of how things went on, and Trysting would continue to prosper.

Yolanda tapped on the door not two sips after Reilly had left.

“Come in, Yolanda.” Jacaranda peered into her teapot. “I can offer you a cup, if you’re of a mind.”

“No tea, thank you.” She advanced into the room, looking about with obvious curiosity. “Your sitting room is lovely.”

“My retreat, at least it feels that way.” Or had felt that way. “What can I do for you?”

“I wanted to ask if I could move to a different room.”

“Of course, but is the bed not to your liking?”

“The bed is quite acceptable, but I’m five doors down from Avery, and I noticed the room across the hall from hers isn’t occupied.” She wandered around the parlor, inspecting much, touching nothing. She did lean in to sniff the white roses in a crystal vase by the window.

Her brother sniffed bouquets in the same manner.

“I can have you moved before tonight.” Jacaranda rose, giving up on her tea. “If your current room is lacking in some regard, I’d rather know about it.”

“Avery has nightmares,” Yolanda said. “Mrs. Hartwick sleeps down the hall and has poor hearing, or she’s unwilling to answer when Avery taps on her door at night. If Avery knows I’m right across the hall, she might rest easier.”

“She’s had a trying start in life, what with losing her parents. What shall I tell your brother regarding this change of venue for you?” Jacaranda gave her roses a drink from the pitcher on the mantel, and wondered if Yolanda might enjoy wearing a touch of rose-water scent. Young ladies could be shy about such things.

She certainly had been.

Yolanda paused before a piece of framed cutwork near the door. “Do you have to tell Worth anything?”

“He strikes me as the sort of fellow who will notice.” He’d notice if his sister adopted a fragrance, too, more evidence that he leaned in the direction of being a good brother. “He doesn’t hole up in the estate office, or spend the day riding out with his steward and his hounds. He’s restless, I think, and unpredictable.”

Yolanda paced off to study a miniature of Jacaranda’s mother, a cheerful, competent woman who’d stood nearly six feet tall.

“My brother Hess said Worth has always been prodigal, a vagabond. How can he say that when Worth left home at age seventeen and has been well established in London since finishing at university?”

“Siblings sometimes see each other more clearly than anybody else.” Though sometimes siblings were blind. “When will you be available for a tour of the house?”

Yolanda went back to studying the cutwork, a project Jacaranda had taken on when Daisy had become engaged, and snipping something nearly to bits had appealed strongly.

“Me? Why would I tour the house?”

“You are the closest thing your brother has to a hostess here. Some girls your age are married and presiding over their own homes, children on the way. I’d be remiss in my duties if I didn’t at some point show you about the place.”

“Avery will want to come.”

The words held such a mix of resignation and resentment, Jacaranda smiled. How many times had she felt the same way about Daisy? Dear, little, innocent, bothersome, pesky, adorable Daisy.

“Avery will play with the Hendersons’ boys some fine morning later this week, and she will adore their riding pig.”

“A riding pig?”

“For small children, the beast is quite impressive, and we can use that time for more mature pursuits.” Though Mr. Kettering had made a lovely fuss over William, too—perhaps because the pig was female?

“Good heavens, a riding pig. Well, yes, a tour of the house sounds preferable, if more sedate. Shall we say the next sunny morning?”

“We shall, and Mrs. Hartwick and Miss Snyder will be grateful for a break, I’m sure.”

“They will.” Yolanda’s smile was dazzling, a more innocent version of her older brother’s. “I wanted to ask you something.”

Jacaranda made a mental note to regard any smiling Kettering with caution. “Please do ask.”

“We’re to take supper en famille, with Wickie, Miss Snyder, Worth, Avery and myself all together. Will you join us?”

Jacaranda hadn’t seen this coming and could barely stand the expectation in Yolanda’s blue eyes. “Join you?”

“Avery is comfortable with her precious Uncle Worth, but I hardly want to spend the entire meal hearing about French mice or German mice, for that matter. Wickie and Miss Snyder are both in awe of Worth because he’s quite…well, he’s different from their usual fare. They didn’t exactly put me up to asking, but they noted you seem to deal with him comfortably.”

A little too comfortably, at least in the midst of rainstorms. “What about you, Yolanda? Does the prospect of dinner conversation with your brother loom uncomfortably for you?”

“I’ve known him less than ten days,” Yolanda said, sounding both annoyed and perplexed. “And yet we have the same laugh, the same sibling, the same niece. He got me out of that awful school the first time he was asked, which is more than I can say for our benighted brother the earl. I don’t know Worth well, but I have an opportunity to change that now, so yes, dinners with him will be important to me.”

She had her brother’s careful diction, his rational mind, and his ability to mask true emotion behind an articulate façade. On a young girl, those abilities struck Jacaranda as a little sad.

“I’ll join you, provided your brother doesn’t object to eating with the help,” Jacaranda said. “For the first week, anyway, and then we’ll see how it goes.”

“Oh, thank you!” She fired off another one of those dazzling smiles, threw her arms around Jacaranda’s neck in an exuberant squeeze, then whirled and disappeared, all in the same instant.

While Jacaranda wondered firstly what she’d got herself into, and secondly, how Worth Kettering was brother to an earl and not one of his staff or his tenants seemed to know it.

* * *

GREY WAS A DUTIFUL BOY in some regards, also stubborn. Francine resolved to be more stubborn still.

“You must put a stop to Jacaranda’s latest nonsense,” she said. She’d chosen her moment well, catching him in the propagation house, where few of the servants and none of the siblings would venture without his permission.

“Good day, your ladyship.” He didn’t so much as glance up from the plant on the table before him, didn’t offer her a bow or a smile. “If you’d give me a moment.”

She’d given him years, and had he so much as bothered to set a handsome foot in the London ballrooms? No, he had not. He remained bent over his plant, some sort of knife in his hand and a smock—a servant’s smock—tied about his person.

“The matter is urgent, sir, or I would not endure the heat and stench you seem to think your precious roses need.”

How much coin was spent keeping this glass house heated in winter? Paying for gardeners they could ill afford?

He sliced at one branch, affixed it to the stem of the plant standing in a pot on the wooden table, and held the two together.

“If you could pass me that length of twine?”

She snatched up a piece of string about a foot long and flung it at him.

“The fate of this family’s good name hangs in the balance, and you’re playing in the dirt. What would your father say?”

He finished tying the two plants together with a small, symmetric bow. “He’d say, ‘Good luck with the grafting, because the crosses aren’t amounting to anything.’”

“Your sister is courting ruin. What will your roses matter when none of you can find wives because of Jacaranda’s foolishness?”

His gaze lingered on the rose bush, and for a moment, Francine missed her late husband. He’d gazed at his roses in the same besotted fashion, and occasionally at her, too.

“Jacaranda is not foolish. Of all my siblings, she’s the least foolish, and we’re none of us looking for wives.”

The very problem. Until one of the boys married, and married well, Francine was doomed to dwell in poverty, in a house of chaos, noise, and social obscurity—but no longer. Jacaranda would come home, the boys would be married off, the finances would prosper, and all would be well.

“You should be looking for wives. If you boys would do your duty, this family’s fortunes would come right. You and Will have had plenty long enough to sow wild oats, or graft roses, or whatever it is young men do. If you won’t marry, then you must at least snatch your sister from the jaws of scandal.”

She drew herself up, intending to punctuate her scold with a sniff, but a sneeze caught her instead. Before she could extract a handkerchief from her bodice, Grey waved his at her.

“I notice you do not commend your own sons into the arms of the waiting heiresses.”

His handkerchief smelled of the humid, dirty environs of the propagation house, which meant it bore the same scent Francine’s late husband had often sported. She folded the handkerchief rather than return it to its owner.

“Do you know for whom your sister keeps house?”

“I know where she keeps house—a great rambling country house in Surrey, one the owner has benignly neglected for years. He’s a single fellow, reported to have some coin, and Jacaranda has consistently maintained that she enjoys her duties.”

Jacaranda’s ability to run a regiment with a feather duster in one hand and a list in the other was exactly why she must be brought home.

“He’s a single fellow, all right, and not much older than you. A bachelor supposedly raising a little niece who’s half-French.”

Grey took up a broom sized for the hearth and began sweeping the dirt on the table into a small pile in the center.

“This is not news, Step-Mama. I made some inquiries years ago. I myself have a niece. I wasn’t aware this condemned a man to a housekeeper-less existence.”

“The child must be his by-blow, and now it’s said he’s collected an illegitimate half-sister from boarding school.”

He swept the dirt off the side of the table, into a dustbin from which dead rose branches protruded. “Many a duke has provided for his by-blows. I’d think less of the man if he sent this sister into service when he has the means to provide for her.”

Grey had read law, and it had addled his brain. Either that, or he was wallowing in guilt for having permitted Jacaranda’s queer start five years ago.

“Jacaranda’s employer is no duke, and her place is here, with her family.”

“It is,” Grey said, setting the rubbish aside. “I write to her every month and remind her of that, but when I cannot afford to dower her, when she has no interest in marriage, and when her own sister is raising up babies on our very doorstep, Dorset might not be the happiest place for Jacaranda. She has promised to come home, you know.”

She’d always promised to come home, then left her own dear step-mama to contend with more unruly young men than any one lady’s nerves could tolerate.

“Her employer has removed to Surrey with his unsavory relations, sir. Do you think Jacaranda’s reputation will not suffer?” The innuendo in Herodia Bellamy’s letter had been unmistakable. “Jacaranda will be lucky to return with her virtue intact.”

Grey untied his smock and hung it on a nail. Next he’d stride off on some errand known only to him.

“If Jack’s employer attempts so much as an untoward smile in her direction, she’ll geld him. Jack deals well with men and their households.”

He at least sounded wistful. Francine took heart from that.

“She should be with family, and I’ve let you indulge her wayward notions long enough. You have until the end of summer to make her see reason, sir, or I’ll take matters into my own hands.”

He looked at his hands, which were large, elegant, and dirt-stained. “I’d advise you against anything foolish, Step-Mama. We muddle on well enough here without Jack, and she’s entitled to some happiness.”

Francine was entitled to some happiness. She was entitled to spend her summers in Bath, where Captain Mortimer spent his, where Baron Hathaway spent his, and half of Francine’s correspondents spent theirs.

She was entitled to a single week free of menus and feuding parlor maids and accountings—of which Jacaranda had been prodigiously fond. She was entitled to the occasional new gown, a riding mare of her own, a small equipage. So many things she was entitled to, but they all hinged on Jacaranda bringing order to the household so Francine could get her sons married off and her finances in order.

Running the empire had to be a simpler undertaking than managing a lot of overgrown boys and their muddy boots.

“I am never foolish,” Francine said, though she was growing desperate. Captain Mortimer spent altogether too much time with Penelope Shorewood, and Baron Hathaway had threatened to leave early for the grouse moors.

“You are never content,” Grey said, wiping his hands with a dingy towel. “Your sons love you, you have Daisy near at hand, her babies to dote on, and still, you can’t leave Jacaranda in peace. Haven’t you done enough to jeopardize her prospects?”

Stubborn—as stubborn as his father, his brothers, and his sisters.

“A girl with her limitations never had much in the way of prospects, but what little remains to her will vanish if her employer brings his London cronies to the country with him. You know what house parties can be like for the help.”

His lifted his jacket from the nail beside the one on which he’d hung his smock. “No, I do not know what house parties can be like for the help. My step-mother cannot bestir herself to organize a house party, though we have plenty of room, and such an event would be a simple way to introduce my brothers to any number of eager young beauties without incurring London expenses.”

Good God, he was serious. He expected her, Francine, to spend hours planning banquets and archery tournaments and picnics and gracious—

“My nerves are troubling me,” she said, heading for the door before Grey could abandon her to his weeds and mud. “I ask you to take a proper interest in your sister’s welfare, and you fail to act, as usual. What would your father say?”

That parting shot was low, but Francine had seen too many barons and captains and even squires resume marital bliss with her friends and correspondents. If Grey would not take action to bring Jacaranda home, then Francine would.

Chapter Five

JACARANDA HAD KNOWN DINNER WOULD be informal, because Avery was joining the adults, but Mr. Kettering hadn’t ventured an opinion regarding the most suitable dinner hour.

So she’d set the time herself.

He ventured opinions on other topics all throughout the meal. First, the issue was whether Yolanda should have a mount despite her refusal to ride out with her niece. Mr. Kettering allowed as how he couldn’t purchase only Avery a mount, or the girl would think she was being favored. Then the discussion turned to whether one should be allowed to eat dessert if one hadn’t eaten one’s vegetables.

While Wickie and Miss Snyder stoutly declared sweets should be saved as incentive to finish more nourishing food, Mr. Kettering, abetted by the young ladies, decided sweets should always be served to create a pleasant association with coming to the table generally, and children well fed enough to be eating sweets were hardly in danger of starving.

Jacaranda sipped her wine—a rare treat—and listened to the conversation without saying much. The food was good and the company congenial, but her day had been long. When the fruit and cheese were removed, she realized the entire table was waiting for her to signal the end of the meal, almost as if she were—

Well.

She rose, her chair drawn back by Mr. Kettering. He thanked Wickie and Miss Snyder for the company, kissed Yolanda and Avery on the forehead, and wished them all pleasant dreams. Jacaranda had slipped in behind the children to make her escape when a large, male hand landed on her arm.

“A word with you, Wyeth, though I don’t suppose I should be calling you plain Wyeth now that we’re dinner companions.”

“I am plain Wyeth,” she said, frowning pointedly at his hand. “What did you wish to discuss?”

“I wished to invite you for a stroll in the garden,” he replied, leaving his hand exactly where it was. “The last of the light remains, and I’d like to air a certain topic where nobody can overhear us.”

That sounded sufficiently ominous that Jacaranda let him usher her from the room.

“You won’t need a shawl?”

“Our stroll will be brief.” Then too, her escort had a penchant for lending her his jacket.

His lips quirked up, though he said nothing, and then Jacaranda was on the back terrace, her hand wrapped around his forearm.

“You will give my compliments to the kitchen,” he said as they perambulated across the flagstones. “Dinner was excellent and the menu such that both Avery and I found much to enjoy. Please tell Simmons the wines were well chosen, too.”

“I will pass your praises along.” Of course, she’d chosen the menu and the wines. Still, his appreciation lit a small flame of pleasure in the place inside her that sought notice, a pat on the back every once in a blue moon.

“Let’s move away from the house. I do not want an audience.”

“This sounds serious.”

“Not serious, but sensitive. Or maybe I’m sensitive.”

Many people assumed—wrongly—that size and sturdy physique precluded sensitivity. She’d been at risk of making the same error where Mr. Kettering was concerned.

How lowering.

He walked along beside Jacaranda in the fading light, and to her, he looked as tired as she felt. When they’d returned from their outing to the Hendersons, he’d disappeared into the library with a morocco leather satchel and not come out until they’d sat down to dinner.

A groom had been dispatched to Town with a pile of documents, with the expectation that the full moon would allow the entire journey before the man saw his bed.

“Shall we sit?” Mr. Kettering gestured to a folly several yards off the garden path. Jacaranda knew it well, because the folly was one place she could escape to on those rare, lazy afternoons when she had a few hours to read, or nap, or write a letter or two. Afternoons when the owner of the house and his family were properly ensconced in London.

Where they belonged.

“Cushions in my gazebo? What a decadent fellow I am.”

She sat, and he took the place immediately beside her.

“I’m trying to guess how you’d broach this topic, Wyeth, and I think you’d plunge in, no shilly-shallying, no dithering. I have an older brother.”

“A blessing, usually, to have a sibling.”

“Usually,” he said, resting his arm along the bench behind them. “This brother is a fellow of some consequence, or so he thinks. We are not, as the saying goes, close.”

“I am sorry to hear it.”

“He and I are sorry as well, or so I think in my more charitable moments. I stormed away from the family seat as a hotheaded young idiot, and we haven’t had much to say to each other since.”

“These things happen in the best of families.” Had nearly happened in her own.

“We need to get over it. I lost one sister to the idiot French and their inability to police their own streets. Hess lost the same sister, and yet…”

“Yet?”

“He and I lost each other long before Moira died. We can’t do anything about her death, but we have Avery and we have each other. He didn’t even tell me about Yolanda. I learned of her from the school, when they couldn’t reach Hess and needed to expel her somewhere safe.”

This was news. “She was sent down?”

“Don’t suppose I mentioned that, did I? I don’t have all the details, but I will be damned if I’ll let another sister of mine fight battles she’s too young and innocent to fight alone.”

Not a one of Jacaranda’s seven brothers had ever adopted that fierce, determined tone where she was concerned.

“Yolanda was fighting battles at school?”

He made a gesture Jacaranda recognized as a sign that he was fatigued, rubbing his hand over his face, top to bottom.

“Have you noticed she always wears long sleeves?”

“I had not. In a girl her age, that would be unusual this time of year.” Also uncomfortable, given the heat.

“Look at her left wrist. The old besom from whom I collected her intimated that Yolanda tried to take her own life. I cannot believe this, but neither have I found a way to talk to my own sister about such a demented notion.”

“You don’t expect me to have that talk, do you?” She was surprised her voice was steady, for these revelations were shocking—and sad.

“If I thought you could, I’d try to foist it off on you, because I hardly have the knack of being brother to an adolescent female, but no. When Yolanda and I know each other better, I hope she’ll trust me with her confidences.”

He wanted his sister’s trust. If Jacaranda hadn’t respected him previously, she’d respect him for that alone.

“You’re wise not to force the matter,” Jacaranda said, though complimenting him felt awkward. “She strikes me as having a full allotment of Kettering stubbornness.”

He sat back, his arm still resting along the bench behind her. “Which raises the earlier topic. My brother will pay us a visit sometime in the next few weeks, and at my invitation.”

“We’ve plenty of room, and the house is in good trim. I wish you’d let me know the dates of his visit, though. Certain of the staff have been given holidays to see family and the like.”

“Isn’t that Simmons’s business?”

“We cooperate, with the maids and footmen, the laundresses and grooms, so we’re never too short-staffed in any one regard.”

“Hessian is only one person,” Mr. Kettering said. “He shouldn’t be too inconvenient, though he’ll doubtless travel by private coach, so that means grooms, a valet, a secretary, a coachman, and an outrider or two. He’ll likely bring a second coach, so the help won’t violate his privacy en route.”

“So I should expect his lordship and eight to twelve other mouths to feed?”

“Everlasting powers.” He rose, taking his warmth from her side. “He’ll expect the state chambers, because the man bears a title.”

“Was that the hard part?”

He stood on the other side of the gazebo, facing out across gardens all but shrouded in darkness. “I beg your pardon, Wyeth?”

“Admitting your brother has a title. Was that difficult?”

“Must you?”

“We are having this discussion where there’s no possibility of being overheard,” she said. “By your design. You and this brother do not speak, and yet you want me to ensure his visit is in every way comfortable.”

“Of course I do.” He turned to face her, but the moon wasn’t up yet, and the sun had fled. In the gathering shadows, Jacaranda couldn’t see anything of his expression.

“You aren’t commanding his comfort simply as conscientious host, though.”

“Wyeth, you are a managing damned female if ever there was one. Hess and I are distant for very good reasons. In hindsight, he did me a favor, and himself a disservice, but it lies between us, a great gaping awkwardness that arose before I’d even reached my majority.”

“Will his countess accompany him?”

He abruptly gave her his back and resumed studying the garden. “She’s dead, has been for five years.”

Nothing in his voice gave away any emotion, but something about the lack of emotion spoke volumes.

“You were in love with her.”

“You are beyond overstepping.”

“I am observing a truth.” One that raised as many questions as it answered, none of them happy.

“I was seventeen years old and callow as only a young man can be, though the young lady and I had an understanding. My brother dangled his title before her, and she fell out of love with me post-haste, so I obligingly did the same regarding her. That is as much explanation as you will have from me, and we will not discuss this again.”

His voice had taken on a chilly, flat quality, and Jacaranda wished she’d brought a shawl after all. What sort of young lady could have fallen out of love with Worth Kettering, even in his most callow incarnation?

“Here.” His coat, redolent with his scent and his warmth, dropped over her shoulders. He snugged it around her, then resumed his place beside her. “Youthful follies have a particularly potent ability to make one feel like a flaming idiot even years later.”

Idiot folly was not entirely the province of youth, though Jacaranda had indulged in her share. She ought not to enjoy the warmth and luxury of his coat, or its scent, but she was making a bad habit of it.

“You are extending an olive branch to your brother now.” Or was the overture more in the direction of Mr. Kettering’s youthful self?

“I don’t know about an olive branch.” He ranged an arm along the top of the padded bench again. Jacaranda had been hoping he’d do that. “Yolanda will have to be launched in some fashion, even though she’s a by-blow. She’ll need to snare a fellow, need a settlement, and her brothers must put aside their petty squabbles for her sake.”

“Right.”

“Wyeth… Jacaranda…”

“Hush.” She kept her eyes on the part of the far horizon glowing faintly with the promise of moonrise. “I have many siblings. Do you think I am in great charity with all of them?”

“Yes. You wouldn’t countenance anything less, particularly from the males.”

“I was seventeen once, too.” Twenty even. Twenty, plain, too tall and more lonely than she’d even known. “My oldest brother is not at all happy that I choose to remain in service. None of my brothers are. My step-mother is nearly hysterical in her demands that I return home.” Though Jacaranda’s continued absence didn’t seem to bother Daisy.

“And you have a deal of brothers. You must have been very foolish, to need to defy them all so badly.”

Perceptive man. “I was almost foolish, which amounts to the same thing.”

“This involved a toothsome swain, I take it?”

She remained silent, and in that silence, she forged an understanding with her employer, something in the nature of a truce, but with a dash more compassion to it.

“Men are the very devil.” His arm came around her shoulders in a friendly squeeze, but then it stayed there and became half an embrace.

Jacaranda should stand up, remark the lateness of the hour, or suggest it was time to get back to the house. She knew she should, but the moon was rising, and she’d never in her more than twenty-five years watched a moonrise with a man’s arm around her shoulders.

Mr. Kettering seemed lonely, too. A bit lost, even.

The first sliver of incandescent moon lipped up over the horizon, and Jacaranda marshaled her resolve to leave.

“Don’t.” Mr. Kettering slipped his hand into hers. “Not yet.”

She subsided, letting herself have more of his warmth, not at all sure what was transpiring between them save a shared moonrise. She let her head fall to his shoulder and felt his hand stroking over her hair, once, twice.

She closed her eyes, the better to savor the sensations, the soft night air with a hint of cool, the silvery moonshine spilling over the gardens, the warmth and scent of the man beside her, and the simple pleasure of sharing a few moments with someone who’d also once been young and foolish.

When the moon was well up, Mr. Kettering drew her to her feet, but kept that arm across her shoulders as they wandered to the house. When they reached the back terrace, he stopped, kissed her forehead, and opened the door for her, then bowed, turned, and walked back the way they’d come, until Jacaranda could no longer see him for the shifting moon shadows.

* * *

MR. KETTERING WASN’T AT BREAKFAST the next morning, much to Jacaranda’s relief.

He’d been companionable, that was all. No man in his right mind would make overtures by moonlight to an oversized spinster housekeeper.

She didn’t have to inquire regarding his whereabouts, because he’d left a note by her place at the table.

Mrs. Wyeth,

I’ve taken my pony for a gallop and will inspect the home farm with Mr. Reilly this morning. You may impress me into exactly one tenant call after luncheon. If you would please draft notes for one neighbor call per weekday thereafter, I would appreciate it. We can discuss the children’s schedule when next I see you.

Yours respectfully,

Kettering

Respectfully.

She pondered that single word while she inventoried the linens set aside for the state chambers. Each of the earl’s dozen or so servants would require lodging, and the valet and secretary would expect modest guest rooms with a footman between them at least. Then came the discussion with Cook, who was equal parts pleased and dismayed at the thought of so many more mouths to feed, particularly when one of those sported a title.

“They are no different from you or me, Cook,” Jacaranda warned her. “They eat when they’re hungry, they sleep when they’re tired, or they should.”

Though they tended to drink a fair bit, in Jacaranda’s experience, and sometimes to impose on the chambermaids.

“If you say so, Mrs. W, but I don’t suppose you’d be willing to look over the menus in advance?”

“I suppose I would, because we don’t know when this relation of the Ketterings’ is descending. You’ll want to stock up now, and I will approve the expenses.”

She made her regular inspection then, finding the new chambermaid had neglected to open the drapes in the downstairs parlor, and the downstairs footmen were taking rather too long to clean the glass lamps in the corridor sconces. She informed them exactly when the new girl would take her break—the young lady seemed canny enough—and tracked Simmons down to his favorite place to nap, the butler’s pantry.

He went into transports to think the master of the household was having company, and titled company, and when Jacaranda left him, he was for the first time in her memory counting the silver she’d counted once a month for five years.

Her stomach was rumbling as she climbed to the third floor to check on Yolanda’s new room. She found Avery with her aunt, both girls holding hands in the middle of the room.

“You start slowly, so you can learn to move the same time I do,” Avery was saying. “Now, with me. Step, behind, step, kick. Again, step, behind, step, kick.”

Yolanda dropped her niece’s hand. “Hello, Mrs. Wyeth. Avery is teaching me a dance.”

“Not one you’ll need in any ballroom, I take it?”

Avery grinned and executed a lovely pirouette in arabesque. “Not for the ballrooms. Uncle’s opera dancers teach me their dances while we wait for him in the kitchen.”

“His—!” Jacaranda shut her mouth with a snap. “Yolanda, is your room more to your liking?”

“Very much.” Yolanda smiled back at her, as if Uncle entertaining opera dancers—plural—wasn’t a scandalous situation for a small child to know of—for any child to know of. “I can see the drive and the stables and side terrace. Trysting is really a lovely house. I’m surprised Worth doesn’t spend more time here.”

Jacaranda’s surprise was easily contained. The wilds of Surrey suffered a paucity of opera dancers, after all.

Opera dancers. Plural. In the kitchen. Teaching Avery scandalous dances.

Angels abide.

“Luncheon should be ready, so you’ll want to freshen up.” Jacaranda left them, step, behind, step, kicking amid a flurry of giggles, and knew the need to strangle her employer.

Men had urges over which they exercised not one bit more control than they had to. Jacaranda knew this.

“No better than they should be, the sorry lot of them,” she muttered as she careened around a corner and ran into the principal author of her distress.

“You!”

“Me?”

“Mr. Kettering, you will excuse me.” She leveled her most righteous glare at him and tacked left to circumnavigate him, but he stepped back and cut her off with his sheer, bodily presence.

“No, Mrs. Wyeth, I will not excuse you when you’re clearly in a temper.” His fingers manacled her wrist, and just that touch, warm, strong, and altogether male, made her temper snap its leash.

“I detest no man more than he who takes advantage of female innocence. You destroy something that can never be replaced, never repaired. Innocence doesn’t become merely wrinkled or tarnished, it’s gone forever. You leave in its place betrayal and a sorry knowledge no lady should have to bear.”

“What are you going on about?”

“Step, behind, step, kick.” She wrenched her wrist from his and would have flounced off, except he snatched her wrist again and pulled her into an empty bedroom, kicking the door closed behind them.

“Explain yourself, Wyeth. You aren’t a woman who flies into a taking easily, so I’m doing you the courtesy of hearing you out.”

He stood between her and the door, fists on his hips, and in the ensuing silence, Jacaranda realized anew that her employer was one of few people on the face of the earth who might have no trouble physically subduing her.

He was large enough, strong enough, and sufficiently unconstrained by manners when it suited him.

“Your light-skirts are teaching Avery indecent dances in your kitchen.”

He locked the door, then stalked over to peer down at her. “Is it the location of the dancing, the nature of it, or the nature of the instructors you object to?”

“She’s a little girl! Her mother would have wanted you to protect her from such influences, not parade them and their unfortunate morals before the child.”

“You think so?”

“I know so,” Jacaranda shot back. “Those women cannot help their circumstances, I know that, too, but if you intend to prey on them, can’t you at least do it where Avery has no knowledge of it? Gentlemen are expected to exercise discretion even when they can’t exercise control.”

“You have a very bad opinion of men, don’t you?” His tone was curious, and he was standing entirely too close. “For example, if I kissed you right now, you’d wallop me at the least and probably ban me from my own house. I adore a ferocious woman.”

“You seek to turn the subject, and crudely. Avery should not be exposed to your debaucheries.” If I kissed you? Despite Jacaranda’s considerable anger at the man before her, her gaze dropped to his mouth. Damn him to Hades, it was a beautiful mouth, even when it wasn’t turned up in that faint smile.

“Come sit with me, and I will explain to you what transpires in my London household. As a courtesy, mind you, because you’re concerned for the child, not because you’re entitled to explanations. One must always be mindful of setting unfortunate precedents.”

When she didn’t move, he took her hand and led her to a window bench. The cushion could accommodate them both—barely.

“Avery likes the opera dancers, you see.” He kept her hand in his and drew his fingers over her palm. He had an ink stain on his right cuff—ink was the very devil to get out—and his touch was mesmerizing, soothing and arousing at once.

Arousing?

“Avery likes the dancers, or you do?”

“We both do. Moira went to Paris to study art during the Peace of Amiens, and then remained, against my judgment and Hess’s. Nobody wanted her there, but I suspect she was enamored of Avery’s father and unwilling to come home. Then she was unable to come home, and I didn’t become aware of Avery’s existence until the False Peace.”

“I know the French are not as judgmental regarding their diversions, but the child is in England.”

“She is.” He laced his fingers with hers, and Jacaranda bore it, because her employer was a man who liked to touch. He touched his niece and his sister, he patted Wickie on the shoulder, and he put his arm around his housekeeper in the moonlight.

He also entertained opera dancers in his very home. She tried to withdraw her hand.

“You will hear me out, Wyeth, because I will not repeat this tale. Moira’s artistic aspirations came to naught, and when Avery’s father died, Moira eventually supported herself at the opera comique, if what Avery tells me is accurate. The dancers remind Avery of happy times with her mother. I gather the child became some sort of backstage mascot. I have an opera dancer to thank for the fact Avery arrived safely to these shores.”

“You justify your choice of paramour on this basis? Your lapse of discretion?”

“Do you imagine opera dancers don’t age, Mrs. Wyeth? Do you imagine they don’t fall sick or suffer injury? You can turn your ankle and put it up with ice and arnica for a fortnight if you need to, but if they twist their ankles, they don’t eat.”

“For God’s sake, you don’t expect me to believe you paw these women out of charitable impulses?”

“I do not paw women, not any women, ever. If you must know, I handle investments for my opera dancers, you fire-breathing little besom.”

And then he kissed her.

He settled his lips on hers, gently, so gently, while his hand came up to caress her jaw, then her hair, then to rest softly on her throat, so his thumb could brush over her cheek. His touch was sunbeam-light, warm as a breeze, and left wicked, wicked pleasure drizzling over her skin and into her mind. His mouth treasured hers, parting so his tongue could tease and taste and coax at her lips. When he eased away, Jacaranda’s own mouth was parted, and her wits—and her indignation—had deserted her utterly.

“The opera dancers won’t come to my office in Mayfair,” he said, dropping his hand. “We meet in my kitchen, instead, where I can insist they eat some decent food, and my footmen can see them safely home. I do not paw them, though they’re a great deal more honest about their willingness to be pawed—and do some pawing of their own—than their so-called betters. I’ll see you after luncheon.”

He rose and left. Jacaranda stared after him, unseeing, her hand cradling her jaw while she stifled an unaccountable urge to cry.

* * *

WYETH’S KISS WAS A PUZZLE, and Worth spent most of his solitary luncheon in the library trying to decipher it when he should have been reading quarterly earnings statements.

She wasn’t a virgin with regard to kissing; he’d bet his honor on that. She’d been startled to find herself lip to lip with him, but then she’d been curious, and then she’d been interested, and then she’d been…interesting.

One kiss was obviously not enough. He must needs kiss her again, to see if that cool, cautious curiosity could be made to burn out of control. He would parse the taste of her down to something describable, not merely “lovely” or “delicious” or “womanly.”

Then there was the sound of kissing her. That soft indrawn breath of surprise, the sigh of acceptance, the hungry little moans in the back of her throat, the rustle and slide of her gown against his breeches, the almost-groan when she opened her mouth for him.

This great feast of the senses that was kissing her, he’d have it again. They would have it again, because if ever there was a woman from whom “no” meant “Absolutely Not Ever,” it was Jacaranda Wyeth, and not even her mouth had said no.

Her kiss—her very body—had said yes.

How long would it take for her mind to realize that?

* * *

THE WEEK WENT FLYING BY for Jacaranda. She was dragooned into the tenant calls after lunch, and worse, into calls on neighbors. Mr. Kettering was as stealthy about his tactics as a drunken draft sow.

“Doesn’t the Damus holding lie between the Tarmans’ farm and Trysting?”

“Why don’t we nip in and say hello to the…Stevens? No, Steppins?”

“That’s Squire Brent’s place, isn’t it? I think Goliath could use a drink.”

And there she’d be, smiling and curtsying to the Damuses, the Steppins, and the Brents—and their myriad daughters.

“You are a fraud, Mr. Worth Kettering.” They were returning from a call on the Wilders, who were tenants of longstanding, and the Kerstings, local gentry whom Jacaranda knew mostly from market and churchyard pleasantries, though she could hardly keep straight the names of their four daughters—the twins were not identical, thank God.

“Fraud is a serious offense.” He steered Goliath around a turn in the lane. “In what regard do I stand accused?”

“You are afraid of young ladies.”

“Flat terrified. Will you take the reins for a moment?”

He handed her the ribbons before she could protest, and then she had to sidle closer to the middle of the seat in fairness to the horse.

“They can’t truss you up and drag you to the altar,” Jacaranda said. “This horse has a lovely mouth.”

“So do you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your mouth is lovely, when you aren’t pinching up your lips to scold a defenseless single man for his perfectly understandable fears. The young girls can’t tie me up, but they can waylay me in the rose arbor, or stumble against my person in the garden, feel faint as we’re dancing at the local assembly. They know how to set tongues wagging, and many a man has been ruined for less.”

“You account yourself irresistible.” She didn’t bother keeping incredulity from her tone.

“I account a net worth of several hundred thousand and climbing irresistible.”

“Boasting of such a thing is vulgar.” They tooled along in silence for about a quarter mile. “Vulgar, but impressive.”

In truth, he’d been complaining more than boasting. Another quarter mile went by, and Jacaranda began to relax, because Goliath was as steady as he was magnificent.

“Is that why the opera dancers trust you? You’ve made yourself wealthy, so they conclude you can help them?”

“I don’t know why, but it’s like that story of the widow’s mite. Those ladies trust me with what little they have, and I will be God-damned if I’ll let it come to harm. The lordlings trying to stretch their quarterly allowance so they can gamble deeper and wench away every night don’t seem nearly as worthy of my attention.”

“Robin Hood, then, with a dash of arrogance thrown in.”

“Where have you put your mite, Wyeth?”

He might have been sliding a hand up her thigh, so silky and intimate was his tone. The topic of her hard-earned coin was in some ways more personal than, well, kissing.

Some ways.

He wasn’t teasing, not about her money. So while he pretended to study the barley fields ripening around them, Jacaranda told him which investment projects had some of her coin, which funds a little more, which ones she’d discarded as poorly managed or too speculative.

“Prudent choices, though if you diversified more, you might see a faster gain with only a slight increase in risk.” He went on to suggest a modest revision to her investment strategy, and before Jacaranda knew it, they were approaching the covered bridge.

“Pull him up,” Mr. Kettering said. “He’s been tooling around like a good lad. He’ll appreciate a chance to blow in the shade.”

“You’re not about to kiss me again, are you?”

Because it would be like him to lull her into lowering her guard with talk of funds and interest and projects, then ambush her with another one of those lovely, devastating kisses.

“Kiss you? Why, Mrs. Wyeth, for shame, and me such a virtuous lad and quite timorous where the ladies are concerned.”

He popped out of the gig and came around to hand her down, except when Jacaranda gained her feet, he cupped her elbows and stood entirely too close.

“Would you like me to kiss you?” His eyes were grave, not a hint of humor in them, and his scent came wafting to her on a warm summer breeze. “Don’t answer me with words, Wyeth.”

He dipped his head, and then he was kissing her again, but this kiss was different. The first time he’d kissed her, he’d been making a point. She still wasn’t sure what exactly his point had been, something about her judgmental nature and how much he missed his sister, probably.

This kiss was about mouths, and bodies, and the unholy pleasure of being caught up against his solid, muscular length on a soft summer day. His mouth moved over hers as deftly as an artist’s brush, leaving hues of longing and unnamable sensations in its wake. He worked his kissing slowly, a seductive gentleness to every touch, even as he held her more firmly to him.

Jacaranda tucked up as close to Mr. Kettering as she could get, going up on her toes despite the warnings clamoring forth from her common sense. Those warnings weren’t a matter of conscience, or morals—she was indulging in a mere kiss, and in more-or-less private—what was imperiled was her very survival.

Somehow, though, survival did not weigh in on the side of storming away in high dudgeon. Survival had nothing to do with indignation, but had everything to do with clinging to the man whose tongue was probing along her lips in delicate entreaty.

“You’re too good at this,” she said against his teeth.

“We’re good at this, and we’re barely getting started.”

His one arm went around her shoulders, while the other settled low across her back, anchoring her more snugly and angling her so he could get a hand on her derriere and his mouth back where it belonged. He didn’t clutch at her, though, he secured her so she could kiss him back without having to worry about remaining on her own two feet.

He tasted good. Like spearmint and heat, and he had the knack of asking permission with his mouth, of inviting with his tongue, and assuring with his big body. She could kiss him for a long, long—

“Mr. Kettering, what are you doing?”

He’d scooped her up and hefted her to sit on the bridge railing, bringing the sound of rushing water closer, which was somehow appropriate.

“I’m experimenting. Such an important matter wants a bit of science.”

Then his mouth was back, but Jacaranda sat a shade higher than she’d stood, so she could wrap her arms around his magnificent shoulders and sink her hands into his dark, silky hair. Then he wedged himself between her knees, and oh, it felt imperative that she bring at least one leg around his hips and show him exactly—

He broke the kiss and captured one of her hands. “We’re at risk for indiscreet behavior, my dear. This is a public thoroughfare.”

She dropped her forehead to his shoulder while he took that hand of hers and stroked it over his falls.

Angels abide!

He was a generously proportioned man in a particular state of reproductive anticipation. His hand dropped away. Hers did not.

“Getting even, Wyeth?”

“Getting acquainted.” She shaped him carefully, telling herself this was the only occasion she’d be permitted to indulge her curiosity. She was tempted to linger, but he drew in a sharp breath near her ear.

“Did I hurt you, Mr. Kettering?”

He shifted his middle back a few inches. “You torment, but I don’t think you understand that. Did I hurt you?”

She lifted her head to frown at him, to fathom his meaning.

“You did not injure me, if that’s what you’re asking, though why such an inquiry is germane, I know not. This was a stolen kiss, and they are not, by reputation, painful.”

“Please don’t tell me this is your first stolen kiss.”

“Kisses have been stolen from me,” she said, considering him. “Not with me.” She lifted away from him, but had to keep a hand on his shoulder for balance.

“I’m to be your first in at least this?”

“It’s your height,” she said, turning her head to watch the water below.

“Let’s get you down, and you can explain that remark.”

She hopped off the railing, but his hands were anchored on her hips, and all over again, she endured the strange puddling of heat in her middle that his kiss—their kiss—had caused.

“Naughty woman.” He still wasn’t smiling, but he seemed pleased.

She turned her back to him to study the freshet below. Was she naughty?

“Shall we negotiate now?” He made himself comfortable beside her, elbows on the railing. “Or would you prefer to settle your nerves first?”

“Negotiate?” She rather enjoyed the present state of her nerves.

“Surely it hasn’t escaped your notice we’re suited to a certain type of liaison, Wyeth. I’d compensate you handsomely, enough that you could put off your housekeeping and go about in Town.” He watched the water, not her.

“Were it to our mutual liking,” he went on, “we could even move you into Town, though there’s no telling how long these things will last. I’m a decent protector, though it’s been quite a while since I took on the role. I’d see you got out, to the theatre, Vauxhall, the shops. Life can’t be work all the time, even for me. I suppose that’s rather the point, on my end.”

Inside, where Mr. Worth Kettering’s piercingly blue eyes would not bother to see, Jacaranda’s luncheon took to heaving disagreeably.

“No, thank you, Mr. Kettering. Shall we be on our way?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Kettering?” His brows knit, in consternation or indignation, she cared not which. “That was not a Mr. Kettering kiss, Wyeth.”

“And I am not a whore. Goliath is sufficiently rested, and I must see to your dinner preparations.”

“Not fair, Wyeth. I did not force you.”

“No, you did not, nor will you, ever. I rely on that remaining artifact of gentlemanly sensibility when I ask you to take me home now.”

“You’re not interested in at least hearing the numbers?”

“For God’s sake, I know you are a man, but I did not take you for a very stupid man. I am insulted, you dolt, not by your kiss, which was lovely, dear, sweet, and generous, but by the implication I would whore for another like it. I enjoyed it, I thank you for it, but I have no interest in your jewels or in being your fancy piece. Think of your opera dancers, Mr. Kettering.”

She climbed into the gig and sat, hands folded in her lap, forbidding herself to say more. He must have grasped the fundamental point, for he climbed in beside her.

“Shall I drive?” she asked.

He nodded, tersely, and she tried to make charitable allowances, for he was a man and one likely used to getting his way.

Several hundred thousand times over.

And yet, he sat beside her right up to the Trysting front door, silent, unreadable, and looking like he cared not one whit for the fact that a mere housekeeper was driving him around the countryside, and refusing his offer of protection.

* * *

HE’D BLUNDERED BADLY—AND WITH a woman.

Worth was comfortable making the occasional shaky investment, though less and less as his instincts and information-gathering skills had been perfected.

But with a woman…

He’d made two errors, in fact. At least two. The first was offering Jacaranda Wyeth a more or less permanent position as his mistress, when Worth had learned long ago that mistresses were a tricky lot. They became bored, and even jewels and outings weren’t enough to placate them. Eventually, they resorted to provoking his jealousy, or worse, trying to get with child. No matter their skill in bed, their beauty, their wit or other charms, he parted from them at that point, with stern admonitions to himself to choose more wisely.

Wisely had come to mean temporarily. He sought the short-term, and very short-term, and very, very short-term liaison, and everybody was happier all around.

So he’d blundered and undertaken a negotiation of terms for an extended liaison.

The heat of the moment accounted for that lapse, aided by Wyeth’s kisses, by her boldness, by her hand on his falls, getting acquainted.

Then the second, worse blunder. He’d offended the lady.

What had happened?

His housekeeper sailed into his house ahead of him, her skirts swishing. Her magnificent body had happened. Her lush, naughty mouth. Her common sense and quietly relentless compassion. Her sweet, summery scent, her phenomenal derriere, those perfect breasts, her heat, her hands…

Then that prim, hurt tone. Think of your opera dancers, Mr. Kettering.

He was on his horse and headed for London before the dinner bell sounded.

Chapter Six

JACARANDA WAS NOTHING IF NOT ruthlessly honest with herself, and thus she admitted she missed her employer. He’d taken a proper leave of the children, conferred briefly with Simmons, and then decamped.

She’d driven him off, perhaps with her kisses, more likely with her speeches about his jewels—angels abide!—and his money. A fine, upstanding speech at the time, but it did nothing to help her sleep at night. She took a few nocturnal swims, doubled her vigilance regarding her housekeeping duties, and prompted Simmons to new heights of fussing and clucking over his footmen.

All for naught.

She missed Worth Kettering. Missed the scent and feel of him standing too close to her, sitting too close beside her in the gig, sending her his silent “time to go” look when the neighbors’ daughters took to batting their eyes. She missed him presiding over the dinner table, teasing, entertaining, and gently chiding Avery for her manners. She missed the sound of his solid boot heels thumping along the corridors and missed his voice, bellowing for her when it was time to depart for their afternoon calls.

Missed kissing him and scolding him.

This missing was a bodily ache, different from the way she missed her siblings, or her home, or her departed parents.

All the while she inspected linens, made lists, drew up menus, and supervised the staff, she was aware of a sense of Worth Kettering’s eyes on her—or somebody’s eyes. The sense was strongest outside, when she took cuttings from the scent garden, or the color gardens, but it followed her into the house sometimes.

She wished her employer really had been that aged, diminutive cipher dithering away in the City. That would have been much easier.

Much.

But staying busy had long been her antidote for every ill, so she headed back up to the third floor. She’d yet to make her morning rounds there, and both girls were downcast at Mr. Kettering’s departure. She opened Avery’s door after a brisk knock, only to find Yolanda sprawled on a chaise with a book of Wordsworth’s poetry.

“Avery’s off to ride that pig, or fly a kite, or give the pig lessons in French,” Yolanda said.

“I’m so bored I almost joined her.”

“We haven’t toured the house yet. Would that alleviate your boredom?”

“Touring the house would at least get me off my backside.” Yolanda closed her book and rose. “Has the post come yet?”

“The post arrives by nine of the clock, if the stages are running on time,” Jacaranda said as they left the room. “He didn’t write today.”

How odd to have this small grief in common with a schoolgirl.

“Again.”

“You could write to him, or to your older brother.”

“To tell them what?” Yolanda stopped at the top of the steps. “I haven’t tried to kill myself lately?”

“Did you?” Jacaranda wanted to drag the girl a few steps back, but instead began their progress down the stairs. “Try to kill yourself?”

“No.” That was all, no explanation, no emphasis.

“Well, then, not much to write about there. You might tell your brother what Avery is getting up to.”

“Wickie will do that,” Yolanda said, moving down the stairs at Jacaranda’s side.

“She will do a version of it,” Jacaranda countered. “A version that leaves out pigs and probably emphasizes penmanship. Then too, you might ask your brother to retrieve fripperies or notions from London.”

This was really too bad of her. No man enjoyed trolling the ladies’ shops.

Though Mr. Kettering should have written to his sister.

“Retrieve fripperies such as?”

“You embroider beautifully,” Jacaranda said. “Have him pick up a particular shade of thread or a hard-to-find measure of hoop. Some sketching paper or special pencils.”

“So he won’t feel so badly for abandoning us here?”

“So you’ll have something to do.” So his sister would approve of him, even if his housekeeper could not.

Yolanda paused with her hand on the crouching-lion newel post at the foot of the steps. “He’ll think I’m glad to see the thread, or the hoop, or the lurid novel, not him.”

No, he would not. “He might pretend he’s that thick-headed. You’ll know better.”

“I should make a list.”

Such a Kettering, this one. “I frequently find a list useful. For example, while I don’t trespass in the kitchen, per se, I do keep track of the larder and the cook’s pantry.”

Daisy had had no interest in learning to run a household, and Jacaranda had learned not to expect her younger sister to share those tasks with her. Step-Mama had been more preoccupied with managing her offspring and her torrents of correspondence than with household details.

“There’s a great deal to know. The laundry and the medicinals alone take organization,” Yolanda said as they finished up in the still room some time later.

“A systematic approach is usually best.” Though how did one take a systematic approach to, say, Worth Kettering and his kisses and naughty propositions? “Labeling helps, unless the staff cannot read. If somebody comes to us without their letters, we teach them.”

Yolanda left off counting the jars arranged in alphabetical order on the shelves around them. “You teach them?”

“Mrs. Reilly helps, as does Vicar, but yes. How a maid or footman takes to their schooling helps me assess how they’ll fit in best at Trysting. Now, we should have a peek at the library. The footmen are possessive about it, but they’ll be taking their tea break the better to flirt with the new chambermaid.”

“Muriel,” Yolanda said, opening a jar of vervain and sniffing. “She’s friendly.”

“Also pretty, which is both a blessing and a curse. Have you any questions?”

Yolanda took a pinch of vervain and crushed it between her fingers. “When is Hess coming?”

Of course the girl’s loneliness would weigh more heavily than the niceties of separating spearmint and peppermint, or footmen and maids.

“Mr. Kettering did not specify a date, but all is in readiness.”

“Worth will be back soon then.” Yolanda said, dusting the herb from her fingers. “He won’t leave us here to receive Hess without him. That would look rude.”

“From what I understand—”

“They don’t get along,” Yolanda said, peering at the gray dusting the ends of her fingers. “Except they used to. At home, we have portraits of them together. They were peas in a pod, and in Worth’s diaries—”

“You read your brother’s diaries?” Jacaranda had considered herself the only sister in the history of sisters to exhibit such audacity—and courage.

“If Worth had been about at Grampion, in any sense, he might have stopped me from reading them, or respect for his privacy might have at least slowed me down.”

Jacaranda led the way from the still room, which had taken on a confessional air. Or maybe the scent of vervain didn’t agree with her—it was believed to repel witches.

“Suffice it to say I cannot approve of such an action, Yolanda, and I have seven brothers.”

Yolanda sniffed at her fingers and made a face. “You never read their diaries? Never peeked?”

Jacaranda would not lie, exactly. “Only the oldest has a literary bent, and one doesn’t trifle with him.” Though sometimes one defied him outright.

They pattered on as the rest of the house was duly inspected, but it hadn’t occurred to Jacaranda that Mr. Kettering would have to come home—back to Trysting, rather—to host his brother’s visit, assuming he hadn’t waved the man off or diverted him to Town.

The realization was mortifyingly cheering.

* * *

LESS THAN TWO WEEKS AT his country estate, and Worth had been spoiled for all other residences. Town was noisy, reeking and hot, and his house, which he’d always found adequately maintained, fell short of the standards at Trysting.

The windows were clean, they did not sparkle.

The carpets were beaten, they remained dull.

The food was nourishing, but its presentation unimaginative.

The house was tidy, but not…inviting.

The shops regularly sent over flowers, but the bouquets lacked fragrance and seemed to sit in their vases like sedate arrangements, not spontaneous offerings from nature.

Mimette raised her gaze from the quarterly statement Worth had drafted for her.

“You’re in a hurry, ducks. You usually go over the numbers with me one by one, until I’m fair to run screaming down the street.”

Mimette, or Mary, was a pretty little dancer between protectors at the moment. Her savings were thus of particular interest to her, and Worth had directed that a cold collation be prepared for their session at the kitchen table.

“I’m getting ready to travel again tomorrow,” Worth said, making the decision as the words came out of his mouth. “Not being at my appointed post here in Town has created challenges.”

Not being at Trysting created other challenges.

She gave him a genuine smile. “Challenges for you, maybe. Jones says he’s never seen such peace at the office save for right after Waterloo.”

“When did you hear Jones discoursing so disloyally?”

“He comes to see us dance and brings his friends, and they’re a jolly bunch.”

Another well-trained, competent employee would soon be domesticating. “When I’m not wreaking havoc with their fun, to hear Jones tell it. Your money is working almost as hard as you do.”

“I’d take you upstairs tonight without a thought for the money, Worth Kettering, and it wouldn’t be work neither—though something would be hard. You could do with a tupping.” Her smile was tinged with something else now. Speculation, or maybe sympathy?

“I could.” He nearly rose to take her up on her offer, because tupping had certainly been on his mind for the past week. His cock wasn’t surging in its usual gleeful anticipation of a romp, though, so he kept to his chair.

Mary reached under the table and experimentally groped his flaccid length.

She took her hand away. “Whoever she is, I hope she appreciates you. Should I consider maybe taking more out of the three percents?”

“Only if you’re willing to shift the degree of risk as well,” Worth said, grateful for something to talk about besides tupping. Her hand had felt curiously impersonal, almost unwelcome.

He was about to send her home with a footman when he noticed the tray still held plenty of food. Nobody could eat more than an opera dancer when good, free food was on hand. Nobody. He held his interrogation until the moment of her departure.

“Mary, is your digestion troubling you?”

“Of course not.” She swung her cloak over her arm, an unconsciously graceful gesture more captivating than any gratuitous fondling.

“Mary Flannery, you’re dissembling with your man of business. This is not done. Lie to your priest or your protector, but not to me.”

She sat back down at the table, eyeing the cold, sliced meat, buttered bread, and sliced cheese with something less than appreciation.

“Mary?”

Her hair was flaming red, her skin flawlessly pale, and her figure curvy and fit enough to haunt a man’s most intimate dreams. She was one of seven, the oldest daughter. The boys would get the bulk of the family resources, buying apprenticeships in various trades. She sent money home for the girls, but her papa had a fondness for the bottle and for using his fists on his womenfolk.

“You’d best tell me who the father is.” He sat beside her and slung an arm around her shoulders, wanting to howl with the infernal wrongness of the situation.

“He said he’d keep me,” Mary said tiredly, leaning into him. “He kept me fifteen bloody minutes, tossed me a few coppers, and since then I haven’t been able to… Well, money has been tight.”

“Do you know his name?”

“One of Jones’s friends, but don’t involve yourself. His papa’s a lord, and I was foolish.”

“Does he know?”

“Nobody knows, though I think Estelle suspects and maybe Fleur.”

“Then everybody suspects,” Worth said, thinking through the options. “Are you feeling well enough to keep dancing for now?”

“Until I show, I can dance. That’s the rule, but I’m not tall, or fat like Hera, so I’ve only a few weeks’ work left.”

“Take the rest of this with you,” Worth said, gesturing at the tray. “You’ll be ravenous later. Promise me you won’t do anything silly while I think this over.”

“I’m not the dramatic kind. Mostly, all I want to do is pee and nap.”

“And shock your solicitor,” Worth added, though he applauded her forthrightness. “Before I leave Town tomorrow, I’m to make some purchases for my sister at the shops. Will you be at rehearsal?”

“Miss rehearsal, and you get docked,” Mary reminded him. “I’ll be there.”

She’d made no move to leave his side, and that more than anything else left Worth feeling inadequate, and somehow ashamed. Avery was in the country, it was a pleasant night, and Mary wouldn’t have hatched any ambitious or possessive notions had he taken her up on the offer of a simple tumble between friends. A month ago, he would have blithely tripped up the stairs with her—at least until he guessed about the baby.

Hell and the devil. Fifteen minutes was a simple tumble. Worth’s own record was well under that, and he hadn’t even parted with a few coppers for the privilege.

Think of your opera dancers, Mr. Kettering.

“I will give thought to your situation, but you must not worry,” Worth said. “Thomas will see you safely home and carry the leftovers so they don’t go to waste. But tell me, Mary, can you tat lace?”

* * *

BECAUSE JACARANDA’S EMPLOYER HAD NOT the courtesy to send a simple note warning her of his return, she did not rouse herself to greet him when she heard his boots thumping outside the girls’ rooms farther down the hallway.

“I have come to apologize,” he said, pausing in her sitting room doorway, the dust of the road still on his person.

As opening lines went, that traveled some distance toward mollifying her. To proposition one’s housekeeper merited at least a personal apology. It did not merit belaboring.

“Apology accepted,” she said, setting aside the first decent cup of tea she’d had all day. “Shall we send a bath up to your chambers?”

Now that he’d apologized, she wanted to devour him with her gaze, also to ignore him. Staring at her tea cup was a nice compromise, but really, to think such a scandalous proposition was to be forgiven with a few meaningless words...

“I should have sent a note,” he said, inviting himself into her sitting room and appropriating the middle of her sofa. “Mind if I have a cup?”

“You apologize for the lack of a note?”

“Not well done of me, I know.” He poured for himself, and Jacaranda was compelled to stare at his hands. Long, elegant fingers and broad, strong palms. They were warm, those hands, and knowing.

But their owner hadn’t the sense to apologize for his brazen overtures.

“Not well done of you, indeed,” she managed. “Help yourself to cream and sugar.”

“I don’t suppose you could order us a tray?”

“It’s tea time.” She rose and went to the door to signal a footman. “I am the housekeeper, I can conjure a tray of victuals on occasion. Your sister and your niece will want to greet you.”

While Jacaranda abruptly did not.

“I want to greet them, too, but first I wanted to inquire as to how soon we can accommodate my brother.” He downed his cup of tea in one swallow, his throat working while Jacaranda tried not to stare at that, too.

He was the most aggravating man.

“I’m ready now,” she said, not liking the sound of the words as they hung in the air.

“What constitutes ready?”

“You’ll interfere?”

“I’ll take an interest,” he said, holding his cup out for a refill.

Jacaranda obliged, willing to consider he might have apologized as artfully as he knew how.

“May we tour the state rooms, say, tomorrow morning?” he went on. “The stable master ought to be notified he’ll have extra teams to deal with.”

“Roberts knows,” Jacaranda said, adding cream and sugar to his tea. “I’m sure Simmons told him, or Reilly. The extra linens have been washed and the curtains beaten and rehung. The good silver is polished to a shine, the lace table runners aired.”

“Lace table runners?”

“All of them, because we don’t know how long your brother will be joining us.”

“Probably only long enough to collect Yolanda and assemble his entourage again.”

“What if Yolanda doesn’t want to go, but would rather stay here in the south?” Jacaranda asked, giving his tea a stir.

What was wrong with older brothers? They always assumed they knew best, always marched out smartly with their plans, never asked even an opinion, much less permission of their sisters.

He scowled at the tea she offered before accepting it from her. “If Yolanda wants to stay in the south?”

“With you.”

He took a turn staring at his tea cup. “I run a bachelor establishment in Town. I always have, and I’m not connected, as my brother is.”

“Your bachelor establishment boasts at least one small female child and her nanny.” Jacaranda stirred her tea slowly, though it needed no stirring. “You may not be titled, though I suspect you could easily be knighted if you chose, but you are most assuredly connected. Wickie says you’ve paid several calls at Carlton House.”

“Any pair of deep pockets is welcome to call on Prinny, and I’ve been considering Avery’s situation. She’s legitimate, or I think she is, though with the French these days, one can hardly tell.”

Jacaranda’s ire at his disrespectful proposition, at his abrupt absence, and his lack of warning regarding his return fueled her rising irritation at his dunderheaded notions of family.

“You are not thinking of sending that dear little child north with a stranger who’s never so much as patted her head?”

“He’s an earl, and he’s her uncle.” Mr. Kettering rose but kept his tea cup. Jacaranda suspected he did so in order to have something to stare at. “If Yolanda goes, it really won’t be that much of an adjustment to add Avery to the earl’s household, too.”

“Worth Kettering, you have gone completely ’round the bend. Yolanda cannot be seen to disappear to the north, as if she were some eccentric spinster at the age of sixteen—or a girl in disgrace. She will need a Season, you’ve said so yourself, and she will need her family.”

“No girl comes out at sixteen. Even I know it isn’t done.”

Perhaps it was a measure of his upset—over not having sent a note?—that she had to point out the obvious to him.

“In less than a year, she will be seventeen, and many girls do make their bow at seventeen. They marry at seventeen, they conceive and even bear children at that age. My own sister wed at seventeen, and very properly.”

He set his tea cup down on its saucer hard and turned his back to her. Something like compassion reared its inconvenient head, but Jacaranda kept her lips closed. Let him squirm. He might treat her cavalierly—she was a woman grown who could hold her own—but his younger relations deserved better.

“Hess and I will discuss it,” he said, turning back to face her after a long, silent moment.

“You ought to discuss it with the young ladies. You propose to play skittles with their lives. Avery should at least visit the family seat before you force any move on her.”

“She’ll love it,” Mr. Kettering said, crossing his arms and leaning back on Jacaranda’s window sill. “Hess keeps one of the best stables in Cumberland, and he’s well liked by all. The house itself is gorgeous, stately and yet still a home, and the grounds are spectacular. We never have trouble with the help. Working for the Ketterings is a plum passed down from father to son and aunt to niece. She’ll settle in at Grampion and never want to leave.”

Worth Kettering was homesick. The longing poured out in his words, in the distant memories behind his eyes, in the wistful expression softening his features.

“You want them to have what you’ve rejected?”

“What I cast aside, as a youth.”

“Let them have what you had as a youth, what you still have.” She rose, too, and stood with her arms crossed. “Give them a choice.”

“Hess is the head of our family, and his decisions will be final.” Reciting the words seemed to settle something for him, but not for Jacaranda.

“You are Avery’s guardian. Wickie told me so, and you are the only person on this earth who loves her like family. You came to Yolanda’s rescue when dear Hess was off shooting out of season in Scotland.”

“Cut line, Wyeth. We can have this argument twice daily until Hess shows up, and it won’t make one bit of difference.”

“Then we’ll have it three times a day. Or four, or twelve.”

He was scowling at her one moment, and then his lips quirked up, even as he dipped his chin to hide it.

“You are a terror, Wyeth. Did you know that?”

“I am a housekeeper, one whose family begs her to return home with each monthly letter. You thwart family at your peril, sir.”

When she might have disclosed that she had heeded her family’s importuning and would soon be turning in her notice, she was cut off by one footman arriving with a tray of food and another with a fresh tea service. Mr. Kettering resumed his place on the sofa, and Jacaranda settled into her rocking chair, grateful for the distraction and the distance.

“I am famished,” he said, helping himself to a ham and cheddar sandwich. “I will show you every courtesy at dinner, but you’ll forgive me my lapses now. I stopped only long enough to water Goliath and let him blow.”

Jacaranda took a nibble of sandwich as she considered that interesting tidbit and which lapses he referred to. Lapses. Plural.

“How are matters in London?” Small talk, suitable to ingesting sustenance, she hoped.

“My house is a disgrace. My steward is a conscientious fellow, but the things you could teach him, Wyeth. I’ve half a mind to send him out here for a tutorial.”

“After your brother departs, I should have time.” Assuming she didn’t return immediately to her brother’s house. “If your steward takes his duties seriously, he’ll not quibble about a chance to discuss them with another of similar enthusiasm.”

“You are a terror who doesn’t speak like any housekeeper I’ve known.” He was back to frowning at her. “Where is this family who begs you to abandon me?”

“Down closer to the coast. Another sandwich?” Abandon him?

“Please.” He regarded her in silence while she put more food on his plate. Rather than allow him to study her at any length, Jacaranda cast another lure.

“Tell me more about your family seat. How many acres does it encompass?”

And he was off, waxing eloquent about a place that sounded like a medium-sized slice of heaven, for all it was two hundred miles north and he hadn’t seen it for half a lifetime.

Leaving Jacaranda to wonder if Worth Kettering had been banished, or if he’d exiled himself all those years ago.

* * *

THE BLASTED WOMAN PLED A headache at dinner and took a tray in her room. Worth was aggravated at first, because he and Wyeth had settled nothing with that tea and crumpets sparring match upon his arrival, then he was relieved. They were under the same roof, he was bone tired, and perhaps she was as well.

He was restless, though, so he bade his womenfolk good night and ducked out with a towel, dressing gown, and soap, and enjoyed the privacy of the pond. The moon came up as he finished his swim, casting undulating ripples of light over the dark surface of the water.

That play of dark and light reminded him of Jacaranda Wyeth’s hair and of how she moved.

Shaking that thought away, he dried off, shrugged into his dressing gown, and made his way to the house. On a whim, he took himself up to the third floor, where his sister and his niece slept.

He hadn’t sent them any notes either, which was truly reprehensible of him. His housekeeper deserved a note, his womenfolk needed one. As he stood in the doorway of Avery’s room, he recollected all the times his mother had hared off in high dudgeon, threatening never to return. He’d been relieved when she’d come blithely sailing home, though that slight, low-down sickness in the gut had never left him as he’d waited for her next dramatic exit.

“Is she still snuffling?” Yolanda stood across the hallway in nightgown and wrapper. “The poor little thing was disconsolate. I thought she’d never drop off.”

“Disconsolate?” Why would Avery be disconsolate when he was back with them again?

“Her manka went missing, and she was nigh hysterical. She was hysterical.”

“Her what?”

“Manka, or mankit,” Yolanda said. “It’s how she refers to the nursery blanket her mother embroidered for her. We couldn’t find it anywhere, and finally Wickie told her big girls don’t have blankets and if Avery didn’t settle down, she wouldn’t have a doll either.”

“I had such hopes for Mrs. Hartwick.” The woman had been the most promising of a succession of nurse-governesses, but this—

“She wasn’t unkind. Big girls don’t have blankets.”

“No,” Worth countered, “they have keepsakes, and mementos, and I happened to see that your effects include a doll, who occupies pride of place on your mantel.”

She raised her chin, every inch a Kettering. “Your point?”

“Avery’s blanket must be found.”

Yolanda crossed the hall, went up on her toes and kissed his cheek. “I have hopes for you, brother. Good night and happy hunting.”

Yolanda took her leave on that cryptic remark, and Worth opened the door to Avery’s room. No candle had been left burning in the darkness, no doll tucked under her covers beside her. When Worth lowered himself to her bed, he saw her smooth little-girl cheeks were tear-stained, and her mouth worked silently, as if in want of a thumb.

“Best not wake her.” Wyeth was silhouetted in the door in her nightclothes, her hair down and unbound.

The sight caused an obstruction in Worth’s breathing. “You heard the racket?”

“She was pathetic.” Wyeth advanced into the room. “The first honest tantrum I’ve seen since my brothers were very young.”

“Was it your idea to threaten her dolls?”

“Angels abide, of course not.” She took a rocking chair a few feet from the bed. “When children are tired and aggrieved, they can’t respond rationally to threats, though it isn’t my place to interfere in the nursery.”

“Some would say it isn’t mine.”

“Some would say sending the child to Cumberland to live among a whole new set of strangers is not merely convenient for you, but in her best interests.”

He brushed a lock of Avery’s hair off her forehead, silently ceding his housekeeper points for tenacity and courage. “Where’s her blanket?”

Wyeth rocked slowly, the tempo conveying bodily fatigue, maybe even sorrow.

“I thought that’s what the fuss was about. I’ll unleash the whole staff tomorrow. Blankets don’t just get up and walk away. Unless the blanket has flown back to France, we’ll find it.”

“What if the pig ate Manka?” Avery asked sleepily. “William is always hungry. What if we never, ever find her? She’ll be all alone.” Her breathing hitched, and her little face screwed up, and she was in Worth’s lap before the first tear could think of falling.

“We will find her,” he assured her. “Mrs. Wyeth has said it will be so, and I say it will be so. We’ll turn out every maid and footman and tell all the house cats to look for her. Hmm? Maybe your dolls saw Manka going for a great lark in the laundry cart, and she’ll come back from her adventure all clean and smelling of sunshine.”

“She doesn’t want to smell of sunshine. She wants to smell like my m-mama.”

“Like your mama?”

The blanket was years old and had literally been dragged through the gutters of Paris. The hems had a few tattered vestiges of once-lovely embroidery, but the blanket couldn’t possibly smell of Moira Kettering now.

Wyeth shifted to sit beside them on the bed. “Did your mama’s scent resemble this?” She held a long, dark lock of her hair under Avery’s nose.

“Yes! That’s the Mama-flower. Manka always smells like that. I want to sit in your lap.”

She hiked herself away from her uncle and appropriated her perch of choice.

“Lavender,” Wyeth said, kissing the child’s crown. “Both the Kettering households use it for laundry and linen scents. I use it on my person.” She shifted away and resumed her rocking chair, the child in her lap.

“Tomorrow, your uncle can show you where the Mama-flower grows here. Now is when it blooms, and the scent is quite, quite lovely,” Wyeth said. “Did your mama ever sing to you when you were tired?”

“Mostly in English, which wasn’t my best when I was small.”

The slow rocking went on, and Wyeth’s hand traced an easy pattern on the child’s back. Worth felt his eyes growing heavy, and a heaviness elsewhere, too.

Not desire, though that hummed along quietly in his veins whenever he thought of the woman sitting a few feet away. Something calmer and sweeter pooled in his chest, having to do with seeing Wyeth with other children, babies even.

Everlasting Powers, save him.

“Can you hum the tune your mama sang?” Wyeth asked in drowsy tones.

And soon Wyeth had lullabied the child right back to sleep, her voice a lovely, true alto that brought comfort and peace in the darkened room.

“She’s out like the proverbial candle,” Wyeth said after a few minutes of silent rocking. “Can you lift the bedclothes?”

He obliged, then covered the child up when Wyeth stepped back and arched her spine, hands low on her back. While she gazed down at the sleeping child, Worth found a cloth doll to tuck in with Avery and bent to kiss the child’s forehead.

He also left her door cracked, so light from the sconces in the corridor might reach her room.

“My thanks,” he said as they moved down the hallway. “God help whoever misplaced that blanket.”

“The child herself likely misplaced it. You love her, you know.”

“Always a fine thing, when a woman tells a man what he feels.”

She stopped outside her door and peered up at him in the dim light. “I simply wore a soothing scent. You needn’t be jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.” He wasn’t, exactly, but he was made hungry in some regard by what had just transpired. Rather than examine that hunger or admit the loneliness of spirit behind it, he opened the door to Wyeth’s sitting room and peered inside.

Candles burned, and a modest fire danced on the andirons. The room was cozy on a night Worth would have said was almost warm to begin with.

“I’ll build up your fire,” he said, moving past Wyeth into her room.

“You needn’t.” She followed him in. “I lit the fire only to dry my hair. I’ll open my windows, because it’s nearly stuffy in here now.”

Stuffy and thick with lavender. “I’ll bank your fire then.”

He made a thorough job of a simple task, because otherwise she’d shoo him out of her quarters, when he wasn’t in any hurry to leave.

“Before,” he said, back to her as he knelt in front of the hearth, “when we were on the bridge? I didn’t mean to insult you.”

“My guess is you did not mean much of anything.”

“Oh, I meant something.” He straightened and put the poker aside. “We’ve chemistry between us, and indulging that chemistry could be lucrative for you, Wyeth.”

She neither took a place on her small sofa, nor hovered by the door, but simply stood her ground at the center of the room.

“What you offered might have been lucrative in terms of coin, but costly otherwise. We need not discuss this again. Ever. ”

That gave him something to think about, which might have been an adequate distraction, except it was late, they were alone, and a bed was close at hand.

Her bed.

“Most choices involve costs and benefits, my dear. You consider the costs almost exclusively.” He recognized in another a trait he had honed to a fine business advantage in himself.

Her smile was such as a tutor might bestow on a particularly dim pupil. “You offered me illegitimate children I can’t support, loss of reputation, potential loss of health, loss of long-term income and standing, loss of my family’s regard, for starters. Let’s assume I don’t die in childbirth, as so many women do, and for what? A few kisses, some stolen pleasure? A little coin?”

A lot of coin, half his fortune maybe, because he could always replace the money. With her, that point would merit him nothing.

“Few of those losses would accrue unless you chose to be indiscreet. I’d protect your reputation the same as I would Yolanda’s. You’d gain a few assets, paltry though they might measure in your estimation.”

While this discussion alone might cost Worth his dignity, for rather than negotiating, he was perilously close to…wheedling.

“What could I possibly gain from an illicit liaison with a man who can’t admit he loves his niece as if she were his own?”

The finer points of her logic escaped him. Taking care of Avery was his privilege and his duty—and Avery was his, unless Hessian decided to snatch her away to the north.

He sauntered close to the pillar of good sense standing where his Wyeth ought to be.

“You would gain pleasure, in which your existence is decidedly deficient, madam.” He spoke gently, lest she turn the argument right back around on its source. “You would gain a friend in this life, a hand to hold, a shoulder to cry on, someone to provide bodily comfort when running your empire weighs too heavily. In short, you would gain a part of me I don’t lend easily, but one you might find worth having.”

He was close enough to catch the part of her scent that wasn’t simply lavender, but summer flowers, and her. She regarded him with some puzzlement, and he would have given a lot to know which particular rabbit trails her febrile feminine brain was coursing.

“A part of you not lent easily,” she said, “with interest, principle subject to collection without notice. Too much risk in those terms for a prudent investor. Nothing but risk, really. Good night, Mr. Kettering. We’ll find Avery’s Manka in the morning, won’t we?”

He bowed and withdrew, knowing that if he touched her, the argument would progress in a different and equally fruitless direction. In her convoluted-to-him, crystal-clear-to-her way, Wyeth had communicated something in what she hadn’t said.

She viewed a part of him was worth having, but not on the terms he’d offered. She wanted a different balance of risk and reward. That was progress, and all any negotiation wanted to remain viable was a bit of progress from time to time.

Chapter Seven

“WHAT WILL IT TAKE TO wake you?”

Jacaranda knew that silky baritone, but in sleep, she did not care to heed it.

“Woman, for the love of God, wake up.” A warm, large hand shook her shoulder, even as both the impatience in that voice and its anxious undertone registered.

She was comfortably face down in her pillows, a fresh breeze coming in her window. She’d been so tired last night a headache had plagued her, and then she’d lain awake pondering that odd exchange with the household despot.

Lips, on her nape. Soft, sweet, tender even, and something warmer and a touch damper than.—

She whipped over to her back. “Were you thieving a taste of me?”

“Good morning, or at least it will soon be morning.” Mr. Kettering sat up, an infernal smile playing over those very same larcenous lips. The room was barely light, and outside Jacaranda’s window, one lone bird chirped a greeting to the day.

“Get off my bed, leave this room, and do not come back, ever. If you have need of me, a maid can bring a note. Good-bye.”

She tried to roll away from him, but that hand was back on her shoulder, staying her. Her bare shoulder.

Her gaze met his, and he appeared to realize at the same time she did that she’d slept without her nightclothes. Beneath the thin old quilt and sheet, Jacaranda was as naked as an opera dancer’s knees.

“Wyeth, you wicked little creature.” His smile became diabolical, and that hand on her shoulder shifted to trace her collarbone. “You’re awake now. As am I.”

“I couldn’t possibly be awake, because I’m in the midst of a nightmare. Will you please take your hand off my person?”

The hand was gone, and so was the smile, then so was the man, for he rose and paced out of touching distance, turning his back to her.

“Thank you, Mr. Kettering, and if you will do me the courtesy to remain like that, I can find my nightclothes, though what earthly use you expect me to be without a hot cup of tea and at least a scone or two I cannot fathom.”

She fished her nightgown from under her pillow while she lectured him and rose to belt her dressing gown around her waist.

“I’m somewhat decent,” she announced. “Except my hair’s a fright, and we’re alone in my boudoir, and that cannot be decent.”

He peeked, then turned around and stepped behind her to lift her hair out of her dressing gown.

“This is not a fright. Your hair could never be a fright, and when I behold you, Wyeth, I thank the Creator you do not indulge in ghastly caps and severe coronets. I found the blanket.”

“Have you been up this entire night searching for that thing?”

She liked the sensation of his hands in her hair, sweeping it up and out so gently. She whipped around and glared at him accordingly.

“Not all night, but I couldn’t sleep, so about an hour ago, I started looking around. Down at the stables, in the playroom, the library. I found it with the soiled linens from the girls’ rooms, and it doesn’t smell in the least like lavender.”

“So we’ll wash it on Monday.” She pushed her hair out of her eyes, for it was inclined to subversive behavior when loose.

“You can’t be seen to wash it, or Avery will think you’re taking her mother’s scent away, not refurbishing it.”

“Then we won’t wash it.”

He glared back at her, which—though she was tempted to snicker at all this blustering over a child’s blanket—also made him look rather magnificent.

“Do not patronize me, Jacaranda Wyeth. We will wash it, as soon as you show me where the blighted soap is. Then we’ll let it hang in the kitchen to dry before Avery is finished breaking her fast.”

“You woke me at the crack of doom to find the soap?”

His glare faltered, and he apparently found it necessary to open her window one additional inch. “You’re always up at the crack of doom. Simmons complains that you make him look lazy by comparison.”

“He is lazy. I like it that way, and he does a fine job, despite both age and laziness. Come with me, and we’ll find your lavender soap.”

The relief that flickered in his eyes caught her off guard, but really, did he think she’d let the household run out of lavender soap? In summer, for pity’s sake?

They washed the blanket, then Mr. Kettering wrung it out between his hands until it was nearly dry. The only scullery maid stirring in the kitchen hared off to fetch the cream from the dairy and the eggs from the henhouse.

“I suppose you’d like me to make you a pot of tea?” Jacaranda extended the offer, knowing she would have her tea, come fire, flood or famine—or Worth Kettering in a rambunctious mood.

“Sit,” her employer ordered. “I’ll make the tea while you have a scone or two. Your disposition might benefit, if the Deity is merciful.” He passed her the basket of fresh scones and put both a jar of raspberry jam and a crock of butter on the table. “Save me at least a morsel, lest I get peckish and wan.”

“Peckish and wan, and given to invading your housekeeper’s quarters at all hours.” Jacaranda let that suffice for a riposte because the jam was wonderful, the scones perfect, and she wasn’t having to make her own cup of tea.

Then too, Worth Kettering had tracked down the prodigal blanket. She very nearly congratulated him for it, but eating her scone was a higher priority. He set a cup of tea before her, then slid onto the bench beside her.

“Budge over. I am owed a scone complete with butter and jam for my heroics this morning.”

She passed him her half-eaten scone, intending to hush him with sustenance, but he took a bite off it as she held it.

She put the scone on the table. “Mr. Kettering, will you cease your naughtiness?”

“Mrs. Wyeth, will you cease attributing base motives to every small gesture of flattery and flirtation that comes your way? This,”—he kissed her lips soundly, a brief, warm, raspberry-flavored kiss—“is being naughty. Now eat your scone, and I’ll make you up another.”

Jacaranda ate her scone, and the one he’d layered with butter and jam after that, it being far too early to debate what was and was not naughty with Worth Kettering, when she was in danger of losing track of the distinction herself.

* * *

THE POND HAD PROVED A good place to cogitate, so Worth took to swimming nightly. In the water, he thought about his clients and his investments, or at least he told himself that was the purpose of his exertions.

That other thoughts intruded as he circled the pond in alternating directions was plain bad luck.

Thoughts of Avery, wreathed in smiles, unable to let go of his neck when he presented her with her blanket, fresh and fragrant.

Thoughts of Yolanda, admitting she had hopes for him. Hopes?

And many, many thoughts of Jacaranda Wyeth. The colder water in the deep end of the pond was particularly helpful for reining in those thoughts, but she was a puzzle, and Worth could not resist a puzzle.

She desired him, of that he was certain, and he desired her, of that he was more than certain.

But she would not have him, citing fear for her reputation and her well-being.

A frog set up a repetitive croaking in reeds on the stable side of the water, probably singing the froggy version of a serenade to his lady.

Wyeth’s fears were reasonable. No matter how careful a couple was, given enough lust—Worth capacity for lust was not in doubt—conception could occur. Women died in childbirth and from the complications that followed.

No matter how discreet he and Wyeth might be, intimate relations of any regularity took place under the noses of servants, neighbors, and family. Her reputation might suffer, in which case the logical countermeasure on his part would be to—

He stopped dead in the water, momentarily sinking as his limbs stilled and the frog’s croaking punctuated the stillness of the night air.

Marry her.

To consider such a notion ought to have given Worth a fright, but he’d learned that when attempting to solve a problem, no potential solution should be dismissed out of hand. Not on first mention.

Hessian had no children, hadn’t even taken a second wife. Perhaps that was Hess’s convoluted way of punishing Worth, of loading down a younger brother’s conscience in a battle for the moral high ground.

High ground be damned. Conceiving children with Wyeth would be an exceedingly pleasant duty.

As the frog fell silent, and an owl’s hoot floated on the soft, meadowy breeze, Worth turned the idea of marriage to Wyeth over and over in his mind. No matter how often he put the idea aside and told himself to consider some client’s portfolio or financial contretemps, Wyeth-as-wife had taken up residence in his mind. He slogged up the grassy bank, wondering how Hess would react, to know such a fine and beautiful woman had chosen Worth for her own.

The idea of belonging to her and having her belong to him settled the matter. Marriage for them was right, it would work. The opportunity for a decent match was too practical for her not to leap at it, particularly when her intended was an earl’s heir.

Worth toweled off, belted his dressing gown, and turned his steps toward the dark outline that was his long-ignored country seat.

Marriage. Who’d have thought?

* * *

WITH WORTH KETTERING BACK UNDERFOOT, Jacaranda felt more and more often as if she were being spied upon. He lurked in doorways, watching her at her ledgers; he stopped by her parlor at tea time and helped himself to most of her sandwiches and at least three cups of tea. He found matters to discuss with her, some of which were legitimately related to his brother’s impending visit.

Many of which were not.

“You’ll accompany me to the Hunters’ this afternoon?” he asked, setting down an empty tea cup. He’d assumed his customary place in the middle of her sofa. His arms were so long that when he laid them along the top, he spanned the entire piece of furniture.

Or maybe her sofa was that short.

“You’re perfectly capable of finding your way on your own, or Goliath is,” she replied, pouring herself a second cup. She always needed at least two for her morning break. “They have no daughters over the age of twelve and no riding pigs. You should be safe.”

“Without older daughters, Mrs. Hunter will be particularly glad to see a woman’s friendly face at her gate, and the weather is perfect for a drive.”

“Simmons’s knees, which are infallible, predict rain later.”

“So we’ll put up the top. Pass over that plate of cakes. Baked goods go stale if they sit out too long.”

He was at his most determined when he was like this, casually tossing back every obstacle she threw at him, assured, relaxed. He would not be deterred, and the Hunters were the last family they had to call on.

“Mrs. Hunter is deceased,” she said. “Mr. Thomas Hunter lives with his three children and his mother-in-law. He’s your best farmer, the most dedicated, for all he’s a young man.”

Mr. Kettering paused in the midst of selecting tea cakes to put on his plate. “You admire this Thomas Hunter?”

“Of course I do. You ought to admire him, too, raising three children, providing for their grandmother, and working your land so it out-produces all the neighbors. When you’re through ruining your luncheon, we can make a quick trip out.”

“Such a Tartar.” He popped a tea cake in his mouth, then held one up an inch from Jacaranda’s lips. “You can lecture me on my shortcomings for the entire journey, both directions, but don’t make me listen to your grumbling stomach.”

She took a bite of cake just to get his hand out of her face, but something…not innocent flavored the exchange–while raspberry icing flavored the tea cake. Yes, he’d taken a bite of scone from her hand earlier that week, but that hadn’t been entirely innocent either—on his part.

“You are tiresome,” she said, getting to her feet. “I’ll fetch my bonnet and shawl, and then put together a basket of provisions, so we can execute this errand you are incapable of seeing to on your own.”

She left him in her sitting room, munching cake, knowing it was a bad idea to allow him to remain unsupervised in her quarters, but unwilling to tarry in his presence. He hadn’t touched her since his pedagogic raspberry kiss days ago—except for helping her in and out of the gig—but when he didn’t touch her, the feelings his proximity stirred were even worse.

Bodily feelings of heat and vertigo and inconvenient excitement, but feelings of the heart as well.

Jacaranda liked Worth Kettering. Liked him despite his unwillingness to shoulder the responsibility for raising his niece or launching his sister, for he had a point. The earl should tend to both things. The head of the family took on the jobs nobody else wanted. Hadn’t Grey told her that, over and over? Grey had done it, too, and continued to do it. Witness, his letters were the most regular, and she treasured every one.

Despite the fact that her brother now wanted a specific date for her return to the family seat.

Worth Kettering and Grey Dorning would understand each other in a single glance. They were both men who went after what they wanted and let little stop them. An image came to mind of stallions meeting each other in savage battle.

Jacaranda had stopped Grey, though. Stopped him from imposing one of the most daft head-of-the-family decisions he’d ever come up with.

She was still glad about that.

She was not glad about having to travel in proximity to Worth Kettering, but Mr. Hunter was the last tenant to visit, so she packed her hamper and put aside her liking for her employer.

Also her desire for him.

They tooled out, Goliath in the traces. As they crossed the covered bridge at a smart trot, Mr. Kettering made not even a flirtatious remark. He didn’t need to, not when Jacaranda could recall in wicked detail the feel of her hand getting acquainted with him through his breeches.

Angels abide, what had she been thinking?

“How long ago did Hunter lose his wife?”

“Five years or so,” Jacaranda replied. “She didn’t last a year after the birth of the third child, and while she didn’t suffer, she did linger. Take the next right.”

Goliath turned onto a smaller track, and Mr. Kettering let the horse proceed at a more leisurely trot. “What was her name?”

“He called her Mary Jean, or perhaps Mary Jane. My tenure did not predate her death. Vicar would know.”

“He’d know if her grave has a marker, wouldn’t he?”

“It does not, nothing save a rough stone Thomas hewed himself to resemble a rose. It’s very different.”

“Why hasn’t he remarried?”

“You’ll have to ask him.” She hadn’t kept her tone quite disinterested enough, and Mr. Kettering peered over at her.

“Slow down, sir. This bridge is none too sturdy.” They clattered over a patch of boards, one intended to handle only light traffic.

“How does Hunter get his produce to market over such a paltry excuse for a bridge?”

“He takes the hayfields and makes a slightly longer job of it, I imagine.”

“Wyeth, why doesn’t Reilly note these things? The need for grave markers, the bridges gone rickety?”

“His job is to steward your land,” she said, though she’d had this very argument with Reilly himself. “Trysting has no position described as steward of your people.”

“Yes, it does.” He let Goliath’s stride lengthen as the track ran through an overgrown patch of the home wood. “I hold that position. How much farther is it to Hunter’s?”

“Less than a mile. As the crow flies, this tenancy is close to Trysting, but the creeks and woods and so forth make it longer when you take the lanes. Oh, dear.”

“Oh, dear, indeed.” Kettering drew Goliath to a halt before a substantial tree that had fallen across the lane. “Don’t suppose you packed a saw in that basket?”

“Everything but.”

“I’ll have a look.” He passed her the reins as he climbed down from the buggy.

He released Goliath’s check rein so the horse could crop grass at the roadside, then he inspected the tree. Larger than a sapling, the oak had been down long enough for the foliage to have thoroughly wilted.

“Had I ridden out daily, as my housekeeper advised me to, I would have seen this and had it removed.” Mr. Kettering unbuttoned his waistcoat, then passed both jacket and waistcoat to Jacaranda.

“Your steward is responsible for the land.” She’d given Reilly a schedule, which would have put him on every patch of the property at least twice a month in the growing season. “Perhaps you and he might discuss a schedule.”

“Not perhaps. I’ll find something to use as a lever. If I can get the damned tree loose from where it’s wedged in those rocks, I can probably move it far enough to let us pass.”

Jacaranda aimed her best frown at him. “Rain will soon move in. Why not turn around and let Reilly deal with this?”

“This is England. It’s always about to rain, and what will Thomas Hunter think, to know I’ve called on every tenant save my best farmer?”

She let him disappear into the woods while she visually calculated whether it was even possible to turn the buggy on the narrow lane. Trees and rocks encroached on both sides, great nasty boulders that would not admit of buggy wheels or shod hooves.

This part of the wood was unkempt, better suited for hunting than raising firewood or lumber, but she doubted Reilly had come this way in months. Thomas Hunter could be trusted to look out for his own land, after all, and Reilly no doubt saw the man at services, assemblies and over the occasional pint.

That part of being a steward, Jacaranda could not do for him.

Mr. Kettering came striding back out of the gloomy woods, toting a stout length of dead oak that had to weigh nigh as much as Jacaranda did. He heaved and hoisted and cursed and heaved some more, until the fallen tree was free of the rocks and lying at an angle, still blocking most of the road.

“That’s the hard part,” Mr. Kettering said, taking off his driving gloves and slapping them against his thigh before putting them back on.

That exercise had been trying for Jacaranda, too. Beneath the thin material of Mr. Kettering’s shirt, his muscles bunched and rippled with his exertions, leaving her staring at Goliath’s fundament in sheer defense of her sanity.

“Would you like to put your jacket back on?”

He grinned at her, swiping the back of his glove over his forehead. “I’ve grown a trifle warm, and we’re not done here.”

A fat droplet of rain landed on Jacaranda’s nose.

“We’ll get a soaking now, in any case,” she said, for what sky she could see through the trees had grown ominous.

Mr. Kettering pointed with his elbow. “That way, there’s an empty cottage with a decent porch about twenty yards down that trail. You take the hamper, I’ll fetch the horse.”

A peel of thunder rumbling over the last of his words had Jacaranda out of the buggy and retrieving the hamper post-haste. She didn’t like storms, didn’t like the idea of getting soaking wet where Worth Kettering could find humor in it, didn’t like much of anything about her day so far.

She spied the cottage, recalling it from when the estate had boasted a game keeper. The place was minimally stocked as a gamekeeper’s cottage, one duty Mr. Reilly was happy to conscientiously oversee. She suspected he trysted with the occasional willing woman here, or perhaps, given his timidity and Mrs. Reilly’s lack of an understanding nature, with the occasional lurid novel.

No matter. The cottage was warm and dry, and Jacaranda reached its covered porch just as the random drops coalesced into a steady shower. Several minutes later, Mr. Kettering came up the trail, leading Goliath. He waved as he took the horse around to the shed in back, his shirt already soaked to an indecent degree.

A solicitor ought not to sport such muscle. The Regent should sign a decree forbidding such a display, at least before susceptible women.

And what woman wouldn’t be?

“Everlasting powers.” Mr. Kettering came stomping and dripping onto the porch moments later. “You warned me, Wyeth. Go ahead and say it.”

“You cut yourself.” She scowled at his bleeding knuckles. “And your shirt is soaked, and the weather is hardly your fault.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, because the temperature had dropped, and her own clothing wasn’t exactly dry.

“Let’s see what we can find inside. Right now, a towel wouldn’t go amiss.”

He felt above the lintel, found a skeleton key where any schoolboy tall enough would know to look for it, and unlocked the door.

He gestured Jacaranda to precede him inside, then paused in the doorway. “I was about to say, Reilly needs a talking to, given the state of the bridge, the woods, and his idea of where to hide a key, but he’s at least kept this place in good shape.”

He had, or his lady friends had. The cottage barely needed dusting and lacked the mildewed scent common to neglected dwellings. The wood box was full, the windows were clean, and on the shelves above the sink, a few faded towels sat neatly folded.

Over in the corner, an old tester bed was made up, knitted blankets folded across its foot, canopy nowhere in evidence.

Jacaranda rubbed her arms as another rumble of thunder sounded, even louder than the last one.

“The storm is still gaining on us,” Mr. Kettering noted. “Best get a fire going, and I hope you won’t mind if I get out of this wet shirt.” He wasn’t asking permission. He was disrobing as he spoke, removing shirt, boots and stockings.

Jacaranda tried not to watch.

While the rain against the windows began a steady roar, she took longer to remove her bonnet than she ever had in her life. Her fingers shook, and her insides felt odd, and she could not get the image of Mr. Kettering’s damp, naked chest out of her mind. She also could not get her dratted bonnet off, a hairpin having caught on some part of the straw or wiring.

“Wood’s nice and dry,” Mr. Kettering said, scratching a flint and steel over some dead pine needles. A spark obligingly leapt, and to Jacaranda, even that—the spark falling on dry tinder, the flames eagerly licking up into the air—had prurient connotations.

What on earth was wrong with her?

“That should take the chill off.” He rose in one graceful flex of muscles. “We’ll hang your bonnet from the rafters, and it will be dry in no time.”

Her only good bonnet would be ruined if she kept fussing at it. Her gaze fell on a box on the mantel, one decorated with a carving of the belladonna flower.

“Sit.” She patted the back of a ladder-back chair then retrieved the box, finding it contained the same supplies its twin did at Trysting. “I’ll clean up your knuckles.”

He obliged but turned the chair backward so he could straddle it and extended his hand.

“This situation is fortuitous,” he said.

“Finding a box of medicinals was fortuitous.” She dabbed a clean cloth on his knuckles. “You are still bleeding.” She held the cloth snugly over his abused flesh. “I thought you had gloves on.”

“Had to take them off to work with the wet harness and buckles, but I like holding hands with you, Wyeth. Take your time, and don’t forget to kiss me better.”

She peeked at his knuckles, then closed the cloth over them again. “You are tenacious.”

“So are you. I like that about you.”

He could not know how susceptible she was to such a compliment. “My brother says I’m unnaturally stubborn for a woman.” Now, where had that come from?

“With seven brothers, you’d have to be.”

She took the cloth away again. “This might sting a bit.”

She applied a pungent brown astringent, and he winced, so she blew on his knuckles to ease the sting.

“Let it dry, and don’t be mucking about in the ashes or Goliath’s stall until it does.”

“Goliath has an open shed,” Mr. Kettering said. “He can amble around or crop some grass, and I dipped him a bucket from the cistern out back. Now, we’re safe and warm, and he is, too. What shall we do with this boon?”

“Boon?”

“I told myself to be patient.” He stood and crossed to the braided rug before the hearth. “I told myself sooner or later, I’d catch you in the pond, or reading late at night, or in some situation where we’re guaranteed privacy.”

“The rain should let up soon,” she said, a sense of unease rising at his words.

“I can be very quick,” he went on, casually unfastening his falls. “When I want to make a point.”

He stepped out of his damp breeches and hung them from a nail on the rafter nearest the fire. And that gesture, that simple reaching, without a stitch on, was so blatantly, masculinely beautiful, Jacaranda wanted to tell him to hold the pose so she might memorize it. His skin was darker above his waist, but the musculature of his arms, legs, belly, and back was all of a smooth, powerful, healthy male animal piece.

Blessed angels, he was beautiful.

He took the towel he’d been sitting on and wrapped it around his waist, and Jacaranda wanted to weep.

“Like what you see, Wyeth? I like what I see, too.”

“You will not come any closer,” she said, holding up a hand.

He stopped in his tracks. “Suppose not. I’d like it much better were you the one to do the approaching.”

“In God’s name why?” She couldn’t keep her eyes averted, much as common sense was screeching at her to do just that. When she looked, she wanted to touch, and if she touched, she’d want to be touched.

“A fellow needs to know his attentions are welcome,” he said, subsiding onto the raised stone hearth. “What better sign of welcome than when a woman makes the overtures?”

“I thought you understood I am not interested in your overtures.” With the last of her resolve, she turned her face so the brim of her bonnet took him from her sight, and that was…a mercy.

“You’re interested in my overtures. You’re not interested in earning coin by returning them. I applaud your scruples. The alternative makes a great deal of sense to me upon sober reflection.”

Sober reflection eluded Jacaranda where Worth Kettering was concerned. “A great deal of sense?”

“I’m not without sense, Wyeth, but I am without clothes. Why don’t you come investigate the bargain I’m offering?”

“What bargain?”

She was reduced to inane questions, in part because he’d chosen that moment to cross the room and crack a window, the better to help the fire in the hearth catch. The Italian masters hadn’t sculpted a man as breathtaking as Worth Kettering. He was a mature David, he was Vulcan, he was the exponent of all that was attractive and dangerous in a healthy adult male.

And he was nigh naked in a secluded cottage with her.

“That should draw better,” he said. “I’d suggest getting you out of your wet things, but then you’ll stay in them until lung fever carries you off. I’m not sure what motivated you to keep your bonnet on indoors, though.”

She resumed tugging at the infernal bonnet, but the ribbons were damp, which made working the knot difficult. “I’m not as wet as you. You were out in the rain longer.”

“If you need help with your bonnet, I am happy to oblige.” He bounced down onto the bed, and the creaking of the ropes had Jacaranda’s insides bouncing as well. “You brought a brush in your reticule, didn’t you?”

“Comb. I can see to myself.” Though when she removed her bonnet, she would look a fright.

He flopped back on the mattress so his legs hung over the side of the bed, and his words were addressed to the rafters.

“I may not have moved in quite the highest circles, but I am gentleman enough that you must know I wouldn’t force you. Let me get rid of that bonnet for you, Wyeth. You fancy it, and it’s fetching, in a rural sort of way. At the rate you’re going, you will soon be bald and the bonnet fit only for consumption by William the Famous Draft Sow.”

He wouldn’t force her. Jacaranda could be stark naked and the only woman left on earth, and he wouldn’t ever force her. That realization settled her down enough that she gave up ruining her bonnet and her coiffure.

“Come here, closer to the fire.” He sat up and patted the bed beside him, hiking a knee onto the mattress.

“How can you be so casual about being nearly…about being undressed like that?” She lowered herself to the mattress as if it were not up to her weight, as if it might start moving without notice.

He shifted, and the bed bounced. “I can strut about as God made me because I am a man in the presence of a female who likes the look of me unclothed. Then too, my clothes are wet, and wet clothes don’t flatter much of anybody. Damned uncomfortable, too, and in the most inconvenient locations. How many pins do you use, for pity’s sake?”

“My hair is thick and takes a lot of pins.”

But not so many that his deft fingers couldn’t work under the brim of the bonnet to withdraw the offending pins that snared the bonnet onto her head. He set the pins on the bedside table, lifted the bonnet away, and her hair went tumbling down her back in a single thick braid.

“You have the knack of smelling luscious, Wyeth.” He buried his nose in a handful of her hair. “Diabolical of you.”

“You have the same knack. Few men do. Will you sniff at me all afternoon, or surrender my bonnet?” She’d prefer the sniffing, of course. Vastly prefer it.

He rose and hung her bonnet on a nail along the same rafter that held his clothing, then returned to the bed. “You’re still sporting a few pins, and when attending a lady, I am nothing if not thorough.”

She didn’t feel so much as a tug or a yank on her scalp as he withdrew the last pins from her braid. He was that careful with her—or that experienced at tending to a woman’s hair. She was still marveling at his skill when a boom of thunder literally shook the cottage.

“I hate storms,” she said, hunching in on herself. “In Dorset, we don’t get the Atlantic storms they do in Devon and Cornwall, or not so many, but we get the Channel weather, and it’s bad enough.”

“You’re safe here, Wyeth.” His arm came around her shoulders, and his lips applied themselves to her temple. “Perfectly safe.”

He sat back a moment later, and Jacaranda wondered what that embrace had been about. Reassurance? When he was wearing only a towel? His arms had been warm and strong about her, and the reassurance in his voice had been convincing.

“My mother died in a storm,” she said, back to him. “She was out on the water with a boating party, and the weather came up suddenly. Some of them made it back, but she wasn’t a good swimmer.”

He brushed a hand over her nape. “I am sorry, love. How old were you?”

“I was nearly three, Grey was six, Will about five.”

“I was eight when my mother died. There’s no good age for a child to lose a mother.”

“You think about Avery losing Moira, don’t you?” She did not glance over her shoulder, for the conversation had taken an unlikely turn, though she preferred it to his ridiculous banter.

“Of course I do.” Another caress, this one pretending to tuck a lock of hair over her ear. “I think of Yolanda, losing both parents, and I realize whatever differences I might have had with my father, he at least did me the courtesy of surviving until I was able to make my own way in the world. Parents are supposed to see to that much.”

He regretted the terms on which he’d parted from his father. Jacaranda could hear his regret, could feel it in his hand tracing the curve of her shoulder.

“I had my papa until I was seventeen, and my step-mother is still at home.” Though Jacaranda wondered who was running Grey’s domicile, for dear Step-Mama hadn’t the knack.

“She was left with a lot of children. A lot of boys.” Another slow caress, this time under her damp braid, over her nape.

“She was, but Grey was down from university before Papa died, and Step-Mama hasn’t had to manage all the boys herself. Grey takes his responsibilities seriously.”

“As do you.”

“Papa did too.” She stifled a yawn, because those little touches of his and the rain on the roof were combining to send an insidious languor through her. Then too, the fire was warming the interior of the cottage nicely. “Papa told me he remarried to ensure Will and Grey wouldn’t be overly burdened managing the family’s holdings.”

“You believed him?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Five extra spares, Jacaranda?” His tone held humor, and when she glanced at him over her shoulder, his eyes did as well.

“Papa was very conscientious.” While Step-Mama was very delicate, if her letters were to be believed.

“Just as you are conscientious about my house?” His arms went around her again, and he pulled her back against the warmth of his chest.

“I try.” Though he would have to find a successor for her soon. She ought to tell him so.

“You succeed beautifully.”

When he complimented her like that, and held her this way, Jacaranda felt beautiful, too.

Trouble invariably had the ability to entice and please while promising certain disaster.

“The rain isn’t letting up.” She made the observation to fill the silence stretching between them, though she didn’t move. He didn’t either, but remained sitting behind her on the bed.

“Which means that rickety little excuse for a bridge might be washing out,” he said. “If I were you, I really would get out of that wet dress, Jacaranda Wyeth. Keep your chemise on if you want, but don’t take a chill for the sake of modesty. I first came upon you in sopping wet nightclothes, if you’ll recall. I’ve seen your treasures, you’ve seen mine, and nobody has gone insane with thwarted lust.”

He had seen her treasures, or all but, and the dress was damp.

“I do not want to encourage your wrongheaded notions,” she said, getting off the bed. “Neither do I consider myself the stuff of insane lust.”

Or even sane lust.

“I could not imagine encouraging your wrongheaded notions.” He lifted the covers and scooted under. “What? My clothes are wet, and unless you want me prancing about in a towel—which I’d be happy to do, so greatly do I seek to court your notice—then the least ridiculous place for me to be is under these covers.”

He tossed his loin-towel onto the hearth and made a great display of getting comfortable under the covers.

“What am I to be doing, prancing around in my shift while you stay warm and cozy?” She started to unbutton her bodice, back turned to him, when his voice came floating over her shoulder.

“You should join me in this nice, cozy bed. We’ve much to discuss.”

“Such as?” Her impending remove to Dorset wasn’t something she’d bring up unless she was fully clothed and her hair neatly pinned.

“How you like your pleasures, for one thing. How I like mine, for another.”

“I will not be your mistress.”

“No, but that leaves sensible alternatives, which I am prepared to offer you. Come to bed, love, so we might discuss them like sensible, if nearly naked, adults. It’s time you had a little of what you want out of this life.”

That was such a startling pronouncement, Jacaranda had no ready retort. With her back to him, she mentally reviewed his words, for a trap lurked among them somewhere—and a truth.

“I have a great deal of what I want in this life,” she said, getting back to her unbuttoning.

“I’m sure you’ve told yourself that.” A pillow suffered a solid blow. “I’ve kissed you, my dear, more than once. You’re hungry for a man, you might as well admit it.”

Love. My dear. “I’m hungry for a— You are beyond audacious.” Though he was not wrong. She was hungry for one man in particular, drat him.

“Taking you a long while to get out of a simple walking dress, Jacaranda Wyeth.”

“Just Wyeth will do. How can I share a bed with you when you’re talking such rot?”

“How can you not?” She heard the bed creek and suspected he’d rolled over to inspect her progress. “You take a chill easily, and I give off a deal of heat. Come to bed, and we’ll talk.”

“Close your eyes.”

He did, the soul of docility, as she peeled out of her damp dress, hung it on yet another handy nail, got off her damp stays—thank God for old-fashioned jumps—and gingerly lifted the covers to climb in.

“Don’t make me regret this.”

“I said we’d talk, Jacaranda. You know my mouth is good for at least that.”

She saw no point in arguing with him when he wasn’t making any sense, neither did she scold him for the use of her given name.

“So talk to me, my dear.” He rolled to his side, closer to her. She ought to flop to her side, give him her back, and start discussing the Damuses’ marriageable daughters. “Tell me what pleasures you enjoy the most.”

What sort of question was that? “I adore a perfect cup of tea. You?”

“We’re English. Of course we must have our tea. Tell me something you like that you haven’t shared with another, ever.”

His voice blended with the patter of the rain and the crackle of the fire to invite confidences Jacaranda might yield to him, if she could only figure out his objective. “What is this in aid of?”

“Because we’re to be intimate, Jacaranda Just-Wyeth-Will-Do. I’ll not talk of coin, I’ll not pester and flirt, I’ll simply give you the pleasure you want, on your terms. You’ve won, love. I’m capitulating to your very sensible view of the matter. Have your way with me.”

“I’ve won?”

“That’s right.” He traced her hair-line with a single finger. “From this moment forth, my duties include your regular and profound pleasuring, so start my instruction.”

Regular and profound pleasuring? “When did you make this decision?”

One moment he was lying at her side, sleepily perusing her, the next he was over her, crouched like a tiger guarding a juicy meal. She had only an instant to meet his gaze, to see the startling heat and purpose in his eyes, before his lips were firmly moving over hers.

He tangled a hand in her hair to prevent her from evading him, but when the first moment of surprise wore off, the worse shock set in: Jacaranda didn’t want to evade him. She didn’t want to talk, she didn’t want to reason, she most assuredly didn’t want to flirt.

She wanted him.

And he was offering himself on her terms.

His kiss gentled as that realization brought her arms around his shoulders and had her seeking his mouth with her own.

“Better,” he muttered.

It was better, better without many clothes, better in a bed, better with the rain pattering steadily on the roof and all the privacy in the world. Her hands went questing all over his back, learning the smooth, warm map of muscle and bone. She curled her fingers over his biceps, holding on hard as his tongue made teasing forays into her mouth.

And legs! A revelation, to learn that a kiss could even involve her longest, strongest limbs. The ones she’d wanted to twine around him on the bridge, the ones she could clutch about his flanks so tightly now.

The kiss built, like a fire finding a nice, cool draft to feed on, spreading out through her body, taking over her reason. She sank her hands into his hair and arched her hips up, only to meet a hard column of flesh against her belly.

“Easy,” he murmured against her neck.

“We have to stop,” she said, even as she got a hand over his muscular backside and clutched him hard.

“We do?”

“We’re not married.”

He smiled against the juncture of her shoulder and her neck. “Then we’ll stop soon, but because we’re here for your pleasure, we’ll see to a few details first.”

Jacaranda had seven brothers. She’d overheard a lot, and she knew there could be pleasure for women, for some women. Wicked, lucky women. She went quiet beneath him and smoothed a hand through his hair.

Worth Kettering would give her this pleasure, on her terms.

She shouldn’t.

She absolutely shouldn’t.

But his discretion was utterly trustworthy, and when would Jacaranda Wyeth, aging spinster, rural housekeeper, ever have the chance to learn of these pleasures, if not with him? It wasn’t that men like Worth Kettering came along so seldom, it was that they never came along. Never. Not in Dorset, not in Surrey, not in London’s most fashionable ballrooms, not anywhere Jacaranda Wyeth had been or would be in the future.

She repeated the caress, not for him, though he seemed to like it, but for her. She found pleasure in simply stroking his hair, feeling the silky clean abundance of it slipping through her fingers. He closed his eyes and moved into her hand.

“You will show me these details, Worth Kettering, but we cannot… That is, I don’t see how, without…”

“Bless you. Trust me, we won’t. I won’t. This is for you.”

His voice had changed to a husky whisper, his body above hers became somehow languid, his muscles softer and more sinuously powerful. Under the covers Jacaranda went from warm to hot.

Wonderfully hot with a slow, spreading excitement that started in her middle and had her sighing against his chest.

“I’ll show you.” He sipped at the spot below her ear. “You’ll let me show you.”

She tucked a leg around his hips. “Show me soon, please?”

“Not soon.” He lifted up, and no smile lit his handsome features. “This is for you, and we’ll do it right. I promise you that, and I keep my word.”

She hid her face against his throat as one of his big hands cradled the back of her head.

He held her like that, sheltered by his warm, naked body and tucked snugly against his strength. In the middle of all the pleasure and wonder and curiosity, Jacaranda withstood a spike of…hurt, of loneliness for herself, for all the times she’d needed to be comforted and treasured and known thus, and it had been denied her.

Daisy had this precious intimacy. Had had it whenever she pleased for the past five years.

“Hold on to me.” His voice was raspy, and then he rolled them so she straddled him.

She burrowed down onto his chest, for if she sat up, her breasts would be very much on display, despite her shift. “This is novel.”

“You are shy. One would not have surmised this, given how you campaign around the house like Wellington on a forced march.”

His hands moved on her, stroking her hair, her back, her shoulders. God help her, there was pleasure in these simple caresses. Pleasure, comfort, and something soothing.

Caring?

“I cannot help my size. Or my name.”

“What has your name to do with the matter?” He gathered her closer. A hug, but more than a hug, too.

“My brothers are creative little intellects, and my name was an endless challenge to them.”

“So you were Jack the Giant?”

“And Jack Boots. Jackanapes, Beanstalk, and all manner of unflattering appellations. I honestly do prefer Wyeth. Grey says my mother called me that.”

“She called you by your last name? I suppose that’s better than my father’s appellation for me.”

“Which was?”

“Spare. Hess he referred to exclusively by his title, and I was Spare. ‘Spare, why aren’t you at lessons?’ That sort of thing.”

“You have such a beautiful name.” She murmured his name because that was a pleasure, too. “Worth Reverence Kettering.”

He closed his eyes, and she feared she’d misstepped, but then his arms closed around her again. Perhaps the unforeseen spikes of loneliness were not unique to her.

She leaned forward and kissed him, intending it as a comfort to him, to them both, but then his palm cradled her jaw, and he shifted his body, bringing his erect flesh up against her sex. With his tongue and his hips, he started a slow, undulating rhythm, and she fell into it, moving with him, catching his sighs in her mouth, giving him her own.

“Let me touch you,” he whispered, slipping that hand from her jaw to her collarbone. “Lift up one inch, Wyeth. I want to touch you.”

“Close your eyes,” she said, for she knew good and well where he sought to put his hand. She lifted up, letting her own hands trail over his shoulders and chest. “You are beautiful,” she said. “Breathtakingly, unfairly beautiful. Why is such size handsome on a man and ungainly on a woman?”

His eyes opened, and she wanted to cross her arms over her breasts, but she also wanted, more than anything, to not be ashamed.

“Listen to me,” he said, untying the bows down the front of her chemise, even as his gaze stayed locked with hers. “A man of my size can find few women who don’t feel like dolls in my arms, much less in my bed. I’ve tried to find pleasure with the daintier females, Wyeth, but they cultivate an air of frailness that’s at least partly genuine.”

His words were so…so unexpected, Jacaranda didn’t protest at his caresses to her bare midline.

“With a typical woman, I cannot express my passion,” he went on. “I must move about carefully. And at the risk of forever losing your esteem, I have to say the fit with such women is abysmal. One can be joined at the mouth, or elsewhere, but both at the same time without contortions. For a man who takes his kissing as seriously as his swiving, the result is eternal frustration. You are perfect. I would not give up one iota of your height and strength, not if God Almighty promised me the earth to see it so.”

He settled one hand over either breast. “You are perfect, Jacaranda Wyeth.”

And then she was perfectly shocked, because he leaned up and put his mouth to one breast, while his bare hand fondled its twin. All the arousal he’d awakened previously danced inside her like cloud lightning on a hot summer night.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, using his free hand to caress her ribs and stomach. “Perfect, marvelous, and lovely.”

He didn’t merely kiss her breasts, didn’t simply take her nipples one by one into the heat of his mouth, he made love to her. He pumped fresh air on the internal conflagration of her arousal, then shifted his hand down, and down, and conjured white-hot sparks with just his thumb.

She flinched.

“Settle, love.” He stroked his thumb over a particular knot of feminine flesh again, deliberately, letting her become accustomed to such an intimate caress, though Jacaranda feared there was no becoming accustomed to the sensations he evoked.

Somebody groaned, a soft, tormented exhalation.

“Stay with me, Wyeth.” He tugged gently on her nipple with his teeth. “Let me give you this.”

“Too much.” She hung her head, while moving her hips minutely against his hand.

“Let yourself have this pleasure of me,” he said, his words harsh and soft at the same time. A span of seconds went by, the only sounds the slight creaking of the bed ropes, the rain, the fire in the hearth, and Jacaranda’s breath, coming more and more quickly.

“Worth?”

“Let it”—another delicate nip—“happen.”

“Blessed, everlasting, merciful…Worth…”

Her body seized with pleasure, burned with it, consumed her with it. He drove his finger up into her, and the pleasure roared hotter and harder, shaking her like thunder shakes even a sturdy structure.

She might have shouted his name, she might have whispered it.

Jacaranda curled onto Worth’s chest fraught moments later, panting and dazed, grateful for his arms around her and the beat of his heart beneath her ear. She could not speak, and her body still hummed with the sensations he’d caused.

While her mind was in complete eclipse.

Of all the kindnesses Worth had shown her, she accounted his silence as foremost among them. When she awoke from her doze, she was still sprawled on his chest, his hands still moving slowly on her back and shoulders.

“You’re with me again?”

“I am awake,” she said, hiding her face against his neck.

“And?”

“And what?”

The rain pounded down on the roof, the fire crackled cheerily, and Jacaranda blushed mightily.

“Will I do, Wyeth? A man can’t be kept in suspense about these things, and most of us fellows take to direction on this one limited matter surprisingly well.”

“I cannot think how to respond.” Understatement, or perhaps cowardice, so she tried harder for honesty. “I cannot think at all.”

“That is an acceptable reply, but don’t fret. We’ll have years to learn one another’s pleasures.” He kissed her temple, and Jacaranda knew she ought to take exception to something he’d said.

Years.

“Years?” She made the monumental effort to lever up and beheld a man in the grip of an ominous kind of cheer. “What do you mean, years?”

“We have chemistry.” He patted her bottom. “We won’t be like some couples who are lucky to make it past the honeymoon without a disgust of each other.”

She swung her leg over his hips and scooted back against the headboard so they weren’t touching. “What honeymoon?”

“Whatever honeymoon you want. Suppose it depends on when we tie the knot, but Portugal is lovely in the autumn. I contemplated matrimony once before, as a much younger fellow, if you’ll recall. Even then, I didn’t favor a long engagement.”

“Tie the knot?” She drew the covers up under her arms, while he lay recumbent beside her, arms behind his head. His smile was a little too smug, and the downy fur of his armpits a little too masculine—and much too intimate.

A lot too masculine.

“You can’t think we’re obligated to marry now,” she said. “Even I know what happened in this bed cannot start a baby.”

“Wyeth, I said we’d do this your way. I said you’d have what you wanted. You won.” He sat up, too, no longer smiling but just as masculine. “We’ll marry.”

“I don’t recall you proposing,” she shot back. “I don’t recall you asking for my opinion on this lifelong commitment.”

“You’re a female.” He nodded once as if to assure himself of his conclusion. “You’re a decent female with whom I intend to have relations, ergo, you sought marriage. I’m offering, you’ll accept, and we’ll have relations. I’m more sure of that than ever.”

“I did not seek marriage,” she said, quietly, vehemently. “I am attracted to you, true, badly, badly attracted. And it won’t serve, I know that as well. But if I sought anything, it was in the nature of what you just willingly shared with me, and I thank you for it.”

“You sought merely to dally? With me?”

She nodded, not sure what all his question revealed, or what it concealed. He’d sought marriage—with her?

“You are rejecting my perfectly honorable offer of marriage?”

He was honorable, damn him, while she was purely, utterly flustered. He posed a simple question, while she could not think, for all the emotions, untruths, and complications whirling inside her.

“Marriage would never work, not between us.” And she’d never be able to explain to Grey, much less to Step-Mama why all her promises to come home had to be broken.

Again. Worse, how would she explain to Worth that yet another woman hadn’t been entirely honest with him?

“Marriage between us would work,” Worth said, flipping the covers back. Naked, he came around the bed and snatched at his breeches. “It would work splendidly.”

He leaned down, seized her chin in his fingers, and kissed her soundly. “It would.”

The next thing Jacaranda heard was an ax biting into a solid length of wood, hard. The ax blows fell again and again, until a rumble of distant thunder obliterated the sound from her hearing.

Chapter Eight

THE STORM MOVED OFF, UNTIL what came down was mostly moisture dripping from the canopy around the clearing where Worth wielded his ax.

Jacaranda Wyeth didn’t want to marry him.

Thunk!

She’d have her pleasure of him, then cast him aside.

Thunk!

She’d dictate her terms, and he was supposed to meekly abide by them.

Thunk!

He was to content himself with bodily intimacy only.

Thunk!

No commitment, no future, nothing to rely on…

God in heaven.

He put up the ax and gathered the split logs along with the detritus of his anger, for he was whining like a rejected opera dancer.

No, he was whining like a society lady propositioned and thoroughly enjoyed by one Honorable Worth Kettering, then promptly set aside so he might prowl for fresh game the next night.

Or later that same evening.

God’s holy nightgown.

He sat on the back steps of the cottage, abruptly tired. The overgrown forest around him was beautiful, and his, and yet what did it mean? Woods meant some warmth, the occasional harvest of lumber, some fresh game, all of which his coin would buy him easily.

His coin would not buy him Jacaranda Wyeth, though, not as a mistress and apparently not as a wife.

And still, sitting on that hard plank of oak, what he wanted was her sitting beside him, her hair tickling his nose, her soft lavender scent wafting on the damp air.

“The rain’s letting up.”

How long had she been standing at the door, watching him rust his brain with futile thoughts?

“I could use a spot of tea, if there’s any to be had.” Anything to get her from his sight. Her hair was back in its tidy coiffure. She wore her chemise, his shirt clutched around her, leaving a portion of feet and calves—beautiful feet and beautiful calves—exposed to torment him.

The sight of her brought him a curious blend of lust and shame, for she had rejected him.

Was this how his former amours felt toward him? Covetous, but angry?

He fumed and steamed and pouted for a while longer, but when Jacaranda brought him a mug of honey-sweetened tea, he thanked her cordially and even smiled a bit.

Because by then—he was nothing if not tenacious, she had admitted as much—his pride had reasserted itself, his brain had come back to life, and he’d begun to once again plot a means of achieving his objective.

* * *

WORTH KETTERING WAS UP TO something. The scowling man who’d kissed Jacaranda so passionately before he’d left the cottage had turned into a smiling, cordial, gratingly good-natured fellow.

He thanked her for the tea.

He put his shirt back on when she handed it to him.

He suggested they raid the hamper while the rain tapered off, as if they were merely having a parlor picnic, not trying to put a serious misstep behind them.

While they ate, he told her stories about his clients, nothing truly embarrassing, and never naming names.

He helped her tidy up the remains of their meal.

“Is this your way of apologizing?” she asked, putting the lid on the butter crock. “Treating me to your party manners? You needn’t.”

“I’m the helpful sort.” He passed her the butter knife. “I misread the situation, and I can apologize for that. It doesn’t happen often, but at least this time, the only negative consequences devolved to me. You got what you wanted—or did you? Be honest, Wyeth, for I cannot abide dissembling females.”

She set the butter crock on the table and rose. “I am not accustomed to such frank talk. I suppose you are.”

Was it dissembling to not disclose even her real name?

He kept to his seat, which was a relief. If he started purring in her ear, or touching her again, she’d likely spout whatever drivel he wanted to hear.

“Between lovers, a certain openness is usually expected.” He lounged in his chair, one arm casually hooked over the back. “I assume that’s what you want of me, a lover?”

The question was as casual as his pose, but Jacaranda knew if she dared to meet his gaze, she’d see a light in his eyes that wasn’t casual at all.

“I am out of my depth,” she said, needing to see those eyes anyway. “I do not know exactly what has transpired between us. Your attentions felt good at the time, and the experience has left me off-kilter. I’m not sure what’s to be gained by discussion. This cannot happen again.”

“Pity.” He affected a look of bewildered regret, which she did not believe for one instant. “I thought it went rather well, though I assumed you were inspecting a prospective husband, not a prospective lover.”

“Not a lover.” She barely got the word out, hugging her now-dry shawl closer.

He wrinkled his nose, as if catching a rank scent. “A casual romp then? They have their place, I suppose.”

“Not a romp. Not anything beyond a misbegotten moment.” An indulgence.

“So the most intense pleasure you’ve ever experienced is to mean nothing, Wyeth? Those passionate kisses and your body so trustingly naked against mine—nothing?”

His tone danced between puzzled and wounded, but now he had on his solicitor’s negotiating face, and Jacaranda resumed her seat.

“I don’t know what such an encounter means. Perhaps it should mean nothing. We did not… We are not lovers.” He wanted honesty from her, she’d give him honesty—up to a point. Were she to acquaint him with her circumstances in every honest detail, he’d send her off to Dorset in his traveling coach before sundown, because Worth Kettering would not dally with an earl’s unmarried daughter.

“I would like to be your lover.” He ran a pinkie finger around the edge of the jam jar and licked a dab of preserves from his fingertip. “On that, we have both been clear, I think. You wanted something when you climbed into that bed with me, Wyeth. The question is, what?”

The quiet around them held a quality Jacaranda hadn’t experienced before, patient, warm, and even a little comfortable, and it had to do with what had passed between them in that bed—so trustingly.

And with Worth’s present efforts to forge an understanding with her regarding the same experience.

More honesty, then.

“I wanted to know what it was like.” Jacaranda put the lid on the jam jar lest she trace the same path around the rim he had. “The curiosity doesn’t go away, the wanting, simply because nobody offers you marriage. If I’m to be a spinster, I at least want to be a spinster who knows what passion can be like.”

“You’re a virgin?”

She shook her head, overwhelmed all over again by regrets that had plagued her for five years.

“Your previous experiences were not memorable?”

Oh, she could recall every detail of those experiences. “The whole business was disappointing. Very, very disappointing. I was disappointing.”

“That is not possible,” he retorted, and when she looked up, he was smiling at such an absurdity. “You could not possibly disappoint. Put the blame on the idiot who disappointed you, Wyeth. That’s where it belongs.” He patted her hand, as a friend might, and Jacaranda suspected her ignorance had been even greater than she’d supposed.

“I want you to think about something for me,” he said, withdrawing his hand. “Think about what you want, and while you consider that, I will offer you what I believe that might be.”

She wanted to tell him the truth without risking that he’d be disappointed in her. She wanted to go home to Dorset that instant. She wanted to kiss him as she dragged him back to the unmade bed. “What do you think I want?”

“An intimate friend, a man you can trust to see to your pleasure without making demands. Someone with whom you can learn about passion, someone who will respect your every confidence and honor your trust, even as you honor his.”

She closed her eyes, because he’d articulated more than she dared to admit, even to herself. And yet, the intimate, trusting friendship he described had abruptly become more unattainable than ever.

“My family expects—”

“Don’t give me an answer.” He traced a pattern over her knuckles, once, but Jacaranda had new respect for his tactile flirtations. “I have made the offer. You consider it at your leisure. Consider it indefinitely, if you like.”

“Your offer is dangerous,” she said, sliding her hand to her lap. “Children result from such offers.”

“I gave you pleasure now without risking conception, Wyeth, and that was a mere taste of what you can have, if you want it. I would never risk your reputation, not even for your pleasure. We’ve already come some way toward developing that friendship, and we can’t undo what’s happened today. I’d rather build on it.”

“You wanted marriage.” So had she once upon a time—look how that had ended. “I will not remain at my post in your employ forever, you know. My family needs me, and they demand with increasing urgency that I return to Dorset.”

“I offered marriage, thinking you sought a husband. What honest man of your acquaintance actually wants marriage? Have your brothers galloped up the aisle, one after another?”

No, they had not, not a one of them, not even Grey, and a wife would spare him much. If Grey were married, his pleas for Jacaranda to come home would carry much less weight.

Though what woman would marry Grey, knowing she’d have to put up with six other men in her household? Most of those fellows were Step-Mama’s sons, and what they knew collectively about respecting female authority could fill a thimble halfway.

“I’m only a housekeeper, and you’ll be back to Town in a couple of months at the latest. You’ve your pick of gently bred ladies to marry and married ladies to dally with—or opera dancers. Why are my desires important to you?”

He put the butter crock into the hamper. “I’ve inspected that inventory, and they’ve inspected me. They’re bored and ornamental, and most of them excessively dainty. Even the taller ladies don’t want their hair mussed on any occasion, and all that dodging about, pretending a mere passing acquaintance on the dance floor, is tedious. Puts a crimp in a fellow’s style to be ignored the moment a title goes waltzing by.”

I cannot express my passion. What would Worth Kettering’s passion be like? Not merely his kisses, but all of him?

“What you want, Wyeth, is important to me because I want you. Simple and unflattering to the male of the species, but the truth. Your wants and mine can overlap, though, and to our mutual satisfaction. I leave the decision in your hands.”

He rose, then leaned down and kissed her forehead, bringing his scent and warmth close for a mere instant.

“The rain has stopped,” he said, straightening. “Let’s get you dressed, bank the fire, and see about getting home, shall we?”

And so, for the first time in her life, Jacaranda was assisted into her clothing by a man, one who knew all about tapes and hooks and the proper sequence for attiring a lady. His assistance was impersonal, but not in the same way a maid’s might have been. Worth’s aid was a friendlier version, with a little less detachment, but no more presumption.

She liked it.

She liked that he knotted her shawl right under her breasts, but didn’t touch her breasts. She liked that he laced her boots, but didn’t try to move her skirts aside when he touched her ankles. She liked that he tied her bonnet ribbons, but didn’t kiss her as he was leaning down to do so.

And then matters grew even worse.

He asked her to heft the second shaft on the buggy, and between the two of them, they managed to wrestle the vehicle around before hitching Goliath back into the harness. Worth—he was Worth to her, at least for now—hadn’t asked her to stand by, pretending her hems weren’t ruined. He’d asked her to lend her strength to get them home.

All the way back to Trysting, Jacaranda tried to talk herself out of considering this offer made by her employer. She knew the flaw in it—the flaw in herself. She’d said she wanted to know how intimacies with Worth Kettering felt, but beneath that honest admission came another. She wanted to be known, to be recognized and desired as a woman, not as a housekeeper, or useful step-daughter or a sister, bound to return home at summer’s end.

The first, the bodily pleasure, she had resisted for years. Now that she’d had a sample, she could see the temptation. The sensations were hot, lush, overwhelming, and wonderful—but soon over. The second, though, that yearning loneliness to be known, to be valued and cherished, it had been her downfall in the past, and she’d sworn it wouldn’t be ever again.

Not ever.

* * *

THE BUSINESS OF TEASING WYETH into his arms felt all too familiar. Worth was a master of the chase, of the quick riposte and elegant parry, the flirtatious innuendo and sly double meaning. Except this time, the whole exercise was fraught. He wasn’t enjoying it, not the way he should be.

He wasn’t enjoying the pursuit because he wasn’t engaged in a fencing match only to the first touch. He dared not admit as much to his quarry, but he was courting his housekeeper, and if one activity in his life had ever ended badly, it was courting.

He announced his intention to depart for London at dinner, then tucked Avery in, complete with an extravagant fuss over the wonderful scent of her Manka.

Then he sought to take private leave of his intended, whether she admitted of the distinction or not.

Jacaranda wasn’t in her chambers. He had to search for half an hour, but eventually he thought to look in the logical location on a warm summer night. He was halfway down the garden path when a form stepped out of the shadows.

“Fine night for a stroll, isn’t it, sir?”

Roberts, his stable master, emerged from the gloom of a tall privet hedge, a pipe between his teeth. The man was a human mountain, more than competent with farriery, and he had the slow, relaxed movements that soothed fractious beasts of any size.

Except, perhaps, a fractious employer intent on trysting with the housekeeper.

“You’re out for a smoke, Roberts?”

“Most nights.” Roberts took the pipe from his mouth. “So the entire family will be gathering soon?”

“The entire…” God in heaven, the man was right. When Hess joined them, four Ketterings would dwell under one roof. A veritable gathering of the clans, by their standards. “Yes, I suppose. Well, I’ll be on my way. Enjoy your smoke.”

“It’s good,” Roberts said, not budging from the path, “when family comes together. Better that way.”

“For some families. When did I hire you, Roberts?”

“You didn’t.” He smiled slightly and stuck his pipe back in his mouth. “She did.”

Across the garden, Jacaranda’s pale nightclothes revealed that her swim was over and she was marching directly for the kitchen door.

Worth was too late. He considered applying a punishing right cross to Roberts’s smug smile.

“What do you suppose she was doing out here?” Worth asked. “It’s late to be wandering the gardens.”

Roberts shrugged massive shoulders. “Perhaps she was in want of a smoke. If you’re thinking to ask her, though, you’d best be waiting until morning. Sleep tight.”

He sauntered off at the deliberate pace of a plough horse, one that needed no momentum to move a substantial load forward, only sheer strength in telling abundance.

Jacaranda Wyeth, the housekeeper, had hired the man?

Jacaranda, who wasn’t a virgin, but who had been disappointed?

Worth shuddered at the idea of such a brute disporting with Wyeth, though in truth Roberts had no height or reach over him, just bulk.

Brute bulk, Worth told himself as he repaired to the house. Inelegant, horse-scented brute bulk, such as would never appeal to a lady of Wyeth’s refinements.

* * *

WORTH—MR. KETTERING WAS LEAVING in the morning, and to Jacaranda, his departure would bring both relief and regret. He’d asked her to consider his offer at her leisure, but there was nothing to consider, really.

She told herself that and willed herself to believe it. The day had been long, tiring, and difficult. Tomorrow, with him gone, would be easier.

Sleep evaded her relentless pursuit, so she heard the door to her sitting room creak open.

An intruder? Then a faint, cedary scent came to her.

Him.

“What an accommodating little thing you are, Wyeth, curled up on one side of the bed.” The mattress dipped as he lifted the covers and joined her. “Your hair is damp. Surely you could have used my assistance to brush it out for you?”

“I was sleeping, if you don’t mind.” She rolled to her side, giving him her back.

“I couldn’t sleep, not without telling you I’ll miss you when I’m away.”

His hand, slow, soothing and warm, traced over her nape and shoulders.

She would have decades to catch up on her sleep, to miss him and his touch.

“You could have told me at breakfast, or tonight after dinner,” she said, and despite all her intentions to the contrary, a soft sigh followed the words. He wouldn’t miss her. He was just being Worth.

“I would not have others overhear such sentiments,” he said, moving his hand down along her spine then back up. “Nor would I keep you from your slumbers. Go to sleep, my dear.”

“With you in my bed?”

“I’m harmless, Wyeth, unless you command it otherwise. Consider me an errant house cat who seeks to warm himself on your quilt, nothing more.”

“You’re too good at this, and you don’t belong in my bed.” But a crisp, scolding tone eluded her, and her words sounded as wistful as she felt. Angels abide, that hand of his was melting her bones and weighting her eyelids, and entirely, entirely too wonderful.

“Hush.” His lips grazed her shoulder. “You need your sleep, and tomorrow will come soon enough.”

“Sufficient unto the day…”

She let the words trail off as she sank into a cloud of ease and relaxation. He shifted closer, close enough she could feel his warmth, not so close he couldn’t maneuver his hand all over her back.

Then he slid that hand down, to knead her backside, and the sheer bliss of it—and the proximity of sleep—had her sighing again. She recalled him slipping an arm around her waist sometime later, but then all she recalled were dreams.

And he joined her in those, too.

* * *

“WYETH.” WORTH COULDN’T HELP A grin, because his lady was dressed, but her hair was unbound, a fly-away dark cloud of riotous corkscrews and ringlets hanging down to her hips and secured with only a simple ribbon. “My, you are a fetching sight so early in the day.”

He made no move to touch her, because they were at the mounting block before the house, and a dozen pairs of eyes were no doubt glued to the window panes. He’d given his word he’d not jeopardize her reputation, and he always kept his word.

More to the point, if he put a single toe over that line, she’d dismiss him from her notice altogether. The high stakes were exhilarating, rather like a risky negotiation with several powerful parties at once.

“You’ve come to see me off,” he suggested. “I’m touched.”

“Enough of that.” She shoved a wrapped parcel at him. “Take this with you, please. Mr. Henderson delivered it as a sample of Trudy’s work, though she’s capable of fancier pieces. And take this.” A double sack, such as would go on either side of a saddle’s pommel.

He gave her a puzzled look, but accepted both consignments.

“It’s food,” she said, crossing her arms. “For your journey. The posting inns have only indifferent fare, and luncheon is hours away.”

She blushed, while Worth felt uncharacteristically self-conscious himself. With luck, he’d be in London by midday or shortly thereafter. That wasn’t the point. No one attended his leave-takings, not since he’d first gone up to university. No one packed him food, no one came to see him off.

He was…touched.

“You’ll keep an eye on the girls, Wyeth?” He turned as if to watch Roberts leading Goliath to the mounting block. “They’ve been here long enough to become bored, and that’s not good.”

“I’ll keep an eye on them. Yolanda has discovered the library, and Avery is making some friends.” She reached out as if to pat his lapel then snatched her hand back.

“Am I not quite presentable?”

“Your cravat.” She loosened a fold of cloth beneath his jaw. “It worked its way under your waistcoat.”

Then they spoke at the same time.

“I’ll be back…”

“When will you…?”

He recovered first.

“Walk with me, Mrs. Wyeth? Roberts, I’ll take Goliath now.” He snatched the reins, tossed the sacks over the pommel, checked the girth, the fit of the bridle, then offered his free arm to his housekeeper only when Roberts had slowly ambled a good distance away.

“I shouldn’t ask,” she said. “The house will be in readiness whenever you return, if you return.”

“Now what sort of friend would I be if I merely rode down the lane without even a wave farewell? Roberts is watching me like he’s your jealous beau, else I would bow over your hand in parting. If you need anything in my absence, a groom can get word to me in a few hours.”

“I’ll remind the girls.”

“I appreciate the provisions,” he added, bending closer as if to hear her, but in truth sneaking a whiff of her hair. “I should be back by Wednesday. I’ll send a note if I’m delayed.”

“And if your brother shows up?”

“He’d best not. He’d have to move like lightning to get here so quickly, and Hess believes in enjoying the privileges of his station.”

“If he shows up, we’ll make him very welcome and send word.”

He frowned down at her. She was quite pretty with her hair all a fright. “I really would like to kiss you, Wyeth. At least tell me you’ll miss me. I expect that much honesty from you.”

Oh, she scowled at that. Her swooping dark eyebrows drew together, and her mouth worked, evidence she was composing a wonderfully puritanical lecture regarding proper conduct between employer and employee. Then she curled her arm more closely around his.

“I’ll miss you.”

“Beg pardon? I couldn’t quite hear you.”

“You heard me. Now stop bothering me, and get on your horse.”

“A stirring declaration if ever one graced my ears.”

She dropped his arm, but now she was smiling, a soft, private smile that made him want to toss his housekeeper over his shoulder and send Goliath back to his stall.

“Be off with you,” she said, stepping back. Now she was smiling at him. “Safe journey.”

He touched the brim of his hat, swung onto his horse and cantered off down the drive. He was still savoring that smile and intermittently grinning like an idiot, when he reached his town house hours later.

* * *

JACARANDA HAD FELT LIKE AN idiot, standing at the mounting block as if she were someone who had a right to see Mr. Worth Kettering off on his journey. She was nothing, a mere housekeeper, and then he’d called himself her friend, and the early summer morning had become altogether lovely.

Worth Kettering’s body housed several different men. One was the imperious, brilliant solicitor who expected immediate and unquestioning compliance with his every directive. That man was reasonable, if impatient, but he did not suffer fools.

Then there was the flirt, a reckless, heedless, strutting louse who in all likelihood left a trail of broken hearts from one end of Mayfair to the other. Jacaranda didn’t approve of that fellow one bit.

Worth Kettering was a conscientious older brother, too, a man somewhat at a loss to know what duty required of him, but ready to do it for his sister and more than ready to step up to the challenge of raising his niece.

Jacaranda liked that Worth, and she respected him.

Then there was her Worth. An absolute puzzle, unlike any man she’d dealt with before. He desired her, intimately, but didn’t force himself on her. He touched her, with his hands, and his body, and his mouth, and the feel of him was wonderful. His scent lingered, his warmth comforted, and his hands… Angels abide, his hands.

And that Worth—her Worth—was careful with her, and not only physically. He was sensitive to her pride and considerate of her in small, subtle ways, like not taking her hand while Roberts glowered from the mounting block.

That Worth was an irresistible combination of every naughty, lonely, spinster housekeeper’s most closely guarded dreams. She needed time to gain perspective on him and on his infernal offer. Wednesday seemed much too soon, and an eternity to wait to see him again.

The solution to this situation was the same solution she’d employed many times in the past: Stay busy.

The next morning, Jacaranda had a lengthy list in her reticule, and Avery’s hand in hers as they left their gig at the livery in Least Wapping. Yolanda was quiet beside them, but Jacaranda had the sense the girl was every bit as bright as her brother. Yolanda would notice everything and say little.

“Do you each have your pin money?” Jacaranda asked as they approached the market square.

Avery dropped Jacaranda’s hand and reached for Yolanda’s. “We do!”

“Then why don’t you have a look around? I’m easy to spot, and I won’t leave without you.”

“We won’t be gone long,” Yolanda said as Avery tugged her off toward a table laden with the baked goods perfuming the morning air with their yeasty scent.

“So those are the Kettering ladies?” Thomas Hunter appeared at Jacaranda’s side, a rangy fellow past the first blush of youth, with serious brown eyes and wavy wheat-blond hair.

“The older one is Miss Yolanda,” Jacaranda said, though as an acknowledged sister to an earl, Yolanda might make her come out with the same consequence as a Lady Yolanda. “The younger is Miss Avery, a niece. How have you been, Thomas?”

“Managing. I’ve wondered if himself would pay a call on us.”

“You’re on the list, I assure you, but on our last attempt, we were thwarted by the weather.”

He offered his arm, the sort of thing his neighbors wouldn’t know to do, but he did, and Jacaranda let herself be escorted to a patch of shade at the side of the churchyard.

“Mayhap, Mrs. Wyeth, you and Mr. Kettering did make an attempt to visit, but found your way blocked by a tree?” He looked not at her, but rather at their friends and neighbors laughing, talking, and making their weekly purchases on the green.

“Thomas, does that hypothetical have a point?”

Jacaranda had always liked Thomas Hunter. He wasn’t a sheep, waiting to be told where to graze, in what company, and for how long. He was on his way to owning a small holding, she was sure of it, and when he had his own land in hand, he’d make it amount to something.

Ambition in another she could respect. Thomas was also a devoted and patient father, and that she had to like.

“I consider myself your friend,” he said quietly. “Not a close friend, but a friend nonetheless. You came when my youngest was ill and Gran had about given up.”

“I will always come,” Jacaranda started in, but he stopped her with a hand on her arm.

“That cottage near the property line. I use it from time to time for a little privacy. I like to read and to sketch.” His ears turned red, and Jacaranda barely kept her surprise from showing. “I’m there fairly often, when we’re between planting and harvest, but somebody else has used it, Mrs. Wyeth. Somebody else has made tea, chopped wood, built a fire, and made themselves at home.”

Like a fist to the solar plexus, she deduced what he’d delicately implied.

Somebody had used the bed and forgotten to tidy it up.

How could she have been so careless? She was a housekeeper, had been nothing but a housekeeper for five long years.

“I believe Mr. Reilly has sought respite there on occasion,” she said, her face heating. “Perhaps he was forgetful.”

Thomas nodded to the vicar, who’d waved from the edge of the green. “His missus caught wind of his mischief. He hasn’t set foot in the direction of my property for at least a year.”

“A year?” This was news—bad news. “I wish you’d said something earlier. I would have sent him around.”

“Why would I want to take time out of my busy day to tell Reilly what is common knowledge in the parish? The barley is doing fine, the wheat’s a little slow, the pig had eight piglets, and my mare didn’t catch until May, but that’s acceptable, because the foal will have spring grass next year.”

“Mrs. Wyeth!” Avery came bouncing along, towing Yolanda. “We found a man who sells books!” She went off into rapid, happy French, then dipped back into English, and finished with a few phrases of gesticulating Italian.

“Ladies.” Jacaranda aimed a look at the younger girl. “May I make known to you Mr. Thomas Hunter, our neighbor and my friend. Mr. Hunter, Miss Yolanda Kettering, Miss Avery.”

Yolanda offered an elegant curtsy, which prompted Avery into something between a bow and a curtsy.

“My pleasure, ladies, and perhaps I might escort you to the bookseller’s stall. I was headed that way myself.” He offered Yolanda his arm, Avery his hand, and Jacaranda a polite bow.

The girls tripped off with him, Avery still squealing about the book of fairy tales—in English!—she’d decided to buy. Yolanda went along quietly, and yet Jacaranda saw speculation in the young woman’s eyes.

Which left Jacaranda considering the question: Had Worth known they’d left the bed unmade, or had his wits been so scrambled that, like Jacaranda, he’d forgotten to protect their privacy with the simplest precautions?

Chapter Nine

“YOU’RE THE OLDEST DAUGHTER, RIGHT?” Worth put the question to Mary as she sat at his kitchen table, her feet up on a chair. “You were probably your mother’s right hand.”

“From little up.” Mary sipped her tea, her rapturous expression suggesting she was savoring the first real tea she’d had in days. “I took as much burden from Ma as I could, until my sisters started coming along, and they’re good workers. What was needed was more coin, so here I am.”

“How are you feeling?” He dreaded her reply. She looked tired and pale and thinner in the face. That couldn’t be good, but Jones hadn’t yet discovered the name of the father. He would, though. Jones had yet to let Worth down.

“I’m doing well enough,” Mary said, taking another sip of tea. “This settles my nerves, it does. I can feel myself coming to rights, to have a good cup of tea.”

“Tea helps the digestion, which I would hazard has been troubling you?”

“A mite.”

He topped up her cup and waited while she poured cream and sugar into it in quantity.

“I’ve a proposition for you,” he said, pouring himself a cup and taking a seat at right angles to her. “Hear me out before you laugh in my face. I want to accomplish two things, and I think you can do both. The first matter relates to this household.”

His plan was the best way to keep her safe, to get her the hell off her feet so the child she carried had a chance at health and a decent start in life. Then too, he’d become irrationally critical of the job his house steward was doing.

The back stoop sported mud from the mews and worse, for pity’s sake.

The window in his bedroom stuck and screeched when he pried it open.

The kitchen floor near the sink was sticky, and when he thought back, it had always been sticky.

“Wants a hands and knees scrubbing,” Mary said, rubbing her toe over the offending location. “Grease gets on it, then it half works into the wood, and it takes lye soap and hot water to lift it.”

He toured the house with her, pointing out dozens of small lapses Jacaranda Wyeth would have set right in a heartbeat.

“I was in service for a few months when I first came to Town,” Mary said when they were again gathered around the teapot. “Most of the girls make a try for service before they start dancing, though it’s hard work. At least you have a roof over your head and some victuals.”

“What happened?”

“Footmen, the man of the house, his sons, the tradesmen, a pack of humping louts, the lot of them, and a girl doesn’t have to so much as flirt to be given the sack for the way a man looks at her. Don’t suppose you’ve a biscuit on hand?”

“Finish your tea.” He patted her hand and scavenged up a plate of shortbread that was less than a day old and brought up his second idea. She listened, munched her shortbread, and agreed to consider his offers.

What was it with women that they were all overcome by the need to deliberate perfectly sound propositions of late? Worth’s musings were disturbed when Lewis came in looking like he’d distasteful news to impart.

“What is it?”

“We’ve a beggar in the mews, or I think he’s a beggar, and he’s asking for you.”

“He’s not asking for food or money?”

Lewis scratched his chin. “Claims he’s not. Said he knows you’re here, because your great, black beast is in the mews, and he’ll keep coming back until you talk with him.”

“You still think he’s a beggar?” Worth turned down his cuffs as he rose. Some of his clients were from the highest tiers of society—he’d been to Carlton House that very morning—and some were not.

Still, he didn’t recognize the weathered old salt at his back door.

The man stuck out a hand. “Name’s Noonan. I used to sail with Captain Spicer, of the Drummond, years and years ago.”

“I know Spicer,” Worth said. “He’s a good man, but the Drummond should have made port last week, and we fear for him.” This was part of what he’d had to tell his regent earlier in the day. The meeting had lacked sorely for good cheer.

Noonan slapped a dusty cap against his thigh. “Fret not. Spicer was swilling rum at the same little out-of-the-way port where I laid up on Madagascar while his ship put in for repairs. They took bad storm damage, but lost not a hand.”

“This is very, very good news,” Worth said, thinking quickly. “The best news.”

Noonan tugged the cap back on a balding pate, his grin conspiratorial. “The best news is that your cargo is in fine shape as well. Drummond said to tell you they should be along in a couple more weeks.”

“Who else have you told?”

“Cap’n swore me to secrecy. Said to tell you myself and only you, and he’d consider his account with you even.”

“Even it is,” Worth said. “For your discretion, I’m prepared to offer you a one percent share in the venture, if you’re interested?”

“As one old sailor who’s weathered too many gales, of course I’m interested.”

“Give me your direction. I’ll send around the paperwork, but if you breathe a word of this to anyone, your share will soon be as worthless in truth as it’s rumored to be now.”

“I can take a secret with me to my grave, but I would like to call on Mrs. Spicer. She’s no doubt heard the rumors as well.”

“Leave that to me, and no matter what you hear, keep your mouth shut, and don’t sell your share to anyone.”

“Righty-o, mate.” He turned to leave with a jaunty wave.

“Another moment of your time, Noonan. Captain Spicer’s man deserves some decent sustenance and a spot of tea, unless you’ve pressing matters to see to?”

“I could do with a plate and pint, but I wouldn’t put you to any trouble.”

“This won’t be trouble.” Though it would be delicate, for Worth would not lie outright. “We’re off to the local tavern, where we’ll lament Spicer’s apparent fate for any with ears to hear.”

Noonan doffed his cap again and held it over his heart. “Too bad about old Spicer. He were a good sort, just took one too many chances.”

“Pity,” Worth said. “A real shame.”

* * *

WORTH WAS GLAD HIS SCHEDULE allowed for a leisurely midday meal, for old Noonan had done justice to many a pint. Now the game was well and truly on, because Spicer’s sad fate had been toasted vociferously, until a pair of stevedores coming in from a hard morning on the docks had joined in. By next week, shares in the Drummond would be available for a farthing apiece, and shares were held in many, many hands.

Worth wanted to tell Jacaranda what was afoot, but he didn’t dare put such tidings in a letter. He told neither Lewis, nor Jones, nor Mary, nor anybody. Some of his clients had shares in the Drummond, the ones with enough to do a little high-risk investing, and Worth himself had invested heavily. The odds weren’t as long as people thought, for the Drummond was stoutly constructed and the captain both experienced and sensible. The crew was made up of men who’d sailed with him on many occasions.

But still, Worth missed his housekeeper, missed that private smile she’d sent him off with, missed her summery, lavender scent, and her tart, unvarnished rejoinders.

He even missed his niece, and his sister, and the peaceful sense of repose Trysting offered for all who bided there.

When he returned to his town house, he sat at his desk, trimmed a quill pen, and considered what he could say that wouldn’t offend the woman he was missing most.

My Dear Mrs. Wyeth,

That much wasn’t offensive, and she was dear. She wasn’t his, though—not yet. He finished the note anyway, sanded it, and passed it to a groom to take directly out to Surrey. When that task was complete, he contemplated what goal he should set once the Drummond had seen his holdings surpass the million-pound mark.

Oddly enough, that pleasant contemplation did not relieve him from wondering if his note would be answered.

* * *

“COME ALONG, GIRLS, UNLESS YOU’VE more money to spend?” Jacaranda posed the question brightly, but a normally pleasant day at market had turned into something else.

Thomas Hunter suspected she’d trysted with her employer at that cottage. He hadn’t said anything—he wouldn’t—but already, Jacaranda and the man who wasn’t her lover had been indiscreet.

“Please, Mrs. Wyeth.” Avery gave her a big-eyed, pleading look. “May we not visit the sweet stall once again? I can buy Uncle some lemon drops, and maybe you would like some candied violets?”

“I’ll take her,” Yolanda offered. “We can meet you at the livery.”

“Very well, but don’t tarry, and no violets for me. We make our own at Trysting.”

“Miss Kettering is a nice addition to the scenery,” Thomas Hunter said, his gaze following Yolanda’s retreating skirts with a particular male appreciation.

“She’s sixteen, Thomas. She’s not receiving yet.”

“My wife was fifteen and not receiving when we started walking out. Don’t worry, I know my place. If you’re headed to the livery, I’ll walk you.”

He winged his arm, and Jacaranda had no choice but to take it.

“About our earlier discussion.” He didn’t have to dip his head to talk to her, because they were of a height. “You must pass along something to Mr. Kettering for me.”

“If I can.”

He kept walking steadily, farther away from the market crowd.

“Tell him…” Thomas glanced around. “Tell him I know a man gets lonely and has needs, but he’d best not trifle with a lady who can’t manage what he’s after. Kettering is a Town man and probably thinks the women here are like all those tarts in London—”

Oh, this was worse, much worse, than if Thomas had been scolding her directly.

“Thomas,” she interrupted him. “You’ve made your point, but Mr. Kettering is the soul of probity with the maids and so forth. He is a gentleman.”

Tom patted her hand as they approached the livery. “Gentlemen are often the worst of the sorry lot.” Jacaranda saw plain as day in Thomas’s dark brown eyes that he knew exactly who’d been in that cottage with Worth Kettering. He wasn’t guessing, he wasn’t surmising. He knew.

“What gave me away?”

He muttered something low and profane. “The sheets bore your fragrance, lavender and mille fleurs. No other lady in this shire bears quite that scent, and himself left behind a fancy monogrammed handkerchief. I’ll call him out, Jacaranda Wyeth, I swear I will if he’s taking advantage.”

“He’s not taking advantage. How do you know mille fleurs, Thomas?”

“You aren’t the only one rusticating here in Surrey, Mrs. Wyeth, but you’re the one holding my landlord’s estate together, and I can’t have mischief befalling you. I’ll be up to Trysting to meet with Mr. Kettering on Tuesday, if it suits.”

The hustle and hubbub of the town on market day gave them a measure of privacy, for which Jacaranda was profoundly grateful.

“Mr. Kettering may still be in Town on Tuesday, but you mustn’t castigate him, Thomas.”

“Why mustn’t I? You haven’t anybody else to speak up for you.”

“I have many people to speak for me,” Jacaranda countered, though those people were mostly content to dwell in Dorset. “Mr. Kettering does not force his attentions on unwilling women.”

“You tell yourself that.” Thomas untangled their arms, because even walking arm in arm might cause talk now that they neared their destination. “I have little girls of my own, Jacaranda Wyeth, and yet not long ago, I was an overgrown boy full of myself. I know what men are. I am one, and you can’t trust us regarding certain matters. All those people who would speak for you, they’re not here, are they? You’ve escaped their watchful eyes, just as I’ve slipped my uncle’s leash. Now you’re lonely, and Kettering’s crooking his finger.”

“He’s not…” Well, he was, but she could hardly admit to a neighbor she’d turned down marriage to the man. “It isn’t what you think.”

“I would bet my mule it isn’t what you think either.” He stepped back when the grooms brought her gig around. “The day after himself returns from Town, I’ll be on his doorstep, the soul of cordial deference—until you tell me otherwise.”

“Thank you, I think.”

He tipped his hat, and she curtsied in return, but the entire exchange had been disquieting, in several regards.

First, her privacy had already been compromised, though she trusted Thomas Hunter to keep his unsmiling mouth shut.

Second, her other secret—how she operated at Trysting—was also no longer exclusively hers.

Third, she wasn’t entirely displeased about that. She’d seen respect in Thomas’s eyes, liking, and a certain protectiveness that startled her but didn’t disconcert as it might. He was behaving like a brother, and that pattern she understood, could predict, could manage.

Avery came skipping up to the gig, Yolanda a few steps behind.

“We have the lemon drops! And we saw that nice Mr. Hunter, and he had one. He kissed Tante’s hand.” She made a loud smacking sound and clambered into the gig.

“He is a very nice man,” Yolanda said, following more sedately into the carriage, “and he has a lovely smile. He took the lemon drop only to be friendly, though. I know how men are.”

Jacaranda said nothing, for it seemed everybody but she herself knew how men were. As they tooled back to Trysting, it occurred to her that in five years in the shire, she’d never once seen Thomas Hunter truly smile.

Though he’d smiled at Yolanda.

She was still pondering that mystery after supper, when Simmons brought her a note, one he’d apparently been hoarding for a properly dramatic moment.

“From Mr. K, himself, and addressed to you, Mrs. W!” He passed along a folded, sealed note, though a flake of wax was missing from the seal.

She didn’t blame Simmons for trying, but neither would she reward his attempt at mischief.

“I’ll wait until I’ve had my tea to read it,” she said, though this prompted a ferocious scowl from Simmons. “His London house steward is likely asking after something Mr. Kettering has forgotten here and needs us to send along to Town.”

“Then hadn’t you better open it?” He smiled, pleased with himself, and made impatient circles with his hand.

“We’ll send a groom with whatever it is.” She set the note aside, out of Simmons’s reach. “We’d never entrust Mr. Kettering’s request to the public stage, now would we?”

“Suppose not.” He turned to go, then inspiration struck. “What if it’s urgent? What if he’s waiting for your reply?”

“The missive bears nothing but an address on the outside, no indications of urgency at all. I’ll be sure to let you know what he says, and thank you for making sure this found me promptly.”

“Yes, well…”

Whatever prevarications and warnings Simmons wanted to pass along, at whatever length, were cut off by Carl, the senior footman, who hung panting against the frame of her parlor door.

“Mr. Simmons, sir, a wagon’s coming up the drive, and it’s loaded with baggage.”

“A wagon?” Simmons’s white eyebrows climbed his forehead. “Loaded?”

“Perhaps it’s the earl’s baggage arriving in advance of his entourage,” Jacaranda suggested. “His chambers are prepared. The footmen need only shift the goods to the proper location.”

“A wagon,” Simmons repeated. “Such doings, such doings.”

“I’m sure Carl will round up enough strong backs to see it done right,” Jacaranda said, “provided you’re on hand to supervise, Mr. Simmons.”

“Oh, depend upon it, Mrs. W. Depend upon it.”

He bustled off at Carl’s side, leaving Jacaranda some much-needed privacy to read her note. She closed her sitting room door, retreated to her bedroom and closed that door, too.

The note bore none of Worth’s fragrance, but it was written on thick linen paper, a crest of some sort embossed at the top, a lion sitting and a unicorn bowing and a Greek-looking female standing between them, a hand on each.

My Dear Mrs. Wyeth,

I trust this finds you well, though I know the household yet anticipates my brother’s arrival. I must impose on you for a written version of that tutorial you offered my house steward. Inspired by your example, I have hired a housekeeper here in Town, a young lady who like yourself had a great deal of responsibility for younger siblings and shows a penchant for putting things to rights domestically. My candidate for this post is named Mary, and life has not always dealt kindly with her, but she will benefit from correspondence with you, and perhaps later can make the journey to Trysting to learn at your figurative knee.

Like other propositions I have put before you, this is not an urgent request. Nobody will steal the dust from my parlor, will they? I will soon be underfoot at Trysting again, and we might discuss this situation in more detail. Until then, I remain

Yours,

Worth Kettering

Should she be flattered? He’d noticed his town house and his country house were not maintained to the same standards. Of course, in some ways, housekeeping was more challenging in Town—the dust was awful, the city smells, the noise.

In other ways, Town was simple. Help was easy to hire, supplies and services were close at hand, and the markets, oh Lord, the markets in Town were a housekeeper’s delight. Flowers, citrus fruit, spices, soaps and all manner of exotic and wonderful goods fresh from the docks.

Jacaranda put the letter down.

She hated Town. She’d always hated Town. She’d all but screeched that to her father and Step-Mama, her brothers, anybody who’d listen, that she hated Town, but in hindsight, she saw that what she hated was the Season.

Not Town.

Interesting, but hardly of any relevance.

Jacaranda took herself up to the state chambers on the second floor, where the footmen were arranging a small mountain of baggage.

“Well done, Mr. Simmons,” she said, though the butler was fingering locks and straps, as if he was about to get himself into considerable trouble.

“You don’t suppose we should unpack for the great man, do you? He can’t be bothered to fold his own linen.”

“He’ll have staff, Mr. Simmons, a valet, a secretary, and perhaps even his own footmen. They’ll take umbrage if we presume to know how his lordship likes his things set up.”

“Take what? Umbers?”

“They will be offended,” Jacaranda clarified. “I’m sure the trunks could all use a dusting, because the road between here and Cumberland is long. Then too, you might alert the stables that the baggage has arrived, and the coaches will likely follow soon. You did put the coachy and his porter in the kitchen, didn’t you?”

He flapped a hand. “Yes, of course, in the kitchen. These be brass locks and hinges. Brass and shiny as a new button, they are.”

He was still fingering the locks under Carl’s watchful eye when Jacaranda left to interrogate the new arrivals. The baggage might have arrived days ahead of the traveler himself, or mere hours. In either case, she was ready for the earl’s arrival, while her employer was not. The coachy was no help at all, though, knowing only that he’d accepted this load at the way station just north of London and driven it out to Surrey on hire.

Jacaranda penned a swift note to Mr. Kettering and took it down to the stables.

“Roberts?” She peered around, seeing not one soul, which wasn’t that unusual, it being after sunset.

“Here, Missus.” He came slowly down the ladder from the hayloft.

“Good evening, Roberts. Have you a groom to spare for a quick trip to Town?”

His bushy dark eyebrows knit, and he heaved a mountainous sigh. “Another quick trip to Town? I suppose his Royal Importance needs his paperwork moved hither and thither again?”

Everywhere, either insubordinate or impertinent men awaited.

“His Royal Importance feeds you, your horses and your grooms, so I suppose we’d best saddle a horse.”

Roberts’s white teeth flashed. “Now, Missus, I’m only grumbling. It’s a long ride for a note that could be carried by a bird, isn’t it now? An even longer ride when the note could likely wait for tomorrow’s post, but no, we must all dash about, will we, nill we, and keep the master pleased.”

Jacaranda had never heard such talk from him. “Roberts, the last time I considered it, keeping the master pleased was part of the definition of being in service, unless I mistake the matter?”

She let the question hang, but Roberts was an ally of sorts, and she had no wish to antagonize him. The outside staff, grooms, gardeners, groundsmen and so forth all took their direction from Roberts, and Reilly depended on the stable master as well for his animal doctoring.

“You do not mistake the matter,” he said, giving a shrill, two-fingered whistle. “We’ll get the man his note. You’re right: We take his coin, we do his bidding, up to a point.”

“You’ve grown rebellious in the summer heat, Mr. Roberts. Have you something to say?”

His size meant nothing to her, for Jacaranda understood he wouldn’t use it against her. Roberts wasn’t a bully, but he was his own man.

“No.” He gave directions to a skinny groom who’d also come down the ladder from the hayloft, then turned back to her. “Yes. Walk with me a minute while the horse is being readied?”

Walk with him? Perhaps it was the appointed day for odd men to take her arm, except Roberts didn’t, he merely paced off with her in the direction of the pond.

“A lot of excitement brewing up at the house,” Roberts said, his gaze traveling to the manor’s façade. “Having Mr. Kettering in residence, the young ladies, all this coming and going.”

“I’d hardly call it excitement. Activity, perhaps.”

“Activity, then. Now this earl fellow is down from the north to visit.”

“His baggage has arrived, and my note to W—Mr. Kettering is to that effect,” Jacaranda said, keeping her eyes front lest her horror at that slip show in her expression.

“I supposed it was so. You are managing well enough at the house?”

“We’re doing splendidly.” What on earth was he about?

“That’s all right then.” He patted her shoulder, an avuncular gesture that had her even more puzzled. First, Thomas Hunter now Roberts?

She withdrew her note from a skirt pocket. “Please give this to the groom. I expect Mr. Kettering will return post-haste, because he wants to greet his brother in person.”

“He should. They’re family, and Cumberland is a long way off.”

“You’ll be able to accommodate the teams and two more wagons?”

“We’ve cleaned out the whole carriage house and moved the work wagons to the home farm, and yes, we’ll be ready. You?”

“We’re ready but for Mr. Kettering’s absence. I’m sure this note will remedy that situation.”

“We’ll see to it.” He waved, then left Jacaranda standing in the garden, the scent of lavender rising all around her.

* * *

CONSIDERING HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS WAS tall, quite stout, and leader of one of the most powerful nations in the world, Prinny was deucedly hard to locate. Worth wasted most of the afternoon tracking him to a lawn tennis match, where the Regent was observing casually and flirting madly in the company of his familiars.

In no etiquette book Worth had read did it describe how to part a sovereign from his toadies to discuss delicate financial matters. Worth was thus reduced to whispering in the royal ear, as if imparting a morsel of salacious gossip, at which point the royal brain demonstrated the savvy for which it was occasionally known. The prince dragged his loyal subject off to the buffet, waving the hangers-on away like so many pesky mosquitoes.

Then it took still more whispering, and explaining, and assuring, and reassuring before Worth had the direction needed from His Royal Highness, and the signed documents necessary to carry it out.

By the time Worth returned to his town house, the summer moon was well up in the sky, and Lewis looked to be approaching apoplexy.

“Messenger from Trysting, sir,” Lewis said, taking the documents from Worth’s hand. “Mrs. Wyeth is alerting you to the arrival of a baggage coach. She expects the earl will soon arrive.”

Worth stifled a curse, because his day had been long, hot and trying, but Wyeth would not have sounded the alarm on a whim. “You fed our man and saw his horse stabled?”

“We did.”

“Goliath is saddled?”

“Waiting in his stall, a flask in his saddlebags.”

“You’ve canceled tomorrow’s appointments or shuffled them to the senior clerks?”

“Shuffled. You had only three, and Jones knows all your kitchen clients.”

“Good enough. Did anyone think to pack me a supper?”

Lewis ran his finger around his wilted collar. “A sup…per?”

“No matter,” Worth said, heading for the kitchen. “Have Goliath brought around, and I’ll be out front in a few minutes. Tell Jones to get Mary Flannery moved in here by week’s end, will you?”

“Of course, sir.”

Worth ate cheese and buttered bread in the kitchen standing up. He stuffed an extra sandwich in his pocket, drained a tankard of summer ale, mounted his horse and headed out of Town shortly after midnight.

His arse hurt from making the journey into Town a few days earlier. Not his arse, exactly, his hip joints, and the bones upon which he sat. He was too old to be haring about like this, though as a young man, he’d ridden from Cumberland to Oxfordshire several times a year and felt nary a twinge.

So why had he come charging back into Town, when he’d known damned good and well his brother was soon to make an appearance?

To escape the nigh constant ache caused by proximity to one Jacaranda Wyeth, goddess of his rustic hearth. To see her was to desire her, and that unflattering reality had been most of what sent Worth galloping for London. Not to give her time to ponder their dealings, not to tend to the press of business, not to receive old sailors at his back door, and not to have Jones take samples of fancy lacework around to the shops for competitive bids.

And he hated—hated—this effervescent, anxious, hopeful feeling in his chest, the one caused by the thought of seeing her again, of climbing into her bed, pressing his lips to her soft, fragrant skin and having her roll over to wrap herself around him in welcome.

God in heaven, he was far gone. He brought Goliath down to a spanking trot, trying to pretend he wasn’t eager to get home and failing to fool even the horse, who leaned on the bit right up to the foot of Trysting’s drive.

* * *

JACARANDA ROLLED OVER IN HER bed as hoof beats pounded up the drive. A big horse, its footfalls reverberating in the dewy night air outside her open window.

The arrival was either Worth or his brother, but the earl was supposedly traveling in state, and Jacaranda had sat behind Goliath on enough outings to have an ear for the horse’s gaits.

A sensation of relief swamped Jacaranda, of thanksgiving that the man should be safely arrived to his home. Not set upon by highwaymen, not crumpled in a ditch when his horse took a misstep, not retching his life away after partaking of bad ale at the coaching inns, not racketing about London, pursuing women who cared nothing for the man and only for the pleasures he might bestow on them.

Angels abide, where did such insecurities come from?

In any case, she was glad he was home. She rose and grabbed her prettiest night robe. By the time Worth came in the back door, she had the tea steeping and a tray of cold sandwiches assembled.

“There you are.” He paused at the archway to the back hall, dusty, road-weary, and smiling such a smile, Jacaranda was warmed by it across the breadth of the kitchen. He held his arms wide, and she couldn’t refuse such a sincere invitation.

Didn’t want to, didn’t care to know why she should.

“How is it possible to smell as good as you do at all hours of the day and night?” he asked, nuzzling her hair. “I could retire next week as the wealthiest man in the realm if I could bottle your scent.”

“The scent comes in bottles,” she said, not stepping back. “Are you hungry?”

“I am as hungry as a great white bear of the north emerging in spring after months of deprivation, and some food would be nice, too.”

He was being naughty already. She withdrew from his embrace, not wanting to deal in innuendo and prurient double meanings. Not with him, not tonight, probably not ever.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“You said you were in want of food.” She checked the strength of the tea. “I’ve put together some sandwiches and biscuits and sliced a peach from your walled garden.”

“Is the hour too ungodly for a man to have a bath? If it is, I can take a swim, though you will probably slap me when I ask you to join me, won’t you?”

“Not slap you, but I wouldn’t join you, and no, it isn’t too late for a bath. We’ve doubled up footmen on the night shift in anticipation of your brother’s arrival.”

“Which means we have two?” He sat and waited until she’d poured his cup of tea.

“Which means we have four until ten of the clock, then two until morning,” Jacaranda said, bringing him his tray.

“Join me, please?” He didn’t reach for his food, and he had to be starving, but she hesitated. His eyes held no flirtation, only banked patience.

He dropped his gaze to the food as if composing a blessing. “I won’t order you to take a seat, Wyeth, but I am asking. I’ve missed you.”

“For pity’s sake, you mustn’t say such things.” She sat quickly, scowling at him for his indiscretion rather than admit she liked hearing the words.

“I’ll put food in my mouth, then, to avoid the terrible endearments that might slip out.” He reached for a sandwich. “When is my brother expected?”

“We haven’t the first notion.” Jacaranda had missed him, too, mightily. She could say it to herself, now that he was home safely, but to say it to him seemed unwise.

In the kitchen, unwise.

In private, disastrous.

“I would have been here sooner, but a client was in need of immediate services, and he is someone I avoid offending. Have something to eat. You’re making me nervous, glowering at me. I’ll suffer dyspepsia, and you’ll glower at me for that, too.”

He offered the last with a smile, a crooked, subtle version of the earlier great, beaming invitation.

To get away from that smile, Jacaranda rose. How was it she spent three days listening for Worth’s arrival and now she had no idea how to go on.

“I’ll get the footmen busy with your bath.”

He let her go, which was a relief and a disappointment. She also stopped by Worth’s chambers, finding no candles lit, his bed not turned down, not a single window open to the night breezes, and his flowers a tad thirsty.

Someone, or maybe several someones, required closer supervision.

By the time she returned to the kitchen, her employer was finished eating, but still sitting at the table, a cup of tea cradled against his flat belly. Now he looked not only road-weary but exhausted.

“I gather you’d already put in a long day when my note found you?” She bent to take the tray, and his fingers, cradling his tea cup one moment, were circling her wrist the next. She tugged, and he let her go.

“My days were long and my evenings longer.”

She did not ask him where he’d spent his long evenings. She would never ask that, no matter how badly she wanted to know.

“My dear, you are not in charity with me,” Worth said, frowning. “Is it something we can discuss?”

Put like that… She dropped to the bench beside him.

“Your offer?” she began.

“We’re not bringing that up now. It’s the middle of the night. Anybody might come seeking a late-night snack here in the kitchen, and you’re in a mood. It can wait.”

She was in at least eight different moods at the same time. “But your brother will be here, and I want this resolved.”

“Beg pardon, sir, Mrs. Wyeth.” Carl trotted down the kitchen steps, the jacket of his livery buttoned askew. “One of the grooms came staggering home from the pub and says there’s a gent what talks like Mr. Kettering and looks a bit like him had a meal in the private dining room of the Bird in Paradise.”

Worth started to rise, but Jacaranda caught him with a hand to his shoulder and pushed him back to his seat.

“His lordship is five miles away, if it’s even the earl,” she said. “Finish your tea while your bath is filled. Let the grooms know, Carl, and take up your post at the front door.”

“He’s only my brother,” Worth muttered, dutifully draining his tea cup.

“Who has traveled two hundred miles in the summer heat to see you,” Jacaranda replied. “You are here to receive him only because you came out from Town at a punishing pace, if I guess correctly.”

“You do.” He smiled a little. A very little. “You usually do.”

“Then go enjoy your bath. I’ll tidy up here and make sure the state chambers are in final readiness.”

“I bow to your common sense.” He rose and captured her hand in his to kiss her wrist. “I don’t plan to make a habit of it, though, so stop feeling so smug.”

“I do not feel… Oh, be off with you, lest your brother catch you with your hair sticking up in all directions and your feet bare.”

He looked interested in that picture, so she took the tray, carried it to the sink, and began putting the tea things away, only to feel long arms slip around her waist.

“I missed you.” A soft kiss to the place where her neck and shoulder joined, a tender, private, much-taken-for-granted place with a mysterious connection to her knee joints. “Every hour I was gone.” Lips again, soft, sweet, warm. “I missed you.”

He swept his fingers over her jaw, and then he was gone, and Jacaranda had to brace herself on the counter to remain upright.

Chapter Ten

WORTH’S PLAN HAD MISFIRED SPECTACULARLY.

Instead of giving Wyeth breathing room, time to accustom herself to courtship—to having an affair, if her crack-brained perspective was to be humored—leaving her to her own devices only had her doubts in full charge.

Women, vexing creatures, were strangers to logic.

A hot bath was not vexing, but having no one to share it with…

Worth had filled the hours in the saddle with daydreams of Wyeth attending his bath; Wyeth, waiting naked in her bed for him—she couldn’t very well wait in his bed, not at this stage of the proceedings. He’d wanted another of those secret smiles from her, but she’d blessed him with one welcoming hug and a little shyness before she’d pokered up and turned housekeeper on him.

He shed his clothes as the last of the hot water was dumped in the tub and directed the footmen to be ready to empty the bath within the hour. His footmen were moving smartly, and he didn’t doubt Jacaranda Wyeth had put the fear of dismissal in them should they shirk.

Jacaranda, not his butler, the estimable Simmons of the Fussing Eyebrows. Why Worth should suspect this to be the case, he couldn’t say, but he more than suspected it. Hell, she had him second-guessing himself and tearing about the realm in all directions.

He lingered at his bath, hoping some calamity, such as his brother’s arrival in the dead of night, would necessitate that his housekeeper interrupt him, and then he lingered out of sheer fatigue.

Given the hour, the Regent being in charity with his princess was a surer bet than Hessian’s arrival, so Worth climbed out of his tub, toweled off, brushed his wet hair down—thank you very much—and put his feet into house slippers.

Then, of course, a knock on his door.

Jacaranda stood in the hallway a decorous two paces away from the door. “If you’re through, the footmen can take the tub away.”

“I’m through.” He stepped back and opened the door wide. “Perhaps you’d join me in the library, Mrs. Wyeth?” He’d used his best condescending, lord-of-the-manor tone, the better to impress the footmen.

“If you insist.” She spun on her heel, and he was left admiring the view while the footmen offered him sympathetic smiles, and did a little admiring of their own.

He didn’t blame them. She was too magnificent not to admire.

“Look at her again like that, and I’ll fire the lot of you.”

The smiles became outright grins, so he left his insubordinate staff wrestling with the tub and trying not to lose their composure entirely.

It was a near thing, no doubt, because the lord of the manor was now occupying the same position with respect to his housekeeper as every other male on the property: right beneath her sturdy heel.

She’d gone to the library, as requested, and that had to count for something. When Worth joined her, she was standing by the long windows with her back to the room.

“I had enough moonlight to travel by most of the way,” Worth said. “I saw not a single highwayman on my way here.”

“You don’t cross any heaths, and Goliath could likely outrun most any highwayman’s horse.”

“Then you don’t worry when I’m on the king’s highway in the dead of night that harm will befall me?” He did not lock the library door, the better to inspire his own good behavior.

“I worry.”

She even tossed him a fulminating over-the-shoulder glance when she said it. She worried; she didn’t like that she worried, but she wouldn’t lie about it either.

God bless an honest woman. “Jacaranda.”

Another glance, this time for presuming to use her name, he supposed, but it was late, he’d ridden to exhaustion to see her, and they would be disturbed only if his blighted brother showed up.

“What has you in such a state, Wyeth? Matters are no different from when I left, and if you’re not interested in my company, you have only to say so.”

“Your company?”

“My company, as in, my person sharing the same surrounds as yours. To wit, the present situation. You might as well tell me what burr is under your saddle, or I’ll stoop to interrogating the children, and children see and hear everything. You know this.”

Another look, exasperation tinged with misery.

“Your company, proximate to my own, was all but observed by one of your tenants at the cottage during the storm.”

God’s knickers. No wonder she was in high dudgeon. He mentally rearranged his chess pieces into a defensive posture.

“Was somebody peeking in the windows, then?”

“Somebody might as well have been.” She turned, finally, to face him, and her expression was more hurt than peevish, and that…that drove a lance through his middle. A hot, miserable, piercing ache, of inadequacy and protectiveness.

“Come.” He held out a hand. “Tell me, and I’ll deal with it.”

“You can’t deal with it.” She spat the words and glared down her magnificent nose at his proffered hand. “Thomas Hunter is a good man. He’s widowed, and he doesn’t begrudge you your dalliances, but he knows my perfume, and he saw…” She gave him her back again, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped around her middle to hold in the mortification—or her temper.

“What did he see, Wyeth?” Worth approached her with a greater show of confidence than he felt. “We dallied under the covers, nothing more.”

“He saw the bedclothes were rumpled, and he knows we were there.”

Worth wanted to be reassuring, to be kind, to be understanding, but for God’s sake, a dalliance was her brilliant idea. Not his. Not this time around anyway.

“Do I take it we’re engaged now?”

Her jaw started working like a pump handle priming itself for a torrent of words. All that came out was one rusty syllable: “No.”

“Right.” He walked up to her, stood directly before her. “We’re not, because we were not caught in flagrante delicto, my dear. As sins go, what we did barely qualifies, if at all. You won’t have me for a husband, need I remind you, so we’re both back to wondering what exactly you seek from me, Wyeth. You describe this Hunter fellow as the pick of the litter, and I’d think a minor indiscretion safe with him. I’ll speak to him, and you will be assured of this.”

“You can’t speak to him. If you speak to him, it will only confirm his suspicions.”

“Which you no doubt entirely allayed with some fanciful tale of having been there without my company, perhaps?”

Her mouth closed with a snap. Then, “I did not.”

He could see her silently castigating herself for not having been clever enough to concoct that lie on the spot for this nosy tenant, and some of his anger drained away.

“Wyeth.” He risked a finger traced up the length of her forearm, pushing the sleeve of her nightrobe two inches closer to her elbow. “Cut line. Nobody saw anything, nobody will say anything. You’re making a tempest in a teapot and tormenting yourself as well. In his widowed state, your neighbor has allowed himself the same pleasures, I assure you.”

Possibly in the same small dwelling.

“He said as much.” As concessions went, it was minuscule, but it heartened Worth enough to keep that finger moving on her forearm. Her wrist bones were so fine, so sturdy but feminine.

“Come sit.” He took that wrist and tugged her to the sofa. “We’ll watch the sunrise, and you’ll tell me what transpired while I was absent. Did the girls behave, and has Simmons’s gout flared up, and which maid is making eyes at which footman?”

She sat, not touching him, hunched forward on the couch, as if her shoulders were weary of a burden.

“The staff is all behaving well in anticipation of our guest’s arrival,” she said. “Simmons’s knees wait until September to start bothering him. The cold mornings make it difficult for him to get under sail.”

Worth smoothed her hair back over her shoulder and used that gesture to start rubbing her back, slowly, as much to soothe himself as to comfort her.

“Does anybody know where we came by Simmons? I should think he’d be out to pasture by now.”

“He came down from Cumberland with your great-uncle, he says, but that would have been more than sixty years ago.”

“Why haven’t I pensioned him off to some snug little cottage on the South Downs?”

“I haven’t asked you to, neither has Reilly, nor will we.” She let out a breath and relaxed under his hand. “Simmons does well enough, and the footmen, porters, boot boys and such all take up for him when his infirmities subdue him.”

“So protective.” He applied a slight pressure to her neck, until he felt her sigh and give up more of her tension. “When I’m old and doddery, will you be protective of me as well?”

“I’ll be in that cottage on the South Downs.” Her words held no heat, no animosity. If anything, she sounded wistful.

“Tell me about this cottage,” he said, moving his hand down her spine. “What color are the roses, and how many cats?”

She didn’t give him a tolerant look, which he’d expected. She closed her eyes and described a fairy-tale cottage, one that smelled of fresh flowers, sheets aired in the sun and lavender sachets. She moved her hand once on her thigh, as if she were stroking the fat black cat she envisioned sunning himself on her stoop, and she spoke longingly of having all the daylight hours to read and walk and putter in her garden.

Homesick.

He knew the signs, knew the particularly tender brand of melancholy it brought, knew the futility of it.

“You have your cottage picked out, don’t you?” He scooted up so he could put an arm around her shoulders and bring her close to his side.

“I do, but it’s in Dorset, not on the Downs. My cottage sits in a lovely valley, and it’s called Complaisance Cottage. My great-grandfather named it.”

“Glass windows?”

“Mullioned, to let in the light and provide a view right down the hillside of the grand manor and all the formal gardens and the park and the maze. Staying in the cottage is like being at the great house but having privacy.”

“You deserve this cottage,” he said, realizing he knew nothing of her dreams, nothing of her aspirations besides tidily folded sheets in the linen closet and windows that didn’t stick in the damp.

There was more to Jacaranda Wyeth than ruthlessly competent housekeeping, much more—but did she know that?

“Someday I will have it, if I mind my pence and quid.”

He expected her to get to her feet and bid him a brisk good night on that common-sensical line, but the pull of her cottage was such that she merely turned her face to his shoulder and tried to hide a yawn.

“Carl’s on duty?” He sneaked a nuzzle of her temple.

“And Jeff. They’re cousins, and they’ll take turns napping, but the front door is manned.”

He patted her arm. “Then let’s to bed, my dear. If Hess shows up at first light, we’ll at least have had some rest, and as to that, you will permit me to escort you to your room.”

She didn’t fuss, a measure of her fatigue, or her longing for that solitary cottage. She took his arm and let him walk with her to her room. He lit a single candle for her and paused inside her sitting room door to assess her, now that she wasn’t hissing and spitting and suffering paroxysms of mortification.

“I’m sorry about the rumpled bed,” he said, “but you’re flagellating yourself over it because you think a housekeeper should have noticed, aren’t you?”

She nodded, a little sheepish, a little defensive.

“I count it a measure of success that for a few moments, Wyeth, you weren’t a housekeeper, able to take pleasure only in well-beaten rugs and sparkling windows. For a few minutes, you were able to take pleasure in yourself.”

He saw her try to reject his reasoning, but like that snug, peaceful little cottage, a woman’s right to some pleasure had a quiet, compelling allure, and she conceded his point with a nod.

“Off to bed with you,” Worth said, “and my thanks for keeping the garrison on high alert. Hess will show up, and you’ll be ready to take him on.”

He didn’t risk kissing her, didn’t risk angering her with the presumption, and didn’t risk his own self-discipline failing him should she decide to put aside her reservations.

She kissed him, though, a buss on the cheek, of apology for her mood, he suspected, and simple weary friendliness.

“Good night, Worth. Rest well.”

He waited until her door was closed to touch the spot on his cheek she’d pressed her lips to.

She’d called him Worth.

Good night, indeed.

* * *

“YOU HAVE A CALLER, SIR.” Not Carl, but Jeff the cousin who shared porter duties, disturbed Worth’s breakfast and eliminated the likelihood he could linger until Wyeth appeared.

Well, damn and blast.

“Where did you put him?”

Over at the sideboard, the footman’s gaze slid away.

“He were that dusty, sir. I put him in the second parlor. Tea tray’s on its way.”

“Have a tray sent up to Mrs. Wyeth, too, would you? The commotion last night likely set her schedule on its head.”

“Mrs. Wyeth is in the gardens, sir. She’s been up since the moon set. Said the flowers needed freshening in the boo-kays.”

“Then take the tray to the gardens.”

Just like that, Worth’s staff was smirking again, staring at the ceiling or out the window.

“Fired without a character, you lot.” He glared at both Jeff and the footman minding the sideboard, and for good measure at the scullery maid bringing up a fresh tea service. “Make sure it’s a substantial tray, not merely tea and scones.”

“Yes, sir.” In unison, but to Worth’s ears, their subservience had a tell-tale singsong mocking quality. Wyeth would not have countenanced such cheek.

Except, she did. However she ruled, it wasn’t with an iron hand. Nobody at Trysting was in fear for their position, and nobody slacked. Worth approved of that. He did not approve of tenants reeking of the barnyard who came calling by dawn’s early light to disturb a man bent on serious domestic campaigning.

Unless that tenant was this Hunter fellow, the one who had had the gall to intimate to Jacaranda she might be an object of gossip.

“Now see here,” Worth began, sailing into the unprepossessing parlor only to stop in his tracks. “Hess?”

“You recognize me,” Worth’s guest said. “I’m encouraged.” He held out a deliberate hand.

With equal deliberation, Worth put his hand in his brother’s and shook, civilly, all the while repressing an urge to smile from ear to ear. Such an urge was not born of sense or logic. Hess had stabbed Worth in the back as cruelly as one sibling could betray another, and all the shared boyhood years before that one gesture couldn’t wipe out the circumstances of their parting.

“I’m glad you’ve safely arrived.” Worth could say that honestly, so he did. “Will your coaches be following?”

“No coaches,” Hess replied. “My bags should have arrived, but I’m traveling alone to make better time.”

“You want to return to Grampion before harvest, perhaps, or simply wanted this errand completed.” Worth had not made this remark a question, though he’d meant to—hadn’t he?

In the space of a sentence, the chasm between them loomed wider and colder. All it had taken was a few words tossed on years of near silence and some bitter history.

“I wanted to assure myself Yolanda is well. The school sent an alarming report, full of implications and innuendo. Then too, I would like to make Avery’s acquaintance. You did intend to tell me about her?”

“I sent a note.” Worth was saved from truly bickering by the arrival of the ubiquitous tea tray. He served his brother, glad for the distraction, glad to have something to do while he tried to recall exactly why he’d summoned the earl south.

Hess hadn’t aged since early adulthood so much as matured. His hair was the same golden blond, his eyes a piercing northern blue, and his form as elegant and rangy as ever, but with more muscle, less pointless movement. Hess was a man now, the earl, not the young heir trying to fit into his papa’s boots.

Women, always drawn to those golden aristocratic good looks, would be unable to resist this version of Hess. No wonder he’d left his Cumbrian moors at Worth’s invitation. If Hess was interested in acquiring another countess, that variety of game abounded in the south.

“I haven’t been to Trysting since we were children,” Hess said, taking an armchair as Worth did likewise. “The place looks to be blooming, and your farms are thriving as well.”

A compliment, Worth allowed, as he poured his tea, but what did it mean?

“I am fortunate to have good managers and excellent staff at all my households,” Worth said, groping for what Hess was aiming at. Hess had been subtle but not sly as a younger man. Maybe age was honing his nasty side, for he had one. He most certainly did.

“I called on you, you know.” This was offered as Hess ventured a lordly sip of his tea. “A fine gunpowder. Did you recall I prefer it?”

Yes, he had. “My housekeeper inquired. When did you call on me?”

“Two years ago.” Another slow, savoring sip. “I vote my seat occasionally, when the issue matters to me or somebody makes a specific request. I’d heard you had word of Moira’s death, and it seemed appropriate to express my condolences.”

“She was your sister, too.”

“She was, but you two were closer to each other than I was to either of you, at least in recent years. Shall we make a start on those scones?”

Over scones, raspberry jam, and clotted cream, the talk became less fraught, the teapot was emptied, and a yawning sadness welled up where Worth’s resentment of his brother should be.

He didn’t hate Hess. He’d forgiven him long since, in fact, realizing his brother had likely had little choice all those years ago. Some choice, perhaps, but not much, given their father’s force of character and the state of the Kettering finances.

Still, resentment and mistrust lingered, and more than tea and crumpets would be needed to restore fraternal regard.

“Shall I show you the stables?” Worth asked. “I’m sure Roberts will have your horse settled in, but you were always particular about your cattle.”

“I could use some exercise, and yes, the stables will do nicely. The hours in the saddle take a toll they didn’t used to. What?” He frowned, looking for a moment like their father. “You think I among all men am immune to the march of time? I am not, so don’t give me that look.”

“Beg pardon.” Worth rose and directed his guest to the door, only to find it opening before them.

“Oh!” Jacaranda Wyeth stood in the corridor in a lovely high-waisted summer dress looking about sixteen years old and, for the first time in Worth’s memory, flustered. She carried a basket of flowers over her arm and a crystal vase half-filled with water. “Mr. Kettering, I’m sorry. I was told you were in the formal parlor.”

“Hess is family, so we’re in the family parlor,” Worth improvised, but he had a sneaking suspicion he owed his staff for this bit of good fortune. He took the vase. “Mrs. Jacaranda Wyeth, may I make known to you Hessian Kettering, Earl of Grampion, and my brother, come to enjoy a southern respite. Hess, Mrs. Wyeth is our domestic genius at Trysting. She anticipates most of our needs and has the staff poised to fulfill the rest. You’ll come to treasure her as I do.”

“Mrs. Wyeth.” Hess offered her a slight bow, a gesture of cordiality from a man who had no cause to bow to housekeepers of any stripe. “If you can keep up with this one,”—his gaze moved over Worth—“you are indeed a pearl among women.”

“My thanks for the flattery from you both. The state rooms are ready for you, my lord, and I’m sure the nursery is buzzing with news of your arrival.”

“The girls will just have to wait a bit,” Worth cut in, setting the vase on the gate-legged table. “We’re off to the stables. Perhaps the young ladies might join us for a picnic at luncheon?”

Hess’s eyebrows rose at that suggestion, but Hess knew how to picnic. He might have neglected the skill, but he’d had it once, and he could revive it with practice.

“A picnic it will be,” Jacaranda replied. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord, sir, I will tend to my flowers.”

She ducked past them, and Worth saw the speculation in his brother’s eyes.

“Keep your lordly hands off,” Worth said as they moved through the house. “Perhaps I’m sensitive, because you married my last fiancée, but Mrs. Wyeth is not for you, Hess. I mean it.”

“Getting to the old business directly, aren’t we?”

“You’re the one who votes his seat, so you know the tedium of old business.” Worth positively marched for the front door. “This is new business. Stay away from my housekeeper. She isn’t up to your weight.”

“Worth, I am here to sort out my responsibilities to various dependent females in our family, nothing more. Even so, your housekeeper is a magnificent specimen of femininity, and my own eyes tell me she’s doing a proper job of managing your house. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?”

A nice speech, and really, Hess had his pick of titled women. He had no need to pursue housekeepers, tweenies and chambermaids.

“Let’s take the path through the gardens,” Worth suggested. “The lavenders are blooming, and we can find you a sprig for your lapel.”

“Why should I sport weeds on my person?”

“Because Avery considers the scent reminiscent of her mother, and that’s an association you want her to make.”

Worth adorned himself first with a sprig of true lavender, then found a showier bloom for his brother. Hess held still while Worth affixed the blossom to his lapel, and the moment bore a strong odor of déjà vu. How many times had they attended each other in preparation for balls, assemblies, formal dinners, and outings with the neighbors?

“Does it still bother you?” Hess asked, fingering the sprig. “That I married her?”

“I try not to think about it.” Which was the truth, not all of the truth. “I was having second thoughts, but reassured myself even those were a sign she and I were meant to be together.”

“You were very young,” Hess said, and it wasn’t a taunt or even an excuse. “Both of you, and if it makes you feel any better, she and I took years to arrive at even cordial civility. We didn’t have much of a marriage, Worth.”

“Legally, it sufficed.” Worth surveyed his brother’s boutonnière and found it adequate. “But, no, it doesn’t help that you and she were miserable with each other. I’m sorry if you think it would.”

As quickly as it had come up, the subject was dropped. Their tour of the stables went more smoothly, with various horses and architectural features keeping them from more troubling topics.

“We’re dawdling,” Hess said when they’d admired every equine and half the garden. “Shall we sit? I am not ready to face Yolanda, much less to meet this Avery.”

“Avery is more French than English,” Worth warned. “Your objective is not to command her respect, as if she were an English girl. You want her to approve of you, to like you.”

“Hence the weeds. How is Yolanda?”

“Mysterious,” Worth said, relieved Hess would ask. “The school said she’s given to vapors and hysterics, but I’ve seen none. She’s read half the library in a few weeks, she’s unfailingly kind to both Avery and the staff, and she will be—she already is—beautiful. It gives one pause.”

Hess turned his head to sniff at the sprig gracing his lapel. “And?”

“And when I met her she sported a thick bandage on her left wrist, and once I bundled Yolanda into my traveling coach, that old besom at the school insisted the girl had tried to take her own life.”

“God in heaven.” Hess crossed his ankle over his knee, then hiked his leg closer by closing his hand over his shin and tugging. Worth recalled his brother assuming this posture as a child, a way of reinforcing his mental defenses even then. “You and she haven’t talked about it?”

“She told Mrs. Wyeth she didn’t try to kill herself, but under the bandages was a healing laceration. Wyeth confirmed that much.”

“An accident?”

“Possibly, or a dramatic gesture. Yolanda was not pleased to be left here in the south for years on end.”

“Have you any idea how difficult it is to transport one adolescent female the length and breadth of the kingdom in anything approaching safety and comfort?”

“Yes, and I won’t criticize you for leaving her at school, particularly when I had no idea of her existence.”

“I wrote you, when Papa died, because you’re her guardian in the event of my demise.”Hess wouldn’t lie about something like that, and still, his voice held no accusation.

“I moved around a lot seven years ago. Your note didn’t reach me.” Worth kept his tone carefully neutral, no defensiveness, no equivocation. Facts were never recited this impartially before the highest court in the land.

“I thought not.” Hess trailed a finger over his boutonnière. “You would have at least called on her, had you known she was in your back yard. I know that now.”

He said it quietly, a casual comment, but in his willingness to give Worth the benefit of the doubt, Hess opened a door. A small, unprepossessing door, half-obscured with the ivy of mistrust, but it opened on forgiveness and on understanding. Worth cast around for a means of keeping it open.

“Yolanda’s safe and happy at the moment. We can sort the rest out later.”

“We can.” Hess got to his feet and offered a crooked, familiar smile. “Shall we get the greetings with our womenfolk over with? This lavender is making my eyes itch.”

Worth stood, for the lavender was affecting his eyes, too. “Can’t have that. I hope you know what a sacrifice I made when I consented to share a picnic with my family. Sitting on roots and rocks, prey for insects and wayward breezes, left to the company of shrieking children. What utter rot.”

* * *

“YOU LISTEN T’ME.” HAROLD DOORMAN poked Roberts once in the chest for emphasis. “That do not be the lord I saw at the Bird.”

“You’re trying to tell me two titled gentlemen dined at the Bird of Paradise in Least Wapping, Doorman? Two titles in one night?” Roberts didn’t bother to hide his incredulity, for Doorman’s affection for gin was legendarily constant.

“I don’t know about titles.” Doorman gave his cap a righteous tug. “But I do be knowing about nobs, and there was two a’ them, right e’now. I looked on the register.”

“And what did you see?” Harold Doorman was Roberts’s oldest groom, his second in command as it were, and a favorite with the horses. It wouldn’t hurt to humor him.

“My eyesight isn’t so good.” Doorman fell momentarily silent as one of the lads wheeled a barrow of clean straw down the barn aisle. “Looked like Castleroll or summat. Caster-reel.”

“Lord Caster-reel graced our own pub, and you were on hand to witness this moment of history. Lord Grampion is here now, and his horse would probably appreciate a tour of the east paddock. Mind you’re careful with the beast. He’s high-strung, no matter he’s been traveling for days.”

At the mention of the horse, Doorman’s expression turned up incongruously sweet. “Ain’t met the beast too high-strung to nibble good Surrey grass, and I seen two a’ them lords. I’d bet me wage on it.”

Roberts was already moving off, because Doorman’s grasp of Debrett’s was even shakier than his grasp of sobriety at the Beltane bonfire. “See to the gelding, and I’ll ask if we’re to have coaching teams to deal with, or if all that scurrying about was for naught.”

* * *

“NO COACHING TEAMS,” HESS TOLD his brother’s housekeeper. “Just myself, one tired horse, and a few bags.”

“Very good, my lord.” She bobbed a curtsy and trundled out of the library, though why a housekeeper was inquiring regarding a matter for the stables was a mystery. Mrs. Wyeth was a vigorous sort of woman, though, and worth the second look he’d given her earlier. She’d stand up to northern winters and to the rigors of managing a very large household, and she was more than easy to look upon.

Stealing her for Grampion would mean poaching another female from his brother’s preserves, and this Hess could not afford to do.

Not in any sense.

“Are you ready to face the girls?” Worth asked, using the mirror over the sideboard to admire the lavender affixed to his lapel. “I’m sure they’ve been beside themselves in anticipation of seeing you.”

“Meeting me, more like,” Hess said. “I haven’t seen Yolanda for more than two years, and young ladies change at her age with alarming rapidity.”

“Why two years?”

“Because I’m a coward?” Hess offered a small smile with that admission and was rewarded with something like sympathy from his brother.

“I can guess,” Worth said, leading Hess through a house that sported much sunshine and many fresh, colorful bouquets. “Yolanda came home on a visit one summer between terms and was a perfect brat the entire time, hated everything—you, the weather, Grampion, the neighbors’ spotty boys, your horse, everything. At the winter holiday break, you arranged for her to spend the time with some obliging family in the south, and lo, you saved money, time, and worry, and she was happier for it, as were you and the entire Grampion household.”

Hess caught a reflection of his own floral adornment, which did have a pleasant scent, for all it made a silly addition to his wardrobe.

“That’s it, more or less. Then Yolanda took it into her head I was avoiding her, so she refused to come home, and now we’re at some sort of impasse, when she must make her come out next year, or the year after, and has no use for her brother the earl.”

“She’s young.” Worth bounded up the main staircase with an energy that had been characteristic of him from earliest boyhood. “Everything is a matter of great drama when we’re young. And she has no mama. I think this affects girls terribly, but she seems to like Mrs. Wyeth.”

“The absence of a mother, even a poor mother, affects boys terribly, too.”

Before dear Worth could get his relentless inquisitiveness going on that admission, they were at the open door to the nursery suite.

“Uncle!” Avery scampered over and wrapped her arms around Worth’s waist, and Hess knew a moment of envy that any female, much less one so young and happy, should greet Worth thus. Petty, but there it was. Avery was all that remained of Moira, another pretty, happy young lady, and Avery belonged to Worth. Their mutual possession was obvious in how the child smiled at him, took his hand, and positioned herself at Worth’s side, all before risking a peek at her senior uncle.

“Avery, please make your curtsy to your Uncle Hess. He’s come two hundred miles for the pleasure of making your acquaintance, and if you’re very nice, he might even take you up on his horse with him some morning when we ride out.”

“Is he a very big horse? As big as Goliath?”

“He’s a very handsome horse,” Hess said, going down on his haunches. “He’ll need new friends while we’re visiting, so he doesn’t get homesick.”

“Homesick.” The child wrinkled her nose. That easily, Hess was frustrated with himself, because the very word had to be painful for her.

“Goliath and I will keep your horse company, then,” she said, her expression shifting to a smile. “Mr. Roberts will have only happy horses in Uncle’s stables. He said this to me, and he is the stable master. What is your horse’s name?”

“Alfred.”

Another wrinkled nose, but the smile stayed as well. “I’m sure he’s a very dignified fellow, with such an English name. When can I ride him?”

A few years in France, and the child already had the knack of ordering her world to suit her preferences.

“I’ll leave you two to work out your schedules while I find Yolanda.” Worth’s smile was diabolical as he went whistling on his way, and so Hess rose and looked for something sturdy enough that a grown man, an uncle, or an earl, could sit on it without risking his dignity and the integrity of his limbs.

A rocking chair was positioned to take advantage of the light by the window, but it put Hess in mind of elderly nurses with bad knees, so he chose the next most trustworthy option and sat his lordly arse on the floor.

Chapter Eleven

“YOLANDA?”

Worth knocked once and let himself into his sister’s room without pausing. He was greeted by the sight of his housekeeper, sitting on the bed next to his sibling, Jacaranda’s arm around Yolanda’s waist, Yolanda’s head on Jacaranda’s shoulder.

“Hessian is here, my girl, and he’d like to make his bow to you.” Worth injected briskness into his tone, false briskness, but it might fool an adolescent who didn’t know him well.

“Tell him to go back to his hounds and grouse moors.” Yolanda offered that, then turned her face to Jacaranda’s shoulder. “He can return to Grampion and tell everyone I’m crazy.”

Worth sought Jacaranda’s gaze, looking for some help or insight, but Jacaranda only stroked a hand over the girl’s hair and gave a small shake of her head.

“I’m angry at him,” Yolanda said, sitting up. “He left me like a lame horse, dragged about from one stranger’s house to the next, embroidering until my eyes crossed, and now he wants to make his bow to me?”

“Yolanda, perhaps his lordship knows an apology is in order,” Jacaranda suggested.

Yolanda pulled away from her. “He’ll clear his throat like an old man and look at the ceiling, his tea cup, or the nearest piece of art, and he’ll get out a lot of long words which basically say he did the best he could with a baggage like me, and then he’ll pack me up and haul me to the Arctic and tell me that’s the best he can do as well.”

“You do know him.” Worth sat on Yolanda’s other side. “The business about staring at art or out the window, or anywhere but looking a person in the eye, that’s Hess.”

“He might be a wonderful earl. He’s not a very impressive brother.”

Jacaranda smoothed back a lock of Yolanda’s hair. “He’s taken care of you, seen you educated, and spared you his company for a bit. He isn’t all bad, and he’s here now.”

“Listen, Lannie.” Worth risked taking his sister’s hand, because Jacaranda’s small touches seemed to soothe the girl. “Hess and I haven’t even begun to discuss your circumstances. I’ve just met you, and Avery and I are entitled to some time with you before he spirits you away. Then too, you’ll need a come out, and last I heard, the Queen wasn’t making any progresses to the north, or the Regent either.”

“Are you saying I can stay here? With you?”

“No, I am not.” He spoke quite firmly, because females taking notions could completely ignore all reality to the contrary. “I’m saying if you have to go, it won’t be just yet, and it won’t be forever.”

“Do you know how long winter is in the north, brother?” She snatched her hand away with an air of adolescent long-suffering, but all Worth heard was her use of the word “brother.” She had two brothers, both well situated to provide for her, and only a few weeks after meeting Worth, Yolanda was choosing him over Hess.

The south over the north, too, but that was a detail.

Then he saw Jacaranda regarding him, solemnly, and knew he was at one of those points of decision that came upon a man without any warning, and forever changed the course of his situation on earth.

Worth was a brother, but what kind of brother, and to whom?

“Come.” He possessed himself once more of his sister’s hand. “Give Hess a chance, and when the time comes, I’ll argue strenuously for letting you stay here with us at Trysting. I’m not your guardian, so I make no guarantees, but I’ve been known to be persuasive when I’m motivated.”

He gave Jacaranda a look over his shoulder. She was smiling, and Yolanda was looking less mulish and martyred, so perhaps mediating between his siblings would bear all manner of desirable fruit.

The introduction went fairly well, with Yolanda offering her older brother a silent curtsy and Hess’s mouth all but coming unhinged.

“Good God, you’re beautiful,” he said, walking a circle around her. “Not merely pretty, but beautiful.”

“I do believe he’s serious,” Worth observed.

“I am utterly in earnest,” Hess said. “Nobody at Grampion will recognize you as the hoyden who left us a few short years ago.”

“Assuming Yolanda graces Grampion again,” Worth replied. “We can discuss that some other day, when no picnic awaits us in the back gardens, yes?”

“A picnic!” Avery crowed. Then she was off in half-French, adoring picnics, and to fly the kites, and eat lots of cakes and take off the shoes and make the feets wet.

“Come, Avery.” Yolanda led her niece from the room. “We must make sure the blankets are in the best spot. Footmen can’t know such things.”

“Of course not. Nor the uncles, but we are here to help them.”

Worth took his brother by the elbow. “Come along, your lordship. We’re to be shown the best spot, which no doubt lies in full view of an ant heap.”

“Yolanda will not give in, will she?”

“Regarding?”

“I neglected her, and she’s wroth over that, and the last place she wants to rusticate is at Grampion with me, even though sparing her such a fate is precisely why I so-called neglected her.”

“Hess, she’s female and young and has some reason to be put out with you. Two years she went without glimpsing you, and you’re the head of her family. Did you miss her?”

“Of course I missed her.” His mouth snapped shut, and he strode along beside Worth for half the length of a long corridor. “I wrote.”

“She wrote back, I’m guessing, horrid little notes about embroidery and spotty boys?”

“She wrote about the animals she’d met, Worth. The house cats and cart ponies. As if she wouldn’t allow me the satisfaction of hoping she might make new friends or see new sights. She punished me with those notes, and she was only fourteen years old.”

“We use any weapons at hand when we’re young and powerless,” Worth said, hustling down the corridor, lest he take his meal in proximity to an ant heap. “You can apologize for what you believe you did wrong, and then it’s up to her whether she meets you halfway or stays on her high horse. You don’t have to take her north.”

“I don’t?” Hess stopped as if to admire the view out an oriel window that looked over the rose gardens. “What does that mean? She’s too young to marry, Worth, I don’t care what the old people say about it.”

“The young people are usually the ones kicking over the traces to get married, but consider that Avery is only a year into living with her English uncle, and she seems quite taken with Yolanda. Then too, Yolanda will be back south in a year or two to make her come out. Why not leave her here with me and Avery?”

“As to Avery…”

Beyond the window, Yolanda and Avery were pointing at some shade beneath a towering oak while a pair of footmen moved blankets and hampers.

Worth knew what was coming, and perhaps it was best they have it out now, before too many fences had been mended. “As to Avery?”

“As head of the family, I’ve looked into the legal provisions for assuming guardianship of an orphaned child of a near relation,” Hess began, gaze out the window.

Worth kept a hand on his brother’s arm, until Hess was at least looking at where Worth touched him.

“You’ve been here only a few hours. I’m Avery’s legal guardian, have been since before she arrived, and you needn’t trouble yourself. Looking after the child helps me atone for Moira’s death, if you must know, so don’t feel you have to step in.”

“Atone? For her death? What rot are you spouting, Worth?”

“I gave her money to go to Paris and join our maternal cousins, I gave her funds to seek instruction, I gave her the sense she had backing in case Papa cut her off. But for my short-sighted indulgence of her dreams, she’d be alive and raising her own children with a perfectly jolly English husband.”

He hadn’t planned on that confession, but really, who else could he make it to?

Hess looked him up and down, frowning a truly ferocious frown. He looked not like their father in that moment, but like their paternal grandfather when thunderously displeased.

“Don’t be an idiot, Worth. I gave her money, too, and so, too, did Grandmamma. Moira wanted to go to Paris more than anything. Had we denied her, she might have been miserable instead of happy for the last years of her life. Think on that when you tire of beating yourself with the club of guilt.”

“You gave her—?”

“Grandmamma did, too, and some jewels.” Hess’s gaze swung right back to the window. “Now let’s rescue our luncheon from that ant heap.”

Worth let him stride off, confident the ant heap would be vanquished. He was unable to do more than stare out the same window and watch as the other members of his family assembled for their meal.

Even Hess, notably cautious with his coin, had abetted Moira’s dreams.

Jacaranda appeared at his side, a comforting presence he’d sorely missed while dealing with his brother.

“Get out there, Worth. They won’t wait for you, and you won’t get even a single chicken leg between now and tea.”

Nor did he want a chicken leg.

He slipped an arm around her waist and whispered, “Come join us.” He needed her near, now more than usually, given what his brother had told him.

She moved away to crack open the window and allow an eddy of rose-scented air into the corridor.

“This is your first meal as a family. You should be a family, not a family plus a housekeeper. Don’t worry about Yolanda.”

“The girl is plotting to overthrow the government as she knows it,” Worth countered. “If I were Hess, I wouldn’t turn my back on her.”

“The worst that can happen is she has to go north at Michaelmas. She’ll put up with one more winter at Grampion knowing you’ll make her welcome next year, and once she’s eighteen, Hess will have no reason to keep her up north. The better crop of bachelors always lurks near Town, and your brother can let her come south feeling like he’s done his duty.”

Hess gestured to a patch of grass in the sun, and Yolanda folded her arms. The blankets remained spread in the shade.

“Duty is Hess’s middle name, and if you watch him, you’ll realize he isn’t arrogant so much as shy. He and Lannie have more in common than they think.”

“She liked that, that you gave her a nickname, but Worth, you are the shy one now. Go have a meal with your family.”

Worth. He was becoming Worth to her.

Out on the shady blankets, Hess pulled off his boots, Avery chattered away in at least two languages, while Yolanda arranged her skirts just so.

“You’ll be fine.” Jacaranda looked around, then went up on her toes and kissed his cheek. “You can tell me all about your ordeal later.”

“Do you promise? My ordeal is likely to be harrowing in the extreme. Arachnids are quite the menace.”

“Cook made chocolate crème cakes to ameliorate your suffering, but Hess won’t leave you any sweets if you continue to hide here. Bide here, I mean.”

“Nattering little besom.” He kissed her cheek and headed down the steps, fortified by those few hints of understanding from her. It shouldn’t be so. He was a grown man, wealthy, thriving in all the ways that counted, and he wasn’t even really her lover. Barely her friend, in fact.

But it was so.

* * *

“CONFOUND IT, WOMAN, BUDGE OVER.”

Jacaranda tugged the covers more tightly around herself. “Go away.”

“I will do no such thing.” Worth’s weight dipped the mattress. “What in blazes are you doing with a brick in your sheets at the height of summer? You’ll take a brick to your bosom but not my handsome self?”

“What time is it?”

He bounced and tugged and wiggled his long frame around until the last vestiges of sleep fled Jacaranda’s mind.

“Past midnight,” Worth said, sounding infernally comfy. “Hess was of a mind to get back his own over the cards. I am traumatized and exhausted by my day, also relieved of two pounds six.”

“Why not seek your own bed, and then we’ll both get some rest?”

Her brick, wrapped in several layers of flannel, made a solid thunk when Worth set it on the floor.

“You said I could tell you all about lunch,” he reminded her. “When, pray, might I do that, when you dodged the evening meal with some taradiddle about a tray in your room? You evade me at every turn, so I’ve tracked you to your lair.”

He lined his chest up along her back, and his arm came around her waist.

“Worth, begone. I mean it.”

“You’re denying me my audience?” His lips held a little audience along the top of her shoulder, and his hand gently pushed the strap of her nightgown aside. Under the cozy warmth of the covers, Jacaranda felt a shiver, a thrill along the path his fingers traced.

She was a good ten years too old to admit to thrills of any kind.

“Now is not the time,” she tried again, but her voice lacked conviction, and his bodily warmth offered luscious comfort.

“Now is the only time. Yolanda addressed not one sentence to Hess directly at the noon meal, which made for a lovely verbal game of battledore, I can tell you. Hess’s French is in good repair, but I fear his Italian is in worse shape than my own. My dear, you must relax.”

“How can I relax when my bed has been invaded by the realm’s largest magpie?”

“I’m visiting, not invading. You let bricks visit you and probably house cats.”

His tone was playfully chiding, but beneath the banter lurked a question, too. If she insisted, he’d go, and he’d likely not come back until she invited him—if she invited him.

“Do I gather the brick was in the way of a hot water bottle?” he asked. “You toasted it up and brought it here to soothe a female ache?”

“You are too big for me to physically remove from this bed, but are you also too rude to comprehend the indelicacy of the topic you raise?”

He shifted to crouch over her beneath the covers, confirming Jacaranda’s suspicion—her hope?—that he was naked. “I guessed correctly. The female complaint makes you cranky and out of sorts. I suspected this was the case.”

Under him, Jacaranda rolled to her back, glad they had only moonlight to illuminate this exchange.

“I have a headache, one that makes my eyes hurt and my neck sore. Now that you know I’m indisposed, will you take yourself off?”

“Settle your feathers, dear heart.” He kissed her forehead, an odd gesture that eased aches in various parts of Jacaranda’s body and heart. “I haven’t come to importune you, not that I won’t at some point. See here.” He found one of her hands and brought it to his—his member. “Hardly a prurient thought in my body, at the moment. I truly did want to talk.”

He wasn’t exactly flaccid, but he wasn’t rampant, either.

“What did you want to talk about?” Jacaranda removed her hand two instants after she realized he’d removed his.

Worth hung over her, so she had to smooth back his hair with her fingers lest it obscure his eyes.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said, climbing off of her and rolling to his back. He grabbed her hand again and kissed her knuckles. “Having Hess underfoot is disquieting.”

“Family is always a challenge, which is part of the reason I’ve resisted orders from my siblings to return home until recently. In what way is his lordship disquieting?”

She didn’t truly want to chase her visitor away, and she had told him they would talk, so she rolled up against his side and let her head fall to his shoulder. Maybe they could even talk about her upcoming return to Dorset.

“I blush to admit it,” he began, his arm encircling her, “but I’ve treasured a sense of injury regarding the way I left Grampion all those years ago, and while I blamed my father, Hess had the last clear chance to thwart Papa’s machinations.”

“How old would he have been?” She set aside the question of what the young lady had been about—the young lady who’d had an understanding with Worth Kettering but had fallen out love with him “posthaste,” to use his word. Jacaranda had reason to know no gently bred Englishwoman could be married against her will, thank God.

“Hess was all of twenty. No Town bronze, no tour of the Continent. He might have gone grouse hunting up in Scotland a time or two, but he was a stripling more than a man.”

“You’re having trouble clinging to your anger?”

He kissed her temple and spoke against her hair. “Worse than that. I feel sorry for him.”

Oh, that was much worse. Jacaranda felt sorry for Step-Mama, whose situation was far from difficult. “Sorry, how?”

She aspired to feel sorry for Daisy, some distant day.

Worth snuggled her closer, and something tense and tired inside Jacaranda eased up, gave up. To be held, to have Worth’s warmth and scent all around her in the dark, was lovely. Better than lovely, wonderful in fact, to cuddle up and chat in the depth of the night.

“Hess is so alone up there,” Worth said, stroking Jacaranda’s hair in an absent-minded caress. “I may not have bosom bows twelve deep, but I like my clients. Some of them could be friends. I like my staff, I like the neighbors you’ve introduced me to here. I have Avery, I have you, I have people moving about in my life. Hess has his stables and nobody to share them with. No wonder he missed Yolanda and wants to take her home with him.”

I have you. As flummoxed as Jacaranda was by his casual claim, she did not allow herself to tarry over it.

“You have me for now, as a housekeeper, but we need to discuss that. Will you allow Hess to retrieve Yolanda?”

Worth heaved a mighty sigh, and this time he kissed her ear. “Hess is Yolanda’s guardian. I can’t stop him, but in his mind, I think he regards such an arrangement as fair somehow: I have Avery; therefore, he should get Lannie.”

“Why can’t you all have each other?” Jacaranda posed the question rhetorically, because her mind would not let go of those earlier words… I have you.

“We haven’t the knack, my dear. Does your neck still trouble you?”

Not as much as her heart.

“That was not a gracious change of subject, Mr. Kettering, but because you won’t desist and it’s too dark for my blushes to affect you, yes, my head aches. I suspect the blooming flowers affect me badly.”

“Poor lady. You’re reduced to Mr. Kettering-ing me. On your side, and let’s see if I can’t help out.”

Her complicity in this scheme was irrelevant, because he gently maneuvered her into the position of his liking, while he angled himself behind her.

“Close your eyes, my dear,” he instructed, “and tell me more about your cottage. You had a name for it.”

“Complaisance Cottage,” she said, surprised he’d recall. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Relax, love.” Lips brushed her nape. “My hand is warmer than that brick. You might as well put it to use.” He put his hand to use, massaging her neck, a firm combination of stroking and squeezing that…

She groaned with the relief of it, and he had the good grace not to gloat aloud.

“What do your back gardens look like, Jacaranda, or does this cottage nestle against a wood?”

She explained how the cottage was situated, how informal plots rioting with flowers ringed the pitch of grass, and the stately old dowager oaks stood at the edge of the home wood as a backdrop. She told him about the sea birds who nipped up any scraps or crusts that fell—or were tossed—from a tea tray taken on the terrace, and about the particular scent of the breeze, depending on whether it was a sea breeze, a land breeze, or some brewing combination of both.

“You long for it,” he said, his voice low and lazy in the moonlight.

“I ache with missing it,” she replied, because it was dark, and that was the honesty she could give him. “Don’t you miss Grampion?”

“The sentiments ebb and flow.” His hand moved slowly over her shoulders now, the same way his words threaded through the darkness. “When the first snow falls here and it’s so much later and less hearty than the first snows in the north, I miss Grampion. When the crocuses march forth, no hesitance or backsliding in their arrival, as if spring is a foregone conclusion, I miss Grampion. When the summer weather gets truly hot and miserable, I miss it. Not so much at other times.”

Which left…? “You don’t miss it in spring?” For she missed Dorset in spring.

“Spring in London is a busy time. I receive the courtesy invitations. I’m nominally heir to an earldom, single, and worth a fortune. I accept occasionally, particularly if it’s a client doing the inviting.”

“When you’re twirling some lady down the ballroom, you don’t miss your home?”

“Hush.” He twisted up and over her for a leisurely kiss to her mouth, a kiss that involved

his tongue flirting with her lips, teasing and implying and promising even as he soothed and reassured. “I miss my home. Are you satisfied to have wrung this confession from me? I miss my home almost as much as you miss yours.”

“I do miss my home, and my family. I’ve missed them for years, and that’s why after all this time—”

He must have sensed that her words would be unwelcome, because he kissed her again, thoroughly, lingeringly.

Jacaranda subsided to her back, all thoughts of disclosures and partings tossed out of the bed like so many more cold bricks.

She kissed Worth back, cuddled with him, and conversed for another few minutes, but in truth Worth’s hand, or his company, or something about his visit had relaxed more than Jacaranda’s body. As she drifted off, Worth spooned around her and her discomforts considerably eased, she had the traitorous thought that it was fortunate she was returning to Dorset, for she could grow accustomed to his nocturnal company.

Sheer folly, that, but what wonderful, pleasurable folly.

* * *

“DO YOU MISS HAVING A wife?” Worth put the question to his brother as they rode out, no grooms, no steward to hinder their privacy. Thanks to Jacaranda’s carping, Worth knew how to get around on his own land, knew which bridle path led to what lane and which fields had the best footing before their stiles.

“I do not miss the wife I had,” Hess said. “I’m sorry if that offends.”

Worth shortened his snaffle reins. “You might offend the lady’s memory, but your words can’t offend me.”

“Why haven’t you married?”

Hess might be shy, he did not lack courage.

“I’ve wondered that myself lately.” Worth settled his weight into the stirrups. “Shall we let them stretch their legs a bit?”

They raced the entire three miles remaining to Least Wapping. Hess was at a slight disadvantage because he didn’t know the terrain, but Worth had put his brother up on a former steeplechaser and Hess was an excellent rider.

Hess thwacked his horse’s neck when they trotted into the yard of the posting inn. “What a prime fellow. Don’t tell me he’s for sale. I’ve no need of another gelding and Alfred’s feelings would be hurt. This one has tons of bottom, tons of it.”

“You truly love it, don’t you? The cross-country romp that would frighten the hair off most people?” Worth swung down and handed Goliath off to a stable boy to cool out. “I haven’t let Goliath have his head like that for months, but he enjoyed it.”

“They weren’t put on earth to pace their stalls, looking handsome and bored.” In the hint of wistfulness in Hess’s voice, Worth gathered an insight into his brother.

“Autumn will soon approach. Why not linger here for some of the informal meets and then stay to attend the lords?”

Hess’s features composed themselves into a bland mask. “What of the harvest at Grampion? Is the corn to bring itself in off the fields?”

Why can’t you all have each other?

Jacaranda’s words echoed in Worth’s mind, and he let the subject drop, but in the part of his brain that couldn’t resist a complex negotiation, he began to plot and plan and strategize.

“Let’s grab a pint,” Worth suggested. “The horses can catch their wind before they tackle the five-mile jaunt back to Trysting, and you haven’t told me of the staff at Grampion. Is Homer Gentry still your land steward, and does his wife still make those butter biscuits that melt away all of a small boy’s troubles?”

“And leave him with a bellyache into next Tuesday,” Hess finished the thought.

To Worth’s surprise, Hess allowed himself to be interrogated about each and every person Worth recalled from his boyhood.

Two and a half pints later, Worth mentally conceded it had more likely been a matter of Worth allowing himself to ask.

* * *

“WHAT IS FRANCINE UP TO?” Grey hated having to ask his brother, but her ladyship’s correspondence had reached flood stage.

Will tossed a stick dutifully dropped at his feet by a brindle mastiff larger than some of the ponies used in the mines.

“I am not in Step-Mama’s confidence, Grey, for which I give daily thanks to my Creator. I did see her casting spells over the teapot with Mrs. Dankle.”

The dog waited at Will’s feet, adoring gaze turned on its owner. When Will gave some signal visible only to the beast, it bounded off across the green between the gardens and the home wood.

“Francine is ever imposing on Dankle’s good nature,” Grey said. “You need Ash to invent you a machine for pitching sticks into the next county, lest you tire your arm.”

The dog was back in a half-dozen happy, ear-flapping bounds, the stick deposited at Will’s feet as the hound dropped to its haunches.

“Step-Mama wants to spend the rest of the summer in Bath,” Will said, petting the dog’s great head. “If not Bath, then Lyme Regis. The older set likes to congregate where they have fond memories and to leave the house parties to us.”

Where were Will’s fond memories? He was a handsome fellow in the tall, dark-haired, violet-eyed cast of his siblings and had read law with the same ease some people read the Society pages of the London Gazette.

“I cannot afford to send Francine to Bath, and I’ve told her as much on several occasions.” Painful occasions, for them both.

“I know that. Good boy, George.”

“You name the largest dog in the realm after our sovereign?”

“I named the largest bitch in the realm after our sovereign. Her full name is Georgette. You should ask Daisy what her dear mama is up to. If Francine burdens anybody with her schemes, it’s her own daughter.”

At the mention of her name, the dog’s ears swiveled, for she, like most females, was apparently eager to do Will’s bidding.

“I’d be nervous, were I you, Will.”

“She won’t eat me, will you, Georgie dearest? She eats only meddling older brothers who won’t send Step-Mama away for a few weeks so we can all enjoy some peace and quiet.”

“Which is why I’d be worried,” Grey said, letting the dog sniff at his hand. She was surprisingly delicate about it, for all her size. “I fear Francine’s scheming again to get one of us matched with an heiress. I’ve the title to protect me, because Francine won’t presume to choose our next countess. You’re the next oldest, the best looking, and too fond of the ladies to tell Step-Mama to mind her own business.”

Will tossed the stick again, sending it clear into the home wood. “You’re saying if you deny Mama a house on the Crescent in Bath, she’ll seek revenge by flinging heiresses at me?”

The dog disappeared after the stick, her path marked by rustling bushes.

“I don’t know what exactly Step-Mama’s about. Francine is a woman who’s been discontent with her station for some time, and I haven’t the knack of divining her plots. She was after me to bodily fetch Jacaranda home, claiming that this time Mrs. Dankle truly will leave us for the charms of her son’s small holding.”

“Dankle has earned her rest, and four grandchildren is rather a temptation.”

Three grandchildren had done nothing to improve the lure of home for Francine. With each of Daisy’s babies, her ladyship seemed to grow more desperate to distance herself from her children.

“Be careful, Will. If you’ve a notion to attend some house parties, I won’t stop you.”

Will gave him an odd look. “I thought you hated house parties.”

“I most assuredly do. They are the delight of the unhappily married and the downfall of many a contented bachelor. You’d best see what’s keeping that puppy of yours. Mr. Springboth’s hound occasionally gets loose, and as far as he’s concerned, your Georgie would make a prime bit of sport.”

“I’ll be careful, and I’ll keep an eye on Step-Mama. See that you do likewise. You’re not bad looking, you have the title, and for some women, that’s enough.”

Will loped off, his expression promising severe consequences for any presuming hound who trifled with his Georgette.

* * *

“IT OCCURRED TO ME,” WORTH said as he settled in beside Jacaranda, “a storm is brewing tonight, and you might appreciate some company. No bricks, my dear?”

“No bricks.” The comment was literal and figurative, because she wasn’t hurling writs of ejectment at him either. Tonight she laced her fingers through his and let his hand rest over her midriff.

His patience was paying off—finally.

“You’re feeling a bit more the thing?” He stole a kiss to her shoulder, the happiest occasion of thievery.

“A bit. That tickles.”

“This?” He ran his nose along the top of her shoulder again. “You’re like a bouquet, you know. Your shoulders have one fragrance, your hair another, you hands yet another. I could cheerfully sniff you for hours.”

He had, in fact. When last he’d called upon her under the covers, her scents had quieted his mind as much as her company had.

“You’d get no rest.” Jacaranda sounded happy to contemplate his misery, and her happiness meant a great deal to Worth.

“You’re either coming to trust me”—he kissed her nape—“or you’ve secreted a frying pan under your pillow and you’re confident you can subdue me with it if I get out of line.”

She rolled to her back, and in the moonlight her features were breathtakingly lovely. “Are you soon to get out of line?”

And there it was, the Jacaranda Wyeth battle flag, demanding honesty and a surrender of privacy from him. He hadn’t been sure even a few days ago that the sacrifice would be worth the reward, but now… He was willing to sacrifice much to have her honesty and her surrender. Willing to wait, willing to campaign all summer.

Except summer was half over, and his dear Wyeth was increasingly restless, for reasons he could not fathom.

“I will never cross the lines you draw for us,” he said. “I’ll push, I’ll tease, I’ll negotiate, and I’ll dare, but you hold the reins, Jacaranda. You will always hold the reins.”

“If I didn’t, what would you do, were you at liberty?”

Bold question. Clever, bold question.

“Honestly? I’m supposed to say I’d ravish you blind, make love to you until neither of us can walk, and those would be sincere sentiments. I desire you until… Well, I simply do.”

He shut up in defense of his beleaguered dignity.

“But?”

“I desire more than a quick tumble, a tickle and a poke. I’m not sure what exactly I mean, but I conclude your timing on the matter is to be trusted more than my own.”

He watched her digest that, not even sure himself what he’d said, what he’d been trying to say.

“Explain something to me,” she said, rolling over to her side again. “When can we pursue this ‘matter’ with the least risk of conception, were I so inclined?”

He couldn’t help himself, he cuddled closer, a hot spike of lust giving the lie to his earlier more philosophical words. He’d meant those words of course—one did not dissemble with Jacaranda Wyeth—but her question boded well for his objectives.

Whatever they might be.

He opened his mouth to breathe in the scent of her neck. “After a lady’s indisposition has departed, it’s reasonably safe for a few days, a few nights. I would love to pleasure you, Jacaranda, all night.”

“Yes, I know, until we’re both lamed, though how that results from pleasure escapes me.” She fell silent as Worth pushed her gently to her back, settling his mouth over hers before she could offer more tart, frustrated observations.

“You want to know, Jacaranda,” he murmured against her mouth. “Your curiosity is consuming you. What would we be like, together? How would I feel, inside you, over you? Under you? Behind you? Just how much pleasure could I bring you with my mouth on your privy parts? Or maybe you’d like to put your mouth on me?”

He cruised that mouth of his over her features, gathering tastes and textures with his tongue: her delicate, delicate eyelashes, the exact curve of her brows, left then right, the span of the bridge of her nose, the soft buttery substance of her earlobes, the pulse at her throat.

“You are delicious, an edible bouquet.”

“Stop. Worth, you must stop, now.”

Chapter Twelve

WORTH PAUSED, HOPING JACARANDA HAD ordered him to a parade rest, not the onset of yet more sexual frustration.

“You’ll overwhelm me,” she said, hiking up on her elbows. “I have not decided to—”

“Join,” he suggested, “to join with me intimately.”

“I haven’t, but you said…” She traced his eyebrows with her index finger, as he’d traced hers with his tongue. “I intended that you and I should have a certain difficult discussion, and I still do. But for now, lie on your back and behave, Worth.”

He rolled to his back as obediently as one of Hess’s hounds and prayed to a merciful God this behaving was a form of progress for them. As for the difficult discussion, he could only hope that meant she was reconsidering his proposal. Difficult for her, to admit she’d erred, though in victory he would be gracious and charming. Why, he’d even—

She took up where she’d left off, imitating him, tracing her fingers over his features, then following with her mouth.

“You bathed tonight. I can smell the flowers on you.”

“You like that,” he said, “that I bathed for you. I get hard when I’m bathing, thinking of you doing what you’re doing now.” One of many times throughout the day that arousal afflicted him.

“Oh, please hush.” Not her usual dismissive admonition, more a moan, a prayer, and she settled her mouth over his, ensuring his compliance.

He stayed on his back, where she’d told him to stay, and he resisted mightily the urge to roll her under him and the need to snug her body to his so he’d have something to thrust against.

He instead put all that lust and longing and frustration into his kiss, sealing his mouth to hers, cupping her head in his palm and sending his tongue foraging into her heat. He explored, he plundered, he teased, he feinted, all in aid of encouraging her own forays. When the tip of her tongue limned his teeth, his cock leapt and his belly tightened.

He dropped away from the kiss. “Too much.”

“I don’t understand.”

She was frowning again. Frowning wasn’t good.

“Hell and the devil.” He took her hand and drew it down, to the arousal rampant against his belly, rampant, straining, weeping with the need for completion. “You do this to me, Jacaranda. I’m close.”

“Close.” She kept her hand around him as he drew his away, leaving her to grip his shaft lightly. “I see.”

“Close your fingers around me. Please.”

She did, her grip still too tentative.

“Tighter, love. I’m begging.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.” But her marvelously competent hand closed around him securely, and the pleasure of it stole his breath.

“If you move your hand, fondle me, stroke me, put your mouth on me, I’ll spend. I’ll leave if you ask it, Jacaranda. I don’t want to, but I can manage to abandon you now if I must.”

A fine lie, that, and when honesty was one of the aspects of Jacaranda Wyeth he treasured most dearly.

She held him firmly, while he willed her to find the fortitude to take this step with him.

She sleeved him and moved her hand up and down about an inch. “Like this?”

“Higher.” He got both syllables out through clenched teeth. “Not like… Here.”

He showed her with his own hand, a few loose strokes, enough to get most of the length of him and enough that his ballocks threatened to draw up.

“Draw my stones down,” he said. “Gently, yes… God’s dancing slippers.” The cool, soft slide of her fingers, the surprising assurance with which she complied with his request surprised him.

“You like this?” She had her hand on his cock again, letting the circle of her fingers slip up to the crown and down the shaft.

“Love…it. Jesus at the wedding feast.” He had to move his hips, had to, but he kept his undulations slow, wanting to savor the torture, wanting it to build and build. Knowing she was watching him by moonlight, though, watching the tension in his face, watching his body become a mindless, pleasure-maddened beast, made the whole experience so much more intimate.

She was learning about sexual intimacy, yes, but she was learning about him, too.

He grabbed the pillow on both sides of his head to keep his hand from fisting around hers. Bright, hot pleasure roared through him, out through every particle and sinew he owned and on into the dark, summer night. He groaned, he bucked, he strained to withstand the bliss and strained harder to surrender to it, on and on, until he couldn’t hear, couldn’t see, and couldn’t move for the pleasure wringing him out.

When he was once again aware of crickets chirping and the breeze billowing the curtain, Jacaranda’s cheek was pressed to his abdomen, and her hand cupped his rapidly softening cock.

Words. Women wanted words at such times. Worth had none. Couldn’t imagine when he would find any, either.

Jacaranda rose and fetched a flannel and basin from the bureau across the room. She swabbed him off and took a few brisk swipes at her fingers.

“A man’s pleasure is indelicate.” The most blissful indelicacy Worth had ever endured. “I’m sorry.”

She set the towel and basin aside. “It’s intense. I suppose you’d like to sleep?”

“Sleep, when I’ve just…? I’ll sleep later.”

“I’ve never seen a man do that before.” She gestured vaguely at the cool air over his genitals. “My brothers were forever being coarse when they thought I couldn’t hear them, but I’ve never…well. I was afraid I’d hurt you.”

She was so brave, and so shy about climbing back into bed with him.

“Some people enjoy an element of pain. I’m not one of them, but stop looking at me as if I grew horns. I am in want of affection.” He was a little alarmed at his admission, for that was the truth coming out of his idiot mouth.

Sex scrambled the brains; this was scientific fact, he was sure of it.

She climbed on the bed and busied herself rearranging the pillows he’d cast into chaos. “We’ve shared affection already. You can’t be in want of affection.”

He wanted more than simple affection, and the vexing creature would make him admit it.

“I want to know,”—he paused, gathering his courage—“I need to know you are not repulsed, you aren’t shocked. This wasn’t how I intended to go on. I don’t want you to have a disgust of me.”

She appeared to consider this, and then subsided onto the mattress, facing him, not touching him, damn it. Because she was closer to the window, her face was obscured by night shadows, and that about drove him ’round the bend.

But from somewhere, he found the resolve, the courage, to hold his position and keep his hands to himself.

“What comes now?” she asked, a frown in her voice.

Let me hold you, he wanted to say, but there was that frown.

“Jacaranda, what would you like to come now?”

“Honestly?”

“Love, you’ve seen me in extremis when I hadn’t planned to be that way. You’ll have to tell me where this leaves us, and yes, of course I expect honesty between us. I adore your penchant for honesty.”

The frown intensified. “We still need to have that discussion, but can you do that in extremis part again?”

* * *

JACARANDA’S FACE HEATED AS SHE put the question to Worth, and she battled the urge to flee. What stopped her was the suspicion, the strong suspicion, that Worth’s feelings would be hurt if she tucked tail and ran.

They would be hurt even more if she unburdened herself of the two deceptions she yet perpetrated on him.

She was leaving him at the end of the summer, and her name wasn’t Jacaranda Wyeth. She hoped never to burden him with the knowledge he’d dallied with an earl’s spinster daughter.

“I can manage it again,” he said, studying her in the moonshadows. “I need a few minutes to recover, but I could if you assisted. Is that what you want?”

He traced her eyebrows with a single finger then let that finger trail down her nose, and chin, and across her collarbones, his expression reverent.

“Sometime, yes.”

“Enough of this long-distance negotiating, Wyeth.” He moved across the mattress to bundle her against his side. “Slap me if I’m being presumptuous.”

“Slap—” As if lying in his arms were more presumptuous than…well. She cuddled down against his chest, though the wretch could probably feel her cheeks heat.

“On my bum would be nice should the slapping appeal,” he said, gathering her closer. “I’ll happily reciprocate if you’d like a little spanking.”

“Oh, do hush.” She put her hand against his naughty mouth, but some of the awkwardness of the situation dissipated. She could see him enjoying her hand applied smartly to his backside, too.

Which gave one reason to ponder.

“This feels better,” he said, his hand stroking over her hair.

“Better than what?”

“Than you, regarding me so solemnly from halfway across the Channel. Erotic intimacy is an odd business, isn’t it?”

He had a name for what they’d shared. Marvelous.

“The entire business is strange.” She felt him waiting, listening for her reaction, so she mustered a greater quantity of fortitude. “It’s beautiful, too, and very personal.”

“Intimate.”

His was the more accurate word.

“Do you want to sleep now?” Because if he did want to sleep, she wanted him to sleep in her bed, so she could feast her senses on him while he lay passive, beautiful, and mysterious in her arms.

“What I want”—he gently shook her head with his hand in her hair, a scolding sort of shake—“is to know you’re not disconcerted by what happened in your bed tonight. What I did was selfish, vulgar, and presumptuous.”

“I am disconcerted.” She pressed her lips over his nipple and tongued him while she sorted through her reactions and ways to render them into words she could bear to speak. “You taste like spices.”

“Jacaranda Wyeth.”

She smiled, letting him feel her mouth curve against his skin. “I felt powerful, knowing I caused the pleasure you felt.”

“Ah.” Relief in that single syllable. “You’d like that, having power over a man when his defenses were in disarray.”

“Not just any man, for most of them have their defenses in disarray most of the time. You. I liked sharing that moment with you.” In this, she could be absolutely honest.

“You’re not disgusted?”

“I wanted to taste you.” She bit his chin and climbed over him, probably surprising them both with her boldness. “I wanted to taste you, and kiss you, and fondle you.”

The dear man threaded his hands through her hair on either side of her head and shut her naughty mouth by kissing her soundly.

* * *

JACARANDA DELIGHTED TO WAKEN IN Worth’s arms, to see his dark hair against her white pillowcases when the sun’s first rays came stealing in the window. To watch him rouse while the birds outside the window sang to the new day, to see him open his eyes while she drowsed beside him.

These desires were dangerous. Her longing went beyond merely wanting him, which any woman with red blood in her veins might do. More than that, she wanted memories with him, memories of intimacies that transcended a mere joining of bodies.

Because she sought those memories, she endured his farewell kiss without embarking on any difficult discussions about Dorset and family obligations and impoverished earldoms.

She did not want to explain to him that she, of all people, hadn’t been entirely forthcoming with him, and though her secrets were not shameful, exactly, they were falsehoods. Worse, the longer she allowed those falsehoods to live, the more difficult would be the reckoning for her deception.

With Worth Kettering, further intimacies would be transcendently splendid. Jacaranda knew that now, knew the look and feel and scent of him when he expressed his passion, when he was in extremis, as he’d put it, and she wanted more. With him, she wanted to share that passion, to know if it could ignite her own.

Which would, of course, do nothing to ensure the maids were at their tasks, the footmen weren’t bothering the maids too awfully much, Simmons’s knees were still working, and Cook wasn’t overwhelmed.

Dawn came wonderfully early in summer, though when Jacaranda reached the breakfast parlor, she was surprised to find only the Earl of Grampion at the table.

No Worth?

“He’s packing,” Grampion said, rising. “I expect he’d be down here at a dead gallop did he know you were breaking your fast.”

Jacaranda retreated into manners. “Good morning, my lord. I assume you’re referring to Mr. Kettering?”

“I am. Did you sleep well, Mrs. Wyeth?”

He held her chair for her, so Jacaranda couldn’t watch his face as he posed the question.

“I slept wonderfully,” she said, the absolute, bald, unfortunate, naughty truth.

“You have that look about you.” He took his seat and passed her the teapot, cream and sugar in succession. “You’ve roses in your cheeks.”

“Thank you for the compliment.” Jacaranda smiled at him, for it had been a compliment, though hardly given with a flourish. “Are you enjoying your stay here, my lord?”

He took a sip of his tea and wrinkled his handsome mouth. He wasn’t a bad-looking man, though his lanky English blondness was less appealing than his brother’s dark good looks.

“I am enjoying my stay, yes.”

“Is there a ‘but’ appended to that grudging allowance?”

“Worth said you were a woman of substance.” Grampion frowned at his tea now, a stout black breakfast blend Jacaranda had ordered to get the household’s day off to a good start, though he might have ordered gunpowder for himself easily enough. “I should have known by Worth’s lights that substance meant a tendency toward cheek as well.”

“My apologies.” Jacaranda appropriated a serving of eggs from the server in the middle of the table and some toast. “May I have the butter?”

This provoked a smile from the earl, which made him look younger and far more attractive—by Jacaranda’s lights.

“Your apologies, pass the butter. I can see why Worth is so taken with you.” He did pass the butter.

“Aren’t you eating, my lord?” She went about buttering her toast as if the earl hadn’t made a disquieting observation, hoping that Grampion simply lacked for conversation first thing in the day. She certainly did. “The eggs are surpassingly good.”

“You needn’t turn up skittish, Mrs. Wyeth. I’m out of the habit of poaching on my brother’s preserves.”

She put her knife and toast down, for that comment, especially from a belted earl, required a response, regardless of the household’s democratic eccentricities at meal times.

“Were I, as you put it, your brother’s preserves, then it would be up to me whether I could be poached upon, wouldn’t it? And were I your brother’s preserves, and he mine, I can assure you, your overtures would be soundly rebuffed.”

“You don’t fancy a title panting after you?” He was merely curious rather than peevish or offended.

“I don’t fancy a man who would betray his brother at the same table as I am, much less with his tongue unattractively wagging in the wind,” Jacaranda said. “Because you are not such a man, at least not in your present incarnation, we need hardly discuss hypotheticals over our morning tea, correct?”

“God in heaven.” The words were said with exactly the same inflection Worth used. “You are a veritable Tartar.” He saluted with his tea cup. “We have thoroughly hashed through my dastardly past, and I will have some of those eggs.”

“You ought to talk to him about it, you know,” Jacaranda said, spooning eggs onto his outstretched plate. He was a big man, almost as big as Worth, so she didn’t stint.

“You expect me to eat all this?”

“You aren’t a bird, my lord, and Worth has you riding all over the shire. Eat up, and be grateful. I am.”

She smiled and gave a flourish with her forkful of eggs. He wasn’t so bad, this earl, but he wasn’t a happy man, and she felt sorry for him.

Imagine, feeling sorry for an earl. She’d thought to leave that habit behind her forever.

“I’ve tried talking to Worth,” he said, tucking into his eggs. “He brushes the topic aside. Even as a boy, Worth was plagued by shyness.”

“Bring it up again. My brothers all require persistence when one wants to parse a delicate subject, and then they want it over with as soon as may be. Cowards, the lot of them.”

“Are you saying Worth is a coward?”

“Good heavens, no.” Jacaranda studied her plate to hide the smile that went with the next thought: Worth is very brave. He’s pursuing me. “You both have a capacity for shyness, and Worth is the kindest man I know. I doubt he’d want you to trouble yourself over ancient history.”

“Less than fifteen years ago,” the earl said, pouring himself more tea. “I am not shy.”

She reached over and patted his hand. “Of course you’re not.”

He glared at her, just as one of her brothers might, and she wondered where this great good-humored confidence of hers was coming from. The man was an earl, for pity’s sake, and she was teasing him.

She wondered if anyone was teasing her own brother like this, for Grey was a man badly in need of teasing.

“You are a baggage, Mrs. Wyeth,” Grampion pronounced, but he was smiling. At last, he was smiling again. “Worth is lucky to have you.”

“Worth knows this,” said the man himself. He kissed Jacaranda’s cheek as he swept into the room, tousled his brother’s hair, and appropriated the teapot.

“Damned thing is empty,” he said, taking a seat beside his brother and helping himself to the man’s tea. “One has to make do. Mrs. Wyeth, my brother and I are removing to Town this morning. I’ve been summoned by a particularly irksome client. We should be back before too long, unless I lose my brother’s company to the flesh-pots of Egypt, as it were.”

The earl stole his tea back. “Worth, for pity’s sake.”

“You could have grown lonely up there in the north with nothing but sheep to keep you company. Natures in the south are sunnier, you’ll note, because we have more opportunities to socialize convivially, and winters don’t last ten and a half months. Ah, look, somebody took pity on a poor, starving lad and left me a few spoonfuls of egg.”

He took the rest of the eggs, winked at Jacaranda, and stoically endured his brother’s splutterings about manners and upbringings and decadent speech. A footman brought in more tea and moved the empty dishes to the sideboard before Worth waved him away.

The earl rose and bowed to Jacaranda. “I’m sorry to leave you in such company, Mrs. Wyeth, but Worth claims his client cannot wait. I’m off to finish my packing.”

“Worth claims,” Worth mimicked. “You’d better have your lordly arse down to the stables in thirty minutes or I’ll leave you here to Mrs. Wyeth’s tender mercies. She’ll have you fat as a shoat and standing up with all the local beauties if you’re not careful, and we have a veritable regiment of local beauties.”

The earl departed, not deigning to reply, and Jacaranda was left smiling at her… Well, he was still her employer, and a little of her glee at the start of the day dimmed.

“That boy needs to visit some flesh-pots, methinks.” Worth spoke loudly enough his departing brother might have heard him. “But he’ll stay with me in Town, because he hasn’t had time to open Grampion House. You’ll manage?”

“Without you two? Of course.”

This earned her a pause as Worth reached for his brother’s tea again.

“I’ll miss you, Jacaranda Wyeth. I can’t close the door and part with you as I’d like, but I can tell you I will miss you.”

“When will you return?”

“You’re supposed to say you’ll miss me, too.” He set the tea down untasted, his morning bonhomie leaving his expression. “I wouldn’t be haring back to Town now of all times if I could avoid it, but this client has a right to be concerned.”

“His money is at risk?”

“He doesn’t do well with high-risk investments,” Worth said, clearly choosing his words, “but he needs high returns, and I’ve promised them to him.”

“Promised, Worth?” He hadn’t made her many promises; but then, she’d given him exactly none herself.

“Within reason. I don’t like doing it, for no matter how sternly I caution him, he hears only of the potential profit, but so far, we’ve been lucky. Walk me to my room? I’d like to take a proper leave of you, and Hess will be down at the stables in exactly five-and-twenty minutes.”

“Did you know last night that you’d be leaving this morning?”

He patted his lips with his serviette. “I did. The messenger arrived as Hess and I were putting away the cards. We saw him fed and bedded down with the grooms. He was on his way back to Town at first light. Why?”

“You should have been getting your rest,” she said, unhappy with him for reasons she couldn’t sort out. “Not disporting with me.”

“You are not doing this.” He rose and came around to hold her chair. “You are not picking a silly fight because I’ve been called to Town and you think I’m going happily. I’m going kicking and screaming, my love. I am well aware this timing is execrable, well aware we need to talk.”

He towed her by the wrist into the hallway then dropped her hand. “Come along, please. We won’t be disturbed in my room, and you should have a chance to throw things at me if it will make you feel better.”

“I don’t want to throw things at you.” Except he was right: She did want to throw things, things that broke with a lot of noise and mess and sharp edges.

Good heavens, she was turning into her step-mama.

“Then scream at me like a virago,” he suggested. “Along the lines of ‘Worth, how can you run off to Town when you know I haven’t made up my mind about you? This is exactly why no woman in her right mind should give you the time of day, much less fifteen minutes of her night. You dash off at the worst moment and leave a woman to wonder if she imagined all that…’ Have I got it about right?”

He’d kept his voice down, which was probably why she hadn’t interrupted him with a sound scolding.

“I wish you didn’t have to go, though I know your business means a great deal to you.”

“Less than it used to,” he muttered, and this, for some reason, made Jacaranda feel better. “Less than it should.”

She could not ask him if he’d consort with his opera dancers while in Town, if he’d haul his brother around to the brothels in a display of fraternal hospitality. Men were capable of living parallel lives, she knew that from being Grey Dorning’s sister, and from the mistakes she’d made five years ago.

“I hardly need to pack much,” he said as they reached his room. He left the door open, but disappeared into his dressing room, allowing Jacaranda to peer around chambers she’d been in often enough, but never with him.

“Do you know where my emerald cravat pin has got off to?”

“I wasn’t aware you had an emerald cravat pin.” She followed him into his dressing room, because a possible theft of emerald jewelry on her watch was a very serious—

He dragged her up against him and covered her mouth with his as soon as she was across the dressing room threshold.

A morning kiss, Jacaranda thought as pleasure bloomed. He tasted of sweetened tea and a little of desperation. She preferred the desperation.

“Damn you.” He pushed her up against a wardrobe. “How can you be so composed when I want to pitch a tantrum?” His kiss became slower, less desperate, more plundering. “I want to consume you, woman, to spend hours in bed wearing you out and then hours longer while you wear me out. Or maybe I’d go first, but what an end, eh? Say you’ll miss me.”

He kissed her neck, holding her hands stretched above her with one of his and brushing his other down her front.

“Worth.” Whispering his name was not a very impressive display of feminine authority. “Worth Reverence Kettering.” She got the whip-crack into it that time. “You must stop.”

He hung over her, his lungs working so each inhale meant his chest brushed her breasts. “Why stop?” An incongruous, wry smile bloomed across his features, and Jacaranda was relieved to see it.

“Because in twenty minutes, you’ll have to sit a horse, and I have no intention of permitting you nineteen minutes of liberties first.”

A look passed across his features, arrested, then maybe chagrined. He pushed away and crossed the little room to sink down onto a daybed.

“Cruel but accurate. I really do not want to go.”

“I believe you.” Still, she couldn’t bring herself to ask again when he’d be back. “I’ll look after the girls in your absence, and for Yolanda, it might even be a relief to have some breathing space.”

“That one.” He stood and scrubbed a hand down his face. “I can’t tell if what she wants is to stay with me, or to make Hess pay for leaving her to her own devices.”

“You might talk to her about it.”

“A novel idea: talk to a female about what she wants. Let’s give it a try, shall we? Do you want me, Jacaranda Wyeth?”

Maybe Jacaranda was the one in need of room to breathe. “Bodily? Of course, that has never been in question.”

His smile faded into puzzlement. “We should be back toward midweek. Parliament will go out of session, and I doubt Hess wants people to know he’s underfoot.”

Jacaranda pushed away from the wardrobe. “He’s single, titled, and wealthy. They’ll get word he’s in Town even if he never leaves your residence.” Grey had complained often enough about the London hostesses that Grampion’s plight earned her sympathy.

“Hess’s heir is similarly situated,” Worth reminded her. “I wonder about the wealthy part of it, Jacaranda.”

“In what sense?”

“Hess came down here without a single groom, for pity’s sake. I take a groom when I’m going any distance, to see to the horses, for safety, in case Goliath throws a shoe, a hundred reasons. Why no groom?”

“He made it here without one, and he’s a very private person, your brother.”

“He is. May I tell you something?”

The subject was no longer Hess Kettering, and unease skittered up Jacaranda’s spine.

“I want you to desire me,” Worth said, coming to stand right before her. “I think I can make you desire me, in fact, but I am confounded to admit that isn’t enough.”

She must not let him say anything more along these lines. “We haven’t even—”

He put two fingers to her lips.

“I know.” The puzzlement was back. “Will you miss me, Jacaranda? Will you stop in the middle of your day and wonder what I’m up to, if I’m thinking of you? Will you smile sometimes, to recall something I said, something I did? Or am I spouting callow nonsense, thinking, maybe just a little, that you want more than bed sport of me, too?”

“That is precisely the problem,” she said, trying not to be dazzled with what he’d confessed. Dazzled and heartbroken. “What I want is complicated. I’d hoped we might have time to discuss it, but now I want—”

“I want it, too. I thrive on complexity.” He kissed her again, sweetly, as if her answer had been exactly what he wanted to hear.

Then he rummaged in his bureau.

“Worth, bid the girls farewell. We’ll manage in your absence.”

“Manage.” He banged a drawer closed and held up an elegant gold and emerald cravat pin. “Bugger managing. Tell me, Jacaranda Wyeth. I will not let you out of this room until you do.” They weren’t touching, but his gaze bored into her with unnerving determination. “Tell me.”

Jacaranda took a moment to sort through what else lurked in his gaze: encouragement, a gift of his courage, offered to her to fortify her against any fears.

All he wanted was the truth. That again.

“I’ll miss you,” she said, sliding her arms around his waist. “I’ll say prayers for your safety, I’ll listen for Goliath’s hoof beats coming up the drive. When no one’s about, I’ll lift your pillow to my nose to bring your scent to me. I will not always be housekeeper here, Worth, but for now, I wish I had a miniature of you. I wish I had one of myself to give you.”

They were courting words, also parting words. He kissed her again, each cheek, each eyelid, framing her face with his hands, suggesting he’d heard the courting part and ignored the rest.

“You’ll be on horseback soon, Worth.”

“Right, and I must make my bow in the nursery. Sniff my pillow all you like.”

Then he was gone.

Before she left his rooms, Jacaranda stopped by the great lordly expanse of his high bed and brought his pillow to her nose.

* * *

“GOOD OF MISS SNYDER TO bring Avery down to see us off,” Worth said. They’d left Least Wapping in the dust, the horses had worked off their fidgets, and Hess still hadn’t volunteered one word of conversation.

“I was surprised your Mrs. Wyeth didn’t see you off. Shall we let the beasts blow?” He brought his horse down to the walk, the steeplechaser Worth had put him on earlier in the week. “Your housekeeper seems fond of you.”

“One hopes she’s fond of me. I’m more than fond of her, so don’t get ideas.”

“About?”

Worth smiled at his brother to ensure hostile notions remained only notions. “I overheard her at breakfast. She might as well have smacked your nose with a rolled-up newspaper.”

“So that’s what put you in such a fine humor? Your housekeeper—who referred to you by your given name, by the by—scolding me? Why didn’t you call me out?”

“Same reason I didn’t years ago.” Worth hadn’t foreseen the conversation taking this turn, but neither would he dodge the topic. “The lady makes her choice, we fellows abide by her wishes.”

Hess fixed his gaze on the horse’s ears. “Mrs. Wyeth is choosing you?”

“She isn’t choosing you.” Brilliant, dear, stubborn woman. “That’s enough for present purposes.”

“I know this will sound ridiculous, but I wouldn’t want to see the woman abuse your sensibilities, Worth.”

“From you, who stole my bride, that does sound ridiculous.” Worth lifted his reins free of Goliath’s mane. “Touching but ridiculous.”

“Precisely because I did steal your bride, I’m protective of you,” Hess said. “Then too, you’re my only brother, my only adult sibling, my heir. Humor me and tread carefully around Mrs. Wyeth.”

Hess’s expression was a study in impenetrable, titled dignity, though Worth would never have taken his brother for a snob.

“You mean I’m not to offer her marriage?”

“Offer her marriage on a platter,” Hess said, “but only after she’s offered you her heart. I do not need to tell you women can dissemble, and we fellows, led about by something other than our common sense, don’t wake up until it’s too late.”

“Speaking from experience, Hessian?”

“Do you recall Lady Belinda Evers?”

Worth had a vague memory of a girl who’d briefly been as tall as he’d been, before adolescence had turned him into a compilation of elbows, knees, and peculiar vocal pitches.

“She was plain Belinda Turner when I knew her—a nice girl, not given to airs.”

“I have a daughter with her,” Hess said. “Or I’m almost sure I do. Evers is twenty-some years Belinda’s senior. She presented him his heir and spare, and then he pretty much went shooting for the duration. She told him she wanted more children, and he tried to rise to the occasion, so to speak, but frequently without adequate result. Belinda doesn’t understand I know what she was about.”

“This is quite a tale. How can she think to keep this secret from you?”

And how did Hess feel about not one but two women seeking taking advantage of him?

“Because she doesn’t know Evers shared his woes with me over brandy, complained about having a restless younger wife who demanded children from a man old enough to be a grandpapa, and so forth.”

Life in the north was supposed to be dull. “Then she batted her eyes at you over tea. You could have refused her, but you didn’t.”

“I almost felt as if Evers were asking for my help, truth be known. He dotes on the child. Belinda was miserable to see her boys growing up and nothing in her future but watching her husband age.”

This exchange of honest confidences with Hess had veered into the “be mindful what you wish for” category of business, and yet, this was what Worth had wished for—his brother’s trust and all that went with it.

“You use this situation with the fair Belinda and her aging spouse to punish yourself,” Worth said. “I can’t figure out all the details, but this was self-flagellation, wasn’t it?”

“I undertook a casual affair with a willing party—or Belinda did.” Hess spoke the words as if he’d rehearsed them many times. “We’re friends, all of us, in some way. I don’t pretend to understand it, and I’m not about to embark on such foolishness again.”

Hess could tell him this, because despite all, they were still close in a way known only to brothers. The realization warmed Worth as summer morning sun could not.

“You keep to yourself because of the girl?”

“Yes, because of her. Dallying is one thing, but giving up my children to be raised by other men is quite another. Amy is nearly four and has my eyes—our eyes. I’m still waiting for Belinda to tell me she at least suspects the child is mine, but it has been years, and she’s made no admission.”

Amy was an artifact of grief then, for she’d been conceived soon after the death of Hess’s countess. “Belinda is a loyal wife.”

“Oh, right.”

“Well, loyal and faithful aren’t always a matched pair.”

“This child might be my only progeny, Worth. You’d think Lady Evers might take that into consideration as well.”

“She’s trying to do you a favor, I suspect,” Worth said, battling more than a twinge of consternation on his brother’s behalf. “A damned strange sort of favor. I trust she loves the girl?”

“Belinda would give her right arm for her boys, but she’d give her life for that little girl. I have no doubt of that whatsoever.”

The horses walked along for the better part of a mile, while Worth composed a great philosophical oratory about fate and the Almighty and one’s role being mysterious. A fine speech it was, too, full of long words and poetic allusions. Also impressively boring.

London was still better than an hour away, and beside Worth, the earl remained silent.

“I’m sorry, Hess.”

“For?”

“You seem doomed to lose family. Your wife, your parents, your sister, all dead. Your daughter is being raised by another, your remaining sister can’t stand your household, and your brother and your niece live two hundred miles to the south. I’m sorry these hardships have befallen you.”

He phrased the sentiment as a condolence, but a more accurate description for what Worth experienced would have been…pity.

Commiseration, even, for some of those losses Worth had shared, and his brother was also two hundred miles distant.

A damned nuisance, that.

“I’ve come to treasure my solitude,” Hess said, “and at least my brother and I are no longer estranged.”

No, they were not, though how that had happened, Worth was not sure—nor did he need to be. “Maybe your luck is changing.”

“One can hope.” Hess nudged his mount back up to the trot, and they exchanged not another word before reaching the town house.

Chapter Thirteen

“GREY, YOU CAN’T HAUL JACARANDA home by her hair.”

Daisy Fromm, nee Dorning, scolded her oldest brother quietly as he paced her back terrace. Grey would be handsome if he weren’t always scowling and glaring, but he was scowling now and looking determined, and that always boded ill for someone.

“It’s one thing for Jacaranda to keep house when the owner is off in London, but according to Roberts, this Kettering fellow has brought a pair of children with him, likely his by-blows, and she’s supposed to keep house with them and him underfoot. Francine says it will be the end of Jack’s reputation.”

As if going into service hadn’t already accomplished that?

“She’s been in his employ for five years,” Daisy said, feeling a peculiar pang of envy. “Of course she will occasionally be under the same roof as her employer. Mrs. Dankle dwells with you, doesn’t she?”

“Mrs. Dankle is sixty if she’s a day. She’s wiped my nose and the noses of every little Dorning foal to hit the ground. Moreover, she’s given notice.”

Mrs. Dankle frequently gave notice, then Francine bribed her into relenting.

“We’re not horses, Grey.” Daisy switched her hold on the baby in her arms, for the child was growing at a prodigious rate—just as her brothers had. “Besides, the gentry typically rusticate in summer. You’re here, and you didn’t even stay in Town for the closing ceremonies.”

“Hang the closing ceremonies.” His gaze came to rest on the infant, his glower softening to something approaching wistfulness. “This one’s growing like a weed, Daze. How can Jack miss her own niece and nephews growing up?”

Perhaps because she had no children of her own?

“Jack is stubborn, Grey, and she says in her letters she’s happy. If we miss her, well, that’s the price we pay for loving her.” The words were prevarications wrapped in platitudes, but Daisy would not burden her brother with the truth. She protected not Jacaranda’s dignity with her falsehoods, but her own.

“Letters, bah.” Grey ran a hand over the baby’s fuzzy head, his gentle touch at variance with his scornful tone. “Little fairy tales written by women to placate men. Jack has said she’ll come home at the end of the summer, but she’s made similar promises and found reasons to break them. Something’s amiss at Trysting. And what sort of name is that for a house? Did you know Kettering is brother to an earl?”

“I know many fine people who are siblings to an earl,” Daisy said, patting the baby’s back. “What is your point?”

“Jack needs to come home.” Grey tossed his long frame into a wrought iron chair, its feet scraping against the terrace flagstones. “When I agreed to this scheme, I told myself she was in a pout because you’d caught your man and she hadn’t. I gave it a year before she came home either towing a husband or finally ready to look for one. It has been five years, Daisy. You’ve three children, and she has, what? Bad knees from scrubbing floors?”

Jacaranda had her dignity, a variety of freedom, and a bit of coin to show for it—likely her figure was still comely, too—and she’d have staff to scrub those floors.

“Not all women are suited to marriage, Grey. Not all people.” Though some brothers were more suited to it than they could admit.

“None of that.” He’d growled the words, older-brother fashion. “I looked over this year’s crop in Town. I’m off to a house party in October. I stood up with an entire bouquet of wall flowers at the local assembly.”

Daisy remained silent, tucking the blanket more closely around the baby. She’d caught her man all right, but how much more of the tale Grey knew, she’d never quite fathomed. Because she did value her husband’s continued existence—some days and most nights—she wasn’t about to confide in her oldest brother anytime soon.

“I stopped by Least Wapping on my way south,” Grey said, getting to his feet. He was restless like that, a man beset with too much energy.

“Did you see Jack?”

“I did not. I kept my distance. She seems to be coping, but I have an itchy feeling between my shoulders, Daze. I’ll take some of the boys and go see what’s afoot once we get the ditches cleared. Will has always been able to make her see sense, and he’s confirmed that Francine is getting up to some mischief or other.”

Francine was bored, fretful, and not much of a mother. Daisy could say that in part because she herself was a mother—now.

“Will thinks you should leave Jack in peace.” Daisy didn’t want Grey dashing off, so she did something guaranteed to keep him on that terrace: She passed her brother the baby.

“I think her eyes are changing,” Grey said, peering at the little face peeking out of the blanket. Abrupt shifts of subject were symptomatic of Grey preparing to dart away on one of his queer starts. “They’ll be gorgeous eyes, just like Auntie Jack has, won’t they?”

“Just like Uncle Grey has,” Daisy said, wondering if the ladies in London ever took a moment to admire Grey’s eyes, or were too put off by his brusque demeanor.

He ran his nose over the baby’s cheek, which inspired the little baggage to smiling and waving her fists. “So you don’t think I should retrieve Jack?”

The smile he bestowed on the infant nearly broke Daisy’s heart. Before Jack had left, Grey’s smile had been much more frequently in evidence.

“If you’re asking me, then no,” Daisy said. “I don’t think you should barge into her affairs. You’re being the earl, though, not a sensible brother, and thus you’ll bother Jack regardless. Please give her my love when you go storming up to Trysting.”

“One appreciates honesty from one’s siblings.” He left off cuddling his niece, and five minutes later, Daisy let him see himself out, earl or not.

If she’d been honest, she would have told him she hoped that someday he’d turn that smile on a lady who was old enough to treasure it for the rarity it had become.

* * *

THE FLESH-POTS OF LONDON FAILED utterly to lure Hess from Worth’s town house.

Fortunately, Mary had made significant progress bestirring the menials to spruce up the place, so it wasn’t such a bad spot to abandon a guest.

Worth tracked his sovereign down at a picnic and boating party this time, discreetly offered the requisite assurances, and then stopped by Lloyds to see if the clerks had heard any pertinent gossip.

If they had, they were keeping their lips buttoned, which would be a historic first, given that Worth plied them with not only noontime ale, but also rum and decent brandy before the night was through. He spent the next morning calling upon the lady whose husband captained the Drummond and the next afternoon meeting with opera dancers and shopkeepers, then appearing to laze about in the cleaner dockside taverns.

“And where have you been all day?” Mary took his coat from his shoulders as he walked in the door. “You stink of the wharves, Mr. Kettering. This will not endear you to the laundress.”

“My hard-earned coin will have to keep me in her good graces. Where’s my brother?”

“Reading on the back terrace. That man reads like civilization depends upon it. Hardly touched his lunch.”

“Then dinner had best be enticing, and we can serve it out back.” Worth gave her an up-and-down perusal. “How are you feeling?”

“I miss the girls,” Mary said, taking his hat, gloves and walking stick. “I do not miss breezing around in the altogether for a bunch of drunken louts to leer at.”

“Have you talked to Jones?”

She looked away, and Worth wanted to bellow for his head office clerk then and there.

“Never mind,” he said. “It isn’t my business. The house is looking much improved. For that I’m grateful.”

Her smile was heartbreakingly bashful as she nodded her thanks for the compliment. Worth took a surreptitious glance at her tummy and was relieved to see she wasn’t showing. But then, her full apron was long and loose, and he was hardly in a position to assess changes to her figure based on personal knowledge.

Though he might have been.

He shook off that uncomfortable thought, grabbed a decanter, glasses and tray from the library, and made his way to the terrace.

Where Hess was indeed poring over a book. “Poetry, Hessian?”

“Miss Snyder claimed I’d miss a treat if I didn’t make time for Byron. The man is brutally funny.”

“Or simply brutal. May I offer you a drink?”

“Sit you down,” Hess said. “I’ve been swilling lemonade all afternoon. Your terrace is peaceful, Worth. Do you ever spend time out here?”

“We’ll be eating out here,” Worth said, easing off his cravat.

“Did you complete your appointed rounds today?”

“Not entirely.” Worth propped his boots on a low wrought iron table and cradled his drink on his belly. “His Royal Highness moves about when one wants him to hold still and can’t be budged when one wants him to move. A vexing fellow.”

“You’re solicitor to the Regent?”

“Of course not. Prinny and I chat from time to time, about this and that.” Worth took a gratifying swallow of his brandy.

“That’s quite an honor, Lord Mayor of the Regent’s Chit-Chat.”

“It’s quite a pain in the arse when I lack the requisite magic wand and secret incantations. He expects high return and low risk.”

“Doesn’t everybody?”

Worth thought his brother was joking at first, but Hess was completely serious. What followed was a tutorial on investment practices, with Hess asking cautious, basic questions and Worth answering as best he could without being insulting.

“It all sounds very complicated,” Hess concluded. “Very modern.”

“Investment strategy is as old as China in some senses. I’d be happy to invest something for you…” He let the offer hang in the air, but sensed this was perhaps the primary objective of Hess’s journey south. Not Yolanda, not reconciliation, not meeting Avery, but money.

Though, quite possibly, Hess himself hadn’t realized his own agenda.

Coin of the realm, blunt, cash… Money had as many names as did the male reproductive organ, and sensible people were more interested in coin than coitus.

“How much would I need to get involved with some of the more profitable ventures?”

The question was carefully, casually posed, and Worth had heard it a thousand times. Nobody looked him in the eye when they asked, and everybody hoped the answer was some insignificant amount.

Which it was not. Not by the standards of an opera dancer, not by the standards of an earl. For the dancers, Worth put together their coin and purchased a share between five or six of them, sometimes between as many as a dozen small investors. Such an undertaking was tedious and meant a flood of paperwork and a great deal of time, but he did it willingly.

“Is Grampion in financial trouble?” Worth asked gently. He and Hess had made progress with their past, and maybe this was a form of progress as well.

Hess propped his feet beside Worth’s on the low table.

“I believe so, yes.” He might have been commenting on the probability of rain, so bland was his tone.

“Are you in trouble?”

Hess’s gaze remained on their boots, Hess’s shiny, Worth’s dusty.

“I will be. I give it less than five years. I expect I’ll remarry sometime before disaster strikes.”

A silence wafted by, while Worth poured them both a tot more brandy. This discussion with his brother in the lengthening shadows of day’s end was like galloping a steeplechaser for three miles at top speed, then slamming into the final jump of the course.

Worth was stopped cold, stunned. Grampion had always been so gracious, so lovely.

So expensive, though a boy would not have realized that.

Hess had married once on impulse, or perhaps in a convoluted exercise in sibling rivalry. He shouldn’t have to marry again for duty. Even Hess should have one shot at some happiness.

What a relief, after years of animosity, for Worth to experience genuine protectiveness toward his brother.

“Will you allow me to help?”

Another question gently put, and another silence, while Worth considered that single question might mean he spent the rest of his life wishing his brother would resume speaking to him.

“God, yes, Worth, I will allow you to help. I will be grateful for your help. I know I don’t deserve—”

“We haven’t much time,” Worth interrupted, “but a particular opportunity lies in the offing now that could set you up nicely. How bad is the bleeding?”

Darkness had fallen before they went inside, moving their discussion to the library. Before Worth let Hess go up to bed, Worth had worked out the rudiments of a plan to not simply get the ancestral estate out of debt, but to turn it into a profitable venture. Putting Grampion on solid footing could take five years, but a few shares in the Drummond would shorten that estimate considerably.

Worth was content with that scenario when he considered their father had likely inherited a dismal situation fifty years ago, and done little to turn it around.

Hess refused to borrow from his brother, though, so it would be only a few shares of Drummond stock purchased, and that money was from Hess’s dwindling personal wealth. Like many of his peers, he was pouring personal money into an increasingly unprofitable agricultural estate, too hidebound or ignorant to diversify his revenue sources.

“This venture with the Drummond is high risk, isn’t it?” Hess asked as he rose to leave for his bed.

“That depends on how you view it, but high reward, too, and we should know in the next fifteen days which it is.”

“So I’ll have to stay in the south for another few weeks.” Hess did not look pleased with this possibility.

“Is my hospitality so lacking?” Worth said, purposely goading his brother, because hospitality wasn’t the problem.

“Your hospitality is superb, but the thought of Yolanda glaring daggers at me for weeks, then having to haul her, muttering and cursing, the length of England… One would like to have such an ordeal behind one.”

“Perhaps you’ll be able to turn her up sweet, or we can come to some other arrangement.”

“I know my duty, Worth.”

“Your duty now is to get a decent night’s sleep.” Worth got to his feet, fatigued to his bones, but also lighter in spirit. Setting another’s financial house in order often did that for him. “Mine as well.”

“About that.” Hess pinned his gaze on a painting of a mare and foal, an early Thomas Lawrence.

“Hessian?”

“You seem to have the knack of acquiring young, pretty housekeepers.”

“Each of whom,” Worth said, “is entirely her own woman.”

Hess looked sheepish, but pleased. “That’s what she said. Your Mary is quite forward.”

“She’s also carrying another man’s child. If she told you you couldn’t get her with child, it was the God’s honest truth.”

“Little brother, the life you live is incomprehensible to me.” Hess gathered up his boots and stockings. “Though you seem comfortable in it.”

He left on that observation, and Worth went in search of his housekeeper, but only to tell her he’d be leaving for Trysting in late morning.

* * *

“HELL, YES, I’LL SELL YOU my shares.” James Murphy’s boots thumped onto the carpet of his office. “The Drummond is accounted a complete loss, and I know what you’re about, Kettering. You’re trying to keep me from selling to somebody else for a farthing to the pound, so your own pile of shares won’t be worth even less when you try to dump the ones you still have. It’s an old trick.”

“Or perhaps I believe in my captain, and the Drummond will come sailing in here one of these weeks.” Worth injected a note of defensiveness under his rejoinder, though one did want to play fair—within reason.

“The captain hasn’t been born of woman who can control the weather, my friend.” Murphy’s smile was sympathetic, but he signed over his stock certificates at face value. Worth paid him in cash, gathered a witnessed receipt, and thanked his associate very cordially.

He made six similar stops, which left him and his investors the sole shareholders in the venture, then collected his brother at the town house and once again headed back to Trysting.

* * *

“THIS IS A SORRY DAY, Mrs. W.” Simmons shook his head like a dog with a flea in his ear. “A sorry, sorry day. The young lady snatched from our very halls, and not one witness. A right tragedy, you ask me. What will Mr. K say?”

Perhaps Mr. K would allow Jacaranda to pension Simmons off at last.

“We’ll soon know Mr. Kettering’s view on the matter, Mr. Simmons. I sent a note to Town, and I don’t doubt he’ll be here by moonrise.”

“Moonrise!” The eyebrows rose to unprecedented heights, and beneath the dismay lurked a nasty element of glee to have such drama befall the house.

Jacaranda’s hand formed a tight fist in her skirts.

“Mrs. Wyeth?” Carl stood a safe distance away as he addressed her. “We’ve searched the outbuildings and found no sign of Miss Yolanda.”

“Thank you, Carl. What about the attics?”

“We’re up there now, ma’am, and the cellars, too.”

“Very good. Keep me and Mr. Simmons informed.”

“Oh, this is dire,” Simmons moaned. “What if she’s not in the attics or the cellars? We’ve searched the grounds, her room, the outbuildings and gardens. She’s not asleep in a hammock or reading by the stream. There’s no note. She hasn’t taken a horse or cart, and nobody has seen her since luncheon, and that was hours ago. Hours!”

“So it was, Mr. Simmons. I suggest you start praying.”

He was so stunned by that pronouncement, his mouth snapped shut fast enough to have his turkey wattle shaking.

What was there to do except pray? Yolanda had been infernally quiet since the earl had come to visit, wafting around the house like a pretty ghost, holing up in the library, taking trays for lunch and breakfast.

Boot heels rang in the corridor, and Jacaranda had to hope it was a groom arriving with news, good or bad, any news at all.

“Mrs. Wyeth?” Worth Kettering stood framed in the doorway, his brother at his shoulder. “My dear, the house is in an uproar, the grooms say Yolanda is missing, and we’ve no footman at our front door. What on earth is going on?”

“Worth—” She took a step toward him, then realized she’d just used his name before his brother the earl.

And did not care. “Yolanda hasn’t been seen since luncheon, and we’ve looked everywhere.”

“This is my fault,” the earl said. “She’s run off because she thinks I’ll dragoon her back to Grampion in chains.”

“We can debate her motivations later.” Worth didn’t look angry, so much as focused. “Assuming Yolanda has decamped purposely, we can also take turns whacking at her backside for causing such anxiety to my staff. Let’s have some tea, and Mrs. Wyeth can tell us what’s been done so far to locate our sister.”

“Tea?” Jacaranda wanted to beat the bushes herself, and Yolanda’s brother was thinking of tea?

“I’ll see to it,” the earl said, spinning on his heel and leaving the library.

“Now come here.” Worth kicked the door closed and held out his arms. “We’ll find her, don’t doubt it. She’s a Kettering and made of fortitude, resourcefulness and determination. Hess is likely right, and this is a fit of pique, that’s all.”

“I am so worried,” Jacaranda managed, and then she was weeping against his shoulder, so glad to see him, so relieved for once to not have to be the one who organized, and thought ahead, and encouraged everyone else.

“Young ladies loose without supervision are worth worrying about.” Worth tucked his chin against her temple and held her until Jacaranda eased her grip on him. A knock at the door heralded the earl, followed by a maid bearing a tea tray. The newest maid, who would have been limited to upstairs duty under normal circumstances.

“Thank you,” Worth said. “That will be all.” He sat himself on the sofa and patted the place beside him. “Sit you, Mrs. Wyeth, and start from the beginning. Your lordship, butter the lady a scone and stop castigating yourself.”

Jacaranda sat between them, finding the tea and sustenance helped—she hadn’t eaten for hours—but so, too, did Worth’s methodical approach to the entire situation and his simple, calm presence.

“When was she last seen?”

“By whom?”

“Did she receive any correspondence this morning?”

“Has she formed any particular friends in the area?”

“Has she caught the eye of any of the local swains?”

Jacaranda could answer accurately, but at the last question, she paused.

“I don’t know that she exactly caught his eye, but Thomas Hunter caught hers at market. He was most gallant.”

“Gallant?” The earl was on his feet. “I’ll shove my gallant fist down his presuming throat if he’s enticed her to folly.”

“Hessian.” Worth held up a cup of tea to his brother. “Yolanda would have left a note if she were eloping. She wouldn’t want Avery to worry, and she wouldn’t want the scandal exacerbated by a foolish alarm to the whole parish.”

The earl accepted his tea, then took to staring at a portrait of some ancestor sporting lace, hose, and collar. “You’re saying she was carried off against her will?”

“I’m saying I don’t think she eloped with somebody she’s known only a span of weeks. She has more sense than that. What does Avery say?”

“We haven’t wanted to alarm her,” Jacaranda replied. “She’s in the nursery with Mrs. Hartwick.”

“I’ll fetch her.” His lordship was out the door before Jacaranda could ring for a maid.

“Let him go,” Worth said. “He will blame himself until she’s found, and if this is a stupid stunt, Yolanda will regret it to her dying day. Eat your scone, love, and stop blaming yourself.”

“If she was unhappy, I should have seen it. I was a miserable girl once, too, and I know how foolish they can be.”

“You?” He held up a plate with the buttered scone on it. “Foolish? I must hear this tale, for I can’t imagine such a thing.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “For courage. We’ll find her, and she had better have a good excuse for this nonsense. I don’t like to see you upset, much less my brother suffering paroxysms of undeserved guilt.”

That little kiss did give her courage, as did Worth being himself, flirting a bit despite the circumstances, tending to the basics—food and drink—and taking the whole matter in stride.

What would she have done if he’d still been in Town?

“I’ve got Avery,” Grampion said as he crossed the threshold, and he did, literally, have the child. She was affixed to his back and looking around from her perch with a hesitant smile.

“Uncle Worth! I saw you come home on Goliath.” She held out her arms as if she’d hug him from his lordship’s back.

“My dearest niece.” Worth plucked her off the earl, hugged her, and deposited her on the sofa. “Join us for a cup of tea. We’ve a mystery to solve.”

“I’ve seen the footmen scurrying everywhere, and I hear them up in the attics. They never go up there. Neither do the maids.” Avery looked perfectly composed as she sat beside her uncle on the sofa.

“We’re hunting a treasure,” Worth said, fixing her a cup of tea that was more cream and sugar than tea. “Your aunt has gone missing and you keep a close eye on her, so we’re hoping you might be able to give us some clues.”

“Clues?”

“Hints, ideas about where she might be.”

“May I have a scone with jam?”

“You may.” He tended to her request and passed her the plate. “You saw Yolanda at lunch, didn’t you?”

“Of course, and she brings her book, and Miss Snyder gives her the don’t-read-at-table look. A bit more jam,” she said. “It’s very good, the jam.”

Worth dutifully took the plate back and added another dollop of jam.

“Where did Yolanda go after lunch?” he asked.

“She comes here to look at the maps,” Avery said, taking the plate and managing to bite off a corner of scone without getting jam all over her fingers. “She likes the maps and said she would explore the estate. It belonged to an aunt, a long time ago, all of this.”

“It did.” Worth passed the child a serviette, which was wise because the jam was excessive in proportion to the scone, and disaster seemed only a lick away. “Which maps did Yolanda like to study?”

“All of them.” Avery dabbed at her lips delicately. “She wants to be an intrepid explorer. What does intrepid mean?”

“Fearless. Did Yolanda like to look at the globe?”

“No, not that kind of map,” Avery said, now halfway through her scone. “She liked the maps of where we are. Where we are now.”

“These maps?” the earl asked from halfway across the room. “They aren’t recent.” He was carefully flipping the pages of a large atlas laid flat for display on a sturdy table.

“Those maps, yes,” Avery said, but didn’t give up her place on the sofa. “They are maps of here, of Trysting, when the aunt owned it.”

“She’s right,” Jacaranda said, “but the estate maps are back a few pages in that atlas. They’re very detailed. I need a quizzing glass to read some of the print.”

“Yolanda would study the map, then take a book with her to explore the estate while Uncle went on his calls with Mrs. Wyeth,” Avery said. “May I have another scone?”

“Not yet.” Worth rose and crossed to stand beside his brother. “You’ll spoil your dinner, but you’ve been very helpful. Did Yolanda go exploring this afternoon?”

“Oh, yes.” Avery gazed upon the plate of scones like a martyr contemplating heaven. “I watch from the nursery windows. Some days she goes to the paddocks to see the horses, some days she goes to the home farm to see the cows and sheep.”

“Where did she go today?”

“To the home wood.” Avery’s fingertip made a surreptitious pass through the jam pot then disappeared into her mouth. “She likes the birds in the wood and likes to read there. She says it’s cool and pretty. I think it’s scary.”

She pronounced the word oddly—scar-y—but her meaning was clear.

“This is not an accurate map of the home wood,” Jacaranda said, peering at the atlas from the earl’s other side. “The entire plot is much overgrown since former days. Something Reilly and I have remarked often.”

Worth bent closer and took up the quizzing glass kept next to the atlas.

“You’re right. Wouldn’t Hunter’s holding be right down this bridle path here?” He traced his finger along the map.

“It would be,” Jacaranda said, “except those bridle paths haven’t existed to speak of in my lifetime. They might be game trails now, but I think they were established more for harvesting lumber in the last century.”

“So Yolanda is stumbling around in the wood looking for trails that don’t exist?” His lordship’s scowl was fierce. “Let’s go. We don’t want to lose the light.”

Worth passed Avery the quizzing glass, patted her shoulder, and sent her back to the nursery. “A few minutes of organization will save us a lot of stumbling around. Mrs. Wyeth, a lane still cuts through the wood, doesn’t it? Would that be this trail, here?”

Within a few minutes, Worth and the earl had a grid worked out and a system whereby one team of men would start on the lane to Hunter’s holding, the other would start at the manor, and they’d meet in the middle of the wood. Footmen were being instructed to notify the grooms and gardeners and other staff when Carl tapped on the library door.

“Mr. Thomas Hunter is asking for you, Mrs. Wyeth. He wouldn’t say what his business was, but his mule is in a right lather.”

“Show him in,” Worth said. “Mrs. Wyeth will receive him here with us.”

Thomas came in, his attire too informal for this call to be social.

“Mrs. Wyeth, Mr. Kettering.” He bowed to Jacaranda, he merely nodded at Worth. He shot the earl a measuring look. “I don’t believe I know you, sir.”

“Grampion,” Worth said, “may I make known to you Mr. Thomas Hunter, one of my most industrious tenants. Hunter, I give you the Earl of Grampion, who is at this moment a very concerned brother to a certain young lady, as am I.”

“She’s safe,” Hunter said. “She twisted her ankle, but I don’t think it’s broken. She’s at the gamekeeper’s cottage near my property, her foot up and her book within reach. She’s very embarrassed, but got turned around in the wood and then took a bad step. I heard her calling on my way to Least Wapping.”

Jacaranda had to sit, so great was her relief, because a young woman could come to very great harm in no time at all.

“Do we have you to thank for her comfort and care, Hunter?” Worth’s tone held a pugnacious edge.

“I have shown her every courtesy,” Hunter retorted, his chin lifting half an inch. “She is not at my home, but she is certainly an honored guest.”

“We’d best fetch her in a cart,” Jacaranda interjected, for male posturing could be interminable. “Getting from the cottage out to the track will be difficult for her.”

“I’ll fetch her,” the earl said. “My horse can take the two of us, if Mr. Hunter would be so kind as to lead the way?”

Hunter looked the earl up and down, but held his peace.

“You might as well speak plainly,” Worth said. “We are her family, and we love her, but her mind is her own, Mr. Hunter.”

“She said this one”—he nodded at his lordship—“would scold her as if she were eight years old. She’s not eight years old.”

“Yolanda is not to blame for turning her ankle,” Worth said. “I doubt his lordship will do any scolding, for he’s too glad the girl’s safe and reasonably sound.”

The earl nodded his agreement—his capitulation—once. “Just so, but she needs her family now, though you have our thanks, Hunter. She is dear to us.”

“One hoped that was the case. I’ll await you in the stables.” He bowed politely to Jacaranda, gave each man a nod, and withdrew.

“She’s safe,” Worth said, directing his comments to his brother. “She didn’t intentionally alarm anyone, and she’s safe.”

“She’s safe, but we don’t know she turned her ankle. She might have concocted this whole debacle to spend time unchaperoned with your tenant. Yolanda is clever if nothing else.”

“Do you have a reason to accuse her of such dramatics?” Worth asked, which was fortunate, because Jacaranda would not have put the question half so civilly.

“Wasn’t it you who had to retrieve her from an exclusive boarding school for trying to do injury to herself?”

Jacaranda could keep silent no longer, for brothers would chose the most vexatious times to be difficult. “Can’t you sort through that later? Right now, we need to retrieve her from that cottage, and assure her she’s loved and that her absence mattered.” Why could they not see this? “If you two want to continue this argument, I will happily fetch her with Mr. Hunter.”

She’d carry the girl from the cottage herself if need be, though Thomas would likely appropriate that honor.

The earl’s eyebrows rose, then crashed down, making him look very much like his brother. He bowed and withdrew without another word.

“You’re not going with him?” Jacaranda aimed the question at Worth, who’d settled on the sofa near the tea and scones.

“I am not,” he said, buttering a scone. “Hess and Lannie have matters to work out, and they’ll need privacy to do it. They’re both monumentally shy, and my hovering won’t help.”

“Eating a scone will?” Though Jacaranda was hungry, and another cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss either.

“Come sit with me.” He beckoned with the hand holding the scone. “And, yes, because I’ve been in the saddle for much of the day, I intend to eat every last scone on this plate. The jam is about gone, though.”

Jacaranda sat, needing to be near him, which made no sense when the crisis was past. “I was so relieved to see you. Your brother was doubtless scandalized.”

“My brother has other things on his mind just now.” Worth held up the scone for her to take a bite. “A little scandalizing will be good for the fellow. He’s grown Puritan in his northern wilderness.”

“Puritan?”

“Lonely, but he doesn’t seem to know it, or what to do about it.” Worth took a bite for himself, then offered the scone to her again. “We need some tea to wash this down.”

She let him ply her with tea and scones and let herself sit right next to him, absorbing his warmth and calm.

“You didn’t panic,” she said. “I was ready to scream, and you didn’t panic.”

“She isn’t your little sister,” Worth said. “Inside I was screaming, but you kept looking at me as if I’d know what to do, and Hess couldn’t very well step in, because it isn’t his property, and he was too busy blaming himself.”

“You didn’t blame yourself.” She let her head rest against his shoulder, and he obligingly looped an arm around her.

“I most assuredly did. You simply didn’t hear me. I will always bear responsibility for Moira’s death, and I was fully prepared to be at fault if Yolanda had been set upon by bears, or pirates, or pixies.”

Jacaranda lifted her head to glare at him. “You did not cause Moira’s death. If anything, your generosity gave her a few years of happiness.”

He was silent, not a brooding silent. Then, “Marry me.”

“What?”

“I said…” He drew his finger along her arm. “Please marry me. Please.”

Jacaranda watched his finger trail down her forearm, having difficulty connecting the sight with sensation, just as Worth would not be able to connect Lady Jacaranda Wyeth Dorning with his practical, plain housekeeper.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said, please marry me. This raspberry jam is worth putting my foot in parson’s mousetrap. Did you make it? I think you did. No wonder Avery was abandoning all manners for a mere taste. You could sell this, you know, retire from this life of gay abandon and buy that cottage.”

She blushed hotly, probably turning nearly the color of the jam itself. “You will not bring up cottages, if you please.”

“You have such a way with the imperatives, my dear.” He munched away on his scone, the wretched man. “What did you mean when you said you’d once been a foolish girl?”

“Weren’t you once a foolish boy?”

“Hell, yes. For years and years.” He chewed more slowly, and Jacaranda hoped his teasing about marriage was done—for he had been teasing, this time.

Or he’d turned his proposal into a joke rather than endure her rejection.

The sooner she returned to Dorset, the better.

“In some ways, I’m only now getting over the tendency toward foolishness,” he said, “but that doesn’t answer my question, dear heart. Tell me of your foolishness.”

“My past is not a fit topic.” Jacaranda rose, and she could see she’d surprised him. Her past and her future were both not fit topics. “I must ensure that Cook has dinner underway, given the upheaval of the day.”

“Jacaranda?” He was on his feet, too, and clearly done with his teasing.

“Sir?”

He paced across the room to join her near the door, his gait unhurried, as if he knew she wasn’t about to leave until she’d heard him out.

“Thank you,” he said, speaking distinctly. “I neglect to give you these words often enough, not because I don’t feel grateful—I do—but because they make you uncomfortable, just as talking about your cottage does. Thank you for turning the house and staff upside down to look for my sister. Thank you for making this house a home my family can feel welcome in. Thank you for raspberry jam.”

She wanted to cry. He wasn’t even touching her, he wasn’t teasing, and she wanted to cry.

“You’re welcome.” She put her fingers on the door latch and walked out from under the hand he’d settled on her shoulder—one of the more difficult departures she’d asked of herself.

“I’ll see you at dinner.” His words floated after her, pitched so she’d hear them, but she made good her escape and reached her room before the tears fell in quantity.

Chapter Fourteen

“IT HAS SOMETHING TO DO with why you’re housekeepering here in Surrey,” Worth mused as he climbed into Jacaranda’s bed.

Her worst nightmare and her fondest dream had come to call once again. Jacaranda buried her nose in her pillow. “You infernal man, what do you think you’re doing here?”

“I’ve come to talk about cottages and jam pots,” he said, going through the ritual of bouncing around to get the pillows and covers just so. “You would not discuss them with me earlier, and my curiosity is piqued. I would also like to know if you missed me sufficiently that you’re willing to dispense certain favors in my direction.”

“My curiosity is burning to experience a good night’s sleep.” Jacaranda gave him her back, putting a convincing show of sincerity in her words, almost enough to compensate for lying in bed for more than an hour, wondering if he’d join her.

He spooned himself around her. “Yolanda seemed fine at dinner.”

“I think she was surprised his lordship would fetch her, and whatever he said, it seemed to clear the air between them.” Worth was in Jacaranda’s bed, where at least part of her wanted him, and she’d missed these late-night conversations and the simple cuddling and petting he lavished on her.

Missed them a lot, and would miss them more soon.

“Why the sigh, Jacaranda Wyeth?”

“Your hand. I am a fool for the way you rub my back.”

“It relaxes me, too,” he said, pausing to kiss her shoulder, “to rub your back. May I ask you about something?”

“No, Worth. For once, you may not pose whatever question comes into the vast, busy manufactory that is your mind.”

“Do you need money?”

“What sort of question is that?”

“An honest one.” He sounded embarrassed. “My housekeeper in Town sends a portion of her wages home, and it occurred to me your family might be in some need.”

She hadn’t foreseen this, couldn’t quite fathom where it was coming from or where he was headed with it, though she should have known he’d put together the pieces easily enough.

“We’re not in particular need, though I haven’t been home to visit for nearly two years. I have a large family, but the land is good, and we work hard.” Then too, they no longer had to endure the expense of London Seasons for a young lady who did not take. “Why do you ask?”

“My manufactory specializes in producing idle curiosity. Would you trust me with your money, Jacaranda?”

Another kiss, though she had the sense her answer mattered far more than his casual tone suggested.

“If you needed it, yes, I would trust you with my money.”

She’d have been better advised to give him her money than her heart—more fool her.

“I might need it,” he said, and the relief in his tone was unmistakable. “Give me another week or so to sort matters through. I’d give you a note of hand, or a promissory note, if you preferred.”

“I don’t need any notes.” She rolled over to try to see him, but the moon was either behind its clouds or not up yet. “I’ll withhold your raspberry jam if you game it away.”

“My word is good with you?”

“You’re in my bed, after dark, without benefit of clothing, so yes, I’d say a modicum of trust lies between us.” Not as much trust as he deserved, though.

“Hess is nearly rolled up.”

A sterling example of the trust going both ways and part of the reason why Jacaranda would quit Trysting at summer’s end. Better to end their dalliance than let Worth Kettering know he’d climbed into bed with a dissembling woman.

Because whatever lay between him and his brother, Jacaranda was certain a dissembling woman had been part of it.

“Was he mortified to seek your help?” She put an arm under his neck and stroked her hand through his hair—which soothed her.

“I was mortified. Jacaranda, I wanted to put my hand over his mouth and push his words back into silence. He’s been struggling away up there in Cumberland, selling off his beloved hunters, the art he enjoys so much, and God knows what else, and it’s pathetic. Papa left him a cocked-up mess and not one clue how to go about fixing it. He refuses to raise the rents, and I have to applaud him for that, given the price of corn lately.”

Jacaranda kept her hand moving slowly through his hair. “You suspected he’d traveled alone out of economy, and you were right. He probably doesn’t entertain for the same reason.”

“I wish I’d been wrong.” Worth closed his eyes, his lashes glancing delicately against her palm. “We’ll get him sorted out, eventually.”

She kissed his forehead, nuzzling his hair to catch a whiff of his scent. “If anybody can straighten out a monetary situation, it’s you, and that you’re willing to try likely means more to his lordship than that you succeed.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He misses his brother. Money grows behind every hedge compared to brothers.”

She realized too late how much truth, how much homesickness her words held, but Worth kissed her breast, and all thoughts of cottages and brothers flew from her head.

“Jacaranda? You never answered my question: Did you miss me? For I assuredly missed you, dear heart.”

* * *

WORTH NEEDED TO HEAR THE words, which was silly, insecure and unbecoming, but he wanted at least some words from Jacaranda: I missed you. Every night when he climbed into her bed, she put up her token protest.

He accepted that and bantered and teased and cuddled his way past it.

Then he cast around for something of substance they could talk about. He could see her cottage clearly in his mind’s eye, so thoroughly had he made her describe it. He could smell the sea, hear the sea birds, feel the piercing brightness of the summer sun blazing in the Dorset sky.

He’d told her as much as he could recall of Grampion.

Told her as much as he could recall of Moira, and even a few things about his long-dead mother.

Jacaranda listened, she asked a few questions, and she answered most questions he put to her. She sometimes even made small overtures, such as stroking his hair.

But Worth could not divine what was in her mind, and increasingly, he suspected his lady was keeping more of herself from him than she shared with him. The last time he’d had this same uneasy feeling, his intended had ended up married to his brother.

“You were hardly gone,” she said against his forehead. “Two days. How could you miss me in such a short time?”

A besotted man missed his beloved when she ventured into the next room, that’s how.

“I simply did.” He shifted up over her. “I think of you far more than is dignified, and I can only hope you suffer a similar preoccupation regarding me.”

He was naked, she was dressed in only her summer nightgown, so he let her feel the blunt length of his nascent arousal by settling his body loosely on hers.

“You are driving me beyond reason, Jacaranda Wyeth.”

She might have been formulating some prim, off-putting reply, but he wasn’t having any of her starch and vinegar. He pressed his lips to hers, determined that if she’d never missed him thus far, in future she’d have a reason to.

She was at first merely passive, just as she never exactly welcomed him into her bed. He was out of patience with her diffidence—had been out of patience for days. Now he was determined. Very, very determined.

So he grazed his lips over hers lightly, again and again, until she parted her mouth on a sigh, and then he slid his tongue over her bottom lip. She drew back against her pillows.

Jacaranda had tasted him before, but perhaps she grasped that he’d recalled his sense of purpose now, because she went still, waiting, until he dipped inside her mouth again. Then her top lip, then the soft folds between her lips and her teeth.

He drew back a quarter inch, enough to make a point. She lapped at his bottom lip and wrapped a hand around the back of his neck, urging him forward.

“No. You kiss me.” His voice held a slight rasp, for he issued not a command but a plea.

Slowly, she raised her mouth to his, eyes open, watching him until she made contact. Then it was his hand anchored in her hair, her eyes closing on a soft, yearning sound.

He kissed her with his whole body, plundering the damp heat of her mouth while his weight gently pinned her to the mattress. He let her feel his cock, rampant now against the softness of her belly, held her hand in his above her head. He set up a rhythm with his hips, slow and insistent, a deliberate call to her body.

God bless the woman, she answered. Her tongue came questing to explore his mouth, and by the smallest degrees, she arched up into him and followed his rhythm.

“Too much,” she whispered against his mouth.

Relief twined through Worth’s arousal, for Jacaranda Wyeth was at least in the grip of a fierce attraction, and he could build on that.

“We’re barely getting started.”

“No.” She brought her mouth back to his without elaborating. Nonetheless, he’d heard that one damnable syllable and was frustrated enough to take his mouth from hers.

“Not no. You may have your no if you’re refusing me your body, but we will have our pleasure. Say yes to that much at least.”

She didn’t understand. He could see bewilderment in her eyes, so he let go of the hand he’d pinned to her pillow and settled his palm over her breast. Through the soft fabric of her nightgown, the fullness of her practically drove him to begging. Her nipple crested against his palm, and she inhaled sharply as he teased at her with his fingers.

“You will let me pleasure you, Jacaranda,” he said, watching her face. “Or you’ll tell me to leave this instant. Choose.”

The sensible part of him, the part that watched him make a hash of what should have been a protracted seduction, that part understood that forcing any choice on this lady was bound to fail. Stupid—disastrous—any use of coercion. This was a woman who’d turned her back on family for the privilege of ordering about maids and footmen. She would not be forced in any regard.

The man in him, though, the man who’d gone without assurances for too long, the man who’d gone without closeness for far too long, that fellow kissed the hell out of her, surging into her mouth as he surged over her body.

Two passionate instants later, she hauled back on his hair, stoutly, then smoothed her hand over his head.

“Soon, I must return to that cottage, Worth. I’ve made promises to my family.”

What was she going on about? They’d make a damned wedding journey to her cottage.

“And I must return to Grampion. I understand that, and we can discuss our travels at length, some other time. For now, it’s your nightgown that must go somewhere else.” He grasped the hem and lifted it, but something in her bearing gave him pause.

The infernal woman wanted to talk right this minute. He ascertained her intent by the way she shifted back against the gathered fabric of her nightgown, resisting but not exactly protesting.

“We will talk, Jacaranda, I promise you that, but not now.”

She relented, raising her shoulders enough to let him draw her only garment over her head and toss it away.

The pleasure of her naked flesh against his had him sealing his body to hers, wrapping her close simply to indulge himself in the sensation of her skin next to his, belly to belly, chest to breast. They could visit family six times a year, but this—this embrace, nothing between them but honest desire and mutual besottedness—was home.

“God, yes,” he breathed against her throat, though he wanted to give her promises and vows while her whiny family and their musty little cottage could go hang.

Then he rolled so she straddled him, and he fleetingly considered getting up to light branches of candles.

She crossed her arms over her breasts, and his momentum shifted.

He wouldn’t make love to her in the next hour, not as intimately as he wanted to, but they were in new territory, naked, together, and she was trusting him—this far at least.

“You are beautiful,” he said, meaning it as sincerely as he’d ever meant spoken words. “Please allow me to adore you.”

“Adore?” Her single word bore a wealth of uncertainty, and she kept her arms crossed.

“Please.” He levered up and kissed her jaw. “You’ve seen me, watched me lose every shred of dignity and control. Let me see you.”

Slowly, holding his gaze, she drew her arms down to rest at her sides.

Never had desire, trust, and vulnerability been as dearly—and arousingly—clothed in nudity. Worth swallowed around the lump in his throat and prayed for…

All manner of blessings.

Fortitude, to proceed despite risk to something of greater value than a mere few hundred thousand pounds.

Worthiness, because Jacaranda’s trust should be surrendered into only worthy hands.

Gratitude, because she’d chosen to place her trust into his hands.

“I would like to touch you, Jacaranda Wyeth. I’d like it exceedingly.”

“I would like that, too.”

He didn’t use his hands, not at first. He curled up and inhaled the fragrance of her between her breasts.

“The scent is sweet, Jacaranda. Like your neck or your hands, but more secret.” He ran his nose all over her chest, grazing her collarbones, the soft undersides of her breasts, and around her nipples.

“I want…” She sighed, tried again. “Will you touch me?”

“Soon.”

He rested his hands on her shoulders as he lay back against the bed. Sturdy shoulders, unapologetically solid, and yet still feminine.

She regarded him solemnly, waiting, and all his frustration, all his missing her was worth the anticipation he saw in her expression. Gently, he settled his hands over her breasts.

“You’re silky,” he said. “Warm, smooth, delicate, lovely…” With each word, he drew the backs of his fingers over her breasts, her nipples, around the undersides, up the slopes. “I could come simply by touching your breasts, Jacaranda.”

God help him, he spoke the truth. He could come, compose sonnets, and sing hymns to her breasts, and to the heart that beat swiftly under his palm.

As much to shut himself up as to gratify them both, he closed his mouth over her nipple. She arched toward him, and his cock leapt as desire rippled out from her to him and back again, ricocheting through him, through her, resonating endlessly.

“Worth…” Her fingers winnowed through his hair, and she clung to him.

“Ride me.” He got a hand low on her back and anchored himself while she moved over him.

He would not, would not, shift his hips to penetrate her heat. She hadn’t given him that permission, wasn’t expecting that intimacy, and no matter how much pleasure he brought her, he’d never regain her trust if he presumed to cross that line now.

He tipped her so she hung over him, her braid slipping down, tickling his shoulder and arm as he made love to her breasts. The hand he’d used to guide her over him slid around the full curve of her flank, a satiny warm pleasure he’d explore later and thoroughly.

By slow increments, he brought his hand lower, to draw the backs of his fingers over her curls. He sensed surprise and pleasure vibrating through her, and she didn’t draw back.

Thank God Almighty, she didn’t draw back.

He traced her folds with one thumb, pleased to find dampness and heat and more pleased that she went motionless, allowing it.

“Move, love,” he whispered against her breasts, letting his hand go still, waiting for her this time. Then, a tentative motion with her hips, forward against his hand, back, but not far.

“Just like that. Again.”

In the quiet darkness, she found a rhythm—conservative, because she didn’t know her destination yet as well as she soon would, but Worth fell in with it, applying and releasing pressure at the apex of her folds.

“Worth…what…?”

“The matter wants only patience and determination. You excel at both.” He watched her face in the moonlight, and kept up enough pressure that her arousal escalated toward completion. “I’ll get you there. No risk for you, all reward.”

She said nothing, no doubt listening with her body for how to find more and more pleasure.

Worth’s arousal became insistent, but he focused on her, on caressing one breast while he took the other in his mouth, on plying her sex with as much gentle insistence as one half-sane man could muster.

He sensed when passion overtook her restraint. Her back arched, driving her against his hand and his mouth, and she leaned into him hard, her body begging for what words could not convey.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “All reward.”

“Worth…”

She hissed his name on a rasp of pleasure, and he drove a finger into her heat, her sex gripping hard around him, and that—that was too much. He held on to her like a bankrupt clutches his last, shiny gold sovereign and let the pleasure reverberate through him even as she was overwhelmed by it as well.

The sounds of their harsh breathing mingled, then eased, and still Worth held on.

Jacaranda stroked his hair, clinging to him, too, as he relaxed back against the bed.

“Come here.” He urged her down onto his chest, needing to hold her, needing to keep her close.

She went easily, despite his spent seed all over his belly, despite the aftershocks he sensed rippling through her.

What words could he give her now? What could he say, in thanks or reassurance? He was at sea still, for this was an aspect of intimate pleasure he’d not experienced before—the desire to linger and comfort and be comforted.

He kissed her temple, stroked her back, and prayed for the right words.

Any right words at all.

* * *

JACARANDA TRIED TO GET HER mind to function, to form sentences, but her body was still too absorbed with marvelous sensations. Her skin buzzed with pleasure, her breasts hummed with it. Between her legs the fire of Worth’s touch lingered, and inside, deep inside where a woman carried new life, bodily exultation had yet to entirely fade.

What to say?

“I missed you, too.” The ridiculous words were out without Jacaranda having any idea where they’d come from. They were honest, but ye gods. I missed you?

After that?

He came alert beneath her, and it was too late to call the words back. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said, I missed you, too.”

“Good.” His hand started moving on her back again. “That’s good.”

What did “good” mean? She searched for basic vocabulary.

“Hold me.” Those words were right, and Worth’s arms closing more securely around her were more right still.

“Better?”

She nodded against his chest and wondered what came next, but then the comfort of his embrace stole even curiosity from her grip. Worth knew what came next, and that was all she needed for the moment.

His lips moved at her temple. “Sleep, love. I’ve got you.”

“You won’t leave?”

“Not yet.”

When she next opened her eyes, she was cast adrift over the great, lovely expanse of Worth Kettering. His hands caressed her back, his chest rose and fell beneath her.

“I should move.” Straight back to Dorset, and soon.

“You shouldn’t go far. We could do with a wash, though.”

So one talked about that. Two did. “I’ll see to it.”

“You will not.”

One argued about it, even. She wanted to smile—no, to smirk. She did not want to move back to Dorset.

“You sprawl here in feminine splendor while I see to it,” Worth said, and he was smiling outright, his teeth gleaming in the darkness.

“I do not sprawl, Worth Kettering.” She climbed off him, an ungainly production, and hit the mattress on her back. Her stomach was sticky, so she didn’t draw the sheets up.

“You will acquire the knack of sprawling if I have anything to say to it.” He bounced off the mattress, his tone as brisk as his movements. “Sprawling, lounging, reclining, what have you. A well-pleasured lady is entitled to certain privileges.” He came back to the bed with a flannel in his hand, looking her over in the moonlight.

Jacaranda held out her hand. “I’ll take that.”

He sat at her hip, ignored her hand, and put the cool, damp cloth on her belly.

“You sprawl,” he said, tidying her up. “Unless you’d like to perform this courtesy for me?”

“Good heavens.” So many ways to be intimate, and she wasn’t even truly his lover.

He rubbed at himself briskly. “Maybe next time. Now we sprawl together. I rather like this part.”

“You didn’t like the other?”

More wrong words. When would her wits come back to life?

Worth positioned himself over her, and that was nice, to be gathered beneath him again. Despite her words, Jacaranda felt safe and close to him.

“I adored the other,” he said, close to her ear. “I adore you.” He climbed off her when she didn’t have the confidence to ask him not to. “Now we sprawl. There’s science to it. First, you get comfortable.”

“I am comfortable.”

“You usually sleep on your right side, love.”

She wanted to argue, but didn’t because she felt rather in charity with him, and with the rest of creation. She scooted to her right side.

“Just so. Then I get comfortable.” He spooned himself around her, his warmth comfortable and comforting. “Then I tell you how much I enjoyed spending this time with you, more than words can say.” He kissed her nape. “You are truly magnificent, Jacaranda Wyeth. Beyond words, beyond anything in my experience. I am humbled.”

He sounded humbled, too. Jacaranda was grateful for the darkness, because his words made her blush.

“Now go to sleep.” He settled a hand around her breast, and even that brought with it emotions warm and dear. “Dream of me, for I shall surely dream of you.”

She went to sleep and she did dream of him.

Also of her cottage in Dorset.

* * *

WORTH LINGERED IN JACARANDA’S BED until almost dawn, passing the night in a pleasurable twilight. He’d wake up, cuddle her closer, stroke his hands over her curves and hollows, kiss her cheek, her hair, her neck, and subside back into dreamy drowsing. He knew for a fact he’d never spent as much of an entire night with a throbbing cockstand, or enjoyed himself so much without having intercourse.

Before the sun peeked over the horizon, he stole down the corridor, boots in hand, much on his mind.

Jacaranda probably suspected his latest marriage proposal hadn’t been a joke about raspberry jam. She was deucedly perceptive about things like jam pots.

The words had come out, heartfelt and sincere. Jacaranda had been surprised and nonplussed, which did not bode well for him.

As the day wore on, he confirmed his suspicion that part of what ran the household was his housekeeper’s perpetual motion. She came to rest in her little sitting room for tea, but she also held audiences in there.

Cook joined her for a cup and emerged peering at a handful of menus.

Mr. Reilly passed the time of day with dear Mrs. Wyeth and then braced Worth on whether the bridle paths in the home wood ought to be cleared to permit access to Hunter’s holding if the bridge should fail.

Carl disappeared into that sitting room and emerged clutching a list to take to Mr. Simmons, the printing so large and bold Worth could make it out from across the corridor.

With the head maid, another list of orders was dispatched. Then the vicar called, paying Worth and Hess a few courtesies before rising to go in search of Mrs. Wyeth.

Jacaranda Wyeth was more than a housekeeper, and not simply in the sense she was the woman Worth wanted for his wedded wife. She had infiltrated his household, systematically asserted her common sense, and made a large, neglected estate into a profitable, smoothly running home.

She’d invaded and taken over.

“What has you frowning so?” Hess asked as he ambled into the library.

“My housekeeper. I’ve been duped, Hessian. I like it not.”

“By her? In what sense? She doesn’t seem the duping kind.”

“I only think I own this property,” Worth said, tossing himself into a wing chair. “I’m a guest here.”

“You weren’t a guest yesterday.” Hess took the other chair in a more decorous fashion. “I was ready to expire with worry, and your housekeeper had reached the end of her tether, too.”

“She was worried she’d fail.” The words were unfair, also true. Something or someone had driven Jacaranda to impossibly high expectations of herself.

“She was worried Yolanda had done something irreparably foolish,” Hess corrected him. “Worried the girl was hurt, lost, set upon by ruffians.”

“Ruffians on Trysting land?”

“With sufficient quantities of drink and stupidity, ruffians can be found in almost any corner of the realm. The point is, Mrs. Wyeth was beside herself, as was I, and you—Mr. I’m Only A Guest—were the only one with a cool head. You might feel like a guest, but you do own the place.”

“I pay the taxes. That’s not the same thing.”

Hess’s lips quirked at this pouting. “You are decidedly grumpy, brother. To what do we attribute your foul mood?”

“Hess, I want to marry her.”

Hess’s smile became sweet rather than teasing—and God above, that smile would bring the ladies of Polite Society to his side at a dead, panting run.

“Then procure a ring, take a knee, and be about it. We’re not getting any younger, in case you hadn’t noticed, and neither of our nurseries sports an heir.”

“Hang the nurseries.” Worth abandoned his chair to study the outdated maps of the enormous atlas. “She won’t have me.”

“Have you asked?”

“More or less.” Mostly less. “She scolded me for being so forward the first time. The second time we made a raspberry joke of it. She natters about her family and some cottage in Dorset.”

“I have no idea what a raspberry joke is, Worth, but the lady fancies you.”

Clearing the bridle path would also create a shortcut into town—and let a closer eye be kept on Thomas Hunter.

“Has Jacaranda told you she fancies me?”

Worth understood about money, and all the ways human nature and money fit together, but Hess… Hess had been married. For years. Hess had dallied. Hess had a child, and he was the only sympathetic ear Worth was likely to find.

“Your housekeeper is an attractive female. My notice has been drawn to her, but every time I behold the lady, she’s busy beholding you. And Worth, she has this wistful gleam in her eyes when she does. I do not think she’s contemplating dusting you, either, or adorning you with a lace runner.”

A smile threatened at the image of Jacaranda Wyeth using a feather duster on Worth’s naked parts. He flipped the page of the atlas to find an elevation of Trysting before the conservatory had been added.

“Women like to hear the words,” Hess said. “I haven’t any pretty words for them, hence I am a non-competitor in the courting stakes.”

“So stay here in the south with us.” Worth left off perusing familial ancient history to regard his brother. His only brother, his only adult family in the entire world. “Get some practice, or at least get your ashes hauled regularly. Most women I know, the married ones anyway, are long past the need for any words besides ‘faster,’ ‘harder,’ and ‘aren’t you ready to give it another go yet?’”

“You poor abused old thing. No wonder Mrs. Wyeth has her doubts. What do we know about Mr. Wyeth?”

“Who? Oh, Mr. Wyeth. Not a thing. I doubt there was one.”

Though there had been somebody, or no way on God’s earth would Worth be pursuing Jacaranda in the manner he was.

“Many housekeepers make diplomatic use of the married form of address,” Hess said, rising and coming to stand beside Worth. “I told Yolanda I wouldn’t drag her north against her will. I’m not sure where that leaves us, when Grampion is the only roof I can afford to put over her head. She assured me she hadn’t been running away.”

As changes of subject went, Hess’s gambit lacked subtlety, but Worth had gone over Hess’s finances. The lesser holdings were either let out or soon to be rented, that much was fact.

“What about spending the winter in Town? Your vote would be an asset to your party.”

Hess drew a finger along the façade of an older, more stately Trysting. “Winter up north is long, cold and harsh, but it’s also beautiful, peaceful, and I’m used to it.”

“We’re both in a contrary mood, though that parade of footmen across yonder terrace means we’re once again to be picnicking. Perhaps I’ll go north with you, where the picnic season is so much shorter.”

Where housekeepers were less likely to drive a man to unrequited longings that had him up most of the night, in more ways than one.

Chapter Fifteen

JACARANDA MANAGED TO AVOID HER employer—Worth was still that—for most of the day, and she told herself that for the best, also necessary, because she needed to compose herself.

Or appear to compose herself.

She’d forgotten today was the day for Vicar’s call and had nearly forgotten between a morning note and an afternoon response, that she’d asked for a moment of Mr. Reilly’s time. If Cook hadn’t come bustling by, Jacaranda would have neglected a week’s worth of menus as well.

This was all his fault.

Jacaranda would never grow accustomed to spending the night naked and entwined in a man’s arms. The pleasure was heady, wonderful and, when that man was Worth Kettering, overwhelmingly sweet. The caring and tenderness he was capable of in the simplest, fleeting touch—

Jacaranda’s insides fluttered with the memory of his caresses, a fluttering that had afflicted her all day. She crossed her legs at the knee and encountered a tingling in places a lady doesn’t tingle. She brushed her hair and recalled the feel of his hands sweeping through the length of it repeatedly, like he couldn’t get enough of the sensation. She wiggled her feet out of her slippers and recalled him grasping the arch of her foot and holding her foot in a secure, warm embrace of the hand.

Holding her foot, and she’d wanted to swoon with the pleasure of it.

Angels abide.

Into this muddle of memories and sensations came emotions, heralded by long, gusty sighs, staring spells, and other behaviors Jacaranda had previously seen only in her younger sister, Daisy.

First came a yearning so desperate it scared her, a yearning to be more intimate with Worth than she’d already been, a yearning to share with him the act Jacaranda had experienced only once, years ago.

But following on that honest admission came the realization that what Jacaranda wanted was the entire man, not simply copulation with him, and that—that small, profound distinction—put her on precarious footing.

Worth Kettering was heir to an earl, quite possibly rich as a nabob, and completely unaware of his housekeeper’s true origins. When Jacaranda told him, he’d feel obligated to marry her in truth, when she knew the last person he’d affix himself to was a woman who’d lied to him. He had learned his lesson, just as Jacaranda had learned hers.

Then there was her family, all expecting her to return to their loving, if noisy, disorganized and perpetually impecunious arms.

“There you are.”

Worth Kettering stood in the doorway to Jacaranda’s sitting room, his riding attire showing him off to great advantage, his hair tousled, his faint smile tugging at places low in Jacaranda’s belly.

Even a day later, words eluded her.

“And there you are,” Jacaranda answered, busying herself with afternoon tea. “I’ve wondered if it’s your gaze I felt on me of late.”

“Only my gaze?” He ambled into the room and wandered its small perimeter, stopping to sniff her late roses.

“Need I remind you the door is open, Mr. Kettering?”

He wandered closer and leaned in as if to sniff her.

“The next time I bring you pleasure, I want you to call out for Mr. Kettering in that exact tone, for it arouses me.” He straightened, his eyes dancing.

“You’ve come to torment me. I suppose a day of peace and quiet was too much to ask.”

“Far too much.”

He settled into her rocking chair, and Jacaranda had to admit she liked the look of him there. Relaxed, thoughtful, a gleam in his eyes.

“Tea?”

“Please.” He rested his chin on his palm, his elbow on the rocker’s arm. “What have you found to do with yourself today, Mrs. Wyeth?”

Her name had never sounded so wicked, reminding Jacaranda that she hadn’t even told Worth her true name.

“A little of this and that. Having the family in residence makes the day busier, but more pleasant, too.”

“More pleasant?” He accepted his tea from her hands, cradling her fingers in his as he did. Wretch.

“Meaningful, maybe?” She tried to ignore his nonsense, tried to find honest words. “One doesn’t tidy up and dust and direct the maids and footmen simply for the sake of the house. A house is a building. One cares for the house on behalf of the people who dwell there.”

“For me, you mean?”

“For you, some,” she allowed, and he looked so hopeful she added cream and sugar to her admission. “Mostly for you, because you are the head of this household.”

“I am.” He took a sip of his tea. “I don’t feel like it, but I am. I’m wondering, though, if I shouldn’t offer to spend the winter in Cumberland with Hess and the girls.”

“You haven’t been home in a long time.” This was what came of admitting that she must return to Dorset. Perhaps among sophisticated, worldly adults, such a mention was all that was needed.

Worth had brought her pleasure upon pleasure in the dark of night, and now he casually acquiesced in her insistence that their dealings remain only a summer dalliance.

“Avery should see the family seat,” Jacaranda went on. “Yolanda would feel less banished if you accompanied them.”

“I’d feel banished,” he said, grumpiness creeping into his tone. “Would you come with us?”

Grey would have an apoplexy if she broke her word again, Step-Mama would hunt her down with a press-gang. “I could not, not with any sort of reputation. You know that.”

His stare became broody, his eyes shuttered, and she sensed she’d hurt him.

“I might want to,” she relented and spoke the truth. “But I could not. My family would not tolerate such a great distance between us.”

She thought he would let her answer stand unchallenged, but after a beat of silence, he was still watching her.

“Why not come with us? You could be Lannie’s companion, because Miss Snyder is going back to her little finishing school come Michaelmas. The girls would like your company.”

His eyelids dropped to half-mast, implying something else entirely, and God help her, Jacaranda was tempted.

She thought of Grey, and Will and Daisy, and of the boys. Of her two nephews and her niece, Step-Mama’s pleading and threatening and begging.

Of her cottage.

Of the falsehoods now thoroughly rooted between Jacaranda and the man she loved.

“A housekeeper is not a suitable candidate to be a young lady’s companion.”

“The hell she isn’t.” Worth pushed out of his rocking chair, the lazy innuendo replaced with tension. “I want you to think about something, Mrs. Wyeth.” He shot a glance at the open door and lowered his voice. “We have not consummated our dealings in the intimate sense, and for the next two weeks, given the risk of conception, I would not impose on you even were you willing. It’s August, soon it will be September, and for all the patience I’ve shown, you’re no closer to a decision than you were a month ago. You’re a nervous investor, Mrs. Wyeth. No risk, no reward, though. That has ever been true.”

He kissed her cheek and took his leave, while Jacaranda held her cooling tea and tried to think of a reply to his observation.

She came up with nothing but a cold cup of tea.

* * *

YOLANDA’S PRIVACY WAS DISTURBED WHEN Worth found her reading on a tartan blanket in the hay mow over the stables, a fat black tom cat asleep in a sunbeam beside her. She came here for privacy, and to revel in the way the scents of hay and horses put her in mind of Mr. Hunter.

Thomas.

“Hello, you.” Worth sat right beside her in a manner that still unnerved and pleased her, as if they were siblings of long-standing, not recent acquaintances trying to rub along in an awkward situation. “I do believe you’ve grown prettier since leaving that school.”

Did Thomas think her pretty?

“Hullo, Worth.”

“You reading a fatuous novel?”

“Sir Walter Scott.”

“I’ve always enjoyed his work.” Worth drew a wisp of hay from the packed pile beneath them and batted the fat black cat on the nose. The beast didn’t stir from its position in exact alignment with the sunbeam slanting through the hay port door.

“Are you hiding from Mrs. Wyeth, or from Avery, or perhaps from Hess?” Yolanda asked, closing her book around a single finger because, like a brother one-quarter his age, Worth was apparently intent on pestering her.

“I’m hiding from my life. Have you and Hessian come to some peace with each other?”

Yolanda stroked a hand over the cat, who yawned and began to purr.

“Some. Hess thought I’d be happy visiting here in the south with schoolmates and doesn’t see why I would rather have spent my holidays mostly traveling to and from Cumberland.”

From home, something a brother who dwelled there year after year ought to have appreciated.

“You, of course, assured him he was completely in error?”

“I told him there’s a difference between sparing me travel and abandoning me for two years straight. Hess doesn’t seem to need anybody but his hounds and horses. He doesn’t let himself need family.”

At least Worth had Avery, and Avery had Worth. Lucky them.

“Hessian is a Kettering.” Worth scratched the cat’s shoulders, and the beast tried to bite him. “We’re prone to managing on our own, no matter the size of the load. Did you tell him about that cut on your wrist?”

Drat all brothers for being such noticing fellows. Thomas had wondered at the scar, too, but had been gentleman enough to keep his questions to himself. “The injury is healed. What is there to tell?”

“Something, when you’re ready. Hessian is the head of our family, but I’m your brother, too, Lannie. You could tell me if you didn’t want to impose on Hess.”

How delicately Worth could express himself, when he chose to. “There’s little to tell.”

“You ladies.” Worth tormented the cat again by tickling its nose with the hay, but the tom was again intent on ignoring him. “Why can’t I be more like this fellow? Happy to pounce on mice, and be on my way after the occasional trifling scuffle?”

Safer ground entirely, and good of Worth to offer it. “Mrs. Wyeth has given you your congé?”

Worth’s expression was perplexed, while the cat made a half-hearted swat at the hay, which Worth failed to notice. “Sixteen isn’t so very young, is it?”

Yolanda’s finger remained between the pages of her book, which was fortunate; otherwise, she might have patted Worth’s hand.

“Mrs. Wyeth cares for you. That might be why she’s not falling into your arms.”

“I fear one shouldn’t discuss such matters with a younger sister.”

She paged through her book, for Worth apparently wanted to discuss his situation with somebody. “Hess certainly wouldn’t discuss it with me, just as he doesn’t discuss Belinda Evers with me.”

Whom Hessian seemed to regard with equal parts bewilderment and wariness.

Worth smacked her nose with his stalk of hay, entirely the brother, but also affectionate. “Explain your female reasoning to me. Why would Mrs. Wyeth reject my suit if she cares for me?”

“Your suit?”

“Yes, my suit, brat. I’ve asked her to marry me more than once.”

Good for Mrs. Wyeth. Yolanda had the sense few women refused the Kettering brothers anything of value. “Are you such a bargain, Worth?”

“See how many swains flock to your side when word of the dowry I’ve set aside for you gets out. I’m not exactly shoddy goods, Lannie Kettering.”

How she loved the nickname he’d given her. “You’re a good bargain,” she said, in part because of that nickname, “but a husband is a complicated proposition.”

“A long-term investment.” He stroked his face with the straw the way Yolanda often touched a quill pen to her cheek when puzzling over some Latin. “One gathers you ladies view the long-term investments warily.”

Warily, and incessantly. Most of the girls at school had been obsessed with Debrett’s for the information it held concerning possible husbands.

“You have to offer her something she doesn’t already have, Worth. She has a roof over her head and meaningful work and people to care about.”

The notion intrigued him, for he ceased fussing with his bit of hay. “I can offer her wealth, an honorable before our name, all the entrée in Town she wants. She could be Hess’s hostess, clothed in silk and jewels, own all the cottages in England.”

He could also give her babies, though Yolanda did not point that out to him.

“I’m not sure what cottages have to do with it.”

“Neither am I, but it’s important to her. More important than I am.”

How well she knew that feeling. “Don’t sulk. While I was stuck in a cottage with Mr. Hunter for most of an hour, he had to remove my boot and wrap my foot with his bare hands, and he didn’t permit himself the smallest liberty.”

What a delight that had been, to be treated so properly, so carefully.

Also a towering disappointment.

“He had better not take any liberties.” Worth tossed the hay at the sleeping cat and missed. “Do you fancy this yeoman, Lannie?”

Thomas smelled a great deal better than any yeoman Yolanda had stood downwind of. He quoted poetry, and he loved his children.

“I’m sixteen. If I say I do fancy him, you’ll laugh at me. If I say I don’t, you’ll accuse me of lying. Brothers are awful.”

“You didn’t laugh at me,” Worth pointed out. “If this is the fellow you want, Lannie, then do the pretty in Town next Season, but know that you’ll be welcome to spend your summers here at Trysting.”

Yolanda’s exact plan, though she’d been unsure how to manage the part about summers at Trysting. Worth’s generosity was too convenient not to be a little suspect, though.

“You aren’t saying he’s beneath my notice when I’m the daughter of an earl, my brother is an earl, and I’m generously dowered, for which I do thank you.”

“You’re my sister. Of course you’ll have a decent portion, and I will not lecture you about your station. You’re the acknowledged illegitimate daughter of an earl, and if you haven’t already sensed it, the tabbies of Polite Society will ensure the distinction is noted by all.”

Yolanda turned an idle page, though Worth’s blunt acknowledgement of reality was comforting in a way his generous dowry could not be.

“School was no different. If I’d been the illegitimate daughter of a mere baronet, it might have been worse. Coin does seem to open doors.”

“You are not like any sixteen-year-old of my acquaintance, Lannie Kettering. Next you’ll be reading the financial pages.”

Yolanda put her book aside, because he’d given her the opening she needed.

“I saw a piece in the Times about the Drummond being late for its scheduled return and you being a major source of investors. Are you in trouble, Worth?”

* * *

“HAD I NOT BEEN QUIZZING Avery on her fairy tales”—Hess handed his brother two fingers of brandy—“we would have had no conversation at dinner to speak of. Are you and your housekeeper feuding?”

“We are.” When had Hess become Worth’s drinking companion? “My thanks.”

“Is this feud over the menus, perhaps?” Hess took the second of the library’s two largest, most comfortable chairs. “Or maybe she wants a raise in her pay?”

“She deserves a raise in her pay.” Though Jacaranda, in her contrary fashion, would regard a pay raise as an insult. “I asked her about traveling north with us next month, serving as Lannie’s companion for the winter months at Grampion.”

“Miss Snyder isn’t willing to serve any longer?”

The question was posed casually, but Worth had been watching the glances exchanged at dinner. “You find Miss Snyder attractive?”

“Her papa is heir to a barony.” Stated even more casually.

Worth set his drink on the low table. One Kettering brother in perpetual rut was one too many. “Go back to Town, Hess. Avail yourself of what Mary freely offers and settle your nerves.”

“I did.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I did avail myself of what Mary so delightfully offered, and my nerves are settled.” Hess took a contemplative sip of his drink, and indeed, he did appear to be more relaxed than he had upon arriving from the north.

Rotter.

“Settle them again. The activity bears repeating in the right company.”

“Up to a point,” Hess allowed. “Then it is merely an activity, and as pleasant as it is, I found my nerves adequately settled by the one occasion.”

“Pleasant.” Life had been simpler before Hess had resumed being a brother—also lonelier. “If it’s merely pleasant, then you’re going about it wrong, brother mine.”

“I was never afflicted with the passions affecting the rest of our family.” Hess retrieved Worth’s drink and handed it to him. “Back to your Mrs. Wyeth. What is the problem?”

The question of the hour.

“I delivered her an ultimatum,” Worth said, “or as good as, and that after telling her she could have between now and forever to make up her mind.” Though every half-witted, spotty legal clerk knew a decently drafted contract specified an exact period of performance.

“What did your ultimatum regard?”

“What do you think it regarded?” Worth paced to the window—the sparkling-clean window, which he was tempted to put his fist through. “I offered her marriage, she politely laughed in my face. Why should she give up all this freedom, the endless adventure of warring with the dust and the mice and the gossiping menials when all I offer is a ring? So I offered something less weighty—my heart on a platter—and she dithered. She’s still dithering and talking about going to visit her family.”

“Well, there’s your answer, isn’t it?”

“Must you be so honest?”

Hess rose and put a hand on Worth’s shoulder. “I cannot fathom women, never have, never will. You’ve more than the normal complement of sense, though, Worth, and a Kettering’s portion of pride. Why do you persist when the reception is feeble?”

“Because it isn’t feeble, damn it. She nigh devours me when we’re private.”

“And you devour her?”

No, that was the question of the hour.

“I haven’t yet.” Worth traced his finger down the lattice-work of the mullioned window. “It’s a near-run thing, Hess.”

“You’re in unfamiliar waters?”

“Deep, shark-infested unfamiliar waters with cross-currents and undertows.”

“Then it’s time for a strategic return to dry land, old man. You’re the only brother I have, and I refuse to stand by and watch you dragged out to sea ever again.”

Worth stood, staring out the window, long after Hess had sought his bed. He considered getting drunk, something he hadn’t done for a decade or so, but if he imbibed, he was more likely to talk himself into visiting Jacaranda’s boudoir.

He went for a long swim, diving frequently to the coldest reaches of the pond, and eventually sheer fatigue took the edge off his mood. He arrived to his rooms tired, chilled, and no clearer in his mind than he’d been earlier. While part of him was certain Jacaranda would dither and prevaricate on his offer for the rest of her natural days, another part of him wondered if she was waiting for some sign from him, some subtle indication of worth he’d failed to give.

So he fell into a restless sleep and dreamed of the Drummond coming to grief on rocky shoals within sight of port.

* * *

“WHY IS MY STABLE MASTER waltzing about the garden with Miss Snyder?”

“Good morning, Mr. Kettering.” Jacaranda rose from her place at the table to stand beside him at the window to the breakfast parlor. “Roberts and Miss Snyder do not appear to be waltzing.”

Simply standing near Worth had Jacaranda’s pulse leaping, had her leaning infinitesimally closer to catch his scent.

“Promenading, then. Are they enamored of one another?”

“If they are?” she asked, resuming her seat.

“Then good for them,” he said, taking his own. “At least somebody on this benighted estate is finding some pleasurable company.”

She took a sip of tea and scalded her tongue. He’d very nearly hurt her feelings, though she wasn’t good company.

“My apologies.” Worth reached for the teapot. “I’m on tenterhooks regarding an investment, and my nerves are unsettled.”

“You usually take it with cream and sugar,” Jacaranda said as Worth winced at the taste of his tea.

Worth spooned the sugar in generously. “Does anything on this property escape your notice, Mrs. Wyeth?”

Her wits, her common sense, her ability to be honest with the man she’d come to love.

“Much,” she said, wondering—hoping?—he was in this foul mood because he’d not come to her bed last night.

She’d missed him, missed him badly, and tossed and turned for hours. She’d made the decision to return home to Dorset, but longed to consummate her dealings with Worth Kettering before she did.

A woman already sunk in falsehoods might as well steal some memories, too.

“I take leave to doubt you miss anything of significance, madam. Is that all you’re eating?”

Toast and butter. Daisy’s breakfast in the early weeks of her pregnancies. “My appetite is off.”

His gaze narrowed. “Is it really? What a pity.”

“You are not a mean man. What has got into you?”

“Do you recall telling me I could have your coin?”

Not an answer, and he was busy putting more omelet onto Jacaranda’s plate.

“I recall that, yes.”

He stopped heaping eggs before her. “Why won’t you marry me?”

“Oh, Worth.” She stared at her plate, trying to form an answer as tears welled. “Not fair.”

“What isn’t fair,” he said, his voice low, “is that you pleasure me like a siren in the night, find bliss in my arms, and then turn up diffident and prim at the breakfast table. Am I really such poor husband material, Jacaranda?”

She fell back on the truth.

She dabbed at her eyes with her serviette. “I honestly do feel an obligation to my family, but you and I also hardly know each other. I am not the ideal wife for an earl’s heir. You would agree with me if you knew me better.”

“The earl’s heir? I’m not asking you to marry Grampion’s unborn children,” Worth said. “Trust me, Hess is getting up the nerve to find himself a countess. I know the look, and he’s a smart lad. Winters are long in the north, and families tend to be large.”

“Hush.” Jacaranda rose. I love you, I love you. “One doesn’t pick a husband like a new mount at Tatt’s. You and I suit in one regard, I’m confident of that, but I sense others have suited you as well, and you know you’re not my first.”

He rose. “Dear heart, that can hardly matter to me when you won’t even permit me to be your second.”

His eyes held puzzlement, hurt, and not a little determination, so Jacaranda left the room at the fastest walk dignity would allow.

* * *

WORTH PUSHED THE REMAINS OF his breakfast away and went in search of his brother, resisting the urge to chase after his unwilling intended. Instinct suggested that if he pursued Jacaranda too tenaciously, she’d flee not simply to her sitting room, but clear back to that cottage in Dorset she seemed so fond of.

He could not fathom why. Some secret tormented her or some familial obligation. Perhaps she had a child in her brother’s care in Dorset—

Walking by the library, Worth was surprised to hear an otherwise peaceful morning punctuated by Yolanda’s voice, nearly raised at her older brother.

“You said you wouldn’t drag me north against my will!”

Hess’s voice came next, civil, but tense from the tone, the words indistinguishable.

Worth debated mentally, then pushed the door open. He loved them both, and they were clearly in difficulties.

“Greetings, siblings. A pleasant day for a disagreement, is it not?”

“We weren’t disagreeing,” Hess began, as Yolanda crossed her arms and declared, “Wonderfully so.”

“What seems to be the trouble?” Though for once, no part of Worth relished a touchy negotiation, no part of him was eager to see if he could untangle the Gordian knot of Hess’s sense of duty, Yolanda’s injured pride, and his own desire to remain as close to Trysting as possible.

Yolanda’s chin jutted in Hess’s direction. “He says we need to think of repairing to Grampion. He wouldn’t invite me home when I was desperately homesick, but we must hare off there now when you’ve perfectly lovely accommodations for us all here in the south.”

“She wants to make sheep’s eyes at that dratted farmer,” Hess retorted. “If I leave her here, you’ll need to post a watch on her.”

Yolanda’s eyes glittered ominously. “Unfair, Hessian. If I’d wanted to misbehave in that manner, I would have accepted all the invitations I received to join the school’s gardener in his charming little shed, wouldn’t I?”

“What?!” Both brothers spoke—bellowed, more like—at once. Worth recovered first.

“What invitations, Yolanda Kettering? And don’t think to prevaricate with us now.”

Her expression was chillingly blank for such a young lady. “His name was Arnold, and he was a nuisance, but he was Mrs. Peese’s nephew, so my complaints weren’t considered noteworthy.”

“Of what exactly,” Hess asked, “did you complain?”

Yolanda’s gaze traveled from one brother to the other. She settled on the sofa, in the same manner the accused takes the dock. “Promise me you won’t yell at me?”

“We promise.” In unison.

“You won’t throw things?”

The brothers exchanged a look.

“We won’t throw things of value at you,” Worth said. “Stop fretting and tell us.”

“He started with a few little touches, at first,” Yolanda said, staring at her hands. “The other girls thought it was daring, because he’s not…he’s not spotty. Some of them said he was handsome in a common sort of way.”

“Famous,” Hess hissed. “You’ve been subjected to the attentions of a not-spotty gardener in the one place a girl should be free of such bother.”

Worth sent his brother a quelling look. “Go on, Lannie. We’re listening.”

“He must have known he wouldn’t get in trouble, because he started leaving me notes then, in personal places.”

“Personal places, Lannie?” Hess asked.

“Under my pillow, among my clothes.”

“With your unmentionables,” Worth said. “He’s a dead gardener, this spotless wonder.”

“You mustn’t,” Yolanda wailed quietly. “All the girls knew, and to them, daring progressed to amusing.”

“But not to you.” Worth settled beside her. “To you it became frightening.”

“He waited in my room one night and k-kissed me.” Yolanda grimaced at the memory. “It was horrid. He was horrid, and he said things.”

Hess took a cushioned chair, his fingers drumming on the arm. “Things?”

“Things he wanted to do to me. You didn’t answer my letters, and Mrs. Peese said I was imagining it all, but I wasn’t.”

“God in heaven.” Worth brushed back a lock of Yolanda’s hair. “Did he manage to do more than threaten you, kiss you, and scare you witless?”

“He had better not have,” Hess said, back on his feet. “I’ll see the place shut down, I will.”

“You mustn’t.” Yolanda leaned into Worth. “When Mrs. Peese asked the other girls, they said they’d seen nothing, heard nothing, but they all knew he’d treated another student the same way the previous year. She was a by-blow, too.”

“So, little lunatic that you are, you cut yourself,” Worth guessed. “Beat them at their own game, brought me running, and got free of the scoundrel. Well done.” He kissed her forehead and glared at Hess over her shoulder.

“Right,” Hess said, “well damned done indeed. I’m surprised you didn’t call the idiot out, or entice him into his lowly garden bower, then wallop him with a shovel where it counts.”

Yolanda dropped her forehead to Worth’s shoulder. “I thought about it, but nobody supported my version of events, and a violent lunatic is worse than a hysterical female. I didn’t know if Worth would come fetch me or not.”

“Worth came,” Hess said.

“I will always come when you ask it. You’re my sister.”

“You didn’t know that.” Yolanda took Hess’s proffered handkerchief. “You were so dark and stern and brisk. You never said I was your sister until recently.”

“You’re my sister.” He hugged her, pushing the words past an abruptly tight throat. “Hess is my brother, you are my sister. Avery is our niece. We’re a family.”

“I will not drag you north,” Hess said, clearing his throat. “I will, however, offer a medicinal tot all around.”

Yolanda sat up. “Brandy? For me?”

“It’s medicinal.” Hess passed her a scant portion and Worth a more generous serving. “I really do want to see that school closed.”

“But what will the girls think?”

“What will their families think, to know such a situation wasn’t dealt with appropriately?” Hess countered. “Consider another girl, Lannie, younger than you, not as resourceful, not as brave. She won’t think of a scheme to get herself sent down. She won’t even protest.”

“Like the girl last year,” Yolanda said. “She didn’t come back for Hilary term, and nobody said anything.”

“Ketterings don’t meekly allow such injustices, and they don’t quietly tolerate another’s dissembling,” Worth said. “Either the gardener takes a post where he can’t prey on girls or the school will be closed. Between Hess and me, we’ve the connections to see to it.”

“We do,” Hess said. “I’ll give it a day, then draft a letter for you two to look over. It’s the right course, Lannie.”

“It is,” she agreed, taking a shuddery breath. “This brandy does help with one’s nerves.”

Worth downed his at a swallow, more proud of his siblings than he could bear. “Having family helps, too.”

“Here, here.” Hess held up his glass, as did Yolanda. A knock on the door interrupted Yolanda’s maiden attempt at a toast.

“A note for Mr. Kettering,” Carl said. Worth took the folded and sealed missive, dreading any news that took him away from Trysting

“A pigeon up from Devon,” he said, crumpling the paper into a ball.

“It’s urgent?” Yolanda asked.

“Pigeons generally are. The timing is miserable.”

“You fear for the Drummond?” Hess asked.

“I do.” And, worse, he feared for his future as Jacaranda Wyeth’s husband. “Somebody should have passed along some gossip by now, something from one of the Cape Town ships, or Lisbon. Some-damned-where between here and the Antipodes, somebody has to have seen the Drummond under way and headed home.”

“Unless it came to grief again,” Yolanda said. “Oh, Worth—”

“I’m for Town,” Worth interrupted her. “Hess, I’d appreciate it if you’d hold the reins here. Lannie?”

“Worth?”

“You did the right thing. You defended yourself the best you knew how, and I am sorry as hell I haven’t been a better brother to you.”

“You needn’t—” Yolanda began, but Hess interrupted.

“We need to, both of us, Lannie. I’m sorry, too. I should have paid attention, should have protected you. I am sorry. I won’t let you down like that again.”

He aimed a look at Worth as he said that last, a look that implied unspoken apology, and a full complement of Kettering determination. A fraction of Worth’s anxiety eased.

“Does this mean you’ll invite Mr. Hunter to dinner?” Yolanda asked.

“I’m leaving,” Worth said. “Hess is the head of our family, he can deal with the difficult decisions.”

Worth all but ran from the library, knowing Hess faced no decision at all. At this rate, Yolanda Kettering would soon be vying with Jacaranda Wyeth for honors as queen of the parish, if not the shire. The gardener had been lucky she hadn’t taken a knife to his parts.

He put away for another time the self-flagellation resulting from the knowledge that Yolanda had resorted to self-harm to get herself rescued. What if the knife had slipped? What if the wound had become infected? What if Peese’s letter had gone astray?

God’s toothbrush.

And now, now of all times, Worth did not want to leave Trysting. He had a miserable, low-down hunch that Jacaranda was up to something, looking for another post, taking a permanent leave to see her family, somehow withdrawing from the field and refusing his several offers.

He couldn’t let that happen. Could not.

Chapter Sixteen

THE TIMING WAS AWFUL, AS of course, timing must be when one’s life was becoming a complete shambles.

“It’s my step-mother,” Jacaranda said, barely containing her tears. “She’s leaving, and Mrs. Dankle is quitting in truth, and Daisy can’t step in because she still has a child at the breast. They need me.”

Mr. Simmons’s expression was gratifyingly miserable. “Family is the worst. If my grandda hadn’t shouted my dam down, I’d still be back in Rabbit Hollow, mooning after Miss Sophie Dale—except Sophie’s dead these ten years and more. Grandda said I was tall enough and handsome enough for service.”

Half a century ago, that might have been true. “More biscuits, Mr. Simmons?”

“Biscuits make my teeth ache.” He took two anyway. “Why must your step-mother up and leave now?”

Yes, why, why, why? Jacaranda wanted to burn Step-Mama’s letter, though the summons it brought was inevitable.

“She says she’s lonely, and she refuses to grow old shouting at grown men to leave their muddy boots in the hall. Without her or Dankle, the house will soon be a ruin, my brothers’ clothing a disgrace. Grey must spend part of the year in Town, and Will hasn’t the temperament for exercising authority. Step-Mama says she’s worn out, and they can all go to blazes. She says if I won’t take them in hand, I’ll regret it all my days, for they’re my family.”

Simmons took a nibble of biscuit, leaving a trail of crumbs on Jacaranda’s carpet. “Can’t argue with that. Not all ladies are like you, Mrs. Wyeth. Most of them are cursed with delicate nerves.”

“Step-Mama’s nerves are very delicate, from so many births, she says. Mr. Simmons, when you left Rabbit Hollow, did you think you’d never return?”

Simmons was not always nice, but he was old, and Jacaranda had no doubt he was capable of kindness.

“Rabbit Hollow is the English. In my grandda’s day, we still used the Gaelic for it, even in Cumberland. I went back a time or two, and one of my sisters used to live in Hampshire before she died, but my family is here now, at Trysting.”

And she’d be leaving that family, leaving Worth, to preserve her brothers’ lives from chaos. She’d promised.

Jacaranda began to cry. Simmons passed her his uneaten biscuit, patted her shoulder, and left.

* * *

WORTH WENT IN SEARCH OF Jacaranda, taking the better part of an hour to track her to her own sitting room rather than resort to interrogating the maids and giving himself away.

“Wyeth, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“W—Mr. Kettering, you startled me.”

“That is a box, Jacaranda Wyeth.” Worth closed the door quietly by sheer effort of will. Mr. Kettering? “You are putting your personal collection of books into a box suited to conveying the books over a distance.”

“They are my books,” she said, a volume of Wordsworth held to her chest. “I can do with them as I please.”

“What is it you’re doing?” He took the Wordsworth from her and opened it, then closed it with a snap. How dear to his heart, indeed.

“Packing.” She snatched the book back. “To leave.”

Her words weren’t a surprise, but they still stung like a clean, sharp knife, sliding silently between his ribs, taking a palpable moment before the pain built toward blackness.

“Leaving me?”

“Leaving Trysting.” She put the book in the bloody bedamned box, calm as you please. “And you.”

“Why Jacaranda?” He kept his hands at his sides, opening and closing his fists. “Why now?”

“Why not now?” Another book, then another. “I’ve promised my family over and over that I’ll return to Dorset, and I’ve broken my word repeatedly. Now my step-mother is abandoning her post, and I suspect she talked the housekeeper into quitting as well. You abhor dissembling of any kind, surely you can understand that my siblings expect me to keep my word eventually. I’ve been your housekeeper for five years. That’s long enough to polish your silver, air your sheets, and beat your rugs, don’t you think?”

Her attempt at a practical tone was a form of dissembling, and he did, absolutely, abhor it. “No, damn it, I do not think. You shall not leave me.”

“Yes, I shall.” Her tone was gentle, painfully so. “I’ve told you repeatedly I could not remain at my post indefinitely.”

“I had hoped you’d take up a different post. As my wife.” Though Jacaranda had told him often enough that she hoped to return to Dorset. Perhaps she had not only a child in Dorset, but a husband.

She tossed a volume of Sir Walter’s Waverley into the box like so much old crockery. “I value you…your friendship, Worth, but marriage must have a firmer foundation.”

“The hell it must.” The temptation to dump out her bloody box was nigh overwhelming. “You can’t leave this house without its general.”

She stopped filling the box, a minor relief to his nerves. “I beg your pardon?”

“Do you already have your next post lined up?”

She nodded, having the grace to look chagrined.

“Was it something I said?”

“It’s time, Worth. You are traveling north. Sooner or later, our encounters would have come to the attention of your family, and I miss my siblings.”

In all their dealings, she’d never once mentioned a family member by name other than the one brother—Blue or something—and now she had to be with family?

How was he to compete with family? He barely knew Yolanda, and yet he was willing to beat a gardener’s lights out for her.

Worth had negotiated successfully with angry princes and irate, titled nabobs. He calmly fired his biggest cannon directly at her overactive sense of duty.

“Leave then if you must, but Trysting does not deserve to be abandoned this way.” And neither do I. “Simmons’s knees are acting up, Cook can’t plan a menu to save herself, and Reilly will forget to repair Hunter’s bridge if you turn tail on us now.”

Her posture grew two inches taller. “What do you mean? I manage the maids only, and that other… Those matters are not within my purview.”

She was a great believer in honesty, so he’d be honest.

“Right. You don’t make a weekly list for Carl, printed large enough for Simmons to read and fuss over? You don’t plan the menus, right down to Avery’s breakfast porridge? You don’t choose the wines to serve with dinner? You don’t meet at least daily with Roberts to learn of the doings in the stable? You don’t have the maids spying on the footmen, the footmen on the maids, and Reilly relying on you for his every move?”

She sat, a woman whose wind had dropped abruptly from her sails, though this was his Jacaranda, and not even guilt would becalm her for very long.

“I’m sorry. If I’ve overstepped, I’m sorry.”

“You’ve overstepped,” he said, desperation making him merciless. “You’ve charged past every limit ever put on a housekeeper’s authority and made all and sundry dependent on your guidance. You owe me and this household the time I need to find a successor, Jacaranda Wyeth. I’ll write you a bad character and run it in the Times if you bolt on me now.”

“I wouldn’t bolt,” she said, sounding contrite—as if mere contrition would serve. “I’m preparing for the transition.”

“Preparing to bolt.” She was leaving him now, now when he had to get to London post-haste. “You ought to be ashamed.”

“Oh, I am. I ought to be and I am.”

His resolve nearly faltered at the sheer misery in her tone. “I want your promise you’ll be here when I return.”

Her head came up. “Where are you off to?”

“Bloody London. It’s always damned Town and my damned clients, and I want your last damned groat, Jacaranda.”

“You want my funds?”

“I want the authority to invest them as I please, your power of attorney, and a signed note of hand for the sum.” At least he could prevent her having the coin to take ship or remove herself to the ends of the earth.

“You need it?” She sounded more curious than concerned, but all Worth knew was that she’d stopped packing and she wasn’t leaving—yet.

“I need it.” A lie, and the God’s honest truth. “I’m leaving as soon as Goliath is saddled. Meet me in my room in fifteen minutes.”

He left before he could start kissing her silly, or throwing things of value, or tossing more useless proposals at her. She was leaving him, leaving him, and when he ought to have locked the door and pleasured her senseless, he was getting on his damned horse and wearing his arse out over blighted, blasted, bedamned, benighted business.

Never again. He’d deal with whatever the mess of the moment was, report to his Regent, and get the hell out of the endless demands that comprised his business. Jones could deal with the opera dancers, Lewis could peddle the lace, the titled clients could go pester some other man to make them wealthy while they sat on their pampered, drunken backsides.

He silently ranted on as he retrieved the power of attorney and promissory note he’d drafted earlier on the strength of earlier discussions with his deserter of a housekeeper. He summoned Carl and Hess to witness the signatures, then ordered them from his sitting room.

“I would have told you,” Jacaranda said, eyeing the closed door. “I wouldn’t have disappeared like a thief in the night, but I’m worried about my family.”

“Like a thief in the day then. Will you at least give us your direction?”

“We can talk about that later,” she said, moving toward the door. He beat her there, holding it closed with a hand over her shoulder as she lifted the latch.

They stood like that for a moment, her back to his front, until Worth swept her hair from the side of her neck.

“You’re stronger than I, Jacaranda, to turn your back on this.” He pressed a kiss to the spot below her ear, the skin so warm and fragrant and tender he had to linger there, breathing her in. “Promise me you’ll be here when I return.”

She nodded as her breath caught.

“Jacaranda?”

“I’ll s-stay.”

“Oh, love.” He turned her gently and took her into his arms while she pressed a teary cheek to his shoulder. “You won’t tell me what these tears are for?”

“For us.”

“Is there someone else? A Mr. Wyeth?” A mere husband was an obstacle he could surmount, for divorce was simply a matter of influence, exorbitant sums, and vast patience. The patience might be a challenge.

“No Mr. Wyeth, no one else.”

A weight lifted from Worth’s heart. “Then why?”

A silence measured the distance between his plea and her answer. “You could not respect me if I betrayed a trust placed in me by someone who loves me.”

She’d got her female brain fixed on some emotional star he couldn’t begin to sight—something to do with her long-lost, useless brothers, and he couldn’t change her mind in the next five minutes. She at least hadn’t tried to deny her feelings for him.

To hell with siblings who didn’t understand that a woman was entitled to a family of her own—an encouraging thought. “You’ll stay until I return?”

He had to hear the words again.

“Only until then.”

“I won’t have a replacement hired that soon.” Pathetic, to suggest the household Jacaranda had run for five years wouldn’t be able to soldier on a while without her. Twenty years from now, the footmen would still be quoting her.

“Mary can manage here for a bit. You should go.”

“Promise me. I need to hear your promise, love.”

“I promise…I promise I won’t leave until you return, but Worth? Don’t tarry in Town.”

“Dear heart, I never have.” He kissed her gently and lingeringly, when he wanted to put a wealth of fire and possession into their parting intimacies. If he gave into that impulse, he’d have her on the bed in the next room in about two heartbeats, and haste and desperation would not do.

Not for their first time, not for their last time, and certainly not for their only time.

* * *

“WHERE’S THE DAMNED NOTE?”

Worth fired the question at Benjamin, Earl of Hazelton, a sort of neighbor in Town, and a sort of business associate. Maybe even a sort of friend. More to the point, Hazelton kept a dovecote full of homing pigeons connected with all points of the realm. Nothing stopped the birds save truly ugly weather. Hazelton claimed his pigeons could cover up to thirty miles in an hour, which meant word of a ship’s passing Land’s End could reach Town in a day, rather than a week.

“Here’s the damned note.” Hazelton tossed a small, folded piece of paper to him. “Hello to you, too.”

“Apologies for my attire,” Worth said, for he was muddy, rumpled, and the hour was late.

“Read your note. Shall I ring for a tray?”

“Please.” Worth read the few words on the page, and felt…nothing. The fate of the Drummond and all the risk connected to it made no difference.

“Bad news?”

“Nothing of any moment.” Hazelton could be trusted, but Worth had no reason to burden him with confidences. As far as Worth knew, his lordship held no shares in the Drummond. The source of Hazelton’s wealth was mysterious, and Worth had no interest in unraveling the mystery, though Hazelton’s pretty countess likely had a hand in matters.

Jacaranda Wyeth had done this to him. Taken a fine solicitor and investment manager and turned him into a walking ghost.

“Kettering?” Hazelton stood not two feet away, holding out a tumbler of whiskey in Worth’s direction.

“My thanks.” Hazelton had connections that ensured he offered only the finest spirits. Worth suspected a certain marquess among Hazelton’s associations, but had never pried. “When did the bird arrive?”

Hazelton poured himself a drink and held the glass under a nose more bold than aristocratic. “Noon. He left Devon yesterday midday.”

“You’ve a slacker in your mews, then.” Worth let a swallow of very fine old whiskey slide down his throat.

Hazelton shrugged. “Or there are storms on the coast. Do you want word sent anywhere in particular?”

“No. The truth of the matter will be readily apparent in due course. Where do you find your libation, Hazelton?”

Hazelton smiled faintly and took a delicate sip. “I took that in trade for services. If I tell you from whom, I’ll violate a client confidence.”

“Bloody clients.” Worth threw himself into a well-upholstered chair as a patter of rain spanked the library windows.

“For many years, clients paid my way in this life.” Hazelton took the sofa facing a crackling fire, and they drank in silence until a footman appeared with a laden tray.

“Your kitchen dotes on you,” Worth said.

“My countess dotes on me, and I on her.” Hazelton gestured to the tray. “You look peckish.”

Worth ate, swilled more whiskey, and let Hazelton detain him until there was a break in the showers, then walked Goliath home through the remaining drizzle, the weather suiting his mood.

He’d make various arrangements tomorrow at the office, track down his regent, send a messenger to Hess, who would be on tenterhooks until he got word, and then…

Then he’d go home, for Trysting was home now, because of her. When he got there, he’d beg if he had to. He’d plead, he’d cry. Well, he wouldn’t cry, perhaps, but he would feel like crying.

He already did feel like crying.

And when he dreamed that night, he dreamed the Drummond had sunk, her cargo tossed about on the waves for the scavengers to salvage.

* * *

“WHAT IS THAT DAMNED DOG doing in the house?” Grey snapped.

The beast looked anxious, until Will stroked a hand over her head. “You’ll hurt George’s feelings, and that’s not wise when I bring a warning that trouble has come to call.”

Grey marched off in the direction of the Dorning family wing, where Trouble was a permanent guest.

“Trouble cannot come to call. Nobody should call, for Mrs. Dankle has gone and done it this time.”

Will fell in beside him, the dog trotting at his heels, tail waving merrily. “Dankle killed Francine? I’d say you should double her wages.”

“I cannot afford to double her wages again, and I won’t be paying her wages in any case. She’s taken French leave, decamped for the charms of her drooling grandbabies. I don’t think she’s coming back either, Will.”

“Dankle has to come back. She loves us.”

The hound looked worried again—smart dog.

“No, she does not. Between my muddy boots, your hounds, Cam’s mischief with the maids, and Ash’s mechanical experiments, Dankle would probably prefer Bedlam to another month at Dorning House.”

“At least she won’t have to put up with Francine,” Will said as they reached the double doors opening on the family wing. “That should be good for morale among the domestics.”

An itching that had started up between Grey’s shoulder blades weeks ago, nagged at him.

“What do you mean, we won’t have to put up with Francine?”

Grey stayed where he was, because forewarned was forearmed, and he had every confidence Francine was behind Dankle’s defection to the ranks of contented grannies.

For which, he would make his dear step-mama pay.

“Some baron fellow is pacing about the front parlor,” Will said, “clearing his throat, and muttering about fetching his bride. I told the footman to bring him the very best brandy we’ve been able to hide from Cam, because any fellow who’s meeting Franny at the altar is a friend of mine.”

The dog remained obediently by Will’s side, her tail still waving gently as if she shared her owner’s sanguine outlook. Behind Will, a mirror with a crack across the bottom hung slightly askew, and a bouquet of roses had long since needed replacing.

“This is not good, Will. Without Dankle, Francine might have at least tried to hold the staff together until I could hire a replacement.”

Though the baron was welcome to Francine, for she created a lot of work for the staff.

“This is not bad, either,” Will said, streaking a finger through the dust on the mirror. “Francine is unhappy, and an unhappy female is the definition of trouble.”

True enough. While an unhappy earl was the definition of one whose damned roses wouldn’t cross.

Or something.

“Come with me,” Grey said, resuming his progress. “We can ask Francine about this fiancé she neglected to let anybody know she’d attached.”

When they reached her ladyship’s suite of rooms, they were met by footmen hauling a series of trunks from the room.

“Those are my trunks,” Will muttered.

“Think of your friend in the parlor,” Grey replied, leading the way into a chaos of gowns, hats, and boxes strewn about the room. “Your ladyship, what’s afoot?”

The dog sniffed at a stocking dangling from her ladyship’s vanity, then padded over to Will’s side, her tail no longer wagging.

“You might knock before entering a lady’s chambers,” Francine said. “What is that dog doing in my rooms?”

“She’s sitting,” Grey said, as a maid stacked three hat boxes in a tower and departed with the lot. “While you appear to be going somewhere.”

For all Francine was unhappy, as Will had said, Grey was still uneasy to see her boxing up her every slipper and glove.

Particularly without a word of warning to the head of her household.

“I’m leaving for Bath,” Francine said, closing the doors to an empty wardrobe. “Baron Hathaway has offered to share his coach with me.”

“Will says the baron has offered to share a bit more than that with you,” Grey observed, “and when were you planning to tell me yesterday was Dankle’s last day?”

Francine turned, the wardrobe at her back. “When were you planning to get that sister of yours to come home, so my existence here was not an endless round of feuding housemaids, lazy footmen, and ridiculous economies?”

Francine truly was leaving, else she would not have been as obvious about her motivations. If her departure to Bath were merely temporary, then she’d resume fretting over Jacaranda’s good name, or natter on about missing dear Jacaranda, or coo over family needing to be together.

“Do you hate Jacaranda?” Will asked, his tone for once sharp.

“No, I do not,” Francine said, snatching up the dangling stocking and rolling it into a tight ball. “I’m in truth fond of the girl and have only her best interests in mind, but you lot seem content to turn Dorning House into the largest gentleman’s club in England. Jacaranda can manage you, and she’ll likely even be able to find wives for you. I wash my hands of you all. She is not plagued by delicate nerves—not yet.”

Francine pitched the stocking into an open hat box with an accuracy many a cricket team would envy, and while she tried to hide it, Grey detected a gleam of triumph in her eyes.

“Francine, you may elope with your baron, and I will wish you all the very best. I hope for Daisy’s sake and the sake of your grandchildren, we continue to remain cordial. Whatever you’ve done, whatever scheme you’ve concocted, you had best tell us now, or we’ll inform the baron you’ve changed your mind.”

The dog rose from her haunches, her alert gaze swinging from Grey to Francine.

“Hathaway will not believe you,” Francine said. “As for my schemes, I’ve planned a little house party to keep you gentlemen entertained, a few dozen of Society’s finest heiresses and prettiest debutantes selected from the best families. The list is in my escritoire, and while I’d really rather stay and allow you to bid me a proper thanks, I must instead make my farewell.”

She swept out, the last of the maids following with another tower of hat boxes.

With a sense of foreboding, Grey approached the escritoire and opened the top drawer. On a piece of vellum—no foolscap for Francine—in the tidy hand that was likely recognized all over the realm, a list of names marched down one page and onto the next.

“How bad is it?” Will asked.

Grey took the delicate Louis Quinze chair before his knees could buckle.

“I wouldn’t say it’s bad, exactly,” he replied, reading down the third page. “I’d say if we don’t retrieve Jack immediately, we’re facing a bloody damned disaster.”

George strolled over to the vanity, sniffed the skirt, squatted, and peed on the carpet.

* * *

WORTH WASTED ANOTHER BLIGHTED RAINY day chasing down Prinny and whispering the appropriate warnings into the royal ear. With His Royal Highness, a confidence might be kept, or passed along to titillate the inner circle at Carlton House. It made little difference now, in any case.

Worth had seen to his paperwork, made the last arrangements, given his stewards and clerks the appropriate stern but appreciative lectures, and once again put his tired arse in Goliath’s well-worn saddle.

The shift in his finances would make no real difference. He’d never lived extravagantly, and man didn’t arrive to a half million in worth without suffering both gains and losses. The fate of the Drummond should have mattered to him, but it didn’t.

“So this is love,” he informed his horse, when they’d stopped for a drink at one of the better posting inns between Town and Trysting. Worth swilled his ale while Goliath did his best to drain the water trough.

Mostly though, horse and rider were dawdling. Autumn lurked in the shade, in the mud that made the king’s highway slow going, in the yellowing of the undergrowth along the road. In the north, the season would be well advanced.

“Come along, horse. Your fool master must meet his fate, lest the lady bolt before she’s taken proper leave of me.”

Goliath flicked an ear beginning to grow fuzzy with the approach of colder weather.

Though Worth didn’t travel faster than a relaxed trot, still he made Trysting before tea time. He dreaded the news that Jacaranda had fled, dreaded seeing her, dreaded dinner with his family looking on.

Dreaded the rest of his life without Jacaranda to tease and love and grow old with.

As he bathed and changed, it occurred to him that before, when he’d left Grampion as a much younger man, he’d been this bewildered, hurt and confused.

But he’d been angry, too. He’d been gloriously, righteously angry with everyone he loved, and even with the woman he thought he loved. Somewhere inside, he was angry now at Jacaranda, but he recognized that the anger was driven by hurt and a kind of confused shame that she should reject him.

He was wealthy, relative to her, still.

He was an earl’s heir.

He was not bad looking, if a bit too largish.

He loved her.

Maybe she didn’t want love, he thought as he dragged a brush through his hair. He would have to ask her.

He went to the kitchen, learning that Jacaranda intended to take a tray in her room for dinner. The coward was in the library, cleaning the window next to his desk. The scent of vinegar seemed an appropriate counterpoint to her usual sweet fragrance.

“Mrs. Wyeth, greetings.” He did not cross the room, did not wrap his arms around her.

“Mr. Kettering. I trust your journey was productive?” She didn’t even turn to face him, but kept moving her rag vigorously over the already sparkling glass.

Where the hell were the maids, and why polish a spotless window?

“My journey was an exercise in wasted time, for the most part. You’ll scrub through that glass do you persist much longer.”

She stopped, her shoulders slumping.

“And you’re taking a tray in your room tonight,” Worth went on, “the better to avoid me?”

“Not to avoid you.” She stepped down from her stool. “I’m trying to avoid further aggravation for both of us.”

“By fleeing. I know all about fleeing, Jacaranda. I run off whenever my feelings are hurt, or my pride, or my dignity, but I could not run off this time. I could only run to you, do you understand?”

“Yes.” She folded her rag as if it were pristine linen. “I understand about running, but you must think I’m running from you, when I’m running to something I never should have turned my back on. I’ve finally found the courage to put right some things I put wrong in the past, and you will not lecture or bully me into changing my mind at this late date.”

After five years, this courage just happened to befall her when Worth offered marriage?

“Nobody can apparently change that block of stone you call your mind,” he said, his ire gathering. “Not for love nor money will you consider another’s viewpoint might have more merit than your own.”

She pitched her rag at his chest but missed. “You haven’t the first clue what you ask of me.”

“So tell me,” he said, his voice lowering as he advanced on her. “We’re running out of time, Jacaranda, and I want to know what it is you find so much more compelling than a future with me.”

Tears gathered in her eyes, but Worth could not afford to relent. His happiness hung in the balance, and he would have bet his entire remaining fortune that hers did, too.

“For the love of God, Jacaranda, please tell me what keeps us apart. If it’s a dragon, I may not slay it, but I’ll tame the damned beast until it eats from your hand.”

“You’ll hate me if I tell you why I must leave. I’d rather skip to the leaving part and have you merely wroth with me. I’m trying to find my courage, Worth. I don’t want to leave you, but I fear I left the greater part of it in Dorset.”

She believed that convoluted, inverted, inside-out female pronouncement, and yet, Worth also saw hesitation in her eyes, and longing, and—most encouraging of all—love. The dratted, dear woman had somehow determined that she had to leave for him.

“Jacaranda, I’m a solicitor. I solve problems for a living. I thrive on difficulties and averting scandal. I’m resourceful, persistent, and creative. I have means, and more important than all of that—” He loved her, though one shouldn’t hurl those words at the object of his devotion.

A soft tap, and then the door banged open to reveal an entire crowd of big, dark, windblown young men and a mastiff who might have been a near relation to Goliath.

The tallest of the lot strode into the room, murder in his eyes.

“Whoever you are, get the hell away from my sister now.”

Chapter Seventeen

“GREY?” JACARANDA’S BROWS ROSE AS the pitch of her voice went up. “Grey Dorning? What are you doing here now?”

Worth turned to face his unwanted guests, and he’d be damned if he’d leave Jacaranda’s side. “Are you a housebreaker, Dorning, to intrude on a man in his own library?”

“When that man is bellowing at my sister,” Dorning replied, “I will intrude at Carlton House itself. Stand away from my sister.”

“Excuse me.” Hess came sauntering through the crowd at the door. “Casriel? I wasn’t aware you were acquainted with my brother.”

“Grampion.” Dorning bowed slightly, some of the tension going out of him. “I have no quarrel with you or your brother, but I’ve come to take Lady Jacaranda home. Her step-mother has created circumstances that make Lady Jacaranda’s presence at Dorning House a matter of urgency.”

“Step-Mama didn’t ask you to come barging in here like Blucher at Waterloo,” Jacaranda said. “All I’ve asked for is the indefinite hospitality of Dorning House when I leave here.”

Saints be praised, Jacaranda was not pleased to see this interfering baboon. Better still, she’d been abandoning Worth to go home, not for the pleasure of another fellow’s broom closets. Victory loomed within Worth’s grasp, until one small word intruded on his budding sense of triumph—

Lady Jacaranda. Lady Jacaranda?

Worth’s entire reality came to a snorting, rearing halt. His housekeeper was the daughter of an earl, at least, to have her own courtesy title.

He’d fished an earl’s daughter out of his pond. Importuned her repeatedly for her favors, invited himself repeatedly into her bed—

“Worth, with your permission I will alert the kitchen that we’re to have a considerable number of guests,” Hess said. “Casriel here can make the introductions.”

“I’ll talk to Cook,” Jacaranda cut in. “With your permission, Mr. Kettering?”

Worth could not read her expression. She was leaving him, but first she was seeing to his kitchen, and she was a lady—a duplicitous lady. He disliked that revelation, and yet, of course she was a lady. Her station had been evident in her generalship of his house, in her inherent dignity, her poise.

He nodded, not the master dismissing his housekeeper, but the intimate, allowing the woman he cared for a strategic and dignified retreat.

“I suppose that leaves me to handle the pretty,” Hess said. “Grey Dorning, Earl of Casriel, may I make known to you Worth Kettering, my younger brother and heir. As to these other fine gentlemen, I’m sure Casriel will enlighten us.”

One by one, Worth was introduced to the forest of young manhood that was Jacaranda’s family. Grey Birch Dorning, the earl, followed by Willow—“call me Will”—Ash, Oak, Hawthorne, Valerian and a sapling by the name of Sycamore.

They were handsome devils, the lot of them, and big. They all sported the peculiar hue of lavender eyes that looked so lovely on their sister.

“Do we take it you’re staying again at the local inn?” Hess asked as he distributed the brandy Worth poured.

“Again?” Worth asked.

“Casriel and I shared an enjoyable evening at my final stop on the way to your doorstep,” Hess said. “We served on a committee together in the Lords, or wasted time in the same meetings.”

“We didn’t stop to arrange accommodations this time,” Casriel said. “Step-Mama has planned a house party and invited half the dowered young ladies of the realm.”

“Then she took off for Bath, and the housekeeper quit,” young Sycamore said. “So we thundered up from Dorset because now Jack has to come home. It was fun.”

He downed his brandy like a much older man. What else might this pack of sylvan giants think was fun?

“You are welcome to stay here tonight,” Worth heard himself saying. “The weather is threatening misery, and I can vouch for the readiness of my household to comfortably accommodate you all.”

“Jack wouldn’t have it any other way,” Will said. “I can recall how Dorning House was before she got a flea in her ear.”

“Willow.” The earl’s tone was warning.

Will peered at his empty brandy glass, his expression forlorn. “Jack kept us in line, and she did it without shouting, much. We miss her, and she didn’t come home to visit this summer, not even to see the baby. We worried.”

Worry was something Worth could understand, albeit grudgingly.

“I think she’s been happy here,” he said, praying it was so. “I know she’s kept the house running like a top. The whole estate, actually.”

Casriel ran a hand through thick, dark hair.

“She does that,” he said quietly, almost…sheepishly? “I’ve gone through three stewards since she left. My housekeeper threatened to retire at least a half-dozen times before actually quitting, and that’s after I’ve doubled her wages, twice.”

His admission was followed by a silence, then Will lumbered over to the decanter and helped himself to another drink.

“We can’t keep maids either, and it’s not what you think.” Will passed the decanter to the next brother, and it circled the room until coming back to the sideboard, quite empty. “We don’t pester them, or not much. Grey won’t stand for it, but they don’t stay. They run off with the footmen, or the tenants, or they simply run off.”

“When Jack was around,” the one named Ash said, “they stayed long enough to be friendly.”

Grey frowned. “You weren’t even at university then.”

Ash shrugged. “I was out of short-coats. I’m a Dorning.”

They went on like that, raising a slow, fraternal lament for the sister who’d kept them organized and out of trouble until Worth wanted to scream. These fellows needed their sister, and she would go with them and spend her days running their household, stepping and fetching for them, when they should have been stepping and fetching for her. They arranged themselves all over the room, on the chairs, the table, the sofa, the hearth, the floor, the largest band of orphans Worth had ever seen.

And a house party bore down on them, arranged by this fiend of an errant step-mother, toward whom Jacaranda no doubt felt buckets of loyalty and guilt.

“Don’t you lot have another sister?” Worth asked. “I know Mrs.—Lady Jacaranda mentioned a sister.”

“Daisy.” Sycamore rolled his eyes. “She’s married to Eric and having babies.”

“Shouldn’t Jacaranda be married and having babies?” Worth certainly thought so. Married to him, having his babies.

“She isn’t the marrying kind,” Grey said. “Her heart was broken once long ago, and she hasn’t any interest in finding a husband. She told me that herself, though not the particulars. Why else do you think I’d tolerate this housekeeping nonsense from her?”

Worth searched the gaze of each brother, but it wasn’t until he got to his own brother that he felt some relief. Though Hess’s expression was bland, in his eyes Worth could see his thoughts: What a driveling lot of pathetic fools, kidnapping their only sensible relation so she can rescue them from—horrors!—a house full of heiresses and debutantes.

“I will confer with Lady Jacaranda to see which rooms we’re putting you in,” Worth said, “and then you’ll be free to freshen up for dinner. We dine as a family, and you’ll be introduced to our sister, Miss Yolanda Kettering, and our niece, Miss Avery, as well as Miss Snyder and Mrs. Hartwick.”

He bowed and left the room before anybody could prevent him from conferring with his own housekeeper. Jacaranda was his housekeeper, and he’d trade on that for as long as he could.

Which might be for one more day, give or take a few hours.

He found her in her room, where she seemed to be spending increasing amounts of time. Her pretty gentian eyes were haunted, and all the ire Worth had felt toward her receded behind genuine concern.

“You weren’t expecting the entire tribe, were you?” he asked, closing the door.

“I haven’t seen them since last year. They seem to keep growing.”

Worth took a seat beside her on the settee. She was hunched forward, so he could only see her face in profile.

“You must have been in a very great rage to leave so many helpless men behind you.” His words were soft, so was his touch as he smoothed back her hair. “They miss you terribly.”

“They miss having their every need met without them thinking about it,” she said. “They’re dear, and I do love them, and Grey especially tries, but Step-Mama knew I’d never leave the boys to deal with a house party. You see that, I hope. I can’t allow them to flounder along before half the gossips of Polite Society, bankrupting Grey’s coffers, preyed upon by heiresses, wrecking the house—”

“Who broke your heart, Jacaranda?”

She scooted as if to rise. Worth put a hand on her arm.

“You can tell me. I’ve wondered why you ran away from home, and that was before I knew you were an earl’s daughter.”

He said it for her, because apparently, she’d never intended to say it to him herself. Some purveyor of confidences, he.

“An impoverished earl.” She settled back, and when Worth put an arm around her shoulders, she let him have her weight. “Papa had more kindness than sense, and more amateur botanical inclinations than money. I had a small portion left me by a grandmother, though.”

“Go on,” Worth said, stealing a whiff of her hair.

“My younger sister, Daisy, was sickly—my half-sister. Of all of us, she’s the only one who isn’t a giant.”

“You’re not a giant.” Nor was she his housekeeper. The simple sight of those buffoons in the library, and she’d already on some level abandoned her post at Trysting. She’d get them organized for this house party, see that the staff acquitted themselves as if serving foreign royalty, and by then that cottage would have wrapped its ivy tentacles around her heart.

“Daisy’s lungs were weak as a child,” Jacaranda went on as if Worth hadn’t spoken. “For several winters we feared we might lose her. Papa had the solicitors put my portion in Daisy’s name, because Step-Mama convinced him no man would want a sickly wife.”

Kind, botanical, and none too bright. No wonder Jacaranda felt she had to fend for her menfolk.

“Let me guess,” Worth said. “Dear Daisy used her portion to snabble a swain, and she’s been in the pink of health ever since, while you’ve been slaving away here in Surrey for a man who doesn’t even bother to learn what his housekeeper looks like.”

“You rather know what I look like.”

“So now you leave me?”

She turned her face into his shoulder. “I’m not leaving you. Well, I am, a little, maybe. We were only dallying, Worth.”

“We weren’t even dallying.”

She fell silent, and again, he wanted to kick something fragile and bellow obscenities, but he knew when to let a negotiating opponent stew, and this little tale was more complicated than Jacaranda had disclosed.

“I did dally, once,” she said. “I do mean once. One time.”

“Not a memorable occasion?” Whoever he was, Worth wanted to kill him, not for despoiling Jacaranda—she was free to dally where she chose, thank the Deity—but for disappointing her.

She tucked closer, as if to hide. “Eric was so sweet, not loud and ribald like my brothers, but mannerly and soft-spoken. When he kissed me, I felt pretty. He’s handsome, Eric is, refined.”

The bastard was shrewd, too. “He had the sense to pay you some attention.”

If Jacaranda tucked herself any closer, Worth would give in to the temptation to haul her into his lap.

“His attentions befell me when no one was about—I thought he was exercising gentlemanly discretion. My brothers trusted him, because we’ve known the family forever. They trusted me because no man in his right mind would bother flirting with me.”

“In God’s name why not? You’re gorgeous, brilliant, tireless—”

She kissed his cheek, a scolding, hushing kiss, and Worth had the uncomfortable suspicion his words wounded her.

“I didn’t know any better,” she said. “I thought Eric was courting me, and I was pleased to think it so.”

“You would have married him?”

“At the time, I would have rejoiced to marry him. I was infatuated.”

“How old were you?”

“Past twenty. I’d had my Seasons and was facing yet another year as the tallest, plainest, most awkward woman in every ballroom. Marriage to Eric would have spared me that. He hasn’t a title, but his father is gentry and prosperous.”

Gentry, prosperous, and conniving as hell. “This lovely, discreet gentleman married your sister.”

She was a ball of hurting female against his side, and Worth kicked himself for not having the patience to prompt this story from her before. This part of her past mattered to her, so it should have mattered to him.

“I was increasingly willing to permit him liberties. I thought we were anticipating the vows.”

Oh, my love. “What happened?”

“I let him…have me, and it was awkward and untidy, and he was so pleased with himself over it, I said nothing. He hadn’t finished buttoning his falls before he was explaining to me that his father believed a married man should make his own way, so it was Daisy he’d have to marry—she had that nice little settlement, after all—but there was no reason he and I couldn’t continue to enjoy each other’s company.”

“He got your portion, and your sister got him.”

“She’s welcome to him,” Jacaranda said. “I’ve saved some money working for you, a fair bit for a housekeeper, and if I invest it well, I’ll manage. And as for Eric…”

Worth had invested that money for her, lest she forget—a discussion for some other day. “He deserves the French pox, at least, for how he treated you. Do your brothers know?”

“Grey suspects.” Jacaranda fell silent for a moment, still leaning on him. He wanted to store the moment up like a happy memory, except it wasn’t happy. Not for her, not for him, but it was important. “When he wanted to demand answers and create a fuss, I argued him out of it. He made them have a long engagement, but my oldest nephew was born four months after the wedding.”

“Eric is a randy bugger, isn’t he?”

“He seems devoted to Daisy.” Jacaranda was trying to convince herself, because how could she know this when she dwelled far from her family—unless her sister tortured her by correspondence? “Leaving was far easier than staying and watching them raise their children, but now it has been five years, and I still haven’t put things right with my only sister.”

“One can understand that a reckoning would be important to you. If it makes any difference, I am sorry.” Particularly when wounded pride had also sent one fleeing his own home more than a decade ago.

“Sorry? For?”

“For what you went through. I’m not sure I would have importuned you if I’d known.”

“You knew I was used goods; you did not know that I was also a lying baggage of used goods. I’m sorry for that. I could not find the right time to explain my situation to you, and I knew I was bound to return to Dorset soon anyway.”

She still hadn’t entirely explained her situation to him, though Worth had acquired a fine grasp of the havoc unfinished business between siblings could wreak.

“Hush, Jacaranda Dorning. You are not used goods any more than I am. We’re adults, we’ve taken some knocks. Are you sure you don’t want to remain here, though? You don’t have to marry me. You don’t even have to see me. I’ll go north, I’ll stay in Town, I’ll buy a few more properties and keep myself from your sight.”

What was he offering? Lies, certainly. He might try to stay away, but some pressing contrivance would see him on Trysting’s doorstep within a month. He’d ride William the Pig if it meant he could share a roof with Jacaranda.

“You don’t like it in Town,” she said, smoothing her palm down his lapel.

“I realize that now, but I don’t want you keeping house for that lot of handsome louts when they couldn’t even see your heart was broken.” Though he did want her to put things to rights with her sister. That was important, when one had only a single sister.

She looked away, and Worth felt his frustration with her rising again. What had he said? What had he missed? He understood that this house party nonsense required her presence in Dorset for a time, but why was it so important for her to stay away from him?

“Would you do me a very great favor, Mr. Kettering?”

“Anything, Mrs. Wyeth.”

“Hold me.”

And while she cried as if her heart were breaking all over again, he held her and knew for a certainty his was breaking, too.

* * *

“I’VE BEEN MEANING TO TELL you something.” Hess settled in beside Worth on the library sofa.

“We have brandy left?” Worth marveled as Hess passed him a drink.

“Your cellar has been kept in good stock, probably thanks to old Simmons.”

“Thanks to my housekeeper, who thinks she’s abandoning me.” Hess was turning him into a sot, that was the trouble.

“That is what I wanted to bring up. I haven’t known exactly how.”

Worth took a sip of good brandy, the everyday having fallen victim to the Dorset tribe of Visigoths.

“There’s nothing to bring up. We got through dinner with the plague of locusts, now we’ll go to bed. When I wake in the morning, the only woman I’ve loved will ride out of my life, because assigning beds at some house party is more important than being in my bed. End of fairy tale.” He would muster the determination to fetch her back, of course—Ketterings were determined—but what if she didn’t want to be fetched?

“Mrs. Wyeth is the only woman you’ve loved?”

The way Hess posed the question, so delicately, alerted Worth to the focus of the discussion.

“You loved another,” Hess said. “Years ago, and yet I married her.”

“Must we?”

“I was never quite sure why you hared off.” Hess’s voice was meditative. “Did she say something to you?”

“No words were necessary. She and I had arranged to meet in the stables, and I saw the two of you there. Your attentions to her were not those of a future brother-in-law.”

“The stables.”

“In the saddle room, embracing rather enthusiastically.” Consuming each other, or so it had appeared at the time. “This is excellent brandy. My compliments to the host.”

“Ah.”

“What does that mean? ‘Ah’? Maybe earls understand such profundities. I can’t fathom them. Perhaps if you refresh my drink my comprehension will improve.”

“Have you ever wondered why, of all the young ladies in the shire, I chose to single out your intended?”

Worth slugged back the rest of his drink. “We’re brothers, we were occasionally rivals. She was pretty.”

“She was neither the prettiest girl in the shire nor the wealthiest.”

She’d apparently been the most determined—and lo, she’d ended up a Kettering. “She was wealthy enough. Pretty enough.” Except sitting there with good brandy sloshing in his brain, Worth couldn’t exactly recall the lady’s looks. Blond, he was fairly certain of that.

Only that. He couldn’t say what color her eyes had been or what the texture of her hair had been.

“I’ve suspected for some time that we were played for fools, Worth.” Hess rose and brought the decanter to the low table before the sofa. The flames from the hearth gave the brandy a depth of color, like a magic potion.

“No more for me. Tomorrow will be difficult enough without a bad head.”

Hess sat on the table—did earls sit on tables?—and poured himself another finger.

“You did not see me kissing Elise.” Hess set the decanter aside. “You saw her kissing me.”

“A distinction without a difference, as we solicitors say.” He saluted with his now empty glass.

“Not so. She came to me, claiming your ardor was cooling, so prettily distressed, so young, and so uncertain. I told myself I was comforting her when she threw herself into my arms. She began to throw herself into my embrace frequently.”

“You were young and lusty.” Worth eyed the decanter with desperate longing. “We really do not need to revisit this.”

“I was young, lusty and stupid, and so were you.” Hess put his drink down. “She began to kiss me, all the while apologizing for forgetting herself. I was so very like her dear Worth, you know? And what was I supposed to do, peel her off of me and scold her soundly? I did, several times, but by then you’d drawn your own conclusions.”

“Why not scold her again and send her on her way?” Worth asked, though the question was moot when Jacaranda was leaving with her fraternal forest in the morning. “Why did you have to marry her, Hessian?”

“She said you’d had carnal knowledge of her and begged me to grant her the clemency of marriage.”

Silence, while Worth considered his empty glass and his empty life.

“Were life a stage play, her falsehood would have been hilariously clever,” he said. “I might have once run a glancing hand over her corseted and clothed breast, Hess. Nothing more. I swear it.”

“I concluded that even before the wedding night confirmed it.”

“God’s holy underlinen.” Worth set his glass down rather than smash it and earn a scold from his departing housekeeper. “She simply wanted the title and saw a way to get it.”

“I took several years to come to the same conclusion, and when she was ill, she apologized for as much.”

“And you were married to her. I’m sorry, Hess. It never occurred to me you were the injured party.”

“We were both injured parties.”

Earls did not sit on tables, but brothers did. Brothers also put the past behind them. Entirely behind them.

“Elise wrote to me,” Worth said. “I carefully opened the letter, read her plea to rescue her from your cold and indifferent company, sealed it back up with equal care, and returned it to her, to all appearances unopened.”

“At least you got that much right.”

“I know you never be cold and indifferent to your countess.”

“I came to be.” Hess ran his finger around the lip of his glass in a slow, perpetual circle. “She tolerated my advances with all the warmth of a martyr at the stake, and each time I wondered if she was thinking instead of you.”

“I stopped thinking of her within a few months.”

Another silence, equally considering, not as pained.

“Will you come north with us, Worth?”

“You want me underfoot when I was the reason you ended up leg-shackled to a brainless, grasping twit?” Who hadn’t even presented Hess with a needed heir?

“I should have taken the brainless, grasping twit by the hand, dragged her to you, and accused her to her face of scheming behind your back, but I was young, full of my own consequence, and eager to impress Papa. Then you wouldn’t have spent half your life as a stranger to the only home you’ve known. Of course, then Papa would not have got his hands on her settlement, which was likely why he was so happy to bless the union.”

Worth considered that and admitted Hess had put his finger on a truth, and a relieving truth at that: They were both injured parties. Worth didn’t have to be careful around his brother anymore, didn’t have to suspect Hess’s motives, didn’t have to tiptoe around their past for the sake of the girls.

If Jacaranda remained at Trysting, she’d never reach this sort of understanding with her sister, much less with the tribe of louts who could not be bothered to keep mud out of their own home. The awkwardness would grow, until the rift affected the next generation, and even the next after that.

He could not reconcile with her family for her, and he did not want her to choose him simply because he preserved her from dealing with old hurts.

“I’ll go north with you,” Worth said. “I’m not saying I’ll stay all winter, but I’ll get you home, show Avery the family seat and do the pretty.”

Hess shifted to sit beside his brother again. “Grampion is beautiful in winter.”

“I remember. Truly beautiful.”

And Grampion truly had been his home, once upon a time.

* * *

JACARANDA LOVED WORTH REVERENCE KETTERING. She’d been infatuated with Eric, though at the time she’d had no means of comparing an abiding tenderness for a man with the combustible combination of ignorance, insecurity, rebellion and loneliness that had propelled her into Eric’s skinny arms.

She’d go home to Dorning House, to the rough and tumble of life with her brothers and the beauty of the Dorset coast. She had messes to tidy up there, and she had missed her home.

Though not for a moment had she ever missed it as much as she already missed Worth Kettering. That mess might well not admit of any tidying.

The house was silent and dark around her, and if she’d been able to sleep, she would have passed the night in dreams. She hadn’t been able to sleep. Worth was one floor below her, and they wouldn’t share a roof ever again.

She rose, belted a night robe around her waist, and left her rooms.

He was abed when she let herself into his suite, the click of the door latch sounding loudly behind her.

“You might as well lock it.”

Worth’s voice came from across his sitting room, and Jacaranda could just make out his shape in a rocker by the cold grate.

She locked the door and waited, feet growing cold in more ways than one.

He held out a hand. “I was about to go to you. You couldn’t sleep either?”

She crossed the room, feeling awkward and desolate. No room for her in the rocker, giantess that she was.

He tugged her onto his lap and wrapped his arms around her.

“If you have come merely to talk, Jacaranda, I’ll try to listen.” His lips grazed her temple. “I’m somewhat the worse for drink, though, and I’ve spent a lot of nights behaving with you. I’m not sure I have another increment of saintliness in me, not when I know you’re leaving me tomorrow.”

His arms tightened around her, but she was holding him, too. Beneath her, he was becoming aroused, and what a relief that was. She curled in his lap, battling a longing for him that had simmered inside her since she’d leaned against him weeks ago in the kitchen, wet, angry and bruised.

“No saintliness,” she said, stroking his hair. “Not for you, not for me. We deserve this night for ourselves.”

He pressed his face to her throat, and Jacaranda wasn’t sure, but she thought his shoulders hitched, almost as if he’d been weeping.

“Take me to bed, Worth, please.”

He rose with her in his arms, as if she weighed nothing, and crossed to his bedroom. “You’re sure, Jacaranda?”

“Of this much, yes.” If he’d followed his question with another proposal, her answer would have been very different from her previous replies. A lifetime managing messes and counting somebody else’s silver had abruptly lost its appeal.

Worth laid her on the bed and peeled off his dressing gown and pajama pants with gratifying haste. He sat at her hip, untying the bows of her chemise, one by one as they marched down the center of her body. Gently, he spread the sides of her clothing, leaving her exposed in the moonlight.

“Gorgeous,” he said, “breathtaking, wonderful, lovely, sweet, adorable, beautiful, luscious.” He leaned down and pressed his cheek over her heart. “We should talk, of course. You doubtless want to talk, until I’m nearly agreeing that you should go. I’d rather not be put through that, if you don’t mind, though I understand that you must return to Dorset.”

“No talk then.” For he wasn’t entirely wrong.

“I don’t think I can go slowly, Jacaranda. Not the first time. I’ve wanted you too badly for too long.”

“Not slow, then. Not for either of us.” She held out her arms, and then he was over her, settling the magnificent length of his body snug up against her, the velvety heat of his arousal probing at her sex.

“You’ll tell me if you’re uncomfortable?”

Jacaranda wrapped her legs around him. “I’m uncomfortable now. Uncomfortable with wanting you, needing you. Stop fretting and dithering, Worth, and love me.”

He laughed, a strained gesture toward humor, but he also got a hand under her backside and shifted the angle of her hips. Then he was there, right there at the entrance to her body, big, hot, and blunt, exactly what she craved, almost where she craved him.

She wiggled, she strained, she smacked his muscular backside, but he wouldn’t move.

“Kiss me, Jacaranda.” He kissed her on the cheek, the forehead, the jaw, and slowly she surrendered her will to his. Her body softened, she let herself kiss him back for long, quiet moments.

“Better,” he murmured against her mouth. He ran his nose along her jaw and cradled the back of her head against his palm. Jacaranda had just formed the thought, How much longer? When his cock nudged gently at her sex.

“Worth, please…”

“Hold me.” He tucked her leg up higher around his flank, then began to move his hips in the smallest increments of forward and retreat. He teased at her until she was mindless with yearning, her ankles locked low on his back, all but dragging him into her body.

“Such a managing little thing you are,” he said.

“Now, Worth, please, God, now.”

“Soon,” he said, his voice a whisper rasped in her ear.

“But I need…”

He’d shifted over her, the first thick inch of him penetrating her heat, then withdrawing to penetrate again. She couldn’t help it, didn’t know how or why she’d want to stop herself, when her body clamped hard around him in sheer, blinding ecstasy.

“That’s it,” he whispered, surging into her deeply. “Let go for me.”

And holy angels, did she let go. She let go of reason, dignity, past and future, her body and soul flying to pieces in the pleasure he gave her. She moaned against his throat, the delight shuddering through her and rebounding to leave her shaking and keening in his arms.

“Worth Reverence Kettering, hold me.”

He was hilted inside her, unmoving, while he petted her hair and nibbled at her ear. Jacaranda’s breathing slowed, and her world gradually righted itself.

“I like how you feel inside me.”

“You are my every feeble imagining of earthly bliss made manifest ten times over,” he said. “I knew you would be.”

“And yet we’ve wasted our summer.” She stroked his shoulders. Such broad shoulders, and they held up worlds of responsibility. She knew that now. “I will miss you, Worth.”

“I’m here now.” He shifted slightly, setting of shocks of pleasure inside her. “I’m loving you, exactly where I want to be. You can abandon me for the charms of Dorset, Jacaranda Wyeth, but this is not finished and you will not forget me.”

He moved inside her again, raising himself up on his arms. He met her gaze in the shadowy darkness, and Jacaranda had to close her eyes. He was watching her as he moved in her, watching her again lose herself to him, to the pleasure he deluged her with. Worth as a lover was as relentless as Worth in every other facet of his life. Twice more he sent her over the edge, each climb shorter and steeper than the last.

When he finally followed her into pleasure, Jacaranda held him to her with every fiber of her strength. He was silent with his satisfaction. Silent for endless moments while passion racked the length and depth of him. When he subsided against her, Jacaranda was in tears beneath him.

“Did I hurt you?”

“Never.” And he’d been right about something else: This was not finished.

His thumb brushed her cheek, and Jacaranda was reminded of how they’d met, in the dark, her head ringing, her sense of balance unreliable. She felt as battered now, except her heart was the organ in jeopardy.

When she woke up, it wasn’t light yet, but the birdsong coming through the window suggested dawn approached.

“You aren’t returning to your own room yet,” Worth rumbled beneath her.

“Let me off of you,” she said, trying to hoist a stiff leg across his body.

“I liked you where you were,” Worth groused. But he let her shift to a place beside him, then spooned himself around her. “I liked it a lot.”

“I liked it, too,” Jacaranda said, an odd joy welling up from among all her sorrows. “I must thank you for this night, Worth.”

“And I you. Will you write?”

“I don’t think that’s wise, do you?”

“I know you and Daisy must resolve what’s between you, and then there’s this Dorsetshire Bacchanal that your step-mother schemed to drop in your lap. I still have your money, though, and I intend to get it back to you.”

He’d keep hold of her heart, though. “You’re good for the money.” She kissed the hairy male forearm banding her collarbones. “When will you go north?”

“By Michaelmas. I haven’t committed to stay the winter, but Avery should see the ancestral pile, and it’s…it might be time I spent some time there. Hess and I had an interesting conversation last night.”

“He’s protective of you,” Jacaranda said, treasuring the feel of Worth, big and warm, and dearly familiar cuddled around her.

“Hess and I have wasted years more or less as a result of not being protective of one another. It leaves one sad, but I understand about you needing to go home.”

“You couldn’t possibly.”

“Yes, love, I could. We both left home in a towering pout and took on the management of the world. Well, the world’s somewhat taken in hand, the pout has worn off, and family is still family.”

“You make it sound so prosaic.”

“Prosaic and profound, like what passes between a man and wife in bed. Babies, snoring, cuddling, cold feet. Mundane existence with little doses of heaven mixed in.”

“Life.” She nuzzled his arm this time.

“You are my glimpse of heaven, Jacaranda,” he said, and she knew they were words of parting. “I will spend the rest of my life missing you if you insist on making this remove to tend your family permanent.”

“Not yet.” She rolled to her back. “Please don’t start missing me yet.”

He made love to her again, slowly, with a wealth of tenderness, his sorrow at their parting palpable in his every caress and sigh. Jacaranda didn’t want their joining to end, yet the twining of the sorrow with the delight became an unbearable combination, until she was weeping in Worth’s arms, even as she was consumed one last time by pleasure.

Chapter Eighteen

“SO YOU’RE SIMPLY LETTING HER leave?”

Grey Birch Dorning, Earl of Casriel, tossed the question at Worth as his lordship mounded omelet onto his plate at the sideboard. There probably wasn’t an egg in the whole of Surrey that hadn’t gone into the morning’s meal, and at least three entire loaves of bread were toasted and buttered as well.

Jacaranda had kept the lot of them fed, clothed, housed, and more or less out of trouble since her girlhood.

“You’d best eat,” Casriel went on. “Until Jacaranda comes down, the boys will think nothing of taking the food off your plate.”

“Grampion was so busy pouring my best spirits down their thirsty little throats last night, I doubt they’ll be up and about this early.” Worth put a goodly pile of eggs on his plate for show. God knew he wasn’t hungry.

“Sycamore—Cam—can out-eat any one of us,” Casriel said, setting his plate at the place to Worth’s right. “He’ll be the tallest, though he’s the youngest, and certain older brothers of his will regret some teasing they’ve done. You’re avoiding my question.”

“Regarding your sister,” Worth said, passing the teapot over. The table boasted three this morning. “It’s gunpowder. Hess and I prefer it.”

“I didn’t put the two together,” Casriel said, pouring his tea. “I know Grampion in passing, and I knew Jacaranda’s employer was some dithering little cipher in the City, Somebody Kettering. Never made the connection.”

“I don’t dither.” Nor were his offices in the City. Worth pushed over the cream and sugar. The cream was in a milk pitcher today. Better than a quart of it awaiting the Dorset Horde. “Your sister is a lady in every sense. She should not have been allowed to go into service. Had I known her station, I would have returned her to you five years ago.”

“I, for one, am glad you didn’t,” Casriel said around a mouthful of eggs. “I was having a grand time in Town, new to the title, years past university, and she sent me a letter warning me Daisy was being courted and telling me to get myself down to Dorset as head of the family, because Jacaranda was tired of cleaning up after me. She said if she had to spend a life in service, she at least wanted to be paid for it.”

Worth poured himself more tea while he still could, wanting to toast the lady in absentia.

And yet, the earl sounded genuinely contrite. “Go on, Casriel. The barbarians will soon sack the sideboard and take the teapots prisoner, unless I’m mistaken.”

“Jack saw what I did not. I had no authority as head of our family because I was little more than a boy myself and acting as stupidly as most others in my position. My step-mother has ever enjoyed delicate nerves, and my brothers were terrorizing their tutors, the maids, the local girls. Jacaranda contained them as best she could. While my brothers and I weren’t looking, somebody stole a march on us and treated her ill.”

“Do you know who the somebody is?”

Casriel set his fork down, just so, on his plate.

“That’s a bit delicate. A family as big as ours is a balancing act. If I buy Ash a horse, must I buy one for all five of my other brothers? If Daisy got flute lessons, did I owe Valerian the cello he claimed he’d practice five hours a day as well? You can’t always know what the just outcome is, and when you do, sometimes you wish you didn’t.”

“Not in this case,” Worth said. “In this case, you let the man who abused one sister turn around and marry the other.” He felt not the least sympathy for an earl whose brothers were decimating Worth’s pantries and his stores of civility as they stole Jacaranda for their own. “Oh, and you let Jacaranda’s portion be tucked in among the wedding presents.”

Casriel’s gentian eyes narrowed. “The trust was transferred by my own father, and that’s Lady Jacaranda to you.”

On Jacaranda, those eyes were beautiful. On Casriel, they were merely odd, to Worth anyway.

“Lady Jacaranda, my housekeeper. I at least gave her a generous wage for her hard work. You let her sister—or, more properly, her step-mother—steal from her.”

“Daisy’s lungs—”

“Were as hale as yours by the time this Eric weasel came sniffing around your sisters.”

Casriel glanced at the door. “Look, Kettering. There I was, a grown boy, one sister begging me to let her go off into service, the other sister bound and determined to get her hands on this squire’s son. I could not afford many more Seasons for Jack, and Daisy would spare me the whole Town do if I could get her married. Haven’t you ever been young and stupid?”

Well, hell.

Worth had been young and stupid, and last night, he’d been not young but still stupid, because he’d taken no measures to protect Jacaranda from conceiving a child. He was still trying to untangle his motivations for that, and hers for allowing the risk.

“What will you do now?” Worth asked. “Let her molder away on the coast, cleaning up after those bull calves you call brothers?”

“I wish they were bull calves. Then my course would be clear-cut, so to speak.”

“Good morning, all.” Hess sauntered in, looking well rested and elegant, damn him.

“Hessian.” Worth poured himself more tea. “Casriel encourages us aging bumblers to eat before the locusts descend from their bedrooms.”

“Jack can put away her fair share, too,” Casriel said, slathering jam on his toast.

“Lady Jacaranda to you,” Worth retorted, balling up his serviette and rising. “She hates to be called Jack.”

* * *

WORTH HELPED JACARANDA DRESS. HIS attentiveness broke her heart in a whole different way, but he topped that accomplishment by helping with the last of her packing, too.

Both of those heartbreaks were different from the heartbreak of making love with him.

Different from the pain of waking in his arms.

Different from the anticipation of him coming home from Town.

Different from sharing the single tea cup with him when her morning tray came up.

And it all hurt unbearably.

“Before you go downstairs,” Worth said, drawing her down beside him on the settee, “we need to discuss something.”

“Not my money.” She could not bear to see him looking so solemn. “You may borrow it as long as you want. I’ll have a roof over my head at Dorning and coal for the hearth. We manage. I’m not sure how Grey does it, but we do manage.”

“Not providing his sisters any dowry probably helps.” Worth’s scathing tone was at variance with the gentle caress of his thumb over her knuckles.

“He has to see my brothers educated, Worth. Don’t judge him.”

Worth’s smile was crooked and sad. “You love him. I’ll keep my judgmental mouth shut on that score. My dear, last night—”

“Last night was lovely.”

“Last night was beyond lovely,” he countered, “but there could be a child, Jacaranda. I want you to promise me we’ll marry if there is.”

His words implied they would not marry unless a child came along. She had refused his proposals, after all.

“Think of the child, love.” He brought her hand to his lips. “Think of the scandal to your family, when your brother ought to be finding himself a countess.”

She studied their joined hands. “He ought, oughtn’t he? Given the timing, I doubt there will be consequences.”

“Is Wyeth any part of your name?”

“Jacaranda Wyeth Dorning. No missus, though. That was a misrepresentation.” Another misrepresentation.

“A liberty,” he said. “Promise me, Jacaranda Wyeth Dorning. I would not force you into marriage, but it is my right to provide for my child and the child’s mother. My privilege.”

She kissed his knuckles and nodded.

“Say the words, my love.”

Oh, that hurt. Those little words—my love—said with such patience and tenderness while he looked at her as if she were precious.

“I promise, if we’ve conceived a child, I will tell you and you can make proper provision.”

“Thank you, Jacaranda.”

“I’m about to cry.”

“You cried enough last night,” he said, though his tone assured her his words were meant kindly, bracingly. “A pack of hyenas is scavenging every scrap of food from my larder, my housekeeper is leaving me, my brother wants me to winter in Cumberland, for God’s sake, and you think you’re entitled to cry?”

“Suppose not.” She might well have the rest of her life to cry. “Will you see me off?”

“If that is what you want. I’ve a suggestion,” Worth said, drawing her to her feet. “Why don’t we send you and Casriel on your way? Your brothers can come after you when they rise.”

“They might not be up and about for hours.”

“Trust me,” Worth said, stepping back and tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. “They’ll be no more than two hours behind you, and Casriel will want to take his time because he’s escorting a lady. You’ll have your knights at your side by noon.”

“Anxious to get rid of me, Worth?” She paused by the door, wanting nothing more than to feel his arms around her one more time.

“Anxious to get the pain of parting behind you, yes.”

“I’m glad you’re capable of thinking,” she said as he led her toward the stairs. “I’m not.”

“You’re exhausted. I can send you home in my coach if you like.”

“No, thank you. The fresh air will do me good.” Left to herself in a coach, she’d give way to tears all the way to Dorset. “Grey and I will spend the morning catching up.”

By the time Worth had brought her to the breakfast room, Jacaranda’s chin was up, her shoulders were back, and she’d resolved to get through the next hour with some dignity. Grey acceded easily to Worth’s plan, and Worth excused himself to alert the stables to the arrangements.

When Jacaranda saw Worth next, the tea and toast she’d managed to down were sitting miserably in her stomach, and Grey was making a polite production out of conferring with Hess over by the gardens. She waited by the mounting block as Worth emerged from the stables.

He was so dear. She’d always liked his looks, liked how easy he was with his size and his strength. She liked his humor, his odd touches of modesty and fastidiousness, liked how he was a good brother and a devoted uncle.

He was conscientious with his clients, and with her he’d been so careful, so confoundedly caring it was easy to forget that Jacaranda’s brothers needed her.

Then too, Step-Mama—among others—had some significant explaining to do.

“Let’s stroll a little, shall we?” Worth appropriated her arm, wrapping his hand over hers. “Hess will keep Casriel busy as long as we need him to. Did you know Roberts and the maid named Muriel were spying for your brother?”

“I suspected. I would feel eyes on me from time to time.”

“We’ve been discreet, Jacaranda. You’re not to let that pack of jackanapes run roughshod over you because you think you’ve been naughty.”

“I’m not?” She had been naughty, wonderfully naughty. A skein of happiness trickled through her sorrow. She’d been naughty, and this time, she was not remotely ashamed.

She was glad.

“But for the youngest couple, your brothers are grown men, off to university and back, and you are not their nursemaid.”

“Are you lecturing me?”

“I am.” He paused in their perambulation. “I want you to be happy, and that lot isn’t intent on the same priority. I know, I was a jackanapes once myself, and we’re a selfish bunch. Promise me this is what you want.”

“I want this,” she said, able to mean it in some sense, because five years at Trysting had only made some problems worse, not better. “You’ll make my good-byes to Yolanda and Avery, Miss Snyder and Mrs. Hartwick?”

“No. They’ve all got their noses pressed to the windows in the nursery wing, I’ve no doubt of it. Wave and they’ll see you.”

She waved and caught a flutter of movement from the third-floor windows.

“I’m about to kiss you good-bye, my love.”

“I’m about to let you.”

He kissed her when she desperately wanted him to talk her out of leaving. Not a naughty kiss either, which made it worse. His kiss was sweet, tender, almost chaste, and all too quickly over.

“Ready?” His gaze was steady and steadying.

“As I shall ever be.” She took his arm and processed to the mounting block, feeling as if it might have been the gallows at the Old Bailey.

“We’ll be off then,” Casriel said. “Thanks for the hospitality, and if the boys give you any trouble, a bullwhip sometimes helps. They know which inns we use, and they’ll come along because I’m the only one carrying enough blunt to stand their meals.”

“Lady Jacaranda.” The Earl of Grampion bowed over her hand. “It has been a pleasure and an inspiration.”

She blinked, seeing kindness and understanding in the earl’s eyes. Oh, dear…

“Come.” Worth turned her by the arm. “Your steed awaits.”

“My….Goliath? You’re lending me Goliath?”

“He’s taken to the country,” Worth said. “If you find he doesn’t suit, you can send him back with one of your brothers, but you and he are friends, and he’s of a size to carry you. Then too, Casriel says that due to yet another unforgivable oversight on your family’s part, you have no personal mount, and you deserve one.”

“Just for a loan,” she said, patting the beast’s glossy black neck. “A short-term loan.”

“For as long as you need him,” Worth said, and he was looking at her with such focus, Jacaranda had to wonder at the significance of this extravagant gesture.

This lovable gesture. The loan of Goliath was generous and kind, easing their parting and leaving them one detail of business to connect them. She threw her arms around Worth, heedless of Grey clearing his throat on his mount. Worth caught her to him in a fierce embrace, then let her go and stepped back, her gloved hand in his.

“Safe journey home, Lady Jacaranda. Lord Casriel, you will send us word when you’ve seen the lady back to Dorset.”

“Of course.”

Worth held Goliath’s reins while Jacaranda mounted. When her skirts were arranged, he petted the horse’s shoulder.

“She’s precious, old friend, so don’t put a foot wrong.” He looked up at Jacaranda, his eyes the same impossible blue as when she’d first met him, but so much more dear to her. “God-speed.” He blew her a kiss, and then somehow, the horse was cantering down the driveway, taking her away from the only man she’d ever loved.

The only man she ever would love.

* * *

“I AM NEAR TEARS,” HESS said, standing beside Worth.

“Stubble it, Hessian.” Worth turned toward the house. “That is my future wife, though before she admits that, she must face again the choice between her happiness and her family’s dictates. Last time she confronted that reckoning, she chose neither. This time, I’ve every confidence she’ll see she for herself that she can have both—and a fine husband into the bargain.”

Worth was counting on it, maybe the way Hessian had been counting on him to ask for a reconciliation.

Which had taken more than a damned decade to bring about.

“She didn’t even give me her direction,” Worth added, because he and Hess were reconciled. “I am in no mood to be teased.”

“She didn’t need to give it to you,” Hess said, holding up a piece of folded paper. “Casriel generously provided his direction to me, while her ladyship sipped tea and made not the least fuss.”

Worth coasted to a stop, like a ship gliding home to the dock. “Hessian, I love you. I might not have always said as much, or been much of a brother, but I…what?”

Hess passed him the paper.

“I’ve done my part,” he said. “With or without you, I must leave for Grampion in a few weeks. Now what will you do with that address?”

“Nothing, for now. Jacaranda isn’t the only one with some reckoning to do.”

Hess said nothing, but walked with him back to the house where six bleary-eyed young men were rousted, dressed, fed and put on their mounts in record time.

* * *

“I WONDERED WHEN YOU WOULD come see me,” Daisy said, hugging her sister.

“I saw you at dinner last week at Dorning House,” Jacaranda replied, though the final dinner of the house party had been more like a mêlée. “I know the children keep you busy, and I didn’t want to intrude.”

“Come.” Daisy took her hand and walked beside her through the tidy manor house. “Her Highness is asleep, and that’s the best time to visit her. Before I can get the tea tray ready, she’ll be up and fussing.”

Daisy led Jacaranda up the stairs to the third floor and quietly pushed open a door left slightly ajar. Still holding her sister’s hand, Daisy crossed the room, stopping beside a white bassinette.

“She’s beautiful, Daze.” The infant had her mother’s perfect skin, a thistledown head of white-blond hair, a perfect Cupid’s bow mouth, and the tiniest, sweetest little fingers.

“She’s beautiful now,” Daisy said. “Give it an hour, and she’ll be a terror. She puts me in mind of my own mother when Mama’s nerves are troubling her.”

They drew back from the sleeping infant, though Jacaranda wanted to linger. She already knew she wasn’t carrying Worth Kettering’s child, and while that was a relief—it truly was—it was also the unkindest cut.

“You’re wool-gathering again,” Daisy said when they’d repaired to a sunny morning parlor.

“I’m sorry. She’s a disconcertingly beautiful child.”

“Eric loves the children, which is why I don’t leave him.”

“I beg your pardon? Daisy Fromm, you aren’t thinking of leaving your husband? You’ve been married but five years.”

Was this why Jacaranda had come home? To prevent her sister from abandoning a marriage Jacaranda had resented for years?

“I know what you’re thinking.” Daisy took one seat and gestured for her sister to take the other. “We have three children, so we must be compatible in the essentials.”

“Daisy, your unwed sister is not the one to receive these confidences.” Jacaranda took her seat, wondering where her dear little sister had gone, leaving this tired, somewhat resigned-looking young matron in her place.

“Grey pulled me aside at dinner and said you and I are overdue for an honest chat. I thought it might help if you knew Eric and I have already descended into tolerating each other.”

Angels abide. “Of course it doesn’t help. Why would it help? What would it help?”

“Jack…Jacaranda, all those years ago, Eric was about to offer for you. He confided in me when we found ourselves on the garden swing in a shockingly friendly moment, one I am ashamed to say I instigated in part because Mama suggested Eric was trying to choose between us. I told him you weren’t inclined to marry. Otherwise, why would you have given me your portion?”

This revelation should have pierced Jacaranda to the quick. Instead, she stifled a curious inclination to snicker. “Oh, my poor Daisy.”

“I am Eric’s poor Daisy.” She fiddled with the tea service, an everyday Jasperware sporting a chip on the spout of the cream pitcher. “I don’t know how you can stand to look at me.”

“You were seventeen,” Jacaranda reminded her, “and Eric didn’t truly love me or he wouldn’t have been swayed by the money.” She’d taken five years to admit that, to see that she’d had a narrow escape.

Daisy glanced around at the tidy comfort of their surroundings. “Enough to buy this place and keep up the three tenant farms fairly well.”

“You’re doing the managing, aren’t you?” Unlike Jacaranda, Daisy wasn’t comforted by ordering a domestic universe for others.

“Eric isn’t a bad man,” Daisy said, peering into the teapot. The scent of a delicate gunpowder provoked memories of Trysting. “Eric is simply in want of guidance.”

“Do you suppose Francine is providing that exact guidance to her baron?” For Step-Mama’s campaign at Bath had borne fruit, and Daisy had a new step-papa, may God help the man.

“She’s beggaring him,” Daisy said dryly, “or she will soon. Grey says the money he’ll save not having to pay Mama’s bills will exceed what he would have spent on three house parties. I’m sorry you were plucked from Surrey, but Jacaranda, Mama was driving us all to Bedlam.”

“I’ve written her my best wishes and made a few suggestions for how she might curry favor with the baron’s housekeeper. I don’t believe she’ll take my suggestions to heart.”

They shared a sororal smile, then Daisy started giggling and Jacaranda was pouring tea, and five years of distance and hurt were eased aside in an afternoon.

As much as Jacaranda missed Worth, missed him bitterly moment by moment, she took some pleasure in knowing she’d at least put matters right with Daisy, who’d also been manipulated by Francine’s marital schemes. Jacaranda had hired Grey a housekeeper who would not tolerate juvenile behavior from grown men, and she’d written what would likely be her last letter to her step-mother for some time.

Dorning House was again the family home, and yet, the longer Jacaranda missed Worth, the more she realized that home for her was no longer a dwelling, but rather a certain handsome, ruthless, dear and difficult solicitor.

* * *

“YOU AND DAISY MUST HAVE found something to talk about,” Grey said as Jacaranda rode Goliath into the Dorning stable yard.

“I had to wait for the baby to wake up to properly dote on her.” Jacaranda let her brother help her dismount, a courtesy he wouldn’t have known to offer five years ago.

“Did Fromm show his face?”

“He did. He’s aged.” Not matured, aged. Poor Daisy.

“He has responsibilities,” Grey said carefully. He waited until a groom led Goliath away to speak further. “You didn’t call him out?”

“He offered me no dishonor I didn’t invite, Grey.” Jacaranda looped her arm through his, sparing herself his searching gaze. “I see him now, and he’s not an old man, but he’s going soft in the middle, his hair’s thinning, and he still has puny arms.”

“Puny arms? What has that to do with anything?”

“I doubt he could manage Goliath in a snaffle.” She gently guided her brother toward the house. “Eric has no bottom, so to speak, and he’s lucky Daisy will have him.”

“I see.”

“Do you? How much do you know, Grey?”

“More than I want to. Enough to know the topic can be dropped now and forever.”

“It can,” Jacaranda said, and what a relief that was, not to have to dodge and cringe and tiptoe around the past with either her sister or her oldest and dearest brother. The past was the past, and the future… Jacaranda had decided to return Goliath to his owner in person.

Maybe Worth had known she would?

And yet, Grey looked worried. “Does this mean I can bring up your former employer?”

“If you must.”

“Roberts will be returning to Surrey,” Grey said as he held the front door to the house for her—another small, dear courtesy he hadn’t shown her five years ago. “You could send along a note.”

“A lady does not correspond with a single gentleman to whom she is not related, unless to offer condolences or other socially acceptable sentiments.”

“Jacaranda, the poor blighter’s in love with you,” Grey said when they reached the family parlor. “For once in your life, have pity on the male of the species. Write to him.”

She was well and truly done having pity on the males of the species.

“What I have to say to Worth Kettering can be said in person, Grey. I’ve made the mistake once before of thinking my sentiments were returned, and I was egregiously in error. Now I know my sentiments are shared with the object of my affections, and I owe the man an honest recitation. His affection for me was not in doubt when I left Trysting, I can only hope he still holds me in high regard.”

Vaguely, she heard somebody clearing his throat behind her, but she went on even in front of some embarrassed footman, because Grey needed to let this drop once and for all.

“I have come home, I’ve seen you through the house party, I’ve sorted out matters with Daisy. I’ve put your house to rights, and even dispensed advice to Francine, but it’s time I put my own house in order, Grey.”

She’d known she loved Worth Kettering when she’d left Surrey. Now she knew that she needed him as well. She didn’t need him as a large household needed organization and effort to run smoothly, she needed him as a woman needs to love and be loved.

“Er, Jacaranda?” Grey, who never dithered, was dithering.

“You must simply learn to muddle along without me,” she went on, because this was something Grey should understand. “I have my own life to live, my own matters to tend to. I never told Worth Kettering I loved him. I didn’t think I deserved to impose my feeling on him, didn’t want to risk that he might not—what?”

Grey looked like he’d swallowed bad fish, but he managed to point over Jacaranda’s left shoulder. She turned and saw Worth Kettering standing in the family parlor, his expression arrested while the butler beside him wrung his hands.

“Lady Jacaranda has a caller. Mr. Worth Kettering,” the butler explained, his ears as red as the fall mums gracing the sideboard.

“Worth?” There he was, looking just as handsome and fit as ever, though not particularly happy.

“I’m sure you two have things to chat about.” Grey sketched a bow and escaped right behind the retreating butler, leaving Jacaranda ready to melt into a puddle of mortification.

Joyful mortification, if such a thing were possible.

“Have you come for your horse?” she asked, taking two steps into the family parlor.

Worth walked right past her and pulled the door shut with a definitive bang. The next thing she knew, he was kissing her like they’d been parted for years, not mere weeks.

Though weeks could be eternities when a woman was in love.

“So give me the words,” he growled. “Don’t make me drag them from you, because I haven’t come for the damned horse. I’ve come to retrieve my heart.”

“Your h-heart?”

“Say the words, Jacaranda, and then, by God, it’s my turn.”

“I’ve missed you,” she said, searching his face, for his mood was not that of a man glad to hear a lady’s declaration. His mood was like nothing she’d observed in him before.

He dropped his hands from her arms. “I’ve brought you a bank draft.”

“Thank you.” Because he could have resorted to the mails or to a messenger. He hadn’t, and Jacaranda’s heart rejoiced simply to see him.

“Don’t you want to know the amount of the draft?”

“You don’t owe me interest, Worth, not for a few weeks’ loan of such a paltry amount.”

Still his expression gave away nothing.

“I wanted you to have your cottage, Lady Jacaranda. I can go home again to Grampion in part because of you, and I wanted you to be able to buy your cottage, though that’s not all I want.”

He passed her an official-looking paper. Jacaranda couldn’t spare it a glance.

“You mean Complaisance Cottage?”

“If it’s ever for sale, you can afford it now.”

She glanced at the document and saw a sum many times what she’d lent him. “Worth, there’s a mistake. I know you are a conscientious solicitor, but this—”

“Thank the captain of the Drummond. My ship came in, so to speak.”

“Yolanda told me about the Drummond. She was very worried for you.” Jacaranda had worried for him, too, but not about his finances. Never that. “What did you do?”

“May we sit?”

Sitting meant he wasn’t leaving, and Jacaranda would get her turn to speak. “Of course. Shall I ring for tea?”

“Hang the damned tea.”

Hang the damned tea?

“Don’t look at me like I’ve sprouted horns, a tail and cloven feet.” He patted the place beside him. “Sit where my nose at least can plunder your charms.”

That sounded more promising, more like her Mr. Kettering. “Worth, you aren’t making sense.”

“No, I suppose I’m not.” He didn’t say another word until she’d dutifully taken her place exactly where she wanted to be, right against his side. “Better,” he said. “I invested your funds in shares in a ship thought lost at sea. The shares were available for a pittance, the cargo was very valuable, and here you are.”

Here you are, a small fortune, simple as that. “But why?”

“Because when you take your morning tea at your cottage, tossing the crumbs to the sea birds, I wanted you to think of me and the pleasures we shared. I wanted to make you happy, though you’ve said things that lead me to hope I might see this cottage.”

A pure, piercing joy curled up from Jacaranda’s middle. She’d been determined to fight to regain his esteem, but Worth was so generous, so kind, and his actions spoke so very, wonderfully loudly.

“The cottage is leased. Grey has to lease it out when he can, but I’d love to show it to you.”

Worth pushed her hair behind her ear. “Buy out the rest of the leasehold. You can afford it easily, my dear. Put a new steeple on the local church if it suits your whim. You’re modestly wealthy, Jacaranda, and you can do as you please.”

“I have a much better sense now of what will please me.”

“About time you had a care for your own happiness,” he said, glaring at her. “Which brings me to the next negotiating point.”

“You look very stern, Worth, but I am grateful for the money.”

“I care that”—he snapped his fingers before her nose—“for the money. You had ten shares, Jacaranda. I had two hundred, Prinny had two hundred, my brother had fifty, and the other forty were owned by other small investors.”

“Two hundred?”

“I did not think it wise to earn more than my sovereign.”

“Angels abide.” Two hundred? She gave up trying to do the math.

“You are stalling, Lady Jacaranda.” Worth still looked ferociously stern. “I overheard your charming diatribe to your brother and must disabuse you of an odd misperception.”

She did not say a word lest the hope beating in her chest find some foolish admission with which to mortify her.

“In some matters, a lady is not allowed to go first. I love you. Does that put your house in order? I want you for my wife and for my lady—I’m to suffer a damned barony for this summer’s folly. A knighthood simply won’t do when Prinny’s in a magnanimous mood. I want to wake up beside you every morning until I’m so old, I know you’re there only because your fragrance assures me it’s so. If I’d known you were willing, I would have brought a special license with me, for God’s sake. I love you, I will always love you. Is that clear enough?”

“You’re quite sure?” How she would love teasing him, and managing his households, and his babies, and his—

“I said…” He was winding up for a shouting match, and then he fell silent. He slid to his knee, and not in any romantically debonair posture. He laid his cheek against her thigh and circled her waist with his arms.

“I love you,” he said, quietly but clearly. “I did not feel it fair to inflict my sentiments on you when all you wanted was a frolic or some comfort when far from home. Then, I did not feel it fair to inflict my sentiments on you when your family needed you so. After that, I did not think it fair to make you choose between my importuning and setting things to rights with your siblings. I finally get up my courage to come here and pluck you from your fairy cottage, and I find you telling your damned idiot brother—”

She stroked her fingers over his hair.

“You didn’t let me have my turn, Worth. I’m slow at this business of setting things to rights. I must have a turn, too.”

“I’m a solicitor. We’re long-winded, and I’m not finished.” He subsided against her knees. “I love you, you make my house a home, you brought my family together. I have my brother back, a sister…” He fell silent again, holding her as if his every dream and wish hung on her next utterance, though he had to know how she felt.

Jacaranda took a moment to let wonder and joy flood through her while she tried to organize words that would equal the ones he’d given her. She slid to her knees, too, holding on to him as if he was her every happy memory, including those yet unborn.

“I love you, Worth Reverence Kettering. I love the physical strength and competence of you, the way you sit that great black beast as if you were born on his back—and he misses you, too, by the way. I love your mind, it’s as quick and brilliant as lightning, and I love your kindness to the opera dancers, and to me, and your family, and I love your generosity, for I know of no other who would share a fortune with both the Regent and the small investors, I love your body—”

He smothered the rest of her litany with his kisses, and right there on the floor behind the locked door to the Dorning family parlor, Lord and Lady Trysting conceived the first of their many lovely daughters.

They turned out to be great strapping beauties, with their father’s head for money and their mother’s ability to manage anything—and anybody—they took a fancy to.

And they all, all of them, with their cousins and uncles and eventually with some brave aunties as well, lived happily ever after.

THE END

Author’s Note

To my dear Readers,

I hope you enjoyed Worth and Jacaranda’s story, because I had great fun writing it. If you’re looking for my next Regency novel, which I also had a grand time concocting, that would be Jack—The Jaded Gentlemen, Book IV, which releases in June.

Sir John Dewey Fanning (Jack to his familiars) is magistrate of a corner of Oxfordshire plagued by one incident of petty mischief after another. To add to Jack’s aggravation, his mama and younger brother are joining his household for the winter, and his domestic staff can't seem to sort itself out.

He turns to the ever-competent and self-reliant Miss Madeline Hennessey to act as his mother's temporary companion, despite the fact that Jack has long harbored feelings for Miss Hennessey. Madeline reluctantly accepts the position, and proximity leads to investigations of an amorous nature. Can Jack stop the crime spree and steal Madeline's heart?

Order your copy of Jack—The Jaded Gentlemen, Book IV, here.

While we’re waiting for that story, you might want to take a peek at Dukes in Disguise, a Regency novella anthology I’ve written with Emily Greenwood and Susanna Ives. Three handsome, single dukes are laying low in Lesser Puddlebury, Yorkshire, in hopes of avoiding matchmakers and other perils. Their graces fail miserably, because true love often pops up in the most unlikely places.

Download your copy of Dukes in Disguise, here.

If you’d like to keep up with all of my releases, you can sign up for my newsletter, or stop by my website.

Happy reading!

Grace Burrowes

About Grace Burrowes

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Grace Burrowes hit the bestseller lists with her debut, The Heir, followed by The Soldier, Lady Maggie’s Secret Scandal, and Lady Eve’s Indiscretion. The Heir was a Publishers Weekly Best Book of 2010, Lady Sophie’s Christmas Wish won Best Historical Romance of the Year in 2011 from RT Reviewers’ Choice Awards, Lady Louisa’s Christmas Knight was a Library Journal Best Book of 2012, and The Bridegroom Wore Plaid, the first in her trilogy of Scotland-set Victorian romances, was a Publishers Weekly Best Book of 2012. Her second Scottish Victorian romance, Once Upon a Tartan, was also an RT Reviewers’ Choice winner, and Darius, the first in her groundbreaking Regency series The Lonely Lords, was named one of iBook Store’s Best Romances of 2013.

Grace is a practicing family law attorney and lives in rural Maryland. She loves to hear from her readers and can be reached through her website at graceburrowes.com.

FOREVER BETROTHED, NEVER THE BRIDE

by Christi Caldwell

Copyright © 2013 by Christi Caldwell

Cover Art by Kim Killion

Copy Edits by Lynn Crandall

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or borrow it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

For more information about the author:

christicaldwellauthor@gmail.com

www.christicaldwellauthor.com

To my two baby girls: I can’t wait to meet you! You have already shown the tremendous strength and power that all great heroines should possess.

To all my friends fighting for their happily ever after. Thank you for being with me on a very long journey. This is going to be your year.

Tremendous thanks to my amazing critique partners who took me under their wings years ago. You have been my cheerleaders not only in my writing pursuits, but also in life. A special thanks to Aileen Fish and Samantha Grace. None of this could have happened without your support.

Chapter 1

1817

London, England

Dearest Lord Drake,

Though you have never directly addressed me by name, I have decided I am far too old to be called Em. I ask you to instead call me Emmaline…that is, if you ever call upon me.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

Two elegant phaetons barreled along Oxford Street, bearing down on an old woman peddling her goods. The merchant paled and tried to shove her cart up on the pavement. It tipped, swayed, and then careened into the street. Both men in their high flyers pulled sharp on the reins. Nearby, a passing gentleman pushed the lady on his arm away from certain calamity.

A vulgar shout and frightened screams split the cacophony of mundane street sounds.

Lady Emmaline Rose Fitzhugh paused on the pavement and raised a hand to shield her eyes against the sun’s brightness. She frowned.

Lord Whitmore and Lord Cavenleigh. Two of Society’s most dandified fops.

Lord Whitmore tugged hard at the reigns and leapt from the still moving conveyance. “You filthy cow!” He raged at the poor woman in the street.

Lord Cavenleigh, jumped down from his carriage and muttered a string of curses.

Emmaline’s skin heated at the rather descriptive obscenities they unleashed on the woman. Having an older brother, she’d heard her fair share of inappropriate words, but Cavenleigh’s litany was rather original even on that score.

As the street erupted with the panicked cries of young ladies, the peddler bowed her head. Stringy gray hair straggled into her eyes. “Oi’m sorry, m-my lord.”

Cavenleigh kicked a tomato at the old woman, and splattered her skirts with the ripened fruit.

Emmaline gasped.

Her maid, Grace, took her by the arm and attempted to steer her away. “Please, come away, my lady.”

Emmaline ignored her efforts and rushed into the fray. “Cease, immediately.” She stepped into the street just as the assailant launched another tomato at the peddler.

The projectile missed its intended mark and splattered onto the embroidered lace edging of Emmaline’s ivory silk skirts.

Hands squared on her hips, she glared at the two men. “How dare you?”

Whitmore, with his slickly oiled and very deliberately curled red hair, stepped around Emmaline to launch a barrage of insults at the quaking woman. He brandished his riding crop. “Sorry? You’re sorry? We could have been killed and for what? Your meaningless life and rotten vegetables?”

Emmaline threw herself in front of the aged peddler. “What manner of gentlemen would torment a defenseless woman?”

“No, my lady,” Grace cried.

A tall figure stepped into the fray and positioned himself between Grace and the two assailants. Society knew the gentleman as the Marquess of Drake.

Emmaline knew him as her betrothed.

Lord Drake wrenched the whip from the cad’s fingers, cracked the instrument in half, and tossed the two pieces aside.

Emmaline swallowed hard. Lord Drake stood more than a head taller than her and possessed the kind of hardened masculine perfection Michelangelo would have ached to memorialize in stone. The harsh angles of his face bespoke power and commanded notice. With rugged cheeks, aquiline nose, and squared jaw, he conveyed raw vitality. The hint of a curl to his unfashionably long golden hair seemed suited to this real life David.

“You clearly have very little value for your life,” Drake said to the two fops who’d moments ago tormented the poor old woman.

Emmaline’s stare collided with Drake’s emerald eyes. The green irises pierced through her with heated intensity; robbed her of breath.

Get a hold of yourself, Em. He is just a man. A gloriously, stunning man—but that was neither here nor there.

She looked toward Whitmore and Cavenleigh. Cavenleigh had the good sense to stagger backwards and scurry from the incident like a rodent discovered by Cook in the kitchens.

Lord Drake returned his focus to the red-haired assailant who’d wielded the weapon. He grabbed him by the wrist and applied such pressure, the man gasped.

A hiss of pain whistled past Whitmore’s lips. “For the love of God, man…” Whitmore pleaded.

“Had your whip hit its mark, you’d be facing me at dawn.” Drake’s voice was a silken promise. “What’s your name, pup?”

Whitmore swallowed, as though he’d been forced to scrape up a rotten tomato from the grimy pavement and swallow it whole. “L-Lord W-Whitmore.”

“Beg the lady’s pardon, Witless.”

A laugh escaped Emmaline.

Whitmore glared at her.

His actions did not escape Drake’s astute gaze. Lord Drake tightened his grip and the dandy whimpered like a naughty child who’d just had a birch rod put to his person by a too stern nursemaid. “Apologize.”

The young lord turned to Emmaline. “I-I’m sorry, my lady. M-my apologies,” he croaked.

She folded her arms across her chest and nodded pointedly at the old woman. “I say, you rather owe the both of us an apology.”

Whitmore’s eyes rounded with shocked indignation. “You’re mad.”

Lord Drake squeezed again.

“M-My apologies, my lady.”

Her betrothed jerked his chin in the peddler’s direction. “Now, the woman.”

Whitmore blinked; his pale white cheeks flamed a crimson red to match the bright hue of his hair. “Stupid old cow and her rotten vegetables nearly killed us.” He motioned down the expanse of his peacock blue satin breeches. “And look at this stain. Why, Brummell himself would have been proud to wear these.” The young man’s whining tone indicated he considered the attack on his wardrobe to be an equally grave affront.

The peddler’s chin fell to her chest as if she tried to make herself as small as possible.

Unable to remain silent any longer, Emmaline took a step toward the young fop. “Stupid, Lord Whitmore?” Passing a cursory glance over his frame, Emmaline shook her head. She nudged a tomato with the tip of her already ruined ivory satin slipper. “First of all, a tomato is a fruit, not a vegetable. Secondly,” it was her turn to gesture at the garment in question. “those breeches were ruined long before this incident.”

Whitmore frowned. “I don’t understand, my lady.”

Lord Drake’s chuckle tugged her attention momentarily in his direction. His lips quirked upward in a devastating smile that quickened her heart’s pace. “I believe that is the lady’s point, Whitmore,” Lord Drake drawled.

Whitmore’s gasp forced Emmaline’s attention away from her betrothed.

Enraged awareness dawned in the dandy’s eyes. “You witch.”

Emmaline took a step closer to Lord Drake.

A single black look from the marquess forced Whitmore to an ignoble halt. Drake leaned down close to the man and whispered something intended solely for the dandy’s ears.

All color leached from the brute’s cheeks. His head tipped up and down like a bobbing ship caught in a squall on the Channel. “M-my a-a-apologies, my lady.”

Drake dropped Whitmore’s wrist and wiped his hands back and forth as though he’d been sullied by the other man’s skin. His lethal glare froze the coward in his spot.

Whitmore cleared his throat. “What I’d intended to say, my lady, is that your rich beauty robbed me of any sense.” He looked to Lord Drake as he recited each word, indicating they were by no means original thoughts belonging to the jackanapes.

“One more thing,” Drake said.

With obvious reluctance, the humiliated dandy reached into the front of his elaborate, violet-hued floral jacket. He withdrew a bag of coins, stared at it forlornly, and then offered it to the peddler. “Here.”

The peddler’s eyes widened.

“Take it,” Drake said. There was an underlying warmth to his gruff tone.

With downcast eyes, the woman reached out and accepted the bag.

Drake returned his steely gaze to Whitmore. “I suggest you leave.”

When the other man continued to eye the bag in the woman’s hands with a blend of longing and bitter rage, Drake added, “Now.”

Whitmore reached down, scooped up the remnants of his short whip, and then clambered into his phaeton. He shot one last black look at the peddler and Emmaline, before striking his white mount with a piece of his crop. His phaeton resumed its reckless path down the street. Emmaline stared after the carriage, glad to be free of Whitmore’s loathsome company.

When Whitmore had gone, she turned back to the peddler. “Are you hurt?”

“No, my lady,” the woman whispered. Fat teardrops filled her eyes and spilled over onto her cheeks. She sniffed and dashed a hand across her nose. “My lady, my lord, oi thank you.”

Drake stepped out into the street. The heels of his gleaming black Hessian boots sank into a pile of rotten produce as he effortlessly righted the upended cart. Then, reaching into his jacket front, he pulled out a bag of coins, and returned to the old woman’s side. “Here.” He gently placed the bag in her dirt-encrusted fingers.

“Oi-Oi, thank you, my lord. Many blessings to you both.” She dipped an awkward curtsy and pushed her nearly emptied cart down the road.

Emmaline watched after her until she’d disappeared from sight.

With the excitement now over, Oxford Street and its passersby returned to their daily humdrum. Lord Drake turned his focus to Emmaline. “Have you been hurt, Lady Emmaline?”

She blinked. Then sighed. Maybe not in that order. Her mind seemed a bit…muddled. Yes, it was muddled. And her heart beat an oddly rapid rhythm in her chest—thumpthumpthumpthump. She tried to catch her breath but failed miserably.

And then realized what had happened. “Oh dear,” she said.

The earlier rage she’d seen in Lord Drake’s jade eyes faded to warm concern. He took a step towards her and Emmaline backed up a step. “My lady?”

“Oh dear,” she muttered beneath her breath. She’d read a fair number of poems and gothic novels to recognize certain telltale signs of that which ailed her. The books all indicated one’s heart would race; one would be at a loss for words, and one would forget to breath. Yes, Emmaline knew what the onslaught of symptoms she’d been besieged by indicated—she’d gone and fallen in love.

“My lady?” Lord Drake and her maid repeated in unison.

Emmaline crashed back down to reality. The first thing she became aware of was that her toes were exceedingly chilly. She glanced down into the muddy puddle her slippers now called home and wrinkled her nose. A rather odd-smelling puddle of filthy water, crushed tomatoes, cabbage, and Lord knew what else.

With the tip of her right foot, she pushed aside the stray purple leaf clinging to her other slipper.

“My lady?” Lord Drake interrupted her musings.

Her head snapped up. What did he say? Her mind tried to drag up his recent question so she might form a suitable reply.

“Just splendid.” There, that seemed like a perfectly, splendid response.

A smile pulled at the corners of his lips. “Uh, well you may find the stench of that puddle splendid but I must insist it is foul. Regardless of who is correct, might I offer you my arm?”

Emmaline wished said puddle were about five-feet-one inch deeper so she could sink beneath its surface.

She stared at his outstretched hand until her maid cleared her throat, and jerked her back to the moment. Emmaline placed her fingers in his. He tucked them into the fold of his elbow and carefully guided her away from the remnants of the cart.

“Thank you, my lord.”

That was the best I could come up with—just thank you? She grimaced and stole a peek from the corner of her eye to gauge his reaction to her less than stimulating repartee. Couldn’t she have offered some witty banter, as so many other ladies would have managed?

His expression may as well have been carved from granite.

Emmaline had never been a flirt, so she settled for honesty. “What you did for that peddler…and me, was—heroic.”

If she hadn’t raised her gaze at that precise moment, she would have missed the way his strong, square jaw tightened.

“I would hardly call it heroic, my lady.” His words sounded curiously flat.

Emmaline dug her heels in, and forced him to stop. She motioned to the sea of preoccupied lords and ladies. “Look around, my lord. Look how busy the street is. There are ladies and gentlemen rushing about, and not one of them stepped forward.”

He gently steered her ahead. “That isn’t quite true.”

Emmaline looked at him askance.

“You placed yourself between the peddler and the dandies,” he said.

She beamed.

“What would possess you to do something so reckless?”

An errant lock of hair escaped her chignon and fell across her eye. She blew it back, but it fell right back into place. Forgetting the recalcitrant strand, she again dug her heels in and forced him to a stop.

Emmaline looked up at Lord Drake. “What would you have had me do? Allow them to beat the poor woman?”

A growl lodged in his throat. “I would rather you hadn’t placed yourself in harm’s way.”

If he hadn’t sounded so surly about it, Emmaline would have sighed like a debutante at her first ball. Instead, “I couldn’t just let them hurt her. What kind of person would I be if I’d allowed that?”

The corner of his lips lifted ever so slightly. He motioned for Emmaline to continue walking. “A safe one.”

“Ahh, but what is safety without honor?”

He looked at a point over her shoulder. “Honor is an oftentimes overestimated word with little meaning, my lady.”

A frisson of distress traveled along Emmaline’s spine, and in spite of the unseasonable warmth of the day, gooseflesh dotted her arms. She hadn’t failed to miss the bleakness in Lord Drake’s distracted stare, and found herself, yet again, at a loss.

“Might I see you home, Lady Emmaline?”

A cowardly sense of relief that she’d been saved from replying to his previous, baleful statement assailed her. Lord Drake wanted to escort her home? Had he asked, she would have taken tea in the muddy puddle he’d rescued her from. Still, it wouldn’t do to come across as too eager. “I would be grateful, my lord.”

They walked along in silence and Emmaline mourned the passing of each block that brought her closer to home.

She caught her lower lip between her teeth and searched her mind for something to discuss. The weather…? What clever young lady would discuss something as mundane as the weather?

“Your earlier actions were brave, Lady Emmaline—and I respect them.”

She blinked. “Well, I really hadn’t been expecting that from you, my lord.”

He continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “But still foolish.”

“Now, that I expected.”

A deep laugh rumbled up from his chest. “I’ve been boorish today. Forgive me.”

“Yes, yes, I say you have,” she said, under her breath.

He raised a single brow. “I beg your pardon?”

Emmaline nodded. “Very well, since you are begging.” His brow furrowed. “I’m teasing, my lord,” she said. She shook her head. “You’ve been nothing but honorable, brave, and heroic—a true gentleman.” The effusive praise spilled from her lips with all sincerity and she willed herself to silence. Alas, she’d never been one to dissemble.

“We’ve arrived,” he said.

Emmaline shook her head, but Lord Drake gave a slight nod.

She looked up at the white finish of her brother’s townhouse and groaned.

Lord Drake’s gaze snapped to her. “Are you certain you were not injured earlier? Did you turn your ankle?”

He had a look as if he were about to draw her skirts back and peek for himself, which sent her heart sputtering wildly.

If she’d been brazen or clever, she would have feigned an injury blocks ago. But alas… “No, no. I assure you, I’m fine.”

Her brother’s aging butler pulled open the front door. Emmaline jumped, and pressed a hand to her breast. Goodness, the man could shock a ghost.

Lord Drake took a step away from her and offered a deep bow. “I am glad you were uninjured. I bid you good day, my lady.”

Without awaiting a response, he turned on his heel and continued down the street. Emmaline stared after him until his figure faded from sight, and then entered the townhouse.

She’d been betrothed to Lord Drake for fifteen years. In that time, their contact had been limited to passing greetings and letters she’d written to him—letters which she’d never bothered sending. This, could therefore, be considered the first real interaction she’d had with him…and in a heroic fashion, he’d come to her aid. Perhaps he’d been so captivated by her act of bravery, as he’d called it, that he, too, had fallen madly in love with her. Even now, he might very well be strolling down the streets, unable to formulate a coherent thought, unable to think about anything other than the sight of her.

Emmaline sniffed. “What is that smell?” She looked down and her nose scrunched at the stench clinging to her skirts. Why, he surely failed to even note the rotten fruit smattered all over her beautiful ivory gown.

Yes, she was certain Lord Drake would begin courting her.

Any day.

Chapter 2

My Dearest Lord Drake,

I am perturbed with you. You should have informed me that once I indulged in Father’s brandy, it would hardly be a secret. I was sick for two whole days….and in no small amount of trouble.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

DRAKE WEAVED IN AND OUT of the tables at White’s. He didn’t return the waves or greetings thrown his way. His gaze was trained on one particular spot in the far corner.

He drew to a halt in front of Lord Sinclair.

“What do you know about Lord Whitmore?” Drake said in the same commanding voice that had served him well during his time in the military.

Lord Sinclair glanced up. He had the distinction of being the one person Drake considered a friend. “Well, good to see you, too. I’ve only been waiting here an hour for your always agreeable company.”

Without preamble, Drake tugged out a chair and sat. Reaching across the table for the bottle, he poured himself a glass of whiskey, and took a long sip. He relished the trail the hot liquid burned down his throat.

“Whitmore,” Drake repeated. “What do you know of him?”

Sinclair raised a brow. “My, what a foul mood you’re in.”

“Sinclair?”

“Very well. Other than the fact that he dresses like an ass?”

Drake drummed his fingers along the tabletop. “Don’t state the obvious.”

Sin’s brow furrowed. “Overly fond of the gaming tables and rumored to have a hot temper. Also known as something of a mother’s boy. Why?”

Drake stared into the contents of his drink. “What do you know about Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh?” He looked up when Sin remained silent.

Sin blinked. “Uh-I, do you mean your betrothed?”

Drake waved his hand. “Is there another Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Sin answered with a tad too much humor.

Drake kicked him under the table.

“Ouch,” Sin muttered. His lips pulled in a tight grimace. “What is that God awful smell?”

“My boots.”

“Why do—”

“Enough about my boots, Sin. What do you know of her?”

“Rather unremarkable. She’s never been considered a diamond of the first water. She’s barely an inch beyond five feet and is remarkably un-curved in all the areas a lady should be curved.”

Drake opened his mouth to protest but Sin continued. “Her plain, dull brown coloring has never attracted any notice. Her lips are too full for…”

“Enough,” Drake snapped. He fought back an overwhelming urge to drag his friend across the table and plant him a facer.

Sin frowned. “But I thought you wanted to know about her.”

“I know what she bloody well looks like.” Drake heard the frosty bite to his own tone but couldn’t stifle it. Christ, how could Sin and Society be so very wrong about Emmaline? Her brown hair put him in mind of deep chocolate. And she had the most interesting dusting of freckles along the tip of her nose. His lips twitched. He’d never known anyone with dark hair to suffer from the blemishes and found it, well, rather endearing. And her lips, too full for fashion’s dictates put Drake in mind of wicked thoughts.

Sin picked up his drink and downed a long, slow swallow. “So then what would you like to know?” He reached for the bottle, poured himself another, and swirled the contents of the glass. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to know more.”

Drake forced himself to take a casual sip. He thought about his chance encounter with Lady Emmaline. Since he’d returned from the Peninsula three years ago, hailed in the papers as some kind of war hero, he’d gone out of his way to avoid his betrothed. He’d been tied to Lady Emmaline for more than half of his life, and yet knew next to nothing about her. As much as he wanted to find out more about the intriguing creature, he was loathe to show any outward interest, even to his friend. Oh, the fun Sin would have at his expense. “I happened to come upon Lady Emmaline this afternoon.”

Sinclair arched a dark brow. “Oh?”

Since the moment Drake had witnessed Emmaline place herself between the old peddler woman and a gentleman’s riding crop, aside from concern for her well-being, he’d been unable to think of anything but his betrothed. Before that moment, if you’d asked him if a lady of Quality would ever risk her own safety for a common woman on the street, he’d have scoffed at the ludicrousness of such a notion. Now, the image of Lady Emmaline, like some kind of warrior princess defending her keep, would be an image forever emblazoned on his mind.

Drake shifted uncomfortably. “For the last time, what do you know about the lady?”

Sin shrugged. “I don’t know much about her.”

“Not much? You know next to everything about everyone.”

“I know she’s a wallflower.”

Drake sat back in his chair, flummoxed. “Impossible.” A woman whose eyes could blaze with such life while challenging two men could never be a wallflower. Wallflowers were content to be dull creatures seated on the sidelines, escaping any notice. They were not clever young ladies with cheeky retorts.

Sinclair leaned forward in his chair. “Oh?”

Drake’s skin heated. Good God, he couldn’t be embarrassed. He tugged uncomfortably at his cravat. No, surely it was just that his cravat was too tight. “I had an encounter with Lady Emmaline a short while ago.”

When Sinclair’s brows shot up to his hairline, Drake realized his words could be mistaken for something more lascivious in nature.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped.

Like a babe looking for a story from his nursemaid, Sin propped his arms on the table and stared at Drake with impatient eyes.

Drake sighed, and then proceeded to recount the events he’d witnessed. When he concluded his story, Sin sat back heavily in his chair, with arms folded across his chest. “Humph.”

“That’s it? Just ‘humph’?”

Sinclair raised one brow. “What would you have me say? Sounds like a rather dangerous thing for the lady to do.”

Discounting the fact that Drake had the very same reaction with Lady Emmaline, he took a long swallow of whiskey. “You are missing the point, Sin.”

“Oh? And what is the point?”

Drake dragged a hand through his hair. Was the point that his betrothed had bewildered him? Or was the point that he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her since the moment he’d seen her challenging Whitmore and his crony?

The irony wasn’t lost on him. For the past three years, he’d forced thoughts of Lady Emmaline from his mind. He’d ignored the contract between them. If he’d returned from the Peninsula as the same man he’d been before the war, fulfilling his duty to her would have been somewhat easier. Not palatable but an obligation he would have fulfilled, nonetheless.

“If you admire her, perhaps you should claim her.”

Drake grunted.

Sin raised his tumbler in mock salute. “I imagine marriage based on mutual admiration is a good deal more than most unions are built from.”

Drake thought about his feisty intended, her eyes sparkling with flashes of defiance and courage, her rose hued lips made for sinning, pursed tight with fury. He silently tacked desire to Sin’s components of a successful marriage.

Drake picked up his glass and drained the remaining contents. At this rate, he’d be drunk before supper. “There is no mutual admiration.”

His friend scoffed. “No? Are you really so modest to believe she couldn’t admire you?”

Drake set his tumbler down hard enough to rattle the table. “For what? I’m…”

A madman. A monster. A beast. If he were less of a coward he’d come right out and share the truth with Sinclair. Consumed by restive energy, his gaze skimmed the club. Some gentlemen laughed uproariously while others chatted with friends and acquaintances. Once upon a lifetime ago, he’d been at ease around other people, too.

Sin didn’t press his line of questioning, and for that Drake was grateful. Instead, his friend reached for the bottle of whiskey and poured himself another glass. Then, he leaned over and filled Drake’s glass. “I’m assuming it was quite a sight seeing Lady Emmaline challenge a gentleman.” He paused. “As much as one can consider Whitmore a gentleman.”

Drake smiled and toyed with the rim of his glass. “I thought I could no longer be surprised by a woman. I learned otherwise, today.”

“Sounds like marriage to the lady might not be the worst of fates.”

Drake made an impatient sound. “Marriage to me isn’t in her best interest.”

“You are the most honorable man I know,” Sin said.

There it was again. That word he loathed with every fiber of his honorable being. Emmaline had described his actions as honorable, had looked at him as some kind of hero. He managed a half grin for his friend. “That isn’t saying much about the men you know.

Sin shook his head but didn’t press the point. “Sooner or later, you are going to have to do right by the young lady.”

Great. First his father, now his best friend.

But that was the rub of it all. Sin merely spoke the truth. Fact: a betrothal contract had been signed between his family and Emmaline’s. Fact: the young lady was past her twentieth year and required a husband. Fact: Drake just couldn’t bring himself to commit to a wife. He could not subject any woman to the madness that plagued him.

He picked up his glass and rolled it between his fingers, studying the shimmering gold of the brew. The shade reminded him of the glint in her eyes when—he shook his head forcefully. “I need a mistress.”

Sinclair snorted. “You need a wife.”

Drake ignored him. He needed a woman who was safe, a woman who wouldn’t look at him with any kind of adoration, and wouldn’t desire anything from him, other than his prowess in the bedroom. These were the kind of entanglements that were safe, devoid of any emotional connection.

Yet why did the thought of setting up a mistress seem like a chore?

Chapter 3

Dearest Lord Drake,

What I am about to write is exceedingly intimate. I pray you will not judge but I can no longer keep silent.

I must confess my deep, adoring love—for gardening.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

EMMALINE COULDN’T SLEEP.

Even if she could, she most assuredly would still be awake. Unlike the majority of the ton, she loved mornings because she appreciated any and all time away from the smug, condescending members of Society.

It had been three weeks since the incident with Lord Whitmore. And in three weeks she hadn’t heard word from Lord Drake. Following the encounter with her betrothed, Emmaline had believed she’d finally garnered his notice and a real courtship was imminent.

She snorted. So much for love.

Or admiration.

Or childish dreams.

With her maid trailing at a distance, Emmaline marched through the western part of Hyde Park, until she came upon Kensington Gardens. The fiery sun peeked just over the horizon, dousing the dawn sky in ethereal hues of burnt flame. She paused to appreciate the light playing off the abundant foliage of the cascading elm. A faint breeze caught hold, stirring the long row of horse chestnut trees. She glanced up and briefly closed her eyes on a smile, as a handful of white leaves sprinkled with red dots fluttered down to the earth. They tickled her skin, and then continued their path to the pavement.

God bless Queen Caroline for having been an avid gardener with the good sense to celebrate the beauty of the land. Men might own the land, but women rejoiced in its splendor.

At last, Grace caught up, her round, girlish cheeks red from her efforts. “My lady, would you like…?”

Emmaline held a hand up. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what, my lady?”

Her ears pricked up. “There. A faint whistling.”

Grace fought back a yawn and lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. “I don’t hear anything, my lady.”

Emmaline cocked her head, and listened. There it was again. Almost like the sound of a whipcord slicing through the air. “That.” She started off in the direction of the odd noise.

Grace groaned. “My lady, can’t we just…” Her words were lost as Emmaline’s quick steps put space between them.

Emmaline’s chest rose and fell from the rapid pace she’d set. She chewed her lip and surveyed the area.

Nothing.

Her maid finally caught up, wheezing slightly. She bent over and placed her hands upon her knees, taking in several deep breaths. “My lady, please, stop. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“Just rest a moment, Grace. I’ll take a short turnabout. I’ll not go far.”

A flash of gratitude lit the maid’s hazel eyes, and she nodded, brushing away a stray lock of brown hair.

Emmaline hurried down the meticulous stone path that emptied out into one of the many private floral gardens. The collective beauty of the bright array brought her up short. For Christmas, her brother had given her the oddest contrivance. A tube containing loose pieces of glass inside and clever little configurations. He’d told her it was called a kaleidoscope; explaining that “kalos” was the Greek word for beautiful and “scopos” for watcher. All winter Emmaline had pointed the apparatus up at the light and peered through the tube, admiring the shifting patterns of color. Kensington Gardens never ceased to stun her with its vital beauty. With the pale pink of the spotted orchid, the effervescent hue of the violet bluebells interspersed with the lilac-white of the cuckooflower; it was like its own kaleidoscope of nature’s beauty.

She searched the area and her gaze settled on a lone gentleman with his back to her, swinging his walking stick. His fluid movements cut a swath through a blanket of pale blue forget-me-nots, as he severed the heads off the buds.

Emmaline gasped. She raced over. “Whatever are you doing?”

Startled, the tall stranger spun around. Lord Avondale.

His ornate stick soared through the air, and landed with a soft thump amidst the blue blooms. He folded his arms across his chest and peered down his long nose. “I assure you, I’ve not come for company.”

If her brother Sebastian, the powerful Duke of Mallen didn’t intimidate her, this reed-thin fellow with his elfin-pointed ears and mottled skin certainly wasn’t going to, either. “And I assure you, sir, the forget-me-nots had far grander hopes than decapitation by your stick on this glorious day.”

The man angled his head. “They’re just plants.”

Emmaline’s eyes slid closed. Whitmore and the fruit. This idiot and flowers. It was a wonder men held the power they did.

“They are flowers,” a deep voice said dryly.

Emmaline spun on her heel so quickly, her foot slid. She fought to maintain her balance.

Lord Drake.

Their gazes caught and held. Emmaline’s heart fluttered in her chest.

Then she remembered Drake’s blatant disregard since their meeting three weeks prior. Her mouth tightened. The bounder had better have some choice words for Avondale’s treatment of the flowers to redeem himself.

Drake shifted his attention to Lord Avondale.

“Avondale.”

“Drake.”

They exchanged bows.

Emmaline folded her arms across her chest and tapped her foot. Drake’s pleasant greeting of Lord I-Kill-Poor-Defenseless-Flowers was certainly not the fierce rebuke she’d hoped. “Ahem.”

Drake sighed. “My apologies. Avondale and I go back to university days. Avondale, may I present Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh? Lady Emmaline, Lord Avondale.”

Her toe ceased tapping mid-movement and hovered a hairsbreadth above the ground. “I don’t want an introduction.”

Avondale straightened the lapels of his maroon jacket. “Well, I say—”

Emmaline spun to face him. “You’ll say what? You had no business destroying the flowers.”

Avondale blinked. “They are just…”

She looked back just in time to see Drake shake his head and realized…he didn’t understand, either.

They weren’t just flowers. Considered small and fragile by most, they were a good deal more resilient and important. They could survive an unexpected frost or chilling deluge and remain unscathed. In spite of their gentle strength, they were viewed as nothing more than a thing of beauty set aside for Society’s pleasure, subject to the whim and fancy of a cruel world that held them in little esteem. When in reality they were so much more. They were the lifeblood of human existence. In that regard, they were not unlike women, which is what made the men’s dismissal so infuriating. It only served as a reminder of Drake’s disinterest, his total lack of caring for her. Why, she was not very different from the bud, trampled beneath man’s place in Society.

Drake said something to Avondale. Her eyes narrowed. She took a step forward. “They are just what?” Emmaline said with lethal calm.

The two men fell silent and eyed her. Avondale had the good sense to be alarmed by her expression. He took a step back and looked to Drake, a helpless gleam in his eyes.

Apparently taking pity on the other man, Drake inserted himself between Emmaline and Lord Avondale. “I’m sure you have pressing business to attend to.”

Avondale nodded vigorously and turned back to the cluster of flowers.

Emmaline gasped. “What do you think you’re doing?”

He scratched his head. “Collecting my cane?”

“Are they really so unimportant that you would grind them beneath the heel of your boots?” Or fail to call for years and years?

“I—”

She pointed a finger at him. “Do not answer that question. You most certainly are not trampling through this garden to retain your weapon.”

A chuckle escaped Drake.

Emmaline speared him with a look, and then returned her attention to Avondale. “I will not allow you to—”

Drake interceded. “Why don’t I purchase you a new walking stick?”

The man gave another tug at his lapels. “That won’t be necessary. I’ve plenty of others.”

Just as Drake most assuredly has other women.

Avondale gave a perfunctory bow and made his good-byes. Leaving her alone with Drake.

“Coward,” she muttered, though the rebuke wasn’t solely reserved for Lord Avondale.

“My lady—”

Emmaline swiveled on her heel and planted her hands on hips. “How could you let him leave after what he did?”

A swift surge of icy fury filled his eyes and an animalistic groan gurgled up from his throat. Emmaline froze. She’d never borne witness to such emotion and her mind numbingly tried to process what words or actions had triggered his response. She took a step back and quickly looked around for the hint of danger that had unleashed this savage creature.

“Did he hurt you?”

His words brought her up short. She cocked her head. “Hurt me? No.” She gestured dumbly to the fragile blue flowers, besieged by a sudden wave of hot embarrassment. “He hurt the forget-me-nots.”

The tension remained in Drake’s stiffly held frame. “He forgot what?”

Emmaline briefly closed her eyes, and shook her head. “The forget-me-nots.”

When he continued to eye her with puzzlement, she dropped her hand, and gestured to the ground. “The flowers.”

Drake laughed and pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead as though he were trying to rid himself of a devilish headache. “What would you have me do? Make Avondale plant new ones?”

This was all a game to him. He would no more do right by those ruined flowers than he would by her. She squared her jaw. “Do you find this amusing?”

“I should think by my reaction you can deduce I’m not amused,” he said.

Emmaline bristled at the condescending edge to his words. “You did just laugh.”

Drake took a step toward her and she retreated. He continued to advance, and this time she held her ground. He leaned down, his lips inches from her ear. The faint hint of coffee lingered on his breath, tickled her senses. The rising sun played with the strands of his flaxen hair, and created a pallet of golden hues and a memory intruded.

He was thirteen and she five. With his blonde crown of curls, he looked like a prince. Her innocent heart had danced with excitement at the prospect, and she had wanted to ask him if it were true. Even back then, his lips had been bent in a serious frown as he ignored her completely, and the question had died on her lips.

“Is this to become commonplace, my lady?”

She gave her head a shake. “I’m sorry?”

“As you should be. Interrupting a gentleman’s solitude.”

She ground her teeth.

Drake touched the line of her jaw. “If you continue to grit your teeth so hard you are going to give yourself a megrim.”

Under most any other circumstances she’d have delighted in her betrothed’s touch. Not, however, on this occasion. His insolence stirred her blood. She removed his finger from her person. “I was not apologizing.”

“You said ‘I’m sorry.’ ”

“For not understanding your question,” she snapped. “You asked if this was to become commonplace.”

A lull of silence descended. Drake eyed her with an unfathomable expression. “Is this to be the rest of my life? Am I to constantly be rescuing you from a series of scrapes?”

Emmaline fought back a wave of indignation. “I didn’t ask or need to be rescued by you.”

“My lady?” a voice called softly.

Emmaline and Drake spun to face her startled maid at the entrance of the gardens.

“We are leaving, Grace.” She gave a toss of her head. “And you, my lord, can return to, whatever consumed your thoughts before you came to my rescue.” She executed a perfectly respectable, deep curtsy. “You clearly need to work toward developing a greater appreciation for all life.”

The air left Drake’s lungs on a sudden exhale. “You are indeed correct, my lady.”

His agreement brought her up short. She quickly recovered. Giving a toss of her head, she nodded. “I bid you good day, my lord.”

Chapter 4

Dearest Lord Drake,

I attended my first play. I informed my mother and father that if I hadn’t been born the daughter of a duke, I would have had a career on the stage. Of course, that would have required I be a competent actress and singer—which sadly, I am neither. Still, I enjoy the stage tremendously. Perhaps we will one day attend the theatre together.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

ONE HOUR AND TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES, and one long walk later, Emmaline’s fury was still a palpable force with life energy. The rub of it all was that she couldn’t single out what had left her most infuriated.

Drake’s disregard for the flowers.

Or Drake’s disregard for her.

No, that wasn’t true. She knew very well the reason for her upset.

She stomped up the steps of her brother’s townhouse. Carmichael, the family butler with his uncanny ability to know when visitors had arrived, pulled open front doors and she sailed through the entrance.

“My lady, Miss Winters is here. I took the liberty of having her wait in the Yellow Parlor.”

That brought Emmaline up short. She looked at the butler and smiled her first smile since…since…

Two very arrogant males had shattered her attempt at solitude. Her smile fell.

“Thank you, Carmichael.” She marched to the parlor. A visit with Sophie Winters was just the thing she needed.

Emmaline entered the room.

Her friend sat on the sofa, covetously eyeing an array of pastries and various other confections Cook had prepared.

The tray rested beside an unopened copy of the London Times.

“Hullo, Sophie.”

Sophie looked up. A smile wreathed her full, heart-shaped cheeks. “Em, I hope you don’t mind my early….” Her brow furrowed. “What is it?”

Emmaline plopped into the seat beside Sophie. She drummed her fingernails on the arm of the chair. She could say with a great degree of certainty that in her twenty years she’d been wrong on many scores.

At this precise moment, some things stood out more than others.

She’d been confident that upon reaching the advanced age of twenty she would have at least three things settled.

Firstly, she would have a home of her own.

Secondly, there would be a dog to cuddle with on cold days.

And, lastly, a husband to also cuddle with on cold days.

As it was, sitting on the chintz sofa in her brother’s parlor, she did not have a home of her own. Nor, for that matter did she have a dog. And most of all, she unequivocally did not have a husband. What she did have, as she had for the better part of her life, was a betrothed.

“Em?”

Emmaline shook her head. “I came upon a brute cutting the heads off a bed of forget-me-nots.”

Sophie wrinkled her nose. “What cad would do such a thing?”

Finally, a rational person.

“Lord Avondale.” She chose not to mention Lord Drake’s involvement. Giving her fingers something to do, she snapped up the copy of the Times.

“Avondale,” Sophie muttered. “He was one of the gentlemen Mother hoped I’d make a match with in my first Season.”

“Consider yourself spared.” Emmaline scanned the front of the London Times before flipping to the next story. Her eyes snagged on a name at the center of the page and she bolted upright.

It appeared a certain Marquess of D had secured the affections of the recent Opera sensation from Italy, Signora Nicolleli. The papers reported her to be talented, vivacious, and stunningly elegant. etcetera, etcetera…

Emmaline tossed the paper aside, her eyes boring into the offensive sheets.

Thinking on it, she picked up the paper and crushed it into a sloppy ball and threw it to the floor. Since it did not make her feel better, she reached for it again.

Sophie snatched the copy, intercepting Emmaline’s efforts. “I’ll take that.” She unwrinkled the ball and ran a smoothing hand over the surface several times and read for herself. She muttered something a lady of good Quality should never think, let alone breathe aloud. “I’ve seen her. She really isn’t that beautiful.” She smiled unconvincingly at Emmaline.

Emmaline’s eyes narrowed. “Liar.” There was something disheartening in going through life being considered tolerably pleasing, as the papers had labeled Emmaline in her first Season. She waved a hand over herself. “It is no wonder he has no interest in marrying me.” That, and as he’d pointed out, the fact he’d had to rescue her on two separate occasions. She snorted. As though she needed rescuing. Why, with his scandalous pursuits and history, he probably needed rescuing a good deal more than Emmaline ever had or would.

Emmaline sighed. “Thank you for your support, Sophie, but it isn’t necessary. I know what I look like.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Em. You are utterly lovely.” Sophie spoke with such stringent confidence, had Emmaline been anyone else, she might have believed her.

Emmaline pointed her eyes to the ceiling. “Come, Sophie. I’ve already come to terms with the fact I will never be considered a great beauty.”

“Why, you have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”

Leave it to Sophie to remind her of the one attribute she could not find much fault with. For all her plainness, Emmaline’s eyes were pleasing. Her father used to say they were the color of warmed chocolate, and through them, her every emotion could be revealed. As a girl, it had sounded so poetic. Now, grown up, she’d come to find such transparency was anything but positive amidst the gossiping ton.

At thoughts of her father, she sighed. He’d been gone now three years and the pain of that loss still hurt.

As she and Sophie nibbled at their pastries, Emmaline contemplated her circumstances.

Her frustration stemmed from so much more than Lord Drake’s avoidance of her. Somewhere along the way, she had begun to question her late Father’s manipulation of her future. At some moment, a time she couldn’t pinpoint, she’d grown resentful that the decision to marry had been wrested from her hands when she’d been a mere child. And yet, whether Lord Drake had been short with a baldpate or whether he was a specimen of male perfection, Emmaline felt obligated to make a go out of her circumstances. For Father.

“It’s hardly fair he should be so blasted perfect,” Emmaline muttered. “Can’t he have a flaw? A high-forehead, jiggling jowls? A paunch? Something.”

Sophie laughed. “You are the only person to complain that her betrothed is too handsome.”

“You are not helping.”

“He does seem very severe whenever I see him,” Sophie offered obligingly.

Emmaline thought to their recent exchange in Kensington Gardens and sighed. Yes, that was Lord Drake’s flaw. Except it seemed to only garner further notice from the ladies.

“And he’s a war hero to boot, Sophie. What is my great accomplishment?”

“You are a wonder in the gardens.”

Emmaline snorted. Considering Drake’s regard for flowers, that great talent would hardly bring him up to scratch. “You and I both know it’s a skill no one but my family can appreciate.” The only efforts at gardening acceptable for a young lady were the flowers she stitched on the fabric in her embroidery frame.

To the ton, Emmaline remained largely—unremarkable. Which most likely explained the efforts Lord Drake went through to avoid her.

Her betrothed may have had a grand time since he’d returned from the Peninsula three years ago, but he’d consigned her to an odd position in Society. She’d become a bit of a conundrum. Emmaline was attached but unattached, forever betrothed but never married. For these reasons, honor dictated no other gentleman could pay her court.

“Do you know, Sophie, there are times I think I might prefer being wanted by a young lord for the size of my dowry. Then at least I would be wanted for something, which is vastly better, than not being wanted at all.”

Sophie looked up from the wrinkled paper she’d resumed reading. “You’re mad! Your betrothal is the only reason you have not been pursued. Any gentleman would be honored to wed you.”

Emmaline ignored Sophie’s defense. With a sigh, she opened her clenched fist and studied the bisecting lines traversing her palm. She ran a distracted little path over the surface of her skin. She may be betrothed, but she was not unlike Sophie, who also remained unmarried. Emmaline’s betrothal to the Marquess of Drake had always been common knowledge to the ton. Nothing more than a piece of gossip dragged out by old dowagers whenever there was a dearth of more current on dits. Neither Emmaline nor Sophie were truly sought after or cared about by any gentleman. The one difference between them being Emmaline had a scrap of paper saying someone had claims to her.

Well, that was no longer enough.

“Do you know, as much as I resent the Marquess of Drake’s deplorable treatment, I cannot help but empathize with why he’s made the decisions he has?”

Sophie sputtered around a mouthful of tart. “That is far too generous of you, Em.”

Emmaline chose not to respond to Sophie’s unspoken censure and instead grabbed another pastry and nibbled the corner. She couldn’t expect Sophie to understand, and to say as much would merely come across as insulting.

Yet, Emmaline did, to some extent, recognize the reason for Drake’s annoyance. She suspected his decision to enlist had been borne of resentment that his fate had been decided for him when he’d been a mere boy. Perhaps he’d wanted a say in the person he would wed and spend the rest of his days with. Perhaps he’d wanted a great beauty to arouse grand passions—like his opera singer.

Perhaps he’d felt those things because she herself felt them. Well, all those things except for the opera singer, of course.

She yearned for some control in her life, ached to know love and grand passion, too. But it was gauche to even think such thoughts.

Over her long walk home from Kensington Gardens, she’d put a great deal of consideration into her circumstances. In spite of her dreams and wishes, Emmaline had made a commitment to her father. And blast it all, she would try to make something of this betrothal—whether Lord Drake wanted it or not.

“Whatever it is the Marquess of Drake feels, I no longer care. It is time for him to grow up and honor his obligations.” She flinched at thinking of herself as an obligation, and then shoved away any self-pity. The days of woe-is-me were officially at an end. It was time for the Marquess of Drake to be brought up to snuff, and she was just the woman to do it.

“What are you thinking?”

Emmaline’s jaw set. “I am done waiting for the Marquess of Drake. I want a real marriage or nothing at all.” Emmaline ticked on her fingers. “I want to be courted. I want him to take me riding in the park. I want him to escort me to the opera.” She grimaced at the thought of Signora Nicolleli. “Mayhap not the opera, but perhaps Covent Garden for a play,” she amended. “And I want him to waltz with me. That’s not much to ask, is it?”

Sophie shook her head with such force she dislodged a golden curl from her chignon. “Hardly, the man is after all your betrothed.”

Emmaline gave an emphatic nod. “His days of bowing over my hand and beating a hasty retreat are at an end. I’m going to bring him up to scratch and if I can’t…” She paused. “I haven’t determined all the details, but what I do know is I will be speaking to my brother about this farce of a betrothal.”

Sophie gasped.

Emmaline well knew it was one thing to be displeased with the Marquess of Drake’s lack of attention, it was quite another to speak of severing the legal contract between their families. She folded her arms. “I’m not getting any younger. Why I’m already twenty years old.”

Lord Drake may be a war hero, but Emmaline was prepared to fight some battles of her own. She reached over and seized the paper that had pushed her to her limits. Taking great care, she ripped out a neat square and studied it. She clenched her lips into a hard line.

Sophie had been about to take another bite from her tart. The partially bitten pastry dangled, forgotten between her fingers. With her mouth hanging open and her wide, unblinking cornflower eyes, she rather had the look of an owl. She set the treat aside, and leaned forward. “What are you going to do, Em?”

Emmaline smiled, and if her mother had been present she would have known to be alarmed. “Why, we’re going to the opera.”

Sophie blinked. “The opera…” Her mouth widened and her eyes dawned with understanding. “Ohhhh, the opera.”

Emmaline gave a tight nod. “Yes, by God, Lord Drake will notice me whether he likes it or not. There will be no more opera singers, ballet dancers, young widows, none of it. His days of carefree debauchery are officially at an end. He just doesn’t know it yet, but he will, beginning tonight. If your mother will have me, I will be joining your family in their box this evening.”

A laugh bubbled up from Sophie’s throat. “Mother will be thrilled to have the Duke of Mallen’s sister.” It was no secret Sophie’s mother, Viscountess Redbrooke, all but drooled like a pug in summer with any mention of the Mallen title.

Just then, there was only one gentleman whose marital status Emmaline cared about…and it most definitely was not her brother’s.

Sophie nodded. “I will let Mother know upon my return.”

Emmaline’s jaw hardened in anticipation of seeing Drake’s face that evening.

Lord Drake, I hope you haven’t put away your uniform, for you, sir, are headed back into battle.

Chapter 5

My Dearest Lord Drake,

For the first time in my life, I am grateful you are not here. I spent hours in the gardens and am bright as a beet. I am not a sight fit for good company. At least that is what my brother said.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

SIGNORA VALENTINA NICOLLELI, AN ACCOMPLISHED mezzo-soprano, had a voice with a deep, rich sultry tone that twined around each note she sang like a sea nymph clinging to the hull of a ship. The sensual quality could be felt from her soaring E sharp to her A flat, which resonated off the theatre walls. The Italian opera sensation’s musical talents, however, had not been what had attracted Drake’s notice.

Studying her from his theatre box, Drake recalled how they’d spent last evening, and his gaze narrowed. Valentina was an inventive, nubile woman, endowed in all the places a man hoped his woman would be generously curved. And yet, he watched disinterestedly as she pranced about the stage.

“I still don’t see why we have to sit through the blasted show,” Sin muttered. He occupied the seat next to Drake. “It hardly seems fair you’re the one who gets to bed the creature and I’m the one who has to sit through her infernal caterwauling.” His bored gaze surveyed the crowd, then paused, and narrowed ever so imperceptibly.

Drake didn’t bother looking to see what drew his friend’s attention. “Come, come, Sin, you’d have me believe you’d rather be escorting your mother and dear sister to some other infernal event?”

Sin gave a visible shudder. “No, no, you have the right of it. At least when this blasted opera is over I can head to the tables. Will you be joining me later this evening?”

Drake gave a short nod. What else was there to do? Lord knew he didn’t want to return to the damned townhouse and deal with his father. Or the nightmares. Restful sleep did not await him at the Duke of Hawkridge’s townhouse. Peaceful nights had eluded him since…

He shook his head, willing thoughts of war into the deep corners in which they refused to stay banished. When he’d been a young man, war had seemed like the logical escape from the stringent expectations placed on him by the Duke of Hawkridge. Drake’s life had been planned out for him since the moment of his birth. It had been ordained by his father where he would attend school, who he would wed, and Drake had chafed at the rigid order imposed upon him.

His time fighting Boney had proven there was nothing logical about war. The day he’d left the Peninsula, he’d longed to return to normalcy. He’d returned to England with a desperate urgency to slip back into the life he’d been familiar with. Consequently, he’d never given much thought to the impossibility of such a feat.

Three years ago, he’d come back from battle, a returned hero, greeted with parades and lavish balls; the recipient of public praise and countless honors. All of it had meant nothing to him. All the fanfare had served to do was emphasize his despair. It had served as a stark reminder of the lives he’d taken and the horrors that would haunt him for the rest of his days.

The sound of applause interrupted Drake’s dark musings. Act I had concluded.

“Are you certain you wouldn’t prefer to join me in a game of Hazard right now?” Sin asked.

Drake passed an absent gaze over the theatre that swarmed with bodies. The hand of a silent specter gripped his throat and squeezed, making breathing difficult. Vivid, unflappable memories and images of friends in arms swept past the floodgates of his mind, flooded him with their overwhelming intensity.

He jerked as the crowd’s murmurs gave way to the agonized cries of his men as they were cut down around him until he wanted to clamp his hands over his ears and drown out the remembrances. Except there was no escaping his loyal horse, Midnight’s tortured last whinny as the faithful creature was shot out from under him. Or the men, screaming for a God who didn’t exist, as the physician sawed their limbs from their person.

He needed out. Black remembrances of the war had crept in, and if he left the theatre, perhaps he could also leave the memories behind…just for the night, anyway. “Let’s go,” Drake growled.

He bolted from his seat just as the curtains of his box were thrown open.

And a hand slipped through, hitting him in the face. “Oomph!” he barked around a mouthful of the billowing, red velvet fabric. The curtains fell neatly back to their respective place, revealing the identities of the intruders.

“My Lord, how good to see you!” One young lady greeted, her voice dripping with effortful charm, either unmindful, or uncaring, that he had been hit square in the face.

Drake froze, a prickle of unease traveled up his nape. After the weeks he’d spent trying to banish thoughts of the lady’s impressive showing from each corner of his mind, all his efforts were ground to dust in this instant.

Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh stood before him, her spine erect, a determined glint in her eyes.

* * *

EMMALINE’S SMILE STRETCHED SO TAUT she thought it might crumple and shatter if somebody didn’t fill the void of silence following her unexpected intrusion of Lord Drake’s private box.

Almost as one, the two gentlemen seemed to remember their manners, bowing deeply. “My Lady, Miss Winters,” Lord Sinclair murmured, claiming first her hand, and then her companion’s for a chaste kiss.

Respectful was the word tantamount to the exchange.

Stiff, formal, respectful deference.

It made Emmaline want to stamp her foot. Drat, the man was her intended. And he hadn’t exchanged so much as a word with her. Well, that was if one didn’t count the startled exclamation he’d let out when she’d hit him in the face with the curtains.

Thank Heavens for Sophie. Sophie dipped a curtsy. “Lord Drake, Lord Sinclair.” She smiled and then proceeded to do one of the things Emmaline dearly loved about her—she filled the awkward silence.

She waved her hand about, like a small hurricane, gesturing animatedly to the crowd milling about the Opera House. “My father’s box is very nearly opposite your box, my lord, and it was of course Lady Emmaline who mentioned this.”

Three sets of eyes swiveled to look at Emmaline.

Loved in the past tense, Sophie’s uncanny ability to fill voids was one of the things she had loved about her.

Emmaline cleared her throat, flushing under the veiled scrutiny she received from her betrothed and the hint of smile his friend, Lord Sinclair favored her with.

“Yes, Viscount Redbrooke’s box is located just over there.” She gestured vaguely; glad when the three sets of eyes in unison moved in the direction she was motioning.

She did not go out of her way to point out that the box in question was in fact situated a good deal farther to the left and significantly lower than Lord Drake’s box.

“But I saw you, my lord, and….and,” Words fled. His jade-black gaze pierced her, probing, as though he knew her every secret. Blast him and his arrogance, she thought, finding the courage to finish her sentence. “Well, I would have been remiss if I failed to greet you.”

Drake blinked and Emmaline knew he recognized that he’d just been delivered a set-down. She rushed on. “I felt compelled to visit your box and discuss your thoughts on the opera. It has come to my attention from the papers that you have a great affinity for the opera, in particular the capable Mezzo-Soprano Signora Nicolleli.” She furrowed her brow, feigning deep contemplation. “In my honest opinion, I have a preference for the light, airy quality of a lyrical soprano.”

She detected Lord Sinclair’s shoulders rising and falling in what, she felt safe to assume, was mirth, while poor Sophie scoured the theatre.

To Lord Drake’s credit, or perhaps the better word would be discredit, he did not so much as flinch. His only telltale reaction was a slight arching of a golden brow as he met her stare. Emmaline glanced away.

“My dear, Lady Emmaline,” In Emmaline’s honest estimation, the words hardly sounded like an endearment. “I hadn’t taken you for a gossip.”

A subtle reproach coated his hard words. Double blast the man. How dare he make her feel uncomfortable? He was after all the one who’d abandoned her for two—approaching three—years. And that wasn’t counting the fifteen years that had lapsed in their near lifelong betrothal.

Her lips set tightly. “La, sir, but how else am I to find out about my betrothed’s likes and dislikes? But I do know you have a preference for mezzo-sopranos, so that is something, no? I look forward to meeting the great Signora Nicolleli and securing an autograph for you. I will be sure to tell her you are an ardent admirer, my lord. We’ll call it something of a wedding gift.”

The lights dimmed and the crowd bustled about, returning to their seats.

Sophie cleared her throat. “Em, I rather think we should return, lest mother worry about our absence.”

Emmaline smiled and favored Lord Drake with an impudent wave. “I’m certain she won’t fret when she learns we were with my intended. You would hardly allow harm to befall us, my lord? I’ve heard such stories of your heroics on the Peninsula, I could hardly feel anything but safe in your company.”

His eyes grew shuttered. “You should never let your guard down regardless of whose company you are in, Lady Emmaline.”

“You are far too modest, my lord. Alas, I must bid you good evening and await our next meeting.” She favored Lord Sinclair with a smile. “A pleasure, my lord.”

“Likewise, Lady Emmaline, Miss Winters.” He bowed and nudged Drake until he followed suit.

“Now we must return to our box,” Emmaline said. “If you’ll excuse us.” She gave a jaunty wave and quite deliberately shoved the curtains back with enough force to send them flapping, and took her leave.

War had been declared.

Chapter 6

Dearest Lord Drake,

My brother has been most stringently critiquing my efforts at painting. He has informed me of the following: I’m terrible at watercolor, awful with pastels, and deplorable with oils. I’ve taken to addressing him as Your Grace. To my amusement, it annoys him quite a bit.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

DRAKE SPUTTERED AROUND ANOTHER MOUTHFUL of red velvet curtains as Lady Emmaline made her dramatic exit from his opera box. Cursing under his breath, he violently slammed the drapes down, back into place.

He wanted to throttle her. Nay, he was going to throttle her. He counted to three. When he still felt the same way, he counted to ten, and because he couldn’t direct his anger at Lady Emmaline, who’d since taken her leave, he leveled a black glare at Sin, whose broad smile indicated he was far too amused by the turn of events.

“Stuff it,” Drake said.

Sin blinked. “I didn’t say anything.”

“This does not bode well.”

“No, it certainly doesn’t,” Sin concurred.

With the intrusive eyes of the ton on them, Drake and Sin could not comfortably escape the theatre without Society taking note. To do so would only fuel gossip about what had transpired in the box, which would result in a lengthy write up in the gossip columns.

They reclaimed their seats.

Drake fixed his gaze on the stage below. He’d be damned if he fed any more into the rabid curiosity of the ton who continued to stare at him.

The little termagant. How dare she corner him in his box, and call him out for his behavior? They were not married. It made his cravat tighten painfully around his neck just imagining what married life would be like with Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh. Over the years he’d avoided run-ins with his betrothed. He’d taken deliberate pleasure in refusing to attend any and every formal function his father had requested he attend. The last event he’d gone to at his father’s entreaty had been more than seven years ago, when Emmaline had been a bright-eyed girl.

Scanning the crowd for the now bright-eyed woman, he gave thanks for small favors. It had been good for the both of them no one had been privy to the exchange, for the gossip fodders would be reeling with the set down the little imp had delivered. He thought back to the incident with the old peddler three weeks ago. He’d heard the commotion, and then spied Lady Emmaline as she’d jumped into the fray in order to protect the woman. Before the cowardly dandy had even raised his whip, Drake had known with a soldier’s intuition what the man’s next actions would be.

This evening had proved, in addition to being brave, Emmaline was far bolder than he’d ever imagined. Not that he’d had many imaginings of her—that was, until recently.

He continued his search for one particular lady clad in a fashionable emerald green silk piece, trimmed in white Italian lace. He grimaced. Where had that detail come from? Then his gaze landed on his quarry.

His eyes narrowed. “The little liar is hardly opposite this box,” he hissed.

The meddling gazes of the ton swiveled his way.

Sin shoved an elbow into Drake’s side “Shh.”

“Why, she is a good deal to the left and much farther below.” And as though Sin couldn’t ascertain exactly where he meant, he boldly gestured towards his betrothed.

His actions earned a murmur from the crowd and must have captured Emmaline’s attention. She tilted her head up, and rewarded him with a beatific smile and a cheeky wave.

He growled low in his throat, and nodded for the benefit of the watchful crowd. He could imagine tomorrow’s gossip column if he failed to return his betrothed’s salutation in the over-flowing Royal Opera House. The wiser course would be to acknowledge the impertinent bit of baggage, rather than have to deal with the consequences of slighting her.

“You might want to smile. You look bloody terrifying,” Sin said beneath his breath, passing a hand over his mouth to shield his lips. He gave a shake of his head at Drake’s attempt. “Looks more like a grimace.”

Drake ignored his friend and directed his attentions to the stage where Valentina was prancing about. Unbidden, Lady Emmaline’s words came taunting the edges of this thoughts and, God help him, he couldn’t look at his bloody mistress, at least not while knowing Emmaline was there studying him.

He turned his eyes in his betrothed’s direction, expecting to see her teasing brown eyes, but instead found her to be engrossed in the performance on the stage below. Perched at the edge of her seat, her fingertips gripped the edge of the box, her head cocked at an endearing little angle.

He studied her. Normally he preferred women with generous curves, rounded in all the right places, but Drake found Emmaline’s litheness oddly appealing. Unbidden, his eyes fell to her lips. As he was being objective, he could say definitively that those ruby-red, full lips were lips a man dreamt of, imagined suckling, tasting. He could imagine them passing over his body, trailing lower, and swallowing him—all of him.

Christ, where had that thought come from? He gave his head a violent shake and jumped to his feet, startling Sinclair.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Sin’s gaze shifted momentarily to a box a good deal left and much farther below. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to remain.” He acknowledged with a sheepish smile.

Drake spared another glare for the minx who’d upset his plans for the evening and found her watching his exchange with Sin’s; a wide, knowing smile on her face. “Fine,” he grumbled, knowing his tone was more fitting of a small child, but too incensed to care.

Without a backwards glance, he turned on his heel, and set the curtains fluttering.

Chapter 7

My Dearest Lord Drake,

Feeling confident you can keep a secret, I can admit my insatiable curiosity. Father and Sebastian are often availing themselves to brandy. I wonder…what is the appeal? I am therefore planning my own secret experiment…

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

“WELL, THIS HAS BEEN A disaster,” Emmaline groused beneath her breath.

She slipped out of the Viscount Redbrooke’s box. Sophie trailed along at her side. This time a diligent maid followed right on their heels.

The thrum of the orchestra blended with the chorus filled the auditorium. The haunting melody echoed throughout the theatre and lent a dramatic feel to their movements.

The high E belonging to a particular soprano, Emmaline decided, was largely flat. It rent the opera house, muffled only slightly by the chatter of the ton. Her opinion had nothing, absolutely nothing to do with the fact that the high E came from the mouth of her betrothed’s mistress.

Sophie’s brow furrowed. She glanced over her shoulder toward her brother’s box. “Mother is going to be livid.”

The Viscountess had not made one mention of the ladies’ visit to Lord Drake’s box. Her erect form and snapping eyes had conveyed the extent of her displeasure. It also explained why Sophie’s maid dogged their movements.

Beset by an onset of guilt, Emmaline bit the inside of her lip. “She might not have noticed.”

Sophie wrung her hands. “She would be the only one in the theatre, then.”

On the heels of that statement, Emmaline imagined Sebastian and Mother’s displeasure the following morning. She groaned aloud. In the end, it would appear the first battle had been won by Lord Drake.

“I do believe I have lost the first round, Sophie.” It chafed to admit defeat of any kind. To be defeated by Lord Drake, however was not to be countenanced.

Sophie paused and directed her attention to her maid. “Leave us.” The maid’s mouth set in a mutinous line, but one more look from Sophie and she slipped away.

When the maid was no longer in sight, Sophie returned her attention to Emmaline. “You couldn’t have expected it would be easy?”

Emmaline’s gaze wandered to a point over Sophie’s shoulder. “No, I didn’t, but I…I…”

Apparently she took pity on her friend. Sophie claimed Emmaline’s hands in hers and gave a gentle squeeze. “From what you told me, Lord Drake had been so impressed by your showing with Whitmore. I just don’t understand.” Sophie tugged her hand. “Now, come.”

Emmaline allowed her friend to drag her forward. She didn’t understand it, herself. Any of it. She could only speculate as to Lord Drake’s disinterest in her over the years. “Mayhap I was wrong. Mayhap I was ruminating fantasies about what Lord Drake felt that day. He is such a gentleman, he would have come to any lady’s rescue.”

A tall, solid figure stepped into their path. Sophie managed to step out of the way even as Emmaline collided into a hard muscled chest. She gasped. She might as well have hit a wall—a large, immoveable wall.

Emmaline faltered, and would have fallen if Sophie didn’t grab her arm just as the gentleman reached out to steady her.

“My lady, Miss Winters,” Lord Sinclair said.

“Goodness, you startled me, my lord.” Sophie nudged her in the side. Emmaline frowned. “He did startle me.”

Sophie rolled her eyes. “You shouldn’t say as much in front of him.”

The gentleman’s lips twitched with what was assuredly amusement.

Emmaline glanced over his shoulder, seeking out…

“He left,” Lord Sinclair said.

Emmaline’s eyes snapped forward. “I don’t know whom you are talking about,” she said, a touch too quickly.

“I’d say it is rather obvious,” Sophie muttered.

Emmaline gave a pointed nod in Sinclair’s direction. “You still shouldn’t say as much.”

“’Tis no different than you stating how startled you were when Lord Sinclair gracelessly bowled you over.”

Lord Sinclair bristled. “I beg your pardon?”

Emmaline and Sophie promptly fell silent.

“Our apologies,” Emmaline said. This time it was she who nudged Sophie.

“Uh, yes, our apologies, my lord.”

He bowed his head. “Think nothing of it.”

They each dipped a curtsy and made to move around him, but he held up a hand. “Might I beg a word alone with you, my lady?” He extended his arm to Emmaline.

Sophie’s shocked gasp split the awkward silence.

Emmaline traced her lower lip with the tip of her tongue. After a momentary pause, she tucked her hand into the fold of his arm, and allowed him to lead her several paces ahead. Sophie trotted along at a discreet distance, muttering loud enough for the both of them to hear just what she thought about the impropriety of their actions.

“I must admit, my lord, I’m intrigued.” She stole a peek up at him from the corner of her eye.

Sin’s lips twitched. “I would like to speak to you about Lord Drake.”

Emmaline missed a step, and with his assistance, righted her footing.

Sinclair led them to a vacant alcove and drew back the curtain. She hesitated for the slightest moment, and then followed him inside. He dropped the curtain into place and turned to face her.

He spoke without preamble. “I want you to marry Drake.”

She smothered a laugh with her hand. “Well, then that makes two of us, my lord. If only the decision was yours to make.”

The curtains rustled at Lord Sinclair’s back and Emmaline would wager her entire dowry that Sophie had her ear pressed to the fabric.

He folded his arms across his chest. “How well do you know Drake?”

Silence stretched between them. Unbidden, her mind tripped along a forgotten memory. She was five. Seated in her father’s library. An angry little boy had stared mutinously across at her.

Lord Sinclair cleared his throat. “Uh-my lady?”

Emmaline gave her head a shake. “We’ve been betrothed since we were children, my lord,” she said with deliberate vagueness.

His gaze skimmed a path across her face. “Do you know much about him?”

Emmaline arched a brow.

“I am not saying you should not desire a marriage to Lord Drake. I’m…I’m…”

“Just what are you saying?” The recipient of enough discomfort this evening, it was someone else’s turn to grapple with the emotion.

An awkward stretch of silence descended like a funeral pall, but Emmaline wouldn’t feel guilty for it.

She didn’t know Lord Sinclair enough to confess the particular details of her relationship with Drake. Why, Sophie wasn’t even privy to half the memories she’d buried in her heart. Sinclair may be close friends with her intended, it did not, however, grant him carte blanche to ask intimate questions and expect answers. Nor for that matter would she ever reveal just how she’d come by her knowledge of Lord Drake. To do so would open her to pity, and she was not keen on the rather useless sentiment.

“My lady, forgive me. I know this questioning is far from conventional,” he said, filling the void of quiet. He tugged his ear. “Were you aware I’ve been friends with Drake since we were just thirteen?”

She started at the admission. “I wasn’t aware.” She should have known that. How strange to think two of Drake’s most significant relationships had been cemented when he’d been a boy of thirteen.

Sinclair continued. “He’d always been a fun boy, though angry when I met him because…” A dull flush stained his cheeks, “Because….”

“Because?” It didn’t take much to gather thirteen-year-old Drake had assuredly been upset because of his betrothal to her five-year-old self.

Sinclair rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, looking himself like a thirteen-year-old boy who’d been caught pouring ink in his tutor’s tea. “Any young boy would be less than thrilled at being betrothed to a young girl.”

She decided in that moment she liked Lord Sinclair a great deal. He did not feel inclined to mince words, and for that she respected him.

“We don’t have much time, so might I be candid, my lady?”

Emmaline giggled. She raised a hand to muffle the sound. “Oh dear, you haven’t been up to this point?”

Sinclair ignored the question. “May I ask if you are interested in marriage to Lord Drake because he is heir to a dukedom?”

If she weren’t so amused by the question, she was certain she’d have been insulted. “Are you asking whether I am interested in his fortunes? Whether I aspire to the role of duchess?”

He didn’t back down under the directness of her question. “My lady, Drake has been pursued the better part of his life for his title. Forgive me for being leery of any woman’s intentions.”

She sighed. “My lord, my life has been dictated for me since the moment I was born. Yes, Lord Drake was betrothed to me when he was thirteen, but might I remind you, I was only five. A mere babe. I have been as trapped by this betrothal as Lord Drake.” She paused, biting her lower lip. “I don’t aspire to a status, Lord Sinclair, I aspire to happiness.”

Sinclair ran a probing, hazel-green stare over her.

“Do you believe Drake can bring you happiness?” he asked with a bluntness that made her flinch.

Emmaline forced a smile. “I certainly hope so.” All Emmaline knew was she’d waited years for Drake. Had attended more balls and soirees than she could count, and even several masquerades. It had always been known that she was unmarriageable. During her first Season, she’d sat on the fringe watching all the young ladies who’d had their Come Out being courted, the recipients of poetry and flowers. Emmaline had received nary a flower. Not even one sonnet praising the hue of her hair or the glow in her eyes. She would have settled for even a poorly written poem.

Emmaline didn’t long for marriage because she desired a suitable match that would raise her status in Society. She wanted what all young women did, and yet would never admit—to be loved. She ached to know true love. She wanted a man to love her so helplessly, so desperately that he cared for nothing in the world but her.

Was it a fairytale she dreamed of? Perhaps. But it was what she yearned for. If it weren’t for it being her late father’s grandest wish that she wed Lord Drake, Emmaline would have tired of Drake’s disinterest years ago.

Well, the time of waiting for Drake to come up to scratch was at an end. She needed to determine if he was the man who could give her all those things she yearned for…and if not, well then she needed to move on.

Lord Sinclair didn’t say another word. Instead, he reached into the front of his black jacket and fished out a small parchment of paper. He handed the folded sheet to her.

Emmaline took it and opened the note. She glimpsed at it puzzled, and then looked up at him.

“They are the events Lord Drake is planning on attending for the next several nights.”

Emmaline’s mind was slow to process his words. Sinclair couldn’t possibly have known her intentions to pursue Drake. The only soul who knew of her plans was Sophie, and Sophie would never have betrayed her confidence.

“Should you choose to attend the events, I’m sure Lord Drake would be elated to see you.” He proceeded to fill in the details of his plan. “It is my hope that Drake can finally honor your betrothal, my lady. I believe should he take the time to know you, he will then cease….” His philandering ways. The indelicate words did not need to be spoken.

Her gaze dropped to the list. “Why are you doing this?” She raised her eyes to his.

Lord Sinclair’s expression grew veiled. “I can’t imagine you like existing in this suspended universe, my lady. You are neither wed nor pursued.”

Emmaline’s brow wrinkled. It hardly sounded flattering when stated in such a way.

“My lady, I meant no offense. I am simply providing—”

“The reason I should go along with your plans,” she finished for him. “I understand.”

A swell of applause resonated throughout the theatre, and from the other side of the curtain, Sophie nervously cleared her throat.

Lord Sinclair did not seem at all alarmed by the threat of discovery. “Lord Drake is a very different man from the boy you once knew. He has not been the same since…”

“Emmaline,” Sophie said. “Hurry.”

Emmaline wanted to curse at the interruption. Instead she dipped a hasty curtsy. It wouldn’t do to be seen emerging from a hidden alcove with her betrothed’s closest friend. “My lord, I thank you for your assistance.”

He sketched a short bow. “We shall see you tomorrow evening?”

“Emmaline,” Sophie again urged, this time her tone frantic.

She cast one more look down at the scrap in her hands, then folded it and stuffed it into the reticule dangling from her wrist. “You shall.”

He held up a staying hand. “Oh, my lady, one more thing. I thought you should know, Lord Drake was most impressed by your showing with Lord Whitmore.”

Emmaline smiled as she slipped from behind the curtain.

Chapter 8

Dear Lord Drake,

I’m beginning to suspect you are avoiding me.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

Drake filled a dish with several pieces of toast from the sideboard, and sat down across from his father at the long dining table. “Good morning,” he murmured.

His father lowered the paper he’d been reading. He appeared startled by the salutation. “Uh-good morning, Drake.”

He raised the paper back into place.

Drake picked up the silver knife beside his plate and proceeded to spread blackberry preserves upon his toast.

He looked up at the shuffling form in the doorway. The old butler, Winchester, who’d been around as long as Drake had been alive, entered. He stopped in front of Drake and held out a small, silver platter.

Drake ignored his father, who had set aside his paper, and now stared at him with blatant curiosity. Drake put his knife down and lifted both the sealed envelope and the blade presented by Winchester.

The faint scent of lemons wafted from the thick ivory envelope. Drake inserted the blade under the seal and withdrew two slips of parchment.

One was an autograph.

The other a note.

Dearest Lord Drake,

What kind of intended would I be if I didn’t keep to my word, honor a promise, and present to you that which I offered—a signature from the great Signora Nicolleli?

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

He laughed.

Who knew? His betrothed had a sense of humor.

Chapter 9

My Dearest Lord Drake,

How odd you are traveling the world when I’ve hardly been anywhere at all. With this in mind, I packed up several dresses and provisions and took a very long journey about our Leeds estate. My parents raised a hue and cry when they discovered I’d gone missing. Needless to say, I have been punished and forbidden from going anywhere for the next five years. I say that seems a rather harsh sentence.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

IN MAY OF 1811, AT the Battle of Fuentes de Onoro, Marshall Massena had retreated back to Spain to find Wellington had already effectively blockaded Almeida. Though Wellington had been surpassed in manpower, he’d outnumbered the French in artillery. With the French failure at Fuentes de Onoro, Massena had been unwilling to attack because of Wellington’s strong position. Subsequently, Wellington had made the assumption that the French army of Portugal had been sufficiently weakened and discounted his enemy. The end result had been Wellington’s retreat.

Both, Wellington and Drake, had learned something very important at Fuentes de Onoro—never underestimate one’s enemy.

In this case, it wasn’t an enemy per se…but an opponent, whom he happened to be betrothed to.

No place was safe from Lady Emmaline. There was no sanctuary. When staring down the inevitable face of defeat, the only logical option had been retreat.

Drake scanned Lord and Lady Wilcox’ ballroom for the woman who’d occupied his thoughts for the better part of the evening.

From the time their betrothal contract had been signed, Drake had tried his damnedest to avoid any interaction with Lady Emmaline. Instead, he’d relegated her to the role of un-aging child, thus preventing her from becoming a woman to whom he had obligations.

As a result, he knew next to nothing about her. He didn’t know her likes or dislikes. He didn’t know what made her laugh, what she read, or even if she enjoyed reading. He didn’t know if she had a personality. Until now.

Drake discovered Lady Emmaline was called Em by those closest to her. He learned her only real friend was Miss Sophie Winters. He noted Emmaline sat with Miss Winters at most events, smiling and chatting, all the while seeming oblivious to the pitying stares directed her way.

And she had a sense of humor. He thought about the note she’d sent round—the same note that had put an immediate end to his affair with the lovely Signora Valentina Nicolleli. Following the whole peculiar exchange with Emmaline, he would never have been able to carry on with the voluptuous mezzo-soprano without hearing his intended’s teasing voice.

Just then, Drake spied the brown coiffure of a young lady moving through a sea of guests. He held his breath, waiting for her to turn, then realized, upon closer inspection, that her hair did not possess the same deep chocolate hues.

“Are you looking for someone in particular, my lord?” An amused voice drawled over his shoulder.

He started, and swung around.

“Lady Emmaline.”

* * *

EMMALINE EXPECTED TO SEE VEXATION in her betrothed’s jade eyes, which is why she was struck breathless by the flash of amusement in their fathomless depths.

Her heart quickened.

“I was looking for someone, my lady.” He winked.

Winked! Oh, the insufferable bounder!

Emmaline’s heart resumed its normal cadence.

Her lips formed a moue of displeasure. She glanced around. “I see.” Her gaze locked on the imposing figure striding across the ballroom dance-floor. She cocked her head to the side. “Perhaps it is my brother?”

Drake groaned aloud as her brother, the Duke of Mallen, came to a stop before them. Sebastian’s foreboding black glare teemed with fury.

Sebastian bowed, the gesture a smidgeon shy of disrespect. “Lord Drake, so good to see you.”

Drake returned the bow. “Your Grace,” he said flatly.

She studied them as they eyed one another like small boys fighting over the last pastry.

Over the years, she had learned there was no love lost between her betrothed and brother. She strongly suspected she was the cause of their animosity toward one another.

“Quite the surprise, seeing you with my sister.” A frosty bite underlined Sebastian’s words.

Emmaline wanted to groan at his less than subtle reprimand. Dead. She was going to kill him dead that evening.

Drake’s jaw clenched. “Why should it be a surprise? She is, after all, my betrothed.”

Sebastian’s hand landed with a resounding thud upon his chest. “Shocking you should even remember that detail.”

Drake’s shoulders stiffened. His gaze went positively glacial, and he gave a dismissive nod in her direction. “Not of late. If you’d paid attention to your sister’s goings-on, I think you would have noted we’ve been in each other’s company a great deal.” There was the slightest hint of something suggestive in Drake’s words that seemed to get Sebastian’s hackles up.

Sebastian took another step forward.

Emmaline placed a hand on his shoulder. “Lord Drake has requested the next set. Can you conclude this at a later time?” She removed her fingers and placed them on Drake’s sleeve. The hard muscles of his arm tightened convulsively beneath her touch, and he allowed Emmaline to lead him to the dance-floor.

The current partners were taking their places, and the thrum of the orchestra indicated they were to dance a waltz. Drake brusquely grabbed her hand. He set his other hand at her waist, all the while glaring down at her. “I didn’t need to be rescued from your brother,” he said.

She squared her chin. “What makes you believe I was rescuing you? Perhaps I did it for myself. Do you always believe everything revolves around you?”

His grip tightened on her waist and his words came out on a whisper she had to strain to hear. “I have known since I was a boy the obligations and responsibilities that belong to me as the heir of a dukedom. I do not believe the world revolves around me. I’m relatively powerless in this well-ordered world.”

A harsh sincerity underlined his words; it chilled Emmaline. Drake’s hard coiled muscles bunched tightly beneath the fine line of his expertly tailored black evening coat. “Have you ever considered… others… might feel the same?”

Those emerald eyes passed over her face, penetrating.

Emmaline did not give him an opportunity to respond. “Do you believe this is the life I want for myself? Do you believe I’d rather know this formal aloofness, than…?” love or passion? She bit her lip hard to keep from humiliating herself. Silence stretched between them punctuated by the strings of the orchestra’s violins.

* * *

STUDYING EMMALINE’S EMOTION-LADEN EYES, Drake was humbled by a dawning realization—he hadn’t been the only one wronged by their childhood betrothal. How odd he’d spent the past fifteen years angry with her, when she’d been just as much the victim. They’d both been robbed of choice and chance and…destiny. Listening to the words she spoke, he found Emmaline, not unlike him, yearned for what he’d been searching for since he was a boy of thirteen—the power of choice.

It felt like he was seeing her for the first time. Truly seeing her. “What do you dream of?”

Emmaline’s gaze skittered off to a point beyond his shoulder. He studied her mouth; the way her teeth worried that plump, lower fleshy fold. She bit her lip when she was concentrating or when she was embarrassed. He found it, with no small measure of surprise, captivating.

She looked back at him. “This is the first time in my entire life anyone has asked me about my dreams and wishes. None of my family asked that question of me. Not even Sophie, my dearest friend in the world. It has seemed since I was a small girl, there was an understanding that I am the privileged daughter of a powerful duke, who wanted for nothing, and therefore could possibly have no need for anything.”

Her words were a mirror into his soul. “The world couldn’t have been more wrong could it, my lady?”

An ironic smile turned her lips. “No, it couldn’t. As silly as it was, I dreamt of more than a cold emotionless entanglement signed by my father to further grow our estates and riches.”

Somewhere along the path of life Emmaline had consigned herself to the obligations thrust upon her as a young, unmarried lady. He didn’t know why that thought should surprise him. Simply put, it was the way of their world. It seemed, however, at odds with the woman who would boldly challenge gentlemen with little regard for her safety.

Guiding her graceful form through the steps of the waltz, he came to find he shared a special connection with Emmaline. Though she’d been born a female, Emmaline’s life had not been very different from his. They were, in a way, kindred spirits.

It didn’t escape his notice that she’d failed to answer his earlier question.

“So then tell me, Emmaline. What do you wish for?” Her name slipped from his lips as easily as the next breath he took.

Emmaline’s gaze dropped to the simple folds of his snowy white cravat. “I want to be loved. I want a family of my own.” The words emerged haltingly.

“You want to be loved?” He couldn’t hold back the derisive question. The word love was so foreign to Society that there was something crass and vulgar in simply thinking it to oneself, let alone speaking it aloud.

Her body stiffened beneath his touch. A dull flush stained her cheeks. “Yes, my lord, I want to be loved.”

Drake’s lips twitched. “Ours is hardly a love match.”

Based on the hurt little expression she wore, he thought she might have preferred his laughter.

“Though we’d hardly know if it could be a love match,” she pointed out.

“If it is love and flowery poems you seek, my lady, be forewarned, you will not find it from me.”

She blinked several times. “You don’t believe in love?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t say that.”

“So, you do believe in love?”

Drake arched a brow. The lady was persistent. “Though never the recipient of such an insipid emotion, I understand my parents were in love. So I do believe some people capable of it.”

Everyone in Society knew the history of Lord Drake’s mother. The Duchess of Hawkridge had died giving birth to her son. He’d never known his mother. Drake wondered if perhaps the absence of a maternal figure in his life had resulted in the jaded man he’d become. That, and the hellish things he’d done on the battlefield, of course.

A liveried servant at the edge of the dance-floor stumbled. His lofty tray of champagne flutes tilted, sending the crystal glasses tumbling to the floor. There were gasps of horror and shrieks of surprise as the guests on the side were sprayed with tiny bits of glass and French vintage champagne.

“Fire towards the ground,” Drake commanded. The 31st Regiment of Foot was low on artillery and had to improvise their canister shot with nails and scrap iron.

The lieutenant loaded the canister into the cannon and prepared to fire at the relentless French army on foot.

The canon failed.

The canister shot did not. The closed cylindrical metal canister intended for the advancing enemy troops skipped a path, twenty-five, thirty-yards, across the ground.

Then an explosion rent the world around them. Shrapnel flew. Men were screaming. His men were screaming…

“But you are not capable of it?” Emmaline’s question interrupted his momentary lapse in sanity.

Drake swallowed convulsively. He would never escape the war. His mind would forever remain on the bloody fields of battle.

“My lord?” she asked, confused eyes studying the lines of his face.

Drake forced himself to relax his tightly clenched jaw. Emmaline clearly couldn’t detect the hell that gripped him. Nor, for that matter, did she seem aware of the drama at the edge of the dance-floor.

“My lady, I’m not certain I’m capable of marriage.”

Emmaline blinked several times. “Well, of course you’ll marry. You have to marry me,” she blurted. Her cheeks turned a bright shade of pink. “Uh, that is, I mean—” She dropped her gaze to his cravat.

Drake grinned. “Do I?” he teased. He applied a subtle pressure to where his hand gripped her waist, encouraging her to look at him. He found something soothing in her brown eyes. They reminded him of deep, rich Belgian chocolate warmed in the hot summer sun.

“So we’ve been told,” she muttered.

A bark of laughter escaped him. It came out rusty from ill use, and appeared to startle her.

She glanced up, their stares locked, and held.

Then she began to study his face. He knew the moment she noted the faint scar that started at his temple and traversed a parallel path to his jaw. Many of the women he’d bedded had assessed the mark with a kind of fascinated horror.

Emmaline reached up a hand as if to touch it, and then seemed to remember where they were. She drew her hand back but her gaze did not leave his scar.

Her interest triggered a vulnerability he’d thought dead. The sight of her; unsullied and pure and him, brutal and vile, made him feel like the devil dancing in church. She’d been untouched by hands of evil, when his had wrought death and destruction.

He waited for her to ask the blunt question most ladies of his acquaintance asked. A kind of perverted glee that they’d dared to touch a blood-thirsty warrior.

Except she didn’t ask the question, didn’t beg to know how he’d come by the mark.

She was different than any other woman he’d ever known…and it scared the hell out of him.

Damn her for making him feel things he didn’t want to feel. A little too forcefully, he angled her body close to his—closer than was fashionably appropriate.

“Do you look at all gentlemen like this?” he asked, his voice hard. His vulnerability robbed him of both reason and the more than twenty-eight years of gentlemanly behavior that had been ingrained into him.

“Like what?”

“Like you have wicked thoughts in your innocent head.”

Emmaline’s breath caught and she opened then shut her mouth several times, as if she were trying to formulate a suitable response to his insult. It would seem Emmaline could be flummoxed.

He was a complete and utter bastard.

And, as though Drake needed further affirmation of that truth, his mind traveled a path of silken kisses and seductive caresses. He became aware of the feel of her delicate waist under his hand. The fine satin russet gown did little to veil the warmth of her skin. He yearned to strip the fabric from her body and run explorative hands along her satiny flesh. He wanted to move his hand lower, tug her skirts up, and caress her.

Emmaline winced and he realized he’d unconsciously gripped her hand too tight. He flexed his fingers, forcing himself to relax his hold. He studied her hand using it as a lifeline back from the path his mind had wandered.

Except…

They really were lovely fingers. He imagined them wrapped about his length, stroking, squeezing, teasing… His breath came hoarse. Where had that thought come from? But it was too late. The forbidden thoughts were there as he held her in his arms.

Had he thought her figureless? Her breasts, though not large, were the size of small, firm apples. God, if he didn’t have a taste for the forbidden fruit. Now he knew the trial Adam had been presented with in that garden of temptation, understood why he’d thrown away Paradise. The curve of her waist flared nicely under his fingers, and he wanted to reach lower, grasp her buttocks, and tug her to his center. Drake gave himself an invisible shake, reminding himself where in hell they were.

Emmaline licked her lower lip. “My lord?” she whispered.

Drake’s eyes fell to those full red lips that haunted his dreams and he dipped his head, a hairsbreadth from capturing them. He was going to kiss her, right there, in the midst of the dance-floor and he gave not one damn that every last peer present would bear witness.

“The dance has ended.” Emmaline brought Drake’s forbidden musings to a staggering halt. He became aware of the fact they were standing in the middle of an emptying dance-floor.

Drake’s body jerked and he set Emmaline from him as though he’d been speared with a bayonet. When had he looked at Emmaline and seen beauty instead of obligation and responsibility? His heart raced with panic.

He dipped a mocking bow and clapped his hands in a deriding fashion. “Brava, my girl. You have gotten what you wanted. How neatly you’ve inserted yourself into my life.” With that, he spun on his heel, and abandoned her amidst the emptied dance floor.

He truly was a bastard.

Chapter 10

Dearest Lord Drake,

I have begun keeping a journal on your efforts on the Peninsula. I am amazed by your bravery and courage. It is an honor being betrothed to such a noble man.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

“WHAT WAS THAT ABOUT?”

Emmaline started even as Sophie reached out and gripped her arm. She gave silent thanks as her friend steered her from the dance-floor.

Words lodged in Emmaline’s throat. She feared with one wrong word uttered, she might splinter into a thousand shards across the ballroom floor, and disintegrate beneath the heels of the lords and ladies witnessing her humiliation. How, in a matter of minutes had she gone from feeling a sense of connection with Drake to being the recipient of his condescending ire?

She told herself not to look for him, but for the life of her couldn’t prevent her gaze from searching the crowd for a hint of him. It wasn’t difficult to locate his tall, strong figure in the crowded ballroom.

And then wished she hadn’t.

He stood beside a stunningly beautiful woman with midnight black curls artfully arranged in an elegant upsweep. One loose strand, twisted in a clever curl, gave the illusion the silken waves could tumble free at any moment.

A pained sound lodged in Emmaline’s throat. If she couldn’t have been born with the preferred fair coloring, couldn’t she have at least had the other woman’s splendid locks? How terribly unfair.

The woman was none other than Lady Smythe, a notorious widow. In Emmaline’s estimation, Lady Smythe was far too young and far too beautiful to be a widow. Widows were supposed to be old harridans in a perpetual state of sorrow. They were not meant to be clad in indecent dark sapphire gowns with an overlay of French lace, cut scandalously low and displaying an abundant décolletage. And they most certainly were not supposed to have that décolletage one small breath away from exposure.

As if ample attention wasn’t being drawn to her ample endowments, an enormous teardrop sapphire necklace encircled her neck. It was cut in a teardrop design and provocatively pointed down to those attributes. Lady Smythe snapped a fan open and fluttered it flirtatiously in front of her mouth, obscuring her rouged lips from the tons interested eyes. If possible, the lady sidled even closer. She layered her form indecently against Drake. He dipped his head down, and the woman tilted her head up, whispering something.

Then he laughed.

Even with the span of the dance-floor separating them, the deep, rich sound reached Emmaline’s ears. She thought his laughter should have cut her to the quick and braced for the additional bite of pain.

It didn’t come.

During the waltz they’d shared, Emmaline had experienced Drake’s laughter. It had startled both of them. That laugh he’d been unable to contain during their set was different from the practiced one she heard now. The one he spared for the lovely creature at his side was disingenuous and Emmaline found that somehow—soothing.

Drake reached for a flute of champagne from a passing servant.

Seeming to feel Emmaline’s stare, he looked directly at her with a veiled, faintly mocking expression. He raised his glass in her direction and downed the contents, before he again directed his attention to Lady Smythe.

The earlier solace she’d found was crushed in his deliberate attempt to humiliate her. This time, Emmaline couldn’t stifle the ball of anguish that crept steadily up her throat, the pain so overwhelmingly sharp it nearly choked her. She could feel the lords and ladies gawking at her, the snickering harpies, the pitying looks. Suddenly it was too much.

“Get me out,” Emmaline pleaded, fumbling for Sophie’s hand. If she didn’t leave, she thought she would crumple in a heap. How the ton would love that. She wouldn’t give them, or him, the satisfaction.

“Hush, silly! We hardly need His Lordship thinking he’s won this battle.” Sophie’s stern reprimand steadied Emmaline.

“They are watching me,” Emmaline whispered. She stole a quick peek around and noted the stares directed her way.

Her humiliation gave way to blinding rage.

“Yes, they are.” Sophie guided Emmaline from the ballroom to an empty withdrawing room. Closing the door behind them, Sophie directed her attention to Emmaline. “We need to freshen you up.” She pinched Emmaline’s cheeks—hard.

“Ouch!” Emmaline yelped at the firm pressure.

“Sorry, you were looking pale,” Sophie explained, not sounding at all apologetic.

On a sigh, Emmaline dropped unceremoniously into a King Louis gold-painted seat. She stretched her legs out in an undignified fashion, closed her eyes, and wished when she opened them to be anywhere other than where she currently sat. Nay, that wasn’t altogether true…she’d prefer the seclusion of the retiring room to that infernal ballroom. At least in here she was spared from hearing the tons snickering remarks.

Sophie sunk to the floor and rested her cheek on Emmaline’s soft silk skirts. “I think this is going to be more difficult than you or I expected,” Sophie conceded. “I mean, what other peer of the realm would shirk his responsibilities all these years and carry on so under your nose?”

Emmaline flinched. “I don’t want to be his responsibility, Sophie.”

Sophie hesitated. “What do you want, Em?”

And for the second time that night, and in her life, Emmaline had been asked what it was she wanted.

What do you want? A voice silently jeered. Do you want him to love you? Court you? Whyever would he do something so foolish when he could and did have any number of beautiful ladies? No, Emmaline had been a fool on many scores. She couldn’t even speak those words to her dearest friend.

Sophie was kind enough not to press Emmaline. She picked her head up and angled a glance at Emmaline. She spoke haltingly. “You couldn’t believe after just a few exchanges, Lord Drake would change his opinion?”

Emmaline chewed her lip. “No—no. I-I had hoped…” Her words trailed off. Because, naively, that had been what she’d hoped. Hearing it from Sophie’s lips indicated it had been no more than a fairytale constructed from balderdash.

She thought about Drake standing beside Lady Smythe, flirting shamelessly with the voluptuous widow. Emmaline glanced down at her own, less than stellar attributes, and wrinkled her nose. “It’s hardly fair,” she muttered.

“What is?”

“Lady Smythe should be so generously endowed while I, while I…” Emmaline made a vague gesture over her own less than impressive décolletage. Leaning forward, she puffed her chest out and then, realizing how ridiculous she must look, lolled back against the cushions of the chair, throwing a dejected hand across her eyes.

A bark of laughter escaped Sophie. “Ah, here. These are just the thing!”

Emmaline dropped her hand from her eyes and watched her friend reach onto a nearby table for a stack of linens, wrinkle them into a sizeable ball, and thrust them at her.

Emmaline reached for them and made quick work of stuffing them into the front of her gown. The two women glanced down at Emmaline’s new endowments and promptly burst into laughter.

After their giggles had abated, Sophie glanced up. “You know,” she began hesitantly. “It really is a shame you’re hiding in here. He is, after all, the one who has behaved like an absolute cad.”

Emmaline blinked several times. “You know, you are right. Why should I cower behind closed doors while he enjoys a grand evening?”

Sophie shook her head. “You shouldn’t.”

Tugging the balls of linen from the front of her gown, she set them on Lady Wilcox’ table and took to her feet. “I am not going to hide.”

Sophie popped right up beside her. “Brava, my dear!”

The more Emmaline thought about Drake, the more infuriated she became. “His interest in Lady Smythe stemmed from nothing other than his desire to lash out at me.” She lifted her hand up, mimicking her betrothed’s movements. “And his mocking salute with that champagne flute. Why, he may as well have shouted ‘victory’ from across the ballroom.”

Sophie gave a perfunctory nod. “This battle has gone to Lord Drake, but it is just one battle.”

The two women marched arm in arm, through the antechamber, until Sophie placed a staying hand on Emmaline’s arm. She looked at her with somber eyes. “You must promise me something, Em.”

Emmaline inclined her head.

“The moment you feel any sadness in Lady Wilcox’ ballroom, the moment you feel the desire to flee—you simply must think of how outlandish you looked with our hostesses fine linens stuffed in your chemise.”

They erupted into laughter and then prepared to face the elegantly clad pariahs swarming the ballroom with a taste for blood. With heads held high they moved across the ballroom. Emmaline caught sight of her brother weaving through the crowd, his expression thunderous. “Great, my brother,” she muttered. She really didn’t need him to make this evening any more difficult than it had already become. “Come, this way.” She tried steering Sophie to the far left corner of the ballroom.

“I think we’ve lost him,” Sophie said, looking around.

“Lost who?”

Sophie shrieked and dropped Emmaline’s arm. “Y-your Grace.”

Sebastian sketched a bow and claimed Sophie’s hand for an absent, perfunctory kiss.

“I’ll kill him,” he muttered beneath his breath. He obviously wasn’t concerned that Sophie was privy to the conversation. Sebastian knew Sophie’s loyalty to Emmaline and was not inclined to shield his anger. He held out his arm.

Emmaline turned to Sophie, who waved her on. “Go ahead, I’ll be over there.” Sophie hurried off to claim a seat amidst the other wallflowers.

Emmaline returned her attention to Sebastian. “You most certainly will not kill him,” she admonished as he led her into the next set. They took their place in line for the quadrille. The orchestra began playing and they moved through the intricate steps of the lively dance.

“Whatever are you doing fawning over him?” His censure was tangible. “Mother is furious.”

Emmaline’s gaze sought out her mother, engaged in conversation with their hostess. Mother caught Emmaline’s eyes and frowned.

Emmaline tried not to feel hurt at her mother and brother’s obvious disappointment. Emmaline and Sebastian were parted, and she was saved from responding, until they came together.

“I am not fawning. He is my betrothed. What would you have me do? Exist in this false world for the remainder of my life? I am already twenty.”

Sebastian opened his mouth to say something but was prevented from speaking by the steps of the dance that once again separated them.

Her brother remained silent when next they came together in the line; his ducal stare quickly surveyed the room. Emmaline knew beyond a doubt who he sought out. She also knew the moment his gaze collided with Lord Drake beside Lady Perfection.

She tapped Sebastian on the arm. “Do you trust me?”

He appeared startled by the question and redirected his attention to Emmaline.

“Do I trust you?” He seemed bemused by her question. “I must be honest, Em, I’ve never given it much thought. You’ve always been my baby sister. I haven’t really seen you as anyone other than the little girl who used to dog my every step.”

Emmaline rolled her eyes and waited until they came together. “I’m no longer the child who cried in your arms when my pony fell ill and had to be put down.”

There was something melancholy in Sebastian’s eyes, as if he’d just realized Emmaline had grown up, that she was no longer a child, and, in fact, a woman. “Of course I trust you. Now, whether Mother trusts you is another story,” he said teasingly.

“I need you not to interfere, Sebastian.”

She knew if Drake felt compelled where their betrothal was concerned, then nothing would come of it. And foolish as it was, there was a part of her, deep inside that longed for more. She wasn’t willing to let go of the dream that was Lord Drake. Though common sense told her that her pursuit was futile, she could not relinquish the dream she carried in her heart.

The quadrille came to an end, and the dancers clapped. Sebastian raked a frustrated hand through tousled dark locks, and directed one last black look in the Marquess of Drake’s direction. “Just say the word and you shall be freed,” Sebastian promised Emmaline, and then guided her to the seat beside Sophie.

Sebastian sketched a bow for Sophie’s benefit and took his leave.

Any feelings of relief at being alone with Sophie were immediately quashed by an unexpected intrusion.

“My, my, my, how lovely seeing you here, Emmaline.” Except the statement laced with gleeful malice lacked all sincerity.

Emmaline looked up and resisted the urge to shield her eyes from the offensively bright glare of the gentleman’s abundantly greased red hair. With the evening she’d had thus far, why should she be surprised?

She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Witless, I don’t remember giving you leave to address me so familiarly.”

Lord Whitmore closed the small distance between them with a violent lunge. He faltered and seemed to remember where they were. He grasped the lapels of his fuchsia silk embroidered evening coat and preened. He gave a cocky little nod across the room. “Seems your hero has directed his attention elsewhere.”

Sophie gasped and slipped her hand encouragingly in Emmaline’s.

Unwilling to let him see the impact of his words, Emmaline jutted her chin out. “Tell me, Whitmore, are you simply here because you’ve run out of old women to beat and horses to whip this evening?”

Like a setting sun, Whitmore’s brows lowered. “How confident you pretend to be. But tell me, my lady, how confident can you truly be when the man you’re betrothed to is sniffing the skirts of another woman right under your nose? How confident can you be seated with the other wallflowers? Why you,” he paused and gave a cocky smile, “should thank me for merely acknowledging you by name.”

Oh God, forget a whipped horse…Whitmore had landed a solid blow, right in her gut. His victorious expression said he knew it.

Sophie clamored to her feet. “You odious little creature. How dare you come over here? Why, do you know who Lady Emmaline’s brother is?”

Whitmore ignored Sophie.

“What do you want, Whitmore?” Emmaline drawled. She’d run out of patience for the “odious little creature,” as Sophie had dubbed him.

He turned blood-shot eyes to Emmaline. “Why, I would like an apology of course.”

Emmaline blinked. “That is all you want? An apology?”

He nodded like a chicken pecking at feed.

“Well then, sir, if that is what you are waiting for you can hold your hand over your heart until Lord Wellington makes friends with Napoleon himself.”

Chapter 11

Dearest Lord Drake,

My brother has informed me that though I’m no great beauty I’m a woman of character, which is more important than anything else. I solemnly reassured him that even though he is not the most intelligent gentleman, he is certainly the most pompous.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

DRAKE WAS BORED.

And frustrated.

And annoyed.

With himself, and the woman prattling on and on at his arm. If he’d been paying an iota of attention to whatever she was saying, he was certain there were a number of sexual innuendos buried within her words.

His eyes caught Sin’s form cutting a path through the crowd, and sighed.

He owed Sin.

Sin stopped before them, and bowed to the widow. “Lady Smythe, stunning as always!”

Her ice blue eyes, flashed with annoyance. “My lord.”

Sin smiled, clearly immune to her displeasure. “Lord Thurmond has been looking for you. I did him the courtesy of letting him know where you were. Ahh, here he comes, now,” he said with a wide smile and for good measure, nodded in the direction of the furious gentleman crossing the length of the ballroom.

Withholding any hint of society niceties for Sinclair, Lady Smythe gave him an elegant shoulder, and directed her attention to Drake. “My lord, I’m eager to continue our discussion,” she purred.

Drake offered a non-committal response and sketched a bow. The young widow gave him one last heated look. She shot a black look at Sin, and then sauntered away.

Sin rolled his shoulders in a mock shudder. “Egads, that scowl makes her hideous.”

Drake grinned. “Many thanks.”

Sin waved him off. “Think nothing of it.” He retrieved a champagne flute from a passing tray, and took a long sip. “What you should be thinking about, however, is the gossip you’ve created.”

Drake didn’t pretend to misunderstand. Instead, he surreptitiously watched Emmaline, seated at the outskirts of the dance floor, engrossed in conversation with Miss Winters, her hands spiraling animatedly, like two little tornadoes. All the hurt she’d worn earlier for the world to see, now gone. Instead, she fairly beamed. A vibrant sparkle glimmered in her eyes, like a beacon. The desire to go and bask in her unabashed joy hit him with a physical intensity so strong, he nearly staggered under the weight of it.

Then Drake became aware of certain other things. With any hint of scandal now gone, the ton had lost interest in gawking at Emmaline. And that was when he made the shocking realization—Lady Emmaline had been relegated to the inglorious fate of wallflower.

One month ago, such a revelation would have been no revelation at all. Yet having seen her challenge Whitmore, and then himself being the recipient of her saucy boldness, it baffled him that she was not sought after. The hair he’d once thought mousy was really a pleasing shade of deep, rich brown hues, which made Drake imagine just-melted chocolate cascading in rippling waves. Before the end of each night, one errant strand always managed to escape its coif, as stubborn as the lady herself. He found himself giving a very stern, albeit silent, command to his feet to stay planted and not cross the room so he could brush back that lock.

He took a step forward, then froze.

Sinclair wore a puzzled expression. “Uh…are you all right, Drake?”

Drake ignored the question.

Either he’d been staring so long it was inevitable, or she’d felt his eyes trained on her because, just then, she looked up and the glimmer he’d spied flickered out. The distance separating them could not dim the hurt in those amber depths, and he felt like the worst sort of bastard. She wrenched her gaze away.

“Go to her.”

Drake wasn’t sure whether the words had been uttered aloud by Sinclair or were trapped in his mind. The seductive strands of a waltz teased his consciousness. The urge to close the distance between them, draw her close into the folds of his arms, and breathe of her oddly alluring crisp lemon scent was a tangible force.

He ignored Sinclair’s stare. Though truth be told, the only way he’d be able to move his gaze from her delectable form was if somebody were to move him by sheer force. Emmaline’s sinfully delicious lips turned up at the corners, but oddly, in the course of a short time, he’d come to know what each tilt of her lips meant. He’d come to know her smile enough to know this particular one she wore for the ton was a façade—and knew he was responsible for the false show of joy she put on.

Sinclair seemed to read Drake’s disordered thoughts. “You can make it right,” he said quietly.

“Sin,” he bit out. “I’m not your business.”

Sin bristled. “No, Drake. You aren’t my business. You are my friend. Do you even know what that means?” The stinging words made Drake wince.

It wasn’t the first time that evening Drake had been appalled by his own words and actions. “My apologies,” he said gruffly.

Sin shook his head. “Don’t give it another thought.”

How could he not? Drake wondered at what point he’d lost the veneer of humanity that had once allowed him to fit in this world. What had happened those four years on the Peninsula that he now didn’t know how to be civil to his betrothed or best friend? Emmaline’s and Sin’s glaring disappointment in him was just one more stark reminder that he no longer fit in with civilized society—that he was better with vipers like Lady Smythe.

His gaze swallowed Emmaline. But, if he didn’t crave an emotional entanglement, why couldn’t he look away from her?

She desired love. She spoke of a family. God help him, when she’d spoken of her desires in that far-away husky whisper, she made him want to scale the walls, climb through a window, into the sky and retrieve the moon and a handful of stars for her.

Unlike him, Emmaline remained unscathed by the ugliness of life. The center of her existence was still their betrothal…that hadn’t been the case for him in years and years. At one time the obligations of his betrothal had seemed like the worst fate. What a fool he’d been.

Sin looked from Drake to Emmaline. “Her hair is merely brown, you know?”

Drake gave his head a shake. “It’s like the color of Belgian chocolate, you fool.”

“Same with her eyes, just brown,” Sinclair pointed out.

“They are not brown. Why, they are more of a whiskey hue with a hint of…”

God, what was happening to him?

His friend gave him a triumphant look and with steely determination, Drake resolved to cease staring at his betrothed.

Sin opened his mouth to speak and Drake glared him into silence.

Regardless of the length of their friendship, Drake neither wanted nor needed Sin interfering with his betrothal agreement.

“So you do not have feelings for the young lady?”

Drake sipped his champagne. “None at all.”

“Which would probably mean you wouldn’t care if she has to deal with the likes of Whitmore, again?” Sin dangled.

Drake’s gaze flew across the room. His hands balled into tight fists. Whitmore and Emmaline. Without a word, Drake strode toward his betrothed. By god, that cowardly fop had better not cause her any distress or he’d end him right there with Society as his witness.

“Well, I guess I have my answer,” Sin called after him.

* * *

RAGE DRIPPED FROM LORD WHITMORE with such ferocity he put Emmaline in mind of one of her brother’s hunting dogs who’d gotten so ill he’d frothed at the mouth. “You little fool,” Whitmore bit out.

Emmaline’s hand flew to her breast at the vulgar declaration.

“Whitmore, as crass as usual.”

She spun around and discovered Drake at her shoulder. The lines of his face were set in a hard mask. A slight tick at the corner of his eye, the only indication of his fury. He offered a perfunctory bow to both her and Sophie, and then turned his attention to Whitmore.

The young dandy’s cheeks turned an unhealthy shade of white.

Throwing an arm around Whitmore with enough force to nearly drop the man to his knees, Drake proceeded to give him a slight shake. To those observing the scene, Drake’s mannerisms could be construed as male jocundity.

A mottled shade of red restored color to Whitmore’s cheeks. “M-my l-lord, I-I’m surprised to find you here. Why Lady Smythe and all, you know?”

Emmaline flinched. Apparently the young dandy had far more temerity than she’d credited him with.

The moments ticked by with an exaggerated slowness. Drake still hadn’t spoken, which added a marked intensity to the exchange.

Stupid as he was, Whitmore had the sense to know he’d said something unpardonable, something which had only served to raise the Marquess of Drake’s ire. He took a step away from Drake.

Her betrothed pinned a glacial stare on Whitmore, his mouth set in a firm, unrelenting line. “Why don’t I join you? But first, make your apologies.” Her betrothed’s words were as silken as the edge of a blade.

“M-my apologies, ladies.” Whitmore bowed so low he nearly toppled over his feet.

“Tsk, tsk…I’m beginning to notice a rather unseemly trend, Whitmore,” Emmaline said.

Drake inclined his head. “I believe the young man needs to inform his mother of how callously he’s been treating young ladies.”

Whitmore sputtered and he gripped Drake’s arm. “Please, I implore you. Do not let my mother know,” he said, his gaze skittered off to land on the rotund, graying woman conversing with the host and hostess.

“What do you think, my lady? Miss Winters? Do you think I should inform Lady Whitmore?” Drake asked.

Whitmore’s eyes bulged. “Have a heart.”

Sophie tapped her chin. “I don’t know. What do you think, Em?”

Drake arched a golden brow in Emmaline’s direction. “Yes, what do you think, my lady?”

What did she think? She actually had very little thought reserved for Lord Whitmore. She was still trying to grapple with the warring personalities Drake presented to her. One moment he was the aloof, indifferent bounder, the next he was a champion charging over on his white steed, defending her from miscreants.

“My lady?” Drake pressed.

Emmaline returned her attention to the matter at hand. She studied the little toad quivering before them. She almost felt bad for him. Until she recalled the old peddler woman and Whitmore’s poor battered horse. “No, I think Lady Whitmore would definitely want to know about her son’s proclivity for rudeness.”

Drake turned to the cowering dandy. “How about a round in the ring, tomorrow, as well, Whitmore?”

Words eluded Whitmore who continued to rapidly shake his head back and forth in a way that nearly made Emmaline ill.

Her gaze locked with Drake’s and it appeared there was something more he wished to say, but the presence of Sophie and Whitmore prevented it. “My apologies, my lady,” he said. “I have a meeting with this pup’s mother, isn’t that right, Whitmore?”

Emmaline watched him go with his pup in tow, knowing there were many layers to that apology.

“Indifferent, Em.” Sophie snorted. “I think not.”

Chapter 12

My Dearest Lord Drake,

I begged Sebastian to allow me to accompany him to London Hospital. The visit was nothing short of remarkable.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

SEBASTIAN PULLED HIS WATCH FOB from the front pocket of his jacket and proceeded to check the time. “I am going to visit London Hospital. Are you—?”

Emmaline set aside the book she’d been reading and clambered up from the window-seat that overlooked the gardens below. “I’m coming! Give me a moment.”

Sebastian had been a board member at London Hospital since their father had died. Three years ago, when Sebastian had been planning his first visit to the hospital, a teary-eyed Emmaline had begged to go along with him.

Her brother had insisted London Hospital was no place for a seventeen-year old, genteel, young lady but, Sebastian had eventually been worn down. Ultimately, the older brother of a young grieving sister had been wont to deny her anything.

When Sebastian attended London Hospital’s monthly board meetings, Emmaline accompanied him and visited with the soldiers who’d fought Boney’s forces. In addition, she spent one day each week reading to the soldiers.

“I have a meeting with the Board. I told you to be ready by—”

“Just a moment!” Emmaline grabbed her stack of books, and handed her burden over to him. “Here.” She looped her arm through his and they made their way to the foyer.

A servant assisted Emmaline into her burnt orange taffeta cloak. She smiled. “Did Cook have that basket readied?”

She’d not even finished her question when a maid rushed forward with the basket outstretched. “Here it is, my lady.”

“Thank you,” she murmured as Sebastian relieved the maid of her burden. Emmaline followed Sebastian to the carriage.

After he placed the basket on the opposite seat, he sprawled into the red velvet squabs of the carriage bench.

Emmaline nudged him in the side. “Slide over. You are crowding me.”

“I’m insulted, Em. This carriage is enormous and…”

She rapped his fingers. “Just move over.”

“You’d never know I was a duke,” he muttered and moved over to the other bench.

Emmaline’s lips twitched.

Sebastian reached over and snagged the stack of books she’d brought with her. He shuffled through the pile and then set them aside. “Byron? Coleridge? Blake?” He arched a brow. “Are you certain this is what the men prefer to hear?” He dropped the books down on the opposite seat with a condescending thump.

Emmaline bristled. “Who wouldn’t want to read Byron, Coleridge, or Blake?”

Sebastian gave his head a shake as if to say, I’m more than certain I’m right and you’re wrong. He at least had sense enough not to say as much, aloud.

Instead, he flipped open the lid of the basket. “What do we have?”

Emmaline leaned over and slammed the top down on his fingers. “We have nothing.”

“Ouch.” He popped the smarting digits into his mouth.

“Really, Sebastian,” she chided, and slapped his other hand for good measure. “You can avail yourself to Cook’s pastries any time you want. These are for the soldiers.”

“I wasn’t going to eat anything.”

“Liar.” Emmaline ignored his response and turned her attention out the windowpane as the London scenery passed by.

“So, Em, what’s the story with Drake?”

Her eyes snapped back toward Sebastian and she felt a warm flush climb her neck and heat her cheeks. For the better part of the month, Sebastian had made it clear he did not approve of her efforts to secure Drake’s affections.

“What do you mean?”

Hazel-brown eyes narrowed. “You asked me if I trusted you. I responded yes. I am, however, the Duke of Mallen and your guardian. I need to ensure your protection.”

“What rubbish.” She puffed out her chest and threw her chin back in her best impression of a duke. “I’m the very powerful Duke of Mallen and want to know just what my little sister is up to.”

Sebastian folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t sound like that.”

“No, you sound like that.”

His brow wrinkled as if in annoyance. “Oh, and just what that are you referring to?”

“You sound like my older brother who is trying to find out what I’m up to.”

Sebastian sat back in the squabs of his seat. He drummed a finger on his leg. “Is there something wrong with me wanting to protect you?”

A swell of emotion climbed up Emmaline’s throat and made it difficult for her to reply. For all the responsibilities he’d inherited, and all the obligations that went with being the Duke of Mallen, occasionally there were moments when Sebastian was not the all-powerful peer and simply was her brother.

Emmaline leaned over and took his hand in hers. She gave it a light squeeze. “Of course not. But that is all you needed to say, brother.”

He cleared his throat, noticeably uncomfortable with her show of emotion. “So?” he urged.

He was like a dog with a bone with this one.

She sighed, letting his hand go. “I want a decision from Drake. I want a courtship and a true marriage. He is no longer allowed to run from me.”

Sebastian’s jaw set. “No.”

Emmaline’s lips twitched. “I wasn’t asking you.”

He scowled. “I still feel as though I should tell you how I’m feeling.”

“Fair enough,” she said with mock solemnity.

He opened his mouth to add something when the carriage drew to a halt.

“We’re here!” she called cheerily. Before the groom had even reached the side of the carriage, she leaned across Sebastian and thrust the door open, effectively squashing the remainder of the discussion.

Emmaline accepted the hand from the groom. “Thank you, Charles.”

She accepted Sebastian’s arm and allowed him to escort her up the column of stone steps into London Hospital. The hospital faced White-Chapel Road and was divided by a carriageway. The main entrance led into a receiving room where they were always greeted, before heading to the ward.

Emmaline walked down the stark white halls, and greeted the fifty-five soldiers who now made London Hospital their home.

“My lady, so good to see you,” one soldier called. “Your Grace,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

Emmaline waved to the soldier. She stopped at his bedside. “Lieutenant Woods, how have you been this fine week?”

The burly red-haired soldier grinned a nearly toothless smile. “Better, now, my lady. Better now!”

Emmaline waggled a brow. “I’m certain you are simply referring to my arrival with Cook’s latest creation. Though I must tell you,” she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “it was all I could do to defend the basket from His Grace. I had to slap his fingers in the carriage ride over.”

Woods guffawed with laughter. It blended with the echoing chuckles from the men in nearby hospital beds.

Looking around at her growing audience, she nodded for good measure. “No, truthfully, I gave them a little slap.” She teasingly demonstrated said slap on Sebastian’s fingers, and earned another round of laughter.

Sebastian pointed his eyes towards the ceiling and shook his head. “I will return after my meeting,” he muttered. His response only fueled the soldiers’ amusement. He turned to the nurse who’d followed them into the ward and handed, Emmaline’s books over to her.

Emmaline gave him a quick buss on the check and then he left. She returned her attention to the basket. “Ahh, let us see…what have we here?” She extracted a raspberry scone and handed the confection to Woods.

He accepted it as though he’d been offered the King’s crown. “My lady,” he said in solemn thanks and then took a wide bite of the treat.

Emmaline sat beside him for a short while, reading some of Byron’s work before she moved on down the rows of beds. She stopped to inquire after each of the soldiers, occasionally reading to those who asked her for a poem.

Then she reached the last bed in the ward.

No buoyant grin met her at this particular bedside. No warmth. Nor amusement. As long as Emmaline had been visiting London Hospital, this bed had been devoid of any trace of cheer.

Emmaline turned to the nurse who’d accompanied her. “Nurse Whiting, I will just be reading here. You can see to the other soldiers.”

“You are always so kind, my lady.” Nurse Whiting dropped a curtsy and turned her attention to a soldier at the far end of the room, calling out for assistance.

With the woman gone, Emmaline shifted her focus to the soldier. “Lieutenant Jones,” she greeted with the same smile she had for each man.

Jones, whose bed was situated at one of the back windows, had his eyes closed and his head directed toward the window. It was much the same every time she visited. Sometimes his closed eyes would be pointed to the end of the room and sometimes out the window.

They very rarely fell on her. They were never open.

Lieutenant Jones had lost an arm in the war. He had been gaunt three years ago. A skeleton of a human being. Since then, he’d gained weight, but seemed trapped within the hell of his experience fighting Boney’s forces.

Emmaline had committed to never abandoning Jones.

She waved one of her copies beneath his nose, so close it wafted his skin with the movement of air.

“Coleridge,” she said.

She waved another.

“Byron?”

And a final copy. “Or Blake?”

She waited.

As usual, there was no answer. “You are always so kind to let me decide. I choose…” She thumbed through the volumes, “…Coleridge today.” She scanned several pages. “Would you know, Lieutenant Jones, my brother had the audacity to tell me you are assuredly disappointed in my reading selection. He called poetry frivolous. Can you imagine that?” There was no outward reaction from Jones. “I told him, with utmost confidence, I was sure you approved of my selection. But,” she leaned close and whispered, “upon careful consideration I was forced to wonder if you ignore me because of the poetry.”

For the first time in three years, Lieutenant Jones opened his eyes. They were a startling shade of grey; like a summer sky right before a turbulent lightning storm.

Emmaline gasped, and dropped the volume at his bedside.

Lieutenant Jones continued to stare.

Emmaline smiled. Tears stung her eyes but she blinked them back. The last thing this man needed to see was her weak display of emotion. “Should I take that as a yes or no, Lieutenant? You just let me know. I assure you I shan’t be offended.” Her hand shook as she turned the page and began to read.

A long while later, she glanced up when the soldiers at the front of the ward called out greetings to the Duke of Mallen. She snapped the book of poems closed.

“I must tell you one of my favorite things about you, Lieutenant, is that you are the only gentleman here I am certain isn’t fond of me simply for the treats I bring from Cook.”

She gasped when his hand shot out and wrapped around her wrist. For all his years of confinement and his lack of physical exertion, his hold felt like a weighted chain on her person. Emmaline stared down at the strong hand that gripped hers. She supposed she should feel some sense of alarm—and yet, she didn’t. Deep inside, Emmaline knew he wouldn’t hurt her.

“Why do you persist?” His voice came out rusty from ill use. “Why do you not go away? Why can you not let me be?”

Emmaline met his steely grey-eyed gaze square on. “I don’t think you want me to go away, Lieutenant. I think, whether you’ll admit it or not, you like me. And for whatever reason, I have grown to like you. Though, I must say you have proven far more amicable when you don’t say anything at all.”

His eyes narrowed, passed over her face, as if he sought the answer to some question she wasn’t privy. He abruptly released her wrist. Then, for the first time in three years—smiled.

Chapter 13

My Dearest Drake,

After scaling down one of the ancient trees outside my bedroom window, I found my mother and father waiting for me at the bottom. They forbade me from climbing that tree ever again. I solemnly assured them I would respect their orders. So I have taken to climbing the trees far away from view of the house!

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

FOR THE BETTER PART OF a fortnight, Lady Emmaline had been there. By there Drake meant, in attendance at every event he attended. With her ability to ferret out his plans, she’d have made a hell of a spy for Wellington.

It begged the question why, at that precise moment, as Emmaline, her friend Miss Winters, and a maid snuck into a bookshop on the corner, did he not want to remain hidden in the confines of his black lacquer carriage? He didn’t pause to pay the silent question rolling around his mind much thought. Drake rapped on the roof of the carriage which came to an immediate halt.

Drake jumped down, and crossed the bustling street to the Old Corner Bookshop. He entered through the single door that set a tinny bell a-jingle and did a quick survey of the establishment.

The adage “Old” seemed rather generous. With an overwhelming scent of stale must, the inside of the establishment was ancient…and that too, might have been magnanimous. The rows and rows of books held a pungent odor of aged leather. Drake ruffled his nose and quelled the urge to sneeze. Clearly, the Old Corner Bookshop was not the most thriving of establishments.

“My lady, Miss Winters, so good to see you both.” The boisterous greeting caught Drake’s ear and propelled him deeper into the shop.

The ladies’ murmured response was lost in the rows of shelving.

“Why yes, yes I do in fact have the very novel.” The shopkeeper’s voice had dropped to a clear attempt at conspiratorial whisper, a feat Drake was sure the other man hadn’t exhibited in at least two decades.

Drake’s ears perked up. His betrothed enjoyed literature. What were Emmaline’s reading preferences? Poetry. She struck him as a romantic. The thought summoned a memory from long ago. He was kneeling down beside a five-year-old Emmaline. She’d fallen and he’d helped her to her feet. “Are you a prince?”

He started. He’d all but forgotten that moment in time. It wasn’t particularly something a boy of thirteen would remark upon, let alone remember. But in his mind he could clearly see the five-year old girl’s brown eyes pooled with tears of pain. He remembered the way they’d widened in wonder at the sight of him.

The muffled sound of Emmaline’s whisper brought Drake’s attention back to her circumspect efforts. With a sure-step, he moved deeper into the shop, closer to the voices in discussion, and peered around the edge of the shelf.

Emmaline’s smile stretched wide, as she displayed a row of pearl-white teeth and one slightly angled, yet highly endearing front left tooth. She accepted the work proffered by the rotund little man as gingerly as if the Archbishop of Canterbury had offered her the Holy Grail. Turning it in her hands, she studied the cover, and said something to Miss Winters, who laughed, and accepted a second copy from the shopkeeper.

The man bowed and continued down the aisle, leaving the ladies alone.

The furtive glances his betrothed continued to steal only heightened Drake’s intrigue. What could she be up to?

Battlefield experience had shown him the importance of having the upper hand.

“Lady Emmaline, Miss Winters, what a pleasure seeing you both!” he called out.

A squeal of surprise rent the quiet hum of the empty bookshop followed by a thump as the book Emmaline had been holding fell to the floor. The novel tumbled open, and landed indignantly upon its spine, the title still concealed.

* * *

BLAST AND DOUBLE BLAST!

She’d rather have ripped her hair out one strand at a time than have him find her here. After all her chance-meetings with Drake, this would be when he happened upon her.

“Lord Drake, what a pleasure to see you,” she lied.

Emmaline saw his lips moving but didn’t pay attention to his response. All her focus remained on the book at her feet. She peeked out the corner of her eye at Sophie. She dared hope Sophie had formulated a plan to recover the volume without attracting Drake’s notice, for Emmaline was stymied.

In an attempt to distract him, Emmaline favored Drake with her most winning smile and stuck the tip of her satin slipper out as she tried to drag the leather volume toward her.

Drake’s jade eyes fell to her extended foot.

So much for her winningest smile.

“Please, allow me,” he insisted.

Like hell, she silently fumed. She made one last valiant attempt to collect the novel but he bent down to rescue the source of her quandary.

“No need. I have it, my lord.” She bent over just as Drake did. Their heads met with a loud crack.

“Oomph,” Emmaline gasped. The world rocked from under her and she would have splayed in an inelegant heap at his feet, but Drake’s arms were already out. He expertly righted her, rescuing her before she crashed to the floor and cradled her slender frame against his sculpted chest.

Emmaline’s breath caught. The press of his body against hers left her incapable of formulating one coherent thought. All she could comprehend was the absolute and total heat of his touch, the scent of sandalwood clinging to his person, tantalizing her senses.

Sophie sighed.

It would appear Drake heard it, too. As though Emmaline had spiked thorns along her forearms, he set her from him with alacrity.

She hated that her whole body should go on alert the moment he entered the same room, when he remained impervious to her. She might as well be a matronly relative. No…he probably would treat matronly relatives with far more regard than he showed her.

Sophie stammered her pardon and scurried down another aisle. Emmaline wasn’t certain if her friend was either: one, allowing her time alone with her betrothed or whether two, she sought escape before he discovered their scandalous reading habits. Which reminded her…

Emmaline made one more attempt to retrieve the work, but alas her betrothed had the reflexes of a lightning strike. He intercepted her efforts, and rescued the volume, holding it aloft, well beyond her reach.

A single, strand had escaped Emmaline’s neat chignon during her exertions and hung over her brow. She blew the lock back and folded her arms across her chest. “I would like my book back, my lord.”

Her eyes were drawn to the slow smile that quirked one corner of his lips. Drat the man. He seemed far too amused by this exchange. She briefly contemplated snatching the volume from his hand and dismissing him without a further word. Based on his earlier speed, any effort she made to retrieve it would prove ineffectual.

“Hmmm, what have we here?” he wondered, and lowered the book to eye level. His smile widened and he revealed a row of perfectly white even teeth.

Of course he would have perfect teeth, she thought, promptly snapping her mouth shut. She’d not allow him to see her own imperfect row, the way her front left tooth angled slightly over its right counterpart. Her brother had forever teased her over it, and it had always been a source of insecurity. She could only imagine what her betrothed would think about it.

Drake glanced at the title.

At any other place, at any other time, Emmaline would relish the levity of their exchange. Not, however, at this particular moment. Her reading preferences were an exceedingly intimate part of herself that she did not want to share. He very well may be her betrothed, but he was still a veritable stranger.

He blinked several times. “This is what you’re reading?”

Emmaline did not like his emphasis on the word, this. “I’ll take it now, my lord,” she said. She held her hand out, and waited for him to turn it over.

Drake ignored her and opened the front flap of the book. His eyes scanned the words, and then snapped in her direction “This is what you are reading?” There was a measure of haughty disdain in his words.

Annoyance blossomed inside her chest at the way Drake kept repeating himself. “You needn’t sound so…so…incredulous.”

Drake closed the book and shook his head. “Gothic novels. This is where your interests lie.”

Rules of etiquette be demmed, Emmaline snatched the volume from his hands. “I do not appreciate your condescension. Nor do I care for the way you keep repeating yourself.” Somewhere along the way his words had ceased to be a question and had become a statement.

Drake opened his mouth to speak but Emmaline continued before he had the chance. “How terribly stuffy of you, my lord. It is difficult to imagine that you, who’ve had scores of mistresses littering the better part of England, should be so scandalized by a mere piece of literature. Your reaction is simply staggering.”

Drake advanced a step in her direction and Emmaline took a step back. There was something overwhelmingly masculine and at the same time predatory in his hooded expression.

“Stuffy?”

His words washed over her like a silken caress. She told her brain to remind her head to nod. “Yes, stuffy.”

Before she even suspected his intentions, he again relieved her of her copy.

The work under his scrutiny was Glenarvon by Caroline Lamb. Emmaline had always had a love for Gothic novels; however, this one was even more intriguing than most, for it told the story of doomed love between a married Lady Calantha and a dashing Irish Revolutionary. The work was not even a thinly veiled disguise of Lady Caroline Lamb’s own tempestuous love affair with Lord Byron, and that, combined with her rather unflattering satire of leading members of Society, had set the ton abuzz.

“Are you mad, reading this?” His voice was a harsh whisper. He stuffed the volume on the shelf behind him, and cast a glance about as though discovery were imminent.

Emmaline tugged the volume out from the spot where he’d haphazardly deposited it. “First, that is not where this book goes,” she reprimanded. “Second—”

“I don’t care where the bloody book goes as long as it is not in your hands,” he bit out. He wrested it from her grip, returning it yet again to the wrong shelf.

Emmaline directed her eyes to the ceiling. Who’d have imagined Lord Drake would be squeamish when it came to a gothic novel?

“I am purchasing it, my lord.” She snatched it back from the shelf and held it protectively to her chest. She hadn’t had a say in the man she would wed, not one aspect of her future. She would be damned if she would be denied a say in her reading choice.

“I should have expected you would be interested in one of the most controversial novels, and one about a great love affair.” His words fairly dripped with condescending irony.

Her eyes narrowed. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said, you’re filling your head with extreme nonsense. You’d be better served by reading the classics.” He paused. “I do not want to see you suffer, Lady Emmaline.” Drake’s usual jade eyes had lightened to a gentle moss shade, and Emmaline read something warmly protective in his expression.

And she realized—he’s concerned about me. The realization nearly bowled her over. For years he’d been indifferent but now, he seemed utterly panicked on her behalf. Warmth filled her.

“I’m concerned about you,” he said, as if he’d read her thoughts.

There was something seductive about his softly spoken words. Emmaline swayed toward him.

“I say, are you all right?” His hand shot out to steady her.

She gave her head a small shake. “Fine.”

Drake swiftly dropped his hands from her person and redirected his attention to the volume held against her bosom. “Of all the silly, nonsensical things to read.”

So they were back to that, were they? “You sound like my brother.”

A sound caught in his throat. “Don’t ever say that.”

Emmaline crossed her arms at her chest. “Well, you do. He’s so hidebound when it comes to what I read, so very ducal. And you, you aren’t a duke, but…” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “You will step neatly into the role, I imagine.”

“You’re an impertinent thing.” He took another step toward her and her arms fell back to her sides. She took yet another step back. “And I will say just one more time, enough comparing me to Sebastian.”

A palpable tension radiated from his person, as he eyed her with a hard glint in his eyes, and she knew better than to debate the point.

“Have you ever read a Gothic novel, my lord?”

Drake snorted. “I would never waste my time with such drivel.”

His reaction killed any of the earlier warmth she’d felt toward him.

“By your own admission, you’ve never so much as read a Gothic novel.” She clicked her tongue. “Tsk, tsk, I would have never thought you were so stodgy and judgmental to develop such an uninformed opinion.”

Drake’s shoulders drew back. Emmaline wasn’t certain if he had taken particular offense at being called stodgy or judgmental. Or perhaps both.

“Lady Emmaline, that book,” he jabbed a finger in the direction of the offending work, “has set Society on its ear. Every lord and lady named in that work is outraged. They are shunning anyone who reads or supports the cowardly author who wrote it.”

An inelegant snort escaped her. “I assure you, no one gives a fig what novel I’m reading.” Even if it is one of the most scandalous works of the Season, she silently added. “Not to mention, with the exception of you and Sophie, no one else knows.”

“That does not condone it.” His jaw hardened.

And because she knew it would infuriate him…she laughed in his face. “You’re acting like an old, strait-laced gentleman.” She waved her hand. “I would never have taken you as one who feared Society’s ridicule. Nor, for that matter, would I believe you naïve. Do you truly believe the entire ton isn’t scrambling to secure a copy?”

Drake growled low in his throat and for the first time since he’d come upon her in the bookshop, Emmaline became truly nervous. She took a tentative step away from him, having forgotten she’d run out of backward steps, until she collided with the shelving. She sidled to the left of him. Perhaps she had gone a touch too far.

“I’ll just be going,” Emmaline said, as though she’d not just offended a lord who was not used to being offended, insulted, or anything else she’d done to him that day. She would have stepped around Drake but his arm again shot out, and he pulled her close, his lips a hairsbreadth from her own.

“Doddering old man?” His hot, softly spoken words whispered against her lips, tickling them.

Emmaline licked her lips. Even through the silk fabric of her gown, her skin heated where he touched her waist. “I didn’t call you doddering…” Her words trailed off when Drake’s eyes dropped to her lips.

Before she could form another coherent thought, his mouth was on hers, hot, intent, with purpose.

Emmaline froze, stunned by the unexpectedness of her first kiss, then her body weakened as she curled against Drake, and she who had never before been kissed, kissed him back, eagerly.

She had often dreamed of what her first kiss would be like…had always assumed it would be with her betrothed, but this, this she had not been prepared for, nay, could never have prepared for. His lips were firm and when a sigh escaped her, his tongue took advantage and slipped inside, plundering, devouring, tasting.

Emmaline moaned and she reached up to tangle in the silk strands of his longer than fashionable golden mane.

She moaned. “Drake.” The breathy entreaty obviously jolted him; his body jerked as if he’d been struck.

He set her from him with such alacrity she almost lost her footing. Ever the gentleman, his hands shot out to steady her. Drake scanned the area around them, as if to ascertain whether or not they’d been discovered.

Emmaline tried to fight a stab of hurt. “You don’t have to look so relieved,” she said, hating the way her words broke, wishing she could remain composed.

* * *

DRAKE DRAGGED A HAND THROUGH his hair. What the hell had he done here? Then his eyes took in Emmaline’s swollen lips, the loose brown strands that had come down around her shoulders—and he knew exactly what had overcome him. A sweet fire had glinted in her eyes as she’d challenged him and Drake had needed to taste that passion on her lips. It was vastly easier to focus on the flare of desire between them than on the tumult of emotions that he couldn’t explain.

He cleared his throat. “You should be relieved you haven’t been discovered with that book.”

“So we are back to that again, my lord? Very well, I’d like to issue you a challenge.”

“I’m sorry?”

She sighed. “Perhaps your age has affected your ability to hear, my lord.”

His eyes narrowed. “I’m not old.”

“A challenge, then my lord.”

Drake’s mind went down a whole series of seductive, sexual paths, that all ended with Emmaline on her back, silken waves fanned out upon his pillow, arms outstretched, legs parted…

“A challenge?” His words came out gravelly to his own ears. He shifted to ease the ache that had settled in his groin, praying his betrothed didn’t glance down and see the large bulge at the front of his breeches.

She held the volume of Glenarvon out to Drake.

He took it and she continued. “We will each purchase a copy and read it. Whoever finishes the book first may call in whichever demand they want from the losing party.”

Drake fought down another rush of images; Emmaline on her knees, taking his length between her lips, sucking him…“And what will those terms be, Lady Emmaline?” he asked hoarsely.

She gave a toss of her head, apparently having no idea that her every movement enflamed his passions. “Why, I would like to be taken on a picnic. What do you desire, my lord?”

A sound, very near a groan, lodged in his throat. He gave his head a violent shake.

Emmaline’s brow furrowed. “You must want something.” Her eyes went wide and she up held a finger. “I have it, my lord. If you win, I shall make it a point to avoid whichever event you attend for an entire week.”

Drake froze; his tongue could not move to form words.

If he won this silly wager, she would cease pestering him? He should leap at the opportunity. Why then did the thought of not seeing her rest like a pit in his stomach? He told himself it was because he welcomed the diversion she presented. It was nothing more than that. He’d begun to enjoy their subtle repartee.

“A week,” he said. He hated the sadness that clouded her eyes, and felt like a bastard who’d kicked a kitten. It was on the tip of his tongue to argue the terms were not his, but rather her own. He held out his hand.

Emmaline hesitated, then reached out and placed her small white gloved fingers in his. “How will we know whether the other is being truthful?”

A smile tugged at his lips. “In other words, my lady, how will you know if I’ve actually held my word? Tsk, tsk. I’m insulted. What about a test of sorts? Whoever completes the reading first will have to answer a series of questions about the book.”

Emmaline nodded and gave a slight but firm shake. She had a stronger grip than most gentlemen he knew.

“I bid you good day, my lord. Oh, and one more thing.” She plucked the copy of Glenarvon from his free hand. She turned dismissively to go and pay for her volume.

Drake frowned. “What about my copy?”

Emmaline continued down the long aisle. “That is not my problem.” She tossed over her shoulder, and then disappeared around the shelf at the front of the establishment.

Her victorious giggle echoed throughout the store.

Drake grinned. The little minx.

The gauntlet had been thrown.

Chapter 14

My Dearest Lord Drake,

I sometimes wonder if we had not been betrothed, would Fate have intervened to see us wed anyway? I like to believe so.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

DRAKE STARED UP AT THE canopy above his bed. Eerie shadows, cast by the small fire in the hearth danced off the fabric and walls of his room.

The memories were worse at night. In the late hours, when the inky black fingers of the evening sky had stolen the last of daylight, Drake heard things; sounds, people. The hum was sometimes so deafening he would clamp his hands tightly over his ears and rock back and forth on the edge of the bed, willing the ghosts of fallen friends to release him, forgive him for living when they remained forever on the battlefields.

The irony didn’t escape him—the decision to enlist had been entirely his own. He’d been motivated by resentment for his father’s high-handed manipulation of his life. Drake hadn’t even been allowed the opportunity to decide which university he would attend. Instead, it had been stated in no uncertain terms he would attend Eton and Oxford, just as his father had, and his father’s father, etcetera, etcetera…

Drake had known early on all the responsibilities that went with being the only son and heir to the powerful Duke of Hawkridge. He’d even had a clear idea he would be expected to one day marry for his title. What Drake had resented was being robbed of the choice as a mere boy.

The day Drake had coolly informed his father of his enlistment, the Duke of Hawkridge had slammed his fist onto his desk and threatened to have the King strip him of his commission. When all was said and done, his father hadn’t interfered.

He’d imagined nothing could be more horrendous than the Duke of Hawkridge’s controlling influence. He shook his head.

The time he’d spent fighting had proven just how naïve he’d been. Amidst the battering cold of icy rain, clad in a mud-drenched uniform, he’d dreamed of the day he’d return to White’s and Brook’s, Gentleman Jackson’s, and all his other frequent haunts.

The day he’d returned from the Peninsula, he’d wanted nothing more than the easy comfort of his former life.

Society had different plans for the returned hero.

The only way Drake had managed to retain his grasp on sanity had been to bury himself in drink, women, and any other mindless pursuits. He’d made it a point to ignore his father’s silent censure.

Drake forced his attention away from dark remembrances and to the novel he’d thrown haphazardly to the bed where it lay untouched…staring mockingly up at him.

Just the thought of his exchange with Emmaline at the Old Corner Bookstore chased away the demons dancing about his haunted mind.

Before she’d taken her leave from the bookshop, Emmaline had wished him luck.

It had turned out he would need it. The shopkeeper had looked visibly distressed that his only two copies of Glenarvon had walked out the door with his two loyal customers, leaving Drake copy-less. So had begun Drake’s quest for the sought after, scandalous novel all the ton was fascinated by.

He’d spent hours scouring bookshops without success. He’d known whom to blame for his inability to attain a copy. At each respective establishment he’d visited, a note had been left with the shopkeeper for Lord Drake. It had contained one line. “Happy Hunting!”

Drake laughed at the memory of it and shook his head. What was it about her? She possessed a buoyant spirit that energized him in a way that reminded him he was very much alive.

In the end, Drake had prevailed and found a copy of the book. To prevent rumor of his reading-search from being bandied about Town, Drake had paid every shopkeeper a small fortune to keep his selection private.

He picked up the volume of Glenarvon and scoffed. What utter rubbish. Why the pages would be better served as kindling for a fire. He thumbed through the book, unable to stifle a smile at the caricatures of some of the tons leading members; Lady Jersey, there, plain for all to see. The patroness of Almack’s fury had been so great, she’d banished the author from the hallowed assembly hall.

Lying down, he dragged another pillow under his head and opened the book.

Only because the minx had a significant lead on him.

Drake gave his head a shake. “I cannot believe I’m reading this.” He fanned the pages, his eyes landing at a random point and read.

“She is even dangerously ill.”

“And pray may I ask of what malady?” he replied, with a smile of scorn.”

“Of one, Lord Glenarvon,” she answered with equal irony,” which will never endanger your health—of a broken heart.”

Drake snorted. “What rubbish.” He intended to tell his betrothed the next time he saw her.

He turned to the first chapter and began to read.

* * *

“WAKE UP, SON. WAKE UP!”

Drake lunged up. Beads of sweat fell from his brow. He threw off his father’s grip and the energy seeped from his tightly coiled body. He studied the room through a clouded haze of horror, as he tried to sort out where his physical body was.

His gaze collided with his father’s. The Duke of Hawkridge said nothing. He never did after Drake recovered from one of his terrors.

Drake raked a hand across his face, and scrubbed it back and forth, with deliberate roughness. “I had a dream,” he said.

The Duke of Hawkridge nodded somberly. “I know.”

None would dare to believe that this man with his dressing gown rucked about his legs, kneeling at Drake’s side with tears in his eyes was in fact the Duke of Hawkridge.

Drake took care to avoid his father’s eyes. “I fell asleep. I shouldn’t have.” The last time he’d awakened from a nightmare to find his father next to him, he’d looked into the duke’s eyes and found them filled with pity, guilt, and regret—it had been too much for Drake.

“You have to sleep.” His father awkwardly patted Drake’s hand.

This is how it went when the nightmares came. Afterwards, neither of them knew what to say.

Hawkridge began slowly. “About your betrothal…”

Drake’s eyes slid closed. He braced for the lecture. His father was choosing this moment to speak to him about his responsibilities?

“I want you to know, I…I want you to be happy. I will…” the Duke of Hawkridge fumbled, seeming to search for the right word, “terminate the terms of the agreement, if that is what you so wish.”

Drake didn’t say anything. The irony of the duke’s offer was not lost on him. If those words had been spoken eight years earlier, how different would his life be? His rash decision to enlist would never have come to pass.

Oddly, the offer now left Drake with a feeling of emptiness inside. Take it, accept his offer and sever the contract. It would be the ultimate victory over his father’s will.

He opened his mouth to speak.

Then tried again.

But the words wouldn’t come.

It may have had something to do with the fact that for the first time since he’d returned from the Peninsula, he felt blessedly alive. Lying in the arms of stunningly beautiful courtesans, playing at the gaming tables, none of it had elicited anything from Drake.

Somehow Lady Emmaline had succeeded where nothing else had—she’d made him feel human again. When he was with her, he laughed, made jests. She made him feel a whole host of emotions he’d never thought to experience again.

And Drake was loath to lose the thin grasp on humanity she provided.

He scrubbed the back of his hand over his eyes. “I’m tired.”

Hawkridge stood a little too quickly, a demonstration of his discomfort with the state of his son’s well-being. “Yes, yes, then. Please think about what I’ve said.” He held a hand up, reached out, and then swiftly dropped it back to his side.

Drake watched him leave, thinking about what his father had said, and even more, thinking about why it was so hard to consider accepting the offer.

Chapter 15

My Dearest Drake,

I have a confession. I am lonely. How odd, to have a mother, a father, a brother and frequent visitors, and yet still be lonely…I wish you’d come home soon and take me away from it all.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

SOMEWHERE AMIDST THE CRUSH OF people who had shown up for the musical event of the Season, Lord Drake was present.

The Earl and Countess of Cranford had all daughters; five of them to be exact, which provided a sufficient number for a whole evening’s worth of musical entertainment. The young ladies, ranging from seventeen to two and twenty, were as gifted musically as they were stunning examples of golden, blue-eyed, English beauty. Each lady possessed a crystal-clear tone and broad range that would make a choir of angels green with envy. And thus, the event had become the only musicale that members of the ton looked forward to.

Emmaline scanned the hall.

Lord Sinclair had sent around a note indicating Lord Drake would be in attendance. She glanced over at her mother, engrossed in conversation with Lady Bloom, who therefore couldn’t notice Emmaline’s pointed search for Lord Drake. It was bad enough Emmaline had to deal with Sebastian’s censure over her pursuit of her betrothed. She didn’t relish the prospect of having to fend off Mother’s disapproval, as well.

Emmaline caught her lower lip between her teeth. Lord Sinclair had insisted Drake would be present and yet…this wasn’t her betrothed’s usual entertainment. No, he’d far prefer balls where he could receive the attentions of scandalous, voluptuous widows. She could not even begin to speculate as to Drake’s motives in attending the annual musicale. There must be some woman in attendance who’d captured his interest.

Her mother touched the small of her back and Emmaline started. She’d not realized Lady Bloom had taken her leave.

“Your brother is speaking to Lord Waxham,” her mother said.

Emmaline followed her mother’s gaze to the opposite end of the hall, to where Sebastian conversed with Lord Waxham. The two men had been close friends for longer than she could remember. The relationship had begun at Eton, and over the years Waxham had been a frequent visitor to their London townhouse.

Of late, Sebastian had begun to mention Lord Waxham with an increasing frequency. Emmaline could only take that to mean Sebastian had despaired of anything truly coming of her betrothal to Drake.

Emmaline sighed. ’Twas a dark day indeed when one’s brother angled to secure a suitor for his still-betrothed sister.

Sebastian slapped Waxham on the back and the two gentlemen started in Emmaline and her mother’s direction.

Emmaline groaned.

Mother’s sharp gaze of disapproval snapped in her direction. Her mouth flattened in a tight line. “Emmaline, be polite,” she reprimanded, and then seemed to remember her own manners, for she presented a smile for anyone who happened to notice.

“I cannot survive Sebastian’s tactless attempt at matchmaking. For the love of God, I’m betrothed, Mother.”

“Don’t be silly. He is not…”

Emmaline didn’t pay attention to what her mother thought Sebastian was up to. Instead she scoured the room for an escape.

As if sensing her daughter’s intentions, she gripped Emmaline’s hand and effectively halted her retreat.

“My dear sister and mother! Don’t they look beautiful?” Sebastian asked loud enough for those around to hear.

Emmaline winced. If she could throttle her brother for his less-than-tactful approach, she’d do it right there.

Her mother’s brows narrowed.

Emmaline dipped a curtsy and greeted him. “Lord Waxham.”

“Two very beautiful ladies,” Waxham said. His deep baritone was both masculine and pleasant. But he was not Drake. He bowed and flashed Emmaline a smile.

A tide of guilt swept over her. It was hardly Waxham’s fault that her brother was…well, her brother. “How are you this evening, my lord?”

He grinned. “Better now.”

A wave of heat flooded her cheeks.

From an objective point of view, she could admit Waxham was a handsome gentleman, even if he was Drake’s counter-opposite. Though both gentlemen stood a good several inches past six feet, Waxham was still a smidgeon shy of Drake’s towering frame. With Waxham’s dark, almost Gypsy-like coloring hinting at his Roman ancestry, he was Lucifer to Drake’s Michael the Archangel. Still, Waxham happened to be in possession of the most magnificent dark curls Emmaline would have traded her left pinky for.

The dark devil captured her hand for a kiss, his eyes sparkling at Emmaline’s perusal and she scrunched her toes in embarrassment at being caught.

“Lady Emmaline, will you be regaling us with a song, following the scheduled performances of Lord Cranford’s daughters?” Waxham asked.

An inelegant snort escaped Emmaline. She covered her mouth with a gloved hand. “I’m not foolish enough to follow such lovely voices, particularly when my pitch is as flat as my—”

Her mother’s eyes shot up to her hairline. “Emmaline, why isn’t that Miss Winters?” Her question emerged as a high-pitched squeak.

Truly, did her mother think Emmaline would be so inappropriate as to mention her attributes in the midst of Lord and Lady Cranford’s music hall? One side glance in her mother’s direction, indicated that very thing.

“I was going to say my fresh pressed gloves.” Emmaline added with a teasing smile. She wiggled a glove about for Waxham’s inspection.

He laughed, earning an audience of curious stares from the surrounding ton.

His unrestrained mirth was infectious. Emmaline joined him laughing. “No, no I don’t see her, Mother.” Her eyes narrowed.

The Marquess of Drake stood conversing with Lord Sinclair and Lady Smythe. The cad didn’t even notice Emmaline standing at the opposite side of the hall.

Literally, the opposite side of the hall. Why, if she held her arm perfectly straight and followed it one hundred paces, she’d jab him in the chest with her fist…which was certainly no less than he deserved.

The audacity of the man, carrying on with that woman right under her nose. Oh, this would not do.

“I do see her after all, Mother. If you will excuse me, Lord Waxham.” She dipped a hasty curtsy and set out to greet Sophie and if along the way she happened to bump into Drake, well, then that couldn’t be helped.

In the end, she settled for running into Lady Smythe, garbed in a gown so fine it was almost sheer, made of the reddest satin and trimmed in black Italian lace. The satin had been purposefully dampened so it clung to each curve of her body. Could she be any more garish? For the love of God, the woman had only recently been widowed. She might as well dance a merry jig on her poor late husband’s grave.

Emmaline raised a hand to her mouth. “Oh, my lady, my deepest apologies. Imagine me stepping where I shouldn’t have. It is just a reminder that one must tread carefully.”

The widow’s mouth fluttered in a way reminiscent of a rainbow trout Emmaline had once caught. The poor thing had flapped about helplessly on the shore, before she’d taken pity on it, removed her hook, and set him free. She still remembered how graceful the fish had been as it leapt into the air, his body twisting, relishing in his release, before disappearing below the water’s surface.

Lady Smythe, however, was no fish. Instead, she was the one with her hook sunk deep where it didn’t belong.

Emmaline directed her attention to Lord Sinclair before the widow could speak. She dipped a deep curtsy and smiled. “Lord Sinclair, ever a pleasure.”

Sinclair bowed, a conspiratorial smile on his lips. “Likewise, my lady.”

“Lady Emmaline,” Lady Smythe said frostily. “I believe your mother is beckoning, my dear.” A mocking edge danced on those words in clear reminder that as a widow she was afforded luxuries that Emmaline herself was not.

Emmaline called on every ladylike lesson that had been drummed into her since birth to keep from slapping the other woman. “I assure you, I’m a woman and don’t need to be beckoned like a child, Lady Smythe. Though I do see Lord Thurmond beckoning you.” Every single member of the ton knew whose bed the indiscreet widow was warming.

An unbecoming red mottled the pale creature’s cheeks. She gave a flounce of her black curls and then left on a huff.

Sinclair coughed, in a clear attempt to cover a laugh. Emmaline gave him a sly wink.

Drake’s glower was black enough to smite a weaker person on the spot.

“I do believe Lord Drake has been delivered a slight by Lady Smythe. His ego is surely smarting from the insult,” she whispered conspiratorially. She looked in the direction of Lady Smythe and Lord Thurmond, and studied the couple in a dramatically overlong fashion. She tapped a finger along her jaw. “I do say they make a striking pair, don’t you agree?”

Fury fairly oozed from Drake’s form. His jaw was set tight at a steely angle. “Have you had your ego bruised, my lord?” She made a pitying sound.

Sinclair leaned close and whispered back. “He does appear bothered.”

Drake took Emmaline’s forearm in a firm grasp and determinedly steered her away. She cast her gaze sideways. With his amicable smile and the seeming gentlemanliness of his arm looped through hers, the crowd would be wont to notice anything untoward in his reaction.

His manacle like hold on her person was unrelenting. He drew to an abrupt stop beside an alcove in the corner of the auditorium, sending Emmaline’s still moving form pitching forward. “Oomph,” she breathed.

His hands came up to steady her shoulders…until he seemed to remember his fury. “Are you done, Lady Emmaline?” he said, his tone frosty.

She schooled her expression. “Whatever do you mean, my lord?” If he’d expected or hoped for a meek debutante, well, he was destined for disappointment. Emmaline hadn’t been a girl for a very long time. It was time he realized that. “I’m sorry. Have I embarrassed you in front of your friends and members of Society? How terribly insensitive.”

Drake’s mouth set in a hard, flat line. “You are making a fool of yourself, Lady Emmaline.”

Her body jerked as though she’d been physically struck, and she felt the color drain from her cheeks. “Perhaps. But you are a fool, my lord.”

His turbulent jade-green stare slid away but not before she detected a trace of something that resembled guilt, in his eyes.

No words he uttered could ever be adequate and yet she silently counted to ten, waiting for his apologies. When she reached fifteen, it became clear that he didn’t intend to break his silence and her hurt gave way to rage. The lout!

She found solace in her anger; it strengthened her, drove away the humiliation. Emmaline shook out her skirts and made to step around him. His arm shot out in front of her. He pressed his hand against the opposite wall, effectively cutting off her escape.

“Move,” she snapped.

Damn him.

Drake looked down at Emmaline through flinty eyes. He leaned close so his lips were scant inches apart from hers. “What is this game you play, Emmaline?”

And because Emmaline couldn’t formulate one suitable response, she leaned up and kissed him.

He stiffened at the feel of her lips pressed to his. But then it was as though he was unable to fight the baser masculine urgency that demanded more. He took Emmaline in his arms and with only a flimsy satin curtain between them and Society, his mouth ravaged hers, his ministrations hard and demanding.

The hot taste of him, tinged with whiskey, sapped the strength from her muscles. Drake guided her hands up around his neck, and then anchored her against the hard wall of his chest. She clung to him. Then his hands were about her, gripping her buttocks, pulling her even closer against the hard length of his shaft.

Her moan was lost in his hot, skillful mouth.

It was that same moan that seemed to pierce Drake’s desire. He jerked away from her with a hoarse groan. Horror flooded his eyes. His arms fell useless to his side.

Emmaline touched her fingers to her lips. In all the dreams she’d carried in her heart, in all her girlish yearnings of her betrothed, she had imagined his kiss. This passion, overwhelming in its power, moved beyond even what they’d shared in the Old Corner Bookshop. It made her ache to know more.

And yet…he was so coolly aloof, she could read nothing in him.

The detachedness of his response threatened to shatter her composure. How could he kiss her with such fever and then withdraw into this shell of a man? Something must have shaped him into a detached person incapable of warmth and affection.

The alcove curtain stirred.

“Emmaline?”

The sound of Emmaline’s name being called from behind the fabric had the same effect as a bucket of freezing Thames water being dumped over her. She went motionless. Her gaze darted around the cloaked alcove, and collided with Drake’s. “My brother,” she mouthed.

He held a finger to his lips.

“Emmaline,” Sebastian called in a faint whisper so as to not risk discovery.

She waited with breath held for him to continue on his way—all the while knowing with one word, one whisper, even so much as a sigh, her and Drake’s intimate position would be revealed, and both of them would be forced into a union.

A marriage based on a compromising position was not what Emmaline dreamed of for herself. Other young ladies might only care about an advantageous match but Emmaline wanted more.

What might have been seconds or minutes felt like an endless stretch of time. They waited. And waited.

The soft tread of Hessian boots moved on and indicated that Sebastian had left.

“Emmaline,” Drake whispered.

She slipped out of his arms and darted out from behind the curtains, leaving him alone.

* * *

DRAKE DROPPED HIS HEAD AGAINST the wall and shook it back and forth. For one, inexplicable moment he’d wished Mallen had thrown back the curtain and discovered him and Emmaline. It would have meant her ruin and Drake would have been forced to do right by her.

Such senseless thinking would have only resulted in a miserable existence for Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh; uncertainty, fear, danger. Drake had committed enough wrongs in his life that he wasn’t willing to add this unpardonable sin—even if he did desire her and the peace she managed to somehow bring him.

“Emmaline! Where were you?” A voice hissed.

Drake picked his head up.

He strained to hear Emmaline’s muffled response.

“I assured Mother you knew what you were about but you are making a fool of yourself over Drake. You must have some pride,” Mallen chided.

Drake’s hands curled into fists at his side. How dare Mallen speak in that haughty tone to Emmaline? Just once he wanted to plant a left-handed jab into the other man’s face, just bury a fist into his nose.

“This is neither the time nor the place, Sebastian.”

Drake envisioned her with hands planted atop her gently-curved hips, a becoming flush on her cheeks, and all the desire he’d quashed earlier, came rushing back.

“You walked off on Waxham,” Mallen charged. “It was rude of you. He’s always been…”

The wicked trail Drake’s thoughts had been meandering down, meandered right over the edge of a steep cliff. Waxham? What was this about?

“Enough, Sebastian,” she bit out.

For once, Drake wanted Mallen to continue running his mouth because he wanted to know why, exactly, it should matter that Emmaline had walked off on Waxham and what Waxham had always been. Had Waxham always been like a brother to her? In love with her? What the hell had Waxham been? The unspoken words were perhaps worse than the not knowing. They made him gnash his teeth and want to bloody Waxham senseless.

“You need to be prepared, that is all I’m saying. Come. We’ll discuss this on the way to London Hospital tomorrow.” Mallen effectively ended the conversation.

Drake listened to the click of Mallen’s boot steps in harmony with the pad of her soft silk slippers, until they were no more. Long after they’d gone, when the concert had already begun, Drake finally moved out from behind the spot, tormented by the bloody niggling question; what the hell was Emmaline’s relationship with Lord Waxham?

He knew of the other man. Waxham was deep in the pockets, fond of the tables but not overly fond. Kept one mistress but didn’t frequent houses of ill-repute. Had respectable stables of horseflesh, which he bred and raced. Sparred regularly at Gentleman’s Jackson’s and was quite good at it.

In sum, the other man was a bloody paragon.

And suddenly, Drake hated him for it.

He moved into view of the concert, filled with a restless fury. With the exception of a lovely lyrical soprano voice, the auditorium was silent. He spied Sinclair seated at the back of the room, the end seat next to him open and made his way over.

“There you are. Where the hell were you off to?” Sin whispered as Drake slid into the vacant seat. “It’s bad enough I’m attending these events with you, quite another to be abandoned amidst match-making mamas.”

He ignored Sinclair. From his vantage, he could appraise the entire hall. Where the hell was she?

Then he spotted brown tresses he’d recognize amidst any crowd. He pointedly ignored Sin’s knowing chuckle. What had happened this evening? Whatever had transpired had been significant. For the life of him, he was incapable of looking at anyone but her.

He did not know what had compelled him to return her kiss and in nearly full view of the ton. And God help him, he could not rid himself of the taste of her lips or the eager way she’d sought his tutelage.

Drake tried to account for his fascination with Lady Emmaline, a woman he’d steered clear of for the better part of fifteen years. She was unlike every lady of his acquaintance. Those other women had perfected the art of coquetry. They fluttered their fans exactly the same, wore the same serene expressions.

On the contrary, Emmaline possessed a spirit that seemed indomitable. There was no mask where she was concerned. She made it quite clear exactly how she felt and made no apologies for it.

His eyes remained fixed on her.

And he became aware of something else.

“Waxham.”

Sin cast a sideways look in his direction. “What?”

The gentleman seated beside Emmaline leaned down and whispered something into her ear. With a smile, she tipped her head up, and appeared to whisper something back before redirecting her attention to their host’s eldest daughter, who’d just launched into an aria.

Mallen and Emmaline’s discussion a short while ago replayed in Drake’s mind. His gut tightened as an emotion that felt remarkably like jealousy reared its head. Just seeing Waxham seated beside Emmaline did something to Drake; something he did not like at all. He wanted to storm the room, drag Waxham up by the lapels of his jacket, and throw him out of the bloody recital hall.

It felt—primal.

Why should he care that Emmaline’s smile was far too warm or her proximity to Waxham too close? Drake’s hands balled into tight fists as he took in the overt glances the interloper directed toward Emmaline’s too low décolletage.

How dare she flaunt herself so freely under his nose, in front of the ton, no less! His first order of business in the morning would be to pay a call on her and demand more appropriateness when they were amidst Society.

Drake focused on her flagrant display with Waxham and his own indignation at being made a fool of in front of the lords and ladies in attendance. His ferocity had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he’d come to care for Emmaline.

Nothing at all…

Except…

Waxham whispered something else close to Emmaline’s ear.

And the feeling of wanting to tear the man apart did not feel like nothing at all.

Chapter 16

My Dearest Drake,

When I tend the gardens, I talk to my plants. Do you find that odd? Sebastian does. He teases me mercilessly about it. I told him my plants make for far better company than him.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

“YOU HAVE A VISITOR, MY lady.”

Emmaline sat back on her heels so abruptly her elbow knocked the collection of gardening equipment she’d set haphazardly against the wrought iron bench. The array of metal shovels and hoes shifted, but managed to remain fixed to their spot.

Emmaline rubbed her injured elbow. “Can you direct my caller here?”

When the servant had left, she tugged the straw bonnet off her head, swiped her forearm across the sheen of perspiration that dampened her brow.

She’d not been expecting Sophie, and had planned on dedicating her day to cleaning up the weeds that had decided to infiltrate her London haven. They both had a mutual love for gardening and Sophie was usually eager to help. Emmaline set her bonnet back on and tied the ribbons underneath her chin.

Emmaline returned her attention to the lilies of the valley. She’d cultivated the sweet-smelling woodland plant several years ago. According to legend, the small, pure white buds represented a return to happiness and therefore, it was one of the flowers she liked to share with the soldiers who resided in London Hospital.

She trimmed back some of the buds, set the delicate ivory bellflowers into the basket next to her, and returned her attention to the next dainty row that needed rescuing from a cluster of weeds.

“I’m sorry I’ve been so neglectful, my dears. I’ve been busy in pursuit of my betrothed, and I feel my efforts in that score have only resulted in my neglect of you. It is unpardonable and I shan’t let it happen again.” She tugged a particularly stubborn weed that had wrapped around the base of the plant. She twisted it first left, then right, before yanking it straight up. “You are a tenacious one,” she muttered.

“I would say the same of you, Lady Emmaline,” a masculine voice drawled.

Emmaline careened backwards and landed in an inelegant heap upon her derriere at Drake’s feet. She stared overly long at the tips of his perfectly shined black Hessian boots and gave thanks for the wide brim of her flat-brimmed hat that shielded the stain of mortification that warmed her cheeks.

Sebastian had forever mocked the bonnet, but now, more than ever, Emmaline had a deep appreciation for it. The brim kept Lord Drake blessedly out of view. When her face had cooled, she tilted it back. “You are not Sophie.” The words came out faintly accusing.

Drake’s firm lips twitched at the corners. “No, I am certainly not Miss Winters.”

Emmaline toyed with the weed she still held in her hand. She could only imagine what Lord Drake thought about his betrothed working in a garden like any common servant. If he’d been scandalized by her preference for a gothic novel, well then this offense was surely tantamount to treason in his pompous eyes.

He continued to study her with that unreadable expression. The man must be a marvel at the gaming tables. She dropped the weed and scooped up a small bit of warm, moist soil, and sifted it through her fingers. A thin, slimy worm became caught between her fingers. She released the creature. It slithered off, deeper into a safe patch of ground away from prying hands—out of sight.

A sigh of envy escaped her. Lucky creature. What she wouldn’t herself give to have the ground open and swallow her deep into its hold of invisibility. She cast a hopeful gaze to the sky, willing the Good Lord to assist with a miracle.

Several moments later, Drake cleared his throat.

Emmaline sighed. Apparently the Lord was attending to more important miracles than rescuing one peculiar young lady from a healthy bout of humiliation.

She dusted her hands together. “Lord Drake.”

Drake held out a hand.

Emmaline glanced down at her mud-spattered fingernails, and then placed it in Drake’s, marveling at the strength of his long fingers wrapped so securely about hers. He effortlessly guided her to her feet, and she wondered that he should be so unaffected by the feel of their joined hands when it had sent her heart racing.

“Thank you, my lord,” she murmured, bemoaning the loss of contact when he removed his hand from her grasp. She dusted off her hands upon the chintz apron she’d donned for gardening. Her small shovel and spade jangled in her front pockets.

“You garden.”

“I am surprised to see you.”

They spoke in unison.

“Yes, I garden.” She frowned at the pile of weeds at their feet. “Though I fear I’ve been neglecting these far too long this Season.”

A full smile turned Drake’s lips. This wasn’t the mocking grin she’d come to expect from him.

Her heart leapt erratically beneath her breast.

“Uh, yes, I overheard that as well,” Drake said.

Her toes curled with mortification. Of course he’d heard that. And of course the day he chose to pay his first visit, she would be less than presentable. She grimaced. With her stained skirts, ‘less than presentable’ was being magnanimous.

To top off this splendidly disastrous day, he’d discovered her talking to plants…about him no less.

“I have a tendency to talk to my plants.”

He said nothing and Emmaline felt all the more humiliated for the admission. Stop talking, Em.

Over Drake’s shoulder, she caught sight of Grace as she entered the gardens. The maid sat on a bench near the entrance of the portcullis.

Emmaline waited for Drake to fill the void. She’d learned over the years; nothing her betrothed did was without careful deliberation. Something had brought him round to visit today…and she didn’t think it had a jot to do with her stimulating company.

“I’ve come by for a reason.”

And direct. Lord Drake was direct.

Well, they may as well get to the heart of it. Oh, but how nice it would have been if he’d merely come for a visit. She sighed. “What brings you here, my lord?”

“About last evening,” he began. “I saw you and I must inquire as to your flirtation last evening.”

In the full light of day, memories of her brazen kiss from the evening prior made her cringe. She toed the ground with the tip of her black boot, kicking aside a soft patch of mud. Oh, if she could just dig a hole and bury herself. “I-ah—it was merely a kiss.” But it hadn’t been just a kiss. In fact, it felt blasphemous to so slight that magical union of their lips.

A vein bulged at the left corner of his neck, the only indication of his tightly suppressed control. “Just a kiss?” he asked silkily.

Now she’d gone and done it. She’d offended his male pride. Emmaline waved her hand breezily, or rather gave her best attempt at breezy. “La, sir. You’ve kissed so many ladies. I cannot imagine my kissing one gentleman would rouse such a stuffy reaction.” She cringed. Had she really just said, La sir?

“You kissed him, too?”

She scratched her forehead. “I kissed who, too?”

“Him,” he growled.

“Do you mean, you?” His convoluted questioning was beginning to give her a megrim. “And I would hardly call it a flirtation,” she added.

His eyes narrowed, the emerald deepening to a jade hue, as they were wont to do when he was irate. Emmaline had come to know Drake enough to recognize that telling reaction.

She placed her hands on her hips and glowered back at him. “How cowardly of you to blame me. I daresay you are of equal blame for what transpired last evening.”

He took a step towards her and she scrambled away from him. She didn’t believe he’d hurt her but still, gentlemen fought duels for lesser charges against one’s character.

Drake’s lip pulled back in a sneer. “Are you saying I’m at fault for what transpired between you and Waxham?”

Emmaline placed her foot on a moist patch of ground and felt her boots sink into the earth. She tried to tug it free, when his words registered. “Waxham?”

“Yes, Waxham,” he bit out.

“Waxham?” Whatever was he talking about?

“You kissed him.”

What?! “I kissed Waxham?”

His nostrils flared, and she realized he’d construed her question as a statement. “You think I kissed him.” Emmaline snorted, and then she howled with laughter, hilarity shaking her frame until she doubled over with a stitch in her side. Tears of mirth smarted from behind her eyes. “A-are you d-daft?” She struggled to breathe. “I didn’t kiss him.”

Drake cocked his head to the side. “You didn’t kiss him?”

She dashed a hand over her eyes. “No, you silly man. I kissed you.”

He made a show of dusting the impeccable sleeve of his sapphire coat. “I saw you tilt your head, whisper, and smile up at him. I daresay I’ve engaged in enough flirtations to know the nuances of one. And I will not allow such flirtations to continue so long as we are betrothed.”

Emmaline shook her head. “Oh, you are daft.”

Had she been made of less stern stuff, the flinty gleam in his eyes would have caused her trepidation. But it would take more than that to make her run.

As if remembering they were not alone, Drake glanced over in Grace’s direction. He lowered his voice to a near whisper. “I saw you with Waxham. After shamelessly kissing me, you hurried over to flirt with him. Mayhap you have set your cap on him if you can’t bring me up to scratch.”

Emmaline’s hand flew out and she slapped him soundly on the cheek.

His head jerked back under the ferocity of the movement. He cradled his sore cheek. “Damn. For one so small, you can deliver quite the wallop.”

He deserved more than that slap and still, guilt filled her at the crimson stain her fingers had left on his scarred cheek. “Uh, why thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment,” he mumbled, his words somewhat muffled by the edge of his palm as he still held his cheek.

She jabbed him in the chest with her pointer finger.

“Ouch!”

“How dare you?” she demanded. “You come here.” Another jab that forced him backwards. “And reprimand, me?” Another jab. This time he flinched. Good! “You, who have forgotten for the better part of fifteen years that I so much as exist,” A fourth jab drove him back another step. “dare to address my behavior?”

“Grace, will you excuse us?” She ordered, not even bothering to look back at her maid.

“Very well, my lady,” Grace called. The young woman’s tone indicated she approved of Emmaline’s outrage.

Emmaline redirected her attention on her betrothed. “How dare…?”

“I will not be subjected to another of your rants,” he muttered.

He kissed her.

* * *

DRAKE TUGGED THE SILLY, TOO-LARGE bonnet from Emmaline’s head. The hasty movement unsettled the precarious chignon in which her silken brown tresses had been arranged, and sent the chocolate waves tumbling to her waist. Had he really ever thought the color mousy? He tangled his fingers in the luxurious strands, angling his head to better avail himself to her mouth.

She whimpered, and her body melted against his like a Gunther’s ice on a summer day. He held tight to her so she didn’t dissolve into a puddle at his feet. Filling his hands with her gently rounded buttocks, he anchored her against his center.

“Drake,” she moaned against his lips.

Another groan tore from his chest and he stroked her tongue with his. He ran his hands over her body in an attempt to explore the subtly seductive flare of her hips, the delicate swell of her buttocks.

He cupped her breast in his hand.

“Ohhh,” she gasped.

The husky timbre of her voice drove him wild, and he ached to slide between her moist folds and stroke her with his length.

He wanted to take her here and now, right on the garden floor. He sat down on the bench and adjusted her on his lap which set the gardening tools clattering. That small tinkling of metal meeting metal penetrated his consciousness. Drake pulled away with infinite slowness. He placed one more lingering, kiss upon her swollen lips and rested his brow atop hers. His breathing labored and harsh blended with the loud beat of his heart and made thinking difficult.

What hold did Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh have over him? When he was with her all logic and reason fled. Enough of his life was riddled with bouts of lost control. But she was like a tonic he could not live without, and whether he liked it or not, whether he wanted it or not, he craved her with an intensity that bordered on physical pain.

Emmaline’s breathing settled into a normal cadence. He stroked the small of her back, grateful at the time she took regaining her composure for it afforded him the same opportunity.

She spoke first. “Waxham is a friend of my brother’s.”

Apparently his kiss wasn’t as powerful as he liked to think. She hadn’t forgotten the reason for his earlier upset, the reason he’d kissed her into silence.

She went on. “Waxham has been like a brother to me.”

In spite of her words, Drake felt that awful emotion, he was beginning to recognize all too well as jealousy, rise in his throat, and nearly choke him. Emmaline might view Waxham as a brother but Drake had recognized the very appreciative male gleam in Waxham’s eyes. There had been nothing brotherly in the way he’d eyed Emmaline. “I don’t care about your relationship with him. I worry about how it reflects on our betrothal,” he lied. A bloody pathetic lie.

That callously insensitive remark drove Emmaline from him and replaced all warmth in her eyes with a sheen of coolness. Drake regretted the transformation even as he knew he was the cause of it.

“You’re worried about our betrothal, my lord?” She mocked. “Now? After all these years? After three Seasons? Now, it bothers you who I converse with?”

Drake braced himself for another assault from her finger.

Then the fight seemed to go out of her. The sparks glimmered, flickered, and finally dimmed. She hugged her arms across her stomach. “I am tired of this.”

Drake’s brows dropped.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” she whispered.

“Then stop dogging my every step.”

As soon as the harsh words left his mouth, he wanted to call them back.

The sad, detached expression she wore tugged somewhere in the vicinity of his chest and filled him with panic, a fear that he had said something irrevocable. He fished for another rejoinder, to rouse some other emotion than the defeated one she now wore. He wanted to redirect her thoughts away from… from…

From what?

Giving him exactly what he wanted?

Except of a sudden he realized he didn’t know exactly what it was he wanted anymore. He’d spent nearly fifteen years lashing out over the betrothal he’d been committed to as a child. It had redefined his relationship with his father, had resulted in Drake fleeing to fight on the Peninsula. He’d built up years and years of resentment toward Lady Emmaline, who’d herself been a victim of their circumstances.

In a short span of time, he’d come to the realization that nothing was or had been as it seemed for perhaps, ever—and it left him feeling off-balance. It was as if the world had been flipped upside down and he was hanging on by his fingernails.

Crash!

Drake flung himself on top of Emmaline, and knocked her to the ground, burying her body beneath his.

His breath came fast as he waited for the crack of the gunshots, the ensuing cries and screams. They never came. His mind remained embroiled in the hellish world of roaring cannon fire and the blinding thickness of gunpowder smoke.

“Drake.”

Drake’s heart hammered wildly in his chest and under any other circumstance he would have luxuriated in the feel of Emmaline’s lean, lithe body under his. In that particular moment, however, mind-numbing terror gripped him in a tight vise. It sucked the air from his lungs.

Emmaline wrestled a hand from between them stroked back the hair that had tumbled across his brow. “It was just the tools,” she whispered, as though speaking to a fractious mare. “They fell. All is well,” she assured him.

It wasn’t Emmaline’s words that reached through his tortured remembrances and wrenched him back to reality, but the soft, soothing cadence of her voice that penetrated the devil’s unyielding hold.

She stroked his cheek. Drake leaned into her touch. His eyes slid closed, needing her touch. It was like a balm on his wounded soul.

Please, don’t stop touching me. In Emmaline’s embrace he felt…whole. Drake swallowed painfully and through sheer will forced himself to pick up his head. Emmaline’s troubled eyes caught and lingered on the vivid scar traversing his cheek. He flinched under her scrutiny.

She spoke again. “Are you all right?”

His mind conjured a trail of blood beneath her fingertips as she traced the mark.

“I-I am sorry,” he stuttered and climbed to his feet. He helped her up from the ground. “Have I hurt you?” Of course you hurt her, you bloody monster.

Emmaline shook her head. “No, no, I’m not—”

“Please, forgive me.” In his haste to be free of the nightmare unfolding before him, he stumbled backwards, and tripped over the metal gardening tools.

Emmaline reached for him but he recoiled.

He mustered a hasty, distracted bow and fled.

Chapter 17

My Dearest Drake,

I had a nightmare last night. I dreamt the war had ended and you forgot to come home. You were wandering about an empty field. If you forget how, promise you will write me…I will help you.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

EMMALINE SAT ON THE WINDOW-SEAT in the Floral Parlor. Her copy of Glenarvon rested haphazardly upon her lap. She surveyed the gardens below.

On any other day, the small patch of nature, awash in the glow of the sun’s bright slanting rays, would have soothed her. She pressed her forehead against the cool pane and stared down. Not this day.

With all of the hurts Drake had unknowingly inflicted, it should be easy for her to go to Sebastian and request he terminate the betrothal contract.

Except this morning in the gardens with Drake changed everything.

Resting her chin on her knees, she rubbed it back and forth over the smooth fabric of her dress. Funny, the greatest concern she’d had upon waking had been the neglect she’d shown toward the gardens.

How could so much change in the span of a few hours? Her earlier concerns about the weeds and her garden sanctuary now seemed so trivial. She didn’t think she would ever be able to see her garden as any sort of refuge again. Not when it had revealed the inner Hell that gripped Drake.

When Drake had been on the Peninsula, she had penned him a note each day he’d been gone. She’d signed every letter. Sealed them. And stuffed them into the bottom of her trunk.

Reflecting back on the contents of the notes, she cringed. In her unsent letters she’d blathered to him about the mundane. She’d gone on and on about her aggravation with her brother and lamented the boredom she felt in the country. There had never been a moment when she’d truly stopped to think about Drake’s time on the Peninsula. She hadn’t stopped to consider that Drake had been a young man who would be irrevocably changed by his experience.

That wasn’t to say she hadn’t worried over his safety or thought about what he was seeing and doing—she had, every day. But she hadn’t thought about war in the graphic sense. Instead, she’d seen it as more of a grand adventure. Why, he’d had the opportunity to travel and see different landscapes and meet exotic individuals, who were most definitely not the prim, proper members of English society.

She hadn’t been able to think about the violence and death that went with war…until she’d confronted the soldiers who’d returned to London Hospital. Still, even visiting the wounded soldiers, Drake had somehow seemed removed from those men who’d lost limbs and eyes. The physical scars they bore were very obvious. Drake however, had returned physically intact and yet, how hard it must be for him to move about Society scarred, but in ways that only he knew. How very lonely for him.

Her fingers distractedly toyed with the copy of Glenarvon in her lap, fanning the pages, and absently thinking about her unsent notes. All those years ago, she’d written letters but had been too much of a coward to send. After all, why would a man who’d sought out a war to avoid her, ever welcome any words from her?

Now she wished she’d sent them. Perhaps she would have made a fool of herself and he would have continued to view her as an empty-minded young child, but it might have brought him some comfort to receive a note from the world he’d left behind. Instead, she’d waited for him to return, so selfishly focused on what his arrival meant for her life and her happiness that she hadn’t thought about his happiness—or worse, his lack of happiness.

She’d only been capable of a girlish self-centeredness. It hadn’t been until mere hours ago that she’d truly understood Drake was no longer the boy who’d sat across from her when their betrothal documents had been signed.

She snorted. No wonder he hadn’t wanted a thing to do with her then, or even now. To Drake, she had been a child with childish interests.

The realization shamed her. She was humbled with the extent of her self-absorption.

Emmaline laid her cheek on her emerald muslin skirts, staring unseeing out the window. The fabric’s deep rich hue bore a similarity to the color of his eyes. She had never before seen eyes as haunted as Drake’s had been that morning—and with the time she’d spent in London Hospital she’d seen her fair share of misery.

A spasm wracked her heart and she took a deep, shuddery breath. She yearned to hold him close, soothe his hurt.

A warm drop landed on her hand, then two, and absently she realized she was crying. She swiped her hand across her cheeks. Emmaline cast a despondent stare up toward the sky. She squinted under the brightness of the sun’s rays that reflected off the glass panels and shot prisms of light around the parlor walls.

If today Drake had walked away from her the same man she’d come to know these many years, detached and indifferent, then it would have been easy to march into Sebastian’s office and request that he dissolve the betrothal contract.

Drake, however, was far more complicated than she’d ever known. He was scarred, hurting, and it surely explained much of his distantness. She could no sooner walk away from her lifelong commitment to him than she could cut off her own arm.

It wasn’t pity that held her to him. It was something more, something deep that defied years of bitterness and resentment. When she’d witnessed him reduced to a near shell of the man he was, she had wanted nothing more than to cradle him in her arms and take away his fear, make it her own.

“You were missed at breakfast, my dear.”

Emmaline started at the intrusion. She sat up and swiped her hand discreetly across her cheeks. “Mother,” she murmured, keeping her eyes averted.

The robin’s-egg blue seat cushion dipped under her mother’s slight weight. “I understand you had a visitor this morning.”

Emmaline again rested her ear upon the cradle of her knees.

“And that he left rather hastily and seemed to be quite upset.”

Emmaline chewed her lip, her heart tripping painfully at the horror Drake had worn blanketed across every crease, every line of his face. The horrified jade pools of his eyes were testament to the fact he’d stared down the bowels of Hell and lived to speak of it.

Except he didn’t speak of it.

Society had no idea that the carefree, elegant lord sought after by every lady, was in fact tortured, and battling demons no one could ever suspect.

“Emmaline, my dear. What happened today?”

Emmaline opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out. This was her mother. The woman who had given her life, who’d cradled her close after numerous scrapes. She wanted to discuss the scene in the gardens, but even as the words were poised on the tip of her tongue, she bit them back. To air Drake’s secrets would be a betrayal. He’d spent these past years cultivating an image of himself for Society, and she’d not rob him of that—not even for her mother.

Her mother wrinkled her brow. “Emmaline?”

Emmaline settled for a meager explanation. “I believe there is more to Lord Drake than anyone truly sees.”

Her mother’s probing stare bore into Emmaline and she resisted the urge to fidget like a little girl who’d been caught sneaking away from her governess.

“Does this—” her mother paused, “more, merit your waiting for him to finally make you his wife?” Her mother continued. “I spoke to Sebastian. He only wants you to be happy. I am of like mind.”

Surely her mother wasn’t saying what she thought she was? “Mother?”

Her mother stroked the crown of her head. “You know my dear, even as I respected your father’s commitment to the betrothal contract, there has always been a part of me that has ached for all the opportunities you missed.”

Emmaline made a dismissive sound. “I haven’t missed anything.” She strove to reassure her mother, but they both knew Emmaline wasn’t being truthful.

Mother went on like Emmaline hadn’t spoken. “Oh, at the time, the arrangement between our families made tremendous sense, and I respected your father’s meticulous planning of your future. It had seemed right at the time, safe…” She paused. A sigh escaped her. “I have watched as the years slipped away, Emmaline. Watched you grow and mature and have felt a longing for you to have a real, un-entangled Season. I’ve wanted the pleasure of seeing you courted, of seeing suitors arrive with bouquets of flowers, and penning sonnets lauding your beauty. How selfish is that of me, my dear?”

A wave of guilt swept over Emmaline for silently agreeing with her mother’s words. Nonetheless, she shook her head emphatically. “You have never been selfish.”

Mother’s throat worked, bobbing up and down.

Oh, please don’t cry. I cannot bear it when you cry.

“I have deprived you of those experiences that by rights should have been yours. And should you so desire them, I will see that they are made available to you.”

In other words—her mother would support a termination of the contract. The thought of her betrothal being severed caused Emmaline’s chest to constrict painfully in a way that made breathing difficult. “Thank you, Mother. I—I am not yet certain.”

Her mind steeped in logic told her to simply state the words her mother had given her leave to speak. Her heart, at that precise moment, called them back, froze them on the tip of her tongue.

Soft hazel eyes caressed her face. “Just say the words. You will be freed.” She pressed a kiss to Emmaline’s brow, stroking back the tendril that had escaped its chignon and dangled over her eye. “Shall I remain with you?” The strand again sprung loose.

Emmaline shook her head, brushing it back behind her ear. “I am fine, Mother.” The last thing she wanted was company.

So of course at that moment Sebastian strolled into the room.

“What’s going on here?” he drawled lazily. He dropped into the mahogany rose-velvet sofa adorned with winged lions and stretched his legs out in front of him.

God, she hated that sofa; those nasty lions were all the rage. The beastly piece of decor rather ruined her favorite room in the house. In fact, she might have sought out another room, if it weren’t for the view of the gardens.

“Are you almost ready? We’ll be late to the hospital.” she asked, desperate for escape. Scrambling to her feet, she tried to hurry him out. “Let’s go.”

“We were discussing Lord Drake,” their mother explained.

Emmaline wanted to stamp her foot. She handled them quite well on her own but when Mother and Sebastian were together, they were quite grating. “Can we do this later?”

Sebastian’s dark green eyes narrowed to unreadable black slits. “What about him? What is there to discuss, other than whether or not you want to end this farce of a betrothal?”

She probably had the only guardian in the entire Kingdom this eager to sever ties with one of the most powerful titles simply because his sister was not happy. Sebastian seemed to take Drake’s disinterest as a personal slight. And Emmaline loved him for that.

Mother’s gaze alternated between Emmaline and Sebastian. “I’ve already spoken with Emmaline on the matter, Sebastian.”

They both ignored her.

“I asked you to trust me,” Emmaline snapped at her brother.

He sprung from his leisurely pose; his spine stiffened as all feigned attempts at nonchalance disappeared. “And I told you yes, but with limits. You have been making a fool of yourself, Em. This is what you expect me to trust? You want me to blindly look away while you arrange your schedule to—”

This time she couldn’t help it…she stamped her foot. “I certainly don’t want you confronting him and trying to force his hand!”

A slight knock and the sudden appearance of a servant at the door cut off Sebastian’s diatribe. Emmaline was never more grateful for the sudden appearance of another person in her life.

A liveried servant came forth with a silver tray bearing an envelope. He cleared his throat. “Pardon, the interruption. You have a note, my lady.”

She accepted the envelope, aware of her mother and brother intently studying the parchment in her hands.

Recognizing the dark, strong scrawl at the front as distinctly different from Sophie’s wide, flowing letters, Emmaline turned the thick ivory envelope over in her hands. She noted the lion-emblazoned gold seal and trailed a fingertip along the raised surface. She hesitated and lifted the blade from the servant’s tray. Her fingers trembled as she slid the tip under the seal and withdrew the note.

“My Dear Lady,

I cannot believe you enjoy reading this drivel. I am writing to inquire as to your progress with your copy. And of course, to ask after your well-being.

—Drake

All day she’d been consumed with anxiety of how Drake would address what had transpired in the gardens. Her greatest fear had been that he would humble himself with an apology he need not make.

A burst of relieved laughter escaped her.

Sebastian had been the Duke of Mallen for almost three years, and most of the time epitomized the role to perfection. This time was not one of them. In his haste to sit up, he almost slipped off the sofa. “What does it say?”

Maybe if she’d been weaker she would have given him the information he sought. But this was still the same brother whose steps she’d dogged, the same brother she’d played pranks on as a young girl, and to her, he would always fit that role.

She waved the note in the air. “It says you’re a nosy busy-body who can’t mind his business.”

The Duchess of Mallen looked to Sebastian. “Perhaps he has finally come to his senses?”

Sebastian snorted. “I’ll believe it when she’s marching down the aisle on my arm,” he said.

A smile played about Emmaline’s lips. If she had her way that was just how it would be.

Chapter 18

Dearest Drake,

I wonder if you even know my middle name. As my betrothed, I rather feel you should. It is Rose. I’m not much of a rose. Sebastian forever tells me I’m more of a thorn upon the rose. I would like to tell you what I call him, but that wouldn’t be ladylike.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

DRAKE HAD CONVINCED HIMSELF TO send ’round a note to the Earl and Countess of Mooring, offering up his regrets for their annual ball. After what had transpired earlier that morn, coward that he was, Drake had wanted to avoid his betrothed.

He’d sat down to dash a note to the Earl and Countess of Mooring, making his excuses. For the better part of an hour, he’d stared down at a blank piece of parchment. In the end, all he’d done was drip black all over his desk.

Lady Emmaline was some kind of enchantress who’d managed to weave a magical spell over him, depleting him of his wisdom, leaving him well and truly—bewitched. For at that moment, in spite of his intentions to avoid her, Drake stood behind the Earl of Mooring’s pink marble pillars and studied Emmaline.

He’d known Emmaline since she was a small girl and had only ever seen her as a bothersome child, the daughter of his father’s very good friend. Then she had become a responsibility…well, a future responsibility, anyway. But sometime, Drake didn’t know when, she’d changed from the little girl who’d been perched on the chair opposite him in her father’s library to a headily desirable woman.

He hadn’t thought of her as a responsibility in a long time. Instead, she’d become a mischievous young woman who defended those in need of defending, who talked to her plants…and of course, liked a good Gothic novel.

And he had fast become enraptured.

The irony was not lost on him; he’d gone to bloody war to avoid the very woman he now so desperately ached for but couldn’t have. This morning’s episode only cemented that truth.

Someone in the ballroom stepped between Drake and his direct line of vision, temporarily blocking Emmaline from sight. “Move,” he whispered, willing the matron away. Drake sidled to the left and peered around the pillar just in time to see Emmaline throw her head back and laugh at whatever Miss Winters had said.

Her smile transformed her.

Then, as if she felt his gaze caressing her, she froze and surveyed the room, until her eyes landed on the pillar that hid his frame. She tilted her neck to the side and her lips turned up in secretive smile as if she knew he was there.

He needed to see her. Not in this clandestine manner, but up close. Suddenly, of their own volition, his feet were leading him from his spot behind the column and carrying him over to her seat.

All day he’d debated what he would say to explain the incident in the gardens. Even as his long strides carried him across the ballroom and to her, he realized he’d run out of time to come up with excuses, but didn’t care. All he cared about was being with her.

“Lady Emmaline, may I have the next set?”

Emmaline’s mouth formed a small moue of surprise and Miss Winters nudged her in the side.

“Ouch,” Emmaline exclaimed.

Miss Winters colored and grasped her elbow. “Oh, dear. I fear I must have done something to my elbow. It seems to be moving erratically.”

Drake arched an amused brow at the young lady, who must have felt she needed to throw in further proof for good measure, because her elbow jerked again.

“See? Why, there it goes again.”

Emmaline glanced down at the card hanging from a string on her wrist. “Although hesitant to leave Sophie in her present condition, I will make an exception and abandon her to accompany you in the next set, my lord.”

She shivered when his hand touched hers.

They took their place at the dance floor for the next set.

The musicians began to play a waltz.

Now that he held her, Drake, who was usually so urbane, didn’t know what to say.

“My lord, are you well?” she inquired haltingly.

He could have pleaded ignorance to what she actually referenced, but he wasn’t that much of a coward.

“I wanted to apologize for…for what happened,” he fumbled, faltered through the apology. “I do not know what overcame me,” he lied. He did know exactly what had overcome him. “I have worried over your welfare.”

Emmaline caught her lower lip between her teeth and worried the flesh. “There is nothing to apologize for,” she said. “You forget I have an older brother.”

Drake would wager that her older brother had never put his hands on her and if said older brother did, then Drake would beat him within an inch of his life.

Emmaline said nothing else for a moment. “Does…this…happen to you frequently?”

Drake swallowed, and wished for the first time that they’d danced anything other than a waltz, because then there would be a natural separation, and he’d have time to craft a vague response. He fixed his gaze over her shoulder. “It has gotten better, though there are moments when I am…when, it still occurs.” Surprisingly, he felt oddly freed by the admission.

“Do certain things trigger these episodes?”

For the first time in three years, Drake wanted to confide in another human being. He hadn’t shared any part of his transformation with his father or Sin, partly out of embarrassment and partly out of fear that they would realize he had a touch of madness. Something about this small slip of a woman, made him want to share this part of himself with her. “Certain noises startle me. The sound of a gun will sometimes trigger a reminder of the war.” He smiled wryly. “Needless to say, I no longer attend hunting parties.” He shrugged. “That is all.”

* * *

THAT IS ALL.

Oh, Drake. Her heart bled. How had he dealt with this alone for all these years? Why didn’t you come back to me? Why didn’t you let me be your wife, and help you heal?

But he was here before her now. And that was enough. She wanted to remind him life could be uncomplicated and peaceful.

“It is nothing to be ashamed of.”

The muscles beneath his midnight black jacket tightened under her hands. “No, of course not. Every gentleman has bouts of madness,” he replied sardonically, an edge to his words.

“You are not mad,” she said vehemently.

“How do you know? How do you know the man you have made it a point of pursuing this Season, the man who is to be your husband, is not a madman? How can you trust I won’t hurt you?”

“You would never hurt me.”

“Never intentionally. But what if I didn’t realize what I was doing? Like….like…” The incident in the gardens.

Silence descended between them and Emmaline’s mind turned over any possible response that would bring solace, only to find there was nothing she could say. No words could chase away the demons he faced. The reality of it crippled her with a sense of hopelessness.

Emmaline would not allow him to look like this defeated man before her. This was not the time or place for him to bare his soul. “How have you been enjoying your reading?” she asked.

His brow furrowed at the unexpected shift in conversation. “I think you can gather from the note I sent that it leaves much to be desired.”

She gave a little toss of her head. “You should be warned, my lord, I am nearly through my copy. You had better devote some time to your reading if you have any hope of winning our challenge.”

“I fear I have lost already,” he said cryptically.

“Tsk, tsk.” She tapped him with the fan hanging from her wrist. “You so readily admit defeat. I thought you would have put greater effort into your readings, as it would mean I would no longer bother you for a week.”

The chords of the waltz drew to a halt, and they came to a reluctant stop on the dance floor, standing there amidst clapping couples.

Drake’s emerald gaze seared her with its intensity. “How did I ever think you a bother?”

Emmaline blinked. “My lord?”

Drake shook his head. “Uh, I said, I think I see your brother.”

Emmaline followed the direction of Drake’s stare and felt her skin smart with embarrassment. Nothing could kill a romantic moment more than the glowering figure crossing the ballroom, to intercept their movements.

“I think your brother would want to see us make a match of it,” he mumbled under his breath.

Emmaline laughed. “All Sebastian knows is that for the past three years he has had to escort me to more events than he would ever want because I’m unwed. He is therefore a tad resentful where you’re concerned,” she explained, as her brother drew to a halt before them.

Both men sketched respectful bows.

“So good to see you are finally doing the honorable thing and attending your obligations, my lord. Though a waltz is hardly tantamount to a formal declaration for my sister.” For appearances sake, Sebastian at least had the good sense to smile at Drake.

Whatever fleeting connection she’d shared with Drake vanished like a chord struck on the pianoforte.

Drake stiffened at her elbow.

She was going to kill Sebastian for calling out Drake before a crowded ballroom. It was all she could do to keep from throttling her brother there on the spot.

Sebastian took her hand from where it rested on Drake’s elbow and placed it in the crook of his arm.

Drake’s eyes narrowed at the subtle gesture of possessiveness.

Emmaline didn’t answer to anyone. She tugged her hand free.

Her betrothed raised a brow. “I would have never taken you for one to make a public scene. Yet this is the second such time you have attempted to create a scandal. How very un-duke-like of you, Your Grace. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you are attempting to sever the connection between Lady Emmaline and me.” The bite to Drake’s words were belied by the strained, albeit congenial smile he wore.

Emmaline couldn’t help the sound of skepticism that escaped her. She spoke before Sebastian could formulate a response. “That’s preposterous, Drake. Why would my brother want to dissolve the contract?”

A stony, telling silence met Emmaline’s question. Her shoulders stiffened. Mindful of where she was, she plastered a smile to her face and directed her attention to Sebastian. “Tell him that’s foolish.”

Sebastian’s façade of civility slipped and his only response was a flinty-eyed glare for Drake.

Panic caused her heart to speed up. Emmaline wet her lips. He will not end this betrothal. Not now. Not when I’ve finally come to know him. A very thin grasp on reason reminded her of where they were.

Sebastian’s jaw set, he surveyed the room to verify the exchange went unnoticed. He returned his attention to Emmaline and Drake. “I’ve tired of this farce between the two of you. I want a decision soon, Drake.”

“Remember where you are,” Emmaline cautioned. Oh, how the scandal sheets would love to plaster this meeting on their front pages.

Drake folded his arms over the hard-muscled wall of his chest. “My, if you don’t epitomize the role of arrogant, commanding duke.”

Emmaline mustered another weak attempt at a laugh. The sound emitted was more that of a bull-frog who’d downed a stone instead of a fly. She closed her mouth.

Oh dear, this had gone from bad to worse.

“I urge you to remember to whom you are speaking,” Sebastian said between clenched teeth.

Drake squared his shoulders. “Oh? And who am I speaking to?”

Sebastian’s words emerged as a silken threat. “Who am I? Why, I’m the lady’s guardian, of course. One word from me and this,” he gave a wave of his hand, “game you are playing with my sister is at an end.”

Emmaline gasped. Before she could muster a response, Sebastian neatly took her hand, and steered her from the dance-floor.

Chapter 19

My Dearest Drake,

Forgive me for not writing. I fell from a tree and my arm was dislocated. It was dreadfully painful. I now understand why mother said ladies should not climb trees. So, I have climbed my last tree.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

SHE WISHED IT WERE RAINING.

And she hated the rain.

But today the sun’s bright rays were so abundantly, well, bright, and it was making it difficult for her to remain buried in her cocoon of covers, pretending it was still time to be abed.

Anything so she didn’t have to face the inevitable confrontation with her brother.

After the tumultuous exchange between Drake and Sebastian that previous evening, Sebastian had chosen to let the matter rest. Emmaline had been dealt a reprieve. Alas, today was the day she visited London Hospital.

Emmaline sighed.

The last thing she wanted to endure was a closed carriage ride with Sebastian. She considered postponing her trip until tomorrow. That would allow her a brief reprieve from—

“My lady?”

Her maid, Grace, hovered in the doorway.

Emmaline waved her in.

Grace hurried over to Emmaline’s armoire. “His Grace wanted me to remind you of your visit to London Hospital.”

Emmaline scrubbed her hand across her eyes. “Was that all?” If she knew her brother as well as she believed she did, then there was certainly more.

Grace’s hand, which had been ruffling through Emmaline’s row of day gowns, paused. “He also instructed me to tell you—” she cleared her throat, “—that you couldn’t hide in your room forever. His Grace’s, words, of course.”

“Of course.”

Grace returned her focus to her efforts at hand. She apparently would rather choose to ignore Emmaline’s stinging sarcasm.

Oh, he was an insufferable bother.

Tossing the covers aside, she flung her feet over the side of the bed and jumped to the floor. “Help me dress, Grace.”

The ever diligent Grace was already crossing the room with an ivory silk organza creation draped over her arms.

Emmaline allowed her maid to assist her out of her nightgown and into the lovely gown. She stood in front of the floor-length ornate silver mirror, trimmed in roses not really seeing Grace’s final efforts.

What could she possibly say to Sebastian that would make any sense? How could she brush aside his very legitimate concerns of her betrothal, when she herself saw merit in them? In four months she would be one and twenty, and another year would be behind her, leaving her still unwed.

Grace cleared her throat. “My lady?”

Emmaline jumped. “Ah, yes, thank you, Grace.”

And because Sebastian was correct and she couldn’t stay in her room forever, she left the sanctuary of her chambers.

She found him waiting for her at the base of the stairs with a book tucked under one arm, and checking his timepiece.

He spied her coming and slipped the piece back into his jacket. “I took the liberty of selecting your reading selection for the men today,” he said by way of greeting.

He held up the maroon leather volume up for her inspection.

She read the title. “Byron,” she murmured. “I thought you found all poetry to be rubbish.”

She accepted his arm and accompanied him to the carriage. He waved off the groom and handed her up himself.

“I decided to delve a bit deeper to see what it was that so fascinates you…about poetry, that is. I maintain my earlier position. Most of the stuff is useless drivel.” Emmaline was astute enough to detect the subtle nuances of her brother’s casual conversation. She remained silent. “But then there is Byron. Rather smart, if not an odd fellow. Do you know what he once said?” Sebastian didn’t wait for Emmaline to answer. “I do detest everything which is not perfectly mutual.”

Emmaline’s gaze snapped out the window.

Folding her arms, she braced for the onslaught of his lecture. She waited. And waited….

But he didn’t add anything further.

Nary a word.

Somehow that unspoken disappointment was far greater than if he’d come out and reprimanded her.

Sebastian earned points for not making any mention of Lord Drake on their carriage ride to London Hospital. He even dutifully carried the basket and books into the ward without being asked, pausing beside various hospital beds to speak with the soldiers.

He took his leave, and Emmaline finally settled into her comfortable seat beside Lieutenant Jones.

“My lady,” Jones greeted her with a slight inclination of his head. He motioned to the empty spot beside his bed. “What have you brought this day?” He nodded to the bundle in her hands.

Emmaline flashed him a smile. She found peace in being with the men here who were a bit rough around the edges and had the false edge of Society’s veneer dusted free. It was refreshing.

“Byron?” She opened the volume and fanned through several pages before settling on, “The Lady”.

“Are you anyone’s lady, my lady?” Jones interrupted.

The brazen question caused Emmaline to stumble in her recitation.

Jones smiled broadly, displaying a row of crooked teeth. It had been three weeks since he’d first smiled and spoken to her, and yet Emmaline was still startled by the transformation of the soldier she’d known for three years.

“Easy enough question,” he teased.

Emmaline troubled her lower lip. Yes, for most it was an easy enough question. She chose to break with the strictures on what merited appropriate discussion. “I’m betrothed,” she said at last.

His brow wrinkled and he shoved himself up with his only elbow. “So you’ve got yourself a gentleman?”

She managed a small smile. “I’ve got myself a gentleman.” Unused to speaking freely about her betrothal to Lord Drake, she hesitated. “He was a soldier. He also fought on the Peninsula.”

Jones’ eyes widened the same way she imagined they would if she’d proclaimed diamonds were falling from the sky.

“You’re marrying yourself a soldier?”

“I am.” Or she was supposed to. She couldn’t go and explain the complicated aspects of her and Drake’s relationship.

Jones gave an approving nod. It seemed she’d risen even more in the man’s estimation.

He whistled between his teeth. “You found yourself a fancy bloke who fought in the war, too? Not many lords were giving their lives, my lady.”

Not many of them had been running away from a childhood betrothal, either. “No, no they weren’t.”

Sensing Jones was far more curious than any time in the three years she’d known him, she decided to share this personal piece of herself. “He is the Marquess of Drake, he fought—”

The man’s shocked gasp cut into her words. “Lord Drake is your gentleman?”

Emmaline blinked, unprepared that this man should know him. She leaned forward in her chair. “Did you know of him?”

“Know of him? I served under him,” he said, his eyes round with amazement. “My battalion was hit hard. We lost our commanding officer. The captain was given control of our battalion.” His eyes took on a far-off quality that suggested he was seeing things Emmaline didn’t want to see. “He’s a hero.”

Yes, Drake was a hero. She’d read that in every last smattering of articles she’d collected on his accomplishments. How funny this stranger should truly know, firsthand, what Drake had seen and done.

She continued to aggravate her lower lip. “W-what was he like?”

Jones didn’t respond right away. Instead he studied Emmaline with a near overwhelming intensity.

This time it was her turn to try and tamp down the awkwardness brought on by the conversation.

How odd to finally realize the discomfiture she must have caused Jones with her probing questions these past years.

“He’s a good man,” Jones said quietly.

“Yes.” That wasn’t really the bit of undisclosed information she’d been seeking from Lieutenant Jones.

He must have suspected as much. “After the Battle of Salamanca, the French left Madrid and Wellington marched us into the city.” Lieutenant Jones glanced down at his hands. “He left three divisions to guard the capital and then marched the rest of us to Burgos. The captain led us in that march. We came to a scorched field. There was this mangy pup. Emaciated thing. All bones. Whimpering. A step from death. Literally.” He tried to grin but it failed, resembling more of a twisted grimace.

Emmaline thought to the well-nourished, loving hunting dogs and pugs her family had over the years. Then she tried to envision the poor, neglected creature described by Jones. Her heart hurt for the poor little fellow.

“As we marched, that mangy dog followed the captain’s horse until the captain drew his horse to a halt, and scooped up the flea-ridden creature. He nursed that old dog back to health. He would give the dog half of his own rations.” A wry smile turned the man’s lips up at the corners. “That dog even ate from the captain’s plate. Drank his water.” He shook his head, as if still dumbfounded. “I’ve never known a lord who would share food from his own plate with a filthy dog. He named him Valiant. That dog followed him everywhere. There wasn’t much to laugh about then, but we used to laugh about it.”

Emmaline’s heart hitched.

God help her, she loved Drake. She loved him with a desperation that made her want to fling down the book and run out of the hospital and find him.

She tried to imagine Drake riding beside some of the men here in the hospital, bantering back and forth. He was such a proud man. So very serious. Emmaline couldn’t reconcile the Drake she’d come to know with the one being described by Jones. “I imagine Lord Drake was not pleased with the ribbing he received?”

Jones slashed his one hand through the air. “Aww, he took it all in good humor. Men respected him for that. You know, being able to laugh at himself and all.”

Emmaline sat back in her chair. “I don’t understand why he didn’t return with Valiant….” Her words trailed off when Jones looked away.

“Lieutenant?” she asked hesitantly.

Jones remained silent.

Don’t do it, she willed herself. Don’t ask.

She had to know what happened to Valiant. It was a piece that explained what had transformed Drake into the very serious man who was now unable to laugh with ease or sincerity. “What happened to Valiant?”

Jones looked away with a sad shake of his head. “Not a story fit for a lady’s ears.” He also clearly respected Lady Emmaline too much not to share with her what he knew, because he sighed and continued. “After we were forced into retreat, Wellington spent the winter reorganizing the forces. Whenever there was a battle, Captain Drake would find a tree far from the battle, and tie that dog up. Battle of Vitoria was a big one.” It had been the one that ultimately crumpled Napoleon’s forces in Spain. “We were in some serious hand-to-hand combat with the Frenchies. That dog, my lady, must have known his master was going to need him, because he gnawed through those ropes and wandered amidst the battlefield with that chewed rope still bound around his neck, searching everywhere for the Cap’n.”

Emmaline’s eyes slid closed as she battled back a wave of pain. She loathed the question stuck on the tip of her tongue. “Did he find him?”

Intuitively she knew that he had.

Jones nodded again. “Found him fighting two Frenchie bastards. Pardon, my lady,” he hurried. Red infused his cheeks.

“Fine, fine.” She felt the same way about the men who’d tried to kill Drake. She urged him on, needing to hear, needing to know.

Jones went on. “That dog,”

Valiant, she silently corrected. His name was Valiant.

“Launched himself at one of the bas—uh, Frenchies, who had his knife at the captain’s throat. Grabbed onto his leg and bit, tearing at the man’s breeches. It allowed Captain Drake to…, to…take care of the other man. But the other fellow, well, he grabbed that rope and wrenched that dog’s neck. Broke it just like that.” He snapped his fingers.

Emmaline’s eyes slid closed as she imagined Drake standing there, fighting for his life, and seeing his faithful companion killed in front of him.

Just like that.

Chapter 20

My Dearest Drake,

I think it unfair I cannot have a dog of my choice. When we are married, you have to promise me we might have a dog and that I may choose its breed. I think I should like a Shetland Sheepdog….perhaps we can even have some sheep.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

DRAKE STRODE DOWN THE PAVEMENT ignoring the curious stares and whispers being directed his way by the lords and ladies who strolled down the street. His Hessian boots drew to an immediate, jarring halt when he reached his destination. With purpose, he stomped up the townhouse steps, and tucked the wriggling bundle of fur into the crook of his left elbow.

He slammed the knocker with his right hand, while holding onto the four-pound devil in his opposite arm. The pup sunk razor like teeth into the flesh of his fingers until Drake winced as a hot trickle of blood dotted his flesh.

Drake raised his fist to again pound the wood panel when the door opened.

He fished a calling card out of his pocket around the squirming mass and handed it to the blank-faced butler. “Lord Drake to see His Grace.”

The staid man studied the card, and then peered down a hawk-like nose at the yapping pup. He wrinkled his nose disapprovingly. “Right this way.” He turned, as if expecting Drake to follow.

Drake was ushered into the Duke of Mallen’s library.

Mallen lifted his eyes from the papers he had been studying but didn’t bother to rise. “Drake, this is a surprise.” His tone said it was not a happy one.

“Mallen.” He set the pup on the floor and the little beast set to work chewing the edge of Drake’s boots. He winced. “Your sister sent me a dog.”

Mallen’s head quirked to the side. “A dog?”

Said dog scrambled up onto one of the two leather-winged chairs facing the Duke of Mallen’s enormous desk, and yapped at the befuddled peer.

“The pup seems to be a good judge of character,” Drake drawled beneath his breath.

Mallen’s brows converged in one, annoyed line. “Your dog is going to destroy my chair.”

Drake glanced down to see the mangy beast was using all his energy to dig a hole through the surface of the leather. “It’s not my dog.”

Mallen shoved his seat back, scraping the dark wood of the floor, and stood. “You barge into my home with…”

The door opened and the Duchess of Mallen sailed into the room which sliced into Mallen’s scathing diatribe. “Lord Drake, how very good to see you.” A smile wreathed her ageless face.

“Always a pleasure and honor.” Drake’s attempt at politeness was ruined by the dog that jumped off the chair and ambled back over to him. The mangy thing stood on hind legs and began to scratch at the fabric of Drake’s breeches.

“If that were true, I’d imagine we’d see you more frequently, Drake.” She glanced down at the puppy and let out a sound of happy surprise. “Oh, you’ve brought your dog.”

Drake sighed. “He’s not my dog.”

She either failed to hear him or chose to ignore his response, for in a very un-duchess-like move, the Duchess of Mallen went down on a knee and called the scruffy black dog over. The puppy yapped, and proceeded to run in circles around her. “My, you are full of energy,” she cooed, occasionally landing a pat.

The pup eventually tired of his game, and instead of sitting for the duchess, returned to Drake and plopped down atop his boots. The creature’s eyes fluttered heavily, before he emitted a contented sigh, and fell into a deep, snoring slumber.

The duchess gracefully rose and crossed over to Drake. She claimed his hands in hers and leaned up to kiss him on each cheek. “It really is wonderful to see you, Drake. How is your father?”

Drake had been raised a gentleman and was therefore able to momentarily forget the four-pound reason for his visit.

“He is well, Your Grace, thank you for asking.”

She rang for refreshments. “I must say, I’m thrilled to see you, but surely there must be some other reason for your visit?” She softened the searching question with a wide smile.

Drake started. It was Emmaline’s smile.

Mallen reclaimed his leather seat and motioned to the puppy. “He’s come to tattle on Emmaline.”

The duchess blinked in confusion, wide hazel eyes moving from her son to Drake.

“I did not come to tattle.” Drake shuffled on his feet, momentarily displacing the pup. The beast was a resolute one, for he climbed right back up onto his perch and gave what Drake swore was a disapproving look. Great now the dog is put out with me as well.

Mallen smiled. “Oh good, then. He came to thank Emmaline.”

Before Drake could disabuse him of the notion, Mallen rang again. “Have Lady Emmaline summoned immediately,” he said to the servant who entered the room.

The servant bowed and hurried to do the duke’s bidding.

“Of all the preposterous things,” Drake said under his breath, shifting the dog from his feet.

The pup’s eyes flew open at being jarred, but then he gave a high-pitched yap and found a renewed burst of energy. He began running circles around Drake, who momentarily followed him with his eyes before getting dizzy, and forced himself to look away from the pup’s display.

“Did you call me preposterous?” Mallen snapped.

“Why yes, I did.”

Mallen’s chest puffed out. “Don’t call me preposterous.”

“I’ll not take orders from…”

The Duchess of Mallen clapped her hands together once, then twice. “Gentlemen, please. Remember you are men.” She focused an overly long, disapproving look on Drake.

He resented being made to feel in the wrong. Noble young ladies did not, under any circumstances, send gifts to unmarried gentlemen—even if they were betrothed to the gentleman. It simply wasn’t done. This, however, hadn’t simply been a gift. Why, she’d sent round a dog.

You didn’t send someone a dog. You just…well, you just didn’t do it.

Emmaline sailed into the room. “You wanted m—” Her glance alighted on Drake and an enchanting smile wreathed her face. “Oh, hello, my lord!”

He bowed. “My lady.”

She wore that same silly, wide brimmed straw hat she had worn in the gardens. The same one he’d torn from her head and tossed to the ground before he…

Her whiskey-colored eyes fell to the black pup. The little devil jumped at Drake’s legs again, clearly asking to be picked up.

“You’ve met him! Isn’t he precious? Aren’t you precious?” she said in a high singsong voice. She gracefully sank to her knees, sending her pale blue skirts fluttering, similar to the way the duchess had moments ago.

Only this time, thank God, the infernal beast went gladly over. Emmaline scooped him up and allowed him to lap her face with his rough, pink tongue. Lucky fellow.

“Aren’t you sweet? Do you like your new master? I’m sure he’s taking wonderful care of you.”

Drake blinked several times. Why did he feel as though he’d stepped on the stage of a great farcical comedy of which he was the lead actor but didn’t know his lines?

“Lord Drake has come to say thank you, Emmaline,” Mallen called from behind his desk. His expression indicated he was enjoying the exchange far more than Drake.

“No, I haven’t. I have come to return him,” Drake bit out. As if understanding those hurtful words, the black puppy whimpered and flipped onto his back, sidling back and forth on the Aubusson carpet.

“Never say you are displeased with the little fellow.” Mallen pressed a hand to his chest in feigned astonishment.

“I wouldn’t say I am pleased with him,” Drake snapped.

Emmaline’s smile faded like the sun dropping from the horizon to usher in the night sky. “You cannot return Sir Faithful. Poor Sir Faithful.” She went over to the crestfallen pup and scratched his tummy. “Mean Lord Drake has hurt your feelings. Nasty, nasty man.”

Just then a tray of refreshments was delivered and set on the table at the corner of the room. Mallen chuckled. “Ahh, perfect! Refreshments to accompany this show.”

Drake glared at the other man and then Emmaline’s words registered. A loud guffaw sprung from his lips. “Sir Faithful? Surely you jest? You have named the creature Sir Faithful?”

Emmaline climbed to her feet and planted her hands on her hips. “There is nothing funny about his name.”

Drake took a step forward. “No, there is nothing funny about his name. There is everything funny about his name.”

Drake rolled his shoulders and looked helplessly to the duchess and Mallen. Finding no help there, he jabbed a finger in Emmaline’s direction. “Nor for that matter can you go about simply naming other people’s dogs.”

“I thought you weren’t keeping him,” Mallen pointed out.

“Be quiet.”

Drake, Emmaline, and the Duchess of Mallen ordered in unison.

Mallen crossed the room and scanned the array of sweets artfully arranged on the tray, before settling on a cherry tart. He took two bites and then popped the remainder into his mouth. “So much for being one of the most powerful peers in the realm. I don’t even have power in my own library,” he muttered around a mouthful of treat.

The duchess folded her hands and looked from Emmaline to Lord Drake, a contemplative gleam in her eyes that Drake didn’t like in the least. Apparently smoothing over conflict was inherent in a mother’s nature.

“Emmaline, my dear, I’m afraid Lord Drake is correct. You cannot simply give him a dog. Especially if he doesn’t want it.”

Emmaline shot a look of hurt betrayal at the duchess, and Drake thought she might stick her tongue out at him.

The duchess turned to Drake. “And you, Lord Drake, it is hardly gentlemanly to return a gift.”

Emmaline’s expression turned victorious, and he gritted his teeth.

Drake could handle one small duchess. He inclined his head, his tone solemn. “Your Grace, you are indeed correct. It is an unpardonable affront to reject any gift. That was never my intention. I simply cannot bring this dog into my home.”

Emmaline and Mallen emitted matching snorts at his flowery speech.

The Duchess glared at the both of her children and returned her attention to Drake. “I’m sure there is a solution so no one’s sensibilities are hurt.”

“Yes, there is. Lord Drake can keep Sir Faithful and say thank you,” Emmaline volunteered. She crossed the room and selected a cherry tart before Mallen could finish off that particular flavor.

“I am not keeping him and that is final.”

Emmaline gave a flounce of her head.

Drake shot a hopeful glance in the duchess’ direction but it would appear her efforts at restoring civility had collapsed.

Carrying the tart on an embroidered napkin, Emmaline crossed to Sir Faithful and offered the pastry to the little black pup.

Drake’s eyes slid closed. “You cannot feed a dog cherry tarts.”

Emmaline paused mid-motion. Sir Faithful scratched at her hand, and she shifted her attention back to the pup. She popped a piece of the treat into his mouth and patted him on the head. “For someone who does not want him, you are fairly well-versed in how to handle his care.”

He took a step in her direction. “Anyone would know not to feed him dessert treats.”

“Anyone would know Sir Faithful is a perfect name for a faithful dog.” She took a step closer to him until they were a hands-length apart, both breathing heavily, the spectators in the room, once again, irrelevant to their exchange.

Emmaline’s lips parted. Drake’s emerald gaze dropped to those lips and he forgot whatever words he’d intended to speak.

He studied Emmaline’s flushed cheeks. She really was—lovely.

Even in her ridiculous, oversized hat.

Especially in that silly bonnet. It put wicked thoughts into Drake’s mind; he and Emmaline in an open field on a hot summer day. He would tug the article from her head and release the luxurious brown locks so they fanned about them…

A stream of something warm and wet snapped him from his reverie.

“Your dog is pissing on my carpet, Drake,” Mallen drawled.

Drake glared at him. “My dog is pissing on my boot.”

“Gentlemen, language,” the duchess scolded.

Emmaline clasped her hands to her chest and favored Drake with a radiant smile. “So, you are keeping him?”

Drake gave his clouded head a shake. He’d never said that.

The duchess gave a little clap of her hands. “Lovely news! Then it is settled!”

And just like that it was settled.

He had a dog.

A dog named Sir Faithful.

Whether he liked it or not.

And since he was only admitting it to himself, he could secretly acknowledge, he wasn’t altogether displeased with Emmaline’s gift.

Chapter 21

My Dearest Drake,

I am never going hunting again. It is cruel and awful. I feel as though I lost the wager after all. Sebastian felt so bad about my tears, he promised never to go hunting again.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

FOR ALL INTENTS AND PURPOSES, it was late in the evening.

Or early in the morning. Most of the civilized members of the ton had abandoned the evening’s revelries and were safely ensconced in their beds, sleeping away too much drink and overly rich food.

Drake walked at a brisk pace through Hyde Parke, the little black pup admirably keeping stride with his steps.

Sleep—a fickle friend—eluded Drake. He supposed he should be thankful for it. At times like this, when his nerves were frayed, when his mind was exhausted, the nightmares came in their worst form.

In his dreams, he would see things: fallen friends, fellow soldiers, images of men wandering through battlefields dazed, severed limbs held in their hands.

He drew to a sudden halt and fixed his gaze out at the gardens before him. Sir Faithful, tired from his efforts, sat dutifully beside Drake’s feet.

On nights such as these, Drake often walked through the emptied streets and visited an eerily silent Hyde Park. He always managed to find some small measure of solace in the gardens. The smell of the fragrant flowers served as a reminder that he had survived.

But now, they reminded him of more than just that. Now they reminded him of Emmaline. The sight of the flowers and climbing ivy, put him in mind of Emmaline at work in her own garden. This image of her was always in stark contrast to the remembrance of charred, barren wasteland scorched by man and by war.

Sir Faithful scratched his leg and whined at him.

This time, Drake was not alone.

He bent down and scratched Sir Faithful between his ears. “She did you a great disservice, my friend,” he murmured to the black pup. “Sir Faithful, she dubbed thee, and forever you shall be.”

The pup’s tongue lolled out and he gave a happy little yelp, as if in approval of Lady Emmaline’s selection.

Drake stared out at the expanse of night sky as the creeping fingers of dawn’s purple hues edged across the horizon and pushed back the darkness. As lovely as the morning sky was, the beauty was that much greater in the country, where the air wasn’t heavy with dirt and grime.

Drake reflected on Mallen’s growing impatience with Emmaline’s unmarried state.

Mallen had gone so far as to demand Drake commit to Emmaline or else. The duke had issued the command as though it were the simplest thing in the world.

But then, perhaps to the other man, it was.

How could Mallen, or anyone for that matter, ever know what held Drake back? What would Mallen say if he knew Drake would not wed Emmaline for fear of her safety? Mallen certainly wouldn’t want an answer. Instead, he’d end the betrothal without another word and have Emmaline neatly tied to Waxham. His gut clenched at the thought of it.

He thought back to his most recent episode in Emmaline’s garden.

It had been several months since he’d last lost control as he had with Emmaline. He’d begun to believe, nay hope, that he’d put those moments behind him. He’d fooled himself into thinking that he was like any other gentleman. That afternoon with Emmaline, he’d physically assaulted her and proved he was nothing more than an animal better off committed to Bedlam.

It had been his greatest fear realized.

No waltz and a simple apology could pardon such an affront. He was foolish to think it could have.

Drake lived through too many sleepless nights, too many hellish nightmares, and too many bouts of lost self-control to ever trust that he was a good candidate for marriage.

Ultimately he would have to marry. As the only heir to the Duke of Hawkridge, Drake was aware of his obligations. It had, however, been his hope that the demons he continued to battle would diminish over the years; that time would, as they say, heal all wounds.

He now realized he’d clung to foolish optimism. This hell would always enshroud his existence. How could he marry and expose Emmaline to that.

Sir Faithful ears pricked up and he looked around as if he’d detected an interloper. The dog gave an excited barking yelp and bounded off to greet their guest.

“Drake,” Emmaline murmured softly.

Drake started at the unexpectedness of the interruption. Every muscle in his body went tight at the feel of her presence.

He no longer wondered about her uncanny ability to determine his whereabouts.

Drake turned and dipped a respectful bow. “Emmaline.”

* * *

EMMALINE TAPPED HER COPY OF Glenarvon against her thigh. “You can leave us, Grace,” she instructed her maid.

Grace nodded and then took her leave.

Emmaline bit the inside of her lower lip, the soft thread of her maid’s footsteps echoed in the quiet until they faded to silence. Emmaline and Drake were left cloaked in the privacy the shrubbery.

She took a deep breath, wishing she were more poised to hide her uncertainty from this man she’d been connected to since she’d been a babe.

Emmaline crouched down and caressed Sir Faithful.

“I’ve finished…”

“You are walking rather…”

They both stumbled to an awkward, halting conclusion, their words unfinished.

He helped her to her feet.

Silence again descended.

Emmaline drew a distracted circle upon the ground with the tip of her slipper.

Drake studied the movement. “Are you visiting the park at this ungodly hour to merely draw artwork with your slipper?” he teased.

Emmaline’s foot paused mid-circle and she grinned. “You’ve found me out, sir. I spend a great deal of time gallivanting over Hyde Park completing very fine slipper-art. It is all the thing.”

His eyes smiled at her inane response. Funny that. She’d never known one could smile with their eyes.

“I must say, completing slipper art in public is not the action befitting a future duchess,” he said solemnly.

Emmaline made an X over her heart. “I pledge to abandon the activity when we are wed, my lord.”

Nothing could kill the shared levity of the moment swifter than mention of their betrothal.

Drake’s eyes darkened and he directed his focus to the book in her hands.

Her heart twisted painfully in her chest as he regarded her the way he might a stranger.

“Have you come here this morning to read?”

She hated that his words came out clipped and cool. Yearned for the light, teasing warmth she’d come to know from him.

She waved her copy of Glenarvon about. “As I started to say, I have finished my copy. I am here to complete our challenge.”

His face, an otherwise blank mask, revealed a flash of surprise. Wordlessly, he held a hand out.

She gave him the novel, and watched as he thumbed through the pages. Neither of them said anything as he perused the copy, searching for his questions.

She resumed her slipper art.

Suddenly his fingers stilled and he looked at Emmaline with piercing jade green eyes.

“Calantha marries one man but is seduced by another. Who is her seducer?”

Emmaline’s foot drew to a sudden halt and she cocked her head to the side. “That is one of your questions?” She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle her laughter. Surely Drake could have found something a good deal more challenging.

“I say, answer the question. That is, if you know it,” he challenged.

“If this is one of your questions, you do not stand a chance.”

He bristled. “If you do not answer the question on a count of three, I will determine that you do not know.”

“Glenarvon,” she answered, a smile twitching at the corner of her lips. “Tsk, tsk, my lord…I’m afraid you are going to have to do better than that, or you are surely going to lose the challenge.”

Drake opened his mouth to speak, but then his eyes dipped to her mouth and whatever he’d been about to say remained unspoken. He groaned.

“Drake, are you all right?”

He cleared his throat. “Fine, fine.”

Drake returned his attention to the book in his hands. He perused a passage. “Calantha speaks of losing all. Who does she blame?”

Emmaline tapped a finger along her jaw. In the work, Calantha was frequently alternating between a sense of guilt and no regrets for her great affair. “Can you read me the passage?”

It was Drake’s turn to issue a tsking sound. “Come, come, my lady. Who does she blame?”

Emmaline thought about it a moment, thought of her relationship with Drake. As a woman, who did she usually blame for Drake’s lack of regard?

“Herself, my lord. She blames herself.”

He nodded, before concentrating his efforts once more on the book. He leafed through the pages.

A loose strand of hair fell across her eyes. She blew it back. “Have you found your next question, my lord?” she pressed after several long moments of silence.

He didn’t bother picking his head up to look at her. “Eager thing, aren’t you?”

She smiled. This light side of Drake was the one Lieutenant Jones had spoken of…and was one she’d come to love. Until just recently, he’d always been the phantom handsome figure who issued her a respectful bow and then beat a hasty retreat. To have him tease her, to furrow his brow as he rustled through a Gothic novel, was something she couldn’t have conjured in her wildest imaginings.

“Ahh,” he said, glancing up. He wore a triumphant expression. “Complete this sentence from the passage—”

“That is hardly fair,” she protested. “A question is far different from memorizing the work.”

“We did not stipulate terms of the questions, my lady.”

Emmaline folded her arms. Drat, if he wasn’t right.

“Fine,” she muttered. “What is the passage?”

“That which causes the tragic end of a woman’s life is often but a moment of amusement and folly in the history of…”

Emmaline’s chest tightened. “A man.”

Drake snapped the work shut, holding it out to her, and took a step forward.

He was so close his breath, laced with a hint of coffee, fanned her lips.

“Calantha argues Glenarvon has seduced her with what?”

Her body swayed closer to him. “The power of attraction,” she whispered.

The book slid from her fingers, to the ground where it fell indignantly open on its spine.

Then he was taking her in his arms, folding her close, covering her mouth with his, parting her lips and tasting her. She moaned, a low, husky purr that sounded wanton to her own ears.

Emmaline twined her hands about his neck and pressed her body close to his. His manhood prodded hard and angry against her belly, and her body flared with the swift, hot flood of desire. It overtook her, nearly brought her to her knees.

“Please, Drake,” she pleaded against his lips.

Drake lowered her to the ground and knelt with her cradled against the hard-muscled wall of his chest. There was something both erotic and yet sweetly beautiful, kneeling in the gardens as though they were Adam and Eve partaking in their first sinful taste of the forbidden fruit.

Through the thick haze of desire, Sir Faithful’s bark cut into their embrace. The dog hurled himself atop them and licked Emmaline’s face.

She turned away from the eager pup and laughed.

Drake paused. “Sit.” He issued the order with the same authority she was sure he had used to command his men in battle. At the brisk tone, Sir Faithful promptly laid down. He lowered his head dejectedly on his paws.

Drake returned his attention to her. “Where was I?” he asked hoarsely.

“You were touching me,” she said breathlessly.

“Was I?” He kissed the corner of her lip.

She moaned. “Yes.”

“Yes, like this or yes, you like it?”

Her head thrashed back and forth. “Stop teasing me.”

Strong fingers traced a knowing path over her body, and grasping her buttocks in his palms, he urged her closer to the length of him.

Emmaline gasped. She was going to catch fire from her need and set Hyde Park ablaze.

Her head fell back when his lips left hers. He nipped the corner of her lips, her cheek, and then he caressed her neck with his lips. The unshaven scruff of his beard tickled her skin. She giggled.

Drake didn’t even break his ministrations, his hands releasing her breasts from the bodice of her gown. The peak of her nipples hardened under his stare. “Is there something that amuses you, my lady?” he asked huskily, not waiting for a reply as his mouth lowered to her breast. With deliberate slowness he drew the ripened bud into his mouth. He gently suckled, laving the peak, and then flicked it teasingly with his tongue.

Emmaline’s head fell back.

Drake switched his attention to the tip of her other, neglected pale white mound.

Emmaline gasped aloud. She twisted her fingers into the silk strands of his golden hair. “Drake, show me more.”

The cool of the morning air slammed into her bare legs, as he slid her skirts up, higher, and higher, to her knees. His fingers skimmed over her belly, and then before she could comprehend what he was doing, his hand delved between her legs.

It was as though every last vestige of energy was sapped from her. Emmaline collapsed in his arms. He sat down, atop a bed of white cerastium, and moved her onto his lap while his expert fingers continued to work her.

Drake slipped another finger into her and began to move them; in, then out, in then out, until she bucked under his hand. “Yes,” she cried softly.

He continued to stroke her, playing with the pliable nub of her center. Emmaline supposed she should feel a sense of shame but couldn’t drum up one single rational thought about the indecency of what they were doing and where they were doing it.

All she knew was him.

She closed her eyes and undulated beneath him, searching for more.

His lips reclaimed hers. “Come for me, love,” he urged, his voice a husky command.

Come? What on earth did he mean? Pressure built inside her, unfurling like a rapidly growing weed, taking over everything. Her cry was lost in his mouth. She frantically arched her hips as he rung every last bit of pleasure from her.

And then she collapsed, replete with the gift he’d given her.

So that was what he’d meant. She laid her cheek alongside his and felt her breath fanning his.

Drake’s fingers played with the tresses that had tumbled from her knot and covered them like a blanket. “So beautiful,” he whispered.

Emmaline’s throat worked. She knew she was no great beauty but when he said it like that, in those emotion-laden words, she believed him.

He kissed the slight birthmark just below her temple.

“What an interesting spot for a birthmark. Rather unique…just like you.”

He brought her skirts down and she finally, reluctantly, pulled back.

She looked at him through heavy eyes. “I won the challenge, my lord,” she reminded him huskily.

He laughed and kissed her once again for good measure. “Yes, my lady. You certainly did win.”

Chapter 22

My Dearest Drake,

Does a man who is betrothed still propose to the lady he is betrothed to? I would imagine it would be more romantic if he did.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

HE WAS GOING TO MARRY her.

Drake expected to be consumed by anxiety at the thought of relinquishing bachelorhood. He’d always believed marriage symbolized the death of a gentleman’s freedom.

Yet oddly today, he had no reservations. It wasn’t obligation that drove his decision. Nor his responsibilities to the ducal line. Somewhere along the way, it had become about him and Emmaline—as it should have been.

Sir Faithful barked.

He glanced down apologetically at the pup. “No, you cannot come, my friend.” Sir Faithful dropped his head back between his paws and gave him a long, sad look.

“I’ll tell you what, Sir. Soon I’ll bring her back here as your mistress, then you can see the both of us.”

That was apparently too much for the pup to understand. He just cocked his head sideways, tongue lolling out, and continued to study Drake.

Drake returned his attention to his plans for the morning, feeling once again like a soldier about to embark upon a decisive battle. Why had he fought this? He thought of all the time he’d wasted, thought of his leaving to fight on the Peninsula, when what he’d been fleeing had turned out to be a person who made him smile more than he had in years.

He glanced down at the ring resting on the bureau top. The eight carat emerald nestled amidst a cluster of diamonds, glittered in the morning light. It had belonged to his mother, and the duchess before her, and the duchess before her. And it would be Emmaline’s. He picked it up, studied it, and then placed it in the inner fold of his midnight jacket.

His valet appeared in the doorway. “My lord, as requested, your mount has been readied.”

Drake nodded and made his way below stairs, to the foyer.

He was met by the usually staid, butler, Winchester.

This time Winchester’s weathered face was wreathed in a smile that went from one ear to the next. As if he knew Drake’s special business. Which shouldn’t really surprise him. Winchester had always managed to glean Drake’s intentions before he himself even really knew.

“My lord!”

Drake grinned back. “Winchester.”

Since he’d lain Emmaline down on the garden floor and pleasured her, he’d worn a perpetual smile. To be more precise, he’d seemed to be in a state of happiness since she’d come into his life. Emmaline’s joy had been infectious and he’d been her willing victim.

A startled shriek rent the air, punctuated by a resounding metallic crash. Servants seemed to materialize out of nowhere and hurried to the mishap. A two foot silver vase lay on its side amidst a cluster of white flowers. The young maid who’d dropped the floral arrangement wept into her hands.

Her blubbering blended with the cacophony of sound as servants rushed to clean the mess.

Drake’s eyes remained riveted on the glint of the metal urn. The maid’s cries wavered in and out of focus, until they were replaced with the agonizing shouts of his fallen men.

As if slammed by a cannon ball to the stomach, Drake’s body jerked. With a bellowing roar wrenched from deep inside his soul, he dropped to his knees and covered his ears, in an attempt to blot out the deafening sound of grapeshot ricocheting off each corner of his mind.

Drake’s eyes flitted around like that of a cornered animal. His horrified gaze landed on the earth strewn with destroyed flowers, and waited. When no bodies fell, in an attempt to flee, he darted past the horrified men around him. He willed his legs to pump faster, lest he be caught in the thick of the battle.

A powerful hand snaked around Drake’s arm. He cried out. Thrashing violently, he leveled his opponent with an elbow that caught the man in the ribs. The hiss of exhaled breath fired like kindling just about to catch. The man held onto Drake with fierce determination, but Drake refused to surrender because if he did, he’d be at the mercy of the French bastards.

“No, no, no!” Drake roared.

“Drake, I won’t hurt you. Nobody is going to hurt you.”

Drake stilled. When the man’s grip lightened, Drake wrested his arm free, and beat a hasty retreat up the stairwell.

The Frenchie was on him again. He knocked Drake’s knees out from under him, tackling him to the ground. The action knocked the breath from Drake with a powerful whoosh, and something flew out from his jacket front. He heard the soft ping, ping, ping, as it skidded across the white Italian marble floor.

White Italian marble floor?

“Drake? Drake?”

“My lord?”

Drake struggled beneath the weight of the bodies that pressed him down.

Bodies. There were more than two.

Drake? My lord?

His breath was coming hard and fast on deep gulping gasps for air.

Think, Drake. Why would the French be calling me by my name? Think. Where were the echoing shots? He waited for the sounds that never came.

All energy drained from him and he rested his forehead upon the hard cool surface of the marble, which penetrated his haze of horror.

It had struck again.

He blinked down at the floor but his vision blurred, blending the surface. He wanted to cry. A trickle of wetness trailed a path from his cheek and fell upon his lips.

Nay, he was crying.

He became aware of his father helping him up, gathering him in his arms as if he were no more than a boy.

Except he wasn’t a boy. He was a battle-scarred man who would never be normal again.

His whole frame shuddered with the jarring return to reality.

“It’s fine, Drake,” his father whispered. He stroked his back. “You can leave, Winchester.”

It wasn’t fine. In fact, Drake wanted to toss his head back and rail at a non-existent God.

He stiffened and took a staggering step away from his father and remembered. Remembered this humiliation had been witnessed by a host of servants, servants who would surely talk. Then the entire ton would know. She would know. His gut churned. He was going to be ill.

“Not one member of this household will speak on what happened here,” his father said, correctly interpreting the direction of Drake’s thoughts. There was an air of ducal confidence to the promise.

Drake took another step backward, placing much needed distance between them.

His father’s throat bobbed up and down, displaying his unease. He held an outstretched hand toward Drake. “Don’t, Drake. Don’t turn from me.” It was an order. It was not a ducal order, but rather the words of a father demanding his child not shut him out.

Drake ignored him and, without another word, turned on his heel and climbed the last stairwell. He walked at a brisk pace down the long hall and finally reached his chambers. He shoved the door back with an aggravated force and entered, shutting the door behind him with a decisive click.

Drake leaned against the closed hard panels of the oak door, borrowing the strength to stand. The hum of the room’s quiet fell in cadence with the heavy sound of his breathing.

When he thought he could move again without collapsing into a heap of shame, he dropped to the floor and sat with his body flush against the door.

Sir Faithful bounded across the room, and ran excitedly about Drake’s feet. The dog climbed up in his lap, and favored Drake’s face with a coarse, pink-tipped lick.

A bitter laugh escaped Drake, which he buried in Sir Faithful’s neck. “I should have known better.”

Instead, he had deluded himself into believing this defect in him, this tendency to lose control, would not prevent him from finding happiness with Emmaline. The memory of her, the taste of her lips, the sweet sounds he had swallowed within his own mouth, had all allowed him to pretend he could be more than he was. A monster bound for Bedlam.

It hadn’t been enough that he’d lost control in front of her. Hell, that time should have been the first and last he’d allowed himself to be in her presence. But he’d persisted—because he was a selfish, filthy bastard who’d cared more about how she made him feel, how she made him forget.

Drake should be grateful this had happened. Now he could at least spare her hurt. He could take it on as his own. In fact, Drake should be glad for it.

So why wasn’t he? Why did he wish the day had continued along as he’d imagined.

He would have marched up Mallen’s steps with an armful of the white flowers he and Emmaline had lain amidst and then asked for her hand.

Her endless brown eyes would have sparkled with merriment and shock when he told her he wanted to make her his wife.

Mallen would bang his fist on his desk and glower at Drake with displeasure.

Drake dropped his head into his hands and pressed his fingers against throbbing temples, and continued to cradle Sir Faithful close. Excruciating headaches usually followed the episodes. He welcomed the pain this time for it helped dull the agonizing feeling of his heart being ripped piece by piece from his body.

The pain prevented him from thinking about how close he’d come to having it all.

Chapter 23

My Dearest Drake,

Is it silly that, when you return, I want you to court me?

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

EMMALINE FAIRLY RACED THROUGH HYDE Park in a manner that would have earned gasps of disapproval from Society members—if they’d been present, of course. She had sent Drake a note, claiming her picnic as the prize for their Glenarvon challenge.

That had been a week ago. Well, six days to be precise, which to Emmaline may as well have constituted a week.

In that time, there had been no acknowledgement, no return note, no teasing banter, no sudden appearance at a ball or musicale. Nothing. It had been as though everything she’d shared with Drake had been nothing more than a fleeting fantasy.

Emmaline had begun to think he’d never again contact her.

Until yesterday.

At last, Drake had replied to her request.

“My lady, can you please slow down?” her maid called out in a panting gasp. The sound of gravel kicking up furiously punctuated her breathless request.

Emmaline glanced over her shoulder. A twinge of guilt hit her. She sighed and slowed her steps. The ivory drawstring bag dotted with blue beads she held in her right hand swung against her side.

“My lady, would you like to rest soon,” Grace suggested.

Emmaline drew to a full stop on the Serpentine Bridge, which marked the boundary between Hyde Gardens and Kensington Gardens. Her abrupt movements sent Grace stumbling against her.

“Beg pardon, my lady.”

Emmaline glanced down at the parchment in her hands. “Fine, fine,” Emmaline said. She studied the note.

My Dearest Emmaline,

Would you do me the honor of meeting me in Hyde Park at Kensington Gardens? I shall be there at five o’clock in the morning. That is if it isn’t too early.

Yours,

Drake

Emmaline squinted off into the distance. A lone figure stood with his back to her and Grace. Attired entirely in black, there was something ominously dark about him.

Emmaline turned to Grace. “Please, wait here.”

Emmaline didn’t wait to see if Grace did as she was ordered. Instead, she hurried toward her betrothed.

Drake stood with his back to her. His gaze trained on the indigo and pale lavender hues traipsing across the early morning sky.

It was Sir Faithful who gave her a barking greeting. Drake’s broad frame stiffened as she approached but he didn’t so much as turn to look at her.

She fell to her knee. “Hello, Sir Faithful. How have you been, my boy?” She rubbed the spot between his eyes and he leaned into her touch.

“Emmaline,” Drake greeted, his tone deadened.

Emmaline stood, her pale blue muslin day gown rustling on a wisp of wind. “Why have you not returned my notes?” She heard the edge of hurt betrayal underlining her words. “I don’t understand. One moment, you seem to enjoy my company and then you disappear. It is as though you are two people.”

He stiffened.

“I believed you had come to care for me,” she whispered. “Can’t you even look at me?”

Drake spun around; his flat emerald eyes leveled her. She took a faltering step backwards, unprepared for the cold gaze he passed over her. He arched an icy, indifferent brow.

“I really don’t have anything to say to you.” His voice was as frigid as a January freeze.

One hand attempted to smother a gasp wrenched from inside her heart while the other dropped the bag she’d carried with her.

It hit the gravel path with a soft thud.

She angled her chin up and refused to be cowed. She didn’t know where she found the courage for the next words. “I’ve waited fifteen long years for you. I’m no longer a girl. I can’t continue as we are.” She held an outstretched hand towards him. “It’s breaking my heart.” The words stripped her of her remaining pride.

He dragged a hand through his hair and cursed. It was a foul curse she’d only heard uttered by her brother once, and that had been the day their father died.

“Emmaline, I believe you have made too much of—of,” his hand slashed the air, “this.” He motioned between them.

“I believed you had come to care for me, Drake. Would you have me believe that you do not?” She reached for him and he flinched. A laugh that sounded half-mad to her own ears escaped her. “Have I been so wrong about us?”

He didn’t respond.

“You can’t even have the decency to answer me that?” The words were desperate. “What game do you play? Why would you send round a note and ask me to meet you here if—?”

There was a flash of surprise in Drake’s expression. “What note?”

And then she knew. Her breath whistled between her teeth. “Oh God, you didn’t send it.”

A dull, throbbing pain came from somewhere in the vicinity of her heart, a heart she was certain had already withered inside her. Her hand went to her chest. The organ continued to beat. Odd, the rhythm seemed too steady and strong for someone dying.

She dropped to a knee and with fingers that quivered, fished an envelope from the drawstring bag. Her hands shook so badly she clumsily dropped the note. The scrap fluttered forlornly to the ground.

Drake bent down and swiftly rescued it. He perused the note he’d been purported to have written.

His brow furrowed while he scanned the parchment and then his eyes glazed over with a haze of fury. And she had her confirmation.

She wanted to flee, turn on her heel and be spared this humiliation.

Wordlessly, he stuffed the note back into its envelope and handed it back to her. On legs that trembled, she rose without assistance. Dazed eyes remained focused on her name scrawled across the thick ivory vellum, because then she didn’t have to look at the black rage in his expression.

Emmaline was possessed of a violent urge to tear up the piece. She wanted to rail at herself for not recognizing the scrawl as similar to other notes she’d received these past weeks from Lord Sinclair. Hated herself for seeing only that which she’d wanted to see.

“I—I allowed myself to hope.” And hope had clouded her reason.

“Sinclair?” he asked tersely.

Emmaline looked away.

* * *

DRAKE CURSED.

He would bloody murder Sinclair.

“Why ever would he send that note?” Then it hit him with all the force of a bayonet to the gut. All along it had been Sinclair. “It all makes sense.”

She blinked at him with soulful brown eyes. “What makes sense?”

A cynical laugh burst from his chest. “Don’t play coy with me. You schemed with Sinclair. It was he who informed you of my whereabouts this Season.” He’d been betrayed by his closest friend and his betrothed.

“I assure you I couldn’t manage coy if I tried,” she snapped.

“But you could manage deceitful.”

Her delicate palms curled into little fists at her side and he thought she might hit him which really would be no less than he deserved.

She sucked in a deep breath. “Really, Drake? Is that how you see me? As some kind of maniacal scheming debutante?”

An image of Sinclair and Emmaline closeted away trickled into his consciousness. He imagined them laughing while they planned to trap him. The idea of them, plotting behind his back, sent rage spiraling. He was besieged by a tumult of emotions and couldn’t sort whether it was jealousy of her closeness with Sin or anger at the good laugh they’d had behind his back.

“What fun you must have had at my expense.” Filled with a restive energy he presented her with his back and stepped away.

“Has it really been so awful being in my company?”

He ran a hand across his face and swung back around. “So you enlisted Sin’s aid to ascertain my plans each evening. I understand your means of conspiring against me. Your intention was to force my hand, but Sinclair?”

“Bah. Why can’t you believe Sin was just trying to help you because he believes we belong together?”

He arched a brow. “I am rather surprised he accepted your appeal for support. Subterfuge is not really one of Sin’s traits.”

Emmaline folded her arms indignantly across her chest. “But it is one of mine? My, what a low opinion you have of me. I suggest you speak to Lord Sinclair for the answers to your questions.” She tilted her chin at a mutinous little angle. “You are a beast,” she spat.

He tipped his head in assent. “Truer words were never spoken.”

A near hysterical hiccough of laughter burst from her lips. “Did you ever really care for me?”

Drake studied Emmaline. The tightness around her mouth, her lips dipped down at the corners indicated that she was wavering between fury and despair. How dare she take on the role of the offended party? She had, after all, been duplicitous. He owed her no apologies.

Yet still…when her lush red lips trembled in that forlorn way, he wanted to knock himself out for being the cause of her pain. He hated himself for hurting her, even if ultimately it would be best for Emmaline. Then all false illusions she carried of him being an honorable gentleman deserving of her love could be at last squashed.

He closed the short distance between them with long, determined strides. Emmaline backed away. “Come Emmaline, am I to believe this plan you crafted was designed out of love for me? That it had nothing to do with your ultimate goal of marriage?”

“How little you think of me,” she snapped and then took a bold step toward him, so only a hand of distance remained between them.

They were toe-to-toe, breath coming fast from the force of their emotions.

“What do you want from me?” The words wrenched from deep within him.

“I want to be your wife,” she whispered.

Drake looked away, unable to see the love pouring from her. God, when she said it like that, he was wont to deny her anything. She at least deserved some element of truth from him. “I am not ready to marry you.”

Her response came out wobbly. “Why?”

He knew how much that question cost her and just added one more thing to the list of all the reasons he hated himself.

“I’m not ready to be a husband.”

There it was. To him, the truth—a silent acknowledgement that he was defective and not good enough for her. She, however, would see it as nothing more than a rejection.

“You’re not ready to be a husband? Or you’re not ready to be my husband?” He said nothing and she squared her shoulders. “I see.”

No, Emmaline. No, you cannot possibly see. Because if you did, then you would know right now I feel as though I’m being run through, over and over with a rusty bayonet.

Drake stared out into the horizon at the fading purple hues rolling back, as they ceded the spot to the full morning sky. “I should never have touched you.” Even if it had felt like the only thing perfect in his life.

Emmaline laughed bitterly. “I don’t imagine many of the ladies you’ve been intimate with have heard those words from the great Lord Drake.” She reached down and rescued the forgotten bag at their feet. She thrust it into his hands. “These were yours. I wrote them, to you…for you…when you were…gone…” She fumbled about, seeming to search for the right words. “I am freeing you,” she breathed the words into existence. She jerked as if startled by her own declaration, but then resolutely met his gaze. “I am no longer your responsibility.”

Drake’s heart thumped, once, twice, then froze. He gave his head a firm shake, in an attempt to make sense of what Emmaline had said but the loud buzzing in his ears overpowered his ability to reason.

Perhaps he had misheard her.

“I am freeing you,” she repeated. “I cannot do this any longer. You don’t love me. Even as I…love you. I cannot bear to be a responsibility you do not want, nor for that matter have ever wanted in your life. I want to be courted. I want someone to bring me flowers and write me poems. More than anything, I want to be loved. And do you know, Drake? I deserve to be loved.”

Yes, she did. Except, Emmaline could walk from one corner of the earth to the next, and never find a man who cared for her as he did. It was that regard for her which allowed him to set her free, in spite of his selfish yearnings. A ball of pain lodge in Drake’s chest.

Odd, he’d been stabbed, had taken more bullets than a living body was ever meant to take and yet the ache of losing Emmaline, was somehow greater than all those hellish wartime moments combined.

God help him. He was a selfish fiend after all. He wasn’t ready to lose her.

“What if I don’t want to be free?” The words ripped from a place deep within his soul, a place where the last vestige of humanity he’d returned from the war with, still resided. If Emmaline walked out of his life; she’d snuff out the sole flicker of light that existed within him.

Emmaline gave him a sad little smile. “Come Drake, you don’t want me. You have never wanted me. Even this Season.” Her hand fluttered about. “I’ve followed you from event to event, but I’ve never really been anything more than a nuisance. So I am freeing you as much for me, as it is for you.”

She stepped close to him. The crisp citrusy scent of lemons tickled his senses. His eyes slid closed. He would never know if it was the scent of her soap or a dash of perfume dabbed behind her ears, because she would be gone to him, and he would lose the right to know all those intimate things he yearned to know.

Through a surreal fog, he was dimly aware of her taking his hands. She gave them a gentle squeeze and picked up her chocolate gaze to meet his. “You have had the opportunity to make at least some decisions of your own. You went to war. I’ve never had that. Let me have this. Let me have my Season.”

Drake’s throat worked painfully. If only he could tell her the decision he’d made, his one reckless grasp at independence, had been the most horrendous mistake he had ever made. It had cost him everything: his sanity, his happiness. Her.

“I have never said I wanted to be freed of you.”

Why couldn’t he call forth the words to keep her?

Because you don’t deserve her, a silent voice jeered.

Emmaline smiled sadly. “But you never said you wanted me either.” She reached out a trembling hand to his jaw and rubbed the cleft there. “When my father died, I was devastated. I never thought I’d smile again.”

Drake tried to slog through the the unexpected shift in conversation.

“I waited for you, but you never came.” Emmaline swallowed, her throat working. “I still remember the chaos. There were so many cries and screams. I still cannot sort whether it was mine, Mother’s, or the maids’.” A small shudder racked her frame and she crossed her arms, as if to ward off a chill. “Countless peers came to pay their respects, but I really only wanted to see one person walk through the door.” Her lips tipped up in a sad rendition of a smile. “You were the only one I longed to see. I waited for you to come to me…but you never came.”

Drake’s stare wandered away from her precious face as his mind tripped down a path of remembrance. In spite of how it had appeared to Emmaline, he had indeed cared about the loss she’d suffered. He had meant to go to her.

It was that moment when he realized with certainty—he could not fight for her. The great hurt she still carried with her, a hurt she was more than entitled to, symbolized a divide that would forever keep him from being worthy of her. He had failed her too many times.

“I am sorrier for that than you can ever know,” he said. He flinched when her soft, delicate fingers caressed his cheek.

Hesitating just a moment, she reached up on tiptoe and placed a sweet, lingering kiss on his lips.

It tasted like good-bye.

Without a word, she turned on her heel, and left.

Chapter 24

My Dearest Drake,

I have just returned from London, where I found the most delightful straw bonnet for my gardening! I shall never be beet red again!

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

DRAKE STOOD ROOTED TO HIS spot. The scent of Emmaline seemed to linger and he feared if he so much as moved, he’d waft the citrus scent of her off into nothing more than a memory. He stood so still his shoulders ached.

Time passed at an interminable crawl.

Sir Faithful nudged him in the leg until he looked down. The loyal fellow favored Drake with a sad, accusing brown-eyed stare. “I’m a fool, Sir.”

Sir Faithful yapped in agreement.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. He hadn’t felt anything in the three years since he’d returned and now he should feel it all: pain, happiness, despair. He hated the swell of emotion that threatened to carry him away.

Over the past three years Drake had constructed a wall around himself; a barrier against the outside world. In a few short months, Emmaline had taken it down brick by brick until she’d exposed him as a scared and hurt man.

Even as he cared for Emmaline, in that moment, Drake hated her for forcing him to face the lie he’d been living. He’d tried his damnedest to bury himself in empty pursuits, whoring and gaming. And those were no longer enough and would never be enough.

Now the only thing he longed for, craved like air he breathed, was her.

And she was gone.

He wanted to slam his fist into something. There was no one to release his pent up fury on…except…

Drake turned on his heel.

He retrieved his mount and headed to the home of the one person he could direct his wrath upon.

When he arrived at his destination, he flung the reins to a waiting boy and threw him a sovereign and promised another when he returned. Drake strode up the townhouse steps and banged his fist on the door.

A wide-eyed butler opened it. “My lord, I shall…”

Drake stormed past the servant and started up the stairway. “Where is he?”

The graying butler’s skin turned ashen. “My lord,” he squeaked, and hurried up the steps, two at a time. “He is still abed, if you…”

Drake’s long legs had already outdistanced the butler, and the other man’s words trailed off. Drake continued on down the hall.

Having, of course, never visited Sin in his bedchambers, he wasn’t entirely certain which rooms the bastard occupied.

It did, however, give Drake some matter of satisfaction to kick in each closed doorway, sending them bouncing off the wall with a resounding boom.

Half-way down the hall, he kicked in one more door, and heard an answering groan.

“Get up,” Drake thundered, entering the chambers. He crossed over to the bed and tugged down the mound of blankets. He tossed them to the floor.

Sin draped an arm across his eyes seeming to care more about the intrusion of light than his naked form which had been exposed. “What has you in such a foul temper?” he groused, and dragged a pillow over his eyes.

Drake fished the note from his pocket and flung it at his friend. He began to pace. “What is this about? Where are your loyalties, that you would assist Emmaline in her maneuverings?”

Sin tossed aside the pillow and sat up slowly. He reached over the side of the bed and picked up his robe. “Whatever are you talking about?” Sin asked as he jammed his arms within the sleeves. He reached for the note, read it, and set it aside. “Oh, this.”

Drake’s movements were drawn to a jerky halt. He fixed a glare on his traitorous friend. “Oh, this? That is all you have to say?” Anyone else would have been terrified by the bloody calm in Drake’s words.

As if to show Drake how terrified he in fact was, Sin stifled a yawn with the back of his hand. He stood and belted his robe at the waist. “You were in need of a push,” he said matter-of-factly. His bare feet padded across the plush Aubusson carpet.

Unmindful of the early hour, Sin strode over to the drink cart situated against the curtained window, and poured a healthy glass of whiskey. Very deliberately, he swirled the contents of the glass and then took a long, slow swallow, until he’d polished off the brew. He set the empty glass down.

Drake clenched his fists at his side, knowing his friend was trying to stir his ire. He took a deep breath. “It isn’t your place to meddle in my life. I neither want, nor need your interference. I’ve had to deal with my father’s maneuverings. I don’t need yours as well.”

Sinclair picked up his glass and refilled it. He studied Drake almost quizzically. “Are you sure of that?” He took a sip of whiskey. “Can you honestly say you’ve been happy since you returned from the war? For the love of God, Drake, you’ve gamed and whored more than even I can keep up with. And tell me? Has it brought you happiness?”

Drake had to restrain himself from hurting his friend. “What do you know of it?” He seethed. “Who are you to judge and condemn? You carry on as you please.” Drake reached for a glass and the decanter of whiskey and sloshed the brew into his glass.

Sinclair held his glass up in mock salute. “Yes, but I am not betrothed,”

Drake opened his mouth to speak and then promptly shut it. He stared blankly at the gold damask curtains behind Sin’s shoulder.

Except, neither was he. With just a few words, the betrothal contract, which had bound them since childhood, had been snipped like a stray thread on a piece of fabric.

“It still was not your place to assist her. As my friend, you should have come to me the minute she proposed her scheme.” He finished his drink and set the glass down hard on the table.

Drake wanted to be well and truly drunk by the time he left this room.

Sin scratched his forehead. “Proposed…? She did not tell you.” A knowing light flickered to life in Sin’s eyes. “You believe Lady Emmaline approached me? You believe she enlisted my support? She did not tell you it was I who approached her?”

Chapter 25

My Dearest Drake,

I have learned you are in London. I know it is not ladylike to admit this but… I am excited to see you.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

EMMALINE SAT ON THE WROUGHT iron bench in the gardens. She tugged the wide brim of her bonnet lower to conceal the extent of her grief from her maid, and hugged the small spade close to her stomach. She welcomed the sharp sting of the metal biting into her flesh, because it momentarily dulled the pain of her broken heart.

She had ended it.

Even thinking it now, it seemed surreal.

Since she’d been a mere girl her life had been seamlessly entwined with Lord Drake’s. She’d come to know him as her future. After years of waiting for him to finally come up to scratch, she should welcome the liberty of finally being free. Now she would have a real Season, an opportunity to pursue what she yearned for most in life—love.

Yet, why did she feel as though she’d had everything she ever dreamed of and had lost it?

She turned to her maid. “Will you fetch the duke?”

Grace rose and rushed to do Emmaline’s bidding. “Yes, my lady.”

Emmaline stood up from the bench and paced the gardens, failing to see the flowers. Then she made the mistake of stealing a glance at the cerastium covering the ground and it was too much.

She sank to her knees and lovingly stroked the silk of the tiny, fragile bloom. She dropped her face in her hands and shook her head back and forth, trying to tamp out the feel of Drake’s touch, the memories of how he’d made her body unfurl like petals opening up in the early spring.

A shadow fell over her and blotted out the nauseating sweetness of the sun’s rays.

Sebastian’s concerned voice interrupted her musings. “Em? Are you all right?”

She didn’t stand up. Didn’t look at him. “It is done. I have freed him.”

How did she manage to keep her words so steady?

Sebastian fell silent.

Emmaline didn’t know what she’d expected. Perhaps a bit of gloating on his part. After all, how many times over the past months had he insisted she break it off with Drake?

Sebastian sat onto the wrought iron bench. He rested a hand on her shoulder.

She leaned into him much as she had when she’d been a small girl who’d tumbled down the stairs. He’d scooped her up and held her until he’d driven away all the hurt. Oh, why couldn’t she be a small child again, back when life was so very simple?

“You know I just want to see you happy?”

Emmaline gave a jerky nod.

“So why do I feel you are still not?”

She rested her chin on Sebastian’s knee, and looked up at him. “I love him. Of all the mad, foolish, awful things to do…I went and fell in love with him.”

Her brother said nothing for a long moment. Finally, he removed her broad straw bonnet, and gave it his utmost concentration. “Do you know Em, I still remember the day you were born. You were red-faced, screaming. Tears were dripping down your chubby cheeks. The nurse was desperately trying to soothe you. I leaned over the crib, and just like that, miracle of miracles, you ceased crying. I hadn’t given much thought to what being an older brother meant. I realized in that moment I wanted to protect you from any and every hurt.”

“Some things are beyond even your control, Sebastian.”

“Unfortunately, I know that.” He redirected his attention to the hat in his hands. “You know I think this bonnet is ridiculous.”

She wrinkled her nose and swatted him on the arm. “I love that bonnet.”

He spared a disparaging look for the item in question. “I would never, ever pick this hat for you. I have teased you time and time again. But you insist on wearing this one. There’s no explaining it, is there, Em?” He directed his attention to Emmaline. “Simply a matter of…taste, I guess you could say.”

Emmaline swallowed. “It is that,” she whispered.

Sebastian tugged at the fraying blue satin ribbons. “See how it’s fraying here? Even the straw is starting to tear.” He dragged a finger along the areas in question.

“Seb—”

He continued. “Someday you are going to need a new hat. You will find the hat, and it will be perfect for you.”

Emmaline chewed her lip. “I will never, ever feel this way—about another, hat.” Her words were strong with conviction.

“No, no you may not. But nonetheless, you will find one and you will learn to love it. Do you understand?”

She nodded against his knee, again feeling like a little girl.

Sebastian set the hat down on the bench beside him. During her childhood, he used to tease her mercilessly about her concerns over Lord Drake’s devotion. As the years passed and it became clear that there was credence to her fears, he’d ceased tormenting her. He then became the protective one. The brother who assured her that she was, indeed, wanted. Now, he was the brother who was being truthful. She loved him even more for that.

“I’m never going to be happy again,” she said, nearly choking on the words.

A hoarse sound lodged in Sebastian’s throat, and he dragged her unceremoniously off the ground into his arms. He took her by the shoulders and gave her a slight shake. “Listen to me. You are beautiful and kind and smart. Someday you will find a gentlemen deserving of your love and it will be Drake’s loss. He made a foolish mistake and someday I’m certain he’ll realize that.”

Emmaline buried a gasping sob in his jacket front. “For all the consolation that is. Oh God, I’ve become a watering pot.”

He tugged out a kerchief and wiped her nose. “A rather messy one at that.”

She claimed the kerchief and held it to her face while she wept. “He never wanted our betrothal. Why?”

Sebastian cursed and took her by the shoulders. “Look at me. He is flawed.”

Emmaline bit her lip. In spite of what had come to pass between her and Drake, in spite of his unwillingness to commit, not defending him felt like a betrayal. She thought about his loss of control in the gardens and felt an urge to defend him. Sebastian would call her all kinds the fool for trying to disabuse him of his notions.

Yes, Drake was scarred. But that had nothing to do with why he didn’t want her.

Sebastian folded an arm over Emmaline’s shoulders and gave a gentle squeeze. He waited until her tears abated to a watery hiccough. “Better?” he asked.

Oh Sebastian, I’m not a child anymore. One good, healthy cry could not erase the waves of hurt cascading over her. She didn’t have the heart to tell him that she’d never be better, that this hurt would always be there. “Better,” she lied.

Sebastian brightened and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. He picked up her hat and set it atop her head. “I’m serious. I am getting you a new hat, whether you like it or not.”

Emmaline managed a laugh. “Someday you’ll realize, you can’t just find the perfect hat, anywhere.”

Sebastian winked at her. “We shall see about that.”

Chapter 26

Dearest Drake,

Do you ever find it odd we’ve been betrothed for eleven years and yet have only met a handful of times?

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

FROM WHERE DRAKE STOOD AT the edge of the ballroom, a sea of dancers swirled by him. A champagne flute dangled between his fingers.

He ignored the merriment; the gay laughter, the ton gossiping about the latest on dit—all of it.

Emmaline occupied every corner of his mind, in the same way she occupied every corner of his heart.

Since he’d stormed out of Sin’s townhouse, Drake could not rid himself of a ravaging guilt over the insults he’d leveled at her.

It turned out she’d not enlisted Sinclair’s aid. In spite of his ugly accusations, Emmaline possessed too much integrity and honor to betray Sin.

Should he really be surprised? She was, after all, the same woman who’d used her own body to shield an old peddler in the streets.

He could live ten lifetimes and never find another woman he’d rather wed.

Drake took a sip of champagne. He had returned home and awaited a summons from the Duke of Mallen. His mouth hardened. He knew the other man would delight in ending the agreement between their families.

He’d spent the day seated in his father’s library, his copy of Glenarvon on his lap. Memories had consumed him; the moment he’d seen her standing in a pile of refuse, the day he’d startled her at the Old Corner Bookshop. Memory after memory filled him, and he forced himself into a painful recollection of each one.

Drake recognized Emmaline’s decision was for the best. And yet, with each tick of the clock, dread had filled him as he awaited a letter from the Duke of Mallen.

The day had come and gone. Strangely, it was as though nothing had changed. Drake even convinced himself that mayhap he’d imagined the whole blasted exchange with Emmaline.

He perused the crowded ballroom, longing for just one glimpse of her impish smile. Except when last she’d left him, she hadn’t been smiling. He remembered the circumstances of their last meeting and lashed himself with the painful memory of her request to be free.

He tossed back the last of his champagne.

She didn’t know which event he was attending and God knew she certainly wouldn’t be approaching him with a smile. Which was the reason he’d taken pains to send a servant around from his household to the Duke of Mallen’s household to ascertain Lady Emmaline’s plans for the evening.

A slight flutter in the doorway caught his attention, and then his breath left on a hiss.

Had there ever been a woman more stunning? A sea-foam silk and organza creation clung to her delicate form. Her suggestive décolletage, trimmed with crystal beading caught the light of the chandeliers and radiated rainbow hues out into the hall. The rich fabric of the gown clung to her hips and swayed with any hint of movement. She was a siren. She beckoned to him.

He willed her to look at him. To forgive him.

Then she did. He knew the moment his presence registered. Her eyes lit with joy that was all too fleeting, only to be replaced by an aching sadness. It tore at his insides.

In a protective manner, the Duke of Mallen’s tall frame moved closer to Emmaline and impinged on Drake’s view of her. The duke leaned down and whispered something in her ear. Emmaline’s lips lifted ever so slightly, in rendition of an amused smile. Drake wondered if he were the only man present who recognized the gesture as forced.

She looped her arm in Mallen’s and discreetly pinched him. If Drake hadn’t been attending so closely, he would have missed the slight movement.

Drake stepped forward. He took two more steps and then had to use sheer will to halt his movements.

Mallen said a quick word to the Duchess of Mallen, and then ushered Emmaline to the opposite side of the room. He deposited her along the wall next to Miss Winters.

Drake cursed blackly, earning curious and shocked stares from the lords and ladies around him. He ignored them. If Drake had a sister, he would do far better. He wouldn’t abandon her amidst a row of wallflowers.

Though was it really Mallen who was responsible for that, a silent voice jeered? Aren’t you the one truly responsible?

A servant came by to relieve Drake of his empty champagne flute. He deposited it on the tray and continued his study of Emmaline. Emmaline’s fair cheeks glowed as she spoke. She gestured wildly with her hands and Drake wondered what the young women discussed.

Sin sidled up next to him. “What’s caught your attention, Drake?” he drawled.

“Stuff it, Sin.” Drake motioned for another flute of champagne and proceeded to ignore his friend.

Not one to be easily intimidated, Sin accepted a flute for himself and looked across the ballroom. “Ahh, Lady Emmaline. Imagine finding her here even though she was unaware of your plans for the evening. How fortuitous for you.”

Drake ignored the mocking edge in Sin’s words.

“She looks rather well, considering.”

Goddamn Sinclair for dangling that last word.

Drake told himself not to give in to the temptation of asking. Forced himself to count to ten.

He got to nine. “Considering what, Sin?”

Sin feigned wide-eyed surprise. “Why, you haven’t heard? There is talk among the ton of a row between you and Lady Emmaline.” Sin lowered his voice so Drake had to strain to hear. “Apparently she was seen running through Hyde Park, in tears. You were seen departing shortly thereafter.”

Drake shuttered his expression, and even though he told himself not to look at her, he could not prevent himself from stealing one more glance. He recognized that forced dazzling smile for what it was; a brittle attempt at lightheartedness. Even with the distance and crowd between them, he could see her fingers curled tightly in her lap, blood-white.

“Mallen looks like he wants your blood,” Sin murmured.

Without a word for Sinclair, Drake started across the room.

* * *

“OF ALL EVENTS FOR HIM to attend,” Emmaline muttered. She twisted her hands anxiously in her lap, grateful for Sophie’s calming presence. “Now, when I have no desire to see him, this is where he is?”

A frantic laugh bubbled from her throat.

Sophie reached for Emmaline’s hand. “Oh, Em.” She glanced across the ballroom floor. “He is looking this way,” she said in a frantic whisper.

“Who?”

Sophie pointed her eyes toward the ceiling. “Who do you think? The Marquess of Drake.”

Emmaline fought the urge to spin in his direction. She hated that even after his callous dismissal, she still longed to see him. She clasped Sophie’s hand. “I want to leave,” she said.

“Shh, they are staring. What has he done that makes you want to flee?”

Emmaline picked up her fan. She snapped it open in attempt to conceal her lips. “He sent a note requesting I meet him in the park. I showed up like a love-struck fool, and in the end, the note wasn’t even from him, Sophie. It was Lord Sinclair’s ploy to throw us together. Needless to say it ended in disaster.”

Sophie’s eyes went round. “Oh, Em.”

Emmaline snapped her fan shut. “I broke off the betrothal.”

If possible, Sophie’s eyes widened even more. “You what?”

Emmaline scrunched her fingers into the folds of her gown, crushing the lovely sea-foam creation. Madame Touseou would be livid if she saw how callously Emmaline handled one of her finest gowns.

“I ended it. Lord Drake does not care for me. He never did. So in the end, I gave him his freedom.”

Sophie’s brow furrowed. “I have to believe he cares for you, Em.”

A snort escaped Emmaline. “What makes you say that?”

Sophie stole another peek across the room. “He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since the moment you arrived.” She tapped her chin. “And he doesn’t appear disinterested. No man can look at a woman the way he has looked at you all night and not feel something.” Sophie sighed. “I’d give my last eye-tooth to have a man stare at me the way the Marquess of Drake stares at you.”

Emmaline followed Sophie’s focus. Why was Sophie staring at Sebastian? Her friend must have taken note of Sebastian’s lethal black stare.

The urge was even stronger to find Drake in the crowd, but Emmaline continued to resist. “I assure you Drake is merely annoyed by my presence.” Emmaline remembered his detachedness in Hyde Park earlier that day. He might as well have been one of the stone statues that graced her mother’s gardens. Anything else her friend read in his response was fanciful thinking.

“Are you certain of that?” Sophie’s question jerked Emmaline back to the moment.

“I couldn’t be more…”

“Because he is headed this way.”

Against better judgment, she sought him out. Drake cut a swath across the room, right to the seat she occupied.

Oh God, why is he doing this? Didn’t he know she was going to collapse in a heap of despair at the feet of Society?

She and Sophie scrambled to their feet and dipped matching curtsies.

Drake bowed. “Lady Emmaline,” he said without even the pretense of niceties for Sophie’s sake. “I would like to request the next set.”

Emmaline swallowed and attempted to muster her earlier indignation. “I’m afraid my card is full, my lord,” she lied. She clutched her card close so he couldn’t see the void of names.

He held out his arm, as if daring her to refuse. “I am certain some gentleman would be more than willing to forgive my boldness in stealing his set.”

What kind of weak ninny was she that she wanted to take his arm and grant his request? For in spite of what had come to pass, she wanted to be in his arms.

A booming voice laden with false sincerity interrupted Emmaline’s musings. “Lord Drake, so good to see you.”

Emmaline and Drake turned in unison.

Sophie jumped up.

Drake passed a black glare over her brother. “Mallen.”

Sophie shifted on her feet. “Your Grace.” She remembered to dip a curtsy.

Sebastian paused and then seemed to remember the years of gentlemanly behavior drilled into him. He bowed. “How are you this evening, Miss Winters?”

“I’m—.”

He didn’t wait for an answer as he slung an arm around Drake’s shoulder, neatly steering him from Emmaline.

“Well,” Sophie muttered in his wake.

Emmaline hurried after the two gentlemen, fearing they would come to blows.

Drake shrugged off Sebastian good-naturedly and spoke through his teeth. “If you put a hand on me again, Mallen, by God, I swear I will lay you out in front of this entire room.”

“Sebastian, do not cause a scene,” Emmaline hissed.

Sebastian hesitated momentarily, seeming to consider the measure of Drake’s threat and Emmaline’s words. “I want you to stay away from my sister.”

Drake’s jaw hardened. “She is no longer a girl. She hardly needs you to dictate her actions—”

For the tons benefit, she playfully tapped Sebastian on the arm with her fan. “I’m standing right here, gentlemen.”

Sebastian ignored her. “Ahh, but I’m not dictating her actions. I’m dictating yours. I said stay away from her.”

“Mallen, I faced down a squadron of soldiers firing at me. It will take a great deal more than you to intimidate me,” Drake drawled lazily. This time he thumped Sebastian between the shoulder blades. “I bid you good evening, Mallen.” He turned his attention to Emmaline as he favored her with a last, hot, lingering look.

Emmaline’s breath caught. She would always love him.

The moment was shattered by Sebastian. “Oh, Drake, one more thing?”

No, Emmaline screamed silently. She wanted to take back what she’d said to both Drake and Sebastian. She wanted to find a way to start again.

Drake raised a single, insolent golden brow.

“I’d like to request a meeting tomorrow morning, at nine o’clock. I’m sure you have an idea as to what it’s about.”

Emmaline’s eyes slid closed on a wave of pain and when she opened them, Drake had already left.

Chapter 27

My Dearest Drake,

I have begun to fear there was merit to my parents’ suspicions that you left because of our betrothal. My brother used to tell me such thoughts were foolish. He has since stopped protesting. Regardless…I hope you do not come to harm because of me.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

EMMALINE STOOD HIDDEN BY AN enormous Doric column in her brother’s foyer. She rested her forehead against the hard, cool stone and trailed a finger over the ridges. How long had she been waiting? Minutes? Hours? Days? Years?

A loud resounding knock bounced off the front doors. Even though she’d been expecting it, she jumped. Her heart thumped wildly and she folded her arms to her chest, making herself as small as possible.

From her hiding spot, she peeked out from behind the structure.

The expressionless butler, Carmichael, opened the door and admitted an ever regal, handsome Lord Drake. The black flowing fabric of his elegant cloak swirled around his legs.

Drake handed the servant a card. “His Grace is expecting me.”

Carmichael assisted him out of his cloak and handed it to a nearby servant.

The butler motioned for Lord Drake to follow. “Right this way, my lord.” Emmaline watched him go. His boots tapped methodically on the marble floor. Then he froze, and suddenly whipped back around.

She pressed tight against the other side of the column, furtively studying his actions.

His unreadable jade stare quickly panned the foyer, before swiveling back and settling on the column that served as her hiding place.

Emmaline smothered a gasp with her hand, torn between laughter and tears. Drake had a way of doing that. Of somehow, knowing just where she was.

“My lord? This way, if you please,” Carmichael prompted.

He inclined his head and then continued on to Sebastian’s office.

When she was certain he’d gone, Emmaline dashed from behind her hiding place, and raced to her brother’s office.

Once upon a lifetime ago, Emmaline had been a little girl seated in her father’s office swinging her legs to and fro, opposite a young boy. She’d been unaware of the goings on across the room. Fifteen years later, the little girl had been replaced by a woman, now barred from that very same room. Now she stood at the fringe of a closed door.

Unlike that time from her girlhood past, Emmaline knew exactly what was being discussed between the present duke and her betrothed. And found she preferred the not knowing.

The large paneled oak door muted the voices closeted away in the office.

“Come away from that door, Emmaline,” her mother hissed from the hall.

Emmaline ignored her. Even if Emmaline was eavesdropping like a small girl, she was in fact a grown woman.

“Emmaline.”

Emmaline leveled her mother with a forceful stare. “No,” she mouthed silently.

When her mother took several steps closer, Emmaline held up a staying hand.

“By God. Mother, everything has been dictated to me since I was five years old. I’m telling you now, I need to be here. Please go, lest I be discovered.”

For the first time in her entire life, the usually eloquent Duchess of Mallen appeared speechless. With great gentleness, she took Emmaline’s face between her hands and dropped a kiss upon her forehead.

“You are right, my dear. I have imposed enough of my will on your life.” She spared another glance at the door. “Find me when it’s done.”

The seconds ticked by and the muffled sound of speaking grabbed her. “Mother,” Emmaline said urgently.

“Right, right,” she whispered and with obvious hesitancy, left Emmaline alone.

Emmaline shifted her focus to the heavy oak door, wishing it was instead a mere slip of a curtain so the exchange could be unfiltered. On the heels of that thought came a startling realization. It hit her with all the force of an unexpected summer lightning storm; the implication of the momentous proceedings on the other side of the door managed to suck all strength from her limbs.

The stoic force she’d found to face down her mother left her on a silent breath and she realized this would be the last time Drake ever entered her home. Never again would he tease her. Or stroke her body like a virtuoso, who’d been gifted a new instrument. For when Drake exited Sebastian’s library, he would cease to be a part of her life. All they’d shared, from teeth-gritting annoyance to easy companionability would fade into nothing more than a fleeting memory of a brief time she’d been close to complete and utter rapture.

After a copious amount of tears shed for her betrothed, Emmaline had risen that morning certain she couldn’t manage one more salty drop for Drake.

A tear slipped down her cheek and she swiped at it with an aggravated hand. Apparently she’d been wrong.

* * *

“A DRINK?” MALLEN OFFERED. HE gestured to the open bottle of brandy.

Drake gave a curt shake. “A bit early for a drink, no?”

One of Mallen’s dark brows arched. “Not one for social niceties, are you?”

Drake’s jaw hardened. He forced himself to unfurl his tightly clenched fist.

He would be damned if he gave in to Mallen’s attempt to draw him into a row. He’d caused Emmaline enough hurt and wouldn’t further add to it by beating her brother to a bloody pulp in her home.

Mimicking the pompous duke, Drake arched a cool, mocking brow. “Is this why you asked me here? For a social visit?”

“Sit, sit!” Mallen urged and reclaimed the seat behind his desk.

Drake settled into one of the leather winged-back chairs and stretched his legs out in front of him.

Mallen propped his chin on steepled fingers and drummed them together. “You know why you’re here,” he said at last.

Drake gritted his teeth. “Have out with it already.”

Mallen leaned forward and reached for a leather folio. He pulled out several documents, appeared to review them, and then reached for his pen. The duke dipped it in ink and scratched his signature on a series of pages.

He signed the final document and settled the pen back into its crystal well with a decisive click. “I am severing the contract between you and Emmaline.” Mallen shoved the open portfolio across the surface of his otherwise immaculate desk.

Drake had known this exchange was coming, and yet his stomach twisted with an agonized pain.

A contract.

Over the past few months, Emmaline had become so very much more than a contract. She’d become the sole reason for Drake’s every happiness. She represented all that was courageous and strong. And the bloody scraps of parchment would erase all of that from his life.

His heartbeat increased, forcing him to draw a deep, shaky breath.

Mallen’s eyes narrowed. “Let’s get on with it.”

Drake reached for the damned documents. He proceeded to read them with deliberate slowness. He turned the pages with such jerky movements he ripped one of the sheets. When he finished reading them, he set them aside.

Mallen spoke. “I’m perplexed. Based on your previous sentiments, I should think you’d be very eager to put your signature to the documents.”

Drake growled. “Sod off.”

Still, he didn’t pick up the pen. His gaze wandered off to the sconce of lit candles throughout the room. How easy it would be to cross to one of those small torches and carry it back to the bloody document and set the whole foul piece ablaze.

Mallen leaned across his desk and tapped the parchment. “Your signature, Drake.”

Drake lunged to his feet. He wrenched the pen from its crystal container, held it aloft, so that ink smattered the duke’s desk and paper. He glowered at Mallen. “You are enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Shouldn’t you be enjoying it?” Mallen drawled.

Rage filled Drake. He scribbled his name hastily, and again dipped the pen in the inkwell. “You have never liked me.” He could not bite back the seething hatred he felt for the other man.

“Oh, come. We both know the sentiments have been mutual.”

Drake scratched his signature on another parchment. “Whole-heartedly.”

“Can you answer me this, Drake?”

Drake paused and glanced up.

“You ignored Emmaline for fifteen years. You ran off to fight a war, and left your responsibilities behind. You’ve made it clear to Society how you felt about your betrothal. You returned and carried on with a whole host of women, you drink, you gamble.” Mallen paused, probing eyes, seemed to search out answers. “And yet, you don’t strike me as a man eager to sign the severance document. Why is that?”

Drake set the pen down, and leveling his palms on the desktop, leaned forward. “You are not betrothed to anyone, Your Grace. Why is that?” He didn’t allow Mallen to answer. “It is because you made that choice. Had you been a boy of three and ten and had that very important decision taken away from you, well, then I’m sure then you might understand some of my rationale.”

Mallen inclined his head. “You might be right. That is neither here nor there,” he said with a wave of his hand. “What matters is Emmaline is still my sister, and I would see her cared for.” He motioned to the documents. “Get on with it.”

Drake dropped his stare to the parchment. With the black ink, he’d made a mess of one of the sheets. He wondered if the document would even be considered legal.

“You did not answer my question,” the duke said.

Drake would be damned if he fed the other man’s curiosity. He signed the final sheet. Straightening, he threw the pen onto the desk where it landed with a thunk. “No, no I am not.”

Silence descended.

It is done.

Mallen reached his hand across the desk, and Drake stared at it blankly. He wanted to snarl at him. Tell him to go to the Devil. Sebastian shook his hand. They were after all, gentlemen.

He turned to leave.

“Drake?”

He froze, keeping his back to the other man.

“In spite of what you believe, I don’t hate you.”

Drake managed a dry laugh but didn’t answer; because if he did all he’d end up saying was he couldn’t care less about what Mallen felt for him. Instead he nodded.

“Do you know why we’ve never gotten along, Drake?”

God, the man was a termagant. Tenacious.

Like his sister. Oh God, why did that thought hurt so bloody much? Drake turned around. “You aren’t going to let this go, are you?” he bit out.

Mallen smiled. “We never got along because we resented each other. You resent me because I love her. And I resent you because you do not.”

He measured Mallen’s words for a long moment.

“One more thing.”

Drake froze. Waited.

“Can I ask why you didn’t want to marry her?”

He swallowed once. Twice. Then gave a jerky shake of his head.

“That is not something I’m willing to share with you, Mallen.” With a curt bow, Drake did what he’d been longing to do since he’d gotten there—he left.

He stormed out quickly and nearly stumbled upon the young woman hovering against the wall.

He froze. He eyed her, beset by a range of different emotions; agony, regret, hopelessness. She’d been the last thread holding him to humanity. What am I without you?

The moment seemed to stretch into forever.

“Goodbye, Emmaline,” he said hoarsely. “It was never my intention to hurt you. Please know that.”

Emmaline’s expressive brown eyes pooled with tears. “Goodbye, Drake.”

Then he left, knowing until he drew his last breath, he’d be haunted by the sorrowful image of her standing there.

* * *

EMMALINE SANK AGAINST THE WALL. She pressed a hand against her mouth to stifle a sob.

Sebastian opened the office door and tugged her into the room away from any potential gossipy servants and when he’d closed the door, promptly pulled her into his arms. “Shh,” he murmured against the crown of her hair.

She wept against his shirtfront. She had wanted this. So why did it hurt so much?

“I asked him, Em.”

“I-I know.” She’d heard the whole exchange.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get your answers.”

Not as sorry as I am.

Chapter 28

Dearest Lord Drake,

I know young ladies ought to be demure and proper. Yet upon reading your name next to a very notable widow in the scandal sheets, I feel anything but ladylike.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

DRAKE STRODE DOWN ST. JAMES Street, through the black iron fence, and up the famous steps of White’s. A uniformed butler opened the door, granting him admittance.

News of his broken betrothal had found its way into the scandal sheets not even one day after Drake’s meeting with Mallen. Since then, he’d been plagued with a flea-like tenacity by curious looks and bold questions from the ton.

The bustling activity, the card games in progress all ground to a jarring halt as every pair of eyes swiveled in his direction. Christ, you’d think he was suspected of a bloody murder for all the scrutiny his movements garnered.

Drake’s jaw twitched. Apparently not even his club would serve as a sanctuary. He looked straight ahead, pointedly ignoring the gentlemen who were as eager as the matrons at Almack’s for a juicy morsel of gossip.

His progress across the club was halted by a bold dandy attired in gold breeches and a flamboyant orange jacket. The man stepped into his path, slowing Drake’s path to the empty table in the far, far corner. Drake held up a hand, shielding his eyes from the offending hues. The candlelight flickered and bounced off the shine of the dandy’s satin fabrics. Why, with the seemingly constant rainy days in London, all they needed to do was drag out this fop to brighten the sky.

“My lord—”

“What?”

Drake’s dangerous whisper echoed around the still of the room. The gentlemen seated, drinking their traitorous French brandies and placing bets, drew in a collective, audible breath.

The color blanched from the young man’s cheeks. “Uh-I-uh…p-pardon me.” He scurried off like a rodent being chased by the house cat.

Drake deviated from his path and headed toward the famous betting book. He picked up a pen and scribbled a wager into the infamous log. Slamming the pen into the crystal inkwell, he marched over and at last reached the table furthest from the crowd of gentlemen.

A hesitant majordomo approached. He cleared his throat. “My lord is there something—?”

“A bottle of whiskey,” he growled.

With lightning speed, a bottle was procured, along with a tumbler.

Drake picked up the bottle and proceeded to pour a generous amount of liquor into the glass. He tossed it back and welcomed the fiery trail it burned down the back of his throat. His lips twisted up in a grimace. God, it was a foul brew. He’d hated it when he was in Oxford and he hated it even more now. But he’d be damned if he picked up a bloody bottle of French brandy. All in all, the vile stuff would serve the very same purpose. He again reached for the bottle and sloshed liquid to the rim. Before the night was through, he had every intention of getting mind-numbingly foxed.

Just then, his eyes snagged on the copy of the Times, resting on the table. The corner of his eye ticked, once, then twice. And because he’d developed a taste for self-torture, he reached for the offending paper and proceeded to skim. There it was. On the front page, in dark bold print were two familiar initials.

Lady E. F.

Why didn’t they print the entire bloody names anyways? Every last bugger in the whole bloody kingdom knew each lord or lady mentioned by initials in the scandal sheets. So why stand on ceremony?

They should have out with it already. The paper should come right out and say: The Earl of Waxham has launched a whirlwind courtship of Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh.

With fingers that shook, he poured several more fingerfuls into his empty glass. God, he thought he might be sick. He wanted to blame it on the amber brew, then he tortured himself with the excerpt once again. Nausea roiled and it was all he could do to keep from casting up the accounts of his stomach right there in the middle of White’s.

Waxham hadn’t wasted any time. It had been four bloody days since Drake had signed those damned documents. Four days of regrets. Four days of despair.

In each of the four sleepless nights, he’d railed at himself for signing Mallen’s bloody papers. Why hadn’t he told the other man to go to the devil?

Because of her. Somewhere along the way, it had all become about Emmaline. Drake didn’t merely desire her. He ached for her with a pain-like ferocity. Her happiness and safety meant more to him than even his own. A bitter laugh escaped him. Who would have believed, the emotionless Lord Drake would ever come to care for the same lady he’d spent his life avoiding? Oh, it was the kind of drivel poets wrote about, the kind of nonsense he himself scoffed at.

Until her.

He’d told himself countless times she was better off without him. Sometimes he said the words aloud. Other times he honed in on those words stuck in his mind. Drake willed himself to accept her loss so he could move forward and be free of her sorceress-like hold.

Instead his want for her grew stronger. The feelings swelled each time he read her name.

But this—thoughts of her and Waxham—it was too much. He was strong. He wasn’t that strong. He’d rather face down a line of Boney’s men than confront this horror.

Drake tortured himself with images of her married to Waxham. Waxham lifting up her skirts, pleasuring her, rutting between her thighs—giving her children. He choked on the sip of whiskey that had been sliding down his throat, nearly gagging on it.

“You look like hell.”

Drake didn’t glance up. “I’m not looking for company, Sin.”

Sin waved off the majordomo who hurried over. “Ah-yes, I assumed as much based on your wager in the books.” He hooked his boot around the leg of the chair and tugged it out. “Really, Drake? A wager on which gentlemen would be foolish enough to seek out your company? I took the liberty of having that bet crossed out.”

Drake didn’t give a damn about the wager he’d put in the books. All he cared about was getting inebriated and tamping down images of Emmaline folded in Waxham’s embrace. Emmaline laughing up at the paragon. Emmaline…

Sin snatched the paper from between his tightly clenched fingers. “Ahh, so this is about the lady.”

Drake placed his hands on the tabletop and leaned forward, seething. “By the love of God, if you mention her name I will bloody your face.”

Sin threw back his head and laughed. “I swear, if I didn’t know you since we were mere boys that might alarm me.”

How wonderful that Sin could find amusement when Drake was so bloody miserable. “What do you want?”

Sin’s smile slipped. He made it a point of tugging his chair directly in front of Drake, effectively blocking him from the voyeurs present. “I want to know you are all right.”

“Why, I couldn’t be better.”

His friend cursed beneath his breath. “Enough with the sarcasm. This is me, Drake.”

Drake dragged a hand over his eyes. “What would you have me say? Would you have me lay myself bare before all of Society? It is bad enough having to deal with my father’s recriminations.”

“Is that why you’ve taken up here for the past two nights?”

Drake slashed the air with his hand. “Is everything I do known by all?”

Sin shrugged. “At this moment, you are unfortunately the tons favorite source of gossip.”

Drake threw back the remaining contents in his glass. “To hell with them all.”

A frown marred Sin’s usually affable countenance. “Nonetheless, you can’t go around frightening young pups that have the misfortune of coming near you. It’s hardly their fault you drove Emmaline away.”

That was the rub of it. He was the maker of his own misery.

“I thought you might prefer the termination of the arrangement,” Sin said with quiet honesty.

Drake stared hard at the tabletop. “Damn it to hell, I miss her.”

His friend quirked one brow. “Well, that is quite a revelation to come to at this late point.”

“Of late, I’ve come to a whole host of revelations.”

Sin leaned forward. “Oh, I’m all ears.”

Drake picked up his empty glass and rolled it between his fingers, studying the remaining drops glistening at the bottom of the tumbler and said nothing.

“When you are ready, then.”

Sin was a good friend. Just one more person Drake didn’t deserve. “If it is all the same to you, I’d like to get myself soused and you’re hindering my best attempts.”

Holding a hand up, Sin motioned for a waiter. “Another glass and another bottle of your best whiskey.”

The uniform-clad servant hurried off, and promptly returned with the requested items.

Sin picked up Drake’s bottle and poured two more stiff glasses of whiskey. He raised a tumbler in mock salute. “If you are determined to drink yourself senseless, then as a friend, I must insist on joining you.”

* * *

“FOR THE LOVE OF GOD man, you’re heavy,” Sin muttered breathless from the weight of his exertions. He helped guide Drake to the above-floor suites. Drake had flung his arm across Sin’s shoulders. “I must admit I am thrilled you’ve rented rooms here. I don’t think I could have managed carrying you to the duke’s townhouse.”

“Th-that’s anufer thing,” Drake slurred. “II’m faaaar too old to still reside with my father.”

Sin nodded to a gentlemen they passed in the hallway. “That is something easily resolved,” he said helpfully.

Drake paused, and forced Sin to a stop. “You know what is naht so easily resolved?”

“What is—”

“Ehh-mmaline. I rather made a mess of thaat situation.”

Sin looked at him with a sobering expression. “With a bit of effort, that too can be resolved.”

Drake’s gut clenched and he swayed on his feet. “Do you truly believe that?” He felt hopeful for the first time in four days. Had it been four days? The days had marched on, interminable in their duration. He fished around his jacket pocket and withdrew his timepiece. The numbers upon the watch blurred before his eyes. “It doesn’t have the days?”

Confusion flitted over his friend’s face. “Let’s get you to your room.”

He allowed Sin to lead him along. “I-I saay, you seem faaaar too sober.”

Sin snorted. “That is because I didn’t drink an entire bottle, my friend. Here we are.” Sin fished around for the key Drake had handed him downstairs, then opening the door, led Drake inside the quarters. The space was large enough to serve its purpose; a temporary escape for gentlemen in dire need of temporary quarters.

Winding his way around the front room, Sin steered Drake to his bedchambers. With a grunt he heaved Drake over to the bed.

Drake landed hard and then promptly fell backwards. “Oomph.” He blinked up at the ceiling. “The room is spinning. Howww did White’s manage such a feat?”

“We shall ask the majordomo tomorrow,” Sin promised and, good friend that he was, set to work tugging off Drake’s boots.

Drake flung a hand over his eyes. “I don’t deserve her, you know. Came back a madman.”

Sin paused in his efforts. “I couldn’t disagree with you more. But this is not the time to debate the point.” Once both boots had been removed, Sin took a seat at the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight.

“I-I-I’m going to make some changes, maaark my words.”

“I certainly hope so. Your first order should be—”

Drake very much did want some guidance on what his first order should be, but he was so damned drunk that he couldn’t quite string together Sin’s words. And after a bottle of whiskey, he’d at last muted the pain of losing Emmaline to a dull ache.

Closing his eyes, he slid into blessed oblivion.

Chapter 29

My Dearest Drake,

I am a coward. I have not sent you one note in three years. But you haven’t sent me one note either. Are you a coward as well? Or worse, do you just not care?

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

AFTER TWO WEEKS SLEEPING AT his club, Drake moved back home. There were no questions from the Duke of Hawkridge, no articulation of displeasure. Father and son had settled back into the same stilted, uneasy arrangement they’d had since Drake returned from the war.

Drake tugged back the curtains that covered his bedroom window and peered out at the night sky. His finger traced a distracted path across the pane of the window. Clouds billowed across the moon and blotted out all stars in the sky.

As usual, sleep eluded him. This time, demons from the Peninsula were not the ghosts that drifted about his consciousness, robbing him of an undeserving peace. Instead he was possessed by memories of a feisty, courageous lady with joyful eyes, and imaginings of her with another man.

Drake slammed his fist into the ivory plaster wall beside the window.

The violent movement sent the seemingly forgotten drawstring sack tumbling from the edge of the nightstand. His eyes snagged the article lying on the wood floor.

Since they’d parted, he’d not allowed himself to read the notes Emmaline had written to him. The cowardly part of him hadn’t wanted to acknowledge there had been a young lady named Emmaline, who’d spent hours of her time writing to him, but had been too shamed to ever send him the notes.

Had he always been an utter bastard where she was concerned?

Drake crossed the few feet separating him from the bag, and snatched it up.

Then with far greater care, he untied the silk sack, and pulled out a large stack of notes that were neatly tied with a blue satin ribbon. The top ivory vellum envelope was addressed to Captain Drake.

Drake returned back to bed and lied down. He propped his head on several pillows. Sir Faithful leapt up onto the bed and claimed the spot next to Drake. He petted the dog. “You, too, want to know what she said, do you, my boy?”

He undid the delicate bow holding the letters together, and pulled out the first envelope. Taking great care, he slipped a finger beneath the fold of the thick vellum and withdrew the note.

He patted Sir Faithful on the head, shook out the parchment, and read her words.

Dearest Lord Drake,

There is something I must share with you. It is dreadful and horrible. And if you were reluctant to wed me before this moment, well then (sigh), I am sure you will never want to wed me now. Are you ready? Dare I even put these words to paper? I cannot dance. There you have it. I tread abominably upon my dance master’s toes. I have overheard him speaking with mother. He said he was one broken toe away from finding another assignment.

Having tired of him as a dance master, I ground my heel quite happily upon his foot.

I am awaiting the arrival of my next dance master.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

Drake dragged a finger along the blank ink, tracing the lines she’d made on the page. Odd that such a long time ago, a much younger Emmaline’s hand had stroked the marks on this note.

He set the letter aside and moved to the next. Drake read scores and scores of letters, noting when the tone changed, when the words became the words of a young woman, and no longer a girl who traipsed across the countryside, climbing trees, engaging in mischief with her older brother.

Unlike so many other nights, he willed himself awake. He continued reading until the swell of the bright morning sun appeared on the horizon. Her notes had become a lure he’d been hooked upon, that he didn’t want to be freed of.

He reached for the final remaining note.

My Dearest Drake,

I realize you have not read any of my notes—because I failed to send them. There is so much I’ve yearned to say to you. I’ve longed to ask why you left to fight. I’ve longed to ask what flaws are so inherent in my character that you should never have written me. I wonder if you’ve ever thought of me. Then I wonder if those thoughts are ever pleasant.

I wish you would know I will be a good wife to you. Oh, I might not be biddable and easily controlled, but we will know laughter. When you return, I long to laugh with you.

Since you will never read this, I intend to show you!

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

His eyes slid closed, and he brought the parchment to his nose, inhaling deeply. Except the citrus lemon scent that was hers had long faded.

For fifteen long years he had existed in a world where he was beholden to none, where all he felt, all he knew were his own hurt and disappointments. He had never allowed himself to consider there was any other injured party; a young woman desiring marriage. Instead he had nurtured his anger, kept it close.

He now realized that anger had become a mechanism he’d used to protect himself from the people around him. Emmaline had indeed taught him to laugh again, to feel. She had reminded him he was still human.

It was time he faced life.

He stroked Sir Faithful between the ears and thought about the woman who meant more to him than anyone.

Could he? Should he?

He shoved himself up and rang for his valet to help him into different clothes before starting downstairs. As he walked down the hall, a well-trained Sir Faithful trotted obediently at his heels. The dog came to an immediate stop when Drake halted at one particular room. He rapped on the door and entered his father’s study.

“Father.”

The Duke of Hawkridge set aside the scandal sheet he’d been reading and removed his monocle. “Come in, come in.” He tried to shove an envelope atop the paper.

Drake’s eyes narrowed.

His father didn’t try to prevent him from picking up the offending document.

He scanned the article and made a disapproving sound. “Really, Father? The scandal sheets?” He threw the paper down upon the desk and took a seat.

His father flushed and made a vague motion with his hand. “What is it, son?”

Drake folded one leg at his knee and tapped a staccato rhythm upon the arms of the chair. Sir Faithful yapped once, and Drake leaned down and scratched him between the ears. “I purchased a bachelor’s residence,” he said at last.

His father gave a slight inclination of his head. He propped his chin on steepled fingers, but otherwise showed no outward reaction to Drake’s pronouncement.

“Are you…certain you are—are…interested in being alone?”

Interpretation being; what will you do when I’m not there to help with the nightmares?

He gave his father a long, assessing look.

For the first time, he looked at the Duke of Hawkridge, and realized his strong, powerful father looked—old. A strip of gray peppered the hair at his temples, and the lines of his face, always firm, had softened. He now possessed wrinkles around the lines of his mouth and the corners of his eyes.

That moment, Drake was shamed as he realized he was not the only one who had been scarred by the war. The Duke of Hawkridge had witnessed far too many of his son’s nightmares to remain unaffected by Drake’s transformation from man to monster.

Drake held his father’s gaze. “It’s not your fault, Father,” he said.

His father dragged a hand through his hair. The normally steady fingers shook. “What isn’t my fault, Drake? The war? The broken betrothal? The nightmares?” he asked bitterly.

“Any of it. The decision to enlist was mine and mine alone.”

His father pressed his fingers tight against his forehead and rubbed. “Because of your resentment toward me. I—I am so sorry. More sorry than you can ever know.”

Drake swallowed past a swell of emotion. “I believe at one point I did blame you. For years, in fact. It was wrong of me. Childish.”

The admission, this sudden absolution his father deserved, was freeing. It had not been his father’s fault that Drake had high-tailed it to the Peninsula. Drake had no one to blame but himself. It was also healing to take ownership of the decisions he’d made.

Silence descended upon the room, punctuated by the methodic tick of the clock.

“That blasted betrothal. Seemed like such a good idea at the time,” his father muttered. “What a disaster it turned out to be.”

Drake flinched. It struck somewhere in the vicinity of his heart, to think of the betrothal as a disaster. “Again, Father, it was only because of me. Given all the decisions I made, I could never bring myself to resent the betrothal.” It had given him months of happiness. Filled him with joy.

Sir Faithful nudged Drake’s knee. Drake rewarded him with another affectionate stroke. It had brought him Sir Faithful.

He thought of Emmaline and his gut clenched and unclenched at the pain of loss.

If only he had her…

Go to her, woo her.

“You can pursue her on your own,” the Duke of Hawkridge said into the quiet.

Drake didn’t move. “The nightmares, Father.”

“Maybe she can help you.”

“I cannot place this burden on her.” He had placed enough burdens on Emmaline, he could not, nay would not, add this one. “No matter how much I care for her, no matter how it fills me with rage at the thought of any gentleman courting her, I have to face the reality—I’m a madman.”

His father scoffed. “You are no madman. You were affected by what you saw and did. You’d be a madman if you weren’t affected by those experiences.” He arched a brow. “I made decisions that I felt were in your best interest. How much did you appreciate it? Perhaps you should let Lady Emmaline decide for herself if she would stay and fight these demons alongside you.”

Drake lurched to his feet and paced the width of the room. He’d had the same thought each morning upon reading her name in the scandal sheets. But every time he’d stepped a foot out the door, intending to humble himself at her feet, he stopped.

Could he court her? Drake paused mid-stride.

“I have never taken my son as a quitter,” his father called from behind his desk.

Drake stiffened.

It felt as though the chains of life that had restrained him all these years were at last lifted. A slow smile formed on his lips. His self-imposed exile was at an end.

Chapter 30

My Dearest Drake,

You have returned! I long for the day when we would again meet!

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

EMMALINE SURVEYED THE CROWDED BALLROOM and upon spying Sophie, squeezed her brother’s arm, halting his movements. “I see Sophie.” She gestured subtly in her friend’s direction.

Sebastian’s gaze lingered on Sophie and then he looked back at Emmaline. “You know you do not need to sit with the other wallflowers,” he said, a frown on his lips.

Since Emmaline had severed her betrothal, she’d spent her evenings not very much different than so many others—amidst the other wallflowers.

She pinched her brother’s arm. “Hush. Sophie is not a wallflower.”

He made a non-committal sound. “I’m merely saying—”

“Don’t say anything.”

Sebastian closed his mouth and proceeded to guide her toward Sophie.

Sophie seemed to notice Sebastian first. Her eyes went wide and a small tremulous smile hovered on her lips before her gaze landed on Emmaline. She climbed to her feet and curtsied. “Em. Your Grace.”

Sebastian bowed. “Miss Winters.” He turned a wary look on the hopeful wallflowers, who eyed him with a desperate intensity, and beat a hasty retreat.

“Coward,” Emmaline muttered for Sophie’s ears.

Her friend laughed and claimed Emmaline’s hand. Just then, a swell of eager suitors converged upon them. It had been much the same way since word of her broken betrothal had become fodder for the gossips. Emmaline didn’t delude herself into believing these gentlemen cared about anything beyond her dowry and a connection with the Duke of Mallen. It might not matter to the other wallflowers who smiled almost gratefully in Emmaline’s direction, but it mattered to her.

“May I fetch a glass of punch?” Lord Abbott, one of her more erstwhile suitors, offered a desperate pitch to his voice.

The third Earl of Stanwick puffed out a broad chest, a chest Emmaline highly suspected was compliments of substantial padding provided by his valet. “I said I would fetch the lady punch.”

“Oh dear, this has the makings of an all-out fight,” Sophie murmured beneath her breath. “Why don’t you race and see who brings it back first?” Her suggestion resulted in an exodus of some of the young swains.

Emmaline turned to the expectant crowd of suitors. “Gentlemen, I fear I turned my ankle and will not be dancing any more sets for the remainder of the evening.”

The popinjays groaned in disappointment and shuffled off, earning Emmaline censorious looks from her fellow wallflowers.

“Did we ever truly want this?” Emmaline mused.

Sophie’s lips twitched. “There must be a happy in-between, no?”

A happy in-between? What exactly would that look like? One would have to actually have a care for one or any of the suitors to be happy, no?

Over the years she’d given so much thought to being courted. She’d dreamed of becoming the recipient of a man’s admiration. Oh, she’d hoped it would be her betrothed, but had yearned to know a real courtship. That had been before she’d fallen in love with Drake. Now, every gentleman she met was a pale shadow of his impressive, inspiring figure. Not a single gentleman she’d met had managed to make her heart trip a beat, or set her stomach aflutter with shades of longing.

Only one man thus far had ever prompted such a response in her…and he was gone.

Sophie claimed her hand again. “You look so sad.”

Emmaline swallowed painfully. “I ache for just one sight of him. It is as though he’s disappeared from Society. I wonder what he is doing. Wonder if he ever has any thoughts of me.”

Sophie snorted. “Of course he thinks of you.”

A thrum of whispers rose amidst the crowd. Sophie glanced across the ballroom. Her golden brows shot up to her hairline.

“Sophie?”

“Uh, what would you do if you saw Lord Drake?”

Emmaline cocked her head. “Well, I imagine I’ll eventually have to see him because we do travel in similar circles.”

“Because he’s just arrived.”

Emmaline’s heart quickened and for the first time in weeks, soft joy filled her. She told herself not to search for him, but could no more stop herself from looking about than she could stop breathing.

He stood at the top of the stairwell, greeting Lord and Lady Thompson. Attired in all black and with his halo of golden hair, he may as well have been a fallen angel. He inclined his head in acknowledgement of something Lord Thompson said, before bowing, and pressing ahead. He appeared immune to the hum of whispers, the gaping stares. His intent emerald green gaze swept over the room, searching, searching, searching.

And then finding.

Even with the distance separating them, the hot intensity of his focus as he settled his stare on her scorched her like a noon sun.

“Breathe,” she reminded herself. Sophie nudged her in the arm but Emmaline ignored her.

“There is no way a man can look at you the way the marquess is looking at you and not feel something.”

Aware of the intrusive way in which they were being scrutinized, Emmaline forced herself to look away.

Sophie groaned. “Oh dear, your brother is headed this way.”

Sebastian rapidly crossed the room, even as the crowd parted for Drake. “What do you want me to do?” Sophie urged. “Do you want to see him?”

“I do,” Emmaline whispered. She heard the consternation in her own words.

Sophie hopped up from her seat and crossed the room, intercepting Sebastian. She held her empty dance card up to his inspection. Her boldness was met with scandalous gasps. His brow furrowed with a blend of annoyance and confusion. Sophie jabbed her finger at the card and showed him an invisible mark. Sebastian directed a pointed glare in Emmaline’s direction, before taking Sophie’s arm with seeming reluctance and leading her to the dance-floor.

Oh, Sophie. Emmaline’s eyes slid closed in gratitude.

“She is a good friend,” a quiet voice said, just over her shoulder.

She gasped, a fluttering hand covering her breast, and turned to face her former betrothed.

* * *

DRAKE CLAIMED EMMALINE’S HAND AND bent low over it. He placed a slow, lingering kiss on the top of her knuckles, even as his fingers caressed her inner wrist. What he wouldn’t give to remove the fabric that separated their skin.

“My lord,” she murmured.

With some difficulty, he swallowed around a swell of emotion lodged in his throat. “After all we’ve shared you might call me by my name.”

“You’d have me call you Ashton?” She traced her lips with the tip of her tongue. “In front of a room full of strangers awaiting my misstep?”

“Perhaps not by my given name, then.” He’d always quite abhorred the name. “Nor should you worry after the gossips.” He glanced around the room and pinned the peering lords and ladies with a collective glare. The crowd immediately redirected their attention. “Is that, better, Emmaline?”

Emmaline’s lips twitched but still refused to arc in a full smile. “Would that you could make them all disappear.”

He inclined his head. “I shall work on that.”

An awkward silence descended. They stood there, studying each other, like two strangers meeting for the first time.

“Will you do me the honor of this set?”

I have wanted to hold you in my arms, since the moment I walked out of your home, out of your life.

She went to place her hand in his, and then pulled it back. “I—I,” she stumbled.

His stomach tightened under the bite of rejection. “Forgive me for burdening you,” he said lamely. He should turn away. He should—

“Oh no, no,” she hurried to reassure him. She motioned down to her slippered feet. “You see, I told the gentlemen I turned my ankle and was unable to dance. How would it appear if I were to suddenly strike out the next set with you?”

A wave of relief washed over him. “That is the reason for your hesitancy?” He laughed; the sound burst from him from a place he’d thought had ceased to exist, a place full of unrestrained hope.

Without allowing her another word on the matter, he commandeered her to the ballroom floor for the current dance—a waltz. He settled his hands on her waist.

“My brother is flaying you to ribbons with his eyes.”

Drake arched a brow. “The last person I’m thinking about right now is your brother.”

Emmaline looked toward her brother. A small frown marred her lips. She continued to study the glowering duke as he waltzed Miss Winters across the dance floor. “He is not happy.”

Drake glanced at the duke and then back at Emmaline. “Really? I’m amazed you can tell. That is the only expression I’ve ever seen him wear.”

She giggled.

Drake’s lips twitched at her infectious laughter. “No, really. He must have been born with that terrific glower.”

Another giggle escaped her. “He’s practiced it since he was a young boy,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper.

He nodded somberly. “Of course he has. It is a requisite course for all heirs to dukedoms.” Drake narrowed his eyes and studied Emmaline down the length of his nose in his best impression of Mallen’s expression.

A gurgle of laughter bubbled up past her lips. “That is a rather impressive rendering.”

“Or there is this one.” Drake drummed up the disapproving glower his father had directed his way, many a-times when Drake had been a small boy.

“Please, s-s-stop. It isn’t seemly if I…” The floodgates opened and Emmaline’s giggle became a resounding laugh that earned a multitude of stares from the ton. The full, husky sound was hardly the simpering, stifled laugh required of a lady. Instead it conjured thoughts of naked bodies entwined in silken sheets, sated with pleasure.

“Th-they are s-staring again.”

Drake arched a brow. “Should I attempt one of your brother’s famous ducal scowls?”

Emmaline laughed even harder.

Drake stared down at her. How did I let you go? Sheer madness and rash idiocy were the only answers that made any sense. If he’d searched the world two times over, he’d never find a woman like her. And yet, she’d been his since they were mere children.

“I read your notes.” He caught her as she lost her footing.

* * *

EMMALINE HAD GIVEN DRAKE HER notes with the expectation he would read them. That had been at a time when she’d thought she would never speak to him again. But knowing he’d read all her private thoughts, left her feeling exposed.

Now that he was here, she could finally have the answer to the question that had haunted her since he’d walked out of her brother’s townhouse and out of her life. “I don’t understand. Why did you push me away?” Why did you give me up?

His hands tightened on her waist, the heat of his skin warming her even through the soft silk fabric. “If I were a better man I would leave you alone.” He nodded towards the eager gentlemen watching from the side of the dance floor. “I would be content to allow you to make a match with one of those more deserving gentlemen. I’m flawed.”

She flinched as she remembered her brother had leveled the same charge against Drake. “Don’t say that.”

He shook his head. A gold strand tumbled across his brow. “No. Listen to me. I need you to understand. The reason—”

“I’d like to dance the remainder of the set with my sister, Drake.” A voice snapped.

Emmaline jerked at the sudden appearance of Sophie and Sebastian. Somehow her brother had managed to steer Sophie across the floor and secured a spot right alongside them.

Sophie’s eyes fairly glimmered with an apology, as if to say she were sorry she’d been unable to keep Sebastian at bay.

Drat it.

With little ceremony, Sebastian handed Sophie over to Drake so that Emmaline was forced to accept her brother’s hand.

Sebastian’s eyes had gone glacial. “Stay away.”

* * *

DRAKE TORE HIS GAZE AWAY from the sight of Mallen waltzing Emmaline away.

“You love her,” Miss Winters said, her tone very matter-of-fact.

He blinked. It was one thing for Emmaline to be so brutally direct, it was quite another when it was her dearest friend. “I beg your pardon, Miss Winters?”

Sophie gave a jaunty shake of her curls. “No apologies for loving her. I also love her.”

Drake felt as though he’d been spun in one too many dizzying circles. “Uh, n-no…for…” He let the matter rest.

Miss Winters studied him with wide, blinking cornflower blue eyes. She put him in mind of a night owl.

“You really should tell her, you know. The both of you should just end this façade.”

Of course, Emmaline would be the best of friends with this opinionated, very vocal creature. “Façade, Miss Winters?”

Sophie pointed her eyes toward the ceiling. “One minute you love her. The next you push her away. The next she is weepy. Then happy. It is enough to exhaust a soul.”

“I have never said I loved her,” he blurted.

Sophie gave him a wide, knowing smile. “You didn’t need to, my lord.”

Did he love Emmaline? He cared very much for her. He’d missed her when she’d been out of his life. She had brought him so much happiness. But love? Could Miss Winters be correct?

“I am indeed correct.” Sophie echoed his unspoken thoughts.

Drake was never gladder for the end of a set. He bowed over Miss Winter’s hand. “Will you deliver a message to her? Will you remind her I owe her a picnic?”

With that, he left.

Chapter 31

My Dearest Drake,

Oh, God. My father has died. Where are you? Why have you not come to me?

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

LORD SINCLAIR PERUSED THE LONG, pale pink marble foyer. “A bachelor’s residence,” Sinclair murmured. He fell into step alongside Drake.

Sir Faithful trotted along at their heels.

Sinclair glanced back. “A dog, as well. My, my, you truly are a bachelor.”

“Stuff it, Sin,” he muttered, leading his friend into his new office.

Drake crossed to the drink cart in the corner of the room and availed himself to a glass of whiskey. He held the bottle up to Sin.

At Sin’s nod, Drake poured a healthy amount into a crystal tumbler.

Sin accepted the glass and he and Drake claimed a seat on the set of leather winged chairs.

They drank in companionable silence. Sin polished off his drink before he spoke. “You do know you have set the ton on its ear?” He didn’t wait for Drake’s response, instead rose, and crossed the room, helping himself to another drink.

Drake sipped his more conservatively and absently eyed Sin’s movements. “To hell with the ton.” He waited until Sin had reclaimed his seat. “I want to court Emmaline.”

Sinclair sputtered around a mouthful of whiskey. “Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh? As in the same young lady you were betrothed to as a child? The same lady you ran off to war to avoid? The same—”

His hackles went up. “I believe you’ve made your point.”

Sin shook his head. “I don’t think I have. After years upon years of complaining about Lady Emmaline, you choose to court her now that she has cut you loose?”

Drake was well aware that courting Emmaline now, after she’d broken off their betrothal, would be met by Society with derision and speculation. The ton only knew Drake to be consumed by his own pursuit of pleasure. What they didn’t know, what he’d kept carefully concealed, was the madness he battled.

Sin sighed. “So when is this courtship to ensue?”

Drake shook his head. “Not right now. Tomorrow. The day after tomorrow.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. Soon.”

Sinclair tapped the edges of his chair.

The rhythmic sound grated until Drake snapped. “You must have something to say.”

“I’m certain Mallen won’t go for it.”

Drake gazed into the depths of his drink wishing he could divine the answers within the swirling amber liquid. “No, no, that is a certainty.”

Sin leaned forward in his chair. “What makes you certain the lady will be amiable to your suit?”

Recent memories of last evening’s waltz filled him. He could still feel the heat of her skin, still see the smile playing on her lush, seductive red lips, hear her laughter. “Last evening at the Thompson ball—”

Sin slashed the air with his hand. “Yes, yes. I heard all about the Thompson ball. Anyone who is anyone has, in fact. A waltz, however, does not a courtship make.” He inched again to the edge of his seat. “As much as I want to see you happy, I don’t want to see you hurt again by Lady Emmaline.”

Drake tossed back the contents of his glass and growled. He didn’t like the way Sin was pinning the state of his unhappiness on Emmaline. “I was the one responsible for Emmaline’s decision to sever the betrothal. Not the young lady.”

Sin cradled his drink between his hands, studying Drake over the edge of the glass. “I understand the lady is entitled to her sense of injury. You, however, are my main concern. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve known enough hurt.”

“You’re mothering me, Sin.”

Sin bristled. “Well, you are in desperate need of mothering.”

Drake glanced at a point just over Sinclair’s shoulder, unable to meet his eyes. How could Sin ever know that the ache of losing Emmaline was far greater than any physical pain? “I need her.”

Sin didn’t say anything for a long moment. “Do you…love her?” The word came out halting. Men didn’t speak of these things.

Drake grimaced. There it was again. That question. Did he love her?

“I don’t know.”

Sin held up his tumbler in mock salute. “You’d better have more of an answer for the lady than that.”

“I will not lie to her. I want there to be honesty between us.”

His friend snorted. “Trust me, when presented with the choice of honesty or love, a lady will always choose love.”

In spite of his friend’s words, Drake had already made up his mind to share with Emmaline the demons that had held him back. He’d confess to her about the affliction that had haunted him since he’d returned from war. He would, as his father suggested, allow her to decide for herself if it was too much of an albatross.

Still the idea that she might reject him…sweat popped up on his brow. What if it were too much for her? What if she wisely decided he was not worth it?

After all, what had he brought her other than heartache?

“What is it you require of me?” Sinclair asked, his tone, uncharacteristically sober. “You know I will do anything to help you.”

Drake reached down and stroked Sir Faithful between the ears. “I need guidance on how to woo a lady.” He sat up and then fished around his front pocket. Drake stared at the parchment a moment and then handed it over to Sinclair.

Sin laughed and accepted the parchment. “And you think I might be able to help you? You, the one recognized throughout Society as being an expert with matrons and debutantes alike?”

Drake shifted in his seat. “That is a gross exaggeration.” He nodded to the paper in Sin’s hands.

Sin glanced down at the heavily marked sheet with extensive cross-outs and too much ink. His brow furrowed.

“It’s a poem.”

“Uh, yes, I see that,” Sin said.

Drake snatched the sheet back and proceeded to study it. “It’s rubbish.”

“I take it the poem is for Lady Emmaline?”

It didn’t escape Drake’s notice that his friend didn’t counter his statement about the quality of the poem.

Drake set the paper aside. “No, it’s for Mallen. Of course it’s for Emmaline.”

Sinclair laughed until tears streamed from his eyes.

“So glad you’re amused,” Drake muttered. “Emmaline wanted to be courted. She deserves to be courted.” His eyes went to the impressive bouquet of flowers he’d had delivered earlier that afternoon…to himself. They rested on his desktop, or rather they sat wilting on his desktop.

Sinclair followed the direction of Drake’s stare. “Uh, they’ve begun to wilt.”

“Yes, yes they have.”

Drake had spent last evening and the better part of the morning laboring over a poem. Then, he’d ordered the flowers. He looked over at the buds again. The dying flowers. The poem, though rubbish, was finally complete. Who’d have figured it would be so bloody difficult to put words to paper?

Sin cleared his throat. “So when you said you intended to court Lady Emmaline, just not today or tomorrow…that wasn’t altogether true.”

Drake surged from his chair and strode across the room. He shoved back the damask curtains and stared out the window into the dark night sky.

“I don’t know how to take the step,” he said.

Sin’s visage reflected back in the glass pane. He remained seated. “You just…do it, Drake. You tell your brain to tell your feet to move one at a time, and march up Mallen’s steps, and demand to see Emmaline. Then you read her your poem.” He picked up the poem in question and grimaced. “Well, maybe not this one, per se.”

Drake pressed his forehead against the cool window.

Could it be that simple? He glanced over his shoulder at the bouquet of cerastium and the poem still held in Sinclair’s hand.

He’d fought a bloody war…how hard could this be? In one of her notes to him, one of the notes that had never been sent, she’d called herself a coward, but it was he who was the coward.

He picked up the dreary looking flowers from his desk.

“You can’t go now,” Sinclair stuttered.

Drake paused. “Whyever not?”

Sinclair blinked several times. His eyes landed on the ormolu clock on the fireplace mantle. “It is nearly eight o’clock in the evening. Mallen is hosting an intimate dinner party with Waxham. Whyever not, indeed?”

A fiery pit of jealousy flared in Drake’s stomach. “Waxham, you say? Why, then I can’t think of a better time to pay a visit.”

“Mallen’s going to give you hell,” Sin predicted with a grin.

Drake smiled. “She’s worth it.” With that, he turned on his heel and marched out of his office. Sir Faithful gave a yap of approval.

Sin hurried after him. “Rude leaving your friend and all. Perhaps you’d like some company along the way? Just to make certain you’ve thought through everything you are going to say when you interrupt the duke’s intimate dinner party.”

Drake growled low in his throat. “Stop calling it an intimate dinner party.” Intimate was the last word he wanted to come to mind when thinking of Waxham and Emmaline.

He flung back the front door and marched down the steps. Sin trailed after him.

“Not the thing, opening your own doors, you know. Your first order of business really should have been to set up at least a butler and housekeeper. Oh, and of course a chef. Not one of those French fellows that seem all the rage—”

Drake paused mid-stride.

It took a moment before Sin, who’d been prattling on, took note. He looked over his shoulder. “Have you forgotten something? Changed your mind?”

“You do know the last thing on my mind right now is assembling a staff for my new residence? You, of course, remember I am heading out to humble myself before the lady who severed our betrothal?”

“Yes, yes,” Sin paused. “In the middle of Mallen’s intimate dinner with Waxham.”

He growled. “Stop referring to it as…”

“I know, I know, an intimate dinner party. Really, you must do your best to hide that nasty sneer when you march into Mallen’s. It will neither win you the lady nor make you a fast friend of the duke.”

“I am not looking to make friends with Mallen.”

Sin quirked a brow. “I might remind you that you require Mallen’s approval just as much as your require the lady’s approval.”

Damn, he hated it when Sin was right. Which meant Drake needed to win over both Emmaline and the foul-tempered Duke of Mallen. He didn’t know which was going to be a greater challenge. And he only had a matter of moments to settle on a course of action.

Sin cleared his throat and motioned to the townhouse in front of them. “Here we are.”

Drake stared up at the white façade. “Already?”

“Already.”

Apparently, he’d run out of time to develop a proper plan of attack to win over Emmaline and Mallen.

Drake stood rooted to the pavement, and continued to stare up at the elegant white townhouse, its windows aglow with soft candlelight. He recalled marching up the very same steps as a boy filled with anxiety. He’d been terrified at the prospect of seeing his betrothed. It would appear, in fifteen years, not much had changed in that regard. Only now he feared rejection at her hands.

He glanced down at the sorely wilted bouquet in his hands, and froze. With his free hand, he frantically felt around his jacket.

His frenzied search was met with a beleaguered sigh from Sin, who brandished a scrap of paper and waved it about. “Here it is. I’d rather hoped you’d forgotten about the poem.”

Drake took it with a word of thanks, re-reading through the terrible attempt. He grimaced. It really was quite horrendous.

“Ahem,” Sin cleared his throat. “I said, ah—”

“I heard you,” Drake bit out. He continued to stand there.

Sin tapped a finger to his chin. “I suppose you could always wait until tomorrow, say after the intimate d—”

Without a word, Drake abandoned his friend to the pavement and took the stone steps two at a time.

He’d be damned if he heard the words intimate dinner party one more time.

Chapter 32

Dearest Lord Drake,

We returned to the countryside. My brother’s friend Waxham joined us. He devoted an entire morning to helping me clear the weeds from a bed of flowers. I teased Sebastian, telling him I wish Waxham were my brother instead of him.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

WITH SIGHTLESS EYES, EMMALINE STARED down at the carrot and ginger soup placed in front of her. She raised her spoon and absently stirred the parsley sprigs. What an odd soup. Who would have thought to cream carrots and…

“My lady?”

She started and dropped her spoon into the fine porcelain bowl. Liquid splattered the tablecloth made of Spanish lace. Apparently the gentleman had asked her a question.

What did he say? What did he say?

Sebastian drummed his fingers on the tabletop and glared at her. “Emmaline, Waxham asked you a question.”

Emmaline fished out the utensil, her gaze fixed on the bowl. Heat stained her neck and flooded her cheeks.

A replacement was quickly brought forward. She cleared her throat and looked over at Waxham. “My apologies, Lord Waxham, I’m afraid my mind was elsewhere.”

Waxham favored her with a rueful smile that said he knew she’d been woolgathering. “How was your visit to the hospital?”

She took a sip of broth. “The soldiers are always full of such stories. In spite of what they’ve seen and done, they still are capable of great laughter.”

“How could they not be joyful when you are around, my lady?”

Why couldn’t Waxham be enough? She’d known him nearly her entire life. He’d toiled alongside her many a summer’s morn in her garden. He knew her likes and dislikes. So that should be enough? But it wasn’t. She wanted the grand passion she knew with Drake. She wanted…wanted…him—the man she’d been betrothed to since she’d been a child. Would it always be this way?

“Perhaps I might join you on a visit?” Waxham’s words pulled the cloud she’d been floating on from under her, and she tumbled back to reality.

The immediate answer that sprung to her lips, which she tamped down, was an emphatic, resounding, no. The soldiers would be livid if this interloper encroached upon Captain Drake’s territory. “Uh-I…”

She dropped her spoon for the second time.

Sebastian caught her gaze and glowered at her. “That would be lovely, is the proper response,” he said.

Emmaline accepted yet another utensil, awash with panic.

“Yes, that would be lovely, wouldn’t it, Emmaline?” Her mother interjected from the head of the table.

She saw the hard determination in Sebastian’s eyes. Noted the silent entreaty in her mother’s stare. Observed Waxham’s hopeful expression. Suddenly the cloying hands of pressure tightened around her throat. Breathing became difficult. Her whole life she’d been inundated with the wants and desires of everyone else. Since the moment she was born, it had never been about her. Her wishes and hopes had never once been considered.

They might not be aware of it, but Sebastian and her mother had continued to place stringent expectations upon her shoulders, even after the severance of her betrothal.

“That would be—”

A commotion sounded beyond the closed door and the butler, Carmichael’s shout filled the hallway and filtered into the dining room. “You must not go in there. I have told you His Grace is not receiving.”

The doors flew open with such force that they bounced hard and hit the plaster of the wall. “I am not here to see His Grace.”

At sight of the imposing, virile figure in the doorway, Emmaline’s spoon clattered again, and this time it plummeted to the floor. She froze. All the breath expelled from her lungs.

Sebastian leapt to his feet. “What is this about, Drake?”

Her mother sat back in her seat and with a wide-eyed stare, took in the tableau.

Drake ignored Sebastian and held up a staying hand as if to stifle her brother’s next words. Then, Drake’s hot, jade gaze found hers, and caressed her like a physical touch.

She forgot everyone else in the room. Oh, God, he was here. He was, wasn’t he? Surely she wasn’t dreaming? Just to be sure, she snuck a hand under the table and gave her leg a little pinch.

No, this was real. Very real. The possessive gleam in his eyes heated her like a hot summer sun. Her entire life, she’d longed for him to look at her as he did now; as though she were the only person in the world.

“You owe me a picnic.” There was something faintly accusatory in his tone.

Three pairs of eyes swiveled to Emmaline. She opened her mouth to speak but no words emerged. She closed it and tried again. Nothing. She shook her head.

“What’s the meaning of this? What is he talking about?”

Emmaline ignored Sebastian’s angry questions.

Her brother in turn directed his attention to Drake. “My sister owes you nothing.”

An immoveable wall of indifference and coolness, the Marquess of Drake kept a narrowed stare fixed on Emmaline.

Emmaline forced her suspicion out past dry lips. “You lied. You finished Glenarvon first, didn’t you?”

Drake’s lips twitched. “Why am I not surprised you know that, Emmaline?”

“Do not call my sister by her given name,” Sebastian said.

Drake took a step forward. “Do you know why you were a wallflower?”

A flood of humiliated heat warmed her cheeks, her chest hitched with pain.

Sebastian kicked his chair backwards with such force it tumbled to the floor. “By God, I will kill you.”

“Sebastian, no,” her mother cried.

Waxham reached a hand out to capture Emmaline’s. He gave it a faint, reassuring squeeze.

Drake’s eyes dropped to where her hand rested, entwined with Waxham’s. “I asked you a question, Emmaline.”

With alacrity in his movements, her brother advanced angrily around the long, wide dining table. “Do not make demands of my sister.”

A bitter little laugh escaped her. “I’m sure you will tell me, my lord.”

Drake moved across the room, closer to her. “Look at me,” he ordered in his Captain’s tone.

Emmaline lifted her chin and met his stare.

Drake’s throat bobbed up and down. “Because of me. It’s because of me that you sat on the bloody sidelines. You are beautiful. And you are vibrant…and the only reason gentlemen didn’t flock to your side was because of me.” His resounding words carried throughout the room and echoed off the walls.

Emmaline had fallen in love with Lord Drake two times in her life: one being when he’d rescued an old peddler woman on the street, the other being this very moment.

He devoured her with his eyes. “You are beautiful. In every way. I’ve never deserved you. I never will. Still knowing that, I have come to ask if I might court you?”

She gasped and dropped Waxham’s hand.

“No,” Sebastian barked.

Drake continued to hold up a single finger to keep an enraged Sebastian in his place.

Emmaline’s gaze fell to the bouquet of cerastium Drake held. Tears flooded her eyes and she blinked them back.

Drake saw the direction of her focus. “These are for you.”

“The poor buds have wilted significantly,” she blurted.

His brow furrowed. “So I’ve been told.”

“They are still beautiful.”

A low, animalistic growl emerged from deep within Sebastian’s chest, and effectively intruded in the moment she’d shared with Drake. “I’ve watched enough of this farcical drama. I am having you physically removed. Carmichael, fetch two servants and have Lord Drake thrown into the street,” Sebastian said.

The butler hurried to do his master’s bidding.

Seeming wholly unaffected by Sebastian’s threat, Drake fished around the front of his jacket. He extracted a folded sheet of parchment, shook it out, and held it out for her to see. “I wrote you a poem.”

Her eyes went to the scrap in his hands.

A dull flush stained Drake’s cheeks. He cleared his throat and began.

“Your eyes and hair are like chocolate.

Warm. Pure. Soothing.

Your smile is like a Christmas morning.

Exciting. Unexpected. Delightful.

Your hand is like…”

Sebastian’s groan interrupted Drake’s recitation. Her brother shook his head piteously. “For the love of God, that is bloody awful. Spare yourself any further embarrassment.”

Tears blinded Emmaline. “Shut up, Sebastian.” She silently pleaded with Drake to continue.

Drake’s eyes skimmed the paper until he found the spot he’d left off on. “Your hand is like salvation. It saved me.”

Warm, salty drops spilled from her lashes and trailed a path down her cheeks. A lifetime ago she’d been a little girl sitting across from a young boy, a prince who’d rescued her from a fall. Years later, when the prince left to fight on the Peninsula, the little girl had been replaced by a whimsical young woman, who’d often ruminated about a moment just like the one she was living in her brother’s dining room.

Carmichael arrived with two burly servants from the kitchen.

Well, all of it except for the servants arriving to throw him from the room.

Emmaline shoved her seat back and jumped to her feet. “Don’t touch him.”

“Remove him,” her brother barked.

* * *

DRAKE HAD BATTLED SOLDIERS WHO’D been intent on cutting his throat. It would take more than three of Mallen’s servants to alarm him. He took a step towards Emmaline.

This was it.

In a room full of witnesses, he who had existed in this shell of himself for the past three years was going to bare himself to this woman who’d come to mean more to him than anyone. It terrified him. Seeing the unfiltered love in her eyes, however, gave him the courage to continue.

“I have wronged you. I have never treated you as you deserved. I have made more mistakes in my life than I can count. My greatest regret has been how horribly I have treated you.” He knelt beside her. “You said you wanted a choice. Well, now you have a choice. And I’m asking you to choose me. Choose me, not because you are required to, not because you have no choice. Not because I’m heir to a dukedom. Choose me because you need me as much as I need you.”

He set the bouquet down on the table beside her most likely cold soup and claimed her hands in his. He turned them over and studied them. They were so delicate. And shaking. He traced the intersecting lines of her palm with his pointer finger.

“Get your hands off my sister,” Mallen shouted.

Drake ignored him. “I don’t know if you have it in you to look past all my mistakes, but I ask that you allow me to court you?” He brushed a delicate kiss upon her knuckles. God, he’d missed…

One of Mallen’s burly staff members jerked him backward. Drake cursed. He should have been expecting that.

“Don’t touch him!” Emmaline cried, appealing to the Duchess of Mallen. “Mother?”

The duchess glared at her son. “This show of force really isn’t necessary, Sebastian. For any man to bare his soul, and recite poetry in front of a hostile witness like you speaks volumes of the depth of emotion he has for Emmaline.”

“Traitor,” Mallen mumbled. He nodded to the two servants, who released Drake.

Drake returned his attention to Emmaline. “It was not my intention to interrupt your meal.”

Mallen snorted. “Then what was your intention?”

This time, he did look at Mallen. “My intention is to court your sister.”

Sister and brother spoke in unison.

“Yes.”

“The answer is no.”

Chapter 33

My Dearest Drake,

This will be the last letter I write. It is time for us to meet again.

Ever Yours,

Emmaline

EMMALINE HAD HOPED WITH A night of rest that upon waking Sebastian would be amenable to her picnicking with Drake. Standing before her brother’s desk, eyeing his stiffly held form, she now realized she’d been foolishly optimistic.

Sebastian folded his arms across his chest and glared. “I said no.”

Emmaline managed a smile. “That seems to be your new favorite phrase.”

He dropped his pen on his desktop.

Perhaps sarcasm was not her best tactic. “It is merely a picnic,” she reasoned. “There is nothing scandalous about a picnic. Why they are all the rage—”

His snort interrupted her rational explanation. “There is everything scandalous about a picnic when,” he proceeded to tick off on his fingers. “One it is with your former betrothed, two, you throw over a fine, respectable gentleman for—”

Emmaline gasped and marched across the room. “How dare you. I did not throw over Waxham. You were the one attempting to bring us together.”

A telltale vein pulsated along the edge of his temple, indicating he was doing everything within his power to maintain his self-control. “Drake isn’t worth ten Waxham’s.”

Attempting to diffuse the palpable tension emanating from his rigid form, Emmaline sighed. “I will not debate Drake’s worth with you. I love him and more than anything right now, I want to join him in on a picnic. So can’t you please, smile at me, pat me on the head, and tell me to go and have a good time? It is not marriage he is asking for.” Yet. Hopefully in time. “It is a picnic. That is it. Nothing more.”

Sebastian raked a hand through his blonde strands. “Can I think on it?”

“What is there to think about?”

He slashed the air with an agitated hand. “I’m already exerting all my ducal influence to silence as many whispers and speculations as I can. I know you’re unaware of the very public censure your actions have earned, but Mother and I are doing our best to save your reputation.”

A laugh burbled up from her throat, and spilled past her lips. “Really, Sebastian. You are making far more of it than—” He slammed a powerful fist onto the mahogany desk with a resounding boom. Emmaline jumped.

“Are you really so unaware of how you are being perceived by the ton? They say you are fickle. You broke off your betrothal, then allowed Waxham to pay serious court.”

“It is your fault—”

“For the love of God, do not say one more time that what happened with Waxham is my fault,” he bellowed and then took a calming breath. When he spoke, his words emerged more even. “Waxham cares for you, Emmaline.”

All this time she’d assumed Waxham’s interest had been borne of nothing other than the connection they shared through Sebastian. A twinge of remorse ravaged her already guilty conscience.

Sebastian groaned. “Damn it, please don’t give me that sad little look.”

Her chin quavered. “I’m not giving you a sad little—”

“Yes you are. It’s the same one you’ve turned on me since you were a small girl. I’m powerless against it.”

She hadn’t even known she’d had any such look. But since he seemed very aware of it she quietly pressed her advantage. “Please send me on my picnic outing with Lord Drake with your blessings.”

Sebastian cursed softly, obviously noting that he’d tipped his hand. He rubbed his hands over his eyes, agitated. “Fine. The picnic. But do not any time soon, expect me to honor anything else more serious than a picnic.”

Emmaline crossed over to his chair. Bending down, she placed a kiss on his cheek. She gave her words all the solemnity she could muster. “It’s just a picnic.”

“When is this picnic going to take place,” he mumbled clearly uncomfortable with her sisterly show of emotion.

“Uh—”

Someone tapped a perfunctory knock at the door.

“Enter,” Sebastian called, his expression indicating his annoyance at the interruption.

The butler stood framed in the doorway and bowed respectfully. “The Marquess of Drake awaits my lady in the foyer to escort her on,” he wrinkled his nose, “a picnic.”

Sebastian’s narrowed gaze pinned her to the rug. Carmichael scurried off. “A picnic today. Imagine that. Drake must have amazing hearing and speed to have heard my consent.”

Emmaline shifted on her feet, having the sense not to speak.

“What say you, sister?”

She nodded. “His hearing is rather impressive. I shall be off.” Turning on her heel, she tossed a wave over her shoulder.

“Remember just a picnic, Em. That is all I’m consenting to.”

* * *

IN SPITE OF SEBASTIAN’S EARLIER protests, Emmaline had been victorious—she had gotten her picnic. Her maid, Grace trailed behind her and Drake as they made their way through Hyde Park. There was something thrilling about turning out the victor in a losing argument against the Duke of Mallen.

“I don’t know what to make of that mischievous smile, sweet.”

“Perhaps I’m just happy,” Emmaline said.

Drake snapped out a blanket and Sir Faithful playfully grabbed a corner and shook it with his teeth. “I know your just-happy smile. That was not it.”

Her maid, Grace, rushed forward to assist with the blanket, but Emmaline waved her off. “Grace, I assure you, Lord Drake can handle both Sir Faithful and seeing to the blanket. Why don’t you take a short walk?” It was more an order than request.

Her words were met with a loud rip.

“Cease,” Drake commanded and the dog immediately sat, and bowed his head.

Grace shot a skeptical look from Drake to Sir Faithful. “As you wish, my lady.”

Sir Faithful made one last attempt at tugging the corner of the blanket, but Drake snapped the palm of his hand to the side of his thigh and the dog, dutifully sat at his master’s heels, watching expectantly as Drake set the basket down upon the blanket and helped Emmaline to the ground.

“He is a troublesome little thing, isn’t he?” She scratched the sensitive spot along the bridge of Sir Faithful’s nose.

“Not very little anymore, either.” Drake looked at the rapidly growing mutt. “He is, however, true to his name. I would have thought you would find me a pug or Shetland sheepdog,” he teased.

Emmaline laughed. “A Shetland sheepdog would have been just the thing. Though after reflecting on the fact you had no sheep, I decided Sir Faithful would do nicely.”

He waggled his brows. “Not yet. Perhaps the sheep will come later. How do you feel about becoming the wife of a sheep farmer?”

The image of Drake galloping about the countryside with a Shetland sheepdog, herding a flock of sheep about, was just so ludicrous that she laughed until she developed a stitch in her side.

Then she processed what he’d said.

She tilted her head back and closed her eyes. “I’m dreaming.”

The blanket rustled as he sat down beside her. “You are so beautiful,” he said. There could be no question of the quiet sincerity of his words.

Never, ever in her life had she before felt beautiful—until that moment. He made her believe she was more than just tolerably pleasing, as the papers had labeled her.

“Do you know where I found Sir Faithful?”

Drake scratched the dog under his belly and waited for her answer.

“I visit the soldiers at London Hospital each week. There is a black dog who lives there and wanders the halls. No one is certain what line of dog she is. The soldiers named her Alice. A few months ago, Alice disappeared for three days. For three whole days, the soldiers and nurses were devastated, no one knowing what had happened to the dog. But she returned, and it wasn’t long until we realized she was with pups. Sir Faithful is one of those pups.” Sir Faithful licked her hand once, twice, and a third time.

“It really should come as no surprise to me that you give your time at the hospital.”

Emmaline shifted under the uncomfortable weight of his praise and gave a tiny shrug in response. “It is not a chore to visit the men. Seeing them fills me with great joy.” She’d always looked forward to sitting with the soldiers who’d courageously dedicated their lives, who’d risked their physical safety for such a noble cause.

“I imagine you bring them great joy as well.” Drake opened the wicker basket and pulled out a thick loaf of bread neatly wrapped in a cloth, along with sliced cheese, and plump red strawberries. He began arranging a dish for her.

Emmaline rested her chin atop her knees and studied his movements. There was something beautifully domestic about his simple actions. She accepted the plate he held out to her with a murmur of thanks. Picking up a piece of bread from her plate, she nibbled at the corner and continued to watch him.

After the way he’d barged in on her brother’s dinner party, she’d been at a loss to understand what exactly was her relationship with Drake. The corner of her heart, where she’d buried the dream of being his wife, stirred to life. A man could not humble himself as Drake had in front of her brother, mother, and Lord Waxham, baring his most intimate thoughts, if marriage was not his intention?

Drake plucked a strawberry. He made to pop it into his mouth.

“When you imagine the future, do you see me as your wife?”

For an infinitesimal moment, he paused, before he finally ate the red berry.

A long stretch of silence met her question.

* * *

THE FINE LINEN OF HIS shirt did little to conceal the heat of his mother’s emerald and diamond ring, warm against his chest. Since the moment he’d decided to ask Emmaline to wed him, he’d rehearsed any number of poetic, appropriate speeches, grimacing at the lackluster attempts. However, even the paltry efforts he’d managed, fled.

Drake jumped up and began to pace.

Emmaline cocked her head. “Drake?”

“Hmm?” He continued his path. Back and forth. With as close as he’d come to losing her, Drake would imagine he should have found if not the perfect words, then something suitable.

“Are you all right?”

“Uh-, I…fine. Fine.” He stopped abruptly in front of her. With a jerky movement, he leaned down and tugged Emmaline upright.

She pitched forward landing hard against his side. “Oomph.”

Emmaline pulled back and eyed him with a healthy dose of concern. “Uh-are we done with the picnic?”

Drake directed his eyes skyward. He needed Cupid’s intervention to salvage this sorry, sorry proposal.

Sir Faithful chose that moment to sidle over on his belly, effectively wedging himself between Drake and Emmaline.

Apparently Cupid was otherwise busy.

“The moon is in the sky…”

Emmaline looked up in confusion, and shielded her eyes against the glaring sun high in the cloudless blue sky. “It is? Where?”

“Uh-no, not now. That is to say, it is not in the sky at this precise moment. What I intended to say is…” A black curse fell from his lips. Mayhap Sin was right and he should forget all the nonsense with poetry.

Emmaline’s eyes widened the size of saucers.

This was certainly not a proposal for the ages. Frustrated with the debacle he was making out of the moment, he dragged a hand through his hair. “My apologies,” he muttered. “What I meant to say is—”

Except those words also eluded him and Drake was once again left with a dry mouth and incoherent thoughts. Who would have imagined he, the otherwise unflappable Marquess of Drake, should find himself bumbling his way through a marriage proposal?

“I need to speak to you about the day your father died.” He winced. Hardly the stuff a young lady preferred to hear when a gentleman was asking for her hand. Maybe he should go back to the stuff about the moon and the stars.

“Drake?”

Suddenly the prospect of facing down a line of French soldiers seemed vastly less terrifying than sharing the truth with Emmaline and risking rejection at her hands.

Emmaline slid her hand into his and from the gentle squeeze she gave, found strength and courage. “I don’t want to dwell on the past. I—”

As tempted as he was to bury the story that had haunted him since he’d returned from the Peninsula, he would not be able forgive himself if he withheld this truth from her. “No. I need to have out with it.” He drew in a deep fortifying breath. “I was coming to see you. I need you to know that.” The words were guttural, wrenched from somewhere deep inside him. “I became used to walking during the war. When I returned, I walked everywhere. I was coming to your residence that morning. There was a carriage accident. A broken axle, I suspect. I heard shouts and cries. Something happened to me in that moment. I forgot where I was. I came to hours later, in an alley, not knowing what had happened. That is why I did not go to you the day your father died. And I am sorrier for that than you can ever know.”

The only indication Emmaline had heard his confession was the subtle pressure she applied to his hand interlocked with hers. Time crept by. He awaited her rejection, her pity, and what was more, he would understand that rejection.

Her eyes flitted back and forth across his face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

His words emerged on a hoarse whisper. “How could I have shared that with a young lady I barely knew?”

Emmaline rocked back on her heels. “I thought it was because of me. I thought you didn’t want to see me.” It seemed those words were directed more to herself. “I thought…” She shook her head and gave him a sad little smile. “To think, I took your absence as a personal slight. I believed you were too engrossed with your own merriment, that you couldn’t take time to pay your respects. How odd, to now know, you needed me just as much as I needed you.

Drake stared at a point over the crown of her hair. He inhaled the faint scent of lemons, which always clung to her. It represented purity and filled his senses with the heady aphrodisiac of hope. “How many what ifs there are. What if you had sent your letters? What if I had written you? What if I had shown up and paid my respects the day your father passed away? What would our life be like at this moment?”

The amount of regret he carried seemed enough to fill the Thames River.

But he had to tell her the whole of it. He could not offer her marriage without the truth laid out between them. Even if the truth could cost him—her.

“I still have nightmares…and as you witnessed, the episodes.” He studied his hands a moment. “They come less frequently than when I first returned from the Peninsula, but they are still there. I…” He swallowed. “Fear the war turned me into a madman. The day I visited you in your garden, I put my hands on you and it almost killed me. I cannot make you my wife, without you knowing everything there is to know.”

She reached a tremulous hand out and with a fleeting caress, stroked his tense jaw. “I wrote you a note. It was about a dream I’d had. The war was over—”

“I was wandering about a field, lost.”

“I wrote, if you are lost—’”

“I will help you.” He finished and felt his throat bob up and down under the force of his emotion.

Emmaline brushed her lips against his. The soft meeting was like the fluttering whisper of a butterflies wings. It tasted of love.

“I will help you,” she promised and brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen across his brow.

Drake pressed his forehead against hers.

He was so close, his toes peeked over the cliff of possibilities, desperately wanting to leap with her. But he’d held back so long, capitulation was far too hard. “I don’t want you to be hurt.”

Emmaline leaned up on tiptoes and held his gaze. “Oh, you silly man. Don’t you yet know, the only way I’m hurt is when I’m not with you? I love you.”

Drake dropped his attention to where her hand rested in his. Clearing his throat, he reached into the front of his jacket and pulled out the emerald ring that had belonged to his mother; a ring given in love by his father. And now, if she didn’t have the good sense to run the either way, would belong to Emmaline. “Will you marry me?”

Emmaline gasped. “It’s a ring,” she blurted.

A smile played on his lips. “I hope your answer is yes, because I am fairly certain your brother’s answer will be no, and I’d like one yes for the day.”

Drake grunted as Emmaline threw herself into his arms. The unexpected movement sent him tumbling backward. She landed on his chest. The ring landed somewhere alongside them.

Sir Faithful jumped up and ran in circles about them, yapping his excitement.

“Yes, you foolish man. A million times yes!”

Chapter 34

FOR THE THIRD TIME IN Drake’s life, he crossed into the Duke of Mallen’s office for a meeting that would determine his future. It did not escape his notice how Mallen failed to rise when Drake entered the room. Nor did the stoic man offer any greeting. Instead, he watched Drake with a hawk-like intensity, as if he feared Drake were a thief from the Seven Dials with intentions of absconding with the family jewels.

Which, come to think of it, wasn’t too far from the mark.

When it didn’t seem as though the duke had any intentions of offering him a seat, Drake motioned to the leather-winged chair in front his desk. “May I?”

Mallen rapped distractedly on the desktop, the first indication of the other man’s unease. “As you wish.”

Drake settled into the seat and looped his ankle over his opposite knee. He could easily understand Mallen’s dogged protectiveness of Emmaline. Though Drake had no siblings, he imagined if he did, that the last thing he’d allow was for his sister to wed a rogue like himself; especially after she’d been hurt by said rogue. In fact, in thinking on it, Mallen had been far more magnanimous than he, Drake would have been. Hell, Mallen would have been justified calling him out.

Mallen’s fingers ceased their distracted movements. “Have you come to sit and stare at me all day?” Mallen’s words dripped with heavy sarcasm.

Drake shifted in his seat. “No, not at all, Your Grace.”

Mallen fixed him with a hard stare. “So, of a sudden, it’s Your Grace?”

This wasn’t going as Drake had planned. Might as well come out with it. “I’ve come to discuss your sister,” he said evenly.

A muscle ticked at the corner of the duke’s right eye. He leaned across the desk. “Oh? To discuss my sister?”

He took a fortifying breath. “I want to ask for her hand—”

“You are either mad, arrogant, or both.” Mallen pointed a finger in Drake’s direction. “For fifteen years you haven’t paid Emmaline any notice. Not until she asked me to sever the arrangement did you decide to court her and that is only after the gossips dragged her name through the scandal sheets. Tell me, why would I ever consent to turning the person I love more than anyone else, over to you?”

“Because I…” Drake tried to force out a suitable response.

But no words emerged.

That was the rub of it—Drake couldn’t give one bloody reason Mallen should allow him Emmaline’s hand in marriage. Mallen possessed one of the most revered titles in the kingdom and therefore wouldn’t be impressed by Drake’s status as heir to a dukedom. Nor could Drake drum up one redeeming quality that he possessed to garner the other gentleman’s respect.

Nor could he come here and believe that he might erase fifteen years of neglect.

He did know that his only desire was to spend every minute of the rest of his life married to her. That thought consumed him like a conflagration. He wanted her, nay, needed her, and even if it meant spiriting her off to Gretna Green, he was determined to wed her.

“I’m waiting,” Mallen said.

No argument would ever be sufficient for the other man.

He settled for honesty. “I need her.”

Mallen scoffed. “You need her.”

She had become his sustenance. “Yes, I need her like I need water and air to breathe.”

The Duke groaned. “Please spare me any further of your meager attempts at poetry.”

Drake’s collar grew unbearably tight at mention of his recitation the prior evening, and he gave his cravat a tug. In spite of Mallen’s scornful words, he forced himself to press on. After all, he hadn’t expected to saunter into the Duke’s office, request Emmaline’s hand, and receive the other man’s blessing. He steeled himself. “I’m not being poetic. I need—”

Sebastian swiped the air with an angry hand. “You think I care what you need? I care about what she wants and needs. And as her brother, I can say with great confidence that you sir, are not it.” Mallen’s voice had climbed in volume.

Drake remained quiet. Mallen’s tightly coiled frame indicated he was spoiling for a fight. Drake wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. To do so, would invite Mallen to toss him out.

The duke slammed his fist on the desktop. “Damn it. Say something.”

Uncrossing his leg, Drake leaned forward. He held his palms up. “Listen, Mallen. You don’t like me. Which is fine because I don’t much like myself. With the exception of a handful of moments in my life, I am hardly proud of who I am. I’ve got a surly disposition, I’ve carried on with more widows and opera singers than I can list.” He plowed ahead of the Duke’s black expression. “I can go on and on. But Emmaline makes me wish I were a better person. More than that, she makes me want to be a better man—for her.”

Silence descended, punctuated by the tick of the mantle clock. Mallen scrubbed his hands over his face looking like a man twenty years older. “Damn you and that argument.” He dropped his hands and continued to eye Drake with a hard look. “Do you love her?”

Drake paused, frozen by the other man’s question. There it was, again. The question—did he love her? Did he love her? He couldn’t fathom life without her; knew it would be a desolate existence. Before Emmaline he’d hardly managed a sincere laugh or smile. Having grown up motherless and then living the life of a soldier, he’d never really given much thought to the sentiment.

“That isn’t your business.”

Mallen jumped up from his seat and stormed out from behind his desk, clearly prepared to argue the point with Drake.

Drake walked over to the duke. Only a hairsbreadth separated them. “Let me stop you, Mallen. It is my intention to wed your sister and I assure you it is her intention to wed me. Emmaline wants your blessing and because of that, I’m asking you to accept my suit. But, I’m going to marry her with or without your approval. Is that understood?”

The door opened and both men spun around at the intrusion.

The duchess stood framed in the doorway. “You will most certainly give your blessing, Sebastian.”

“Mother, I am handling this—”

“Poorly,” the Duchess of Mallen cut in. She claimed Drake’s hands. “So you’ve finally come to your senses, I see.”

He nodded solemnly. “Yes, Your Grace. I’ve been bewitched by your daughter.”

It was the truth, but it was also the right thing to say. A smile reminiscent of Emmaline’s played about the duchess’s lips. “I wondered when you would at last realize that.”

Mallen raked an angry hand through his hair. “If it weren’t for my mother and my sister, the answer would be, no.”

Drake strove for graciousness. He knew what the capitulation cost Mallen.

Drake nodded solemnly and stretched out his hand out. “Thank you.”

Finally, Mallen accepted Drake’s hand. “Hurt her and I’ll kill you.”

Emmaline stepped into the room. “Don’t be so melodramatic, Sebastian.”

The sight of her there in a pale pink creation trimmed in delicate lace, her eyes shining with adoring love and joy, caused Drake’s heart to pick up a swift beat.

Mallen threw his arms up. “Lovely, so glad you could join us. Why don’t we call in Carmichael and the entire household staff for this meeting?”

Emmaline ignored her brother and glided into the room, coming to a stop before Drake.

He bowed low. “My lady.”

“My lord.”

He needed to feel her skin against his, needed some kind of assurance that she was real and not the phantom creature who’d visited only in his peaceful dreams. He took her hands in his. “We are to be married.”

Emmaline stepped into Drake’s arms like it was the only place in the world she belonged—and mayhap it was. He held her close. With a hand that trembled, Drake stroked her cheek. He forgot about Mallen. The duchess. The war became a distant memory. He forgot about everyone and everything, but her and the feel of her soft, slim body in his arms. It turned out everyone else had been right after all. He did love her.

Imagine that.

“Get your hands off my sister.” Mallen snarled.

Drake jerked back to reality and placed appropriate distance between him and Emmaline.

“Six months.”

He really should have been paying far closer attention to the duke. “I’m sorry?”

“Not as sorry as I am,” Mallen muttered. “A six month betrothal—”

Emmaline gasped.

“Don’t be absurd,” the Duchess of Mallen said.

“Three,” Drake countered.

Mallen’s jaw set in a hard, unyielding line. “Six months. You waited fifteen years, what is another six months?”

Emmaline set her hands on her hips. “Really, Sebastian?” She looked to her mother for intervention.

“Three weeks,” Drake reiterated over the crown of Emmaline’s chocolate waves.

“You are mad. Absolutely not. Why, why the planning, the preparation, the scandal—”

The duchess took her son’s hand between hers and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I never took you for one to get weighed down with wedding details.”

“Six months is rather a ridiculous length of time, no?” Emmaline argued.

Mallen looked from Emmaline to Drake and then his mother, like something of a caged animal. “I—I…”

Chapter 35

ULTIMATELY, WHEN FACED WITH THE persistent Marquess of Drake, a pestering younger sister, and a displeased mother, the Duke of Mallen had no choice but to agree to speedy nuptials. So it was three weeks later at the Duke of Mallen’s country seat in Leeds, with a special license from the Archbishop of Canterbury, Emmaline, escorted by Sebastian, walked down the intimate aisle of the family church to the man who’d upended her world.

They reached the front of the altar and Sebastian continued to stare with his gaze fixed blankly ahead.

She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “I love you,” she whispered.

Sebastian looked down at his sister, and then shifted his gaze over to the Marquess of Drake, who eyed him with an inscrutable expression. “Hurt her and I’ll kill you.” He placed Emmaline’s hand in Drake’s and claimed his seat at the front pew.

Emmaline turned a smile up at Drake. “I think he handled that rather well,” she whispered.

A startled bark of laughter escaped Drake, causing the select few guests in attendance to erupt into a bevy of curious murmurs.

“If I may?” the vicar inquired, his tone dry. He cleared his throat and continued.

* * *

“WILT THOU HAVE THIS WOMAN to be thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health: and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her so long as ye both shall live?”

“I will,” Drake vowed.

They were just two words, yet somehow they flowed over Emmaline like the faintest caress.

I’m dreaming, she thought, a smile on her lips.

She didn’t want to ever look away from the green of his eyes and the emotion she saw there. In him she saw her past; the five-year-old girl with dreams of the thirteen-year-old prince, who’d rescued her up from her knees in her father’s office. He represented the hopes she’d carried as a young lady for a love match, dreams that had defied the reality of Society’s cold, calculated unions. And now she saw her future—their future. She—

Drake gave a discreet cough.

The vicar looked at Emmaline, with a dark scowl.

… forgot to speak her vows.

“Oh, I missed it.” If she weren’t standing in a church, in front of her family, a vicar, and the select members who’d been invited to their wedding, she would have cursed. She looked to Drake. His mouth twitched as though he fought back a laugh.

No help there. Emmaline sighed. What had she expected? It wasn’t as though he could reclaim the moment for her.

There was a hum of confusion amongst the small crowd.

He leaned in and whispered, “I assure you, my dear, you can still recite the words. You haven’t lost the opportunity.”

“I will,” Emmaline blurted.

Then just like that, after fifteen long years she became the Marchioness of Drake.

The smattering of applause, the flurry of signatures required of them, and the festive wedding breakfast passed in a whirl. At the conclusion of the festivities, Emmaline and Drake started for the carriage.

Drake waved off the groom who rushed forward to help. He held out his arm to Emmaline. “Shall we?”

She placed her fingers along his coat sleeves but then froze. Her brother cut a path through the small throng of well-wishers and walked over to Emmaline and Drake. He stopped in front of them.

The two men stood there. Her brother and husband locked in some silent match of the wills. Emmaline held her breath. Her brother had assented to a match between her and Drake but she wanted so much more than that. She wanted the two of them to forge a friendship. They were the two most important men in her life.

Drake broke the impasse. He held out a hand to his new brother-in-law.

Sebastian’s jaw set and for a moment, Emmaline thought he might reject the offer of peace. Then, her brother accepted the gesture. Two strong hands united with a commitment for a truce—an uneasy truce perhaps, but a truce nonetheless.

Emmaline waited until they’d finished and went up on tiptoe. She kissed her brother. “I love you.”

Sebastian scratched his jaw, clearly uncomfortable with her public show of emotion. He patted her on the shoulder. “None of that.” Then in his typical fashion, Sebastian glared at Drake. “I meant what I said in the church. Hurt her and I—”

“I heard you and would encourage you to do just that,” Drake interrupted, his tone solemn.

Sebastian, paused appearing startled by Drake’s concession. With a curt nod, he directed his attention to Emmaline. “Here.” He thrust a package at her.

Emmaline looked from him to the oddly shaped gift in her hands.

“It’s a wedding gift.”

Emmaline placed one final kiss on her brother’s cheek and then Drake made a move to hand her up into the carriage.

“I love you, too,” Sebastian blurted.

She winked. “I know.”

The doors to the carriage closed and Emmaline leaned her head out the window. She waved at their guests until they were no longer in sight, and then drew laughingly back inside.

Feeling his eyes on her, Emmaline glanced at him. “What?”

“You are so beautiful,” he murmured, a husky tone underlying his words.

Her cheeks heated and she dipped her head. Though there was an easy sense of comfort in being with Drake, there was also some awkwardness in the dramatic shift that had occurred in their situation. Her lips tipped at the corner.

“Why the catlike smile, love?”

“I was thinking about all the times when I was a girl that I would practice twining my name with yours. And now you’re my husband.”

Emmaline settled into his side, burrowing herself close. She stretched her legs out on the seat in front of them. Her movements upset the forgotten gift. It tumbled to the floor.

Drake reached down and rescued the gift, handing it to Emmaline. “I must admit to some curiosity as to what your brother gifted us.”

“Me, too,” she said, almost hesitant to open the package. With Sebastian one could never be sure. She unwrapped the gift and opened the top of the box to reveal—

A burst of laughter escaped Emmaline.

* * *

DRAKE SHOOK HIS HEAD IN consternation. A bonnet? It seemed a peculiar gift choice.

At that moment, however, he did not want to think of Mallen. Or his rather odd gift habits. Through hooded lids, he studied Emmaline and thoughts of finally making love to her made him harden in anticipation. Playing with the ribbons of her new gift, she seemed impervious to the tension in his tightly coiled body. He reached over and tugged her unceremoniously onto his lap.

A squeak squeezed past her lips.

He tangled his fingers behind her nape, angling her head. “I have been longing to do this all day,” he whispered and then brought her mouth to his. It wasn’t a chaste meeting of lips. This was a kiss without reservations. It was hot. Demanding. Seeking.

Emmaline twined her arms about his neck and tilted her head back to deepen the kiss. She opened her mouth to his and their tongues collided in a violent exchange. Drake’s hands roamed a path over her body, exploring each angle, each curve that had fascinated him since he’d seen her save an old beggar woman in the streets. Aching for more, he held her fast so her center was pressed against his hard shaft.

Emmaline pulled back a little, her eyes clouded with passion. “I want to touch you like you touched me.”

Drake groaned, and kissed her again. He shifted her so she was seated astride one of his hard thighs. The fine silk of her ivory gown, rucked up about her legs, leant her an air of wantonness that thrilled him to the core. Just the sight of her made his shaft ache.

He ran his hands over her creamy white thighs. “You are so soft.” His fingers trailed higher and higher until he found her center drenched with desire. She was hotter than the sun on a summer day.

A hiss escaped Emmaline’s teeth and of their own volition, her hips began undulating.

“Oh, God,” she moaned, arching into him. Her moan became a soft, pleading scream. Her head fell backwards. “Drake,” she begged.

“That’s it,” he whispered, his fingers continued to work her.

She cried out in protest when he eased his fingers out of her hot warmth. He set about undoing the fastidious row of pearl buttons along the back of her dress. He lowered the bodice, exposing her to his eyes. Drake closed a hand over a small round breast, fondling it, until she sagged against him. “Perfect,” he murmured hoarsely into her mouth. He trailed a finger across a turgid red nipple, and then pressed his lips to the bud.

A small scream escaped Emmaline and she threw her head back, sending her chocolate wave cascading around them like a silken curtain. He continued suckling the sensitive tip of her breast until she was whimpering with incoherent desire.

“Please,” she panted.

Drake reached down and released himself from his breeches, at last allowing his aching cock the freedom it craved.

Emmaline’s unrestrained movements ground to a halt at the sight of his erection. She froze. “You’re huge,” she said breathless with passion.

A pained, humorless laugh escaped him. He guided her hand to his shaft and encouraged her to explore the swollen length. A groan escaped him, as she wrapped her delicate fingers about him and moved them up and down.

“It feels like satin,” she said.

Drake’s eyes closed when her emboldened fingers worked him. He couldn’t drum up one rationale thought. A guttural groan emerged low in his throat, escaping from some primitive part deep inside him.

As though enflamed by his desire, she moved up and down on his oaken thigh with a frenzy. Her body stiffened, her finger froze on his shaft, and she was coming in waves upon his thigh. Her keening cry rent the quiet of the carriage as she collapsed atop him, fingers still curled tightly about his length.

Drake placed a kiss at her temple, where a faint sheen of perspiration clung to her.

Emmaline glanced up, her eyes clouded with desire. “I want to pleasure you,” she said huskily. “Show me.” It wasn’t a question.

Drake’s eyes closed. He wanted to wait. Wanted to wait for the moment she was in his bed, under him, and he was thrusting between her sweet thighs.

“Like this,” he instructed hoarsely and showed her the rhythm.

Emmaline watched with wide-eyed fascination as he pumped his hips into her hand, studying the pearly white fluid that leaked from the tip of his shaft.

She squeezed him in her hands, increasing the rhythm, and he sucked in air through his teeth, on a sharp whistle. “God, Emmaline. I’m going to come.”

And then he stiffened, and was coming, a stream of milk white seed poured from him, and Emmaline watched through round eyes.

Replete from his exertions and the power of his orgasm, Drake sunk against the cushions and held Emmaline in his arms. He continued to hold her long after she’d fallen asleep just studying her serene, heart-shaped face until his eyes grew heavy. A yawn escaped him. He’d close his eyes. Just for a short while.

Chapter 36

THE CARRIAGE WHEELS GROUND TO a jarring halt. Drake’s eyes flew open. He made a move to dash his hand across his face and clear the haze of slumber but his hand was caught and he remembered…

His head dropped back slowly into the dark leather squabs of the interior of his carriage and he closed his eyes again on a smile. He must look like a lovelorn pup. Mayhap he was.

They’d arrived at their new home. Home. He smiled.

Drake rearranged Emmaline’s gown. He tugged the bodice back into place and made quick work of the intricate row of buttons. He dropped her skirts and through it all, his sated wife continued to sleep.

Taking care not to jostle her, Drake shoved the curtain apart, and peered at his townhouse. At the time he’d purchased it, he hadn’t allowed himself to imagine the simple things that so many gentlemen took for granted—a wife, a home, children—would ever be his. He believed loneliness was to be the penance required of him for the things he’d done in battle.

Drake let the black fabric fall back in place and shifted his attention to Emmaline. Apparently the gods had, if not forgiven him, granted him this undeserved happiness. They’d sent him down an angel.

A harsh, snorting sound slipped from her slack lips.

He smiled. Apparently, an angel who snored.

Her thick eyelashes fluttered open and closed as she negotiated reality with dream state. There was a sleepy moment of joyful recognition, when her gaze found his and she reached her arms high above her head, arching her back in a contented stretch. She yawned loudly, before closing her eyes, and burrowing into his side.

Then she seemed to realize the carriage had ceased its swaying, rhythmic motion. “We’re here, love,” he confirmed.

Like a bolt of lightening had struck, Emmaline’s body jolted forward and she promptly tumbled to the floor. “I’m a mess,” she cried, in a sweetly endearing hoarse morning voice. She glanced down at her rumpled gown and groaned. “It will take just one glance for the staff to know exactly what we’ve been doing in the carriage.”

He didn’t debate the merit of that point, and instead reached out a hand to assist her up. She dropped her head into her hands and shook it back and forth, groaning in embarrassment. “I want to stay here all day, buried away in this carriage,” she moaned. “I can’t meet the staff like this. I look, like, like…”

Drake waited for her to finish her sentence, lips twitching. “Like?”

Emmaline somehow managed to squish his booted foot beneath her slipper. “You are insufferable.”

“And you are quite a shrew in the morning, love.”

“I am not…” At his pointed smile, she snapped her mouth shut.

He took pity on her frayed state, and quickly helped her up from the floor. He set to work righting her hair, adjusting her gown, and briefly shaking out what wrinkles he could. “There, you’re all properly righted. However,” he gave her a lingering kiss, “I far preferred you all rumpled and thoroughly loved.”

Emmaline accepted his kiss. “You are far too familiar with a lady’s ablutions,” she charged prettily.

Beneath the light teasing tone, there was a rebuke buried in that quip. The hurt reached Emmaline’s wide chocolate brown eyes, spearing him in the heart. He damned himself to perdition.

There was a knock on the carriage door. “We’ve arrived, my lord,” the servant stated from the other side.

Drake ignored him. He took Emmaline’s chin between his hands, and urged her to meet his eyes. “I will not lie to you. There were many, many other women.”

Emmaline winced.

He raised her knuckles to his lips, caressing them deliberately and delicately with his lips. “From the moment you boldly marched up to me in the theatre, there has never been another woman for me. And there will never be. I pledge this to you.”

Her lips pursed in a set line. “There most certainly will not be.”

Drake laughed and dropped another kiss on her lips.

A second rap sounded on the carriage door. “My lord, we’ve—”

“Damn it, I heard you.”

Emmaline swatted at his fingers. “Don’t be so surly. What His Lordship meant to say was, thank you, he heard you,” she addressed the poor servant outside the carriage.

“No it wasn’t. I meant exactly what I said,” Drake corrected for the servant’s benefit.

She rolled her eyes and pulled back the curtains. The servant shuffled back and forth on the balls of his feet.

Emmaline dropped the curtain and leveled Drake with a reproachful look. “Do behave.”

“I’ll be on my best behavior, love,” he whispered, loving the pink blush that stained her cheeks.

He rapped once on the roof of the carriage and the footman promptly opened the door. The young man kept his eyes fixed firmly on the ground.

Drake climbed out of the carriage and held a hand up. Emmaline placed her fingers in his and allowed him to help her down. They proceeded to walk up the steps of their new home.

The staff stood in a small, neat row in the foyer. The housekeeper and butler rushed forward.

“My lord, my lady, welcome. I am Mrs. Brown.” The round housekeeper with plump, merry cheeks dropped a small curtsy. “It is an honor, my lady.”

A warm smile wreathed Emmaline’s face, and the housekeeper fairly preened. Yes, Emmaline had that effect on most people. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Brown. It is so nice to meet you.”

The butler cleared his throat and Emmaline directed her attention to the small man. Nearly an inch shorter than Emmaline, he comported himself with stiff, proper decorum. “If we might introduce you to the rest of the staff,” he said, his tone laced with disapproval of Mrs. Brown’s unfiltered emotions.

Mrs. Brown gave him a pert look, and made a disapproving sound. “Grumpy ole’ thing,” she said to Emmaline in a loud whisper that carried around the foyer.

Emmaline laughed.

Mrs. Brown beamed and turned approvingly to Drake. “I like her, my lord.”

Drake winked. “Which is a good thing, Mrs. Brown, as I’ve no intention of returning her.”

Mr. Smith cleared his throat yet again. “Mrs. Brown.”

Mrs. Brown’s response was to give the man another disapproving glance. “I heard you, I heard you. No need to be such a Napoleon.”

At last, Mr. Smith was ruffled. He propped his hands upon his hips and took a step towards the taller Mrs. Brown. “How dare you, you impertinent bit of baggage. The only reason the Captain agreed to hire you was because—”

Drake gave a sharp clap. “That is quite enough.”

Mr. Smith flushed. “My apologies, Cap’n,” he muttered, dropping his head.

Drake leaned close to his wife and whispered for her ears alone. “The staff is largely made up of soldiers and their families. I hope it does not offend you, my lady.” A sudden uncertainty plagued Drake. He wanted Emmaline to be pleased and knew the servants he’d assembled were a good deal less than conventional.

Emmaline glanced down the line at their rather unconventional staff, her expression inscrutable. Her eyes lingered on the stiff, erect form of Mr. Smith, a military man, and then the gregarious Mrs. Brown, who’d followed the drum. She finally looked at Drake. “I think it is brilliant, husband.”

He released a breath.

“Come, my lady, I’m sure you are ready to go above stairs now,” Mrs. Brown interrupted.

“You ain’t to interrupt. It just ain’t done.” Mr. Smith couldn’t contain himself. His deeply lined cheeks went ruddy at his second uncharacteristic loss of control.

The housekeeper favored him with a wink and a cheeky smile. She took Emmaline by the arm. “Come on, luvvie. Let us get you ready for the captain.”

Ten different shades of red colored Emmaline’s cheeks as she looked over her shoulder at Drake, as if she were silently pleading with him to rescue her.

He winked.

* * *

EMMALINE DIDN’T HAVE ANY CHOICE but to be steered up the staircase, to her chambers. When they entered, Emmaline found her maid. Grace stood removing articles of clothing from Emmaline’s trunks.

Grace smiled. “My lady,” she greeted with a curtsy.

“Grace,” she returned and then her eyes fell to the bed behind Grace, where an elaborate white silk peignoir had been laid out. Her eyes traveled over the delicate fabric adorned with a pearl-encrusted bodice and trimmed with intermittent diamonds. It was stunning.

Mrs. Brown shared a look with Grace. “It will be a fine night for His Lordship. And for my lady, I venture,” Mrs. Brown said in a hushed whisper.

Grace laughed, even as Emmaline’s cheeks heated with embarrassment. Her maid rushed forward. “Come, come, let me help ready you!”

Mrs. Brown made an approving sound. “If you have any need of me, just ring.” With that, she left.

Emmaline allowed Grace to assist her out of her wedding gown and into the silk piece. The smooth silk fluttered over her like the velvety petals of a rosebud, and she shivered as cool fabric met her naked skin. Faintly trembling hands ran along the sides of her nightgown.

She felt…

…naked.

“You are stunning, my lady,” Grace murmured. She removed the pins from Emmaline’s hair, and began brushing the long brown locks until they fell freely, loosely about her waist.

Emmaline stared at her reflection in the bevel mirror. For nearly the first time in her life she felt… beautiful.

“Is there anything else you require, my lady?”

Emmaline started. “No, no thank you, Grace. That will be all.”

Grace dipped a curtsy and slipped quietly from the room.

Emmaline continued to stare at the reflection of the silk clad woman in the mirror, hardly daring to believe it was her own visage. She cocked her head, touching a finger to her lips. Would he find her beautiful? A sharp rap on the door interrupted her musings. Emmaline jumped. She pressed a hand to her chest to try and still the rapid-fire beat of her heart.

“Come,” she called, her voice faltering.

Drake filled the open-doorway and a wave of nervousness coursed through her. She made to wipe her damp palms along the sides of her nightgown, but remembered how exquisite the garment was and stopped. “Hullo,” she said, breaking the awkward silence.

Drake leaned against the doorjamb and gave her a reverent smile. “You are stunning.”

Her mouth went dry, words escaped her. Why couldn’t she be seductive and sophisticated, capable of a perfectly naughty smile?

He leveled himself away from the entryway and shoved the door closed with the heel of his boot. “Come, love, you aren’t shy around me of a sudden?”

“No,” she said a touch too quickly. Liar. He makes you feel the same way you did when you had your Come Out at Almack’s…and look what a disaster that had proven to be. She took a breath. Painful awkwardness heightened Emmaline’s sense of inadequacy. She opened her mouth to fill the void that had engulfed the both of them. “The wedding was lovely. And the flowers from the gardens looked so lovely in the church. We were so fortunate to have sun. The day was just…”

Drake folded his arms across his chest. “Lovely?”

Her mouth snapped shut as he sauntered over to her. His chest rose and fell in a steady, calming cadence. The faint scent of sandalwood clung to his skin.

Silence reigned.

And Emmaline decided she’d had enough of it. “Aren’t you going to kiss me?”

Drake’s arms fell to his side and his mouth gaped open. Emboldened by his reaction, she took a deep breath, twined her arms about his neck, and pushed up on her tip-toes. “What no answer? Then I suppose I shall just have to kiss you,” she breathed against his lips, and then kissed him.

Drake groaned. His hands went to her waist and began roving a course over her silk peignoir, caressing her through the silk garment.

Wordlessly, he swept her into his arms and carried her to bed. He took great care as he lowered her gently down onto the soft mattress and then suddenly, he sat back on his haunches. Rolling his shoulders back, he hastily removed his jacket, and threw it haphazardly to the floor. His expertly tied cravat and white lawn shirt followed.

Drake made quick work of his boots and breeches. In moments, he sat naked before her.

Emmaline’s maidenly reservations were replaced with bold curiosity and a woman’s desire. The well-muscled wall of his chest was faintly sprinkled with golden curls. Curious to see if the hair was as soft as it looked, she reached out and caressed him.

Like silk.

His breath caught at her touch.

Emmaline’s gaze dropped lower. She trailed the tip of her finger along his firm, abdominal muscles, and she stiffened. “Oh my God,” she whispered. Thick, jagged scars crisscrossed the lower right side of Drake’s stomach. A similar mark marred the upper portion of his shoulder and disappeared somewhere behind his back.

* * *

UNDER THE SCRUTINY OF HER gaze, Drake tugged the sheet up to conceal his form. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…I forgot,” he stammered, a wave of humiliated shame fanned out from his stomach. How could he forget? Christ, it was a wonder Emmaline hadn’t stormed screaming from the chambers. “I’m hardly the same gentleman I was before the war.”

His time fighting Napoleon had left him scarred both inside and out. He’d been humbled to return to England and see the hideous fascination the women he’d bedded had with his disfigurements. To them it had seemed he was nothing more than an oddity, a source of perverse entertainment. To have Emmaline look at him with distress in her eyes did something to him that none of the other women’s disgust had ever managed to do. Her horror cleaved him in two.

Emmaline reached out and ran a finger across the scar at his shoulder. She sat up on her knees and she strained to see just exactly where the mark continued; her gaze followed the path all the way across his middle back.

“You are correct, you did not return the same man.” She placed a kiss on his right shoulder and proceeded to trail kisses all the way down until she reached the mark. “You came back a better one.” Emmaline rested her head against his chest.

Drake knew he was fortunate to have lived when so many had sustained greater wounds, so many had lost their lives. And yet… as shallow as it was, it bothered him to face the imperfections that marred his body and mind, day in and day out. Drake cleared his throat. “I am horribly disfigured.”

Emmaline came up on her knees once again, and pressed her form to his. “You are perfection.” She smiled and kissed him. “These scars are part of you,” she said when she’d pulled away. “And I love every part of you, exactly as you are. Make love to me.”

Drake’s eyes grew hot and he swore to himself that it wasn’t tears but rather passion. “With pleasure, my lady.” He proceeded to relieve Emmaline of her gown.

He guided her down so her head met the satiny case of the pillow and trailed a series of kisses along the line of her jaw, down her collarbone, until he found the tip of her breast. He drew the erect tip into his mouth and sucked, alternately sucking and flicking it with his tongue. Emmaline thrashed her head back and forth, her brown, silken waves fanned about them like a curtain.

“Please,” she whispered, as her hips undulated with a wild abandon.

Drake responded by placing a hand between her legs and caressing her hot, moist center. Her lids closed and she smartly she gave herself over to the feeling of his touch.

His aching shaft swelled, fairly begging to at last be sheathed deep inside her. Moving over her, he propped himself on his elbows and parted her thighs.

She froze at the feel of his manhood pressed against the entrance to her center.

“Easy, love,” he whispered into her ear, his words coming out as though he’d run a great distance. “Don’t be afraid.”

Emmaline reached up and twined her fingers in his golden hair. “I could never be afraid of you.”

With that, he slid deeper into her. He closed his eyes and took several, steadying breaths as he willed himself to go slowly. It was bloody torture. He’d longed for this moment since he’d seen her challenge Whitmore in the street with fire in her eyes and outrage on her plump, seductive lips. All he wanted to do was thrust high and deep into her.

She stiffened again and Drake brought a hand between their bodies, fondling her center. Emmaline moaned in response, her head nestling deeper into the feathered pillow beneath her head. Her thighs fell open wider in a sweet invitation.

“That’s it, love,” he breathed and with a sudden thrust, broke past her maidenhead.

Drake’s eyes slid closed as a hiss of breath left his lips. He’d never felt anything like this in his life. Her tightness quivered about his shaft, pulsating, thrumming. She felt like…home.

Emmaline’s eyes slid open and a gasp of pain escaped her.

“Just feel, my love.” He began to move.

He knew the moment Emmaline turned herself over to desire. She lifted her hips experimentally, then grew bolder. A loud, animalistic groan ripped from his throat.

Her hips picked up rhythm. He increased the depth of his strokes. A scream tore from her and she careened out of control. Her release drove Drake over the edge. He let out a triumphant shout, and poured his seed deep inside her. With a groan, he collapsed atop her.

Taking care not to crush her diminutive figure, he braced himself on his elbows, and placed a kiss on her closed lids.

She murmured something inaudible; a pleased smile played about her lips.

“What was that, love?”

“That was wonderful,” she murmured drowsily, and then promptly fell asleep.

Drake rolled beside her, and pulled her into the fold of his arms.

He continued to hold her like that for several hours, not wanting to relinquish this moment of sated peace which had eluded him for years. His eyes grew heavy and he jerked awake as his body tried to pull him into a deep slumber. Drake set her away. He pulled the sheets over her naked form.

Emmaline burrowed into the covers with a contented sigh. He placed one more lingering kiss upon her lips, and went to find his sleep elsewhere.

Drake hovered in the doorway fighting the deep pull to return to her side. He closed his eyes and gripped the sides of the doorway. He could not trust himself to be alone with her—not when he was besieged by nightmares.

With a sigh, he glanced over his shoulder at her, and took his leave.

Chapter 37

EMMALINE SHIVERED AND NESTLED INTO the thick blankets, inching to the opposite side of the bed in search of Drake’s warmth. It wasn’t until she had made her way across the entire bed and hovered at the edge did she realize his spot was empty.

She fought back a yawn and rubbed her eyes. Her gaze landed on the rumpled spot beside her. With a frown, she reached out and ran her fingers over the fabric. Empty and cold, she amended.

Where the devil had her husband gone to?

Emmaline pushed herself up on her elbows, and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. A shiver wracked her frame as her feet collided with a thin maroon rug that did little to dull the biting edge of nighttime’s cool spring air.

“Drake?” Her gaze did a quick sweep of the room. She folded her arms across her chest to rub warmth into them and walked over to the windows. Emmaline pulled back the curtains. The stars twinkled up in the dark sky like so many gems thrown onto a black blanket. Emmaline looked at the clock on the fireplace mantle.

Two o’clock in the morning.

She retrieved her rumpled silk nightgown and tugged it over her head, and then searched the room for her robe. Finding it on the floor, she picked it up, and stuffed her arms into the sleeves.

Emmaline sank down onto the edge of her mattress and ran her fingers in circles along the coverlet. A strand of hair fell across her eye and she blew it back. Well, blast and damn, Drake had abandoned her on their wedding night. She considered her husband’s absence, and tried to work out what it meant. Mayhap he’d left because…because…

She tapped her foot in annoyance. Well, damn and blast again, she couldn’t come up with a single, justifiable reason for him to scurry off to….to—wherever it was he’d gone.

And the longer she sat their thinking about it, the more her ire grew. How dare he leave her alone on their wedding night? Emmaline jumped up and with purpose in her steps, crossed to the armoire. She flung the doors open and fished around for a more modest nightgown and wrapper, which she donned in place of the scandalous piece she’d worn for Drake.

Then she set out in search of Drake.

She paused at the door immediately next to her room. Emmaline turned the knob and pushed her way inside. It took her eyes some time to adjust to the darkness of Drake’s chambers. When they finally did, she peered around and noted his untouched bed.

So her husband had not sought out his own bed. Which was only slightly more mollifying.

She closed the door on a soft click and then moved down the hall. Generally, all candles would have been extinguished. Yet here, in Drakes home the lit sconces illuminated her way. Eerie shadows danced and flickered off the walls around her and she frowned as a shiver of nervousness stole along her spine.

“Don’t be a ninny,” she said into the quiet, soothed by the sound of her own voice. Still, she picked up her pace, unsure of her next destination. Emmaline came to a long hall that split into two directions. She paused, chewing her lip.

Well, she wasn’t going to find him standing still. Turning down the hallway that would lead her to the rooms on the left side of the townhouse, she approached the first door and poked her head inside. It was a parlor. She wrinkled her nose. A very dark and dreary parlor devoid of feminine frills and adornment. She would see to that.

Emmaline moved to the next door and found what she assumed was Drake’s office. It too, was empty. Continuing on, she noted a flicker of a light under the crack of one doorway, and made her way over to it.

She gently turned the handle and pushed it forward. Seated in a leather winged back chair, with his legs propped on a table in front of him, Drake stared off into the flickering flames of the lit fireplace, an open book, seemingly forgotten on his lap. Sir Faithful rested soundly at his feet.

“Drake?”

Drake did not give any indication that he’d been startled by her unexpected appearance. Sir Faithful, however, raised his head drowsily to determine who’d intruded on his sleep, before giving a big yawn and resting his head on his paws.

“He is not much of a guard dog,” she said, breaking the thick silence.

He finally spared her a brief glance. “Emmaline.” His tone was flat.

Emmaline wet her lips nervously. “You left me.” She flinched at the hurt little accusatory edge to her words.

Drake looked away, but not before she glimpsed the blankness in his expression. “I’m not tired.”

Was this the same man who’d made sweet love to her mere hours ago? Emmaline cleared her throat. “That isn’t possible. After the wedding? Our travels?” Our lovemaking.

His jaw set stonily. “I slept in the carriage.”

Emmaline sidled closer. “It is past two o’clock in the morning.” The fireplace flame danced off the gold lettering of the book on his lap, pulling her attention to that which had drawn him away from her bed.

She started. And then her lips twitched with gloating amusement. The Castle of Wolfenbach.

Drake saw the direction of her notice and flushed. He shifted in his seat as though he was a naughty child caught pilfering treats from the kitchen.

“Drake?”

“Yes.”

“Are you reading a Gothic novel?”

Drake reached out and before she could anticipate his intentions, he dragged her across his lap and began nuzzling the sensitive spot behind her ear. He trailed his tongue along the skin until she shivered. His skilled fingers inched her modest dressing gown up, higher, and higher, so her naked thighs were exposed to the night air.

She swatted at his fingers. “You didn’t answer me.”

He proceeded to nibble the corner of her lip. “I think you can see I was,” he said on a silken whisper.

She angled her head away from him. “Stop trying to distract me. Apologize.”

“I’m trying not to be offended by your lack of interest in my advances, love,” he drawled.

“Apologize,” she pressed, fighting the allure of his seductive smile.

Drake sighed. “I’m sorry for kissing you…”

Emmaline laughed and took another playful swipe. “Don’t be a great lummox. Tell me I was right, and how wonderful a good Gothic novel is.”

Drake laid his head back on the leather of the chair and shook his head back and forth. “Are we truly having this discussion now?”

She jutted her chin out. “Yes.”

“I still hold your gothic novels are over-dramatic, ridiculous—”

Her gasp quashed his tirade. “You cannot disparage them and then read them clandestinely. It’s—”

“May I finish, my lady?”

Emmaline folded her arms across her chest. “Finish.”

Clearing his throat, Drake continued. “It is true. Since I stumbled upon you at the Old Corner Bookshop and read Glenarvon, I found, to my utter amazement,” he muttered beneath his breath, “they do indeed make for occasionally bloody, interesting reading. So, I offer my most humble apologies, my lady. You were indeed correct. A gothic novel can be very entertaining.”

Emmaline leaned down and placed a long, slow, lingering kiss upon his lips.

His hand resumed its earlier ministrations, climbing the path of her white thigh, higher, higher, just to the juncture of her thighs, when she swiped at him again.

Drake’s hand fell to the arm of the chair. He sighed. “Yes?”

“That isn’t all,” she reminded him.

Drake’s brow furrowed. “It isn’t? He resumed his exploration of her body.

“No, it isn’t. You left me.”

With his fingers, he parted the folds of her womanhood. In spite of her best efforts to the contrary, her body responded eagerly to his touch. With a keening moan, she arched into his hand, writhing helplessly in his lap.

“Stop,” she panted, shimmying away from him. She flung the skirts of her nightgown back down into place.

Drake gave a long-suffering sigh. “Must I?”

“I’m not amused, Drake.”

A single golden brow arched at her words. “Darling, I’m hard and aching. The last thing I want to discuss on our wedding night is my reading preferences or why I left you.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“Emmaline, I don’t think you’ve done a thing wrong in your life.”

Emmaline snorted and roll her eyes. “Oh, I assure you Sebastian would be glad to point out just how wrong you are on that score.”

“And I assure you, the last person I want to think about with you sitting on my lap and my shaft hard for you is your brother.”

Emmaline laughed. “Fair enough.”

Silence fell, and when he didn’t seem eager to fill it, she nudged him in the ribs. “I’m waiting.”

“I don’t sleep well at night, Emmaline.” He moved her off his lap and raked an agitated hand through tousled golden hair. “I have nightmares about the war. Sometimes I am violent. I don’t feel…comfortable knowing you might be unsafe.” The words came out clipped in an emotionless tone. A dry humorless laugh bubbled eerily in his throat. “There you have it. I’m afraid to sleep next to my own wife. What have I become?”

Besieged by a wave of helplessness, Emmaline stood frozen beside Drake’s chair not knowing what to do. Or say. The Drake before her was not one she was familiar with. She knew him as the confident, unflappable gentleman, possessed of a wry wit and single-minded determination. This man before her, humbled and hesitant, made her reassess the façade of invincibility she’d constructed around him. With a delicate touch, she reached out and ran her fingers through his hair. He flinched. “You must know I will not allow you to sleep anywhere but beside me.”

Drake made a sound in his throat and turned into her caress. “Emmaline, please do not ask this of me. That day in your garden, when I knocked you down…I thought I would go mad. I would never forgive myself if I hurt you again.”

She tapped a finger along his chin. “Don’t you see? I’m yours unconditionally. Not only when life is easy.” Sinking beside his chair, she knelt at his feet. “I want to be here for you. It is time you let me in. I need you, all of you.” She framed his face between her hands. “Come to bed.”

* * *

AN INNER BATTLE WAGED WITHIN Drake. The devil in him that only cared about how Emmaline made him feel, urged him to pick her up and carry her to bed. Consequences be damned. The practical part that had ruled him since his return from the Peninsula, paraded every time he’d been awakened by demons from his past, through his memory.

Go with her, the devil urged. Perhaps he was a friend of the devil, after all, because he was the one Drake chose to listen to.

Wordlessly he climbed to his feet and swept Emmaline into his arms. He carried her through the silent household, their rapid breaths the only punctuation in the night quiet. That, and the gentle padding of Sir Faithful’s paws on the soft carpet as Drake weaved his way down the hallway, up the stairs, and to her bedchamber.

Drake kicked the door shut with the tip of his foot and carried Emmaline to the rumpled bed. He lowered her down and Sir Faithful began to bark noisily. “Hush.” The dog sat, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.

Drake returned his attention to Emmaline.

She eyed the dog. “He is watching us,” she said in a hushed whisper.

He didn’t pause from his efforts of removing her nightgown and robe, kissing each spot of flesh he exposed. “I assure you, he cannot understand your words, so there really is no need to whisper,” he murmured between kisses.

He then devoted his attention to her mouth. Kissing the corner of her lips, he claimed the plump lower bud of flesh between his teeth and suckled.

The world, but for the two of them, ceased to exist.

At least for Drake.

Emmaline cast another nervous glance down when Sir Faithful whimpered.

“He is watching.”

In the midst of lowering his head to worship her ruby red nipple, Drake paused. He dropped his head resignedly between her breasts. “He was your gift.” Then, he closed his mouth around her nipple.

She cried out in protest when he stopped. He slid down further and further until his head was at the juncture of her thighs. His breath fanned the dark thatch of curls, the hot, musk of her scent drove him to near delirium. He needed to taste her.

Her hand fell to his head, halting his movements. “Yes he was my gift, but…”

Drake paused yet again. “Emmaline.”

“Yes,” she breathed.

“Be quiet.”

At long last, Emmaline forgot about Sir Faithful.

And somehow, after they’d made love, Drake let peaceful sleep overtake him in his wife’s arms.

Chapter 38

EMMALINE LAUGHED. SHE STRETCHED A hand out to play with the cloying blackness; her other hand gripped Drake’s arm as he steered her blindfolded on a winding course through the house. “Are we there yet?”

“Hush,” he said, a playful edge infused into his words.

In the time they’d been married, the hard, cynical look Emmaline had come to expect from Drake, had been replaced with tiny lines that creased the corners of his eyes when he laughed. Oftentimes she would awaken in the middle of the night, to watch him as he slept. In his peaceful slumbering’s, a boy-like quality clung to him. The tightness around Drake’s lips, the firm set to his jaw, disappeared. It was in those stolen moments, she most loved studying him. Arrogant though it was, she loved that she was responsible for his happiness.

Emmaline had expected Drake would continue to go out and visit his clubs. Instead, he’d forsaken all trips to White’s and Brooks’s and insisted they decline the many invitations for the new Marquess and Marchioness of Drake. They alternated their time between reading gothic novels on the library sofa, and making love—oftentimes also on the library sofa.

Drake guided her to a halt. Carefully untying the length of fabric he’d used to cover her eyes, he removed the fabric. “We’re here.”

Emmaline blinked to accustom herself to the unexpected ray of sunshine.

Then blinked again.

The garden, walled off by solid brick, was a tangled mess of shrubs, flowers, and weeds. Branches were all twisted up in overgrown ivy weeds had long ago choked off and overrun the rosebushes throughout the space. The area was so vastly different than her mother’s well-tended, immaculate gardens.

Taking a long, slow look around…her fingers twitched with the urge to work on the space. Her mind conjured strategies of redesign. It was a blank canvas…and it was hers.

Drake rocked on the balls of his feet. “I purchased the home after seeing the garden. I imagined you working here. If it does not suit, if there is too much to be done, I will gladly bring in as many—”

Emmaline turned and threw her arms about his neck, squeezing tightly. “It is the most amazing gift anyone has ever given me.”

Drake took her lips in a slow, lingering kiss. Without a thought for propriety, he scooped Emmaline into his arms and carried her through the gardens, down the hall, up the stairs, down another hall, and into his bedchamber. The bedchamber they’d come to share.

Drake pressed the handle and carried her inside. He shoved the door closed with heel of his boot, and carried her to the bed. His ravaging mouth never broke contact, as he carefully set her down on the edge of the mattress.

Emmaline threw her head back and moaned her disapproval, when Drake pulled his lips away. But he only moved his exploration to her neck, to the line of her bodice. He made quick work of the tiny buttons along the back of her gown. Next, Drake tugged the bodice down, and divested her of her stays and chemise, so that her breasts were exposed to his hot gaze. The cool air, combined with his hungry jade stare made the tips of her breasts tighten painfully.

With breath held, she watched as his lips closed around the bud. A pool of warmth settled at the juncture of her thighs. Drake lowered her to bed, and followed her with his body. His hands expertly worked the hem of her gown up, inching it higher. Her thighs parted for him, urging him closer. He came over her, but Emmaline rolled away. Going up on her knees, she pressed her exposed breasts to the fabric of his blue coat. The rough material against the sensitive skin of her nipples nearly drove her to a fever pitch.

Drake’s emerald eyes darkened the color of onyx, his eyes clouded with passion.

“It seems you are in need of release,” she purred. She reached between them and through the fabric of his riding breeches, stroked his hard shaft.

“Emmaline, free me,” he said his voice scratchy with desire.

“My pleasure, my lord.” Emmaline unfastened the buttons at the front flap of his breeches and shoved him down to the mattress. She looked up at him with heavy eyes. “I’d show you pleasure like you showed me last night.”

* * *

BEFORE DRAKE COULD FATHOM HER intentions, Emmaline took him in her mouth.

A hiss escaped his lips at the unexpectedness of her ministrations. He labored to open his eyes so he could view her as she pleasured him. His eyes slid closed. God, she was brilliant with her tongue. “Stop,” he commanded. He didn’t know how long he could last. The pull of her lips around his length was near torture.

Drake arched his hips upward. Her delicate tongue worked him and a groan ripped from somewhere deep in his chest.

A jerky hiss slipped from between his tightly clenched teeth when she pulled back, but she rucked her skirts above her knees and straddled him. Of their own volition, his hands went to her hips as she eased upon his hard shaft. A sweet, breathy sigh escaped her as she sheathed herself fully.

Emmaline moved upon him in a slow rhythmic motion at first that built into a frenzied movement as she violently rode him.

Drake stroked his palms over the swell of her buttocks. Her body stiffened and she came in long, rippling waves upon him, coating his shaft. With a little moan, she collapsed atop him.

And then, with a guttural cry wrenched from his throat, he spilled his seed deep inside her.

They continued to lay that way; their limbs entangled like old tree branches. The sound of silence filled the room, occasionally punctuated by the tick of the ormolu clock on the oak mantle of the fireplace.

Their efforts had brought the silken waves of her deep brown hair cascading about them. It fanned over them like a satin sheet.

Drake’s rapid breath began to slow. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to move again.”

Emmaline finally picked up her head from his chest and peered at him through sated, heavy eyes. “Was that—?”

“Do not even ask.” His lips found hers. He smiled at the pleased expression his words resulted in and pinched her right buttocks. “Don’t grow conceited, love.”

Emmaline curled into his side and rested her chin on his chest. He felt her smile against his naked skin.

“It’s been dreary going through life being adequate at everything. It is nice to know there is something I excel at.” She gave a long, exaggerated sigh. “It is unfortunate, others can’t know of my skills.” Drake pinched her on the buttocks again and she squealed.

“Do not even think about sharing your talents,” he growled. He heard the possessive flare in his tone. Just the idea of Emmaline with any other man enraged him to the point that he wanted to find the non-existent bastard and grind his fist into the other man’s face.

“Don’t look like that.”

“Like what?”

Emmaline ran her fingers through his hair. “Like you are capable of murdering a phantom lover. How could I ever desire anyone else?”

Wordlessly he rose over her and gripped her hands within his. He raised them above her head.

Her eyes widened at the feel of his shaft stirring against her belly. “Again?”

“Again.”

He proceeded to show her why she could never desire another man.

Chapter 39

A LOW MEWLING SOUND PENETRATED the thick fog of sleep that had engulfed Emmaline. Her eyes fluttered open as she tried to make sense of the noise that had penetrated her dreamless state. Sleeping against the hard-muscled wall of Drake’s chest, she was loathe to move from the warm safety of his arms.

The whimpering increased in volume. Emmaline looked around for Sir Faithful. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the lack of light. The ink black of the night sky penetrated the gold gilt curtains which were slightly agape.

Sir Faithful barked.

She peered over the edge of the bed. Sir Faithful paced at her bedside. He emitted a small, quiet moan. “What is it, boy?”

The answering response was a short cry—a very human cry, that sent a shivery trail of bumps shooting up her spine. It jerked her attention back toward the bed.

Drake thrashed his head wildly upon his pillow. The golden strands of his hair glistened with so much sweat it was as though he’d been caught in a rainstorm. “No, no, no!”

The despair etched into each line of his slumbering face struck her like a physical blow. “Shh. I’m here, Drake.” She took his face between her hands and leaned close to him. “Do you hear me? I’m here.” She willed her words to bring him back from the hell that had dragged him by his heels and into this netherworld of horror. But it was unrelenting, unwilling to relinquish its hold.

His body stilled.

A sigh slipped from her lips in the form of a prayer. “Oh thank God, Drake. I—”

“For the love of God, don’t do it, man!” Drake screamed into the night, twisting in the covers, which only seemed to heighten his panic.

Emmaline gripped his arm, shaking him gently at first, and then harder. “Please, Drake, please.” Tears dripped down her cheeks and merged with his salty mementos of despair.

She scrubbed at her cheeks. Her sadness would do him no good. Emmaline found strength in fury. How dare these demons take him from her? She would be damned if this nightmare stole him from her. They were memories. Hideous, horrible, ugly memories. She, however, was real. She was here. She would not relinquish him to a dream. If he could feel her, if he could taste her then maybe she could rescue him from the memories she’d never be able to see.

“Drake, I am not letting you go. Come back to me. Now!”

His eyes flew open and he stared at her with a blank gaze.

Emmaline swallowed. He was still gone to her.

Drake shouted over and over, the piteous sound reverberated off the walls.

She registered the frantic footsteps outside their chamber. The door opened and then closed with a loud slam.

Emmaline looked to the entryway just as Drake roared. He threw his forearm out and elbowed her in the chin. The force of the blow knocked her over and tangled as she was in the sheets, Emmaline went reeling into the side of the nightstand. She fell from the bed; her hip struck the floor.

A blast of stars danced behind her eyes. Emmaline blinked back oblivion.

Sir Faithful whimpered and lapped her cheek with his coarse, pink tongue. It dragged Emmaline back from the edge of blackness.

“My lady? Are you all right?” Drake’s valet’s question came as if he spoke down a long hallway.

She couldn’t muster the appropriate humility over the impropriety of James viewing her en dishabille. Instead, she motioned to Drake. “Help me.” The words came out garbled.

When the valet, rushed to her side, his gaze averted from the sheet draped around her form, Emmaline shook her head. No, not me. Help me, help him. “Help him.” She forced the words out deliberate, one at a time.

Seeming torn, James hesitated, and then directed his attention to Drake.

Drake’s body stilled. Emmaline didn’t know whether the nightmare had run its course or whether her husband responded to the familiarity of James’ presence but his ragged breaths settled into a smooth, even pattern.

James pulled the coverlet over Drake. “May I be of assistance, my lady?” He very deliberately fixed his gaze on her husband.

“That is all,” she assured him. Her head continued to ache, but the dull throb had lessened. “Thank you, James.”

He nodded and made to take his leave and then, paused at the doorway, his back to her. “My lady, he is a good man.”

“I don’t need convincing of Lord Drake’s character,” she said, gently. She knew more about Drake than anyone suspected. She knew about Valiant and the men he’d saved. “I know he is a good man.”

James hesitated, as though there was something more he wished to say, but then bowed. “My lady.” He closed the door behind him with a quiet click.

James’ exit appeared to have a greater impact than all of Emmaline’s pleading.

Drake bolted upright. “Emmaline?”

* * *

DRAKE HAD TO TELL HIS mind that he was safely ensconced in his bedroom and not fighting for his life on the battlefields of the Peninsula.

He looked around the room and frowned. He’d acquiesced to Emmaline’s wishes and agreed to sleep with her. Where had she gone?

As if she’d heard his unspoken question, her voice called up to him. “Here.”

He peered about and then blinked back a fog of confusion. Why in hell was she on the…A surge of bile climbed up his throat and choked him. Knowing intuitively what he’d find, he leaned over. His fingers gripped the edge of the mattress and he clung to the material object, certain it was all that kept him from tumbling off into madness. Nausea roiled in his gut, nearly overwhelming him with its intensity. What have I done?

Drake clenched his eyes tight. He wanted to wail like the beast he was. His greatest fear, a fear now realized, stared up at him.

“Christ,” he hissed.

“I’m fine, Drake,” she whispered. A faint quaver underlined her words.

His gaze did a sweep of her form and settled on the large knot at her temple. The delicate skin had already begun to turn a purpling-black. It matched the bruise that had begun to form on her cheek.

Drake came off the bed in one fluid motion and dropped to his knees. “What have I done?”

With hands that shook, he inspected the damage he’d caused. He gently probed the lump near her temple. She flinched under his touch and his hands fell to his side. He was a monster. Oh, he’d allowed himself to believe in the weeks since they’d married that he’d begun to improve. He’d assured himself that the episodes were coming less frequently, his sleep less interrupted. He’d attributed it to her, she was his beacon. She gave him strength.

Drake now realized he’d deluded himself. What was worse than his self-delusion was that he’d put Emmaline in danger. Good God, he could have killed her. He abruptly fell onto his haunches, putting distance between him and Emmaline—physical and emotional. Wearily, he dropped his head to his hands.

“Look at me,” she said. “Look at me,” she repeated when he still didn’t acknowledge her.

Forcing himself to look at her, his stomach turned at the sight of her bruised face. “Forgive me?” he pleaded.

Emmaline’s lower lip quivered. She reached out a hand and he stared down at her unsteady fingers. “There is nothing to forgive, Drake.”

A hollow, mirthless laugh rang from his chest. “There is everything to forgive. I hurt you. I should have never married you.”

She flinched. “I love you.”

Drake gritted his teeth. “Love is not enough, Emmaline.”

Emmaline gasped and it was all he could do to keep from taking her in his arms. He erected an emotionless wall of indifference.

Drake stood and helped her up. He guided her to the edge of the bed. Her full, red lips that would haunt him for the rest of his days parted, as if she intended to speak. “Not another word. We will finish this tomorrow. I am ringing for supplies to tend your—your…” He couldn’t finish.

“Drake…”

Drake spun on his heels and rang for a servant. Within moments, knuckles brushed the wood panel of the door and Drake yanked the door open. “I need strips of cloth and water.”

The servant bowed and beat a hasty retreat.

Drake took a slow, steadying breath and turned around to face his wife. His body recoiled the same way it had when he’d taken a bullet to the shoulder.

If Mallen could see her, Drake would be a dead man. A black laugh erupted from his lips, the sound eerie to his own ears.

“What are you thinking?” Emmaline whispered.

Drake ignored her. Mayhap that was what he should do. Call for the Duke of Mallen, let the man see his sister, then…his turbulent thoughts were interrupted by a perfunctory knock. In three strides, Drake crossed the room and pulled open the door.

Accepting the items from James without so much as a word of thanks, he shut the door with a quiet click.

Drake closed his eyes momentarily. When he opened them, he trained his gaze on the wood panel of the door. The time of cowardice was at an end. In order to see to her injuries, he had to face her.

Taking a deep breath, he turned around.

With a soft tread, he crossed to the bed and eased the basin of water onto the nightstand. Then, gently, so as to hardly compress the mattress, he sat beside her.

With fingers that shook, he brought the compress to her cheek. He saw her effortful attempts not to flinch and his guilt swelled. “I am so sorry.”

Emmaline caught her lower lip between her teeth. “I am fine.”

A mirthless laugh escaped him. “Yes, that lump and black bruise on your cheek are just fine.” He dipped a cloth into the basin. His jerky movements sent water over the sides of the white porcelain, and sprayed the floor.

“You don’t need to be so cavalier.”

He flung the cloth against the opposite wall and Emmaline flinched. The sopping fabric left a watery trail along the pale blue plaster. “Cavalier? You call me cavalier?” Beset by the hopelessness of it all, he leapt to his feet and began to pace. “This has all been a terrible mistake,” he said.

A flash of fury sparked in her brown eyes. “I understand you feel guilty. It is however, unpardonable for you to say such a thing.” Fury made her chest rise and fall swiftly, it reddened her cheeks. She stormed across the room and planted herself in front of him. “How dare you say that?” She jabbed a finger at his chest.

Drake dragged a hand through his hair and fixed his stare at a point beyond her shoulder, unable to meet her accusing gaze. Fire fairly leapt in her eyes. Emmaline should be furious…but only with the fact that he’d subjected her to a life of dangerous uncertainty.

“We are not discussing this tonight,” he growled. He stepped around her and made his way toward the door. She followed close at his heels.

“You are not to walk away from this discussion,” Emmaline said.

He stopped so abruptly she careened into his back.

His spun around and his arms came up instinctively to right her. He steadied her and then dropped his arms by his side. He wasn’t fit to touch her. Drake swallowed back a wave of despair. “Good night, my lady.”

Drake beat a low, formal bow, and left.

Chapter 40

THE NEXT MORNING, EMMALINE SAT on the deep blue velvet sofa in Drake’s office. She’d read and re-read the same sentence of the volume in her hands. With a sigh, she set aside his copy of The Castle of Wolfenbach.

A bright stream of sunlight angled through the narrow opening in the curtains. Emmaline rubbed a hand over her eyes. She’d not been able to think of anything other than the moment Drake had walked out on her last evening. She had longed to go after him but had not wanted to push Drake when he’d been so clearly vulnerable. Instead, she had lain in bed, counting down the evening minutes until she’d eventually fallen into a restless slumber.

For surely the hundredth time since she’d entered his office that morning, Emmaline consulted the grating clock as it tick-tocked away on the fireplace mantle. Ten o’clock.

Where in blazes was he? He could be at Hyde Park? Why hadn’t she thought of the possibility sooner? She should have searched him out. And what, wander over all of London for her new husband? Oh, how the gossips would love that story.

On the heel of that thought came the realization that any hint of scandal where she and Drake were concerned would result in an appearance from her far too-overprotective brother. Therefore it was in her best interest to glean his whereabouts before the speculative ton did. She pressed her fingers along her temple line and then winced at the painful reminder of last evening.

He’d promised her they would speak in the morning. And instead, he’d left her. She battled down the hurt that tugged at her heart and fed the healthy anger that enlivened her. How dare he lie to her? She was not a child. She was his wife. Drake owed her a conversation.

Emmaline jumped to her feet, and rang for a servant. She paced back and forth until a servant arrived.

“My lady?”

“Will you ask Mrs. Brown to come here?”

The maid dipped a curtsy. “Of course, my lady.”

Emmaline rang her hands and walked over to the window. She pulled back the curtain and stared unseeing down into the bustling street below. A fashionably dressed couple caught her notice. With their arms linked, they strolled leisurely down the pavement and seemed unaware of the hurried movements of the strangers around them. The couple wore matching expressions of simple, uncomplicated adoration. An awful niggling of jealousy crept into Emmaline’s mind. How she longed for that. Not just for herself, but for her and Drake.

“My lady!” Mrs. Brown’s booming voice interrupted her musings.

Emmaline startled and turned to face the housekeeper. “Mrs. Brown, good morning to you. I was wondering if you had happened to see His Lordship today?”

Mrs. Brown’s eyes went wide and her big mouth quivered. “I certainly have, my lady.” Tears smarted behind the lady’s eyes and she dashed a hand across her cheeks.

A panicky fear clawed at Emmaline. Her fingers curled into tight balls at her sides, and she dug her nails into the pad of her palm so hard, she nearly drew blood. “What is it, Mrs. Brown? Is he unwell?”

The normally garrulous housekeeper remained silent, only serving to raise Emmaline’s sense of dread. With a determined step, she crossed over to Mrs. Brown and gripped the woman’s arm gently, but firmly.

The servant made a choked sound in her throat which added to Emmaline’s terror. “He is in your chambers, my lady.”

Emmaline dropped Mrs. Brown’s arm and blinked. “My chambers?” Drake had in fact been within the townhouse the entire time? Could she have been so foolish as to have missed his presence all morning?

Before Mrs. Brown could reply, Emmaline set out at a near run and flew abovestairs toward her chambers. She entered the room, nearly out of breath from her exertions and stumbled to a halt at the sight of her trunks out. Drake stood in the center of the bedroom with his hands clasped behind his back, directing the packing of her belongings.

“Where are we going?” she blurted.

Drake didn’t as much as glance at Emmaline. He murmured something to her maid, Grace, who dipped a curtsy and left. It didn’t escape Emmaline’s notice how Grace pointedly avoided making eye contact with her. A frisson of unease worked a path down her spine.

As soon as the door closed behind Grace, Emmaline turned her attention to Drake. His intense emerald gaze was trained on her bruised cheek. “Look at me, Drake.”

“I am,” he said so quietly, she had to strain to hear him.

“I asked, where are we going?” An impenetrable fear kept her frozen, afraid to move from the spot she stood.

“We are not going anywhere. You are going.”

His words cut into her like the sting of salt water as it is tossed upon an open wound. Thoughts of the happy couple she’d witnessed mere moments ago flitted through her mind. How very joyous they’d been; their happiness a stark contrast to Drake’s own detached demeanor.

God, how she hated those young lovers—even more now. How come they were able to know such happiness when her own life was crumbling down around her like an ancient ruin?

She stuck her chin out. “I’m not going anywhere, Drake.” Emmaline hated the quivering timbre of her voice. Damn him for being so indifferent when she read as transparent as a page in a Gothic novel. “How dare you stand before me seeming to be singularly unaffected? You think to send me away like the crumbs on a dinner plate.”

The only indication given that he was affected by their exchange was an imperceptible tightening of his jaw. “This isn’t a discussion. I’ll not have you hurt. As I said last evening, this was a mistake. I have compromised your safety—”

“And as I’ve said…you are a bloody coward, husband.” She spat the curse at him, reveling in the subtle stiffening of his shoulders, the way he flinched at the word. Good, let him be at least somewhat unbalanced.

In the end, he retained his calm. “Either way, you cannot remain here.”

Emmaline shook her head sadly, her eyes sliding closed. Poor Drake. She thought of all the stories she had learned about him at London Hospital. Thought of all the men he’d considered friends, who he’d left behind. His dog, Valiant.

She took a deep breath. “No.”

Unused to having his wishes countermanded, his brow furrowed. “No?

With a cheeky tilt of her chin, she tossed her head. “That’s correct. No, as in I’m not—”

He slammed his fist against the wall, the ferocity of his movement caused reverberations that sent the collection of crystal perfume bottles on the delicate vanity clattering.

“Christ, Emmaline. Why are you doing this?” he rasped. “This is the hardest thing I’ve done—”

“Then don’t do it.”

* * *

EMMALINE’S WORDS WERE NOT A challenge, an entreaty, or demand. Had that utterance been emotional and enraged, it might have fueled his determination to send her packing.

This calm reasoning, however, he was altogether unprepared for. The soft carpet masked her movements and he was unaware of her bridging the distance between them, until he felt her tender touch on the sleeve of his jacket. He couldn’t look at her bruised, delicate visage. Could not stare at the damage he’d inflicted with his monstrous hands.

“As long as I’ve known you, you’ve turned away from me. Please, stop turning away from me.” There was a gentle plea underlying her words, a soft appeal.

Drake pressed the heel of his palms against his forehead. How could he allow her to remain? Pure selfishness made him want to move forward with her in his life. Calm reason and logic, however, urged him to send her away.

She, however, was more tempting than a devil among man. “You are not alone, Drake. You do not have to be. I am here. Let me in. I will help you.”

How desperately he longed for the presence of someone else alongside him, battling the demons that possessed him. Nay, not just anyone. He longed for her. His brave warrior, who didn’t hesitate to put herself in harm’s way to help others. First she’d saved the peddler. Now she was attempting to save him. Yet, if he turned to her, what kind of bastard would that make him?

Staring unseeing out at her armoire, he willed himself to confront the demons that tormented his waking and sleeping moments. The specters visited so frequently, he’d begun to lose sense of his own self. He’d been trying so desperately to push the ghosts to a deep, dark corner, and they refused to stay banished. This time, he didn’t hold back the memories. Vivid reflections of specific men, and then the other nameless men who visited him each night, paraded through his mind.

Then he knew.

It was guilt he carried. A great sense of blameworthiness that he’d lived when so many others had died. A sense of malfeasance that men had been killed and forever maimed because he’d led them to their death. The confrontation of his own culpability robbed him of the ability to stand. The muscle in his legs turned to nothing and he slid down to the floor, borrowing support from the wall.

And in the light of day, in front of his Emmaline, he did what he’d longed to do for seven long years.

He wept.

Openly. Great big, gasping, noisy tears that wrenched from somewhere deep within him. He felt the flutter of Emmaline’s skirts as she dropped to her knees beside him. She took his face between her hands; kissed his tears, kissed his wet lashes.

She stroked a trembling hand across his brow. He leaned into her touch.

Wordlessly, she climbed onto his lap and burrowed deep against his chest.

Drake’s lips caressed her temple. “How did I ever get so fortunate as to find myself betrothed to you?” he whispered, his voice ragged.

She tilted her head up and favored him with a bemused smiled. “I suppose we only have our fathers to thank.”

Drake gave a rueful shake of his head, remembering that fateful day, when they’d signed the official betrothal contract. A memory tickled the corners of his mind. Recollections suddenly came rushing back to him; he was a boy who’d helped a very young girl to her feet. He caught a strand of her silken brown hair between his fingers. “Brown suits you.”

Emmaline’s lips tipped up in a tremulously beautiful smile. “I didn’t think you remembered.”

Drake stroked a hand over her cheek. “I remember it all.”

“I’d ask something of you, Drake.”

He inclined his head.

“I would that you visit London Hospital. The men would be so pleased to see you. And I think it would do you good, as well.”

That was the real motivation behind her request. Somehow, she possessed the insight to know what it had taken him years to realize—in order to be free of the war, he needed to confront it. As long as he ran from the memories, they would continue to haunt him.

The thought of seeing the men who’d shared his hell made him nauseous. His fingers stroked the beloved lines of her face. He was fairly certain there was nothing he could ever deny her. Not even this.

“I will visit with the…men.”

Emmaline’s expression warmed several degrees. She tangled her fingers in his hair and dragged his mouth down to hers. The kiss she gave him was sweet, soft, lingering.

It tasted like…the future.

Chapter 41

THE PRICKLING EASE OF NERVOUSNESS climbed up Drake’s back, around his neck, and nearly overwhelmed him with a cloying panic. He tugged at his cravat.

It did not help.

Where was the nurse who was supposed to meet him? An interminable amount of time had passed since he’d arrived at eleven o’clock. He consulted his timepiece.

Five minutes after eleven.

Mayhap he should leave. He’d simply explain to Emmaline that he’d waited…all of five minutes, and no one had arrived to show him to the respective ward. It might serve him to exaggerate the span of time just a tad. Yes, that was what he’d do. He’d—

A nurse clad in a stark white dress appeared in the main corridor of the hospital. “My lord, it is an honor.” She dipped a formal curtsy. “I’m Nurse Maitland.”

He lurched forward, the fabric of his greatcoat billowed at the alacrity of his movements. He cleared his throat and inclined his head in greeting. “Nurse Maitland.”

Drake reminded himself it was just a visit with men who’d seen and done things not much different than he had. He doffed his hat, and beat the small brim of the article distractedly against his thigh.

“May I show you to the wing Her Ladyship visits?”

He’d rather she show him a way out of the hospital. Drake nodded. “Uh-yes, that would be fine.”

“Her Ladyship is a noble, wonderful woman.” Either unaware or uncaring of Drake’s desire to engage as little as possible in conversation, the woman prattled on and on. “She is always generous and so very kind to the men. They greatly enjoy her visits.”

Drake was certain of it. How could Emmaline bring anyone anything other than joy? She had an inherent goodness and warmth that was a tangible force.

“She visits often, I understand,” he murmured.

“Oh, yes.”

The nurse fell silent; the only sound, the soft click of his boot steps and her serviceable shoes on the hall floor. And yet, now that she’d ceased talking, Drake found himself suddenly eager for more information from the woman. He found a yearning to know more about Emmaline.

Drake cleared his throat. “What—what does the marchioness do on her visits?”

From the corner of his eye, he observed the older woman’s smile. “Why, she reads to the soldiers, tells them stories. Brings them floral arrangements and baskets of treats. My lady has visited each week for many years now. I don’t know another person more steadfast and pure of heart.”

Neither did he.

Where he’d spent the interim years since the war carousing, gambling, and womanizing, she had led a far nobler, far more redeeming life.

“Here we are.” She opened a set of double doors and Drake passed through.

In his imaginings of the hospital for returned soldiers, he’d envisioned a drab, dark place with rows upon rows of beds with soldiers lying in stony silence.

With the exception of the rows of beds, none of the images he’d conjured had been correct.

The room, far brighter than he’d imagined resonated with the chatter of men, sharing stories, laughing at ribald jokes. Fresh cut blooms in white porcelain vases had been placed on nightstands beside a number of the beds.

Nurse Maitland saw the direction of his gaze. “My lady’s doing,” she explained. “The flowers are from her gardens. It does add cheer to the room, wouldn’t you say?”

“It does that.”

All as one, it was as if the men present registered the presence of an interloper. Seemingly endless pairs of eyes turned in his direction, leveling him with curiosity and suspicion. He thought he’d feel uncomfortable among them, that the sense of failure, which weighed on him would make any meetings awkward. He would not have blamed any one of the men who had served under him and fallen on the fields to feel anything but anger toward him. They would be justified in their feelings.

Drake instead felt a greater sense of belonging than he’d ever before experienced at any club or soiree.

“Cap’n Drake!” One man called, unmindful of Drake’s status as lord.

Nurse Maitland made to interject and remind the man of proper address, but Drake silenced her with a brisk wave. “I’m sure there are many other more pressing matters that require your attention. Thank you for showing me to the ward.”

The older woman dipped her head. “Please call if I can be of any further assistance.”

Drake inclined his head in acknowledgement, and then directed his attention to the soldier who’d called his name.

He moved down the hospital floor and murmured a greeting to the soldiers he passed. Some eyed him with wary curiosity. Others, not knowing he’d fought the same bloody fight they’d fought, eyed him with skepticism, suspecting he was nothing more than another lord doing a charitable service by paying them a visit.

The sight of a reed-thin soldier with a shock of red hair brought his movements to an abrupt halt. From the bright orange hue of his closely cropped hair, to the hue of his skin, even having been in London Hospital as long as he had, the man remained, remarkably—red.

“MacGregor,” he called wish a flash of surprise. The young man had fought under him in the Thirty-first Regiment.

“Captain, so very good to see you.”

Drake held out a hand to shake Macgregor’s, before jerking it back, stunned, forgetting.

Macgregor’s gave a shake of his head. “No worries, Cap’n. I forget myself sometimes.”

Words escaped Drake. He couldn’t imagine there’d ever be a day he woke up or moved through the day forgetting he’d lost not one, but both arms on the battlefield.

“How’ve you been, Macgregor?” The question sounded lame to his own ears.

The cheerful solider gave a wide, gap-toothed smile. “I’ve got my hands full, I’m so busy, Cap’n!” He laughed at loudly at his own jest.

Startled by MacGregor’s levity, Drake laughed. It felt, good. Better than good, really.

MacGregor nodded in the direction of a chair. “Have a seat, Cap’n?”

Drake eased a chair over out and sat.

He was reminded of the fact that on the battlefield, in the heat of fighting, or on the long treks across the land, social distinctions fell away. During war, it mattered not if your father was a duke or a servant or whether one’s family was prestigious.

Upon his return from the Peninsula, Drake’s immersion back into Society had battered down all those unchecked relationships he’d forged during war.

When he’d returned to England he’d resumed the life he’d left behind, sometimes wondering if the closeness shared between soldiers had been imagined. This visit to the hospital was testament to a bond that would always be shared.

“I’ve heard about your pursuits in London, Cap’n.”

Drake winced at the reminder of his roguish reputation. Shame filled him. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “I-uh, have since given up my less than noble pursuits.”

MacGregor proceeded to launch into a series of questions. They spoke so long, Drake lost track of the amount of time he sat at MacGregor’s bedside.

Drake leaned forward in his chair, finally asking the question he’d wondered since he’d sat beside the man. “Tell me, MacGregor, have you been visited by my wife, Lady Emmaline, formerly—”

MacGregor’s mouth went slack. “You are married to Lady Emmaline?” A touch of awe underlined the man’s words. “You are married to Lady Emmaline?”

A wry smile twisted Drake’s lips. “No need to sound so surprised.”

MacGregor ignored Drake’s attempt at humor. “My lady’s an angel. She…” and for the first time, the easy-going, light-hearted soldier’s face darkened. He too, had his black place, Drake realized. Of course he did. They all did.

MacGregor’s gaze went vacant. “I actually didn’t lose my right arm ’til I returned, Cap’n? Did you know that?”

Drake shook his head. “I didn’t.” He should have known. There were so many men who’d served with him, served under him. Yet still, he’d owed it to them to know the condition of their welfare.

MacGregor continued. “When I came back, I’d been at my mum’s and da’s. My da was—is, an inn-keeper. I helped him round there, best as I could,” he glanced down at his left arm, “as best as possible with one arm. It was hard at first. I began having pain in my right arm. Mighty painful. An infection set in.” His tone was matter-of-fact. “I nearly died. Turns out a bullet I’d taken in my arm had splintered off. Fragment was still there.” He shook his head, his expression bemused, as if after three years he still couldn’t believe it. “I ended up here. I pleaded with the bloody doctor to leave the arm, to leave the fragment. I told him I’d rather die.”

The images painted by MacGregor transported Drake back to the hellish time when he’d returned from the Peninsula. It had been as though Drake had been on a quest; a search for normalcy in his life—a desire to be the same carefree gentleman who’d first gone off to fight. Yet that normalcy had eluded him. The war had been a constant presence. It had dogged his every thought, his every movement. Men like MacGregor, however, had returned from war with not only horrific memories, but physical loss as well.

Drake folded his hands in his lap and looked down at the intertwined digits. “What made you decide to go on?” Did that raspy, barely there whisper belong to him?

MacGregor swallowed and replied on a near whisper. “It was Her Ladyship. It was the first time she visited the hospital. She was so young. She was with the Duke of Mallen. I’d just learned they were going to take my arm. She saw me arguing with the sawbones and rushed over.” His lips twitched with remembered amusement. “She yelled at the doctor, cursed the bloody bastard. Oh, he was just doing his job. I know that now…but I’d never heard that in my life. A lady yelling at someone over me. I shut my mouth after that and allowed them to take the arm.”

Drake visualized Emmaline at that moment in her life. She would have been seventeen, a girl on the cusp of womanhood. She’d been an avenging angel even then. He could reconcile this story with the brave woman who’d thrown herself between a whip and a peddler woman.

MacGregor interrupted Drake’s musings. “You’re a lucky man, Cap’n.”

“Yes, I certainly am.” For whatever reason, the Lord had deemed him worthy of Emmaline. Drake certainly didn’t understand it. He’d fought it with everything he was worth. He was, nonetheless, aware of his, for want of a better word, good fortune.

MacGregor nodded down the hall. Drake followed the movement. “Jones was under your command, too, Cap’n. Her Ladyship’s very kind to Jones.”

Drake took to his feet and patted MacGregor on the shoulder. “It was good seeing you, MacGregor.” Surprisingly, he found he meant those words.

“Likewise, Cap’n.”

Drake turned down the hall, offering greetings to the men who now watched him with far less suspicion. He heard the murmurs.

“That’s Cap’n Drake.”

Some of the whispers almost reverent.

Drake wanted to shout that he did not deserve their admiration and praise. He’d been no hero. In truth, they had been far braver, far more courageous, as was evidenced by their stalwart strength even lying in this miserable hospital, forever physically scarred.

He paused by the last bed in the room, neatly situated beside a long column of windows. The man, Lieutenant Jones, who occupied the space stared out the window, at the passersby below on the London streets. In that, Jones surely couldn’t help but be confronted by memories of what kept him separated from the world beyond that window pane. Drake suspected he himself would have wanted to be as far away from the window as possible.

Jones shot Drake a sideways glance. “So you married her, finally.” There was a reprimand there.

Drake blinked. He’d have to be deaf to not detect the hard edge in Jones’ tone. Emmaline certainly did not lack for protectors. She’d done much to earn the respect, admiration, and loyalty of these men.

“Unfortunately for her lady, yes.”

A rusty laugh escaped the other man. He motioned to the chair by his bed. Drake slid into it.

“I’ve been telling her to bring you by.” Jones gave him a knowing look.

“Have you?” Drake drummed his fingertips along the edge of his seat. Emmaline hadn’t mentioned that. She’d only told him she’d thought it would do him good to see the men who’d fought Boney’s forces. He was coming to find, that just like in many other regards, Emmaline had been right.

Jones held out a hand. “It’s good seeing you again, Captain.”

Drake stared at it a long moment and then shook it.

Why in the world would Jones or MacGregor or any one of them ever want to see him? He’d been no different than any other man on that field…with the exception of the fact he’d at one point been made captain. He therefore could claim the distinction of being responsible for many of them being in the bloody spot they now rested.

Jones must have seen something in Drake, something he perhaps recognized in himself. “It isn’t your fault, Captain.”

The breath left Drake, and for a moment, a blinding curtain fell across his eyes. He’d seen too much. Taken too many lives. Cost too many men their lives.

His voice came out hoarse when he finally spoke. “How can you forgive me?” He made a slashing gesture with his hand to the spot Jones’ arm should have been. “How is this not my fault?”

“It isn’t your fault a bloody madman took it to his head to try and conquer this world. You were no different than so many of us, Cap’n. You decided to fight for our country. Some of us were luckier than others.”

A bark of laughter devoid of mirth escaped Drake. It was hallow and guilt-ridden. “Are any of us really lucky, Jones?” The question burned in his soul.

Jones shook his head slowly. “No, that’s a fair point. We’ve all been touched by that damn war and I suspect it’ll always be with us.”

Unbidden, Drake’s mind went to the nightmares that frequently plagued him. He thought of Emmaline, who’d been leveled by his own hand, the bruise upon her cheek. In his mind he saw the tears wetting his normally unflappable father’s cheeks. Would there ever be a time he was not plagued by the hellish memories of those years? He’d hoped that as the months passed, he would begin to forget, that the reminders would fall into the background. Oh, even now there were days when the remembrances were not with him, or were less vivid and gripping. Then suddenly something would happen; a face that reminded him of a fellow soldier, or an unexpected sound, and then his hellish time on the Peninsula would come rushing back.

Drake scrubbed the back of his hand over his face. “Do you ever have nightmares, Jones?”

Jones nodded. “Every day. Sometimes it’ll be in the dead of night. Other times I’ll be awake, sitting in this bed in the middle of the day and they’ll come upon me.”

A wave of relief filled him. There was solace in knowing he was not alone—that there were others who shared his struggle. For some time, he’d begun to think he was a madman who belonged in Bedlam. “How do you live with it?” Drake asked on a low whisper.

It was the first time Jones’ grey eyes slid away from Drake, out to that window which had earlier consumed his attention. “I came back from the war without my arm. Upon my return, I learned, while in my absence, my wife and son had died of a fever. I wanted to die.” He looked back at Drake. “Do you know what kept me alive?”

Drake waited for the other man to continue. He tried to imagine the horror of returning from a war missing a limb, only to discover you’d also lost your wife and child. Jones was far braver than Drake. Drake knew he could never have survived the great losses that had been heaped upon Jones’ shoulders.

“Your wife kept me alive. Every week for three years she came and sat beside me. One week I didn’t kill myself because I wondered if she’d come back to visit. I told myself she was just a bored lady with nothing to do. Sure enough she came back. Then I made silent wagers with myself, betting how many weeks before she would disappear. The weeks passed, and by then I forgot about killing myself.”

Drake’s breath caught and lodged in his chest at the realization that this too was a man Emmaline had saved. By her presence alone, she had sustained Jones, pulled him from the precipice of darkness, and given him life. Drake was not very different from Jones. The difference being, Emmaline belonged to him. Her smile, her laughter, filled both his and Jones’ lives and for that they both honored her.

It was Drake however, who had the right to hold her, cherish her, love her.

Love her.

God, why had he not allowed himself to acknowledge that thought until this moment? She, who was so free with her love, with her every emotion, deserved so much more than him. She deserved to be told regularly just how special she was.

“She is a remarkable woman,” Drake managed to say; forcing his thoughts back to Jones.

Jones tipped his head in acknowledgement. “You know Captain? I lost everything and everyone I loved. You have a reason to live. Trust me. You have your nightmares, we all do. And they’re always going to be with us, sir. But as long as you have her you’ve got something to live for.”

Drake felt his throat work. He did have something to live for…rather he had someone to live for. Someone he needed to see desperately in that moment.

Drake came to his feet quickly. “What are your feelings on leaving this behind and coming to work for my staff?”

Jones’ eyes revealed a gleam of desperate hope, which was quickly squashed by a dawning sense of reality.

“I am not altogether sure I’d be much help to your staff.” Jones’ words were tinged with bitterness.

“I beg to differ, Jones. I have a need of help in my household. I recall how capable you were with the horses. I’m certain you’d grow accustomed to adjusting to your changed circumstances.”

That gleam of longing reignited in his eyes. Jones fairly licked his lips, clearly more enticed at the idea of being in the stables, where he’d always been comfortable.

Jones held out his hand. “It would be an honor, Captain. A real honor.”

Drake accepted the hand in a firm shake. “I’ll see the arrangements made and have you sent for.” He cleared his throat, suddenly besieged by a desire to see his wife. “If you will pardon me then, Jones?” He bowed his head.

“Captain,” Jones returned.

Drake took his leave. He needed to see his wife. Emmaline deserved to hear the words he’d withheld from her. She also deserved his thanks for bringing him to this place.

His musings were interrupted by the figure of a man who stepped suddenly into his path.

Drake’s feet ground to a quick halt.

The Duke of Mallen arched a dark brow, his expression stony. “What brings you here?” Mallen drawled.

Drake’s jaw set. He’d be damned if he would share something so personal with this man. He might be Emmaline’s brother but he was no friend of Drake’s, and certainly didn’t deserve such personal information. He could only imagine what the great, powerful duke would say if Drake responded with the truth; Oh, you see, I have frequent nightmares and remembrances of the war. I even occasionally lose control and…

“None of your business, Mallen.” He bit out. “What brings you here?”

Mallen cleared his throat. “I’ve always had a sense of regret I was unable to enlist and fight. I’ve felt guilt about the men who lost their lives, risked their limbs, when I was at home, safe and unaffected. I joined the Hospital Board upon my father’s passing.”

Drake started. He could appreciate what that admission cost Mallen. It would seem he knew his brother-in-law far less than he’d thought. It had never occurred to him the guilt Mallen, and perhaps other lords, would feel for not fighting.

His gaze held Mallen’s. “Trust me, you were better off.”

Mallen rubbed his chin. “Perhaps.”

“Emmaline needed you,” Drake said.

“As she did you.”

Ah, there it was, the subtle thrust and parry. It would be easy to dislike Mallen…if he weren’t so damn loyal to Emmaline. That the other man loved her and hated Drake for having abandoned her all these years, well…it was rather hard to feel any ill-will toward someone who felt that way toward his wife.

“I’m here now, Mallen.” Drake sketched a respectful bow. “If you will excuse me, I have to return home.” I miss my wife.

Drake had nearly reached the entrance.

“Drake,” Mallen called out, halting Drake in mid-stride down the hall.

He turned on his heel and waited for Mallen to speak.

“Tell Emmaline to throw out the bonnet I’d given her. Tell her I said her bonnet is just fine.”

Drake angled his head. Hell, he’d never figure the other man out. “Certainly, Mallen.” With that he left.

There was something he very much needed to tell his wife. Something that had been long over-due—and it wasn’t going to be about her bonnet.

Chapter 42

EMMALINE SAT BACK ON HER heels and surveyed the overgrown boxwoods. She chewed her lip thoughtfully, considering the bushes. A trickle of perspiration dripped from her brow. She removed her bonnet and swiped the back of her hand across the moisture.

Emmaline reached into the front pocket of her apron and withdrew a pair of pruning shears when a warm, wet tongue lapped the salty trace of sweat from her hand.

“Oh you loyal, loyal, boy.” Taking a momentary break from her efforts, she sat down with her legs drawn to her chest and proceeded to shower Sir Faithful with some deserved attention.

He made a moaning growl of approval and promptly flipped to his back.

She laughed and scratched the sparse patch of fur on Sir Faithful’s underside. “How do you think your master is doing this afternoon?”

Sir Faithful gave a little yelp in response.

“Good, do you?” she answered for him.

Her brow wrinkled. She hoped Drake’s time at London Hospital didn’t cause him further distress. Emmaline had thought Drake might find kindred spirits in the men who’d come to mean so much to her. She’d prayed Drake might find that which had eluded him for nearly four years—peace.

Emmaline did not delude herself into believing one visit would exact a miraculous transformation over Drake. She worried, however, that he wouldn’t want to return to London Hospital. And she couldn’t ask any more than that from him. She did not presume to know what his life had been like on the Peninsula. It would therefore, be unfair for her to make requests that could very well cause him greater angst.

She gave Sir Faithful one more pat and then returned her attention to the boxwoods. “My poor forgotten, beautiful dears,” she praised them. “You must know you are utter perfection to me. You have not heard that enough, have you?” She clucked her tongue.

“I would say the same to you, my lady.”

Emmaline glanced over her shoulder. Drake stood by the wrought-iron bench. He had a riding crop in one hand and beat it against his muscled thigh.

She placed her pruning shears in her apron pocket, and made to rise.

Drake walked over in three long strides, took her hands in his, and guided her up.

She wet her lips. His inscrutable expression gave her little indication of what he was thinking or about his trip to London Hospital. “Drake. How was—?”

He took her into his arms. His lips, a mere hairsbreadth apart from her own, tickled her skin with the faintest trace of coffee. “I love you.” He kissed her in the gentlest meeting of lips.

Emmaline’s knees went weak, but he caught her to him. His fingers undid the fraying blue satin ribbons of her bonnet. He gave a gentle tug, and then tossed the article aside. It caught a faint spring breeze, and then fell onto a nearby bush.

Emmaline’s heart raced with a giddy sense of joy. Oh, she’d known Drake had come to care a great deal for her. What man, after all, would share his poetry and humble himself before a tableside of strangers?

Tears welled in her eyes, and the elegantly white linen fold of his cravat blurred.

Drake’s finger traced the fullness of her lower lip, careful not to cause further pain to her bruised cheek. “Do you hear me? I—love—you.” He punctuated each word with a kiss.

Emmaline leaned into his caress. “I love you, so much. I think I always have.” She had loved him her entire life. There had been the inquisitive five–year-old girl who had loved the boy of three and ten who’d helped her to her feet. She had loved the man who cared so powerfully for his soldiers and a dog named, Valiant.

Drake drew her closer to him, lowering his cheek against the top of her head. He inhaled deep. “I’ve never deserved it.”

Emmaline wrapped her arms about his waist and held onto him tight.

Drake tilted her chin up. “Do you know when I fell in love with you?”

She shook her head.

“I spent the entire ride from London Hospital trying to figure out that very question. Do you know what I realized?”

“What did you realize?”

“There was no one time, Emmaline. There wasn’t one particular moment. It was a collection of so many memories and moments with you. When I saw you challenge Whitmore and his crony. The night you approached me at the opera, and then that next morning when you sent around that outrageous note. Or the day I spied you purchasing one of the most scandalous Gothic novels from the Old Corner Bookshop.” His throat moved up and down. He fixed his stare at some point beyond her shoulder. “The day I…lost control in your gardens and you just held me…it was the first time I hadn’t felt alone since I’d returned from the Peninsula.”

Emmaline raised a hand between them and stroked the slight cleft in his chin. His eyes slid closed.

“Emmaline, when I spoke to Jones today, I felt a peace I haven’t felt in a number of years. I felt you there with me. Your presence is all over the ward. I fell in love with you as I saw your fresh cut flowers, as I learned of your devotion to the men who’d fought and lost so much.”

He returned his dark, moss-green eyes to Emmaline. “You are deserving of that one spectacular moment, a moment when I fell head over heels in love with you, Emmaline. I cannot give you that.” His eyes charted an intent path over her face. “I can give you the love I feel that was slowly kindled and cultivated, just like the flowers you tend. I can’t—”

She placed her fingers over his lips, silencing him. “Do you think I care how you fell in love with me? It is enough that you love me.” She stretched up on tiptoes and kissed him. “I love you.”

Sir Faithful gave a little bark and scratched a paw on Drake’s tan breeches.

Drake turned his attention to the mangy black dog. He had grown significantly since Emmaline had brought him to his life. In spite of his impressive diet, he still managed to appear reed thin.

“Yes, boy, we both love you, as well.” He fondly pet the dog between his ears.

Emmaline smiled, and leaned down, to also stroke Sir Faithful.

Drake returned his attention to her. “Do you remember what you asked me the day our fathers signed our betrothal documents?”

Emmaline’s mind went wandering down a path fifteen years old. Of course, much of that day had been lost to time but she still remembered so much of it, too. She’d only been a girl of five, after all. Traces of memories had remained with her. She tried to think…

The reminiscence suddenly came to her. “I asked if you wanted to be my husband.”

Drake claimed her hands in his own. He brought them to his mouth and lovingly worshipped her knuckles. “I want you to know, Emmaline, that more than anything, I want to be your husband.”

Emmaline smiled tremulously. “And I want to be your wife.” It was all she’d ever wanted. He was all she’d ever wanted.

He dropped his brow to hers, and rubbed it back and forth. “You are all I ever wanted,” he murmured.

And after a forever betrothal, Emmaline at long last had what she’d always yearned for…a forever marriage.

Epilogue

DRAKE STARED AT THE CANOPY above their bed, and grinned at the cacophony of noise penetrating the night quiet. His wife’s snoring stirred the tufts of hair upon his chest, mingling with Sir Faithful’s heavy breathing whose chin rested on Drake’s ankle.

This time it wasn’t nightmares of the past that kept Drake awake. It wasn’t even a result of his wife and dog’s snores. No. Now, he reveled in the feel of Emmaline in his arms—he reveled in life.

It had been almost a year since they’d married.

Over the months he’d been wed to Emmaline, the nightmares had lessened. Oh, they would still visit him on occasion; when he least expected it. He suspected Jones had been right when he’d said the memories would always, to some extent, be with them. Yet each day it seemed as though they faded in their vividness, in their intensity.

Drake attributed it Emmaline’s love.

The support from the soldiers he’d taken to visiting at London Hospital.

And of course, the help of a stubborn mangy black dog, that didn’t seem to know his place.

The End

Books by Christi Caldwell

The Danby Novellas

Winning a Lady’s Heart

A Season of Hope

The Scandalous Seasons Series

Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride

Never Courted, Suddenly Wed

Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous

Always a Rogue, Forever Her Love

A Marquess For Christmas

Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love

The Heart of a Duke Series

In Need of a Duke

For Love of the Duke

More Than a Duke

The Love of a Rogue

Loved By a Duke

Seduced By a Lady’s Heart

To Wed His Christmas Lady

A Memoir

Uninterrupted Joy: My Journey through Infertility, Pregnancy, and Special Needs

Christi Caldwell on Kobo

About Christi Caldwell

CHRISTI CALDWELL IS THE BESTSELLING author of historical romance novels set in the Regency era. Christi blames Judith McNaught’s “Whitney, My Love,” for luring her into the world of historical romance. While sitting in her graduate school apartment at the University of Connecticut, Christi decided to set aside her notes and try her hand at writing romance. She believes the most perfect heroes and heroines have imperfections and rather enjoys tormenting them before crafting a well-deserved happily ever after!

When Christi isn’t writing the stories of flawed heroes and heroines, she can be found in her Southern Connecticut home chasing around her feisty five-year-old son, and caring for twin princesses-in-training!

Visit www.christicaldwellauthor.com to learn more about what Christi is working on, or join her on Facebook at Christi Caldwell Author, and Twitter @ChristiCaldwell

FORBIDDEN

The Wicked Woodleys Book 1

By USA Today Bestseller Jess Michaels

Forbidden

The Wicked Woodleys Book 1

Copyright © Jesse Petersen, 2015

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

For more information, contact Jess Michaels

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A very special thank you for everyone who has supported me in the past year of my indie adventure.

To the readers who have bought and shared, to my AMAZING street team who always rally to my aid, to my editor Mackenzie who catches all the things, to my Mom who is my cheerleader and copyeditor and especially to Michael, my husband, my best friend and my assistant extraordinaire. You all mean the world to me.

Chapter One

1816

LADY AUDREY PERCHED ON THE edge of the loft above the stable, dangling her stockinged feet through the opening. She let out a sigh as she picked up the plate beside her abandoned slippers and took a small bite of her brother’s wedding cake. It should have been a very happy day for her.

And it was. She was glad for Edward, her eldest brother, who had been estranged from the family for three long years and was now coming back into the fold. She gave credit for that fact in great measure to his new bride, Mary. Audrey already knew they would be friends. Good friends, most likely.

But family gatherings always made her melancholy.

Audrey sighed as she took another bite of cake and stared out at the bright afternoon sky through the window across from her.

Below, there was sound of the stable door sliding open, and Audrey tensed as she looked down to see who had been sent to fetch her. Her tension fled when the person stepped into her view below her place in the loft.

It was Jude Samson rather than any of her three brothers or her mother. Jude, the longtime man of affairs for Edward. A man so much like family that all her brothers saw him as such.

And none of them ever noticed that Audrey couldn’t stop…watching him. Even Jude was oblivious. He glanced up at her from below.

“Thought I’d find you here,” he said, that rough voice swirling up between them and settling somewhere in her lower stomach.

“You know me so well.”

She smiled down at him and he walked over to the ladder that led to the loft. He climbed up behind her. She forced herself not to look in his direction, but she felt him growing near regardless. When he pushed her discarded slippers aside and took a seat next to her, swinging his own booted feet through the hole to dangle next to hers, it was no surprise. She had guessed almost the exact moment he would do so.

She stared at their legs next to each other. It seemed very intimate, her stockinged foot next to his booted one.

“Did you notice I was gone or did Edward or Mama send you?” Audrey asked, making herself look at his face instead of his boots. Some day she was going to do something to make him see what she felt inside. But not today.

He smiled and his rather stern expression softened to a more gentle and youthful one. Hardly anyone else ever saw that side to him. Audrey knew that and recognized how special it was every time it happened.

“I always notice when you’re gone,” he reassured her.

She shook her head. “Oh please, Samson. Don’t try pretty words on me. Edward, then?”

Jude sighed. “And you always see through me, don’t you? Yes, Edward asked me to come and check. But I did notice your absence, Audrey. I am not a liar.”

“No, you are not that,” she said softly.

They sat in silence for a moment, though Audrey wouldn’t have necessarily said it was their normal, companionable type. Jude’s smile was gone and there was something troubled in his eyes. Beautiful eyes the color of sapphires.

Damn, she really shouldn’t wax poetic. Even in her mind. Jude was too bright not to notice and once he did everything would be ruined. It was bound to be, for he didn’t care for her, not like that. Why would he? The man could have any woman he wanted. And if rumor was correct, he had.

The cloudy expression cleared before he spoke again. “Shouldn’t you be inside celebrating Edward’s marriage?”

Audrey shrugged.

Jude leaned away to examine her face. “Don’t you like Mary?”

Now she jolted at his misunderstanding. Jude had been gone during Edward and Mary’s odd courtship, so he still seemed to be uncertain of the new marchioness. Audrey didn’t want to add to that hesitation.

“I do like Mary, very much,” she reassured him. “You will too, Samson, I know you will, once you get to know her better. She’s really perfect for Edward.”

He seemed unmoved by her declaration. He arched a brow. “But?”

She sighed. “But…but it is odd to welcome a new sister to our fold when Claire is still gone. It feels wrong to all be gathered, except it isn’t all of us. I look for her in the crowd, wishing I could talk to her about so many things, but she’s just not there. And so I’m happy, but also, I’m…”

Samson nodded, looking away from her and down to the ground a floor below them. “I understand,” he said softly. “Or at least I know what you’re talking about. I doubt I could understand how much you miss your sister.”

Audrey shook her head. Claire had run away to be married to a most unfortunate man more than a year before. Now she had all but vanished, taking her inheritance with her for the bastard to gobble up as he did God knew what to her.

But then, that sort of thing felt like it was the price of such passion. Audrey had seen it too many times in her family.

She set her half-empty plate aside and leaned back against her palms. From the corner of her eye, she watched Jude. He looked guilty. But how could he be? He had searched long and hard for Claire—everyone knew how devoted he’d been to finding her.

“It isn’t your fault, you know,” she reassured him. “The only person she writes to is Gabriel, probably because they’re twins. They’ve always had that odd connection. She never gives him an address so any of us could return the favor. Even the marks that indicate where the letters were posted change every time a new missive arrives. She wants to stay gone.”

Jude didn’t look up. “It is still my job to bring her home.”

“No, you’re Edward’s man of affairs, not his magician.” She stood up and dusted off her gown. He joined her slowly, offering her a hand as she picked up her slippers.

“Here, balance on me,” he said.

She smiled. “You do think of everything.”

She rested one hand in his, ignoring the jolt of awareness that always came from that too-seldom action, and used her other hand to pull her slipper back on. She repeated the action on the opposite foot and then released him.

“Ready to go back?” she asked, falsely bright. Nothing had been resolved, just as it never was. And although she could have stayed out here all afternoon, far into the night, with Jude, that just wasn’t possible.

He nodded and motioned to the ladder. “You first?”

She swung over and climbed down carefully, then stepped aside to watch him do the same. It was quite the sight, really, observing Jude Samson’s toned backside come down the ladder, seeing his broad shoulders strain as he moved.

She blinked and turned her face, forcing herself to stop. There was nothing good to come of desire. She knew that.

All she could do was try to squash the feelings that roared up whenever she was close to this man.

* * *

JUDE TAPPED HIS FINGER ALONG the edge of his glass, watching across the room as Audrey smiled and laughed with her friends. None of them would notice it, of course, none of them would see, but he felt every lie of her performance. She was not happy.

“Is she all right?”

He turned to find his friend and employer, the Marquis of Woodley, had come to his side. The marquis also happened to be Audrey eldest brother. And if Edward ever knew the kinds of thoughts Jude had about her…

“Yes,” he said, interrupting the troubling path of his mind.

“Are you certain?” Edward pressed.

Jude hesitated. He should probably tell his friend about his suspicions regarding Audrey. That he thought she was unhappy, that he thought a great deal was troubling her. But to do so was to violate his friendship with her. A friendship quite separate from the one he shared with Edward. Besides, it wasn’t as if Audrey would do anything rash. She wasn’t like Claire—Audrey seemed to shy away from passion entirely.

Sometimes that fact made Jude far too happy. If he ever saw her with a man she truly liked, well it would be difficult to say the least.

“Samson?” Edward said, arching a brow at Jude’s silence.

“I think she simply needed air,” he lied. “How about you?”

He watched as Edward’s gaze slid across the room to his new bride, Mary. Samson observed the young woman carefully. She was lovely, no one could deny that. And she seemed sincere as she smiled and chatted with the other guests.

Of course, so had Edward’s first wife. And Alice had blown his friend’s world apart with her cruelty. Still, Jude had always…almost always…been a good judge of character. Mary gave him a good feeling.

Edward smiled broadly. “I could not be better, Samson, I tell you. You hesitate because of the swiftness of my marriage, and I appreciate your concern after what I went through with Alice. But Mary is my perfect companion, I assure you.”

“I hope so,” Jude said, unwilling to commit to anything else until he had watched the young woman for a while longer.

“You know, you should get married,” Edward said, his tone suddenly far away.

Jude tensed, but he also smiled, amused by his friend’s happy fog. “Should I? And you are the expert, I suppose. Having been married all of two hours.”

Edward shrugged.

“Anyway, I’m too busy managing your family to marry.”

“And your own,” Edward offered, finally forcing himself to look away from the new marchioness.

Jude blinked, uncertain as to what Edward referred. “I—what?”

“You were out doing something for your mother during the last month, weren’t you?” Edward asked.

Jude shifted. That was the story he had told as an explanation for the time he’d taken away from the Woodley clan. And it was partially true, for a visit to his mother had been part of the first week of his time away. But Edward didn’t know the rest. He never could.

“Oh. Yes,” he said, being careful not to meet his friend’s eyes.

“How is your mother?” Edward asked.

Jude shrugged. “She is as well as can be expected. Her hands trouble her a great deal and I think she is a little lonely.” He frowned. “But all in all, she is in good spirits.”

“Have you thought of bringing her to London? I know a doctor who might be able to help her arthritis.”

“She has such sad memories of this place from when my father died and we were shunned by his family.” He sighed. “She doesn’t want to return.”

Edward’s gaze was filled with the same concern Jude felt himself. “You know I understand about family troubles,” he said. “God knows, you’ve seen me through enough of my own between Alice and the estrangement with my siblings. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Jude stared at him. Edward and his brothers Evan and Gabriel were truly the best friends he had ever had. And a few years ago, he might have confided in Edward. Except his secret had so much to do with the Woodley family. So much to do with betrayal and regret.

He shook his head. “No. I know my place now, Edward. And it isn’t to drag you into my every difficulty.”

Edward wrinkled his brow. “But—”

Jude cleared his throat and motioned across the room. “I believe your lovely wife is giving you a side glance.”

Just as he had hoped would happen, Edward jerked his attention away from its focus on Jude and his troubles and across the room to where his wife stood. And Jude had not been lying. Mary did cast her eyes toward her husband from time to time, the intent in her dark gaze crystal clear.

“Indeed, she is,” Edward said as he clapped Jude on the shoulder with a grin. “And I’m off to play husband.”

“Enjoy,” Jude called after him.

As soon as his friend was gone, he almost buckled. Around him, the crowd felt loud and too close, and he staggered from the ballroom and out onto the terrace. In the distance the sun was setting and the cooler air hit his face like a welcome slap.

For years he had born a secret. And with each passing day, it weighed more heavily on him. All he could hope was that no one in the Woodley clan ever uncovered the truth. If they did, he could lose everything.

Including Audrey. And that would be the biggest loss of all, despite the fact that he held no claim on her and never would.

Chapter Two

AUDREY STOOD IN THE WEST parlor with her mother, forcing a smile onto her face. It had been three days since her brother’s wedding and they were expecting the new bride and groom for luncheon that day. It wasn’t that she didn’t look forward to the afternoon, but her sense of discomfort continued.

Lady Woodley arched a brow and Audrey realized in that moment that the dowager had asked her a question. One she had no idea the content of and could not have answered to save her life.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” she said, dodging her mother’s pointed gaze. There was no one better at a pointed gaze than Lady Woodley, after all. “I admit I was not listening.”

“I’m well aware,” the dowager said with a frown.

“It is abominable,” Audrey continued, reaching out to take her mother’s hand. “I will do better. Please ask me again.”

Her mother shook her head. “I’m not angry, my dear. I’m only concerned.”

Audrey tensed. She hated to hear that word from her mother’s lips. Lady Woodley had said the same word about Claire not two years before. Concerned. And now Claire was gone. She could see from her mother’s face that she feared Audrey might be on the verge of a similar collapse.

“You needn’t be worried about me,” Audrey tried to reassure her as genuinely as she could. After all, she had no intention of running away from her family and her duties. Not that the thought hadn’t sometimes crossed her mind. But she’d seen the cost. It was not worth it.

“You are restless,” Lady Woodley countered sharply. “I would be blind not to see it. It has gone on all Season, but only grown more obvious since Edward’s engagement and marriage. Or do you intend to deny what I can see with my own eyes?”

Audrey pressed her lips together for a moment. She could lie and put off this conversation, but it would only cause more tension for them both.

“No,” she admitted after what seemed like an eternity of consideration. “I cannot deny what you say is true.”

When it was clear Audrey wasn’t going to lie to her, her mother squeezed her daughter’s hand lightly. “Tell me what troubles you. Do you not enjoy the Season?”

Audrey dipped her head. “No, not much.”

“Why?”

Audrey pulled away from her mother’s hand and paced away across the room. She fiddled with the little clock on the mantel for a moment before she answered, “It has all gotten so much more complicated for me, Mama. I’m twenty-four years old, so I am no longer a Diamond. I am bordering on spinsterhood.”

Her mother laughed. “It is not so bad as that. You have much to recommend you and I’m certain there are at least three men who would marry you today if you made any sign of interest.”

Audrey rolled her eyes. “Of course there are, but I have no interest in them. Any of them. And beyond my own failings, things have not been the same since…since…”

She couldn’t complete the sentence and Lady Woodley flinched as understanding dawned on her gently lined face. “Since Claire left.”

Audrey nodded, relieved she didn’t have to say the words out loud, though she hated that her mother was still hurt by them. “I’m afraid so, yes. People do look at me differently thanks to the scandal she created, and it isn’t exactly comfortable. But it’s more than that. I am also changed by losing her. The way she left was…horrible.”

“How could you not be? She is your sister, your friend. She was your ideal.”

Audrey tried to push away the anger that flared at Claire. She knew her sister wasn’t in a good situation, wherever she was. She had been punished enough for her folly, of that Audrey was certain.

“And then there is all this whirlwind with Edward over the past month,” she continued.

Her mother’s face softened. “It has worked out well, but I can see how his very sudden and awkward engagement and marriage would affect you. It has taken the dynamic of our family and turned it on its head.”

Audrey sighed in relief that her mother understood. “Yes, exactly. And all these things put together make me rather, I don’t know—uncomfortable I suppose is the best way to put it. In Society, in the marriage mart, and in my own skin. I just…I don’t know how to explain it.”

Her mother smiled faintly. “You needn’t, for I think I understand.”

“But there is nothing that can be done.” Audrey’s voice sounded flat even to her own ears.

Her mother wrinkled her brow. “Why of course there is. We are not prisoners, Audrey.”

“Are we not?” Audrey asked weakly, even though she tried to laugh.

“Certainly not.” Lady Woodley folded her arms. “Some like to say the fairer sex has no options, but we always do. We just have to be creative in them.”

Audrey shrugged. “Well, what would you suggest?”

Her mother pondered the question for a moment before her eyes lit up. “You know they have started work on the changes at Briarlake Cross.”

Briarlake Cross was a property in the possession of Audrey’s family for generations. It was only a day and a half’s ride from London. For years the family had discussed remodeling the manse to fit modern technology and design. Audrey blinked at what felt like the change of subject.

“Have they?” she asked.

“I would very much like to oversee the design of the rooms, especially the parlors.” Her mother frowned. “Your father’s mother was a lovely woman, God rest her soul, but she had a penchant for pink florals that made my head throb. I would like to see the house become far more sophisticated, especially since it will likely be my dower house now that Edward has remarried.”

“I can understand your desire,” Audrey said carefully, still not fully understanding her mother’s attention to this subject.

“Why don’t we go there together for a few weeks? It would be a nice break from the Season for us both.”

Audrey took a long step toward her mother as she lifted her hands to her chest. She hadn’t fully admitted to herself just how much she wanted to escape London until this opportunity presented itself. Now she felt as though her mother had opened the door to her cage and was offering to set her free.

“Truly?” she said with a smile so broad she felt it could split her cheeks. “Oh, that would be divine.”

Her mother nodded, and she looked as relieved as Audrey felt. “It will be rejuvenating for us both.”

The door to the parlor opened and Edward and Mary stepped in, interrupting their conversation.

“Ah, Edward, Mary,” her mother said, pulling herself away from Audrey and toward their guests. She embraced them both one after another and smiled.

“You two look very happy,” Edward said as he released his wife to cross to Audrey and briefly press a kiss to her cheek. “Are you plotting?”

“The best plot in the world,” Lady Woodley admitted. “Audrey and I are going to make a little escape to Briarlake Cross for a few weeks and oversee some of the renovations being made there.”

Mary tilted her head in question. “Briarlake Cross?”

Audrey nodded. “My grandmother’s dower house. Oh, you should see it, Mary. It has the most beautiful bones in the world, but the design is…well, it is something to behold.”

Mary laughed. “Bad enough to want to redecorate in the middle of the Season.”

“It absolutely is,” Edward interjected with a shudder. Then he frowned. “Have they begun work on it already? I really have been remiss in my duties to this family, haven’t I?”

Audrey felt her smile fade, and Mary and her mother’s faces also fell. She felt a kinship to her new sister-in-law at that moment. They all wanted Edward’s happiness, for him to retake his rightful place in their family.

“You were busy,” Mary said gently. “I took a great deal of your time recently. But now things are settled between us and you are fully able to concentrate on your duties. I will help.”

He nodded, looking down at her with nothing but love in his eyes. Audrey tensed at the sight of it, so pure and true. She only hoped her brother was also keeping his head even as he followed his heart.

“You already do,” Edward reassured her with a gentle tap on his wife’s nose. He cleared his throat and then returned his attention to his mother. “Are you certain you want to be there while they work? It will be comfortable, of course, but not exactly as polished as you are accustomed to.”

Their mother laughed. “Oh posh, I can handle a bit of dust. I would dearly love to be there.”

He nodded. “Very well, I think a few weeks away would do you both good. But do me a favor, will you?”

Audrey tilted her head. “A favor?”

“Take Samson with you when you go,” Edward said. “He would be of great help to you in the process and he can keep me apprised of any difficulties that I can assist with.”

“Oh course,” their mother said. “We would greatly welcome his company.”

“Excellent,” Edward said, clapping his hands together. “I will mention it to him tonight when I see him.”

Audrey said nothing, her body tensing even as the rest of them continued to discuss the house, the changes, their plans. Jude come with them? Oh, if only they knew that he was one of the main reasons for her distraction of late. He would be a temptation there with her. A forbidden piece of fruit she was not allowed to look at, let alone pluck. If she tried, he would probably laugh at her.

But he would be busy with estate business anyway. It was unlikely she would see him overly much and with her mother in attendance they would never be alone. So it would be fine. Perfectly fine.

“We have much to do,” her mother said, her laughing voice mercifully interrupting Audrey’s train of thought. “After our luncheon, we’ll both have to pack, Audrey. We’ll leave in a few days.”

Audrey tried to center herself in the moment instead of allowing her mind to wander. “Yes, absolutely.”

“Come, let us go to the dining room,” Edward said.

Mary nodded. “Why don’t you escort your mother, Edward? I will walk with Audrey.”

He smiled at her before he did as she suggested and took the dowager’s arm to lead her to the dining room. Mary hesitated a fraction before she took Audrey’s arm. As they walked, her new sister-in-law leaned in.

“Audrey, is there anything I can do?”

Audrey blinked. “Do? Do you mean in regards to the renovation?”

Mary smiled. “No. I just…well…”

As she trailed off, Audrey shook her head. “What is on your mind?”

“Obviously I haven’t known you all that long and Mr. Samson only returned a few days before our wedding, so he is even more of a mystery to me, but I have noticed a closeness between you.”

“He has always been a dear friend to the family, as well as under Edward’s employ,” she explained, hoping her voice didn’t reveal too much. “My brother would say the same.”

“He does and has,” Mary agreed. “He tells me Mr. Samson is a bit like a brother, but…”

“But?” Audrey pressed, her heart leaping into her throat for some reason.

Mary’s came to a stop before the followed the others into the dining room and turned Audrey to face her. “I think perhaps you do not think of Mr. Samson as a brother after all.”

Audrey tensed. “I could not imagine what you mean,” she said, but her voice barely carried and cracked.

Mary squeezed her arm. “I have observed the way you look at him, Audrey. Perhaps you linger just a touch too long. And with my own recent feelings for Edward, I recognize the meaning of those stares.”

How could that be? Even her family had never seemed to take note of her attraction to Jude. She swallowed hard. “Oh—I—oh—”

Mary smiled. “With Claire gone, perhaps you don’t feel you have anyone to talk to about womanly things. I would offer myself as a friend if you’d like one. And I would not break your confidence. Not even to Edward unless it were very dire.”

Audrey stared at Mary for a long moment, exploring the other woman’s friendly face. God, but it was tempting, the idea of spilling all the secrets she kept buried. Ones about her family, her heart, Jude. But she feared once she voiced all the dark things in her soul, she would no longer be able to hide them. They would be free in the world, free to destroy all she had built.

“Audrey?” Mary said softly.

She smiled. “You are kind to offer, but I promise you that there is nothing to tell.”

Mary’s expression faltered a little, but she nodded. “I understand. Perhaps you will find my confidence a little easier to ask for when you know me better. The offer will stand, though—I hope you know that. If you need a friendly ear, mine is always yours.”

With that, her sister-in-law led her into the dining room. But even as the others sat down at the table and began to eat the food that had been placed before them, Audrey’s head spun. She wasn’t certain how her universe could feel even more upside down than it had when she began her day, but it did.

She could only hope she could keep the world turning without anyone finding out her secrets.

* * *

JUDE SHIFTED IN HIS CHAIR, holding tight to the whisky he hadn’t even tried as he watched Edward and his two brothers. Although they were all trying to behave normally, he still felt the strain between the men, and it hurt him. He had always loved how close the Woodley family had been. But he was in no position to try to remedy their troubles.

After all, they didn’t know he was responsible for some of them.

“Why the drawn expression, Samson?” the youngest of the brothers, Gabriel, asked. There was a smile on his handsome face, but it didn’t reach the dark brown eyes that were like the ones possessed by every Woodley Jude had ever known. Save one, for Claire had been blessed with bright green eyes.

“Do I have a long face?” Jude asked, trying to snap himself out of his mood. He was being ridiculously maudlin. The time away had not been good for him, it seemed.

“You do,” the middle brother, Evan, said with a tilt of his head to examine Jude better. “You’ve been far too quiet tonight.”

“He’s having a hard time coming back to reality after lazing about for a month,” Edward said with a laugh.

Jude smiled. For a moment, he was sent spiraling back to his youth, the days at Cambridge when he had run about with Edward, Evan and later Gabriel. When they had teased and talked like friends. But then his father had died and long-held hatreds of his mother had come to the surface. He and his mother had been shunned, cut out of the settlements. He had gone from lazy grandson of a viscount to sixes and sevens.

Edward had saved him with a vocation and the patience to let him learn it.

“That must be it,” he allowed with a rusty laugh. “Too much rich food and wine Mama stuffed down my throat to fatten me up.”

“It worked,” Gabriel teased, and they all laughed.

When the laughter had faded, Edward shook his head. “You know, if you want a simple duty to ease you back into working life, I have the perfect one.”

Jude didn’t exactly trust the tone of his friend’s voice, but he nodded nonetheless. “Well, what is it? I am, of course, at your service.”

Edward seemed to be trying not to roll his eyes as he continued, “Mama and Audrey will be going to Briarlake Cross in a few days.”

Jude lifted his eyebrows. “In Idleridge?”

“That’s the place,” Edward said. “You were there one Christmas, if I recall, weren’t you? Your father gave you permission to spend the holidays with us.”

“That’s right, I believe so,” Jude said, feigning a vague memory when those few weeks were burned on his brain permanently.

That holiday had been the first time he noticed Audrey, after all. She’d come around a corner, her arm linked with Claire’s, and his heart had all but stopped. She had been all of seventeen and the prettiest flower in all of England’s gardens. He’d spent the next twenty-one days trying to put himself in her path while pretending disinterest.

“They’re going for a few weeks,” Edward continued, “and I would like you to act as their escort.”

For a moment, every thought dumped from Jude’s head and all he could do was stare at Edward. Then he began to process the request. Go to an isolated estate with Audrey. Of course, Lady Woodley would be there, but still.

He cleared his throat and took a moment to compose himself before he said, “Why?”

Edward blinked. “Well, er, to be honest, I think my sister is quite restless as of late.”

Jude stopped breathing. Audrey? Restless? Of course, he had noticed it—he noticed every tiny shift in her mood. But for Edward to be aware meant Audrey had allowed her family to see the desperation Jude had marked on her months before.

“Is she?” Evan and Gabriel said together, sparing Jude the need to do so.

Edward shifted his attention to his siblings. “Yes. It’s been hard on her, I think, for a while now. She needs a break and Mama thinks that overseeing the decoration of the estate will give her a much needed respite.”

“Is she desperate?” Gabriel asked, his mouth suddenly a thin, worried line.

Edward shook his head. “No. No, not that far.”

“Not as far as Claire, you mean,” Evan said.

Edward’s face reflected the same guilt that burned within Jude and he stepped forward to diffuse the situation for all their sakes.

“And what will I do?” Jude asked. “Hold the fabric up for judgment?”

Evan’s face softened as he laughed. “It’s a hard job, but someone must do it.”

Edward shrugged. “Perhaps, if they require it. I was thinking more along the lines that you would oversee the workers so no one gives Audrey or my mother any trouble. And you can report to me so that I may assist in any way that is required.”

“You mean send more blunt,” Gabriel muttered.

Jude jerked his gaze to the youngest Woodley brother. Gabriel hadn’t teased with Edward in a very long time, but right now a faint smile was on his face. It was progress.

“Yes, that,” Edward agreed.

Jude swallowed hard, still hesitant when he thought of the potential for being alone with Audrey. “You know, I only just returned and there is much for me to do,” he began.

Edward cut off his protests. “Everything else can wait. It will only be a few weeks, Samson.”

Jude nodded, for he knew there was no way out of the situation. Not without explaining his real reasons for hesitating. He could only imagine how well that would go over.

“Very well, if you insist.”

Edward strode over and clapped a hand on his shoulder with a smile. “Thank you, Samson. I know it is a boring task, but I appreciate it.”

As his friend left his side to get another drink, Jude let out his breath in a long sigh. It wasn’t that he thought the task would be boring that worried him. It was that he feared he was going to find it too stimulating, indeed.

Chapter Three

AUDREY TOOK A DEEP BREATH in the seconds she had before the carriage door opened and did her best to put a benign, unaffected expression on her face. It was almost impossible because she knew when it happened, the person on the other side would be…

The handle turned and revealed exactly who she knew it would.

Jude Samson.

He smiled and she returned the expression, though she was certain he noticed her awkwardness. How could he not? She felt like it was written all over her face in plain English. But this was Jude. Her brothers’ friend. Her friend. And yet she could hardly breathe as he took her mother’s hand and helped her out of the carriage first.

When he turned back to do the same for her, her hand shook as she placed it in his. He felt very warm, even through her thin gloves, and she was utterly aware of the spicy scent of his skin as he helped her to the drive.

Her mother was already halfway up the stairs, talking to three servants at once, her face bright with pleasure. Jude and Audrey stood behind for a brief moment, staring up at the house.

“It was a good trip,” she said, searching for some boring topic to cover with Jude.

He nodded. “Yes, very good weather.”

She sent him a side glance. “We hardly saw you, though.”

He hesitated, and she saw him reaching for an explanation. “Well, being that I rode outside the carriage, I suppose that is to be expected.”

She frowned. “But you didn’t join us for supper at the inn last night, either. You would have been welcome, you know.”

He shrugged and let the statement rest without responding to it. Instead, he let his gaze slip again to the house.

“The old girl looks good,” Jude quipped.

“I assume you mean the house and not my mother,” she said as they watched Lady Woodley vanish into the foyer.

An expression of horror crossed his face. “I would never be so disrespectful—”

She reached out and touched his arm. “Calm yourself, I’m teasing. Of course you mean the house.”

Both their gazes flitted down to where she touched him, and Audrey pulled her hand back and took a step away.

He cleared his throat. “Are you glad to be back? Away from London?”

She pursed her lips. “I see my brother has been spilling my secrets. How divine that you were talking about me behind my back.”

This time, he seemed to actually recognize the humor behind her dry tone. “You know Edward is a tattletale. I always know all your secrets.”

“Impossible,” Audrey said, dropping her gaze to the ground so he wouldn’t see just that. “He doesn’t even know them.”

She sensed Jude’s discomfort with the topic, for he shifted his weight from foot to foot restlessly. “But you are happy to be here, aren’t you?”

She sighed. “Of course. I love it here. Some of my happiest memories are here in this home with my family, with—with you.” She realized she had said too much when Jude caught his breath and rushed on by adding, “But our stay here won’t be very long, will it? We’re meant to go back to London in just a few weeks. And then I’ll catch myself a nice husband, I suppose.”

His lip twitched. “Don’t sound so utterly excited about the prospect.”

She shrugged. “You’ve met the men I have to consider, have you not? Would you be excited?”

He laughed. “I think I am the wrong person to ask.”

She held back another sigh. Jude was the perfect person to ask, for he was the only man who had ever held her interest for more than a few fleeting moments. Which meant she should stay far, far away from him.

And yet she couldn’t.

“Well, at any rate, you must promise to make it bearable while we’re here, Jude. Help me forget all the others, will you?”

She expected his laughter to continue, for him to tease her, bringing them back to the comfort that normally existed between them. But instead his face faltered a bit and he stepped away.

“I am only here to oversee, Lady Audrey. But I do hope you’ll have an enjoyable trip.” He stepped back. “Good day.”

She wrinkled her brow in utter confusion as he turned his back and walked away toward the stables, leaving her on the drive as if she had been dismissed.

“Are you coming, Audrey?” her mother called, poking her head out the door.

She shook away her embarrassment and confusion at Jude’s odd behavior and forced herself to trudge up the stairs to join her mother.

* * *

YEARS BEFORE, WHEN EDWARD ASKED Jude to be his man of affairs, one of the perks of that job had been that Edward took care of Jude’s lodging. In Briarlake Cross, that meant Jude had a cottage all his own. Under normal circumstances, that was just a place to lay his head while he took care of estate business. Today it had been his place to hide.

Oh, he could have gone inside and taken supper with Audrey and her mother, as he should have since Audrey had made mention of his avoiding supper at the inn the night before. He should have taken care of questioning servants and observing the work already done on the various rooms and outside areas being renovated during their time here.

But that had proven impossible. Thoughts of Audrey had kept him away, burning for her. Trying to find a way to forget his desire for her that had only been stoked since his return to London.

And now he stood in the bedroom of that same cottage, staring at a bed made for two and wishing Audrey was here with him. That Audrey had been stripped naked. That Audrey was beckoning to him with those elegant hands and offering herself to him.

He swore as his cock eased to attention under his breeches.

“This has to stop,” he reminded himself. And yet he ached for her. Ached for the fantasy of spreading her open, feasting on her sweet flesh, plunging into her tightness, her wetness, and claiming her for his own at last. Just as he had been wishing he could do for what seemed like forever.

What would please her? He had often mused on that subject when he looked at her. A secret wickedness that always led to thrashing, sensual dreams later. Would she gasp if he sucked her nipples? Would she arch when he kneaded her backside. Would she cry out his name when he stroked his tongue over her sex?

These thoughts were so damned out of control now. He couldn’t stop them. Couldn’t stop thinking of bending her over his bed, sliding inside of her in one long, slick thrust and then taking her and taking her.

He looked down. At some point in his musings, he had loosened the fastenings on his trousers and dropped the flap. His cock rose up, taunting him with its needs, daring him to continue taking Audrey in his mind until he was satisfied.

And he shouldn’t do it, but he did. He took himself in hand firmly, hissing out pleasure as he fisted the tender, aching root and began to stroke. He thought of Audrey on her back beneath him, her breath short and her cheeks flush with pleasure. He thought of her straddling him, riding him astride with her head dipped back and her dark hair wild around her shoulders as she came and came. He thought of her with her back against the wall, her legs and arms tangled around him as he took her slowly, their eyes locked with every smooth thrust.

It was too much and the jerk of his hand over his cock became erratic. He groaned out her name as his hot seed spurted free onto his hand, onto the sheets of his bed. With a panting moan, he collapsed forward, bracing himself on the mattress as he cleared his mind at last of thoughts of Audrey’s surrender.

Those fantasies would tide him over, at least for a little while. But he knew they would be back. And even sooner if he saw Audrey. Which he would often do in the next three weeks.

And he feared at some point, he wouldn’t be able to control the fact that his fantasies were becoming harder to ignore. Mixed with his guilt, they were a potent cocktail that could easily poison everything good in his life.

* * *

JUDE STOPPED OUTSIDE THE BREAKFAST room door and took a few long breaths to calm himself. Inside that door he would find Audrey and her mother, and he needed to be calm and unaffected when he faced them. It was a difficult task as it was, and even harder when Audrey’s focus seemed to be so firmly on him at present.

She had no idea the effect that focused regard had on him. Would probably be horrified if she did. She saw them as old friends—she would recoil if she knew he’d spent a night in the cottage he kept on the estate, thinking of her while he brought himself pleasure. And why wouldn’t she? She was a lady, after all, and not meant to be considered a toy for his sexual needs.

He had to control himself. And the first way to do that was to shove all those inappropriate thoughts back, as far away as he could. With renewed purpose, he entered the breakfast room with what he hoped was a serene expression. But all his good intentions faded when he scanned the room and found Audrey standing at the sideboard.

She turned as he entered the room—and his breath was stolen from his lungs. She wore a sunny yellow-and-white striped gown. The bright colors served to bring out the chestnut highlights in her brown hair and make her expressive eyes even more alluring.

“Jude,” she said, setting her plate down on the sideboard and taking a step toward him with a smile. “Good morning. I’m so glad you’re here. I feared I’d have to take my breakfast alone.”

He blinked and made a second glance around the room. Lady Woodley was not in attendance.

“Where is your mother?” he asked.

Audrey frowned. “Right after our arrival, she got very tired and hasn’t felt herself since. She didn’t even rally for supper last night.”

Jude’s heart leapt at the news that the woman who had been nearly as much a mother to him as his own was not well. “Has a doctor been called?”

Audrey shook her head. “No doctor yet. Mama believes it might be nothing more than a reaction to the long journey and all the excitement related to the renovation. If she is not better soon, though, I will insist upon calling for Dr. Dunbar.”

Jude pressed his lips together. “I agree. Don’t let it go on too long.”

“I wouldn’t, I promise you.”

He wrinkled his brow as he thought again of her words. “Wait, did you say that your mother was stricken by this illness before supper?”

She nodded. “I did, yes.”

“Then did you have supper by yourself?”

She shifted her weight with discomfort. “I—yes.”

“Where?” he asked, but already knew the answer.

“In—in the cavernous dining hall,” she admitted.

He caught his breath. “All alone?” When she nodded, he shook his head. “Audrey, why didn’t you send down to the cottage for me? Both to help you with your decisions regarding your mother and so that you wouldn’t have to eat alone.”

She seemed to ponder that question for a moment. Then she lifted her chin with the strength and defiance he had become obsessed with so many years ago. “To be honest, Jude, I-I didn’t think you wanted to be disturbed. Especially by me.”

He stepped back in surprise at both her statement and the flicker of pain in her eyes as she said it. “Why would you believe that?”

She shrugged. “You all but ran away yesterday after our arrival, and when you did not reemerge, I had to assume I offended you somehow during our conversation on the drive.”

Jude moved toward her. God, how he wanted to comfort her, but there was no way to tell her the truth about why he stayed away from her.

“Audrey, I assure you, you’ve done nothing to offend. I was tired after the journey and getting settled in at the cottage. I had no idea your mother was unwell, or I would have come up and had supper with you.”

She worried her lip, drawing his attention to the full mouth that seemed so very kissable. “Well, that is a relief, I must say,” she sighed. “And now that my fears are settled, I suppose we must discuss our plan of attack.”

He poured himself some coffee and sat down at the breakfast table. “Plan of attack?”

She nodded. “Mama gave me some instructions this morning about the formerly pink parlor and the changes she would like to see done to it. I wondered if you might help me as I address them?”

Jude blinked. Of course he had been sent here to assist the women in whatever way they required. But he had been expecting to have Lady Woodley as a buffer between him and Audrey. Her presence would have been the bucket of ice water he needed to cool his inappropriate desires.

But now Audrey was asking him to come to her assistance on his own. To spend time with her in close quarters without anything but his own conscience to stop him from acting a fool. He wasn’t certain that part of him was strong enough right now.

“You—you don’t want to wait for your mother?” he asked.

Audrey shrugged. “She told me this morning that it might be a day she is in bed, but it might also be a week if it is a cold that has stricken her, and we are here for such a short time, we cannot afford to wait.”

He clenched his teeth. “Very well.”

Once again, Audrey’s face reflected hurt. “Samson, please tell me the truth. Did I do something to offend you?”

“No, I already told you, of course not,” he retorted, perhaps more sharply than he should have.

She folded her arms. “Don’t say of course not. I have eyes and ears. You don’t seem happy in the slightest to be here, despite all your explanations about being tired. So please give me the courtesy of the truth this time.”

Jude arched a brow. He had forgotten how bold Audrey could be. “So direct,” he said softly.

The fire flickered out of her stare and she blushed. “One can be so with…with a friend.”

“A friend,” he repeated and his voice was as stiff as he now felt. That was what he was to Audrey. A friend. Nothing more. He had to stop being foolish about anything else. “And we are friends.”

“I hope so,” she whispered.

He nodded. “We are. If I have been untoward, I do apologize. In truth I—” He cut himself off, searching for a lie that had more truth in it than before, to placate her. “Well, I was not expecting Edward to be on the cusp of marriage when I returned to London. Nor did I expect to be sent on this important mission of decoration immediately. I am a bit out of sorts, but it isn’t right to take it out on you.”

She smiled and the relief was palpable on her face. “I’m glad it isn’t something I’ve done. And I promise you, this duty could be fun.”

It was hard not to smile as her face came back to life and her grin lit up the room. Even though he doubted anything about the next few weeks would be “fun”.

“Could it?” he asked.

She laughed and her eyes danced. “We’ll make it so, Jude. I promise.”

“Oh, all right,” he agreed, throwing up his hands in surrender.

She caught one in both of hers, apparently unaware of the sparks that shot up his arm when she touched him. “Come on!” she insisted and all but dragged him from the room.

He followed, but when she wasn’t looking his face fell again. He was playing with fire. And he feared they would both get burned.

Chapter Four

AUDREY HAD NEVER CARED OVERLY much for her brother’s fine phaeton. She thought it a showy vehicle and one that went far too fast. But today, sitting so damn close to Jude, she actually liked it. The sun on her face and the spicy, wonderful smell of Jude’s skin was a wonderful combination. Her leg bumped his as he maneuvered around a turn, and her heart actually fluttered. Like she was some silly heroine in a novel.

She cleared her throat. “So, where did you go?”

He jolted as if he had forgotten she was there, and if she were honest with herself, he probably had. After all, she was just a friend to him, one he didn’t want to spend that much time with. His mind was probably miles away. Perhaps even on some lady.

Hopefully not a lady he had been calling on while he was away. Would he tell her if it was? Did she want to know? Oh God, why had she asked?

“Go?” he asked, mercifully pushing into her wild thoughts. “When?”

She looked at him from the corner of her eye. “Before my brother’s marriage. When you were gone for a month. Where did you go?”

He was quiet for what seemed like an eternity, shifting in the driver’s seat enough that the horses picked up their pace in response. Her heart sank as she waited for his answer, more and more certain than ever that he would tell her he had a lover or a fiancée or a damned wife she didn’t know about.

“I went to see my mother,” he finally said.

She leaned forward. “Oh, how is she? I haven’t seen her in an age!”

“She—she has been unwell,” he said, his voice very soft.

Now she pivoted and faced him fully. “Oh, Jude. I’m so sorry to hear that. Is there something I can do?”

He frowned. “No, I’m afraid not. It is her hands—if you recall, she struggles from arthritis.”

Audrey did recall that fact, just as she seemed to recall all the personal facts about Jude that she had squirreled away through the years.

“Well, I shall write her a letter, at least,” she said with a nod. “I would love to hear from her.”

“She would like that very much, I’m sure. And she will write back,” he said, his smile suddenly wider. “Though she will use her maid to do it.”

Audrey frowned at that news. It was terrible to hear Mrs. Samson was unwell. It certainly explained Jude’s distraction as of late. She might have pressed more, asked more, even offered some kind of comfort to him, but before she could they rounded the last long bend and the little village of Idleridge came into view. It was a small hamlet, but utterly charming with its adorable buildings, decorated with swirls and filigrees.

“And here we are,” Jude said as he maneuvered the rig down the narrow main street and stopped it in front of the first store he came to. “What shall we do?”

He stepped down as he asked the question and Audrey waited to respond until he had come around the vehicle and offered a hand up to assist her.

“Mama has a chaise that’s been delivered into Mr. Martin’s care,” she explained. “But she wants me to look at it before it is delivered to be certain it’s right. And then I want to shop for fabric to re-cover the settee to match.”

She looked up to find an expression of utter horror on Jude’s face. She couldn’t help it—she began to giggle, then laugh. He scowled at her and she covered her mouth so to not make the situation worse.

“You look like you bit into a tart and found it salty instead of sweet,” she teased, unable to keep the laughter from her voice.

“I did not know I would be dragged from store to store,” he grumbled, but she thought she saw a twinkle in his dark blue eyes despite his grousing.

“You will survive, I promise you. And if you are very good, I’ll buy you a biscuit. Mrs. Fleming has those chocolate ones you like so much.”

“Bribery with food will not work,” he said, folding his arms.

She shook her head. “Then what could I offer to tempt you?”

She waited for him to tease her, to continue the light banter they had begun. But instead his expression suddenly grew very heated and his gaze slipped slowly and oh-so-seductively to her lips. But he couldn’t be doing that. He couldn’t be looking at her with such a hunger, one that mirrored the one she tried to squash in herself regularly.

Then he shook it off. “Well, perhaps a biscuit will do after all,” he said, but his voice was gruff and he didn’t offer to take her arm as he motioned her toward Martin’s shop.

She was happy for that fact in that moment. Because she knew, as much as she knew the color of her eyes or hair, that if he had touched her, she just might have done something she would have regretted.

* * *

JUDE STOOD BESIDE THE SHOP door, leaning against the window as he watched Audrey. She stood side by side with Mr. Martin, the longtime proprietor of the shop, looking together at the infamous chaise that Jude could not have cared less about. It looked like a chair to him, a very comfortable chair, of course. And blue. What else was there to say?

Apparently a great deal, for Audrey had been standing just out of the range of his hearing, chatting with the older man for a good ten minutes about it. Under normal circumstances, Jude would have been made restless by being forced to wait for something so foolish. Today he was not. Today he merely stood back, enjoying the tilt of Audrey’s head as she looked at the chaise from a new angle and compared it to one of the swatches of fabric in her hand. When she smiled at something the shop-keep said, Jude mirrored her expression instantly.

This was all getting very much out of hand. Why, he didn’t know. After all, he had wanted Audrey since the first moment he saw her. But it had never risen to the surface like this before. Never been so out of control before.

She turned and suddenly her dark brown eyes locked on his, putting into focus every feeling or desire he’d ever had for her. Then she smiled. “Samson, will you help me here?”

He moved toward her instantly, unable to resist her call. “What is it?” he asked.

She held up two pieces of fabric for his attention. “I cannot pick between them. Will you offer your advice?”

He stared at the two little squares in her delicate hands. Hands he wished would smooth over his skin. “Er, well, the white with the blue stripe is nice.”

Mr. Martin nodded swiftly. “Your husband has very good taste, my lady.”

Audrey tensed at the error and her gaze flitted away from Jude. He frowned at her reaction, although it was to be expected, after all.

“Mr. Samson is not my husband, Mr. Martin,” she said softly.

Jude swallowed. “I’m Lord Woodley’s man of affairs,” he said, uncertain as to why he would feel a need to tell this man that. Perhaps it was more of a reminder to himself.

Mr. Martin flushed from his hair to his neck. “Oh goodness, I’m so sorry, Lady Audrey. A few of the ladies in the shop were talking about a recent marriage in your family and I-I only assumed. How foolish of me. I never would have implied that the daughter of a marquis would be wed to a servant.”

Jude flinched. Of course, his position in life was far more complicated than that, but in the end, it was also just that simple. He was a servant to the Woodley family. Not an equal. Not by his position nor his actions.

Audrey was now also blushing. “Oh, Mr. Martin don’t upset yourself. My brother did just marry, that must be what you heard about. And Mr. Samson is a good friend to our family and the grandson of a viscount, I could not be offended.”

The other man continued sputtering despite her soft words. “Well, I—but—”

She reached out and gently laid a hand on his arm. “Could you cut the fabric in the amount we discussed earlier? And have it put on my mother’s account?”

“Of course,” Mr. Martin blustered. “Of course, my lady. Please give your mother my fondest regards.”

“I shall,” Audrey said. “Good day.”

The other man took her subtle hint and bowed away, hustling to the back to fill her order. Audrey turned to Jude with a tight smile. “Shall we go and get our biscuits?”

He frowned. “Perhaps another time. Do you have other shopping to do?”

She shrugged. “I can do it later if you would prefer to return to the estate.”

He did not prefer to return to the estate. What he would prefer to do was gather her up in his arms right in the middle of this store, and kiss her just as a husband would do. But instead of saying that or doing it, he merely nodded.

“Perhaps that would be best.” He motioned for her to exit the shop first and she inhaled deeply as they stood on the stoop.

“God, I do miss fresh air when we are in London,” she mused. “Samson, do you think we could walk back?”

He jolted at the suggestion. “It is a mile.”

“Hardly a jaunt at all,” she said with another smile. “The footmen are here with the cart for the chaise, I see. Couldn’t one of them drive my brother’s phaeton home?”

Jude considered the request. She was correct that they would not have to abandon the fine vehicle and he could think of no other reason to deny her request. Save the real one, which he refused to share.

“I suppose the exercise would do me good,” he said. “Lead the way, my lady.”

She stiffened slightly at his address, but did as he asked and stepped out onto the road out of town. They walked along the side for a short while, then she cut off on a path that meandered through the hills toward the estate where they wouldn’t have to contend with dust from passing vehicles. It also meant they were alone.

Jude cleared his throat as they wandered further away from town. “You didn’t have to defend me, you know.”

She pursed her lips. “To the shop-keep, you mean?”

He nodded. She stopped in the path and turned on him, her dark eyes snapping fire. “Jude Samson, you have been a part of our family for over a decade. You are no servant.”

He shook his head. “I am.”

“Your grandfather was a viscount, your uncle is now.”

He shrugged. “Yes, and those facts allowed me to go to Eton and Cambridge and play beside the real lords of the manors. But the moment my father died, my mother and I were cut off from my family. My uncle hasn’t spoken to me in twelve years.”

She huffed out her breath and continued walking. “That I shall never understand, Jude. Why in the world would they be so cruel to you and your mother?”

“Do you really want to know?”

She nodded. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

He cast a side glance in her direction. He almost always avoided this painful subject, but with Audrey it was so hard for him not to be honest. And he was holding back about so much else from her that the answer to this question seemed to bubble over like a pot overfilled and boiling.

“You have met my mother a few times. What do you think of her?”

Audrey wrinkled her brow as if she didn’t understand the question. “She is a fine lady, of course. Never anything but sweet-natured and kind to all. I like her a great deal.”

“Well, my father’s family did not. They had arranged for him to marry the daughter of a duke, but he had already been captivated by my mother. Madeline Dupois was the daughter of a noble family, but they were French, they were poor, and my mother was currently acting in the role of a companion to the mother of my father’s intended.”

Audrey’s eyes widened. “Oh my.”

“Yes. You can see that it caused a shockwave when he ran off with her. I was born the next year. I’m certain they meant to cut my father and mother off, but reputation got in the way.”

“Reputation?” she asked.

He nodded slowly, making every effort not to show his emotions on his face. “My grandmother adored my father. To protect him and to protect their own name, they had to smile out of one side of their mouths, while bitterly bemoaning my mother’s and my existence from the other.”

“Oh, Jude,” she whispered. “How awful for her. And for you.”

He shrugged. “When my father died, the family didn’t feel they had to keep up the pretense and we were swiftly disavowed. I believe my uncle even tried to have my father’s marriage declared illegal, but it didn’t work.”

She stopped again and turned to him, her brown eyes shining with tears. For him. For his mother. He stared at them, at the empathy Audrey was so capable of sharing.

It was just one reason he had grown to care for her over the years.

“Jude, I didn’t know it was so very terrible. I’m sorry.”

“I grew up knowing nothing different, but I know she felt the sting of their disregard. That is all that matters to me, not that they don’t care. They are not my family.”

Audrey nodded. “But we are. My family is yours.”

He pressed his lips together. He had always felt the same way. He’d always been accepted by the Woodley clan in a way he hadn’t even dreamed about from his own. But it was an illusion. One they kindly let him keep, but an illusion nonetheless.

“Audrey, you are making my point exactly.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Your family is kind to me, they accept me, and I appreciate that more than you or they shall likely ever know. But I am nothing more than a common man with very little money. You defended me to the shop-keep as if somehow I could be your husband, but I never could. You are—”

“I am just a girl whose brother is a marquis,” she interrupted with a roll of her eyes. “I carry these odd expectations on my shoulders, yes, but in the end, I am just a girl.”

He almost laughed at that statement, ridiculous not only because of her position in life, but who she was at her core. Audrey was not “just” anything.

“No, you aren’t,” he whispered.

He moved forward and found himself reaching out. He almost groaned as his errant fingers brushed the satin perfection of her cheek. He watched as her eyes grew wide at the touch, dilated with what he realized with a start was desire not unlike his own.

But that couldn’t be.

He jerked his hand back as if burned and for a moment they merely stood staring at each other. Then he turned away. “Come, I have much to do. I can’t linger all day.”

He didn’t wait for her response, but continued to walk briskly toward the estate that was just appearing over the hill in the distance. Walking away was one of the hardest things he’d ever done in his life.

Chapter Five

AUDREY HARDLY EVEN LOOKED DOWN as she ran a brush through her mother’s hair over and over again. Instead she stared straight ahead at the wall, her mind running over and over the exchange with Jude the previous day. He had touched her. And there had been nothing brotherly or friendly about it.

She could still feel his fingers branding her cheek even now.

“You are distracted.”

Audrey jolted and looked down in time to see her mother remove the warm cloth Audrey had brought for her to rest on her eyes earlier, in hopes of alleviating her continuing headache.

“Did I hurt you?” Audrey asked, horrified at the prospect.

Lady Woodley shook her head. “No, the brush was divine—it helps enormously. But I can feel you drifting away even without seeing you. Is anything wrong?”

Audrey shifted in discomfort. Her mother had always been able to see right through her, but she was a lady of the highest order, both in rank and behavior. Audrey doubted she would understand her current confusion about Jude.

“Dear?” Lady Woodley pressed.

“I’m sorry,” she said as she stood and set the brush down on the dressing table. “I was woolgathering. Thinking about the fabric I chose yesterday. Did you like it?”

Her mother nodded. “I do, indeed. I think it will be perfect with the new chaise. But I don’t think that is what makes you daydream.”

Audrey sighed. “Well, I was just…what do you think about Samson?”

Her mother’s brow wrinkled. “Why do you ask?”

Audrey hesitated. She would have to tread very carefully here so as not to reveal too much. “You know he accompanied me to the village yesterday. We walked home after since it was such a lovely day.”

“I see,” her mother said slowly, clearly not seeing at all, for which Audrey felt strangely grateful.

“You know, I realize that despite the fact he has been a friend to this family for so many years, I knew very little about his history. He told me a bit about the scandalous marriage of his parents and the reason behind his estrangement with his father’s family.”

At that Lady Woodley nodded, a troubled expression on her gentle face. “Oh yes, that is a sad tale. I know poor Madeline suffered in the face of their contempt. I always liked her.”

“I only met her twice, but she always seemed the perfect lady.”

“She is,” her mother said with a shake of her head. “Just not the lady that Lord Samson wanted for his son. And you did not cross that man. His eldest son is much the same way, I think. But why did that subject come up?”

Audrey blushed. “When we were looking at the fabric for the settee, Mr. Martin mistook Samson for my husband. Apparently the women in the village were talking about Edward’s marriage and he misheard or misunderstood and thought it was me who had wed. When he realized his mistake, he called Jude a servant. We were discussing whether I was wrong to defend him.”

Lady Woodley’s expression was one of utter confusion. “You felt you had to defend Samson over that?”

“Well, it isn’t true, is it?”

“I suppose not entirely. After all, Samson sits with a toe in both worlds. He was born to a family of rank and raised in privilege, at least to the outside world. But since his father’s death he has not been welcomed into that world very easily. And he is, in fact, somewhat of a servant to your brother, though we obviously all consider him a friend of this family.”

Audrey felt a strong urge to continue to argue, but her mother’s sharp expression stopped that. She nodded reluctantly. “I suppose you are right.”

“Why the sudden interest in Jude Samson?”

Audrey turned her back on her mother at the question, uncertain if she could make her face unaffected as she said, “He is a friend, as you said.”

“Hmmm,” her mother murmured, and Audrey faced her.

She didn’t like Lady Woodley’s look. As if she…suspected something. And this dangerous topic clearly had to come to an end.

“How are you feeling?” she pressed. “Any better today aside from the headache?”

Her mother’s face fell. “Not much. I think it may be a cold after all. I just don’t feel myself at all.”

Audrey frowned. “Oh, I hate to hear it. That means you should stay in bed, not help me with the decoration as we planned.”

“I know, I am disappointed too. But if I stay abed a few more days, perhaps this sudden weakness will fade and I can truly enjoy our time here. At any rate, I’m certain you are doing a good job in the first parlor.”

Audrey smiled. “I hope so. Do not worry, Mama. Just rest and I promise you that Jude and I will make the parlor as lovely as you have always pictured it.”

She was surprised when her mother did not immediately respond, but simply considered her carefully. Finally she nodded. “Yes. I’m sure,” she said softly. “I think I shall try to rest again, dear.”

Audrey stepped toward her and bent to kiss her mother’s brow. It felt warm but not overly so and she vowed not to overreact. “Feel better, Mama. I will come and check on you after luncheon.”

“Yes. Tell Jude I said hello,” Lady Woodley responded, still watching Audrey far too closely.

Audrey smiled as she left the room and leaned back against the barrier for a moment. She should have been disappointed. And a part of her was, for she would never wish suffering on the dowager. But a larger part felt a forbidden thrill at the idea that she and Jude would continue to be alone. Especially if she could coax him to put his hands on her again.

* * *

JUDE LEANED ON THE FENCE watching the horse master run a wild stallion around the paddock. He’d never known a man better at breaking horses than Warrick Blackwood. Even the ones everyone said couldn’t be broken fell to his discipline eventually.

“He’s a beautiful horse,” Jude called out.

Warrick nodded, for he was a man of few words. Then he walked over to the fence, giving the stallion the freedom to roam around the paddock for a moment.

“He will be,” War said, watching the animal closely. “Once he settles down.”

“Are you going to mount him today?” Jude asked.

War shook his head. “No. Slow and steady is the best way to break. Today we’re just getting used to each other.” He looked past Jude toward the house. “You have company, Samson.”

The horse master turned away and moved back to the horse, leaving Jude to slowly look behind him. Of course, it was Audrey coming down the path toward the paddock. She was wearing a dark pink gown and her skin looked like cream with the color against it. Suddenly he very much wanted to be a cat.

As she neared him, he saw the tension on her face. And why wouldn’t there be? Yesterday he had acted a fool by touching her. And even worse a fool by continuing to hide away from her. One more supper alone had likely sent her a bitter message.

“Good morning,” she said as she stepped up beside him. Her gaze flitted to Blackwood and the horse, and she smiled. “Enjoying Blackwood’s work?”

The horse master had managed to get the skittish animal to allow him close. He was next to him now, stroking the animal’s hide gently.

“He has the touch,” Jude admitted.

“Claire always loved to come down here,” Audrey said softly, darkness eclipsing her expression like a cloud on a sunny day. “She couldn’t get enough of the horses. I think she would have climbed in the paddock and helped War if he’d let her.”

Jude clenched his fists at his sides and tightened his jaw. Seeing how much the subject of Claire hurt her made him hate himself all the more. It made him want to comfort her, although it wasn’t his place. Especially when it came to this subject.

“Did you need something?” he asked.

She flinched at his tone, obviously misreading his anger toward himself as anger toward her. But she straightened up almost immediately and met his eyes with the same dignity with which she met all obstacles.

“My mother’s cold continues,” she explained. “She intends to remain in bed again today.”

Jude drew back. “Should I fetch the doctor?”

She shook her head. “No, I don’t think that will be required. She is comfortable in her bed at present. But I’ll keep you informed if that changes. Certainly, we wouldn’t want to risk her health.”

“No, never,” he breathed.

She smiled at his earnestness. “But of course that leaves me at a disadvantage when it comes to what we came here to do. Would you help me?”

He turned his face. “Audrey,” he said softly, his tone laced with a discouragement he didn’t feel.

He most definitely did want to help her. Be with her. Pretend that there was something more between them. That they were talking about their rooms and their house and their life.

Her frown deepened and her hurt was reflected on her face as clear as anything. He hated himself for causing it. But how else could he protect her?

“We were friends, weren’t we?” she asked, her voice cracking. “Aren’t we?”

“We aren’t children anymore, Audrey…Lady Audrey. I shouldn’t be your friend.”

She shook her head. “Because of what we talked about yesterday?” she pressed. “Your place?”

He took a few steps away from her. Her question was the best answer and yet it wasn’t true. He needed to stay away from her because he wanted her. And if he got too close…

“Please.”

It was one word, but it carried such power with it. Please. Please help her. Please don’t walk away from her. Please pretend that he didn’t want to have her in every way possible. Please.

He faced her slowly, trying to maintain the tiniest shred of control. So difficult when the sun hit her face and made her all but glow with beauty and strength and hidden passions that could so easily come to the surface.

He couldn’t resist her. “Of course,” he stammered. “Of course I will help you. It is what I was sent here to do, after all.”

Her lips pinched slightly, but she nodded. “Thank you. Come, they’re beginning to paint the parlor.”

He followed her to the house, trying not to watch every twitch of her hips, every bounce of her hair. Trying to find a way to break himself of his desire for her, just as the horses were broken behind him.

* * *

IT HAD BEEN THREE HOURS since Audrey had gone down and fetched Jude to help her. Over that time, the odd tension between them had begun to fade. Who would have thought it would only take a paintbrush?

Jude watched her as she balanced on the ladder a servant held and stroked the brush over the wall.

“I still can’t believe you took up painting yourself,” he laughed.

She observed her handiwork and smiled before she climbed down. The footman took the brush she had held and gathered up a few more things before he left the room, leaving Jude and Audrey alone for a moment.

“Why not?” she asked as she looked again at the bright, welcoming yellow of the walls. Offset by the white railings and decorative wood, the room was gorgeous. And she had been a part of it.

“Because you are a lady,” he said, emphasizing the word.

She rolled her eyes. “Why should a lady not help? Especially since I love this parlor more than any room in this house.”

He looked around. “Do you? Why?”

She smiled. “My papa used to read to me right in front of the fire there,” she said, motioning toward the now-empty fireplace. “And this was always the room where our family gathered to play cards or talk.”

Jude’s expression softened. “You know, this was the room where I was first introduced to your family, all those Christmases ago.”

She nodded. Of course she knew that. That long-ago night had taken its place amongst her favorites in this room.

“So you see why I have a strong desire to see it perfect, for I hope that there will be many more memories created here in the years to come.” She looked around again. “I think my mother will like the color a great deal, especially when it is paired with the blues on the furniture.”

He stepped closer, a grin on his face and a sparkle in his eyes that she hadn’t seen in a long time. He reached out and everything in her world seemed to stop.

“You have paint on your cheek,” he laughed as he used his thumb to trace her cheekbone. His smile fell, but his hand did not, and for a moment the air left both her lungs and the room itself.

“Jude?” she whispered.

He grunted a wordless sound and suddenly he swayed in closer. He was going to kiss her. She saw it in his eyes, felt it in his heat. She couldn’t stop trembling, she couldn’t stop her heart from throbbing almost out of her chest. What would he taste like? What would he feel like when he took her in his arms? What would happen afterward? Because she very much doubted it would end with just a kiss for them.

It was that thought that brought her up short. And even though she was shaking with the desire to have Jude’s mouth on hers, she staggered away, nearly depositing herself on her backside near the ladder.

He stared at her, his eyes narrowing and his face losing color.

“I’m sorry,” he said, taking his own long step backward. “I shouldn’t have done that. Especially after our discussion yesterday about my place.”

She gasped out a breath. “Oh God, Jude, it has nothing to do with that, I assure you.” Tears filled her eyes and she blinked at them, trying to keep her composure. Trying to stop herself from coming completely undone.

He tilted his head. “Audrey, what is it?”

She held up her hands. “Nothing. It’s nothing. I can’t—”

“Audrey,” he interrupted, moving on her but stopping far short of being too close. “Please. I can see you’re very upset. You said earlier we were friends—why don’t you talk to me?”

She trembled as she stared at him. He was offering her an ear, a place to put fears she could speak to no one else in the world about. And it was tempting, oh-so-temping.

“How can I explain?” she whispered.

“Just say the words,” he encouraged her.

She moved a little closer to him, examining his handsome face. It was such a soulful one, so filled with expression. She had always been able to read his dark blue eyes, his frowns and smiles. She had always longed to be closer to him.

And this confession would certainly do that, both to her benefit or detriment.

“You were going to kiss me, weren’t you?” she asked.

He hesitated for a moment, but then he nodded. “Yes,” he admitted. “I was.”

She nodded, the thrill filling her again. “I thought as much. But it wasn’t your position or rank that made me pull away,” she said, watching that expressive face tighten with anger at himself for his slip in propriety. “In fact, I have wanted that kiss for so long, I can hardly recall a time when it wasn’t on my mind. When I didn’t wish for it.”

He sucked in a breath. “Audrey,” he breathed, his eyes going wide, his pupils dilating until blue was almost entirely black.

“It’s true. I won’t deny it. Not if we are choosing to be honest with each other.” She felt her cheeks growing hotter by the moment, but pushed her embarrassment away. “So you see, I don’t turn away because I don’t want you. It’s because I’m…I’m afraid.”

His brow wrinkled. “Afraid of me? Because Audrey, I would never hurt you, I would never force you. Great God, if you are afraid—”

“No!” she interrupted. “I’m not afraid of you, Jude. I’m afraid of…of…passion.”

“Passion?” he repeated, as if he didn’t understand her meaning.

She swallowed hard. She had kept these feelings inside for so long, she hadn’t expected for them to be so difficult to express. But they were, and not just because her confidante was a man she had been obsessed with for years.

“Yes,” she said. “And why shouldn’t I be? Look at what it has done to my family!”

He shook his head. “I don’t understand, Audrey. What do you think passion has done?”

She trembled as she tried to put words to her fears. “It is like an animal. I’ve seen it live and breathe, Jude. I have watched it wind its way around a person and destroy them. Even now, isn’t it alive in you? In me?”

“You are upsetting yourself, Audrey. I admit what you say is true, but how have such desires harmed your family?”

She threw up her hands and paced the empty room. “You were with Edward during his marriage. His attraction to Alice was why he wed her, wasn’t it? And it destroyed him when he discovered she wasn’t what she seemed.”

Jude pressed his lips together. “I don’t think you can judge the merits of passion on Alice’s vile and violent actions.” She heard Jude’s hatred for her brother’s late wife in every word he spoke.

She shrugged. “Passion drove my brother to desperation,” she said. “You may portray it any way you like. And then there is Claire. It was passion that encouraged her to run off with Jonathon Aston. He played upon some kind of high emotion she was going through at the time and he tricked her into surrender to passion.”

Jude turned away from her. Perhaps she had gone too far, broken whatever pedestal he kept her on. And that might be for the best after all.

“So I am afraid of feeling passion,” she continued. “You must understand why.”

He turned on her, and there was fire in his stare. Fire that was exactly the passion she feared. And yet she wanted so desperately to lean into it. Lean into him.

“There are positive things about passion,” he said softly. “Look at Edward and Mary.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “Yes. Yes, they do seem to care for each other deeply. And they are happy. But couldn’t their passion destroy them in the future?”

His lips parted. Lips she still wanted to feel on her, despite her words about terror and reluctance. That was the most frightening thing about passion. It lured one in.

“You don’t believe that,” he whispered, and moved closer. “Audrey, you cannot fear passion. Desire is a natural inclination that every man and woman feels. To suppress it, to make it ugly, it isn’t healthy.”

“You don’t know that,” she murmured. She could smell his skin now, she could feel his heat.

“I do,” he promised, and suddenly he threaded his fingers into her hair. He tilted her face toward his—and this time she wasn’t strong enough to turn away.

He lowered his lips and kissed her.

Every thought, every fear, every bit of resistance bled away from Audrey’s mind in that charged moment, and the only thing she could do was feel. Feel how soft Jude’s lips were on hers, feel the power in his coiled muscles as he molded her against him, feel the slide of his tongue as he brushed the crease of her lips. She opened to him out of pure instinct and gasped as he breached her, tasting her tongue, stroking her mouth.

She couldn’t resist even though she knew she should. She wound her arms around him and tentatively returned the kiss, meeting his tongue’s strokes with her own uncertain ones.

It was as if fireworks had gone off between them, blasts of light and heat and were so beautiful and so dangerous if not handled correctly. And she was not qualified. Not in the slightest.

His hands slid down to her waist and his fingers clenched there, molding her hips to his, making sensation travel through her desperate body to settle at her throbbing nipples, at the space between her legs where her sex clenched all on its own.

This was passion. The passion she had feared for so long, still feared. Passion that she could not deny any longer. Not when it was Jude claiming her lips and cupping her backside oh-so-gently.

She would have surrendered. It was the only coherent thought in her mind. That she would have surrendered. Only he didn’t offer her the chance. He yanked away from her as suddenly as he had kissed her, staggering across the empty room and turning his back to her. His shoulders lifted and fell with his panting breaths. Ones that matched her own.

He never looked at her. He didn’t speak. He simply strode out of the room without looking back, without offering her comfort or censure. He walked away.

And she feared he might never come back.

Chapter Six

JUDE ALL BUT RAN THROUGH the grounds, hardly seeing the tended shrubbery, the bubbling fountains, as he tried to get as far away from the house as fast as he could. As if he could run away from what had just happened.

As if he could run away from how he felt about it.

“Why didn’t you stay away?” he asked himself as he slowed at last. “God damn it, why didn’t you say no to Edward? No to Audrey?”

But he knew why. He hadn’t stayed away because deep in his heart he had wanted this to happen. Worse, he had known it would. At some point, he had always known he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from taking what wasn’t his if he was alone with Audrey.

“God damn it,” he repeated.

“Jude!”

He froze at the voice calling his name. Audrey’s voice, breathless and moving closer. He looked over his shoulder to find her racing down the long hill from the house, her skirt fisted in her hand, tendrils of brown hair streaming from their confines because she hadn’t put on a bonnet.

She was like an angel swooping down from heaven. She was like a demon meant to tempt him and prove that he couldn’t control himself. She was everything.

“Go away, Audrey!” he barked, beginning to walk away again, his strides purposeful and long as he tried to put distance between them.

Impossible when she would not allow it.

“No!” she shouted back, running harder.

She lunged for him and caught his arm, yanking him to face her and forcing him to remain in place. She nearly bent in half, panting as she looked up at him.

“Great Lord, Audrey, you’re going to hurt yourself,” he said, utterly enchanted by her tangled hair and flashing eyes and red face.

“Oh, do shut up. Ladies are not meant to run and I don’t have practice,” she panted. “You are ungentlemanly for forcing me to do it.”

He smiled despite himself. “I apologize. But Audrey—” He extracted himself from her grasp. “You really should just let me go.”

Her face crumpled slightly. “Why? Why are you running?”

He shook his head, unable to express it in words. Unable to tell her that he had loved her for as long as he had known her. Unable to say that he had betrayed her and her family so deeply that he could never, ever let her close.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said instead. “We shouldn’t have done that.”

“Why?” she whispered. “Why did you do it?”

He fisted his hands at his sides if only to keep himself from touching her again. “Why do you think?”

She stared into his eyes for a long moment and then her own went wide, almost impossibly wide. She stepped away and he knew she saw the truth. Or at least part of it.

“You—you want me.”

He bent his head. Given her fears about passion, perhaps this part of the truth would send her away. Where they would both be safe. “Yes,” he admitted. “I do want you, Audrey. I have wanted you for as long as I can remember.”

She blinked over and over, but he could read no other emotion in her beyond shock. He knew she feared passion in general, but he had no idea if she was disgusted by his specifically.

When she had been silent for far too long, he said, “This is why we need to stay away from each other. You should forget what I told you.”

She gasped. “As if I could, Jude.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. This situation was on the verge of spiraling out of control even further than it already had. He knew no way to stop the stone that was rolling down the hill toward them, one that would run them both down in the end if he couldn’t bring it to a halt now.

“Then tell your brother,” he whispered. “Tell him and I will leave his employ. I’ll—”

He didn’t get to finish the sentence. Audrey made a soft sound in her throat and launched herself at him. She cupped his cheeks, pulled his face down to hers and kissed him. It was hard, it was passionate, and as she stroked her tongue against his lips, just as he had a short time before, it was infinitely sweet.

All his shaky control faltered in that moment and he crushed her closer, their tongues tangling with desperate, aggressive passion. She tasted like honey, like the sweetest wine. She tasted like surrender, and he groaned as he backed her up, pressing her to the bark of the closest tree and holding her there as he continued to consume her lips.

She arched against him with a whimpering moan of pleasure, her fingers clawing at his back as she tried to get closer. He obliged her, cupping her backside and grinding her body tighter to the tree.

He was lost, the last vestiges of gentlemanliness, of honor, swallowed up by her kiss. All that was left was want and need that had been repressed for years. Unleashed, it was too powerful. It shut off everything else.

He found his hand sliding down her body, almost of its own accord. He sought her breast and squeezed the soft flesh gently, eliciting another moan from her. Through the thin silk, he felt how hard her nipple was and he thrust against her once more, seeking relief for the mounting desire that pooled in his loins.

She gasped when his hard cock nudged her belly and the action broke the kiss. He stared down at her, unblinking as he pushed again. She squeezed her eyes shut, but her desire remained clear by her expression.

She wanted him as much as he wanted her. And he was going to give her something, anything, to claim at least this one day as his own. He deserved that after holding back for so many other days.

He slid his hand down her ribcage, cupped her hip and ducked his head to kiss her once more. She responded immediately and did not resist as he began to bunch her skirts in his hand.

“I want to touch you,” he growled against her lips.

She caught her breath, her forehead dropping to his. He could feel her fighting with her fears, battling with desire and abject terror at once.

But need won out, as it so often did, and as his hand found its way beneath her lifted skirt, she nodded. “Touch me.”

That acquiescence was all he needed. He looked down, unable to see where he touched her, but still fascinated by the vision of his hand moving beneath her pink skirt. He found the slit in her flimsy drawers and then…heaven. Her sex was warm and wet, welcoming as he cupped her intimately.

“Oh God,” she whispered, a garbled sound of pleasure and shock.

He spread her outer lips with expert fingers and stroked across her entrance. He was going to make her come. Right here in the yard, pressed against a tree that likely her great-grandfather had planted without ever thinking it would be used for this wicked purpose. He didn’t give a damn about anything else, even though he should.

She jolted as he began to stroke over her. His thumb found the nub of her clitoris and he dipped his index finger inside of her. The rhythm was easy to find. He simply reacted to her sighs and gasps as he took her, watching her face for even the smallest reaction.

It was shocking how swiftly he brought her to the brink. A few strokes and her eyes were wide, her breath almost nonexistent as she gripped her fingers against the bark behind her.

“Let go,” he whispered, and pressed her clitoris firmly.

She thumped her head against the tree trunk as a keening cry left her lips. Her body began to jerk around him, little earthquakes that told him she had reached her peak and more. He continued to stroke her through it until her body relaxed. Only then did he withdraw, smoothing her skirts down again and stepping back.

The moment, he did so, the gravity of what he had done returned. There she was, leaning against a tree, her hair tangled, little bits of bark within it. It was the middle of the day and anyone could have stumbled upon them, even though they hadn’t. Her dark brown eyes were glazed with release and continued surprise, and her breasts lifted with exertion.

She simply stared at him, her expression unreadable.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, both meaning it and not meaning it. It was true because he’d gone too far. It was not true because this had been his fantasy for nearly a decade. And reality was so much better.

But there was nothing to it. He couldn’t have her, as much as he wanted to. And now he had to walk away. Walk away before he claimed her again, and this time not just with his fingers.

He turned on his heel and bolted. And this time, she did not follow.

* * *

AUDREY WATCHED JUDE LEAVE HER through bleary, confused eyes. It felt like everything around her was moving slower, that it sparkled, and if she hadn’t been leaning against the tree, she probably would have been in a heap on the grass.

So that was passion. Real passion.

She had not lied to Jude. It was something she feared and that hadn’t changed. What she and Jude had done was so powerful, so unexpected, so out of control that she couldn’t help but fear it. But there was another feeling now. Deeper and more powerful than the fear.

She wanted more. Her body already ached for more and now she recognized what that deep ache was. Why she felt it every time Jude came near her. Why it kept her up at night, sweaty and unsatisfied.

It was desire, it was passion.

It was…transformative, actually. She had become a wanton with just one touch. And Jude, well, he had become hard, aggressive…utterly arousing. All his kindness and humor had vanished when he cupped her sex.

And she was left confused as his figure disappeared into the woods at the bottom of the hill.

Would he come back? She had no idea. She wanted to go after him, but she didn’t. It was all too dangerous. Instead, she pushed away from the tree and started up the hill back toward the house.

Everything looked different now, as if she saw it through new eyes. Pleasure had changed everything.

She shook her head as she reached the steps that led to the back terrace and the door beyond it. She entered one of the parlors not under construction and trudged into the hall, her mind a million miles away as she continued to struggle with what had just happened and her unwanted reaction to it.

She didn’t even notice the servant who approached her until he cleared his throat and made her jump.

“I’m sorry to bother you, my lady,” the footman said. “Your mother began asking for you half an hour ago, but we weren’t certain where you were.”

Audrey’s stomach dropped. Her mother. God, she had all but forgotten her mother was even here. That she had a family at all. That was how powerful such passion was. It could wipe away everything else in the world.

“I-I will join her right away,” she stammered, trying to avoid the servant’s eyes for fear he would see that she had changed and recognize the reason why. She almost felt as if she were wearing a giant sign on her chest that read “wanton”.

He nodded, his face utterly benign, and scurried away. Audrey sighed in relief at being alone and stared up the long set of stairs that led to the family quarters. Would her mother see the change in her? Could she hide what she had done from someone who knew her so well?

She hoped she could, for she had no choice but to join the dowager. Up the stairs she went, every step feeling like her feet were made of lead, and down the hall to Lady Woodley’s familiar chamber. She opened the door and found her mother tucked into her bed, reading. When Audrey entered, she set her book aside.

“There you are,” she said, motioning Audrey closer.

Audrey’s feet faltered, but she managed to drag herself to her mother’s side and press a kiss to her forehead. “Hello, Mama. I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”

“You didn’t keep me waiting,” Lady Woodley insisted as she waved her off and Audrey took a seat beside her. “I only asked for you a half hour ago.”

Audrey swallowed. A half hour ago she had been pinned to a tree, wracked with pleasure at Jude’s sure hands. She felt heat creeping up her neck at the memory.

“How did things go today with Samson?” her mother asked, piercing her memories with that terrifying question.

She blinked. “Nothing. Fine. Why?”

The dowager wrinkled her brow at the incongruous answer to her direct question and Audrey suddenly realized how loud her response had been.

“No reason,” her mother said slowly, observing Audrey carefully. “We simply weren’t certain about the parlor paint color.”

Audrey nodded. “Oh, of course. The paint. Yes. It’s lovely, Mama. Give it a few hours for the smell to fade and you should go look. It is a vast improvement and I think we shall be very happy in that room.”

Lady Woodley smiled, as Audrey had intended, but the questions lingered in her eyes. “What is wrong?”

Audrey got to her feet and moved away from the too-seeing stare of Lady Woodley. She could not tell her. She couldn’t.

“Darling,” her mother continued when Audrey didn’t respond. “You have been odd as of late. I hoped you would feel better here because I know this is a place filled with joyful memories for you.”

“It is,” Audrey agreed, and mentally added her stolen moment with Jude to them.

“Perhaps, but in the past two days since our arrival I feel as though the tension in you has only increased. Why? Is it only the husband hunt?”

Audrey’s lips parted. She hadn’t meant to worry her mother. That was never what she wanted to do. But now her chest hurt as she stared at her and she found herself whispering, “Some of it.”

“But there is more,” her mother pressed.

She nodded. “I—don’t you think that passion can destroy everything?” she blurted out, then slapped a hand over her lips. Oh, she had to cover up the truth now, so she quickly added. “I’ve been thinking a lot about Claire lately and that is the question that haunts my mind.”

The dowager’s eyes grew wide. “That is certainly not the question I expected. Though perhaps I should have, given the circumstances.” She pushed herself up further on her pillows, a pensive expression on her face. “With Edward’s recent marriage, the past weighs on all our minds.”

Audrey almost collapsed in relief. “Yes, of course.” So she could discuss this without revealing herself.

“I hate to think that you feel so bitterly toward the idea of deep feeling and connection, though,” her mother continued. “After all, not everyone in our family has been damaged by love. Look at Edward and Mary.”

Audrey pursed her lips. “You are right that Edward and Mary seem to have found happiness in passion and love, but look at Claire. Look at Edward when he was with Alice. Even look at yourself.”

Lady Woodley’s gaze grew sharp. “What does that mean?”

Audrey drew back a fraction at the sudden tone to her mother’s voice. “Well, you loved Papa and I know you still hurt terribly at his loss.”

The dowager’s expression softened. “Yes. That is true. And desire, when not tempered with some kind of control and limit, can be destructive. It can be wielded as a weapon in the wrong hands. But so can many things. You cannot judge love or any of the feelings that come with it by only the bad outcomes.”

Audrey shifted. That was very similar to the advice Jude had given her earlier in the day. Now she felt so confused, it was hard to think straight.

“It’s hard not to do what you caution against,” she whispered.

Her mother blushed. “Well, until you have experienced love or passion, perhaps you cannot be the right judge of their consequences, my dear. I urge you not to block out your future, not to put yourself in such a state that you can’t see it clearly, just because of something that might hurt you.”

Audrey moved to her mother’s window and stared out. Lady Woodley had a beautiful view of the grounds from here and there in the distance was that tree. That tree where Jude had challenged her fears.

Now she was beginning to wonder if that could be a good thing. After all, part of her hesitation about marrying had to do with her panic about desire. If she faced that fear head on…could it set her free?

Or was she just looking for excuses to seek out Jude and ask for more?

Whatever the motivation, the only chance she would have to do it was now. With her mother abed and the staff distracted by the renovation and their presence, Audrey had freedom she would never encounter in London. And an isolation that Jude couldn’t avoid, as he would be able to do once they were surrounded by other people, once they were back in the city where he could hide behind her brother.

She turned and smiled at her mother, even though her insides were quaking. “You should rest, Mama,” she said, and leaned in for another brief kiss. “I will bring my supper up here tonight and we can share a meal.”

Her mother yawned and slid lower in her bed. “I would like that, darling. And Audrey?”

Audrey stopped at the door and faced her. “Yes?”

“Think about what I’ve said.”

Audrey nodded and slipped from the room. But as she made her way to her own chamber, she smiled again. She was going to think of nothing else but the potential plan she had begun to hatch.

Chapter Seven

THE SMALL COTTAGE THAT CAME as part of his job as man of affairs was not far from the main house, but in the gathering night it seemed miles away. Jude sat outside in the courtyard, looking up the hill as darkness devoured the manse, making it only a shadow dotted with lights from the windows. He needed the extra distance ever since he touched Audrey.

He took a puff of his cigar and pondered those fleeting, passionate moments. Perhaps it wasn’t a surprise that he’d done it. After all, he had desired Audrey, cared for her, for as long as he’d known her. He had tried so hard to ignore those feelings, squash them, pretend they didn’t exist, but nothing had ever eased the ache he felt when he looked at her.

Maybe it was inevitable that one day he would slip and his desire would explode into unforgivable action. But that didn’t change the fact that he had done it and nothing would ever be the same. He knew what her face looked like when she found pleasure. Nothing ever could be the same.

On the path that led from the main house, there was a bob of a lantern, and Jude straightened up. Someone was coming for him. Oh, it could be a footman bringing down the supper he had avoided once more. Or it could be a servant asking him to come up and speak to Lady Woodley.

But from the way the lantern swung, he doubted those things. Anticipation began to spread through his chest and settle in far less comfortable places as he watched the light move closer and closer until it was finally close enough that, when the lantern was lifted, he could see the face of his visitor.

And of course it was Audrey. No one else but Audrey with the light dancing across her cheek and making her look like a moon goddess. But from the way she stopped a long step from his door, she didn’t see him sitting in the dark.

She took a few long breaths and she was muttering to herself, but he couldn’t understand her words. And now he had to make a decision. He could say nothing and allow her to knock on his door. When he didn’t answer, she would eventually go away and he could put off whatever confrontation she planned. Perhaps she would even think better of whatever had driven her here to his cottage.

Or he could stand up and have yet another stolen moment with her.

There was only one option, really.

He pushed to his feet and tossed the cigar into the dirt. “What do you want, Audrey?”

She jumped at his question and pivoted to face him. The light hit her just right and he saw how wide her eyes were, how breathless she was.

“Oh, you gave me a fright!” she gasped, lifting a hand to her chest as if she could settle her heart with a touch.

He followed the movement and groaned at the sight of her gorgeous breasts beneath her pretty supper gown. He couldn’t tell the color in the dark, but he could see how perfectly molded to her body it was. Women’s fashions presently seemed to be designed as torture devices.

“What are you doing out here?” she asked as she set the lantern down on the table beside the chair where he had been brooding.

“Sitting,” he said, hating how brusque he sounded, but not trusting himself to offer anything friendlier. Not when his body was so damned on edge around her. “What do you want?”

She frowned at his repeated question and for a moment she cast her glance back up to the house. There was part of him that hoped she would follow her instinct and bolt away. The other part, the stronger part, prayed she would stay with him a moment longer. Let him breathe in her scent until he could think of nothing else, even though that was so dangerous.

“I-I thought we should discuss what happened between us this afternoon,” she finally said.

He arched a brow at her directness. But then, he had come to expect and appreciate that quality with Audrey. So many people, himself included, lied too easily. She never had.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to discuss it,” he said. “You should forget it. We should pretend it never happened.”

She shook her head. “No, no, I don’t think that will be possible for me. I feel like I was sleeping and you…you woke me up. Now I can’t just go back to sleep like a child.”

He swallowed hard. “There are times when it’s better to sleep, Audrey. To stay away from reality.”

“I’m not sure that’s true.” She sighed and sat down in one of his chairs, and he gritted his teeth. So she intended to stay.

He eased back into his own place and folded his arms. “You are the expert, then?”

“No,” she said. “I don’t pretend to be. But I have been thinking about both what you said to me before we…we…” She stopped and he could see the darkness of the blush on her cheeks even in the half-light. “Well, I also spoke to my mother.”

He straightened up. “About what we did?”

“No!” she gasped. “Great God, of course not.”

He relaxed. “Good. Not that I would blame you, I suppose, for telling her I’d taken advantage. Perhaps that would be best, after all.”

“Oh, will you stop that. I allowed your kiss, I initiated a kiss, I never stopped you when you touched me. In fact, I liked it.”

He shut his eyes with another groan. “I wish you wouldn’t say that.”

“Why?” she whispered.

He clenched his fists in his lap. “Because it makes this very difficult for me.”

She was quiet for a long moment, but when she spoke her voice had renewed strength to it. “Jude, I don’t want to be afraid of what I feel anymore. Or what I want. My mother said to me this afternoon that I shouldn’t fear what I haven’t experienced. And she’s right. I trust you.”

He stared at her. “What are you saying?”

“Don’t you know?” she whispered.

He shook his head. “Audrey, don’t.”

“I want to explore what we started in the garden today, Jude,” she said, standing up slowly. “If I do that with you, a man I trust, I man I—” She flushed. “A man I trust, then perhaps I will be able to tear down the walls I’ve built that have kept me from the marriage my family wants for me, the future I’ve kept at bay.”

His head spun, but he managed to stand as well. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I most certainly do. If I experience this, maybe I can let go of my fears. Maybe it will become something commonplace, not the huge terrifying beast in the closet.”

It was amazing the reaction her words sparked in him. She was offering herself to him and he wanted so badly to take that offer. But he was also angry with her for the way she couched her request. He was merely a body to her. And he wanted so much more.

“And what about me?” he snapped.

She blinked at him. “I—what do you mean?”

He moved on her, unable to control his words just as he hadn’t been able to control his body earlier. “Don’t you understand, Audrey? I want to claim you. I want to take you. I want to introduce you to everything wicked and wanton. What we would do would change you at your core. And since you have brought up that proper marriage, when I’m finished with you, I’m certain your husband would know you weren’t untouched.”

She stared up at him with wide eyes, apparently terrified into silence. Good. He wanted that. If she was scared off by his ardor, it was better for them both.

She stepped toward him slowly, invaded his space. He felt her warmth and sucked in the sweet, peachy scent of her skin. It was heaven and hell all at once.

“I won’t be the first bride to enter a marriage only pretending to be untouched,” she murmured.

He squeezed his eyes shut. “You don’t know what you are saying. You can’t want this.”

“Have I not made it clear?” she whispered. “What you describe is exactly what I want. I want to feel what you offer, Jude. And purge these desires.”

He shook his head. “And what if I can’t?”

“Can’t what?” she asked.

“Purge you,” he snapped, just barely resisting the urge to grab her shoulders and shake her until she understood his desperation. “Because I’ve been trying and utterly failing to do that since you were seventeen.”

* * *

AUDREY WAS TAKEN ABACK BY the power of Jude’s emotions. Normally he kept himself in check, never reacting or overreacting to any circumstance. But now she saw his anger, his frustration, but also his need, like a deep well of desire she feared she might drown in.

He had said something similar in the garden the day before, that he’d wanted her for years. But the simple act of wanting her, desire he had probably felt for a great many women over the years, felt very different from this desperate declaration.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

He careened away from her with an angry snort of breath. “Are you really so obtuse, Audrey? So blind to the fact that I have wanted you from the first moment I saw you? That I have spent the intervening years trying to pound it out by staying away from you? By tupping other women while I pictured your face? That with every moment I shared with you as your friend that I burned?” He pivoted back and rushed up on her like a bull, but stopped short of touching her. “I burn for you, Audrey. Every fucking moment of every damned day.”

She was shocked by his use of such language, for as a lady she had hardly ever been exposed to those words. But the fact that she had driven him to such impropriety on every level was also…arousing. Equally shocking was his declaration of having these powerful feelings for so long.

“You cannot mean that,” she whispered.

He leaned in, his face close to hers. “I do.”

She was shaking as she lifted her chin in defiance. “Well, then perhaps this arrangement I propose will extinguish that fire you claim to have when it comes to me. We will both have our fill and in the end be better for it.”

He shook his head, and panic filled her. He was already so close, but she inched even closer, cupping his cheeks with shaking hands, feeling his hot breath on her face and the coiled tension of him in her very core.

“Please,” she whispered.

“You won’t be able to undo this, Audrey,” he growled.

She swallowed hard. “I-I won’t want to,” she promised, and in that moment she knew she meant it even if she wasn’t fully clear on what she was about to do. With Jude, it would be worth it.

“We’ll see,” he said just before he claimed her lips once again.

There was so much hunger in this kiss. More even than when he pleasured her against the tree in the garden. There was purpose. And she found herself surrendering to it, arching against him, willing to trust him in ways she hardly trusted herself.

He backed her up until she hit the door to his cottage, and without breaking their kiss, he fumbled for the handle. The door opened and they staggered in together. He had already begun to work on the buttons of her silken gown, his fingers brushing her skin as he loosened the fastenings swiftly and efficiently.

He kicked the door shut behind them and pulled the gown down in the same motion. She gasped. Inside there was lamplight and firelight. In the little open living area, she was exposed in just her chemise, one that did little to hide the hardening of her nipples against the soft fabric.

He made a possessive noise in his throat and tugged the dress harder, pooling it at her feet and leaving her even more naked. She fought the urge to pull the hem of her chemise down so that her thighs were covered.

He stepped back and looked at her from head to toe, his blue eyes almost midnight in color. “I have pictured this in my mind for so long,” he said, his voice rough. “And I have never even been close to how perfect you are.”

She blushed at both the exposure she felt and the compliment he gave. She felt like she should do something, say something, but her experience was so limited that she just stood looking at him.

He smiled, a rather arrogant look, and folded his arms. “Have you changed your mind?”

Her eyes went wide. “Is that why you stare at me? To shame me into altering our agreement.”

“We haven’t come to an agreement,” he said. “And I don’t want you to feel shame, I assure you. But there will come a moment when it is too late to go back. I want to be certain you don’t change your mind.”

“I don’t want to change my mind,” she said, hoping her voice was more certain than her heart. Then she reached up and tugged the chemise straps down, wiggling out of the only clothing that covered her and leaving her only in her stockings and slippers.

She didn’t know what had inspired her to be so bold, but the moment she stood all but naked before him, she saw the shift in Jude’s gaze. It went from teasing to tormented in an instant.

“You are determined,” he murmured as he stepped toward her and reached out a finger to trace a line from her collarbone to the tip of one rigid nipple. She gasped. He had touched her before, but not like this. Not naked. Not alone.

“I must be,” she panted, trying not to moan as he circled his fingernail around and around her nipple.

“Must you?” he whispered, and bent his head to her breast. He darted out his tongue and it replaced his finger in a slow swirl that sent starbursts exploding before her gaze.

“Oh God,” she gasped, her hands coming up into his crisp, short hair and holding him at that point of searing pleasure.

He chuckled against her skin but didn’t stop licking her. In fact, it seemed to only encourage him to continue the action at her opposite breast. She shivered at his attentions and her knees began to buckle.

But it was as if he sensed her weakness, because he wrapped an arm around her waist as she crumpled and held her up even as he backed her toward the open door to his bedchamber.

As they passed through the threshold, he lifted his head from her breasts and met her stare. She wondered if he saw her excitement and her terror, mixed together in a confusing jumble in the pit of her stomach.

“Have you changed your mind?” he asked again.

She pursed her lips. “No,” she declared.

He shook his head. “Very well.”

Without warning he pushed her back gently and she sprawled onto his bed. He stared down at her, heat in his stare and then reached down to take her slipper into his hand. He unfastened the dainty buckle and glided it away, tossing it over his shoulder. Then he caught the edge of her stocking and began to roll it down over her knee, her calf.

He teased her as he did it, massaging her flesh, smiling as she arched against her will as his touch sent such sensations through her. He repeated the action on her other foot and soon she found herself utterly and completely naked. Utterly and completely at his mercy.

“What shall I do with you?” he murmured. She didn’t answer, for it seemed he asked himself more than required a response. All she could do was watch him, wait for him.

He stepped to the edge of the bed, positioning himself between her legs and forcing her to open them to accommodate his trim hips. She turned her face, embarrassed at being spread open to him like a wanton, her sex on display. It was humiliating to have him stare at her.

It was oh-so-thrilling.

“Look at me,” he said, his tone rough but soft.

She forced herself to do as he asked and found him looking not at her sex, but her face.

“Do you want to go back to the house?”

She folded her arms over her breasts. “N-No.”

“Do you want me to taste you?” he asked, this time pressing his hands to her thighs and opening her further. He leaned in and she gasped. Taste her? There?

“I-I don’t know,” she admitted.

He ignored her answer and instead slid his hands beneath her backside. He lifted her slightly and she fisted the coverlet into her hands. Now she was truly on display, but she found her embarrassment fading and excitement mounting.

“Please,” she whimpered.

He cast a swift glance up at her, then lowered his mouth to the lips of her sex. He brushed them against her, gently at first, but it was enough to send liquid heat spiraling from her core to the rest of her body. Then he opened his mouth and glided his tongue along her slick entrance.

“I knew you would be sweet,” he said against her body, the vibrations of his words making her jolt. “So sweet.”

She arched and turned her head at the pleasure. He stroked his tongue over her again and again and she found herself lifting to those strokes, meeting him, clenching against him to heighten the sensation. He sucked the little nub of nerves at the top of her sex and she cried out, for that action focused her pleasure. He did it again and her body began to jerk out of control in wave after wave of unexpected but highly pleasurable sensation. It was just like against the tree earlier in the day, but more focused, more intense. She rode it out, desperate for more and he gave it, drawing the pleasure out for what felt like forever.

And when the tremors stopped and she lay limp and languid on his bed, only then did he rise to his feet. She looked up at him, anticipation growing in her despite her recent release.

He cursed, this time beneath his breath, and yanked his shirt from the waistband of his trousers. He went to work on the buttons at a fantastic rate of speed and swiftly drew the item over his head.

She gasped as she looked up at him. She had never seen a man naked before. Oh, she’d seen a few paintings here, a statue there, that revealed the male form, but here in the flesh it was far more impressive. He was lean, but still muscular, with a trim waist and broad shoulders that tapered into a stomach rippled with tiny muscles. His chest had a fine peppering of dark hair that disappeared into a line into his trousers.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, breathless.

“Don’t stop,” she said in defiance, even though she never took her eyes from his half-naked flesh. “I want more.”

His hands fisted at his sides for a moment, then he took a deep breath and unfastened his trousers. He pushed them away, down his hips, and she sat bolt upright with a gasp.

This was far more impressive than those marble statues that were her only standard. His…member was thick and hard, curling up against his stomach in a display of male arousal.

“What do you call it?” she asked, wanting desperately to touch it.

He lifted his eyebrows. “Are you asking if I have a nickname for my cock?”

She forced her stare from his…cock, that was the name for it, and to his face. “No, I just didn’t know what it was called. A cock. Wait, do you have a nickname for it? Do men do that?”

He smiled for the first time since he had kissed her earlier in the day. “Some men do. I never have. And yes, this is my cock.” He gripped it in hand and stroked over it once. She saw the pleasure it gave him by the shiver that worked through his body with the motion. “And I will put it inside of you, Audrey. Nothing will be the same for you after that. So I’m going to ask you one last time. Have you changed your mind?”

She held her breath, for this last offer to go back was his most tempting. And yet what she saw before her was even more so. She lowered herself back to the bed, opened her legs and whispered, “I haven’t.”

He gritted his teeth and there was a pained expression on his face as he looked down at her. But he still moved forward, he still braced one hand on either side of her head, holding himself above her. The warmth of his body covered hers, but she still shivered at the feel of his skin over hers. Bare. Sinful.

“I shouldn’t do this,” he whispered, though she wasn’t certain that the statement was directed toward her or himself.

Either way, she reached up and cupped the back of his neck with her hand, drawing him down. Just before their lips touched, she murmured, “But you will.”

They kissed, but this time there wasn’t desperation or challenge to the act. Just a gentle joining of their mouths. She tasted herself on his tongue, and the earthy flavor was surprising and arousing. She sank into the flavor, the feel of drawing him closer. And in that moment, the passion between them didn’t frighten her.

It fed her.

She felt him opening her legs wider with, felt him positioning his sex at the entrance to her own. Never did she think of stopping him. Never did she hesitate. She merely lifted to greet him as he began to glide forward into her waiting and so very willing body.

Even when pain met his invasion, even when he took her innocence in a quick, starburst push, she didn’t regret what she was doing. She only gasped, breaking their kiss and staring up at him in wonder.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. But the rest will be better.”

She nodded at his promise, relaxing again as he continued forward and fully seated himself inside of her. He stopped then, his breath heavy, his eyes glazed with need. She could see how much he wanted to thrust. Needed to do so. And yet he held back to protect her.

“You said you’ve waited a long time for this,” she said, watching every tremor and tremble that moved across his face. It was so much easier to read him from this close. To see his need and his care and his regret.

“I have,” he admitted, his voice low and rough.

“Then don’t wait anymore,” she urged him. “I want what you’ll give, Jude. Now.”

Her permission seemed to break the spell around them. With a great breath of what she thought was relief, he began to move. Erratically at first, as if his control had been broken at last. He shuddered as he did so, a low groan of pleasure saying everything she needed to know. But as he took her, his rhythm formed, he began to grind his hips against her and, to her shock, that action awoke her pleasure once again.

She lifted out of instinct, following him as he withdrew, opening for him as he took. His mouth fell on hers and they were one body, reaching and seeking for mutual pleasure. And it was there, like a shining beacon on a pretend horizon. She could see it, looming larger, feel it in the twitch of her sex around him as pleasure built and grew.

And when it overcame her, it was the most powerful release he had given her yet. She dug her nails into his bare back, thrashing beneath him as she cried out his name over and over. Her release milked him and he let out his own low cry before he withdrew from her body suddenly, leaving her bereft as he spurted his release away from her.

When he had spent, he collapsed back over her, panting as he clutched her to his chest. She clung to him too, shocked by what she had done. By how right it had felt. By how she already wanted to do it again and again.

And it was in that moment of clarity, as they held each other in the dim firelight of his chamber, that she realized this moment was more terrifying than any of the ones filled with passion. This moment could destroy worlds.

Because it was perfect.

Chapter Eight

AUDREY TIPTOED AROUND THE BED where Jude still slept, using the faint light from the window in the other room to find her missing slipper. She grabbed it from under a chair in the corner and crept out the door into the main room, where her dress and chemise lay in a heap, accusing her. Reminding her of what she’d done.

Not that her body didn’t do the same. She ached all over. But it was a wonderful ache, one that made her feel alive and beautiful and womanly in every way.

She gathered up her chemise, tugging it over her head, and stepped into her dress. But as she did so, she realized she would have to button it. And the buttons ran along her spine.

“Oh blast,” she muttered, but before she could struggle to fix herself or make any decisions about what to do next, she felt warm hands on her back.

She leaned into them with a smile. “Good morning.”

Jude pressed his lips against the side of her neck as he worked. “Good morning.”

They said nothing else as he fastened her quickly, but when he was finished, he turned her to face him. She caught her breath. He was…naked! Oh so delectably and wonderfully naked, and it took everything in her to recall that it was far too late in the morning for her to indulge in any of the wicked scenarios that clouded her mind.

“Enjoying the show?” he asked, his tone amused.

She realized she had been staring at his cock and snapped her eyes back to his face. “Yes. No. Yes.”

He laughed. “I wish I could give you a better one, I admit, but the sun grows higher with every passing moment and you should get back to your chamber before your maid notices your absence.

She looked down at herself. “I already worry that I’m dressed for dinner. If anyone sees me—”

His smile fell. “Yes, I can see how that would be difficult to explain. Especially since your hair is a mess, darling.”

She rolled her eyes at his teasing, which should have been so very inappropriate in this tense moment, but which made her heart sing instead.

“I did my best with your tiny little mirror and that unfortunate comb! But thank you. I’ll file away your compliments for all time. Truly, though, do you think I’ll be spotted?”

“Use the back entrance,” he suggested. “Then instead of the main stair or the servant stair, use that old one, the one with all the cobwebs and the secret little windows.”

She smiled. Jude had been to this house so many times, he knew it as she did, like the back of his hand. She loved that fact. And as she stared at him, her heart did an odd little thump that she desperately tried to ignore.

“Good idea. I may come out spidery”— she shivered—“but unseen.” She hesitated a moment, even though she should have slipped right out of his cottage and back to reality. “Er, will I…see you today?”

“Of course,” he said with a shake of his head. “We are supposed to arrange the parlor furniture after luncheon at one, are we not?”

She nodded. “Yes, but I feared you might…avoid me after last night. And I suppose I didn’t just mean seeing you in the parlor. Will I see you at meals? Will you allow me to come here again?”

He stepped closer, tucking one of her tangled curls behind her ear. “So many questions, Audrey. But we’ve already decided, haven’t we? If you want to—how did you put it?—purge your urges with me, I don’t think I have the strength of character to deny you. Especially now that I know how you feel around me.”

Her lips parted at those powerful words, at the lazy sensuality in his blue eyes. How could he so easily affect her, like she was a puppet on a string.

“Good,” she whispered, then lifted to her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek.

To her surprise, he turned his face and her mouth landed squarely against hers instead. He caught her in his arms, pulling her against that warm, hard bare chest and most thoroughly and passionately explored her mouth. Until her sex grew hot and wet, until her body trembled.

Then he set her aside, with a rather desperate and animal groan. “Yes, you had best go, Audrey. Now.”

She knew why. She could see evidence of it in the very hard cock that now thrust against his stomach. “What will you do about—”

“Go!” he repeated, his tone both laughing and hard as steel.

She didn’t ask again. She merely fled the cottage, pulling the door shut tightly behind herself. She leaned on it for a moment, panting with both desire and exertion. Her mind was a tangled ball of yarn at present, her emotions threaded together until they were hard to parse out and see clearly.

She began to walk back up to the house and her mind raced. She had done the thing no unmarried lady was supposed to do. She’d made love. And not just to any man, to a man she had wanted for so many long years.

Now, some might say he had taken advantage. After all, the claiming of her innocence would be considered a terrible thing since he obviously had no intentions of marrying her. And yet she felt like the one who had taken advantage of him. He had confessed his long held feelings, his desperate desires, and she had exploited his wavering control in order to get what she wanted. And when he offered her a way out, a dozen ways out?

She hadn’t taken them.

And she wasn’t sorry, at least not about what they’d done. She was surprised, however, by how changed she felt by the experience. In reality, she had done nothing more than break a thin membrane in her body. But she felt utterly new, totally changed.

She slipped in the back entrance and through a dark little servant hall. There were two sets of stairs, one the bright, light ones that had been installed two hundred years ago, after a poor serving girl had fallen on the older, darker, more dangerous set.

The ones that Audrey chose to take now. As she entered the dim, dusty stairwell, she sighed. This was almost a perfect metaphor for what she was doing with her life. A light and bright path had been created for her.

And she chose the darkness. The place where she could trip and fall so very easily. And yet she didn’t regret it. Not as she moved up the stairs, and not when she considered the pleasures she’d found in Jude’s bed.

She was smiling at herself when she opened the old stairway door and looked out into the hallway. It was empty, and she slipped down toward her chamber and into the room where she hadn’t slept last night. She frowned and moved to the bed to mess up the covers. Then she rang for her maid and tried to come up with a good story.

Ursula arrived a few moments later and when she stepped into the chamber and saw Audrey in her full dress, she came to a stop.

Audrey tried to act normally as she said, “Oh, I know, I’m a fright. I fell asleep reading last night, still in my gown. Can you believe what a goose I am?”

Ursula shook her head and for a moment Audrey held her breath, hoping her lies weren’t about to be exposed. But the maid just laughed. “Oh, my lady! I wondered why you never called for me, but I thought perhaps your mother helped you.”

“No,” Audrey lied, surprised by how easy it was. “Just me being silly. I’m so sorry that the dress is so wrinkled. Will it be extra work for you in the laundry?”

Ursula shrugged. “Not much. But here, let me get you out of it and I’ll get you a bath drawn.”

Audrey nodded, and hoped her smile didn’t reveal that she had a secret. And as she turned to let her maid undo the work Jude had so recently done, she found that her secret was one she liked having. At least for now.

* * *

IT WAS ELEVEN O’CLOCK WHEN Jude entered the main house. He nodded to the servants who bustled around, tidying up and beginning the first preparations for luncheon in an hour. No one paused in their work and their acknowledgments proved his place as not a visitor, but a fellow worker. Not that he had ever doubted it.

But those things weren’t important to him now. He was more focused on why he was here. He had been going over some figures in the cottage not half an hour ago when a message had arrived from the house from Lady Woodley asking that he meet her here.

And his heart still throbbed at the thought of why. Had Audrey been caught on her way back to the house? Had someone found out what they had done in his bed the night before? The Woodley servants were all good sorts. It was part of Jude’s job to make sure that was true. But that didn’t mean they wouldn’t tell secrets out of spite or even concern.

He cleared his throat as he approached the closed door to the parlor where he and Audrey had been painting yesterday. Inside, Lady Woodley waited and he tried to maintain at least a façade of calm as he lightly knocked and then entered the chamber.

The dowager marchioness was standing in the middle of the empty room, gazing up at the walls with a smile on her face. As he entered, she turned and extended the smile to him. He tried to read her expression, tried to see if there was any repressed anger or concern toward him, but there was nothing except the lingering effects of exhaustion in the faint circles beneath her eyes.

“Good morning, Samson,” she said. “I’m so happy to see you.”

“How are you feeling, my lady?”

She shrugged. “Still not exactly right, I fear. My head aches and it is very foggy, indeed. Of course I would be overcome by a cold when Audrey and I had so many plans during this trip. But then, you seem to be keeping her busy.”

Jude tensed. Once again, his errant mind went to images of Audrey naked in his cottage, sprawled out on his bed, arching beneath his mouth, his hands, his cock.

“I—what do you mean?” he asked, hearing the strain in his voice.

She turned toward him with an odd look. “The renovation, of course,” she said, motioning around them. “Or is it she who is keeping you busy?”

He forced a chuckle. “Ah, well, I am here to serve, after all.”

To his surprise, Lady Woodley stepped toward him, her gently lined face filled with not anger, not judgment, but warmth and kindness.

“And you know we appreciate all you do, don’t you? My goodness, with everything that has happened to this family these past few years, you have been the one constant. I have watched you stand by my son at his lowest point and search for Claire as tirelessly as her brothers when she was lost. That you are as much a friend to Audrey as to the rest does mean a great deal to me. As I know it does to her. Thank you.”

Jude shifted. He had become accustomed to the guilt he felt whenever one of the Woodley clan addressed the topic of Claire, but now a new guilt joined the old. Here was Lady Woodley thanking him for his care for Audrey when not twelve hours ago he had been ruining her.

“You certainly do not have to thank me,” he said, turning away from her accepting smile. “I have not done enough to repay your family for its kindnesses toward me and my mother.” He flinched. “Not nearly enough.”

“Samson,” she began, but before she could say anything further, there were the sound of quick steps in the hall and they both turned to watch Audrey all but careen into the room.

She flushed as she saw them standing together, but managed to smooth her hands over the pretty orange dress that brought out the chestnut highlights of her hair and the dark mystery of her eyes and smile.

“Goodness, I had no idea you were meeting with Samson, Mama. I wish you had notified me sooner.” She moved into the room more fully and nodded toward him. “Good morning.”

He almost laughed at her attempt to pretend this was their first meeting of the day. “Good morning, my lady. You look well.”

She frowned at him. “Thank you.”

“I sent you word not twenty minutes ago that Samson would be coming to examine the room with me,” her mother interrupted with a shake of her head. “How much more advanced notice did you need?”

Audrey swallowed. “None, of course. I didn’t mean…oh, I only thought that he was not joining us until luncheon and then we would examine the room afterward. And I wasn’t certain you would join us at all, considering your condition.”

Her mother leaned back a fraction. “Why are you so breathless, Audrey? And what do you mean my ‘condition’? You make it sound like I’m at death’s door. Heavens, you are being silly.”

“What do you think of the paint, Lady Woodley?” Jude asked as a way to break the attention from Audrey.

Lady Woodley broke her stare from her daughter. “What? Oh yes, it’s lovely! Exactly the shade I had hoped for. It’s going to be such a happy room, I think. And the furniture is being returned this afternoon?”

Audrey seemed to have caught her breath, for when she stepped forward her anxiousness had faded. “Yes, Mama. They will be returning it to the room during our lunch and afterward we can rearrange it as we see fit.”

“And you’ll be helping?” Lady Woodley asked him.

Jude nodded. “I will, though I do not think I have much of an eye for such things. But I’ll stand by and look as though I’m doing very important things for you.”

Lady Woodley laughed. “Oh, that would be perfect, thank you.”

She might have said more, but suddenly the marchioness began to sneeze. Not once, not twice, but three great sneezes that nearly buckled her slender frame.

Audrey rushed to her side, taking her elbow. “Oh, Mama! You are still not well.”

Lady Woodley sighed. “I felt better just an hour ago, but being on my feet seems to have made it worse again.”

“Perhaps you should lie down. I’ll have your meal sent up and then you can decide if you want to join us for the furniture return,” Audrey suggested, and Jude thought she tossed him a quick, furtive glance.

“Yes, that is likely a good idea.” Lady Woodley frowned. “It is really very disappointing.”

“Are you certain I cannot call for a doctor?” Jude offered, stepping forward.

“No,” Lady Woodley reassured him with a quick smile. “It is not so dire as all that, I assure you.”

“I’ll take you up, Mama,” Audrey said.

“And then you’ll come back down and you and Samson will still share your lunch,” Lady Woodley said as she allowed Audrey to take her arm and begin to lead her from the room. “I insist.”

Jude nodded, but as soon as the two women were gone, he sagged. He had such a long list of betrayals when it came to the Woodleys, what had he been thinking adding another? No matter how convincing Audrey had been.

Behind him, the door closed and he turned to find Audrey leaning against it. She tracked his every movement with dark eyes and he felt his cock begin to swell at her focused interest.

“That was quick,” he said. “Did you throw her into the room and lock the door?”

She shook her head. “Of course not. We met with her maid in the hallway and Fran took her the rest of the way. All the while, she was insisting I return to your company.” She let out a shuddering sigh. “Do you think she knows?”

“About last night?” Jude asked, allowing himself one step toward her. He saw her pupils dilate with the action. When she nodded, he laughed. “I hardly think she would be encouraging us to spend time together if she thought I’d ruined you.”

“So you didn’t tell her anything that would make her suspect?” she pressed, panic in her eyes.

Jude stopped moving in her direction. Yesterday she had talked of purging feelings through this odd arrangement. And it seemed she might be capable of doing just that. All she ever talked about was desire, or her fears regarding passion. But she didn’t care for him, not beyond their friendship. And that stung far more than it should have.

It also made his tone sharp when he retorted, “I wouldn’t be so stupid, Audrey.”

She flushed. “I’m sorry. I just…I wouldn’t want her to know what I did. To not be an innocent and continue to pursue an upstanding marriage. I doubt she would be proud.”

“And yet you did it,” he said softly, still feeling the sting.

She nodded. “I did. Because I can’t resist you.”

He tensed, his desire easing back into his blood to replace his disappointment. “Couldn’t or can’t?” he asked.

She swallowed hard. “Can’t. God, all I thought about all morning was you. Your hands on me, your mouth on me, your body inside of mine. I was certain that every person I saw, my mother included, could see how you branded me with your touch. How you changed me irrevocably.” Her breath hitched. “And I thought about how I couldn’t wait to do it again.”

He clenched his jaw. “I know the feeling.”

She smiled, just a whisper of the expression, but there was such temptation in that smile. “Then why aren’t you kissing me right now?”

Chapter Nine

AUDREY FELT LIKE SHE’D STOPPED breathing entirely, and that wasn’t helped when Jude crossed the distance between them like a bull. Suddenly she was pinned to the door behind her and his hot mouth blazed down on her. She opened to him instantly, all the pent up desire and emotion from the past few hours bubbling up inside of her and ripping her inhibitions to shreds.

His seemed equally destroyed, for he cupped her backside and lifted her against the door, pressing his hard length against her through their equally frustrating layers of clothing. She moaned at the feel, grinding back against him, trying to find relief for the mounting need that gathered between her legs. After spending all day thinking about this exact moment, she was shocked how quickly she was already on edge.

He said nothing as he shoved her skirts up, nothing as he pressed his fingers into her drawers and found her sex. When his fingers touched her slick heat, he let out a low groan.

“Thank God,” he muttered, then went to work unbuttoning the flap on his trousers. It fell forward and he popped free. She gasped at the heat of him against her stomach, but then he lifted her and his cock slid against and finally deep into her ready sex.

They both let out a whispered moan in the same breath and he began to thrust instantly, spearing her to the door, holding her hands above her head with one of his own and balancing her in place by her backside with the other.

The little shallow thrusts set her on fire with unbelievable speed, and she rocked against them, reaching, reaching, until the sudden explosive pleasure she had come to crave in the past twenty-four hours burst free. She pressed her mouth against the arm he held next to her head and let her cries of pleasure be muffled by his jacket.

When she began to come, he thrust even harder, deeper, dragging her through the pleasure, but also reaching for his. Finally, he let out his own garbled sound of release and withdrew, pumping into his hand, which he swiftly wiped clean with his handkerchief after he set her down on the floor.

They remained close, all but pressed together as one for a moment. His breathing matched her own, his stare burned into hers and she was…captivated. Enslaved. By both his presence and her own reactions to it.

She smoothed her dress down around herself and managed to squeeze out of the tight space between them to pace across the empty room.

“I thought this would make me less afraid of passion, but—” She shook her head. “But now I see its true power. It’s true danger.”

“And what is that?” he asked, fixing himself as swiftly as she had done, though he remained frozen in place, simply watching her.

“That I lose all reason and control the moment you touch me,” she whispered. “I spent the morning afraid of consequences for what we’d done and the second you touched me I threw that all away.”

He pursed his lips. “I can’t deny the same thing happens to me.”

She didn’t know if that should make her feel better or worse, for it only proved her point. “Can we stop it?”

He tensed and she watched all the emotion bleed away from his rapidly hardening expression. “We could try. We could stay away from each other and pretend yesterday, today, never happened.”

She bit her lip. Walk away? That sounded so very painful, so very impossible. They would be here together for over two more weeks. They would be in close quarters, far more alone than they were in London, where they didn’t live in the same space, see each other daily. Every time she saw him here, she knew her body would react. Her soul would react even if she didn’t want it to.

“Impossible,” she whispered. “Jude, I-I don’t think I can stay away. I think I would find myself down at your cottage every night, knocking on your door and telling myself it would be the last time.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, his breath leaving his mouth as a ragged sigh. “Audrey,” he whispered.

She shrugged. “I have to be honest with you, don’t I? If we’re in this madness together, I can’t do anything but tell you the truth.”

He nodded slowly. “I just wish you understood what those words did to me.” He seemed to consider them for a moment. “If we can’t stay away, then all we can do is play out our agreement. To explore what you want, what I want, what we need, with every fiber. Hold nothing back. Until it ends.”

“And when does it end?” she asked, already feeling an odd sting just from talking about it.

“London,” he offered softly. “We both know this cannot continue in London. So it is only here, it is only now.”

She took a long breath. Suddenly the time she had left here seemed fleeting, indeed. But she pushed that melancholy feeling away and stepped toward him. She cupped his cheeks and drew him down to her lips, savoring the warmth of his breath before she kissed him gently, deeply. When she pulled away, she whispered, “Only here. Only now. I can agree to that.”

He sighed, but it didn’t seem to be in relief. And just at that moment, there was a knock on the parlor door. They jolted away from each other as a footman stepped inside.

“My lady, Mr. Samson, your luncheon is ready on the west terrace.”

She nodded to the servant, and when he had departed, she forced a smile to Jude. “Come, shall we pretend everything is normal once more? Shall we break bread and be friends for a short time.”

He flinched ever so slightly at her question and offered her his arm. “Audrey,” he said. “I will always be your friend.”

* * *

JUDE SMILED AS AUDREY’S LAUGHTER filled the air. For the past half hour, they had sat together like nothing had changed between them. They had talked about happy days from long ago, reminiscing about the estate they resided on and all the wonderful moments he had shared there with her family.

He appreciated the lack of tension between them in some ways, for he had always liked Audrey and the idea that the erotic bond they had suddenly formed would destroy their friendship stung.

But what stung more was how easy it was for her to separate the passion they shared from the public relationship the world saw. It was like the desire she felt for him was something she could turn on and off, while it ran constantly for him, always in the background, always humming in his ear.

The hum was only louder and more insistent now that he knew her body.

“And you are a hundred leagues away,” Audrey said as she set her glass down.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I admit my mind wandered.”

“Where did it go?” she asked, spearing a carrot on her plate with her fork.

He took a long breath. There was no way to admit his thoughts in this moment without causing a great deal of anxiety. He had more than enough of that in his life. Wasn’t it possible that he could share these moments with Audrey without making them so dire?

After all, when he was with her, he felt so free. So in the moment. That was a remarkable thing.

“Estate business,” he lied.

She arched a brow as if she didn’t believe him, but didn’t press as she thoughtfully chewed her food and examined his face. “You know, I confessed to you the rather desperate reason why I have not settled on a husband yet, but I am realizing that you are older than I am and I have never known you to be even close to choosing a wife.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Are you calling me an old maid?” he asked, hoping the humor would diffuse the situation and eliminate the subject he most definitely did not wish to discuss.

It didn’t work, of course.

“Well, you are a good many Seasons past your debut,” she teased back before her face grew serious again. “Honestly, though, have you never thought of the future? Of a wife and children and a home of your own?”

He frowned. She was dancing around the edges of subjects that were more than a little painful to him. Subjects that would expose too much to her. But what would happen if he did show her that underbelly he so often protected? He doubted she could stab it. That just wasn’t Audrey.

And maybe if she understood how broken he was, even if he didn’t tell her all his secrets, she would know why he was not a good bargain for her. Perhaps he would break the spell of desire between them before it burned them both to the ground.

“Jude?” she whispered. “What is it?”

He cleared his throat and pushed his half-eaten plate away. “Do you really want to know the truth?”

She nodded. “I do.”

“It isn’t pretty,” he cautioned her.

“Life doesn’t have to be pretty. The ugliness is sometimes what makes it interesting.”

He pondered that a moment. “I suppose. Though I’m not sure it feels interesting to me.”

“No, in the moment, it only hurts,” she agreed. “So what hurt you?”

He slowly exhaled. “We talked a few days ago about the circumstances of my father’s marriage to my mother. Of why my family cut me off when he died.”

Her jaw set with anger on his behalf. “It was abominably cruel for them to do that to you both. Especially when you were grieving your father.”

He pursed his lips. “I did grieve him, of course, but there is a little more to the tale. You see, as much as he was driven by desire for my mother, as much as he might have loved her in the beginning, the more he was punished by his family, the more he came to…resent her.”

Her face twisted as her understanding became clear. “And what about you?”

He nodded. “I was also a burden to him. He isolated us more and more as I grew older, though he couldn’t stay away completely. He was drawn to my mother in some way—he loved her and hated her in equal measure, it seemed. When we were allowed to be seen in Society, my cousins and uncles and aunts all treated me like I was little better than a servant. My grandfather wouldn’t acknowledge me at all.”

“I’m so sorry, Jude,” she said softly.

He shrugged, though dismissing their actions had taken him years to do. Sometimes the memories still stung. “There is no need to be sorry. It’s the past and it’s over. I don’t see anyone on my father’s side of the family anymore, I don’t spare them a thought.”

“And yet you are implying that their actions, your father’s actions, are the reason you have never pursued a bride of your own.”

“You come from a close family, Audrey,” he said, meeting her gaze evenly. “Even when they’re broken, they’re bonded in some way. You don’t understand what family means to someone who was thrust out of one, held aside from it. I was taught that I didn’t even belong with those who shared my blood.”

She was quiet for a long time. Long enough that he began to question her thoughts on the subject, since she revealed none of them on her face. Finally, she said, “Didn’t you tell me not to fear passion?”

He cocked his head. “I don’t.”

She pressed her lips tight enough that some of the color left them. “No. You fear love. I think that might be worse. You know, you have always been considered part of our family. We are not so bad.”

He lifted his eyebrows and held back a cold laugh. “You are wonderful, but how do I repay that? I seduce your innocence away and I—”

He cut himself off by pushing back from the table and turning from her to look out over the grounds below. He had almost confessed far more than his past with his father’s family.

He’d almost told her everything.

Her chair screeched behind him and he turned to find her standing, watching him. “Jude, you aren’t seducing anything away. I went into our arrangement with eyes wide open. I wanted this. I still want it. It’s between us and doesn’t have anything to do with my family.”

“I think they would beg to differ.”

She dipped her chin, a touch of defeat on her face that told him she knew what he said was true.

He moved toward her. “Come, isn’t that enough maudlin reflection on my sad little past. We have a room to arrange, after all.”

She stared at him in shock. “How do you dismiss it so easily?”

He offered her an arm and she took it slowly. “I don’t, Audrey. I just had to learn to live with it. Now, come. I want only happy yellow rooms for the rest of the day.”

That sentence coaxed a small smile from her lips, but as they strolled back into the house, Jude had to force his own smile. Audrey had said he feared love, but she was wrong. He didn’t fear it.

He just knew he’d never have it. Because he’d never have her.

Chapter Ten

IT WAS ALMOST MIDNIGHT WHEN Audrey stood at Jude’s cottage door, her wrap pulled tightly around her and her hands trembling. Even though he seemed to have surrendered to the fact that they were carrying on this affair, she wasn’t certain he would let her in. Physically, of course, but also let her in on a deeper level. And she found she wished he would, even if this affair was only going to last a few weeks.

He opened the door and smiled down at her. “I wondered if you’d come.”

“We’re not back in London yet,” she whispered, her whole body seeming to vibrate with desire now that he was right in front of her.

“Is that your robe?” he asked, eyes growing wide as he looked down at her. “Come in before you get a chill.”

He stepped back and she passed him into the cottage. He shut the door. “Great God, it is your robe,” he said with a laugh.

She turned on him. “Don’t you tease me, Jude Samson. I can only explain that I fell asleep in my gown so many times before Ursula suspects I’m the biggest liar in the county. So I let her help me into my nightclothes and slipped out down that unused servant stair again.”

He frowned. “Do be careful, Audrey. It’s one thing to use it during the day, but it is very dark.”

She couldn’t help her smile. “Worried about me?”

He nodded without hesitation. “Of course.”

Inside, she melted just a fraction, for his face was filled with honesty.

“Would you like tea?” he asked, walking away before she could say anything either one of them regretted. “I also have a good sherry.”

She laughed at his act of playing host. “Sherry would be lovely.”

As he poured, she took a moment to look at the cottage around her. The last time she’d been here, she hadn’t the time, what with being swept off her feet and thoroughly made love to. Now she looked. It was a small lodge, but with a fine space. There was one large living area that they now stood in, with a few comfortable looking settees and tables situated before the stone fireplace, which currently crackled with a roaring fire. A soft deerskin rug was laid on the floor.

She also sought out the little touches which claimed the cottage as Jude’s. Beside the settee were a few letters, ones written to him and one he had obviously been working on before her arrival. His hand was masculine and certain, but of course it would be.

There was also a small portrait framed beside the fire which she recognized as his mother, a soft but rather sad smile on the face that so reminded her of Jude. Now she understood why Mrs. Samson had sometimes held that air of melancholy around her.

She glanced up and gasped. Above the fireplace was a magnificent mount.

“My, that is a beautiful stag,” she said, stepping forward to examine the fine red deer. “Is that from my father’s collection?”

Jude moved toward her, drinks in hand. As he gave Audrey hers, he looked up with her. “No, that is mine. I got him three years ago on a trip here with Edward.”

Her lips pinched. Three years previous had been such a benchmark for her brother that anytime someone mentioned the number and Edward’s name in the same breath, she couldn’t help but flinch. “You mean after Alice…”

“Yes.” Jude wrinkled his brow, his expression reflecting his own troubled thoughts on that painful subject. “She had just died and he needed an escape from her family’s accusations and his own anger and grief. He didn’t get anything of his own, but he was mightily pleased by my catch. I found this mount waiting for me the next time we came here. He paid for it.”

“I told you, he looks upon you as his own brother.”

“But not you.”

She drew back at the teasing in his eyes. “No. I don’t see you as my brother. I never have.”

She reached out to touch his cheek and his eyes dilated with the same passion that flared there when they were near. Had it always? Had she simply been too blind and afraid to see it? He said he had wanted her since she was seventeen.

She turned, breaking the spell that both drew her in and terrified her. She faced the small dining table, situated in front of a tiny kitchen. “Do you cook for yourself often?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I am capable of doing so, but if I am not up at the house, I am usually brought a supper by one of the servants.”

She arched a brow. “And you have not been sharing supper with me since our arrival.”

He bent his head and there was no playfulness in his face or voice when he said, “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Why?” she asked, now as serious as he was. “I know why at first, but why not tonight?”

“Seeing you but not touching you is…increasingly difficult. I think today proved that fact.”

He frowned and she could see he was thinking of their swift, rough coupling against the door, of the few stolen kisses they had shared in the same parlor after lunch.

She shivered at the memory and the thought that she stole so much of his all but legendary control. Could she truly have that much power over him?

She loosened the robe tie and shrugged the garment off her shoulders, standing only in her thin nightshift in the middle of his parlor.

He swallowed hard and set his drink aside on the closest flat surface. “Audrey,” he whispered.

“You can touch me all you’d like now,” she said, putting her own drink down so that she could pull the straps of her nightdress away and make it pool at her feet with her robe. Now she was naked, and unlike the first time she had been this way with him, much of her embarrassment had faded. Especially when his expression grew dark and hot with desire.

“All I’d like could very well be too much,” he growled as he moved toward her. He crushed her naked body to his still clothed one, his heat seeping into her bare skin as much as the fire’s did. His mouth lowered to hers, but despite the power of his embrace, his lips were gentle, teasing her, tasting her, and finally letting his tongue dive in to explore her. But there was nothing desperate to the touch, nothing driven and mad.

And why should there be? They had all night. And Audrey was so very happy for that fact.

As he kissed her, his hands slid down her back, sending tingles to settle between her legs, making her shiver with sensation. Then he cupped her bare backside and she gasped with surprise.

He kneaded the flesh there, pulling her against him in a rhythm she was beginning to recognize immediately. She arched along with it, grinding against the hidden hardness of his cock as she sought relief that would not yet come.

He smiled against her mouth and pulled away to stare down at her. “Do you know what you do to me?” he asked, his voice rough.

She slowly dropped to her knees on the rug. “Show me,” she murmured as she stared up at him.

Instead of joining her, his eyes went wide and he swallowed hard. “Did you—did you like when I tasted you yesterday?”

She blushed at the memory of his mouth on her. It had been such an intensely pleasurable experience, and had haunted her thoughts in the hours since.

“Yes,” she admitted. “So very much.”

Looking down, she realized she was almost at equal level with his cock, straining against the flap of his breeches. She glanced back up his tension-coiled body. “Would you like the same?”

He nodded. “Yes. But some ladies don’t like—”

She interrupted him by smoothing her hand along the front of his trousers, stroking the hardness beneath. His breath left his mouth in a long hiss and she smiled.

“I think I would like it,” she murmured as she unbuttoned him slowly, taking her time, watching him from her position below him. She could see she was driving him mad and was surprised by how much she liked doing it.

This was power, true power, over him. Him! A man who could dominate her with his strength any time he wanted. And yet he trembled as she tugged the trouser flap away and let his hard cock free.

Close up, she noticed the darker color of his skin, the strong vein that throbbed along the underside, and when she cupped him in her palm, she was shocked to find that the flesh was silky smooth over the steel of his desire.

She examined him closely as she slid her hand over him. She was going to put him in her mouth. The very thought sent an erotic shiver through her, an electric need that made her clitoris tingle and her sex flex in preparation for his invasion of her ready body.

She darted her tongue out and gently licked just the tip of his cock. He sucked in a breath and his hands came down to tangle in her hair. He didn’t hold her or force her, but the pressure of his grasping fingers did urge her to slowly draw him between her lips, further and further until he hit her throat. She withdrew, and in that moment she realized that this act was very much like when he took her body.

She began to thrust with her mouth, cupping the base of him to hold him steady as she took him in and out of her mouth. To her shock, she found she loved performing the act. To feel him filling her in this new way, to look up his body and watch his neck strain and his lips part with pleasure. It was amazing. And it made her own body wet and needier than ever.

“God, you are a natural,” he groaned as he pressed his fingers more firmly against her skull and increased her rhythm.

She smiled against his flesh and took him deeper, swirling her tongue around him, sucking him, stroking her hand over his wet flesh, doing anything and everything in her power to push him over the edge. His legs shook, his eyes squeezed shut and she felt him try to pull away.

“Audrey, I’m going to—I can’t—”

But she wouldn’t let him. He would never be able to spend inside her sheath in order to prevent a pregnancy that would ruin them both. But she wanted him inside her when he found release, and this was the best alternative.

He burst within her, sending hot liquid down her throat. At first she was surprised by the sweet-and-salty flavor, by the heat of him, but she swiftly learned to like it and swallowed every drop until he went soft inside of her.

She withdrew him from her mouth and stared up at him with a smile. “I think I like that,” she whispered.

“Yes, the feeling is most definitely mutual,” he grunted as he dropped to his knees before her. “You will kill me with all these things you are learning to ‘like’,” he chuckled. “But now it’s my turn to give you the things I like.”

He cupped her cheeks and kissed her deeply. And just as she had tasted herself on his lips, she knew he tasted himself now. He drove his tongue into her mouth as he lowered her back on the soft rug. He only broke the kiss for long enough to struggle out of his clothes, and then he pressed his body to hers.

“All day, I was so hard for you I could have exploded,” he said, his voice low and seductive. “But now…oh, now I can take all night.”

Her eyes went wide at that sentence. Was that possible? That all night he could make love to her, all night give her such pleasures?

She didn’t have a chance to request clarification. He began to kiss her neck and stole her ability to make any sound but incoherent whimpers of pleasure. His mouth glided to her breasts and he pressed them together to lick from one nipple to the other, stoking his tongue in the channel between as if it were her sex.

She lifted her hips against his stomach as he pleasured her, seeking release without asking for it. Trying to find a way to rub him just right and ease the ache he was building.

He smiled and moved lower, lower, and she sighed. She was so ready for his mouth on her. So ready for the pleasure he would bring. Only when he reached her sex, he didn’t kiss her. He propped himself up on one elbow as he spread her wide and simply looked at her.

“You are so sweet,” he whispered, ducking his head for one very unsatisfactory kiss between her legs. “So tight and perfect.”

He reached for her and smoothed his hands over her sex. She jolted at the electric pleasure that was becoming so familiar. But when he went lower and his fingertips brushed her backside, she stiffened.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, pulling his hand away.

She stared at him. When he had touched her in that forbidden way, the pleasure had been just as powerful as when he gave attention to her sex.

“Don’t apologize,” she whispered. “It felt…good.”

His eyes went wide. “I see.”

She couldn’t read his expression, so she ducked her head. “I’m sorry. There is no way that you meant to touch me like that. It’s not something anyone would like to—”

“Oh no,” he interrupted. “It is most definitely a place any man would like to explore.”

“Truly?” she asked, her heart beginning to pound with the thought.

“But it’s moving too fast,” he said, gently gliding his fingers back and forth over her sex. “You were but a virgin yesterday and this is—”

“Would you—would you put your cock in me there?” she asked, staring at his rapidly rising member. It seemed too big for her. Though it had seemed too big for her sex, too and that was certainly not true.

His eyes dilated with wild desire. “I would not start with my cock, no. But I could…I could touch you and see if you liked it.”

She licked her lips and nodded slowly. “We did promise we would purge every single desire. How will I know my every desire unless you show me?”

He squeezed his eyes shut and uttered a curse beneath his breath. When he finally looked at her again, he was very serious. “If you want me to stop, just tell me.”

“I will,” she promised.

He took a ragged breath and let just the tip of his finger slide down her sex once more. It was wet from her excitement and he pressed it to the tight rosebud. For a second, her body resisted but with gentle pressure, he dipped inside. She gasped at the unexpected invasion. One that was strange to her, but also sent a shock of pleasure through her.

“Do you want more?”

She nodded because she had to agree. His touch was just so tempting, she wanted it everywhere. She wanted to be wicked and wanton and give herself over to his every whim.

He leaned down and began to lick her sex, slow, languid strokes that made her gasp with pleasure at the unexpected act. She lifted to meet him as he suckled her flesh. She was so wet, she was so hot, she was so close to an edge he would not allow her to fall over.

He slipped that same finger away from her bottom, leaving her bereft, but she couldn’t argue when he stroked it back to her sex and slid it inside her sheath, thrusting inside like he would later do with his cock. She thrashed her head against the rug.

“Does it feel good?” he asked, his voice vibrating against the flesh.

“Yes,” she gasped out. “Yes!”

“Good.” The finger moved from her sex, and back to that rosebud it went. Now it was soaked with their combined juices, and as he pressed it to her entrance, it slid inside with far less resistance. And all the time, he continued to work his tongue against her. Only now he focused his attentions on her clit.

She arched at the invasion of both places, the odd sensation of being had in so many ways, even though it was just one man taking her. There was a twinge of pain as he began to slowly thrust with his finger, but the sweetness of his kiss at her throbbing clitoris evened out the discomfort, heightening all the sensations.

He thrust into her over and over, his mouth working hard, sucking and licking, drawing out her pleasure with every stroke.

Her fingers clenched at the rug beneath her, and with a scream orgasm hit her. But Jude seemed to be in no mood to let her ride that release at her own pace. His finger worked harder, he sucked her and swirled around her clitoris and the pleasure moved to another level. Tears streamed down her face as she shuddered through it all, her body taking and taking what he gave, the pleasure never ending and so intense that it walked the fine line of pain.

She panted as her body went weak, the ricochets of pleasure fading as she shuddered a few final times. As she collapsed back against the rug, Jude smiled up at her, withdrawing his mouth and hands from her. But as he crawled up her body, she saw he had grown hard again during his attention to her body.

“Touching me arouses you?” she asked, reaching out a trembling hand to brush her fingertips over his erection.

He nodded. “Very much. Giving you pleasure increases my pleasure tenfold.”

She shivered with understanding. “When I took you in my mouth, your moans made my own body wetter, more ready.”

“Do you even know how sensual you are? How enticing?”

She reached up and pressed a hand to his shoulder. Gently she drew him down. “Show me,” she whispered.

He smiled, but didn’t cover her as she thought he would. Instead he slid a hand beneath her back and helped her sit up. He maneuvered her, showing her that he wanted her on her hands and knees on the rug. She did this, exposing both her bottom and her sex to him as he positioned himself behind her.

She tensed as she awaited his invasion, tensed further as he stroked the head of his hard cock against her slit. “Mine,” he groaned as he slid inside.

She arched her back like a cat as he claimed her, this new sensation even more powerful than the others. He stroked into her, slow thrusts, shallow thrusts, and she gasped with each one. Already, he built her pleasure, he coaxed her response, and she was shocked when she came so swiftly after such a powerful release just a few moments before.

He wrapped his body around hers, cupping her breasts as he increased his tempo. The tremors of her body were just fading when they began again and she pushed back against him, crying out with her third release of the night. But it still wasn’t enough. He continued to push into her, but he wrapped an arm around and pressed his hand to her tender, throbbing sex and massaged her clitoris with his thumb.

Immediately, she exploded again, a puppet on his erotic strings. But this time he didn’t seem to be able to hold back and continue his torture. As she milked him with her release, his thrusts grew erratic, faster, and he roared as he withdrew from her. She felt the hot splash of his release across her back and arched in pleasure before she collapsed on the rug. He fell at her side, gathering her to him, and they lay together, silent except for the matched panting of their breath and the beating of their hearts that filled the room with their loud, combined rhythm.

Chapter Eleven

JUDE SET AUDREY ON HIS bed and she smiled up at him, limp and languid from their lovemaking. He couldn’t help but return that smile as he joined her, even though his mind spun with guilt and regret.

He hadn’t made love to many ladies of rank. A few widows had expressed interest in him over the years and he had not denied himself, even though it was always Audrey’s face he saw when he took them. But never, in all that time, had he done such wicked things to a genteel lover.

And yet Audrey woke his animal side. Audrey made him rough and wicked and woke all his darkest desires. Being unleashed like this could not be good.

He stroked her hair off her face. “I’m sorry.”

She opened her eyes a sliver and stared up at him with confusion on her face. “What? Why?”

“I was rough. I was forceful. I touched you in ways I shouldn’t—”

She sat up slightly and pressed her lips to his gently. When she rested her head back on the pillow, she whispered, “I liked it all, Jude.”

“But you are a lady,” he insisted.

“A woman,” she corrected. “Your woman, at least for now. And I’m not made of porcelain just because my father or my brother has a title.”

“Still, I should have been more careful, gentler,” he insisted.

She knitted her eyebrows together. “Were those the things you wanted to do to me? The things you fantasized about while thinking about me all those years?”

He hesitated before whispering, “Yes.”

“Then why would you apologize? The purpose of our arrangement is to purge our desires for each other, and that is what you did.”

He frowned. He had made love to Audrey three times now, drawn her pleasure out, but he felt no more purged of desire for her than he had before he touched her. If anything, he wanted her more. And he wanted more from her. He wanted to possess her in ways he knew were impossible.

“Jude?” she said, sitting up slightly to examine his face. “Did I do something wrong?”

He shook his head and made every effort to clear his thoughts. “Of course not. You are right. But so far we’ve only done what I desire. What do you have to purge?”

She seemed to ponder that question a moment before she said, “I hardly know, for up until the past few days, I’ve had no experience aside from abject terror at the prospect of surrendering to such things.”

“You don’t still feel that, do you?”

She smiled gently. “No. Not at all. I still recognize the inherent dangers to such things, especially when they get tied to strong emotions. But I must say that you are providing a wonderful education for me. I now know how many wicked things I want and like and exist in this world.”

“Wonderful and wicked said together in almost the same breath,” he chuckled. “The biddies at Almack’s would revoke your right to waltz, my lady.”

“I would rather be here with you,” she said with a shrug.

He tensed at her words and at the casual way she said them. It was funny—so many times he had been forced to extract himself from a woman who had mistaken pleasure for emotion. He’d always done it as kindly as he could, but he knew he had left a few broken hearts in his sexual wake.

But with Audrey, it was different. She seemed to be able to separate herself from her feelings. Like he was still nothing more than her chum. And while that should have pleased him—after all, he knew they could never be together…hell, they shouldn’t be together now—it still stung. He would be left with all his unresolved feelings when this was over, and she?

She would walk away.

“You look suddenly very far from here,” she murmured as she rested her head on his chest.

He smoothed his hand across her hair and tried so hard to push those unwanted feelings away. He would deal with them later, not now.

“Just woolgathering, I suppose.”

“You do that a lot,” she pointed out, glancing up at his face. “You have even more in the last couple of years. Where do you go? What do you think about?”

He shrugged, acting as if he didn’t know or it wasn’t important. In fact, her question hit upon the most important facts of his life. His feelings for her and his guilt over what he’d done. Those were the only two places his mind took him when he drifted off in distraction.

“Is it worry about your mother?” she pressed. “Thinking about seeing her so recently?”

He shook his head. “I assure you, Audrey, when you’re laying naked in my arms, the last thing I am thinking about is my mother.”

“Then what?”

He stiffened. She was so tenacious, she wouldn’t let this go unless he came up with some answer, real or imagined. But he had none for her. At least none he could think of on such short notice.

“I’m thinking that you could be missed shortly,” he said, reluctantly removing his arm from around her and getting to his feet. He found his robe, and when he turned back, she was staring at him. There was undeniable hurt her in her brown eyes, but also confusion and question.

“Jude?” she said softly, leaning forward. She had no idea what a tempting picture she made, utterly oblivious of her nudity, her body leaned toward him like a beautiful flower he could so easily pluck and have.

Except he couldn’t. He hardened his expression. “I’ll fetch your nightclothes from the other room,” he offered, turning his back on her and moved to the main room.

When he returned, she had gotten to her feet and used his comb to detangle her long locks. She faced him when he entered and took the clothing he offered. She said nothing as she slipped the nightdress over her head and then put on her robe. When she was dressed, she turned to face him at last, her expression guarded.

“If you don’t want to answer my questions, Jude, you don’t have to,” she said. “But if I’ve done something wrong, I wish you’d tell me so I don’t repeat the offense.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong,” he assured her, though he could see it didn’t work.

She folded her arms across her chest almost protectively. As though she needed the barrier between them in this moment. “But I can see with my two perfectly good eyes that you are not happy with me. Here we were, lying together, and then you get up and all but kick me out of your cottage like I’m a lightskirt.”

He swallowed hard. “I’m not kicking you out like a lightskirt, Audrey. I just think that it would be better not to risk getting caught.”

She held his stare for a long moment, her expression confused and hurt. Then she nodded. “Very well. Will I see you tomorrow, then, or will you hide out here?”

He flinched. He was too obvious, it seemed. He moved toward her, taking her hands. When he touched her, her expression softened slightly.

“I’ll be dealing with some of the deliveries for the changes in the dining room in the morning, but your mother has asked me to join you for tea after lunch. So I’ll see you then.”

“And tomorrow night?” she said softly, brown eyes holding his evenly.

He cleared his throat. The best thing for both of them would be to push her away. But he couldn’t.

“If you come here, Audrey, I won’t turn you away.”

She didn’t look completely pleased with that declaration, but she leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek regardless. Then she turned and they walked to the main room where she slipped out the door and left him alone.

He stood for a long moment, staring at the door where she had just left. Then he shifted his attention to the rumpled rug where they had made love less than an hour ago. With a sigh, he moved to smooth it, erasing the evidence that he had taken Audrey yet again.

His eyes moved to a small escritoire near the fireplace. As if in a trance, he moved to it and opened the top drawer. He shuffled some papers and then slowly withdrew the miniature he had hidden there upon his arrival to the house. A miniature of Audrey.

It had been painted when she came out, so her features were softer, her eyes not so troubled by the heartbreaks her family had endured in the past seven years. But at its essence, the picture was Audrey, with a mischievous half-smile and all her beauty and elegance.

How had he gotten the piece?

Well, it didn’t really matter. He’d had it for six years, carrying it with him whenever he left home for more than a few days. He always hid it and took it out to look at it in his darkest hours.

Now was most definitely one of those. Because he was beginning to fear that before their unexpected affair was over, Audrey was going to hate him.

Either because he revealed all his secrets, or because he kept them all locked inside.

Chapter Twelve

JUDE STOOD AT THE BACK entrance to the main house at two the next afternoon, staring at the door he had entered hundreds of times in his life. Today it felt almost impossible to turn the knob. After all, he knew what awaited him.

First, there would be Audrey, who was probably still mulling over what had happened between them last night. He knew her too well. She had no doubt gnawed on every moment between them like a dog with a meaty bone, trying to determine the reason behind his every action. And most likely seeing herself to blame for any ill humor he had expressed.

But along with her would be Lady Woodley. The dowager marchioness had never been anything but kind and welcoming, accepting him into her family when his own shunned him. And how had he repaid her?

By participating in the loss of one daughter and seducing the other.

“You are a fine fuck,” he groaned, looking over his shoulder toward the stable. He could get his horse. He could ride away and never come back.

But he owed them more.

So he opened the door and slowly entered the house. There was a footman standing in the first hall he turned down, polishing some kind of silver plate. He nodded to Jude as he stepped into view.

“The family awaits in the Yellow Room, sir.”

Jude blinked. “The yellow room. You mean the west parlor? The one recently renovated?”

The young man nodded. “That is the very one, Mr. Samson. Lady Woodley is so thrilled with its outcome that she is insistent we all call it the Yellow Room from now on.”

Jude smiled despite himself. “Well, we wouldn’t want to disappoint the lady, would we?”

The young man’s face grew somber. “Never, sir.”

“The Yellow Room it is, then,” he said with a laugh. “Good day.”

The servant said his goodbyes as Jude began to move toward the Yellow Room. He couldn’t help pondering how different the Woodleys were from his own family. He recalled the servants being quiet and constantly terrified of being sacked at his uncle’s home. But the Woodleys inspired great loyalty.

The kind he felt but sometimes hadn’t shown.

He frowned as he pushed the door to the Yellow Room open and entered to find Lady Woodley and Audrey already assembled there.

“There he is,” Lady Woodley said as she rose from her place on the settee slowly and moved to his side. She looked pale and drawn, but she had a broad smile that faltered as she reached him and took both his hands. “You look troubled, Samson. What is it?”

He shook his head, sorry he had allowed his troubles to be shown. “It is nothing, my lady, I assure you,” he said, but he caught Audrey watching him, her concern as clear as her mother’s. “I am merely sorry if I kept you waiting.”

“You didn’t,” Lady Woodley said as she looked around. “I was just admiring the room now that the furniture is back and the portraits and knickknacks in place. Don’t you think it looks divine?”

Jude took a good look around him. He had last seen the room after he and Audrey arranged the furniture there, but Lady Woodley was right. There was much more spark to the place when the fittings of their lives were back.

“It is wonderful.”

“And do you notice what portraits were placed on the wall?” Lady Woodley pressed.

Jude gave Audrey a half-glance. She smiled, but there was a slight sadness in her eyes as she did so. It startled him enough that he was more careful as he examined the pictures on the wall.

“Why, they are all immediate family,” he said, looking at the family portraits from over the years and the coming out pictures of each of the children. The portrait of Claire was especially highlighted, for Lady Woodley had arranged for it to be hung in a more central wall of the parlor where no one could avoid seeing it.

Lady Woodley smiled, but the sadness in her eyes was not something she could hide. “Yes. When we talked yesterday, I realized that this shade of yellow was Claire’s very favorite. She used to have a dress this color.”

Now Audrey finally stepped forward. Her voice was rough as she said, “So Mama decided that it would be the perfect parlor for family gatherings, rather than formal ones.”

Jude looked at her carefully. He could see how deeply she was affected both by the changes to the room and to the way her mother talked about them.

Briefly, Jude’s mind screamed how he had done this to them, but then he shoved it aside. This was not the time nor the place to wallow in his own guilt.

“Well, I think it is lovely. Will you make the east parlor the new formal one, then?” he asked.

“Yes. It has that fine blue wallcovering that no one could find objectionable. I may have the furniture recovered and buy a few new pieces, but it will need little overhauling.”

“Thank goodness,” Audrey said with a laugh that was meant to lighten the mood, but sounded hardly more than halfhearted to Jude. “We already have so much to do with the dining room.”

Her mother nodded and motioned them all to the cozy new settee and chairs at the center of the room. To Jude’s surprise, she took his arm as she moved forward, leaning on him before she took her place in the settee. She obviously still did not feel herself, and Jude frowned.

“When will the refinished chair be ready?” he asked as he sat down on the older one. He tracked Audrey’s movements as she took her place next to her mother.

Audrey smiled at him, perhaps recalling, as he was, their trip to town together just a few days before. Was it a few days? So much had changed that it felt like a lifetime.

“They are in the midst of reworking it now,” she said. “I think they said tomorrow they would bring it in and replace the one you are seated on.”

He nodded, but before he could continue this very benign line of conversation, Lady Woodley caught his eye. “I want to talk to you about Claire.”

Jude felt his stomach lurch and was very pleased he hadn’t troubled himself with lunch. He wasn’t certain it wouldn’t have churned, asking to be sent back up, if he had.

“Mama,” Audrey said softly. “You shouldn’t upset yourself like this.”

Her mother cast her a quick glance. “I know you don’t like me to think about her or talk about her, but I must.”

“It isn’t that I don’t want you to think of her,” Audrey said with an expression of horror at the implication. “I think of her every day, myself, but you are still not completely well from your cold, are you? I don’t want you to make yourself even sicker.”

Lady Woodley ignored the comment, her gaze refocusing on Jude. “Everyone keeps things from me, or they try to. But the secrets only make me imagine the worst. Samson, you must tell me, do have any news about my daughter?”

Jude drew back, not just at her pointed question, but the look of intensity that accompanied it. He had known Lady Woodley for a long time and never seen such a wildness to her expression. It made clear how much the lady had suffered at the hand of the man who had taken her eldest daughter almost two years before.

At his own hand too.

The same guilt that had been swelling in him for just as long burned now, clawing at him, threatening to drag him under in its wake. He cleared his throat and tried to sound calm as he said, “I’m sorry, my lady, but we really know so little about Claire’s whereabouts. There is nothing we’re keeping from you on that score.”

Her shoulders sagged. “Does Edward still search for her?”

He nodded instantly. “I assure you, my lady, we continue to look for Claire always. No one has given up on finding her.”

“Do you think she lives?” she whispered.

He caught his breath. “Yes, I do. You know as well as we do that she writes to Gabriel.”

Lady Woodley’s face was growing paler by the moment as her eyes took on a hollow look. “Yes. And he shares the letters generously, but couldn’t they be forged?”

“There is no reason to believe it isn’t her hand,” Jude said, making a mental note to discuss just how upset Lady Woodley was by this subject with Edward and his brothers. “I’m afraid Claire doesn’t want to be found at present.”

“Or he makes certain she isn’t,” Lady Woodley spat, her hands shaking in her lap. “That bastard Aston could be manipulating her, holding something over her head.”

Jude hesitated. He had often thought the same thing and discussed it with the men in the Woodley clan, though he had no proof. But to see Lady Woodley tied in knots over it was infinitely painful. Especially when Audrey sat beside her, tears in her eyes as she took her mother’s hand and tried to offer comfort.

“Mama,” she said softly.

Lady Woodley blinked, and suddenly the intensity was gone from her expression. She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Samson. I doubt you came here wanting an old woman to ramble at you about the daughter who doesn’t even want to see her.”

He leaned closer. “No, my lady. Please don’t apologize. I have watched your family go through Edward’s terrible first marriage and Claire’s disappearance. You have earned any feelings you have and you needn’t shield me from them. Anyone who is responsible for Claire’s departure should suffer for it.”

She nodded. “They should.”

He frowned, for she didn’t know he included himself in that equation. “May I pour you tea?” he asked.

She smiled, but there was nothing happy about the expression. “No. I find…I find I am not feeling like tea now. I think I’ll lie down.”

“Mama,” Audrey sighed, the pain on her face reflected in her voice now too. “May I walk you up?”

Lady Woodley shook her head. “No, dearest. Stay here. I can manage by myself and I think I’d rather be alone right now.”

Audrey and Jude stood together as her mother got up, nodded apologetically and then slipped from the room. Once she had gone, Audrey scurried to the door and shut it behind her. Jude tensed. He hadn’t expected her to want to be alone, be intimate with him, after such an emotional moment with her mother.

But as she turned to face him, he saw that her expression wasn’t one of seduction but something else. Something far more frightening.

“Jude, I want to help you.”

He moved toward her slowly. “Help me…what?”

She straightened up, her chin tilting with defiance before the words had even left her mouth. “I want to help you look for Claire.”

Audrey watched Jude pace the room, his frown deep and his hands fisted at his sides. He had been doing that for almost a full minute since she declared she wanted to assist him. Finally, she could take it no longer.

“Well, say something, will you?”

He spun on her and she could see there were a great many emotions on his face. Anger and guilt, mixed with worry. Her heart sank before he uttered a syllable.

“Don’t say no,” she snapped, rushing toward him.

He surprised her by taking three steps back, his hands raised as if to ward her off. “God damn it, Audrey, you know what you’re asking is entirely inappropriate!”

She flinched at the finality and the harshness of his tone and stopped moving toward him abruptly. She folded her arms and glared at him. “Why?”

His eyes went wide. “Truly? Is that a serious question?”

“Yes!” She threw up her hands in frustration. “I am totally serious.”

He shook his head. “Audrey, you are a lady. The last thing you need is to expose yourself to the kind of people, the kind of information related to Jonathan Aston.”

The heat left her cheeks at that statement. It irritated her, yes, but it also made her think of Claire, stuck in a damaging, frightening world with a criminal who had taken her only for money. Was she being hurt? Was she frightened? How was she used by that bastard?

“Claire is my sister,” she said, her voice trembling even though she tried to remain strong both to bolster her point and to honor Claire’s situation. “I miss her every day, just as deeply as my brothers do, my mother does. Do I not have the right to try to help her?”

Now Jude’s face softened. “But you can’t, sweetheart.”

“How do you know that? How can you be certain I would be worthless in the search? After all, aside from Gabriel, I was closest to her. If I had more information, I could analyze it with a woman’s eye and heart. I might see things they didn’t.”

Jude squeezed his eyes shut, and she could see how hard he was going to fight her on this. “You don’t understand.”

She shook her head swiftly. “Don’t I? Maybe I didn’t before, but I can certainly see now how easy it would be to be seduced.”

His lips parted at her words. Accusations were what they felt like, and her stomach clenched and churned at their harshness.

“Is that what I’m doing? Seducing you?” he asked softly. “Is it for my own gain, Audrey, like it was for Aston?”

She sucked in a breath. “No, no, Jude, that wasn’t what I meant.” She reached out and was relieved when he let her place her hand on his forearm rather than jerking away. She stared up into his eyes. “I don’t think you’re anything like Jonathan Aston. I only mean a woman’s heart is different from a man’s.”

He frowned. “That is probably true.”

With her hands clenched at her sides, she was the one who paced away this time. “In the weeks before Claire left, she was so…odd. Secretive. I always judged her for being taken in by such a man as Aston. How could she abandon her family? How could she get so wrapped up in him? But for the first time since she disappeared, I think I can sympathize with whatever passion drove her to him.”

“But that doesn’t mean that you should involve yourself in the investigation,” he said, his voice very soft, barely carrying in the big room.

She spun on him. “Why? I just want—” Her shoulders rolled forward. “I have been kept on a shelf for so very long, Jude. I’m just starting to realize how much that troubles me. Perhaps it’s another reason why I’ve felt such malaise when it comes to seeking a husband. Couldn’t I…couldn’t I just look at any evidence you have regarding Claire? I truly might see something there that no one else has seen.”

He folded his arms. “No.”

“That is all? Just no? Don’t you think I deserve more of an answer than that?” she asked.

“Do you know how angry your brother would be with me if he knew I was exposing you to such things? If he knew I was endangering you?”

She held his stare for a long moment, and he allowed it. But she was surprised that even as she stared into the depths, she couldn’t read his thoughts or feelings. He was blank, turning himself away from her.

“Would he be as angry as if he knew that you were tupping me in the cottage?” she asked, her tone icy.

His jaw tightened, and she knew she’d gone too far. With a shuddering sob, she turned away from him and walked out of the parlor, out of the house and down the long path toward the garden. But she was under no illusions that a long walk would help her in any way.

Chapter Thirteen

JUDE WALKED ALONG THE TERRACE at the back of the estate, watching below as Audrey stumble-stepped her way down the garden path and into the distance. Her parting words still stung in his heart, but he didn’t actually see them as the threat, despite the way she’d formed them. No, he knew that this was her pain speaking, her anger lashing out at him for thwarting her.

He wished he could explain to her why he couldn’t let her close to his investigation into Claire’s disappearance. To explain how he thought her utterly capable of discerning the truth. And that was the problem. The truth would destroy everything.

She lifted her hands to her face as she staggered along, and his stomach clenched. She was crying. He had made her cry.

“Bollocks,” he muttered, and swung around to the end of the terrace where a spiraling stone staircase led to the garden below. He could see where she was going. The lake where he knew she’d often hidden and watched while her brothers skipped stones and caught frogs. She had been locked out of their fun all those years ago and he couldn’t help but understand how locked out she must feel now.

She had already crested a small hill when he reached the garden, and he could no longer see her in the distance. He quickened his pace to a run as he tried to catch up with her. What he was going to say, he had no idea. After all, he couldn’t give her what she wanted.

But perhaps he could offer comfort regardless. If she would allow it.

He caught up with her at the slope to the lake. She stood at the edge of the water, hurling rocks at the surface rather than skipping them, and he came to a stop to look at her while she was still unaware of his presence.

She was so utterly beautiful. In anger or sadness, happiness or relief…Audrey was Audrey. Audrey, whom he adored from afar. Audrey, whom he couldn’t resist.

Audrey, whom he loved more than his own breath, even though he could never, ever do anything about the emotion that bubbled within him. These moments with her were stolen, precious, and he wasn’t ready to let them go. Even if that desire was desperately unfair to her.

“Go away,” she said, her voice cracking.

He jumped slightly. “I didn’t think you heard my approach,” he admitted.

She shrugged but still didn’t turn to face him. “I guess I do perceive more than you give me credit for.”

He flinched at the accusation in her tone. The betrayal. As if they were on the same side and he had turned on her. If only she knew how close to the mark that was.

“Audrey, it is not about credit. I credit you with a great deal,” he said, approaching her with caution. She said nothing, even as he reached her side and stood at the lake’s edge with her. “Did you ever learn to skip rocks?”

She tossed him a gaze from the corner of her eye, still angry but now uncertain. “How do you know about that?”

“I talked about you with Edward sometimes.”

Those talks had fed him over the years. He had sucked up every fragment of information like a dry sponge. With a smile, he stooped to pick up a rock and skidded it across the water’s surface. It disappeared about halfway across the lake.

Audrey didn’t smile, but did the same, only her rock sped past where his had sunk. He nodded. “Impressive.”

“Yes, surprising, isn’t it?” she snapped, and moved as if to turn away.

He caught her arm and spun her back. “Damn it, Audrey, yes. You are surprising in the best sense of the word. But not because I don’t believe in you. Not about rocks, not about Claire, not about anything.”

“Then why won’t you let me help?” she said, and the tears filled her eyes again. “Why do you shut me out like Edward and Evan and Gabriel do? I thought you were different. That you knew me.”

He recoiled slightly. So her belief that they were a team wasn’t just a fantasy of his. And God, how it warmed him to know it. But it wasn’t possible, no matter how much he wished it could be.

“I know you,” he reassured her, and reached for the only part of the truth of the situation he could tell. “I don’t want you to help me because…because there is evidence that Claire’s time with Aston has been very unhappy. You said you might understand how passion could drive her, but I’m not certain your sister has experienced much of that. Aston is a villain and taking Claire’s money through their marriage has only made him worse. Audrey, he has…”

She caught her breath. “Hurt her?”

He nodded. “Physically, yes. We believe so. And in other ways. She is forced to travel with him, probably forced to be his partner in his criminal endeavors. She is forced to be with him, to perform wifely duties. Could you imagine doing what we have done in my cottage but with someone who hurt you?”

Audrey bit her lip and the tears began to flow. “No. If I feared you, hated you, was betrayed by you…I can well imagine that the moments in your bed would not be pleasant.”

He clenched his teeth, self-loathing hitting him again. He ignored it to focus on her. She was trembling now, but it was no longer out of outrage. Now he could see her pain lined along her face.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, pressing a hand to her cheek, spreading his fingers along the curve of her face. “Trust me that none of us is happy to know this about Claire. But I don’t want to hurt you more than you have been, Audrey. Please, do you trust me?”

She hesitated, and his breath hitched as she stared up at him. “Yes,” she finally whispered.

“Then know that I’m doing everything I can to find your sister and bring her home to you. You don’t need to worry yourself about it, but let me do what I must.”

She didn’t agree, but lifted up on her tiptoes. She cupped his cheeks and drew his mouth down to hers. He knew he shouldn’t, but he let her kiss him, her mouth hot on his, her tongue sweet as it breached his lips.

He crushed her against him, unable to control the swell of desire that rolled over him, washing him under in its wake, removing all other thoughts and protests from his mind. He would have her, and these moments of passion would ease her pain. That was all he could give, perhaps.

She groaned against him, rubbing her breasts against his chest like a cat begging for affection. He gave it freely, letting his hands move to cup her backside and lifting her against him so she could feel how much she moved him.

When she felt his cock pressed to her belly, she smiled against his lips and pulled back to look at him. “Do you think we could, er, be together here? Sort of like against the tree but with more…more…?”

He almost laughed at the sweet innocence mingled with wicked seduction in her question. “It is very, very possible. But are you certain? Just like against the tree, someone could come upon us. And it would be harder to cover up what we were doing.”

He expected her to be troubled by that, but to his surprise her eyes lit up with a flutter of increased arousal. To be caught or watched was a clearly a fantasy she hadn’t even known she had or perhaps didn’t yet understand.

And desire burned through his blood at the wantonness that lurked beneath her surface.

“I want you,” she admitted. “I want pleasure to forget what you’ve told me about pain. I want you, Jude.”

He nodded, unable to resist, and gently lowered her to the soft grass at the lakeside. Although he sincerely wished he had brought a blanket, he would make due. He shrugged from his jacket and urged her to sit up to press it beneath her for protection.

Then he slid open the top button along the front of her gown. She sighed, a shuddering sound of relief and need that hardened his ready cock even further.

“The sun on your skin is gorgeous,” he murmured as he parted the dress.

She laughed. “I’ll freckle.”

“In the places only I can see,” he growled as he pulled her chemise and the dress down to her waist and bared her to the light, to his eyes, his hands, his tongue. “If you freckle, I’ll trace the constellations between.”

She smiled. “With what?”

He laughed too, but it was a possessive sound rather than a teasing one. Without answering in words, he leaned down to flick his tongue over her nipple, then gently drag it across her chest to the opposite one. As the breeze hit her now-wet peak, she arched with a groan.

He latched onto the nipple before him and began to suck, alternating between hard and soft, between strokes of his tongue and nips with the edge of his teeth. She gyrated beneath him, making incoherent sounds of lust and pleasure. He repeated the same scandalous action on her opposite breast, watching how her eyes dilated, how her hips lifted as she clawed at the grass for purchase.

“You were made for this,” he groaned as he began to pull her skirt up, bunching it at her waist with the top of her gown.

“Made for you,” she corrected faintly, lifting her hips to facilitate his revealing her lower body to the sun.

He shuddered as her creamy thighs opened for him, revealing the pink hint of her sex. She was gorgeous and tempting, so far out of his reach, but somehow he had a chance to have just a taste of her. And taste he was going to do.

He lowered his head, positioning himself between her legs, and dropped his mouth to her. She smelled sweet, and when he stroked his tongue over her tender flesh, she tasted earthy and erotic. She whimpered above him and he smiled as he delved into the act, letting his tongue enter her as he massaged her trembling legs.

“Jude,” she panted from above him, her back arching and her hips lifting to find pleasure. He groaned as her sex grew slicker both from his mouth and her increasing excitement. He pushed her open wider, tugging her drawers further apart, spreading her flesh so that he could find the hidden pearl of her clitoris.

He sucked her, nipping the little bud, and she let out a cry that echoed in the summer air.

“Come for me,” he demanded against her flesh. “I want to taste it.”

She stared at him, eyes wide at the order she apparently hadn’t expected. But by the way her eyes glazed, he could see she liked the aggressive demand. She began to lift her hips in time to his seeking tongue, searching for release, clenching to find it.

When he slipped two fingers into her channel, warm, tight heat enveloping him, it was enough to hurtle her over the edge. She bucked up, her sheath throbbing around him, stroking him as he stroked her. She cried out incoherent sounds of pleasure as he sucked her through it all, lapping up her juices until she flopped against his jacket with a shuddering moan.

Only then did he withdraw, crawling up the length of her as he unfastened his trousers. His member bobbed free, warm air hitting the exquisitely sensitive flesh, and he almost lost his mind. All he had left in his head were the animal demands that he take her, rut with her, fill her with his seed.

He pressed his mouth to hers, letting her taste her own unique flavor even as he positioned himself at her entrance and thrust, gliding home in one smooth movement. Her body gripped his aching cock and he clenched his fists against the ground on either side of her head as he tried to maintain a grip on some kind of control. He wasn’t about to spend right away.

No, he wanted to make her come again first.

He gritted his teeth as he began to stroke inside of her. He used shallow thrusts, teasing his own pleasure, while coaxing hers back to the surface. He could tell it was working by the way she gasped with every thrust, lifting her hips to find him as he withdrew.

She was like heaven. Tight and hot around him, welcoming and perfect. He wanted to stay inside of her forever, locked in this embrace, never letting go. Always giving her the pleasure that made her cries escape her throat and her skin go pink with exertion.

But his body couldn’t take such a thing. Already, he felt his seed on the move, threatening to fill her. Even though he wanted to, he couldn’t. A child was not something they could create, no matter how easily he could picture that child in his arms.

No, he had to satisfy himself with…

She cried out a second time as his careful thrusts brought her over the edge. She milked him with her orgasm and he began to thrust harder, slamming their bodies together without finesse or thought. And just when he thought he could die from the building sensation, he reared up to withdraw from her and pumped his seed out on the grass by the lake.

With a grunt of satisfaction, he collapsed down beside her and drew her closer. She didn’t resist, but settled her head into the crook of his shoulder, her gentle hand coming to rest on his still-clothed chest.

“That was wonderful,” she sighed when her breath had returned to a normal rate. “I never thought I could feel such things.”

He reached out to trace a finger around her areola, and her nipple puckered again. “Feel what?”

She shivered. “Such anticipation of you touching me. And then when you’re touching me, such a heated need to have your cock stretching me wide, filling me. And then there is the pleasure. So hot, so fast, so overpowering. It’s like I’m torn from my own body, thrown to a higher plane. Is it—is it like that for you, or am I just another woman you take to slake your needs?”

He jerked his gaze to her with an incredulous lift of an eyebrow. “You must be joking.”

“I know you’ve had lovers, likely many lovers.”

He shrugged. “Some lovers, yes. And I don’t discount that what I shared with them was enjoyable. But I didn’t lie when I told you that I always pictured your face, Audrey.”

He knew the confession was the wrong thing to do. It was giving too much, revealing too much and in a way, demanding too much, since they would part when they returned to London and this heady, heated time between them would become a faint memory to her.

But he had to say it. The words burned within him and forced them to his lips.

She stared at him for a long moment, then rolled over to lay on top of him. Her body pressed against his swiftly took him back to that place of anticipation, arousal.

“And do I live up to whatever fantasy you once had?” she whispered.

He reached down to cup her bare backside, rubbing her against his rapidly hardening erection until she shut her eyes and swore under her breath.

“You are better than anything I ever imagined,” he groaned.

She moved to straddle him, to take him inside of her and start their maddening dance of pleasure all over again, but he gripped her hips tight and kept her from their mutual desire.

“Audrey, you have to promise me you will stay out of my search for Claire.”

Her eyes went wide at the sudden change of subject. She moved against him—he could see she was trying to make him forget his statement. It was hard not to do just that.

He blinked and somehow maintained focus.

“Tell me, Audrey. Promise me you won’t involve yourself. It’s too dangerous.”

She glared at him. “You would withhold your body from me?”

“No,” he said, tugging her along his length again. “But I need you to say to me that you’ll do this for me.”

She hesitated, and for a moment he thought she would refuse. Then she nodded slowly. “I will stay out of it,” she promised softly.

He let out a sigh of relief and thrust up, spearing her for a second time and eliciting a yelp of surprised pleasure as she began to grind over him like the most experienced bawd in London.

And as he surrendered to the pleasure she gave with just the twitch of her hips, he hoped it was a promise she intended to keep. For both their sakes.

Chapter Fourteen

AUDREY HAD MADE SO MANY promises in her life. As a child she had promised to be quiet and good and not to run. As a young woman, she had vowed to be ladylike and follow the rules and seek a husband. She had promised her sister not to tell her secrets and her brothers not to reveal their naughtiness.

But only once had she made a promise she never intended to keep. To Jude, just a few hours before.

She had told him she would stay out of his continuing investigation of Claire’s whereabouts. And she hadn’t meant a damn word of it.

She supposed she should feel badly about it. But as she stood, allowing Ursula to unfasten her gown as she readied for bed, she didn’t even feel a twinge of guilt.

“Have you ever realized something about yourself that you didn’t know?” she asked absently.

The maid’s head bobbed up from her work and she looked at Audrey with surprise. “I-I don’t know, my lady. I suppose I don’t think about it much.”

Audrey’s brow furrowed. “You never consider who you are, what is expected of you, what you want from life?”

“I’m a servant,” Ursula replied with a shrug. “I don’t suppose I have many choices, do I?”

“Of course you do.” Audrey shook her head. “I mean, you could leave my employ.”

Ursula glided the dress from her shoulders and shook it out, frowning at what Audrey recognized with a blush was a grass stain. But her servant didn’t question its existence.

“I wouldn’t want to do that, my lady. You are a kind mistress and I could never expect to have such a good life elsewhere.” Her eyes suddenly went wide. “You don’t want to sack me, do you, Lady Audrey?”

Audrey gasped and moved toward her maid with hands outstretched. “No, no, of course not. I’m happy to have you. I only mean that your being here isn’t a matter of slavery. If you found something you liked more, you could go.”

Ursula let out a sigh of relief and then seemed to ponder Audrey’s words with more understanding. “In my class, there is little to think about in terms of wants and desires.”

“There isn’t a place you’d like to be or a young man you fancy?” Audrey pressed.

Ursula blushed and the color on her cheeks answered the question.

“You see, you do like someone.” Audrey laughed. “Is he in our employ?”

Ursula bit her lip. “There is a young man, a footman. He is working his way up, but it won’t intrude upon my work none, I assure you.”

Audrey rolled her eyes. “Oh, heavens, I’m not worried about that. Who is it?”

Ursula shifted as she folded Audrey’s gown over her arm. “I don’t know if I should say.”

“Please!” Audrey begged, happy for this distraction from her own thoughts.

“Well, it is Lionel, my lady.” When Audrey didn’t register the face to go with the name right away, Ursula continued, “He used to work in the stable and was put up in the house last year?”

Audrey finally conjured an image of a young, bright-faced lad with the slightest of limps. “Yes, of course. Why, Ursula, he’s quite handsome if I’m recalling correctly. And does he like you?”

“I think so. We talk quite a bit when I’m below stairs.” Ursula blushed. “But I don’t know that liking him means I’m learning anything about myself.”

Audrey nodded as her maid brought her back to her original point. “I suppose I mean to say that Lionel…oh, how I can explain?” She pondered for a moment and then struck on the answer. “What if Lionel hadn’t been moved from the stable to the house staff?”

“I wouldn’t have met him,” Ursula said somberly.

“But I’m sure when he was offered that position in the house, it likely didn’t seem life-changing to him.”

“To move up to the house? Oh yes, he was very excited!” Ursula insisted.

Audrey pondered that for a moment. “Very well, so the opportunity may have been important, but he couldn’t have guessed that a chance at love might await him. And if it was mentioned to you that a servant from the stable was moving to the house, it likely didn’t mean anything to you. But once you met him and decided you liked him, it suddenly felt—felt—”

“Earthshattering,” Ursula whispered.

Drawing back, Audrey examined her maid. “You really do like him.”

Ursula nodded, but she waved off the comment. “But—but does that mean you think you’ve discovered something about yourself that felt unimportant at the time you first learned it?”

Audrey sighed. “I have. You know, when Claire disappeared, everyone kept telling me it didn’t have to affect me. I didn’t have to change. But the longer she’s gone, the more I see how much it did change me. Her departure has made me question my own desires, my own fears. I have been reticent in my husband search since she vanished. I have even neglected some of my friends.”

Ursula’s face drew down. For a time, Claire and Audrey had shared the young maid, so she knew Claire well enough. “We all miss Lady Claire. And pray for her return.”

“But what if I could help facilitate that return?” Audrey continued. “What if I could change everyone’s life once again? What would happen if I did? For her? For me? For us all?”

“My lady, I don’t know how you think you can help Lady Claire, but I hope you aren’t thinking of doing something dangerous.”

Audrey drew in a breath as her mind was mobbed with images of Claire’s potential suffering, made sharper by Jude’s confessions earlier in the day about what he’d found out about Claire’s way of life. He wanted to protect Audrey from those things, these feelings, but she wouldn’t let him.

She couldn’t.

“No danger,” she reassured her maid. “I simply think my insights could be useful to Jude.” As Ursula stared at her, she realized her slip. “Mr. Samson.”

“Mr. Samson will allow that?” Ursula asked, her voice filled with sudden tension.

Audrey wrinkled her brow at the tone and expression of her maid. “Wait, why do you say Samson’s name that way? What do you think of him?”

“I shouldn’t…”

“Do,” Audrey ordered.

“Well, he is very well-respected, of course. How could you not? He demands it just by standing near you, giving you that look.”

“What look?” Audrey asked.

Ursula shivered. “The one that says he can see through you, see all the bad things you’ve done.”

Audrey shifted. Jude did have that intensity in his dark blue eyes. More than once, she had felt speared in place by just his stare. Only she didn’t think it was fear-worthy. It had always given her that secret fissure of sensation she now recognized as deep desire.

“Jude isn’t so very bad. I can see how he might be intimidating if you don’t know him, but I assure you, he is very kind and patient and…”

She stopped, for Ursula was suddenly staring at her as if she understood something she hadn’t before. Panic gripped Audrey.

“So tomorrow, why don’t we do the blue dress with the cream stripe for morning?” she burst out, trying to change the subject.

“Lady Audrey,” the servant began, shifting before she spoke again. “I’ve known you a long time, and I know it isn’t appropriate, but—”

Audrey caught her breath and whispered, “Don’t say it, Ursula.” Her maid shut her mouth and Audrey continued, “I know it’s impossible. It’s just…complicated.”

Ursula tilted her head. “Because he’s a servant.”

“He’s not a servant, he’s never been just that,” Audrey whispered with a shake of her head. Then she speared her maid with a direct gaze. “You aren’t going to say anything about…about what you suspect.”

Ursula hesitated for a moment and then shrugged. “What could I suspect, Lady Audrey? There is nothing suspicious going on.”

Audrey smiled, pressing a comforting hand to Ursula’s before the maid fetched her nightshift and robe and brought them back to her. As she pulled off her slippers and stockings and removed her chemise, Audrey’s mind drifted to Jude. Ursula might have an inkling she liked him, but she could have no clue that Audrey was carrying on a passionate affair with him.

Ursula wouldn’t accept that so easily, she didn’t think. If she knew, there might even be tattling to her mother, though the maid would say it was only for her protection.

But Audrey felt more than protected every time she walked into the cottage down the path from the house. Every time Jude touched her, she was protected, even if his passion wasn’t exactly safe.

“My lady?” Ursula pressed.

Audrey realized she’d been standing there for too long, lost in her thoughts. “I’m sorry, I must be tired,” she lied. “I’m sure I’ll be more myself tomorrow.”

Ursula nodded. “Is there anything else you need, my lady?”

Audrey shook her head and smiled as her maid curtseyed and began to leave the room. But at the door, Ursula turned. “My lady, I do like Lionel, but you know sometimes these things cannot be.”

Audrey swallowed. “Why?”

“Outside forces, mistimed events, anything can keep us from what we desire.”

A frown pulled Audrey’s lips as her maid held her stare perhaps a moment too long. Was her servant talking about herself, or trying to send her a message about Jude?

Audrey said nothing, but nodded slightly, and Ursula smiled gently. “Good night, my lady.”

“Good night.”

Audrey sat down on her bed and stared at the shut door. It seemed everyone was bent on discouraging her to render aid in the search for her sister. And then there was the issue of Jude. Clearly there would be much shock if the world at large found out about her affair with him.

Which was why she had to be very quiet as she lit her candle, slipped from her room and went to the old backstairs she had been using to go to Jude at nights. They were very dark, and even the candlelight didn’t help her much as she felt her way down the coiling stairs and found herself in the back hallway.

As she eased down the hallway, she heard the sound of voices from the kitchen, where it sounded as though the staff had gathered to chat. Their laughter occasionally spilled into the hallway. She clenched her teeth as she slipped past and scurried on further, all the while praying she hadn’t been spotted.

But as she started down the pathway toward Jude’s cottage, her tension bled away. No servants chased after her, so she was in the clear and could instead think about the man who was waiting for her.

She crested a low hill on the path and smiled for below her was Jude’s cottage, the light shining from his windows, welcoming her in. Welcoming her home.

She stopped on the path at that thought. The cottage wasn’t home. And yet, she felt more comfortable in those walls, in that small space, then she did in the manor left behind her.

And perhaps that was because Jude felt like home. He always had, from that first moment she’d met him, a slightly gangly young man whose dark blue eyes had made her insides quiver. Jude, her best friend and confidante. Jude Samson, the man who had touched her so deeply.

And she wanted him to be the only one who ever did. Because she loved him.

The recognition of that fact meandered its way into her mind, without fireworks or shock. She stood stock still in the road and just…knew. She loved him. And she wanted him. Not just for an affair, but for the rest of her life.

But would he allow that? Or even want it?

Well, she’d have to explore that question even as she broke her promise and investigated her sister’s disappearance. With a shaky smile, she forced herself to continue on down the path. As she got even closer, she saw Jude stand up from that chair outside the cottage. He smiled at her and she returned the expression, quickening her step to get to him.

He rushed to meet her, and when they did it was like she hadn’t seen him for months. She launched herself at him and he caught her, dragging him to her, kissing her deeply as he guided her into the house, into his lair and into his bed.

He said nothing as he stripped her robe away, tugged her nightgown over her head. He did the same with his undone shirt and trousers, pressing her to the bed with naked skin on skin.

“I’ve been thinking of having you for hours,” he whispered, his mouth hot on her neck. “What do you do to me?”

She pulled away to look up at him. The feelings she’d experienced on the path were multiplied as her eyes met his beautiful blue ones and she saw not just his passion there, but everything else he had come to be to her in the past seven years. She saw his beauty and his friendship and his advice, and her love was only solidified by it all.

She wrapped her arms around him, reveling in the heat of his skin against hers. “What I do to you?” she murmured. “Oh, Jude, it’s nothing compared to what you do to me.”

She drew him down, and as he kissed her, he entered her. He smiled as he found her wet and ready. With his kisses deepening, he began to take her with short, shallow thrusts meant to bring her body to fever pitch in just a few moments.

It worked, and she realized that was because he had come to know her body so well. Like a master craftsman with an untouched piece of wood, he had carved pleasure from her, making a permanent imprint on her soul, her heart.

She began to shudder, the pleasure at once too much and not enough. She reached for more, arching and crying out beneath him as her world shattered into pieces all around her. She felt his pace increase, heard the strain in his voice as he cried out and then his body was gone, withdrawing to ensure there was no baby created by their joining.

She opened her eyes and watched as he squeezed the last drop of his essence from himself. How she wished she could feel that release inside her. That his last moments of pleasure weren’t stolen from her.

She leaned up and drew him back, smiling as he collapsed next to her and curled his body around hers. She cuddled into his arms, smoothing her fingers along his skin as she watched his face slowly relax in relief and pleasure spent.

Yes, she most definitely loved him. And soon she would have to decide what to do about that fact.

Chapter Fifteen

AUDREY TOOK A QUICK PEEK at the man lying in the bed beside her. Jude had fallen asleep after their swift and powerful lovemaking session. The sheets were tangled around his legs, so she saw just a hint of muscular hip and thigh in the fading candle and firelight. She reached out and stroked the skin, eliciting a grumble-groan from him in his sleep.

He slept deeply and she supposed he had earned it after a day filled with high emotion and equally extraordinary passion. But was it deeply enough for her to enact her plan?

There was only one way to find out. She pushed the sheets off her body and carefully sat up. The bed moved a little as she exited it and she froze, watching for any twitch of recognition from Jude. He moved his mouth, but his lids didn’t so much as flutter.

Relieved, she gathered up the robe he had stripped off her earlier and wrapped it around her naked and still tingling body. Once again, she took a side glance at him before she slipped out of his bedchamber and back into the main area of the house.

The previous day she had seen letters on an escritoire by the fire, and that was where she went now and stood looking for anything of interest there. Many of the papers had been cleared away, but in the corner was a small basket he had carefully labeled To Respond, and she pulled the stack of correspondence out.

She flipped through them in the dimness, finding most to be requests for payments on monthly accounts, minutia of Edward’s various estates and even a note about a servant dispute. Nothing that had to do with her sister one way or another.

With a frown, she sat down hard in the chair before the desk. She leaned back and shifted as her back came in contact with something hard covered in fabric.

She stood up and turned to find that this was where Jude had rested his jacket at some point before her arrival. It was draped over the wooden back of the chair, and the hard thing had been something in his pocket pressing against her.

She looked around. Through the open bedroom door, she could see part of the bed, and the lump of sleeping Jude beneath the covers hadn’t moved since her departure.

But did it follow she should dig through his pockets? She had already violated his privacy by looking through his letters, but she could justify that better. After all, they were sitting in a stack out in the open. But reaching for the object in his pocket felt more like snooping.

But she did it anyway, drawing out a flat item with hard edges. She moved to the fire to see it better and as she turned it over, she gasped.

It was a portrait. A portrait of her.

“What are you doing?”

There was a tug on her arm and she swiveled to find Jude now standing behind her, his eyes wide with both betrayal and horror to find what she had in her hand.

“I think the question is,” she said, holding up the portrait so he could see her painted face on the canvas, “what are you doing?”

* * *

JUDE SNATCHED THE PORTRAIT FROM her hands and she surprised him by yanking it back, pressing it to her chest as she stared at him in confusion.

“Why do you have this?”

He swallowed hard. “I—it—” he stammered.

She looked at the image again. Her voice barely carried as she said, “I don’t understand.”

He gritted his teeth. “Don’t you?”

She stared at him and back to the portrait. Her hands had begun to shake. “This is the portrait from my mother’s home in London. The little ones like this were all displayed in the case there after they were painted.”

He nodded, unable to find words. She shook her head and whispered, “Mine disappeared four years ago. Mama made me sit for another when she couldn’t find it, I remember it well.”

She looked to him once more, her dark brown eyes demanding answers. His shoulders rolled forward. “I—”

The tendons of her neck were visible and she trembled as she whispered, “You took it?”

He managed to jerk out a nod with great difficulty. “Yes.”

She looked down. “And you just happened to have it with you here and now? Just happened to have it in your jacket pocket?”

“No,” he said, and her eyes went wide.

“Then how—”

He held up a hand. There was no other way but the truth now. She was too intelligent for any other course. “I carry it with me always.”

Her breasts lifted rapidly and he tracked the motion despite the precariousness of his situation. He couldn’t help it. When it came to the desire he felt for this woman, there was no such thing as control.

“Why?” Her voice cracked.

He tilted his head. “Why do you think, Audrey?”

Her lips parted but before she could respond, there was a sudden pounding on the door. Their eyes locked, and Audrey gasped and all but ran to his bedroom. He watched her hide behind his door and he frowned before he called out, “Just a moment.”

“Hurry!” called the female voice of the intruder, and the heat left Jude’s cheeks as he grabbed for his own dressing gown and tied it before he opened the door.

He found a maid panting at the entryway, though her eyes dilated and drifted over him as he stood with the firelight framing him.

“Oh my, I’m sorry, Mr. Samson,” she said—purred, really. “But I’ve been sent down by the house.”

“What is it?” he asked, casting a quick glance behind him at his chamber door.

“Lady Woodley needs a doctor and they said you would fetch him.”

Behind him, he heard Audrey make a small sound of dismay and fear, and he cleared his throat in the hopes he could cover it up. But the maid had already begun to smile at him knowingly.

“Oh drat,” she said. “I guess someone else had the same…” She touched his chest peeking through his robe. “…had the same notion as I did.”

“Your mistress is ill,” he snapped. “This isn’t the time for such foolishness. Have them be sure my horse is waiting. I’ll dress and come straight away.”

The maid nodded and Jude slammed the door and hustled into the bedroom to collect his clothing.

“My mother is ill?” Audrey said, her eyes blank as she stared at him. “They will be looking for me soon, if they haven’t already.”

He nodded, buttoning the trousers he’d just pulled on and shoving his feet into his boots at the same time. He leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to her lips.

“That’s why you have to run as fast as you can to the house, Audrey. Go up the backstairs—the servants will be busy with your mother and getting me out the door.”

She nodded and her hands came out, soft against his forearms, shaking as she murmured, “Please hurry. I can’t lose her too.”

His lips parted and he nodded before he darted through the cottage to the front door. As he ran up the hill, he found himself praying he wouldn’t be too late. He’d done so much already, he couldn’t let Audrey down.

Not again.

* * *

AUDREY SLIPPED INTO HER CHAMBER and was about to remove her robe when she gasped. In her hurry and distraction, she had forgotten she had only put on her robe down at Jude’s cottage. She was naked.

“Damn,” she snapped, tearing the robe off and rushing to her wardrobe to open the drawer where she was fairly certain her maid kept her night shifts. She dug through them, trying to remember which nightgown she’d been wearing. She had all kinds of ones with pretty laces and ribbons. Would Ursula recall and note she looked different?

She was about to find out, for there was a light knock at her door. She yanked a random nightgown over her head and slammed the drawer just as her maid entered the chamber.

“Lady Audrey,” Ursula said, her voice not betraying anything, though Audrey thought certain her maid cast her an odd look. “Your mother has developed a very high fever, my lady. Mr. Samson is rushing for the doctor, but I thought you should know.”

Audrey tried her best to look surprised at what should have been new information to her. She didn’t have to pretend concern. “I will go to her straight away.”

She rushed past her maid and down the hall to the chamber her mother had always called home. Without knocking, Audrey entered the room to find her mother’s longtime maid Fran leaning over her. As Audrey entered her view, the older servant’s face lined with concern.

“Oh, my lady,” Fran said, and motioned her over.

Audrey caught her breath as she took what felt like a hundred steps to her mother’s side. When she reached the bed, she sat down next to her and reached out to press a palm against her mother’s forehead.

“Mama,” she murmured, troubled by how warm her mother’s skin was. “I’m here now.”

Lady Woodley opened her eyes slightly and smiled. “Oh, goodness, I told Frannie not to trouble you, Audrey. The doctor is only a precaution, after all.”

“You’re burning up,” Audrey corrected softly. “We should have called for Dr. Dunbar yesterday.”

Her mother sighed and her eyes fluttered shut, like holding them open was too difficult. “You are probably right.”

“Well, Samson is getting him now,” Audrey soothed. “Fran, will you fetch a basin of cool water and a cloth?”

From the corner of her eye, the maid bobbed out a curtsey and rushed from the room, leaving Audrey with her mother. She frowned down at her face. She was terribly pink and the fever worried Audrey.

But she smiled regardless in an attempt at showing strength when her mother had none for herself. “You woke me from the most wonderful dream,” she lied.

The dowager opened one eye. “Did I?”

They exchanged a brief smile and Audrey knew she recognized what she was doing. As children, she and Claire used to regale their mother with tales of their fantastical dreams. She would go along, “believing” every wild detail.

“Yes,” she continued. “I was in a fairy kingdom and I think I was daughter of the king.”

“Of course you were,” Lady Woodley encouraged.

Audrey nodded as Fran returned with the water and cloth. She prepared a cool compress and continued her story as she rested the cloth on her mother’s brow. “Yes. There was a dragon too, who had one of the princesses in the tower. And so I fought my way to the top of the tower to rescue her.”

Her mother sighed. “Isn’t princess-rescuing the province of princes?”

Audrey shrugged. “Well, I guess I loved the princess more.” Her mind drifted to Jude. She still didn’t fully understand why he had her portrait in his possession, but the idea he carried it with him always made her heart pop down into her belly. “No, wait, I had a prince there with me. We fought the dragon together.”

The dowager didn’t open her eyes, but she smiled. “A prince you can fight alongside to slay dragons sounds like a fine character, indeed. I hope he came out of your dream with you.”

“Oh, he’s out there somewhere,” she murmured. “Now rest, Mama. Jude will be here in no time.”

But even as she soothed her mother with gentle words and soft touches, her mind wandered. To her worries about if Lady Woodley would be all right, and to the continued questions she had regarding Jude.

* * *

WHILE THE REST OF THE servants who were still awake had been relegated to the kitchen to await the fate of their mistress, Jude paced in the hallway outside her door. He could hear the murmurings of the doctor’s low voice inside, but couldn’t make out the words.

Still, Dunbar’s tone seemed…concerned.

The door opened and Jude straightened up as he awaited someone to exit the room. And he was not disappointed, for Audrey stepped into the hall, a basin in her arms and a towel draped over her arm. At some point during their wait, her maid had brought her a plain dress to put on and pulled her hair back.

She looked like an angel, but the circles under her eyes and the drawn expression on her face let him know that circumstances were serious.

She met his eyes and without saying a word, set her bowl on the table near the door and crossed to him. He opened his arms to her, holding her to his chest and pressing his lips to the top of her head gently.

“Tell me,” he whispered when she had stayed silent in his arms for a few moments.

“Her fever is high,” she whispered as she pulled away a fraction. “Dr. Dunbar is concerned it could be an infection of some kind, taken a strong hold due to how tired she has been. Since Claire left, Mama has been so much weaker. I know she doesn’t eat or sleep well and that has left an open door to this illness. Damn my sister!”

Jude drew back at Audrey’s uncharacteristic outburst. Her lips were pinched and she blinked at the tears in her eyes. “You aren’t blaming Claire for this?”

“I am,” she ground out. “As unfair as that may be, I blame Claire, I blame Aston, I blame everyone who made my mother more susceptible to this illness.”

Jude hoped his guilty expression wasn’t too obvious. “What can I do?”

She sighed. “We should send word to Edward, Evan and Gabriel. I don’t know how serious this will become, but I would not feel right about them being in the dark.”

Jude nodded. “I will get my horse and return to London this moment to bring them back with me. If that will make it easier.”

He moved to go and do just that, but she caught his arm, drawing him back. “Wait, please wait.”

He cocked his head. “Audrey?”

Her breath was ragged as she exhaled before she said, “Please don’t go.”

“But your family—”

“Send someone else to fetch them,” she asked, pink filling her cheeks. “Please. Because I can’t bear to be left alone. What if something happens? I won’t—I won’t know what to do, Jude. Please stay with me.”

At the crack in her voice, he caught her in an embrace again and this time she sagged in his arms. He kept her upright, rocking her gently as he smoothed her hair.

“I’ll stay,” he promised. “And I’ll send the fastest rider I can to London. You are not alone, Audrey.”

She swiped at tears as she snuggled her cheek against his chest. “I know that, Jude. More than ever. And more than ever, I appreciate your being here with me.”

He pulled away reluctantly. “I’ll go find a runner for London,” he said, “and come back in a few moments to talk to Dr. Dunbar.” She nodded, but before he turned to go, he added, “Audrey, we will have to talk about what happened in the cottage earlier.”

She hesitated, but then nodded again. “I know.”

“It isn’t over,” he said, then turned to the stairs.

It was only when he was almost out of earshot that he heard her whisper, “I hope not.”

Chapter Sixteen

THREE DAYS LATER, JUDE STOOD in the kitchen, watching the cook, Mrs. Ford, shuffle far too much food onto a plate meant for Audrey. He doubted Audrey would eat half of it. In fact, he had a notion that he would likely have to coerce her into eating anything at all.

“How is Lady Woodley?” Mrs. Ford asked. “Down here we get the requests for items the doctor needs, but there isn’t a lot of information forthcoming otherwise.”

Jude smiled at her, hoping to reassure. “She is fighting. The infection is making it difficult for her.”

“Do you think she’ll pull through?” asked one of the kitchen maids who had been stirring a pot behind Mrs. Ford.

The cook shot her a swift glare. “Hush, Nan!”

Jude swallowed hard. “I think so. I hope so. They are doing all they can.”

Mrs. Ford clucked her tongue. “This poor family, one would think they’re cursed with all the death and sadness that has befallen them.” She handed over her tray after garnishing it with a pretty rose. “Tell Lady Audrey we’re all thinking of her.”

He nodded. “I will.”

As he picked up the tray, he was interrupted by the sound of carriages on the drive and the commotion of voices. He set the tray aside.

“I’ll be back for it,” he promised, and walked down the long hall from the servants’ quarters into the foyer.

He should have expected what he saw. Three carriages were parked in the drive one after the other, and from them poured the rest of the Woodley clan. Their faces were matching masks of concern and exhaustion.

He moved to greet them. “Hello!”

“Samson,” Evan answered, his face lighting up as he caught a glimpse of Jude. He all but ran to him. “How is she?”

The rest of them gathered around and Jude shifted. “She is…fighting.”

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed and Jude feared what his observant friend had caught in his look and voice. “Is she awake?”

“Sometimes,” he whispered, hating himself for how pale all the group in front of him went at that statement. But he couldn’t lie. They would see soon enough. And when she is, she will be happy to have you all here, as will Audrey.”

“Oh, poor Audrey,” Mary said, clasping Edward’s hand in both of hers. Jude saw his longtime friend and employer’s worry ease a little with the action. “How is she doing?”

Jude smiled at the new Lady Woodley’s true concern. He was already beginning to like Edward’s new wife. “She has not left her mother’s side for more than ten minutes put together since she took seriously ill. You will see it on her face when you see her.”

Edward frowned even as he reached out to clasp Jude’s arm in a strong grip. “Thank you for staying with them. It was a relief to know my sister and mother were so well looked after as we raced here.”

Jude nodded and hoped his discomfort wasn’t plain on his face. After all, he had certainly been taking care of Audrey…just not in a way Edward would approve of. None of them would approve of it. Yet it remained just one more secret he kept, one more betrayal of this family that had never offered him anything more than love.

“Will you come up with us?” Gabriel asked. He was palest of all, his grief and concern slashed across his face just as it had been ever since Claire’s disappearance.

“I have been trying to coax Audrey to eat. I will fetch her tray and deposit it in her bedroom,” he explained. “Might I suggest you gently urge her to go there and rest for a short while?”

“A good idea.” Edward looked up the stairs as he spoke. “Will you ring for her maid while you are at it?”

Jude nodded and watched as the family filed up the stairs together, talking in low, anxious tones. The moment they were gone, he went back to the kitchen and got Audrey’s tray. But he didn’t make a request for her servant to join her in her room.

He had other plans.

* * *

AUDREY STRETCHED HER BACK GENTLY and shot a look in the corner of her mother’s room to Dr. Dunbar. He was sleeping in a chair there, snoring like he was cutting wood. She shook her head and tried to ignore him.

It had been three days since her mother’s illness had truly taken hold. Three days of sitting by her bed, trying to cool her brow as she watched Dr. Dunbar bleed her regularly. If anything, her mother seemed weaker than when they had started this madness. She slipped in and out of consciousness regularly.

Audrey bit back a sob and tried not to think of what would happen if she lost her mother. She would be alone, utterly alone despite her siblings. Her brothers would be tied to their own grief if the worst happened. She knew it was true, for she had seen their family fracture when Claire vanished. The loss of their mother would draw her further away from her family, further into herself.

Except that wasn’t exactly true. She wouldn’t be alone. Jude had proven over the last three long days and nights that he was as good as his word. He had been at her side every moment, helping her make decisions and giving her support when she needed it.

Only now had he left to fetch them some food. Audrey didn’t want the food, exactly, but Jude had a very stubborn look in his eye and she was beginning to realize that some things weren’t worth arguing about when it came to the man.

There was a light knock on the door and she pushed to her feet, leaving her mother for a moment to answer. As she did, she said, “You don’t have to knock, Jude—”

She cut herself off as she pulled the door wide and revealed not her lover, but her three brothers and Mary, all standing together.

She let out a gasping cry born of worry and exhaustion and utter relief and launched herself first at Edward. He embraced her, smoothing her hair to soothe her as he whispered, “There, there, Audrey. We’re here. It’s going to be fine.”

In the corner, Dr. Dunbar jolted awake and first cast a glance at their mother, who was also stirring as the noise from her children filled her room. Then he stared at the group before he stood up and dragged his hands down his wrinkled clothing.

“Dr. Dunbar,” Edward said as he moved toward the man, hand outstretched. He left Audrey to be embraced by the rest of her siblings, who did so in turn and finally turned her over to Mary.

As Evan moved to join Dr. Dunbar and Gabriel turned his attention to their groggy mother on the bed, Mary caught both Audrey’s hands. “I cannot imagine what you have gone through these last few days. You must be exhausted.”

Audrey held back a sob. “Yes, but I couldn’t leave her, could I?”

Mary blinked a few times, and Audrey realized she must be thinking of her own mother, lost when she was a child. She thought perhaps it was a fever, somewhat like what Lady Woodley suffered now.

“Of course you couldn’t,” Mary reassured her. “I’m sure your being here was a help to Dr. Dunbar and a great comfort to your mother.”

“Not much,” Audrey whispered, her lip trembling. “Look at her. She’s so weak.”

Mary said nothing else, but tugged her into an unexpected and truly welcomed hug. Audrey wrapped her arms around her new sister-in-law and held tight, trembling under the weight of her ragged emotions.

“I wish Claire were here,” she gasped, tears beginning to stream down her face.

Mary drew back and wiped Audrey’s tears gently. “I am not Claire, but I will do my best to be a helpful sister to you, Audrey.”

“You already are,” Audrey reassured her with a squeeze of her hand.

Mary smiled. “Would you take a little advice from a sister, then?”

Audrey shrugged. “What is it?”

“Your mother is in very good hands now with all your brothers here. We’ll all take turns tending to her—this is not your burden alone to bear. Why don’t you go lie down for a few hours?”

Audrey shook her head. “No, no I can’t leave her, what if—”

Edward stepped away from the doctor and returned to his wife’s side. “Listen to Mary, Audrey. If anything changes, we will fetch you straight away. You look like you could fall over.”

Audrey sighed. In truth, she felt like she could fall over, even more so since her family entered the room and some of the intense pressure of caring for her mother began to fade. She glanced at Gabriel and Evan, who now both sat on the edge of their mother’s bed, talking softly to her. Already, Lady Woodley’s face was a little brighter.

Audrey patted Edward’s arm and moved toward their mother. “Mama,” she said gently. “Will you feel abandoned if I leave you for a short time?”

Her mother blinked, clearly struggling with focus. “No, my love. You go. Your brothers and Claire will take care of me.”

Audrey sucked in a breath and squeezed her eyes shut at the slip of her mother’s tongue. It showed how addled her mind remained from the fever if she didn’t remember her beloved eldest daughter was still missing.

Mary wrapped an arm around Audrey’s waist and whispered, “It’s all right.”

Audrey nodded, though it felt anything but all right at present. But she leaned in to touch her mother’s cheek gently, cast a quick look of love for her three brothers and Mary, then slipped from the room.

As she shut the door behind her, the weight of the past three days seemed to crash down on her shoulders and it took everything in her to trudge to her chamber up the hall. She stepped inside, ready to collapse into her soft bed. But as she moved toward it, Jude exited the adjoining dressing room.

In the three days since her mother’s illness, they had certainly been together, but never alone. She had not touched him in any intimate or caring way since that last afternoon in his cottage what felt like an eternity before.

Wordlessly, she crossed the room to him and all but fell into his waiting open arms. The tears she had been fighting fell freely in that moment, but he offered her no false platitudes, no demands that she be strong. He just held her, smoothing her hair as she quaked in his arms until she felt like she’d cried some of her weakness and fear away.

Slowly, she pulled back, taking the handkerchief he silently offered her and wiping her eyes.

“What—what are you doing in my chamber?” she asked softly, suddenly aware of the inappropriateness of the action, especially with her family gathered not twenty feet away.

He smiled and motioned to the small table beside her sunny window. He had thrown it open to let the breeze in, and on the table was set a small feast.

“I told you I would bring you food. And here it is.”

She eyed the meal and realized she was, indeed, hungry. When was the last time she had allowed food to pass her lips?

“Thank you,” she whispered, moving to the table. “Will you join me? There is enough here for four people.”

He took the seat opposite her and laughed. “I may steal a grape or two.”

She couldn’t help but smile at his playfulness, the first time such an expression had crossed her lips since her mother became ill. “Take three,” she teased back before she let out a long sigh. “You know my family is here.”

He nodded. “I met them as they entered the house.”

“And yet you didn’t join us in my mother’s chamber?” she pressed, watching him even as she ate a bite of cheese and buttered bread.

He leaned forward, and suddenly she was very aware of how alone they were in a room with a bed. Her bed.

“Your mother now has more than enough people to worry over her,” he explained. “So I have decided to make your comfort and well-being my top priority.”

She swallowed. “By bringing me food?”

“For a start.” His voice was very low and rough, and her exhausted body reacted, despite the strain on her emotions.

“Only for a start? What else do you have in mind?” she whispered.

“Finish your food,” he said, leaning back.

“But—”

“Finish it,” he ordered but with a smile.

She did so, eating at least half the food from her plate before she pushed it aside with a groan. “Mrs. Ford’s lemon tarts are not fair.”

He laughed. “I have a feeling she made them just for you. She’ll be pleased they were so appreciated.”

“I’ll make sure she knows,” she said as she got to her feet. “Now tell me, Jude, what do you have in mind for comfort?”

He got to his feet and came around the table. When he touched her shoulders, she made a muffled groan and lifted on her tiptoes in anticipation of his kiss. But he didn’t kiss her. He just stared down at her, eyes dilated with what she knew was desire, but tinged with something else. Something even more dangerous.

“Sweet Audrey,” he whispered. “You don’t know how tempting that kiss is to me, but I’m not going to take it.”

She wrinkled her brow. “But…why?”

He guided her back to her bed and turned her around to face it, unbuttoning the back of her dress to open it wide as he did so. “Because right now you need comfort, not fucking.”

She peeked over her shoulder at him. “Can’t they be one and the same?”

He shut his eyes for a moment and his lips moved as if in silent prayer before he ground out, “Yes. And later, perhaps that will be in order. More than perhaps—definitely. But for now, I don’t want to take you. I want to give to you.” He pulled the dress down and she stepped free of its confines. “Now lay down on your bed on your stomach.”

“I don’t understand,” she began, trembling now as her body registered both exhaustion and the powerful need that Jude always inspired.

“Trust me,” he said slowly.

She hesitated for a moment, but then did as he asked, too interested in what would happen next to continue arguing. As she took exactly the position he had requested, he removed her slippers, and surprised her by taking her foot in his hand and rubbing it gently.

She shivered as the tension from the past few days began to bleed out through the foot he held. He increased the pressure of his fingers, pressing hard into the ball of her foot as she shuddered out pleasure and pain mixed to exquisite perfection.

“You are all but purring,” he said from behind her, and she heard the smile in his voice. “Does that mean I’m doing the right thing?”

“Yes,” she groaned. “Don’t stop, whatever you do.”

“I have no intention of stopping,” he assured her, and switched his focus to her opposite foot. When he had massaged it as thoroughly as the first, he began to stroke his hands up her bare calves, stroking the skin, loosening the muscle.

Then his placed his hands on top of her chemise, much to her chagrin when she wanted them beneath, and started massaging the backs of her thighs. She was put on edge with desire by the intimate action, but also relaxed by the hypnotic rhythm he set with his hands.

Her backside was next, and she heard his breath quicken as he squeezed that intimate area over and over. A deep ache began to grow in her at that touch, settling between her legs, urging her to roll over and open herself for him.

She was too tired to do so, though, and all she could do was lay beneath him, helpless to his touch as he glided his fingers into the small of her back and stroked them there. He worked his magic, taking his time before he slid up further, further, leaving no inch of her back untouched.

Finally, he settled on her shoulders. She felt the heat of his body curled over her as he stroked the tension from her muscles and left her as weak and satiated as if he had brought her pleasure again and again.

She let out her breath in a shuddering sigh and he chuckled as he took a spot on the bed beside her. She rolled over to rest her head against his chest. He didn’t resist, but wrapped his arms around her and held her in his arms. For what seemed like an eternity, they were silent together.

“I want you,” she finally whispered, her voice cracking even though she didn’t want it to. “Does that make me a horrible person? To want you when my family is in such disarray? When my mother is so wracked with fever that she mistakes Mary for Claire?”

He tensed beneath her. “She did?”

Audrey nodded, fascinated by how his heart rate increased beneath her ear. “Just before I left her chamber.”

He was quiet for a long moment before he said, “It isn’t wrong to still feel desire, Audrey. In moments of intense emotion, sometimes that need for another person’s touch, for pleasure is even more powerful. Sexual release can take away the sharpness of fear and remind us we’re still alive even if the world makes it seem otherwise.”

“But you aren’t going to make love to me?” she pressed, smoothing her hand over his chest and wishing his skin was bare.

He groaned. “Not because I don’t want to,” he assured her. “Because it isn’t time.”

“When will it be time?” she asked, looking up his body.

He reached up to tangle his fingers through her hair. “When your eyes aren’t glazed with exhaustion. When you are more able to make rational decisions.”

“But if I came to your cottage tonight, for example,” she murmured, sliding her fingers up to trace his lips, “you wouldn’t turn me away?”

He parted those same lips and she felt the heated humidity of his breath. “No, Audrey. I wouldn’t be able to turn you away.” He pressed a kiss to her fingers lightly and then slid out from under her. “For now, though, sleep. You’ve earned it.”

She nodded as she rolled to watch him leave her room. As he opened the door, she said, “Jude?”

He turned back. “Yes?”

“I—” She stopped herself. “Thank you.”

He nodded and then backed from the room. She flopped on her back, throwing an arm over her eyes. Immediately, her relaxed body began to shut down, pushing her toward the sleep that had evaded her for so long. But as the darkness enveloped her, she had a faint recognition that the thanks she had expressed to Jude wasn’t the confession she had original wanted to make.

She had wanted to tell him she loved him.

Chapter Seventeen

JUDE STOOD IN THE HALLWAY outside the dining room, looking in the mirror that had been mounted above a table. He straightened his cravat carefully as he stared into his own eyes in the reflection.

“God damn it, man,” he muttered. “It isn’t as if you haven’t had supper with this family dozens of times.”

And yet it felt different to do so tonight. Because of the situation with Lady Woodley, of course, but also because of Audrey. He feared that if he sat across from her, everyone would see their connection. His attraction.

And he could not imagine that would go well.

He shook his head at himself and was about to move to enter the room when a voice said his name.

“Mr. Samson?”

He turned to find Audrey’s maid, Ursula, coming down the stairs toward him. He smiled at her, but to his surprise, she did not return the expression.

“What is it?” he asked, his heart immediately lodging in his throat. “Has something happened to Lady Woodley?”

The maid shifted with discomfort. “No, sir. There is no change. Lord Gabriel will be staying with his mother during supper, I have heard. But I-I wondered if I might speak to you alone for a moment?”

Jude couldn’t imagine what the girl had to say to him. Unless she had a message to relay for Audrey. “What about the parlor here?” he offered, motioning to the open door across the hallway.

She nodded and entered the room. He followed and shut the door behind them to give their conversation privacy. When he had, she turned to face him.

“Sir, I-I—” She cut herself off, and Jude started when he realized she was shaking like a leaf. Her face was pale and her eyes wide.

“It’s all right, Ursula,” he said, moving toward her in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. Instead, she scurried backward. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

She sucked in a breath and seemed to find her bravery. “I know about you and Lady Audrey. I know you have been…been doing something you ought not.”

His eyes went wide. He had not expected that. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lied when he was able to find his voice. “I have long been a friend to the family and occasionally I am perhaps a bit overly familiar with all the Woodley clan because of that fact. I can see how you could misread—”

“I haven’t misread, Mr. Samson,” she interrupted. “I know what I know.”

He shifted, searching the maid’s face. Indeed, she did look certain. “Did Audrey say something to you?” he asked, no longer denying her charge, but not in any way willing to confirm it, either.

Ursula shook her head. “Of course not. I wouldn’t speak to Lady Audrey about such a thing. It isn’t my place to demand her confession.”

“Just mine,” he said, his tone dry.

She folded her arms. “You are the gentleman in the situation and also the one who is part of the household staff. You should be the one to stop something if it needs to be stopped.”

Jude let out a long sigh and moved to the sideboard to pour himself a tumbler of scotch. He needed the drink now. When he turned back, he motioned to a chair before the fire.

“Why don’t we talk about this, Ursula. Would you like a drink?”

She drew back. “Of course not, sir. That isn’t my place.”

Jude winced. He had a different take on his “place” thanks to his birth and his relationships with the Woodleys. It was only making everything worse.

“Very well. Sit,” he said, using a more stern tone.

She responded to that more than his friendliness and perched on the edge of the chair he had indicated, her backbone straight and her lips pinched.

“Ursula, you have been Audrey’s maid for years. Since before Claire left, since before she came out, yes?”

Ursula nodded once. “Yes, sir.”

“And I can tell by the way you interact with her and the fact that you are willing to confront me that you have affection for Audrey,” he continued, choosing every word with utmost care.

Now the maid narrowed her eyes, as if she didn’t trust his motives in this observation. “Yes,” she said slowly. “I consider myself lucky to have her as my mistress. She is kind, and that is not something every maid gets to say about her employer.”

“Yes, Audrey is very kind. And just like you, I don’t want her to be brought down in Society by rumors or innuendo. So I need you to tell me, right this moment, exactly what you think you know about Audrey and me.”

Her nostrils flared, and for a moment Jude thought she might get up and walk out. Instead she folded her arms. “Fine. I suspected there was something going on with Lady Audrey even before we came here. She has been restless of late, worrying over her sister more and more, uninterested in seeking her husband, as she should be.”

Jude nodded, though the part about Audrey seeking a husband stung considerably. It always had. He feared it always would. “Go on,” he encouraged.

“When we arrived, her attitude changed,” Ursula said. “There was a lightness to her here. At first I thought it was just her being happy to be home. She always loved this estate. But then I realized it was more. She was hiding something.”

“And you think that something is me?” he asked, trying to put laughter into his tone to imply that was ridiculous.

“I know it is you. I saw you two in the parlor one day when it was being redesigned,” Ursula said, fisting her hands in her lap. “I saw you kiss her.”

Jude swallowed hard and barely managed to hold back a curse. He had spent his life trying to exercise control in every way. These slips in that standard with Audrey had been infinitely dangerous. And now he was reaping what he had so imprudently sown.

“Ursula—”

“One morning I came in and found Lady Audrey still in her gown from the night before. She said she’d fallen asleep in it accidentally, but I saw the spark in her eyes.” She blushed. “I didn’t deny her explanation because I hoped she would soon come to her senses. But then when Lady Woodley needed the doctor, I went to Lady Audrey’s room to fetch her for her mother and she wasn’t there.”

“Perhaps she was in the library,” he offered, his voice rough. “Or the new parlor.”

Ursula shot him a glare. “I looked everywhere. And when I returned to her room, she had somehow magically appeared, red-faced and out of breath and seemingly already aware of her mother’s condition. Later, the maid who came down to your cottage said she thought you had a woman there with you. The women on staff were tittering about it, wondering about your prowess, but all I could think about was Lady Audrey there with you.”

Jude clenched his jaw. He could spend a great deal of time talking to Ursula about this, trying to convince her that her intuition and analysis of the evidence was wrong. But in the end, she would likely continue to believe exactly what she believed.

“Does anyone else on the staff suspect what you do?” Jude asked.

“No. I think if they did, I would hear about it, being her maid. Everyone is very focused on Lady Woodley and the family being here now. No one else watches Lady Audrey as closely as I do.”

He nodded, relief filling him. “And what do you intend to do with this information?”

She blinked. “Do? What do you mean, do?”

He smiled at her completely genuine confusion. “Some might use this kind of explosive suspicion to further themselves.”

Ursula leapt to her feet with an angry gasp. “How dare you, Mr. Samson? I would never do such a thing! I came to talk to you about this in the hopes of discouraging you from continuing your pursuit of my lady.”

Jude stood up slowly. “Did you?”

She nodded. “I don’t know your intentions, Mr. Samson, but if you care for this family as you say you do, you must see that an affair before marriage, especially with what many would consider a servant, could damage Lady Audrey.”

Jude stiffened, even though Ursula was only saying what he already knew, what he had argued with Audrey herself when she came to him that first night. What Ursula didn’t understand, what Audrey couldn’t, was that he was not capable of resisting. What he felt for Audrey was too strong to deny when he had been offered even just a taste of more.

“I assure you, Ursula, that if Audrey and I were engaged in some kind of affair, my intentions would never be to damage her,” he said quietly, turning away from the maid to stare into the fire. “If things went too far, it would only be for one stolen moment in time, to be forgotten and never discussed.”

She sighed behind him. “Well, that is good. I’m glad you understand.”

He nodded, still watching the flames dance with far more glee than he felt himself. “Oh, trust me, Ursula, I understand better than anyone. You needn’t trouble yourself about Audrey any longer. Anything we may have shared is over now that her family is here.”

Ursula was silent for a moment, and then she said, “Thank you, sir, for hearing me out. I will leave you.”

He glanced at her over his shoulder, nodding for her to go. Once she had, he paced to the window to watch the dark night settle over the countryside.

Now that the words had been spoken, he knew they were true. Despite the fact they had not returned to London, he was going to have to change the terms of his arrangement with Audrey. And knowing he would never again taste her lips or feel her skin against his was devastating. Even more so when he realized he would have to sit across from her at supper and know that everything he had ever wanted was coming to an end.

* * *

AUDREY STARED DOWN THE LONG dining table, past Evan and Mary, to where Jude sat near Edward. He had originally been meant to sit across from her but had declined that place, saying he had something to discuss with her brother.

Jude had not met her eyes nor smiled at her in more than an hour since.

“What do you think, Audrey?”

She blinked and turned her attention to Evan, who had asked the question. “I—well—” She let out a sigh. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I wasn’t paying full attention, as I should have been.”

Evan wrinkled his brow. “Were you not? You were so focused on Edward and Samson, I thought for sure you were engaged in our conversation.”

“Just woolgathering,” Audrey said with a hollow smile as she stared down at her plate. Her food remained untouched even as everyone else had nearly cleaned their plates.

“Audrey has earned a little woolgathering after tending to Mama Woodley these past long days,” Mary said, sending Audrey an encouraging smile. “We were just talking about bringing a new doctor in from London if your mother’s fever does not break by morning.”

Evan nodded. “We thought since you were with Dr. Dunbar and Mama for far longer, you might have an opinion about his practices.”

Audrey clenched her napkin in her lap. God, she was focused on her own foolishness, she had ignored conversation about her mother’s care. What a selfish girl she was.

“Dr. Dunbar is adequate,” she said slowly. “But I’m not certain he is forward-thinking enough. Another opinion couldn’t hurt, if he could get here quickly.”

“You know,” Mary offered, “I was speaking to your cook earlier today and she talked about a woman in the village who sometimes acts as healer and midwife. She thought this person might have some additional herbal remedies we could try. She could be here tonight, within the hour, even if we still called for a London physician to assist us.”

Edward smiled at his wife, and there was no doubting his love for her. “I think that is a fine idea.”

“It couldn’t hurt,” Evan agreed as he set his napkin aside. “Because I do not think I can bear watching our mother be bled again. It seems to make her weaker, not stronger.”

Edward nodded. “That settles it.” He motioned to a footman, and the young man stepped over. “It’s Lytle, isn’t it? My wife is going to go with you and give you a missive to take to a villager. Bring her back as soon as possible.”

“Yes, my lord,” the boy said. Mary rose and smiled to the family as she exited the room.

When she had gone, Audrey looked at Jude. He had not spoken during the entire exchange between her and her family. “What do you think, Samson?”

He jerked his head up and stared at her. “You know what is best for your family, of course.”

Edward tilted his head. “But we all value your opinion. You are family, Samson, you know that.”

Jude did not break his stare from Audrey, and she shivered at what she saw in his eyes. Pain. Anger. Resignation to a fate she couldn’t see but didn’t like.

“I am not,” Jude said softly, and now he did turn his attention to her brother. “You know I am not. And I think it is time we stop pretending that I am.” He stood up to prevent whatever words Edward was about to say and gave a low bow to the table. “My lords, my lady, thank you for including me in your supper. I think I shall excuse myself now. I have long neglected my duties and I should get back to them at once.”

“Samson!” Edward said, rising.

Audrey and Evan did the same. Her heart was pounding as she prayed her brother could bring him back. But Jude ignored him and walked from the dining room.

Evan shook his head. “What do you think that was about?”

“He has been odd since our arrival, I fear,” Edward mused. “Audrey, was he different while you were here alone with him?”

She tensed. Different? Oh, how different he had been. Alive and wicked and her lover. But she said none of those things.

“Samson is Samson,” she said with a shrug that dismissed her deep pain at seeing Jude walk away from her family.

“Perhaps he blames himself for Mama’s illness,” Evan suggested. “As he blames himself for Claire’s disappearance. Foolishness both, but his honor will not allow him less.”

Edward frowned. “Yes, perhaps. I will speak to him tomorrow, I suppose. Try to clear the air.”

Audrey nodded. “That would be best, I think,” she said. “Give him some time to gather his senses, clear his head.”

He seemed to ponder that for a moment, but then he shifted to another topic. “I should return to Mama’s side.”

“I will go with you,” Evan said. “Together we can tell Gabriel about our plan to bring a healer in, to minimize the chance that he will argue with you.”

Audrey saw Edward flinch at that statement. The strain between him and their youngest brother was evident. Gabriel still blamed Edward for so much.

“What about you, Audrey?” Evan asked.

She shook her head. “I’ll come for a bit, at least until this healer of Mary’s arrives.”

Edward came along to her side of the table and wrapped an arm around her. “You’ve been a rock, Audrey.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Now come.”

She linked her arm with Edward’s and allowed him to lead her from the room. But even as they climbed the stairs, even as she should have been focused entirely on her mother, her mind continued to return to Jude.

And she knew that she was going to have to confront him about his behavior, about things they had left unsaid and unexplained before her mother’s illness intensified. And they were going to have that confrontation tonight.

Chapter Eighteen

JUDE SAT AT THE DESK in Edward’s office, staring at a line of figures that seemed to blur on forever. If someone had come in that moment and demanded he explain what was before him, he could not have done so for all the gold in London, despite having been sequestered here for several hours.

He had hoped work would give him focus. Instead, he just kept thinking about Audrey. Audrey’s touch, Audrey’s kiss, Audrey’s surrender.

And letting Audrey go.

He clenched his fist against the desk top with a curse just as the office door opened. When he looked up, his heart all but stopped. Standing there, as if she had been conjured by his addled mind, was Audrey.

He pushed to his feet immediately and tried to regain a bit of the composure she had stripped him of the first time their lips had met.

“My lady,” he said, watching her frown at the formality of his address. “Is there something I can do for you?”

She stepped fully into the room and pushed the door shut behind her. Her lips were pinched and her eyes flashed with emotion. “Mary’s healer, Miss Gray, is with my mother,” she explained.

He nodded. “I see. And is your mother improving?”

She shrugged. “We were forced to argue with Dr. Dunbar for twenty minutes before the poor woman could even start helping, but she is diligently applying poultices and administering herbs as we speak. After several hours in her care, my mother’s color seems to have improved a little.”

“I’m glad,” he said with genuine relief. “Thank you for coming to tell me.”

She folded her arms. “Such formality, Jude. Is that where we’ve come to?”

“Audrey—my lady—you should go back up to your family,” he said, turning away from her so he wouldn’t have to see the hurt in her expression anymore.

“No,” she said firmly. “I told them I was going to take a walk in the garden while we waited for the medicines to take effect, and you and I are going to do just that.”

“My lady, that is not—”

She arched a brow. “Are we pretending now that you are nothing more to this family, to me, than a mere servant?”

“It is how we all should behave.” He tried not to make eye contact.

She snorted her derision. “Then I order you to accompany me to the garden where we can speak freely without worries when it comes to interruption.”

He stared at her. On one hand, he was forever impressed by her tenacity. And drawn in by her strength. But on the other, it broke him to think of going to the garden with her. Of being alone with her. With having to tell her their affair was well and truly over and watch her fall apart.

“Fine,” he said through clenched teeth. “If you say we must go to the garden, what choice do I have but to obey?”

“None, apparently,” she said as she spun on her heel and led him from the room. “You seem to have abandoned free will and any relationship we might have had for the last seven years.”

He said nothing, but merely followed her out of the house and down the route that led to the garden. The moonlight was bright enough to illuminate their path, as well as bounce off Audrey’s fair skin to make her look as if she was made of fine porcelain.

It took every ounce of strength in his body not to grasp her arm, not to lower her to the soft grass and take her until she moaned and screamed and gave everything about herself to him forever.

The path split at some point and Audrey turned right, heading up a small hill toward a gazebo that had stood there for years. As she stepped into the structure, she spun to face him.

“What is wrong with you?”

He blinked at her very direct question. “Wrong with me?”

“Oh, don’t play with me, Jude Samson.” She threw up her hands in exasperation before she paced a few feet away from him. “When we got here, when we entered into our agreement you were nothing but attentive. Gentle. When my mother fell ill, you stood by my side as a friend, more than a friend. But since my family’s arrival, you have pulled away from me like I am poison. So what is wrong with you?”

He dragged his fingers over his face. “Audrey, we never should have begun this affair.” She pivoted to face him once more and he held up a hand. “You know it’s true as much as I do. Not only are you compromised, which could make it very difficult for you in the future, but it was not my place. I couldn’t resist—I suppose I wouldn’t resist. And for that I’m so very sorry.”

“That is bollocks!” she cried, rushing toward him. Both the sudden movement and the curse surprised him into silence. She took full advantage. “It was a mutual decision to come together as we did. A mutual decision, which I made with full knowledge of any difficulties that might accompany my marrying someone and not being a virgin. Trust that I will not be the first, nor the last to deceive a bridegroom with that fact. No one will ever know, so don’t pretend that—”

“Your maid knows,” he interrupted softly. “She confronted me before supper today.”

She blanched, and he saw her horror at that fact. It stung him more than it should to see evidence that he was little more than a wicked, dirty secret to her.

“Ursula?” she whispered, her voice barely carrying. Then she shook her head. “She would never say a word to anyone. She is loyal.”

He nodded. “I believe that is true, but if she knows that means other people could know, as well. Or find out. No matter how careful we are, households have a way to uncovering secrets. Now that your family is here, watching us so closely, what other choice do I have than to…” He forced the words from his lips. “…than to walk away from you?”

She froze, unmoving, unblinking, and stared at him for what seemed like an eternity. Then she moved toward him in a few long steps.

“Why did you have my portrait?” she asked.

He flinched. He had honestly hoped she had forgotten about that fact with all the activity going on.

“That is a change of subject,” he said.

She shook her head. “I don’t think it is. And I’m owed the explanation you didn’t finish that night in your cottage. So tell me now, Jude, why did you have my portrait?”

He held her stare, her beautiful, chocolate-brown stare. How could he tell her he was a liar? A liar when it came to her, a bigger liar when it came to Claire’s disappearance. A liar in every sense.

Perhaps he could do it by finally telling one of the many truths he had hidden. Maybe that would be enough to put her off at last.

“First, the how,” he said softly. “I want to give you a better sense of the how.”

Her eyes went wide. “All right.”

“It happened six years ago. I was in your mother’s home. Edward and I were meeting there to discuss some estate business with her. Some matters about the family homes and distribution of the unentailed wealth. I had forgotten papers in my carriage and came out to have it called for. As I stood in the foyer, I saw that the little case in the front hallway that contained all the miniatures of your family was open. The maid was cleaning it. On the top, she had set them in order, and there was yours.”

She caught her breath, and he couldn’t help but smile at her.

“You had come out recently and the portrait was so lovely. The artist truly captured your light, your spirit, with his brush. The girl had stepped away from her work a moment and I picked it up to look at it. In that moment, I knew I had to have it.”

“Why?” she whispered.

“Because I knew that you would find a husband far too soon. And then I would not be able to look at you anymore. Not be able to call you friend, because any man who loved you would recognize a rival, a man who wanted you. I took the portrait and shoved it in my pocket. And there it has stayed, from one coat to another, one place to another, ever since.” He dug into the inside of his coat and withdrew it, turning the portrait toward her. “Even now.”

Her bottom lip trembled as she stared first at her own face in paint and then up to his very real one. The real one he feared showed her everything.

“I don’t understand.” She shook her head.

“Yes, you do.” He put the portrait of her back in his pocket, refusing to offer it back to her. Soon it would be all he had. “You do because you are no fool. But if you need me to say it, I will. Audrey, I am in love with you.”

She caught her breath in a great, gasping burst. Her eyes were wide and wild, her hands shaking at her side. He had no idea if those reactions were ones of simple shock, disgust or joy. He didn’t even know what he hoped for in that moment.

All he knew was that he had finally said those words, those words that had burned in him for so many years that he almost couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t felt them. When they hadn’t haunted him both night and day. When they hadn’t made his heart ache every time this glorious woman entered or exited a room.

“You—you love me,” she repeated.

He nodded once. “I do. I think I always have, probably from that first time I came to this very house. This is my favorite place in the world because it’s where I found you. Even more so now since I stole so many moments with you here. And I’ll keep them with me, Audrey, even as you move on. Even as you meet your husband and marry and have children—”

“Stop,” she whispered, her voice broken.

“But I—”

“Stop!” she repeated, this time stronger. She held his gaze with hers and slowly closed the final gap between them. She didn’t touch him, but merely stared up into his eyes, speaking volumes with her expression even before she said, “Damn it, Jude, don’t you know that I am in love with you too?”

His heart soared for a beautiful moment as he looked into her eyes and realized that what he had been seeing there all this time was a reflection of the love he, himself, felt. But then it crashed down around him.

They couldn’t be together. Because of his position in life, but more because of the lies she didn’t even know he’d told. The betrayals he had committed against her family.

He took a step back. “I wish you hadn’t said that.”

Her face, which had been filled with such joy and hope, crumpled at those words. “Why? If we both love each other, why isn’t that a good thing?”

“Because it can’t be,” he said, continuing to back away from her, as if distance could make these feelings fade when he knew it wouldn’t. He had been trying that for years and failing miserably.

“Why?” she repeated, her voice stronger. Her eyes didn’t well up with tears, she didn’t tremble. She simply faced off with him with all the strength and grace that was her.

He opened his mouth and shut it. In that fleeting moment, he wanted to tell her everything he had ever withheld. But he didn’t. His cowardice held him back, unwilling to watch her eyes turn from ones of love to hate.

“We just can’t,” he said.

She let out a huff of breath and pursued him across the gazebo. He retreated until his backside hit the low wall and she moved in closer. Close enough that he could smell the sweet honeysuckle of her skin. He could feel her heat. He knew she did those things on purpose because she recognized his weakness as well as his feelings.

“You are unfair,” she whispered, reaching up to caress his cheek. “You tell me you love me, but you can’t be with me. You dismiss all that is between us that is worth saving, worth cultivating, worth everything. But you won’t even give me a good reason why.”

“Audrey, I—”

Before he could finish, say whatever words he didn’t even know, a sound behind them interrupted them. The clearing of a throat. Audrey stepped away and both of them looked toward the sound.

It was Edward, standing at the edge of the gazebo, staring at them. His hands were behind his back, but Jude could see from his tense posture, his drawn face, that he was not pleased by what he saw before him. And why would he be? His sister leaned in to a friend, yes, but also a servant. And the intimacy between them was likely not to be denied.

“I was looking for you, Audrey,” Edward said, his voice as strained as his expression. “I have news regarding Mama.”

Audrey broke away from Jude with a cry and staggered toward her brother. “News?”

He nodded, though his eyes continued to stray to Jude. “It appears the hours with Miss Grey and the medicines she has been applying have helped. Her fever has broken, at least for now. She is asking for you.”

Audrey gasped, the broken sound of joy hitting Jude like a shot to the chest. “Oh God, I must go to her, I must—” She sent a look over her shoulder at Jude, her eyes wide. “I must,” she repeated.

He nodded. “Of course. Go, go!”

She gathered up her skirt and began to run through the garden back up the path. As she did so, Edward turned his attention back to Jude. He said nothing for a long time and Jude did the same, leaving the two men to simply stare at each other in awkward, heavy silence.

Finally, Edward sighed. “I must return to my mother and family,” he said. “But tomorrow morning, we will have a meeting, Samson. The new parlor, I think. At ten. It seems we have a great deal to discuss.”

Jude nodded slightly. “Of course. I will be there.”

Edward looked at him a second or two more, then turned and left him, walking up the path and shaking his head as he went. Jude leaned on the gazebo railing with both hands as the strength bled from his body.

He had been friends with Edward since he was ten years old. Over two decades of closeness, and it was possible he had just thrown it all away in a moment of weakness with his friend’s sister.

Worse yet, he feared he had done exactly what he’d set out to do and lost the sister too. And without Audrey, without all the Woodleys, without his life here, he feared he had at last lost it all.

* * *

AUDREY BURST INTO HER MOTHER’S chamber, her breath short and her face hot from the exertion of running here. She found Evan and Gabriel seated on either side of her bed, talking to her quietly while Mary stood by, smiling down at them. A very pretty young woman was standing at the table across the room, putting away vials and powders.

“Mama!” Audrey cried, and her mother’s gaze fell to her. The color was back in her cheeks and though her eyes were still dull with illness, she smiled weakly at her daughter.

“Audrey,” she said, her voice low and rough.

Her brothers moved and Audrey hurried toward her and gently embraced her mother. “Oh Mama, I’m so glad you are doing better.”

“Thank you, my darling,” she croaked, but she tilted her head slightly. “Are you well?”

Audrey glanced at her brothers and Mary, as well as the stranger in the room. She forced a smile even though her mother’s question brought her back to both Jude’s confession of his heart…and his assertion that they would never be together. Her heart hurt so deeply she felt as though she were being stabbed. And yet she had to pretend otherwise.

“I’m so very fine now that your fever has broken,” she assured her mother.

“Will you leave us?” Lady Woodley said softly.

Miss Gray looked at the family, then Audrey, and said, “Perhaps I could explain some of the instructions regarding Lady Woodley’s continued care to the family and the key staff.”

“A fine idea,” Gabriel said, holding out an arm to the healer.

The young woman jolted a bit as she stared at his offering, but then took it, and they all left the room together. Once they were gone, Audrey let out a shuddering breath.

“Oh Mama, I’m so very sorry I didn’t take your illness more seriously. Samson should have gone to get the doctor, but I was…I was distracted.”

She blushed as she thought what exactly had addled her mind so badly that she hadn’t paid enough heed to her mother’s plight. What a terrible daughter she was.

“Dearest, I told you both multiple times that I didn’t need a doctor,” Lady Woodley reassured her in slow, weak tones. “Honestly, I have never liked Dr. Dunbar much and I was avoiding him. I did not take enough care. It is not your fault.”

Audrey shook her head. “Thank God Mary thought of Miss Gray.”

“Indeed,” her mother agreed. “I much prefer her methods to the bleeding.”

Audrey looked at the dowager’s bandaged arms where she had been bled, and shuddered. “Oh, Mama.”

“That isn’t why I wanted to talk to you alone, though,” Lady Woodley said. “What is wrong, my love?”

Audrey faltered. Was her pain so clear on her face? She certainly felt it keenly. “I was simply worried about you,” she lied once more.

“I think it’s more than that. But you don’t feel you can say it?”

Audrey swallowed as she shook her head slowly.

Her mother reached out. “Perhaps later. For now—” She opened her arms and Audrey lay down on the bed beside her as gentle arms came around her. She fought the urge to weep, both with relief that her mother would live and devastation that Jude was determined to keep them apart.

Chapter Nineteen

AUDREY SMILED AS MISS GRAY leaned over her mother and handed her a cup of tea, to which she had added medicinal herbs.

“This will taste like death, I’m afraid,” Miss Gray said with a light laugh. “But it will give you back some strength.”

“I’m ready for strength,” her mother said with a wobbling smile. But as she sipped the brew, her face twisted comically enough that both Audrey and Mary laughed despite themselves. “Oh my, it is like death.”

Miss Gray bowed her head apologetically. “I have tried everything to make it more palatable.”

“I will soldier through,” her mother assured the young woman weakly. “Thank you.”

Audrey smiled in relief at her mother. It was remarkable how changed she was in less than twelve hours. Her color, while still pale, was no longer so washed out and her eyes had some of the life back in them. Audrey could see she was still weak, though, but thus far her fever had not returned. It was enough to give her hope.

“I was saying to my mother last night how grateful we are that our Mary thought of you, Miss Gray,” Audrey said, reaching out to squeeze her sister-in-law’s hand.

The young lady smiled. “I am very glad to be of service to the dowager, I assure you. You are much loved in the shire, Lady Woodley. You may not recall him, but my father knew you when you were a girl.”

Lady Woodley blinked. “Wait, do you mean Jed Gray?”

The younger woman drew back in surprise. “You remember him? Oh, he will be greatly pleased.”

“He is still in the village?” Lady Woodley asked, and Audrey tilted her head. Were her mother’s eyes…dancing? Was that possible?

“How do you know the gentleman?” Audrey pressed gently, amazed at how much more life returned to her mother at this subject. That was reason enough to pursue it even if her curiosity wasn’t heightened.

“Well, as you know, I grew up in this very shire, which is why this house of your father’s always held such pleasure to me. Mr. Gray was the son of one of my own father’s foremen, so we saw each other often when I was a girl.” Lady Woodley turned her attention back to Miss Gray. “How is he? And I don’t know who your mother is, I’m sorry. We lost touch when…well, we lost touch.”

“He is very well,” Miss Gray said. “My mother was Eliza Everett, though I doubt you would know her. She came to the shire later in life, as a healer as well. She passed a few years ago.”

Audrey’s mother frowned. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

Miss Gray nodded in acknowledgment. “My father keeps himself busy with his books and his experiments.”

“He was always of a scientific bent,” Lady Woodley mused softly. Audrey examined her closely. Was that wistfulness in her tone? She hadn’t heard her mother sound like that except when she spoke of her late husband.

“I will tell him you asked after him,” Miss Gray said, but there was an odd expression on her face, as if she was hearing the same sound Audrey did and was just as nonplussed by it.

“Mama Woodley, I wonder if you would like me to bring you a few books to help you pass the time while you are abed?” Mary said, stepping forward.

Lady Woodley reached out and took the hand of her successor. “My darling, I would love that. You said you had read something very exciting on your trip here.”

Mary laughed. “I do love a romance. Shall I fetch it?”

As her mother nodded, Audrey sighed. “And I will go see about Mrs. Ford putting together a tray of your favorites. They are all waiting for a report on you this morning and I would like to give it personally.”

“All right, darling,” her mother said, settling back and returning her attention to the healer. “So tell me more about your father’s experiments.”

Mary led the way out the door and Audrey followed. But once they had exited, her sister-in-law turned on her. “Did you notice your mother’s tone when she spoke of Miss Gray’s father?”

Audrey nodded. “I did! It was very strange, wasn’t it? Almost as if she…she liked him.”

Mary seemed to consider that for a moment. “But would that be so odd? After all, her life did not begin somehow by magic the moment she met your father.”

Audrey frowned. She hadn’t given much thought to her mother’s life before her father. Perhaps pictured her as a little girl, but not as a young woman who might like a young man.

“It sounds as though perhaps she once had a tendre for this man, but circumstances separated them,” Mary continued.

Audrey didn’t answer right away, still hesitant about the idea that her mother had feelings for someone aside from her father. “Or maybe they were just friends.”

Mary shrugged. “Of course that may be true. But how often do feelings of friendship turn to something much warmer? Just recently, my dear friend Georgina fell in love with a man she long considered her friend, Paul Abbot. They certainly are not the first, nor will they be the last.”

Audrey swallowed hard. She had long considered Jude her friend. That was all she had allowed herself to call him for uncountable years. But she knew now that was folly. He was so much more. Except he refused to allow the love they felt for each other to determine their future.

“You seem troubled,” Mary said, breaking into her thoughts. “I’m sorry if my comments have upset you.”

“Oh, they haven’t,” Audrey reassured her, reaching out to take her hand. “I noted my mother’s uncommon interest in Mr. Gray as well. I suppose it is just odd for me to think of her sharing tender feelings with someone who isn’t my father.”

Mary nodded. “I can see why. From speaking to her over the weeks since Edward and I were thrown together, though, there is no doubt in my mind she loved your father deeply.”

Audrey couldn’t help her smile as she thought of the sweetness she had witnessed between her parents her entire life. “She did.”

“I only think it interesting that she is reconnecting in a way with Mr. Gray through his daughter.”

Audrey thought of that for a long moment. “Although I doubt it will lead to anything, I could not begrudge her a little happiness or giddiness at seeing an old flame.”

“Not many people get second chances,” Mary agreed, then shook her head. “Goodness, we are gabbing away about something that isn’t even real yet, just the two of us noticing a few hints here and there. I should run and fetch that book for your mother, and then I promised Edward we would take a walk so he could show me your lake.”

Audrey blushed as she thought about Jude bringing her such pleasure at the shores of that same lake less than a week before. “And—and I must go talk to Mrs. Ford. I’ll see you later, Mary.”

Her sister-in-law nodded and began to turn away when Audrey caught her hand. As she turned back, she said, “Yes?”

“Mary, I-I’m very pleased that you married Edward. Not only do you seem to make him happy, but you have brought him back to us after so many years of heartbreaking estrangement. And I like having a woman of my age to talk to again. I used to have Claire, but…” She stopped herself, feeling the tears well in her eyes. Seeing the same well in Mary’s. “I am just happy to have you.”

Mary covered the hand that held her own. “I’m so happy to be in your family. Oh, now I must go before I make a ninny of myself.”

Laughing, Audrey let her go and this time didn’t stop her as she darted away up the hall toward the chamber she now shared with Edward.

But Audrey didn’t leave to perform her own errand when her sister-in-law was gone. Her mind spun too much on everything that had been said. Every way that those words related to her own situation.

She loved Jude. And last night he had said he loved her too. Her heart swelled with that fact, even as it ached since he seemed to think they could never be together.

“It cannot be like that,” she whispered, thinking of her mother and her joy to hear just a scrap about a man who had exited her life over three decades before. “I will not have you as a regret, Jude Samson. Not even if you try to make me.”

With renewed certainty, she turned and made her way downstairs. She would speak to Mrs. Ford, but then she was going to find Jude. And she wasn’t going to leave his side until he saw reason.

* * *

“YOU KNOW, THIS REALLY IS a vast improvement.”

Jude jolted at the sound of Edward’s voice as his employer entered the Yellow Room. Jude’s thoughts had been spinning on Audrey, just as they had been since the night before and all morning, and he hadn’t even heard his friend come in.

“Yes,” he agreed. “It is a very happy space.”

Edward arched a brow as he shut the door behind himself. “You and Audrey seem to have made a good team bringing my mother’s vision to life.”

Jude was silent, for he felt his friend’s compliment was in some way a trap.

Edward moved to the seat and settled in, staring up at him. “Sit down,” he urged.

Jude did so, sitting on the edge of the chair across from his friend and just…waiting.

“I had forgotten how taciturn you can be,” Edward chuckled. “So it leaves it to me, does it?”

Jude shrugged. “You asked me to meet you here this morning. It is only fair that I await to hear your reasons for the request. My silence is not meant to be taciturn, I assure you.”

Edward nodded. “Fair enough. My first reason for wanting to speak to you today is to thank you for the care you provided my mother during her illness.”

Jude drew back. He knew Edward had seen the intense moment in the gazebo with Audrey the night before, but it was this he wished to discuss?

“I-I was happy to help, though I’m not certain how much I did.” He frowned. “I should have called for a doctor sooner.”

“Oh, Samson.” Edward let out a long sigh. “You are forever blaming yourself for things that are not your fault. My mother told me numerous times that you offered to fetch her aid and she refused, as blind as you and Audrey were to how serious her condition was becoming. Once it became clear, you wasted no time, did you?”

“No,” Jude said.

“And I have heard you hardly left her side, providing support not just for the frazzled staff, not just for my mother, but for my sister. For that I will be forever grateful.”

Jude shifted. He had never been comfortable with these expressions of gratitude. Especially from Edward, whom he loved as a brother, but who had no idea about the depth of his betrayal. If he did, the scales would slide far away from Jude, and Edward would not thank him then.

“How is Lady Woodley?” he asked, trying not to think of that almost inevitable day when Edward and the rest of the Woodleys would despise him.

“Much better. Miss Gray seems to be a revelation. My mother’s fever has not returned and with some prodding we have even encouraged her to eat a bit. She remains weak though and will remain here in the country likely for a good many weeks to come to rest and recover under Miss Gray’s watchful eye. But she will live.” Edward let out a great sigh of relief. “And that means the world to us after all we have lost, especially these past few years.”

Jude nodded. “Very good. I’m so glad.”

“You should pay Lady Woodley a visit,” Edward suggested. “She would love to thank you herself, I think.”

“Perhaps I shall.” Jude pushed to his feet. “Is that everything?”

Edward did not stand with him, but stared up at him with an arched brow. “So desperate to escape, old friend?”

Slowly, Jude retook his place. “No, of course not. What else is there to discuss?”

“You know what.” Now Edward’s face grew serious. A subtle shift, but one Jude felt to his core. He was no longer Edward’s close friend, no longer his employee. Edward stared at him with the eyes of a protective brother, and Jude dreaded what was about to come with every fiber in his being.

“Audrey,” he said, his voice barely carrying.

Edward nodded. “Yes. I think you know I came upon you two in the gazebo in what was obviously an intense exchange last night.”

Jude didn’t respond verbally, but nodded.

“And it wasn’t all that surprising, really,” Edward continued. “After all, tensions have been high since my mother’s illness and Audrey can be very passionate in her feelings.”

Jude pursed his lips, willing his thoughts not to wander to inappropriate places. “Yes,” he agreed.

Edward arched a brow before he continued, “But I saw more than two friends in a heated conversation. There was an intimacy to the way you two stood, a look reflected in both your eyes that spoke of a connection beyond your years of friendship. That is something I cannot ignore, Jude.”

Jude sat silently for a long moment, pondering what he should say. Denying Edward’s statement would surely do him no good. After all, his friend was clever and he had eyes in his head. But he certainly wasn’t about to go confessing all to his friend and employer either. That would surely not end well for anyone.

He shifted with discomfort and forced himself to meet Edward’s even stare. “During our time here, Audrey and I have grown…closer. We were thrown together after your mother’s illness began and she was confined to her bed.”

Edward nodded. “I suspected as much.” He shook his head. “I take that back. Mary suspected as much.”

Jude lifted both eyebrows in surprise. “Lady Woodley, the new Lady Woodley? I hardly know the woman—how could she know something about me?”

Laughter was the first response. “Ah, she is a keen observer of the human condition, I suppose. It served her well to be able to read others, especially the way she grew up with that bastard of a father.”

Jude saw the anger growing on his friend’s face and drew back a fraction in surprise. Edward rarely grew so passionate. If he had doubted his friend’s true love for her recent bride, he did not now.

Edward shook his head. “I’m sorry, I was off on a tangent. All I am saying is that my wife noted some kind of connection between you and Audrey that went beyond anything I ever noticed. And once she pointed it out, it became very clear to me. And even more so since our arrival here in Briarlake Cross.”

Jude once again did not deny his friend’s observation. Nor did he confirm it. “And you do not approve,” he said softly. “For good reason, considering my current position in life.”

Edward’s brow wrinkled. “I said I could not ignore this development, my friend, not that I didn’t approve. And what do you mean your position?”

“Please. I am your servant, Edward. I doubt you’d want your sister involving herself with a footman, either,” Jude snapped, the thin wire of his control breaking as he bolted from the chair and paced across the room.

Edward was quiet enough that Jude turned to look at him. His friend was staring at him evenly, arms folded.

“If Audrey were truly in love with a footman and I thought his motives toward her were pure, I would have to consider my approval carefully,” Edward said softly. “There would be consequences to such a union, but there are also consequences to separating two people who truly care for each other.” He pursed his lips. “But you are not a footman, Jude Samson. Your pedigree is as pure as hers, as ours, not that it matters to anyone—except, it seems, you.”

Jude spun away again, facing the window. “You don’t understand.”

“No, I don’t, for I was in the dark a long time. What are your feelings for my sister? Is this a mere flirtation? Or is there something more?”

Jude could hardly breathe as his mind dragged him back to the previous night when he had allowed himself to admit to Audrey that he loved her. When she had returned those feelings. Only that connection could never happen. For more reasons than the ones Edward thought held him back.

“Samson?” his friend pressed softly.

“It is…complicated,” Jude ground out, the best he could do under the circumstances.

Edward seemed to ponder that for a moment, but then he said, “Yes, it always is. I don’t pretend to understand your hesitations, Jude. I can see you struggling with something that is perhaps far deeper than I allowed myself to believe existed.”

He faced Edward and found his friend frowning. He opened his mouth to speak, but Edward held up a hand to stop him and continued.

“But if any of your hesitation regarding my sister has to do with a concern that you would not be accepted, let me alleviate that fear now. You have long been considered a part of this family. If you married my sister, it would only solidify a love for you that already exists. No one—I want to stress that, Jude, no one—would hesitate to offer your felicitations and joy. I hope that helps.”

Jude couldn’t speak as he stared at his longtime best friend. There was no lie on Edward’s face, only the love he described. There was no hesitation, but actual hope. His friend was granting him permission to make the love he felt for Audrey official and permanent.

And it was so damned tempting.

Only what he felt for her was tempered by more than his place in the world. It had been mangled by lies, betrayals. It was something he had never allowed himself to want completely, even as he stole the moments they’d shared since their arrival in the countryside.

“You must have a great deal to consider,” Edward said, rising from his seat at last and holding out a hand to Jude. “And I have promised Mary a turn around the lake before luncheon. So I’ll leave you to it.”

Jude took the offering and the two men shook. “Enjoy yourself,” he choked out.

Edward tipped his head slightly and left Jude alone in the parlor, alone to think about everything that had been said. Audrey said she loved him and he knew he loved her in return. Edward had given his permission for Jude to pursue a future with her. And he wanted that. He wanted it so much that it made his blood burn, his vision blur, his hands shake.

“Could we?” he murmured out loud.

But he knew the answer. There was still one very large thing that stood in his way. And perhaps the time had finally come to stop running from the past, running from his mistakes. Perhaps the time had come to tell Audrey the whole truth. If they could survive that, then they could survive everything.

* * *

JUDE STEPPED THROUGH THE COTTAGE door and shut it behind him, leaning against the wood as he tried to calm himself. Was he truly going to do this? Because it could destroy everything he’d built. It could blow apart his world. Worst of all, it could crush any chance he had at a life with Audrey.

“You have to do it,” he said out loud.

He was about to take a long step into the room when from the back bedroom stepped the very familiar figure of Audrey. At first, his heart soared at seeing her here for the first time since her mother’s illness. But then he saw her face, pale and twisted with hurt. And then he looked at her hand.

She held letters. And even though he couldn’t see what they said, he knew exactly what they were. Who they were from.

“Audrey,” he said, moving toward her. “I—what are you doing here?”

She blinked as if she didn’t understand the question for a moment. Then she shook her head. “I came to find you,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “And instead I found…these.”

He moved toward her. “Found? Because I seem to recall they were not out in the open.”

Her eyes went wide. “You want to berate me for going behind your back and looking through your things? After all I have seen?” She shook her head. “Yes, I admit a curiosity. I sensed you were hiding things from me and I wanted to help you in your search for Claire. So when I came here to look for you and found the cottage empty, I decided to wait. My desire to know, to help, overrode my propriety and I peeked in your desk.”

She moved toward him and he tensed as she stopped just out of his reach. Her lip trembled with anger, with hurt, her eyes were bright with the same. She stared at him like she didn’t know him at all, and that expression cut as deeply as a blade to the gut.

“Audrey,” he began softly. “Let me explain.”

She recoiled with another, deeper expression of horror. “Explain?” she repeated. “Explain? How in the hell do you intend to explain this, Jude? How do you intend to explain that you have been corresponding with my sister all along, keeping it a secret from our family? How could you ever explain that you helped the man who took her gain access to her in the first place?”

Chapter Twenty

ALL THE AIR LEFT JUDE’S lungs in that horrible moment, and he swayed in his place. “This is not how I would have had you find out the truth.”

Her face twisted into a mask of disgust and disbelief. “You would not have had me find out the truth at all,” she hissed.

He squeezed his eyes shut, but she grasped his arm, shaking it.

“No, you look at me,” she said, her voice trembling. “Look at me while you lie so that I’ll know what it looks like from now on. So that I won’t be…won’t be fooled again.”

He caught his breath as he reached for her, but she let go of his arm and skittered back from him. He sucked in a long breath and said, “Audrey, I don’t want to lie to you. I want to tell you the truth. I fully intended to do so, actually.”

“Did you now?” she whispered as she swiped angrily at a tear that escaped her dark eyes and began to slide down her cheek. “And I’m to believe that? I’m to believe that you were just about to tell me what you did and then find a way to excuse what you have done?”

“Nothing I say will excuse it,” he said, moving toward her again. She moved away just the same length and he frowned. “I have never been able to excuse it to myself and I won’t try to do so with you. But I want to tell you the whole story, beyond what you’ve seen in those letters. Please, Audrey, give me that chance.”

“Why should I?” she asked, her voice dull. “Why should I do anything besides march up the hill to that house and show my whole family that we have had a viper in our midst for so many years?”

He flinched. “Because I love you. And until a short while ago, you loved me.”

“I loved what I thought I knew,” she snapped, but she didn’t push past him. She didn’t move at all.

“Please,” he repeated. “Please.”

She shrugged. “Fine. Tell me more lies if that will help you.”

“They won’t be lies,” he assured her.

She arched a brow. “And how would I know?”

“I deserve your hatred. I know I deserve it more than I ever deserved your love.”

Her face softened just a fraction at that statement, but she hardened herself quickly. “Speak, Samson. Get it over with.”

He nodded. “Let me start at the beginning. Almost two years ago, Claire came to me in London. She was…distraught. Rambling about secrets and lies, about the past and a lot of other things I didn’t understand.”

“Why did she come to you?” Audrey asked, her voice dripping with incredulity.

“Did you not consider me a friend to this family at least until today?” He forced his voice to be soft when he wanted to shout and scream the house down.

She hesitated, but then nodded once.

“Claire obviously saw me the same way. As your brother’s man of affairs, I suppose she trusted me to help her privately.”

“Help her with what?”

“She wanted me to uncover some information on a woman named Lila Elsworth.”

“Who?” Audrey asked, her brow wrinkling. “And what does this have to do with her running away with Jonathon Aston?”

He held up a hand. “Wait. Please, wait. I have no idea what her connection to this woman was. I tried to get her to tell me more, but she was secretive. She begged me and I finally relented.”

“And who was the woman?” Audrey encouraged him.

“I still don’t really know,” he admitted with a sigh. “After a few months of research, searching high and low, all I knew was that this woman wasn’t titled.”

Audrey pressed her lips together. “What would Claire want with her?”

“I never found a connection to Claire. Hell, this Elsworth woman died at almost the same time your sister was born. Claire never even met her and yet she was obsessed. She must have talked to me twenty times over those months, always asking if I had information.”

Audrey shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

He shrugged. “Honestly, neither do I. But after I revealed what I had uncovered, Claire seemed to shrink into herself. She was upset, despondent. You all saw it at the time, even Edward commented on it.”

“Yes, I know she was different in the weeks leading up to her disappearance. She wouldn’t discuss it with me. But why didn’t you tell Edward about this?” she asked. “Why keep her inquiries a secret?”

“Because Claire asked me to do so,” he admitted. “And Edward was so lost in his own pain after Alice’s death I thought it best to keep such an odd interaction to myself. I never thought…”

“But you did,” she snapped as he trailed off. “You did think, Jude. My sister’s letters to you make no mention of this Lila Elsworth, but they do imply—no, they say outright—that you helped Jonathon Aston make contact with her.”

That all too familiar sick feeling churned in his chest. “After I was cast out by my family, in that brief time before your brother took me on as his man of affairs, I met Jonathon Aston in a reputable club. He misrepresented himself to me then, allowing me to believe that he was not titled, but was landed and moneyed, a gentleman.”

“He’s no gentleman,” Audrey growled.

“With hindsight, I see that even then he was likely hoping to one day trade on my connections, either to my own family or to yours. But at the time, I only knew him as a man who was kind to me at one of my lowest points.”

“So he waited all that time, all those years, to use that moment of kindness against you?” she asked, her tone suspicious.

He tilted his head to examine her closer. “You have been sheltered from the world in some ways, Audrey. There are men out there, men and women, who are always searching for angles to better themselves. They run elaborate games to steal money, secrets that can be traded for power or money, whatever they can. And the way they do that is to gain relationships. They know they may not use them in that very moment, but someone one meets a year or five years or ten years before could become useful tomorrow.”

“You make it sound like people are currency,” Audrey said.

He nodded. “In a way, they are, to men like Aston. He sensed my weakness and knew my connections, and he filed those facts away in case he found a way to use them. I assume he was watching your family for a long time, likely exactly because of what he had learned about me all that time ago. If he was watching, he must have seen that Claire was hurting, isolating herself.”

She flinched. “He saw her vulnerability too.”

“And her money. Your father’s arrangement with you two about your pin money was odd.”

Audrey squeezed her eyes shut and sighed. “Instead of putting our brothers in charge of our wealth, he allowed us access directly. We always knew that was why Aston wanted her.”

“He likely discovered that Claire had just been granted access to her wealth by the terms of your father’s will.”

“When he saw Claire’s pain, he must have thought he could manipulate her,” Audrey breathed.

“Aston reappeared suddenly in my life at the same time. We met ‘accidentally’ at a gentleman’s gathering where I was sent to do some business for Edward.” Bile churned in his gut. “I was pleased to see my old friend at the time, in fact.”

“Aston,” Audrey said, the name like the vilest of curses on her lips.

“He mentioned that he had seen Claire at a gathering—he seemed smitten. When I said something to her, she recalled Aston, and for the first time in a long time, she seemed happy. So I encouraged it, I admit it. I thought the man was a gentleman and that ultimately he would take their courtship public.”

“But instead he took her.”

Jude nodded. “Yes, and I…I am the cause of that too.”

She shook her head. “How?” she whispered.

“The night he took her, ruined her, he asked me where she was. I told him. And by the time we realized she was gone, they had vanished on the wind.”

Audrey said nothing, but turned away and walked to his settee where she sat with a thump and placed her hands over her face. He let out a shuddering sigh. He had held these secrets for so long that saying them out loud was almost a relief, despite the painful consequences he now stared in the face.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “It is my fault.”

She lifted her face and stared at him, expressionless, empty. He hated that look more than he would have hated her anger or her betrayal. Now he was nothing to her. And he ached.

“Yes,” she said just as quietly. “It is your fault.”

AUDREY WATCHED AS JUDE RECOILED from her cold statement. The same emotion she forced herself to strip from her expression was wild on his face. Guilt. Anger, but at himself. Grief. And love. She still saw his love for her burning in his dark blue eyes.

Worst of all was that even after knowing how deeply he had betrayed her, betrayed her family, those emotions still moved her. She ached for his love. She wanted to reach for it, let it comfort her. She wanted to forgive him.

But she couldn’t.

“How could you?” she whispered, her voice barely carrying over the crackle of the fire.

“Do what I did or lie about it?” he asked, his voice strained.

She shook her head. “Either. Both.”

He sighed and slowly came to sit in the chair near the settee. He watched her carefully, but made no additional efforts to touch her.

Oh, how she wished he would touch her. Even though she knew she would pull away. She still wanted the warmth of him against her. Something to remember forever.

“I did what I did out of foolish blindness,” he said. “I shouldn’t have taken Aston at his word. But he was convincing. And I should have told Edward or Evan or Gabriel or you about Claire’s questions, about her attraction to Aston. But I thought I was protecting her privacy. That she would give over her secrets in her own time.”

“And why did you lie afterward?”

“Because yours is the only family I have ever truly known,” he admitted. “And you are the only woman I have ever loved. And I was a coward who didn’t want to lose it all. And yet here I am and I have done that. Lost everything. Haven’t I?”

She stared across the distance between them. So short, but it felt like a chasm now. Uncrossable.

“Are there any more secrets, Jude?” she asked softly.

His lips pinched slightly and her heart sank even before he said, “When I left to visit my mother before Edward’s marriage, I did go see her. But I also…”

“What did you do?” she demanded, wishing her voice were stronger. “What did you do, Jude?”

“I convinced your sister to meet with me,” he admitted.

She leapt up. “What? You saw Claire?”

He bent his head. “I did.”

“What did she say? How did she look?” she all but shrieked as joy and horror and terror flooded her at once.

He stood slowly. “She looked tired, but well. Like her old self, though without as much light in her eyes. She said she wouldn’t come home.”

She rushed forward without thought and pushed him. He caught her arms before she could repeat the attack, holding her impassively as she struggled, wanting to lash out at him but unable because he was physically stronger. Finally she went limp and he drew her against him, keeping her upright with his arms.

“Why didn’t you bring Edward?” she sobbed, finally letting her pain out. “Why didn’t you bring any of us? We could have talked to her, convinced her!”

He picked her up and carried her back to the settee, where he set her down and then stepped away. His face was twisted with a pain that mirrored her own.

“Claire made it clear to me that if anyone from the family was there, she would run before we would even see her. She told me she would cut off all contact with me and with Gabriel if I brought anyone else along. I couldn’t sever that lifeline or raise anyone’s hopes when I didn’t know the outcome.” He leaned closer. “Please tell me you understand that.”

She stared at him, her body hurting, her tears still falling even as she struggled to stop them. She stared at him and she saw the man she loved. She also saw a stranger.

Slowly, she got up. “I don’t understand any of this,” she murmured. “Everything I believed about you, about us, is a lie. And I’m going up to the house.”

She staggered past him, feeling him watching her with every step. Her body hurt, like she had been physically beaten. But it was only her soul and her heart that had been battered. She reached for the door and his voice stopped her.

“Audrey.”

She hesitated before she turned. She looked over him before she responded, her beautiful love. He looked the same with his handsome face and soulful blue eyes. And yet he wasn’t the same. Or she wasn’t. One way or another, they weren’t.

“What?” she finally managed to push past dry lips.

“Will you tell Edward?” he asked.

She turned her face. “Worried about your job, Samson?”

“No,” he said softly. “Sod my job. I’m worried about losing my brothers, my family, like I’ve lost you. I know I deserve it, but I want to know it, to prepare for it.”

She swallowed hard, thinking of her sickly mother, thinking of Edward who was only so recently happy again with Mary. She thought of Gabriel and Evan too.

She shook her head and refused to look at him. “I have been made a partner in your lies. Telling my family would only hurt them, wouldn’t it? So I’ll keep your betrayal to myself. You may rest easy.”

He said nothing, but suddenly he moved, and before she could step away, he had her hand. Gently he pulled her to his chest and his warmth enveloped her, teased her, taunted her with everything she had believed, wanted, loved. He dropped his mouth to hers.

She waited for the kiss to be rough and demanding, for him to claim the passion she knew she would give, even if her mind screamed at her not to. But instead, the kiss was a soft brush of his lips. Tender and loving, not demanding, not claiming.

“I will never rest easy again, Audrey,” he said, his voice cracking as he released her hand and pushed the door open to hold it for her. “I will never be at peace when you can’t forgive me.”

She blinked at the unexpected and very real emotion she heard in his voice. It drew her to him, once again made her want to forgive him. But right now his betrayal was too raw.

“I swear to you, Samson,” she whispered. “I’m going to undo the wrong you did. Only then will I be able to forgive you.”

He straightened up. “Audrey—” he began, a hint of warning in his tone.

She ignored him, turned her back and walked away, his voice ringing in her ears, along with his lies. His warmth still making her entire body tingle, along with her love.

But nothing would ever be the same again.

Chapter Twenty-One

“DO YOU THINK THAT MAMA would be very upset if I…if I left?”

Audrey folded her arms and lifted her chin as she watched Edward looked up from his paper slowly. At his side, Mary got to her feet.

“Audrey, what are you talking about?” Mary asked, eyes wide with surprise.

She shifted. “I-I want to leave. To…” She trailed off, finding the lie she was about to tell difficult when she had just been berating Jude for telling lies. “I want to go back to London.”

Her brother set his paper aside. “Are you all right?”

She cast a quick glance at her sister-in-law and forced a smile. “Perfectly. It is only that—that—” She struggled for words.

“Is it safe to assume that you have had a discussion with Samson?” Edward asked softly.

Audrey caught her breath. “How do you know that?”

“I spoke with him earlier today about you.” Edward sighed. “Audrey, you do know he cares for you, don’t you?”

Hurt slammed into her like a punch and she almost staggered with its power. Since her encounter with Jude over an hour before, she had been pacing her room, thinking about his confession, tangled in confusing feelings of love and anger toward him.

And wishing she could undo the damage he’d done. Somehow if she could…well, wouldn’t that erase some of the pain? Wouldn’t it make it possible for the love to shine through once more?

“He says he cares,” she whispered, willing herself not to weep. “But there is too much to keep us apart. At least right now.”

Mary exchanged a brief look with her husband and then stepped forward. Unexpectedly her new sister-in-law wrapped her arms around her and squeezed gently. “I’ll leave you and Edward to talk for a while,” she said. “But if you’d like, perhaps we can take a turn around the garden later, just the two of us.”

Audrey watched her go, watched her quietly shut the parlor door behind her to give the siblings privacy. Despite her internal pain, Audrey smiled. “Mary is wonderful.”

Edward’s face lost some of the concern for a moment and he returned the smile. “She is. I am very lucky to have her as my wife. Not that there weren’t obstacles.” His gaze grew more intense. “There will always be obstacles, Audrey. Running away won’t change them.”

She flinched. He wouldn’t say that if he truly understood the obstacles between her and Jude. God, he might call the other man out to duel if he knew the truth.

“You don’t understand,” she whispered.

Edward slowly moved toward her and took her hands in his. He smiled down at her, handsome and kind and so much happier than she had seen him in years.

“I likely don’t,” he admitted. “But I know my friend and I know my sister. I think if you wanted to be, you two could be happy together. Or is it that you don’t want to be?”

She shook her head. “No, of course not.”

“So you do care for him,” he pressed.

Audrey stared up at him, her breath short, her hands trembling in his. “I love him,” she admitted, and the feelings mobbed her now that they had a voice.

She did love Jude. Even his lies hadn’t stolen that strong, wonderful feeling.

Edward surprised her by frowning, and she drew back. “After everything you’ve said, please don’t say you don’t approve.”

He shook his head. “I approve. I told Jude himself that I approve. Only you say you want to return to London and I see such pain in your eyes. I know you aren’t getting what you want and it pains me.”

She shrugged and pulled away from his comforting touch. With a sigh, she paced across the room.

“Perhaps not all of us can have what we want.” She tried to maintain her composure with those words. “Perhaps love isn’t enough for every person.”

Edward let out a long sigh. “I think I see what is going on.”

She jerked her gaze back to him, her heart leaping to her throat. “What? You do?”

“Is Jude denying his feelings? He’s trying to distance himself by telling you he doesn’t love you or can’t be with you.” Edward didn’t give her the chance to respond. “Idiot. I swear, that man sometimes works so bloody hard at keeping himself miserable.”

Audrey opened her mouth, intending to deny her brother’s accusation, but then she stopped. There was no point in doing so. She wasn’t about to tell Edward about Jude’s betrayal, and if he believed it was a mere reluctance to be happy that stopped them, then it would hurt no one.

“You can see why I want to go then, can’t you?” she pressed. “I need to clear my head, to resolve this problem and being in the same space as Jude makes it difficult.”

“Yes, I can see why that would be hard for you.” He seemed to ponder her request for a moment. “Mary and I intend to stay for at least another couple of weeks. And Gabriel and Evan have talked of remaining at Briarlake Cross for even longer, until Mama is fully recovered, so you wouldn’t be abandoning her, if that is your fear.”

“And I could return, of course. I don’t want to leave permanently. Just long enough to—” She stopped.

He nodded as if he understood when she knew he could not. “You will have no chaperone,” he said.

“Ursula will be with me,” she offered. “I don’t intend to take any invitations when I get where I’m going, so I won’t need a chaperone then.”

Her brother stroked his chin as he pondered. “I would be concerned about you stopping along at an inn along the route, but I think the Aldridges are in residence at Stoneybranch, and that is on your way. I assume you’ll need a short time to prepare and the carriage will be slower than a horse. I could send word ahead of you that you will stop there for the night and I’m certain they would be happy to have you as a guest.”

Audrey forced a smile, knowing she would never reach that destination. “Then is it settled? May I leave here for a while to gather my thoughts?”

“Yes, very well.” He moved toward her and wrapped his arms around her gently. “Audrey, I’m sorry this isn’t easy for you. You deserve it to be after all our family has been through. But I hope, in the end, that the struggle will be worth it. That you will find your happiness.”

Audrey squeezed her eyes shut as she buried her face in her brother’s shoulder and allowed herself his comfort for a moment. “I hope so too, Edward,” she murmured, her voice muffled by his coat. “I do hope so.”

He pulled away and smiled down at her. “Now I will leave you to your preparations and I’ll arrange that message to be sent. Be sure to say goodbye to everyone.”

Audrey nodded, but as he left the room she sagged with the weight of her plan. She had just lied to her brother. Baldly lied, without even blinking. For she had no intention of going to London. No, she had other plans to fulfill.

And she could only hope that at the end of that road she would find the happiness her brother spoke of.

* * *

JUDE TOOK A LONG BREATH. In less than sixty seconds, he was expected to enter the breakfast room for a meal with the entire Woodley clan. He would be expected to sit amongst them, next to Audrey, and not show his feelings for her. Not reveal how much it hurt that she despised him.

How the hell was he supposed to do all that? Especially since he hadn’t slept all night, especially since he’d drunk too much since she walked out of his cottage and likely his life the afternoon before.

“Fuck,” he muttered before he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

He expected to find the entire family—except for, perhaps, the dowager—awaiting him. Instead, only Edward, Evan and Gabriel stood beside the sideboard, perusing the selection of breakfast goodies. When he stepped inside, they all turned to look at him, their faces similar masks of stern cool.

He stiffened. What did they know?

“Good morning,” he managed past suddenly dry lips.

“Samson,” Evan said first. Gabriel did the same, but Edward just watched him, silent.

Jude steeled himself as he stepped forward to look at the pastries, fluffy eggs and sausages that awaited him. Not that he had even a small appetite any longer. “It looks like Mrs. Ford has outdone herself yet again.”

Edward finally stepped back and motioned to the spread. “Please help yourself.”

He shook his head as he moved away, though he never took his eyes off the brothers. “No, I couldn’t. I wouldn’t be so rude as to take my repast before the ladies could make their selections.”

Gabriel and Evan exchanged a look as Edward folded his arms. “I’m afraid the ladies will not be joining us today. My mother is still abed and Mary has decided to keep her company.”

Jude slowly looked from one face to the next of his friends. Or were they former friends now? It was hard to tell from their hard expressions.

“I see,” he said. “And what about Audrey?”

Saying her name made his stomach clench, but he refused to show that visceral reaction to her brothers. Not when he wasn’t certain about their intentions in asking him to join them in breaking their fast.

“Yes, Audrey,” Gabriel said softly. “Let us talk about her, shall we?”

Jude let out a long sigh before he crossed the breakfast room to a cabinet on the other side. He bent to open the lower door and withdrew a dusty bottle of scotch and a glass.

“Should I pour four?” he asked as he splashed some of the liquid into the tumbler.

Edward arched a brow. “A bit early for that, isn’t it?”

“Not if we’re going to have the conversation I think we are,” Jude muttered. “So is it one or four?”

“I’ll take one,” Evan said, the hint of a smile tilting the corners of his lips.

“Make it two,” Gabriel acknowledged as he moved closer and held out his hands for the glasses Jude was filling.

“Oh hell, why not?” Edward said with a sigh.

Jude handed over the glasses, still wary of the three men he had long called his friends. But to his surprise, Evan lifted his glass in a toast. “To Audrey, who has always been very good at creating ‘situations’.”

Jude laughed despite his emotional turmoil. “I will certainly drink to that.”

They all did, but when the tumblers lowered, Edward was once again frowning. “We may tease all we like, but the subject we need to address is very serious.”

Jude arched a brow. “I suppose it is. I suppose our topic for the morning must be about my relationship to Audrey. But we talked at length about that yesterday, Edward. So I wonder why I’m here.”

Evan was the one who responded, “Because now Gabriel and I know about your…what would you call it, Samson? What would you call your connection to Audrey?”

Jude stared down into the amber liquid in his glass and tried and failed not to think of Audrey. Audrey in his cottage, accusing him. The light of love leaving her eyes as she realized what a bastard he truly was.

Except she had been true to her word and clearly hadn’t told her brothers about his involvement in Claire’s disappearance. Or else he doubted he would be sharing drinks with the Woodley men. More likely he would be engaging in a duel, probably with Evan, who was the best shot. Or perhaps just being sacked.

So she had protected him. And perhaps that should have comforted him. And yet it didn’t. Because she still despised him.

“I don’t know what to call it,” he admitted as he finally answered Evan’s question.

Gabriel set his drink down and folded his arms. Jude set his legs subtly, just in case an attack was imminent. Gabriel looked the angriest of the three. But how could Jude blame him for that? He was Claire’s twin, and her involvement with a man had parted her from her family for a very long time. He would be most protective of Audrey if he feared he could lose her too.

“Would you call it love?” Gabriel asked. “That is what our brother said it was.”

Jude jerked his gaze to Edward. He had never said “love” to his friend.

“Gabriel,” Edward said softly, a gentle warning.

“I want to know,” Gabriel replied, his tone and posture both stiff. “I think we have a right to know, especially considering what has happened.”

“Happened?” Jude repeated, wrinkling his brow. “You mean in the past? You mean with Claire? You cannot be comparing me to Jonathon Aston?”

Gabriel shook his head. “Of course not, don’t be daft.”

“No one would ever compare you to that bastard who stole our sister,” Evan said, his hands clenching at his sides. “No, Gabriel refers to what happened with Audrey yesterday.”

Now Jude moved forward. “Happened? What happened?”

Edward let out a long sigh. “The staff said you had been sequestered down at the cottage, but I thought she might have come to you. Apparently, I misjudged whatever trouble is between you.”

“Tell me what is wrong with your sister!” Jude demanded, pushing his drink across the top of the nearest table. “Tell me right now.”

Evan and Gabriel exchanged another of those knowing looks before Evan said, “She left, Samson.”

“Left?” he repeated, the words sounding harsh and feeling foreign. “Left? What do you mean she left?”

“She claimed it was too difficult to remain and asked permission to return to London immediately,” Edward said.

“Because of you,” Gabriel added softly.

Jude staggered back two steps before he regained some control over himself. It felt like the room was spinning, like he was in a nightmare, like he was misunderstanding the truth of what was happening.

“You sent her back to London without chaperone?” he asked, his voice tight, his throat constricted.

Evan’s eyebrows lifted. “Are you judging what we allowed when she has left because of you?”

“Explain it,” Jude said, still reeling from the thought that Audrey had all but fled to escape him. But also troubled by his doubts about this event. “Explain it to me.”

Edward shook his head. “What is there to explain? Early yesterday afternoon my sister asked if she might be allowed to return to London with her maid—and a very well-armed driver, I might add. After seeing how upset she seemed, I realized I couldn’t deny her some space from what is obviously a very difficult situation for her.”

Jude blinked. She must have come to Edward after she learned the truth. But run from it? That didn’t seem like Audrey.

“What did she say?” he demanded.

All three brothers drew back a fraction at the passion in his voice. A passion he knew revealed more than he wished to show but it didn’t matter right now. All that mattered was the niggling fear that had begun in his stomach. The premonition that perhaps Audrey had done something spectacularly dangerous.

“She told me she wanted to go to London, I already said that,” Edward said. “She said she had to resolve some things.”

“It’s the same thing she told all of us when she said goodbye,” Evan added. “That she had a problem to resolve. When Gabriel and I questioned Edward about it, he revealed that the problem was likely her issues with you.”

Jude scrubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t think Audrey went to London,” he said.

Edward shook his head. “Of course she went to London. She should be arriving there some time this afternoon and I’m certain we’ll have word of her safe arrival in a few days. Why are you so pale?”

“I told you, I don’t think she went to London,” Jude pressed.

He might have said more, but at that moment the door opened and Vernon stepped inside, his expression troubled. Edward turned to the butler. “Not now, we’re in the middle of something.”

“Yes, but you have a message, sir. A servant from Stoneybranch.”

Edward stepped forward as a panting servant in crooked livery stepped in. “Sir, I’m sent by Lord Aldridge,” he said. “I’m to tell you that Lady Audrey never arrived last night.”

Jude shoved through the three brothers to stand before the man. “What do you mean she never showed up?”

“Audrey was meant to stop and take her rest with the Aldridges,” Edward explained, his face growing pale. “She never came?”

“No, sir,” the servant said. “But a note arrived this morning saying to be from her. It only read that she was sorry and to let everyone know not to worry.”

Jude spun away, clenching his fists in frustration. “Audrey, damn it.”

Edward turned from the servant and grasped Jude by the lapels suddenly, dragging him against him as his dark eyes snapped. “You said she wasn’t going to London and here it seems she did not. What do you know? Where is our sister?”

Jude shook him off and looked from one friend to the next. He could see the terror on their faces, the memories of losing Claire. The horror of perhaps losing Audrey too. And he realized that although Audrey hadn’t revealed him, it was time to reveal himself.

“Audrey left because of me,” he admitted. “We have been engaged in an…an affair.” All three men took a step toward him at once, but he held up his hand. “Wait. There’s more. She also left because she found out something I had done. Something she can’t forgive. Something that has to do with Claire. And I’d wager that Claire is why she lied to you. Claire is why she didn’t go to London at all.”

Gabriel wavered slightly on his feet and Evan steadied him as Edward stepped toward Jude. His face was pale as he whispered, “You need to explain yourself right now.”

Jude took a long breath. “It’s far beyond time that I did so. I’m going to tell you everything. But you must promise not to beat me half to death until I’m finished. For Audrey.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

JUDE STARED AT THE PAINED expressions of the three men who had been his best friends for more than half his life. The same pained expression had been on Audrey’s face when the truth came out, only multiplied and worsened by all the two of them had shared.

“So let me understand this,” Edward said softly, the first of the three to speak for what seemed like an eternity. “You not only helped Jonathon Aston gain access to Claire, but you entered into a sexual affair with Audrey.”

Gabriel lunged for him and Jude made no effort to avoid the fist that swung toward his face. Gabriel connected and pain exploded behind Jude’s eye as he staggered backward and toppled to the floor. Gabriel leapt over him, but Evan grabbed him and held him back.

Jude looked up at them as he blinked the stars from in front of his hazy vision. “Yes. I lied to you all and I’m sorry.”

Edward continue to stare at him like he didn’t know him. “How could you? How could you?”

Jude pushed to his feet when it became clear Evan wouldn’t allow Gabriel to continue his violence. “I don’t expect you to understand or believe me when I say I never meant for things to get so out of control.”

“With Claire or with Audrey?” Evan snapped as he released Gabriel. But the youngest Woodley didn’t move on him again. He just glared, betrayal in his stare.

“I never knew I was exposing Claire to such a villain,” Jude explained, trying to keep pleading from his voice. “And you know I’ve looked for her as desperately as you all have. I have tried my best to find her and even convince her to come home.”

Edward pinched his lips. “You never should have let Aston near her,” he said. “But I must admit it isn’t your fault that our sister hasn’t returned. That seems to be for her own reasons.”

Jude let out a long breath. “And when it comes to Audrey—”

“Yes, you may deny you knew what you were involving Claire with, but you knew exactly what you were doing with Audrey,” Gabriel interrupted.

“I love her,” he admitted. “I have loved her so long I can scarcely recall a time when I didn’t. I shouldn’t have entered into an affair with her. It was wrong and I knew it then as I know it now. But to have something you’ve always wanted offered to you, even for a stolen moment…it was too much to resist.”

The other three men were silent for a moment, and he could see they were all struggling with accepting what he said.

Finally Edward cleared his throat. “If you love her, prove it. Audrey has run off and I admit I have no idea where. You seem to think you know something about it. So tell us how we can find her.”

He nodded. “She was heartbroken when she learned the truth of what I’d done.”

“I know the feeling,” Evan muttered as he turned away.

Jude tried to remain composed as continued. “She knows that I went to visit my mother before I met with Claire last month. If she believes that I may have told my mother where I was going next, she likely went there to find out my next location. I think she’s trying to find Claire herself.”

Gabriel spun away with a curse. “And do you think Audrey might actually succeed?”

“I don’t know,” Jude admitted. “Claire and Aston move often. His criminal activity forces them to do so. But could she still be there, yes, it’s possible.”

Edward stepped forward. “We should go to your mother’s. What is it, half a day’s travel from here? Audrey would have arrived last night and likely been forced to spend the night with Mrs. Samson. We could still catch her.”

Jude nodded. “Yes, perhaps. But I think it would make more sense for us to split up. I’ll go to the village where I met Claire.”

“Where?” Gabriel asked, his voice hollow.

“Windport,” Jude said quietly. “Further south, by the sea. Another half day’s travel from both my mother’s and here. And you all can go to my mother’s in case Audrey is still there.”

As Edward and Evan both opened their mouths to speak, Gabriel moved forward. “No. I’m going with you, Samson.”

Edward blinked. “What?”

“If Claire is still there and Audrey somehow finds her, I want to talk to her myself.” Gabriel swallowed hard. “And I’m certainly not leaving Audrey alone with you.”

Jude hesitated. Alone with Audrey was exactly what he felt he needed to be if he was going to convince her to give up her quest to find Claire and come home. But he could see from Gabriel’s lifted chin and stubborn expression that he wasn’t being given a choice. He looked at Edward.

“Is that acceptable to you?” he asked softly. “You and Evan go to my mother’s home and I’ll go to Windport with Gabriel?”

“It seems the best solution,” Edward responded, though he didn’t make eye contact with Jude. “Come, we’ll prepare and we should be off as quickly as we can be.”

“What will we tell Mama?” Evan interrupted.

Edward sighed. “Mama. Yes. I think we’ll just tell her that we’re going shooting for a night. Mary can sit with her. We shouldn’t upset her if there is no news to tell.”

Jude lifted his chin. “Yes, sometimes it is better not to hurt those we love with the truth.”

All three men looked at him a long moment, and he saw the double meaning of his words was understood. Perhaps they even took it to heart. Jude had damaged his friendships. But he hoped, when this was all over, he might still have something left with this family to salvage.

“Come,” he said, thinking of Audrey and the danger she might be in if she stumbled upon Aston instead of her sister. Danger that might not be able to be undone. “We must hurry.”

* * *

AUDREY SMILED AT MRS. SAMSON as the woman passed her a plate of pastries. She wasn’t hungry, but she took one out of politeness. She sighed. Mrs. Samson looked so much like Jude. They shared dark blue eyes, the shape of their faces. Even the nose was the same.

And she missed him with a pang that she couldn’t ignore.

“I was so pleased when you landed on my door, my lady,” Mrs. Samson said. “Though surprised to find you there so late and without your family as chaperone.”

Audrey swallowed. “Well, as I said, I was visiting a friend and left too late. I recalled that you lived in this shire and having heard from Jude—Samson that you had been unwell I thought I would call. Thank you so much for your hospitality.”

Mrs. Samson cut a slice of ham on her plate as she stared at Audrey thoughtfully. “Is that all?”

Audrey blinked. “All?”

“My dear, though I may not be as close to your family as my son has become through the years, I am not a stranger to them or to you.” Mrs. Samson leaned forward. “I know better than to think you came here by accident. So tell me, is there anything wrong with my son?”

Audrey’s lips parted. “No,” she said swiftly. “No, I left him…I left him well.”

With a gasp, Mrs. Samson leaned back in her chair. “You know.”

“Know?” Audrey squeaked, shocked by that accusation. Did that mean Jude’s mother was aware of his betrayals?

“You know that he cares for you, beyond friendship.”

Audrey recoiled at her words, at her utter faith in them. It seemed Jude’s heart had been obvious to some, even if it had never been to her. “Mrs. Samson,” Audrey began.

“Hilda,” the other woman said firmly.

“Hilda,” she corrected herself. “I-I do know that your son cares for me.” She squeezed her eyes shut. In truth, she still knew that. She knew he loved her. Whatever mistakes he had made, they had never trumped that. “But that isn’t why I’m here.”

“No?” Hilda pushed her plate away. “Then why?”

“I think your son might know where my sister is. Or he did.”

Hilda’s eyes grew suddenly sad. The same way Jude’s had when he explained his betrayal to Audrey the previous day.

“My God, that boy has been looking for your sister for so long. I see it weigh on him when he speaks about it. The guilt he carries…”

Audrey flinched. She doubted his mother knew any more than the rest of them had about why Jude carried so much guilt about his part in Claire’s disappearance.

“He loves your family so deeply. Since we were put out by his father’s relations, he’s been so attached.” Hilda frowned.

“Your husband’s family was unkind to you, especially, I know.”

Her eyes widened. “He told you?”

She nodded. “A little.”

“Well, that makes sense, caring for you as he does.” Audrey remained silent and Hilda continued, “His father resented us for what he lost through his marriage to me. And so he didn’t defend us as he should.”

Audrey hesitated before she said, “He told me that his father’s side of the family ignored him. He wasn’t allowed to play with the cousins and the like.”

“Is that what he told you?” Hilda’s eyes filled with tears. “He spared you the worst. They abused him.”

Audrey drew back. “Abused?”

“They called him names. In public.” She caught her breath, the lingering pain still apparent in her voice. “And they called me names as well. His cousins would taunt him into making a physical attack, and when he did? He was beaten for it. I tried to stop it, but there was nothing I could do. I had no power. Eventually we were relegated to the country and I was just as happy for it. Jude might have been lonely there, but at least he wasn’t being hurt.”

Audrey caught her breath. “I didn’t know it was so bad.”

“Terrible.” Hilda sighed. “Which was why when he found such love and acceptance from your family, he grasped it with both hands. I think he would do almost anything for you and your brothers and your sister. He would certainly do anything to keep from losing you.”

Audrey shut her eyes. She had seen evidence of that fact, hadn’t she? Jude had kept his secrets. But why? Because of fear of losing the love of the one family that had accepted him.

“Oh, I’m prattling on. I only wanted to say how sorry I am for your family that your sister ran away. I can’t imagine losing my son like that.” Hilda shook her head. “But why would you come here to talk to me about it?”

“Jude visited you recently,” Audrey said, trying to set her feelings aside. Trying to focus on her goals rather than the new empathy she had for Jude and his reasons for what he’d done. “I think he went to find Claire after he visited you. Do you recall him speaking to you about where he was going after he left you a few weeks ago?”

Hilda pursed her lips. “He mentioned returning to London,” she offered. “He talked about your brother’s estates and such. The management duties.”

Audrey shook her head. “No, I don’t think it was London. Did he say any other place, any other name?”

After a moment in thought, Hilda perked up. “Windport.”

Audrey almost sagged in relief. “Do you know anything about it?”

“It’s a town half a day’s travel to the south along the coast. He talked about fishing and the curative baths and said he had a bit of business to do between.”

“Well, that may be where he went to seek out my sister.”

Hilda frowned. “And why aren’t you doing this seeking with him at your side?”

Audrey shifted. “I—because-I—”

“You showed up here alone,” Hilda continued. “Out of the blue, with these very dark and deep problems on your mind. He doesn’t know you’re doing this, does he?”

Audrey shook her head. “No. No one does.

“He’s told me a bit about the man who took your Claire,” Hilda said, reaching out. Audrey couldn’t help but note her gnarled hand, made twisted by arthritis. But she still gripped Audrey’s hand tightly as she said, “That rogue is dangerous, my lady.”

Audrey blinked at sudden tears. “I know. And that’s why I must find my sister if I can. Perhaps I can help her.”

“I don’t like it, you going alone.”

“I won’t be.” Audrey smiled with what she hoped would be read as reassurance. “I have my maid and my driver is very well-armed.”

Well-armed and rather reluctant to help her, but she’d still managed to convince him to do so.

Hilda shifted. “Jude will be very angry with me if I allow you to go.”

Audrey patted her hand gently before she stood. “No, he’ll be angry with me.”

“You?” Hilda laughed. “Not possible.”

“Why?”

“He loves you.”

Audrey squeezed her eyes shut. There was that reminder again, of the true feelings Jude had for her. The ones she was trying to forget. “Why are you so sure?” she whispered.

“Because from the first moment he saw you, he would have done anything for you.” Hilda tilted her head. “He lives to see you and he would die for you. It’s in every word he says about you, every way he looks when you’re mentioned or seen. But I have a question for you.”

“I’ll try to answer it,” Audrey said, even as she looked out the door toward the foyer. She didn’t want to be rude, but she wanted so desperately to get to Windport.

“Do you love him in return?” Hilda leaned forward. “I see pain in your eyes when you speak of him. But also something more. Do you love him?”

Audrey sucked in her breath. “I do.”

“Then you should wait for him,” Hilda said.

“Wait for him?”

“He’ll be coming for you once he knows you’ve gone off on this errand. I know him.”

Audrey let out her breath in a ragged sigh. “You are likely right, Hilda. And I swear to you, I love him with all my heart. But I can’t wait for him. Not for this.”

The older woman frowned, but made no move to stop Audrey as she stepped toward the exit. “She might not be there.”

“But I have to look.” Audrey smiled. “Thank you for your help. I hope I’ll see you again soon.”

She hurried from the breakfast room and to the foyer, where she asked Mrs. Samson’s servant to call for her carriage and gather up Ursula from the servant quarters.

Her mind was a spinning top at present. But she had to follow the course she had laid out for herself. For her sister’s future. And for her own.

Chapter Twenty-Three

“HAVE YOU SEEN MY SISTER?” Audrey asked, her heart racing just as it had been for the hour she had been walking around Windport, questioning each person she passed by and at every store she entered. The man behind the counter wrinkled his brow.

“You say she doesn’t look much like you,” he said.

Audrey tried to practice patience. “Not much,” she admitted. “Her hair is blonde rather than dark and her face is more oval. She has green eyes, not brown like mine. But we have the same nose.”

He tilted his head, as if he were looking at her nose. Then he shrugged. “What was her name again?”

“Claire,” she said as calmly as she could. “Claire Aston.” How she hated giving that name. “She’s married to a man named Jonathon Aston?”

The shopkeep shrugged. “Sorry, miss, I dunno. I see a lot of people here. And I have customers. So if you’re not going to buy, I need to move along.”

Audrey held back a sob as she nodded and turned toward the door. Ursula stood by there, her arms folded and her face filled with disapproval. “Lady Audrey, this is a bad idea.”

Audrey gritted her teeth in frustration. “Yes, so you have been saying for nearly two days.”

“It’s been a bad idea for two days. Let us go back to the room at the reputable hotel you made poor Carson get for us. And then let’s go home, back to your family. Before something bad happens.”

Audrey rolled her eyes as she opened the door. “Nothing bad is going to—”

She had hardly taken a step outside and hadn’t finished her statement when her arm was caught and she was dragged from the store and around the corner into an alleyway. As the man who had taken her leaned into her, she heard Ursula calling for her from the street.

“What—what do you want?” she whispered.

In the dim light, she saw a thin, wiry man, his beard scruffy and his hair too long. His eyes were bright and his grip hard on her arms as he held her.

“Why are you asking about Claire?” he growled.

Audrey’s lips parted and her reasonable terror was replaced by wild hope, even in the face of this man’s mad expression. “Do you know her?”

“She’s the boss’s lady,” he growled. “What you want with her?”

Audrey could hardly breathe. “You work for Aston?”

He shrugged. “Tell me.”

“She’s my sister and I only want to talk to her. Please, won’t you at least pass a message to her? Tell her I want to meet her?”

His face twisted and he seemed to ponder the question. “If I do, will you stop asking about her?”

Audrey wrinkled her brow. “Why?”

“You’re drawing attention, missy,” he growled. “And the boss won’t like that.”

“If you tell her I’m here, that I’m looking for her, I won’t ask another soul.” She held his gaze. “I promise it.”

He examined her for a moment and then let her go. “There’s a tavern on the east end of the main street. Budgeons. Get a room there and by seven and keep the room’s window open.”

“You’ll bring my sister?” she gasped.

He smiled, and the cruelty in his eyes made her regret showing how much she hoped that were true. “Someone will come. Now fly, little bird.”

He turned her toward the street and pushed her. By the time she spun back, he was gone and the alley was empty. She staggered toward the street where she still heard Ursula calling for her. Although she knew what she was being told to do was risky, in fact outright dangerous, it was the first time in nearly two years that she’d had even an inkling about her sister.

And if hearing something, anything, about her meant risk, then risk Audrey was going to take.

* * *

THE FOUR HOURS IT HAD taken Jude and Gabriel to ride to Windport were some of the most awkward of his life. His old friend had hardly spoken to him, barely acknowledged him at all. It felt a little like his childhood whenever he was forced to visit his father’s relations.

And he hated that.

As the sun began to set, they slowed their mounts as they reached the outskirts of the sleepy seaside village. Gabriel finally cast him a side glance. “I know my sister does what she wants.”

Jude frowned. “Audrey has her own mind, yes.”

“Oh, yes, Audrey too. But I meant…I meant Claire.”

He jerked his gaze to Gabriel in surprise. “Do you?”

“You may have introduced her to Aston, but she chose to run away with him. I’ve asked her a dozen times why in my letters. Obviously he tricked her into the initial departure, but why didn’t she come home once his true nature was revealed? We would have protected her. We would have sheltered her if she needed it. But her letters are…vague about the man and their dealings. None of that has anything to do with you.” Gabriel sighed. “She’s my twin, but I fear if it hadn’t been Aston, it would have been someone else. She wanted to run. She was determined to do so.”

Jude pressed his lips together. “That was the impression I got when speaking to her here as well. But that may change, Gabriel. Whatever drove her away, there is no way she won’t come home someday.”

“Why?” Gabriel asked.

“Because your family is loving. Forgiving. Welcoming. I’ve felt all those things. I hope to feel them again, even though I don’t deserve it. Who could stay away?” He frowned.

Jude thought he saw some of the kindness creep back in his friend’s eyes. But he only cleared his throat. “We should split up.”

Jude arched a brow. “But what if I find your sister first? What happened to not wanting me to be alone with her?”

Gabriel laughed. “If you can convince her to do something with you in whatever short amount of time you’ll have together, then there would be no stopping you anyway.”

Jude returned the smile. “You take the west side of town, I’ll take the east.”

“That sounds right. And I’ll take the southern approach, you take the northern. Meet in the square.”

Jude nodded and watched as his friend rode south to begin his portion of the search. With a sigh, Jude withdrew the miniature of Audrey that was still in his jacket pocket and got off his horse. After he’d secured the animal, he went into the first shop on the eastern side of the main thoroughfare.

Three shops later, he was no closer to finding Audrey. Many of the shopkeeps recalled him from his previous visit. Of course, that time he had been meeting Claire in a specific place, a dingy bar on the side of town he had chosen. Unlike some of the nicer shops that catered to visitors coming to town for the restorative waters, this place was for the dockworkers who staggered in after their work was done for the night.

He shuddered as he pushed back into the cramped building. The idea of Audrey coming here was blood-curdling. She was so pretty, so fresh, she would no doubt garner attention from the men who came here. Both the tired working men who only wanted respite and the less savory ones who might prey on a lady of quality and innocence.

He looked around the bar. With evening approaching it was still mostly empty, but the clientele didn’t look particularly friendly. In the back at a table, a few men looked up at him, glared at him, sizing him up. Jude stood up a bit straighter and clenched a fist at his side in readiness before he moved over to the bar that ran along the right wall of the establishment. A man was wiping down the surface with a dirty rag and glared at Jude.

“What?”

He held out the miniature. “I’m looking for a young woman,” he said.

In the corner, the men at the table laughed. “Ain’t we all, guv?”

He ignored them and focused on the mustached and very annoyed skinny bartender. “Have you seen her?”

“I know you,” the man said with a glare. “You were in here last month. All dressed in your finery, looking for another lady.”

Jude lifted his brows. It was odd the man would remember such a thing, but then it was possible not many strangers came in here.

“Yes,” he admitted slowly. “I was. But today I’m looking for her.” He held out the miniature for him.

“Do you know what you brought down on me?” the barkeep whispered, casting a glance at the table in the corner. The men were no longer playing cards, but watching them talk.

Jude knitted his brow. “What are you talking about?”

“You got them interested in this place,” the other man continued. “And if I’d known this bird was part of your crowd, I never would have let her go upstairs.”

Jude jolted and pointed at Audrey’s portrait. “This woman?”

“Not a quarter hour ago, just before that lot arrived.” He indicated the table in the corner. “She demanded a room and went up.” The bartender noted the increasing interest from the group in the corner and shifted. “Will you be having a drink, guv? I don’t know nothing about that girl,” he said the words loudly.

Jude swallowed hard. “I’ll take a room if you have them for rent,” he said, pulling out blunt and resting it on the table. “Will that cover the cost?”

The bartender yanked the money close and stuffed it under the bar before the large amount became evident. “Barely,” he hissed. “Go upstairs, third door from the right. Here’s a key.”

Jude took the key and tried very hard not to bolt for the stairs that were between the bar and the interested patrons. As he passed them by, he tipped his head in acknowledgment.

“Gentlemen.”

“Guv,” said one of the men, drawing the word out in mockery.

Once he was through the door, Jude raced up the stairs. Unless the bartender was only playing on his fears, which was utterly possible, Audrey was here. Why she was upstairs in an establishment such as this was a question he intended to ask her just as soon as he stopped holding her close and kissing her until he knew she was all right.

* * *

AUDREY PACED THE TINY, DIRTY little room and shuddered not for the first time. Knowing that people rented a hovel like this—both by the night and by the hour, as the bartender below had told her—was really very disturbing.

And why would someone rent a room by the hour anyway? It wasn’t enough time to sleep off the travel. It was hardly enough time to even get a bath. Not that she would take one here.

She shivered again and checked the window. Her orders had been very clear to leave the window wide open, and it was as wide as she could get it. She leaned out, looking down on an equally dank alleyway below, where a drunken man was currently casting up his accounts in a trash heap.

She spun away, her stomach turning. It was at that moment the door handle began to rattle. Someone was trying to get in! Could it be her contact?

But no, why wouldn’t he knock? Or use the window, as she had assumed was the plan by his orders.

She had locked the door, of course, but as she stared at the flimsy apparatus, she felt no comfort. Someone was trying to get in and she had no idea what they wanted. She backed up to the window, ready to jump if she had to. Although…looking down behind her, she was afraid all she’d succeed in doing was breaking her legs.

There was the click of a key being set into the lock, and she covered her mouth as she fought back a scream.

Without thinking twice, she dove for the bed and began to crawl under through the cobwebs and dust. But she hadn’t wedged herself under halfway when the door opened and she felt someone grab the waist of her dress. She pulled back in vain, dragging her fingernails against the wooden floor. But the person who had intruded was much stronger and he yanked her out into the open where he could do anything he liked to her.

Audrey flipped on her back and kicked at the intruder with all her might. At the same time, she uttered a scream that was truncated when she looked up and saw that it was Jude looming over her.

“Jude!” she cried and leapt to her feet to wrap her arms around him. He was warm and real and smelled like leather and horse and a hint of mint. She shook with relief as she clung to him, hardly noticing as he leaned back and shut the door quietly.

Once they were alone, he set her back, looking over her. He brushed dust from her hair and face. His expression was so tender, so loving as he said, “Are you all right? You’re not hurt?”

“No, not at all,” she breathed.

He smiled, but then his expression grew angry. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“Jude—” she began, but he didn’t stop talking.

“Running away after what your family has been through?”

“I didn’t—”

He shook his head as he railed on. “Coming here of all places? Endangering yourself? Terrifying all of us?”

“I wasn’t trying—” she tried, but again to no avail.

“You could have been killed, Audrey! Or raped! Or both! I swear that you are the most frustrating—”

“Samson!” she shouted, and finally he stopped talking. “Honestly, you say I’m frustrating?”

“You are frustrating,” he muttered. “And you need to explain yourself. Right now. Why did you run away?”

“I didn’t run away,” she insisted, dusting off her incredibly dirty gown as best she could. “I would never do that.”

“But you did do it,” he insisted. “You told Edward and the rest that you were going to London. But unless your driver, who will likely be sacked by the way, has the worst sense of direction in all the country, you must know he didn’t take you to London.”

“Well, he shouldn’t be sacked,” Audrey began, trying to focus. It was nearly impossible when Jude stood before her, so handsome even in his anger. Even through her own. “Carson did what I ordered him to do. He argued very strenuously, as did Ursula, but I wouldn’t allow it.”

“And why did you tell him to take you here?” Jude pressed.

“I didn’t. I had him go to your mother first,” she explained. “Jude, she is as lovely as ever. You should try to convince her to return to London. I think she’s lonely in the countryside and—”

His eyes went wide. “You are trying to change the subject! Why did you go there?”

She frowned. “You must have known what you confessed you had done would set off a chain of events, Jude.”

He threw up his hands in obvious frustration. “I thought you would tell your brother or have me sacked. I didn’t think you’d go running to my mama like we were children and I’d shoved you down.”

“Well, I didn’t go running to your mama,” Audrey corrected, though she smiled a little at his rendition. “Good Lord, I wasn’t there to tattle on you. I knew you’d gone to her before you met with my sister and thought she might know where you met with Claire.”

He rolled his eyes. “I thought as much. Edward and Evan went to do the same, to see if you were still there. You have terrified them, you know. When we received word you never arrived at the home where you were to spend the night, you should have seen their faces.”

Audrey had been trying to keep guilt and regret at bay almost since the first moment she had rolled away from her family home and her plan had truly begun. But now it hit her in a crashing wave.

“I’m sorry for that,” she said. “Did they tell my mother?”

“No,” Jude snapped. “We all felt she was still too weak to know the truth.”

She let out a sigh of relief before she thought about what he’d said. “But wait, if Evan and Edward are looking for me at your mother’s, where is Gabriel?”

“With me, here,” Jude said. “Looking for you across town.”

“Why did he come with you?” she pressed, searching his face but finding it more unreadable than ever. He was very stern, but she couldn’t see the reasons.

“Because none of them trust me,” he said softly. “Because they not only know that you have been in my bed, but they now know the same story of betrayal that sent you fleeing here.”

She staggered back. “Jude,” she breathed. “You told them?”

He nodded.

“But why? I told you I wouldn’t reveal the truth and I didn’t.” She blinked at sudden tears. “Jude, I never would have destroyed your relationship with them.”

He moved on her, catching her upper arms, dragging her a little closer so that she was utterly aware of his warm breath on her cheek and the hardness of his body against hers.

“Do you really think I gave a damn about my relationship with them when compared to your safety, Audrey? Have I not made it clear that I love you? I would sacrifice anything to have you safe.”

She blinked. “You—you would risk your livelihood, your lifelong friendships, your whole world for me?”

He nodded slowly. Her heart leapt, his words and the obvious truth behind them trumping his betrayal yet again. She cupped his cheeks. Gently, she drew him down and kissed him. He was stiff for a moment, but then opened to her seeking tongue.

For the first time in what seemed like an eternity he kissed her with all the passion that had shared, all the love they had exchanged and all the desperation of a man who believed it was ending.

And just as suddenly as it had begun, he set her aside.

“You are trying to distract me,” he muttered as he walked to the window where she had stood not but a moment before.

“Is it working?” she teased gently.

He didn’t smile as he faced her. “So you found my mother and she told you about Windport.”

“Yes. I spent the night there and left her home before ten this morning. The carriage seemed to take forever, but with limited stops I arrived here just after three.”

“Just a few hours ago,” he said.

She nodded. “I began to ask about my sister right away.”

“And what of Ursula and the driver?” he pressed.

“Ursula is very angry with me, I’m sure, but I snuck out of the hotel room we took up the street at a reputable establishment after I met the man.”

Jude blinked. “The man?”

“Will you stop grilling me and just let me explain?” she said. “Good Lord.”

He folded his arms. “Explain,” he ground out past what were obviously clenched teeth.

Carefully, she did just that, telling him everything about the man who had captured her in the alley. When she was finished, he moved on her, his face red as a ripe tomato.

“You cannot be so naïve, Audrey! And yet you are, for you let this room by the damned hour, to meet a man who is probably lying to you about knowing your sister at all.”

She pursed her lips. “I never said I let it by the hour, Jude. I only mentioned that it is possible to do so. I have no idea why.”

He cupped her face. “It is let by the hour so that the lightskirts who work the docks can fuck their lovers for money.”

She flinched at the bluntness of his language and the meaning behind it. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh. And likely the reason that little weasel in the alley wanted you to come here is so that he, or someone even worse, would have you alone here so he could do the same.”

“But he said he knew Claire,” she insisted, panic rising and clawing at her certainty.

“He didn’t say anything to you that he couldn’t have overheard in the general store.” He caught her hands and held them between his own. “I’m sorry, Audrey. I’m sorry, but the likelihood of your sister still being here is almost none. And that man lied to you, played on your desires so that he could fulfill his own.”

“Actually,” came a feminine voice from behind them. “Willows would be more interested in you than Audrey, Samson.”

Audrey’s head spun as she pivoted in what felt like slow motion. There, perched in the open window, was her sister. Claire’s blonde hair was pulled back loosely, framing her oval face. She wore men’s trousers and a baggy shirt that was tucked in haphazardly.

“Aren’t you going to say anything, Audrey?” Claire whispered.

Audrey opened her mouth, the emotions of the past few days—hell, the past two years—mobbing her. Overcoming her. To her surprise, darkness began to envelope her vision and she felt her knees buckle. Just before the world before her vanished, she felt Jude’s strong arms catch her. She heard his sweet voice say her name.

And then he was gone.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“WHAT WERE YOU THINKING, BRINGING her here?” Claire barked at Jude as he carried Audrey’s limp body to the lumpy bed and laid her down.

He glared at her. “God damn it, Claire, I didn’t bring her here. She came on her own accord.”

“Is she injured?” Claire asked, taking a step into the room, then hesitating.

“No.” Jude smoothed Audrey’s pale brow. “Just fainted, I think. The strain has been great on her between your mother’s illness and now this.”

“My mother’s illness?” Claire cried, her green eyes settling on him.

Jude nodded. “She has been very unwell, but is better now. Claire, you need to come home.”

“I can’t,” she whispered.

He frowned. “So you’ll let them suffer? Look at yourself in that get-up. Are you a burglar now?”

Claire moved into the room. She sat on the edge of the narrow bed and stroked Audrey’s cheek with her hand. “I’m a lot of things now.”

He frowned. When he’d last seen Claire a few weeks before, she hadn’t looked like this. She’d discouraged him, of course, and he had guessed she’d been forced to do a great deal she regretted.

Now he wondered how much force had been applied.

“How is it you’re still here?” he asked. “I would have thought you and Aston would have fled once you encountered me.”

She straightened. “We would have, except he didn’t know I’d met with you. He followed me into town the day we met but didn’t see you. I convinced him that I was here only to scout out potential…opportunities for his gang. He decided to work here a few weeks, strip a few visitors of their gold during their time in the restorative waters.”

“You help him,” Jude breathed. “I cannot believe it.”

“I do what I must,” she snapped. “How dare you judge me?”

He leaned across the bed, not shouting so he wouldn’t wake Audrey, but teeth clenched in anger. “I judge you because of what your actions do to people I love. Your mother, your brothers and Audrey. Claire, she is so desperate for you that she came here looking for you. She endangered herself for you!”

“I see that.” She frowned. “Why, though? Why here? Why now?”

“Because she found out what I’d done. How I was involved with your disappearance.” He bent his head. “And it destroyed everything.”

Claire turned her gaze from her sister to him. “Destroyed…wait, are you saying you finally acted on that tendre you’ve been carrying for my sister for, what? A decade?”

“Not a decade,” he muttered.

Claire smiled. “Oh, Samson.”

“But how could she love someone who betrayed her?”

Claire’s smile evaporated. “You didn’t betray her. I betrayed her. I betrayed all of them. But here she is, looking for me.” She leaned in to her sister and took a gentle whiff of her hair. “Even dusty and road worn, she still smells like oranges. Like home.” Jude looked across the distance between them and saw pain streaked across Claire’s face. She was trying to hide it, but it was there. “If she can forgive me enough to search for me, she can forgive you.”

“Why can’t you come home, Claire?” Jude asked.

“That is a very good question,” Audrey said, opening her eyes slowly. She looked up and into her sister’s face, then let out a cry and sat up. She slung her arms around Claire.

Jude said nothing, just watched as Claire returned the embrace. Although she acted hard, she couldn’t control the tears that began to slide down her cheeks as the sisters held each other.

Finally, Audrey pulled back. Jude tensed at the joy on her face, the hope. Audrey had come so far, convinced she could save her sister. But Jude wasn’t certain that was true. And he feared what it would do to this woman he loved. This woman of light and laughter and faith in goodness.

“Claire, what is going on?” Audrey asked softly. “Why are you here? Why are you dressed like this?”

“I’m dressed like this because it’s easier to scale a building in trousers.”

Audrey wrinkled her brow. “Claire,” she said, her tone a warning.

Claire let out a long sigh. “I’m here because you’re here. Audrey, you caught the interest of some very dangerous people by searching for me. When Willows came back, I managed to convince him to give me time before he told Aston everything he saw. But he won’t keep the fact that you were here looking for me a secret for long.”

“And you fear your husband will come after me.”

Claire’s face faltered a fraction. “Aston is worthy of fear, I assure you.” She glanced at Jude. “You need to take her home.”

“Not without you,” Audrey snapped.

Claire reached out and took her sister’s hand. “I’m not going back, Audrey.”

“We’re here, we can save you. We can protect you,” Audrey insisted.

Claire shot Jude a look that spoke volumes, and released Audrey. She stood up and backed away. “I don’t need protection,” she whispered. “And there’s no going back for me.”

Jude recoiled at that plainly stated fact. At the way Audrey’s face crumpled when it was said. He had caused all this. Caused Claire to go. Caused Audrey this pain with his secrets and his confessions. And he could do nothing for her but watch her drown in her pain.

* * *

AUDREY HEARD CLAIRE’S WORDS, AND individually she understood them. But together they made no sense. Here her family had fought, searched, prayed to find Claire, but now that they were together, her sister wouldn’t return? Even with the promise of protection?

“You can’t mean that,” Audrey whispered, though she could see from her sister’s expression that she did. She’d seen that stubborn tilt to Claire’s chin far too many times to doubt it.

“I do,” Claire said, her tone gentle but oh, so firm. “You don’t understand and I don’t ask you to. But I have gone too far, Audrey, to turn back. Too much is at stake now.”

Audrey’s lips parted. “You are saying you will never come home?”

There was a brief flash of hesitation in Claire’s bright eyes and she bent her head. “I-I cannot say never. But not now.”

Audrey shook her head. “You can’t mean that. You are delirious or terrified, but you can’t mean that. Let us get Gabriel. Let him talk to you—”

Claire flattened against the wall behind her, her face twisting with pain and horror. “Gabriel is here?”

Jude nodded. “He came with me here to look for Audrey. And honestly, he’s probably searching for you as well. Edward and Evan will likely be coming shortly, as soon as they realize Audrey isn’t where they are looking.”

Claire had begun to shake at the mention of her twin. “I won’t see him,” she whispered. She stared at Audrey for a moment. “I’m sorry, Audrey. Sorry to hurt you. But I won’t stay. And I won’t go with you.”

Audrey parted her lips, but Claire held up a hand to silence her.

“I will give you one bit of advice.” She looked at Jude. “Don’t turn away from Samson. He was deceived by Aston and…and by me. What happened wasn’t his fault and he has spent a very long time trying to fix it. Not for our family, but for you.”

Audrey turned her tear-streaked face toward him, searching for his help, searching for his comfort. And of course he offered it, stretching out his hand to take hers, squeezing it gently. The touch of his skin against hers soothed her in her distress, bringing a moment of light and pleasure into this pain.

“One of us should have love, sister,” Claire whispered. “Look at him and tell me it won’t be you.”

Audrey did just that, staring at the man she loved. She caught her breath and turned her face to speak to her sister again, but to her shock she saw Claire’s booted foot disappearing out the window.

She let out a cry, and both she and Jude bolted to the window, but Claire was gone, vanished on the wind much like Willows had been in the alley earlier in the day.

Behind them, the door opened and Audrey turned to find Gabriel rushing inside. His face lit with relief when he saw her.

“They said you were here, they said—” He cut himself off. “What is it?”

“Claire,” Audrey sobbed as she turned into Jude’s chest.

“Claire!” her brother repeated. “Where?”

“Disappeared out the window not a moment ago,” Jude explained as he stroked her hair.

“No!” Gabriel cried and ran back out the door, down the hall.

Audrey pulled away. “He won’t find her,” she whispered.

Jude hesitated. He could lie to her, try to comfort her, but he wouldn’t. She deserved the truth now, just as she had from the beginning. “No, not until she wants to be found, I fear. They’ll pull up stakes now that we’ve been here.”

“Oh God, poor Gabriel,” Audrey breathed as the ache in her chest blossomed and spread. “He’s so desperate to find her. As his twin, he feels her loss all the more.”

Jude touched her chin, tilting her face up toward his. “In the midst of this, you worry more for Gabriel than for yourself. When you have equally lost. You are wonderful.”

She shook her head. “I am not wonderful. And I would do anything to keep my family from pain. Just as you did, and I blamed you for it. I’m sorry.”

Jude wrapped an arm around her. “You have nothing to feel sorry about, my love. And we can talk about this later. Come, we’ll find Gabriel and go back to the hotel.”

Audrey nodded. “We have much to discuss.”

“Much,” he agreed, his tone grim but also hopeful. And even through her pain she felt the same hope. For them and their future. The one she hadn’t been considering. The one she wanted now more than ever.

Chapter Twenty-Five

AS JUDE ENTERED THE ROOM, Audrey looked up from her small bag and smiled. It was a tired smile, a sad one. The same one that had been on her face since their encounter with Claire two long days before.

“You look tired,” she said before he could say the same.

He shrugged. “Two nights sharing a room with Gabriel, hearing all his plans to find Claire, were not restful, I admit.”

“You should have come here,” she said softly.

He lifted both eyebrows. Since two evenings past, they had not been alone long enough to discuss the future. The past. Them. Now those quiet words renewed a hope he’d been trying to keep in check in the midst of Woodley family turmoil.

“With Evan and Edward in the rooms on either side of you?” he said with a laugh. “I would have been shot dead at dawn for sure.”

She smiled a little wider. “But the last wish would have been very sweet, I promise you,” she murmured, then crossed to him. “Do you think you might convince Edward to allow you to ride in my carriage back with me? We have much to discuss.”

He drew in a long breath. “I-I already asked him as much. And he agreed. Ursula will ride my mount, at least for a while.”

She nodded, but he thought he saw her eyes light up. “Good.”

He took her bag and led her downstairs where the carriage and the horses were lined up in wait. Ursula, Gabriel and Evan were already mounted, Gabriel’s face was lined with heavy emotion, Evan’s only slightly less so. Edward stood at the carriage door and his face was also drawn as she approached him.

Jude watched as the brother and sister embraced silently. Then he helped Audrey in and turned his attention to Jude.

“You two deserve a little time,” Edward said softly.

Jude nodded. Since Claire’s second disappearance and the arrival of the rest of the Woodley brothers, there had been tension between them. But there had also been hope. Still, he had no illusions that what had been damaged could ever be fully repaired.

“Edward,” he said. “When we get back, if you want to sack me, I won’t argue. I’ll understand if you never wanted to see me again.”

Edward shook his head as if in disbelief. “Is that what you’ve been waiting for all these days? To be turned away?”

Jude shrugged. “I would deserve no less.”

“You made a mistake,” Edward conceded. “And I’m still angry about that mistake. But you have long been as much a brother to me as Evan or Gabriel is. And I would never turn away a brother. Especially one who has shown remorse for what he did.” Edward glanced at the carriage, where Audrey was certainly eavesdropping. “And even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t hurt Audrey like that. To tear away someone she loves would be especially cruel. So you are not in danger. At least not from me or Evan or Gabriel. Audrey…” He tapped the carriage lightly and then turned to climb on his mount. “Well, she’ll speak her own mind plainly enough, I’d wager.”

Jude took a deep breath of relief—but also nervousness—and climbed into the carriage. As the door was shut behind him and the vehicle began to move, he looked at Audrey. “Your brother is right, we have much to discuss.”

She shook her head and slowly moved to his side of the vehicle. She wrapped her arms around him, lifted her lips to his. “We do, but I also have a lot to show you,” she whispered before she kissed him.

He was silent and stiff in surprise for a moment, but soon the pressure of her mouth on his was too much to deny. He opened to her, wrapping her closer, feeling her strain toward him without hesitation.

“Audrey,” he panted as he forced their mouths to part. “This isn’t what I had in mind when we planned to ride together.”

“Isn’t it?” she said with a wicked smile. “Because touching you is all I’ve thought about for a very long time.”

She accentuated that statement by cupping him through his trousers, stroking the rapidly hardening length of him that disprove any statement he might make about not wanting her. He groaned at the intimate touch and lifted toward her seeking fingers.

“I want you,” she murmured. “Now. Please.”

“I could never deny you,” he said, almost pleading, because it was true.

He had never been able to walk away, and until the day she told him she didn’t want him, he never would. Despite not knowing where he stood, despite still feeling like he was on the verge of losing her, as she loosened the flap on his pants and lowered it, revealing his hard cock, he sighed with pleasure and anticipation.

“I have missed this,” she breathed, then lowered her head to his sex. She brushed him with her lips, darting out her tongue to taste him with a low moan of pleasure that mimicked his.

“Audrey,” he groaned, quiet because he knew her brothers were just outside. “We shouldn’t.”

“The curtains are closed,” she whispered against his flesh. She swirled her tongue around him before she continued, “And I can’t wait.”

He grunted softly, then grabbed her arms and pulled her up into his lap. He crushed his mouth to hers, tasting her, claiming her, as he shoved her skirts up around her waist.

She returned his ardor with her own shifting as he pressed his fingers through the slit in her drawers and found her wet sex waiting. They sighed in unison as she straddled him, bringing herself down over him, over him, around him until he was fully seated.

“I love you,” she murmured as she began to move over him. Their joining was hard and fast, without much finesse, but he didn’t care. The feel of her pulsing around him, the look on her face as she strove for pleasure, built toward it and finally stifled her cry as she found it was too much. Her sex milked him with release and he grunted as his seed moved and flowed into her, a final joining that trumped all others before it.

She collapsed against his chest with a shudder of pleasure, then smiled up at him as she moved from his body and slowly fixed herself. He did the same before he gathered her against him in satisfied pleasure.

“Now that that’s done,” he said after they had ridden along for a while. “I think it’s time for our chat.”

“Yes,” she agreed, looking up into his face. “I have a great deal to say.”

He laughed. “Of course you do.”

She swatted him playfully, but her face sobered. “I don’t like that you’ve lied to me, to everyone, for so long. But I’ve thought a lot about it. I know I’ve lied to protect those I loved in the past. And I can admit I have sometimes lied to protect myself.”

“I shouldn’t have done it, though.”

“No,” she agreed. “But I look into your eyes and I believe you wouldn’t do it again. I believe that you would tell me the truth, if only to keep me from running off as I did.”

“What if we make a deal,” he suggested. “You don’t run away trying to save your sister and I won’t keep anything from you again.”

She nodded. “It’s fair. But I’ll need another promise.”

“Which is?”

She took a long breath. “I want to marry you, Jude. I want to love you for the rest of our lives. I want to be yours and have you be mine, publicly and permanently.”

He set back in disbelief at her words and the earnestness with which she spoke them. All her love was in her eyes. All her hope. All her fear.

“Are you proposing to me, Lady Audrey?”

“I am, Mr. Samson,” she said with a faint smile of her own. “I know, more than others, how fleeting our time together can be. I don’t want to lose another moment with you.”

He couldn’t help the smile that was so broad he feared he would split his cheeks. “You have always been terrible at the concept of patience, so I will tell you that I always intended to ask for your hand as soon as we got home and I could speak to your mother and Edward. So if they agree to these terms, I will marry you as soon as legally possible. And I will make you as happy as I can possibly do for the rest of both our lives. If that will suit you.”

She smiled at him. “It will suit me very well. Very well, indeed.”

He settled his mouth against hers once more and she lifted to him hungrily. Happily. But when she pulled away, there was trouble lingering on her face. Trouble he understood.

“Still thinking of Claire?” he asked.

“I can’t help it, Jude.” She shivered even though the carriage was warm. “I go over her words over and over. That she’s gone too far, that she won’t return, that we shouldn’t seek her out anymore.”

“But you aren’t going to listen,” he said. “And neither am I.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “What? Are you saying you will disregard her order to let her go? That you will continue to seek her out? For me?”

“For you. But also because Claire is a Woodley. And I may not share my blood or my name with your line, but I am a Woodley in my heart.”

“And you will be a Woodley once we wed,” she pointed out.

He smiled wide at that thought. “I suppose I will be a Woodley at last. And the thing I have learned from my life on the outside edges of your family is that you don’t give up.”

“No,” she said with a smile. “We don’t give up. Not on each other.”

“And so we won’t give up on Claire,” he reassured her.

“I love you,” she whispered.

His heart swelled with the same feeling, his body was full of it. And he gathered her up again to kiss her. But before he did, he said, “And I love you, Audrey. With all I am, with all I ever have been. With all I ever will be. Forever.”

Epilogue

“AND SO YOU WILL MARRY here,” Lady Woodley said as she beamed up from her spot on her pillows, her face more filled with light and strength then it had been for days.

But of course Audrey had never doubted that her mother would approve of her union, even if Jude had been nervous about it.

Audrey nodded, reveling in the warmth of her future husband’s strong arm around her waist. “As soon as we can, if it is amenable to all.”

“It’s certainly amenable to me,” Jude murmured, eliciting smiles from all in the room, even Gabriel, who had not smiled since they lost Claire once again. But her brother was putting on a good face for their mother.

“Edward will use his influence to obtain the license, I’m sure,” her mother said, and Edward nodded his agreement. “And I will send a note to the vicar to see if we can do it swiftly. Though I am sorry we won’t be able to go to London and enjoy the preparations for a giant wedding.”

Audrey looked around the room at her family, or what remained of it. She let her gaze fall last on Jude, who had punished himself for so long.

“A huge London wedding does not appeal to me in the slightest,” she said. “I have everything I want right here.”

“That’s funny,” Jude said softly, his words for her even though the rest of the room could hear. “I was going to say the exact same thing.”

Books by Jess Michaels

The Wicked Woodleys

Forbidden (Book 1)

Deceived (Book 2)

Tempted (Book 3)

Ruined (Book 4 – coming March 2016)

Seduced (Book 5 coming May 2016)

The Notorious Flynns

The Other Duke (Book 1)

The Scoundrel’s Lover (Book 2)

The Widow Wager (Book 3)

No Gentleman for Georgina (Book 4)

A Marquis for Mary (Book 5)

The Ladies Book of Pleasures

A Matter of Sin

A Moment of Passion

A Measure of Deceit

The Pleasure Wars Series

Taken By the Duke

Pleasuring The Lady

Beauty and the Earl

Beautiful Distraction

Mistress Matchmaker Series

An Introduction to Pleasure

For Desire Alone

Her Perfect Match

Jess Michaels raffles a FREE Kindle or Amazon gift certificate EVERY month to members of her newsletter, so sign up on her website:

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About Jess Michaels

JESS MICHAELS WRITES EROTIC HISTORICAL romance from her home in Tucson, AZ with her husband and one adorable kitty cat. She has written over 50 books, enjoys long walks in the desert and once wrestled a bear over a piece of pie. One of these things is a lie.

Jess loves to hear from fans! So please feel free to contact her in any of the following ways (or carrier pigeon):

www.AuthorJessMichaels.com

PO Box 814, Cortaro, AZ 85652-0814

Email: Jess@AuthorJessMichaels.com

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THE CAPTAIN’S BLUESTOCKING MISTRESS

By Erica Ridley

Dear Reader

My latest series, The Dukes of War, features roguish peers and dashing war heroes who return from battle only to be thrust into the splendor and madness of Regency England.

This story is close to my heart. I loved the idea of soldier coming home from war and doing his best to return to normal, when normal in this case means dandies and debutantes.

How would a hero deal with PTSD in a society that values frivolity? And once a heroine is labeled a bluestocking and a wallflower, what lengths could she go to break out of the mold?

Jane and Captain Grey were an absolute delight to write. I hope you enjoy their journey as much as I do!

xoxo,

Erica

* * *

Join Erica’s mailing list at http://EricaRidley.com/club99 for a FREE book!

Four left for war . . .

Only three made it home.

Chapter 1

March 1816

London, England

UNDER NORMAL CIRCUMSTANCES, MISS JANE Downing would have been eager to alight from a chilly carriage and rush indoors for a welcome respite from the brutal winter. The exquisite building in front of the long line of coaches was none other than the Theatre Royal. The Duke of Ravenwood himself had loaned them his magnificent box for the occasion.

Most debutantes—most anyone, for that matter—would have been in raptures at such an opportunity.

Jane was not.

She was old enough to be more properly labeled a spinster than a debutante, if anyone chanced to glance her way long enough to label her anything at all. She sighed. Unlikely. After all, the princely theatre box hadn’t been loaned to her. She was no one.

But because even invisible old maids couldn’t gallivant about unchaperoned, her best friend Grace and her husband the Earl of Carlisle (to whom the box had been gifted) had driven in the opposite direction of the opera house in order to collect Jane and return to Covent Garden in time for the performance. All she could do was keep a smile on her face and do her best to be charming.

The ignominy of her inconvenienced friends wasn’t why Jane wished she were elsewhere, however. Those were everyday trials. And these were her friends.

Grace reached across the small interior to squeeze Jane’s hands as the wheels of the coach inched forward in the queue to the theatre. “Thank you ever so much for joining us. This is my first opera, and I am delighted to be sharing the night with all of my favorite people.”

Jane gave Grace’s hands an answering squeeze. In situations like these, the best thing to do was to lie through one’s teeth. “I’m thrilled to be here. Thank you for inviting me.”

She folded her hands back into her lap and wished for something else to say to break the renewed silence. She was adept at conversation when she was speaking privately with someone she was comfortable with. But she and Grace weren’t alone in the coach. Grace’s mother, Mrs. Clara Halton, sat to Jane’s left, gazing lovingly across the carriage toward her daughter. Lord Carlisle, of course, sat next to his wife, watching her as if the moon and stars paled next to her beauty.

Jane would kill to have a man look at her like that. Just. Once.

Lord Carlisle hadn’t stopped looking at Grace like that. Not since the moment he’d first caught sight of her. Jane should know. She’d seen it happen. From her eternal vantage point among the spinsters and the shadows, she observed everything. Other people laughing, dancing. Falling in love.

Yet spending the entire evening with a newly wed, obviously besotted couple wasn’t what had her biting her lip and cursing her jittery leg. Jane was delighted for her friends. She loved spending time with them.

She hated being out in Society. No—she hated being invisible in Society.

Her friends wouldn’t understand. Before Grace had ensnared an earl and become his countess, back when she’d been penniless, gauche, and persona non grata for being an upstart American, she’d still caught everyone’s eye. After all, Grace was beautiful. With her white skin, black hair, and sparkling emerald eyes, she easily attracted the attention of men and women alike.

Jane couldn’t even attract mosquitoes.

It wasn’t because she was plain. Many plain women managed to be popular and find husbands. Not Jane. In four-and-twenty years, she’d only twice been invited to dance.

Her dreams of finding someone were just that. Dreams. She smoothed out her skirts. It wasn’t the few extra pounds on her frame, or that she was an unrepentant bluestocking. Her lifelong curse was the unfortunate fact of being utterly, absolutely, one hundred percent… forgettable.

Her head began to ache as the carriage wheels inched her ever closer to a long night of being ignored and misremembered.

Even with all this snow and the serpentine trail of coaches, she and her companions would have plenty of time to mingle by the refreshments before taking their seats.

Jane slumped against the squab. Mingling was horrid. Mingling was standing still in a sea of faces that never once turned in her direction.

She turned her gaze toward the street and sat up straighter. A cluster of well-dressed gentlemen flocked toward a row of women strolling toward the theatre in stunning, bright-colored gowns. Courtesans. She stared out the window, fascinated. These men were hunting their next mistresses.

Her nostrils flared as the men danced attendance upon the demimondaines. Some of the Cyprians were gorgeous and some were ghastly, but each of them would receive more male attention in one night than Jane would in her entire life.

How ironic that the same gentlemen who had never thought to ask Jane to dance would gladly spend exorbitant sums of money in exchange for an hour in the company of a woman with less education and a worse reputation than she had.

What must it be like to be one of them? These weren’t desperate, gin-addicted whores in some bawdy house, forced to accept every brute with a penny. These women were elegant and expensive. They could select their lovers as they pleased.

Jane tilted her head. If she could have any man she wished, who would it be?

A dark, hard-as-granite officer with haunted blue eyes sprang instantly to mind. Captain Xavier Grey.

Heat pricked her cheeks. Of course he sprang to mind. He was all the ton spoke about, and one of the earl’s dearest friends. He had always caught Jane’s eye. Years before, when he was merely Mr. Grey, he had still been handsome and confident and the last person on earth who might notice the mooning gaze of a soon-to-be spinster. And then he’d left for war.

Three years later, he’d become a hollow husk of a man, beautiful and broken. He’d remained locked inside his head until Lord Carlisle had rescued the captain from—well, wherever he’d been—and returned him to England, determined to give him back some life.

The last time she’d seen the captain was over a month ago, the night Grace and Lord Carlisle had been compromised into marriage. He had seemed so… defeated. The ton was in full agreement that Captain Grey had miraculously awoken from his fugue that very night, but Jane held a private opinion.

For him to “awaken” implied he’d been in a state of arrested consciousness, and she didn’t believe that was the case at all. Every time she’d glimpsed him, his eyes had been too tempestuous to imagine him unaware of the world about him. He just no longer wished to be part of it.

Jane wrapped her arms about her chest and tried to put him out of her mind.

The time to obsess over a strong, silent soldier with dark, haunted eyes was five hours from now, when she was alone in bed with her thoughts. Right now, she needed to focus on being a good friend.

She gave her companions her sunniest smile. “How go the renovations on Carlisle House?”

Grace’s eyes lit up. “’Tis only been a week since the wedding, so we haven’t purchased much—aside from furnishings for my mother’s chambers, of course.” She sent a fond glance toward her mother, then touched her fingers to Lord Carlisle’s chest. “I don’t care about chandeliers and fancy gowns. What we have is more than enough. I want Oliver to spend every penny on his tenants before restoring the estate.”

“And I don’t want you to lack a single comfort,” Lord Carlisle responded gruffly as he pressed a gentle kiss to the top of his wife’s hair.

Wasn’t that adorable? Jane clenched her teeth behind her smile. She wasn’t jealous in the slightest.

No. This was going to be a splendid evening. She was fortunate to have been invited. This opera was one of her favorites.

She pasted the smile back on her face.

“What are your duties while Lord Carlisle handles his affairs?” she asked her friend. “I imagine managing such a large household must be a challenge.”

Grace shook her head. “I thought so at first, but they don’t require much direction from me. Most of the staff has been working there since Oliver was a child. What I truly wish we had is some entertainment for Mama. The library is empty, and—”

Lord Carlisle swung his head sharply in her direction. “I shall order a dozen titles as soon as the tenants’ roofs have been repaired.”

Her chin jutted forward. “Absolutely not. You have other duties a hundred times more important than travel tomes and gothic novels. I refuse to—”

“I have books,” Jane interjected before the fight could continue. “I can lend...” She coughed into her gloved fist. No. She could do better than that. These people counted their shillings, and she loved them dearly. “…that is, give you as many history tomes and gothic novels as you might like.”

Lord Carlisle’s voice hardened. “We couldn’t possibly.”

Jane made a self-deprecating gesture. “Your wife’s best friend is a bluestocking with more books than sense. You might as well get something out of the association.”

Even if it killed her. She rubbed her suddenly chilled arms. Just the thought of losing any part of her collection left her empty.

Every book, every story, was dear to her heart. For long, lonely weeks at a time, the only conversation she heard was the dialogue printed within those pages—well, that and the gentle prodding of her brother’s servants if she missed a meal. Books kept her company so often that she had a fair quantity memorized. Mansfield Park. Waverley. Guy Mannering. Her throat convulsed. Of course she would relinquish her dearest possessions to Grace and her mother.

That’s what friends did.

Grace reached across the carriage to squeeze Jane’s hand again. “You are the kindest woman who ever lived. I will accept a loan, but not a gift. We shall return your books as quickly as we can read them.”

Some of the tightness left Jane’s shoulders. “As you please.”

The carriage jerked to a stop. Lord Carlisle and Mrs. Halton exchanged pleased smiles. Grace clapped her hands in excitement.

Jane concentrated on making it through the night with her pride intact.

Lord Carlisle helped his wife from the carriage, then his mother-in-law. When it was Jane’s turn to alight, she rallied her courage and forced herself up from the squab. It was just a Society event. She would survive.

Once on Bow Street, they bent their heads against the bitter wind and dashed into the theatre lobby. Warmth enveloped them. To the others, the heat from the fireplace might have been welcome, but to Jane, it was her cue that she had officially entered Hell. Throngs of fashionable faces crowded them at once.

“Lord Carlisle! Lady Carlisle!”

“You look radiant, Lady Carlisle! Lovely to meet you, Mrs. Halton!”

“I fancy you want your grays back, Carlisle. Their price has doubled, I daresay!”

“Please say you’ll come to our dinner party next month, Lady Carlisle.”

“Ravishing bride, Carlisle. I hear the mother’s a widow?”

“Congratulations on your nuptials, Lady Carlisle. Is this stunning woman your mother?”

“She is!” Grace chirped, radiant as a new countess. “Your Grace, I present Mrs. Halton. Mama, this is His Grace, the Duke of Lambley.” A firm grip latched onto Jane’s wrist and yanked her to Grace’s side. “And this is Miss Downing, my best friend. She’s as brilliant as she is beautiful.”

The duke bent over Jane’s fingers. “In that case, I am very pleased to meet you.”

“As am I.” She refrained from mentioning they’d met on at least ten prior occasions. It wasn’t his fault. Rakes couldn’t be expected to recall the names of all the ladies they’d tupped, much less the face of lowly wallflower.

“Grace!” squealed a happy female voice. “That is, Lady Carlisle. Do you adore being a countess?”

“I definitely adore my earl,” Grace answered with a laugh. “Lady Matilda, this is my friend Miss Downing. Jane, I’d like you to meet Lady Matilda.”

It seemed churlish for Jane to say, I met her when we had our come-out on the same evening, then again when her cousin disappeared at a musicale and Matilda Kingsley needed someone to turn the pages, then again when the ladies’ club collected embroidered handkerchiefs for charity, so Jane just sighed and said, “How do you do?”

As she always, always did.

Emptiness yawned inside of her. Jane wasn’t just a fixture in Society—she was a fixture. No more memorable than a carpet or a bellpull.

Grace looped her arm through Jane’s and turned her toward one of the young men. “This is my best friend, Miss Downing. Jane, this is Mr. Fairfax.”

Another familiar face.

He touched his lips to the back of Jane’s gloved hand. “Don’t believe everything they write about me in the scandal sheets.”

She smiled brightly. “So you’re not an incurable rogue addicted to gaming hells and pricy brothels?”

Grace groaned into her hands.

Jane blinked back at her innocently.

As expected, Mr. Fairfax wasn’t listening. His gaze had already been caught by a young lady in an emerald dress, and he was even now disappearing into the crowd without remembering to say good-bye.

Grace cast Jane a look, but before she could say a word of chastisement she was once again surrounded by well-wishers. “Oh, of course, Lady Grenville! I would love for you to meet my mother. Mama, this is …”

Jane stepped back into the shadows. She supposed the positive aspect to never being recalled was that she could get away with some truly outlandish behavior. Mr. Fairfax hadn’t been insulted. He’d already forgotten her.

She let the voices fade to a distant buzz. Her ability to ignore the outside world and live inside her head was key to getting through each boring, endless day. When at home, it let her escape into her books. And when at the Theatre Royal… Well, living inside her head was better than being introduced to the same blank faces time and again.

Others might not mind. Her brother, Isaac, preferred being invisible. He was boring on purpose, just to keep his name off the Marriage Mart’s most wanted list. He cherished his solitude.

Jane was the opposite. She often said the most outrageous things she could think of in the hopes of seeing awareness flash for just one second in someone else’s eyes, but it never, ever happened. If there was a boring, harmless way to interpret her boldest insults or double entendres, that’s precisely how her remarks would be taken—and then promptly forgotten. It was as though High Society suffered from total Jane Amnesia. Janenesia.

“Ladies.” Lord Carlisle proffered one arm to his wife and the other arm to her mother. “It’s time to take our seats.”

Jane trailed in their wake.

It wasn’t that her friends had forgotten her. Lord Carlisle possessed two arms and was escorting three women. Besides, Jane was used to walking unnoticed in other people’s shadows.

When she was younger, she’d thought perhaps her stride was the problem. That maybe she’d copied so much of Isaac’s careful boringness that her very walk made her invisible.

Easy enough to correct! She’d tried strutting like a peacock. Shimmying like a demimondaine. Swaggering like a dandy. Once, she’d shuffled ploddingly behind her brother with her mouth hanging open as if she were the walking dead intent on eating him alive. At the annual Sheffield Christmastide ball. In front of hundreds of witnesses. At the very least, she’d expected to gain a horrid-but-catchy nickname, like Lady Automaton or even That-Poor-Miss-Downing-What-Do-You-Suppose-Is-Wrong-With-Her?

Nothing. Not a blink. Complete Janenesia.

Lord Carlisle paused in front of Ravenwood’s opera box and held back the curtain. Mrs. Halton slipped inside first, followed immediately by Grace. Just as Jane moved forward, Lord Carlisle stepped in behind his wife. The curtain didn’t precisely fall on Jane’s head. She pushed the curtain aside and hurried inside as quickly as possible. The box was dim, but sumptuous. She pushed a few more pins into her displaced curls and settled into an empty seat.

Of course Carlisle wished to sit next to his wife. They were newly wed. And Jane was a never-will. Even if she could somehow command a man’s attention, with what would she keep it? Her brain was a mark against her, and as for her alleged beauty… Her own papa had always said she was quite pretty—for a plump girl.

Although the current high-waisted fashions did nothing to hide her plumpness, the billowing tubular midsection gave all women a rounder midsection, so at least she wasn’t the only young lady thus afflicted. Just the only undesirable one.

The audience rumbled excitedly as the thick red curtain began to part onstage.

Grace leaned into her husband, her brow furrowed. “He’s not coming?”

Lord Carlisle slipped her hand in his. “He’ll be here. He would never break his word.”

Jane kept her voice hushed as she turned toward them. “Who won’t break his word?”

“An old friend,” Carlisle murmured at the same moment Grace said, “Captain Grey.”

Chapter 2

HEAT RACED UP JANE’S CHEEKS. Captain Grey? Was joining them here?

Her entire body was blushing, just at the sound of his name. And the reminder of the rather lurid thoughts she had about him every time she closed her eyes.

She couldn’t move a muscle. Heaven help her, she could barely even think. This was a disaster.

The last thing this evening needed was the object of her fantasies to sit right beside her and remain unaware of her existence. She’d rather return home now, before complete and utter humiliation had a chance to rear its ugly head.

“How do you know he’s coming?” she asked breathlessly.

“Because he said so.” Lord Carlisle lifted his wife’s fingers to his lips. “I told him it would please Grace if he would join us at least once before removing to Essex.”

“He’s… leaving?”

Grace nodded. “Tomorrow. He has a little cottage a couple miles past Chelmsford and he plans to stay there the rest of the Season.”

“Or perhaps forever.” Carlisle’s jaw tightened. “Xavier thinks he may never be ready for Polite Society. He may be right.”

Jane swallowed hard. Of course the dark and dangerous man of her dreams planned to disappear from Society forever after tonight. What did she expect?

The curtain to the private box flung open. There, silhouetted by the chandeliers in the corridor, stood the infamous Captain Grey… and a very imperious usher.

A wry smile quirked the corner of Captain Grey’s lips. “I’m afraid my good man here couldn’t quite credit that I was welcome in the Duke of Ravenwood’s box. Shall I go?”

Lord Carlisle sprang to his feet. “Of course you’re welcome! Come, sit. I believe you know everyone present?” He turned toward the usher. “We’re all very pleased our dear friend was able to join us. That will be all.”

“I’m so sorry, my lord,” the red-faced usher spluttered. “He looked… I thought—”

“It’s forgotten. Go.” Lord Carlisle dismissed the usher, then turned to Jane. His voice lowered. “Do you mind moving down a seat so Xavier can sit next to me?”

Captain Grey frowned. “Unnecessary. I’ve already interrupted enough.”

“No, I don’t mind.” Jane scrambled out of the way and waved a hand toward her vacated seat. “Please. Sit next to your friend.”

He inclined his head and took his seat.

The lighting was too dim to make out the crystalline blue of his eyes or the long black lashes that framed them. But Jane didn’t need lighting to recall every angle of his chiseled features or the careless tumble of wavy black hair against the stark white of his cravat. Every inch of him was seared into her memory.

Well, every properly (but disappointingly) clothed inch, that was. Nothing could hide the strong thighs encased in buckskin breeches or the thickly muscled arms filling out the sleeves of his expertly tailored jacket.

Heaven help her. She was going to be a hairsbreadth away from this gorgeous man for the next three hours. She absolutely, positively, couldn’t swoon. Or throw herself into his arms. His thick, powerful arms.

Her breath caught. This was impossible. He’d been seated next to her for less than five seconds and already her heart thundered as though she were running for her life. Perhaps she should be. Captain Grey wasn’t good for one’s reputation… or one’s heart.

Everyone knew that. He’d returned from war in a fugue state, and even before that, he hadn’t been considered a catch. Not by Society. He wasn’t rich. He wasn’t heir to a coronet. And he’d always had the same air of danger and unpredictability that clung to him even now.

He appeared confident, graceful, and deadly. No wonder the usher had hesitated. Captain Grey moved more like a hunter than a gentleman. Those piercing blue eyes could freeze a duke right in his tracks.

Or a bluestocking spinster.

She lowered her lashes. There was no way she was going to be able to pay any attention to this opera. She was too aware of his intoxicating proximity, of the rise and fall of his chest, of the way his eyes… were looking right at her? Her leg started bouncing with nerves. He’d caught her staring. She slid a little lower in her chair.

Whatever color she’d flushed before was nowhere near the crimson she must be blushing now.

He hunched closer so that his shoulder was touching hers. “Any idea what they’re warbling about on stage?”

Oh, lord. She had no idea how her heart wasn’t exploding right out of her chest. His shoulder. Was touching hers. On purpose.

“Er...” Her mind went blank. Captain Grey was actually talking to her. And expecting a reply. Think. What opera was this? She forced her gaze to the dueling sopranos. “That’s... Ismene and Antigona. They’re vexed that Creon won’t bury Polynices because he started a war.”

His eyes widened. “You speak Italian?”

She shook her head. “Greek. Antigone was a play before it was an opera. I must’ve read it a hundred times.”

He blinked.

She let her words trail off. Stop. Talking. One must not admit to reading ancient Greek plays hundreds of times. Bluestockings do not leave a coquettish impression. One must strive to be enchanting and irresistible.

Her well-read mind failed to summon any actionable ideas.

His lips quirked. “I haven’t read a book in years, so I suppose I ought to pay attention while the plot is being dramatized right in front of me.” He turned his gaze back to the stage.

There. Jane tried not to crawl under her seat and die. This was what happened when she showed her excessive love for reading. Nothing. Nothing at all happened. That was exactly why she was so forgettable.

Yet she could think of nothing compelling to say or alluring to do. She couldn’t believe she’d already lost his attention after having had it for such a brief moment. She was so… Jane.

Would it have been better to say she’d only read Antigone once? Or to claim she had no idea why those people were dancing about the stage with swords and lots of sobbing? Perhaps the wisest course would’ve been to—

His shoulder. She stopped breathing. His shoulder was still touching hers. He had remained hunched down as if, any minute now, they might once again be whispering like bosom friends.

She shivered. If only!

It wasn’t just that he was the most exquisitely attractive man she’d ever laid eyes upon. He was a soldier and a hero. An officer. Military men were loyal, and heroic and strong and delicious.

Do not overthink, she admonished herself. Proximity meant nothing. It was just a play. Just a shoulder. He wasn’t going to whisk her into the shadows for a carnal interlude (not that she would have objected) and he certainly wasn’t in any danger of losing his mind and proposing marriage. He planned on disappearing from Society altogether.

But first, she was going to have to spend an evening shoulder-to-shoulder with the one person she would never be able to get out of her mind.

Chapter 3

AT HALF NINE THE NEXT morning, Jane tilted a wingback chair beneath the locked door to her private library. Such measures were unlikely to keep Isaac out if her brother were truly determined to enter, but the barred door would at least prevent Egui the devil-cat from leaping onto her head whilst she searched for guidance among her books.

Provided the cat wasn’t in here already, lying in wait.

She peered about the library suspiciously but saw no sign of the potbellied gray demon.

Not that one ever did, until it was too late.

With a last look over her shoulder, she began to walk along the rows of books in search of inspiration. Something in one of these tomes was bound to help her get noticed. Perhaps no strategy could win her a suitor, but if she could be desirable, for once in her life…

She ran a finger along the spines and sighed. The novels were no use. They were full of perfect, beautiful maidens whose greatest challenge was deciding which rich, devoted beau she should take for a husband.

Jane was in no such predicament. Just the night before, she’d had her first conversation with an eligible bachelor in weeks and made a pretty botch of it by babbling about her obsession with ancient tragedies.

Her life wasn’t a tragedy, at least. Other people were forced to the altar. She had narrowly escaped that fate and would just have to die an old maid. Was that not a blessing? A bad marriage had no advantage over spinsterhood.

To gain a husband, she would have to relinquish the freedoms she currently took for granted. Isaac often traveled for weeks at a time, which did leave her lonely, but who was to say a husband would not do the same?

Her brother loved her, which made for far more comfortable interactions than the silent, frigid meals shared by bitter couples that only wed for money or titles or because their parents had betrothed them while still in the womb, or other such nonsense.

She wasn’t rich enough to attract fortune hunters on the strength of her dowry alone, but Isaac provided her with any pin money she requested without question. She could solicit the gowns she desired, attend any routs she wished, purchase any manuscripts she—

Ah. There.

She’d hidden the little book of erotic sketches inside the hollowed-out pages of a treatise on the evolution of various embroidery stitches across the centuries. She doubted Isaac would take it upon himself to research such a topic—and, besides, he had his own library—but one could never be too cautious. If she were to ruin her disappointingly pristine reputation, she wished to do so by enjoying illicit pleasures, not just by reading about them.

Or staring openmouthed.

Each illustration depicted a man and a woman in positions she could scarcely fathom. She’d perused these pages dozens of times, and still a few of them seemed impossible no matter which way she turned the book.

She sighed. Sketches couldn’t convey the feel and scent and taste of lovemaking. To truly understand, she would have to experience the wonder for herself.

Which, in her position, would be an extremely unlikely occurrence.

From a certain perspective, it was almost too bad that she had been born into gentility. She wouldn’t wish to trade her position in society for life in the rookeries, but there was an elegant middle tier: demimondaines.

Some of those women were wealthier and more sophisticated than the highest echelons of the haut ton and could select their lovers at will. Rumors of carnal liaisons enhanced, rather than ruined, their reputations.

The only individuals enjoying somewhat comparable freedoms in Polite Society were the rakes—and even then, their debauchery could only go so far.

Respectable women, on the other hand, had no such privilege. The only way for a female to take a lover without ruining her name in the process was to marry… or to be so clandestine that no one was ever the wiser.

Realistically, only one of those options was open to Jane—and it wasn’t marriage. The eligible men of her acquaintance had had four-and-twenty years to ask for her hand, and couldn’t be bothered to ask her to dance.

Much less to perform acts of… whatever it was the inked couple was doing in this particular sketch. She turned the illustration around. It still looked like the same position. She wasn’t certain it was erotic, but it was certainly interesting.

And tempting. While she wouldn’t trade the freedoms of spinsterhood for a cold, loveless marriage, she would happily trade her lonely, monotonous days for nights of heated passion.

With the right man.

The image of Captain Grey’s handsome visage rose to mind. As it did two hundred times a day. Would she have a clandestine affair with Captain Grey? Absolutely. The question was, would he?

Not when she lacked the basic ability to attract a man’s interest.

She sighed. The thing about marriage was that one was rather required to have intimate encounters with one’s spouse if one intended to beget heirs. The thing about secret affairs was that lovemaking was about pleasure, not practicality, and one only participated in carnal relations with those they desired.

And Jane was plainly undesirable.

She might have said invisible, were it not for that brief, whispered conversation and the subtle press of his shoulder against hers. She clutched the book to her chest. He had seen her. And spoken to her. And treated her like a friend, if only a temporary one.

None of which meant he’d be eager to lie with her but, oh, would such a liaison not be perfect?

Her shoulders fell. If it weren’t completely out of the question, of course. At this hour, he was doubtlessly en route to his cottage in Chelmsford, and she was stuck here in this town house with her brother for the rest of the Season. For the rest of her life.

Even if she had managed to besot the captain with nothing more than the brush of her shoulder and a love of Greek playwrights, ’twould all be for naught. By the time she saw him again—if that day ever came—he would have long since found someone else. Someone memorable.

“Jane?” A loud knock thundered against the door.

Her brother. With shaking fingers, she fumbled the little book back inside the tome on decorative sewing and shoved it back in place amongst all the other volumes.

The door rattled against the chair propped beneath its handle. “I say, Jane. Are you blocking the entrance to your library?”

She dashed over to the door and lugged the heavy wingback chair back toward the fireplace. Panting, she shoved a damp tendril of hair off her forehead and flung open the library door.

“Don’t be absurd, Isaac. Why on earth would I block the entrance to—yeeaaaghh!”

Egui the Satan-cat leapt from her brother’s arms to the front of her bodice, his razor-sharp claws scraping all the way through her shift as he slid gleefully to the floor and shot off into the shadows.

“I wish you wouldn’t tease him so,” Isaac admonished her. “He never gets out of sorts unless he’s around you.”

She smiled through gritted teeth. “I shall endeavor to pay him less attention. Did you need something?”

“I’m afraid so. I’ve been called away to a meeting with the board of future fish farmers down in Exeter, and I have to leave in the next few minutes if I’m to miss the snowstorm heading this way. Can you ensure Egui is comfortable while I’m away? It should only be a couple of weeks at the most, but one never knows when it comes to men and their herrings.”

“Yes, yes, lovely,” Jane answered automatically, her heart pounding.

This was her opportunity to make her own fate! With her brother away, no one would know whether spinster Jane Downing was home alone with her books or had slipped off for the night. She could be in Chelmsford by luncheon.

If it didn’t occur to Captain Grey to seduce her, well, she would just have to seduce him. And if he was not at home—or, worse, rejected her outright—there were plenty of inns in Essex, and she’d be back in London this time tomorrow morning with nobody the wiser.

But first, she needed Isaac to depart as quickly as possible so that she could hurry on her way. “You go ahead, brother dear. Egui will be a delight. Enjoy your meeting without a further worry.”

“You’re marvelous, Jane, truly. I don’t know what I would do without you.” He kissed both of her cheeks, patted her arm, and then sank to his knees to bid farewell to his demon spawn. “Egui... Egui... C’mere, puss. Come say goodbye to Papa.”

Jane made no attempt to hide the roll of her eyes at the singsong baby voice her manly elder brother affected when he spoke to his cat. Nor did she attempt to hide her fury and disbelief when the potbellied fur-monster strolled out from between the bookcases with his head up and his silver tail high, docile as you please.

Egui leapt into Isaac’s open arms with nary a claw in sight. He stretched his spine, purring loudly. As Isaac cradled his beloved pet to his chest, Egui lifted his languid gaze over his master’s shoulder and made direct eye contact with Jane.

She could swear the little beast smirked.

Isaac rose to his feet and brushed gray hairs from his breeches. “Thanks again, Jane. I owe you enormously. Be good, kitten. I’ll see you both in a fortnight.”

She smiled. Egui slipped beneath the hem of her gown and began to shred her stockings.

Teeth gritted, Jane all but shoved Isaac out the door. “No problem, brother. Anytime. Have a good trip. Don’t bring back any fish larvae. I love you.”

“Love you too, Jane. You’re one in a million.” With a last buss to her cheek, Isaac was down the hall and gone.

As soon as she heard the front door close, Jane bent over and yanked Egui from her bleeding ankle—then immediately dropped him when he let out an ear-piercing caterwaul. The last thing she needed was for Isaac to run back and spend the next two hours lecturing her on his angelic pet’s misunderstood intentions.

Before Egui could test his claws on her other ankle, she hurried out of the library and raced upstairs to her bedchamber. Her lady’s maid stood before the open wardrobe with a pile of freshly laundered linens in her arms.

“Martha! Splendid timing. Help me put together a valise with... a week’s worth of clothing.” That was shamelessly optimistic, but Jane supposed it was better to have clean clothes and not need them than it was to attempt a seduction whilst swathed in week-old garments. “Perhaps a small trunk.”

“At once, Miss Downing.” Martha placed the linens on a shelf and went to fetch a traveling trunk. “Where are we going?”

“To...” Jane swallowed. If the whole purpose of this desperate endeavor was to embark on a brief, clandestine affair, the last person who should bear witness was a servant under Isaac’s employ. She would have to go alone. “You shall have a week’s holiday, effective immediately. I am visiting a sick friend, and it should be better for all of us if you don’t fall ill yourself.”

Martha’s eyes sparkled. Jane had a strong suspicion the girl was sweet on one of the footmen and would not in the least begrudge a few days away from her mistress. Inter-staff liaisons were strongly discouraged, of course, but given that Jane was off to seduce a man who didn’t know her from Princess Charlotte, she could hardly stand in the way of others’ passion.

She began to pile shifts and stockings into the small trunk. “One tiny request, Martha. Can you please mind Egui for me while I’m gone?”

Martha blanched and shook her head wildly. “Oh, ma’am, please don’t make me! I’d druther play nurse to lepers than spend one second alone with that cat. I don’t think he… cares for me much.”

Of course not. Jane’s temples began to pound. Egui hated everyone except Isaac. Perhaps ’twas better to put one of the male servants in charge. “Very well. Go have Dunbar summon a hack. And send up a footman to carry down this trunk. I wish to leave at once.”

Martha bobbed and nodded and dashed out of the bedchamber before her mistress could change her mind.

Jane had already pushed Egui from her thoughts. At least for the moment. The more pressing disaster was what clothes she might don to instill lust in a man’s breast.

She scowled as she combed through her uninspiring wardrobe. How was she meant to seduce a dashing military captain when she’d failed to attract the attention of any other gentlemen of her acquaintance? She stuffed her embroidery kit next to the gowns. Perhaps she could lower a few bodices during the ride to Essex.

Jane was just latching the trunk when Martha returned with a pair of footmen, who immediately hefted it and awaited further instruction.

Martha wrung her hands. “Your hack is waiting, ma’am. Are you sure I oughtn’t accompany you?”

“No, thank you. You’ve earned your holiday. Clive, Malcolm, I’ll need you to mind Egui for me while I’m—”

Both footmen dropped the trunk and stared at her in horror. “You cannot mean it! I— We— That cat—”

Jane raised her eyes heavenward and let out a loud, long-suffering sigh. No intelligent person wished to mind Egui, but she was only the one foolish enough to have promised. He would now be her sole responsibility until Isaac’s return, romantic encounter or not. “Let me be clear. I am going to be inside that hack and on my way within the next five minutes. If Egui is in a sealed basket upon my lap, he goes with me. If he is not—”

Clive and Malcolm fled the room without a backward glance.

Martha stared at the empty doorway, the forgotten trunk, and then her mistress. “Er... shall I summon the butler, perhaps?”

Jane shook her head. “By now, everyone is searching for that odious cat. Come on, then. You take that side, and I’ll take this one.”

With only minor damage to the wainscoting, she and Martha managed to get the trunk down the stairs and over to the front door, where the horrified butler and hack driver rushed forward to relieve them of their unseemly burden and escort Jane to the coach.

No sooner had her derrière touched the worn squab of the hack than Clive and Malcolm raced from the town house with a rocking, screeching wicker basket held aloft between them and only mild scratch marks upon their triumphant faces.

She held out her arms for the basket.

Egui, it seemed, was destined to play chaperone on her quest for a romantic encounter. Marvelous. She might not meet with success, but the adventure could hardly fail to be a memorable one.

Chapter 4

DESPITE THE ICY WIND AND blinding snow, perspiration clung to Captain Xavier Grey’s brow as he crashed an axe onto one of the few retrievable tree trunks still visible in the white blanket behind his small cottage.

When he’d sent his handful of servants up to Chelmsford a fortnight ago to prepare his domicile, the climate had been cold, but clear. When he’d sent his staff on holiday for the remainder of that fortnight while he visited friends in London, Xavier had actually looked forward to returning to his cottage a day or two before his servants. The solitude would do him good.

The storm, less so.

Provisions would last a week, two at the most. Perhaps that was plenty. Perhaps it was not. Keeping warm would be critical. He swung the axe one last time and then began hauling the logs indoors.

No one had predicted a snowstorm. He supposed that was the very nature of… well, nature. Unpredictability. What had begun as a lovely snowfall now threatened to entomb them all in their homes. He added the last of the logs to the reserve pile.

A chill rippled across his skin as he barred the front door against the bone-cold wind. ’Twas ironic. He had hoped never to be trapped anywhere again, and now here he was, doing it to himself. The fact that it was voluntary this time—all openings were sealed to keep out the snow, not to keep in the man—ought to have eased his rising panic.

It didn’t.

He began to stalk the corridors of his old, familiar cottage. The kitchen was clean and cold. The dining room: dark. The library: silent. The servants’ quarters: vacant. The master bedroom: lonesome. The entire cottage was devoid of company or stimulation. Just a restless ex-captain, alone with his thoughts… and his memories.

Xavier wasn’t fond of either companion.

He might have left the battlefield, but his mind was still at war. He could never erase the horrors he’d seen. Nor the role he’d played.

His skin crawled. He had learned things about himself that he would do anything to forget. He’d set off in search of honor, of heroism. Instead, he’d found evil. All around, and inside himself.

And he’d been rewarded for it.

It was bitter irony that he’d returned home without a scratch on him when more honorable men—better men—had returned in pieces, or not at all. His childhood friend Bartholomew Blackpool was in want of a leg... and the man’s twin brother had died defending their country.

Xavier would never tell Bart how fortunate Edmund was that a bullet had pierced him before the French soldiers found him.

There were far worse fates than death. Xavier would know.

He shrugged out of his coat and shirtsleeves and washed up at a basin filled with water.

It was no use. He would never feel clean. Nor should he.

He sighed. It was just as well that he was stuck out here without any servants. He didn’t deserve company, and he certainly didn’t deserve being waited on. He hoped his staff was wise enough to wait out the inclement weather rather than attempt to reach the cottage during a snowstorm. The roads would quickly become a death trap.

He pulled on a fresh shirt and shoved his arms into his thickest coat. Dressing warmly would allow him to better ration the firewood.

The parlor was the only chamber with a small blaze in its hearth. He stirred the embers with a poker. Night would fall in a few hours, and he didn’t want the fire to die in the meantime.

A knock sounded upon his front door.

Frowning, Xavier replaced the poker and strode to the entryway. Aside from Lord Carlisle and a few local Chelmsford residents, nobody knew Xavier had resumed residence in his little cottage. Who on Earth would be knocking at his door? Better yet, why? He swung open the door.

He nearly choked in surprise. “Miss Downing? What the devil are you doing here? Has something happened?”

Her eyes rounded. “You remember me?”

“I’m not senile. We were introduced years ago, and we sat beside each other last night.” He scanned her for possible injuries. “Are you all right? Was there a carriage accident?”

She shook her head. “Nothing like that. I… was in the neighborhood. Not far at all. So I thought I’d pay a visit.”

“On foot?” He shook his head to clear it of disbelief.

The daft woman stood upon his stoop with a battered trunk and a shrieking picnic basket. From the snaking rectangular trail in her wake, she’d lugged her trunk behind her from somewhere down the road. By herself. In a snowstorm. With a hissing basket.

He snatched the possessed basket from her hand and hauled her inside the house. It was frightful outside. He swung the trunk inside the entryway and slammed the door tight against the cold and wind. Already snowflakes covered the floor. The warmth of the fire was just a memory.

He grabbed her by the shoulders and forced himself not to shake some sense into her. “You cannot possibly have believed this to be appropriate conditions for a stroll down country roads. Are you mad?”

“Just... a bit chilled, I think...” she said through chattering teeth.

He dragged her into the parlor and placed her in the chair closest to the fire. “I’m going to start a pot of tea, and once you’ve drunk every drop of it, I expect a full accounting of what brings you to my doorstep with a trunk and a—”

The basket shrieked and hurled itself against the closest wall.

“—and a cat.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Do. Not. Move.”

Her huge brown eyes blinked up at him. “Why are you starting the tea? Haven’t you a cook or a butler or—”

“I’m afraid uninvited guests don’t always have the luxury of arriving when the staff isn’t away on holiday.”

Her expression brightened, but she made no further move to stop him from fetching tea. Confounding woman. He stalked to the kitchen.

Hellfire. Three years at war had taught him more than he ever wished to know about being self-sufficient. But the last thing he was equipped to handle was a bluestocking spinster with long chestnut curls, sparkling brown eyes, and a rabid cat. A creature that, from the sound of it, had finally managed to escape its basket and streak down the hall toward Xavier’s library.

Bluestocking, he reminded himself. Of course her ball of fur felt more at home in a library. Besides, the cat was not the problem. His problem was the innocent, unmarried, unaccompanied maiden seated in the parlor of an infamous, immoral, cynical ex-soldier.

Wonderful. He had sworn to never again cause harm to another human, yet he’d destroyed Miss Downing’s reputation merely by allowing her through his door.

Then again, perhaps the situation was not so dire. There were no witnesses to her utter lack of judgment. If he could pack her off to—wherever she’d come from—before his servants arrived, they might both be able to pretend this misadventure had never happened.

In fact, that was likely the reason her eyes had lit up when she’d learned there were no servants. The poor thing was finally concerned about the state of her reputation.

A shrill whistle filled the air as the water reached a boil. He turned to pick up the small towel he used for handling hot objects and stilled.

The towel was now ribbons. And flecked with short gray hairs.

He frowned. He could’ve sworn the cat had taken off for the library. He’d heard its claws clicking across the wooden floor. Was he to believe that had been a feint? That the cat had purposefully made excess noise to throw him off the trail, and then returned on silent paws while Xavier’s back was turned in order to shred a perfectly good tea towel? Ridiculous.

Yet the yellow square of cloth was now rubbish.

“I believe the water’s boiling,” Miss Downing called from the parlor. “The whistle means—”

“I know what the whistle means.” He glanced around. Where the devil were the rest of the towels? He yanked off his ascot and used it to lift the shrieking kettle from the stove. He placed it on a tray with milk, honey, and two tea settings, and carried it into the parlor.

She blinked at him in confusion. “Did you lose your cravat in the kitchen?”

He set down the tray on the tea table between the two chairs. “You know who gets to ask questions? I get to ask questions. Drink your tea.”

“I just—”

“Drink.” Fingers trembling, he poured each of them a serving of tea. He didn’t wish to ask questions. But here she was. What was he supposed to do? He lifted his cup to his lips as he considered his next steps.

Her nose wrinkled. “You drink yours without milk or honey?”

He slanted her a dark look.

“Right.” She lowered her lashes and reached for the milk. “You ask the questions.”

Not anymore. Old dread crept over his skin. He wasn’t certain he could question anyone ever again. He was done with interrogations, with extracting answers from unwilling captives.

While Miss Downing had descended upon him of her own free will, the snow and moonless night would keep them both prisoner until dawn. He would not treat her like one.

“So,” he said instead. “You have a cat. Does it have a name?”

“Egui,” she mumbled against her teacup.

Egui? He frowned. Odd name for a cat, but who was he to judge? He wasn’t stable enough for a pet.

“Does Egui always enjoy ripping cloth to shreds?”

She lowered her teacup in horror. “He ate your cravat?”

“No, of course n—” Or had he? Xavier gritted his teeth. He’d placed his wadded-up cravat on the counter next to the shredded towel when he’d brought the tea tray into the parlor. What were the odds it was still where he’d left it? “One moment.”

He rose on stiff legs and marched into the kitchen. His jaw clenched when he caught sight of his cravat. Wonderful.

Egui, two points. Xavier, none. His cravat now resembled a linen octopus. With a discarded hairball instead of eyes.

He returned to the parlor and dropped heavily back into his chair. “Yes. Egui ate my cravat.”

She winced. “He eats... everything. He’s a very peckish cat. His other favorite pastime is hide-and-seek. I recommend locking your bedchamber if you intend to sleep.”

“Delightful,” he murmured. “And to think they claim dogs are a man’s best friend.”

She took a dainty sip of tea. “He’s more like... family. I’m afraid I’m stuck with him.”

And now Xavier was too, because his unplanned houseguest thought of the beast as family. Ravenous, demented family.

This couldn’t continue for long. He needed a plan.

He also had a thousand questions, but no wish to interrogate her. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to. A young lady like Miss Downing was unlikely to have ulterior motives. Although he was hard-pressed to come up with a rational explanation for her presence, and under such unlikely circumstances.

“I couldn’t help but notice you brought luggage,” he said presently. “But no chaperone. Or carriage.”

She flashed a nervous smile over the rim of her teacup. “It’s the funniest thing. You’re right that I have no chaperone, but I did rent a hack. The driver refused to take the horses any further than the Dog & Whistle due to the ice and snow. For the same reason, the innkeeper was completely without rooms to let. My driver accepted a pallet in the mews, which of course wouldn’t do for a young lady. So I walked here. But don’t worry. It was less than a quarter mile.”

Something was funny, all right. Xavier tapped his fingers together. “I’m so glad there’s a reasonable, not-remotely-questionable explanation for dragging a cat and a trunk through a snowstorm to a bachelor’s private cottage. Your brother will love to hear this.”

She jumped. “You know Isaac?”

He stared at her. “Why do you think me incapable of remembering people?”

She cleared her throat. “I would prefer you didn’t mention this visit to him, that’s all.”

“I would prefer not mentioning it to anyone. Come morning, the snow will melt enough to return you to the Dog & Whistle and commission a driver willing to take you right back home to London.”

Her shoulders relaxed. “I can stay the night? Here?”

He held up his palms. “Did you expect me to offer the mews?”

She beamed at him. “I knew you wouldn’t. You’re too steadfast and honorable.”

“I’m too what? I’m nothing of the sort!”

“Of course you are. You’re a soldier and a hero. Anyone would be safe in your company.”

“You’ve no idea what being a good soldier means. I’m a bringer of death and destruction. And the worst person of my acquaintance. You shouldn’t be anywhere near me.”

She shook her head. “That was during the war, whilst defending innocent civilians from Napoleon’s tyranny. The very definition of heroic.”

He raked a hand through his hair. If only he were the kind of man she painted him to be. “The point is, you shouldn’t be here. You’re a well-bred young lady with a fine reputation, and if we are quite lucky, you might be able to keep it that way.”

She held his gaze. “Part of that is true.”

He almost laughed. Miss Downing was the very embodiment of innocence and purity. “I’m afraid I don’t follow. Are you claiming you’re not a chaste young lady in possession of a pristine reputation?”

“Of course I am. But I don’t wish to be.” She set down her teacup and bit her lip. “Might I be your mistress?”

Chapter 5

XAVIER LEAPT FROM HIS CHAIR in horror. “Absolutely not!”

Miss Downing’s rosy lower lip trembled. “Is it because I’m plump?”

“Is it—” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Your body is not the problem. Your virginity is the problem.”

She nodded. “Precisely!”

He gripped the side of his chair. “Have you completely lost your mind?”

Her gaze was direct. “I spent the four-hour carriage ride obsessing over every angle, in fact, and I’m convinced the advantages far outweigh any drawbacks.” She fumbled for her reticule. “In fact, I made a chart—”

“No charts.” Xavier waved away the folded scrap of parchment. His world was slipping off its axis. He was definitely going to need to sit back down.

But not too close to Miss Downing. He dragged his chair a few inches farther away before sinking into it. “Do enlighten me.”

She leaned forward to pat the edge of his armrest. “At ease, Captain Grey. I’m proposing a temporary union for carnal purposes, not a visit to the altar.”

“I’m ever so relieved,” he drawled. Their predicament had only got worse. “Pray continue.”

“Simply put, I would like to experience passion. Preferably with you.” Her cheeks flushed, but she kept his gaze. “And since you’re not in Town for the Season, I imagine there are fewer opportunities for dalliances, and—” Her breath caught. “You haven’t got a mistress already, have you?”

“I find myself between lovers at the moment.” Or from now on. He certainly wasn’t going to begin with her.

She sagged against the back of her chair. “Thank heavens. I don’t see how I could have survived the humiliation, had you already possessed a mistress.”

“Mm.” He nodded. “We are fortunate indeed to have avoided all awkwardness.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you employing sarcasm with me?”

His fingers tightened on his breeches. “What else am I to employ? I certainly shan’t employ my member. Of course you cannot be my mistress! I hardly make it a practice to debauch virgins, and what’s more—”

“But that’s what makes it perfect.” She leaned forward earnestly. “I could have attempted to talk any number of rakes or roués into an alliance, but I don’t wish to lie with someone who has already lain with twenty others. Nor would I like my first experience to be with someone whose face or touch repulses me. I simply wish to be wanted, by someone I also want, and enjoy a night or two of mutual pleasure.”

He stared at her over his steepled fingers and tried to think how best to proceed. Without ruining them both. He found everything about her—from her soft curves to her bookishness to her startling frankness—undeniably attractive, but that didn’t stop this proposal from being the worst idea he’d heard in years.

Miss Downing plainly failed to comprehend the irrevocability of what she was offering. What she was suggesting he become party to. She was an innocent in every sense. Her peers would not overlook such a transgression. She’d spent her life surrounded by books, not people. She might think that made her worldly, but it did not. The real world was a harsh place—an unfortunate reality she had yet to face, and with luck would never have to.

Presuming she didn’t follow through on this plan. Or proposition other men when she failed to seduce Xavier. His muscles tightened.

While she might think she had devised the perfect, mutually pleasurable, secret arrangement, she did not know him well enough to know whether he had slept with every whore on the Continent or whether he could be trusted to keep her debauched state a secret. She hadn’t even asked.

He rubbed the back of his neck. Nothing was ever as simple as it sounded, especially when trying to predict other people. The bon ton, for example. The things people said did not necessarily correlate with the things they felt. And the behavior one witnessed in another person did not necessarily represent what they did when no one else was around.

The fact that she was willing to put her reputation in the palm of his hands based on nothing more substantial than consecutive seats at an opera proved her naïvety—and the need to keep her innocence intact.

If she was hell-bent on ruin, he would simply have to talk her out of it.

“Miss Downing,” he began, keeping his voice as calm and rational as possible. “You are currently an innocent. Despite your or my personal feelings on the matter, young ladies such as yourself must remain virgins if they wish to continue being welcome members of Polite Society.”

Her chin thrust forward. “I never claimed I wished to be part of Polite Society. If I am now, ’tis only on the fringes. Wallflowers are more popular than me. Apart from my brother, the only individuals who can even recall my name are the three who joined us at the theatre last night.” She waved a hand. “Who, precisely, am I saving my maidenhead for?”

He blinked. “Your future husband?”

“What future husband?” Her eyes flicked skyward. “I’m not a particularly sought-after commodity on the Marriage Mart. I’m plump. I lack an impressive dowry. I’m well above the age most men find appealing. If I wish to experience passion, the only way of achieving that goal is by going after it myself.”

If she was plump, it was in all the right areas. However, admitting his attraction to her would only convince her that this plan was the correct path. She was looking in the wrong place. He was not the man for her.

“The right person won’t care about your age or your dowry, and you’re just as pretty as your peers. If you throw away your maidenhead—on me or any bloke—you will never find a husband.” He leaned back and crossed his arms. “I refuse to help you ruin your future.”

Her fists clenched briefly. “Whatever assets I might bring to a marriage, my innocence is the least valuable. Try to be logical. The groom takes his bride’s maidenhead in the first seconds, and then it’s gone. So why bother at all? Besides, how would he even know, if I never tell him?”

He arched a brow. “You would lie?”

“I will never be in that situation in the first place.” She pressed her lips into a white slash. “Most of the beau monde select their spouses because the union is advantageous to their pocketbook or social status. I’m not only at peace with mine—as a bluestocking and a spinster, I enjoy more freedoms than most—I would not give them up for a husband I didn’t love.” Her lips curved. “Fortuitously, I wouldn’t have to relinquish either for a mere lover.”

“Just your maidenhead.”

“By definition,” she pointed out dryly. “Is lovemaking not the point of taking a lover?”

Of course. But it didn’t signify.

The risk of jeopardizing her chances of attracting a future husband might not give her pause, but her idealistic views didn’t matter. He drummed his fingers. He would not be a willing party to her complete ruin. She should be on the arm of some venerable duke or earl, not offering her charms to a cynical ex-soldier. She was smart and beautiful. He didn’t deserve her esteem and he certainly didn’t deserve her virginity.

His chest tightened as he thought of all the ways it could go wrong. She was innocent. He was a monster. Any relationship with him could not end well. He had seen the darkest parts of the world. He had been the darkest part of the world. The shadows were where he belonged. Not with her.

Not even for one night.

“I’m not against marriage,” she said, her eyes wide and vulnerable. “Or husbands. I simply don’t have the option. And after all this time, I’ve come to appreciate what I do have. A brother who loves me. Enough books and pin money to keep me clothed and entertained. The freedom to do as I please. If I marry, my time, money, and freedoms will depend wholly on the whim of my husband. I don’t think that’s a very good trade.” She held up a hand when he started to interrupt. “I could be wrong, I admit. That’s why I’m here.”

His eyebrows shot up. He was meant to be an experiment?

She clasped her hands together and leaned forward. “How do I know if the marriage bed is worth relinquishing the freedoms of spinsterhood? I cannot make an informed decision until I’ve experienced it for myself. If I dislike it, I’ll simply never do it again. With marriage, I wouldn’t have that luxury.”

“That’s your argument?” he said with a choked laugh. “You want me to have my wicked way with you just to find out if it’s awful?”

“Not at all. I want to experience passionate, carnal relations with someone I can’t resist. Someone strong.” Her eyes met his without flinching. “Someone honorable. Someone I crave.” Her low voice raked his soul. “And that man is you.”

His breeches tightened in response to her words. Bloody hell. His entire body thrummed with awareness. This woman was intoxicating. Her cheeks were pale, her lips flushed, but her sensual brown eyes gazed right into his soul.

Of course he wanted her. He would have to be made of stone not to want her. And after a speech like that, he had to summon every ounce of his willpower to stay in his chair rather than carry her to bed and give her exactly what she’d asked for. Slowly. Deliciously. His body ached to make her his.

But he was not who she thought he was. Nor could he be.

“You say you desire an honorable man. That you believe me to be honorable. But anyone who accepts the gift of your body without a care for your heart or your future is deplorable, not honorable.” This had gone on long enough. He rose from his chair. “I’ve secluded myself out here in this cottage to protect others from me, not to ruin them in my own home.”

She leaped to her feet in response. “You don’t want any woman, or you don’t want me? If I were a light-skirt, we would already be naked. Or is there nothing about me that attracts you, and I’ve been wasting my breath since I got here?”

He grasped her shoulders and let his harsh voice betray his passion. “Everything about you attracts me. You think you’re the only one with carnal dreams? There’s not a man alive who wouldn’t love to be in my shoes right now. To be this close to tasting your lips. To cover your body with mine.”

Her nostrils flared. “There isn’t a man in London who even knows my name.”

He stepped back and shoved his thumbs into his waistband. “They know your name. They also know your brother would thrash them within an inch of their lives if they so much as touched you.”

A choked laugh gurgled in her throat. “Isaac?”

The shock on her face indicated she’d never considered there might be any other explanation beyond her “plump” frame and modest dowry.

Xavier leaned closer. “You have no idea how tempting your offer is. Just like you have no idea what you’re truly giving me permission to do with your mouth and your body.”

“Don’t I?” She fished a small sketchbook from her reticule. “I’m not going to be shocked by the mechanics of lovemaking. Not when I’ve studied an illustrated guide. Page fourteen: Riding backward. Page twenty-seven: Oral stimulation. Page—”

His lungs froze. How in Hades had she come into possession of such a thing? He snatched the book from her hand and threw it against the wall. “Enough.”

“It’s never enough.” She grabbed the lapels of his coat and lifted her face to his. Her body fit perfectly against him. “Show me what I’m missing.”

He couldn’t move. Dear Lord, he could not push her away.

“One night,” she whispered. “I’m already here. What happens next is up to us.” She touched her lips to the edge of his jaw. “Send me away in the morning, but first give me one night of passion.”

Her voice was soft, her eyes shuttered. Her mouth right there for the taking. Her body...

He forced himself to step back while he still had the strength to do so.

“I shall not be your experiment, Miss Downing. If you throw away your future, it won’t be on me.”

Chapter 6

JANE PIVOTED AWAY FROM CAPTAIN Grey as heat flooded her face. He didn’t want her. She couldn’t ignore the nausea in her belly or the hole in her chest. She had made her case with every wile available to her. Logic, physicality… even pleading.

And she could not have been rejected more soundly.

Failure cut deep. She crossed to the far wall on stiff legs and bent to retrieve the fallen sketchbook. Its long guarded illustrations had robbed her of countless nights of sleep. Now she couldn’t even bear to look at it. She shoved it back into her reticule with trembling fingers.

The depictions of pleasure therein would have to remain theoretical.

She laid her reticule on the mantel and quit the parlor without a word. Captain Grey did not stop her. Why would he? There was nothing left to discuss.

Egui’s abandoned wicker basket lay at the end of the corridor. If she didn’t get the cat back in his basket, he would wreak havoc on Captain Grey’s home. She took a deep breath and slowly let it out. Corralling Egui was a task she was familiar with. Challenging. Perilous. But not impossible.

Who would’ve believed it easier to catch a demon cat than the interest of a lonely soldier?

She made her way to the end of the hall and looped her arm through the handle of the basket. With luck, Egui hadn’t destroyed the rest of Captain Grey’s cravats during the course of their disastrous conversation. The evening would be uncomfortable enough without also owing the man an entirely new wardrobe.

“I need to find the cat,” she called over her shoulder. “May I hunt in any open rooms?”

“You may do as you please,” he replied from only a few feet away.

She spun about.

He stood at the doorway to the parlor, watching her. His blue gaze was inscrutable.

After a heartbeat, he disappeared back into the parlor.

She straightened her spine and smiled grimly. She could not do as she pleased. Not here and not anywhere. She couldn’t have the man she wanted. Couldn’t find the devil cat she didn’t want. She couldn’t even hop into a hack and go back home.

Her motives might have been foolish, but her plan had been sound. Too sound. Blasted snowstorm. It had seemed so fortuitous at the time, and now… Just another cosmic mockery.

Her brother was two hundred miles away. The servants suspected nothing. She’d changed hacks every half hour to make certain no single person knew where she’d been or where she was going. The Dog & Whistle had indeed been over capacity, providing her with a legitimate need for close, safe lodging. The relentless snow ensured her welcome inside the cottage.

And now she couldn’t leave.

She slipped off her half boots in order to tread through the cottage more quietly. Calling to the cat would only give him fair warning. Her only hope was to catch him unawares—before he did the same to her.

First, she tried the kitchen. This was where Egui had somehow destroyed Captain Grey’s cravat… Ah. There it was. A disgusting clump of wet fur and shredded linen. Right next to a similar pile of what once had been a tea towel of some kind. Lovely. Her brother’s cat was a never-ending joy.

She stood on her toes to inspect the top of every surface and dropped to her knees to check below each stick of furniture. No sign of Egui. She returned to the corridor and shut the kitchen door tight behind her.

The next open doorway led to what must be the servants’ quarters. The beds were made perfectly and the fireplaces had not been lit. Jane hugged herself against the chill. The empty rooms were far too cold for her, but Egui was blessed with a layer of steel-gray fur. The temperature would suit him fine, and his dusky coat would be almost impossible to detect in the quickly waning light.

Jane checked above every wardrobe and beneath every bed, but could find no trace of the missing cat.

She rarely did until it was too late.

Much like her interaction with Captain Grey, she supposed. She hadn’t been able to protect herself from being wounded because she hadn’t anticipated the source of the blow. Non-action hurt just as much as action. Perhaps even more so.

Her shoulders slumped. The wounds from Egui’s sharp little claws would clear up in a week or two. But Captain Grey’s outright rejection would leave its mark forever.

She sealed the door to the servants’ quarters and crossed the hall into the dining room. A tall mahogany sideboard lined the perimeter. An oblong table with eight wooden chairs stood in the center. No hiding places. No sign of Egui. Jaw set, she stalked into the next room—and abruptly stopped in the doorway.

A library. Small, but comfortable. A chaise longue and a wingback chair faced the unlit fireplace.

The bookcases were few, but contained a respectable number of titles. She couldn’t help but peruse them. Politics… agriculture… classics… Fanny Hill! She snatched the volume from the shelf and held it to her chest.

An erotic novel! She had longed to read such a thing, but hadn’t wanted to have to hide more than one book from her brother. There might not be explicit imagery within these pages, but anything calling itself Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure was something she wouldn’t wish to explain how it came to be in her possession some night over dinner.

Not that it was appropriate material here, either.

She slid the book back into its slot amongst the others. Reading about fictional erotic encounters while under the same roof as Captain Grey would only make her yearn for him all the more. ’Twas better for both of them to have her curiosity remain unsatisfied.

Although it was deliciously tempting to borrow it just for the night...

Forcing herself to abandon the book, she inspected above and within each shelf in search of the missing cat. Nothing. Not even a telltale gray hair to indicate he’d ever entered the room. She exited the library and shut the door firmly behind her. And swallowed hard.

The last remaining room was Captain Grey’s bedchamber. She hesitated at the open doorway.

Flickering orange light emanated from the fireplace, giving the room a soft, warm glow. Directly across was a large four-poster bed with thick emerald curtains. An armoire stood to one side, and a table bearing a pitcher and basin stood on the other. Yet she couldn’t take her eyes from the bed.

What might it have been like, to join him beneath the blankets? Hot, obviously. Thrilling. Unforgettable.

But she would never know.

She clenched her fingers against the unbidden twist in her stomach. The truth couldn’t be plainer. Captain Grey wasn’t just an ex-soldier. He was a war hero. A leader of men. If he wanted something, he took it.

Therefore, he didn’t want her. If he did, she’d already be naked.

She set down the basket and knelt to peer beneath the bed. No cat. She tightened her jaw. Where in the world was he hiding?

A thump sounded in the doorway and she sprang to her feet in alarm.

Not Egui. Excitement infused her veins. Captain Grey. Delivering her trunk to his bedchamber.

Chapter 7

XAVIER TOOK A HEALTHY STEP back from Miss Downing’s trunk. She was standing in his bedchamber. He should be far, far away. Not staring at her long, shimmering hair or imagining the feel of those voluptuous curves beneath his hands. Her untouched innocence attracted him just as viscerally as her beauty. He looked away. She was not for him.

He shoved his hands behind his back to shield them from her—and from temptation. He didn’t need to glimpse the silken unmentionables she might have packed for a seduction. He didn’t want to picture her alone in his bed, naked, and thinking of him.

Nor could he imagine how he was meant to make it through the long wintry night with his sanity—and her virginity—intact.

He kept his voice authoritative and firm. “My cottage has no guest quarters, so you’ll have to sleep in the master chamber. I, of course, shall take the servants’ quarters.”

Miss Downing’s rosy lips fell open and a flash of renewed hurt dulled her eyes. “You don’t intend to share your bed with me?”

He rubbed his face. “Forgive me for pointing out that I didn’t even intend to share my home with you. If you have developed any illusions about me or my character, please do away with them posthaste. I live alone for a reason. As an innocent, you may not fully understand the ramifications of your proposal, but I am not fit to be a husband and I shan’t be your despoiler.”

Her chin rose. “I’m looking for a lover, not a husband. Do you think me too naïve to have foreseen a broken heart in my future? I saw that coming the moment I laid eyes on you.” Her voice broke as she turned away. “I’d just hoped to share a few pleasurable moments first.”

He frowned. She’d come here expecting to be cast aside post coitus and still felt it merited the experience? Zeus, was she innocent! Very well. He would have to be strong enough for them both.

To deflect her attention, he gestured at the bedside table. “There’s fresh water in the pitcher, and the bed linens are freshly laundered. There’s more than enough firewood to last the night. If you can think of anything else—”

“I think it’s ridiculous for you not to sleep in your own bed.”

He stared at her. “I can’t very well sleep in my bed if you’re in it, and I will not remand you to the servant’s quarters.”

“Why must either of us sleep somewhere else?” She crossed her arms. “Either I am already ruined—in which case, there’s no reason for us not to share the best chamber—or else no one will learn that I was ever here. In which case, there’s no reason for us not to share the best chamber.”

His jaw clenched. “No.”

Her brown eyes blazed. “‘No?’ Your argument against sound logic is simply ‘No?’”

Before he could cement her distaste at his autocratic nature by pointing out that it was his bed, his house, and his rules, a ten-pound clawed tornado leaped from above the four-poster canopy and latched itself to Xavier’s head with an ear-splitting shriek.

He grunted and shook his head free of the cat—or tried to—but the creature dug in its claws and held on tight. He was wearing the damn thing like a bonnet. Gritting his teeth, he clapped his hands around its soft belly and thrust it from his head. Warmth trickled down one cheek. Xavier was certain he was also missing a fair chunk of hair, but perhaps it would work to his advantage.

No maiden would be overcome with arousal by a man who looked like he’d lost a battle with a lion.

He held the writhing, hissing creature toward her with stiff arms. “Your cat, madam.”

Eyes filled with horror, she swung a thick basket up from the floor and trapped her pet inside. “I am incredibly sorry. I never meant for him to hurt you. He’s… high-spirited, and unused to strangers or strange places, and I’m afraid he—”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.” Gaze soft, she lifted a hand toward his cheek. “You’re bleeding.”

He jerked away. “I survived three years at war. I won’t be felled by a cat.”

Presuming it wasn’t rabid. From the racket it was making inside that basket, Xavier couldn’t discount the possibility.

“You’re just as ill-tempered as he is.” Miss Downing clutched the howling basket to her chest and scowled. “If you won’t let me tend your wound, will you direct me to my coat? If we’re to avoid accidents of another kind, he needs a brief trip out-of-doors before we settle in for the night.”

Xavier sighed. The last thing he needed was Egui piddling all over the cottage. And with the weather as it was, he certainly couldn’t send Miss Downing out for even a moment. He reached for the basket. “Give it here.”

She shook her head. “He truly distrusts strangers, and if anything were to happen to him, my—”

“Nothing’s going to happen. Stay here where it’s warm. Make yourself comfortable. The cat and I will return in a few moments.”

Despite the emasculating lack of confidence in her expression, she at last relinquished the basket.

He inclined his head and quit the bedchamber.

Rather than go immediately outside, he headed for the servants’ quarters. He might not be able to prevent the cat from attacking, but he’d be damned if he let it run away. Which left what?

The skinny, gray, potbellied devil-cat was unlikely to respect the sort of leash one might use with a dog. Xavier needed to fashion something as unusual as the cat itself. He twisted the cord from a bellpull into a figure eight and wrestled Egui’s front paws into the holes as if it were a waistcoat. He looped the ends of the cord through the metal clasp of a leather belt and tied a solid knot.

There. A cat leash. He leaned back, satisfied. As long as he didn’t let go of his end—and Egui refrained from attack—all would be well.

Xavier bundled the cat back into the basket and slipped on his coat and hat before slipping out into the blustery evening.

The icy wind robbed his lungs of air. Once his body adjusted to the frigid wind, he released Egui from his basket, careful to keep a firm hold on the safe end of the belt.

He couldn’t contain a brief smile. Taking a demon cat for a piss in the snow couldn’t be further from how he’d imagined spending his first night home, but Miss Downing and company were undeniably more entertaining. Even if he got a few new scars out of the escapade.

In fact, Egui might just be the key to saving them all. And not just because no man in his right mind would trust that cat anywhere near his bare arse.

Miss Downing, on the other hand… Xavier needed one hell of a plan to dissuade her from throwing away her virginity. A plan that stopped her from wanting him.

The easiest way would be to let her know exactly what sort of blackguard she was offering herself to, but his damnable pride hated the idea of resorting to such measures.

For one, tales of his misdeeds would rob her of a different sort of innocence. No one deserved that. And for two… she liked him. No matter how misplaced her faith in him might be, he hated to give it up. He just needed her to think of him as a friend, not a lover.

A friend who took her barmy cat for moonlit walks in the snow.

He turned his back to the wind and shivered. Yes, that was the answer. He would drown her in platonic politeness. Illustrate his relentless friend-ishness at every turn.

The best way to keep Miss Downing safe was to keep her at arm’s length.

His fingers curled into fists. By devoting himself to the care and well-being of her cat and all other libido-killing topics, he would mold her impression of him until he squarely fit the role of friend and nothing more.

Xavier tucked the cat back into the basket and hurried into the cottage, away from the bitter cold. Once inside, he leaned against the door until sensation returned to his fingertips.

Lord, it was wretched outside. In the past few hours, the weather had only worsened.

He could build up the fire in the parlor, but firewood was limited. He’d told Miss Downing that there would be plenty to see her through the night, and that was true—but it meant extinguishing all the other fires in order to better ration the wood. If the blinding snowfall kept him from chopping more, he would need to preserve what they still had.

In the morning, he would shovel a path to the road and put Miss Downing on the first passing hack. Once she was on her way, he would take stock of his provisions and decide how to best fortify his cottage. And turn his life around. He shrugged out of his coat and knelt to release Egui from his basket.

At last free of its makeshift leash, the cat shot off down the corridor and out of sight.

Xavier pushed to his feet. He’d let Miss Downing know her pet had returned safely, and then he’d barricade himself in the servants’ quarters until dawn. This wasn’t a mere challenge. This was his chance to prove he was no longer the monster he’d become.

He rolled his shoulders back. Just a handful of hours. Morning would be here before he knew it. He’d endured much worse fates than an unexpected visit by a voluptuous temptress.

He strode down the hall to his bedchamber, intending to knock softly lest Miss Downing be sound asleep.

The door was wide open. She was still there. Still clothed. And damnably seductive.

She sat on the sole stool, running a brush through her long, brown hair. The lustrous curls caught the light, entrancing him as they stretched and coiled about her. His heart quickened.

What would it be like to sink his fingers into that mass of soft, silken curls? To slide his hand behind her head as he brought her lips to his? Or to have a cascade of curls curtain him from both sides as she straddled his hips and leaned down to—

He rapped his fingers against the doorframe hard enough to draw blood. She glanced up, startled, and then smiled shyly. His heart skipped a beat.

Friend friend friend, he reminded himself, trying desperately to tear his gaze from hers. No looking, no touching, no lovemaking. His houseguest was one hundred percent out-of-bounds. But he kept his feet on the other side of the doorway to be safe.

“No problem with the cat.” He cleared his throat when his voice came out raspier than expected. “Is there anything else you need before I turn in for the night?”

Her cheeks flushed a deep pink. “Would you mind terribly… helping me remove my gown?”

“Would I what?” he choked out, suddenly unable to breathe.

“It’s just… Ladies’ gowns are made with the expectation that one’s maid will manage the lacing and unlacing.” She gestured behind her. “I find myself incapable of the contortions necessary to unhook my gown and unbind my stays.”

He swallowed hard and prayed for strength. “How did you plan to get dressed without a lady’s maid?”

Her blush deepened. “I didn’t plan to be dressed.”

“Well done. Now I’m expected to play maid.” He stalked forward to unlace her as quickly as possible.

“I did give you another option,” she murmured. “I find the thought of both of us naked to be equally acceptable.”

He groaned. It was going to be a long, hard night.

Literally.

Chapter 8

XAVIER’S FIRST THOUGHT UPON WAKING wasn’t about the willing woman curled betwixt his bed linen… but only because he hadn’t managed to sleep at all, for that very same reason.

Yes, the servants’ quarters were uncomfortable in their strangeness. Without a fire in the hearth, his breath escaped his lungs in visible puffs of frigid air. But that was nothing. During the war, he’d slept in far less noble conditions. Beneath the rain, against the wind, upon the earth itself—he’d been trained to properly rest his body to prepare for enemy action.

He hadn’t been prepared for a curvaceous bluestocking with chestnut eyes, lustrous curls, and a devilishly tempting proposal. Turning her down had been the hardest thing he’d done since leaving the army… until she’d asked him to help unlace her stays. His smallclothes tightened at the memory of his trembling fingers lifting that long, soft hair from the nape of her neck.

Did he find her attractive? Lying naked in the snowdrifts wouldn’t cool his ardor. The saving grace was that he wouldn’t have to try it. She’d be gone in a few hours.

He swung his feet onto the floor and rolled the kinks from his shoulders. It was morning. The snow would shortly begin to melt. And if not, well, that’s why God had invented shovels. People had places to be. The mail coach wouldn’t rumble by until noon, but the hack drivers would start rolling past long before. By midday, he’d be back in dreadful solitude.

Then, and only then, would he reenter his bedchamber, lay his head upon warm pillows that still smelled of her perfume, and allow himself to think of what might have been, had the circumstances been different.

But first, he would have to go re-lace the lady. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be able to dress at all. He splashed cold water on his face and scowled at his reflection. Perhaps throwing himself upon a snowdrift wasn’t such a bad idea.

Why must women’s clothing be so… interactive?

Xavier could get in and out of full regimentals in a matter of seconds. In fact, he’d let his valet go when he’d joined the army and hadn’t bothered to look for a replacement since his return. He didn’t need a valet. His retinue of five—a cook, a housekeeper, a butler, a footman, and a stableboy—were more than sufficient for an ex-soldier in a country cottage.

If only his servants were here! The cook and the housekeeper could play lady’s maids whilst Xavier and the other three men shoveled snowdrifts all the way back to London if need be.

Of course, if they were here, they would constitute five more witnesses to Miss Downing’s utter and complete ruin. As it stood now, there was still a chance, however slim, of getting her packed off and back home with everything important intact and no one ever being the wiser.

He dressed quickly. When he tugged on his first boot, his stockinged toes sank into something damp and spongy. He scowled and jerked his foot free. There could only be one explanation. He turned over his Hessian and curled his lip in disgust as a wet clump of cat hair and cravat threads tumbled out.

Egui. The world’s smallest, and most efficient, chaperone.

When there was no more personal grooming he could do to procrastinate the inevitable, Xavier made his way down the corridor toward his bedchamber.

Gentle firelight spilled from the open doorway.

She was awake. Of course she was awake. Her cat couldn’t have left the bedchamber without her having first opened the door.

He knocked on the doorjamb without peering inside. “Good morning, Miss Downing. You’re up early. Did you not sleep well?”

“I usually rise with the sun, though ’tis not very fashionable. Come in, come in. You don’t intend to hold a conversation from the other side of a wall, do you?”

He did consider a wall to be the safest of all possible barriers, but he supposed it was the least practical. He rolled back his shoulders and stepped into the open doorway.

His throat dried.

Miss Downing had moved the stool before the fireplace and sat with her back toward him. A cinnamon-colored dress gaped below her nape as she tilted her head to one side and struggled to drag a pearl comb through her long, wavy hair. Each curl glimmered in the firelight, then nestled back against the curve of her breast and the small of her spine.

He had never seen anything more erotic in his life.

“Would you like me to—” He clapped his chest when his voice came out far too husky. After clearing his throat, he tried again. “Shall I lace your stays?”

“Only if you wish to.” Rosy firelight—or perhaps a light blush—colored her exposed neck.

“I have to,” he answered, not bothering to hide the strangled desperation in his voice. “For both of us.”

“You don’t have to.” She turned around and looked him square in the eyes. “You wish to.”

A surprised laugh burst from his throat. His bluestocking might be exceptionally well read, but she knew very little about men.

“No. What I wish to do are acts so unapologetically carnal, the ink would catch fire if I attempted to commit my ideas to paper. But what I’m going to do is lace up your stays, toast some breakfast, and put you on the first coach back to London. You will thank me later.”

“I will think of you later.” The tip of her tongue ran along the bottom of her upper lip. “Just as I did last night.”

He clutched the doorjamb and held his position. If he went to her right now, it would not be to lace her stays. They were playing with fire.

She turned back to the hearth and resumed teasing the knots from her curly hair. “I don’t suppose you’ve any skill with a comb? My lady’s maid is the only one who could ever vanquish these tangles, and I fear I’m only making the matter worse.”

His jaw worked. He was profoundly grateful she couldn’t witness the naked desire writ upon his face.

Yes, he wanted to run his fingers through that long, silken hair. To touch it, to comb it, but mostly to have its softness be the sole blanket above their hot, twined bodies.

Which was simultaneously the best and worst idea to have ever crossed his mind. He liked her too much to let her throw away her future on a tryst with someone like him.

“We can’t be lovers, Miss Downing. Now or ever. You think me someone I am not.” As she met his gaze, he infused his tone with cold finality. “Your vision of me is flawed. A romanticized, idealized knight who saves the day and wins his lady’s favor. I am no knight. I do not deserve your favors. I will not be your seducer.”

She lifted a half-bare shoulder. “Right now I think you’re someone who doesn’t know how to unknot curly hair and doesn’t wish to come out and say so.”

“I know how to comb hair.” Against his better judgment, he stormed forward and snatched the pearl comb from her fingers. “Stand up. Not another word until you’re properly laced.”

She rose to her feet as docile as a lamb.

Xavier wasn’t remotely fooled.

With the comb between his teeth, he cinched her stays and buttoned her gown as quickly as possible. When she settled back on the stool, he lifted her hair in one hand and began to gently tease the tangles free, starting from the ends.

The firelight caught each curl as it released, turning the long brown waves into rippling gold.

When a contented little sigh escaped Miss Downing’s throat, the tension in his neck muscles softened. Her eyes were closed, and a half-smile curved her lips. The corners of his mouth quirked in response.

His seductive bluestocking was a far better cat than that devil creature she’d brought in a basket. He could comb her hair for hours, just to listen to her relaxed sighs and watch the blissful expression upon her pretty face.

His fingers froze in place. He could do this for hours? Just because she liked it?

“Good enough.” He tossed the comb into her lap and stalked out the door before her big brown eyes and sweet-smelling skin domesticated him any further. She would be gone in the next two hours. He would see to it personally.

He kicked a fur-speckled pile of what looked like his favorite undershirt out of the middle of the corridor and began to pile on his outerwear. Hat, scarf, coat, gloves. He snatched his shovel from around the corner. Forget the breakfast. He was no innkeeper. He was an irascible, soulless, solitary ex-soldier, and the lady was going home. Right. Now.

He swung open the front door. A mountain of snow tumbled inside. It was piled almost as high as the tops of his boots—and still falling. He stared in disbelief.

A thick blanket of white snow covered every inch of the horizon. No, not a blanket. Most blankets weren’t ten inches thick and growing. He couldn’t distinguish the road from his garden. Everything was white—and impassible. His blood ran cold.

This was a scourge. This was disaster. Bloody hell.

Chapter 9

SNOWBOUND?

Jane wrapped her arms around her chest to keep from flinging them wide and twirling about the parlor in glee. Snowbound.

She had been soundly rejected upon her arrival and hadn’t yet decided whether the humiliation or the disappointment had hurt more... but this morning’s conversation had made it plain that Captain Grey was not immune to her, and—snowbound! She couldn’t have planned for a more promising turn of events. There was still a chance!

Of course, if she were to nurture that chance, the first order of business was to improve his terrible mood.

He was understandably less enthusiastic than she was about the ongoing snowstorm. Being trapped in here with him meant his staff was trapped somewhere else, and there were meals to prepare and hearths to stock and cat fur covering most of the cottage.

There wasn’t much Jane could do about the abundance of fur or the dearth of firewood, but while Captain Grey was fixing breakfast, she collected the linens Egui had destroyed and safely hid away whatever the cat had not yet found. It might take Captain Grey an extra half hour to find his clean shirts, but at least they would be whole when he did so.

She sat at the dining table and placed three stockings and a waistcoat into her lap. The more unfortunate items were either in dire need of de-furring or had been clawed to shreds, but these were still salvageable. She could darn the stockings and sew new buttons onto the waistcoat before he’d even finish toasting the bread.

Nor was it an unusual morning chore. After so many years with Egui, she not only carried a mending bag at all times, she’d become quite clever at cross-stitch and embroidery. ’Twas the only female “accomplishment” she’d ever found practical. She had yet to be begged to perform critical pianoforte scales or paint an emergency watercolor.

Sewing, at least, gave her something useful to do while Captain Grey was in the kitchen fixing meals. An extra flourish here and there gave her hems a personal touch. And helped to pass the time.

She finished the last of the day’s mending just as he emerged from the kitchen. From the set of his jaw, he had no intention of engaging in polite small talk or otherwise passing an agreeable morning in shared companionship.

Jane had no intention of wasting a single second. The snow could melt at any moment, and when it did so, she intended to be… well, if not indispensable, then at least thoroughly ravished.

She had proposed becoming his mistress not because she thought it a likely turn of events, but because it gave her higher ground from which to haggle. Sharing a town house with her brother had taught her that one’s starting point very often determined one’s outcome.

If Captain Grey said, “I shall not touch you,” and Jane begged, “Oh, please, won’t you kiss me?” there wasn’t much room for compromise. But if Captain Grey said, “I shall not touch you,” and Jane suggested, “Why not be lovers?” then perhaps a conciliatory kiss wouldn’t be wholly out of the question.

Foremost, however, was getting him to stop glowering at her as if she had orchestrated a seduction and the sudden snowstorm.

She took a sip of her tea as she considered the problem. The first step to defuse a male in a wretched mood was to not toss new complaints upon the fire.

“Thank you for preparing breakfast.” She ate a third of her toasted bread before meeting his eyes and smiling. “The toast is lovely, and the tea is just what I needed.”

He glared back at her without a sound.

Of course he couldn’t make a sound. Compliments and thank you were incredibly difficult sallies to argue with. She hid her smile. Once he found he could not provoke her into an argument, perhaps they could move on to better topics.

This had to be tough for him. As a soldier—more specifically, a captain—he would be far more accustomed to giving orders than to receiving them. He would not have risen in the ranks so quickly if he had not been a respected, skillful commander every step of the way.

It was not hard to imagine a man as strong and honorable as him leading cavalry into battle or playing mentor to the aspiring officers among his troops. His epaulets and his title spoke to his courage and heroism.

What she was more interested in was the man behind the regimentals. Or rather, beneath them. He had not always been a soldier, and now that the war was over, he found himself facing the unenviable prospect of becoming what he once was: just a man.

Except no man was “just” a man. Everybody carried their unique hopes, dreams, and passions in their hearts. The trick was finding someone who shared them. Or would at least listen.

This was where Jane excelled. She was extremely adept at listening. She nibbled her toast. This morning was as good a start as any. She had to make the most of the situation. If Captain Grey looked at her and thought of carnal acts, plural, then she was determined to try as many as she could before she had to leave.

Her spine straightened. If she was going to be ruined, then by God she wanted to do it right. She wanted hot enough memories to keep her warm for the rest of her lonely, spinster life.

“The expression on your face is quite disturbing,” Captain Grey said as he reached for the teapot. “Napoleon was said to look just that way before charging off to conquer a neighboring country.”

Jane smiled. Such a statement was obviously meant to nettle, but she didn’t rise to the bait. Whether he realized it or not, his disgruntlement now was mostly for show. He’d even refilled her teacup before attending to his own.

“Close enough,” she said lightly, lifting her cup to her lips and breathing in the fragrant steam. If she wished for him to warm up to her, she must choose a less incendiary topic than lovemaking. “I was thinking about how difficult it must be to be a soldier and how honorably you must have acquitted yourself in order to earn the rank of captain.”

He slammed down the teapot hard enough to crack the handle. “You know nothing of battle and even less about soldiers. Do not romanticize me or the war. Any war. ’Tis nothing more than troops of killers murdering other killers in the name of their esteemed leader, who is likely to be far more bloodthirsty than brilliant.”

Her mouth fell open. “How can you say that? Napoleon was mad—and, yes, our own king has been deemed unfit to rule—but that does not make the cause you fought for any less worthy. What of Wellington? And the Fifteenth Regiment of Dragoons? I have read countless accounts on all the skirmishes, and—”

“Hearsay,” he spat with disgust. “You are proving my point. You know nothing of life if your only knowledge of it comes from books.”

Her teeth clenched. He wanted a row? Fine. “Only an ignoramus would claim there’s no knowledge to be found in books. Literature may not provide firsthand experience, but reading still has value. Perhaps if the leaders you hate knew their history a little better, war wouldn’t break out so easily.”

“Battle changes people, Miss Downing. I know you can’t understand what that means, but—”

“Why can’t I? Because of books again? You might recall that I also interact with people upon occasion.” She set down her teacup before she threw it at him. “My best friend married your best friend, who returned from the selfsame war just as heroic and as honorable as he went in. But you’re right. Not everyone did. The privateer sent to rescue Grace’s mother had captained a ship in the Royal Navy, fighting Napoleon from the sea. Before enlisting, that man was a barrister. So don’t tell me I don’t understand that war can change people, Captain Grey. I do know. I’ve seen it. I can also see you.”

His chest expanded and he crossed his thick arms before it. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I haven’t forgotten who you were before you became what you are now,” she said in exasperation. “You and Lord Carlisle and Major Blackpool were intermittently present at the same events and soirées I myself attended. The earl had not yet lost his father. The major had not yet lost his leg and his brother. And you had not yet lost your reason. The fact that you’re feeling well enough to argue with me today proves that no matter how the war changed you, you kept changing. You’re not the empty shell of a man Carlisle dragged through London like an oversize doll. You’re you again.”

He glared at her in silence.

She lowered her voice. “War is terrible. I recognize that. But now it’s over. What happens next is up to you.”

He pushed to his feet and piled the dishes and silverware into a stack. “It’s not that simple, and we’re done talking about it.”

She gathered the cups and the teapot and followed him into the kitchen. “Of course it’s not simple. Did you know Major Blackpool was one of only two people who ever bothered to stand up to dance with me at a ball? That moment will literally never happen again. He no longer attends balls. He’s missing a leg. From what I understand, he can barely walk and shall never dance again. But his life isn’t over.”

Captain Grey submerged the plates into a bucket of water and pushed it out of her reach. “Who was the other man you danced with?”

“My brother. Why won’t you let me wash the dishes?”

“Scullery work is hard on the skin, and you have pretty hands.” He began to scrub the first plate. “Blackpool is a hero. I am not. You’d do well to remember that. It would be the height of foolishness to trust a man who doesn’t trust himself.”

She shook her head. “Fighting for innocents and defending your country is inherently heroic. I believe in you. Closing yourself off won’t change that. No matter what you do, your heroism will always—”

He grabbed her face with wet hands and closed his mouth over hers with bruising force. No doubt he expected her to swoon, or slap him, or some other such nonsense.

She gripped his arms and held on tight.

His lips were wide and firm against hers. The rough hands cradling her face dripped with water, but all she felt was warm. Desired. He wasn’t simply kissing her. He was holding her in place as if he never wanted to let her go. Hope soared within her. She pressed herself even closer and let her eyes flutter closed.

Even through his clothes, the muscles of his arms were tight and firm beneath her ungloved hands. What would it be like to feel them wrapped around her? Would he hold her close with the same desperate passion that had begun this kiss? Or would his embrace be tender, as his lips were now, brushing against hers with gentle insistence?

As he suckled her lower lip, her mouth parted—not in surprise, but in eagerness. Just because it was her first kiss didn’t mean she was ignorant of what pleasures it might bring. She rose on her toes to meet him.

She had researched the matter extensively and was delighted to discover that he had been right about book knowledge failing to communicate the complete picture. No mere words on parchment could remotely convey the heat and immediacy and… dizziness of having his mouth mold to hers. The heady sensation of need and shared desire.

Being kissed was more than she’d ever imagined. Being kissed by him was more than she’d ever dreamed.

Her fingers trembled—her entire body trembled—and she clutched his neck with abandon. She could no longer stand. She couldn’t feel her legs, her knees, anything except her mouth on his and their bodies cleaving together. The rest of the world melted away. It was as if she’d been waiting for this moment, this man, all of her life.

She licked at his lower lip and thrilled when a raw groan escaped his throat. Her heart hammered against her ribs, pushing her bosom against his chest with every staccato beat. All she could think was that she never wanted their kiss to end. This was heaven.

His tongue met hers and a delicious shiver shot down her spine, electrifying her skin. He tasted of tea, but also of a spice she could not define. He tasted of virile man, she supposed. Of Captain Xavier Grey. Everything about him was strong and sure and masculine and completely irresistible. She wanted to be his. She wanted him to be hers.

Her knees weakened. He felt like home and danger and hope all wrapped into one. Her breath escaped in tiny bursts when she remembered to breathe at all. He didn’t just make her feel desirable. He proved with every consuming kiss, with the thundering of his own heart against hers, that his desire for her was powerful enough to devour them both.

She was already lost.

He pulled away, gasping, and ran a shaking hand through his hair.

It was all she could do not to sway right back into his embrace.

“Was that heroic?” he rasped. “Or was it a selfish man doing what selfish men do?”

She gazed back at him in wonder. Her lips were tender from his kiss. “It was beautiful.”

“It was foolish.” He turned back to the bucket and reached for the next dirty saucer. “It shan’t be repeated.”

Chapter 10

IT WAS ALL XAVIER COULD do not to stick his head in the bucket of soapy water and drown himself for being such an imbecile.

Was grabbing Miss Downing and kissing her meant to teach her a lesson of some sort? What pearl of wisdom, precisely, had he intended to impart, other than if the snow didn’t ease up soon, he was going to have to build an impenetrable ice hut and encase himself inside?

He supposed he’d meant to prove that he was not an honorable man, nor a wise object upon which to pin one’s cap. A smart man would not have kissed her. An honorable man absolutely would not have done.

Why couldn’t she see that by dubbing him “hero” of this charade, he would prove himself unheroic with the mere acceptance of the role?

Heaven knew he’d been unheroic enough to last a lifetime. When he’d realized he could not be trusted around others, he had sunk to the most desperate of solutions. At first, he’d shuttered himself inside his mind. When that proved unsustainable—curse the empathy of true friends!—he’d managed to shutter himself in a tiny cottage, a solid mile from the nearest posting house.

Then she came along. And he’d kissed her.

The smart thing to do—the only thing to do—was to be heroic enough for them both. If she would not watch out for her best interests, he would have to work twice as hard. Thrice as hard. Oh, God, was he ever hard…

He groaned. If he was ever to acquit himself in some small way, she must retain her innocence. And obviously, it was up to him to ensure that happened. Miss Downing was unlikely to assist him in his mission to preserve her chastity.

She seemed to believe his home a fortress of anonymity, within which all depraved acts could be wantonly enjoyed without a soul ever becoming the wiser. As if she believed whatever happened in the captain’s cottage, stayed in the captain’s cottage.

Naïve beyond all reckoning. He shook his head. There were no such things as secrets.

He had staff that would arrive as soon as the roads were passable. She had servants—and a brother—who would at some point wonder what had become of her. If there weren’t likenesses nailed to every wall across England already. And of course, she had yet to make it home without calling attention to her adventure. He grimaced. Good Lord.

Even if he outfitted her with a chastity belt and a wimple, hundreds of people would cross her path between Chelmsford and London. People with eyes, ears, and wagging tongues. The only chance that remained of returning her home with her reputation intact was to ensure there was little reason to doubt it. Starting with never learning she’d crossed his door.

He must resume his scheme of converting her image of him into one of a mere acquaintance. It had to work. One did not seduce one’s acquaintances. While she was here, he and Miss Downing would adhere to what was proper. They’d be nothing less and nothing more than perfectly dull, perfectly respectable… friends.

But guarding a young lady’s reputation required more than merely abstaining from making love to her. Especially with a woman as unconventional and unpredictable as this one.

Even without succumbing to carnal pleasures, there was nothing maiden-appropriate with which to pass the time. He was a bachelor. This was his home. Very little within its walls was appropriate for a young lady. She shouldn’t be anywhere near him or the dishes. Zeus. What was he to do?

He didn’t even own a backgammon set. Yet he must ensure their one hundred percent platonic friendship didn’t degenerate to her swilling gin and smoking cigarillos as she tossed betting markers across a velvet card table. His cottage must remain a citadel of respectability.

Which left what? Organizing his linen closet?

Excitement rushed through his veins. No, not his linen closet. His library. What could be safer than a room full of books?

His chest lightened. He washed the last of the dishes and dried his hands on a towel. A library like his could take weeks to organize. He didn’t even know what was on the shelves. He’d purchased titles at whim and left them helter-skelter when he’d set off for war.

With luck, the volumes were so dusty that they’d cause sneezing fits every time they were touched. No man was less kissable than whilst suffering a violent coughing attack.

He proffered his arm. “Would you like to see my library?”

Her lips curved, but she narrowed her eyes in mock suspicion. “Dare I hope for a prurient collection of shunga scrolls?”

He took a step back. “I am delighted to say that I have no idea what that means.”

She laughed. “Why would you be happy about that?”

He fixed her with an imperious stare. “Whatever it is, I doubt it is something proper.”

“Who would want a proper library?” Her eyes widened and she tilted her head. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those pretentious sorts who only purchases books with the hope of impressing callers with their size or title.”

“I never meant to show anyone my library, so, no, I am not so lowly a creature as that. However, I haven’t laid eyes on my books in well over three years, and I couldn’t begin to tell you what I might have thought worth perusing at that time. Essays on irrigation methods? Travel journals? French poetry? I imagine there’s a few of everything upon those shelves.”

She hesitated, clearly tempted. “I recognize this as a blatant attempt to avoid other outlets for amusement.”

“And yet you cannot resist.” He turned her toward the door and offered his arm once more. “What if the snow should melt by noontime? You might never get another chance to discover the hidden secrets of a captain’s library.”

She slapped her hand onto the crook of his arm in resignation. “You don’t fight fair.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” he said quietly. He hoped she never would.

She released his arm when they reached the library and preceded him into the room. He followed close behind. As soon as he entered, she pulled the door closed behind them.

He arched a sardonic brow. “Was the empty cottage not private enough, madam?”

She arched a brow right back. “Have you met my cat?”

His gaze jerked to his shelves in horror. It was one thing for his books to be dusty… and quite another for them to be a pulpy, fur-sodden mess.

Fortunately, all seemed to be in order. Perhaps too much in order. All the titles were upright and even, with nary a cobweb to be found.

Curse his competent staff.

Miss Downing began a slow examination of the room. Xavier lit a small fire with his flint and then settled onto the chaise longue to watch.

She wasn’t just beautiful. Everything about her was bewitching and larger than life. Her huge brown eyes. Her mane of wild, curly hair. Her pouty lips and curvaceous figure. Her literate, clever mind. The sheer force of her will. Her single-minded intensity. How seductively she walked. How sweetly she kissed.

He gritted his teeth. This was Operation Platonic Friendship. He was not to think about the taste of her mouth or the sway of her hips.

They needed to spend the entirety of the day discussing Wordsworth and Voltaire. Or rather, something less… provocative. He didn’t want to make a good impression. Perhaps he ought to engage her in a lively debate on whether library books were best catalogued by size or color.

“What do you think of my collection?” he found himself asking instead.

“Well…” She poked her head from around a corner. “The topics are varied enough, but at least half have never been read. The pages aren’t even sliced.”

“You can do the honors, if you’ve found something you’d like to read.” He adjusted a small pillow and stretched out upon the chaise longue. He didn’t much care who sliced the pages, but if offering her the privilege made him seem like a good friend, he’d be happy to lend his knife.

Eyes sparkling, she bounced in place. “I can read anything that I want?”

“As long as it isn’t…” He hesitated. What had she mentioned earlier? Sugar? Shogun? “…shunga scrolls.”

The corners of her mouth quirked. “Nobody reads shunga scrolls. They just look at the pictures.”

He cut her a flat look.

She gave an innocent flutter of eyelashes and selected a book from the shelves. “Lie back down. I’ll read something to you. How about the Odyssey in original Greek?”

He couldn’t even remember purchasing it. “Do you mind if I snore?”

“I hope you do. But I’ll translate aloud in case you manage to stay awake.” Rather than take another chair, she perched at the foot of the chaise longue with her back toward him. “Ahem. Page the first. ‘Tell me, O muse, of that ingenious hero…’”

There. Xavier relaxed his head against the cushion. Nothing could be more respectable.

Or less stimulating. He hadn’t actually intended to snore, but neither had he anticipated the level of mortal dullness in which Miss Downing read aloud. She could not have infused less life into her tone had she merely been counting sheep.

He might have told her not to bother translating since it wasn’t doing either of them any favors, except he saw no advantage to being rude. His goal was to be perceived as a friend, not the enemy. Enemies could incite passion.

Miss Downing’s monotone could only incite slumber.

After a while, he let his eyelids drift closed. It had been a long, cold night filled with nothing but vivid waking dreams. He had been exhausted from the moment he rolled out of bed. Her tone was pacifying in its relentless uniformity, the words forgettable and relaxing.

He almost didn’t notice when she skipped from Calypso to Circe in the space of a breath. Her low words droned on without hitch. His eyes flew open. How could she have turned thirty pages at once without noticing? How could she have skipped the Trojan horse without noticing?

Sleep forgotten, he propped himself up on one elbow to glance over her shoulder at the text.

And roared. “What the devil are you reading, woman?”

She jumped, her cheeks flushing a rosy pink. “You said I might read whatever I wished.”

“You said you were reading the Odyssey!”

“I said I would read you the Odyssey.” She motioned him back to his pillow. “I’m reading something else.”

“That’s not ‘something else.’” Heart galloping, he reached for the book.

She held it aloft with her other hand. “You can’t have it. I’m right in the middle.”

“Absolutely not,” he ground out. “That’s The Memoirs of Fanny Hill, and it’s not fit for human eyes.”

Her brows arched. “Then why do you have it?”

“Because I’m inhuman! Give me the damn book or I’ll—”

“Oh, lie back down. You were almost asleep. I’ve already read most of what you’re afraid of, so there’s not much harm in reading the rest.”

He collapsed back against the chaise and covered his face with his hands. No wonder the woman’s storytelling abilities had been execrable. She’d been quoting from memory whilst reading an entirely different story. One in which an innocent country miss was procured by a bawdyhouse madam and then descended into a life of erotic abandon.

“What part are you at now?” he rasped, his throat dry.

“Mmm. Fanny is peering through closet curtains at the proprietress’s boudoir. This is after she spent the night in the same bed as Phoebe. How that girl failed to guess Phoebe’s trade as a whore after the woman kissed her and stroked her and brought her almost to the edge of relief is completely beyond all credulity.”

Xavier kept his hands over his eyes and groaned. He, too, could recite a few literary passages from memory. Not one of them was appropriate for platonic friendships.

“I’m now at the part where Fanny espies an erect male member for the very first time.” Miss Downing’s voice turned conspiratorial. “I can certainly understand her excitement and curiosity, as I haven’t had the pleasure myself.”

Lord save him. He moaned into his hands. Things had somehow got even worse. His mission hadn’t failed after all. Instead, he had accidentally become the-friend-to-which-she-shared-all-erotic-secrets. Platonic was worse than lovers. Platonic was hell.

“Here, I’ll read the next part. See if you remember it.” The chaise creaked as she straightened her spine and took a deep breath. This time, her voice was low and throaty, as rich and seductive as wine.

“‘The madam’s sturdy stallion had now unbuttoned, and produced naked, stiff and erect, that wonderful machine, which I had never seen before, and which, for the interest my own seat of pleasure began to take furiously in it, I stared at with all the eyes I had…’”

He sprang upright, snatched the novel from her fingers, and hurled it across the room.

His bluestocking glared at him in high fury. “Must you be so vexing, Captain Crotchety? I was just getting to the good part.”

“You want to know the good parts?” he exploded. “Fanny watches them rut, is aroused, brings herself to pleasure, spies on yet another trysting couple, becomes overset with lust, and throws herself at the first lone male she comes across. There. It’s spoiled. There’s no point in reading it.” He leaped to his feet and yanked her to hers. “No more library. I might have a chess set somewhere. We’re going to play a nice respectable game of chess even if we’re missing a few pieces. I’ll whittle new ones if I have to.”

“You don’t have to be so disagreeable,” she muttered, shaking her arm free from his grip.

Oh, yes, he did. It was either disagreeable or naked, and he was perilously close to choosing the latter.

He locked the library door securely behind them and turned his back on the maddening, stimulating, delectable Miss Downing. His blood raced just from looking at her. He wasn’t abstaining from seduction for his sake, but for hers.

It was the only thread of decency he had left.

Chapter 11

XAVIER MANAGED TO AVOID ALL conversation with Miss Downing until late that afternoon when his stomach growled its displeasure. If he was hungry, she must be hungry. And the snow had yet to cease.

He sighed. They would have to share another meal. Anything else would be impractical. He might as well start cooking.

It was bad enough that his army-honed culinary skills were better suited for a dungeon. Now they’d have to nibble sliced cheese and roasted vegetables while phrases like stiff and erect and she pleasured herself still hung between them.

He ran a hand over his face. He’d thought that his primary attraction to the unstoppable Miss Downing was the very fact of her untouched innocence. Of her managing to be something good and true and pure in a world of war and deception and hate.

Over and over, she’d proven him wrong. Yes, she was both a virgin and good-natured, as expected. She was also clever, confident, and unapologetically sensual. In other words… the perfect woman. For someone else. He swallowed hard.

If only he could stop wanting her so bloody much.

He attacked the cheese with a knife as the vegetables roasted over a fire. Supper wouldn’t be much, but it would be edible.

Three years of hell had taught Xavier never to rely on anyone else’s assistance. Even without his cook present, Xavier’s larder was stocked with enough provisions to keep a non-finicky bachelor fed through springtime. Including a hidden stash of the sweets he’d missed so much while he’d been away.

A young lady like Miss Downing, however, would keep to a higher standard. The back of his neck heated as he realized she might be disappointed in his meager offerings. She must be used to more. Deserved more. But until the snow stopped falling, all she got was him.

To her credit, she voiced no complaints. They even made it through most of the meal without a single mention of inappropriate topics. But as his sultry houseguest popped the last of the after-dinner sweetmeats into her mouth, she fixed her gaze on his with a slow smile.

For the first time in his life, he wished he were a candied pear.

She licked her lips and reached for her glass of wine. “Is the library still restricted?”

“Absolutely.” Every single part of him was feeling restricted, just from watching her tongue moisten those plump red lips. He ground his teeth. Perhaps he ought to open the library back up and lock her inside until morning. “Also forbidden are bed play, strong spirits, cheroots, gambling, and eighteenth-century erotica.”

“Everything fun, you mean.” She gave him a teasing pout.

He willed his body not to respond.

“If we’re to entertain ourselves without any physical activities,” she continued, “then we’ll have to make do with conversation. Since we’re snowbound at the moment, surely you cannot object to getting to know each other a little better over another glass of wine?”

God’s teeth. “One glass was enough.”

The corners of her mouth twitched. “A cup of milk, then. We can even sit on opposite sides of the parlor.”

“Fine.” Milk sounded good. Milk sounded innocent. “Go sit. I’ll join you as soon as I clear the table.”

“I can help with the—”

“Go pick your side of the parlor.”

She laughed under her breath, but she rose to her feet with good grace and sashayed away.

He gathered the dishes and deposited them in a bucket of clean water in the kitchen. The current supply of fresh water would barely cover scullery duties and separate baths for him and the lady. The next time he took the cat out for a walk, he’d have to remember to bring in more snow.

Good. He could use a nice long tromp outside in the cold to help him forget about the nice warm woman he’d left inside.

She was seated in one of two wingback chairs when he entered the parlor. Both chairs were positioned at complementary angles such that they somewhat faced the fire, and somewhat faced each other—without either occupant being forced to stare in either direction. Not precisely opposite sides of the parlor, but at least they wouldn’t be sharing the sofa.

“So.” He dropped onto the unoccupied chair and stretched out his feet. “Sagittarius?”

Her mouth fell open. “You cannot possibly follow astrology.”

“I cannot possibly,” he agreed. At least they wouldn’t be discussing the stars. “Have you a better jumping off point for making light conversation under awkward conditions?”

“I do.” The sugary sweetness in her tone raised the hair on the back of his neck. She tapped the tips of her fingers together and smiled. “I thought we might play Boon or Bare.”

His muscles tensed. “Boon or what?”

Her brown eyes laughed at him from beneath their curled lashes. “I presume you’ve never been a twelve-year-old girl?”

He arched his brows at her in silence.

She winked back. “It’s a game of twenty questions, goose. To which you bare your soul, not your derrière, in case that’s what has you all bothered. Should you choose to not answer a question, you owe the asker the boon of their choice.” She relaxed against her chair, her gaze sparkling with challenge. “I cannot credit that a big strong captain would be afraid of a game little girls play when they spend the night with their cousins.”

Famous. He glared at her sourly. He could see where this was going.

If she earned a boon, she was going to ask for another kiss... or she’d head straight for the fireworks. But since the only other activities in his snowbound bachelor home were worse than this silly game, he was out of better options for entertainment.

He rolled the kinks out of his shoulders. Exhausted as he was, he would have to stay en garde. He wanted to keep her out of trouble. She wanted a glimpse inside his brain. Or his breeches. He shifted his weight as a shiver slid down his back. The easiest way to avoid owing boons would be to just answer her questions.

Somehow, that was more frightening.

“Five,” he bit out. “You get five questions, not twenty.”

“We get five questions,” she corrected. Victory lit her from within, making her even more beautiful. “Do you wish to start, or shall I?”

Perhaps he should’ve allowed twenty. The longer he could string out idle conversation, the less trouble they’d get into. He waved his fingers with as much careless disdain as he could muster. “Ladies first.”

As she leaned forward, her eyes turned serious. “If we’re both attracted to each other, why do you refuse to act on it?” Her pulse fluttered at her throat. “I’m not looking for forever. Just lovemaking. No one will even know.”

“Because you should be looking for forever.” He ran jerky fingers through his hair. So much for idle conversation. One question was too many. Well, if she wasn’t going to let the topic drop, the best thing to do was tell the truth. Perhaps that would shake some sense into her. “It’s never ‘just lovemaking.’ When you do choose a man, your relationship should be something you’re both proud of. Seek commitment, not secrecy. Promise me you’ll never settle for someone unwilling to proclaim his love for you from every rooftop in London.”

She frowned. “But I’m not looking for love.”

“Aren’t you?”

Her mouth tightened. “Is that your first question?”

He lifted his brows. “It’s one you should be asking yourself.”

She stabbed a finger in his direction. “You haven’t answered mine. You’ve informed me why I shouldn’t have my viewpoint, but what I asked for is yours.”

His muscles tightened. He hated this game already. If it had ever been just a game. He drummed his fingers on his armrests. Now that he’d agreed to play, he intended to keep his word. Even if he’d rather take her cat for long walks in the snow than struggle to put feelings into words.

“Separating what I should do from what you should do isn’t as simple as you seem to think,” he said at last. “You are a marriageable young lady. You are still a virgin. You are good at heart. By taking your innocence, I would rob you of the opportunity to find someone who is worthy of you.”

She leaned forward. “But I—”

“You asked what I thought.” He took a deep breath and let the words come as they may. This was the time for truth, not eloquence. “Your maidenhead isn’t something you can get back once you’ve lost it. No matter what terms you think you’re offering, accepting those terms would be taking advantage of your innocence. I won’t rob you of your future. I ruined more than enough lives in Belgium. Don’t ask me to be a monster in the sanctuary of my own home.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she made no further interruption.

Not that it mattered. He was done talking. Every word he’d spoken was true. There was nothing left to say.

She lowered her eyes and lifted her fingers in his direction. “Your question, Captain.”

There was only one worth asking. His hands curled into fists. “Your brother is a shite guardian. How the devil did you get here without anyone noticing?”

A flush crept over her cheeks. She didn’t like the question? Good. He hoped she regretted tricking him into this farce. If he had to answer questions, so did she.

Still blushing, she met his gaze. “Grace had mentioned you had a cottage outside of Chelmsford. I figured it couldn’t be that hard to find. Everyone in a ten-mile radius was bound to know the direction of a decorated army captain.”

Splendid. To save her reputation, all they had to do was erase the memories of everyone in a ten-mile radius. Or did they?

“That’s how you found my cottage,” he said when she didn’t continue. “How did you slip away? I cannot believe your brother would give you permission to make this journey, much less unaccompanied.”

She worried her lower lip. “Isaac had an important business meeting to attend to, so I was left alone. So I let my lady’s maid have a holiday. Don’t look so stormy! A woman of four-and-twenty is perfectly capable of taking care of herself.”

Xavier coughed. “Obviously.”

“Well, that’s how it happened. My brother wasn’t home, so I left and came here. It doesn’t make him a shite guardian. It just means he trusts me.”

“I stand corrected,” he drawled. “His wisdom knows no bounds.”

Her arms crossed. “Unlike you, Isaac trusts me to do what’s right for me. My brother wouldn’t be happy to learn I snuck off to meet a man, but he wouldn’t make snippy little comments about it like a missish harpy.”

He’d gone from Captain Crotchety to “missish harpy” in less than an hour, and there was only one explanation: She was absolutely mad.

He took a deep breath and let the subject drop. No matter what he thought of her plan, a great deal of courage had been required to make an unplanned pilgrimage to Chelmsford and risk rejection, humiliation, and ruin. He’d already rejected her. There was no call to add to the hurt.

Especially not when he was trying to be friends.

“Very well,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to be judgmental. I’m just used to being alone.”

She leaned forward eagerly. “Is that why you think love is so important?”

“Who said I—?”

“It’s obvious. And it’s my question.” She batted her eyelashes at his clenched jaw, as if trying to tease him out of a foul humor. “Play the game. Why do you feel love is so important?”

He slowly let out his breath. Did he? It sounded so idealistic, and yet… Perhaps it was true.

“I didn’t think much of love at first. Not until I realized I was no longer worthy of it.” He turned his face toward the fire. “Things have a funny way of gaining importance once they’re out of one’s grasp.” He pinned her with his gaze. “Some say love is a gift. It’s also something you earn. Something you deserve or don’t deserve, at times through no fault or merit of your own. It’s something worth fighting for. Perhaps even dying for. It is often the sole difference between heaven and hell.”

Her smile softened. “You’re a romantic.”

“I’m a cynic. Ravenwood’s the one who has always spouted romantic nonsense about marrying for love, ever since the rest of us were old enough to start thinking of young ladies as prizes to win. It was no surprise that he longed for love. He inherited his dukedom when he was eight years old and the estate fell into strange hands. If the coffers weren’t restored by the time he came of age, the best he could have hoped for was an heiress.”

Her eyes widened. “But he didn’t marry for love. He hasn’t married at all.”

“He doesn’t have to. The dukedom is strong again. He can believe love to be as important as he pleases.” Xavier shrugged and arched a brow. “Why don’t you think so?”

She clasped her hands and brought them to her lips in silence.

Not a problem. He was very good at patience. It was his talent, and his curse.

After a moment, she lowered her hands to her lap. “That’s your question?”

“It is.”

“Then I must answer.” But she turned toward the fire and stared at the orange flames leaping behind the grate rather than respond.

He watched in silence. Her discomfort was palpable. Honesty was a very dangerous game indeed.

“I do believe in love,” she said at last, without looking at him. “I find it devastatingly important. I just don’t think it possible for everyone to find it, and certainly not for me.” She lifted her chin. “There’s little sense holding out hope for something that’s not going to happen. I’m no quixotic dreamer. That’s why I’m here. I wanted something more within my grasp.” Her eyes glittered in the firelight. “On our way to the opera, I saw elegant courtesans. Penny whores. Fishwives. They all had lovers. And I thought… Why not me?”

“Miss Downing, you are no fishwife. Your lack of husband has nothing to do with—”

“Why did you become a soldier?” she interrupted.

“What?” A laugh startled out of him at the abrupt change in topic. “Why did you become a bluestocking?”

“It’s not your turn yet,” she snapped.

He blinked and settled back against his chair. They were apparently through discussing love. Or bluestockings. “That’s your question?”

“Yes.” She leaned back against her chair. “Why did you join the army? The real answer. Not just ‘duty’ or ‘honor.’ Why did you truly join?”

His initial reaction was to grind out that duty and honor were reasons as valid as any, but he took a moment to consider the question. Were those his reasons? Were they anyone’s?

He thought back. “Gossip rags would indicate that otherwise sensible women cannot resist a man in regimentals, but the truth is that little boys cannot resist wishing to be that man.”

She lifted a hand to her mouth to hide her smile. “You read gossip rags?”

He flashed a rakish grin. “Can I answer that question instead?”

“No, no.” She fluttered her fingers. “Carry on with your explanation. Regimentals are universally appealing...”

He inclined his head. “As is the idea of honor and duty. Who doesn’t wish to be honorable, or at least to be perceived as such? Who doesn’t long for the respect of his peers and the adulation of female hearts? When my closest friends purchased their commissions in the King’s Army, there was absolutely no question about whether I’d join them. We were invincible, and we were off to become heroes.”

“And you did,” she said with a smile.

“Did we?” he asked, his voice dry. “Perhaps Carlisle did. I didn’t. The rest of us…” His voice trailed off. None of it had worked out as any of them had hoped. “Ravenwood’s dukedom kept him from going, and the bullet in Edmund Blackpool’s chest kept him from coming back. Go ask Bart how much adulation he’s received since returning home without a leg. Even the magic of an officer’s regimentals has its limits.”

She lifted her chin. “That doesn’t mean he’s not a hero.”

“A hero who can’t stand his own reflection.” Xavier lifted a shoulder. “Not that I’m overly fond of mine. Is it my turn yet?”

Pensive, she nodded slowly. “Yes. Ask anything you like.”

He rubbed his temples. The ability to be clever escaped him at the moment. His head was still brimming with memories of war and the loss and disappointments all his friends had faced. But she’d inadvertently given him a topic to explore.

“What made you become a bluestocking?” he asked. “The real answer. Not just ‘I like books.’”

She laughed. “Nobody chooses to become a bluestocking, any more than they choose to become a wallflower.”

“Nobody?”

She stared at him as if she’d never considered the idea before. Perhaps she hadn’t. She chewed her lower lip. “I suppose I did. Choose to be a bluestocking, I mean. Not a wallflower. I have tried so hard to make an—but that wasn’t the question. Bluestockings. My mother was one. And I wanted to be just like her. She and Aunt Montagu were my heroes.”

His elbow slipped off its armrest. “Elizabeth Montagu was your aunt? How could you not have become a bluestocking? She fairly invented the practice!”

Miss Downing gazed at the fire. “I think she was perhaps a second or third cousin, several times removed. A fair percentage of the volumes in my private library came from her. I was far too young to attend the literary assemblies, but my mother had done, and she could quote to me from memory.”

He couldn’t even imagine. “How did your father feel about that?”

“Papa? He was a respected scholar and had once held an advisory position of some renown with the war office. Neither Isaac nor I can recall a time when we weren’t surrounded by books and actively reading. In fact, I memorized the Odyssey to compete with my brother.” She smiled at the memory. “In my family, knowledge was the highest goal one could pursue. ‘Bluestocking’ wasn’t a slur, but rather a term of pride.”

In her family. An empty feeling gathered in the pit of his stomach. “When did you realize that wasn’t true in all families?”

Her mouth tightened. “The day I made my curtsey. Novels weren’t shunned in my home any more than periodicals, so between scandal sheets and gothic serials, I was convinced that no matter what happened on the night of my come-out, for better or for worse, it would be absolutely memorable.”

“And what happened?”

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Nothing.”

He frowned. “How could nothing happen? If you had a come-out, then certainly something—”

“I believe we’re overdue for my turn at question-asking.” Her voice trembled, then pushed on. “When you first came home from war, you were a hairsbreadth away from vegetative. It took months for you to show any awareness or interest in the world around you.”

His spine stiffened. “Is that a question?”

“I’ll rephrase.” Her stare turned piercing. “Why did you retreat into your own mind?”

He glared at her. “It was safer.”

She didn’t look away.

Neither did he.

She sighed and held up her palms. “Care to elaborate?”

Not particularly. But nor did he wish to owe her a boon. “No one returns from war the same man he was when he started.” He, more than anyone. “I didn’t like who I had become. And I couldn’t make myself forget.”

“Who did you become?”

He shook his head. “That’s a different question.”

“You lost your innocence,” she guessed.

His lips twisted. “I lost that years before.”

“I don’t mean your virginity. I mean your innocence. You thought the world was one way, and it turned out to be another.”

“That’s… an understatement.” It had turned out to be a living hell.

“Earlier, you mentioned that once one loses one’s innocence, it cannot be regained.” She tilted her head. “That’s true. But it’s not the whole story.”

He stared down at his boots. “Nothing is ever the whole story.”

“I mean, as people, we’re always losing our innocence about something, aren’t we? That doesn’t negate or even minimize it, but it does mean we have to keep moving forward.” Her lips pursed as she considered him. “You didn’t like who you had become. That’s fair. But you’re no longer that person. That was the old you. This is the new you.”

He snorted. “How do you know who or how I am?”

“Because you’re not on the battlefield anymore.” Her words sped faster. “You say war changes a man. I believe you. But it’s not the only thing that changes a person. Who we are at any given moment is a combination of our past experiences, present situation, and potential future. It’s not stagnant. The person you no longer liked wasn’t the same bright-eyed recruit who joined, or the man you became when you came home.”

“A vegetable,” he said wryly.

She shook her head. “Not a vegetable. A man searching for answers. I don’t know if you found any. Perhaps there are none to find. But whatever you had become, you no longer are. No one is ever the person they were even six months prior. The mere fact of disliking what you’d become inherently changed you for the better.”

He ran a hand over his face, then let his head fall back against the chair. “I don’t feel better.”

“Another sign that you’re human. Soldiers protect the greater good. The acts they’re called to perform are unpleasant, but their hearts are in the right place.”

“Don’t both sides think so?” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. How he wished the experience had merely been unpleasant.

Her brow wrinkled in concern. “Are you… sympathizing with Napoleon?”

“I’m condemning war in general.” He massaged the back of his neck. “And now it’s my turn to ask a question.”

Her lips scrunched as if she were physically holding herself back from pressing further, but she nodded and lifted a hand for him to continue.

Splendid. Now if only he had a question. Mostly he hadn’t wanted to discuss the war, much less his feelings about it. Curse this game. The good news was that she only had one question left. The bad news was that he still had two to go.

At least… it should’ve felt like bad news. When they’d sat down to play what he’d assumed was frivolous nonsense, there weren’t many things he’d wished to do less. But somehow, the fire had dwindled without him noticing.

What had begun as a silly challenge was now a very real, very personal conversation. He found himself not wishing to “waste” questions on trivial topics. Miss Downing was clever and insightful and utterly impossible, and he wanted to know everything about her.

He leaned forward. “My circle of friends is infamous, but I know nothing about yours. Who are your closest friends?”

“Books.” She tapped herself on the chest. “Bluestocking, remember?”

Her flippancy surprised him. “I asked a real question.”

“I gave a real answer.”

“A one-word answer.” What had she said to him earlier? He held his palms wide. “Care to elaborate?”

No, she didn’t look as though she did. Her arms were folded beneath her chest and her gaze was on the ebbing fire. But then she raised her eyes to his.

“My brother has his own responsibilities to deal with. Grace is married. I’ll see her at the Theatre Royal in less than a fortnight for Cymon, but we’ll be paying attention to the stage, not each other. I have no other family or friends. Which leaves... books.” She paused.

He watched her in silence.

“I love books.” She smiled in the direction of their feet. “I truly do. They may not love me back, but it feels like they do while I’m reading them. Spending the afternoon with a favorite character gives me more time with someone than I usually get in a month. Before I met Grace, books were the best and only friends I’d had for years. So I spend all the time with them that I can.”

“Until now,” he said softly.

Her laugh was humorless. “Until I turned up on your doorstep without my library in tow?”

“No.” He kept his voice was low and warm. “Apart from Lady Carlisle, the characters you read about were your only friends… until now. Now you have me, too.”

Firelight splashed across her startled face.

The back of his neck heated. Embarrassed, he waved a hand. “Your turn. Last question.”

Contemplative, she returned her gaze to the fire. When she spoke, her words were so soft he could barely hear them. But he couldn’t escape them.

“What precisely occurred to disillusion you and make you believe you had crossed from good to evil?”

His spine went rigid. “I didn’t ‘believe’ it. It’s a fact. And I do not deserve forgiveness.”

She shook her head. “That’s not an answer.”

“You won’t get an answer.”

“Then you owe me a boon.”

His muscles tightened. Famous. He could either divulge his darkest regret or open himself up to making new ones. “The boon can’t be lovemaking, or forcing me to answer a question I already refused to answer.”

She leaned back in her chair. “You don’t get to decide the boon or the question. You simply answer, or not.”

His heartbeat sped in frustration. He rubbed his temples. “What’s your boon, Miss Downing?”

She met his eyes. “Jane.”

He blinked. “What?”

“My name is Jane. Now that we’re friends, I ask for leave to call you Xavier.”

His stomach fluttered. “First-naming each other is your boon?”

She smiled back at him sweetly. “If that’s too intimate, we can always try the lovemaking instead.”

“My turn to ask a question,” he said quickly. She was incorrigible. He couldn’t help but grin back at her. “Jane.”

Her cheeks flushed becomingly.

He angled toward her. “You explained how you got here. Why did you do it? You’re intelligent enough to realize illicit affairs aren’t romantic. They’re illicit, and then they’re over.”

She exhaled slowly. “Perhaps for you, liaisons are illicit and then they’re over. I don’t have affairs at all.”

Xavier doubted that was for lack of interest. Jane was exquisite to look at and only became more beautiful whenever she opened her mouth and spoke.

Her thumb teased her lower lip. “I’m not a wallflower because it’s diverting. I’m a wallflower because nobody notices me. I slip through their minds before I can finish reminding them of my name.” She wrapped her arms about her chest. “I try to make it a game, to say or do things impossible to ignore. But even at my most outrageous, I never earn a second glance.”

Impossible. He would never be able to put her out of his mind.

She looked away. “In truth, I hate society events. I’m invisible in every crowd. It’s torture. I can barely sit through an orchestra performance despite my love of violins above all instruments, because every such outing is wrapped inside an hour or three of ignominy. And no one will notice but me. Almack’s is even worse.”

He pushed to his feet. “Get up.”

“What?” She blinked up at him in confusion.

He held out his hand. “Come here.”

She placed her hand tentatively in his. “Why?”

“We’re dancing.” He coaxed her up from her chair.

She glanced over her shoulder at the dimly lit parlor. “Right here?”

“Right. Here.” And he pulled her into his arms.

Chapter 12

JANE COULDN’T BREATHE.

She’d lost all control of her lungs—and her wobbly legs—the moment Captain Grey pulled her to him. The moment Xavier welcomed her into his embrace.

He wanted to dance. How could they dance? There was no music. She couldn’t even feel her knees. Not with her hand in his and his other arm about her waist, holding her close. She closed her eyes. He smelled of sandalwood and citrus. Everything about him was rock hard and hot to the touch.

“Know any danceable melodies?” he murmured into her ear.

She shook her head, disappointed. Their dance was over before it began. “I’m afraid my savant abilities are limited to literature.”

To her surprise, he began to hum and guided her in time with the rhythm.

She tilted her head to the side and followed his lead. Why was the song so familiar? She was certain she’d heard the melody before. From a violin, perhaps. It almost sounded like… Her breath caught as she recognized the tune.

“It’s from Antigona.” She gazed up at him shyly. “The opera we saw together.”

He smiled. “I wanted to dance with you then, too.”

Her throat dried. Could it be true? Doubtful. Her gaze fell. It didn’t matter. He was being nice. All they would share was this moment. She didn’t realize how badly she would long for more.

The muscles beneath his coat tightened as he led her in smooth, graceful circles. She didn’t need music to feel like she was floating. The soft firelight made the room all the more romantic. She could almost believe herself the belle of a ball.

Except, fairy tales didn’t happen to her. Her fingers grew cold. He was right. Love affairs—even stolen kisses—weren’t as carefree as she’d believed. Once the snow was gone, he would forget her just like all the others. And this time, it would break her heart.

“Jane. Look at me.” He slipped a knuckle beneath her chin and raised her gaze to his. “I notice you. I see you. I have you in my arms.”

Her lips parted and her eyes stung. Until he’d spoken the words, she hadn’t realized that she’d been waiting for them her entire life.

With nothing more than a soft murmur, he’d carved open her soul and left a part of himself inside. She would never be the same. Her heart clattered at an alarming rate, but she could not look away. Nor did she wish to.

His gorgeous blue eyes shone from beneath inky lashes. The intensity of his gaze was thrilling and frightening and filled her with wonder.

He saw her. Plump, boring Jane. And yet he still wanted her in his arms.

When they completed their circuit about the room, he paused before the fireplace—but did not immediately release her.

She hoped he never would. The evening had been magical. He was magical. She would be happy to stay right here, wrapped in his arms, forever. But all she had was this moment.

He lowered his head to hers. His lips grazed her cheekbone, her earlobe, the pulse point just beneath the line of her jaw. Her heart fluttered. Was he finally giving in to their chemistry? Or was he acting out of pity?

She angled her head, seeking his mouth. She wanted to feel his lips against hers. To have him and taste him, and to know that this time, he wasn’t kissing her because she was bothersome. He’d be kissing her because he wanted her. Because he saw her. Because he liked her.

When his mouth caught hers, gooseflesh rippled along her skin, followed by an infusion of molten desire. Her hot flesh ached to be free of her clothing so that she could feel her body even more intimately against his. Her heart thundered. Perhaps he would finally make love to her.

She slid her hands up his strong arms to his neck, where overlong black hair curled against the stark white of his cravat, and kissed him back. He was wonderful.

He noticed her. He saw that she wished to be seen. He made her believe that forever was something she actually deserved. She melted against him. He wouldn’t kiss her like this unless he felt it, too. Unless he meant it, at least for this moment. No one else looked outside of themselves long enough to wonder what torture others might be going through. No one else reached deep into the furthest crevices of her heart and dared to ask, why not love? Why not her, too?

His lips were firm and warm. The dance of his tongue against hers, exhilarating. Her heart swelled. When she’d set out on this journey, she’d assumed the lustful nature of men would make it impossible to decline the charms of a willing female. She’d been wrong.

Xavier was every bit as passionate as she might have hoped, but a thousand times more discriminating. He wasn’t holding her simply because she was there. He was holding her because he wished to. Because they both wished to. And oh, did she love his kisses.

His hand cradled the back of her head as his mouth claimed hers. She slid her fingers into his hair, reveling in the sensation. Her pulse raced. She could scarcely credit that the moment was even happening. Each kiss, each touch, imprinted onto her brain. Every inch of her body felt electric and alive. It was even better than she’d imagined.

This was Xavier’s body pressed against hers. His wicked mouth, his teasing tongue, his hair curling about her fingertips. For the moment, he was hers. She would take it. This was how it felt to be desired. The moment might not happen again.

When the back of his knuckles brushed against the curve of her bosom, her nipples tightened beneath her shift. Yearning coursed through her like lightning. Her breasts felt fuller.

As his fingertips skated slowly across one of the taut peaks, a wave of arousal flooded her. Her legs trembled. He was more than she’d hoped, and everything that she’d ever wanted. She prayed he’d never stop.

Breathless, she arched into his touch. His hand cupped her breast as his fingers teased her nipple. Her breath stuttered. She had never felt so pretty, so powerful. No wonder courtesans held themselves like queens. She felt invincible.

He lowered his head to her bodice. When his mouth closed around her nipple, she gasped as a shiver of ecstasy radiated through her. This was what she’d been waiting for. She gripped his hair, clutching him to her—

And screamed as claws raked down her spine.

Xavier sprang backward, panting, his eyes wide with surprise. “Did I hurt you?”

“It’s not you,” she gritted out, wincing at the weight of the cat tangled in her hair and cleaving to her skin. Gingerly, she turned her back toward the firelight.

“God’s teeth. Is that…”

“Yes,” she managed through pain-clenched teeth. “Please remove him from me as quickly and carefully as possible.”

Xavier leapt forward.

She closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing. The moment the devil cat was disengaged from her spine, she intended to trap the little demon in his wicker cage for the rest of the night. Or the rest of his life.

“Rowr!”

Egui’s weight was suddenly gone from her back, but her hair was being torn in a thousand directions at once. She balled her hands into fists. That cat was on his last life. “Once you get him clear, hold on to him while I fetch his basket.”

Her hair fell back around her shoulders. Xavier stepped away. “Hurry.”

She ran.

She careened into the bedchamber and scooped up the basket without slowing. Within seconds, she was back in the parlor. She slammed the lid closed the moment Xavier dumped Egui inside and quickly fastened the double latch. There. She seized the howling, rattling basket and tried to catch her breath.

“Turn around.” Xavier’s voice was stiff. The magic was gone. “I need to see your wounds.”

She set down the basket and slowly turned around.

One by one, the buttons of her gown popped free. Her shoulders slumped. A few minutes ago, he might’ve undressed her for far better reasons than playing nurse. It was over. They would never share a moment like that again.

Her hands flew to her chest as her dress gaped forward. Cool air trickled down her back. He was already loosening her stays. She held as still as she could. He tugged down the thin linen of her shift to expose her back.

“You’ve got several long scratches, but no blood.” He straightened her shift and shoved his thumbs into his waistband. “Good night, Miss Downing. I’m going to try and get some sleep. Although I doubt that I’ll have much of that while you’re here.”

“Jane,” she whispered, clutching her loose gown to her chest.

He inclined his head. “Good night, Jane.”

He held her gaze for an extra beat, then turned and walked away.

Shoulders sagging, she left Egui in his basket in the parlor and trudged back to the bedchamber. He was right. It would be a long night.

After changing into her night-rail, she was still far too tense to sleep. She retrieved a novel from her luggage and settled the stool closer to the firelight.

No matter how many times she read the lines on the page, she failed to comprehend a single word. She couldn’t stop thinking about Xavier. He could’ve slept with her, right here in this bed.

He should’ve slept with her.

His insistence on clinging to proper sleeping arrangements was honorable and admirable and could not help but raise her esteem… but this was his house. This was his bed. He should be in it.

At last, she tossed the book aside. Reading was impossible. So was sleep. She would check on Egui and look in on Xavier, and perhaps then she might be able to get some rest.

She lit a taper in the fireplace and slipped out into the hall.

The parlor was dark. Few embers remained behind the grate. She inched forward. Egui’s basket was still where she left it. The latch was in place. The beast wasn’t howling. She didn’t suppose she could ask for much more.

After a moment’s hesitation, she continued on to the servants’ quarters. If the door was closed, she would not knock. Xavier deserved his sleep.

But if he were awake, and desirous of conversation…

She paused three paces from the door. It was ajar, but no light flickered within. She shivered at the sudden chill.

This side of the cottage was freezing. She frowned at the darkness on the other side of the door. Was there no fire in the hearth? She nudged the door open a crack. The room was pitch-black and ice-cold. Her teeth chattered at the marked change in temperature.

Xavier lay on his side in a thin, narrow bed. Even from this distance, she could see him trembling.

Realization hit her. The daft man would rather freeze to death than share their body heat. Well, she didn’t have to agree.

She crept forward. There was no way a man this stubbornly honorable could be talked into retaking his bedchamber. Yet she couldn’t let him freeze. She blew out her candle and climbed in next to him.

Almost immediately, she realized he wasn’t trembling because of the cold, but rather suffering from a bad dream. His muscles twitched alarmingly. Little gasps escaped his throat at uneven intervals.

“Shh. It’s all right. I’m here now.” She touched a tentative hand to his shoulder.

He flew out of the bed, his fists held up high. “What? What?”

She swallowed, nervous. “It’s me. I just—”

“Jane?” His voice lost all vestiges of sleep. “What the devil are you doing in here?”

“It was cold and I thought you needed… body heat?” she stammered. Her face was burning. In the darkness, she couldn’t make out his features. She wished she hadn’t blown out the candle.

“Body heat.” His voice was skeptical. And much closer than she’d calculated. In the space of a breath, he scooped her into his arms and carried her down the hall. “You’re not sleeping in there, Jane. There’s no fire.”

When they reached his bedchamber, she half expected him to toss her onto the mattress and walk away.

He did not. To her surprise, he placed her gently in the center and then lay down beside her. He covered them both with a blanket.

“Go to sleep,” he ordered her gruffly, hauling her into his embrace. “I won’t let you catch cold.”

Warmth spread through her as she snuggled into him. This was what she had wanted.

Perhaps they could be there for each other.

Chapter 13

JANE WAS DISAPPOINTED WHEN SHE woke up alone.

She was delighted, however, when Xavier reappeared in the bedchamber a few moments later with two large buckets of steaming water.

“Is this when we strip naked?” she asked with a salacious smile.

He opened the curtains to his dressing closet to reveal a beautiful bathing tub. “This is when you do, saucy wench. I’ll have my chance later. I’ve got more snow melting in the kitchen.”

She pushed back the covers and swung her feet out of bed. “If we’re not bathing each other, why are you in such high spirits?”

He paused on his way toward the door to glance back at her over his shoulder. “The snow has finally stopped.”

A chill wracked through her that had nothing to do with the cold. Their magical interlude was over. And he was pleased.

She wrapped her arms around her chest and tried not to show her dejection. “I suppose I’m off, then? After breakfast?”

“More likely after tomorrow’s breakfast. The snowstorm has ended, but the roads are impassable. I doubt we’ll see any traffic today.” He smiled at her. “But take heart. The sooner you return home, the less likely anyone will know that you were ever here.”

Her return smile was brittle. She half expected him to pat her on the head and tell her to wash behind her ears like a good girl. She didn’t want to go home. Not yet. He thought the best thing for both of them would be for her to walk away.

She was going to have to change his mind.

When he quit the room, she hurried out of bed and into the bath before it cooled. She sighed with pleasure as she sank into the tub. The luxury of hot water was exactly what she needed.

Now, if only she could get what she wanted: Captain Xavier Grey.

She bit her lip. Years ago, her interest in him had been limited to his dark good looks. He was something pretty to look at, but she hadn’t given much more thought than that. No one had. Until that dashing but untitled young man had set off to become an even more dashing war hero. If he’d been a romantic figure before, he became positively irresistible. Every female in London whispered his name. Have you seen that handsome Captain Grey? Even without regimentals, he’s a sight to behold. If he pierced me with those captivating blue eyes, I’d swoon on the spot.

Jane stared down at the water. Like the others, she had been entranced by the romance and excitement of the presence of a real hero. When she’d drawn up her list of men with whom she’d be willing to have a liaison, his had been the only name on it. Her body had never been in any doubt about who to choose.

But during their days snowbound together, something changed.

As she got to know him, she began to want him with her brain just as much as her body. He read books. He cooked her meals. He brushed her hair. He was nice. He protected her from the cold and from herself. He let her ask questions he didn’t wish to answer. He saw her for who she truly was... and still liked her. He’d asked her to dance. He wasn’t a hero, but a person. With needs and regrets and dreams just as powerful as hers.

She hadn’t let herself believe in love because she was certain men didn’t believe in the emotion, either. She’d been wrong. Xavier cared about forever, not easy conquests. He’d made her realize she should, too. That it was a mistake to agree to anything less. She was no longer certain she even could.

Being his lover—or even his mistress—was no longer feasible. She couldn’t settle for a few nights. Not when she wanted him for much, much longer. Her stomach twisted.

In order to have any chance, she was going to have to prove to him that he was lovable. That he deserved forever, too.

Continued attempts at seduction wouldn’t sway him. Arguments wouldn’t help. She was down to her last gambit: She would simply have to be Jane. And show him that being himself was more than enough.

He didn’t have to walk on glass. He was worthy exactly as he was. She wanted him exactly as he was.

With a smile, she quit the tub and began to dry her body and her hair. She and Xavier were made for each other. He wished to divorce himself from High Society? She wouldn’t oppose him.

The only reason she attended routs at all was because those circles were the closest she came to having friends. Even if she’d never quite fit, those outings were something to do, somewhere to be.

She’d had no other choice. Until now.

With Xavier, they could make their own society. Free from pressure to conform to what the beau monde expected a bluestocking or a soldier to be. They didn’t need the ton. They would have their friends, and each other. What else mattered?

If he became her suitor, he would find himself courting a strong-willed young lady who was as sensual as any woman and as daring as any man.

She would simply have to show him how much fun that could be.

Xavier was already perfect for her. He patently wished for her to be happy. His preoccupation with returning her home with her reputation intact was for her benefit, not his.

When was the last time someone had done something exclusively for her benefit? What better proof could there be that this once-lost hero was the one man with whom she should share her life? She just had to prove it to him, too.

Now, before it was too late.

As soon as she was dressed—save for tightening her stays and fastening the row of buttons up her spine—she opened the bedchamber door and peeked out into the hall.

Egui’s basket had changed position. Xavier must have already taken him outside. Perhaps that was when he’d realized the snow had ceased.

Anxiety flooded her at the thought of the melting snow. This was her last chance. She twisted her fingers. How could she shake him out of his closed mindset in just one night?

Xavier stepped around the corner looking windblown and devastatingly handsome. He smiled when he saw her.

She hurried forward to meet him. “Did you just come in from outside?”

“You wouldn’t believe how cold it is out there.” He gave an exaggerated shudder. “Then again, nothing can compare with the freezing temperatures in Belgium.”

This was it. Her heart pounded. “I’ll take that bet.”

“What bet?” His forehead creased, then cleared. He shook his head. “You want to wager on which winters were the worst? You’ll lose. I was in the army for three years. You’ve never experienced a Belgian winter. Despite the past few days, it’s always better in Mother England.”

“What do I get if I win?” she insisted.

He turned her around to begin lacing her stays. “How about this. If you win, you get to plan the day’s activities. If I win, there are no activities. You stay in the cottage. I shovel.”

Perfect. “I win.”

“How do you win?” He burst out laughing. “This is a silly wager. On what grounds can anyone win?”

“On the grounds that it’s not colder in Belgium. Mathematically, the historic average March temperatures are one degree warmer in Brussels than in Chelmsford.” She couldn’t hold back a grin. “I’m afraid Mother England has let you down. Essex is not only colder, but demonstrably more likely to be cloudier, foggier, and windier.”

His fingers moved from her stays to her gown. “Demonstrably how?”

“Almanacs,” she answered cheerfully. “You’ve the same ones in your library, if you don’t believe my numbers. And before you say they’re three years old, I kept up with more recent figures via newspapers. The pattern holds.”

“England has certainly changed while I’ve been away.” His voice was droll. “Bluestockings memorize historic climate data on every major city in Europe now?”

“Not every city. I’ve no idea what winters are like in Prague or Rome. I only looked up places I knew you’d fought in or lived in.” She bit her lip. “I wasn’t trying to learn weather patterns. I was trying to get to know you.”

He finished buttoning her gown in silence, then turned her to face him. His eyes were unfathomable. “When did you do this?”

“Study Belgium? When you and the others returned from war.” Her cheeks burned. “I learned of your home in Chelmsford more recently. That’s why the slight discrepancy was fresh in my mind.”

His gaze was soft as he brushed the pad of his thumb across her cheekbone and cupped the side of her face. “All right. You win. What are our plans for the day?”

Chapter 14

A TENDRIL OF SWEET-SMELLING smoke curled up from the cheroot clutched between her teeth as Xavier’s ever-surprising houseguest slapped triple aces onto the table and reached for the pile of betting fish.

Again.

He didn’t know what was worse—that his nightmare of contributing to a proper young lady’s descent into total debauchery was playing out in lurid color, or that he was secretly enjoying the constant upheaval of having Jane in his life. She knew scotch from whisky, had no trouble counting markers, and almost certainly dealt her cards from the bottom of the deck.

She was absolutely shameless.

He hadn’t had this much fun in years.

More precisely, he hadn’t had fun in years. He tossed down his own trio of aces and scooped the chips right out of Jane’s hands. Between war and shutting himself off from society upon his return, he’d quite forgotten how delightful an evening of poor sportsmanship and raucous laughter could be.

He’d never expected to relive that feeling again, much less here, tonight. With her.

Her lush mouth fell open when she saw his cards. “You can’t have three aces!”

“Why not?” He gave her an innocent gaze as he raked in his winnings. “You do.”

She spluttered, then collapsed into laughter. “I thought I was the only one with a spare deck. Two of yours are the ace of spades!”

“Never underestimate a soldier,” he warned her gravely. “We always carry spades.”

She threw a handful of cards at him. “I’ll give you an extra one, right through the heart.”

“You wound me, madam.” He pushed all the cards to the far side of the table and shook a new set from a fresh deck. “Double stakes?”

“Hmm.” She twirled her glass of port. “All or nothing?”

“You’re on.” He began to deal.

Her hair was loose about her shoulders. She’d lost the pins right about the time he’d poured her port. The long, soft chestnut waves fell down her back and caressed every curve. It took all of his strength not to shove his fingers into that beautiful hair and kiss her until he drowned.

She had enchanted him. It was impossible to keep fighting it. Over the past few days, he had slowly realized that although Jane was a wallflower and a bluestocking and a virgin, she wasn’t just those things.

Anyone this diverting didn’t have to be a wallflower. She’d already admitted to being a bluestocking by choice. And her presence on his doorstep hadn’t been by accident.

Everything she did, she did because she wished to. If she was here with him, it was because she meant to be.

He felt oddly proud at having been the one to catch her attention. She made him feel like he was the only man who mattered. “I find it hard to believe that you don’t have a dozen beaux at any one time.”

She wiggled her eyebrows. “Because of the seductive way I light a cigar?”

“That,” he admitted with a rakish grin, “and everything else. You’re smart, you’re beautiful, and you cheat at cards. Why aren’t you married?”

The easy laughter faded from her eyes. She stubbed out her cheroot in its dish. “You mean, why don’t I throw myself on the tender mercies of the Marriage Mart? You’re right. Isaac could find someone interested enough in me or my dowry to make the march to the altar. But I refuse to marry someone I don’t want. Why should I?”

“Lots of people do.”

“I won’t. Never again.” She reached for her cards. “Losing my fiancé was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Your what?” A white-hot streak of jealousy ripped through him. He forced his tone to modulate. “You were to wed? What happened?”

She picked through her cards without meeting his eyes. “It didn’t work out.”

“How in the world did being betrothed not work out?”

“Many ways.” She rubbed her temple. “Besides, it’s in the past.”

He narrowed his eyes at the evasion. “How far in the past?”

Her gaze slid away. She set down her cards and began sorting her markers. “I was almost seventeen. It would’ve been a small wedding.”

His stomach twisted. “A bride at sixteen? How old was he?”

“Five-and-thirty. It didn’t happen. Don’t look so thunderous. Isaac agreed I was too young for suitors and talked our guardian into letting me wait a few years. As soon as Isaac gained his majority, he got a town house and brought me to London to make my curtsey.”

His hands clenched and unclenched. “What happened to your ex-intended?”

She shrugged. “He was someone else’s suitor by then. Besides, I never intended to have him. That decision was made for me. My guardian didn’t want wards.”

Fury gnawed at him. A sixteen-year-old girl had no business being wed against her will. “Who is this paragon that wanted a young girl for his bride? And who the devil was your guardian at the time?”

“It doesn’t matter.” She pushed away her stacks of betting fish and shrugged. “That was then. I was young.”

“That’s exactly why it matters!”

“That’s exactly why it doesn’t. Eight years change a person. Besides, he probably doesn’t remember my name.”

“I wish I knew his.” Xavier cracked his knuckles.

“Why? He’s irrelevant. I haven’t seen him in years.” Her voice grew softer. “I stayed in the shadows for a long time, and by the time I wanted out, it was too late. I was invisible. No one noticed me, no matter how hard I tried. For years, I blamed everyone else. And then I thought—why not go after what I want?” She smiled up at him from beneath her lashes. “What I wanted was you. That’s why I’m here. No matter what happens, I won’t regret it. I got to know the man you really are.”

He stared back at her in consternation. If only her words were true. If only it were possible to know what kind of man he really was and not regret it. He shoved his fingers through his hair. He liked her, too. Despite himself. It had been easier to push her away, easier to say no, when all they’d shared was physical attraction.

Of course he desired her. That long, magnificent hair. The curve of her arse. The swell of her breasts. Her plump pout. Those incredible brown eyes. He longed to watch them darken with passion as she locked her legs around his hips and made love to him.

Except then there’d be an after. She deserved so much more than any of the afters he could give. He couldn’t marry her. Wouldn’t wish anyone the bad fortune to be leg-shackled to him for eternity. He was not a good man. He’d make a terrible husband.

Which left what? Giving in to her desire to be his lover? She didn’t deserve that either, no matter how much he wanted her. She deserved a man who would never let her walk away.

He picked up his cards and tried to focus. The suits blurred. Concentration was impossible. All he could think about was her.

From the moment she’d walked in his front door, it had just been a matter of time. And willpower. With every saucy little grin, every surprise, every ace up her sleeve, she dug herself a little deeper into his heart. He cared about her.

All the more reason to keep her safe, not seduced.

He drained his brandy. No matter what she thought about the prospects for her future, she would make some other man a wonderful wife. In fact, he couldn’t imagine a better partner.

At first, he’d assumed a woman like Jane Downing would be the last person he’d be able to talk to or relate to. He’d been wrong. Her very bluestockingness meant she was the only non-soldier of his acquaintance that was familiar with the geography of Belgium, who kept up with the war and its soldiers beyond the sightings of officer regimentals in the scandal sheets.

More than that, she knew her history. Not just Napoleon, but any major war, going back for centuries. She could put things into context in ways he’d never even considered.

All this, without having lost her innocence. She might think her books made her world weary, but her lack of personal experience with life’s horrors kept her innocent. She believed in the causes all those people died for. She believed in him.

It was almost enough to make him feel like it was possible. Like he could become a good person again, if he tried hard enough and wanted it bad enough.

The first step would be doing the right thing by Miss Downing.

Which meant as much as he liked her, as much as he ached to give in to desire and pull her close, the best thing he could do for them both was to keep his distance. Even if he had to drink himself into a stupor just to keep from touching her.

He gestured toward the table with another glass of brandy. “Your move, milady.”

Before either of them could play the first card, an ear-piercing screech filled the air. A gray blur flew across the table, sending cards and markers spraying into the air like so much confetti.

“Get him!” Jane leaped up and fled the room.

No problem. He was an ex-soldier.

He set down his brandy. As he lurched to his feet, his chair tumbled over backward and clattered to the floor. The cat jerked its head toward the sudden noise, which gave Xavier just enough time to launch himself atop and trap Egui in his arms.

The cat thanked him with a full set of claws.

Jane raced back into the room with the wicker basket she used as a cage. “We’ll need some new string. He chewed through the latch.”

“Hard to imagine,” Xavier gritted out whilst attempting to keep the beast immobile. “I hate to say it, but your cat is a menace.”

She knelt before him and opened the basket. “Egui isn’t my cat.”

He paused and tried to focus. “What?”

“Egui.” She positioned the basket like a box trap. “He’s not my cat. If I had a cat, it would be well behaved. And I’d name him something more sensible. Perhaps... Ambrose. Or Mr. Whiskers.”

Xavier shifted to one side. “What kind of name is Egui?”

“A Chinese one. It means ‘hungry ghost.’ That’s why he can’t resist eating linen.” She motioned for him to release the cat. “Gently. My brother will cry if anything happens to his precious fur demon.”

The cat shot out of his hold and straight into the basket. It was certainly as hard to catch as a ghost. And it spared no linens.

Xavier sat up and rubbed his new welts. “I don’t always know when you’re teasing.”

“I’m never teasing.” She tied down the basket lid with a ribbon of cloth that looked suspiciously like the lining of his new waistcoat.

“Do you and your brother speak Chinese?”

She finished tying the knot. “I do not.”

He blinked. “Then how did this cat get that kind of a name?”

“We don’t know. He already had that moniker when he came to us. Isaac is watching him for a friend.”

“A Chinese friend?” he guessed, feeling lost.

“Obviously.” She tested the knot’s hold. “How else would Egui get a Chinese name?”

“How did your brother get a Chinese friend?” Who was this family? Xavier felt like he was living in an Italian farce. Any minute now, dancers would burst onstage and put the whole situation to music. He was almost disappointed that they’d missed their cue.

Jane pushed the basket into the furthest corner of the room. “How would I know? I didn’t know Isaac had any friends until Egui showed up and demanded his rightful place as supreme ruler of our household.”

“How long ago was that?”

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Nine years.”

His jaw fell open. Nine years. They’d been looking after a devil-possessed feline for nine long years. Just the thought made his skin tingle with dread.

He shook his head. “I’m afraid your brother doesn’t have a Chinese friend. He has a very clever Chinese enemy.”

“You’re bleeding.” She lifted his hands to inspect his shredded sleeves. “Come with me. I have a special salve in my valise.”

Of course she did. She was the keeper of a hungry cat demon.

And yet, it didn’t detract from her charms. If anything, it made her all the more surprising and mysterious. He could spend every moment of the rest of his life with this woman and never have a single boring day.

Or a single boring night. There was no better distraction from the scratches on his arms than the sway of her hips as she walked. All he had now was the familiar ache in his heart at the thought of her leaving.

This would be their last evening together.

As soon as they entered the bedchamber, she stripped him of his coat. His waistcoat. His shirtsleeves.

He’d foregone a cravat this morning because he couldn’t find any non-shredded ones. Now he wished he’d worn ten shirts, just to feel her fingers unbuttoning him, again and again.

Cool air met hot skin. His chest was naked, his arms bare.

She wasn’t looking at him like a field nurse inspecting a soldier for wounds. The catch in her throat and the jump in her pulse indicated she saw him for what he was. A man.

A half-naked one.

She held one of his forearms above the basin of water. He let her. She lifted a sponge from the basin with a trembling hand and daubed it gently along his arm.

He didn’t care about the scrapes. He couldn’t tear his eyes from hers. The dark curve of her eyelashes against the pale white of her cheeks. The way she nibbled her rosy lower lip. The sweet smell of her hair. How he yearned to take her in his arms and show her how much she meant to him.

She reached for his other wrist. “Almost done. Then I’ll get the salve.”

“I don’t need salve.” His voice was husky and raw.

Her lips parted. She gazed up at him, eyes wide. “What do you need?”

“You.”

Chapter 15

THE SPONGE FELL FROM JANE’S hand, forgotten.

Yes. A thrill shot through her as Xavier’s mouth covered hers. At last, she could do with her fingers as she pleased. She splayed them against his bare chest and shivered at the feel of her naked palms against his hot male flesh.

She ran her hands up over his shoulders and clasped them about his neck. His warmth seeped through her clothes, heating her skin. An entire library of erotic sketches wouldn’t have prepared her for so many conflicting sensations.

Her stays were suddenly too tight, her shift suffocating. But all she could do was press even closer and lose herself in his kisses.

His lips against hers were firm, insistent. Her heart thudded. He wasn’t the only one who wanted more. She wanted everything. She wanted him. Her lips parted, demanding.

He swept his tongue into her mouth to toy with hers. Every touch was a teasing promise of what it might do, how it would feel, upon the rest of her body. Her breath came faster. She hadn’t forgotten the joy of his tongue against her breast. She longed for it.

His body was strong and hard beneath her fingertips, yet the hair at the nape of his neck was soft and silky. Desire began to coil deep within her. She wanted to explore the rest of his body. She wanted him to explore hers.

Her secret book of sketches was nothing compared to this. A mere hint of future pleasure. Some illustrations had depicted a man placing his open mouth upon his lover’s breast or betwixt her thighs. But the drawings had failed to show how dizzying it felt to have his open mouth on hers, to quake with delicious anticipation.

One of his hands traveled slowly down her spine to the small of her back. She held her breath, hoping he would loosen the buttons as he went. Her tongue became just as demanding as his.

“Feel me, Jane,” he murmured against her mouth. “I want you.”

He grabbed her hips and hauled her to him. The proof of his arousal was now flush against her belly, every inch as hot and hard as he was. He desired her. A bolt of power raced through her. Nothing could be more erotic.

He slid his palm up her rib cage to the curve of her breast. Her nipples instantly hardened. She moaned as his fingers teased one at a time. The thin layers of her gown were too much of a barrier.

“Unbutton me,” she begged. “Please.”

His mouth covered hers, claiming her. He tasted of sweet brandy and wicked promise. She sank her fingers into his hair and arched into him. He smiled against her lips, then deepened the kiss. One by one, the buttons along her spine popped free. She held her breath.

At last, her dress fell forward. She pushed her arms through the sleeves and let the gown tumble to the floor. Only her shift remained. She reached behind her back to loosen the stays.

He stilled her hand, his eyelids heavy with passion. “I’m in no hurry.”

“I am.” She peered up at him from beneath her lashes. This was her chance to finally have him in her arms. To experience passion with someone who cared about her. “I want to feel my body against yours.”

He turned her around. “As you wish.”

She twisted her hair in one hand and held it above her head to afford him easier access. Cool air kissed the back of her neck, but only for a second.

As he unlaced her stays, he pressed openmouthed kisses to her neck and shoulders. Each kiss reverberated through her body, stealing her breath. Once she was freed, he cast her stays aside. His lips were dark with desire when he spun her back to face him.

“I can’t fight it anymore,” he rasped, pulling her close. “Yes or no?”

There was no mistaking his intention. Or hers.

“Yes.” She had never been more certain. At last he would be hers, even if for just one night. She would simply make the most of it.

She lifted her shift over her head and flung it next to her stays. Her slippers were next. Now nothing covered her, save the silk stockings gartered just above her knees. She was naked before him. Yet she’d never felt so beautiful.

He drank her in as if her body filled him with wonder. The rise and fall of his chest indicated his heart sped just as fast as hers. Without another word, he scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed.

She reached for him as her head fell back onto the pillow. He immediately discarded his boots and lay down beside her.

“Your breeches?” she prompted.

“Not yet.” He cupped the side of her face and slanted his mouth over hers.

She reveled in the heat of his mouth and the chill of her bare skin in the cool air. The hearth warmed her feet and cast a soft glow about the chamber, but the only warmth she craved was the heat of his body. Her entire body tingled.

Without breaking their kiss, he splayed his hand just below her bosom. Her breast swelled in anticipation of his touch.

When at last he cupped her flesh, she sighed with pleasure. His fingers pinched and teased her nipples until she arched toward him, panting. Surely he could feel the thrum of her heart through the palm of his hand.

He lifted his lips from hers only to lower his head and take one of her sensitive nipples into his mouth. She moaned. His hand slid down over her stomach until it covered the juncture of her thighs. He glanced up from her breast, as if asking permission.

She spread her legs, allowing him access. It wasn’t permission. It was a demand.

The illustrations she’d seen indicated a man could work as much magic with his fingers as with his member. She had every intention of finding out.

Just as he turned his mouth to her other breast, he slid his fingertips between her legs. Pleasure shot through her. She felt swollen and needy. This was heaven. She grabbed his hair as his wet fingers brought her close to the edge.

He slid from her grasp and lowered his mouth to join his hand. Her eyes fluttered backward in rapture as his tongue and fingers emulated what she hoped their bodies would soon do in earnest.

“Breeches,” she croaked, gripping the blanket in fistfuls. “Off.”

He ignored her. His fingers and tongue continued his slow, steady assault on her senses. The pressure that had been building within her grew to a crescendo. She threw her head back. Her legs stiffened about his shoulders as waves of pleasure burst from within.

Only when she fell limp atop the blanket did he leap to his feet and shuck his breeches before returning to the bed.

He held her cheek and kissed her as he eased his member between her legs. She was slick and ready from her recent release, but still he could only enter her a fraction of an inch at a time. Pain shot through her.

He froze. “I’m hurting you.”

“I wanted you to.” Already the pain was receding. She reveled in the feel of him within her. This was not her moment. It was their moment. She licked his lower lip. “I want you. All of you.”

“Thank God.” He slanted his mouth over hers.

Gently, deliberately, he began to move within her. The pleasure began to build. She had never felt such utter abandon. His breath was as uneven as her own. When at last he was sheathed fully within her, she gasped into his mouth and wrapped her legs tightly about him.

His kisses became hotter as his thrusts grew deeper. Lovemaking was everything she’d ever longed for, and more. The sweet pressure between her legs coiled once more and her hips rose to meet him. She panted and pulled him close. The friction was dizzying. She couldn’t possibly give this up. Or him. They were too perfect. He made her feel… He made her feel.

He fixed his blue eyes on her mouth. Tremors rocked her legs and she held on tight. She reached her climax with their gazes locked together. If it had been incredible with his fingers, she was struck wordless by the sensation of him driving within her as her muscles contracted around him.

His hips bucked. He jerked free and grunted as he spilled his seed into the blanket. Without raising his head, he flung a heavy arm about her and pulled her close.

She curled against him and pressed a kiss to his bare skin. He tasted faintly salty. The entire room was spiced with their lovemaking. She felt like she belonged. Like she could stay in this bed with him forever.

He cuddled her close. His eyes drifted shut as she laid her cheek against him. Peace enveloped her. This was everything she hadn’t known she wanted. She felt cherished. And finally happy.

Xavier stroked her hair until his breathing slowed to a calm, steady pace. She threaded her fingers in his dark, silky hair. He had fallen asleep.With a smile, she snuggled closer.

She was almost asleep when Xavier’s heartbeat quickened. Her eyes flew open. His breaths became shallow and irregular. She propped herself up in alarm. His muscles twitched as if he were struggling against invisible bonds.

She touched her fingertips to his shoulder. “Xavier?”

He shot upright, his eyes wide and unseeing. Sweat matted his hair to his scalp. His breath was uneven.

She pulled her hands back. “I didn’t mean to wake you. When I realized you were having another nightmare, I…”

His head slowly turned toward hers. His face was ashen, but his gaze was cold and dark. He picked her hand up off his thigh and deposited it onto the mattress. “I’m my own nightmare, Miss Downing. I’m the thing in the dark that other people are afraid of.”

“Jane,” she whispered. “I’m Jane. We just made love.” But he wasn’t listening. He wasn’t even looking at her.

He was shoving his legs into his breeches and reaching for his shirt.

“Where are you going?”

“Out,” he grunted.

She hated the querulous tremor in her voice. “Out of doors?”

“Out of this bedchamber. Any other questions?”

Her heart twisted. “You don’t have to be ashamed of nightmares. Many soldiers who return from battle find that it takes time to assimilate into their old lives. I know war is terrible, but you can take heart in the fact that—”

“Can I, Jane?” he mocked.

Her stomach sank. She’d somehow made things worse. “I just meant—”

“War is terrible?” His laugh was ugly. “You don’t know the first thing about it.”

“I know you,” she said staunchly. At least, she thought she did.

He snorted. “You know what you want me to be, so that’s all you see. I’ve told you repeatedly that I’m no hero. I didn’t even return from battle. I haven’t fired a musket in two years.”

She shook her head in confusion. “You weren’t in battle?”

“There’s more to an army than soldiers.” His eyes were dark, his mouth twisted. “I wasn’t anywhere near Waterloo. The beau monde romanticizes the military until anyone in uniform is a demigod in their own right. They’re fools.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s been… romanticized…” She trailed off. He was right. Obviously it had. “You’re still a hero. I meant it when I said that fighting for your country is inherently good, even if you have to do bad things.”

“I used to think that, too. Now I can’t sleep at night.” His eyes were dark, his face pale. The cords stood out on his neck. “Everyone fought for their country. Not everyone did what I did. They’re calling my friends and me the ‘Dukes of War’ as if we’ve done a noble, heroic thing. Perhaps the others did, but I did not. I don’t deserve accolades or some romantic appellation. I don’t deserve to be spoken about at all.”

She clutched the blanket to her chest to hide her trembling and her nakedness. “If you weren’t in battle, where were you?”

His lips were a dark sneer among the shadows. “You mean, what was I doing that could possibly be worse than shooting men with bullets or running them through with sabers?”

“Yes.” Her voice was barely audible above the beating of her heart. “I suppose that is what I meant.”

“I helped ‘interrogate’ captives. Is that heroic? Forcing the enemy to spill their secrets? My commanding officers thought so. I was expected to follow orders, like a good soldier. So I did. The assumption was that any enemy soldier we captured might possess useful information. Sometimes they did.”

“And sometimes they didn’t?” she whispered.

His face was hard. “Sometimes they died.”

She scrambled backward in shock. He was right. He wasn’t the man she thought he was. He was the thing in the dark that other people were afraid of. Or at least, he had been.

Could she accept him for the man he was now?

Chapter 16

XAVIER HAD THOUGHT DISILLUSIONMENT WOULD be the worst thing he could bring to Jane’s face. He was wrong.

There was no point in saying, I’m not going to hurt you. He’d taken her virginity with one thrust, and now he was destroying whatever was left of her innocence.

He swallowed against the sour taste in the back of his mouth. It was time she knew the truth. He would never be the man she imagined him to be. He had lost that hope years ago.

But he hated to see her hunched against the headboard of the bed they’d just shared, clutching the blankets to her naked breasts and staring at the foot of the bed with… disappointment?

Perhaps she wasn’t afraid of him. She simply regretted she’d ever met him.

He hadn’t meant things to go this far. The days with her were so damn exhilarating, and he wasn’t made of steel. He was made of broken promises.

Xavier shoved his shaking fingers into his hair and looked away as self-recrimination washed through him. He’d wanted her to understand. But not like this. Not now.

At last she comprehended the imprudence of offering her body to an illusion she’d constructed in her mind. And he hadn’t stopped her. He’d known it was wrong, and he’d done nothing to prevent the natural conclusion from playing out.

He hadn’t changed at all.

Perhaps he couldn’t. Perhaps he was doomed to make the same mistakes for the rest of his ill-conceived life.

“What did you do?” she whispered. Her eyes did not meet his. “Start at the beginning.”

He almost laughed. The beginning. When was that? He’d been born the year the French Revolution began. No one romanticized battle better than a young boy. He couldn’t aspire to riches or inheriting a title, but could absolutely join the King’s Army and earn the admiration and respect of all.

Nothing ever went according to plan.

“I purchased my commission with my closest friends,” he said at last. “But we were separated after training. I found myself surrounded by strangers. All of them young, all of them scared, and all of them willing to die rather than be seen as less of a soldier than their compatriots.” His throat grew thick. “I fit in perfectly.”

Silence stretched through the chamber.

When Jane again spoke, her voice was hesitant. “This is why you said that not everything one does for one’s country is good after all?”

“I understand why you believe that. I did, too. We all did.” He could hear the bitterness in his voice. And the repressed anger. “I gave everything I had to everything I did, and was rewarded handsomely for it.” His mouth twisted. “But it wasn’t until I was assigned to help oversee the ‘questioning’ of prisoners that I realized how deceptive our beliefs had become. The ‘good of our country’ now justified any atrocity against our fellow man.”

“Overseer.” Her face cleared. “You weren’t the perpetrator of the crimes.”

“Worse. I was a captain.” He would never stop hating himself for earning a promotion under such conditions. “I held rank, power, and the keys to unlock every manacle. I never used the latter.”

Her expression grew pensive. “Could you have?”

“I didn’t think so.” He asked himself that question every day. His inability to correct the past gnawed at his soul. “But we always have choices.”

“Then why didn’t you?” she asked softly.

He closed his eyes. “I believed defeating Napoleon was the greater good. What was the discomfort of one man if the secrets he spilled saved tens of thousands? But there was no way to know which captives might hold the clue to ending the war without interrogating them all.” His legs trembled as memories flooded him. “Some of them were simple soldiers, fighting for their country. They didn’t deserve to die.”

Her expression was guarded. “You held the keys. But you couldn’t just walk around unlocking manacles. Not if it might endanger more people.”

He nodded. “Had I balked, they would’ve thought me a spy myself. A traitor. I would’ve been ‘questioned’ until my dying breath.”

She squared her shoulders. “Then you didn’t have a choice.”

“That was the other choice.” He shrugged. “I made the wrong one.”

Her eyes flashed. “Martyring yourself would’ve saved the other captives?”

He shrugged. “It would’ve made one less monster.”

Silence fell.

His skin prickled. He looked away. What was left to say? Some soldiers were heroes. He was not. End of discussion.

“That’s a horrible story,” came her quiet voice at last.

He nodded. He was a terrible person. The stain on his sheets proved it. He was destroying lives all over again.

“You’re right,” she continued. “You were following orders, and those awful men could’ve done the same to you, but it was still despicable to allow torture to be inflicted on another person.”

He winced. Those very words careened about his brain a thousand times a day. Awful. Despicable. Torture.

“It’s also over.” She met his eyes. “And something you deeply regret. As you should. But just because the past will always be there doesn’t mean you can’t make the most of your future.”

His laugh was harsh and ugly. Just like the man he knew himself to be. “What future do you suggest? Puppies and babies? Shall I call the banns?” He spread his arms wide. “In three short weeks, all this could be yours.”

“I wasn’t suggesting marriage,” she snapped.

Of course she wasn’t. No sane woman would.

He lifted a shoulder. “At least you got the meaningless affair you’d wanted.”

Her back pressed higher against the wall. “What I wanted was to make love with someone I liked, and who liked me. I wanted to feel… like a woman. To connect with another person.”

“Well, I’m a man, and men copulate because we have cocks.” He knew he was being cruel. She deserved anyone but him. He needed to ensure she ran back to safety and never returned. “Men like me don’t connect, Miss Downing. We think with our ballocks, not our brains.”

Her lip trembled. “Or hearts?”

“I don’t possess one.” He turned his back to the bed. “Get some sleep. You’ve a long trip ahead of you tomorrow.”

Chapter 17

SHE MIGHT NEVER SLEEP AGAIN.

Jane lay in the center of the still-warm bed she’d shared with Xavier just moments before and stretched out her arms in despondency.

How had something so perfect turned out so wrong? She’d meant what she’d said about one’s past not determining one’s future. But he was right. He wasn’t the man she’d thought he was. Possibly not even a man she wanted.

She stared up at the canopy. Perhaps he was right to believe one couldn’t escape one’s past. Or at least one’s past decisions. The faint soreness between her legs loudly proclaimed her own folly.

He’d warned her, time and again. That she couldn’t change her mind and recover her virginity. That the loss of her maidenhead was permanent. That he was the wrong man to give it to. She gulped. Too late now. She could never undo those choices.

A chill swept across her skin. The past might not fully determine the future, but she now saw how one’s actions might stick with you.

His experiences under the umbrella of war had been horrific. They’d turned him into someone he didn’t like, or even recognize.

She couldn’t let the same thing happen to her, just because she no longer had her virginity.

But what did that mean? Her fingers grew cold. She’d never really thought about the future. She’d wished for love and friends and passion, but she’d wished to have them right now, without considering where she might be five years from now.

If she’d truly wanted a husband, she could’ve set about making herself into the sort of woman who would be more likely to attract a suitor. She might’ve been married off years ago.

But she didn’t want to pretend to be someone she was not. She curled her hands into fists and slammed them down against the blankets. It wasn’t fair to have to become someone else, just to hold the interest of another person.

She swallowed thickly. Was that what she had done to Xavier?

Before they’d exchanged their first word, she’d already decided what sort of person he was. Romantic, dashing. A hero. She’d painted him with broad, fanciful strokes and never bothered to look at the details.

He hadn’t deceived her. She was the one who’d drawn conclusions on no more basis than her own imagination. Her chin slumped.

She’d forced him into the role of someone he’d never claimed to be. What right did she have to be disappointed in him for not living up to a standard she’d imposed on him against his will?

Her chest grew tight as she considered it from his perspective. She’d spent four-and-twenty years hating the people who judged—and dismissed—her for her labels, rather than bother to get to know her as a person.

She was not only a bluestocking. She was also a person. A very headstrong, very foolish, very ruined person. She let out a ragged breath.

When she’d focused on Xavier as the object of her desire, perhaps she’d done so more cynically than she’d realized. More selfishly. In order to experience a night of secret passions, she needed a man who fit specific criteria. Handsome enough to arouse her interest. Virile enough to share it. Honorable enough to be trusted with the secret.

She needed the perfect man. So she’d forced him into the part.

But he wasn’t a perfect man. No one knew that better than Xavier. What he didn’t realize was that he was no longer the man he’d been, the man he’d despised. He didn’t need to try to be better. He’d already changed.

The question was… could she?

She’d come to Chelmsford believing herself a wallflower who would never find love. Hoping one night of passion would sustain her during the next forty years of spinsterhood. But why did she have to settle for that? Why couldn’t she be a bluestocking and a lover and a wife?

Insight she could’ve used weeks ago. Her eyes stung. It was too late. By lying with Captain Grey, she’d thrown away her best chance at landing a proper, Society-approved gentleman… But when had she ever wanted one of those?

She squinted up at the dark canopy and tried to be honest. What was she truly looking for in a man?

She’d wanted handsome. Xavier had that in spades. She’d wanted virile. Last night had proved her fantasies were only the beginning.

She’d also wanted honorable. Her fingers slowly unclenched. Captain Grey was not the pristine, sparkling war hero she’d painted him to be, but did that make him any less honorable? She’d forced herself into his house, his life, and his bed, and he’d been the one fighting to keep her honor intact every step of the way. Did that make him less perfect, or more so?

She loved him, she realized dully. She loved him, and it no longer mattered. He had chosen to walk away.

Xavier would never be hers.

She hauled herself to her feet and trudged over to the basin of water. Sun streamed through the cracks between the shutters. The faint crunch of carriage wheels rumbled in the distance. She stumbled at the sound. No more snow. Her limbs were sluggish with a mixture of disappointment and relief.

The adventure was over. Time to go home.

She dressed herself as best she could and got all her belongings stuffed back into her trunk. All she needed was Egui—and a ride to the inn—and she and the cat would be on their way back to London. This was the last she’d see of Captain Grey.

Good. She didn’t need another man in her life who didn’t want her in his. That’s what Egui was for.

New carriage wheels sounded from outside the window, then rolled to a stop. Someone was here!

She flung open the bedchamber door and raced to drag her luggage out of the room before anyone caught her in the master chamber.

Xavier strode into the room and took the trunk from her hands without a word. She followed him out to the corridor, but he edged her back inside.

“Let me at least fasten your stays first,” he muttered crossly.

“Yes, Captain Crotchety.” She lifted her chin. What did he have to be cross about? He was finally getting his wish. She was going home.

“It’s my servants,” he said, his voice gruff. “They’ll be inside at any moment. Egui’s in the parlor. I’ll bring your luggage.” He finished buttoning her gown and tapped her lightly. “Go.”

She made it to the parlor just as two loud, ruddy-faced individuals tumbled through the door. If she had to guess, the housekeeper and a stable boy. Mother and son, by the looks of it, and both equally shocked by her presence.

Their congenial laughter died at once. She squirmed under their frank interest.

Xavier walked around the corner with her trunk, his expression and manner as placid as if he were snowbound with bluestockings once or twice a week. “Please summon the hack driver before he leaves. I have his next fare.”

The young boy rushed back out into the cold.

The housekeeper had turned her eyes to her employer, as if by carefully avoiding locking gazes with the unknown woman in their midst, the situation would cease being awkward for all of them.

It wasn’t working. Jane was mortified.

The stable boy returned with the driver. “There ’e is, sir.”

“Thank you, Timmy.” He nodded to both servants. “You are excused. There’s tea in the kitchen. We will reconvene in an hour.”

At those words, the twosome had no choice but to disappear into the servants’ quarters and give their master privacy.

Xavier placed her luggage before the driver and handed him a coin. “Please see the lady safely home—”

“To the Dog & Whistle,” she interrupted quickly. “I can find a new hack from there.”

“As the lady pleases.” He inclined his head to the driver. “To the Dog & Whistle.”

“Straight away.” The driver picked up her trunk and began hauling it out to his hack.

All that was left was Egui and herself.

She picked up the wicker basket and took one last, long look at Xavier. Her voice trembled. “If I thought there was anything between us…”

“There’s not.” His voice was flat.

She sighed. “I know.”

He held open the door. Icy wind rushed in.

“I don’t judge you for what you did before.” Her chest ached as she looked at him. “I judge you for what you’re doing now.”

His eyes darkened. “What, pray tell, am I doing now?”

“Absolutely nothing.” She stepped out into the cold. “Like you always do.”

He caught her arm. “I warned you, Miss Downing. I’m no hero.”

She held fast to the basket to keep from reaching for him one last time.

He held himself so still, his body fairly thrummed with intensity. She tried to smile, to pretend it was all right. He dropped her arm as if it had scalded him.

“Safe travels,” he said curtly. “I doubt we’ll meet again.”

Her smile cracked. “Even heroes make mistakes.”

He stepped back into his cottage, and the door closed tight behind him.

Chapter 18

THAT NIGHT, XAVIER COULDN’T SLEEP.

Or the next. Or the night after that. Nothing out of the ordinary for a monster like him, other than a new character having cropped up in his nightmares.

Now, when he stared at the prisoners as the weight of a thousand keys rooted him in place, a soft female voice floated through the darkness.

I don’t blame you for that. I blame you for what you’re doing now.

What am I doing now?

Absolutely nothing.

He awoke bathed in sweat and spent the rest of the night glaring up at his shadowed canopy, his heart galloping wildly.

The snow was gone. So was Jane.

He wished he had them both back.

Or, at least, her admiration. Her blind faith in him as a genuinely good person. He would never experience that again. He slammed his fist against the bedpost. Destroying her illusions about him had destroyed him, too.

If only he could be the man she’d believed him to be. The man he’d always hoped he would become.

A man worth believing in.

He would never be that. With a sneer, he pushed out of bed and stalked over to the window. Although still tightly shuttered, dawn was sneaking through the cracks. The sun relentlessly rose, and so must he. No matter how he felt about it.

He turned toward the basin to splash water on his face. It didn’t make him feel better. Nothing had, since Jane left. Everything had only felt worse. His shoulders tightened.

Was she right? Had he changed, just by wishing to?

He would never don regimentals again. Nor would he force anyone to do or say anything against his will. But could he ever atone for the past? Did he prove anything by giving up on his future?

His back slumped against the wall. All he could think about was Jane. How much he missed her. How badly he’d hurt her. No matter how much he’d longed to, they should never have made love.

But wasn’t that her decision, too? He hadn’t tossed her skirts over her head in a dark alley. She’d journeyed to his door with seduction in mind. They were both to blame.

He gazed over at the empty bed. When he remembered the night they shared, it didn’t feel like something to be ashamed of. It felt like something to celebrate. She’d thought so, too. He was almost certain of it.

Where was she now? What would happen to her? There’d been no missives, nor mention of her in the society papers. Perhaps she was back to being a quiet little bluestocking as if no part of their interlude had ever happened. He hoped she had. He hoped she could.

She hadn’t been interested in marriage, but nor had she exhorted him to keep their affair secret. He would die before betraying her, but she couldn’t know that. She simply trusted him.

He paced across the room. Come to think of it, he hadn’t asked her to keep his secret, either. He simply trusted her with the darkest parts of his soul.

Why? He hadn’t confessed his sins to his best friends. They wouldn’t understand. What made her different?

She could certainly keep a secret. To her, past mistakes were irrelevant, except for their impact on what lessons he learned from them. After everything he’d done, then and now… she’d accepted him as he was.

And he’d let her go.

Imbecile. He deserved what he got. He pulled off his nightshirt and stalked over to his closet.

His housekeeper had returned a fresh pile of laundered clothes the night before, but he’d been too tired to put them away and too prickly to let anyone else in the room long enough to help him. He wasn’t used to help yet. Wasn’t certain he ever could be.

Distracted, he picked up the topmost shirt. His arm was halfway through the sleeve before he noticed bright pink buttons had replaced the previous linen-covered ones. The bucolic row of brightly embroidered butterflies encircling the cuff, however, was impossible to miss.

Jane.

He brought his wrist closer to his face and squinted at her handiwork. His eyes widened in recognition. Not Jane. Egui. This was one of the many shirts Xavier had given up for dead after that damned cat ate all the buttons and sharpened its claws on the sleeves.

Perfectly matched thread sewed those tangled ribbons back into a working sleeve. The butterflies were either there to draw attention away from the surgery—or simply because she could. It was her brother’s cat, he remembered belatedly. Perhaps the poor bastard had bunnies and butterflies scampering up all his sleeves.

Just like Xavier.

A quick perusal indicated that not one, not two, but all of his undershirts and most of his cravats had been similarly “rescued” from the bin.

He laid them out atop his bed in disbelief. One of his waistcoats was even monogrammed with his initials… as a rainbow menagerie of ducks and squirrels frolicked along the hem.

What on earth was her fascination with woodland creatures? The fall of his best breeches even boasted a chirping robin beside each button.

He burst into helpless laughter. Even when she wasn’t there, Jane still managed to surprise him. And to have the last laugh. He selected the worst offender and shoved his arms through the sleeves. Nothing for it. He wouldn’t be going to Town, which meant for the next several months, he would be wearing designs better suited for a nursery.

He grinned at his sleeves. Incredible. He wished Jane were there right now so they could laugh together and he could hold her close.

His chest ached. Foolishness. This was reality. He pulled on a pair of breeches and sat to buff his Hessians.

Then again, why bother? There was nowhere to go. No one to stay home with. Just him and his house.

He tied a flowery cravat about his neck and scowled at his reflection in the glass. He looked ridiculous. Jane should absolutely be there to see it.

Zeus, he missed her.

Restless, he strode into his library. It didn’t feel half as appealing without a fire burning and Jane sneaking chapters of Fanny Hill at the other end of the chaise longue. It wasn’t the same without her.

His heart was cold. He touched his flint to paper and lit the hearth. Nothing would make him warm again. He threw himself down onto the cushions and closed his eyes. It didn’t help.

All he could think about was her reciting the Odyssey, and how she’d forgotten the Trojan horse because she’d—

God’s teeth, there wasn’t any part of his house that didn’t make him think of Jane. The bed where they’d made love. The dining table where they’d drank and gambled. Even his cursed nightstand with the basin of water she’d used to bathe his skin. It was hopeless.

He wished he had memories of her all over England. She’d said she loved the violin. He wished he could take her to hear all of her favorite orchestras and arrange private concerts at home for the two of them. He wanted to spend every evening brushing out her hair while she read aloud to him from one of the books in their library. Even if it was eighteenth-century erotica.

Lord help him. He rubbed his face and stared at the ceiling. He was in love with her. His shoulders tensed as he considered his next move.

Now what?

He sat up and peered over the back of the chaise longue at all the books they had yet to read. At the house that could be a home. He was ashamed of taking her as his lover, but he wasn’t ashamed of her. The real question was whether she’d give him another chance. He shot to his feet.

Their relationship didn’t have to be secret. If she was willing, he’d like to make it permanent. To make her his. Forever.

He should never have let her walk away.

Even heroes made mistakes.

His hands went clammy. What could he do about it? He didn’t even know where she lived. He could ask Grace or Oliver, but not without providing some sort of explanation.

And then there was Jane’s brother to contend with. Xavier could scarcely barge in the front door and demand access to the man’s sister. Xavier had no wish to duel with Isaac Downing. The rotter was likely to bring Egui as his second.

He needed to meet her on neutral ground. Talk to her. Beg her. Find her. If only he—

The play. She was going to be at the Theatre Royal in less than a sennight. She’d told him so herself. His lungs tightened.

He’d have to be there, too.

Chapter 19

JANE STEPPED OUT OF THE carriage onto blustery Bow Street and took her brother’s arm. They were running late, but at least she wasn’t alone.

She ducked her head against the brutal wind and hurried into the Theatre Royal. Grace and her family would already be up in Ravenwood’s private box, eagerly awaiting the opening chords of Cymon. Jane couldn’t cry off.

A part of her wished Xavier could be there. Another part of her dreaded the idea of confronting him face-to-face—and being unable to do more than curtsey and inquire about the weather.

Both were ridiculous worries, of course. He was in Chelmsford, not London. And there he planned to stay.

She held fast to her brother’s arm as they strode across the empty lobby. The greatest advantage to arriving late was missing out on the usual crush of fashionable well-wishers, all of whom consistently met her for the first time.

Her throat clogged. She was tired of being nobody. Of being dismissed upon sight and just as quickly forgotten. Why was she incapable of forgetting past encounters? Try as she might to forget Xavier, every stolen moment was burned indelibly upon her soul. He would be part of her, forever.

She pressed her lips together in a tight line. There was one definitive advantage to the rampant Janenesia afflicting the ton. Any other woman in all of England would have been accosted by friends and neighbors and old finishing school acquaintances every step of the illicit journey.

Not Jane. She had even been forgotten in the back of a hackney carriage during her return journey. She’d fallen asleep, and the driver had simply kept driving. If it weren’t for Egui clawing out of his basket, who knew where they might have ended up?

Isaac had returned home a few days later, exhausted from his journey but delighted to see his sister and his cat.

Egui, of course, had been the perfect picture of feline docility. Jane did her best to portray the same image. No mad dashes to Essex here. No forbidden nights in the arms of an ex-soldier. No trampled heart, shattered into a thousand pieces.

Just Jane. Lost in a book. Boring as ever.

She hadn’t ventured out of the house since returning home. It wouldn’t have been seemly without her brother’s chaperonage, but even once he’d returned, she hadn’t felt like socializing. What was the point? None of those men were the one she wanted.

Nothing could compare to the evenings she’d shared with Xavier. Her stomach turned. She’d never realized how deeply it would hurt to love a man who didn’t want her.

Isaac slowed as they reached Ravenwood’s private box. The usher swept the thick velvet curtains aside and motioned them in to take their seats.

“Hurry,” whispered Grace, clapping her gloved hands in excitement. She didn’t tear her eyes from the stage. “The orchestra is about to begin.”

Jane flashed a weak smile at Lord Carlisle and Grace’s mother, then took one of the empty seats. Her limbs were heavy with disappointment. Of course Xavier hadn’t come. She’d known it was improbable. She hadn’t even really wanted to see him.

So why was her throat dry and her shoulders heavy?

She crossed her arms over her twisting stomach and forced herself to stare at the parting curtain.

The orchestra began just as her brother Isaac slid into place beside her.

Life went on, she told herself. She wasn’t alone. She had her stalwart brother. Her best friend. A shared opera box on loan from a duke. Her lot might not be what she wished, but it wasn’t horrid. Just a fortnight ago, she’d believed her life would be perfect, if only she had the memory of a night of passion to keep her warm.

Well, now she did. And her heart was cold as ice.

She stared dully off the balcony as Cymon and Urganda took the stage. She should at least feign interest in the play. There were worse fates than an evening spent with friends and family. She glanced at her brother. She was grateful to have him beside her. It wasn’t his fault she was awash in misery. Isaac loved her. Trusted her. He believed he knew what kind of person she was.

He was wrong, of course. She averted her gaze. Did his false belief in her goodness and purity change who she was? She hated to deceive Isaac above all others, but blurting the truth about her duplicity and fallen state would not benefit either of them. Although, even if Isaac were disappointed in her… he’d love her anyway.

Heat pricked her eyes. Nothing was better or worse than unconditional love.

She froze. How had Xavier felt when he’d confessed his secret? Worse than before? His rejection had stung so badly, she’d been thinking more of herself than of him. She’d responded with logic, not love. Dismissing the depths of his guilt. Deriding him for not standing up for himself, for what they’d shared, for her. Was she right to discount him for his failure to fight to keep her?

Or should she have tried a little harder to stand up for him?

Her heart clenched. She knew she loved him. She’d also failed to mention it. Before Xavier could be expected to turn his life upside down, he needed to know she would be there by his side. That she understood who he had been, and accepted him for who he was now.

The power of unconditional love came from the knowledge that one possessed it.

Yet she’d left him without so much as a backward glance.

She rubbed her arms. A rustling went through the audience. She let out a deep breath and tried to focus on the play.

The first act appeared to be over. The actors had quit the stage, and the orchestra had taken their seats. She frowned. No wonder the audience was confused. It had to be time for intermission, but the curtains had not been closed. Something unexpected was happening.

The theatre manager walked onstage and motioned one of the violinists up from the orchestra pit.

Scattered applause rose above the murmurs. Perhaps they were being treated to a solo by a rising star. Jane leaned forward eagerly as the violinist began to draw his bow across the strings. The melody was low and hauntingly romantic. A hush fell as every guest became transfixed by the sound.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the theatre manager called out to the crowd. “Tonight we have an unexpected public announcement from one of our most infamous heroes—Captain Xavier Grey!”

Jane’s heart stopped. She couldn’t think, couldn’t hear, couldn’t move. It was as if the world had ceased turning, and had trapped her right along with it.

There, before her eyes, Xavier strode onstage. Not in his fine red regimentals, but in devastatingly rakish attire, spoiled only by a blinding proliferation of over-bright embroidered butterflies and prancing squirrels along the hems.

She clapped a hand over her mouth in horror.

He was the most impossible man she’d ever met. And the most dashing. His black hair was freshly trimmed, and he held himself like a captain. Tall, confident, and heroic.

“Miss Jane Downing,” he called out, gazing straight up at their box.

She couldn’t breathe. Two thousand shocked faces turned toward her in unison. Flickering light from the overhead candelabra reflected in the lenses of hundreds of opera glasses.

Her heart thundered. This couldn’t be happening. Her friends and brother stared at her in equal surprise.

“Miss Downing,” Xavier repeated, his voice carrying in the vast silence. “I see you. I understand you. I feel your presence even when I don’t have you before me. You haunt my dreams, and you haunt my days. My life is nothing without you in it.”

She gripped the edges of her chair to keep from sliding out of it.

“You’ve stolen my heart. And my ability for rational thought. Without you, I am nothing. But with you, I become so much more than I could ever be on my own. You make me a better man.”

The audience was so still, they must’ve been able to hear the hammering of her heart. She couldn’t move.

“I love you, Jane. Now and forever. This is me, proclaiming my love from the rooftops.” He flashed a wobbly grin as the melody from the violin soared softly in the background. “I want you in my arms and by my side for the rest of eternity. Come dance with me if you feel the same.”

Her ears roared. Blindly, she pushed up from her seat and raced down the stairs, up onstage, and into his arms.

“I love you, too,” she blurted into his chest.

The entire orchestra joined the violinist in song.

Xavier lifted her chin with his knuckle and pressed a scandalous kiss to her lips before sweeping her into a waltz.

Cheers rang out through the audience. The theatre came alive as two thousand people got to their feet at once. Shouts and whistles and raucous applause filled the air.

“Marry me,” he murmured. “Let’s spend the rest of our lives making our future together. You and me. Forever.”

Her heart was thundering too loudly to let her draw breath. “Xavier…”

“I see you, Jane. I have you in my arms. I will never let you go.” He pulled her close, his blue eyes intense. “Please let me awaken to you every morning and spend every moment thereafter giving you more reasons to stay.”

“I have all my reasons.” She couldn’t stop smiling as he twirled her across the stage. “I love you, you daft man. I accept your offer to wake in your arms every morning. I’m yours.”

A grin split his face and he claimed her mouth with a kiss. When they finally broke apart, breathless, he took her hand and lifted their arms in the air.

He turned toward the crowd. “City of London, meet my future bride—the incomparable Miss Jane Downing!”

The audience went wild. Their whoops and cheers shook the glass of the chandeliers. The entire theatre seemed to sparkle with magic.

Xavier swung her into his arms and lowered his lips to her ear. “One question. How determined are you to see the end of this play?”

“Not one whit,” she whispered back. “If you really want to know the end, I’ll recite it to you in original Greek.”

“I would like that.” He strode toward the exit, cuddling her to his chest. “I also have a few other ideas that might meet with your approval.”

She laid her cheek against the sound of his heart. “Does one of them involve a bed?”

He kissed the top of her head. “All of them do.”

“I knew I made the right choice.” She held on tight.

“I love you, Jane.” When he gazed down into her eyes, her heart melted. “No matter where the future is headed, I’ll never let go.”

Neither would she. They belonged together.

Their future was already perfect.

Epilogue

JANE HELD FAST TO HER husband’s arm as they inched down the corridor of his cottage. “May I remove the blindfold, please?”

“Not yet.” Warm lips pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. “Wait until I unlock the door.”

She couldn’t stifle the quirk of her lips. Within days of their wedding, Xavier had forbidden her from entering his library. At first she had thought he’d meant to hide his erotic novels from her, even though they were now married.

Nothing could be further from the truth. He’d retrieved more than a dozen from who-knows-where and lined them up on her dressing table, bracketed by two small ivory statues: one a cherubic angel, the other a naughtily winking imp.

If the arrival of two carriages fairly bowing under the weight of her crates of books hadn’t given her a hint of what he was up to, the influx of lumber and the midnight hammering would have given it away.

He was not only welcoming her into his home, into his life. He was sharing it. Making his library—Xavier’s private space—just as much hers as it was his. Making his home theirs.

Love flowed through her. Her heart warmed. There was no sense hiding the silly grin she seemed always to be wearing these past weeks. She was hopelessly, happily in love and she wanted him to know it.

She heard a snick as Xavier slid his key into the lock and swung open the library door.

He sunk his hands into her hair and seared her with a heated kiss. “Any last comments, my bluestocking siren, before I show you the surprise?”

Unable to keep her own secret any longer, she tugged his fingers from her hair and slid his hands to her belly. “Only that I’ll have a surprise for you before the end of the year.”

He hauled her into his arms and crushed his lips to hers. “I know.”

“You knew?” She reached up to snatch off the blindfold… and stared in wonder at what had once been the library.

The shelves lining the walls were filled with children’s books and wooden toys. The chaise longue was still before the fire—the better to read to an infant, she supposed—but the interior bookshelves had been replaced with big fluffy carpets and a large, handmade cradle with warm quilts and rocking legs for singing lullabies.

Her heart flipped. She stared up at Xavier, openmouthed.

He cleared his throat. “If you’re wondering where our books are, I’m afraid most are still in the shed. I’ll add bookshelves to our bedchamber next, and then we can—”

Laughing, she threw her arms about his neck and kissed him. “There’s no hurry, my love. Once the baby arrives, I’ll be far too busy to do much reading for a little while.”

“And before the baby arrives”—He swung her up into his arms and turned back toward the bedchamber—“you might also be too busy to do much reading for a little while.”

“Mmm. Promise?” she whispered into his neck and squealed when they tumbled onto the mattress.

She welcomed him into her arms. This was just the beginning.

Their home would be overflowing with cradles in no time.

THE END

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Acknowledgments

As always, I could not have written this book without the invaluable support of my critique partners. Huge thanks go out to Emma Locke, Janice Goodfellow, and Erica Monroe for their advice and encouragement, and Anne Victory for her invaluable Oops Detection.

My thanks also go to Ailish Doherty, Amy Hargate Alvis, Barbara McCarthy, Carol Kumanchik, Daliana Ferrero, Debbie McCreary, Demetra Toula Iliopoulos, Dianna Richards, Janice Rodriguez, Jenn Marner, Jenn Ryan, Kathie Spitz, Lesia Chambliss, Lisa Schmidt-Ringsby, Margie Walzel Aronowitz, Monique Daoust, Roscoe Kendall, Sheri Gerwe, Vi Brandon, and Yvonne Daniels for their support and for sharing their ideas.

I also want to thank my incredible street team (the Light-Skirts Brigade rocks!!) and all the readers in the Dukes of War facebook group. Your enthusiasm makes the romance happen.

Thank you so much!

Other Books by Erica Ridley

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Did you know there are more

books in this series?

This romance is part of

the Dukes of War

regency-set historical series.

Join the Dukes of War facebook group for

giveaways and exclusive content:

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In order, the Dukes of War books are:

The Viscount’s Christmas Temptation

The Earl’s Defiant Wallflower

The Captain’s Bluestocking Mistress

The Major’s Faux Fiancée

The Brigadier’s Runaway Bride

The Pirate’s Tempting Stowaway

The Duke’s Accidental Wife

About Erica Ridley

ERICA RIDLEY LEARNED TO READ when she was three, which was about the same time she decided to be an author when she grew up.

Now, she's a USA Today and New York Times bestselling author of historical romance novels. Her latest series, The Dukes of War, features roguish peers and dashing war heroes who return from battle only to be thrust into the splendor and madness of Regency England.

When not reading or writing romances, Erica can be found riding camels in Africa, zip-lining through rainforests in Central America, or getting hopelessly lost in the middle of Budapest.

For more information, please visit http://www.EricaRidley.com.

ROMANCING LADY STONE

by Delilah Marvelle

Lesson One

Despite what polite society thinks, a true gentleman is made, not born.

-The School of Gallantry

Moscow, Russia

Late evening, March 29th 1830

A BONE-PENETRATING GLACIAL BREEZE whistled in through countless shattered windows, sending snow whirling across a cavernous lobby of a hotel that hadn’t seen the bustle of people since Catherine the Great. Cracked marble floors heavily stained by weather and years of neglect, stretched out into an echoing darkness.

Maybe he was at the wrong address.

Konstantin Alexie Levin paused from his slow stride beside a mold-blackened wall and lowered his chin. A glowing lantern swayed from a rust-crusted hook indicating that someone was, in fact, waiting for him. As instructed.

Stripping off his well-worn leather glove, he dabbed a finger against the glass of the lantern. It was still cold to the touch, hinting it had been lit barely moments before his arrival. Pulling his glove back on, Konstantin scanned the darkness beyond the dim light. Except for the rustle of dead leaves scraping the floor and the distant roar of the wind lashing snow against the bones of the building, everything else in the blurring darkness was eerily quiet.

Digging into the inner pocket of his heavy winter coat, he dragged out his father’s watch and flipped open the silver lid. The click of resisting metal from the latch reverberated as he leaned toward the lantern to see the hour.

Midnight. How serendipitous.

He snapped the lid shut. Grazing a gloved finger across the fading English words etched into the tarnished casing, Konstantin let out a breath that frosted the air and shoved the watch back into his pocket.

Incredibly good things were known to happen to a Levin at midnight. He referred to it as the Glorious Midnight Bane. It had commenced back in 1792, when his father, an upper class gentleman with debts brought on by heavy gambling, had met a beautiful British spinster at the festival of Maslenitsa whilst church bells gonged at midnight. Her name was Miss Penelope Bane.

His father, Mr. Roman Stanislav Levin, had hired an expensive tutor so he could master the British language and then romanced Miss Bane beyond his financial means until the two fell madly in love. In honor of their engagement, his father presented her with an amethyst ring he could not afford and she presented him with a silver pocket watch she could not afford. ‘Eternally Yours at Midnight’ was etched on the back of the silver casing in English. Shortly after their betrothal, Miss Penelope Bane tragically died in a horrific carriage accident and was barely identified by the amethyst ring on her finger.

His father, the ultimate romantic, had never recovered and abandoned the last of his respectable name by becoming part of a powerful criminal organization to avoid going to debtor’s prison. He became a different man. But even long after his father married Konstantin’s mother, whilst becoming one of the most feared criminals in Saint Petersburg and Moscow, he still carried that watch and could often be found sitting with it in silence, opening and closing its silver casing as if communicating with Miss Bane.

Though most would call it superstitious rubbish unworthy of a blink, the repeated connection between the hour and the watch was uncanny. The man only ever conducted business at midnight in honor of Miss Bane, and as a result, had survived everything, each and every time, no matter how outrageous the incident. His father had once travelled with a group of men to an armory where a paid official allowed them to take whatever they needed. It was a quarter to midnight when halfway through their ‘shopping’ of ammunition, the armory had mysteriously caught fire and blew several walls out of the building. His father was the only one to survive and walked away without a single burn or scratch. The watch was in his pocket.

When Konstantin had fallen deathly ill as a boy, and the doctors could not lower his fever and the priest was brought in, he remembered his father gallantly tucking that watch into his hand and staying with him all night. Whilst other fathers might have given their sons the crucifix during a serious illness, his father gave him the watch.

Miraculously, Konstantin had recovered and learned to believe in its power.

And so it was, barely a decade ago, at exactly midnight, his father, his hero, his mentor, who had been battling consumption for months, took his last breath. Miss Bane’s watch slipped from that noble hand and fell against the floor beside the bed, shattering the glass casing within. The watch had ceased ticking right along with his father. It was a sign from beyond.

Blinded by his own grief during a wake attended by every influential criminal in Russia that offered their condolences (and work), Konstantin had tried to clasp that broken watch into his father’s limp hands, but his mother wouldn’t permit it. She insisted the watch be pawned. He couldn’t do it. He understood his mother had always been sensitive about the subject of Miss Bane, but he also knew what that watch meant to his father. He therefore hid it at the bottom of a drawer. It wasn’t until his poor mother died that he had a clockmaker repair the damaged watch. He had carried it in his pocket ever since. It had become an old friend, which protected him and gave him the luck he knew didn’t have.

Much like his father, he never went anywhere without it.

Heavy, booted steps scuffed against the floors of the vast lobby behind him.

Konstantin yanked the dagger from his leather belt and spun toward the sound. He slanted the blade toward the darkness beyond the lantern and called out, “I do not appreciate being summoned to an abandoned hotel as if it were your mother’s parlor.”

Two men emerged from the shadows and into the dim light. They paused shoulder to shoulder. Expensive, thick fur coats tightly bound their hefty bodies.

“We apologize for inconveniencing you, Mr. Levin,” the taller one said. He grinned, exposing crooked but clean teeth. “I am Boris.”

“And I am Viktor,” the shorter one offered, inclining his head. “We appreciate you meeting us at this hour with the weather being what it is.”

Despite their overly warm smiles, Konstantin knew better than to put away the dagger. Midnight may be a lucky hour, but that didn’t mean he was stupid.

The one on the left, Viktor, resembled an oil-painted gentleman. From that tonic- drenched blond hair that shone like glass, to a smoothly shaven face. Only vain men insisted on fully shaving their beards during the winter in Russia, because everyone knew facial hair protected the face from all the goddamn wind, ice and snow.

The other one, Boris, looked like most Russians, poor bastard. His dark, shaggy hair touched the large shoulders of his fur coat and his bushy, black beard with its tendrils of grey still held a clump of stew he hadn’t properly wiped away from a late supper.

Konstantin gestured toward the man’s beard. “You were in a bit of a hurry to get here, I see.”

Viktor leaned in and in a quiet tone pointed out the clump of stew to his associate.

Boris hurriedly brushed it out of his beard.

Konstantin lifted a brow. “Your missive indicated this matter was of unmitigated importance.” He refrained from tapping his blade against each of their foreheads. “I have no idea who you represent, but I am on the straight path and have been for three full months. I am working alongside a butcher.” For measly pay, but it was legal. He was learning a whole new set of skills. “If you have an offer, it had better be respectable and not involve weapons or a fist.”

Viktor eyed the blade, then slowly reached into the inner pocket of his fur coat and withdrew a folded parchment. “Should you confuse our visit with your family’s sordid past, we wish to assure you we are here on behalf of Duc de Andelot. Forgive the location and the hour but he insisted we call on you outside of prying eyes given the nature of our news. You are being asked not to discuss the details of this meeting with anyone. For your safety.”

Konstantin paused. Duc de Andelot? He didn’t think he’d ever hear from that one again. Andelot was third cousin to the King of France. Or who had once been the King of France. During the storm of the revolution, the duc’s face had been heavily marred, forcing him into wearing a black velvet mask. No one had ever seen him without it. Whatever money he’d escaped France with, he had invested heavily into merchant ships sailing into the West Indies.

It made him into the god of gold and power he now was.

The duc had bought a large estate and lived like an aristocratic Russian, even though he was half-French and half-British. Every year, Andelot donated thousands of rubles to the poor, and during harvest, and despite his age of five and sixty, the man stripped down to a linen shirt and trousers, with his mask in place, and went out into the fields with a scythe to muddy his own boots alongside his laborers.

The man was a legend.

Everyone in Moscow revered the duc.

Well…almost everyone.

Three months earlier, Konstantin had been approached by an anti-aristocratic criminal organization to abduct Duc de Andelot and deliver the man into their hands so they could kill him. They believed the duc was a threat to their organization because the peasants liked him too much. What they didn’t know was that Konstantin had always secretly admired the duc and that despite bearing his father’s well-known name, he, much like his father, wasn’t the brute everyone thought he was. Konstantin took the assignment because he was determined to protect Andelot. The night before the appointed abduction, Konstantin was almost killed trying to deliver a secret missive to the duc. Konstantin sustained a bullet to his left shoulder but survived. All of the men involved in the plot to kill Andelot were arrested within six hours and sent to Siberia. The duc, as it turned out, was good friends with the Emperor.

It made Konstantin realize that supporting the violence only created violence.

So he retired from the business.

The duc, in vast appreciation, had invited Konstantin into his grand home for a meal and billiards. Not being able to see his face beyond a mask was a touch unnerving, but as the evening went on, Konstantin felt like they were old friends. The duc, in between casual billiard shots, had eventually asked Konstantin what he wanted in return for saving his life. Konstantin asked the man for respectable work so he could become the gentleman his father had once been before criminal life had erased the Levin name. The duc told him he’d be rewarded with something far better. But a day later, the duc had quietly left Russia to go to London to resolve a private matter. That was three months ago.

“I am listening.” Konstantin tried not to sound too agitated. He hadn’t saved the duc’s life to be rewarded, but he didn’t appreciate being led on, either. “What can I do for him that I haven’t already?”

Boris set his mutton-like shoulders. “The stars have decided to shine brightly for you, Mr. Levin.”

Konstantin refrained from rolling his eyes. “Metaphors belong to poetry I reserve for beautiful women. Now get to the point. What does he want?”

“The duc has officially declared you one of three beneficiaries to his estate. He made the decision whilst in London. You would not be able to inherit his title, as that privilege passes only from blood to blood, but also, according to France’s law of 1808, his title no longer exists amongst the titles Napoleon re-instated. You will therefore only be able to inherit a portion of the funds tied to his name. We were sent to deliver the news to you at an undisclosed location so you were not put into any immediate danger given the amount involved. You are to receive an equal sum of one hundred thousand pounds. Not rubles. Pounds. Unlike the other two names stipulated in his will, your portion of the estate will be delivered into your hands in the next three months. He is, after all, in excellent health and wishes to reward you now, rather than later. You are therefore being mandated to leave Russia and go to London to collect the entire sum.”

Konstantin nearly choked on his own spit. One hundred thousand?! Holy— This had to be a joke. It had to be. “And where is your proof that either of you actually represent the duc?” He pointed his five-inch blade toward their faces. “I want to see it.”

Viktor hit Boris in the shoulder. “Give him the proof he requires.”

Boris puffed out a breath, unfolded his arms and patted his fur coat. From an inner pocket, he withdrew a velvet pouch, which he unstrung. Digging into the pouch with gloved fingers, he removed a gold signet ring with a crest used for legalizing documents. He held it up, angling it toward Konstantin. “His seal. We are sworn to only use it upon his command and destroy it upon his last breath.”

Konstantin’s eyes widened. It was indeed the duc’s seal. He’d seen a similar ring emblazoned on the duc’s hand when he dined with the man three months ago. Stunned, Konstantin lowered the dagger. “The duc intends to give me one hundred thousand pounds?”

Boris slid the ring back into it velvet pouch. “Yes.”

“Without any stipulations or provisos?”

Viktor nodded. “Yes.”

Konstantin pointed the dagger. “Why?”

Viktor glanced toward the blade. “Is that necessary, Mr. Levin?”

“Forgive me.” Konstantin sheathed the dagger into the scabbard slung around his hip. “I am still transitioning into respectable life.”

Viktor promptly held out the parchment he’d taken out earlier. “His Grace asked that we deliver this letter into your hands.”

Although good things were known to happen to a Levin at midnight, this was a touch ridiculous. Konstantin tugged the letter from Viktor’s gloved hand and turned it over.

Breaking the jet-black wax seal, Konstantin unfolded the parchment and tilted it toward the sliver of light emitted from the lantern hanging beside them. He paused. Similar to the conversation they had shared over a meal and billiards, it was in English.

Mister Levin,

After a long night of getting to know you, which I will admit reminded me of days in my youth spent with old friends who have sadly perished amongst the flames of the revolution, I have concluded you need a more suitable reward for the risk you took in saving my life. My reasoning behind giving you such a large sum goes beyond mere appreciation. Your upbringing has made it difficult for you to erase your past and start anew, which is why I intend to gift you with an opportunity to become the man I know you to be. The one your father and Russia had never allowed you to be. I hope we will continue to be friends. I have very few acquaintances I trust, but you have earned your place amongst those few for life. Please find me at my new home at 32 Belgrave Square in London. I look forward to seeing you again and apologize for having left Russia so abruptly without sending word.

Gratefully,

Duc de Andelot

Jesus. This offer was real.

Pulling out a leather satchel, Boris tossed it at him.

Konstantin caught its weight with a free hand, coins tinkering within.

“It will cover your travelling expenses,” Boris explained. “Be frugal. You will not see anything more until you arrive into England. He suggests taking the boat out of Saint Petersburg by way of the Baltic Sea. It will get you to London faster.”

Slowly pushing the satchel into his pocket, Konstantin tightened his hold on the letter.

This was actually happening to him. He was going to be disgustingly wealthy. He’d earned thousands merely by doing the right thing.

Imagine that.

Lowering his gaze to the letter, he let out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. No more trying to cover the holes in his boots with polish. No more drinking vodka that might make him blind. No more cleaver swinging at a butcher shop and inhaling acrid meat for mere rubles a week in order to get respect. Life was going to be whatever he imagined. With a hundred thousand, the possibilities were limitless.

He’d always wanted to go to London.

Just for the women alone.

Much like his father, he had become obsessed with British women and had often watched them coming in and out of the expensive hotels in Moscow as they pertly bustled from shop to shop under lace parasols. They were educated, knew how to speak fluent French and smelled divinely of expensive perfume whenever they breezed past in those well-corseted hips that swayed in the latest fashion. They lacked the pretentious formality of the Russian ladies.

Of course, women of such caliber never noticed men like him. It made for a rather pathetic life of him watching and never touching. Sadly, the last time he’d even attempted to engage any woman of any caliber was almost a year ago. He had met her during a theatrical performance he had attended. The woman was beautiful, intelligent and…married. He didn’t know she was married until after he’d had sex with her in a hotel room she had rented for them. He should have known better. He’d forgotten to wear his watch that night. Not even an hour later, her husband showed up at the hotel door with four other men and whilst two held him, the rest took turns beating the blood out of him until he lost consciousness.

He didn’t blame the husband at all.

But he’d stayed away from women since. He figured he would live longer.

Folding the parchment, Konstantin tucked it deep into his pocket. He still didn’t want to believe it. “Whilst I genuinely question the duc’s sanity, tell him I am beyond grateful and will travel to London at once.”

Boris dug out a calling card from his fur coat. He flicked it out, holding it between two thick fingers. “Should you have any other questions or concerns before leaving Moscow, please call on us in a manner that would not bring attention to your circumstance.”

Konstantin took the card. “Thank you.”

“We will inform the duc of your response by courier. A good-evening to you, Mr. Levin.” Both men smiled, inclined their heads and turned. Their heavy footfalls echoed on their way out before disappearing out into the wind and snow.

Silence reigned again in the abandoned building.

Konstantin exhaled a frosty breath, letting tension seep out from his chest. It was the strangest midnight he’d ever known. And something told him, this was just the beginning.

Lesson Two

Adventure is good for the soul. Most of the time.

-The School of Gallantry

Somewhere in Russia

Weeks later

A WARM MALE HAND SMOOTHED away the pinned curls from her forehead and tucked her better against the curve of his arm and lap. The tips of his calloused fingers gently skimmed her cheek before resting on the curve of her chin. That lingering touch promised more than unending pleasure. It promised a lifetime of all things beautiful and romantic. It was pulse rending, genuine and divine.

She didn’t want to wake up.

But of course she did.

Lady Cecilia Evangeline Stone was startled out of a deep slumber when she was jostled against the cushioned seat of the travelling coach. A strange haze edged into her vision, blurring the shadows of the night with the golden halo of a lantern that dimly illuminated the small, upholstered space. It was so odd, but everything swayed more than the actual carriage.

She froze, realizing her cheek and pinned hair, was pressed against a trouser-clad muscled thigh and that a long, masculine arm was heavily draped around her waist. It was a male thigh and a male arm she had never remembered meeting or inviting into her life.

Unable to breathe against the soft scent of charred wood and soap drifting from his clothing, she scrambled up and out of that lap and shoved his arm away. Stumbling toward the far end of the seat, she tightened the cashmere shawl around her cloak, gown and shoulders, unable to make sense of what was happening.

A young, good-looking man, who clearly hadn’t shaved in days, intently searched her face from where he sat beside her. His black hair was scattered beneath a low-slung cap that shadowed the color of his eyes. His rugged intensity softened as his glance slid to her décolletage before lifting again. He inclined his head as if hopeful of an introduction.

She gaped. Who was he? And what was he doing in her carriage? Scanning the empty seats surrounding them, which were dimly lit by the coach lanterns, she stilled. This was not her carriage. The upholstery was old, ragged and barely clung to the walls and ceiling.

Her heart skid to a frenzied halt as she glanced toward the empty, frayed seats and the mud spattered windows that framed a black, starless night and a rapidly moving road and open fields. Dearest God. Where was her translator and travelling companion? “Mrs. Bogdanovich?” she called out in disbelief, as if the woman were hidden somewhere within the upholstery.

Cecilia pressed a trembling hand against her mouth to keep herself from screaming as panic flared through every inch of her body.

The carriage jerked.

She stumbled, almost falling off the seat.

Large bare hands jumped toward her and grabbed her corseted waist. The man steadied her, pulling her back onto the seat beside him. Well-muscled arms shifted against her from beneath his travelling coat as the hilt of a large dagger attached to a sizable leather belt grazed her thigh and skirts. His hands casually slid up her back, adjusting her against his side and the seat.

With a solid push of panicked hands, she broke his hold on her.

He held up both hands to demonstrate that he had no intention on harming her.

Despite the fact he wore a distinguished, pinstriped waistcoat beneath a wool coat of respectable means, there was no cravat around that neck and his linen shirt was scandalously left open, exposing a masculine throat and the upper portion of a broad, well-muscled chest that had clearly seen too many hours of labor.

Cecilia tried not to awkwardly gape at his exposed chest. “Do you speak English, sir?”

Enigmatic eyes, whose color she still couldn’t make out in the shadows, met hers from beneath the rim of his wool cap. He lowered his hands and to her complete astonishment, he offered in well-educated English, “I do. Were you looking for conversation?” His low, husky voice was surprisingly sophisticated and laced with a heavy Russian accent that penetrated not only the walls of the carriage but every inch of her skin.

It was like she had never heard a man speak before. It was unbelievably sensuous and made her feel as if he was thinking about doing things to her. Her throat tightened. “Were you touching me whilst I slept?”

He shifted his jaw, a teasing gleam flickering in his eyes. “Not in that way. I prefer my women to remember what I do.”

She pressed herself to the opposite side of the seat, setting as much distance between them. She couldn’t breathe knowing she was alone with some Russian wielding a dagger and that her travelling companion was somewhere back in the last village. Or the last three villages, for all she knew.

She had to speak to the driver.

Frantically snatching up her reticule from the seat beside her, Cecilia turned and thwacked the glass window several times. “Driver?” she called out as loud as she could. “Stop the coach, please. Stop the coach!”

A large calloused hand grabbed her wrist, stilling her hand and reticule from hitting the window again. “Ey.” He leaned in closer in reprimand, revealing the sharpening green of his eyes. “What are you doing? I have a schedule to keep.”

Between uneven breaths, Cecilia clutched her beaded reticule higher between them with a trembling hand, signaling to him that she was ready to bash his brains out with every last bead in its stitch. “If you touch me again, sir, I will hurt you and your schedule. I am trying to speak to the driver. Now let go of me!” She shook her reticule toward him for good measure.

Those green eyes brightened. He released her wrist. “How charming. You wish to threaten my life with a reticule.” He leaned in and lowered his voice dramatically. For effect. “If you put a few rocks in it, dorogaya moya, I guarantee it will work much better.”

He removed his cap, causing his dark hair to cascade onto his forehead. “I doubt the driver speaks any English. Few people in Russia do. Only the upper classes know the language. Fortunately for you, my father taught me how to speak it incredibly well. He had often told me, if it were not for my Russian accent and my incredible good looks, I could have easily been British.” He smiled. “Can I be of service to you?”

This one thought he had a sense of humor. She lowered her reticule back into her lap, trying to focus and stay calm. “Is this your carriage?”

“No.” Leaning back against the seat, he flicked the peeling upholstery with a bare finger. “I can assure you, I have far better taste than this.” He tilted his head toward her. “This is a public stagecoach. Did you not know that when you paid your fare?”

Her eyes widened. How had she ended up on a public stagecoach? Where was the carriage she had originally hired?

He paused. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes!” She gestured frantically toward the empty seat across from them. “My travelling companion is missing! Have you seen her? And do you know how I got to be here? Because I…I don’t remember.” She tried to keep her voice calm lest she fall into hysterics.

The carriage jostled against the uneven grooves of the muddy road before settling into an even, swaying rhythm.

He shifted toward her. “How can you not remember?” His brows came together. “You were already on this stagecoach when I boarded hours ago.”

She blinked. “Hours ago? Was anyone with me?”

“No. Not when I boarded.”

She almost fainted. What had happened to Mrs. Bogdanovich? And why couldn’t she remember getting into the coach after her meal at the inn?

“You slept the whole while and kept nestling into my lap no matter what I did.” He patted his thigh to demonstrate where she had rested. “I eventually stopped moving you off my lap and simply made certain you did not fall off the seat.”

Her lips parted. She had nestled into his lap? That certainly explained why he’d been touching her. She had left him with very little choice. “Forgive me, sir. I didn’t mean to impose or accuse you of anything inappropriate.”

He shrugged. “I have been accused of worse. And it was hardly an imposition. You appeared exhausted.” He sounded sincere.

Cecilia set a disbelieving hand against her throat, feeling as if they had already shared a very intimate moment she couldn’t even remember. “Apparently, the mint kvass I drank back at the inn was strong. Very strong. I don’t remember anything.” Except for his hands.

“I take it you have very thin blood?” he asked.

“Thin— Whatever do you mean?”

He hesitated. “Kvass has very little alcohol. You do know that, yes?”

She squinted. That made no sense. If it had very little alcohol, why had it affected her so? Something wasn’t right. “What time is it, sir? Do you know?”

He dug into his inner pocket and withdrew a watch attached to a chain. Flipping open the tarnished silver lid that had several notable dents in its surface, he tilted it toward the light of the lantern shining in. He stared at the watch, his expressive, rugged face stilling.

Something was clearly wrong. “Sir? What is it? Is the hour not showing?”

He slowly veered his gaze to hers. “Ah…no. It is showing. It always shows.” He cleared his throat, playing with the weight of the watch against his hand. “The hour is midnight. On the tick.”

Midnight? She had been sleeping since three in the afternoon? How was that even possible? Three o’clock had been the time she and Mrs. Bogdanovich had stopped at one of the inns for a meal. Why couldn’t she remember anything beyond that? Cecilia blinked down at her bare hands still clutching her reticule. Had she not been wearing gloves?

He snapped the lid shut, making her look up.

She had to do something. She had to do something before she ended up on the other side of the continent. “Forgive me, sir, but I’m going to have to stop the coach. I have to go back to Strelna. It’s the last city I remember being in.”

“You cannot be serious.” He slipped his watch and chain back into his coat with a thumb. “Strelna is ten hours away.”

Cecilia centered her breath. “My son is getting married against my will, and I’m alone in Russia and don’t speak the language. Mrs. Bogdanovich is my translator and travelling companion, and the fact that she is missing concerns me. Greatly. What if something happened to her?”

His features tightened. “Let us pray nothing has.” He leaned toward her. “Might I be of assistance? What do you need?”

She wanted to grab that unshaven face and kiss him for gallantly offering help. A breath escaped her. “Can you tell the driver to turn this coach around and go back to Strelna?”

He stared. “I can. But I am only a half hour from my stop and Strelna is ten hours away.”

Oh. That would be rather rude, wouldn’t it? “Forgive me. I will ensure you find your stop first.” Cecilia softened her voice. “In the meantime, could you please open the window and speak to the driver? Surely he would know how I got to be here and what happened to my travelling companion. I do not speak any Russian, sir, and therefore will require your assistance in this. Please.”

“I am at your service.” He tossed his hat onto the seat before them. “Give me a moment.” He rose to an imposing height of over six feet and bent his head and shoulders against the low ceiling of the carriage. Glancing back at her, he unlatched the window with a quick sweep of his hand. With the dip of a broad shoulder, he leaned out the window and hollered something, his dark hair lifting and scattering against the wind that roared into the space of the coach.

The driver hollered something back over the thundering clatter of wheels.

The man paused and glanced back at Cecilia, his brows coming together. He hesitated, his rugged features hardening. Leaning further out, he gruffly shouted something else, his tone now feral and nothing like the tone he had offered her.

She swallowed. What was going on?

The driver yelled a whole flurry of words as if the world were coming to an end.

Hitting the top of the outside carriage with a quick fist that thudded the roof, the man boomed something to the driver in reprimand.

The driver yelled another long flurry of words.

Leaning back in, the man latched the window, quieting the space again and shook his head. “Dolbo yeb.” He settled his large frame into the cushion beside her, causing the seat to sink. Swiping long strands of dark hair from his face, he crossed the ankle of a mud-crusted boot over his knee and scratched at his unshaven chin. “We have a little problem, dorogaya moya.”

His tone indicated the problem was anything but little. She almost grabbed him. “What? What did he say? What is it? What happened?”

“He was paid to take you.”

Dread seized her. “Paid? What do you mean?”

He dropped his hand onto his thigh. “According to him, you were delivered unconscious to his coach by two men outside a tourist inn back in Strelna. Do you not remember anything?”

Her eyes burned. “Two men?” What had she been doing with two men? “That isn’t possible. I…I wasn’t travelling with any men. I don’t even remember meeting any men.”

He swiped his face. “They told him you had a medical condition. He was paid to drop you off three towns from the next stop so your brother could take you to the doctor.”

She gasped. “My brother? I have no brother. Nor do I have a medical condition!”

He intently scanned her gown. “Are you sore in any unusual places?”

Her pulse thundered. “Are you insinuating these men might have…?”

“Yes.” He was quiet for a moment. “Should we take you to a doctor?”

Cecilia almost retched at the thought. But fortunately, no. Aside from the dizziness that had already waned, everything below the waist felt normal. As normal for a woman who hadn’t had sex in seven years. “No. That isn’t necessary.” She pressed a hand to her stomacher, trying to keep herself and her voice calm.

“Are you certain?”

Her face burned. “I appreciate your concern, but everything feels as it should.”

He puffed out a breath. “You are incredibly fortunate.”

Is that what he called it? “I don’t consider my situation fortunate at all. Dearest Lord, I don’t even know where I am!”

“Try to remain calm.” He held out a coaxing hand. “The driver will be attaching new horses in less than a half hour. You will get off with me. I will help you.”

Her lips parted. “Get off with you? But I don’t even know you.”

“You need help. And I will help you. You cannot trust the driver or anything he says. Most of these drivers in between main cities get paid to do things they should not. You are getting off with me. Do you understand? Your safety calls for it.”

Could she trust him? Should she trust him? “What about Mrs. Bogdanovich?”

“What about her?”

“I have to go back to Strelna and find her. What if these men did something to her?”

He glanced toward the latched window. “From what I remember of the schedule, another coach heads back toward the direction of Strelna in eight days. Unfortunately, we will not be able to get to her sooner. The warm weather has melted the snow and made travel slow. The roads are very muddy.”

Cecilia sat up. “Eight days? I cannot strand her for that long. I’m carrying all of our money. Please. Tell the driver I will pay him a hundred rubles to change out the horses at the next stop and turn this coach around.” She loosened the string on her reticule and dug into it, trying to find money to count out for the driver. “Tell him I have more than enough to—” She paused, swatting the emptiness of the silk inside. Where was her money? And more importantly, what had happened to her son’s letter? The one with the address where she was supposed to call on him once she got to Saint Petersburg?

She looked up, her fingers savagely tightening against her reticule. “Where is my money? And where is the letter that was with it? Did you take it?”

He leaned back, his rugged features tightening. “You may not want to insult your savior.”

Savior? That was a bit much. “You are the only man sitting in this coach with me,” she pointed out raggedly. “What else am I to think, sir? I cannot readily verify what you and the driver did or did not say. For all I know you and he are orchestrating this.”

“Have you considered that these two men who paid the driver might have emptied your reticule long before I boarded?”

“And why would they have left it behind? They could have made good money off the reticule alone.” She shook it. “It was stitched and beaded in Paris.”

He swiped his mouth in an attempt to hide a smirk behind a large, ungloved hand. “Oh, yes. Every man in Russia looks for reticules stitched and beaded in Paris.”

She glared. “I am stranded and have been robbed, sir. And you dare amuse yourself with my situation?”

“I can assure you, it is not your situation I am amused by.” He leaned far back and slowly held open both sides of his coat, exposing the pinstriped waistcoat that made his broad chest look even broader. “Search me. I insist.”

Feeling her body heat and ripple at the bold invitation, she shot him an exasperated look. “I am not touching you.”

“I am trying to set your mind at ease and get you to trust me. Now search me.” He held his coat open wider. “I have pockets in my trousers, too.”

She refused to look at those pockets or those trousers. “I am fine with assuming you don’t have it.”

He released his coat. “You mentioned your son. Did he want you coming into Russia? Would he have arranged for this?”

Heavens above what sort of people was he used to dealing with? John would never ambush his own mother. He was a good boy. Most of the time. “No. He would never. He and I are very close and get along very well.” As long as she and John didn’t get on the subject of his women. “He is marrying a Russian actress.” And the worst of it? All of her friends looked at her as if she had somehow put the idea into her son’s head. Only her daughters thought the whole affair to be incredibly exciting and romantic. Which was why she left them back in London with the governess. Lest any of her daughters get fanciful ideas and start marrying their own set of Russians actors well before they turned eighteen.

He let out a low whistle. “A Russian actress? I wish to offer him many blessings and congratulations.”

Cecilia held up a hand. “I ask that you please not offer either. I am actually going to stop the wedding. Whilst an actress is hardly something a mother ought to boast about, in truth, it’s the least of my worries. I genuinely wanted to support it, given my son claims to be in love with her, but she is twenty-four years older than him and he is heir to a very large estate. He has to have children.”

“Ah.” He titled his head. “I am now rather curious. Which actress is he supposed to marry? I may know the name. I attend theatre performances all the time.”

She blinked. He hardly seemed the sort to attend theatrical performances. But then who was she to judge? “Her name is Mrs. Kat…er…ino…chkin. Did I say that right?”

“Katerinochkin?” He coughed out a rough laugh and winced. “Allow me to pray for your son’s soul whilst he still has one.”

She pulled in her chin. “What do you mean? Do you know her?”

He rolled his eyes. “No. She is simply a very well known actress coming to the end of her popularity. I saw her perform last year when she came into Moscow. She is known for bleeding men dry.” Using a forefinger finger to replicate a pistol, he pointed it to his head and flicked down his thumb. “Her last lover put a bullet through his head upon discovering she had emptied his pockets down to the lint before moving on to another man. It was all over the papers.”

Papers that her son apparently did not read. Oh Lord. She didn’t need this. And most certainly not now. “I have to get to my son. I knew this woman was taking advantage of him. He is far too young to marry and has always been incredibly shy around women.”

“Shy?” He grunted. “That must be nice. How old is he?”

“One and twenty.”

He pointed at her. “Save him.”

“I plan to.”

“Good.” Dropping his foot back to the floor with a thud, he reached out and dragged her empty reticule toward himself. Turning it upside down, he shook it once, to verify that it was in fact empty. With the flick of a wrist, he tossed the reticule onto the seat across from them. “I do not wish to add to your panic, but I am beginning to think this Bogdanovich of yours, whom you were travelling with, robbed you. That would explain why she is not with you. Did you have any trunks? Because there were none attached to the coach when I boarded.”

Her lips parted. No. No, no, no. She shook her head, refusing to believe it. “That isn’t possible. Mrs. Bogdanovich is a respectable woman. One I have gotten to know quite well. She came into Russia with me from England. She also has our travelling papers and—” A gasp escaped her. How was she going to leave the country without papers?

He paused. “The kvass you drank. You mentioned it was strong. It should not have been. Who gave it to you?”

Oh, no. “Mrs. Bogdanovich.”

“After you drank it, what happened?” he pressed.

Oh, no. “I could barely stay awake. She insisted we retire instead of travelling on and assisted me into a room that was blurring. So I…” She was so stupid. “I don’t remember anything after that.” She knew that kvass didn’t taste right. It had been overly bitter. And she drank the whole thing!

He puffed out a breath. “Drugging tourists during a meal is commonplace in Russia. Once a tourist is unconscious, swindlers take everything, put them on a coach and pay a driver to deposit them hours away so no one knows about it.”

This couldn’t be happening. “But the woman came highly recommended to me.”

“By who?”

“A friend of mine.”

“Consider them your friend no more. How much money did you travel with? Did this woman know about it?”

She wanted to cry. “Yes. She knew I had brought three thousand.”

“Three thousand?” he echoed, straightening. “You should never travel with that sort of money. Never.” He muttered something in Russian and then said, “She was probably working with others. Possibly her family. Which would explain the two men who delivered you to the coach. She could not have done it all on her own.”

She paused. “You certainly know quite a lot about these things.”

He was quiet for a moment. “I have seen a lot. More than a man should.”

She refrained from hitting her head against the window of the carriage beside her. “What am I going to do? I have no money, no clothes and no idea where I’m even at!”

“Where are you going? What is your final destination?”

She was officially dependant on a complete stranger. “Saint Petersburg.” She turned toward him, her dark skirts bundling against the seat between them. “How many days away am I? Do you know? Am I on the right coach?”

He intently searched her face.

Cecilia stared back. “Please don’t tell me I’m on a coach to Siberia.”

He rumbled out a laugh. “No.” He rubbed his chin. “If you get off at the next stop, you will only be seven hours away from Saint Petersburg. Coincidentally, I am heading there myself to catch a boat on the Baltic.” He dropped his hand onto his knee. “Allow me to pay for your connecting coach into Saint Petersburg.”

Astounded by his generosity, she leaned in. “I wouldn’t be imposing?”

His gaze held hers. “No. Not at all.”

Why was he staring? “Thank you.”

His voice grew husky. “Of course.”

She tried not to let the raw huskiness of that voice trace her spine. Though she wanted to be at ease knowing she was fortunate enough to have transportation to Saint Petersburg, she now had a much bigger problem. How was she going to find her son without an address or a street name?

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“How well do you know Saint Petersburg?”

His gaze remained riveted to her face. “I was born and raised there prior to moving to Moscow a few years ago. Why?”

A breath escaped her. He knew English and Russian and knew the city of Saint Petersburg. He was a Godsend. “Forgive me for even asking, but would you consider assisting me locate my son once we get into Saint Petersburg? I know nothing about the city or the language and have no idea how I am to find him.”

He sat straighter. “Where in Saint Petersburg are you going? What street is he on?”

She bit her lip hard. Her son’s letter, which had been in her reticule, bore the address, which sadly, she couldn’t remember. She had only glanced at it only once or twice. The street name was…Ga…something. Or was it Gor…something? Either way, it was hardly helpful. “My son bought a home. I don’t remember the street name or the address, as it was quite recent, but he wrote in his last letter that it overlooked the Neva River on the east side. Do you know where the river is? Maybe we can find him that way.”

He lowered his chin. “Do you know how big the Neva is? ’Tis over fifty miles long. We would be better off standing in the street yelling out his name.”

Her mouth went dry. She was lost. In Russia.

He eyed her. “Are you married?”

She pulled in her chin. “What does that have to do with anything?”

He adjusted his dagger at his waist. “Because I wish to know what I can and cannot do with you.”

Cecilia leaned away from him and that dagger. “Begging your pardon, but you are not doing anything with me.”

“You misunderstand. You have a son and appear to be respectable, therefore you must have a husband. Is your husband in Saint Petersburg with your son? Because I have no wish for misunderstandings. I have had my share of it and husbands can be needlessly aggressive.”

She blinked. Oh. “No. You needn’t worry about— My husband passed away. Seven years ago.” It was so odd to say it aloud. She rarely thought about Frederick anymore and felt incredibly guilty knowing it.

He dropped his hand to his side. “So you have no man?”

The way he said it made her think he was about to volunteer to be that man. “No.”

He hesitated and searched her face. “How old are you?”

She blinked. Was he flirting with her? Now? Knowing she was in a state of panic and lost in the bowels of Russia? “Surely, you jest. I am old enough to be your mother.”

His features stilled. “My mother is no longer alive. So do not speak of her.”

Her heart squeezed. “Oh. Forgive me. I didn’t mean to…”

Turning to the small, mud spattered window beside him, he propped his head against the glass. “She was very ill. She suffered.”

Now she felt like a complete dolt. She softened her voice. “In answer to your question, sir, I am forty.”

“Are you?” He veered his gaze back to her. “I am a full thirty.” He said it as if to impress her. Lifting his head from off the window, he leaned toward her and draped an arm against his own knee. His eyes boldly raked over her. “You are incredibly beautiful.”

She almost sank deeper into the seat. Were all Russians like this? His casualnes was unnerving. She was a titled widow with four children.

“The name is Konstantin Alexie Levin.” He inclined his head, holding her gaze.

Why did she feel like fanning herself? “’Tis a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Levin.”

He still held her gaze. “Is it?”

Now she really felt like fanning herself. “I can assure you it is.”

“I am honored knowing it. Might I ask for a name? Since we are officially travelling together?”

“I am Lady Stone.”

“Lady?” He raised himself off his knee. “You mean to say you are of British aristocracy?”

“Yes.”

He draped a long, muscled arm across the back of the upholstered seat, straining his coat against the movement. “Did you think travelling with another woman was a good idea?” It was obvious by his gruff tone he wasn’t looking for an answer, but was actually issuing a reprimand. “A lady of your standing ought to be travelling with a man. And guards. Because another woman can do nothing to protect you. Nothing.”

She blinked rapidly and edged away, feeling her skin prick beneath that penetrating gaze. He clearly did not understand the underpinnings of British society. Or that she would rather be robbed all over again than to have had her own cousin, Lord Gunther, travel alongside her. “Hiring a female companion is what respectable women of my circle do when they travel, Mr. Levin. I have no male relatives I would willingly travel with and a male companion outside of one’s family insinuates indecency. Which is why I hired Mrs. Bogdanovich.”

He slowly shook his head from side to side. “Here in Russia, where land is vast and the people are desperate, such respectable thinking ends badly. Most robberies in Russia result in death. Why? Because the majority of swindlers have no understanding as to how much laudanum goes into a cup. Given how deeply and how long you slept, I have no doubt if you had been given a touch more laudanum, you would have been dead. You should have been dead if Strelna was where you were drugged. Because that means you have slept for over ten hours.”

She swallowed knowing he was right. She would have been dead without having ever gotten around to seeing her daughters or her son properly marry. She would have been dead before she could hold her grandchildren or travel to Paris and breathe in the sort of wild adventure she had always yearned for. She had once read in the gossip papers that Parisian women waltzed naked with their lovers in the privacy of their flats and smoked cheroots in public. Secretly, she had always wanted to try both.

Mr. Levin leaned back against the seat. “Fortunately for you, Lady Stone, your son is associating with a well-known actress, which will make it easy to find him. All we have to do is inquire at the theatre she performs in when we get into Saint Petersburg. Depending on how well that goes, you should be with your son in two days. Three at most.”

She almost slumped back against the seat. She had never been more thankful. “Your kindness has no bounds.”

“Let us not exaggerate. It has its bounds.”

She bit back a smile. She liked him. He didn’t pretend to be anything more than what he was. She envied people who didn’t have to lead their lives according to a title. Unlike her, they could waltz naked with a cigar. “I cannot thank you enough. Is there anything I can offer you in return for the assistance you are providing?”

He extended his long, trouser-clad leg and let his worn, leather boot hit the upholstered seat across from them. Flakes of dried mud spattered the seat. “A beautiful woman should never ask a man what he really wants.” His green eyes studied her and his mouth quirked. “He may tell you.”

Her pulse fluttered knowing he was flirting with her. She tightened her hold on her shawl. “You certainly are anything but coy, Mr. Levin,” she countered.

He dropped his leg from the seat and took back his arm from the seat. His eyes brightened as he shifted toward her. “Being coy never got me anywhere.”

She locked her knees together. “My son will pay you when we find him,” she offered, trying to change the course of their conversation. “I will ensure it is generous.”

“I would never take anything for assisting a woman.” He leaned in across the seat, that charred, smoky scent of wood drifting in from the heat of his body. “Even if there was something I wanted.”

Unspoken words of ‘Which there is’ hung between them.

She felt her entire body ripple in awareness. She leaned back, her shoulder bumping into the wall of the carriage behind her.

He smirked. “You are not as bold as you paint yourself, Lady Stone, are you?” Drawing in closer, he brushed a hand over her shoulder, lowering his gaze to his fingers that traced an area of her cashmere shawl. “Sadly, there appears to be some damage to your shawl. A part of it is unraveling.”

She swallowed, feeling faint from the tips of her ungloved fingers down to the tips of her toes buried in her stockings and half boots. Her shawl wasn’t the only thing unraveling. For some reason, she now envisioned him shredding apart her clothing at the stitch with bare hands and whispering words in Russian to her until she herself spoke Russian. Her heart lurched, her breath coming in uneven takes. It was amazing how being away from her three girls had suddenly turned her into a woman. Not a mother. A woman. She had honestly forgotten what that was.

Almost dying apparently did something to a woman’s mind.

He took back his hand. “Forgive me. I should not have touched you.” Rising from the seat, he turned and fell back into the seat across from hers. His sharp features dimmed. He dragged out his watch and flipping it to the backside of the silver casing he slid a finger across what appeared to be etched words. He tucked it back into his waistcoat pocket and shifted his unshaven jaw, watching her.

Despite the coolness of the air in the carriage, her palms grew moist. The man made her want to do things she thought she’d long outgrown. Because, holy heaven, he was everything her husband had never been. Young, good-looking, dashing and outspoken.

She’d been married almost fourteen years to the day when her husband, Frederick, had died back in 1823, which was now seven years ago. Lord Stone had gone to sleep one night in his room and had never woken up. Despite the fact that she had grudgingly learned to love him in her own way, she lived every day of those fourteen years knowing she had married him for his money and that he had married her for her youth and her beauty.

It didn’t make for a good marriage.

Sex was scheduled. It occurred every Monday and Friday evening. If the man wasn’t busy or tired. Sometimes, she climaxed, but only when and if he put effort into it. All too many times, she learned to lay on her back, thinking about nothing in particular until he was done. He would then roll off, pat her cheek in thanks, shrug on his robe and plod back to his room. He never embraced her after the act. Nor did he ever stay in her bed to sleep. He thought it was in poor taste for a man to display any form of affection, even behind closed doors. She quickly mastered the art of using her fingers and would wantonly imagine she was being ravaged by one of her good-looking male neighbors.

Though Frederick travelled extensively prior to their marriage, he never held any interest in letting her or the children see much of the world. Going up into Scotland was considered worldwide travelling for their family. His sole interest had been collecting antiquities, attending parliament sessions during debates and taking long walks. Alone. Always alone. He spent time with her and the children only when it suited him. Which wasn’t often.

He did, however, let her buy whatever she wanted. In fact, he encouraged it because it was his way of making up for being so morbidly removed. She therefore spent a lot of time shopping with her children and together they always delivered bountiful weekly boxes of items to countless charities throughout London. It made for a rather uneventful life spent solely in shops and…well, shops.

Such was the bane of marrying a man for money. One had everything yet nothing.

Adjusting his coat, Mr. Levin smoothed out the fabric of his trousers against his knee and flicked his gaze to the window. “We are slowing. Are you getting off with me?”

“I most certainly won’t be travelling on to find out who my ‘brother with the doctor’ is,” she chided.

He smirked. “’Tis good to know you have a sense of humor about this.”

She sighed. “Panicking certainly never served me well.”

“It never serves anyone well. Chin up. We will find your son.”

The driver called out something in Russian and the carriage slowed, tugged and pulled until it clattered to a complete halt.

Silence now pulsed around them.

Mr. Levin swiped up his wool cap from the frayed upholstered seat, tugged it onto his head and grabbed up her reticule, shoving into his coat pocket. Opening the door with his shoulder and weight until it swung out, he jumped down from the coach with a resounding thud of leather boots crunching into gravel, turned and snapped out a large hand. “Our connecting coach into Saint Petersburg does not arrive for another two days. There is a small inn down the road. You and I can share a room until the coach comes in. I will pay for it.”

She tightened her hold on her shawl at the thought of sharing a room for two nights with a good-looking Russian she just met. In all her forty years, she had never strayed. As a mother to four children, she had gone above and beyond ensuring no man, especially her cousin, stepped anywhere near their lives after the death of her husband. Her children came first. And even though she had considered taking a lover, for she did get lonely, she had this irrational fear her children would somehow pick the lock at night and walk in on her doing things with men she shouldn’t.

Her fingers dug into the softness of her cashmere shawl. If she didn’t ask for a separate room she knew she would end up doing things with him. Because those green eyes made her want to shove him against a wall and show him how dangerous a deprived woman could be. “Might I ask for a separate room, Mr. Levin?”

He shifted from boot to boot, still holding out his hand. “I would offer, but my funds are limited until I get to London.”

She gaped. So much for escaping him. “London? Why are you going to London?”

He paused. “I plan to live there for a small while until I decide what to do next. Why do you ask?”

What if people found out about their association and that she had shared a room with him in Russia? Regardless of what did or did not happen, she’d be lynched by all of society. And her daughters, who were a tender thirteen, fifteen and sixteen, would never see the respectable debuts they deserved. She couldn’t breathe. “Mr. Levin. I live in London.”

“Do you?” He sounded as pleased as he was surprised. He shifted closer, his travelling coat opening wider. “How do you like it there?”

He clearly didn’t understand. “I am asking for a separate room. Please.”

He dropped his hand to his side. “As much as I would like to oblige, Lady Stone, I cannot afford two separate rooms for two nights. I barely have enough to get me into England and I still have to purchase food for you and myself over these next two days and buy us fares into Saint Petersburg.” He leaned forward and draped an arm against the open door of the coach. “I can give you the room whilst I sleep in the corridor at night. Would that be acceptable?”

She wasn’t about to let him pay for the room and then have him sleep in the corridor. Oh, dear. “There is no need for you to sleep in the corridor on my account. You and I will manage.” Somehow. “All I ask is that you not speak of this to anyone whilst in London.”

“I will tell no one. I consider myself to be a gentleman.” Pushing away from the door, he held out his hand again. “Allow me to assist you from the coach.”

He certainly did appear to be a gentleman. It was astonishing. A woman would never know it given his lack of cravat, the size of that dagger and his unshaven face. “Thank you, Mr. Levin.” She rose, gathering her skirts from around her booted feet and lowered her head through the opening of the coach.

He grabbed her hand, his rough heat penetrating the coolness of her skin. He paused, his fingers skimming her inner palm. “Your hand is cold.”

“Is it?” She hadn’t noticed. Not with him around.

The pads of his fingers pressed into her skin. He brought his other hand up and covered it, rubbing her entire hand between both of his large ones in an effort to give it warmth. “I am assuming your gloves were stolen along with everything else. I have gloves in my satchel. Do you want them?”

The strength and heat of those long fingers penetrated her to the bone. She could only imagine what the man could do with those fingers in a bed. She needed to go to church. “No, thank you.” She quickly descended the narrow, iron steps and landed onto the gravel path, away from a large patch of mud. She tugged her hand loose, trying to focus.

He turned and climbed up onto the back of the coach, retrieving a large wool satchel. Draping it onto his broad shoulder, he jumped down, strode toward her and grabbed her hand back as if it were his to grab.

Startled, she tried to tug her hand loose but his fingers were too strong. “What are you—”

“It will keep your hand warm and ensure every man knows you cannot be accosted.” He smiled down at her, wove his heated fingers effortlessly between hers and clasped them snugly against his own.

A part of her soul liquefied. Her husband had never held her hand for the sake of warming it or for the sake of anything else. They’d never had that sort of relationship.

She glanced up at Mr. Levin, scrambling to keep up with his long-legged stride, while still holding his hand. Girlish though it was, she liked the attention. It was…sweet.

He kept walking, his thumb now skimming her palm.

Her eyes widened. Why was she, a titled lady of forty, permitting this? “We really shouldn’t be holding hands,” she said rather stupidly. “It isn’t proper.”

He eyed her. “I agree.” He released her and shoved his hands into his coat pockets. Still striding alongside her toward a shadowed, stone building lit by lanterns that lined the wide road, he gruffly said, “You have very soft hands. Do you know that?”

She bit her lip hard. This had trouble slapped all over it.

Lesson Three

Sometimes a man must refrain from being a man.

-The School of Gallantry

ONCE THE ROOM HAD BEEN paid for and a brass key was in his pocket, Konstantin strode across the dirt-pounded floor of the dilapidated lobby toward Lady Stone. She lingered by the narrow staircase leading to their lodging, scanning the brusque men around them. Men who boisterously spoke in Russian to each other across the lobby in between splashing gulps of ale and vodka that spilled from the tankards they staggered around with.

She seemed surprised. Little did she know, Russians were known to stay up all night and drink, whether they were travelling or not.

Konstantin continued to watch her. It was the first time he’d seen her in full light. She was stunning. Her travelling gown was sumptuous with all that expensive velvet and was hooked up to her chin in a refined elegance that made him want to whistle. She was curvaceous and tall. Being a touch over six feet himself, he’d never met a woman who reached his own nose. Yet she did. Her thick, dark brown hair was primly pinned up into a chignon that had grown lopsided from hours of sleep.

It didn’t make her any less attractive.

From the moment she and that expensive perfume of hers had nestled into his lap hours earlier, he had a strange, glimmering feeling they were going to imprint their breaths on each other. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt very protective of her. Like she was already his.

It was why he’d taken her hand.

And then there was the subject of the Glorious Midnight Bane. He wondered what meeting her at midnight could possibly mean. Konstantin tightened his jaw and refused to think about it. All he knew was that she needed a hero, and after too many years of being a criminal, he was more than ready to play the role of a hero to a beautiful woman who thought he was nothing more than a respectable man.

It was nice.

He approached Lady Stone.

She turned, and adjusting the shawl around her cloak, skimmed his appearance from chest to boots without any attempt to conceal her interest in his physique.

His chest tightened, knowing that look all too well. The last time a woman gave him a look like that, he’d been left unconscious and bleeding on the floor. He had to avoid a repeat of that.

Konstantin strode up to the steep, wooden staircase and leaned against the unevenly nailed railing. “The innkeeper mentioned there was a sizable bathhouse in the courtyard. Would you like hot water prepared for you before you retire? It would be no extra cost to us.”

Her pink, full lips pursed in due seriousness. “I’m exhausted. But tomorrow morning I will certainly take advantage of the offer.”

“Consider it done. We ought to retire. ’Tis late.” He pushed away from the railing and swept an open hand toward the stairs. “After you.”

“Thank you.” She breezed past, filling the air once again with expensive perfume that reminded him of a cinnamon-tinged rose. It was a scent that suited her. Reserved but spicy. She gathered her dark green velvet travelling gown and stiffly made her way up the staircase, her cloak bundling around her arms.

Konstantin gripped the wood banister and followed her. He tried not to assess her bum hidden beneath the layers of those heavy skirts but the full curve of those hips accentuated by a well-cinched corset kept taunting him. It was difficult to believe she had a twenty-one-year-old son and three daughters. Her son was only nine years younger than him. When she had been a woman of twenty, he’d been a boy of ten.

He was a very bad man.

Once on the landing, he focused on getting to the room.

Reaching a narrow door with the number 12 crookedly painted with red on its wooden surface, he dug into his pocket for the key and adjusted the sack on his shoulder. With the turn of his wrist, Konstantin kicked out a booted foot, thrusting the door out of their way.

He swept a gallant hand toward the open door. “After you.”

She hesitated and then walked into the small room, her gown rustling past his booted feet.

He entered after her and pushed the oak door shut. Dropping the sack from his shoulder, he kicked it off to the side and leaned heavily against the panel. He paused. He could feel his watch shifting against the inside of his pocket. It was telling him something. What exactly, he was uncertain of.

She dragged her shawl up to her chin and turned toward the narrow bed.

Fitting two people on that bed for a night of sleep would require vast imagination. Which meant only one of them was getting the bed. So much for sleep. Or anything else. Not that she would entertain the idea of anything else. She was a lady.

Pushing away from the door in exasperation, he thumbed at the wool sack. “I have clean clothing in my travelling bag. You may borrow one of my linen shirts to sleep in.”

She smoothed her hands against the thick, velvet skirts of her travelling gown. “I will be fine sleeping in this. Thank you.” She removed her cloak and shawl and surveyed the small room that was barely a few strides wide.

At least it had a small hearth.

He knew the woman was used to far better lodgings. She was an aristocrat. The scraped oak timbers that lined the walls and the low ceiling of the room was overly rustic for a woman dressed in velvet and cashmere. And the moment she crawled into that bed, her body would quickly realize the tick was stuffed with rough straw, not plush feathers.

Why couldn’t he have had enough money to impress the woman with her own room? More importantly, why couldn’t he have met the woman after his crowned glory of one hundred thousand? “I apologize that the lodgings are a bit rough,” he finally said.

She draped her cloak and shawl onto the bed, her features softening. “There is no need to apologize, Mr. Levin. I am incredibly grateful to have a place to sleep.”

Those dark eyes were so stunning when she softened. They became warm-liquored and soulful and hinted at a different woman hidden beneath. One who enjoyed nestling against a man during cold winter nights. He liked women who nestled. “You have very pretty eyes.”

She lowered her gaze with a half-smile. “Thank you.”

He was beginning to ramble like a fourteen-year-old boy meeting a pretty girl. Shifting his jaw, he placed his right hand onto the rosewood handle of the dagger attached at his waist. “Are you hungry? I have some dried peaches and apples in my sack.”

“No thank you.” Her eyes darted to where his hand was. “Do you always carry a weapon?” she inquired.

“Yes.” He paused, realizing he probably shouldn’t have admitted that. It represented his old life and not the one he was embracing. Still, he did know women liked a man who knew how to handle a weapon. He casually removed his leather belt and tried not to vaunt. “As my father used to say, Russia has no saints.”

He carried the belt and dagger over to the small, lopsided side table beside the bed and set it down with a clatter. The side table wobbled in protest. He inwardly winced, realizing just how awful the accommodations really were and stilled the table with a hand. He turned back to her and drawled, “Let us hope the ceiling holds up, yes?”

A bubble of a laugh escaped her. “It isn’t all that bad.”

“No, I suppose not,” he muttered, glancing around. “I have seen worse.” He scuffed the bottom heel of his boot across the uneven floors. “At least it appears clean. And fortunately, there is no sign of roaches. Yet.”

She froze, a look of horror tightening her pale face. She glanced at the floors and looked as if she might leap into his arms at the sight of anything with an antenna.

He probably shouldn’t have said anything. Not that he would mind her leaping into his arms. “Roaches are annoying but harmless.”

She hesitated and then politely offered, “I suppose once we close our eyes, it will be no different than closing one’s eyes in a hotel in Paris.”

He bit back a smile, liking how unpretentious she was. There was clearly more to her than a pretty face and a pretty gown. “I take it you have been to Paris?”

She shook her head. “Not yet. But I do have a trip planned. Have you ever been?”

He shook his head. “My finances have never really allowed for it. But I intend to travel there sometime next year. Around June.” After he settled into his one hundred thousand.

She paused. “I plan on travelling to Paris next year in June, as well.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

It was like they were asking each other whether Paris was next.

He quickly removed his coat and tossed it to the wooden chair by the door. He also removed his waistcoat and tossed that as well. “We should sleep.” Or something like that.

“Yes. We should.” She turned and sat on the edge of the bed, reaching down. After a few attempts of swatting toward her shoes, she let out a breath and sat up. “Could you please assist me in removing my boots, Mr. Levin? I would do it myself but I cannot bend at the waist.”

This could get dangerous. He adjusted his linen shirt, reminding himself only her boots were coming off, and rounded toward the bed. He knelt before her. “Allow me.” He wagged a hand toward her.

She gingerly stuck out one booted foot.

He gently grabbed her ankle. Pushing up a section of her velvet skirt away from those feet, he loosened the fastening on each black leather half-boot. He made a valiant attempt not to notice anything other than her stockings were snow white and made out of silk. And that she had incredibly shapely calves. And that her ankles were slender enough for him to ring his entire hand around them.

His calloused fingers grazed the smooth softness of those stockings as he removed the first boot. The luxurious feel of her stockings made his chest and his entire body tighten. And that was just the stockings. He removed her other boot and tightly smiled up at her, trying to assure her he wasn’t taking liberties. Even though he was.

She slid her hands across her skirts and also smiled. That smile was warm and far more inviting than he had expected.

Setting aside both boots, he quickly rose.

“Thank you for your assistance.”

“It was a pleasure.” Too much of one. He gestured toward the narrow bed. “I ask that you take the bed.” He thumbed toward one of the two chairs behind him. “I will settle into a chair.” He considered himself to be a gentleman, after all. Not in his head, mind you, but in practice.

She glanced at the wooden chair, her arched brows coming together. “How will you sleep?”

He’d slept in some disgusting places before whilst on assignment. This was nothing. He went over to the chair and sat, tilting himself into it until it creaked in protest. “I appreciate the concern but I will manage.”

“Are you certain?”

“Quite.”

Her dark eyes brightened. “Thank you. For everything.”

“I am more than happy to oblige.” He shifted against the hard seat and tried to get comfortable. “Sleep well.”

She hesitated, then quickly rose and bustled toward him. To his astonishment, she leaned down, her perfume caressing the air between them and delivered a quick kiss onto his cheek before bustling straight back to the bed. “Thank you.”

He froze. The feel of those soft lips against his unshaven face made him realize sleep was the last thing he wanted. He really didn’t need this. He didn’t need to start thinking about her and kisses and— She was an aristocrat. It would be like him trying to get involved with the emperor’s daughter. It wouldn’t end well. Though she claimed to have no husband, as beautiful as she was, she probably had a lover. A very territorial one. Hell, he knew he’d be territorial over her if she was his.

Tightening his jaw, he watched her unfold the linen.

She regally arranged herself onto the bed with a rustle of her gown, her full velvet skirts bundling up to her knees. A very impressive and very delectable display of slim, stockinged legs now appeared in full view with attractive black lace garters tied below each knee to hold the silk place.

Mother of God. He wanted those legs wrapped around his waist.

With pursed lips and a lowered gaze, she drew up the linen and covered herself, eliminating the view of those shapely legs. She busily patted the linens around herself, clearly unaware he was watching her.

Her dark eyes eventually cut over to him. She smiled pertly. “Goodnight, Mr. Levin,” she offered, settling herself against the pillow.

With difficulty, he inclined his head. “Goodnight, Lady Stone.”

But no, it wasn’t going to be a goodnight. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

CECILIA’S EYES FLUTTERED OPEN. A lone candle in the far corner of the rented room and the red burning coals in the small hearth dimly pushed back the late-night shadows. She turned against the linens, her travelling gown making it difficult for her to move. Pale moonlight beamed through the narrow, dirt smeared window.

She couldn’t sleep.

Pushing herself up, she paused, realizing Mr. Levin was not in sight. The lone chair he’d been sitting in had been pushed back. His coat, waistcoat and pocket watch were draped over his wool sack in the shadows a few feet away from the door.

Cecilia slowly scooted out from beneath the linens, pushing the linen away from her gown so it wouldn’t tangle. Her stockinged feet landed on the uneven wood floors. She cringed knowing the floors were rough. Her silk stockings would never survive.

She yanked up her gown and scrambled to remove her garters since Mr. Levin wasn’t around to see it. Although she managed to untie both of her garters, her corset made it impossible for her to roll them down far enough to even try to yank them off her feet. Huffing out a breath, she tossed the garters onto the bed and made her way over to the wool sack draped with Mr. Levin’s belongings. She picked up his pocket watch from the pile to check the time. She paused, its weight surprising her as the chain unraveled and swayed against the side of her hand. Oddly, her fingers tingled. It was as if she were touching something incredibly special.

Noting words were etched on the back of the silver casing, she turned it up and squinted at the faded letters. It was written in English.

“Eternally yours at midnight,” she whispered.

What could it mean? Usually, a name or initials were engraved on the back of a watch. The silver was heavily tarnished, hinting it was old. Clicking open the dented casing, she blinked at the uneven hands, realizing it was almost three in the morning.

Shutting it, she gathered up his clothing from atop the sack and carried his coat and waistcoat over to the chair in an effort to tidy the room. She hated when things were unorganized. Draping everything onto the back of the chair, she carefully set his watch onto the seat, centering it and then glanced around the empty room again. If it was three in the morning, where was he? She hurried over to the closed door. Seeing the key had been left in the lock, she pulled it out and opened the door.

He had forgotten to lock the door.

Peering out into the candlelit corridor, Cecilia hesitated and stuck her head further out beyond the doorway. The creaking of the old inn was all she could hear. She froze.

A stocky young blond male smoking a half-cut cigar leaned against the peeling wall beside an open door next to her own. His yellowing, linen shirt was open to the waist, revealing a fit chest, and his stained wool trousers were barely affixed to his hips as if he had just finished entertaining every last woman in town. He inclined his head toward her in a gentlemanly manner and lifted his cigar to full lips. Dragging in a long, indulgent puff, he slowly released the smoke he’d drawn in through his nostrils and his mouth as if he were making love to it. He smiled and said something conversationally in Russian.

She blinked. “Uh...forgive me, sir, but I don’t speak any Russian.”

The young man paused, his blond brows popping up. “Ah.” Sticking his cigar into the side of his mouth, he scrambled to tidy his appearance by sweeping back his hair from his eyes. He removed his cigar, cleared his throat and edged closer, brokenly offering in a heavy Russian accent, “Woman is…English?”

His English was certainly better than her Russian. “Yes, sir. I’m English.”

He dashed out his cigar against the frame of the door and shoved it into his trouser pocket. Opening the door to his room, he swept a hand toward it, his eyes brightening. He pointed at her and then cupped his hand and pretended to drink from it to indicate that he was inviting her into his room for a drink.

She cringed but sensed he was actually trying to be nice in the only way a twenty-year-old could. She shook her head. “No, thank you. I have to—”

He yanked out his cigar from his pocket and held it out, offering that instead.

A startled laugh escaped her. “No, thank you, sir. I don’t smoke.”

He tucked away the cigar and hurriedly pulled out a deck of cards from his other pocket. He held up the warped deck and gestured to her and then himself, asking if she wanted to play cards.

Another laugh escaped her. “Whilst I appreciate all the generous offers, I am actually looking for someone.” She tried to slow her speech in the hopes that he would understand. “Did you happen to see a gentleman leave my room? Do you know where he went?”

He squinted at her, shoving the deck of cards back into his pocket. “Man?”

“Yes. A man.” She tapped at her hair. “Dark hair. Did you see him?”

He held up his hand high over his head and then hit each arm as if to demonstrate Mr. Levin’s tall, muscled frame. He gestured down the corridor. “Outside.”

Thank goodness there was a sighting. “Bolshoe spasibo,” she offered. Thank you was the only Russian word she did know.

He pointed at her, grinning. “Russian.” He wagged the tip of his fingers, insisting she say more in his language.

Something told her he would keep her in the corridor all night if she let him. “I’m so sorry, but I really should find my travelling companion.” She smiled, closed the door behind her and locked it with the key, clutching it. “I wish you a good-evening, sir.”

He hesitated and then pointed to himself. “Markov.”

The boy was adorable. “Thank you for the wonderful conversation, Mr. Markov.”

He inclined his head twice, searching her face. Falling against the wall beside his door, he slowly held up a wistful hand.

Russian men certainly were nice. It made a woman want to get lost in Russia. She swept down the narrow corridor in the opposite direction. Her feet grew colder against the rough wood as she hurried down the staircase. She winced, feeling splinters digging into the soles of her feet and glanced behind herself, shoving the key from the room into the bosom of her gown to keep herself from dropping it.

Coming to the bottom of the main stairwell, she scanned the dilapidated hall of the inn whose iron sconces hung crookedly from the uneven walls. It was eerily quiet. The main hearth filled with coal which had earlier seen countless people gathered around it, glowed on its own.

Clutching the folds of her skirt, she noticed an open side entrance leading into the darkness. She hurried out through that door. “Mr. Levin?”

The crisp, night air frilled the skin beneath her gown with gooseflesh. Her stockinged toes suddenly sunk into icy, thick mud. She groaned, jumped toward the stone path and darted into a barren side garden. Fortunately, it wasn’t freezing outside and the snow was completely melted. “Mr. Levin?” she called out again. “Are you out here?”

There was no response.

Oh, God. What if something happened to him?

The night was remarkably still as a full moon sat high, casting a vibrant white glow across the shadows. Unnerved breaths escaped her, frosting the air as she hurried into the garden past a small stable illuminated by the brightness of the moon. Earthy smells filled her nostrils as horses quietly neighed, some poking out their shadowed heads, acknowledging her presence.

She glanced around the isolated mossy grounds and large, shadowed trees and paused. A faint, golden glow from the planked crevices of a small wooden bathhouse greeted her.

She blinked. Was he…bathing? At this hour?

She gripped the fabric of her gown. Pinching her lips, she envisioned his broad back and wet, flexing muscles covered in soap and his black hair dripping and hanging into those green eyes. Given the bulk of his arms that had strained his travelling coat, she was quite certain there was plenty more attached to whatever she could envision. It was time to go.

Scuffing steps from behind made her snap toward the sound.

The shadow of a very large man resembling a gorilla emerged from the stables. He staggered and made his way toward her. Slurring something in Russian, he unbuttoned his trousers and shoved the flap of his trousers down. He yanked out a stubby cock.

Her eyes widened as the hairs on her nape stood on end. She darted straight for the door of the bathhouse. “Mr. Levin!” She prayed to God he was in that bathhouse. “Mr. Leviiiiin!”

Lesson Four

Have faith in your worth as a man and a woman of worth will have faith in you.

-The School of Gallantry

UPON HEARING HIS NAME IN English through the haze of sleep he had unknowingly succumbed to after a very successful session of masturbation where he’d imagined Lady Stone doing all sorts of things to him, Konstantin sat up, sending a whirling splash of water around the massive wooden tub. He glanced toward the plank door of the bathhouse. The influence of the hot water and the lone candle waving inside the glass-encased lantern had lulled him into a sleep he hadn’t been able to find earlier.

Had he imagined Lady Stone yelling for him? He’d certainly imagined her yelling beneath him in pleasure a moment ago. He surged to his feet, water streaming from his naked body. Climbing out of the massive tub, which took some effort given its size, he snatched the towel the innkeeper had provided him and got out.

The door to the bathhouse banged wide open as Lady Stone skidded inside. “Mr. Levin! A man…he…help!”

His heart pounded in utter disbelief as he smacked the towel against his exposed cock. The colder evening air licked his wet skin as he stared wordlessly down at Lady Stone who was almost on top of him.

She frantically pointed toward a man outside of the bathhouse.

The man was urinating.

The oaf peered at them from over his shoulder and sniffed loudly, finishing his business with an unrefined tug of his trousers. Staggering away, he slurred something in Russian about horses defecating too much and disappeared back into the shadows of the stables.

Konstantin eyed Lady Stone. “You are safe.”

Her full breasts rose and fell. “I…I’m so sorry.”

“Do not be.”

She edged back and back, her stockings visibly muddy. She stared at the towel he barely bundled against his lower half and tried to grab the door to close it but kept missing because she was too occupied with looking.

He officially felt attractive.

She smacked her hands over her entire face. “I can’t believe you’re—” She jerked toward the narrow open door but slipped against the wet boards. “Ah!”

He jumped toward her and grabbed her by the waist hard to keep her from falling and hitting her head against the nearest plank wall. He stumbled against the wetness of the floorboards, realizing he had dropped the towel. Though he tried to balance himself with his own weight, he couldn’t.

They fell back.

Turning his body to better take the impact, he savagely held onto her to keep her from getting hurt as the wooden ledge slammed against the back of his legs, stinging his flesh.

He tipped backward with her into the water.

She screamed, trying to grab for something other than him as soap suds and water rose up around them from the large round tub like a massive wave crashing to shore. Liquid warmth drowned out both air and sound upon impact, dunking them both.

He couldn’t breathe as water rushed up his nostrils and burned his throat.

Konstantin scrambled to sit in the tub, sputtering out water and yanked Lady Stone up and out of the water by her arms. He coughed, trying to get the water out of his throat.

“Pffff!” She blindly staggered on her knees in the water between his well-spread legs.

He sucked in a breath knowing his cock was fully visible through the soapy water and that she was between his legs.

Her hands pushed away pasted strands of long dark hair from her forehead as water cascaded from unpinned sections that flopped down onto her shoulders. Pins plunked into the water one by one by one. She stumbled and steadied her hands against his bare chest.

She stilled, her velvet gown billowing around them as it covered almost every inch of the water. Except for where he and his cock were.

Her glistening face was now barely inches from his own.

“Do not look down,” he offered in a low, cautionary tone.

She intently held his gaze. “Duly noted.”

For some reason, she wasn’t scrambling to get out. She also wasn’t removing her hands from his bare chest. In fact, he felt those slim fingers slowly tighten their hold.

Konstantin searched her face, trying to remain calm. Her long dark hair floated around their waists in the water along with her gown. She looked very different. She looked less prim and more provocative.

He lowered his eyes unwittingly to her wet, parted lips, feeling trails of warm water trickling down his face and chin from his own hair.

The rustling of water and their unsteady breaths were the only sounds.

Her lips parted as she searched his face.

It was as if she was waiting for him to do something.

His cock hardened. He could feel his erection pointing rigidly toward her in the water, demanding she be the one. And although, yes and yes, he wanted to grab her and fuck her until all the water left the tub, he knew that would be taking advantage of a woman who had just been drugged and robbed barely thirteen hours ago. Hardly a nice thing to do.

He leaned back, trying to regain control over his lower half. As casually as he could manage, he rasped, “Do you require assistance getting out?”

She searched his face as if astounded. “Uh…no. Thank you. No, I…” She glanced away and fumbled to get out of the wooden tub. The weight of her gown kept pulling her back. She stumbled against him in the water.

Konstantin steadied her. “Close your eyes. I have to get out.” He rose and pressed both hands to his erection, trying to cover it.

She glanced up at his nudity, her eyes jumping to his protruding erection.

He shot her an exasperated look. “I asked you to close your eyes.”

She slapped her hands over her face.

And he thought women of status were respectable. Ha. Climbing out, he snatched the towel up from the wet floorboards and used it to dry himself, wishing his erection would subside.

He scrambled to gather his clothes, yanked on his linen shirt and donned his undergarments and dark wool trousers, before shoving his feet into his boots without stockings. Fully dressed, Konstantin approached the tub she still sat in and held out a hand. “Allow me to assist you out.”

She pressed her hands against her eyes. “Are you dressed?” she primly asked.

“Does it matter?” he chided. “You have already seen everything.”

She winced. “Forgive me for that.” She opened her eyes somewhat sheepishly and seeing that he was, in fact, dressed, quickly reached up and grabbed his hand.

He grabbed her other hand and yanked her up in one swoop, his muscles straining against the weight of her wet gown which was dragging her in the opposite direction. “It would be much easier if you removed your gown.”

“There is no need. I will manage.”

“But the weight of the water is going to—”

“I will manage, Mr. Levin.” Holding his hand, she stumbled out of the tub and onto the floorboards, spraying water everywhere.

He scrambled back, realizing sections of his clothes were now drenched and sticking to his skin. He huffed out a breath in exasperation and released her hand. “I will wait outside whilst you…manage.” Shoving open the door of the bathhouse, he stepped out into the pale light of the moon. Shaking his head, he lifted his linen shirt from against his skin and wrung out whatever he could.

She staggered out after him, dripping wet. She groaned, clutching at her clinging skirts and then smacked her sides, the sound as wet as she looked. “My only gown is soaked. Soaked.”

“It will be fine.”

“So says a man with a sack full of dry clothing. I have no other clothes!”

“We will set your gown before the hearth and let it dry.”

“It will take a whole day to dry a gown like this,” she muttered.

“Fortunately for you, we do not travel for another two.” Konstantin turned toward her, still wringing out his own linen shirt and paused, skimming her from shoulder to feet. Her wet, velvet dress clung seductively to every luscious curve of that body. Glorious, full breasts beckoned as they pressed against the wet fabric of her bodice.

She looked half-naked.

Damn. He rolled his tongue against the inside of his cheek before blurting, “Might I ask why you followed me? Knowing I was bathing?” He had to know the answer to this one.

“I didn’t know you were bathing,” she argued. “For heaven’s sake, it’s three o’clock in the morning! Who bathes at such an ungodly hour?”

“I do.” He shrugged. “I could not sleep.” Not with her in the room. Sadly, masturbation was a very necessary evil. It was how he survived without a woman for as long as he had. He had never been one for prostitutes and the women he was interested in either snubbed him or never gave him more than a night due to their fear of their family finding out they were involved with a ‘criminal’. When it came to women, it was obvious he was going to need that one hundred thousand to lure in what he wanted.

“You didn’t even lock the door when you left,” she grouched as she wrung out section after section of her skirt in between uneven steps. “Fortunately, we seem to be surrounded by decent people. I met a man next door to ours. He was incredibly pleasant.”

“I am certain he was.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” She kept walking unevenly against the weight of her gown, the fabric dragging and dragging against the stone path.

Following the glistening stream of water she’d trailed, Konstantin smirked and fell into stride beside her knowing she clearly needed help. “Turn toward me.”

She jerked to a halt. “Why?”

“You are barely walking.” He knelt before her, grabbed up heavy sections of her wet gown and started twisting water out of the velvet. He focused only on the task. Not on the fact that she had clearly removed her silk stockings and that her slender legs were provocatively bare. He twisted and twisted and wrung the material around her gown harder until eventually half its weight was diminished.

She watched him from above and eventually said, “I find it difficult to place the sort of man you are.”

He glanced up, releasing her gown. “Hm? What do you mean?”

“You appear to be a gentleman and are impressively well spoken in the English language and yet you don’t even wear a cravat.”

He’d been accused of that before. “I had a rather unusual upbringing. My father was a privileged gentleman who veered off the respectable path.” He made sure not to mention how.

“Have you ever been married?” she prodded.

He rose to his feet, straightening. “No. Why do you ask?”

Those prim features wavered in the shadows of the garden. She shrugged and looked away. “I was curious, is all.”

By God. Was it possible she was actually interested in getting to know him? As a person? As a man? This was a first. And he didn’t even have one hundred thousand in his pocket yet. “Uh…I was engaged once. When I was younger. She was from a decent family but my father didn’t approve. He was very protective of me. So he hired a few men to…investigate her life and it was discovered she was seeing three other men. It hurt but I got over it. Since then, I was involved with a few women but it always ended with my face against a floor. I make poor choices when it comes to women. I want the moon but can only afford peat moss.” He tapped at his head. “I am not very nimble.”

Her eyes caught and held his. “I find that difficult to believe, Mr. Levin.”

“So says the woman who is not involved with me. Hardly helpful.”

A bubble of a laugh escaped her.

He smiled and leaned in. “Tell me more about yourself. You said you have a son and three daughters. Which, in truth, astounds me. What are their ages and names?”

She smiled as if he had finally introduced a topic she could gush about. “John is my eldest and the one I came into Russia for. My second eldest is Giselle. She is sixteen. Abigail is fifteen and then there is my youngest, Juliet.” Her tone softened. “She is thirteen and is always at the cook’s elbow. There isn’t a thing that child won’t eat.”

He searched her face. Listening to her made him realize just how little he had seen of life as a man. He missed having a family. Here he was at thirty and what did he have to show for it? Nothing but all the fists he had dodged. “They sound endearing.”

Her smile widened. “They most certainly are.”

That smile said it all. She was part of a happy family. The sort a man rarely saw. “I take it you were happily married, as well?”

Her smile faded. She looked away. “Whilst I am close to my children, my husband and I were not so fortunate. Which was to be expected. He married me for my youth and I married him for his money.”

His brows went up. “I am rather surprised. You appear to be a bit more passionate in nature than to settle for anything less than what beats in your heart.”

She didn’t look at him. “The heart does not pay bills, Mr. Levin. My mother married for love and it taught me well. Whilst my father was titled, he had very little to his name. We struggled to keep creditors from our doors all our lives and lived off the generosity of relatives who openly mocked us. One relative, in particular, wanted me to marry his son as if I owed him my hand in matrimony for all of the financial assistance my father had been given. I did not want that for myself and therefore settled on a relatively better man. Above all else, I wanted financial stability away from my relatives.”

“Judging by your tone, you seem unhappy with the decision you made.”

She shrugged. “My husband was not unkind. He was a much better man than my cousin who used to try to force himself on me. My husband also knew when to be generous.”

“Yet he was not generous enough to make you happy.”

She said nothing.

He quietly waited for her to say something else.

She didn’t.

Which meant this conversation was at an end. He gestured toward the side door leading into the inn. “We should sleep. ’Tis late.”

She blinked rapidly, nodded and hurried past, the soft scent of her perfume clinging to the night air. She made her way into the inn, up the narrow stairs leading to their room.

Konstantin dragged in a ragged breath, inwardly savoring that beautiful scent and raked back his damp hair several times in an effort to remain calm. He strode up the narrow staircase after her until he reached the landing and the door leading to their room. He flicked a finger against the sleeve of her wet gown. “You cannot stay in this. It needs to dry.”

She puffed out a breath. “I know.” She pulled out the brass key from her bosom and paused, blinking down at the slightly open door. “I thought I locked the door.”

Shite. Konstantin pushed her back and away. “Go downstairs,” he whispered. “Now.”

Although she scrambled away, she whispered back, “I’m not leaving you alone.”

“Quiet. They could still be in the room.” He creaked the door open and peered into the darkened room, noting the coals in the hearth barely glowed. Nothing moved. No one was in the room. He paused. “Are you certain you locked the door?”

“Yes.” She held up the key and wagged it. “I locked it. I know I did.”

He opened the door wider to better see into the room. Dim light slithered further in. Although no one was in the room, he sensed something wasn’t right. “Stay where you are.”

She froze.

He strode toward the oil lantern on the side table and stumbled against something at his feet. He kicked away a bundle of material from around his foot. Was that his sack? He headed toward the side table beside the bed and stumbled against something else on the floor. His shirt? He caught himself on the bed with a hand.

Grabbing the flint box, which he was now able to make out, Konstantin struck it and held it to the wick of the oil lantern on the side table. When the wick lighted, he shifted the glass back onto the brass holding and turned.

Strewn across the floor were his clothes, his undergarments and everything else that had once been neatly organized in his wool sack. Everything lay scattered as if someone had been looking for something.

Someone had picked the lock.

He scrambled to the loose floorboard where he had hidden his money and pried it open. A breath escaped him seeing the small leather satchel with bank notes and coins. Releasing the floorboard and hitting it back into place, he paused, scanning the room.

Only one thing appeared to be missing: his watch.

It was not on the sack where he had left it or on the chair where his coat and waistcoat had been moved to.

His pulse roared as he swung toward her. “Someone picked the lock. Which I will admit is fairly easy to do.”

Her eyes widened as her hands gripped the wet fabric of her gown hard. “Did they take anything?”

“My watch.” He grabbed his dagger off the bedside table and unsheathed it. Jogging toward the open doorway, he glanced left and right but saw nothing out of the ordinary. “You said you were talking to someone. A man.”

“Yes, but—”

“Did you know what room he emerged from?”

She hurried in beside him and pointed to the door next to theirs. “There. Although I don’t think he—”

“Stay here. Regardless of what happens, bolt the door.”

“Bolt the door? Why? You don’t mean to—”

“Stay in the room.” He stalked toward the door she had pointed to and using his boot, hit the door, rattling it several times against its hinges.

“What are you doing?” she hissed, leaning out of the doorway.

He glared. “He saw you leave the room. He was clearly waiting for an opportunity.”

She glared back. “Whilst I am not looking to defend a man who offers a woman a cigar and cards in the hopes of garnering her attention, you don’t know if he picked the lock. It could have been anyone.”

Oh, no. He knew the way these criminals conducted business. He’d grown up in it.

The door swung open.

A hefty young man with a yellowing linen shirt pulled over his trousers peered out. He froze, his blond, wavy hair falling into his eyes and said in harried Russian, “I took nothing.”

Konstantin tightened his hold on the dagger. “Which means you took something. Where is it?”

“Mr. Levin,” Lady Stone called out in exasperation. “Is it necessary to point that at him?”

“Yes, it is necessary,” Konstantin called back in riled English. “Now stay in the room!”

The man edged out and glanced toward Lady Stone, his blond brows popping up. He glanced toward Konstantin. “I met her earlier. Is she your wife?”

“My wife?” Konstantin echoed. “No.”

“Your sister?”

“No, she—”

“I love the British.” The young man’s tone purred. “They are my people. Tell her my cousin went to Truro for work in Cornwall. Everyone there was very generous. It changed his life. Has she ever been to Truro? What is her name? Tell her I work as a mason and am available. Tell her I am willing to learn English.”

Konstantin lowered his blade in disbelief. Why was he suddenly jealous? “I came to your door, not to make formal introductions but to inform you we were robbed.”

The man winced and scrubbed his head. “Ach. Yes. That. I will admit, sir, I… I went into her room looking for…for a stocking of hers. I collect them. But I took nothing else.” He gestured toward the disheveled area behind the door. “Search my room.”

Jesus. The man was a bloody deviant. “You went into our room looking for her stockings?”

The man hesitated, as if realizing his stupidity. “The door was open.”

Konstantin grabbed the man by the shirt and slammed him into the nearest wall, causing the sconces around them to jump. “Unfortunately for you, my stupid friend, my watch is now missing. So tell me. Where the hell is it? Where did it go?”

“I…I do not know,” the man choked out. “I did not take it. I only took a garter!”

“A garter? You bloody took her—“ Konstantin pressed the tip of the knife into that throat and through gritted teeth bit out, “I want the garter and the watch. Or you are dead. And I will warn you, I fucking mean it.”

The man’s eyes widened.

“Mr. Levin!” Lady Stone bustled toward him. “Let him go! ’Tis obvious by the way he is panicking he didn’t take your watch.”

Seeing his blade pricking into the skin of a breathing person, and in front of a woman, no less, Konstantin’s hand trembled. This was who he used to be. Not what he wanted to be. Damn it. Konstantin released the man with a shove and stepped back, trying to remain calm. “You have until morning to give both back,” he growled out in Russian. “Or I will find you. And God help you and your cousin from Truro when I do.”

The man stumbled back into the room and slammed the door, bolting it from inside.

Konstantin hissed out a breath. Never mind the garter, how in hell was he going to get his watch back? He veered toward Lady Stone. “He picked the lock to steal one of your garters.”

Her chest rose and fell in visible breaths. “What? Why?”

“Apparently, he took a fancy to you. Next time, I suggest you not initiate men you do not know.”

Her eyes sharpened. “Should I include you in that list of men? Because your behavior was uncalled for. The man was defenseless and had no means of protecting himself against your blade. He wasn’t even trying to fight you!”

His lips parted. A man breaks into their room for her garter, takes his watch and somehow he was the villain. He shook his head, stalked past her and back into the room. She wouldn’t be the first woman to treat him like this. He was always the villain. Never the hero. Always the villain.

Depositing the blade back onto the small rickety table beside the bed with a clatter, he kicked his belongings bit by bit into one pile and as calmly as he knew how, said, “Setting aside your garter, that watch is all I have left of my father. And now I may never get it back.”

She lingered in the open doorway as if ready to leave. “What I just saw was a very different man from the one helping me.” She stared. “Who are you really, Mr. Levin? Why do you carry a blade?”

He said nothing.

“You had best tell me.”

“It is best you do not know.”

“Tell me.” Her voice quaked. “Before I walk to Saint Petersburg on my own. Don’t think I won’t. After what I just witnessed, I deserve an explanation.”

He momentarily closed his eyes, knowing he had no choice but to explain. Before she did walk to Saint Petersburg. Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it. It was every woman all over again. He re-opened his eyes. “Like my father before me, I used to protect influential criminals from being killed by the government. I have been doing it since I was eighteen.”

Her lips parted.

“It paid well,” he argued. “And the community of men involved were dependable and decent. We were like brothers. It only ever got rough when we were on assignment and had to travel with whoever we were commissioned to protect. But I am no longer doing it. I grew tired of people always thinking the worst of me. Especially women. Do you think good, respectable women want to marry into a life where the husband gets shot at? Far from it.” He adjusted his shirt. “Which is why I am going to London. I am being given a chance to be what I should have always been: a better man. I am trying to be a better man.”

“You call putting a knife to a man’s throat trying?” she echoed.

He swiped his face. “I have never killed anyone. I have bruised and bloodied people beyond recognition, as my job required, but I have never killed anyone.”

Her expression stilled. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this earlier?”

“Because if I told you, you would have never allowed me to help you. And you needed help. I needed you to trust me and given who I am, women never do. ’Tis always a dilemma.”

She remained quiet.

God only knows what she thought of him now. “I am not going to hurt you. It is not who I am. Now please. Close the door and allow us both to get some sleep. It is late. You can yell at me in the morning.”

She puffed out a breath. “I am not going to yell at you.” Closing the door, she locked it with the turn of the key and wandered over to the chair where his coat and waistcoat were. “In truth, I feel partly to blame. I was looking at your watch earlier and left it out on the chair.” She paused. Quickly leaning behind the chair, she lowered herself to the floor and swept something up with a clatter. Rising again, she turned toward him and held up his watch by its silver chain. “It must have fallen.”

He swallowed in disbelief and collapsed onto the bed beside him, pasting his hands against his face. Not only had he threatened an idiot at knifepoint, he had also confessed to being a criminal and now he looked stupid.

He heard her bare feet pad over to him.

Keeping his hands against his face, he refused to look at her.

A soft breath escaped her. “We all do things we regret, Mr. Levin. And it is fairly obvious you wish to move away from your past. I cannot and will not hold that against you.” Her tone was genuine and yielding.

It was not a tone he expected from her after what she had just witnessed and what he had shared.

Konstantin lowered his hands and glanced up at her.

Her long wet hair clung in lopsided sections to the sides of her concerned face.

It was like meeting who she truly was.

His throat tightened. “I have never killed anyone. It is not who I am.”

She leaned in and whispered, “I believe you. And your confession is enough for me to understand the sort of man you really are. Most men try to paint themselves as being more. Not less.” Taking his hand, she gently clasped the cool metal of the watch against the palm of his hand. “Know that despite your past, you have a friend in me after everything you have done for me. You didn’t have to help me but you did. It says a lot about you.”

The chain slipped through his fingers and dangled, swaying from side to side. He hadn’t had a woman poke at his soul in a long, long time. It felt good. She made him feel good. Something he could hardly even do on his own. “Thank you,” he murmured.

She nodded and wrapped her arms tightly around herself. She stepped back and glanced toward the low-burning hearth. “Are there more coals?”

Realizing the damp clothing had probably chilled her beyond what he should have allowed, he set aside the watch and scrambled to his feet. “I will add more coals at once, but we need to get you out of those clothes first.”

She trembled.

“Turn around.” He grabbed her waist and spun her around, unhooking the wet, heavy fabric down the curve of her back.

She stilled.

“I promise not to look at anything I should not.” He unhooked the last of her gown down toward her back and tried to even his breathing realizing he was undressing her. He dragged her gown off her cool shoulders and arms, exposing an expensive looking satin corset, a sheer wet chemise and pale skin.

It took every ounce of respect he had for her to keep himself from gaping.

He tugged the sleeves off her arms and yanked the gown down the length of her body, letting it drop to the floor in a heavy, wet heap. Determined to stay focused, he unlaced her corset and tossed it onto the floor as well.

Quickly turning away, so he wasn’t imposing on her state of undress, he pulled the linen off the bed. Wrapping her tightly in it, he rubbed its warmth into her and smoothed away her damp hair from the sides of her face. “Remove your chemise.”

She turned away, slipping out of it beneath the linen he wrapped around her.

Konstantin gathered her clothing and corset and dragged the chair over to the hearth. Adding more coals into the hearth from the dented tin bucket, he laid her clothing out as close to the heat of the glowing coals as safety would allow. “Put your chemise and stockings here by the fire, as well. It should all be dry before we leave for Saint Petersburg the day after tomorrow.”

She plodded over and towed another chair over to the fire, draped her chemise and stockings against it. She softened her voice. “Thank you.”

He nodded and strode toward his clothing he had yet to gather off the floor. He leaned over, picked up one of his linen shirts and tossed it toward her. “That can be your nightdress.”

She caught the shirt with one hand and fumbled to pull it on without losing the linen.

Konstantin swung away to give her privacy. He grabbed his pocket watch off the bed, walked over and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket that was slung over the chair. Pacing back and crouching, he started gathering his belongings and shoving them into his wool sack, realizing his hands were trembling. He continued shoving the rest of his clothes into the sack knowing he was already smitten by a woman bold enough to confess that a man who used to protect criminals was worthy of even having a friend.

God save his stupid soul. Why did she have to be an aristocrat?

Nothing would ever come of it.

Lesson Five

Do you remember what it is like to feel your heart beat again?

-The School of Gallantry

CECILIA HESITANTLY TOUCHED THE SIDE of her head, her cold fingers grazing long, wet hair which had cascaded from its pins in spiraling, unraveled sections around her shoulders. She gathered her hair, bundled it up, and tightly pinned each section into place using whatever pins she could find lodged in her locks. When everything was secured into a chignon, she let out a breath.

What a night.

Smoothing the front of Mr. Levin’s shirt with a hand that was hidden deep within the sleeve, she glanced down, making certain not too much of her legs were showing. The shirt smelled like him. Like charred wood. Rolling the sleeves several times, she finally caught sight of her hands and tried not to think about the fact that she felt naked.

“Are you dressed?”

She jumped at the sound of his deep, accented voice. She crossed her arms over her chest knowing her breasts and the outline of her entire body was very visible through the material. “Barely, but yes.”

He turned and paused, his eyes trailing the length of her. He snapped his gaze away. Toward the hearth. “We should sleep.”

Her heart fluttered, sensing sleep was the last thing he wanted. She eyed him.

His wet, black hair was casually raked back, accentuating those husky features and bright green eyes in a way that made her want to keep looking at him. His linen shirt was wide open to his abdomen, showcasing a muscle-defined chest and a well-chiseled stomach.

Gad was he ever beautiful. And that didn’t include what she had seen in the bathhouse.

He thumbed toward the chair, still not looking at her. “I will take the chair.”

She doubted he would get any sleep that way.

He settled into the chair and slid down, resting his neck on the curve of the wood. He stretched out long, trouser-clad legs, keeping his eyes on his boots. “Good night, Lady Stone.”

She crossed her arms tighter against her breasts. She couldn’t let him sleep in that chair whilst she took the bed. It wasn’t a large bed, she knew, but it also wasn’t the smallest, either. They could fit. “Would you rather sleep with me, Mr. Levin?”

“No.”

“You would sleep better,” she softly pressed.

“I doubt it. You are half naked and I can see everything through the linen of that shirt.”

Her cheeks warmed knowing he actually looked.

He closed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest, shifting against the chair. “I ask that you get into bed, Lady Stone.”

She couldn’t believe this man had ever been involved in criminal endeavors. He was far too honest. And too nice. “Mr. Levin.”

His eyes remain closed. “What?”

“You paid for the room. You deserve good rest.”

“If you cease talking, dorogaya moya, I will get rest,” he gruffly said, eyes still closed.

“I am not about to desist.”

His eyes snapped open. “You want me to sleep with you in that excuse of a bed? Knowing that our bodies will be touching?”

She pressed her tongue hard against the inside of her teeth. “We will manage.” To demonstrate that she meant it, she crawled onto the bed and yanked the linens she carried over with her onto it. She could feel his eyes probing her as she pushed her bare legs beneath the cool linens and coverlet. Yanking his linen shirt down as far as it would go, lest it show off more than it already did, she scooted as far over to the edge as possible. And waited.

He sat up in the chair and said something in Russian.

“Lest you forget, I don’t speak Russian.”

He fell back against the chair, setting both hands against the sides of his head. “I am a former criminal who has not lain with a woman in almost a year.”

“You could have taken advantage of me many times. But you didn’t. Did you?”

His hands dropped.

She yanked the linens up to her chin and sank against the pillow. “Are you coming?”

He huffed out a breath. His chair creaked as he rose from it.

As conversationally as she could, she offered, “With our backs to each other, we will fit.”

The floorboards creaked beneath his weight as he made his way toward her. He paused beside the bed and lingered. “Lady Stone.”

She tugged the linen down from her chin and glanced up at him. “Yes?”

Dragging a hand through his still-damp hair, he dropped a heavy hand back to his side. “Why do you continue to trust me?”

It was endearing that he actually sought to protect her from himself. “You have more than proven yourself, Mr. Levin.”

“Have I?” His voice came low. “I should probably tell you I wanted to take advantage of you back in the bathhouse. And even worse, I am still thinking about it.”

She captured his intent gaze, a dizzying current overtaking her. Flashes of their naked bodies pressing and gripping and grinding caused her heart to skid. “I can assure you,” she warned half-seriously, “you are not the only one thinking about it. So don’t consider yourself to be too much of a rebel.”

His green eyes darkened. “Knowing neither of us can be trusted, you still wish to insist I get into bed with you?” he asked, spacing his words evenly.

A pulsing knot rose within her throat. Being ravaged by him wouldn’t be the worst thing to have happened to her in seven years. “I trust you.”

He pushed out an uneven breath as if buying time. “Did you latch the door?”

He knew she did. She tightened her hold on the linen. “Yes.”

Removing each boot from his feet, he let each thud heavily as it landed on the floor. “Do you mind if I undress before I get into bed?”

Her heart felt as if it were going to burst. “No.”

“Good.” He peeled off his linen shirt, all of his smooth, well-defined muscles rippling from the movement. His dark, damp hair fell into his eyes as he bundled the shirt. He tossed it, causing the bulk in his arms to flex, emphasizing a fresh, angry scar on his bare left shoulder and now stood only in trousers slung overly low on narrow hips.

Her knees locked together and the room almost swayed. It was the bathhouse all over again. Not that she was complaining. Trying desperately to focus, she asked, “What happened to your shoulder?”

He glanced at it. “I was shot a few months ago for protecting a man who did not deserve to die. It is what made me walk away from the life I was leading. It made me realize I was promoting the violence.”

There was something remarkable about a man willing to get shot for another man. She held his gaze. “Does it still hurt?”

His rugged features softened. “No.” Edging in, he bent down near her, his bare chest and the bulk of his arms obstructing all view. He leaned in close. And then closer, still. So close, the heated scent of his soaped skin penetrated the air between them. “If you were not a lady, would I have a chance?”

She inhaled sharply at the unexpected question. Something told her he was about to kiss away everything she had ever known. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

“No. It is best you do not answer.” He straightened, leaned over to the side table beside the bed and extended his muscled arm toward the lamp. There was a click of metal from the oil lamp wick being turned down to extinguish the flame.

Darkness blanketed the room.

“You are very brave for allowing this,” he rumbled out.

A bubble of a laugh escaped her. “You haven’t gotten into bed yet.”

“Allow me to change that.” The straw tick shifted.

She scooted over, gripping the edge of the tick so she wouldn’t fall off.

He stretched out beside her and moved closer, causing her body to tilt toward him.

Her nails dug deeper into the tick beneath her.

He shifted closer and using a large hand, took hold of her hip in the darkness and yanked her backside against him, pressing her body against his own.

Cecilia’s eyes widened, drowning in the heat of his soap-scented body. His front was against her backside.

He was quiet for a moment, then stated what they already knew. “This bed was not made for two.”

That was an understatement.

He dragged up the linens against their bodies a bit more, tucking it against the curves of her body. “Are you warmer?”

Why did he have to be so divine? “Yes.”

“Good.” He shifted against her, his hand gently grazing her hair in the darkness. “You are a very stubborn woman.”

Her entire body pulsed. “I am told it is one of my best qualities.”

“Something tells me you have far better qualities.” His touch drifted down from her hair. He smoothed the curve of her hip with an open palm, his fingers dragging against the linen that separated his hand from her skin.

Her heart thudded and melted all at once. In that moment she knew without any doubt that if he initiated anything, she would kneel.

He kept smoothing the curve of her hip, the tips of his fingers slowly digging into her and the linen more and more.

She wanted to faint from want.

His hand left her hip and skimmed down her arm. “Do you have a lover back in London?”

This conversation had officially turned wild. “No. I have never taken a lover.”

He hesitated, then leaned in and brushed her hair away from her neck. “Something tells me you are about to.”

Those husky words and those fingers made her entire world sway.

His hand drifted down toward her breast. He slipped his hand beneath the linen, his calloused fingers grazing and roughing her hardening nipple. “Are you going to stop me?” His voice was ragged. Uneven.

She gripped the edge of the tick harder. “No,” she choked out. There was no denying she wanted this. She wanted him.

He pressed his trouser clad hips into her backside hard, his stiff cock now digging into the lower curve of her back. He slowly ground into her.

She couldn’t breathe. The heat of his erection penetrated the linen of the shirt she was wearing. She could feel wetness in between her own thighs.

His fingers dug into her waist as the heat of his mouth lingered closer against her ear. “Remove everything,” he rasped.

She was too overwhelmed by her own desire to think anymore. She sat up and scrambled to yank off the linen shirt from her body to ensure there was no going back. Whipping it aside, she turned toward him and blindly grabbed his unshaven face, prickling her fingers. She pressed her nakedness against his warmth.

His chest unevenly rose and fell against hers in the darkness. His hot, wet tongue traced her lips. “Admit it. You wanted me all along.”

Her eyes closed in disbelief and slipped into his world. “I did. God, yes, I did.”

“I knew it.” His tongue parted her lips as his entire mouth grazed hers slowly and masterfully, before moving more urgently against hers. He angled his mouth against hers and pressed down harder until her lips stung and were forced to open wider against the demand of that rolling tongue that probed even deeper into her mouth.

Her fingers dug into him and his fingers dug into her as they feverishly kissed.

The savage need to climax was mutual. It pulsed from their skin.

She frantically smoothed her hands against his velvet, hard-muscled heat.

He shifted on top of her, pushing her down onto the narrow mattress. The quick movement of his fingers between them announced he had released the last button on his trousers. He captured her mouth again, tonguing her heatedly and positioned himself above her, shoving her legs wide open. He guided his cock toward her opening, the muscles in his arms and in his broad back tense against her roaming hands.

His length penetrated her in a single, violent thrust that slammed her into the mattress.

She gasped in complete disbelief of what she was doing.

Holding his rigid heat deep inside her, he released her mouth. “Do you need me to refrain and go slow? Or can I…how do I say…get to it?”

She knew the answer to that one. “Get to it.”

He kissed her lips for a lingering moment, slowly trailing his mouth down to her chin, then knelt and yanked her legs up onto his broad shoulders.

Her heart skipped.

Dragging both hands tightly up her legs, he heatedly pounded into her, banging them and the bed hard into the wall.

It wasn’t the sort of sex she’d ever had with her husband.

Each thrust caused her body to tense and ache in a way she desperately needed. Each hard thrust caused the bed to shift.

He growled something in Russian, penetrating her again and again with raw intensity.

Her heartbeat throbbed in her ears as her core tightened against each rhythmic push. She welcomed every moment of it between uneven, ragged breaths, unable to believe any of this was real.

He slowed and lowered her legs back down onto the mattress.

She wrapped her arms around him, waiting for more. Needing more.

His fingers dug into her wet hair. “I cannot believe you are allowing this.” He jerked his thick cock in and out of her.

She frantically fingered the expanse of his muscled back in between uneven breaths she could barely manage and dragged her hands down toward his waist. She wanted to touch and feel everything she had seen in the bathhouse. Hard. Sculpted. Tense. And it was hers. All hers. To touch. To feel. To revel in.

His smooth, heated skin now felt moist against her fingertips as he worked their bodies into a more frenzied state.

He said something in Russian.

She didn’t need to understand to know he wanted more.

She pushed up into him, desperately wanting to bring herself closer to what she had wanted all along: release. Release from her entire life. In that moment, she wasn’t Lady Stone anymore. She wasn’t what society expected her to be. She was Cecilia. A woman who had always secretly and ardently yearned to touch real passion. The sort of passion a titled lady could never give into without destroying her name.

She feverishly ran her hands up and down the length of Konstantin’s firm, muscled back, and grabbed for his buttocks, squeezing them.

A muffled groan escaped both their mouths.

He stilled. In between ragged breaths, he rasped against her cheek, “What is your birth name? You never told me.”

“Cecilia,” she barely managed.

He rolled his hips, forcing his cock deeper. “Cecilia,” he breathed in between steady strokes. “By allowing this, you are damning me to needing you. You do realize that, yes?”

His hand slid down between them, making her gasp. He fingered her in between thrusts, his hand never stopping as he rubbed and rubbed her nub faster.

Her throat tightened as her body reached a heart-pounding peak that unexpectedly handed itself over to climax.

It came too soon.

She cried out and her body trembled in an explosive release that penetrated more than her body. It penetrated her soul.

His moist, hot mouth descended onto hers again, muffling her cry as his hand jumped out from between them. Gripping her waist tightly, he pulled her against himself one last time until he gasped against her mouth and tensed. He pulled out of her wetness and seething out a savage breath against the curve of her throat which he had buried himself into, she could feel him jerking and jerking his hand faster against his cock in the darkness.

He groaned into her. She felt that groan graze every inch of her as his seed spilled all over her inner thighs. He groaned again and she could feel him spilling more. He seethed out another breath and smeared the wet warmth of his seed against her skin with the length of his cock.

He collapsed against her and buried his head once again into the curve of her throat. Wrapping his arms around her, he pressed her tightly against himself as if he didn’t intend to ever let go. “You are so beautiful.”

She tightened her own hold on him. How was it a complete stranger had shown her more passion and more desire than her own husband had in the fourteen years she had been married?

Konstantin lifted his head,. “Cecilia,” he whispered hoarsely, his chest heaving.

“Yes?” she whispered back.

A breath escaped him. He kissed her forehead softly and brought her closer, tucking her against that solid chest. “Words elude me.”

She clung to him, the intake of his breath and her own pulse drumming in unison beneath her fingers. “They elude me, too.”

He rolled her with him, so he lay on his back and settled against the pillow, adjusting them so they could better fit on the narrow bed. “Are you comfortable?” he murmured into her hair.

“Yes, Mr. Levin, I am,” she murmured back.

He gently tapped her bare skin. “No more Mr. Levin. You and I are lovers. That means you are Cecilia and I am Konstantin. Do you understand?”

None of this was real. How could it be? They had just met. “Yes. I understand.”

Whatever was happening between them, whatever she had allowed for, didn’t feel wrong. It felt beautiful. He felt beautiful. She nestled her cheek against his chest, refusing to think about anything but him. This was her time. Her girls were nowhere in sight and the ton were far, far away in another country well across an ocean and could not judge her. This was between her and what she wanted as a woman.

This was better than Paris.

Lesson Six

Some wake up to find that their dreams have at long last come true.

Only…that is when the real nightmare begins.

-The School of Gallantry

Late morning

KONSTANTIN OPENED HIS EYES AND paused. The back of Cecilia’s tousled, dark head was tucked below his chin and her smooth, naked warmth was spread across the length of his own nakedness. What had happened between them was real.

His throat tightened. Lifting his head, he glanced down at her. She continued to sleep, her breath coming in soft, even takes. Her full lips were parted and her pale face looked so beautiful and at peace. The linens were pulled around their entangled bodies.

It was the first time he’d ever slept in the arms of a woman for a full night.

She felt like home.

He slowly dragged the linens away from her body and gently folded it down over her hip so he could look at her in a way he hadn’t been able to at night.

Full, white breasts greeted him. Visible marks puckered her pale stomach from the stretching of each child she had carried. It didn’t make her any less beautiful. It made her everything she was. He slid his hand down that stomach, reveling in her warmth and softness. Tightening his jaw, he slid his fingers down to the short, curling black hairs between her thighs.

She startled and grabbed his hand hard, her chest rising and falling. “You scared me.”

“Forgive me.” He leaned toward her lips and kissed them, shoving aside the linens. “Did you sleep well, dorogaya moya?” He slid his hand in between her thighs. Pushing his finger deep into her, his cock hardened. Using her wetness, he slowly flicked his finger upward toward that nub. “I want you again.”

Her lips parted as she watched his hand in between escalating breaths. She grabbed his thigh hard and held him in place against her backside.

He flicked her faster and ground his erection into her again and again until she was gasping. He withdrew his finger from her wetness and sat up, leaning against the headboard behind them. Dragging her up and onto his lap, so she faced him, he sat her up. “If only every morning were as bright as this one,” he murmured up at her. “How are you, beautiful?”

She smiled shyly. “I am still in disbelief.”

“You are not the only one.” He wrapped her legs around his naked waist and cupped her face with both hands, letting her dark brown hair cascade down over her bare shoulders and onto her breasts.

He held her gaze, wanting to believe that the reason they were doing this was because they not only wanted each other but needed each other.

She wordlessly lowered herself onto his cock and slid down onto his length.

He bit back a shudder and tightened his hold on her beautiful face, letting her take over. He traced the tip of his tongue across the curve of her chin, dragging it to her lips.

She slipped her hands onto his shoulders and slowly rode him.

He rolled up and into her, digging his fingers into her thick hair. He let his one hand trail down to her breasts and held up one. Lowering his head, he flicked his tongue over its slope and in toward the nipple until it hardened.

She threw back her head, arching toward him and rode him steadily faster. Tightening her long legs around him, she ground down again and again and again, making it harder for him to breathe through the stirring, building sensations. Pleasure rippled through his core and his body and his cock, tensing all of his muscles.

Pushing away her hair, he grabbed the back of her neck and buried his head into the soft curve of her throat, determined to leave his mark on her body. He sucked on the skin of her throat hard, pulling the skin in past his teeth.

She gasped. Digging her nails into his shoulders, she rode him.

Holding her waist, he gritted his teeth and jerked her down harder, wanting to go as deep as her womb would allow.

She cried out and rocked against him, her body quaking.

He couldn’t hold it, either. He spilled into her wetness.

Konstantin choked and pulled out. Still shuddering, he finished spilling his seed all over her stomach, his cock pulsing and his core tightening.

He yelled out.

In between ragged breaths, Konstantin slowly wrapped his arms around her. He had to learn how to better control himself around her. Burying himself in the softness of her skin, he confessed in complete exasperation, “I spilled some of my seed into you.”

Her head popped up from his chest, her hair wildly crossing the side of her face. “How much is some?” she demanded.

A nervous laugh escaped him. “Not enough to make me panic.”

She adjusted the linens over herself and shook her head. “This is so unlike anything I have ever done with my life. I am usually very…sensible. I pride myself for my being respectable. I am respectable.”

He smiled and tilted his head so as to better see her face, trying to decipher if she was pleased with the statement or not. “Do you have any regrets?”

A breath escaped her lips. “In truth, I have less regrets about this than I did when I married my husband.”

His brows went up. “Was I that good? Or was I that bad?”

A laugh escaped her. “I only knew my husband for a week before I married him by special license.”

He let out a low whistle. “And I thought we waltzed past introductions a bit too quickly.”

She winced. “I was young and didn’t want to marry my cousin who was practically banging on my door. Everyone expected me to marry him. But I wanted a respectable man. One who could provide me and my parents with the financial lifestyle we never had separate from the Gunther family. Given my husband’s popularity, when he asked me to marry him by special license shortly after we met, I panicked and gave in. I knew nothing about men.” She huffed out a breath. “I still don’t.”

He smirked. “Why do I feel this conversation has returned to me?”

She shoved at him playfully.

He nudged her playfully back. “Are you hungry?”

“Beyond famished.”

“Good. I will get dressed.” He pointed at her. “I ask that you stay in bed. I doubt your clothes are dry anyway.” He tipped himself out of bed, landing on the floor and paused, realizing he’d never shared a morning meal with a woman after a night of sex. Knowing it, he turned, leaned down and quickly kissed her on the lips. For good measure. “I will be back.” He dressed and in between the final straightening of his appearance and the buttoning of his waistcoat, he glanced toward her, sensing she was watching him.

Those dark sultry eyes met his. She gushed into a smile.

It was a smile he had waited his whole life to see. It was a smile that promised him anything he wanted despite who he was. “I blame you for this,” he said, pointing at her. “You seduced me.”

She quirked a brow. “I did no such thing.”

“So says the lady who insisted I climb into bed.” He smirked and grabbing up his pocket watch, tossed it to her, letting it land on the bed beside her bare foot. “Keep it safe whilst I am gone. God forbid it fall behind another chair.”

She laughed, sat up and dragged it toward herself.

“Should I try to get your garter back from our neighbor?” he added.

She rolled her eyes. “Let him keep it. Heaven knows where it has been.”

“Lucky bastard. How is it he gets a garter and I do not? I want one.”

She tsked. “Will you feed me already?”

His mouth quirked.

A half hour later, he returned to the room with a massive wooden bowl filled to the rim with stew and two wooden spoons shoved into it. He closed the door after himself and locked the door. Turning back to her, he announced, “They did not have much.”

“You make it sound like a terrible thing,” she chided. “As hungry as I am, I will eat anything.”

He paused.

She lay on her stomach, leisurely naked, opening and closing the silver casing to his watch with slim fingers. She smiled, brushing away long, unbound hair from the side of her face and adjusted the linens over her waist.

It was like walking in on a woman he had been married to for years.

His chest tightened. This would never last. How could it? She was an aristocrat with four children and he was a reformed criminal. He shoved the thought aside, refusing to think about it.

He strode toward her and sat on the edge of the bed next to her, setting the bowl beside her. “Tell me what you think.” He prayed the food was half-decent.

She sat up, dragging the linens to cover her breasts. Dipping the wooden spoon into the stew, she leaned over and daintily scooped it up toward herself. Her lips closed around a mouthful before sliding the spoon back out. A muffled groan escaped her as she half-closed her eyes. “’Tis divine,” she murmured. She hastily scooped up another heaping spoon. And another. And another.

He was glad she approved. Because after counting out what he could afford, knowing that they were leaving to Saint Petersburg tomorrow, he only had enough to purchase another meal and two tankards of ale. If they were lucky.

Even though he was hungry beyond breath, Konstantin nudged the bowl closer to her. “When you are done, I will eat whatever is left.”

She paused in between another mouthful, then swallowed and lowered the spoon quickly back into the stew, leaving it. “Forgive me.” She slid the lone bowl back to him, licking her lips. “You should eat.”

She was such an angel to him. He smiled and slid the bowl back toward her. “No. I am fine. Finish as much as you can.”

“After you have some.”

He shifted against the bed they sat on, knowing full well it was the only bowl they would have until evening. “I am not hungry.”

“Are we back to arguing about the chair?” She pursed her lips, took up the other spoon and scooping up a heap full of vegetables and meat, held it out to him. “Open your mouth.”

Now he felt like he was two. Why did he have to like her? “I will eat after you finish half the bowl. Agreed?”

“No. Not agreed. By then it will be too cold for you to enjoy,” she pertly returned, still holding out the spoon. “Now eat.”

“You barely had a few bites.”

“Whilst you had none.” She held the spoon closer to his mouth. “Do it knowing I want this for you more than anything in the world. Knowing I want you big and strong so you can rescue me from more garter stealing thieves. Pleeeeease?”

He sighed. This woman was going to take over his entire life. He leaned in and pulled the offering into his mouth. The savory, thick saltiness of chewy meat, potatoes and peas made him melt and half-nod in appreciation. “That is good,” he said in between chews.

She grinned, a dimple appearing on her left cheek and quickly re-immersed the spoon into the bowl, filling it again. She held it out, her dark eyes brightly searching his face. “More?”

He held her gaze, glimpsing what she might have been like at twenty. Bright-eyed, ambitious, kind and daring despite her station in life. She was going to make him kneel to her. Never mind the Midnight Bane, she was going to make it impossible for him to walk away from whatever was happening between them. He could feel it in his chest. It was something he’d never felt in the presence of a woman.

He slowly took the spoon from her hand and returned it to the bowl. He tugged her fingers loose from it. “Kiss me.”

She paused.

He leaned in. Brushing aside her long hair from her bare shoulder, his fingers skimmed the softness of her skin. “What is happening between you and me?” he whispered. “Is this even real?”

Her lips parted. “It feels real,” she whispered back. “I want it to be real.”

He heatedly searched those dark eyes. “Good. So do I.” He gently captured her lips, giving into the idea that this could be the beginning of something incredibly special.

Too special to even try to name.

* * *

Evening

THEY HAD ONLY LEFT THE room twice throughout the day. Once to share another meal and a tankard of ale at one of the wooden tables downstairs and the other time to soak in the bathhouse together, where they washed each other’s hair and lathered each other in soap in between ardent kisses and sex. The remainder of the day, they lounged in each other’s arms and talked like friends of old, discussing their childhoods, and how life had not exactly turned out the way they had hoped. They laughed at the words Cecilia couldn’t pronounce in Russian as Konstantin playfully traced Russian words onto her bare legs. They also made love. Repeatedly.

Getting robbed was the best thing to have ever happened to her.

Cecilia nestled against Konstantin’s nude warmth as she watched the last of the light fade from the lantern with the curling of smoke, leaving them in complete darkness. Tomorrow evening, when they arrived into Saint Petersburg and called upon the theatre for her son’s address, everything she had shared with Konstantin would shimmer away into a dream. She would have to return to being what she really was: a titled lady and a mother.

It wasn’t fair. For the first time in her life, she wished she hadn’t been born a lady.

Konstantin brushed a finger across her arm in the darkness. “After we find your son, I will not be able to stay in Saint Petersburg. I have to leave for London.”

She swallowed against the tightness overtaking her throat. Even he knew their time together was at an end. Although a part of her ached, she had to cease pretending she was an ordinary woman. She wasn’t. She had a duty to her title, the estate, to her daughters and to her son and all of their respectable names. What she wanted did not exist in the realm of the ton. It never had and it never would. She had known that since she was fifteen.

He smoothed her hair away from her throat. “I would like to see you again in London. As soon as you return from Russia. Is that possible?”

She paused, her heart pounding. “You want us to continue this?” she whispered against him in disbelief. How could they?

“Of course I want to. I…” He paused. “Are you telling me you are no longer interested?”

She pressed her cheek harder against his chest, cherishing how genuinely distraught he sounded. Maybe this didn’t have to end. Maybe they could quietly meet on the outskirts of London from time to time. No one needed to know. Men of the ton did it all the time. What made them special? She wanted him. She wanted this. He made her feel beautiful. He himself was beautiful. “We will find a way to see each other. I promise.”

A smile appeared in his voice. “Good.”

In the darkness, between her own pulse and his, the words ‘Eternally yours at midnight’ popped into her head. She sat up against him in the darkness. “I forgot to ask. Your watch mentions the hour of midnight on the casing. Is there a story behind it?”

He shifted her body better against his own. “The watch belonged to my father. It was given to him by a woman he was supposed to have married. Unfortunately, she died before that happened.”

Her stomach dropped to her knees. “I’m so sorry to hear it.”

“Her name was Miss Bane.”

“She was English?”

“Yes. My father’s family thought her beneath his status, given he was the son of a well-known merchant, but he always financially struggled. Miss Bane was a governess from London, visiting her brother in Russia when my father met her at a festival. She was older than my father by about ten years. Much like…” He stilled, his fingers suddenly digging into her skin.

She swallowed. He didn’t have to finish. She knew exactly what he was thinking. She blinked up at him, making out the shadowed outline of his face. “Surely, it is a haunting coincidence.”

He hesitated. “I do not believe in coincidence.”

Curious, she set her chin on his chest and ventured to ask, “What do you believe in?”

“Destiny and that love can go beyond death.” A breath escaped him. “My father eventually moved on, many, many years later, and married my mother, but even my mother often told me that the largest part of my father’s soul always belonged to Miss Bane. My mother simply learned to live with it. Apparently, my mother lost every child during the first five years of their marriage until I was born. Unlike the others, I chose to arrive into the world during the annual festival of Maslenitsa at exactly four minutes to midnight. Eerily, it was the same festival and hour my father had met Miss Bane. It haunted him. Growing up, I could sense whenever he looked at me, he expected me to announce that Miss Bane sent me with a message.”

He fingered her skin gently. “My father and I were very close. I idolized him. Despite his profession, he was a very good man. He taught me everything. From pulling out a chair for a lady to breaking a man’s nose.” He nodded. “He always claimed incredible things happened at midnight and that I was proof of it.” His voice cracked. “Deny it as I may, you and I met at midnight when you opened your eyes to me for the first time.” He slid his hand down her back. “’Tis fairly obvious what Miss Bane and destiny has in mind for us.”

Her heart squeezed.

He tightened his hold on her. “As my father always used to say, even if you do not believe in destiny, you will in time. Because everything happens for a reason. Which means, we will not be able to escape whatever destiny has planned. Even if we want to.”

She pressed herself harder against Konstantin, closing her eyes in an effort to memorize the sound of his heart and the feel of his skin against her own. In that moment, she wanted to believe destiny was real and that nothing would keep them apart. Even though she knew, once they were both in London, everything would.

* * *

The following morning

LIFE HAD BECOME SO BIZARRELY perfect. It made a man wonder if something was about to go wrong. Not that it would. He had destiny and midnight on his side.

He stretched himself fully awake and dragged Cecilia’s warmth closer against his own body. He kissed the curve of her throat, noticing he left amorous marks all over her skin. Half of which he didn’t even remember making. It was a long night. “’Tis morning,” he murmured against her skin, trying to wake her up. “We should peer in on the time. Our stagecoach leaves at noon.”

She stirred and suddenly tightened her hold on him, digging her chin into the crook of his arm as if unwilling to let go.

He nuzzled her throat again before slipping his arms out from around her. He sat up. “We should get dressed.”

“No. Wait.” She scrambled up and out of bed, her bare feet thudding against the floorboards. She turned toward him, completely naked and announced, “I need you to dance with me. Before we do anything else.”

His brows rose as he perused her nudity. “I think I have corrupted you beyond measure.”

She leaned over the bed and grabbed at his bare arm, shaking it. “I once read that the women in France dance in the arms of their lovers naked. I want to try it.”

He never saw this coming. Not from her. Pushing himself off the bed, he landed before her naked and held out his arms. “If it were any other woman, I would have said no.”

She grinned. “Thank goodness I’m not any other woman.” She reached up and primly set one hand on his shoulder and took his hand into hers and pressed herself close, her warmth.

He lowered his gaze to her face, trying to focus on her and not that they were naked. He curved his other hand around her waist and set it against the middle of her smooth back. Dragging in a breath, he whisked her to their right and felt his cock swing with it. He cringed. “Pardon my friend.”

She giggled. “It’s incredibly awkward dancing naked, isn’t it?”

“Very. It loses its grace. Clothes keep everything in place.”

“Why do you think the French do it?”

He smiled. “Maybe we should go to Paris and ask them.”

They turned and stepped as if dancing to music.

Cecilia searched his face, tightening her hold on his hand and shoulder, her long dark hair swaying against their movements over her bare shoulders. “You make me want to dance naked, Konstantin. Do you know that?”

His lips parted as he continued to quietly dance with her around the room, their bare feet now being the only sound. It was a moment that he, as a man, would remember for the rest of his days.

This was not the same, panic-stricken woman he’d first met.

This was a woman who had discovered she had been in control all along.

“When you get back from Russia,” he murmured down at her. “I will take you to the best restaurants in London to make up for the lack of meals I subjected you to. I would also love to attend an opera with you. Is that something your girls would be interested in doing with us?”

She glanced up at him, her features flickering with unreadable emotion. She brought them to a halt.

He paused. “What is it?”

She lowered her gaze, her fingers trailing down his arms, toward his chest. “The rules in London are different for a woman of my standing. I…I have a responsibility to my name. There are, however, quiet inns on the outskirts of London where we could meet on a weekly basis.” She paused. “It would be the only way I could see you.”

He inhaled and exhaled. That hurt. More than he expected it to. He released her and rigidly stepped back. Why had he stupidly believed a woman willing to argue with him about whether he slept in a chair or whether he ate enough stew, would be willing to argue with the rest of world in his name? He held her gaze. “Maybe we should end this. Whilst we can.”

Her features twisted. “No, I—”

He grabbed up the linen and tossed it at her. “Cover yourself.”

She fumbled with the linen. “Konstantin—”

“I am done feeling like a criminal in all aspects of my life. I have to build something for myself, Cecilia. Something I have never allowed myself to do given the way I was raised. My financial circumstances have changed, and with it, an opportunity to do more with my life. I haven’t told you, but when I get to London, I will be worth more than any man in your circle. I will be a wealthy man able to afford everything I want.”

She clutched the linen.

“I rescued a good man who is being overly generous.” He braced himself. “I have enjoyed our time together and I want to get to know you more. Am I asking too much too soon?”

A breath escaped her. She raked her long hair away from her face with both hands and groaned. “London isn’t like Russia, Konstantin. I have to think about my daughters. People would judge them if we became publicly involved. It would be a mess.”

His eyes burned hearing her say it. “I understand.” He didn’t. “I want more and you want less.”

She pressed her hand against her mouth. “You are going to make me cry.”

He didn’t look at her. “I would rather you not.”

She grew quiet.

If only she would fight for him. If only. He would have astounded her by giving her the world. “We have a stagecoach to board.” He pushed out a breath, walked past her and grabbed up his trousers from the floor, yanking them on. Buttoning his trousers, he stalked over to the chair, knowing he had to check the time. Digging into the inner pocket of his coat, he dragged out his watch and flipped open the silver lid.

He froze. In the name of God. It was almost a quarter to noon. “Get dressed. The coach leaves in twenty minutes. And if we do not board it, we are stranded here for another week.”

She stumbled against the linen and scrambled over to her clothing draped on the other chair before the hearth. Dropping the linen, she fumbled to get her chemise on but only flailed.

He skidded over to her clothing and started grabbing it piece by piece. He tugged her chemise down to help her.

She glanced back at him from over her shoulder. “I know everything happened so quickly between us, but—”

“There is no need to say anything more. It is what it is. Now hold still and let me focus.” He couldn’t have her talking. He just couldn’t.

He adjusted the corset onto her body, bringing it together and laced it as fast as he could. At one point, he finally stopped thinking and did what he needed to do to get her and him dressed. So she could become a lady again. And he could become the male commoner with a criminal past who had stupidly forgotten to remember that despite his impending one hundred thousand, he was only as good as his muddy boots.

* * *

An hour later

SHE KNEW SHE SHOULD HAVE sat by the window.

Pressed in between two young females with straw bonnets tied over their braided heads, who kept adjusting and re-adjusting their overly large twig baskets filled with their belongings, Cecilia let out a soft breath. She tried to ignore that each basket dug into each of her thighs through her gown.

The sway of the stagecoach and the constant clattering of wheels were also giving Cecilia a nauseating headache. All she could think about was that she was already pregnant. Never mind how it came about, or what people would do or say, another babe was not exactly what she had in mind for herself at forty.

It was mind rattling. Since her husband’s death, she had done nothing but tend to her children and their lives. Not once had she actually considered commencing life anew for herself with the sort of man she really wanted. Tightening her hold on her empty beaded reticule, which in her opinion, was now merely vanity, she veered her gaze to Konstantin.

He sat wedged between two much shorter men in the seat opposite her own, his wool cap slung low over his forehead. He stared out grudgingly toward the windows as passing muddy fields and budding trees blurred by.

She regretted hurting him by proposing he was only worth midnight visits.

But there was no setting aside the truth. He wasn’t the sort of man she could introduce to her circle. She didn’t care what it would do to her and her name. But she did have her girls to think about. Her Giselle would have her coming out in two years.

One of the young women beside her, who couldn’t have been more than nineteen, shifted, digging the twig basket into Cecilia’s thigh even harder.

Cecilia winced against the sharp, twisting poke.

The young blonde paused and glanced toward Konstantin with large blue eyes, her ungloved fingers tightening around the basket. She pinched her lips, quietly observing him. After a long moment, Cecilia noted with a quick sidelong glance, the woman had tugged her shawl down and away from her shoulders to better display her calico gown and her décolletage.

Cecilia tightened her lips.

The young woman sat up a touch higher on the seat, bumping Cecilia with the basket again and continued to pertly watch Konstantin as if hoping he would notice her. She tugged down her décolletage a touch lower, to better showcase the upper curve of her breasts.

Cecilia considered taking the woman’s basket and pulling it over that braided head. But that, of course, would have been something her daughters would have done.

Konstantin paused and glanced toward the woman, as if sensing he was being watched.

The young woman smiled brightly.

Konstantin inclined his head but said nothing.

Still smiling, the young woman casually rummaged through her large basket, saying something to the other female beside Cecilia.

The other young woman, who also couldn’t have been more than nineteen, responded with a flurry of Russian and rummaged through her own basket set on her lap.

Six hours of this was going to kill her.

Yarn and wooden needles were pulled out in rehearsed unison. It was as if these two were about to demonstrate their household skills before a man.

They blithely chatted a bit louder than what was necessary and stretched the wool yarn with long arm movements that nudged and shook Cecilia as they wound up spiraling yarn that kept falling toward the floor.

All Cecilia could see was yarn and hands, yarn and hands.

Soon, it was all over their baskets, their hands and the floor of the carriage.

Two of the other men in the stagecoach, along with Konstantin, now stared.

The young blonde panicked and tried to gather everything that had fallen. It only unraveled more.

In exasperation, Cecilia glanced toward each of the young women. They reminded her of herself at their age. Wanting so desperately to impress the right man but unable to. It would seem no matter what country a woman was in, the problems were all the same.

Setting her reticule onto her lap with a sigh, Cecilia reached over to the blonde beside her in a motherly attempt to help the poor girl. Cecilia tugged the half-unraveled bundled from the girl’s hands and expertly wound the entire yarn back onto its bundle.

The young woman paused and watched Cecilia. Within moments, Cecilia was done. She handed it back to the blonde and then grabbed up the brunette’s unraveled bundle and wound that one, too, before handing it back.

Konstantin shifted hard in the seat across from them.

Cecilia snapped her gaze toward him.

He stared, his green eyes holding hers.

Her stomach flipped knowing he’d been watching her.

The young blonde sat up. As if having finally found her opportunity, she quickly leaned forward in her seat and asked Konstantin something.

Konstantin paused and also leaned forward, answering her in husky tone.

Cecilia gripped her reticule hard. In that moment, she realized something God awful. That she, Lady Cecilia Evangeline Stone, was actually jealous of a nineteen-year-old girl. It was stupid and it was wrong. She considered herself well-balanced in mind and in character. But apparently, she was neither. And why would she be? She had allowed a man to take over her body and her mind within a few short breaths of meeting him. What rational woman did that?

The blonde glanced toward Cecilia and quietly commenced knitting.

Cecilia gripped her reticule even harder. She was being discussed. She knew it. “What did she say?”

Konstantin leaned back against the seat between the two shorter men who were reading newspapers. Intently searching Cecilia’s face, he said, “She asked if you were my mother.” With that, he slung his cap low, hiding his eyes and pretended to go to sleep without announcing what his reply was to the girl.

Cecilia almost flung her reticule at him from where she sat, but knew he wasn’t to blame for any of this. She was. And fight it though she may, deep in her heart she knew she wasn’t ready to let him go.

She had never fought for anything but herself and her girls and her son. But maybe it was time to change that. Maybe it was time to become the sort of woman she had always wanted to be and not the sort of woman society expected her to be.

Lesson Seven

Once you fully understand the nuances of your lover’s life,

only then can you begin to understand why they resist.

-The School of Gallantry

Saint Petersburg

Evening

AS THE STAGECOACH PULLED UP to the crowded gas lit theatre where Konstantin knew it was the best place to inquire about her son, Konstantin glanced toward the now empty seats where Cecilia still slept, tucked into the corner of the upholstered seat in exhaustion.

His chest tightened. They had hardly spoken more than a few superficial words during travel. With so many people in the carriage, it had been difficult.

Knowing she needed to rest after sitting seven full hours between two chatty young women who had talked the entire way, he exited the coach quietly.

Once outside, Konstantin leaned toward the driver. “I will pay our fare in full upon my return. I ask that you please let her sleep. I will return shortly.”

The driver inclined his head. “I will wait here and ensure no one gets on the coach. The amount due to me, sir, is thirty rubles.”

“Thank you. I will return shortly.” Konstantin adjusted his coat and blowing out a breath, jogged through the gathering crowds that led into the theatre. Painted posters of Miss Katerinochkin seductively peering out from a red velvet curtain were plastered on every wall. He was relieved there was actually a performance happening tonight. He’d most likely be able to locate Cecilia’s son sooner with Miss Katerinochkin about. He veered past others and strode toward the vast entryway leading inside.

Walking into the lamp-lit quarters of the carpeted theatre, the strong, tangy smell of cigars and the heavy scent of mulled wine greeted him as men and women of all caliber lingered in the main entrance, waiting admittance into their assigned boxes or seats. His eyes darted over to a balding man dressed in a black buttoned coat and an overly starched white cravat who sat behind an open glass window leading into a small secretarial room. The man was gathering papers scattered before him and filling mail slots beside him.

“Good-evening, sir,” he called out, quickly approaching. “I require assistance.”

“Of course,” the balding man declared. “How might I be of service to you, sir?”

Konstantin removed his wool cap, smoothing the sides of his hair and leaned against the ledge of the open window. “I am looking for a gentleman by the name of Lord Stone. Would you happen to know anything of his whereabouts? From my understanding, he and—”

“Do you have an appointment?” The man lifted both bushy brows.

“An appointment? What do I need an appointment for?”

“To see Lord Stone, of course. So you may discuss whatever business you may have.”

Konstantin blinked. “The man is actually here? In the theatre?”

“Yes, sir. He is always here during performances.”

Thank God. “Can I see him?”

“If you have no appointment, it is best you arrange for one.” He grabbed a ledger. After scanning its pages, he dipped a quill into ink. “He is available in two weeks. May 15th. Thursday.”

“Two weeks? No. I need to see him now.”

The man sighed and lowered the quill. “Please try to understand that with him being the owner of the theatre, his lordship is incredibly occupied.”

Owner of the theatre? Holy— Owning a theatre was ludicrously expensive. Apparently, Cecilia had married well. Though she somehow failed to mention her son owned the theatre.

“His mother needs to see him at once. Might I speak to him?”

The man put away the quill. “From my understanding, Lady Stone is not due to arrive for another week.” He didn’t sound in the least bit interested in helping.

Konstantin leaned toward him, resting an elbow on the edge of the counter and tried to keep his voice civil. “You may want to inform Lord Stone that his mother has arrived ahead of schedule thanks to me.”

The man lifted his round chin. “And who are you, sir?”

Konstantin knew he probably shouldn’t attach ‘lover’ to any of this. “I am an acquaintance. And I am asking that you cooperate. Or when I do find Lord Stone, I will send him straight to you so you might explain to the man why his mother was never given any assistance.”

The balding man leaned forward and looked past him. “There is no need for that, sir. I was simply asked not to disturb Lord Stone tonight. He is incredibly busy tending to theatre matters. But seeing this concerns his mother, I will direct you to where he is.” He hesitated and added, “I will do so right now.”

Konstantin patted the counter. “Thank you, sir.”

“I am always at the service of Lord Stone’s family. Please wait where you are. I will be out shortly.” The man slid the glass window shut and latched it. Organizing a few more papers, he left the small room through a back door and eventually re-appeared around a far corner. The balding man wagged a hand, signaling Konstantin to follow.

Konstantin quickly strode toward him and followed the balding man down a narrow side corridor that led into a hidden small foyer with black and white marble tiles. Elegant, round alcoves displayed a series of bronze and white statuettes propped on Roman-like columns.

He paused in the middle of the foyer.

Female voices echoed in the distance as his gaze followed the decorative black iron railing and stairs that trailed alongside one wall, squared up toward another and disappeared altogether upstairs.

The man went up. “This way, sir.”

Konstantin mounted the stairs. Once on the second floor, various female voices lilted from down the hall. Laughter and the clanging of cymbals in another part of the theatre filled the air.

“Lord Stone is inside.” The man gestured toward the direction of an open door. “I will be downstairs should you need anything else.”

“Thank you.” Konstantin quickly strode through the tall doorway and into a small, dignified drawing room with arched ceilings that displayed lace and ribbon plasterwork, gilded accents, and powder blue walls. Though the room wasn’t well-lit, everything was still visible enough to hold a sense of coziness that was reflected in the burning hearth and the glow of gilded sconces lining the powder blue walls.

He paused at finding a group of eight scantily clad women in silk robes gathered around a good-looking dark-haired gentleman in black formal evening attire. The young gentleman lounged on a red velvet chaise with a lit Havana cigar between straight white teeth and held a glass of port in one hand, whilst his other hand rested comfortably on the derriere of a busty brunette who was clearly not Miss Katerinochkin.

So much for the boy being shy.

The eight women gathered around him seemed intimately comfortable with Lord Stone as they blithely chatted to him in broken English and leaned in closer, some of them allowing their bare white shoulders to purposefully peer through their barely affixed robes. One of the women was sliding a slow hand up Lord Stone’s thigh, while another played with the flap of his trousers.

If that had been his son, lounging like some sheik in a harem, treating women as if they were all pieces of candied ginger to be chewed and spit out, he’d be caning the boy’s ass until there was nothing left to cane. As his father used to always say, one woman at a time.

Konstantin stalked toward them and sat in an empty plush chair across from them. He yanked his wool cap back onto his head to free his hands and cleared his throat to ensure they knew he was in the room.

Lord Stone and his gaggle of females paused and turned their attention, one by one, in Konstantin’s direction. Lord Stone handed off his port to one of the women and scrambled up, re-buttoning his trousers. “You had better have a good reason for being here,” he tossed out in Russian. “Who let you in?”

Konstantin lifted a curt hand in return greeting and dryly said in schoolroom English, “I hate to interrupt what appears to be very serious theatre business, Lord Stone, but I am asking that you evacuate all of these women before your mother sees the sort of son she raised.”

Lord Stone jumped up onto polished booted feet, removing the lit cigar from his lips. His dark eyes, that matched Cecilia’s right down to the color, darted toward the open doorway. “My mother is here? At the theatre?”

Konstantin rose and straightened to his full height that, to his surprise, matched the boy’s own. “Yes. Shall I call her in?”

Lord Stone winced and dashed out the smoldering cigar into a nearby crystal ash pan, his dark tonic hair falling from its swept back hold and into his eyes. “No, no. Don’t. She would cane me if she saw any of this. I will go to her.” He waved off all eight women and said in harried Russian, “Put some clothes on! My mother is here!”

The women giggled and one by one, disappeared with the flap of silk robes out into corridor and from sight.

Lord Stone smoothed his silk cravat with a bare hand, a ruby and gold ring glinting from his finger and paused. Slowly rounding Konstantin, he scanned Konstantin’s appearance from boot to wool cap. “Are you the driver? How much do I owe you?”

Konstantin almost punched the youth out. “No. I am not the driver. I am merely an acquaintance of hers.” Konstantin widened his stance. “Your mother is exhausted and is currently asleep in the stagecoach outside. I thought you should know that she was drugged by her travelling companion and then robbed of her money and trunks and left witless on a random coach without any travelling papers.”

Lord Stone’s face paled. “Jesus Christ. Is she all right?” he demanded.

“No harm came to her.”

A shaky breath escaped the youth. “Where is she?”

Konstantin shifted his jaw. “Before I tell you where she is, might I ask how things are progressing between you and Miss Katerinochkin? Does she know anything about these women whose derrieres you openly pat? Or do you plan on telling her after the wedding?”

Lord Stone’s features tightened. “There is no wedding. I called it off.”

“I am very sorry to hear it. It appears your mother left behind all of your sisters and travelled a long way for nothing.”

Lord Stone’s dark brows flickered. “Who are you?”

Konstantin inclined his head. “Mister Levin.”

“No. Who you are to my mother?”

Maybe he should have pretended to be the driver. “A friend,” he managed.

“That sounds incredibly ambiguous, Mr. Levin.” Lord Stone veered in close. “How did you know about my engagement? Or that I have sisters? Knowing such private details about my family insinuates there is an intimacy between you and my mother. Am I wrong in assuming that?”

Konstantin said nothing. This was Cecilia’s son. What was he supposed to say? That he seduced his mother?

Lord Stone flexed his hands. “London isn’t Russia, Mr. Levin. In London, women are ostracized for life for associating with the wrong men. And whilst I do not mean to judge you based on what I see, if any disreputable rumors surfaced regarding my mother, every single one of my sisters, who have yet to debut, would be turned away from every respectable match and every respectable home in London. You would be destroying their lives. Are you aware of that?”

Konstantin’s throat worked mutely. He hadn’t really thought about Cecilia’s daughters or how this would affect them. Of course Cecilia would choose her daughters over him. It was the right thing to do. It was the only thing to do. And the pompous ass that he was, he had wanted her to fight for him. Jesus.

It was time to bury this. He owed Cecilia that much. “You mistake our association, sir. I helped your mother get into Saint Petersburg. Nothing more. She was stranded, after being robbed and had no money or a way of finding you because the letter with your address was taken along with everything else. I helped her find you.”

Lord Stone’s features stilled. “Is she safe? That is all I want to know.”

“Yes,” Konstantin said in strained tone. “Your mother is safe.”

“She had better be, Mr. Levin. For your sake, she had better be.”

He liked that the boy was protective of his mother. It reminded him a lot of himself. When he still had his mother. Konstantin swallowed. He missed his hard-eyed mama. He missed being able to sit down at her linen-covered table in that sunlit room of hers decorated with dried flowers where every known criminal always gathered for her food. He missed how she would slap his hands to keep him from eating her almond cake before it could be properly served and then give him the biggest slice out of all the guests to make up for the slaps. He missed watching her arrange every tea cup on every plate, as if needing them to be perfectly aligned before he or any man could raise it to their lips. That was shortly before she suffered from an illness no doctor could cure. Tough as she was, she had smiled up at him through her pain and sweat to the end.

He couldn’t help but wonder what she would say about him falling for an older aristocratic woman with four children. She always said things the way they needed to be said. She would have probably shaken her greying head and fussed the way she always did, ‘You are too much like your father. Midnight is an illusion. It isn’t real.’

Lord Stone turned and strode over to a small writing desk. Pulling out a leather pocketbook, he strode back and unfolded it. He tugged out all of the crisp bank notes and held them out. “A thousand rubles, sir. For assisting my mother. She means the world to me.”

Konstantin pushed away that hand with the bank notes. “Put that away. I have no need for it.”

Lord Stone held it back toward him. “Take it. I have no doubt my mother would wish to show you her appreciation.”

Konstantin shook his head, trying to remain calm at the mention of Cecilia. “No. I have to go.”

Lord Stone lowered his hand, searching his face. “Do you need a place to stay?”

He was not spending another night or another breath anywhere near Cecilia. Or he’d never get out. “No. Thank you. I have a place to stay. I used to live in Saint Petersburg and know countless people.” None of them worked legally but they were good men. He only ever associated with the good ones.

“Are you certain?”

The boy looked so much like Cecilia and had her dark, soulful eyes. “Quite.”

Lord Stone shoved his money back into the pocketbook.

Konstantin hooked his thumbs on his coat pockets. “I should go. I am off to London.” He nodded, strode toward the door and then called out over his shoulder, “Are you coming? Your mother is in the coach outside.”

Lord Stone jogged after him and in between their quick strides down the corridor kept glancing toward him. “So you live in London?”

“No. I am moving there for a small while until I decide what to do next.”

“And where will you be living whilst there?”

What the hell was this? “Why do you want to know?”

“Because I may have to hunt you down if I discover you’re lying to me about anything.”

“Is that a threat?”

“I want an address, Mr. Levin. I don’t trust you. It’s as simple as that.”

“Thirty-two Belgrave Square. Visit anytime.”

Lord Stone jerked to a halt.

Konstantin didn’t even bother to look back. He kept walking.

Lord Stone jogged up and fell into stride again beside him. He said nothing.

Konstantin was grateful.

They rounded out of the corridor, down the stairs and back toward the lobby of the theatre where people were now making their way into the auditorium behind them. He made his way through the entrance doors and into the foggy night air.

Pulling thirty rubles from his pocket, and unfolding the bank notes, Konstantin gestured toward the stagecoach that was now in sight beyond the crowds they began weaving through. “Let me pay the driver and grab my satchel.” Konstantin veered to a sudden halt before the coach’s window, realizing Cecilia’s dark head was still peacefully tucked against the seat inside in exhausted slumber.

He swallowed. He honestly didn’t have it in him to say farewell knowing he wouldn’t see her again. What more was there to say? He wanted more for her and her girls and he wanted more for himself. Cecilia made him realize something he’d never fully acknowledged until now. That by settling for less, he became less. Like his father. He had to start wanting more in life. Even if it meant giving up more.

He turned and held out a quick hand, keeping Lord Stone from approaching the coach. “Can you not wake your mother until after I am gone? I am not very good at farewells.” Trying to remain calm, knowing he would never see his Cecilia again, Konstantin said, “After I leave, could you please convey one last message to her?”

“Of course. What should I tell her?”

“Tell her it was an honor.” With that, he held up the thirty rubles he owed the driver and yanked his sack off the back of the coach. Putting up a quick hand in farewell to Cecilia’s son, Konstantin strode toward the direction of the street and into the foggy night.

Every step hurt. But he was proud of himself. He was proud knowing he wasn’t leaving her in the name of bitterness or anger or defiance. He was leaving in honor of what they had shared. He was leaving in honor of her girls, like a respectable, good man would. Above all, he was leaving in honor of a beautiful, beautiful woman, whom he would yearn for and think about, for many, many years to come.

Lesson Eight

We seldom give any thought as to how many times our

heart beats in a single minute until we are forced to count.

-The School of Gallantry

THE SLAMMING OPEN OF THE carriage door, the sound of endless voices and the sway of the coach as if someone were getting on startled Cecilia out of the deep sleep she had succumbed to. She sat up, a breath escaping her and glanced toward the seat where Konstantin had sat throughout their journey.

She paused.

Her son, John, sat across from her. He scanned her well-mussed appearance, his features twisting. “I heard you were robbed. Are you all right?” Emotion overtook his face.

Tears pricked her eyes at seeing that manly face. He looked so much older. It had been two years since he had taken off to Russia. “John.” She scrambled toward him and falling into the seat beside him, grabbed his tonic-brushed, dark head and pressed him against herself. She kissed the warmth of his cheek several times and then his head several times, realizing he smelled of cigars. She paused. Gone was the boy who smelled of the fields he used to run in. “Tell me you didn’t commence smoking cigars like your father.”

“I can assure you, I have far better taste in cigars than he did.”

She sighed. “Drat you.” She sighed again and held him tighter. “Your sisters are beyond miserable without you.”

He smirked. “Good. I miss them too.”

“I had several letters from all of them to give to you, but everything was taken.” She groaned. “All of my money, my trunks. Everything.”

His features sobered. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you had to—” John tightened his hold and rocked her. After a long quiet moment he said miserably, “I’m not getting married, Mama. So you needn’t worry. I know you didn’t approve. And I don’t blame you.”

Cecilia pulled away from him, grabbing at his hands. She searched his face, noting that he wasn’t looking at her. All she knew was he was miserable. “What happened?”

He didn’t meet her gaze. “Tatiana got involved with some Spanish count. It had been going on for months. She was merely using me to pay off debts.”

Cecilia’s stomach dropped. “Oh, John. I’m so sorry.”

He shrugged. “Not quite as sorry as I am knowing you came all this way for nothing. Well over a month of travel by boat and coach only for you to be robbed.” He sighed. “Even worse, I bought the theatre Tatiana performs in. It cost me ten thousand.”

She gasped. “What?”

His hand hit the seat beside him twice. “I know, I know. It was stupid. I was trying to invest in her career. Know, however, that the theatre is set to be sold next week at a good price and I’m going home with you. I’m done here.”

Her eyes widened and she felt as if her chest were about to burst knowing he was coming back home. Home. Where he belonged. She grabbed his face again and kissed his cheek hard. Twice. “I never sold your townhome or your membership at the club. A part of me knew you would come back.”

“I’m glad you didn’t sell either.” A breath escaped him. “It’s time I grow up. I have to…” He skimmed her appearance and groaned. “Jesus. Mother. Even the pins in your hair are gone. Are you certain you’re all right?”

Cecilia pinched her lips and smoothed her loose hair back and away from her face with quaking hands. She couldn’t find any of the pins after she and Konstantin had rushed out of the inn practically half-dressed in an attempt to catch their coach.

She paused, realizing Konstantin wasn’t in the carriage. She turned against the seat and shifted toward the open door of the carriage where people passed by outside in harried steps. Her heart pounded. “Where is Mr. Levin?”

John shifted toward her. “He left. I offered him money and a place to stay given what he did for you, but he refused.”

Cecilia’s breaths unevenly escaped her in disbelief. No. No, no, no. She hadn’t even had a chance to— This was not what she wanted. “You let him leave? Without waking me up?!”

He angled toward her, searching her face. “You and he are involved. Aren’t you?”

Her cheeks felt like fire. “I didn’t mean for us to get involved.”

He glared. “But you did.”

“Cease glaring at me as if I were two.”

“Dearest God. Are you saying you and he…?” He whistled between his teeth and rolled his hand so as not to say the actual word.

“Enough, John. That is not for you to know.”

John dropped his hand into his lap with a smack. He leaned in close. “I am not about to lecture a forty-year-old woman, who also happens to be my mother, but you had best leave what happened between you and him buried here in Russia. Do you understand? Russia is one thing. The people abide by their own passions and no one blinks. But London? They don’t know anything about passions. They punish you for them. You know that. In my opinion, he did the right thing by leaving. You have to let him go. You have to.”

Her lips parted, still in disbelief that Konstantin had walked out of her life. “Did he say anything when he left?” She could scarcely say it aloud. “Anything at all?”

He sighed. “He said it was an honor and nothing more. He wanted to leave and even asked I not wake you.”

Her heart sank straight down to her booted feet. For him to have left without telling her good-bye meant she’d hurt him. She had said all of the wrong things. Things she wished she had never said. She paused. Maybe he hadn’t gone far. Maybe—

Cecilia scrambled past John. Gathering her skirts, she stumbled down the iron steps and onto the pavement. She spun toward her left and right, scanning all of the faces and buildings blurring into shadows and fog and gas lamps. “Which way did he go, John? I have to find him!”

John sat in the carriage, clearly astounded.

She jerked toward him, her heart pounding. “John, for heaven’s sake, I have to find him!”

He rose from the seat. Jumping out of the stagecoach with a solid thud of his boots, he adjusted his coat and rounded toward her. “He left well over ten minutes ago.”

Oh, God. She clasped a shaky hand against her mouth, realizing Konstantin, her Konstantin, was gone. Forever. Because of her.

John softened his tone. “’Tis better this way.”

She closed her eyes in disbelief. “No,” she whispered, eventually re-opening her eyes. “This isn’t what I wanted. It feels wrong. Letting him disappear from my life feels wrong.”

He gaped. “Wrong? He allowed your good name to be tainted by permitting an association that could have destroyed you both.”

“So says the man who wanted to marry a Russian actress twenty years older than himself,” she tossed back. “Do you think I came out here to celebrate with you? I came to stop the wedding. Only to find there is none!”

He winced and scrubbed his head. “I know, I know, I wanted more for myself than what London had to offer and tried to…” He sighed, grabbed her and pressed her against himself. “I’m sorry. If I hadn’t come here, if I hadn’t met Tatiana, you wouldn’t have…” He pressed her harder against himself. “Try not to let this Russian hurt you. He wasn’t worthy of you. Christ, he wasn’t even properly dressed or—”

She flung away his arms in disbelief. “For shame, John, to be judging a man based on his appearance. For shame. Need I remind you, your father was well dressed. He was so well dressed he couldn’t even bring himself to wrinkle his thirty pound trousers in the name of putting his own children onto his lap when they came to him. He was so well dressed that when you fell into that lake as a boy and were drowning, he yelled for the governess to jump in. The governess! She and I were the ones who jumped in after you first before he realized two women in the water made him look the fool that he was.”

Tears blinded her, remembering that day. “I don’t want or need that sort of refinement, John. What I want and need is someone willing to save me. I need someone willing to sleep in a wooden chair for me. I need someone willing to give me his food even when he has none. That is what I need. And this man did that, John. He put my needs before his own every single time. He did more for me these past two days than your father did his entire life!”

John grew quiet.

A tear unexpectedly spilled down her cheek. She swiped it away with a quaking hand, knowing people were weaving around them. Fortunately, it was Russia and nobody understood a word of what she said. “As frightening as it was to have been robbed and left stranded in a random coach in the middle of Russia, it was the best thing to have ever happened to me. He was the best thing to have happened to me.” Her voice cracked with emotion, knowing she would never get the chance to tell Konstantin that.

Turning toward the crowds around them, she almost sobbed. Running down empty streets at night would yield nothing but the reality that he was gone. “I’m not ready to let him go,” she choked out, tears stinging her eyes. “I told him I was, but I’m not. I’m not.”

John searched her face and slowly dragged a rigid hand across his mouth. “Are you telling me you’re in love with him?”

She sniffed miserably. “I haven’t known him long enough to say that, but he was amazing, John. As a person and as a man. He was amazing.”

John dropped his hand to his side. “How amazing?”

“Amazing enough to hang my name on.”

“Christ.” He blew out a breath. “I…he gave me an address of where he’d be staying in London. I insisted on it before he left.”

Her heart almost stopped. “What? You got an address?”

“Yes. I got an address.”

She grabbed his face and kissed him twice. “Oh, thank God for you! Thank God you—”

“Mother.” He rigidly pulled away and searched her face.

She paused, sensing he was about to announce something she wasn’t ready to hear. “What? What is it?”

“The address he gave me is 32 Belgrave Square. Did you not know that?”

Every inch of her skin prickled with gooseflesh as Konstantin’s own words suddenly chimed in her head. ‘As my father always used to say, even if you do not believe in destiny, you will in time. Because everything happens for a reason. Which means, we will not be able to escape whatever destiny has planned. Even if we want to.’

“Dearest Lord,” she rasped. “Destiny is real.”

John drew his brows together. “What?”

She set a trembling hand to her throat. “Heaven keep me from fainting, John. What are the odds that Mr. Levin would give an address that is right next door to my own home? I knew the grand old house had been let to someone before I left for Russia, I simply never inquired as to who it was.”

Lord above. There was no saving them now.

Lesson Nine

Once upon a time, gentlemen, even I failed to become the woman I wanted to be.

’Tis no shame in admitting you have failed.

There is only shame in admitting you have not tried.

-The School of Gallantry

August 28th, 1830 early evening

London, England - 32 Belgrave Square

STEADY FOOTSTEPS ECHOED IN THE corridor outside. His footsteps.

Konstantin quickly rose from the walnut encased burgundy sofa, his eyes darting to the closed doors of the study he’d been ushered into twenty minutes earlier. Konstantin blew out an exhausted breath, praying to God the man didn’t announce he had changed his mind and that Konstantin should get back on a coach and boat and go back to Russia.

The doors of the study slammed open against the oak paneled walls, shaking the large portraits and mirrors hanging throughout the room. The lit candles flickered, sending disfigured shadows wavering across the high, crown molded ceilings.

A tall figure with silvery-steel colored hair dressed in black, right down to leather riding boots, stood motionless in the doorway. It was Duc de Andelot. His face was, as last time, hidden beneath a well-fitted black velvet mask. Only piercing blue eyes and the lower portion of his mouth and shaven jaw peered through. The visible marring of puckered skin on the left side of that aging jaw below the tied mask hinted at the damage hidden.

“We meet again, my Russian friend,” Andelot rumbled out in English. As before, there was a slight French accent but it was barely detectable. “How is your shoulder?”

Konstantin thudded his left shoulder. “It healed well.”

“I am infinitely pleased to hear it and I am infinitely pleased you came. Although it took you long enough.” The duc smirked. “Did the boat sink and leave you to swim?”

Konstantin smiled and inclined his head. “It might as well have. Russia is not exactly next door, Your Grace. I stayed in Saint Petersburg a bit longer than I had planned.” It had been some time since he had laid wreaths on the graves of his parents. He made certain to do that before he left Russia. He had also lingered across the street one night outside Lord Stone’s theatre during a performance, hoping to see Cecilia. If only one last time. He never saw her.

A part of him was glad for it.

The yearning had to stop.

The duc entered the room, his movements smooth and ghost-like. A raw, contained power rolled off of those limbs hidden beneath well fitting evening clothes that hinted the older man had spent most of his life boxing and fencing and dueling. “Might I offer you a drink, Levin? Sherry? Cognac? Or are you hungry? Shall I have the chef prepare something for you? Is there anything you wanted? Name it and it is yours.”

Anything he wanted? How about Cecilia? He refrained from asking. Konstantin shook his head. “No, thank you. I ate at an inn before coming into London. But I would like to take this moment to thank you for inviting me into a city I have always wanted to see. I only wish I had not arrived at night. I could hardly see anything.”

“There will be plenty of time for that. But I should probably warn you London is a bit quiet this time of year. The Season is long over and most homes are vacated by now. I personally prefer it. A man cannot think with crowds of people around him. So tell me. How was your journey?”

“I spent most of my time hanging over the railing of the boat, releasing my innards through my nose and my mouth. Other than that…it was pleasant.” Konstantin hesitated and cleared his throat. “I also wish to thank you, Your Grace. I really do. I am still a bit overwhelmed and still do not believe I deserve it. I am asking that you reduce the amount. I hardly think—”

Andelot snapped up a scarred hand. “There is no need for us to discuss this. It is done. The money will be in your hands by the end of this week and all I ask is that you not let others know where the money came from. We are merely good comrades and nothing more.”

“But the amount is—”

“The amount is respectable. Are you telling me my life is worth less?”

Konstantin blinked. “No.”

“I am a generous man, Levin. Let us leave it at that. I have endured a lot and never give any less than what I believe a man deserves.” He paused before Konstantin and lingered, staring him down through the slits of his mask. He gestured rigidly toward Konstantin’s throat that was exposed. “What is this? Where is your cravat? You did this last time.”

Konstantin’s hand jumped to his bare throat, grazing his linen shirt. “I never wear cravats. Unless I am required to.”

The duc glared. “You cannot step out into public looking like you have lived in a cave all your life. ’Tis an insult to those who are forced to look upon you. Tomorrow, you are going straight to my tailor to conduct measurements for the sort of clothing a man like you should be wearing. Because if it looks cheap, it is cheap. And no one bows to cheap.”

Andelot leaned in, the scent of leather and cologne wafting toward the air between them and adjusted the lapel of Konstantin’s coat. The duc sighed. “I regret not giving you money sooner. When you awake tomorrow, my valet will properly shave you. With the amount of money going into your pocket, Levin, ’tis your duty to represent yourself well. Or no one will take you seriously.”

Konstantin sighed and swiped his hand across his now ten-day-old beard. He knew he should have shaved at the last inn. “Forgive me. I get lazy sometimes.”

“I can see that.” Andelot hesitated and glanced toward the clock on the mantelpiece. “I do not wish to be rude, but I have an appointment to keep. Are you tired? Or are you up for joining me?”

“I would not be imposing?”

“No.” Andelot turned and strode toward one of the bookshelves. He ran a hand across the bindings of all the leather books before stopping and yanking one out. He carried it over and held it out. “Take this for me.”

Konstantin hesitated and slid the book from the man’s scarred hand. It was Voltaire. The gold lettering on the leather binding read in English Candide: or The Optimist. Turning it toward himself, Konstantin’s brows came together. The leather binding was warped and appeared to be heavily damaged by age. “This has certainly seen a lot of use.”

“Good books usually do.” The duc strode by. “Come. And bring Voltaire with you.”

“Where are we going?”

Duc de Andelot paused, as if the question had affected him. He lingered, not looking at anything in particular. “I usually go alone, but I trust you. And truth be told, I would rather not be alone tonight.”

* * *

WHEN THEIR CARRIAGE PAUSED IN the shadows outside a very respectable-looking townhome, outside the light of surrounding gaslights, the duc adjusted his black evening coat and gestured toward the book with his cane. “Read.”

Konstantin shifted against the leather upholstered seat of the carriage and swiped up the book beside him. He hesitated. What happened to the so-called appointment? They were stationed alone on the side of a road somewhere in London at ten o’clock at night. It didn’t feel right. “Uh…is there a reason you want me to—”

“Start at part two on page one hundred and three. And above all, handle it with care. That is an original English printing.”

Maybe the man’s eyes were getting old.

Konstantin cleared his throat, carefully paged to what appeared to be half the book. He found the page and tilted the book toward the dim light of the lantern. “Part Two. Chapter One. How Candid quitted his companions and what happened to him.” Interesting. He’d never read Voltaire. He read on, “We soon became tired of everything in life; riches fatigue the possessor; ambition when satisfied, leaves only remorse behind it; the joys of love are but transient joys; and Candid, made to experience all the vicissitudes of fortune was soon disgusted with cultivating his garden.”

The duc unlatched the window of the carriage and leaned out, staring up at one of the windows.

Konstantin paused from his reading, realizing the man was no longer listening. Konstantin inched forward to see what the man was actually looking at.

A silver-haired lady draped in an ivory robe sat beside the window reading by a brightly lit lamp that illuminated her pale face. She adjusted her silver braid over her shoulder.

The duc continued to intently watch her. Almost never blinking.

Konstantin eyed the man and then the silver-haired lady in the window. “Should we be doing this?”

The duc tapped his lips with a finger and gestured toward the book again, without looking away from the lady. “Read.”

Oho. This had trouble smeared all over it. And he wanted no part of it. Konstantin shut the book, slid over to the window and leaned toward the duc. “Let me give you some advice. I have no idea how the English conduct themselves here, but in Russia, men are arrested for such things.” He was being serious.

The duc continued to watch the window of the townhouse. “Since when is love a crime, Levin?” he asked, his voice reverberating in the darkness of the carriage.

Konstantin glanced back up to the window. This just got good. He shifted closer. “Who is she?”

The duc gripped his cane tighter, his black leather glove creaking. His eyes had a burning, faraway look. “A whisper of everything I could have had but never will.”

Konstantin knew the feeling. “Did she marry someone else?”

“She married every damn man in sight.”

Ooo. She was one of those. At least Cecilia hadn’t been that. “I am very sorry to hear it.”

Andelot hit the end of the cane on the floor of the carriage. “I used to blame her for the path she took. But I have long since come to recognize that it is I who destroyed her by not making an honorable woman of her. I was the one to drape her with her first set of diamonds.” Andelot glanced back toward her window again and paused, his cane stilling. An exasperated breath escaped him. Re-latching the carriage window with an agitated swipe of his gloved hand, he settled back against the seat and muttered, “She has retired for the night.”

Konstantin surveyed the now dark window.

Andelot lifted his cane and hit the roof of the carriage, commanding the driver to leave.

The driver snapped the reins and the carriage rolled forward, causing Konstantin to sway forward then back as he returned his gaze to the duc.

The man grudgingly lowered his eyes to the gold head of his cane and rigidly tapped the palm of his gloved hand against it. “Next time, I come alone. You talk too much.”

Konstantin quirked a brow. “Do you mean to tell me, since coming into London, you have been doing this every night?”

Andelot grunted. “I would never admit to such a thing.”

“Which means you have been.”

The duc shifted his jaw beneath the mask. “What of it?”

And he thought he was a feather short when it came to women. “Is she the reason why you came to London?”

“Yes.”

Konstantin smoothed a hand over the damaged leather binding of the book. “Have you called on her?”

The duc’s blue eyes looked piercingly sharp in the light of the moon that drifted in through the window. “I would never.”

“Why?”

Lifting his cane up toward his face, Duc de Andelot edged the gold handle across the left side of his tied mask, causing it to shift. “This.”

Konstantin genuinely felt angst for the man. He couldn’t imagine living a life behind a mask.

The duc lowered the cane from his mask.

Konstantin gripped the book hard. “Forgive me for prying, but what actually happened between you and her?”

“Too much.” The duc paused, clearly drifting to another place and another time. Those eyes became flat. Unreadable. “When I was much younger, even younger than you are now, I was living two separate lives. One for my father and one for myself. Thérèse was the woman I wanted to marry but couldn’t. And when she became pregnant, everything fell apart.”

The duc leaned back against the seat, his voice growing ragged, “She refused to accept what our relationship really was. She wanted to be more than a mistress. She wanted us to marry. If I had been anyone else, anyone but third cousin to the King, I would have. But I knew what her life would have turned into and I was trying to keep her safe from my father. She, of course, did not see it that way and not only kept me from seeing my own son, but allowed herself to become the most sought after woman in all of France. God help me, I was so angry with her for becoming the desire of every man. So angry. I did not want my son raised in the world she had involved herself in and even tried to reason with her about what I could offer him, but she was done with me. I wanted to take our son, but I could not rip the boy out of the arms of his mother. She loved him.”

Andelot averted his gaze to the dark night beyond the glass window at his shoulder. “I had to let them go.” Andelot seethed out a breath. “Then the Revolution swept through Paris turning my beloved France into a nation of savages. Many did not even wait for Robespierre to condemn the elite. They did it themselves. They torched homes until the summer day sky was as dark as night and tossed respectable, titled women into crowds and raped them in public whilst their husbands and children watched. Then they would butcher them all with knives out of their own kitchens. And the worst of it? They did it with pride. They did it whilst waving their blood-spattered flags.”

The duc grew quiet. Those lips parted in deep thought before he eventually whispered, “My father was arrested and guillotined. That man brutalized me my entire life – my entire life –but even I knew he wasn’t deserving of having his head cleaved from his shoulders. The only reason I had not been seized by the tribunal myself was because I was half-British and my mother’s entire family from England was petitioning Robespierre in exchange for favors. With what little time I had due to their petitions, I dismissed all of my servants to keep them from harm and harbored aristocrats whose names were on the list of the condemned. I tried planning an escape, but no one was willing to provide us transportation. Not even for the children. All of France had gone mad.”

Andelot rubbed at his jaw. “And that was when Thérèse re-appeared in my life. I was…astounded. She came to me as if she could hear my prayers drifting through a city filled with smoke. She brought food and arranged for transportation for all of us to leave the country courtesy of one of her bourgeois lovers. A part of me wanted to refuse her assistance, but there were others I had to think of. So I allowed for it.” Andelot rigidly tapped at his masked face. “As you can see, I barely escaped France. She never saw what was done to me. I made sure of it.”

Konstantin numbly held the book between hands that were heavy with disbelief.

Andelot lowered his gaze. Fingering his cane, he murmured, “Long after I came into wealth again, after countless years of toiling and travelling and re-investing what my mother’s family in England had generously bequeathed me, I wanted to know if she and my son…needed anything. So I hired men to find them. It took years. Unbeknownst to me, they had left France. Less than a year ago, one of the informants finally had information.”

The duc rapidly blinked. “Whilst Thérèse was fine, and I am blessed knowing it, my Henri was dead and had been for a long time. He had died here in England.” His voice cracked. “But he left behind a daughter. Maybelle. She lives with Thérèse. And that is why I am here. I want to be part of my granddaughter’s life in a way I was unable to be part of Henri’s. I simply have not been able to bring myself to knock on that door knowing I have no face and that…men still flock to Thérèse as if she were twenty.” Andelot rolled his eyes. “I have heard she associates with an array of men because of some school where she gives men advice on-on…private matters.” He shook his head. “She was always outrageous. She lived for it.” His fisted hand hit the seat hard, reverberating through the carriage. He settled himself against the seat. “I need a brandy,” he breathed out.

Of course the man needed brandy. “So you have been in London these past few months and still have not called on her or your granddaughter?”

The duc tossed his cane from one hand to the other, back and forth. “My face aside, I genuinely doubt Thérèse would permit me to have an association with Maybelle. She and I did not part on the best of terms.”

Konstantin gave him an exasperated look. “How do you know what she will or will not allow if you have not called on her?”

Andelot glanced toward the window and the night beyond.

“Call on her.” Konstantin leaned closer. “After everything you survived, including a whole revolution, there is no shame in what you endured or why you wear a mask. Call on her.”

Gently tapping the cane against floor of the carriage, Andelot fixed his sight at nothing in particular. He kept tapping the cane against the floor. “Will you go with me if I call on them?”

Konstantin’s chest tightened. “It would be an honor. When do you want to go? Shall we go tomorrow?”

The duc’s gaze snapped toward him. “Are you mad? No. The day after. I need time to trim my hair. As do you.”

Konstantin bit back a smile. “The trimming of our hair should only take a half hour.”

Andelot lowered his chin. “Whilst I appreciate your intentions, I ask that you refrain from any further comments.”

Konstantin held up a hand and then set it against his mouth.

Lesson Ten

Passion is a fire you ignite. It can either light a candle in the darkness

or burn down your entire house. The idea, gentlemen, is not to burn the house.

-The School of Gallantry

Two days later

At the home of Madame de Maitenon

KONSTANTIN DRAGGED A HEAVY HAND through his overly arranged, tonic-fussed hair, which had been trimmed well beyond what he was used to, and warily watched the duc get up and sit in three different upholstered chairs set around the small parlor.

The duc kept shaking his head and openly muttering, “Useless. The woman’s taste in comfort is absolutely useless. These furnishings are for the devil.”

Konstantin doubted the furnishings were actually the problem.

Andelot eventually decided on a plush green, empire-style chair. He settled into it with a grunting huff and adjusted the red ribbon against his hair that held his mask in place. Crossing his polished riding boots at his ankles, the duc pulled his coat over his waist. “I cannot believe I am doing this. What if she refuses to see me?” Andelot’s blue eyes perused the doorway.

Konstantin was beginning to feel nervous for the man. “Everything will be fine. I am certain she will—”

The harried clicking of female heels against the wood floors, that hinted at a half-run, made Konstantin scramble to feet.

The duc uncrossed his boots and sat up but did not rise. “Tell me to calm down.”

“Calm down.”

“I am trying.”

Within moments, a very attractive elderly woman appeared in the doorway of the receiving room, partly out of breath with a cane in hand she leaned against for support. Her thick, silver hair was meticulously arranged in fashionable curls around her pale face. Rose-tinted silk flowers had been woven through her tresses, fashionably matching the shade of her elegant lace gown that showcased a slim, well-corseted frame. A long, expensive-looking string of pearls had been draped from her slender throat to her waist as if to emphasize and draw attention to the sizeable breasts surrounding them. Enigmatic bright blue eyes veered toward the duc.

Konstantin set his hands against his back. Waiting.

They stared wordlessly at each other in the pulsing silence.

If the tension visible between them could have been measured by the size of a flame, those stares would have created a blaze the size of whatever was burned the sun.

The duc shifted his jaw beneath the mask. He rose. Adjusting his black leather gloves in the manner a duelist might, he walked toward her, his booted steps steady and determined. He paused directly before her.

Widening his muscled stance, the duc gruffly announced, “We will speak in English for the duration of this conversation. Because all things French are dead to me since I left Paris.”

She inclined her head toward him, her eyes never once leaving his masked face.

Konstantin cringed for him.

Andelot squared his jaw. “I am here because I wish to see my granddaughter. I wish to have the sort of relationship with her that you never allowed me to have with my son. I know I am asking for a lot, given how we parted, but I believe I have long since grown as a man and am worthy of that honor.”

In a sultry French-accented voice, she announced breathily, “I never thought I would see you again.” Madame de Maitenon searched the duc’s masked face. “You look well for yourself.”

The duc snorted and leaned in. “Oh, come, my dear. You need not lie. In answer to the question you have not asked, beneath this mask, half my face is gone.”

Madame de Maitenon’s expression stilled.

Andelot cleared his throat and tugged on his coat. “Can I meet my granddaughter? Is that at all a possibility?”

She brought her hands together and softly said, “Maybelle has left London with her husband.”

The duc’s lips parted below the mask. “She is married?”

“Yes. She married quite recently.”

“And is she happy with the union?”

“Yes. Very.”

“Ah.” He half-nodded. “I am glad to hear it.” He hesitated. “Who did she marry?”

“His Grace the Duke of Rutherford. They are currently on tour and will be visiting every city in Europe before travelling into Egypt. They are not expected to return for another eight months. When she does arrive back into London, you may call on her. I have no doubt she would want to meet her grandpére. As such, I will…I will gladly notify you the moment she returns into town.”

A breath escaped the duke. “I would appreciate that.”

She nodded. “Where shall I send the missive when she arrives, Gérard? So she might call on you in person?”

The duc hesitated and lowered his chin. “I am living at 32 Belgrave Square. I ask, however, that you do not address me by my birth name. It would give me too much hope.”

Madame de Maitenon said nothing.

Andelot set his shoulders and after a few pulsing moments offered, “I thank you for your time, Madame. It was an honor to see you.”

Her blue eyes softened. “And you.”

Konstantin felt like he was watching something he shouldn’t. It felt very personal.

Andelot inclined his head. “I wish you a good-day.” He rigidly rounded Madame de Maitenon, brushing past her. Disappearing into the corridor, he called out, “Levin, in case you have not noticed, I am leaving.” The man opened the door to the entrance and walked out, leaving the door wide open, allowing the afternoon summer air and wind to blow in.

The elderly woman glanced toward Konstantin, tears now visibly gathering in those overwhelmed bright blue eyes. She pursed her lips in a noble attempt not to cry.

Konstantin swallowed. “He needed to see you. He was sitting in a carriage outside your window every night for weeks.”

A trembling hand touched her face as she blindly attempted to use the cane to walk to a chair. A sob escaped her.

Konstantin darted toward her and grabbed her hand and her corseted waist, knowing full well she wasn’t going to make it. He turned her and gently eased her into the nearest chair, his chest tightening.

She swiped at her tears with one hand, her manicured fingers trembling. She grabbed Konstantin’s arm, searching his face with a tear-streaked pale face that flickered with distraught emotion. “Where did the scarring come from? The ones hidden beneath the mask? What happened to him?”

Knowing he owed the woman a measure of comfort, he offered, “He never told me. But he mentioned it happened whilst trying to escape France. After you had arranged transportation for him.”

Her hand jumped to her mouth. She closed her eyes, letting another tear slip down her cheek and said through her quaking hand, “Leave me.”

He seated himself in a chair beside her. “I will leave once I am assured you are less distressed.”

“Whilst kind,” she choked out, “that will take more time than you have.”

“I have time, Madame,” he gently offered. “Do you require anything? Shall I call for one of your servants?”

“No. Thank you.” She lowered her hand and sniffed softly. “Might I ask who you are to him?”

He inclined his head. “I am Mr. Levin. I am a friend.”

“How long have you known him?”

“A few months. Though most of it was never in his presence.”

“You have a heavy accent.” Her eyes cut to his. “Are you from Russia?”

“Yes.” Konstantin shifted toward her in his seat. “I wish to assure you that in my country, Andelot is well-known for being everything a man should be. He is a legend in Moscow and is a patron to the poor and all things good. He is incredibly generous. Overly generous. To me and to everyone.”

She reached out and delicately touched his arm. “Care for him, Mr. Levin. I am afraid I was always too proud to do right by him. He needs a true friend. The sort he has never had due to his status and upbringing. Promise me you will be a good friend to him.”

It was obvious this woman was still in love with Andelot. “I will ensure he stays out of trouble.”

“Merci.” She removed her hand. She hesitated. “Please tell him I am engaged to be married to Lord Hughes. He needs to know.”

Oh, damn. The duc was going to have a fit. And yet…Konstantin sensed she was telling him as if she was hoping Andelot would do something about it. “Pardon my asking, but is there any hope for him?”

She hesitated. “I am not ready to answer that. Thank you for staying, Mr. Levin. It was very kind of you. I am quite well now.” Her tone hinted that she wanted to be alone.

“Of course.” Konstantin rose and also inclined his head. “Should you require anything, please send a missive to me at 32 Belgrave Square and address it to my name. I should be there for at least another two weeks until I find a place of my own. When I move, I will forward the new address.”

“I appreciate your generosity.” She swiped away the last of her tears. “Au revoir, Mr. Levin.”

Konstantin hesitated, nodded and then awkwardly turned, a raw heaviness eating away at his chest and his mind. Once he was outside the townhouse and had gently shut the entrance door the duc had left open, Konstantin hissed out a breath in complete exasperation. He had clearly walked into the middle of a broken affair that had been simmering for well over twenty years.

Jogging down the stairs and landing on the pavement, he paused, realizing the duc was leaning against a lamppost two doors down.

Two younger women with parasols slowed and stared at the duc’s masked face.

The duc inclined his head.

They grabbed each other’s arms and scurried by with a quick rustle of skirts as if they had just glimpsed the devil.

Konstantin sighed and strode toward the man. Coming to a halt before the man, he confessed, “I think you did well.”

Andelot held his gaze, all emotion hidden beneath that black velvet mask. “Why were you in there so long?”

“She was crying. I was trying to console her.”

Andelot glanced away. He said nothing.

Konstantin cleared his throat, knowing he needed to say it. “She uh…she wanted me to inform you she is engaged.”

Andelot snapped his gaze toward him, his chest rising and falling visibly. “Is that what she said?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus.” The duc pushed away from the lamppost with a gloved hand and rasped, “Have you ever loved a woman so much that the very breath in your throat is no longer yours but hers?”

Konstantin swallowed. He didn’t know about love, but he did know he still couldn’t sleep at night without thinking he could smell Cecilia’s perfume on his own skin. And every time he looked at his watch, he thought of how she had lain naked with it, her slim fingers opening and closing the silver lid in playful fascination. “I have come close to knowing it.”

“Pray you never do.” Andelot veered in close. “Did she tell who she is marrying?”

“A certain Lord Hughes.”

Andelot squinted. “Hughes. I know that name. I see him from time to time over at the…” Andelot glanced back toward the townhouse. After a few pulsing moments, he swung away. Striding back to the carriage, whilst tugging on the sleeves of his coat, he said, “I deserve this.”

Konstantin huffed out an irked breath. “So you are just going to walk away? You are going to let her marry this Hughes? Is that what you are saying?”

The duc jerked to a halt. He turned and quickly strode back to Konstantin. “I have no face.”

Konstantin glared. “There is more to you than your face.”

“Such sentiment is beautiful on the tongue but in reality, it is untrue. I have to pay women to bed me.”

That was a little too much information. “You should go back and talk to her.”

“No.” Andelot swung away again and headed back toward the carriage. “She knows where I live.”

Konstantin swallowed and genuinely wished he could help Andelot. But who was he to give advice about women? He couldn’t even hold onto the woman destiny had handed to him in a coach at midnight.

Lesson Eleven

What under heaven’s majestic clouds are you waiting for?

-The School of Gallantry

Nine days later – 10:03 p.m.

Next door to 32 Belgrave Square

KONSTANTIN’S WARM HAND SMOOTHED AWAY the pinned curls from her forehead as he leaned in and trailed soft, soft kisses up the curve of her throat. The tips of his calloused fingers gently skimmed down toward her breasts, that lingering touch promising her a lifetime of all things beautiful and romantic. It was pulse rending. It was genuine. It was divine.

She didn’t want to wake up.

But of course she did.

A tap on her shoulder startled her awake. “Mother,” Abigail’s voice whispered down at her. She tapped Cecilia’s shoulder a bit more aggressively. “Mother, are you awake?”

No matter how old they got, they still interrupted one’s sleep. “I am now,” Cecilia murmured, drowsily rolling toward her daughter and dragging the linens with her. She squinted up at Abigail, realizing all three of her daughters were standing at different heights beside her four-poster bed, fully dressed in their morning gowns and satin slippers as if it were two in the afternoon. The eldest, Giselle, regally held up a candle that illuminated their pale, oval faces in a soft, wavering glow of the bedchamber.

Her girls only ever came to her as a group when there was a problem. A serious one. Cecilia sat straight up, her heart pounding. “For heaven’s sake, what is it? What happened? Why are all of you dressed?”

“We couldn’t sleep,” Abigail announced with the firm set of her chin. “We spoke to John. He had mentioned something about a certain gentleman you met in Russia.”

Cecilia froze. Oh, no. No, no, no.

“He said this gentleman lives next door beyond the gates and the hedges,” Giselle continued for Abigail. “Is that true?”

Cecilia groaned.

Abigail squinted. “Why did you not tell us about this Mr. Levin and how he rescued you?”

She wasn’t ready to face this. Not yet. “Can we discuss this in the morning?”

“No. John wouldn’t answer any of our questions. What happened in Russia between you and this man? Are you and he friends? Or more than friends? We are old enough to know.”

Cecilia wanted to crawl under her bed. But she had never been one to hide her life from theirs. She loved them too much for that. “He and I are more than friends. And I was actually thinking of…calling on him.”

All three perked.

Oh, dear. She had just unleashed the romance hounds. “Please. No advice on what I should do.”

Giselle waved her free hand toward the closed door behind them, causing the flame on her candle to dance. “The lamps in the house beyond the hedge at 32 are still lit and we can hear the piano being played through our open windows. You should get dressed and see him.”

Cecilia almost bit her own hand. She wasn’t ready to see him. “I just returned to London seven hours ago. I need to sleep.” Which was really a pathetic excuse. She would have already gone over and knocked on that door, but she was scared witless. What if it wasn’t the same? What if Konstantin turned her away? What if he had already moved on? She had a million other concerns she couldn’t even voice aloud.

They were too young to hear any of it.

Giselle waved about the candleholder in agitation. “There is no need for pretenses, Mama. How can you even sleep knowing he lives right next door? You always complain about being alone and yet here you are ensuring it.”

Cecilia cringed. And she thought she was blunt.

Abigail’s brown eyes met hers in earnest. “How much do you like this Mr. Levin? A little? Or a lot? Because there is a difference.”

It was as if the five months Cecilia had been away, all of her daughters had bloomed into thirty-year-old, well-situated women with advice. “A lot.”

Juliet pertly tore off a small piece of the crumpet she held and shoved it into her mouth, her full cheeks rounding. “I suggest you ring for your lady’s maid.” She chewed majestically several times before adding, “Might I suggest your primrose evening gown and the emeralds you bought last year at auction?”

Cecilia shifted toward them in exasperation. “Have you lost what little you have of your respectable minds? I am not calling on him at this time of night. This isn’t Russia.”

Giselle lowered her chin, her gaze sharpening. “Calling on him during respectable calling hours is nothing short of mundane, Mama. That is what old ladies of the ton adhere to. Calling on a man at this hour is exciting and proof of your devotion. As long as you keep it to fifteen minutes it might as well be Russia.”

Juliet nodded. “I agree. No one of any consequence is even in the neighborhood to take notice of such a visit. Ask the governess. As she always likes to say, the Season is over and the gossips have all gone to the country.”

“Amen for that,” all three girls said in rehearsed unison as if it were some sort of jest.

How was it she had raised not one, not two, but three overly romantic, starry-eyed girls? Where did they learn these things? She certainly never discussed the notion of romance with any of them. It was those poetry books the governess insisted on.

“I cannot go to him,” Cecilia whined, feeling sixteen and newly dismayed by the reality of a relationship.

“Why not?” Abigail inquired.

“He could have already moved on.” With that, she settled back down against the pillow, turned away and closed her eyes, chanting to herself to stay calm.

She felt them lingering. And breathing. And lingering. And breathing.

Satin slippers shifted against the wooden floor in silent defiance, one by one.

She rolled back toward them, opening her eyes.

They stared.

Something told her they weren’t going to let her get any sleep.

Giselle eventually said, “If it isn’t already obvious, we are rather anxious to meet him. We never thought you would take a liking to a man.”

“It would be marvelous to have a new Papa,” Juliet added.

Her throat tightened at hearing her daughters wanted a father. It was the first time in seven years they had ever admitted it. A soft breath escaped Cecilia as she slowly sat up. To be young again and not see any of the consequences of what a man and woman faced was precious. But not in the least bit realistic. “Mr. Levin would be treated differently by those in our circle if he and I become involved. We would all be treated differently if I accepted him into our lives. People, who may have once invited us to gatherings will turn us away and never speak to us again. And what complicates this entire situation all the more is that Giselle has her coming out in two years.”

All three faces flickered as they glanced toward each other with unspoken words.

Giselle sighed. “Do you know why John thought he should marry a Russian actress as opposed to a titled lady? Did he ever tell you?”

Cecilia searched their faces in astonishment. “No. John never—”

“He said after watching you and Father, he wanted more out of life. And when we debut, we will want more, too. We know you gave up a lot for us, and that you did it because you love us, but it’s time, Mama. If you like this Mr. Levin a lot, it’s time. Whilst our friends are dear to us, you are all the more dearer. You deserve to be happy.”

Cecilia blinked rapidly to keep herself from crying. Her son and her girls had convened and were announcing their support. Even knowing Konstantin wasn’t going to be accepted by others.

How she genuinely loved her children for always thinking of her. “Life would be unbearable for all of you if I involve myself with a man outside of our circle,” she softly said. “You do know that, yes?”

“If life truly becomes that unbearable,” Giselle added with the mischievous quirk of her mouth, “we can always move to Russia. None of us would mind. In fact, I hear the Russian men are incredibly dashing. It might prove entertaining to debut in Saint Petersburg at the Russian Court.”

“Or America,” piped one of the other girls.

Cecilia lowered her chin, trying to decipher if they were serious.

“Yes, Mama,” Giselle offered, “we are being very serious. Now call on Mr. Levin. If you keep your visit to a respectable fifteen minutes, just as a means of announcing yourself, I can assure you, no harm will come of it.”

The girl had a point. “So you think I should I call on him? Despite the hour?”

Juliet sighed. “Are we going to have to pull you out by the legs?”

She didn’t need more encouragement than that. Cecilia frantically shoved aside the linens, her heart pounding at the thought of seeing Konstantin again. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. Will someone please pull the bell and have Samantha come up at once?”

They grinned in unison.

Abigail bounced her way over to the calling bell and yanked on the braided cord twice. “Done.”

Despite those glorious little grins, Cecilia pointed at each and every one of them. “Whilst I am vastly, vastly appreciative of all the support, I am asking that you all find your nightgowns and nightcaps and get some sleep. We will reconvene over breakfast in the morning with any news I may or may not have.”

Those grins faded.

Juliet huffed out a breath and stomped a single foot. “You cannot make us suffer like this! We won’t get any sleep! Can we not meet him? Tonight?”

Cecilia tried to retain her motherly façade of being serious even though she was astounded at seeing Juliet stomp her foot. She hadn’t seen that sort of behavior since the girl was six. “You will all meet him only if he chooses to accept the challenge of being part of our lives. Which he hasn’t yet. We did not part on the best of terms, therefore a courtship or marriage may never come of this. I wish to repeat that. I do not want any of you stitching your hopes to this.”

Giselle set the candlestick onto the side table beside the bed. Clasping her hands, she announced in a womanly tone, “I would have to agree with Juliet. Your primrose gown and emeralds will ensure Mr. Levin takes you seriously.”

Panic of the unknown scrambled Cecilia’s innards.

* * *

11:39 p.m.

SHE HAD SPENT SO MUCH time preening over her appearance, she was quite sure she had lost what little remained of her rational mind. The amount of emeralds on her ears and her throat and gloved hands were enough to make any former criminal smile in warm welcome. Her only complaint was that Juliet had dabbed her with a bit too much perfume. Especially given the mugginess of the warm summer night. She had no doubt the man would be able to smell her at the door.

Fortunately, every last neighbor in Belgrave Square had long closed their shutters seeing it was late summer and had all travelled to the country, leaving no prying eyes to question what she was about to do. Though she was more than certain everyone would know about it by the end of the week.

Drawing in a long shaky breath, she let it out and twisted the iron knob for the bell beside the massive double oak doors that were barely lit by the lanterns hanging above the entrance.

She had never called on a man at such an hour before. Not even for fifteen minutes. It was like being back in Russia.

She glanced toward the lit window on the far right of the house and, as all of her daughters had assessed, there was a beautiful, yearning melody floating from the keys of a pianoforte. It paused, and silence now clung to the night air.

She wondered if it had paused because of her.

The doors eventually fanned open and a footman peered out at her from down his bulbous nose. “Might I be of assistance?”

She hurriedly held out the single calling card she had brought with her. “I apologize for the dreadful hour, sir, but I am in desperate need of seeing Mr. Levin. It is of utmost importance. Utmost.” She made sure to emphasize that. “Is he at home?”

The aging butler slipped the card from her fingers with a gloved hand and with a furrowed brow glanced at the card. “Please wait inside so I might inquire for you, Lady Stone.” He gestured toward the marble entryway behind him.

“Thank you.” She hurried in.

The butler placed her card onto a small silver tray that rested on a side table and swept it up with a gloved hand, taking it into one of the candlelit rooms down the corridor.

There was a murmuring exchange of two male voices.

The butler eventually returned and announced, “Please follow, Lady Stone.”

Her heart pounded as she followed him down the corridor. She was ushered into a beautifully decorated receiving room of golden and dark silk hues. The doors closed behind her.

No one was in the grand room.

She swept toward the lamp-lit room that displayed incredibly lavish furnishings of Oriental origins, countless vases and a pianoforte that had five decanters of brandy, two of them already empty as it sat beside a half-empty glass.

She froze, realizing she wasn’t alone in the room after all.

A broad shouldered man wearing a black velvet mask, with a blood-red satin ribbon tied around his head of silvery-steel colored hair slowly rose to his full height from the bench at the keys. He stood motionless, only piercing blue eyes and the lower portion of his mouth and shaven jaw peering through. The visible marring of puckered skin on the side of his aging jaw below the tied mask hinted there was considerable damage to his face.

Her lips parted, not at all expecting what she was looking at.

He leaned toward the glass of brandy set on the pianoforte, taking a leisurely swallow and then set it aside. He made his way toward her. “After glimpsing your calling card, I realized we are neighbors. How is it we have never met, Lady Stone?” His voice was regal and smooth, hinting at a bit of French origin, but his words and his stance appeared to be a touch heavy from the brandy.

She inclined her head, wondering who this man was to Konstantin. “I was away travelling, sir.”

“Sir?” He rumbled out a laugh. “Oh, I like that. Sir.” He paused before her, searching her face with a smirk. “I should have left my card for you when I first arrived to Belgrave Square. ’Twas quite…rude of me. The name is Duc de Andelot. Not sir.” He reached out a large scarred hand and sloppily took up her gloved hand. “I understand you are here to call on Mr. Levin.” He side-kissed the satin of her glove across her knuckles.

A French duc? Was this who Konstantin had rescued? It had to be.

Cecilia watched the man lift her hand to his lips just below that mask and tried not to acknowledge that she could smell the brandy. “Yes, Your Grace. I am here to call on Mr. Levin. I ask that you forgive me for having called you sir. I didn’t realize—”

“Think nothing of it. It amused me.”

“Is Mr. Levin at home?”

“Yes.”

Her breath caught. He was here. Her Konstantin was actually here. She couldn’t believe it. Breathe. She tried to breathe. “Might I see him?”

The duc released her hand and strode back to the pianoforte, his staggered steps clearly affected. Pushing back the tails of his black evening coat with one scarred hand, he seated himself on the bench. “I am afraid he retired for the night,” he finally said. “He asked not to be disturbed.”

“But I have to see him. This cannot wait until morning.” She’d go mad.

The duc leaned forward and taking up one of the crystal decanters from the polished surface of the pianoforte before him, filled his empty glass again. He set aside the decanter. “And how is it that you know Levin, Lady Stone? Are you and he…?”

She tried to keep it simple. And respectable. “He nobly assisted me in Russia. I came to thank him for everything he has done for me.”

“At this hour?” he pressed, arranging himself more comfortably before the pianoforte.

She inwardly cringed. Why did she feel as if she were suddenly rationalizing her behavior to her father? “Well, I…I just returned from Russia several hours ago and simply could not wait until morning to see him. I am afraid he and I did not part on the best of terms.”

He paused. “I think Levin might have mentioned you a few times. But he never gave me a name. Were you the one robbed?”

She blinked. Konstantin had clearly been discussing details about her. “I…yes.”

The duc nodded and started to play a haunting melody, his long fingers moving effortlessly across the keys as if brandy had never even touched his veins. He glanced toward her, still playing and said in a low, provocative tone above the music, “You may go to him.” Still playing, he flicked his attention to her low cleavage. “He is up the main stairs to the left behind the…fifth door on your right. Fifth door. On the right.” He leaned in and away from the piano, giving over to the yearning melody and watched her.

She blinked rapidly. For all she knew, this is how masked French men cornered stupid British women in the middle of the night. “I would rather not wander about a house I do not know. Can he be summoned?”

He still watched her and played. “I am asking you to surprise him. He has been unusually quiet and keeps staring at the inscription of his watch. I imagine it has something to do with you.”

Her very soul squeezed. “How is he?”

The haunting melody suddenly turned into a harried, playful tune. “Better than I.”

This one thought he had a sense of humor. “So he is upstairs?”

That harried tune effortlessly slowed back to the earlier haunting melody. “Yes. Fifth door on the right.”

So much for her respectable fifteen minutes. “Thank you, Your Grace.” She glanced toward the open doorway and lifting her skirts above her satin slippered shoes, darted toward the stairs, half expecting the music to stop.

It didn’t. The duc played.

Skidding out of the room, she turned and seeing the massive staircase, hurried toward it and up the mahogany stairs.

The piano still played.

She darted right and counted out each door of one, two, three, four and…five.

The piano still played.

She drew in a breath and knocked.

The piano stilled right along with her heart. In the distance, she heard a hall clock chime twelve times.

It was destiny calling.

Lesson Twelve

Here come the stars. Earn them.

-The School of Gallantry

A MUFFLED KNOCK RESOUNDED IN the room.

Konstantin tossed the book he’d been reading onto the bed where he lounged, rolled over and grabbed his pocket watch from the nightstand. He flicked the lid open and paused, realizing it was exactly midnight. Jesus. He set his pocket watch back onto the night stand and glanced toward the bedchamber door. Between all the servants and the duc, he could never get any time alone to even think. Not even at midnight.

Not that he was complaining.

“You may enter,” he grudgingly called out in English, sitting up. “I am still awake.”

The door slowly edged open and a tall, womanly figure in a bountiful evening gown lingered in the shadows, the hallway beyond much too dark to unveil a face.

He scrambled off the bed, re-tying his robe around his nudity realizing there was a woman standing in the doorway.

Konstantin blinked in disbelief as the shadow stepped forth with determined grace and poise into his room. The golden glow of candlelight revealed the pale face of a woman he’d dreamed about since leaving Russia.

His heart skidded and he almost choked.

It was Cecilia. Only…a more provocative and dazzling version of her.

By God. She had come to him. At midnight.

Her thick, dark hair had been perfectly swept up into an elegant top knot which had silk ribbons intricately woven through its lush strands. Her pale throat, ears and wrists were showcased by large emeralds that gleamed against the candlelight of the room. And the gown she wore was a stunning golden gown that made that curvaceous body look as if the silk had been painted on in strokes across her shoulders and her waist.

Her dark eyes met his from the other side of the room and softened.

He stiffened and stupidly returned her stare.

She searched his face, lingering on his hair and then the rest of him. “I scarcely recognize you. You look so different.”

For some reason, it didn’t sound like a compliment. He ran a trembling hand across his face. “I…uh…I shaved and I cut my hair.” He dropped his hand to his side, feeling heavy all over.

“You look incredibly handsome.”

How he remained standing was beyond his comprehension. “How did you find me?”

She firmly shut the paneled door with the heel of her delicate satin slipper. “You left an address with my son.”

A breath escaped him. He didn’t think she would want to see him again.

She hesitated and with a slight tremor of her lips softly announced, “No babe.”

His stomach flipped at the mention of a babe. He really hadn’t expected those to be the first words from her lips. A part him was somewhat disappointed there was no babe. Which was idiotic really. He wasn’t ready to be a father at her expense. “Thank you for telling me.” The words were rote. He needed them to be, lest emotion break him.

A faint line of worry appeared between her brows. “Our last moments together should have been different.”

He adjusted his robe to keep his hands steady. “I agree.”

She hesitated. “I took advantage of you, Konstantin. I belittled you by proposing something unworthy of you because I was selfishly trying to keep you in my life in the only way I knew how. Do you forgive me?”

He swallowed back the ache building within him. “There is no need to apologize.”

“When you left the way you did, I knew I done you wrong. I…you were very angry with me, weren’t you?”

“No. I was not.” He smiled brokenly, still in disbelief that she was standing before him. “Far from it. I left because it was the right thing to do for you and your girls. I did not want their good names exposed to harm given how young they are. I did it for you.”

Her lips parted. “So you left that night without a word because…?” A breath escaped her as if she were in awe. She finished closing the space between them, the primrose skirts of her flowing evening gown whispering around her slow movements. She paused before him.

A new scent, one of delicate lilacs bloomed around him, heightening his awareness of her body and its heat. He liked it. A lot. He wet his lips and blurted the first thing that came to mind. “You are wearing a different perfume from the one you wore in Russia. I like it.”

“I was hoping you would.”

They lingered, barely a step away from each other.

She embraced him, her hands clinging to his waist before jumping to his back. Tucking her head against his chest, she said, “I wasn’t ready to say it before but I am ready to say it now. I want to get to know you beyond the two days we spent in each other’s arms. I want to get to know you in a respectable manner. Is that possible?”

He momentarily closed his eyes, savoring her embrace which he missed so much. He dug his fingers into her soft hair, trying to keep his hands from trembling. Knowing he shouldn’t hold her for much longer, he stepped back and away, pulling himself out of her arms. Re-opening his eyes, he took in a calming breath, trying to keep his mind steady. “Cecilia. I did a lot of things in my life that I will never be able to even tell you about. I used to hurt people. Physically. You do know that, yes?”

Her features flickered. “But you don’t hurt people anymore. You are not that man anymore.” She tilted her chin upward, so as to better observe him, her eyes unreadable. “Would I be standing here if I believed you unworthy of a chance to be part of our lives? If anything, I proved I was unworthy of you by letting you go.”

He didn’t need this. He had just learned how to breathe without thinking about her and their nights in Russia. And now she wanted him to be a father to all three of her girls and whatever other children would come of them being together?

Wanting that responsibility was one thing.

Doing it justice was quite the other.

He strode around her, chanting to himself to remain calm and made his way toward the door and opened it. He was determined to do right by her. Determined.

He gripped the handle of the door. “I ask that you give yourself time to think about what you are saying. If you are saying these things because you feel the need to do right by me, know that I am well, Cecilia. I am forging a life for myself and am buying a home next week. It overlooks the park and will prove peaceful. The duc promised to provide formal introductions to men and women of my standing. The nouveau riche, as they are called. I will be accepted by these men and women for what I am. It is a good path for me to take.”

She turned, tears streaking her eyes. “Have you already moved on?”

The raw hurt in her voice and the tears that streaked those beautiful eyes punched him in the gut. It was like she felt for him what he felt for her. A genuine connection and passion. He swallowed. “No. I have not moved on. How…how can I? I simply…” He opened the door wider, trying not to look at her. “Please. Let me do this for you. You do not want or need a man who used to protect all the wrong people.”

“Konstantin—”

“Please let me do the right thing.” His voice was ragged. “Think about your daughters.”

She drifted toward him. “I am ready for a new husband and my girls are ready for a new father.”

“Cecilia—”

“I want you to show my girls what a good man ought to be before they go out into the world and find men of their own. Please say you will call on me tomorrow afternoon. Please. It can be a short visit. Juliet, Giselle and Abigail ardently wish to meet you. You can decide then.”

Her daughters actually knew about him? She had told them about him. Him. As if he were worth knowing about. He envisioned youthful faces gathering around him and eagerly beaming up at him as if he worth the glory of their attention. Despite his past.

Cecilia now lingered before him and the open door. “We don’t have to stay in London. In fact, I do not wish to stay and allow any of us to be subjected to the cruelty of a circle that does not understand genuine people. Let us go to Paris and then back to Russia as a family. Why not show my girls the city you grew up in? It could be a beautiful adventure for all of us.”

Konstantin’s pulse quickened. “You would move your entire family to Russia? For me?”

“Of course,” she softly insisted.

She clearly understood that Russian society was more accepting. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because destiny demands this. Destiny has proven its existence. As you told me it would.”

He searched her face, desperately needing to believe that destiny was with them, not against them. “How has it proven its existence?”

A small smile touched her lips. “My daughters and I live right next door at 30 Belgrave Square. ’Tis overwhelmingly obvious what destiny has in mind for us.”

His lips parted, his hand dropping from the door he held open.

She released a steadying breath, her smile fading. “My girls have announced they are ready for the transition and would like to meet you based off of my affection for you. Would you be willing to agree to a courtship with a possibility toward matrimony if we find we are match?”

He dragged in an astounded breath. She wasn’t just asking to get to know him. She was asking him to be part of her life. “You are asking me to court you?”

“Yes.” She stepped closer. “What is your reply, Mr. Levin?”

He focused hard on pinning his attention to her face. It was the only way he was going to remain calm. This was a moment money could never buy. It was a moment that made him feel like a man. Not a criminal who had stolen a woman’s heart but a real man who had won the affections of a real woman by…being himself.

He adjusted the belt of his robe, feeling awkward. “I, uh…I am without words. Truly. When I am properly dressed and-and…ready, I will call on you tomorrow afternoon. I have some errands to oversee.” Flowers and a ring. He needed a ring. “Expect me at three.”

She hesitated. “So there is no reply?”

He smiled, unable to hold it back. “Tomorrow afternoon I will deliver a reply.”

“Drat you for making me wait.” She sighed. “I suppose I won’t die.”

Her voice clearly indicated she might.

She fingered the pearl button on the inside of her glove and eventually offered, “It appears our respectable fifteen minutes are up. I wish you a good-evening, Mr. Levin. I will see you at three tomorrow afternoon.” She smiled rather superficially, turned and swept quietly down the corridor.

Something told him the woman had been waiting for a kiss. Not just an answer. Which meant, he should do this the way he envisioned. Not the way her circle envisioned.

“Cecilia,” he called out, quickly walking toward her.

She paused and turned, her dark eyes capturing his.

He finished walking toward her and jerked to a halt before her, unable to breathe.

They stared at each other, the corridor pulsing and shrinking to a pinpoint.

“My answer is yes,” he unabashedly announced.

Her lips parted. “Truly?”

“Truly.” He grabbed her waist and yanked her against himself, dragging his hands down the curves of her body. “Now stay an hour so I can keep telling you yes.”

Her gloved hands jumped up to his face. “If I stay an hour,” she whispered, “do you promise to still come over tomorrow at three?”

“With flowers and a ring,” he whispered back.

She grabbed the lapels of his robe and yanked him down toward herself and to his astonishment, tongued him, angling her mouth harder against his own.

He melted against her and feverishly tongued her back.

Their hands were suddenly everywhere, desperately looking for skin to touch.

They stumbled and fell against the nearest wall, kissing and kissing.

He frantically undid his robe in between ragged breaths, revealing his nudity and a more than ready cock. He slid down the length of her body, until he was on his knees before her and jerked up her skirts. Holding the fabric away from his head, he tugged up her chemise. Finally finding her through the sea of fabric, he leaned in, spreading her thighs open and sucked her wet nub.

She staggered against the wall and started sliding down. “Maybe we should…go back into the…room,” she choked out. “Maybe we should…”

He suckled that nub until she could no longer speak and her body trembled against every flick of his tongue. She dug her hands into his hair and slid further down the wall until they were both on the floor and she was beneath him, her hair spilling out of its pins in a cascade.

He flicked his tongue faster.

“Konstantin,” she panted. “I…oh God!” She held his head tighter against her lower half and writhed.

His mouth finally released her nub. “Hold onto it. Not yet.” Moving her head away from the wall, he shoved her gown further above her waist, letting the curtain of fabric fall over to the side of them and grabbing a hold of each leg, he wrapped her legs around his waist.

He drove his length deep into her wetness and choked back, “I am taking you in the corridor where you—” He rolled his hips into her “—proposed to me.”

She clung to him in between gasps.

He rode her into the floor faster, his body desperate for release. “I thought about you every day,” he rasped against her throat.

“I thought about you ever hour,” she rasped back.

He savagely pounded into her, ensuring she felt every moment of his jarring movements. Their moans mingled and grew progressively louder and louder. The rapid thuds of their bodies against the floor echoed as the air grew so unbearably hot. He grunted into her, no longer able to think. He could only feel between uneven, ragged breaths.

She cried out, gripping his shoulders hard.

He cried out, in turn, and let all of his pleasure spiral into one long guttural shout he couldn’t hold. He spilled everything into her, his core and his entire body shuddering and pulsing. He pressed himself against her, catching his breaths.

“Cecilia.” He cradled her, still in disbelief that she was back in his life and in his arms.

The movement of a shadow from down the corridor made him freeze.

The duc pushed away from the far wall he was leaning against in the shadows outside the candlelight, then turned and quietly walked in the opposite direction, the swaying ribbon of the mask dangling from his hand. He disappeared into a room and closed the door.

Konstantin swallowed, knowing the man had been watching. He was going to bloody cut the man’s heart out. Coming upon them accidentally and making a dash was one thing. Staying to leisurely watch was quite another.

Konstantin quickly pulled out of Cecilia and scrambled to yank her skirts back down, while arranging his own robe. He probably shouldn’t tell Cecilia. He skimmed her beautiful face with quaking hands, trying to focus on her and only her.

Her hands slid up his robed shoulders. “I adore you.”

He smiled. “And I you.” He grabbed Cecilia’s face and kissed her hard before releasing her lips and whispering, “I need you to go. ’Tis late. I will call on you tomorrow at three. I cannot wait to meet your girls.”

She kissed his lips one last time. “We will be waiting.”

He pushed himself up off the floor, ensuring his robe was in place and reached down and swept her back onto her feet. He steadied her and smoothed back long curls that had fallen from its pins. “Did you get all dressed up for me?”

She smiled and eased away. “I think you know the answer to that. I had better go, Mr. Levin. Before I stay.” She blew him a kiss with a pucker of full lips.

He grabbed at the air before him and fisting the imaginary kiss she bestowed him, he thudded it against his chest. “I will keep it here. Always. Let me know when you want it back.”

Her smile broadened as she searched his face. “Don’t ever give it back. It’s yours.” Gathering her skirts, she glanced back at him one last time and disappeared down the main stairwell.

When everything had grown quiet and he knew she was gone, Konstantin let out a riled breath, adjusted the belt on his robe and stalked straight toward the duc’s bedchamber that was down a few doors. He wasn’t letting this flit over his shoulder. If the man could openly watch him and Cecilia have sex, the man was capable of anything.

Coming to a quick halt before the closed door, Konstantin used his bare foot to bang against the door. “Andelot?” The son of a bitch. “Open this door!”

Several drawers slammed shut and the door swung open.

The mask was back on. It was crooked. The holes barely aligned.

Konstantin wanted to smack that crooked mask off that face. “How long were you standing against that wall watching us?” he demanded.

The duc leaned heavily against the frame of the door. The heavy scent of brandy clung to the air. “Long enough. Why?”

The man was drunk. But of course. “Why?” Konstantin echoed. “I will tell you why. Any normal man, be he slathered up with brandy or not, would have darted out of sight and given us privacy. Any normal man would not have stayed and taken off his mask so he could watch.”

“Since when did I ever imply I was…normal?” Andelot sighed, blowing out a breath of brandy. “When you get to be a man my age, Levin, you find yourself…well…watching people for reasons that have nothing to do with sex. I have seen it all. What you and she did was…tame. Not at all what I like or what I would do with a woman.” The duc reached out and sloppily patted him on the cheek like a father would a son, the man’s signet ring nudging Konstantin’s skin. “I am happy for you. If you have a son from it, name the boy after me given I was there to see it. Now let me sleep. I am still recovering from Thérèse.” The duc pushed away from the door, staggering and slammed the door.

Konstantin blinked. Why the hell did he feel sorry for a man who had just watched him have sex with his future wife? There had to be something wrong with him.

“When are you getting married?” the duc called through the door.

“I do not know quite yet. She and I are progressing into a courtship to ensure we are a match.”

The door rattled. “To hell with courtship, boy. Courtship is…for the devil. It would only give her a chance to find someone else. You either know you want her to be the mother of all your children or you do not know. Which is it?” he slurred.

Konstantin sighed. “I suggest you sleep off the brandy.”

“Sleep, sleep. Brandy, brandy. Cease being rude. You Russians are rude. I am not done speaking to you. Did I say I was done?”

Konstantin rolled his eyes. “Be sure to let me know when you are.”

“Are you buying her a courtship ring? Is that the plan?”

Why were they talking through the door? “Yes, I intend to buy one. Tomorrow.”

Heavy steps from within the room resounded and several drawers opened and then closed, some of them being slammed shut. “Levin?”

“Yes?”

“Are you still there?”

The man was beyond soused. “Yes. Yes, I am.” He didn’t know why he was but he was.

The door opened and the duc grabbed Konstantin’s hand and deposited a small gold ring with a large garnet. “Take it. I have held onto it for…too long. Thérèse never accepted my proposal when we were younger. And given that she is engaged to another she never will.”

Konstantin’s heart constricted as the weight of that ring sat heavy in his hand. That garnet ring represented the man’s dreams. Dreams that were not his to take. Dreams that were not his to even hold.

Grabbing that scarred hand, Konstantin pressed the ring back into it hard, closing that hand around it. He shook it and leaned in to the duc. “I appreciate your generosity, but this ring represents what is yours. Not mine, but yours. Fight for her. Win her back. I know you can.”

The duc glanced up at him through his own haze. “How do you know I can?”

Konstantin shook that hand one last time in assurance. “Destiny. We Russians know these things.”

* * *

3:07 p.m.

The Stone residence

CECILIA NERVOUSLY GLANCED TOWARD THE sunlit parlor window from where she sat and arranged her lace morning gown for the third time. It was like waiting for the King to call.

Giselle, Juliet and Abigail primly sat elbow to elbow on the upholstered couch, their dark pinned curls piled in ringlets and white satin matching ribbons they had all insisted on. Whilst Juliet and Abigail both wore white dresses and white slippers, as was proper given their age, Giselle, who sat between them, opted for a regale pale blue and red satin slippers.

Juliet pressed her gloved hands together tighter. “He is seven minutes late, Mama.”

Giselle perused the French clock on the marble mantelpiece of the hearth that was a few feet away from where they sat. “A gentleman is supposed to be aware of the time.”

Abigail picked at the fabric of her cotton gown. “I think he realized the amount of responsibility involved and left for Russia.”

A breath escaped Cecilia. “Cease fussing. Just because he is a few minutes later doesn’t mean he left for Russia. I’m quite certain he—”

The calling bell chimed through the corridor announcing a visitor.

They all jumped to their feet as the butler strode toward the door.

Abigail and Juliet grabbed each other’s arms.

Giselle frantically smoothed her skirts.

While Cecilia felt her entire face grow hot remembering what she and Konstantin had done last night against a wall and then the floor. She needed a glass of wine. Desperately.

Booted steps approached. The butler paused in the doorway and announced, “Lord Gunther is calling, Lady Stone. Are you receiving?”

Cecilia felt all of the blood leave her head. It was her cousin. The one whose father used to humiliate her parents when she and her family had been dependent on Lord Gunther’s family for finances. Before Cecilia married well and ended her cousin’s advances by providing her parents with everything herself. In their youth, Gunther had repeatedly tried to do more than kiss her. He eventually married and had children of his own and kept to himself, but whenever their paths crossed, she always panicked and ensured she was never alone. She didn’t trust him.

Cecilia glanced toward her daughters, who gaped at her wide-eyed.

They knew the story about her cousin all too well.

She set her chin. “I am not receiving anyone but Mr. Levin. Please turn him away.”

“Yes, my lady.” The butler inclined his head and departed to dismiss their unannounced guest.

Giselle hurried over to Cecilia and whispered, “He called several times and kept asking to see you. The governess was quite annoyed with him given he kept asking about your return. He hasn’t associated with us before. So why now? Knowing how he used to treat you in your youth, his intentions scare me, Mama.”

Cecilia let out a shaky breath knowing it. “His intentions have no bearing on us. He will be turned away every time.”

A shout from the butler caused them all to pause.

Lord Gunther walked into the room, his grey satin trimmed morning coat announcing the extravagance that had always followed the man. His greying, blond hair was meticulously brushed and parted.

He’d worn his hair the same since 1808.

Hazel eyes briefly met her gaze. He inclined his head. “You look well for yourself, cousin.” Turning to the girls, he smiled and lowered his shaven chin against his silk cravat. “I am certain you are all pleased to have your mother return from her travels abroad after so many months away.”

Cecilia tried not to panic knowing he was in her house and talking to her girls. She grabbed up a vase from a side table and made her way toward him. “Gunther, I ask that you not speak to my girls. Get out.” She held up the vase in warning.

He turned toward her and held out a hand toward the vase. “Please. I need to speak to you.”

Cecilia felt her throat tighten, remembering all too well how her poor papa would quietly accept funds from Gunther’s balding father who would casually point to items in their home and ask that it be taken in return for the funds received. And how Gunther himself, at eighteen, would corner her alone at fifteen and demand ‘kisses’ and other physical ‘favors’ as if it were his right. Merely because his father assisted in paying their debts. That was the sort of family they were. The Gunthers had always believed in making everyone crawl. Because of them, she had stupidly given up all of her dreams in her youth to pursue the wrong ones: financial ones.

The calling bell rang.

Her daughters’ faces flickered in panic.

Cecilia, however, felt a lethal calm embrace her knowing it was Konstantin. It was like he was destined to be in her life to protect her and her girls. She lowered the vase and set it aside.

Running steps approached and the butler appeared again. “Mr. Levin is calling, Lady Stone. Shall I call for the footmen and escort Lord Gunther out?”

The footmen didn’t have the experience Konstantin did. “No. That won’t be necessary, Stanley. If Lord Gunther does not leave, Mr. Levin will escort him out.”

Lord Gunther paused, his brows flickering. “Who is Mr. Levin?”

Cecilia didn’t move. “A man you will regret meeting. I am not the fifteen-year- old girl you used to corner. Nor will I be intimidated in my own home.”

His brows came together. “I know you have always thought the worst of me, and rightfully so, but I am not that boy anymore. I need to speak to you alone, Cecilia. Please.”

Giselle, Juliet and Abigail quickly rounded toward Cecilia and stood between them, announcing that they weren’t leaving the room.

Cecilia stepped around them, refusing to let her girls anywhere near him. “You have long lost the privilege of my trust.”

Gunther blinked rapidly. “I am calling you for reasons outside my own pride. I would not be here otherwise. I know how you despise me.”

She paused, sensing his tone was genuine. “Why are you here?”

“Can I speak to you alone?” he pressed.

She shook her head, her skin crawling at remembering the way he always tried to touch her in their youth. “No.”

He edged toward her. “I am not going to touch you! I am a married man. A happily married man, I assure you.”

Her chest heaved. She couldn’t trust him. She couldn’t. “Leave.”

Within moments, Konstantin strode in, wearing an expensive-looking beige morning coat and matching trousers, carrying two large wicker baskets in each grey-gloved hand. One basket was filled with orchids and the other was filled with a variety of small parcels carefully tied with bright pink ribbons. His black hair was dashingly swept back with tonic and his rugged shaven face as cheerful as his green eyes were well-amused and bright.

He paused at seeing Lord Gunther, his features tightening. He eyed the girls and then Cecilia. “Is everything all right?” His voice indicated he knew it wasn’t.

Cecilia almost felt faint at seeing him. “Mr. Levin, would you please escort Lord Gunther out? He is not welcome here.” Her voice trembled, despite her trying to remain calm. She couldn’t help it. There were too many years of angst buried within her. Every time she saw Gunther, she saw herself at fifteen, shoving away unwanted hands.

Konstantin slowly set both baskets he was holding onto the floor, his demeanor and gaze darkening. He straightened to his full height. “Lord Gunther. I ask that you follow me out.”

Gunther turned toward Konstantin. “I only wish to speak to her.”

Konstantin removed his coat and tossed it to the floor, his gaze never once leaving her cousin. “We are taking this outside.” His voice was ragged.

Oh, Lord. Cecilia held out a quick hand, realizing Konstantin intended to fight him. “No, Konstantin. Don’t hurt him. He isn’t worth your good name. I just want him to leave.”

Konstantin shifted his jaw. “If that is what you want.” He stalked toward Gunther. “You heard her. You need to leave. Now.”

Gunther edged back and held up both hands. He slowly rounded Konstantin and made his way toward the door of the receiving room. He paused and turned back to Cecilia. Letting out a long breath, he finally said, “I need two thousand pounds. Or my wife and children go with me to debtor’s prison. I care nothing about myself, but I cannot have them reduced to such a hardship. I have sold everything I could. I would not have come here but my wife insisted given your vast donations to charities that you would show us kindness.”

Cecilia swallowed. She had met the man’s wife once. A quiet woman who smiled at everything. Although she despised Gunther, and nothing would ever change that, she was not about to punish the woman or Gunther’s children for it. “I will ensure your debts are paid in full. All I ask is that you not call on me again.”

Gunther searched her face, his eyes suddenly streaked with tears. “I regret hurting you. I really do. I was young and didn’t know how to go about showing my affection. I’m sorry. Truly. It is not who I am anymore. It isn’t.”

It was the only apology she had ever received from him. And it was enough. “I will send the money to your wife. It will be delivered into her hands.”

Konstantin quickly made his way to Gunther. “I will pay for it.”

Cecilia almost cried.

Gunther sniffed. “Thank you for showing kindness. I…thank you.” He disappeared down the corridor.

Konstantin disappeared after him.

Cecilia held her breath, trying to listen. Low voices were exchanged but nothing more.

The door eventually closed and Konstantin re-appeared. He held Cecilia’s gaze for a moment. “He knows not to call on you again.”

She half-nodded.

Coming up to her, he quickly tugged her toward himself, setting her head against his chest with a large gloved hand. “Are you all right?” he asked against her hair. “Please tell me you are.”

Letting out a long breath, she leaned against him heavily and pushed away all thoughts of her cousin. She wasn’t about to let anything take this moment away from her. A moment of knowing that this man, this beautiful man was hers. All hers. “Yes,” she murmured against him. “Thank you.”

“Was he the cousin you told me about in Russia?”

He remembered. “Yes.” She pulled away from his embrace and forced a smile. “He appears to be a different man. Which I am glad for.” She turned and gestured toward her three girls who lingered in stunned silence. “Konstantin, I would like for you to meet Abigail, Juliet and Giselle. John sends his apologies for not being here. He had some estate business to tend to but promised to join us at supper which I am inviting you to. Can you join us at seven o’clock tonight?”

Konstantin nodded. “I will be there.” He quickly walked back to the doorway and swiped up the two baskets he had earlier set aside. Turning back, he came to a halt before her girls, his gaze jumping from face to face. “Saint Peter. They all look like you, Cecilia. Every last one of them.”

A much needed laugh escaped Cecilia. “The poor things.”

Giselle set her chin. “You handled Lord Gunther beautifully, Mr. Levin. I was impressed you didn’t feel the need to showcase your fists.”

Konstantin sighed. “I have showcased them enough in my life.”

Juliet bit her lip and peered toward the large basket filled with parcels. “Is that for us?”

Abigail kicked out a foot toward Juliet. “Cease being rude. We almost lost our lives and all you can think of is whether those parcels are for us?”

Konstantin smiled, held out the basket filled with well over ten small parcels and leaned toward them, lowering his voice. “These are actually all for you. It is the reason why I am late.”

Juliet side-glanced at her sister.

Konstantin held out the basket and waggled its weight playfully toward each of them. “Would one of you ladies care to take this basket so I can deliver the orchids to your mother?”

Juliet popped out her arms. “I will take it!”

“Yes, thank you!” Abigail and Giselle chimed in unison.

All three then hurriedly took the basket and set it on the couch. Turning their backs to Mr. Levin, they commenced rummaging through it, excitedly pointing out that their names were on them.

Konstantin swiveled on his booted heel toward Cecilia and quirked a brow, holding up the basket of orchids. “Are you supposed to come over here? Or am I supposed to come over there? How do respectable people do this?”

Cecilia felt as if she might burst knowing this man was hers. She gathered her skirts and swept toward him, trying to create the illusion she was as regal as he made her feel. “Respectable people always meet halfway, Mr. Levin.”

He held her gaze and rounded toward her.

They paused before each other.

He slowly turned the basket toward her, revealing an oval emerald ring carefully strung to one of the center orchids. He intently searched her face. “I tried to match the color of the emerald set you wore last night.”

Cecilia pressed a hand to her throat and leaned in. “Konstantin. It’s beautiful.”

The girls paused and frantically abandoned their gifts. One by one, they gathered around them, peering at the orchid display and the ring.

Konstantin leaned in, setting his shaven chin on the handle of the basket. “We have an audience.”

She smiled. “I noticed.” She reached out and delicately unbound the satin ribbon strung to the white orchid. She slipped the ring from the ribbon and held out the ring to her daughters so they could all admire the glint of the oval emerald. It was cut beautifully.

Cecilia breathed out, “I refuse to believe this is happening.”

He leaned in. “If you feel your knees getting weak, let me know.”

Her knees wobbled. “They feel weak.”

All three girls and Konstantin grabbed for her.

She let out a laugh. “They don’t feel that weak.”

Konstantin quickly set down the basket at their feet. Taking the ring and her left hand, he lowered both so everyone could see and slipped the ring onto her finger. Glancing toward each of the girls, he asked, “May I have your permission, ladies, to court this amazing woman until she is ready to honor me with more?”

Cecilia swallowed. He wasn’t asking her. He was asking her girls.

Abigail and Juliet beamed up at Konstantin as Giselle gushed, “We would be honored, Mr. Levin. All we ask is that you make her smile every day.”

Overwhelmed, a tear unexpectedly spilled forth, trailing down her cheek.

Konstantin paused. His voice softened. “Cecilia.”

Everyone looked at her.

She frantically brushed away the tear. “’Tis happiness, I assure you.”

Konstantin edged toward her and grabbed both of her hands, squeezing them hard.

Cecilia felt as if her girls were meeting the father they should have had all along.

Lesson Thirteen

Embrace your new life knowing you have earned it.

-The School of Gallantry

A year and a half later

Saint Petersburg, Russia

CECILIA SMOOTHED THE PUDGY CHEEK of little Gérard who was looking up at her with green eyes and babbling, “Da, da, da.” She kissed his small head of soft, curling dark hair and switched him to her other hip, adjusting his white cotton ensemble.

They were going to be late.

She quickly rounded the last corner of the lavish house Konstantin had bought for them that overlooked the Neva River, and followed the giggling voices of her girls. She eventually found Giselle, Juliet and Abigail gathered around Konstantin.

Konstantin was leisurely stretched out on a chaise lounge with his leather boots crossed over his ankles. He angled a Russian leather-bound book toward himself and casually announced in English, “That was rather good, Juliet. Now Giselle, I ask that you say something about the Emperor in Russian.”

Giselle smoothed her pale blue gown, glanced up toward the ceiling and pertly recited in broken Russian, “The Emperor is very well known for…passing idiotic laws that ought to be…castrated.”

Konstantin snorted and scrambled to sit up on the chaise, saying in English, “Whilst that was incredibly good, Giselle, and I do mean that, the last word was supposed to be eliminated. Not castrated. Never use the word castration around Russian men. Unless you want them to panic.”

Cecilia let out a laugh. Bless the man’s daily lessons with the girls. “I hate to interrupt yet another marvelous lesson, but we are late for our picnic out in the country. Two of our Russian neighbors will be joining us and therefore we cannot be rude and let them wait. The carriage and our food and baskets have already been sitting for well over twenty minutes.”

Abigail and Juliet jumped up. Grabbing at each other’s arms, to keep the other from getting ahead, they darted out of the room, slippered feet scrambling.

In between the scrambling, Juliet announced, “This time, I get the seat by Papa.”

Abigail argued back. “But you always sit by Papa.”

“That is because I am his favorite.”

“You are not.”

Cecilia bit back a smile and called out, “Cease needlessly arguing. There are no favorites in this house!”

“Quite right, Mama. Quite right.” Giselle stood and sashayed past Cecilia in the only way an almost eighteen-year-old could. “Did you hear me speak? I am really quite good. My Russian is getting so good, in fact, I’ll be able to marry any Russian man I want.”

Cecilia rolled her eyes and gestured toward the door. “In the meantime, we have a picnic. Try not to be late.”

Giselle giggled, bit her lip, gathered her skirts and darted out of the room.

Cecilia turned toward Konstantin and sighed. “The day hasn’t even started and yet I am exhausted. Thoroughly exhausted.”

Konstantin tossed the book he was holding onto the chaise and jumped to his feet. Adjusting his grey morning coat, he strode over. “And yet you keep asking me for another babe? I keep telling you, it is not wise for us to be trying so soon. It has only been six months.”

“I am past forty,” she argued. “If we don’t have the last one now, it will never happen.”

“I can assure you, it will happen. All we have to do is try at midnight and you are done.”

She snorted. “Midnight can only help a woman my age so much.”

“Ba, ba…ba,” Gérard offered, waving about a frantic hand.

Konstantin grinned and reached out and took Gérard from her arms, nuzzling the boy’s head. “Yes. Exactly. You tell her. You tell her I refuse to exhaust her.”

Cecilia stood up on toes and kissed Konstantin’s cheek soundly. “Can we not try for another babe? Please? I am done waiting. You are being needlessly stubborn.”

Using Gérard’s pudgy little hand, Konstantin pointed at her accusingly. “You are not listening to what I said.”

She sighed, knowing there was no use arguing with him about it. Drat him. “We have to go. The girls are waiting.”

“Are you angry with me?”

“A little.”

“I cannot have that. Come here.” He leaned down captured her lips, lingering.

She closed her eyes, melting into that kiss in the way she always did.

A small hand frantically patted its way toward her breast and tugged on her décolletage.

A bubble of a laugh escaped her as she broke away and re-opened her eyes. Whilst she was glad she didn’t hire a wet nurse, as ladies in her circle always did, the duty of feeding sometimes came at the most inconvenient times. “Apparently, Gérard is hungry.” She wagged her hands toward him. “Give him here. I will feed him before we leave.”

Konstantin glanced down at their boy and tsked. “So much for our picnic. He is making his own.” Depositing Gérard into her arms, he searched her face. “You have not had your Russian lesson today.”

“You know how utterly hopeless I am at Russian. I try but nothing ever comes of it.”

“That is because you are not practicing. Vot moe serdtse. Ono polno lubvi.” He searched her face again. “Now translate.”

She quirked a brow. “I never heard that one before. How can I translate?”

He shifted toward her. “Here is my heart. It is full of love.” He smiled boyishly. “Now say it back to me in Russian.”

She rolled her eyes. “I can’t even remember the first word. But I do love you. In case you were wondering.”

“I was wondering. And I genuinely think more lessons are in order.”

She laughed. “I look forward to learning the entire Russian alphabet. But in the meantime, tell the girls I need a few minutes to feed Gérard. Now off with you.”

He smiled, inclined his head and adjusted his coat, striding toward the doorway. Pulling out his watch, he checked the time and paused. His smile faded.

She seated herself in a chair and unpinned the front of her gown, letting Gérard latch onto her breast. “What is it?”

He glanced back at her, his green eyes capturing hers. He wagged the watch at her, rattling the silver chain attached to his pocket. “My watch ceased ticking. Again. It stopped at the hour of twelve. Again. It never wants to go past the hour.”

She glanced up. “Did you not have it fixed by a clockmaker a week ago?”

“Yes. That makes for nine times I have taken it in the past few weeks. Nine.”

She cradled Gérard. “It is rather old. I suggest you retire Miss Bane’s watch into a glass case we can display it as a family heirloom.”

“I think I will have to.” After a long moment, he turned back toward her and observed her feeding Gérard. He eventually said, “I think Miss Bane is telling us it’s time for another baby. What do you think?”

Wonders never ceased. He was finally saying yes to another baby.

THE END

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ONCE UPON A DUKE

A Duke’s Club Novel

By Eva Devon

Bard Productions

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the work of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

Once Upon A Duke

Copyright © 2014 by Maire Creegan

This uncorrected Advance Reader Copy is the property of the author. All rights reserved. No redistribution is authorized.

All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

For more information: evadevonauthor@gmail.com

For my son.

The Joy you bring me is beyond words.

Chapter 1

London

IT IS AN ACCEPTED FACT that a young widow, even a decidedly proper one, should not—absolutely not—knock on an infamous bachelor’s door. For such shocking action might result in the permanent eviction of said young widow from the society of all but Yorkshire sheepherders. Even so, Kathryn Darrell had decided that an entire life already spent rusticating in the country was significant reason to cause the largest scandal the Season had ever seen and she was going to do it with more panache than any other lady who’d launched herself into sin. So, without allowing herself to think twice, she lifted her chin and rapped on the door of Number Six Belgrave Square.

Kate drew in a slow, calming breath. She had every right to feel uneasy. Spending months planning her own debauchery was one thing; executing it was quite another. She resisted the urge to glance back at her footman, Gregory, who waited with the coach. Instead, she kept her gaze firmly upon the dark blue door. The particularly brawny servant would only be a shout away if she needed.

While she intended to be bold, she was no fool. She’d more than enough experience with foolishness. And everything was running in perfect accordance to her plans. Plans she’d been forming for months. She’d set an appointment under the anonymous name of one Mr. Braithwait. Fortunately, nothing interfered with her scheduled drive to the appointment. Now, she was about to set sights on the handsome butler who would lead her up to his far more handsome master. She would finally step into a world distant from unkindness and castigation.

Footsteps echoed on the other side of the door. She stared at the beautifully carved double blue doors as if she could see who was on the other side.

A shattering crash echoed somewhere overhead, and just as she looked up to the first floor, the door swung open, exposing a tall rectangle of candle glow and the silhouette of a squat man.

Kate jerked her gaze back to the butler in the doorway and blinked. Handsome the man was not. Crusty. It was the only word that came to mind.

He peered at her silently. Tufts of his eyebrows jutted out over his myopic blue eyes. He blinked.

Kate waited, hoping to God he would say something. She doubted the words ‘I’ve come to bed your master’ would gain her admittance into the house, and suddenly she found that her lips were rather reluctant to carry out her plan. Kate mustered her most winning grin, the grin she used to coax rectors, stubborn sheep herders, and too tightly laced curmudgeons of both the male and female variety. “I’ve come to see His Grace.”

The butler coughed lightly, bringing his gloved hand to his lips. “No.”

Kate pulled back her chin before she could stick it too far forward, a terrible habit she’d never broken. “No, sir?”

“No, miss.”

“But—” Well, what a dratted nuisance! Couldn’t the fellow just let her in? What possible excuse could she give to gain admittance to the abode of her impending debauchment? “But I have an appointment!”

He eyed her up and down and sniffed. “Do you indeed?”

Kate nodded emphatically. “Braithwait.”

The butler stared blankly at her. “Mr. Braithwait?”

“Err.” She couldn’t exactly make a private appointment for a woman, now could she? “Why, yes.”

“I guarantee you are not a Mister and even if you were—” A thundering crash cut the butler off. The old man sighed and wiped a hand over his wrinkled face.

Kate swung her gaze to the empty hall behind the old man. This was her chance!

Without thinking, Kate sucked in a breath and darted past the rickety man. If she was going to cause a bloody scandal, she might as well get on with the preliminaries and seize fate with both hands. . . or as the case might be, her fleet feet.

“Madam!” The butler shouted after her.

Kate kept running, her slippers sliding over the marble floor. A sense of panic and sheer glee at her cheekiness washed over her. She was breaking rules! More than she could count!

“Madam!”

Something yanked at Kate’s throat, bringing her to a quick halt. Her feet danced to keep her from falling.

She turned and spotted the butler with a fistful of her green cloak. She smiled waveringly at him, tempted to jerk the fabric away and make a mad dash for the sprawling marble stairs. But she was afraid if she did so, the old man would totter and splinter a hip.

The butler stuttered, his lips quivering. “Bugger it! Bl—” His fingers twitched around her cloak as he caught himself before uttering another foul oath. “Beg your pardon,” he wheezed.

After a few harrumphs, the butler narrowed his eyes and dropped the length of her cloak to the floor. “What on earth could warrant such a nice young lady as yourself to pretend to be a gentleman? And then fly into His Grace’s house like a filly on race day?”

Kate’s cheeks flushed, and her throat tightened. “I’ve a strong desire to make the duke’s acquaintance.”

“In private?”

Kate nibbled on her lip. Well, she was in for a penny she might as well go in for the pound. “Yes. . . In private.”

He shook his head, his white wig sliding slightly to the right. “Been reading the gossip sheets have you?”

She smiled tightly, hardly believing she was discussing this with the old man. Any of the elders in Shropshire would have keeled over at the very idea. “He is in the paper frequently,” she pointed out.

The butler snorted. “Blasted Snodgrass. Duke of Debauchery indeed. Codswallop.”

Kate laughed nervously. “If the gossip is true, I’d prefer you didn’t throw me out.”

The butler arched a shaggy brow and looked her up and down with a new degree of annoyance. “I see.” He gazed up at the frescoed ceiling and paused. His stiff shoulders, which were clad in green livery, relaxed. As if he could actually see something through the intricately painted ceiling, he murmured, “Perhaps you’ll do.”

Kate stared up, hoping for some illumination as to what she might do for, but the ceiling remained just that, a ceiling, and a decidedly suspicious feeling twisted up her already knotted stomach.

He strode in the calm manner of butlers to the curved stairs. “Follow me.”

Kate glanced back at the door, giving thought to the safety of her carriage and her footman. No. She’d come too far to turn tail and run now, but she certainly hadn’t envisioned the evening including such an odd interlude with the butler.

Oh, no. She had envisioned silks, velvets and a splendid entrance through the gateway of pleasure. This felt like an admittance to a house built for the batty.

Regardless, Kate turned on her heel and summoned a resolve which had been drummed into her since before she could tie her own laces. The same resolve which in the end landed her in a bad marriage. Still, she wasn’t about to abandon it on the eve of untold rapture.

She followed the shuffling pace of the butler up the luxuriously carpeted staircase. Paintings of grand military exploits, some dating back to William the Bastard, hung upon the gold brocaded walls. The duke’s town home was quiet elegance, and its beauty was definitely appealing.

When they reached the first landing, the butler turned down the hall to the right toward the earlier crashing.

The loud noise had diminished, but Kate couldn’t ignore the fact that a rather deep voice was grumbling through the silk covered walls.

The grumbling turned into shouts as they walked slowly down the hall. She frowned. Had she somehow mistaken the address? The paper had never mentioned the duke kept a lunatic in his abode. Considering all she’d read of the carefree, wild, war hero she’d expected the epitome of decadence. Not shouting and crashing.

As they neared the end of the hall, the butler slowed. He eased his way up to the last door, stretched out his hand and hesitated. He glanced back over his shoulder and whispered, “You’re certain?”

If her stomach had been a bit flighty before it turned positively riotous. Although now racked entirely by curiosity, she nodded sharply.

The butler knocked soundly. “Your Grace?”

There was a long pause then a voice straight out of the rumbling depths of Hell growled, “Sod off, Grieves.”

The butler pressed his hand to his cravat.

Kate dug her fingertips into her palms. Had that been him? Truly? A terrifying and confusing thrill ran straight down her spine and lingered right between her thighs. How could a voice be so shocking?

The infamous Duke of Debauchery sounded like he might tear his door down to throttle his own butler for disturbing him. Then again, he did also sport the rather dangerous moniker Duke of Death for his military exploits and victories on the dueling field. From Snodgrass’ tidbits, it seemed the man had a predilection for defying death. Upon reflection, perhaps such information should have deterred her from popping into his abode.

“I have something for you,” the butler said calmly, though his voice was somewhat higher in tone than before.

Something? Kate shifted uncomfortably, still trying to ignore the headiness of the duke’s voice. What the deuce? She was not and never had been a something. For seven and twenty years, she’d plodded along, following her father’s rules and then her husband’s rules. Upon finally gaining her freedom from both, she’d decided to never follow such strictures again. Though, her Aunt Gemima had warned her about the untimely consequences of impulsive behavior. She’d scoffed then, but standing in the duke’s hallway, she was beginning to think the old girl might have been right.

“What something?” The duke’s voice was more of a rough purr now.

“A human sacrifice.”

A what? Kate jerked back, blinking at the sudden notion of herself tied to a pole for the delectation of the man behind the door.

“Of the female variety,” the butler glibly added.

“Well, then, send her in.” The voice was careless and hypnotic at once.

Kate patted her little bonnet as if the thing might keep her brain from tumbling out of her astonished head. She wasn’t sure how the evening had swerved so far from her imaginings, but on the positive side—if there was a positive side—she was about to meet the man she’d been dreaming about for weeks now. Now, one could only hope he didn’t turn out to be an utter nightmare.

The door swung open and the butler stepped aside.

She swallowed and stared at the open space.

“Don’t linger,” the duke barked. “Come in or get out.”

The direct challenge hung in the air like a gauntlet being thrown down between two knights, and Kate was never one to back down from a challenge. Squaring her shoulders, she nodded at the butler then stepped right through the doorway and towards her own highly anticipated damnation.

* * *

RYDER BLAKE, THE ELEVENTH DUKE Of Darkwell, didn’t even blink as his next morsel walked through the door. Instead, he lifted his cigar to his lips, ignored the books and a few Grecian urns he’d flung to the floor, and took a long pull. He allowed the aromatic smoke to fill his mouth as he glanced over the latest variety in a long line of women who had come to him seeking sexual freedom.

This one was different. He didn’t even need to look at her to know that. Usually, when he gave order to Grieves he was to remain undisturbed, the butler obeyed to the letter. Even if that meant no one was admitted to the house for days. Ryder blew out the smoke and the bad taste the thought gave him.

He had to admit there was nothing remarkable about her. Where some women were soufflés, she was a muffin. And from the firm line of her chin, perhaps a rather tart one.

Her bonnet, plain grey, perched on top of her blonde hair shadowed her pale skin and blue grey eyes. Though she had high cheekbones, her face lacked the elegance of nobility, and her lower lip was far too full. He dropped his gaze to her well-formed but average breasts and then down to her narrow waist. The curve of her hip was a mystery, hidden beneath the surprisingly small skirt given the fashion of the day.

Yes. She was average and in every way unremarkable except for the sheer determination and unmistakable intelligence glowing in her stormy eyes. A smile, a rarity for him, pulled at his lips. He had no doubt that those plain blue-grey eyes could riot into a tempest that would ignite the coldest of blood.

And she had come to him, the coldest of them all.

“So, my dear, you’ve come to the Duke of Debauchery, have you?” he drawled, giving her a mock bow, the smoke from his cigar swirling about his hand.

She frowned, a spark lighting her eyes. “When you put it like that, it certainly sounds...”

Lifting the cigar to his lips he drew in another long draw of the heady smoke, then tilted his head to the side, curious to see if she would prove to be just like the rest of the silly women who came to him. “Dramatic?” he asked, smoke whispering from his lips.

“Boring, actually.” She shifted on her slippered feet and smiled ruefully. “I must confess I expected a more enticing introduction.”

Ryder stared at her for a moment then laughed. The deep wave of sound started in his stomach and poured from his lips. “Well, good. At least you’re not a soft bit of lace.”

She smiled, even though her brows drew together in confusion. “That I am not.”

“No sherry for you then?” He crossed to the gold and black sideboard table standing near the fire.

“Brandy.”

Ryder glanced back over his shoulder. She smiled at him. He nodded. “Certainly.”

The woman was clearly unlike any of the others who had come to him. Of that, he was now most certain. She had no guile or artifice, and he had the terrible feeling that if he asked her a question she would give him an honest, unguarded answer. This didn’t bode well for the evening. For the whole truth and honesty game was not for him. He much preferred the veil of lies that men and women wove to keep each other at a distance.

He grasped the cool decanter and poured the amber liquid into two crystal snifters. If she’d been one of the other wool-headed young women or bored wives, he would have sat and ordered her to come to him. She certainly didn’t meet his usual requirements, not having any of the self-obsession he usually preferred in the women he allowed into his bed. Self-obsessed women he found, never became obsessed. Thus, he could boot them out the door with a bauble and a smile.

But there was something raw and innocent about her that had more fire than the most practiced of women. He lowered his gaze to her left hand. No ring. Nor did there appear to be a line about the finger which might indicate its temporary removal for a romp in his bed.

She was of an age to be married at least a few years over and yet, she was not. Was she a virgin? As he lifted his gaze back to her face, he realized it didn’t matter. Whatever her experiences, though few he was certain, she was unguarded and unaccustomed to the ways of an affair.

Oddly, instead of observing him observing her, she was glancing about, taking in the room, her hands clasped calmly before her as if she hadn’t stepped into one of the most notorious houses in London. As if she hadn’t heard the earlier sounds of his fury or noticed all the books and vases strewn across the floor.

Ryder ground his teeth together as he avoided looking at her simple dress and plainly styled hair. She was so unlike the powdered and belaced tarts who came for a tumble. This one, whether she knew it or not, needed more than a tumble to awaken her body. She needed the one thing he never gave—a meeting of the minds.

Slipping his cigar between his lips, Ryder looked down at the two glasses and for a moment considered tossing the contents and sending her off. But tonight the darkness was pressing on him with renewed vigor, and for the first time in a long time he actually allowed himself to consider indulging in a bit of company to ease the pain.

Ryder cradled the snifters of brandy as he slowly approached her.

The young woman’s eyes widened and her gaze traced over his face and then over his black clad shoulders, muscled from hours of boxing drills and fencing rounds. He smiled at her blatant but genuine innocence. He couldn’t help it. His damn lips had curved of their own volition. He extended the snifter. She yanked her gaze from his chest, down to the brandy.

He waited for her fingers to stretch out.

It was the softest touch. Her gloves, plain cotton, brushed his skin. He allowed the moment to linger. The roughness of his hands brushed against the delicacy of hers. Her breasts lifted in a sharp breath, and that single movement sent the blood in his body shooting straight to his groin. He was used to it. Desire was part of his strange and empty existence. But when he met her eyes, his chest tightened with a sensation he hadn’t felt in far too many years.

Ryder fought the sudden urge to jerk back. Not in fear, but because her eyes were full of invitation. Invitation to know her utterly. Completely. To his shock, he heard a part of himself he’d been certain was dead and gone, whisper for him to not only take it. To seize it.

Chapter 2

WELL, THIS WAS DEFINITELY INTRIGUING.

Kate took the snifter and tossed the contents back in one swift move. Despite her determination, the fact that she was going to have sex with this lion of a man was suddenly a very compelling and mutually alarming realization. She stuck out her hand, the empty glass thrust towards him. “Another.”

His black brows lifted, and his sensual lips twitched with amusement. “Whatever the lady requires.”

Drawing in a steadying breath, Kate stared at his broad shoulders as he returned to the decanter. Goodness, he was something! The Duke of Darkwell, indeed. He certainly suited the name. From the black silk shirt that hugged his broad and muscular chest and shoulders to the black breeches and boots that encased his strapping legs, he was the picture of a dark knight. Even his hair was pitch black, and it brushed past his shoulders, feathering lightly about his forehead.

In fact, there was only one little bit of color to his dark wardrobe. A simple cream ribbon was tied around his wrist, bared by his slightly rolled, full sleeves. It was such an odd touch to him she was tempted to ask about it. But she was not here to inquire after his wardrobe.

So instead, Kate savored the scent of his cigar spicing the room. She drew in the sensuous aroma, wondering if his tongue would taste the way the cigar smelt. As if he knew what she was thinking about, he dashed it out in a porcelain dish and eyed her. Quickly, he tossed the contents of his own glass, perhaps not wanting the lady to feel alone in her hasty consumption of her beverage.

He took both glasses in one hand as he turned to her. “You’re new to London.”

A blush warmed her cheeks at his quick assumption. “Is it so obvious?”

He hesitated for a moment, and his dark eyes lingered on her face then trailed to her plain grey gown. “Yes.”

Shifting uncomfortably, Kate resisted the urge to smooth down her unfashionable skirts. Percy, bastard that he was, had spent thousands of pounds of her money on his own frippery. Clothes that had assisted him in the seduction of countless women. And he’d insisted, no demanded, she dress as befitting a wealthy country wife. Her gowns had been atrociously expensive, yet surprisingly meant to deter the interest of other men. Percy had almost dressed her as if she was his doll.

Since his death, it had been an act of defiance to dress plainly. But perhaps her cousin Imogen had been right. It had been a mistake to come to him so attired. Maybe he didn’t find her attractive in her simple clothes. And perhaps, such clothes weren’t fitting for the games she now intended to play.

It was amusing really. For she could buy and sell every single shop on Bond Street, even after her husband had done all in his power to spend her money. “That will change.”

“Will it?” he asked so softly, it sounded like regret deepened his voice.

Certain she was mistaken, she took a step forward, her slippered toes brushing the rich carpet. “I haven’t come to London to sit idly.”

“I see.” His knowing eyes caught hers, and heat spiked down her spine.

Apparently, he had some idea as to what exactly she had come to accomplish. Which was good because now she wasn’t exactly sure what to do in this little tryst. After all, being locked up in Shropshire was about as educational in sexual manners as a whap in the head with Aunt Gemima’s fan.

“Just one moment.” He paused by the table covered with liquor and pulled back his black sleeve, exposing a slender, ivory ribbon tied about his wrist more fully. Ever so gently, he tugged at the knot. The slip of fabric slid free, and he reverently laid it onto the silver tray housing the decanters.

Again, she was tempted to ask what it was, but as his strong fingers lingered over the thin strip of fabric, she felt as if she’d be invading something sacred.

Wordlessly, he turned and crossed to her. The air warmed, and Kate’s breath came a little faster. Her plan was mad really, and his role in it the maddest part. But she desperately needed madness in her oh so practical life. Just once. Or if she were lucky, twice.

Kate licked her lips. “I’m rather eager to grow accustomed to London’s ways.”

He offered her the full glass, his broad shoulders blocking her view of the opulent room. “And you’ve come to me to help you . . .grow accustomed?”

She smiled tentatively. It was as if he had read her thoughts. He was the first true step in her quest. “Yes.”

Staring down at her, his dark eyes glittered with intent and a spark of something hotter. “Why?”

The simplicity of his question was intimidating and fascinating. If he were frank, she would speak so in return. Still, the words lingered in her throat, and she had to take a quick sip of brandy before confessing. “I wish to finally know pleasure.” Lord alone knew Percy Caldwell had given her only enough intimacy to be declared her husband.

A soft laugh rumbled from the duke’s lips.

She frowned. “You think I jest?”

The Duke of Darkwell brushed her hand aside then lifted his own strong one to slide a curl back from her forehead. His fingers lingered at her temple and wound into the curls just behind her ear. “I believe you to be quite serious. Your being here, alone, in my room, makes me quite aware how you wish me to—how did you put it?” He gazed down at her through half closed eyes, “Pleasure you.”

Kate couldn’t stop herself from smiling, even as heat raced straight between her thighs.

“The real question is exactly how did you wish me to please you?”

She stilled under his touch. Was there more than one way? The possibility was thrilling. “Tell me my choices and I’ll tell you how I wish it.”

The duke’s dark brows drew together, and his eyes glowed with fascination. “You realize a husband could satisfy you without the ruination, darling?”

She was not about to explain and let talk of Percy destroy her perfect night. Once, she’d been foolish enough to believe a man could love her. She’d never make that mistake again. And she certainly would never give herself into another man’s control. She’d rather be dragged through London’s streets as a proclaimed harlot before becoming a man’s possession. All she sought now was to know pleasure.

She tilted her head into the cup of his hand and looked down at the amber liquid glowing like gold in her glass. “I wish to be free, something a wife could never truly be.”

“Ah. I see.” Though there was understanding in his voice, there was a slight sadness to it as well. “A woman of intelligence.”

Her gaze snapped up to his. Was he mocking her? But when her eyes met his, she saw utter candor. “You understand.”

“I understand the need to be your own person. And far be it for me to criticize your pursuit of sin. According to the scandal sheets, it is my primary reason for existence.”

The hint of bitterness was unmistakable in his dark eyes, and for some inexplicable reason, Kate felt the sudden urge to take this big man in her arms and comfort him as she had never been comforted. “It is not?” she asked gently.

Silence stretched out between them and for a moment, Kate could have sworn he was about to speak, but he dropped his hand from her cheek and gestured to her glass. “Come now, you are not here to hear me bare my soul. You are here because you have dreamt every night of a man’s hard body against yours, his mouth on your breasts.” He leaned towards her and whispered softly, “His fingers teasing your body into the heat of desire.”

Kate gasped at the shocking words, but the excitement rushing through her was far more powerful than the shock. What he couldn’t know was she had felt a man’s touch, but it had been cold and unkind and meant to keep her in the proper place of a man’s wife. Now, she wanted the caress of a man who cared for a woman’s enjoyment.

Kate started to shake her head. Because at this moment, she longed to hear the serious words he had stopped himself from speaking. But he took her glass and set it and his upon the mantle. He clasped her hands in his and then very slowly, in the glow of the fire, he lowered his mouth to her fingertips and drew her gloves from her hands with his teeth.

The fabric glided against her, awakening her fingers, giving them life she’d never imagined possible in appendages meant for practical use. But apparently with the duke, even things meant for practical use were also meant for luxurious comforts.

As he tugged the remaining glove aside and let it fall to the India rug beneath their feet, he gently pulled her into the heat of his body. “You have dreamed of a man’s kiss,” he murmured. “Dreamt it upon your lips, upon your nipples, upon the soft folds of your sex.”

Before she could offer untruthful protest at the images he was fanning to flame in her head, he leaned in and with feather light pressure kissed her temples. Her breath caught in her throat, and she could taste his spicy aroma; leather and the seductive scent of Spanish oranges. Just as she arched towards him, he brought his lips achingly close to hers, tempting her. She opened her mouth slightly, leaning closer, longing for him to seal the kiss.

Instead, he lifted his hand to her throat and tilted her head back. “What else have you longed for?” he whispered just before he planted an open-mouthed kiss to the soft skin. “Because I know what I wish,” he said. “I wish to give you pleasure. Again and again.”

Kate jumped at the exquisite sensation of his lips gently pressed against her and at the words he tempted her with. The soft heat of him was bliss, and she remained absolutely still, fixed with curiosity and the onslaught of ecstasy.

Her breasts rose and fell as liquid heat raced from his mouth, through her veins, and straight to the place between her thighs. His tongue brushed her skin and traced in a slow circle, then he lightly bit the sensitive spot.

Immediately, Kate’s fingers wove into his dark hair, pulling him closer. Goodness, she was sinking into pleasure and drowning in too many clothes. Mindlessly, she reached up to her cloak, but he brushed her hand aside and gently tugged at the long green strings.

It whooshed to the floor, sliding along the plain fabric of her gown. The sound of it sent a shiver of anticipation running along her skin. In moments, her skirts too would be nothing more than a pile of burdensome linen on the floor.

She had no idea what she needed, but it was clear he did for he kissed the line of her throat and paused just as he neared her breasts. Kate arched her back towards him. His thick, but lush black hair tickled her skin as he very lightly licked the v of her breasts.

This was what she had wanted for so long. For years she’d been locked away, never knowing the slightest touch. Now, this man was thrusting her into a world of sensation. One she had always known existed but never taken part in, and she wanted to completely offer herself up to it.

He kissed the tops of her breasts and braced her sides with his hands, as if he knew her knees might buckle at this sudden, scandalous touch. Desire burned through her and her inhibitions faded under the persuasion of the brandy and the duke’s skilled mouth. She let her head drop back and her bonnet tumbled to the floor.

At the soft thump of it landing, he lifted his head. His eyes, hooded with hunger, traced over her face. Wordlessly, he swept her up into his arms and carried her to the sapphire brocade settee just before the fire. Gently, he placed her down, reclining her against the embroidered pillows.

He knelt before her, a fascinating process of long limbs and muscles at work. Heavens, how she longed to see his body. Never once in her whole life had she seen a naked man. Anatomy books had been the closest thing, but here he was in the flesh. With a boldness that surprised herself, she took fistfuls of his silky shirt.

Barely pausing, he tugged the shirt from his black breeches and yanked it in one swift move over his head.

Kate gasped. The fire glow cast his body in bronze and every single muscle was highlighted by shadows. Her breath came fast as she drank in the sight. His nipples, darker than his skin tone, were taut, and his muscles. . . only in the sculptures in her father’s gallery had she ever seen such hard evidence of a male’s physical power.

The duke’s black eyes burned like fired coals as he guided her hands to his bared chest. Kate’s face burned at her own scandalous behavior and yet the desire pounding through her now and waking between her legs demanded she take whatever he offered.

Eyes widening with amazement, Kate let her hands wander over the hard hills and valleys. Slowly, she explored down to his breeches. He felt like silk over iron and impulsively, she lightly grazed her nails along his belly.

He drew in a sharp breath and clasped her hands with his. Kate drew back, sure she had done something wrong.

Slowly, he guided her hands to rest on his shoulders. “You were born to this, darling, but this is about your satisfaction. Not mine.” His hands skimmed the hem of her gown. “Now, rest easy.”

Kate stared down at him, her hands resting on the cool brocade of the settee. She wanted to reach out and grasp him again, but was certain she would break the spell if she did. So, she remained silent and allowed him to work his magic upon her.

Slipping his hands underneath her full skirts, he teased his fingers over her ankles. Her eyes flared wide, and as he slid his hands up her calves, pausing at her knees, her mouth fell open. Her heart slammed in her chest. Instinctively, she parted her thighs. Her cheeks flared with embarrassment, but a soft moan hummed from his throat and so, she parted them a little further.

The duke continued to raise his hands until he was barely touching her silk covered skin with his fingertips. Even so, the light touch seemed like consuming fire on her thighs as he moved past her garters, and her core was hungry for something she didn’t truly understand.

When at last his fingers met the juncture of her thighs, she couldn’t hold back the cry of astonishment as his thumb brushed the softest part of her folds. Her hips jerked up, and she strained towards him. A wolfish smile curved his lips, and ever so slowly, he circled his fingers over the tight little nub that was wet and pulsing for him.

Kate closed her eyes as sensation after sensation swept through her. Never in her entire life had she known anything like it. Her entire body felt like a tangled knot ready to unravel. She panted then opened her eyes. The sight of him at her feet, his dark head slightly bowed as he concentrated on pleasing her? It was shocking, what with her skirts pushed up to her thighs.

He slid a strong finger inside her, never ceasing his teasing of her nub and she cried out.

“Yes,” he moaned. “Enjoy it.”

At the sound of his purring voice, her entire body tensed then pulsed again and again with bursting stars of ecstasy. She shook as his thumb circled relentlessly and his finger thrust deep inside. Her hands slid into his hair and pulled him to her.

He pressed his face to her breasts, warming them with long kisses. As the last bit of pleasure faded, she drew in a deep breath and couldn’t stop the smile from coming to her face. So, this was pleasure.

She didn’t know what to make of it except for the fact she liked it very much. Very, very much. How had she gone so many years without this kind of knowledge? Well, knowledge was the path to happiness they said, and she wanted as much happiness as he would give her.

Starting now.

Chapter 3

AMONG ALL THE WOMEN RYDER seduced, and there had been many, none of them ever made him feel as if he was pulling an angel down from the night sky. Or perhaps it was worse. Perhaps it was she who was pulling him up from Hell, and he’d be damned before he pulled his firmly entrenched boots from Satan’s playground. He’d earned his place there years ago, and he hadn’t yet begun to pay for his sins.

Ryder rested his head gently against her soft breasts. God, she was beautiful. Certainly, not the beauty touted by the ton, but when she gasped with the pleasure he’d given her, her cheeks crested with color and her blue grey eyes raged with emotion.

And that. . . That was not acceptable. It was why he should have sent her away immediately. He and emotion were not allowed to mingle.

Ryder closed his eyes as he drew in her scent of cinnamon and roses, rubbing his face gently against her sex dampened skin. He could take her. It would be so simple, he’d push her back and slip her skirts up to her waist, take her sweet cunny into his mouth, and when she was slick with desire he’d take her.

But it felt wrong. He was not the man to give this young lady true what she desired. She deserved someone who would love her, who would lay down his life for her, who could give her more than just his body. She should give herself to a man who had the right to touch a bit of heaven. He was not that man.

After one last breath of her scent, Ryder leaned back and smoothed her skirts down her legs.

It took her a moment to meet his eyes, but she smiled, her eyes dazed and glowing with anticipation for more. “And now?”

She was not going to like his decision, but it was for the best. “Nothing. It is time for you to leave.”

She blinked. “Pardon?”

Gently soothing her, he caressed her skirts. In truth, he was convincing himself to keep the damn gown down for his fingers itched to inch them back up. “You came for pleasure and received it. Now it’s time for you to go.”

Her spine snapped straight, and the smile faded from her face. “I don’t understand.”

Ryder leaned back onto his haunches and forced his hands to rest on his thighs. “How clear do you wish me to make it, darling? Go, for your own good.”

The satisfaction faded from her eyes, replaced by confusion. “But—“

He leveled her with a firm stare. He had to get her out of here before his resolve faded under the growing pressure at his groin. “No.”

“Why?” Consternation elevated the pitch of her voice. “Am I not attractive enough?”

Ryder almost smacked himself in the head. Of course, she’d think the worst of herself. He was handling this badly, but his cock was tight to his stomach, throbbing to be inside her.

“No. You’re. . .” He searched for the smooth words which always came so easily whenever soothing a piqued female. Yet none came. It was as if all his golden lies had \

She pushed his shoulders back and stood. “I see.” She started inching around him, as if afraid her gown might brush him.

“No.” He laughed ruefully. “I don’t think you do.”

Stopping just out of reach, she looked down on him. Her eyes crackled with frustration. “Well, what is it then?” she asked softly.

Ryder struggled for the words that would somehow make this easier for her. At last, he shrugged. “You are a lady.”

She moved forward her eyes searching his. “I don’t want to be a—”

“You should.” It was almost laughable. She wished to be a sinner but looked like a saint. That was except for the glow he’d given her.

“But—”

Ryder stood, forcing her to look up at him. “You don’t truly want to be like me or any of the people you’ve read about in the papers. We’re dark and cruel, and we care nothing for love or honesty.”

A smile curled her lips, only this time, it was cold and her grey eyes froze in to the stillness of the cold English Channel. “Nor do I, Your Grace. Nor do I.”

He blinked at that. She didn’t wish for love? This lovely little thing that looked as if she’d never known a painful day in her entire existence? But as he looked closer, he could not deny that under her brimming optimism there was just the familiar edge of pain.

Ryder took her small hand in his grasp. His fingers swallowed up the graceful whiteness. “You should wish it, and you should find it.”

Her smile warmed, but it was an amused grin as if it was she who was now laughing at him. Him, the bloody Duke of Darkwell.

She tilted her dark head. “In my experience, men proclaim love but do not ever truly feel it.” Her smile tightened. “I think it is far better to mirror their approach to the relations between the sexes than to adhere to a woman’s hopeful heart. Don’t you?”

Ryder blinked, shocked by the sudden anger in her voice. How could he tell her she was completely in error. That men did love. That they could love so entirely it might burn them to a cinder when it was ripped from them. “I—”

She shook her head, her dark curls caressing her slender neck. “You say I should seek it, but do you seek love, Your Grace?”

Damn. The woman had him there. He’d known love once and had no plan on seeking it out ever again. “Touché.”

“It isn’t that you don’t desire me, then? That you’re sending me away?” she asked, gently lifting her hand and tracing it along his hard chest.

“Don’t desire you?” Ryder took her hand and placed it on the hard shaft pushing at the front of his breeches. His cock twitched at the touch of her hand.

She gasped and pressed harder. “Let me stay,” she whispered. “This once.”

He shook his head and stepped back, away from her tempting touch. A woman like her, whether she was prepared to admit it or not, wanted more than just once. She deserved more too. Nor was she ready for the way London would take her goodness and shred it to ribbons. Maybe if she’d been harder, a little wiser to the ways of the world. But he would not be the one to cast her into the cruelness of London’s sparkling sham as a woman to be used for a man’s play thing.

“You will leave through the servant’s entrance in one of the maid’s cloaks.”

“I will go out the way I came, thank you,” she clipped. She looked up at him through eyes still hot with desire, and her lips curved into a wickedly dangerous smile as she placed her hand on his hip then slipped it down to his hard cock and slightly squeezed. “But you shall regret it. I should have liked to experience what other carnal delights we might share.”

He smiled tightly and forced himself to take a step back. God, the woman was half way to being a temptress, but he wasn’t going to lead her down that dangerous road. “It was a pleasure.”

“Yes. It was.” She gave a small curtsy then turned to the door. Her hand paused on the handle. She glanced back at him over her shoulder. “No need for goodbyes, I think. After all, we shall see each other again. Quite soon.”

With that, she whisked out through the door.

Ryder stood in the center of the room, staring after her. He never even asked her name. For some ridiculous reason, the realization saddened him. That was completely preposterous. Hell, it didn’t matter.

Slowly, he returned to the small black and gold table. He stared down at the pale ribbon then clasped it in his fingers. Instantly, Jane came to mind. A man could love so much he would never forget and never give his love to another woman again.

Yes. He’d done the right thing. He sent the angel out, and now, he’d let his own personal darkness back in, along with the loneliness of the night.

After all, he deserved to be in Hell. That’s exactly where he would stay.

* * *

“THERE YOU ARE! GOODNESS, I’VE been waiting half the night!” Imogen Cavendish bounded down the front steps of their newly acquired town home overlooking Green Park. She grabbed Kate’s hand.

Instantly, Kate started marching up the limestone stairs, passing their spritely butler, Forbes, certain her cousin was going to say something terribly indiscreet before they were able to get into the privacy of their home.

“And?” Imogen demanded as they crossed the threshold and into the circular foyer. Their slippers echoed on the black and white Italian marble. “Did the good duke give your tail a little tickle?”

Kate stepped back and nearly stumbled on her gown in her chagrin. She shot her cousin a warning glare. “The servants!”

“Pish! They know all in any case, why pretend?” Glancing back at Forbes who still stood by the doorway, Imogen gave him a naughty grin. “Don’t they, Forbes?”

Forbes cleared his throat and bowed. “Indeed, they do, madam.”

“You see?” Imogen took Kate’s hand and tugged her along the hallway to the French salon. “Tea, Forbes!” she called over her shoulder.

Kate laughed. The woman was a breath of fresh air compared to the stodgy company she’d kept in the country. Like herself, Imogen was young and very wealthy. Best of all, they were both widows.

Neither of them had liked the idea of living alone, and having been friends since they were children in Shropshire, they decided to take up each other’s company in London.

Imogen started to hum, at least a step off-key, and with remarkable gusto for one who sang like an alley cat. She didn’t even stop once they were ensconced in the French Salon, the walls periwinkle and ivory striped silk. She and Imogen had chosen the tables, all French and painted to a glossy white embossed with pink roses, with more cheer than most married couples.

But tea. . . Tea meant a chat, and Imogen wouldn’t let Kate go until the last sip was drunk or every secret spilled. And right now, she just wanted to patter up to her room without being examined as if she were a dastardly French spy.

Giving Kate’s hand a squeeze, Imogen rushed around to the front of the pale blue watered silk settee and plunked them both down and waited. Her green eyes sparkled in her elfin face and her gold hair shone like copper in the firelight. The folds of her rose silk gown spilled out over the delicate settee and rustled over Kate’s country gown. What was more, Imogen looked as if she was about to burst with excitement.

Kate nibbled her bottom lip.

Imogen leaned forward, still silent. No doubt wanting to know every detail, and yet Kate wasn’t sure she wanted to elaborate on her experience. It had been bizarre in the extreme, though she wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. In fact, her mind was already racing with endless possibilities as to how she might meet the duke again.

“You liked him,” Imogen said assuredly.

Just as Kate opened her mouth, the maid popped in with a laden tea tray. The girl set the heavy silver service down before them. An indiscreet smile curled the maid’s lips, and she scampered out. Surely, servants weren’t supposed to be so cheeky, but then again Kate, herself, wasn’t really a model of female virtue.

“Well?” Imogen prodded, scooting even closer.

Kate studied the tea tray with fixed curiosity and began pouring the black liquid into a yellow china cup.

Imogen plucked up the delicate cup and proclaimed, “You did. You liked him. I can tell. You’re cheeks are positively glowing!”

Kate snapped up a hand to her face. Indeed, her cheek was warm against her cool palm. A laugh bubbled from her throat. “It was. . .”

“Amazing? Miraculous?” Imogen shivered with delight. “Oh, the Duke of Darkwell! You know, I tried for him once myself. Apparently I wasn’t to his taste. In the end it was his loss. You see—”

“Imogen,” Kate cut in, taking up her own tea cup. For some reason, she didn’t like the idea of Imogen fantasizing about him. And she wasn’t about to ponder why such an idea might agitate her.

“Of course, he is your duke, my dear, but the scandal sheets report him to be the most—”

“I know what the scandal sheets say.” And she did. Kate glanced back towards a stack of the rags she loved tucked away on the French table by the tall windows. In fact, she had stacks all over the house. They’d been her only entertainment through the long winter months alone in her sprawling country home.

Imogen nodded. “Of course. But you’re not quite as happy as I thought you’d be.” She narrowed her eyes. “Actually, I’d say you’re a trifle snippy.”

Kate shook her head, fighting back a smile. “I’m sorry, it’s just the evening didn’t go exactly as I planned.”

“Ah! Plans.” Imogen took a strawberry tart and plopped it on to her plate. She lifted her tea cup to her lips and sighed. “They seldom go as we desire, and sometimes it’s for the best.”

“Yes, but...” She wasn’t sure how to explain. “He sent me home.”

Imogen choked on a sip of tea. “Sent you home? But—But he is the rake of all rakes!”

“Exactly as I thought.” Taking a conciliatory drink of tea, Kate tried to sort out exactly how it happened. One moment he’d been caressing her and the next—well, the next he’d given her the boot.

Which made no sense because he undoubtedly desired her.

“It had to be the dress. I told you to wait. I said, ‘Kathryn, we shall buy you delicious new gowns and then you shall see him’. Did you listen to your dear cousin?” Imogen gestured towards Kate theatrically with her tart. “No. And now you have the consequences of never knowing what it would be like to—”

“It wasn’t the dress,” Kate cut in, knowing Imogen could go for ages. “Indeed, it wasn’t.”

Imogen frowned and took a bite of her tart. “Something did happen though.” She chewed, eyeing Kate with consideration. “I’m positive.”

Imogen would know. Unlike herself, Imogen had already had countless lovers. Her husband had been old and had just wanted a pretty girl to present to company. Also unlike herself, Imogen had never been foolish enough to believe a young man could ever love her just for herself. She was too schooled in the ways of the ton, having married at fifteen.

“Are you going to tell me or shall I have to bring out the rack? No, I have something far more cruel. I shall deny you strawberry tart.”

Kate glanced at the taunting strawberry tarts glistening with sugar and cream. Imogen could eat heaps and never worry about her figure. She, on the other hand, had only to look at the delicate little confections and had to go off on a bracing walk. “Hardly a punishment.”

Imogen rolled her green eyes. “Come now, you are purposefully avoiding the subject.”

Shifting on the settee, Kate drew in a breath. Imogen was her closest friend and her ultimate guide to scandal. Still. . . she’d never talked about such things, not with her mother and most certainly not to Percy. In fact, if she’d mentioned such things to him, he probably would have called her an un-virtuous wife. Even though he saw nothing hypocritical about splashing his name about with countless women of ill repute in the sheets.

“He commenced seducing me.” Kate lowered her voice to a hush. “It was divine. He touched me. Stroked my legs.”

Imogen glanced about the room. “I’m sorry, are you concerned about an audience?”

Kate sat back as she pinned Imogen with a dagger glare. “It’s all very well to you, but I’ve never done anything like this. You met Percy, you know what he was like.”

Percy had firmly believed a wife should be a paragon of modesty and not know the joys of the flesh. A mistress on the other hand, well apparently, she was perfectly qualified to be given care and satisfaction. Once, she’d seen him with one of his women, just outside the coaching inn leading to London. He’d kissed her quite in public, his hands roving over the woman. He hadn’t seemed to care about modesty at that moment.

“Silly is what that situation was. I don’t know how you ever thought of him as a potential lover, let alone a husband.”

Kate ground her teeth. Yes. Percy was a particular sore point. When she’d first met the russet haired gent, he’d been so charming, quoting Shakespeare and Dryden. He’d said he loved her and longed to cherish her. Much to her shame, she believed him.

“Kate?”

She smiled tightly, shoving Percy out of her head. “Pardon. Old ghosts. In any case, it was going splendidly.” Kate’s hands shook as she thought of the intensity she’d felt under the duke’s ministrations. “Oh, I never thought it could be so. . .” Percy had only ever climbed into bed with her, lifted her shift, parted her thighs and prodded at her till he’d shook like a tree leaf and collapsed. All the while, touching her as little as possible.

“I’m glad you’ve finally known a bit of fun.” Imogen patted her hand. “No one deserves it more. So then?”

“He simply told me to go and I should find someone to love me.”

Imogen’s mouth dropped open till she looked like the fish in the Serpentine. “What?” She demanded crassly. She put down her tea cup and wiped her hands together brushing away the crumbs. “Did you tell him who you were?”

Kate paused. She supposed it was a bit odd she hadn’t said a word. But Percy Darrell had made their name quite infamous with his goings on. The last thing she wanted was to be thought of was as his widow. “No.”

Imogen lowered her chin. “What did you tell him?”

“I—Ah, . . .” Kate lifted her cup and mumbled into it, “I told him I wished for pleasure without a husband.”

Imogen lifted her hand to her forehead in dramatic frustration. “My dear, whatever shall I do with you?”

“Now look here, Imogen, I know I’m a bit green, but really!”

“Green? Dearest, you’re greener than a field in Ireland. And you let him think you were a virgin! Or at least a woman of no experience. No wonder he didn’t make love to you. Virgins are far too much trouble.”

Kate gaped, suddenly seeing her own idiocy. “So, if he had known I was a widow?”

“You would have been bedded till you thought nothing but bliss.”

The fact she had been so close to actually bedding the duke was beyond irritating. She could only imagine how wonderful that would have been. “Blast.”

“Blast, indeed.” Imogen tapped her finger against her chin. “Do you still want him?”

The thought of the duke’s strong hands on her thighs flashed through Kate’s mind. Good lord, she longed for his touch even now. “Yes. And I have every intention of seeing him again.”

“You mean you didn’t botch it?”

“Absolutely not.” Kate wiggled her eyebrows. “In fact, I know he desires me.”

“How is it that you know? Did he tell you?”

Kate couldn’t quite bring herself to tell Imogen about how he had taken her hand and placed it over his hard sex. It had been so strong and firm beneath her grasp. “Trust me. I just have to find a way to convince him that his sense of honor is misplaced.”

Imogen leaned back, understanding brightening her face. “The seducer shall become the seduced?”

Laughing, Kate gave Imogen a little salute with her tea cup. “Let the seduction begin.”

Chapter 4

“GOOD GOD, MAN,” JACK EVERSLEIGH, the Duke of Hunt, said over the din of practice blades clashing. “Are all the women in London in heat? I refuse to believe it’s just you that has them rapping on your door. And in the middle of the night.”

Ryder’s hand stilled on the hilt of his rapier. He snapped his gaze from the series of lined up dueling strips to Hunt. He had made friends with the man over ten years ago, and in that time he, Hunt and another duke, the Duke of Roth, had formed the Duke’s Club. A club where they could be themselves and never had to worry about sycophantic bowing and scraping. Equals in power, they could all be brutally honest with each other.

It had been an incredible relief to find two other dukes who had also lost their fathers at a young age. At present Roth was on the continent, but Hunt was always a good source of entertainment and could bring Ryder’s spirits up when they were lagging to a dangerous point.

Even so, there were times when he wished Hunt wasn’t so blastedly incorrigible. Ryder sighed. “The gossip wheel is well greased I see.”

“Your neighbors make a profession of watching your door.” Hunt yanked his bottle green coat off his broad shoulders. “I swear old Lady Trentham would wither away in boredom if it weren’t for your exploits. She made her rounds early this morning.”

“Damned old trout,” Ryder gritted. “The woman should spy for the king.”

Hunt inclined his head and grasped the hilt of his rapier, walking back along the dueling strip. Ryder followed him, his own rapier in hand. The soft leather surface of the strip was dull compared to the highly polished wood floor.

Ryder eyed Hunt. With his towering stance, black hair and icy eyes, the Duke of Hunt could stop a man at a hundred paces with one hard stare. Yet, it never surprised Ryder to hear the man had a good gossip with the ladies of the town. “So, where did you hear about it?”

“Mm. I heard it over tea with Mrs. Barton. Lovely woman, that.”

Ryder laughed dryly. The sound echoed through the hall, bouncing off the plain white walls. “Tea, my arse. I had no idea you paid such polite social calls to the dear lady.”

Stretching out his arms wide in innocence, Hunt said, “Come now man, a gentleman such as myself would never besmirch a lady’s honor by referring to it so early in the day as anything other than tea.”

“And did she serve sweets?” Leaning back slightly and bending his knees, Ryder took his stance. He needed a good fight. He was tense from lack of sleep, and dreams. Dreams of soft blonde hair, pale skin and a guileless face. A face untouched by the hardness of this world.

“Let us say I shall be fasting for days. . .” Hunt flourished his rapier then propped his left hand on his hip. “Or at least a few hours.”

“You are a glutton.”

“I do believe you partake in a number of feasts yourself.”

Yes, he could eat night and day if that someone was a certain pale-haired young woman in a pale grey dress. Bloody hell, but he would love to feast on her. He’d start with her breasts, work his way down to her bottom and then, he’d spread her thighs and lick—

Blowing out a breath, Ryder advanced ready to let out his pent up frustration.

Thrusting forward, their blades clashed. Instantly, Hunt drove hard, his blade slicing through the air like lightning. Answering each strike, Ryder moved light upon his feet, controlling every parry then twisting right to riposte.

Hunt smiled as he retreated. “So, who is the bit of muslin?”

At the thought of the young woman, whose name he had intentionally not asked, Ryder hesitated, and Hunt’s blade sang forward, stopping an inch from his heart.

“A bit off, are we?”

Ryder backed off, tugged his linen shirt away from his throat then adjusted Jane’s ribbon about his wrist. “Certainly not.”

“Then what exactly do you call that?” Hunt’s dark brow arched skeptically.

Ryder shoved his hair from his face and resumed his stance. “Carelessness.”

“Not like you, old boy.”

Wordlessly, Ryder moved back in. He wasn’t about to admit than an hour in the presence of a country girl had shaken him. Especially not to Hunt. The man would never let up on the subject, and Ryder wanted this out of his head as quickly as possible. The only thing to do was change the subject and quickly. “How’s your brother?”

Hunt rolled his eyes. “We are talking about your woman.”

“I don’t have a woman,” he said tightly.

“Fine then. Charles is splendid. He’s off in India, no doubt risking his life, stealing into some harem.”

The Duke of Hunt’s twin brother Charles was one of their drinking companions and constantly required his brother’s motivational persuasion to keep him from drowning in gin and women. At least Ryder and Jack came up for air on occasion. The slightly younger man also owned the fencing club they were in at this very moment, proving that he wasn’t entirely frivolous. Still, the Eversleigh twins were the best bet in town for a very good outing.

Apparently, refusing to be distracted, Hunt struck fast.

Ryder snapped to attention, grabbing the upper hand, driving Hunt down the dueling strip. They moved back and forth seamlessly. The blades flashed and clanged as each tested the other. Few men matched Ryder’s skill with a blade, but Hunt was one of them. And he needed someone right now who could challenge him, make him work and get that damned woman out of his thoughts.

“So, the chit didn’t drain you dry?” Hunt spun in and raked his blade towards Ryder’s middle.

Ryder stumbled and dropped to one knee as the blade zinged past him. Why couldn’t Hunt drop the infuriating subject?

“Tripped, did you?” Hunt said brightly.

Ryder stood and wiped his linen sleeve over his sweating forehead. He planted the tip of his rapier into the leather strip and paused. “I sent her on her way, if you must know.”

Hunt blinked, as if he was absolutely mad. “I beg your pardon?”

“Have you gone deaf or do you enjoy hearing me repeat myself?” Ryder looked away for a moment then returned his gaze. “I sent her off.”

Hunt smirked. “Ugly was she?”

Ryder lifted his blade and pointed it at Hunt. “She was beautiful, actually. In a way I simply cannot—” He shrugged, not knowing how to put her attractions into words. She’d been captivating.

Hunt threw back his head and laughed. “Good god, man. You’re besotted. Who’d have thought it possible?”

Ryder lowered his rapier and paced to the bench lined against the wall. Sheathing the blade he made quick work of toweling himself with a piece of linen. He was not about to head down this line of conversation with Hunt. The man would be relentless, and Ryder was in no mood to convince him the woman just intrigued him and nothing more. “Don’t be absurd,” he barked over his shoulder.

Sauntering slowly towards him, Hunt’s eyes sparkled with an annoying self-assurance. “A woman is the very font of absurdity, old man, and you seem to be knee deep. Now, no secrets. Why didn’t you bed the little dear?”

Ryder was not going to let Hunt push him into a heated comment, even if the temptation to belt his friend in the face was building at an accelerating rate. Tugging his cravat around his neck a little too tightly, Ryder turned and said as calmly as he could, “She was too innocent for my tastes.”

The mocking glint cooled a little from Hunt. “Oh. I see.”

Though they had a number of differences, they had one main thing in common. Neither of them bedded overly innocents or virgins. It wasn’t worth the risk of pregnancy or ruin of the girl, all over miscommunication. Inexperienced woman often believed sex meant something more than a good romp. And a good romp was all Ryder or Hunt were worth. Both, for their own reasons, had long sworn off marriage.

“But who was she?” Hunt tugged on his plain, but superbly cut emerald green waistcoat and jacket.

Ryder ran a hand through his long hair, pulling it back into a queue. If she hadn’t been so interesting or so candid, if she hadn’t made him want to spill his secrets and have a chance at happiness, he might have asked her name, but since she evoked such dangerous thoughts, he hoped never to have need of her name. “I don’t know.”

“You didn’t ask her name?”

“No.” Part of him was damn glad that he hadn’t. There were enough people in London he might never see her again, and it was unlikely she could get an introduction into his set. “My butler claimed she was a Mr. Braithwait.”

Hunt stared blankly.

Ryder shrugged. “I have no idea what that was about.”

“So it’s a mystery?”

Ryder nodded tightly.

“That’s terrible, old man. Terrible,” Hunt intoned with great seriousness. He shook his head.

“Why?”

Clasping Ryder’s shoulder, Hunt looked him squarely in the eye. “Because you love a good mystery.”

“Sod off.” It wasn’t a mystery if he deliberately didn’t want to know her name. Indeed, it wasn’t.

“My, she has put you in twist.”

“Go to the devil,” he said flatly, hoping to put a firm lid on the topic.

“I’d rather go to the House of Lords. You are coming to vote?”

“Certainly.” Ryder was glad to change the subject. Once he got Hunt on the topic of reform, the man would never cease talking. Perhaps, it was his father’s murder which had given him such a sharp edge and passion for politics. “It’s the Catholic vote today, isn’t it?”

Hunt nodded his face grim. “I love my country, you know I do, but I’ll be damned if I’ll stand by while an entire group is kept from their rights.”

Ryder picked up his black over coat and quickly slung it over his shoulders. It seemed they each had their causes. Hunt wanted to change the world while Ryder simply wanted to get through it.

* * *

“YOU’LL NEVER GUESS WHAT I have!”

Kate looked up from The Pickering Press trying not to dwell on the fact she should probably be reading one of the more serious papers considering the shape of things in France. But really, she loved reading Snodgrass. The man was too amusing.

She laid the paper down beside her half-finished plate of bangers and toast. “What is it you have?”

Imogen bustled into the bright breakfast room, her pink skirts rustling. “An invitation to the Countess of Carmine’s private party.”

Kate paused. Try as she might, she couldn’t think why this should be so exciting. “And?”

Imogen let out a sigh and hurried over to Kate’s end of the breakfast table. “I know you read Snodgrass, and the man has mentioned the countess half a dozen times.”

The reality was when she read The Pickering Press the only name she sought out was Darkwell’s. “You can’t expect me to recall every scandal-ridden lady and lord in London. It would take me the rest of my life to commit them to memory.”

Imogen threw her hands up into the air. “She is only one of the most exclusive hostesses in London.”

Kate grinned. My, exclusive was quite nice. She whipped her napkin off her lap, plopped it on the table then pushed her chair back. “However did we get an invitation?”

Wiggling her brows, Imogen clapped her hands together as she closed the distance between them. “The countess and I have an understanding.”

After only a week in London, Kate already understood the nuances of ton life. Anyone could do anything as long as everything appeared to be proper. And she was certainly ready to begin doing everything. Kate leaned in as if they were sharing a dangerous secret.

Imogen placed a bejeweled hand on the linen covered table and leaned forward. “She invites me to her parties, and I don’t speak of the ménage a tois I came across last spring with the countess, her riding instructor. . . and her lady’s maid!”

Kate gasped. “Her what?” An image of three naked people in a straw and leather filled stable flashed through her head. She couldn’t help but wonder who’d done the riding and who had been ridden.

The famous countess riding her instructor brandishing her whip and shouting tally ho! came to Kate’s mind, and she had to bite back a laugh.

“Too scandalous for words, isn’t it? To look at the countess you’d think God himself had touch her with piety.”

“When is the party?”

“Tonight. So, we must find you a scrumptious frock. It’s no good having you look like a pigeon. Fine feathers are what you need, my friend.”

Pigeon, indeed. That was certainly not the impression Kate wished to give London. It was truly time to indulge in the most beautiful and perhaps scandalous frocks her money could buy. After all, there was no one to shout at her that she was dressed immodestly now. Kate grabbed hold of Imogen’s hand. “How am I to have a gown made so soon?”

Following her lead, Imogen rustled after her. “I suppose we could have one of my gowns made over, or perhaps Madame Sophie could produce something. She is the goddess of fabric.”

Kate smiled at her cousin as the onslaught of potential washed over her. She’d never owned anything grander than the gowns of her youth and then the modest and proper gowns Percy insisted upon. And she’d certainly never been to such a party. Deeming them to be preposterous displays of wealth, her father never even gave her a coming out. Now nothing was going to stop her from having more gowns than she could ever know what to do with.

But. . . There was something odd about this whole circumstance. Even she knew it was strange to be invited on the day of the event. “Isn’t this short notice?”

“The countess’ parties are very hush hush, you see? Hence she only sends out notice a few hours before.”

Kate laughed. “So, what occurs at the countess’ parties—”

Imogen waggled her brows. “Doesn’t ever leave them.”

Not long after, they were secure in an open carriage racing down to Bond Street. Kate leaned back against the blue velvet squabs and drank in the sunlight. Turning her head to the passersby, she couldn’t stop herself from smiling. In fact, her cheeks hurt with her happiness. A little over six months ago, she’d been trapped in a loveless marriage, and Percy, that dratted man, had been drinking his fill of London. Oh, but she was being cruel. He had bought her gifts. Books, in fact. Books on how to be an obedient wife, one who never questioned her husband’s authority.

Though it really had been too bad for Percy that he had died in a duel over another man’s wife, it meant she could now ride merrily through the park, on the way to spend a substantial portion of her own fortune.

This new world was a wonder to her, and she leaned forward, pulling the glass window down. A white carriage drove by. The women inside were dressed in peach and yellow silk, their hair curled and powdered. Two men in scarlet red coats rode just behind on great horses, swords glinting at their sides.

And the noise! Wheels clattered over the cobblestones. Children shrieked with laughter, their iron faced governesses calling after them. The side streets were packed with people, buying and selling. The cries of hawkers punctuated the air like some wild orchestra. In London, surely one could never be too sad.

Their carriage struggled through Bond Street and stopped in front of an elegant store with the words Madame Sophie embossed in gold letters above the glass and mahogany double doors.

The footman bounded down, unfolded the carriage step and held out his gloved hand. Imogen descended, her skirts in hand and lifted high above the strangely brownish yellow muck lining the London street. Kate followed catching sight of a shoe that someone had apparently abandoned in the quicksand-like substance.

Stepping onto the slightly smoother ground just before the shop, Kate gawked at the storefront. The glass windows shone, and the outer walls were pristine stone. Finally, she’d arrived.

“Now, my dear, don’t let your mouth hang open like that.”

Kate snapped her lips closed. Oh dear, she’d been gawking like a country mouse. But the windows! Gowns of pink and blue stood in the casings. Lace dripped from them like sugared frosting, and the embroidery! Why it was as if the dresses were alive with flowers.

Regardless of their wealth, her father never encouraged extravagance in women, and Percy. . . well, he used as much as possible on himself. She’d dreamt of wearing gorgeous gowns, and now she was going to buy every blasted thing in the shop if she wished.

They entered the shop and were ensconced in elegant silence. The scent of roses and lavender wafted around them. Soft chairs of ivory and gold were positioned artfully about the room as were tables of white marble with gold legs.

A lovely young girl bustled towards them, her violet silk gown plain yet perfect on her slender frame. The girl smiled brightly, clearly anticipating a very worthwhile customer. “Bonjour, Lady Cavendish. A delight,” she purred in a soft French accent. “As always.”

“Bonjour,” Imogen replied. Gesturing towards Kate, she said, “I have come for several gowns for my friend.”

The young assistant turned from Imogen to Kate.

Much to Kate’s surprise the shop girl’s pale face lit with interest as she looked her up and down. After a moment, a smiled tilted the girl’s pink lips. “Oui, madame!” She gestured towards Kate’s middle. “May I?”

She nodded, curious as to what exactly had caused the young woman such gratification.

The girl’s slender hands circled Kate’s middle, and then she looked into Kate’s face with fascinated dark eyes. “But madame, why have you hidden your beauty?”

Kate sputtered, unsure if she should feel flattered or insulted. “Men,” she said flatly.

The girl tsked. “Mais oui. Men are so much trouble, yes?” She stepped back and clapped her hands. “We shall make your beauty shine. I assume you wish many gowns?”

Kate nodded, caught up by the fact the shop girl thought her pretty. Most of her life, she’d been led to believe she was rather plain. It was tremendously exciting to hear otherwise, even if the girl was being polite. “I do need one for this evening.”

The girl’s eyebrows shot up, and her pink mouth pursed. “This evening?”

Kate’s elation dimmed a little. Apparently, she was too blunt. But the duke, he’d been blunt. It had been marvelous, his candor. Kate had a suspicion that to survive in London she was going to have to flower her speech. “It is terribly important. Couldn’t a young woman of your talents help me?” she coaxed.

“Expense is not a question,” Imogen added quickly, her voice honeyed with compliment.

The smile beamed right back into place on the girl’s face. “I am certain I can find something. Now,” she said, gesturing to the door festooned with pale, grey silk curtains. “Let us have you fitted.”

* * *

HUNT WAS IN A FOUL mood, and Ryder was glad to be shuck of his company. There’d be no dealing with him until they could both drown themselves in drink and women.

The bill had died the slow, torturous death of one drowning in sludge.

The conservatives were terrified of giving rein to the people. They kept citing France and the present rebellion taking place. But in Ryder’s opinion it was the very strictness of the French nobility that had led to its downfall. If England wasn’t careful, they’d find themselves only a few steps behind.

In any case, Hunt had begun to shout during the session, something he had never done till he involved himself in politics. The opposing party shouted back and then both sides rushed each other. In the fracas, Ryder’s coat had been torn. Nothing like two groups of men going for each other’s throats in the House of Lords.

Ryder made his way up Bond Street on foot, glad to be free of his servants for the afternoon. The country was the only place a man might really find freedom from constant attention, but he hated the country. Immensely.

Unlike the majority of his peers he actually liked to do everyday tasks, and he damn well wasn’t going to pitch his coat at his valet when he could take it to Bond Street himself and have it fixed.

He paused as he passed Madame Sophie’s. It had been Jane’s favorite store. She’d loved to take him in and look over the colorful fabrics, teasing him that it was a husband’s position to ensure his wife was properly dressed.

He glanced through the window. His eyes widened. For there standing with Imogen Cavendish was. . . her.

She stood at an angle to him, her face almost in profile. Under the morning light, her hair shone with hints of red and honey. She smiled brightly at the shop girl, causing her cheeks to glow with a rosy hue. And once again, she was in that ridiculously plain grey gown. It hugged her voluptuous frame, but aside from its form-fitted simplicity, it was a gown meant for a plain woman, not the fiery woman who had the cheek to demand he seduce her.

His gloved fists tightened as he looked up the street. He should keep walking to his tailors. The thought was definitely there, urging him to move on, but he couldn’t stop himself from looking back at the woman who managed to captivate him. Even more disconcerting, his feet refused to cooperate by moving up the street, and he kept staring like a boy transfixed by the candy shop. Candy meant to delight the eye and cause one to enjoy the moment in which it touched the tongue.

The young shop girl, Lisette, who had waited upon him and Jane almost five years ago now, beamed at his mysterious lady. As Frenchwomen were so apt to do, she could see past the dowdy gown and see the beauty of the woman before her.

The ladies entered into the inner sanctum of tedious fittings, and the next thing Ryder knew, he was stepping into the shop, unable to pull himself from the space she had just occupied. Amidst the colorful drapings swathed in every corner of the room, he felt like an undertaker in his black, but color hadn’t touched his frame since Jane had been laid in the dark earth.

“Monsieur, les duc?” Ami bustled into the room, her pink shepherdess costume a perfect match for her coal black hair and doll-like beauty. “It has been far too long.”

The unspoken words of sympathy hung between them for several seconds, and he was damned tempted to turn and bolt from the store.

But as if an actress on cue, she batted her long lashes up at him, and her lips parted in a coy smile. “Whatever can I help with? Perhaps you would like to see a costume modeled for you, non?”

Ryder barely glanced at her, shoving aside the memories before they rushed in. It wasn’t as if he would let himself go to pieces in a woman’s shop.

His gaze fell on a bolt of opalescent silk shot through with silver thread. It was almost an exact match to her wild eyes. Instantly, he could see his mysterious lady swathed in the shimmering fabric, her legs bare and her breasts barely covered like some Aphrodite bathed in silvery waters.

“The young woman with Lady Cavendish,” he said, his voice growing tight at the image of his lady barely clad, her nipples teased to hardness by the rich fabric. “Can you make her a gown in that color?”

Ami stared blankly for a moment then nodded. “We have a gown prepared in that color, but it is not finished.”

“Show it to me.”

She bobbed a curtsy and swept into the back room.

Ryder shifted on his boots and clasped his hands behind his back. Then blinked. What the hell was he doing? Damn it, he was buying a dress for a woman he planned to avoid, that’s what he was doing.

His blood hummed, and his gaze darted to the curtains that led to the fitting rooms. Was she still dressed? Or were her smooth thighs naked? She’d worn stockings of plain wool, and if he had to guess her corset had been just as simple. Lord, how he would love to see her with white silk stockings tied with red ribbons and a corset of wine brocade.

He snorted. She’d never wear such a thing. She was inexperienced and good. That had been clear on her beautiful face. Like. . . Jane. Ryder swallowed and closed his eyes for a moment.

Like Jane, this young woman seemed untouched by the selfish and cruel ways of the women he knew. Women, who bedecked themselves in clothing purely meant to incite a man’s lust. It was for the best she was no doubt choosing another simple gown. Hadn’t he sent her off to keep her from himself and the decadence of the women in his world? Yet, here he was about to buy a beautiful gown for her. A hint of shame rolled through him. But he kept standing there, waiting.

Ami popped back into the room. He snapped his eyes open to the sight of her black curls bouncing as she hefted a blue silk box. She carefully placed it down on the table at the far end of the room. “Please, monsieur?” She gestured with her small hand for him to join her by the box.

He came up beside her and gazed down, waiting for her to reveal the costume.

She pulled the ribbons and lifted the lid. “It was meant for a duchess, but the color did not suit.”

Ryder gazed down at the contents. The silk shone with the colors of an opal, purple, pink and silver were shot through the ivory silk. Seed pearls lined the bodice and were scattered over the lush skirt. He had chosen gowns for countless women as presents. But this one was perfect for her. With her stormy grey blue eyes, the gems’ colors would light her eyes to the color of silver. He waved at the concoction of frothy elegance. “Take it into her.”

“Oui,” Ami bobbed a quick curtsy.

“Only do not inform her who it is from.” The last thing he wanted was her to show up at his door front in the dress waiting for him to unwrap her like a present. He’d sent her away once; twice would be damn well impossible.

Ami closed the box and hurried into the next room. Ryder turned, allowing himself to linger for a few more moments, envisioning the surprise and joy on her face as she opened the box. He wouldn’t think of her sliding the fabric over her arms and legs. Nor would he think about the fabric he touched pressing to her breasts.

Ryder drew in a slow breath then headed back out onto Bond Street. She’d enjoy the gown, and that would have to do. It was one thing, the only thing, he could give her.

Chapter 5

“NO DANCING?” KATE EXCLAIMED, JUST as the carriage bounced over a particularly large hole in the cobbled street.

Imogen’s eyes sparkled as if she knew some great sin but was refusing to reveal it.

The carriage pulled to a stop, and Kate resisted a frown. Her first London party and no dancing. She’d dreamed of dancing for years, and lord knew she had practiced enough with her old aunt. The poor dear had many a blue toe from Kate’s blunders, but now she was quite proficient, thank you very much. And well, she very much wanted a chance to finally employ all her practice.

Imogen patted a hand to her hair which had been curled and twisted until it towered in a fascinatingly beautiful way above her head. Her hand sparked with ruby and diamond rings. “Never fear. There shall be other amusements.”

The footman opened the door, and the sounds of an orchestra and loud voices, laughing and talking poured in. Kate froze for a moment. Lord, they weren’t even inside yet.

Her heart pounded with excitement as she stood on the edge of the most sinful set of London. She was about to make her entrance, and she was going to make it as memorable as possible. After all, how many other young women would die to be in her diamond trimmed slippers right now. And truly, she couldn’t wait to not only see exactly what these other amusements were but to participate in them as well.

As it was, she felt like a duchess. It had been incredible luck that whoever had ordered the gown had canceled. It fit to perfection, and she truly felt magical in it, as if it had some secret power. A secret power that would have men at her feet and women gaping at her in envy, and it felt marvelous.

She had to admit her hair, which had taken a good hour to arrange, and her new shoes were a bit intimidating. Imogen had no problem stepping down in her high, backless slippers of crimson brocade. A velvet red rose was pinned into her blonde locks. Feathers peeped up from behind the flower and curled coyly up to her temple.

Well, if Imogen could make it down the steps in those ridiculously high shoes, Kate could. So, without further doubts, she took the footman’s hand, clenched her toes into the bottom of her lavender backless slipper and stepped onto the rickety carriage step then onto the royal blue rug which had been rolled out onto the street to protect the guests’ footwear. Smiling that she had not indeed tripped and fallen face forward in her precarious slippers, Kate glanced up at the house.

Towering at least four stories high with colonnades, lanterns lined every window. There were at least two dozen footmen in purple and gold livery lighting the walk with torches.

As soon as their carriage pulled away, another pulled right up. And the walk was full of people making their way up to the entrance. “Good lord, Imogen.” Her lips twitched. “Has half of London been invited to this exclusive party?”

Imogen lifted a hand to her slender throat and laughed. “It would seem so.”

Kate arched a brow. “How many others do you think have a good bit of gossip on this woman?”

“Hundreds,” Imogen drawled. “After all the countess and scandal are dear friends, but she is an artist at keeping the sharpened tongues of the ton dull.”

“Well, on we go,” Kate said, eager to see what awaited.

She swept up the path, Imogen just behind. As she neared the stairs Kate resisted the urge to adjust her elaborate coif. Her hair, laced with diamond broaches, was curled high upon her head. Unlike Imogen, she hadn’t allowed the maids to powder it, which she realized now made her stand out amongst all the sugary curls of the men and women around her.

A group of ladies, their towering powdered hair leaning like a badly built tower, whispered behind their fans as she and Imogen stepped forward. But she didn’t care, if anything it was rather exciting. Her own towering curls felt so precarious, she had to walk with a perfectly straight spine which pressed her breasts tighter to her corset. Oh, if only those country biddies could see her now. The old dears would fall into a fit of vapors unlike any Shropshire had ever seen.

The moment they entered the large and crowded foyer, all her senses were assaulted. Orchids and roses poured from the balustrades and crimson silks had been hung festively from the walls.

The countess stood at the center of it all, her black hair towering with flowers and feathers and jewels the size of robin’s eggs. Kate forced herself not to gape. It was positively amazing. The woman stood like a goddess descended amongst mortals. She looked bored beyond all belief, and yet she managed to have half the room staring at her.

Her gown was deep purple with delicate embroidery all along the bodice and borders. The stomacher was so low, the barest hint of pink nipples peeped out above the gold edging. A small boy stood behind her, holding her long and heavily embroidered train. Her eyes, slanted like a cat’s, perused the room even as she talked to those who greeted her. Full lips pouted as if she was permanently teasing the opposite sex. This woman exuded a sexual prowess which Kate had never seen before. Not even in Imogen.

It was fascinating and horrifying at once.

Straightening her shoulders, Kate walked forward and extended her hand, ready to throw herself into the arena. For as exciting as this was, she was beginning to realize this world was just as wild as ancient Rome. Lions might attack at any moment.

“My lady,” she said, her voice surprisingly low, as if she was tossing out some unseen challenge.

The countess stopped, her full lips curled into a predatory smile. With agonizing slowness, the woman raked her gaze over Kate. “Such delightful freshness,” she purred, opening her fan and waving it slowly before her plumped up breasts. “How amusing.”

Kate’s hand froze in the woman’s surprisingly firm grip.

“I do hope you shall enjoy being devoured.” The countess pulled her close and whispered in Kate’s ear, her breath warm on her skin. “Perhaps I should take the first bite.”

Kate started to tilt her head to the side, but stopped immediately as she felt her heavy coif move with her subtle gesture. Instead, she glanced at the woman through veiled eyes. “But my dear countess, I really wouldn’t wish you to choke. . . on my lock.”

Imogen’s eyes rounded, and her fan snapped open faster than prinny’s breeches at the sight of a fleshy woman.

Kate held her breath for a moment, almost not believing she dared to be so crude. But it felt bloody marvelous.

The countess blinked and then laughed. She turned to Imogen. Leaning forward, she kissed the air just by her friend’s cheek. “What a gem, you have brought to us,” she said with cool charm. “I think she will be able to lift our recent ennui.”

Imogen placed a hand to her bosom and smiled coquettishly. “I think you shall find she is full of surprises.”

“I do hope so.”

With that, Imogen grabbed Kate by the arm and led her through the hall into the salon. All the furniture had been removed except for a few lone couches in the darker corners of the room. Each and every one of them was occupied by couples lounging in the shadows and in some cases there were three or four men and women entwined in conversation. Tables with chairs had been set up all about the center of the room. Lords and ladies stood about them, throwing ivory gaming chips down onto the tables. Their voices and laughter filled the room with raucous passion, masking the quartet set discreetly in the farthest corner of the room.

“Well, you’ve done it,” giggled Imogen.

Kate couldn’t tear her eyes away from the sight before her. It was positively thrilling. “What?”

“I don’t know how, but the countess has decided you are to be reckoned with.”

Kate snapped her gaze to Imogen. “Indeed?”

“She took one look at you, and her claws came out. It means you very well may be the new toy of the ton.” Imogen shook her head. “You are lovely, my dear, but it’s the dress. You look as if you’ve arrived from some heavenly world, and we mortals are lucky to even have you in our presence.”

“If they are foolish enough to believe me a goddess,” Kate lilted, “I certainly will not dissuade them.” If anything she would do everything in her growing arsenal of social weaponry to keep herself so interesting.

“You won’t have to.” Imogen inclined her head to the crowds of people. “Look, it has already started.”

Kate bit back a smile. She’d planned for this for months, and the attention focused in their direction was wonderful confirmation she was no longer a country mouse. Oh, no, she was a woman ready for scandal.

Women were staring, whispering behind their painted fans, and the men were eyeing her, their gazes roving over her face and breasts. All of them seemed to have the same hungry smile, as if one word from her would have them across the room to do her bidding. Kate glanced at Imogen from the corner of her eyes. “Whatever can they be saying?”

“No doubt, it’s already circulating you are Percy’s poor little widow and ripe for the picking.”

“Lovely,” she drawled. The picking part wasn’t so bad, but the last thing she wanted was people feeling sorry for her. Well, she was determined no one would ever know how much it had hurt being foolish enough to believe a man could ever love her for herself and not her hundred thousand a year. “Champagne?”

“Of course.”

A servant walked by, his tray laden with champagne glasses. Imogen plucked up two and passed one to her. “Now, it goes straight to one’s head.” She took a long swallow. “So, you must drink as much of it as possible.”

Kate laughed and took the crystal glass. She lifted it to her lips and immediately felt like doing a little dance. The bubbles tickled her tongue, and it was tart and sweet at once. She couldn’t stop the smile tilting her lips. In fact, she was concerned her cheeks would never recover from all this smiling, but her father had only permitted champagne on birthdays and Christmas. Percy hadn’t permitted her the funds for such luxuries at all.

“Ready for your next bit of debauchery?”

“Hmm?” Kate murmured around her glass.

“Gambling.”

Imogen guided her crimson skirts through the press of ladies and gentlemen and went straight to the square cut faro table. She tossed a blue velvet bag of coins onto the table and a large stack of pink, ivory circles were pushed in her direction.

Kate moved in beside her cousin, her skirts pushing a gentleman with a diamond pasted to his cheek aside. He pursed his rouged lips at her, then sniffed and turned back to the game.

“The bet is one thousand pounds, ladies and gentlemen,” the banker said as they began the round.

Imogen slapped her fan down onto the green felt surface as she followed the play of cards. The rouged lord to her right tossed a stack of at least ten rosy chips into the pile, and a lady in a yellow gown, her hair barely visible beneath the forest of feathers upon her head, tossed twice as much.

Kate nearly choked on a sip of champagne as the other lords and ladies circled round the table threw in thousands of pounds. All of them laughing brightly and drinking as they threw their money away.

Imogen’s face brightened as her chance came. Kate had no idea what was really going on, but a set of cards were turned in a box upon the table. Suddenly Imogen squealed. She clapped her hands, and her rings sparkled in the candlelight. “I’ve won!” She bent over, her breasts dangerously close to falling out and over the gold embroidered lace lining her extremely low neckline. “Lovely chips!”

Kate laughed with her friend as Imogen raked in nearly ten thousand pounds. “Well, that will pay for a sin or two.”

“Mmmm. I may buy and sell a few scandals before the night is out.”

This was what she’d wanted. To be part of this life, and it was fascinating. The carefree extravagance of these people who did nothing but play and seek out entertainment. Perhaps Percy had played in this very room. He had drunk champagne, thrown away her money and spent a bit of time on the couches in the shadows. Well, now it was her turn to have some freedom. Freedom he had denied her.

Kate glanced about the room. She knew almost no one in London, and she most certainly couldn’t speak to anyone if she hadn’t been introduced, even if she had been bold enough to knock upon the duke’s door in the middle of the night. There were just some things one didn’t do in public. Or at least that’s what she’d been told over and over again by Imogen.

People stood in small groups, chatting. One of the women gestured wildly and nearly smacked her companion in the face. The champagne clearly was having its effect.

It was tantalizing, and Kate found herself watching with the shameless delight of a voyeur.

Others lounged on the small couches. Kate spotted one couple, the young lady draped back. Her yellow skirts were spread about her like a fan, and her breasts were pressed tight together. With eyes hooded with desire, she rested her chin in the cup of her hand. The gentleman beside her was stroking her arm and leaning in towards her as if he might kiss her at any moment.

This never could have happened in Shropshire. For goodness sake, the only movements the old women had been interested in were bodily ones. The stuffy little card parties she’d attended had been painfully boring, and she had been inflicted with lists of gout, slow moving bowels, and the general ill state of the future generation.

Here pleasure of every sense seemed to reign supreme.

As she swept the room, her gaze stopped on a figure dressed in black. He was striding through the crowd, heading for the relative seclusion of the massive fireplace.

Her breath caught in her throat, and her grip tightened on her glass. It was him. Licking her lips, Kate tried not stare, but she couldn’t stop herself.

He stopped in front of the fire and spoke to a raven-haired man. After a moment of shameless staring, Kate wondered what the two could possibly be discussing. They stopped as soon as a young woman in pink sashayed by. The dark-haired man reached out and pulled her back against him, bending so her bottom was tucked firmly against his groin. The girl batted his hand away but then held his gaze as she trailed her hand over her own breasts.

Pfft! Had the girl no imagination? Then again men were rather obsessed with women’s bosoms. The question was, would the duke be inspired if she pranced over and pressed her bum into his groin? Kate stared some more, wondering if it might indeed be worth a try.

The duke clasped his friend on the back, and the blonde and the girl headed off into the hallway. Kate glanced back to Imogen, but she was immersed in the game. Quickly, she swung her attention back to the duke. More than anything, she wanted to go speak to him. But he hadn’t even noticed her and. . .

The duke turned to the fire, leaning against the mantle. His dark eyes seemed vacant as he stared into the flames. Whatever could he be thinking? Well, whatever it was, she would do her utmost to turn his thoughts to more pleasing matters.

Kate squared her shoulders. She’d marched boldly into his house. Surely, crossing a few feet of a drawing room would be infinitely easier.

Swallowing the last half of her champagne, she plunked her glass down on the gaming table and drew in a deep breath. As she made her way to the duke, several different thoughts—how do you do, are you enjoying the weather, or would you like to bed me here and now—raced through her mind, but his broad physique kept distracting her. The wicked silhouette of his black frame was heightened by the fire, emphasizing the manner in which his shoulders stretched at the perfect cut of his black evening coat. Lord, he was the most powerful man in the room and not because of his title. Everything about him was such a mystery, from his sudden silences to his clothes.

Entirely clothed in black, he looked like a wolf amongst pretty birds, ready to rip apart all their garish plumes. His muscled body was a strong contrast to many of the softer men around him, and his black hair was pulled back from his strong jaw and chiseled cheek bones.

At last, she stood behind him. She allowed herself to sneak a gaze towards the black coattails trimmed with silver braiding that hid his doubtlessly perfect bum.

As if he sensed someone, he turned.

Kate dropped a little curtsy and slowly lifted her eyes to his. “Good evening, Your Grace.”

The room seemed to explode with warmth as their eyes met. Kate clasped her open fan, waving it before her face, hoping no one would notice how he affected her.

His mouth opened, and his dark gaze crackled as he took in her face and corseted breasts. “Good evening.”

As if some very clever woman had a hold of her, Kate snapped her fan closed and pressed it to the front of her bodice, right before her plumped up bosom. “Have you found anything to entertain you this evening, Your Grace?”

His eyes, smoldering now, focused for a moment longer on her breasts. Ever so slowly, he dragged his gaze up to her lips. “It depends on what entertainment you had in mind,” he murmured, his voice a sandy rumble.

The very sound of it caused her skin to tingle. “I have found that the kind of entertainment you provide is quite addictive.”

He tilted his head and folded his arms across his chest, sending a series of rippling muscle movements under his black coat. “Oh?”

Kate’s heart raced. If she could only get him alone, perhaps they could truly talk again and more. It was so strange. There were many men here tonight, but only the duke’s presence awakened her excitement.

She glanced towards the hallway. “Your touch is quite provocative,” she said, in a low tone. “Particularly your mouth,” she added, amazed at her own wanton words.

Her comment met with stony silence, and she took a small step forward, determined not to let him send her off again. “This time, I intend to return the favor.”

His eyes widened, and a muscle tightened in his cheek. “Your gown is exquisite,” he cut in, dropping his arms to his sides. The hasty move once again revealed the pale ribbon wrapped about his wrist.

She blinked at his quick withdrawal. She lowered her fan and glanced down to the shimmering fabric. “Why, thank you. It was a gift.”

With his back ramrod straight, he arched a black brow. “Indeed? Who from?”

“I don’t know, actually.” Kate smiled despite the fact this conversation was not going at all as she hoped. “It was marvelous of them. I have never owned anything so beautiful, and I do wish I could thank the giver.”

“Well, it was a damned bad idea,” he said tightly. He hesitated then clipped, “Of him. It was damned bad idea of him.” Abruptly, he turned his gaze on the room.

Kate opened her mouth to ask if he was always so rude and odd, but then she reflected on his comment. He’d been awfully insistent on those last hims.

The duke towered above her, his hands clasped behind his back. He was acting quite bizarrely, avoiding her eye contact. She might have attributed this to her forward behavior but. . . My lord, it seemed impossible but it felt right. He had given her the gown.

Her cheeks heated, and a wonderful sense of glee tingled through her. “You?” she breathed. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

He glanced at her then swung his attention back with undue determination to the party before them. “I beg your pardon?”

She ran her hands over the silken folds of her skirt, remembering the way he had run his hands over her plain grey gown. “You gave this to me.”

Instantly, he looked down at her, his face dark. “Madam, I do not make it a habit to give gifts to women I don’t know.”

No, he most likely didn’t. That’s why this was so special. Without doubt, the Duke of Darkwell had somehow gifted her with this perfect gown and he didn’t wish her to know because if she did. . . There’d be no escaping his interest in her.

“Of course,” she murmured. “Perhaps some other gentleman is responsible then.”

His dark face grew even more dower. He gave a quick nod and then left her standing alone by the fire. She should have been horrified, but she wasn’t. The Duke of Darkwell was determined to deny his desire for her. But she was having none of it. He wanted her, she wanted him, and that’s all there was to it. She’d have Darkwell in her bed before the week was out. Indeed, nothing was going to stop her, certainly not a little cut.

* * *

DAMNATION! RYDER EYED THE DOOR like a man eyeing freedom right before being led to Tyburn. What in the hell was she doing here? She was supposed to be a proper young woman—she’d certainly been dressed like one—who’d had a taste for sin, not one of the wild creatures bound for ruin who frequented the countess’ parties. Besides, he hadn’t saved her from himself to have her flaunting her person about for any jackanape to have a go.

Hunt sauntered up, a glass of whiskey in hand. “You’ve met the famous bit of lace?” The man looked in ridiculous good humor. Then again, a few moments in the hallway with a lovely woman could do that to a man.

Ryder narrowed his eyes, taking in the state of Hunt’s breeches. “Never you mind.” He was trying to keep the chit away from sin, not send more demons her way. “Do up your buttons, man.”

“Pardon?” Hunt glanced down and laughed dryly. “Bess is a bit of a handful. We’re fortunate we were able to return her skirts to rights, never mind my breeches.”

“What do you mean by famous?”

“Gods, man,” Hunt commented as he worked his buttons to rights. “I thought you of all people should know who she is.”

Ryder shook his head, unable to tear his gaze from the gathering group of young bucks about her. In the candlelight, her gown sparkled like one of the crystal champagne glasses. With her golden hair and pale skin, she positively glowed, and clearly every man in the room had noticed.

The thought was damn irritating, and he was regretting have wandered into Madame Sophie’s. Why hadn’t he bought her a high necked gown meant for the repelling of all lascivious males? That would have been the intelligent thing to do. But no, he had to go and give her something she’d like.

“She’s only one of the wealthiest women in Britain. A hundred thousand a year. Recently widowed. She’s a fat pursed Mecca to all fortune hunting bastards.”

“Widowed?” Ryder repeated. What the hell did he mean widowed?

“Mmm. She was married to Percy Darrell, that great idiot.”

Percy Darrell? The man had been an utter ass, bright as dross, and had spent every waking moment gaming, wenching or driving about the parks. Sometimes all three at once.

He hadn’t even been aware that Darrell had had a wife.

“Kept her locked away in the country, apparently.”

A hint of dread took hold of Ryder’s stomach. Well, that certainly explained why she’d shown up at his doorstep demanding pleasure. The woman was hellbent on tossing all propriety to the wind.

And he’d gone and given her the gown that was causing every knave in the place to eye her as if they might as a merry group toss her on her back, lift her skirts and take turns giving her a blissful smile all night long. “Do you think she has any idea what she’s doing?”

Hunt shrugged. “Country girls can be just as wild as the city ones. Sometimes wilder. And her cousin, Imogen Cavendish, has her by the hand. So, I’ve no doubt she’ll be creating a pleasant little scandal in no time. Besides, a woman like that can do whatever she pleases as long as she doesn’t get caught outright.”

Ryder eyed Mrs. Darrell. She was smiling up at a randy buck in a wine-colored coat. The blackguard passed her another glass of champagne—which she took. Worse, she batted—batted—her damn lashes at the man.

Ryder’s fingers curled into fists. The woman was going to be debauched within the week if she kept going as she was. Bloody hell, it might even be tonight. Half a dozen young idiots stood round her. One, a fop in purple velvet, offered her his snuff box to which she shook her head. The motion caused her curled hair to caress her pale shoulders and the diamonds in the curls winked, teasing the men around her.

A fellow in dark green leaned forward and whispered in her ear. Her eyes flared open and then she laughed, exposing the beautiful line of her throat. At that very moment, she glanced Ryder’s way, and the humor in her eyes warmed into a banked fire of desire. Then she quickly looked away, taking a sip of champagne.

Hunt cocked his head, surveying the young Mrs. Darrell. “She is rather lovely. And much to the annoyance of those lusty fops, she keeps looking at you. I don’t suppose you’ve considered ushering her over the threshold of—” Hunt voice died down as he took a good look Ryder. He hesitated then tapped Ryder on the shoulder. “You know you can’t kill off the rogues with that stare. . . though it is an admirable attempt.”

Ryder tore his gaze away and drew in a slow breath. He was being a complete fool. The lady was free, and the very fact he felt like throttling the group of young men gathering about her was a bad sign. It meant he wanted to do more than bed her. He actually wanted to know her. That would never happen. His heart was sure of that.

Hunt threw his head back and laughed.

“What?” Ryder demanded.

“It was her, wasn’t it?”

“Who?”

“The innocent chit you turned away.” Hunt’s laughter died down, and he leveled on Ryder amused eyes. “It was Mrs. Darrell.”

Ryder ground his teeth down and fought the urge to belt the smug look off Hunt’s face. “It is none of your affair.”

“And here you were trying to preserve the poor girl’s sense of honor.” Hunt patted him on the back then took a long drink of whiskey. He passed the glass to Ryder. “She’s a widow, my friend. At one of the countess’ parties. There’s nothing left to save.”

Ryder tossed back the contents. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not interested.”

“Of course not, old boy.” Hunt took the empty glass. As he walked away, he said over his shoulder, “Do remind me about your lack of interest after you’ve killed all those sods fawning over her, would you?”

Ryder smashed his teeth together, holding in a hot-headed retort, one that would only convince his friend he was a mere two steps away from bedding the woman, and let Hunt head off. In all his years, Ryder never been one to lie to himself and now was not a good time to start. Hunt had always known a falsehood the moment it passed Ryder’s lips.

He’d only ever wanted one woman the way he now wanted Mrs. Darrell. His wife. His heart would never belong to anyone but Jane. Long ago, he’d sworn to himself that though he could give his body, he would never allow any woman to have his heart.

No matter, that Jane left him alone on this godforsaken earth. The thought instantly ripped at his gut. He turned from Mrs. Darrell. He couldn’t risk the attachment that such desire encouraged. But damnation, he wanted the woman’s sweet mouth under his, he wanted to flick his tongue over the wet folds of her hot cunny and he hungered to thrust his cock deep inside her welcoming body, but worse, he wanted to open up the secrets of her mind and perhaps even the beauty of her heart. That was exactly why he was going to stay away from the entrancing young widow.

Without another thought, and though he knew it would infuriate the countess he was leaving without a word or their typical meeting in her bedroom, Ryder grabbed a carafe of brandy and headed out to his coach.

The only thing going to get the image of that woman surrounded by a crowd of randy admirers out of his head was a dedicated night of drinking.

Chapter 6

WHERE THE DEVIL WAS IMOGEN?

Dawn’s yellow-grey light slipped in through the curtained windows, gently illuminating gentlemen sprawled on the floor. A few ladies draped upon the couches with their skirts rucked up slept, revealing silken stockings, uncaring in their state of inebriation.

Champagne glasses and plates of half eaten pastel colored sweets were everywhere. Kate hesitated, contemplating how she might negotiate her way through the odd mixture of flowers, cards and men strewn upon the floor. Several of the floor bound gentlemen laid face down, their cravats and coats about their bodies. Still, it was disconcerting. She didn’t want one to suddenly look as she stepped over his head. So, she tucked her skirts up and darted quickly between the prone bodies.

A few people still gambled, their cries of enthusiasm less hardy than before. Two very drunk ladies stood by the door, holding onto each other to keep upright.

“I adore you,” the lady in lavender proclaimed.

“I adore you, too!” the one in yellow gushed.

“You’re so adorable,” the one in lavender cooed, the sweeping purple flowers in her hair poking at her friends shoulder.

“No. No. My dearest, you’re adorable!” her friend replied as they embraced and started to blubber. “I don’t deserve you!”

Pleasantly tipsy, Kate merely shook her head. When she reached the far side of the room, she paused by a table laden with guttering candles. Where the deuce was Imogen? Her feet hurt, and she was ready to fall into bed. Though sadly, since the duke had departed, it would be alone.

A giggle drifted in from the hallway, and Kate tensed. No. It couldn’t be. Could it? The giggle came again, and she groaned. At the same time she had to fight back her own laugh. Nothing like this would have happened in Shropshire!

She turned and tiptoed into the dark hallway.

Squinting at the darkness, she whispered, “Imogen?”

There was no reply, only the dimness of the long, dark corridor.

In fact, it was rather quiet out in the hall. She went a little further down the dim, dawn lit passageway, weaving to the right. She stopped and clapped a hand over her mouth to stop her laugh. My, who knew walking could be so difficult?

“Imogen?” she whispered again.

A door to her right popped open, and Imogen tumbled out. She grabbed hold of Kate, the feathers and red rose in her hair dangerously tilting to the side. Even stranger, a long piece of white fabric was wrapped around her forehead, just above her eyes.

“Oh!” she gasped then hiccupped. “How fortunate you were here to catch me.” A sloppy smile brightened her face.

Kate peered into the doorway and sucked in a quick breath. There was a man. . . in the closet. A very attractive man. She blinked, trying for a better view in the unlit little square room. The fellow lounged back against the wall. His livery shirt was open as far as it might go, covering a chest that would cause any sculptor to swoon. A tightly curled white wig and a gold embroidered coat winked up from the floor, and of all things, he was missing a shoe.

Still, he managed to be positively delicious as he stared out with shockingly green eyes.

“Who’s that?” Kate asked, her voice deep with a touch of admiration at Imogen’s audacity.

Imogen righted herself and weaved a little to the left. She patted her hair and pulled at the white fabric—which under closer consideration appeared to be the fellow’s cravat—until it slipped free. She looked back at the man and shook her head at him. “Naughty.”

Weaving towards Kate, Imogen confessed, “He wanted me blindfolded!”

Kate opened her mouth then closed it, having no idea what one should say in response to a cravat being tied about her cousin’s eyes. With a footman. In the closet.

And him missing vital items of clothing.

The fellow in the closet righted his breeches and tucked his shirt back into the dark green livery. He gave his white wig a glance but then ignored it, leaving his blond hair wild, doubtlessly from Imogen’s hands. Strolling out of the little space and into the hall, he raked a hot gaze up and down Kate then yanked Imogen to his side, rubbing his lips gently against her neck. “Who is your friend then, love?”

Imogen’s eyes widened, and she giggled again. “Terribly rude. . .” she tugged at her skirts, “of me.” Frowning she glanced over her shoulder and tugged at her skirts again. “Dratted chemise.” She batted her eyes up at her Lothario. “Be a dear?”

The servant swatted her bottom as best he could through the layers of fabric then pulled her skirts back down over her chemise. “Hate to cover all that glory.”

Imogen shook her head, her curls bouncing. “Silly man.”

Kate cleared her throat. “Imogen? Who is that?”

“Hmm? Oh yes.” Imogen stroked his hard chest. “This is dear, dear--” she bit her lower lip then glanced up at the ceiling as if the answer might be written upon it.

“Reginald,” the man supplied.

Imogen beamed, and her gaze snapped back to Kate. “Yes. Dear, dear Reginald. Our lovely duke’s footman.”

Darkwell’s footman? Well, that was certainly juicy news. What was he still doing here? Locked in the closet was he? Kate took a step closer, as if somehow she might absorb information about her duke just by standing next to his servant.

Reginald adjusted the front placate of his breeches, a bulge growing ever more pronounced, and gave Kate a wink. “I hear you’ve a fancy for the duke, madam.”

Kate straightened at the man’s impertinence. How in the devil did he know? Did everyone know or had Imogen simply been unable to resist sharing a bit of gossip. And was he really that big beneath his breeches? It was really quite distracting. “I beg your pardon?”

“Now don’t get in a twist, Kate. Reginald is our dear, dear. . .“ Imogen swayed and Reginald cradled her about the waist a little more firmly, “friend. Moment I found he worked for the duke, I said to myself. . . . I said, Imogen, you must, must be nice to this man so he will help dear, dear Kate. . . and!” She tugged a bit of parchment from between her breasts. “He’s given us a list.”

A thrill of anticipation ran through her. “What sort of list?”

“Oh, when the duke rides! Who he rides. . . I mean what he rides,” she whispered. “What operas he prefers, when he shows his lovely face at his club.” Imogen took a step forward, her face radiant as if she’d just dedicated herself to some truly noble cause. “We shall hunt him like a fox! And you shall triumph.”

Imogen’s enthusiasm was certainly catching, and if she really had this kind of information the duke was in for a deal of trouble. Kate arched a brow. “When do we start?”

Imogen clapped her hands. “Immediately. But now, we should sleep. Don’t you think, Reginald?”

Reginald just smiled down at her and shook his head. “Not yet, my pet.”

The footman stretched forward with one brawny arm and wrapped his strong hand about Kate’s waist and pulled her near. “Now, my lovely ladies, let’s have a chat.”

“Here now!” Kate exclaimed, but at the same time she couldn’t help but be amazed at the hardness of the fellow’s body.

“Just a bit of gossip, madam,” the footman said, his voice husky against her ear. The faint scent of brandy surrounded him.

Lovely, the man was foxed. Then again, she’d take whatever information she could get about Darkwell.

“Just a bit of advice to help you on your quest.” He cuddled her and Imogen closer to his chest. “Now, my ladies, have you not considered his black attire?”

Kate hesitated. In fact, she had wondered at that.

Reginald dipped his head and nuzzled his nose against her hair. “He’s still in mourning.”

“In mourning.” Kate blinked. “For who?”

“His wife, of course.”

She leaned further into him, if that were possible. Perhaps, somewhere at some time she had read that the duke had been married, but she didn’t recall it. “How long ago did she die?”

Imogen pushed at Reginald and stumbled forward. She thrust her chin into the air and gave the footman a haughty look. “This is a very dark conversation for our merry mood.”

“Imogen,” Kate protested. She bloody well wanted to know what Reginald knew.

“No. I’m tired. I wish to return home.” Imogen squared her shoulders and started down the hallway. Crookedly.

“Wait,” Kate hissed. What had soured her mood? “Blast.” Giving Reginald a quick smile, she started off after her friend.

“Good luck, madam,” Reginald called softly. “He could use a bit of happiness.”

Kate barely heard him as she hurried after Imogen and grabbed her friend about the waist. They staggered down the steps and out to their carriage. Imogen stumbled in.

Giving one glance at the house where she’d made her debut into the underbelly of London society, Kate wondered just what she’d gotten involved in. At any rate, she had a list. And the Duke of Darkwell had no idea he was about to become the most chased man in London.

* * *

RYDER GUZZLED DOWN THE LAST of his ale and held up the empty tankard.

“Do I look like a barmaid?”

Squinting he glanced up at Hunt. The world was fuzzy but not so fuzzy he couldn’t make out the duke’s imperious figure. “Tip a pyke.”

Hunt smiled merrily. “No, thank you.”

Ryder shrugged. “Have some ale then.”

“Felt in the mood for a bit of rough?” Hunt slung off his cloak and sat beside him on the splintery wooden bench at The Maiden’s Legs Tavern.

Ryder sure as hell hadn’t felt like immersing himself amongst the blue-blooded halls of his club. A man took his life in his hands coming down to the East India Docks at this hour, but, hell what was life worth anyway? “Come,” he drawled. “This is paradise.”

The din of the gin sots had deafened him to the screech of the fiddler in the corner. Damnation, he couldn’t even smell the faint odor of sweat, piss, and dog any longer, he’d been here so long.

Hunt snorted. “Paradise, my arse.”

A girl with reddish-blonde hair sauntered up to them, balancing a tray laden with tankards. A smile parted her plump rouged lips exposing slightly yellow teeth. Her faded gown clung to her lush frame, and her shift barely covered her nipples.

She leaned over and gave Hunt a smile. “Your friend’s in a bit of a mood. I hope you’re jollier.”

He leaned back, resting an elbow against the rough table. “I am charm itself, love. Especially to a girl with your attributes.”

She looked a bit confused, her brows drawing together. “Attribu--whots?”

He eyed her pillowy breasts. “It’s the greatest of compliments, I assure you.”

“I thought as much,” she lilted. Preening, she took Hunt’s hand, then placed it about her waist. Without waiting for an invitation, and with tremendous skill, she sat in his lap and plunked down the ales upon the wood table. “Now, you’ve lovely manners.” She eyed Ryder. “Though he’s a handsome bugger too.”

“Just a pretty face,” Hunt assured as he took her chin and turned her face back toward himself.

Giggling, her hand wandered over Hunt’s chest then traveled to his breeches. “I’ve always fancied me a pair of lords.”

Ryder grabbed his mug and took a long gulp. He couldn’t help but feel a bit of admiration for the greedy barmaid. After all, he’d been part of the more is never enough club himself for quite some time. However, fending off lusty wenches was not his idea of a good night. At least, not this eve. But now that Hunt was here—wherever the man went, women soon followed.

Hunt gave her a wolfish grin. “Some other time, love. My friend and I have serious drinking to do.”

She sighed, standing. “Do let me know if you tire of his company.”

Hunt patted her bum then slipped a shilling between her voluptuous breasts. “Keep the spirits coming, my sweet.”

The bar maid gave him a wink and wandered off.

Turning back to Ryder, Hunt grasped his tankard. “What the devil is wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

Eyeing the thick black ale floating in his tankard, Hunt grimaced. “And what the devil are we drinking?”

Ryder threw him a slurred grin. “Tastes like a chamber pot, but it’s effective in eliminating even the most insistent of thoughts.”

Hunt tossed back half the pint then shuddered. “Tastes like Thames water. Or worse.”

“And how would you know—“

Hunt arched a brow. “Recall last February?”

Ryder started to protest, but recalled a little over a year ago, he and Hunt had gotten foxed at this very tavern. They’d brawled with a group of sailors and all ended up in the river. He was lucky he hadn’t gone toes up from the filth.

Hunt pulled at his queue, quickly brushing his hair back and sweeping it away from his face. “We’re prevaricating.”

Damn. Ryder stared at the bottom of his nearly empty tankard. Where was the barmaid when he actually needed her? The last thing he wanted to see was the thing empty. “Prevaricating what?”

“Your problem, my friend.”

“I don’t have a problem.” Ryder frowned at the sludge at lining the tin mug. Perhaps he should switch to gin. At least then, his innards might still be intact come the dawn.

“You force me to guess at your difficulties,” Hunt warned, waving for the barmaid.

As if she knew exactly what he was thinking, she brought a tray with four small wooden cups of gin. She eyed Ryder and darted off.

Reaching for the gin cup, he waved it at Hunt. “Like I said, my life’s as right as. . .” he swallowed a big breath then tossed the gin back. “Rain.”

“Hmm.” Hunt rested his arm on the table and drummed his fingers on the peeling surface. “Perhaps you’ve taken vows of chastity?”

Ryder’s head started to pound. The bastard really was going to interrogate him. Why couldn’t he be like everyone else and be content to leave him be?

Hunt tilted his head. “Are you heading off to a monastery?”

“No.”

“Contemplating a life of prayer?”

“No.”

Hunt fingered his chin for a moment as if in deep thought then slammed his hand on the table. “Then what the hell is stopping you?”

The glasses jumped and rattled, and Ryder snapped towards Hunt. “From what?”

“From showing Mrs. Darrell a very good time.”

“She’s too innocent for me,” Ryder confessed. She needed a man who could give her his heart. His heart still belonged very much to one woman. He couldn’t risk giving it to another.

Sighing, Ryder took another drink of ale from a tankard that had miraculously appeared at his elbow. He fought back a grimace at the taste after the gin. But in a few seconds he wouldn’t be able to taste anything. If he was lucky in about an hour, he wouldn’t feel anything either. “You’ve seen her. Doesn’t belong. Deserves more, too.”

He daren’t even mention Jane. He’d given up voicing his pain over her loss. Hunt would simply repeat the obvious. Let go. Well, Ryder couldn’t let go. He didn’t want to.

Hunt leaned back and remained silent, his blue eyes penetrating.

Ryder eyed him. “It won’t work.”

“What won’t?” Hunt inquired, his eyes widening with mock innocence.

Ryder shook his glass at him and scowled. “Whatever argument you’re composing.”

“Argue? Me? Never.”

“Good.” Ryder nodded, glad Hunt was finally seeing reason. “Don’t mention her name again.” He’d come here to forget about her, not rabbit on till dawn.

“I suppose you’ve considered what will happen if you don’t do the honors with the dear lady?”

Ryder narrowed his eyes. Hunt was on dangerous ground, and he was in no humor to be discussing her. Especially linked with other men. “What?” he challenged.

Hunt lifted his wooden cup, pausing, and let the moment draw out before he drawled, “Some green idiot will get a hold of her, stick his cock in her with no ado and he’ll crow at his conquest. She’ll be no better off than when she came to London and she’ll be just as ruined. Only with you, you’d actually have paid attention to what she desired.”

The image of some fop rutting over Mrs. Darrell churned the gin around his stomach at an alarming rate. “Say that again, and I will shove your nose into your damned brain.”

Hunt shrugged. “Merely speaking the truth.”

Ryder shifted on the bench. If he wasn’t careful his damned friend was going to have him rationalizing the debauchery of the very women he’d sworn not to touch again. “She’s a bloody angel, man.”

Hunt laughed. “An angel who wants to walk about on earth for a bit and she’s going to make a piss poor choice because of it. Women always do, or at least women as inexperienced as that. For God’s sake, look at the man she married! She has deplorable taste in men.”

She wanted him, which only solidified her poor judgment. “She shouldn’t do it at all,” he growled.

“What, remain chaste? That’s a laugh coming from you.”

“Not chaste. Just. She deserves someone who will care for her.”

“How do you know what she deserves?” Hunt demanded seriously.

“I just do.” And he did. He’d been in Mrs. Darrell’s presence twice and seen her from afar once. Yet, it was clear to him she was above the base pleasure seekers she so longed to slum with. If she truly understood the kind of people she was trying to emulate, she would hie off to the country before one could say Dick Turpine.

Fingering the rim of his cup, Hunt said casually, “Well, if you won’t do it, perhaps I’ll take her in hand. She is lovely and I’d hate to see her used ill by some vapid buck.”

Fury barreled down Ryder’s veins, and he slammed his fists down on the table. There was no way in Hell someone like Hunt was going to get his dirty paws on a woman like Mrs. Darrell. “You touch her and I’ll force feed you your cock one bite at a time.”

Hunt leaned forward, a smirk curling his lips. “Why the hell should you care?” He shook his head slightly. “You don’t want her.”

Ryder launched forward and grabbed Hunt’s shirt. “I didn’t say I don’t want her. Wanting her is not the problem.”

Hunt blinked. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

“What?” Ryder loosened his grip and looked away, deliberately avoiding the obvious answer.

Hunt whistled lowly. “You actually like her.”

“Of course I do,” he said tersely. “There’s something bloody hypnotic about her.”

“No. Not lust, old man. You like this one. God knows we are all aware of the fact you only bed women you could never like. God’s blood, you still bed that cat, the Countess of Carmine.”

The countess was just one woman in the long line of cold, power hungry women he bedded to slake his lust. Hunt was right. Ryder didn’t bed women he might come to like. It was a luxury he never afforded himself. He couldn’t. Somehow it felt like a horrid betrayal of Jane. And he would never betray her memory. He’d worn her ribbon since her death as a daily reminder. Ryder dropped his gaze to the table, the anger crackling up inside him. “You know why I must do what I do.”

“Darkwell—”

Suddenly tired, Ryder forced himself to his feet. He just couldn’t discuss this. Not even with his oldest friend.

Hunt hesitated, his eyes darkening as if he was considering pushing. Finally, he sighed and nodded. “Off we go.”

Wordlessly, they headed out to the dark street.

The cold pierced the wool wrapped around Ryder and his boots squelched in the thick mud as he strode ahead.

They walked for several moments in silence, before Hunt said softly, “Darkwell, it wasn’t your fault. We all know it. When are you going—”

“Enough,” Ryder barked. “I don’t force you to talk about your father. Don’t force this on me.”

“Bastard.” Hunt’s face hardened under the moon’s glow.

“Yes,” he said, but this time his voice was a tired whisper.

No one could convince him to put aside the truth. Very simply, it was something he would never allow himself to forget. How careless he had been. How that carelessness had destroyed his life. And how if he wasn’t careful, that carelessness could destroy someone else.

Chapter 7

EVERYONE WAS STARING AT HER. Again. Which of course was particularly ridiculous considering an extremely lavish performance with live barnyard animals was taking place on the stage below, but as Kate was learning the ton preferred to be entertained by other members of the ton.

Dozens of opera glasses were positioned towards her, the candlelight reflecting off the glasses, sending gleams of rainbow light in her direction. Any other woman of society would be delighted. But what good was all this attention if the one man she wanted wasn’t anywhere to be seen?

Still, it was rather exciting. The most attention she’d ever known had been an extremely ardent group of ladies bent on the improvement of the Little Tindwing church. She’d listened for hours regarding the benefits of French versus Irish lace.

This was far more pleasurable considering all she had to do was be herself.

“You know, I do think you shall have to take extreme measures if you wish to seduce him,” Imogen murmured behind her pink silk fan.

Kate gave her a withering look. “Don’t you think hunting him is drastic enough?” The only reason they were even at the opera was because dear, dear Reginald assured them the duke would be making an appearance tonight.

“Absolutely not. This is but one step in a long series of dances.”

Why must it be so complicated? She wanted the duke, he wanted her, and that as far as she was concerned, should have been enough. The duke knew exactly what he was doing and she, novice that she was, was left to poke about in the dark.

It would all be worth it though. Heavens, she would run from one end of England to another if it meant having the duke’s mouth upon her body again. Every time she thought of his tongue upon her thighs, she shivered.

“Hello, darling!” trilled a voice from the curtains.

Kate shifted on her chair, twisting in her new ivory gown. Immediately her eyes widened. The woman in the curtained way was absolutely beautiful. Ridiculously beautiful. So beautiful, she would leave every woman behind if there was to be an impromptu contest in loveliness.

Imogen stretched out her hands. “To be certain, it has been ages!”

The other woman sashayed into the box, her vast indigo skirts embroidered with gold and robin’s egg fringe. The lady’s silken black hair curled about her face and was pinned in several places with golden stars dripping with sapphires.

She leaned over and kissed Imogen upon the cheek. “You simply must go to St. Petersburg,” she said, her voice a rich hum. Snapping her peacock fan open she whispered, “The men, my dear. The Russian men. They have a stamina English men would only dream of. All that cold weather, no doubt.”

Imogen pulled the woman down onto the delicate French chair between herself and Kate. “Were you ravished by a regiment of Cossacks?”

The woman fluttered her fan before her breasts. “Be still my beating heart. How I dearly miss their enthusiasm.” Then she turned on Kate and quite boldly asked, “Now who might this be?”

Imogen tilted her head and smiled. “My friend, the lovely Mrs. Darrell. Now, Mrs. Darrell, you must meet the incomparable Mrs. Barton.”

“The actress?” Kate blurted before she could stop herself.

“Indeed,” Mrs. Barton drawled. “They’ve let you up from the country, I see.”

Kate’s cheeks burned as she had been rather rude. But must so many people observe her lack of polish? “Actually, I’ve liberated myself from the country.”

“How marvelous!” Mrs. Barton gestured with her fan to the mass of society watching each other. “These old buzzards love a bit of fresh air.”

Laughing at the woman’s saucy candor, Kate noticed that dozens more opera glasses had been turned in their direction. Apparently, Mrs. Barton was a fascinating entity to the ton as well. “Well, I suppose I am about as fresh as the air comes.”

“How brave of you to admit it,” Mrs. Barton lilted, her dark eyes dancing with growing warmth. “I too was once a country girl. Hated it. Who wants that dreary existence, I ask you?”

Kate smiled, adoring the woman’s joviality. “Do you care for the opera?”

“I loathe it. A bunch of silly ninnies prancing about in gilded costumes trying not to step in whatever the horses leave behind. And why must they insist on having live animals on stage? Don’t they realize that even a donkey is far more entertaining than those ridiculous chorus girls? The silly dancers have only one talent.” Mrs. Barton’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Quite flexible. They are always bending over.”

Kate covered her mouth to stifle her laughter. Good lord, the woman was scandalous. Perhaps with practice, she too could turn such phrases. Kate glanced down to the stage then back to Mrs. Barton. “I agree it is all rather odd, but you’re an actress, how can you decry the theater?”

“The opera is not theater,” Mrs. Barton declared passionately. “It’s a circus wrapped up in a pretty package. You’ll never catch me dancing about with my limbs bare.” She paused, and a wicked smile tilted her lips. “Well, at least not on stage.”

Imogen patted Mrs. Barton’s arm with her fan. “You will corrupt our young friend.”

Mrs. Barton rolled her eyes. “What can we say that is not more shocking than this appallingly bad performance? Just look.”

Kate glanced at the stage to witness a foppish young man mincing in a pair of violet tights. Perhaps Mrs. Barton had a point.

“Ah, I see he’s arrived,” Mrs. Barton said, her voice slightly husky as she glanced through her opera glasses.

“Who?” Kate asked.

“The Duke of Darkwell, of course. Only one man could cause such a stir.”

It was true. Three quarters of the audience had turned to gander at his box. The poor singers on stage couldn’t compete as the duke stood in his box gazing upon them all with the utmost arrogance. Kate’s breath caught in her throat the moment she spotted him. His black coat, waist coat and cravat made him appear sinister in the shadows, but she knew without question there was more to him than the façade he presented.

Without taking her attention from him, she leaned towards Mrs. Barton. “Why are people so fascinated by him?”

“Besides his appearance?” she commented slyly.

Kate tensed. She didn’t actually like the idea of another woman finding the duke attractive. Though she had no idea when she’d begun to think of him as hers. Even if at present nothing could be further from the truth.

Mrs. Barton glanced her over with a new degree of interest. “So, you fancy the duke, do you?”

Kate remained silent, but snapped her gaze away from his box.

“Darkwell is all desire touched with a haunting bitterness. Sad really, but undoubtedly compelling.”

Swallowing back a hasty retort that Mrs. Barton was surely wrong, Kate clasped her hands in her lap. She knew at first hand the passion Darkwell was capable of, but he was bitter? “How so?”

“Why, the devotion in him. I have never seen it in any other man. He will never forget. Because he will not, no one else will.”

A sense of fascinating dread grabbed hold of her insides. In a few moments of conversation, she was receiving the distinct impression that having an affair with her duke was going to be anything but simple. “Forget what?”

Mrs. Barton rolled her almond eyes. “Goodness, if you are going to survive in London you must know the gossip.”

“The gossip is atrociously old.” Imogen poked at Mrs. Barton with her fan. “Perhaps you shouldn’t tell her.”

With a touch of drama that the most practiced of actresses longed for, Mrs. Barton pressed her hand to her bosom and said wide eyed, “What, throw the girl to the lion without a whip? I would never be so cruel.”

“I don’t understand,” Kate said quickly, ready to pepper the actress with questions. “Tell me what?”

The wide-eyed innocent look faded from Mrs. Barton to be replaced by a calculating smile. “The gossips have died down, they do after five years, but every now and again it resurfaces.” She leaned back in her chair and drew in a slow breath as if she took no real joy from imparting this bit of news. “You see, he was careless with his wife and she died, poor soul.”

Kate bit down so hard on her lip, she had to fight back a gasp. It wasn’t possible!

“Hardly,” Imogen hissed, glancing from side-to-side. “And it was ages ago.”

Mrs. Barton waved her comment away. “Well, perhaps, but he never should have let her take care of his tenants. Now, to his credit, he went into the deepest mourning, locking himself away entirely from society for a whole year. Can you believe that? The man is deliciously and dangerously mad.”

Mad, indeed. Kate couldn’t believe it. She’d been alone in his presence, and though there had been a harshness to him, there’d been something more. When he made love to her body, she felt the tenderness in him. Such tenderness could not exist in a careless man. She knew carelessness all too well from her own husband. “What happened?”

Imogen answered, waving her fan slowly, as if cooling a sudden heat in her cheeks. “Well, he was innocent of any real wrongdoing, but the poor dear died quite miserably of small pox.”

A sad smile curved Mrs. Barton’s bright lips. “Caught it nursing his tenants, as I said.”

Kate’s heart clenched in pain for him. How terrible it must have been. She firmly believed men were incapable of love, but now, given the duke’s behavior. . . “Did he care for her very much?”

“Care? I don’t think that strong enough a word, my dear.” Mrs. Barton shrugged a slender shoulder. “Given his lack of non-existent relationships with women, one would have to assume he loved her.”

“I see.” For some reason, Kate’s spirits dimmed.

“I don’t like to speak ill of him, for he is close friends with the Duke of Hunt who is a very close friend of mine. But the entire ton is aware of his vicious mood swings. You must have heard how he is merry for weeks and then he disappears for days.” Mrs. Barton gently placed her jeweled hand on Kate’s. “Such a man should not be trusted.”

“But—” She had read it in the gossip sheets.

It was marked knowledge the man was unpredictable; one moment making merry, the next he would lash out in anger. The spontaneity of his fiery moods had led to more than one duel due to the cutting nature of his tongue. She had even met him in the midst of one such mood.

Yet. . . “Surely you exaggerate?”

Mrs. Barton laughed, her face lightening. “Poor girl, I don’t mean to set you off him. A woman can take her pleasure of him, and no doubt come out of it a much happier lady. But never trust anything but your body to him, and even then only for a brief tryst. I do think his heart belongs to another lady. One no woman can. . .” Mrs. Barton seemed to search for some delicate word, but at last she drew her hand back and confessed, “ever replace.”

Kate bit her lower lip, shock pulsing through her body at this new information. Five years ago, she hadn’t been reading the gossip sheets and Imogen hadn’t mentioned a word about the duke being such a determined widower. Perhaps Mrs. Barton was just a gossipmonger, but she seemed quite sincere.

Though, there was the fact dear, dear Reginald attempted to warn her about the duke. Imogen had stopped him. Which made no sense.

Ever so slowly, Kate turned her gaze up to the duke’s box.

The seat was empty. The man she’d seen with him the night before sat in one of the seats.

“Whatever his past, he is fascinating.”

“One could never contradict that.” Mrs. Barton snapped her fan shut.

Kate stared at the empty seat. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to the powder room.”

Mrs. Barton followed Kate’s gaze to the balcony then waggled her brows suggestively. “I do think I shall join you.”

Imogen merely nodded at them then turned to pretend to watch the opera. Unsure of the woman’s machinations, Kate stood and took the folds of her ivory and teal under skirts in her hands so she could maneuver out into the hall.

As they ducked through the curtained doorway, Mrs. Barton sauntered beside her, their skirts brushing. In the much dimmer light of the hallway, there was a truly wicked look to the woman, as if a dozen sinful thoughts were dancing through her head.

Gently, she linked her arm with Kate’s. Her smooth hand caressed her skin. Kate glanced at the actress, startled by the sudden intimacy. It felt surprisingly soothing.

They walked in silence for a moment then Mrs. Barton traced her fan down the length of Kate’s arm. “So. You were married to Percy Darrell?”

Immediately, Kate tensed and snuck a look at Mrs. Barton from the corner of her eye. “Yes.”

“You poor woman!” She flicked her fan open, waving it back and forth till her curls fluttered. “He was an utter ass.”

Kate nearly tripped at the woman’s bluntness. But lord, she was right. She was the first person to cry out exactly the kind of man Percy had been, and Kate was nearly dumbstruck by it.

Mrs. Barton leaned towards Kate, her dark eyes wide with concern. The air filled with her exotic perfume. “Do forgive me. Have I committed a faux pas? You didn’t love the bounder?”

Kate finally was able to clear her throat, and she laughed. “God, no.”

She stopped at the finality of her own words. It was so shaming the way she’d been utterly tricked, not only by Percy but her own emotions. She’d been swept away by a supposed feelings of love which in the end proved to be nothing more than her own imaginations. Her father called her a fool and what was worse, he’d been right. And he had never spoken to her again because of it.

“I did, for a few short months before we wed.” Kate swallowed and forced a smile. “But then I learned the true ways of a man.”

“Complete bastard. I don’t know how he could have neglected such a treasure as yourself. But one will never truly understand the workings of the male mindset. One moment you are a goddess to them,” she rolled her eyes and slipped her arm around Kate’s waist, “the next no better than a kitchen maid.”

Mrs. Barton glanced right to left, her face alight with a conspiratorial glow. “From the look in your eye just a few moments ago,” she whispered. “You have quite a sharp lust for the duke.”

Kate opened then closed her mouth. There was no real point in denying it, but nor did she wish the woman to proclaim it in public. “Mrs. Barton, I—”

Mrs. Barton tsked. “There is no point in playing the blushing maiden, and while you might consider it absolutely none of my business, I happen to know the duke has wandered into the hall where he always remains till the curtain closes.”

“Why in the devil would he do that?” The answer seemed altogether obvious, but she was trying to fight off the idea of him meeting woman after woman at the opera. “An assignation?”

Mrs. Barton laughed, a rich sound. “No. Not that. You see, the good duke is sweet enough to support the arts; he’s produced a number of my plays, and has many friends who are performers. Years ago, he and his former duchess came at least once a week. Now, he only comes to make an appearance and then goes off till the performance is over. I think the opera makes him quite melancholy. The hallway is quiet, barely lit and everyone is caught up in everyone else’s doing. So, he is allowed solitude.”

“Oh.” Kate couldn’t help but think that for all the man’s brusqueness, he understood how important his patronage must be to his friends. Even if the place, perhaps, gave him painful memories. She couldn’t stop the hint of admiration at his behavior.

Mrs. Barton tilted her dark head towards Kate, causing the sapphires in her hair to wink. “Odd, isn’t it?’

“A little yes,” she acceded.

“We could never say the duke falls into step with society. In fact, I think he’s marched an entirely new path.”

Kate shifted on her high-heeled slippers. This was all much appreciated information, but it still seemed strange that an actress, Mrs. Barton of all people, had followed her out of her box to have such a gossip on the way to the convenience. “I do beg your pardon, but what does any of this have to do with me?”

“He’s utterly alone,” Mrs. Barton said pointedly. “Utterly. Alone.”

They walked slowly, determinedly, and Kate realized they were walking around the outer circle, closer to the duke’s box. It became quite clear what this conversation had to do with her. “You mean? You’re arranging—” She gasped. Naturally, it should have occurred to her, but this whole intrigue business was still ridiculously foreign.

Mrs. Barton sighed and arched a brow. “Good. You’re a quick study.”

Kate couldn’t stop the silly grin from tilting her lips, or fight the sudden flush of anticipation racing through her. “Let’s say in my newfound freedom, I’ve been doing as much research as possible.”

Mrs. Barton bit back a laugh. “How wonderful. A woman should always aspire to the most rounded of educations.”

As they curved around, Kate spotted the duke slouched carelessly in a straight backed chair. One black leg stretched out, his polished shoe glinting ever so slightly in the amber glow of the candle light. He sat staring straight down at the floor as if he was contemplating some weighty secret. Perhaps even now, he thought of his wife.

The lines of his chiseled face were hidden in shadow, and his black hair was tied back with a simple velvet string. His strong hands rested on his thighs, the ruby signet ring on his left hand glowing like fire.

“Your Grace, what a delicious surprise,” Mrs. Barton drawled

Kate’s chest tightened with excitement. Good lord, he was so handsome. She desperately wanted to trace the contours of his face. But even more so, she wanted the assurance that deepened Mrs. Barton’s voice.

Oh so slowly, the duke turned his head in their direction. His face betrayed no emotion, except for the slight flaring of his nostrils and the faint press of his lips into an unwelcoming line.

Kate refused to hesitate, even though at this moment he looked as if he might sink his teeth into them both, and not out of desire. Well, if she had her way, he would indeed have his mouth upon her, but out of need. The need she had seen light his eyes on more than one occasion.

They paused a mere foot before him but he instead of looking at them, he returned his gaze to the floor.

Slipping her arm away, Mrs. Barton smiled. “I do believe Mrs. Darrell should like to know you. I’ve few doubts you will be just as pleasured to know her.”

The duke inclined his head but remained seated.

Mrs. Barton shook her dark head and walked past him. As she did, she rested her hand on his shoulder. “Do play nicely, Your Grace.”

With that, Mrs. Barton disappeared down the hall and into the duke’s box.

Standing right before the Duke of Darkwell, Kate could feel her skin heating to a fever in anticipation. Only his touch was going to ease the growing hunger inside her. The silence and unspoken desire stretched between them. Her breasts pressed tightly against her corset as her breath shortened with desire.

Kate licked her lips and then uttered words she had never said before, “Your Grace, I do believe it is my turn to pleasure you.”

Chapter 8

IF RYDER HAD BEEN A man who believed in signs, it would be an indisputable dictate from the gods that he was to bed Mrs. Darrell. Or perhaps the gods just kept shoving her into his path as some sort of cruel punishment.

All he wanted was peace and quiet, and respite from the box that had been such a place of happiness for himself and Jane. And now, here Mrs. Darrell was, the one person he wished to avoid.

With renewed determination, Ryder stared at the garish carpet, refusing to look up into the pale, enigmatic face. Perhaps if he ignored her, the damn chit would leave him be because, quite frankly, he only had so much self-control and it was already a thread that was fast unraveling.

“Does His Grace find the floor to be particularly fascinating?” The toe of her teal slipper peeped out from beneath her skirts, and she rubbed it along the burgundy-colored carpeting. The action exposed her silk-stockinged ankle. “I find it rather uninspired myself.”

His lips twisted, fighting back amusement and the desire to reach out, take that delicate ankle in his grasp and stroke upward. “Do you make it a habit of studying floors?”

“Good Lord no, but it does seem to interest you.”

He couldn’t tear his eyes from her shapely ankle. Damnation, but he wanted to circle it with his hand and prop her foot on his thigh. From there, kiss his way up her leg till he met her soft flesh and then—he blinked. If he wasn’t careful, he’d be hard as a ship’s mast in a moment. “You wish to discuss my interests?”

“I do.” Her voice dipped, touched with huskiness. “In fact, I have every intention of finding out what pleases Your Grace.”

“Indeed?” This was fast heading to him sliding his hands up her skirts, and he was certain that once committed he would be unable to untrench. “What if my principle interest is solitude?”

She took another step closer till her skirts brushed his muscled thigh. “Does Your Grace intend to become a monk? Along with solitude, will you take the vows of poverty?” She lightly bit her lower lip. “Of chastity?”

A dry laugh rumbled past his lips, and he shook his head. Oh, what was he doing? He was holding onto honor with a faltering grasp, that’s what the bloody hell he was doing. Yet, to his own shame, he wanted to see how far she would go. Would she truly play this game out to the end? “You are the second person to ask me that in a very short space of time.”

“Is there any truth to it then?” Her delicate hand, studded with a pearl ring, very lightly brushed his arm. “I should be very sad.”

Lust slammed through his body at the not so innocent touch. Her hand was so light, and yet firm upon his body, he could only imagine those slender fingers wrapped around his cock. “Why should that sadden you?”

“I should be bereft of that marvelous body of yours.” She stroked his arm, bending ever so slightly, so her breasts pressed against her corset into two delicious rounds. “But then, I could go to you for my confession.”

It was tempting to look up and see if her angelic face was flushed with need, but he forced himself to stare straight ahead. The carpet. He could focus on the carpet. Not on her hand, tracing over his arm.

“Confession?” he prompted, damnably curious to see her in this new role of seductress. She was doing a remarkably good job so far.

“I have a great deal to confess,” she breathed.

Somehow, he resisted the urge to shift on his chair, but blood was rushing straight to his groin, and by the second he was growing harder. Still, he wasn’t going to let her know how very much he was enjoying this game. “You were not given to sin before?”

She trailed her hand down from his shoulder to rest upon his bicep. Her fingers curled at his muscles. “Not until very recently.”

It was instinctual. Ryder flexed his muscles, developed from hours and hours of training. He wanted her to know he was strong. “What are the nature of your sins?” he said quietly, his voice half invitation.

“Lust. I lust for a man I should not.”

Damnation. She wanted this as badly as he, but soon this game would go too far. “But I am not your confessor,” he said quickly. The last thing he wanted was a detailed account of her desires. He’d go mad, and there’d be no holding back.

“I’m glad for it,” she said softly, her voice a caress that threw oil onto the fire that was burning inside him.

At last, he looked up and met her gaze. It was a mistake. A damned idiotic error, and he was determined to rip his gaze away and leave her once again standing alone. He couldn’t do it. The hunger in her blue grey eyes compelled him to see what she would do next in her quest. Worse, there was no calculation in her gaze, only a longing mixed with absolute determination.

“This is what I want,” she whispered as she lifted her hand to his face.

Her silken fingers cupped his cheek with gentleness, but it was heightened with desire as she bent and let her mouth linger over his. For one brief moment, he was certain she was going to kiss him, but she didn’t. The scent of cinnamon and roses surrounded him, and her curled hair brushed his cheeks and shoulders. She was waiting. Waiting for him to give into their mutual pleasure. God, he wanted it.

Why not? Why could he not have one moment of heaven in his eternal damnation? Swallowing a strong mix of self-loathing and regret, he worked at the ribbon around his wrist. His fingers shook as he plucked at it. At last it came free and gently, he tucked it into his pocket. Her lips pressed together at his movements, and he knew she wanted to know why he did what he did. But he couldn’t let himself think or mention Jane’s name. Not at this moment.

Not when he wanted this woman before him so much. Indeed, after so much pain, he did deserve just a taste of her.

Before he could think further or let reason test his shaky argument, he slid her onto his lap. He tilted her head back and for a moment, traced his thumb over her lower lip. Winding his fingers into the curls at the nape of her neck, he lowered his head. . . and gave her the softest of kisses.

She gasped into his mouth and arched towards him. The faint touch of their lips was almost cruel considering how much he wanted her, but they were going to enjoy every moment they had.

He traced the line of her lips with his tongue, and she opened to him. Tilting her head further back, he devoured her mouth, sucking gently on her tongue. He fed her kiss after kiss until her hands were grasping his coat. His body was tense, more than ready for her, but he controlled himself by smoothing the line of her throat, moving lower and lower until his lips met the plump rounds of her breasts. He slipped his hand into her corset and lifted her breast so he could swirl his tongue around her nipple. So sweet and soft, it drove him further down the path of no return.

She moaned and leaned into him, pushing her nipple against his lips. He smiled as he drew the soft flesh into his mouth and ever so slightly nibbled at the hard peak.

Her hands wound into his hair, and he savored the slight pull of her fingers tugging at him. But with each caress, he felt himself teetering on the brink of self-control. If he didn’t stop them, they were going to have sex here, in the middle of the opera’s empty hall.

The thought was horrifyingly erotic.

What was worse, Mrs. Darrell didn’t seem to care. She was mindless under his touch, and he had to—her hand trailed over his thigh and cupped the hard shaft pressing painfully against his breeches.

He sucked in a harsh breath. Reaching down, he pressed her hand tighter to him.

“I want this,” she whispered.

Christ, and he wanted to give it to her. The sounds of the opera were still in the third act. It would be some time before it was over and they were secluded enough. Or at least so he convinced himself as he started working at her skirts.

She kissed him wildly as she massaged her hand over his cock. He yanked at her skirts, exposing her thighs. “Straddle me,” he ordered.

Without question, she did. Her skirts hitched up at her waist, pouring over his legs. He groaned, knowing her sweet slit was completely exposed. He slid his hands up her thighs then ran his forefinger into her soft folds. He hissed at the feel of her slick hunger. She was more than ready, but he wanted her mad for it. Ryder stroked his finger, moistened by her own dew, over her sensitive folds then coated her swollen little nub.

Kate’s breath turned harsh. She held onto him as if she was lost in a storm and he was her only anchor. His finger swirled and flicked till her thighs tensed and then he drove a single finger deep inside her. Her body jerked, and her head dropped back.

“Let yourself enjoy it.”

Hell, how he wanted to take her into his mouth, but that would be for later. Right now, he needed to be inside her. As she rocked against his finger, he quickly undid his breeches.

“I need more,” she urged.

“I do, too,” he breathed against her neck. He wanted them to come together and he was going to do everything he could to give her exactly what she needed.

Kate’s body was wild with desire. She knew she needed his hard shaft inside her body. Lord, she’d never had a real desire for the male part. She’d heard it could be heaven, but she’d certainly never experienced anything like it. Right now, oh, she was at heaven’s door.

Her body was liquid fire, and she had to hold tight to him to keep herself from falling.

When he drew his finger out of her, she moaned in protest. She wanted more not less.

But soon, he was freeing himself, and he took his hard shaft in his hand. Kate readied herself, but instead of thrusting into her body, he very slowly rubbed the plump tip of it up and down her slit. She jumped at the delicious sensation. Sheer torture. It felt like silk being rubbed between her thighs.

Kate groaned and tried to move her hips in such a way that would force him to thrust deep inside her. Instead, he teased her with the tip of him, running it up and down, and over her most sensitive spot, resting it against her opening until she frowned.

He took her hand and guided it down to his thick, hard length. Kate marveled at its strength. Velvety soft, it was hard and hot. She very carefully rubbed her thumb over the little slit at the top, spreading a bead of moisture over the head.

The duke grabbed her waist, and the muscles in his neck tightened. “Do with me as you will.”

Shocked he would give her control, Kate loved the sudden realization she had power over him. She caressed the long shaft and his thighs tensed beneath her. After a moment, Kate couldn’t wait any longer, and she guided the tip to her opening. She lowered herself down onto him.

As he entered, there was a moment of discomfort. Years of living in a loveless marriage had left her body almost virginal, but it was over quickly and she welcomed him inch after hard inch. Her eyes widened as his large length filled her deliciously, making her feel as if his body was somehow part of hers.

His dark head dropped back, and he let out a sigh as she slowly rode him. Gazing at her with half-closed eyes, the pure desire in him heated her own veins with the need to please him. At first, she was confused as to what to do. She’d never been in any other position but on her back and in the dark.

Here in the faint glow of the candles, her legs on either side of his hips and her toes balancing on the floor, all she could do was feel. Feel everything, the solid feel of his erection stroking her, the cool air on her skin and his soft breath lightly brushing her hair as she bent over him. And she let sensation take over. Her hands went to his shoulders and his hands to her waist. Rising up and down on her toes, she delighted in the delicious feel of him stroking her inside. Guiding her pace with his hands gripping her waist, he tilted his hips up, thrusting to meet her.

If that wasn’t enough, he moved one hand to the place where their bodies met. He circled his fingers over her tight little spot. Goodness, the world was bursting apart, and she was about to go with it.

In the back of her brain, the orchestra come to a sudden stop. A series of screams echoed around them from the theater. It didn’t strike her as odd, not when her body was in the throes of such passion, but the duke stopped. His body froze, and his eyes opened. She grabbed him tighter, but he stilled her, his hands locking down on her body.

“Fire!” A voice screamed.

Kate frowned, trying to make sense of the sudden change. Her entire body felt like liquid. She was so close.

“Fire,” the duke hissed, looking up at her.

“What?” she murmured, so hot she could barely stand it.

“Fire,” he said tightly, his face darkening as he struggled to slip his cock free. “There’s a bloody fire!”

The rush of hundreds of feet thudded on the carpeted surface, and Kate abruptly realized what was happening. Good lord! Quickly, she stuffed her breasts back into her corset, then scrambled to unseat herself, but her feet caught in her skirts. It was all she could do to keep herself from falling to the floor.

“What are we going to do?” she demanded. Hysteria seized her and she quipped, “Make a full confession?”

As she struggled to get up from his lap, her shaky legs wobbled.

The curtains from a dozen boxes swung open and lords and ladies poured into the hall, panic on their powdered and rouged faces.

However, the sight of Kate balanced on the Duke of Darkwell’s lap, her skirts up about her thighs, managed to bring them all to a halt.

The horde of lords and ladies gaped.

A few of the men eyed her appreciatively. A few ladies gazed on in envy, their eyes searching vicariously over them, but the vast majority stood with utter shock upon their faces. One or two pointed, and one lady had the audacity to faint.

Kate stared back at them as if she’d been frozen in ice. If she wished it hard enough, perhaps they would all go away.

“Bloody hell,” Darkwell growled as he propped Kate up onto coltish legs. He whipped his coat off, seemingly heedless of the fact his nether regions were still exposed. Quickly, he draped the garment over her head and ordered, “Move.”

This couldn’t be happening! The crowd seemed to move in slow motion, and Darkwell swept her up into his arms and marched quickly down the wide sweeping stairs.

Despite his speed and his quick thinking with the coat, Kate heard the whispers.

“Is that her?”

“Is that Mrs. Darrell?”

“Mrs. Darrell and Darkwell?”

“They were doing what?!”

“In the hall?”

“The what?!”

“The hall!”

The gasps and exclamations buzzed around them, taking the place of fire.

Darkwell didn’t let that stop him. He kept moving with long strides. Holding tight onto his shoulders, Kate shook. Every bit of her body was still wildly alive from the desire he’d awakened in her but now horror was thrown into the mix.

Someone cried out, “Fire, damn you all!” And everyone started milling again, making for the doors.

But Kate felt, even with the coat over her head, a hundred pairs of eyes upon her.

Cold air assailed her arms and suddenly she was being flung into a coach. She bounced on the leather seat and yanked the duke’s coat from her head. Biting down on her lower lip, she tried to ignore his readjusting his breeches as he climbed in.

Darkwell sat across from her his eyes ablaze. A muscle ticked in his cheek. The fury hardening his features was intense. She wasn’t sure if he was furious with her, himself or the witnesses. Perhaps all three.

She glanced out the glass window as hundreds of theater patrons poured out the doors. Fire licked the rooftop. Of all the nights that something of this nature had to happen, it had to be the one where she finally had her chance with the duke.

And she hadn’t even gotten to finish.

What struck her as she glanced out the window was that a whole crowd was watching the duke’s carriage maneuvering its way through the chokehold of other vehicles. It couldn’t have been that bad. Indeed, it couldn’t. Kate felt a wave of hysteria rise inside her, and she laughed. The sound bubbled up from her, pouring out her lips.

“What, madam,” the duke growled. “Could possibly amuse you?”

She turned to Darkwell. Not even his austere face could stop the building shock inside her. She laughed again. “I promised myself I’d cause a scandal.”

“Congratulations.” The duke raised a black brow. “You’ve succeeded.”

Yes, and at the rate she was going, she would set the record for all scandals to come. Kate shook her head, her insides rattling with uncontrollable laughter.

She had only one question. A question she should have asked herself before she’d begun her quest for sin. Once one committed what was no doubt the scandal of the season, what exactly did one do next?

Chapter 9

THE WOMAN WAS MAD. ABSOLUTELY mad. And of course, he’d bloody debauched her. Her laughter filled the coach like a bright bubbling spring. Preposterously, he loved the sound. Which most likely made him mad as well. But the laugh was optimistic and edged with pride at her own accomplishment, or was it panic? Whatever it damn well was, it was mad. Sodding loolah.

“Come, Your Grace, surely you see some humor in this situation.” She pressed a hand to her rosy cheek. “This isn’t Hell after all. Surely there’s no need to look as if you’ve just swallowed brimstone.”

“Mrs. Darrell, I may have just swallowed my own doom, all thanks to your blasted determination.”

It wasn’t her fault, but he couldn’t stop the anger. He was the experienced one in these matters. It was his fault. Which he should have been used to by now. It was impossible for him to form relationships where one party didn’t end up either dead or in extreme trouble.

He should have listened to his instincts. He’d known deep down he should avoid this woman. Known associating her might lead him to betray Jane’s memory.

For a brief, too brief he had to admit, moment, he’d ignored his instincts and now look where he was. In the middle of a biblical scale scandal.

Worse, he’d ignored his own promise to remain true to Jane in his heart and soul. Bastard that he was, he had allowed his growing fascination with Mrs. Darrell to rule his actions.

“Doom?” Kate smiled waveringly. “Come now, melodrama is not becoming in a gentleman.”

Ryder gaped at her. “Melodrama, madam? Melodrama?” Surely she understood what happened back there? Understood what he was now expected to do?

“Under the circumstances, I do think you might call me Kathryn, or Kate. Everyone else does.”

Her unwavering optimism was absolutely grating. Ryder massaged his temples, trying to understand how she could be so damned cheerful. “Mrs. Darrell, you don’t seem to understand the seriousness of this—”

“Oh, I’m quite certain there will be a great to do, but then it will all fade away as all scandals do. I’m a widow with a great deal of money. You are a duke. What harm can truly be done?”

Ryder didn’t miss the forced certainty in her voice. Clearly, she did understand that what they had done was not typical. “We were caught cock out, skirts up by the entire—the entire—ton.”

Kathryn blushed. She cleared her throat and actually had the decency to look sheepish. “Yes, that was rather bad.”

“Bad, Mrs. Darrell?”

She smiled and shook her head. “Kathryn.”

“As you wish.” He blew out a harsh breath.

It was hard to believe the woman was arguing the semantics of first and last names in their situation. “Bad does not even begin to encompass the enormity of what has befallen us.”

Good God, he could not be in this situation. He could not and should not have to choose between Jane’s memory and this madly captivating woman before him. “Catastrophe, madam. That is what we have. We have a bloody catastrophe.”

Her confidence slowly dimmed under his tirade. She folded her hands into her lap and glanced out the window. “I realize I have behaved without modesty.”

Ryder shifted uncomfortably on his seat. He didn’t want her feeling as if he thought badly of her or her behavior. In the end, this truly was his damned fault, but right now he was having a devil of a time getting a hold of his temper. Perhaps because he’d put himself in this wild situation.

“I, myself, shall hardly be canonized any time soon,” he said softly. “But that is not the point. The point is we were caught—”

She snapped her gaze to him, and the grey depths stormed with razor sharp intellect. “Make no mistake. I shall not be cowed by this circumstance. I have lived too much of my life in the care of other people’s opinion. I will not be coerced into guilt. Anyone in our set would have done exactly as we did. We just happened to be found.”

God, she was beautiful in her assurance and determination. And her passion was admirable. Few women would claim their own futures as she had done and remain so bold in the face of the ton’s displeasure. He had to admit, it had never occurred to him this was truly about freedom for her. He’d merely assumed she’d been repressed sexually, as happened to many wives. This, however, was different. Kathryn clearly longed for independence. Of every sort. But that she truly thought of herself to be coupled with the likes of him and the people he sinned with?

“Our set?” he asked gently.

“Yes.”

“Madam, you are about as much a part of my set, as a poodle is like to a wolf hound.”

Her eyes narrowed. “That is not a flattering comparison, Your Grace. Though I may have given evidence to the contrary, I am not a silly person and have lived my life with a ridiculous sense of propriety and duty.”

Ryder hesitated. He had given insult by comparing her to such a vapid little beast, but damnation, this was infuriating. “I apologize, but do you realize how utterly ruined you are?”

She opened her mouth ever so slightly, then clapped it shut.

“You are ruined,” he repeated softly but firmly.

She shrugged. “I shall recover.”

“Not in London, you shall not. Not unless you wish to be reduced to the status of an extremely loose woman. No house of any repute will welcome you. It matters not that half the ton would have done what you did.”

“It is what is seen that counts,” she whispered.

He nodded. “Exactly.”

Ryder leaned back and wiped a hand over his face. He had never cared so strongly about the fate of a lady he’d involved himself with. His lack of emotional regard to the women he bedded was the only way he had been able to justify being untrue to Jane. He cared for this woman. Too much. “Do you know the only way you can be saved?”

She glared back at him, clearly annoyed he was forcing her to see the cold reality of such a beastly happenstance.

Ryder laced his hands together over his lap. “I am expected to marry you.”

“No, thank you,” she said tightly.

Ryder blinked then braced his hands on his knees and leaned forward. He remained silent for a moment, convincing himself she had indeed just uttered the words, no and thank you together.

In the first place, every woman in Christendom panted after his dukedom, even though they knew he would never propose. Secondly, he was this woman’s salvation, and she was dismissing him before he’d even told her he wasn’t going to offer. It was—it was damned disconcerting!

She didn’t want him? The feeling lacing through his chest was most certainly not disappointment. It was relief. Indeed. It was.

“I beg your pardon,” he asked, his voice incredulous to his own ears.

“No, thank you,” she said again folding her arms just below her breasts.

Surprised by his own sudden discomfort at her quick rejection, he said, “That was not an offer. Merely a statement of fact.”

“Oh.” She shifted uncomfortably. “It matters not. I already said no.”

Yes, well. It was for the best in any case. Even now, he could recall Jane on their wedding day with perfect accuracy. She’d been full of grace and beautiful, so unlike the day she died.

Ryder swallowed quickly. “So you absolve me from your ruin?” he asked, his own shock ripe in his voice. Any other woman would be screaming that he had forced himself upon her and then shout for the bans to be posted.

“Absolutely.”

Before he could stop himself, the word slipped from his lips, “Why?”

“Suffice it to say, I have made the mistake of marriage before.” The light in her face faded. “I have no intention on revisiting such an unpleasing happenstance.”

“I see.” He too had been married.

Like the woman sitting across from, he had no intention of marrying again, but for very different reasons. Memories of Jane invoked such pain, but he welcomed the harsh feeling. He needed to remember she had once lived, walked gently through their home, and lovingly held his hand in the darkest moments of his young life.

Jane. Quiet and kind, her voice had always been a surprise, but he’d listened to her, always valued her opinion. When she’d been taken from him— “Then we are of a like mind,” he gruffly pointed out.

“Yes.”

He blew out an exhausted breath. “Then there is nothing more to say.”

Her gaze lifted to his face, and she looked at him for a long moment, as if willing him to say exactly what she wanted. Alas, he had no idea what the woman was thinking and he couldn’t imagine the words that would be perfect to her ears.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “There is nothing more to say.”

As though on cue, the carriage rolled to a stop before her townhouse, and the footman jumped down and opened the door.

The silence stretched between them for several moments. Finally, Ryder spoke. “I am sorry it ended like this.”

She smiled slightly—her angelic, enigmatic smile. “I am only sorry we were unable to finish.” With that, she started to step down out of the carriage.

Before Ryder could stop himself, he grabbed her hand, savoring the gentle feel of her and pressed her open palm to his lips. The scent of roses washed over him, and he breathed it in, knowing it might be the last time. “Farewell.”

Her hand ever so lightly cupped his cheek then slid away. Mrs. Darrell dashed down the step and up to her townhouse.

She didn’t look back.

Ryder found himself hoping she would. It was the most ridiculous notion, but he couldn’t help but feel as if he’d let his last chance at happiness climb out of the carriage.

It was a damned foolish thought, and before he could allow it to take root, he slipped Jane’s ribbon from his pocket and tied it back around his wrist. He gazed down at it for a moment, his throat tightening. Then he tore his gaze away and pounded on the roof. The coachman cracked the whip, and he rode into the darkness. Where he belonged.

* * *

TO HER ABSOLUTE IRRITATION, KATE watched the duke’s coach rattle away through the window of the salon. She shouldn’t really give a fig for his departure, but she did. What was worse, she felt as though her entire spirit was rioting inside her body as if her body was insisting she run out into the night and stop the duke from leaving. That was nonsense, and if she didn’t keep a hold of herself the reality of her situation would hurtle her into a tear-ridden mass.

She lifted her hand and pressed it to the cold glass window pane. She could still see his face, rapt with desire for her. It had been the most thrilling moment of her life. He had made her feel utterly beautiful, as if she was the only woman in the world.

But she supposed that was his specialty, for he hadn’t even suggested they might see each other again. In fact, his attitude had been firm in his resolve that their relationship should come to an end.

Sighing, Kate pushed herself away from the window and turned to the empty salon. She bit down on her lip, trying to control the nerves shaking within her. One moment, the man was so charmingly ardent. He’d even protected her from the watchful eyes of the ton, sweeping her possessively into his arms.

Then he’d taken it all away. He hadn’t whispered one word of reassurance. Perhaps Mrs. Barton was right. In the end, the duke was a man not to be trusted.

Kate bit back a bitter laugh. He hadn’t even offered that she might call him by his first name.Well, she’d learned her first real lesson about the ton. She was on her own, just like she’d always been. Nothing was going to stop her from doing just as she pleased. She was going to live her life on her own terms.

Certainly, she wasn’t going to let the duke or the ton stand in her way. After all, a woman of her wealth and determination could find people who would still be willing to enjoy life with her. Those were the people who were worth her time, not those who would run at the sign of danger.

Chapter 10

KATE WAS SICK OF SCANDAL, sin and the papers. In fact, the papers she had so once loved to read were now her enemy, labeling her the most loose of lascivious ladies. She was even more annoyed with the dozens of roses, orchids and flowers she didn’t even know the names of piling up at her door.

Apparently, it was now widely considered that she was going to be London’s next great courtesan. After all, what else was left to her except banishment to some horrid part of Spain or some Germanic principality? Frankly, she had no liking for beer and kraut. She’d also heard that living in Spain was positively dreary.

So, here in London, in the prison that was now her townhouse, Kate sat at her desk overlooking Green Park and ground her teeth. The letters on her desk were in two convenient piles. One slim stack was full of invitations to what appeared to be orgies. The other, much larger stack, were retractions of invitations she’d already agreed to accept. Ironically, her new gowns arrived just this morning. Piles and piles of morning gowns, tea gowns, walking gowns, evening gowns, ball gowns and even a riding habit had been presented, along with the bill. Apparently, the tradesman were nervous she might skip the country in the middle of the night.

Most likely she wouldn’t have the chance to wear the very gowns she had finally been allowed to buy. It was as if the god of propriety was railing at her sinful desire to step away from the pious path.

Worst of all, numerous charities returned her donations citing that they could not accept support from a person of such character. Those letters had nearly undone her. The thought of them even now tightened her throat.

Shaking her head, Kate lifted her quill ready to write a stinging reply to a rather terse letter sent by the Countess of Carmine. What was such a woman doing castigating her? No doubt, the countess was crowing her short burst of popularity in the London set was over. What could one say to such a person? Sod off really seemed the only appropriate reply.

Flinging down her quill, ink splattered on the green felt blotter and creamy letters. Kate sighed. She let her gaze trail to a large bouquet of crimson roses, a suitable color for her it would seem that had been sent by the Earl of Albany. It appeared a willingness to fling one’s skirts up for a bit of sport at the Royal Opera was a universal introduction to the opposite sex.

It could be worse. Truly. She could be under the guardianship of a father or a husband who would fling her into the country to be entertained by cows, sheep and incomparably bad musical performances by the local tradesmen’s daughters for her licentious behavior. She plunked her elbow on the table, heedless of the streaked ink and rested her chin on her fist.

The window beckoned. The dratted thing was like an invisible prison wall which permitted her hints of the glorious world of freedom just on the other side. Countless carriages bustled down the street and even from here she could see the riders showing off their finery in the park.

The lords’ and ladies’ clothes glared in contrast to the green of the trees and lawn, much like the colorful plumage of exotic birds. They flitted about, chattering. And here she was, once again, secluded and apart.

The feeling was all too familiar. The only difference of course was the reason for her imprisonment, and the fact there had been nothing tempting on the other side of her parlor window in Shropshire.

Every now and then, to her chagrin, she fancied she spied the duke charging across the field on a great black hunter or racing down her road in one of those dangerous new curricles. But it was sheer fantasy. Fantasy she wanted to knock herself over the head with for even contemplating.

He probably had not thought a jot about her since their indiscretion. It wasn’t as if he had pursued her in the first place. No, she’d been the one to chase.

Perhaps in the grand tradition of the male, that had been her biggest foible. If she hadn’t made it so clear she wanted him, he might have pursued her. Kate clenched her jaw at the irritating thought. In truth, where did such action leave a lady? It left her waiting that’s what, completely dependent on the dundering behavior of the gentleman in question.

The blasted duke had been sure she’d been too good or innocent or however he wanted to name it and only look at her now—the most scandalous lady in London. If she’d left the whole affair up to him, nothing would have happened.

Nothing.

It was a painful proposition that he wouldn’t have pursued her and now was unlikely to ever seek her out, seeing as how he hadn’t sought her out to begin with. Worse, while she was trapped, hiding away from the accusatory stares of society, he was no doubt out, laughing with his companions and having a merry time.

She slapped her hand on her desk. One way or the other, she was proving herself to be a fool. Before she’d been silly enough to believe in love, and now she was languishing over the neglect of a man who showered his attention upon women like spring rain over Derbyshire.

It wouldn’t do.

Kate’s hand trailed over the list Imogen won from Reginald last evening. It seemed the footman provided very stimulating sport for her cousin.

The thing was full of engagements for the next few days. The man, though as hard as steel, seemed to have the social acuity of a butterfly. . . or a wolf after lambs. And he was going out tonight. Or at least, so said Reginald. For there, in bold swipes of ink stood out the Earl of Albany’s fete.

Kate snorted. No doubt, the bounder would go, sip champagne all evening and find himself up the skirts of yet another woman. The thought caused her to see red, and her fist balled the paper up into a tiny little crumple.

It was not right he should be free and she imprisoned. The very idea, the notion, the thought he might use his devilish hands upon another. . .

Kate drew in a slow breath to stop the growl ready to escape her throat.

Imogen bustled in through the door at the end of the parlor, a bouquet of red and white roses in her hand. “Can you countenance it? Another one.” She thudded it down onto the gilt French table tucked below the window just opposite Kate’s desk. It joined ten other bouquets. “One might think we live in a hot house.”

Kate smiled. “More like a house of ill repute.”

“Oh, please,” Imogen drawled, rolling her eyes. “Hardly the case, my dear. There’s only one infamous lady here, which doesn’t constitute a brothel.” She propped a hand on her hip and tilted her head. She gazed upward. “Though perhaps, I count.”

“You still have some semblance of virtue,” Kate pointed out, though she doubted that would last long if Imogen kept living with her.

Imogen tutted. “I haven’t had my virtue since I was a girl of fifteen. The rest is but a well thought out act. Now, how do you feel?” She took a few steps forward. “You don’t seem too dispirited.“

Kate twisted in her chair, bracing an arm on the carved wooden back. “I refuse to be daunted,” she said with a hint of false bravado.

Imogen smiled, though there was definite doubt in her blue eyes. “Nothing like a stiff British upper lip.”

Kate grabbed the stack of invitations from the dozens of gentlemen of society and even a few hostesses. “Why, look at how many people require my company!” She gave the other much larger stack of rejections a hate-filled look. “Despite some people’s prudish ideas.”

“Yeeeesss,” Imogen said carefully. “But those,” she pointed at the invitation in Kate’s hand, “um, they are a bit, well how shall we say. . . questionable?”

Shaking her head, Kate pinned a determined smile on her face. “I have decided the ton is what is truly questionable.”

God, did she sound as mad as she thought? But she had to believe this, she had to cling to any hope or she’d start to cry. And damn and blast, she wouldn’t cry. She’d done enough of that back in Shropshire, and she was done with that whole business.

“Why should I wish to know them if they don’t wish to know me?”

Imogen nodded, but she was eyeing Kate as if she was a skittish mare that might suddenly bolt. “True—”

Kate ignored it and continued on her bold campaign to ignore her own ruin. “And there are many people—”

“Men,” Imogen interjected.

“Yes, men,” she said huffily, “who wish to make my acquaintance.”

She shuffled through the invitations, hastily reading the various names in elegant black ink. Some were engraved with symbols and gold and silver. None of these were people of lower society. They were all extremely prosperous individuals. Her fingers stopped on a particularly beautiful invite. Which just so happened to be the fete her damned duke was attending. Its thick parchment was jet black, trimmed with gold. The ink was also gold.

“This one.”

His lordship, the Earl of Albany

should like to request

the presence of Mrs. Kathryn Darrell

for an evening of

adventure and refinement

Barridan House

Eleven o’ clock, if you please

“Yes, I shall accept this one.” Kate tapped it against her fingertips waiting for Imogen to say something. She’d arrive in sweeping glory and show that blasted man that ruined or not, she was not afraid to show her face. Even if she was showing it in a den of iniquity.

As if trying to collect her thoughts, Imogen stared at the window. Finally, she plopped herself down onto the silk embroidered chaise across from Kate. Her lemon yellow skirts slid about her haphazardly.

“Kathryn,” Imogen said slowly. “I do appreciate your good humor over this unfortunate happening, but do you even know who Albany is?”

Kate shrugged. She should know. She’d spent all her time reading about the nobility, but she couldn’t even remember reading a scrap. “An earl, and that‘s all that matters, does it not?”

Imogen rubbed her forehead, then sighed. “I suppose, but Kate, know that I simply cannot attend.”

“What? Why?”

“My position is already tenuous, and to attend one of Albany’s parties is fatal for a woman who is already a bit infamous amongst the ton.”

“So you’re saying I’m flinging myself from the tea kettle into a boiling pot?”

Imogen laughed, a dry sound. “No, dearest. You’ve tossed yourself into the oven. I do assure you if you attend Albany’s party you shall find yourself in the flames, albeit the delectable flames,” Imogen lowered her chin, “of Hell.”

Kate gasped. If Imogen thought the parties scandalous, then surely they were the very essence of hedonism. A thrill went straight through her, mixed with a sudden dose of unease. “What happens at these parties?”

Imogen shook her head. “I’m not entirely certain, but there is a reputation for bottles upon bottles of wine, unclothed women and a complete lack of virtue.” She smiled. “And a jolly good time.”

And His bloody Grace, the Duke of Darkwell was going to be in the middle of it. Well, Kate was going to see to it that his night was not quite so merry. “I no longer have any virtue to cling to. You understand, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Imogen admitted, though it clearly pained her.

“I refuse to remain in this house another day.” Especially since her partner in sin was free to go about as he pleased. “I shall take a footman, and if at any point I become overly disturbed by their scandalous endeavors, I shall leave at once.”

Imogen stared at her as if Kate had signed herself into Bedlam.

She put the invitation down upon her desk and smoothed her skirts. “The matter is settled.”

* * *

RYDER TIGHTENED HIS FIST AROUND the long leather reins and spurred his big black hunter on to greater speeds. The horse’s powerful muscles worked beneath him with seamless energy as he ate up the earth.

Rain poured down on them in thick sheets, drenching the rough hills and soaking him through to his skin. He didn’t give a damn. He felt oblivious to it. Taking danger in hand, he held the reins with one gloved fist and gave the hunter its head. If he fell at such a breakneck speed, he would be dead in an instant. Savoring the risk, Ryder urged the stallion to a reckless pace

He could go on like this forever, and he’d already been at it for three hours. But no matter how hard he rode, how fast he tore up the earth or the chances he took, he couldn’t drive Mrs. Darrell, no, Kathryn, from his thoughts. Her name was temptation on his lips, and if he had his way, he would never utter it.

Even now, as he raced across the long green plain, her face beckoned him. Her grey-blue eyes blazed with unfulfilled passion, passion he had barely tasted.

Cursing himself, he whipped his hunter around and they began the long route they’d already covered twice that morning. He was going to ride till he was exhausted, or he’d broken his own neck.

The gate of the hunter rocked his body, but with each thud of the hooves, he heard her name. Kathryn. Kathryn. Kathryn.

He couldn’t escape her. Over the last two days, he kept expecting to see her, just as she’d mysteriously popped up wherever he went before the scandal. But she hadn’t, and he felt like a fool, looking for her face around every corner. Hell, she probably hadn’t left her house since the opera.

Ryder leaned down and snapped the reins into the air. The hunter, taking his cue, let out another burst of speed. The stallion loved it. With his huge and powerful heart they could go on like this almost all day.

And they might.

Everywhere he went people jeered about his latest conquest. The papers had cited it for the last two days. It was too good a bit of gossip to pass over lightly.

Rain battered him from all sides. Ryder tossed his rain-soaked hair back from his face, ignoring the sliding drops that poured down the sides of his cheeks and dripped from his unshaven chin.

Kathryn Darrell had been a kind woman, untouched by the cruelty of the ton until she had met him. Now her life was destroyed. For there was no question, Kathryn was ruined. Any day now, he was certain he would hear of her departure to the continent.

Gladly, he would accept it.

His chest tightened painfully at the thought, and he swerved his hunter towards a fence. They soared over it. For one brief moment, his thoughts were clear. Free. As soon as they hit the soaked ground, thoughts of her rattled back with full force.

She would leave. She would never wander back into his life. He would keep his vow of devotion to Jane. And never again would Kathryn surprise him with her wit or her stormy eyes as she crossed the room to speak with him. He would forget her.

He would.

Chapter 11

KATE STOOD ON THE THRESHOLD of no return, squared her shoulders and marched right over it. Her candy bright pink skirts brushed over the marble floor, and she drew in a steadying breath.

The home was immense.

Apparently, the Earl of Albany was not only a man addicted to depravity, but was also one of the wealthiest men in London. A very dangerous combination. She’d read in Debrett’s that he held one of the oldest titles. Which was probably why the man could do exactly as he pleased.

Green granite columns towered in the entry way, and above her head was a fantastical glass ceiling. If the sun had been shining it would have rioted with color.

As it was, the room was fairly dark. Only a few candles illuminated the darkness. Which struck her as a bit odd, because if the duke was so wealthy, he should have no trouble affording a well-placed candelabra here or there.

The butler, a young man with silver blond hair and warm eyes took her cloak. He gave her a slow smile. “It is a pleasure, Mrs. Darrell. His Lordship will be most pleased.”

Would he indeed? This, while the butler himself glanced her up and down as if she was a bit of fine flesh? If the butler felt the inclination to be this forward, what would the guests be like?

Kate nodded at the man as she tried to sneak a glance at the only open doorway at the back of the room behind the set of mahogany stairs that twisted round to the floors above.

The butler pointed a white gloved finger at it. “Just through there, madam. Your footman, of course, can wait in our kitchens.”

She glanced back at Gregory wondering if she should keep the man by her side. It would be highly unusual to take him, but she had no idea what exactly she was getting herself into. The last thing she wanted was to be caught in a circle of libertines with no defense. “Actually, he provides me with irreplaceable services and shall be accompanying me.”

The butler smiled then raked his honey brown eyes over Gregory. “Whatever pleases you, madam. The more the merrier.”

Kate’s eyes widened, and she nearly tripped as she took a step forward. Were they all going to have sex together? The servants and the lords alike all in one happily squirming group?

The urge to march right back out of the earl’s home did a little dance inside her, but she’d made up her mind and there was no turning back. For now. After all, she had plans. Plans to thwart Darkwell in his pursuit of pleasure.

She sauntered forward, her skirts in hand, and glanced back over her shoulder, happy for the presence of the big servant behind her. “Do stay close,” she whispered.

Unlike the cheeky butler, Gregory nodded, his manners superb even though he surely knew they were heading into some sort of sporting house. Kate stepped into a long corridor. It was empty, and she glanced right to left and then squinted into the shadowy darkness. Either she was very early or very late. But the invitation had said eleven.

The rich Oriental rug of blue and gold muffled her footsteps, and the matching pale blue silk walls were absolutely beautiful. Gilt mirrors hung along the sides, reflecting the scant light in the sconces placed sparingly along the walls.

With every step she spotted another vision of herself. It was surprisingly disconcerting as if she was an observer of her own leap into sin. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes wide with apprehension. Gregory on the other hand looked downright fascinated. She threw him a reproachful glance, and he coughed.

Though she’d spent little time in London, she’d never heard of anything like this. Where in heaven’s name was everyone? Music drifted towards them from the end of the hall, and to her relief, she spotted a doorway.

When she reached the end of the hall, she stopped. The opening led to a set of stairs that headed down into an amber glow. Laughter and the hum of voices mixed with the sounds of dance music wafted upward.

What was this, some sort of metaphorical plunge into Hell?

A servant stepped out of a small nook to the left. Kate jumped. “Good gracious, man!”

“Pardon, Mrs. Darrell, I take it you are new to the Devil’s Dance?”

She gaped at him. The what? “The. . .?”

“The Devil’s Dance,” the servant supplied cheerfully. “Please descend.”

He stood to the side, gesturing to the black hole, that depending upon one’s point of view, either led to endless pleasure or a personal audience with the prince of darkness himself.

Kate started to laugh, but it was downright nervous even to her ears. She glanced at Gregory and found him staring back. A positively concerned look creasing his features.

Well, she’d already caused a massive scandal, so what was one more?

Taking both courage and her skirts in hand, Kate started down the stairs. Her eyes eventually adjusted to the barely lit darkness. With every step, her heart slammed in to her ribs, for she had no idea what she’d find. But as her foot touched the last step, she turned to face the open doorway at the bottom and nearly fumbled flat on her face.

The room was a packed fairy land of sin. Tiny candles were deposited sporadically throughout the room. They floated in the air from little glass boats hanging from the mirrored ceiling. Everything seemed to reflect the hundreds of little star lights. The walls were panels of gold embellished mirrors. They reflected everyone, allowing the guests to watch themselves and each other. . . and their lack of attire.

The first thing that was immensely clear was that she was inappropriately dressed or, perhaps, overdressed was a more accurate interpretation. Her pink moiré gown was hardly modest. In fact, she’d purposefully pulled the neckline as far down as she dared and had her maid lace her corset especially tight so her breasts were two plump rounds pressed tightly together.

Kate glanced down at her own gown then back to the women. She looked like a Methodist’s daughter compared to the company.

A rainbow of color had descended upon the room then there were the styles. Women wore gowns with mere strips of fabric for sleeves. A few didn’t have sleeves at all, only tightly laced bodices which barely, or didn’t entirely, cover their nipples. Their skirts were travesties. Oh, they still had the suitable fullness which hid the shape of the hips, but the exposed underskirts were made of the sheerest of materials so one could see directly through to the women’s embroidered stockinged thighs!

Clearly the French had inspired the fashion.

Her slippered foot refused to go through the doorway. Oh, no, she needed to brace herself first.

Kate gulped as she spotted one woman in a wine red gown, her dark, curled head turned towards a gentleman. The glimmering fabric poured over the underskirt and was tucked to the sides about three quarters down as current fashion dictated with white roses and diamond broaches. There was only one true aberration from modern fashion.

Kate blinked as if that might somehow cause the shocking sight before her to disappear. Goodness, the woman wore no underskirt! The bodice descended in a v to the point where her hips and thighs met. Even so, she wore a pair of strange little crimson silk pants with ruffles about her upper thighs. Her crimson stockings stretched up to her mid-thigh. Red velvet ribbons and diamond buckles held them in place.

What kind of woman would wear. . .

Mrs. Barton turned towards her, and her eyes lit with pleased recognition. Thank God, there was someone to guide her through the land of lewdness. Then again, Mrs. B might volunteer to be her personal guide to delights unsampled.

The actress snapped her golden fan open and started in her direction.

Kate smiled what she hoped was a bold smile. Unfortunately, she was fairly sure it was a brittle mockery of a grin. But if Mrs. Barton could thrive in this crowd, Kate could, even if it was only for the purpose of making the duke’s night one he wouldn’t soon forget.

Mrs. Barton strode forward, her long legs made even longer by a pair of extremely high red shoes decked with golden flowers and bows.

As if pulling a cork from a bottle, Mrs. Barton took her hand and pulled her through the door. “Welcome, my dear, to a life you have no doubt ever imagined.”

“Err. . .” Kate took Mrs. Barton’s arm and strode into the dark ballroom with her. “Thank you.”

“I am delightfully surprised you took up Lord Albany’s invitation.” Mrs. Barton’s eyes twinkled as she glanced down at her. “I did sense a need for freedom in you.”

Freedom? Right. Though not from clothing. . . Kate nodded like a puppet.

“Women in the ton can never truly be free,” Mrs. Barton proclaimed confidently. “They have too many people to please.”

“But you attend ton parties all the time,” Kate ventured, feeling a bit as if she’d been tossed into the middle of a mad, though beautiful, circus.

Artfully, Mrs. Barton wove through the tightly knit groups of gossipers, a queen amongst the revelers. “True. But you see, I have never been truly of the ton so I they do not hold me to its rules. I am a novelty. ” She paused and her lips twisted. “Rather like a trained monkey who bangs a pair of symbols, I add an air of naughtiness to their nauseatingly proper world. I put up with them because it’s good for my business. I am nothing if not a business woman.”

“An actress is always upon the stage, is she not?”

Mrs. Barton threw back her dark head, the red feathers in the black curls bouncing as she laughed. The rich sound turned the heads of half a dozen men who stared at her with unconcealed appreciation. “You, my dear, are a treasure of honesty.”

“Yes,” Kate said dryly. “A rather annoying quality, I admit.”

“I beg to differ.” Mrs. Barton waved her fan at the people surrounding them. “These pompous peacocks could use a dose of truth, and coming from such a pleasing creature as you, they’ll listen to anything you say.”

As they wove through the wide skirts of the women, Kate nibbled on her lower lip. Her gaze darted right to left trying to take in the sights. Dozens of couples danced in the middle of the floor. A full orchestra played a tune that seemed to be encouraging the dancers to do things they oughtn’t do. In fact, she’d never heard such music, nor did she recognize the steps the couples danced. The couples were close, their hands about each other.

“What is that?” she hissed.

“That my dear, is a marvelous dance quite popular in Venice and originated in Vienna. They’ve been doing it for a decade, and it’s danced quite publicly throughout many parts of Europe.”

“What is it called?”

Mrs. Barton sighed. “A waltz. It’s not permitted at parties here. Only we English would make such a fuss about a little dance.”

“Oh.” Kate followed Mrs. Barton as if she was a well-trained sheep, but she was lucky to have the woman’s arm, for no doubt she would have ended up flat on her face, due to her inability to focus on anything but the mad scenes before her. Still, she found herself scanning the faces, looking for a dark profile.

His profile.

Mrs. Barton paused and tapped a gentleman on the shoulder. The chestnut-haired fellow smiled at her. His shirt was scandalously untied and open at the neck. His hair was loose, brushing the tops of his shoulders. Without question, he reached into a pocket and pulled out a silver case. He handed Mrs. Barton what appeared to be a long, slender dark stick, then placed the case back into his pocket. He bent and very softly kissed her breast.

Laughing, Mrs. Baron swatted him away and continued marching forward. She stopped at a candle, placed the tip of the dark stick into the flame and drew upon the other end with her mouth. Kate watched with fascination as smoke curled up into the air, and Mrs. Barton held the thing between two slender fingers.

“He’s not here yet.”

“Who?” Kate asked, her voice dripping with feigned innocence.

“Please my dear, there’s no need to dissemble. I’d be out for a bit of mischief myself if I’d been caught like you and the good duke.” Mrs. Barton stopped at a long table covered in every possible pastry one could imagine.

To Kate’s shock, many of them looked like variations on women’s breasts. In the center were dozens of crystal glasses filled with a pink liquid.

Mrs. Barton picked up two glasses and shoved one straight into Kate’s hands. The actress drew a long puff of smoke then blew it slowly out of the side of her mouth. “My dear, it truly is a shame about the other night.”

“Mmm,” Kate agreed as she drank. She sputtered at the strength of it though it was really quite good. Sweet and bubbly, it raced down her throat like candied fire. She took a deep sip and didn’t utter another word. Really, she had no wish to discuss the other night.

“Who would have thought the torch bearer would be such an idiot as to stumble upon a pig running across the stage? I tell you the opera is the most preposterous thing.”

That was how the fire had started? Kate’s tryst with Darkwell had been dashed to an end by a brainless torchbearer and a ne’er-do-well pig? She guzzled down half her glass, and after a moment, noticed the number of couples who kept going in and coming out from a series of curtained archways at the back of room. She pointed and opened her mouth to speak.

“No, no, my dear,” Mrs. Barton whispered, grabbing Kate’s hand and lowering it to her side. “No need to point at the obvious.”

“But what’s—”

Mrs. Barton arched a dark brow, and Kate just stopped short of smacking herself for own blundering. Apparently, debauchment didn’t quite make one worldly.

“Precocious plunges into deep waters are hardly agreeable to one’s health, and I do think you’ve already taken more than enough plunges for one week. Perhaps you should ease into these waters.”

Kate couldn’t argue with her there. In some ways, she couldn’t believe she’d launched herself straight into such a wild group just to see the duke again. But here she was, and anticipating was singing through her veins, along with the sweet punch.

Mrs. Barton tossed back the contents of her drink then scanned the room. Her face lit, and she snapped her fingers.

What the devil was she doing? But before Kate could ask, a heartbreakingly beautiful man made his way towards them. He strode through the crowd like a young Adonis rising from the sea. Despite the fact she had Darkwell embedded in her thoughts, her mouth dried at his sheer beauty.

His cheekbones were two slashes above a chiseled jaw, and his long russet hair shone with copper tints. Piercing, jade green eyes roamed from Mrs. Barton to Kate like a man trying to pick which sweet he wanted to devour first. It made her positively nervous. His perfect, white shirt was open at the throat exposing well developed muscles and a smooth chest. Black breeches clung to his thighs. Clearly the man rode a great deal, which only led her to wonder what he might do with such strong legs at his disposal.

She had to admit he was a great deal prettier than Darkwell, but that very fact made him less interesting. For all his astounding masculinity, he lacked the rough edges her duke possessed.

The man stopped before them, towering over them both at well over six feet. He extended his bare hand to her, and Kate placed her fingertips out for him to take. Smiling slowly, like a languorous cat luring its prey into its patient grasp, he took her hand and turned it over. He lingered over her wrist, his soft, warm breath caressing her skin. Then he pressed the barest of kisses upon her exposed wrist, skimming the flesh. She had to stop herself from snapping her hand back. It was positively delicious, yet felt completely wrong.

“Madam,” he purred, his voice low and rippling with some accent.

Mrs. Barton smiled on with approval. “Mrs. Darrell, I am pleased to introduce Count Svenden.” She teased the tip of her closed fan down the man’s muscled chest. “He doesn’t speak a word of English, but I promise, he has other talents.”

Kate didn’t have to guess at what this fellow excelled at. The man’s mouth was an invitation to the most decadent of pleasures. Clearing her throat, she pulled her hand back. “Lovely to meet you, Count.” She glanced around. “So. . . What brings you here?”

Mrs. Barton rolled her eyes. “Speaking to a man who doesn’t speak your language is a waste. Try one of his true talents.”

Kate glared at the woman who was fast becoming her tutor in temptation.

“Dance with him,” Mrs. Barton said as if that was her only intent on introducing her to the young Casanova.

“I don’t know the steps,” Kate protested. Even if she did, she wasn’t about to let herself be wrapped up by this Germanic Adonis. He might try to sweep her off into one of the other rooms and that was a talent of his she didn’t wish to test. As infuriating as Darkwell was, he was the only one she wanted.

“It matters not.” Mrs. Barton eyed Svenden who stood waiting patiently. “He’s a master teacher at guiding women’s bodies.”

“I have no doubts,” Kate drawled, and with the resignation of one being led to the block stuck out her hand and let the devil lead her to the dance floor.

Chapter 12

RYDER STUMBLED STRAIGHT INTO A golden candelabra. He winced as its heavy, sculpted metal bit into his black silk-covered shin. The massive piece didn’t move a jot.

There was no denying it, even as pain shot through his leg. There was a woman in a bright pink gown, the silk shining under the dim light, whirling around the floor in the arms of a damn fop. And that woman was the blasted torment of his days and nights.

“Good god, man! How much have you had to drink?” Hunt demanded, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Not enough,” Ryder gritted. He righted himself, spotted a gold liveried servant swooping by with a silver tray of drinks. Without ado, he snatched up a crystal flute of champagne and tossed the contents down in one swallow.

“You’re on your way now.” Hunt arched a dark brow, staring at him as if he’d suddenly gone mad.

Ryder barely listened to him as he contemplated breaking the glass just to take the sudden edge of insane disbelief and fury throttling through him. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Kathryn Darrell waltzed—waltzed—across the floor with amazing grace, her pink skirts swishing, her softly curled hair decked with white flowers, brushing her neck and slender back.

The man—no, the bastard—guiding her loomed over her, clearly enjoying his temping view.

And she!

She was smiling.

At another man.

The very thought was. . . Well, it was bloody horrifying. Worse, it was horrifying that it was horrifying.

He was not supposed to feel this raging possessiveness, but whether he should or not, he did.

Hunt tapped him on the shoulder, his gaze directed in Kathryn’s swirling direction. “If smoke could curl from your nostrils, it would do so.”

Ryder ground his teeth down. She thought she could just throw herself into his world without knowing the dangers, did she? She thought she could just leap to another man and a worse scandal. Had the woman no sense of self-preservation? Had she been gallivanting about with more men and more parties while he’d spent the last three days with a gin bottle and what Hunt insisted on calling angst?

Ryder thrust the champagne glass at Hunt. “Hold this.”

Hunt grasped the thing, his lips pursing into a frown. “Consider what you’re about to do—”

“Silence. Absolute silence,” Ryder snapped.

Hunt’s lips twisted with annoyance. “I shan’t weep at your funeral.”

Ryder threw him a blistering stare then blew out a sharp breath. Ryder had no idea what he was about to do, but he damn well was going to do something.

The mass of dance couples noted his bizarre presence amongst them, many of the ladies turning their lascivious glances upon him. A few of the men glared, sensing that blood was about to fly.

His throat started to close as he spotted the bastard and Kathryn. The fop had his hand on the lowest part of her back and her chin was tilted up, her face merry.

Enough.

Her smiles were meant for him, not any jackanapes who might twirl her about the dance floor. He didn’t care if that sounded completely ridiculous.

Ryder marched up to her partner, grabbed his white silk covered shoulder and pushed him back from Kathryn.

The man’s green eyes flared then narrowed. “Was?” he growled in German.

Of course he had to be Germanic.

“Arschloch.”

Ryder was not entirely sure what gibberish was filtering from the man’s ridiculously sensual lips. Fat lips, in truth. But he knew an insult when he heard one. “Arschloch, indeed. In England, we’d say you’re a tosspot’s git.” To emphasize this, Ryder curled his hand and pumped it up and down, keeping a pointed gaze on the ass. “Tosspot, you see?”

Kathryn tottered back from the sudden dislodgement from her dance partner and at Ryder’s rude gesture. Her stormy eyes widened as she stared at him. Then she blinked quickly as she took him in.

Ryder glanced at her, drinking in the sight of beautiful pale skin, furious eyes and gorgeous blonde hair.

Firmly, he pointed at her and skewered the bastard with his stare. “Mine,” he snapped, then for emphasis, pointed to himself and then at Kathryn again. “Miiiiine.” Hauling his fist back, Ryder let it fly. His knuckles smashed the younger man’s chin and the idiot staggered.

“What are you doing?!” Kathryn screamed.

The fop shook his blond head then squared his shoulders, ready for a fight.

“That’s it, you poncy-assed bastard.” Ryder nodded, lifting his fists. “Come and get it, Mein Herr.”

“Ja?” the bloke intoned, his face indignant. “Kommen sie hier.”

The guttural language filled the sudden silence as the entire room stared at the fight breaking out. Ryder caught sight of them in their various states of attire, forming an oddly shaped circle around the blossoming brawl.

“Pardon me!” Kathryn cut in, her hands propped upon her hips. “I was having a splendid dance.”

Ryder gaped. Marveling at her audacity, he swung his gaze to her. “Splendid dance?” he echoed.

She narrowed her eyes and took a step towards him. “Yes,” she hissed. “Now hie off.” A smile, that damn enigmatic smile, tilted her lips as she mocked him. “Count Svenden is an excellent dancer. I have yet to find him disappointing.”

Ryder sucked in a breath. Was she inferring he was a disappointment. She—She—Hell! He had no idea what to think. But he was damn well going to show her there was nothing disappointing about the Duke of Darkwell. “I am not about to leave you in the arms of this lecher.”

She snorted, her arms folding over her beautiful breasts. “Given our scandal, and its rather underwhelming conclusion, I believe I would rather bet on the count here for satisfaction.”

Frustration mixed with a good dose of anger rendered him temporarily speechless.

The count lowered his fists and held out a hand to Kathryn, his eyes turning soft with heat and blatant invitation. “Kommen sie, meine Liebster. Lasst uns Liebe machen, ja?”

Kathryn gave Ryder a challenging grin, her gaze locked with his as she lilted, “I have no idea what you said, count, but I would love to.”

Ryder snapped his mouth shut. She had no idea if she was agreeing to milk a cow or to milk the count! Yet, just to spite him, she was going to do it. Well, there was no way in Hell he was letting that happen.

As she extended her slender hand to the Germanic idiot, Ryder snapped, his voice so low he hardly credited it as his own, “The hell you say.”

Her arms fell to her sides, and her cheeks flared with heat at his gruff tone. “I beg your—”

Ryder marched up to her, ignoring the fact he was acting like a complete Neanderthal, and grabbed her hand. “If you’re going anywhere, it’s with me.”

“You sent me on my way, if you recall,” she bit out.

“A mistake I intend to remedy. We are settling this.” He glanced down at her soft lips. Gripped by a complete lack of reason, he yanked her to him. “Now.”

Lowering his lips to hers, he devoured her mouth as if it was the last thing he’d ever taste. God, it was sweet. Sweet with wine and desire, and anger.

Her body tensed against his then her hands gripped his shoulders. Before he could think otherwise, he swept her up in his arms, cradling her against his chest.

There was a general moment of shocked silence and then applause burst around them, accompanied by whistles.

“I wish it was me,” a lady in daffodil yellow sighed.

“Well it’s me,” Kathryn said possessively, her hands curling into the silk of his black shirt.

Her words echoed though his head like a stunning gong. She wanted him. Just as much as he did. There was no question, and he nearly missed a step at the realization. In that moment, everything vanished. Completely focused on the heat between him and the woman in his arms, he strode through the crowded ballroom to the gilded arches leading to the private rooms. He had fought so hard against his hunger for her, but now nothing was going to stop him from fulfilling both of their desires.

* * *

KATE STOOD ON THE EDGE of a precipice not entirely sure if she jumped what would happen. Right now, she might either soar with absolute happiness or it was very probable she might crash upon the perilous rocks below.

God help her, she was falling in love with a brute. A brute who had knocked Count Sveren in the jaw and then swept her up into his arms as if she belonged to him and no other. So, yes, he was certainly a brute, but even so, her heart thrilled preposterously at the romantic moment.

Indeed, it felt so wonderful to be in his arms, she had to recall his heart was not open. She would not be a fool and throw herself blindly at love again. Never again would she risk her own happiness. Nor could she ignore the need for him humming through her veins. She pushed her concerns away, focusing instead on the feel of his superfine coat beneath her fingertips.

“Why did you do that?” she asked, her voice, much to her irritation, a breathy wisp.

Ryder strode through an open gilt door then kicked it shut behind him. Gently, he lowered her to her slippered feet. “Because it infuriated me to see you in his arms.”

She let out a frustrated laugh, resting her hands against his beautifully muscled chest. A chest she very much wanted naked for her exploration. It was so strong, and she loved the feel of him beneath her fingers. “You are a most confusing man.”

“I know,” he said gently. Ryder lifted his fingers and ever so gently traced them down his cheek. “There is one thing I am not confused about.”

“Oh, yes?” she whispered, hating herself for loving his touch so much.

His thumb traced over her lower lip, and his gaze fixed on her mouth. “I cannot cease thinking about you.”

If she’d been confused by his actions before, now she was positively dazed. Only days ago, he’d claimed they would never see each other again. Yet, here he was proclaiming she was always in his thoughts. It was damned tempting to ignore the questions rioting through her and simply suck his teasing thumb into her wet mouth. But she needed answers. “Do explain.”

“Since the opera, I have worked beyond all measure to remove you from my thoughts, but it is impossible.” He let his mouth hover above hers, his arm circling her waist. “I dream of your lips beneath mine, my hands cupping your breasts, of your sweet pussy welcoming me.”

Kate’s cheeks flashed with heat. Lord, his words alone were lighting her afire. Already, she could feel the wet need between her thighs that begged for his sex.

“Of course,” he murmured, easily guiding her back into the room, near the divan artfully placed for ardent lovers, “there is the fact we were so rudely interrupted the other night.”

Kate turned her head away, sucking in a slow breath. She was virtually demanding her own heartbreak. Her heart was begging her to let it love this man, but she knew all too well the folly of such urgings. She licked her lips, contemplating whether or not she could make love to him without letting a piece of her heart belong to him. For if she gave just the smallest of pieces, she would be doomed to give them all.

It was how her ridiculous heart worked.

His hips gently leaned into her waist, his hard length pressing through her skirts. A promise of the ecstasy he could give her. “Come, let me make love to you.”

She turned back to him, gazing up into his jet colored eyes. The room seemed to expand around them, and her blood pulsed hot and hungry. Good lord, he was handsome, and he smelled of spice and blood oranges. She let herself drink in his scent and couldn’t help but recall. . . “You have never even said my name.”

His brows furrowed, and he cocked his head, his dark hair caressing his forehead boyishly. “Kathryn,” he whispered. “Beautiful, lovely, Kathryn.” He lifted one hand so it gently caressed her neck and slid to her nape. He murmured against her lips. “Let me pleasure you, Kathryn.”

Her name on his lips was her undoing. Her body softened into his, and she offered herself up, ready to be taken in any way they might imagine, as many times as they might desire. “Make love to me.” It was half demand, half pleading.

But whatever it was, his chest rose and fell in a swift breath and he groaned. “As my lady commands.”

Kate grasped his back, and he pulled her tightly to him as he pressed open mouth kisses along her throat, nipping then smoothing the roughened skin with his lips. Shudders ran through her body, racing straight between her thighs.

Suddenly, he moved back then spun her around so her hips were cradled against the bulge in his breeches and her back was curved to his hard chest.

“Kathryn,” he said softly. “You make me forget everything when I’m with you.” He placed his strong hands against her waist then ever so slowly dragged them up her bodice, cupping her breasts through the silk of her gown and boning of her corset. “I cannot recall a single reason why I should not make love to you when I hold you like this.” He traced his hands up her shoulders and tilted her head forward, exposing the back of her neck.

“Only you,” he whispered against her neck. “Only you.” He lowered his head and gently bit her neck. Kate gasped and jerked against him, astonished that such touches could drive her so wild.

As he lavished her with kisses, his hands stroked the smooth rounds of her breasts then worked down.

Kate moaned, tilting her face towards her shoulder. Following her lead, Ryder took her chin in one hand and kissed her mouth, slipping his tongue between her lips. Hungrily, she suckled him.

With his free hand, he stroked down the front of her gown then pressed against the place where her thighs met.

Kate groaned against his mouth, her hands desperate to touch him, and she clasped at his arms.

Ryder circled his fingers over her mound, and she dropped back against him, her head resting against his hard chest. Pressure and need began to wind through her and she pulled her lips from his, desperately needing a deep breath.

Ryder let out a harsh breath then moved them forward. “Lean against the divan.”

“The divan?” she asked, already drunk on pleasure.

Guiding her, he said lowly, “Brace your hands on the arm and back.”

She blinked, but followed his instructions. At the feel of his hands guiding her legs up onto the soft cushions, leaving her bottom up towards him, she sucked in a quick breath.

As though she’d been completely distracted by their passion before, Kathryn noticed the mirrors hanging on the walls around them. Reflections of her, kneeling, her breasts pushed tight against her bodice, and Ryder standing behind her surrounded them. Her mouth opened slightly, and she dug her fingers into the blue brocaded divan.

He glanced up and smiled, his eyes darker than they had ever been as he lightly took her skirts in his hands. Ever so slowly, he dragged them up over her legs, bunching them at her waist. Kate swallowed, completely unsure of what he was about to do. She felt utterly exposed, her legs only covered by the sheerest silk and matching pink garters.

His fingers whispered over her ankles. “You are so beautiful,” he crooned, as his hands worked upward, massaging her calves.

The tips of his fingers were firm through her silk stockings, and when he reached her bare thighs, his touch softened. Ever so lightly, he traced his fingertips up the backs of her thighs and to her bottom. He swept his hands over the rounds of her bum, parting her thighs even further with a nudge of his knee.

Swallowing back a good dose of shock, and focusing on the anticipation throbbing inside her, Kate tried to catch what he was doing in the mirror. His dark head lowered, and his mouth pressed to her lower back. With his hands cupping her hips, Ryder kissed the rounds of her bottom and moved down with infuriating slowness until he tilted her hips up high, exposing the soft folds of her sex.

A satisfied sigh escaped his lips when he slipped his fingers into the already wet folds. Kate jerked at the sudden intense pleasure and tilted her hips even higher, not knowing exactly what he was going to do with her.

“I’ve wanted to taste you for so long.”

Taste?

Then his mouth was on her hot folds, sucking them lightly into his mouth. A moan escaped her lips, and she shuddered with delight. The tip of his tongue traced her nub, swirling it as if it was the sweetest candy and his finger, oh lord, his finger slid into her core, probing her, matching the tempo of his tongue.

Groaning, Kate dropped her forehead to rest on the cool silk of the divan. Her body was wild with desire, and she was certain she was shattering apart. Just as she was sure he couldn’t take anymore, he sucked harder on her little nub and thrust another finger inside her.

She cried out as wave after wave of pleasure pulsed through her. Her arms shook and her thighs trembled, but he didn’t relent until she was collapsed against the back of the divan, panting.

“We’re not done, darling,” he said, his voice as low and rough as gravel. His hands took her hips and turned her.

Her skirts twisted wildly, and she pulled at them frantically, desire for him already building like heated coals.

Roughly, he reached down and dragged her hips down the length of the divan so her feet were resting on the floor. He parted her thighs with one hand.

Greedily, Kate reached up, working at the fastenings of his breeches. Her fingers fumbled, but she managed to free him. Her breath came in shallow, fast bursts as she reached in and took his hard penis from the restrictive clothing. Her eyes widened, surprised again, at how large he was. The tall shaft was erect, reaching towards his belly button. The small slit was wet with a small drop of dew. Instinctively, Kate reached out and rubbed it over the head.

Ryder groaned, his hips tensing. “God, I want to be inside you.”

Kate glanced up at him, and their eyes met for a moment. “Don’t wait.”

The world totally disappeared, and all she could see was him as he lifted her legs up and wrapped them around his waist.

For a moment, he teased the head of his cock against her opening, and Kate groaned, biting down on her lower lip. And then he thrust deep to the hilt. Kate’s eyes flared wide, and she drew in an astonished breath. The feeling was so deep and perfect she could hardly think.

Then he began to move, his hips rolling as he stroked her body with his cock in long hard thrusts. His hands held her hips firmly up and in place. Kate reached up and grabbed his muscled forearms, her nails digging into his skin through his silk shirt. For what seemed like minutes and a moment at the same time, he thrust, circling his hips again and again, driving her higher and higher. Though gripped by a growing pressure where their bodies met, Kate couldn’t tear her gaze from Ryder’s face. It was a mask of desire, his face flushed, and his lids half closed.

And just as she was sure neither of them could resist, he moved one hand and pressed his fingers to her nub, circling her slick desire over the sensitive spot.

Kate’s hands tightened on his arm, her mouth opening and she moaned, “Oh, yes. Yes, Ryder.”

At her words, his entire body began to tense and abruptly he pulled out. Ryder groaned his hot seed spilling on her stomach. His knees bent, and he leaned over her, slowly letting her legs fall to the floor.

They both drew in several breaths. Her body liquid, and drifting in unbelievable satisfaction, Kate reached for him. He lowered himself and gently tucked her in beside him as they laid down on the divan, her body spooned against his.

They remained silent, and Kate stared down at the blue and gold carpet. The pleasure slowly ebbed away, and she began to dread the next moments. The moments where they would have to speak. He didn’t wish to hurt her, she knew it. But he would send her on her way, just as he had done before. And she would be a fool if she hoped for anything else.

Even though he had just given her more pleasure than she had ever known, she was still in the same scandalous position she was when they left the opera. He wasn’t going to offer to marry her. And she didn’t want him to.

He would never love her and she knew, though it tore at her to admit, sex was the only thing he could ever give, because he could never give his heart.

It belonged to someone else.

And his body. . . to Kathryn’s shock, was not enough.

His breath was gentle against the top of her head, and his strong arm cradled her. And yet, it was time for her to go. Kathryn closed her eyes for a moment, promising herself she wouldn’t cry. She thought she had stopped believing in love when Percy Darrell trampled her heart. But she’d been wrong.

Somewhere deep down in her heart, she still had believed in love and that happiness waited somewhere for those who reached for it, but when Ryder brought her in to this room, he’d spoken only of desire. And now, well, now it was time for her to give up the hopes of those dreams.

Chapter 13

“I’VE NEVER FELT ANYTHING LIKE that before,” Ryder breathed, barely able to think let alone speak.

God, she felt so good against him. This moment was better than any moment he’d in the years since Jane. He blinked at the thought of his young wife, a wife who’d given him so much, and the pleasure of the moment began to dim.

Kathryn laughed softly. “I find that hard to believe, but thank you.”

There was just the slightest hint of pain in her voice, and Ryder hated it. He pushed himself up onto an arm and gazed down at her face. “Kathryn, I have never known a woman like you nor known the kind of pleasure you have just given me.”

She pressed her lips together and blinked. Gently, she laced her hands into his hair and brought his lips down to hers. Exchanging, warm kisses, Ryder allowed himself to take pleasure in just the smallest touch of her. After a moment, he pulled back, staring down at her rosy mouth and storm-filled eyes.

How in the hell was he going to continue as before? Now that he had allowed himself to enjoy her beautiful body and equally passionate mind, how could he go back to his cool control? And there was the matter of her ruin. But marriage. He still didn’t know. He’d promised himself so fervently to never break faith with Jane. And yet, Kathryn. . .

Ryder swallowed trying to understand the emotions ripping through him. “Kathryn, I—”

“No.” Her voice was soft yet firm as iron.

“No?” he said, a touch of astonishment lightening his voice.

She shook her dark head, the curls brushing against his shoulder. “Please don’t speak. This has been perfect, and I wish to keep it a memory to cherish.”

Ryder’s mouth snapped closed, and he stared up at the cream and gold ceiling. This couldn’t be happening. It seemed utterly impossible, laughable even. For, he knew what words she would say next. He said them often enough. To enough women.

“I will always treasure what we’ve had, but. . .” Her voice trailed off into a rough whisper.

Though inexperienced, Kathryn was a master already at the love affair. “I understand.” It was ironic that he’d just begun to hate himself for letting her effect his heart, and here she was handing his care back to him in a pretty little package of empty words.

“I’m glad,” she said, propping herself onto her pale elbow. “I hope we shall remain friends.”

He swallowed, his eyes wide and burning as he continued to stare at the ceiling. God, it was like hearing himself. Is this how the women he attempted to solace after their extremely brief affairs felt? If so, he should have been shot years ago. Hell, he felt as if a pugilist had slammed an iron fist into his unprotected gut.

“Of course,” he muttered. “If ever you should need anything.”

She pushed herself up. She gazed down at him, blocking his view. Her beauty was damn painful. Golden hair spilled down her back in tangled curls and crushed flowers. Worse, she gave him a cheeky smile.

When he reached up and stroked the smooth skin of her cheek, her eyes glowed with an unusual sheen, and she looked away quickly. “Thank you for being so understanding,” she said, edging to the side of the couch. “I’m certain if ever I am in trouble, you would be the first to fly to my aid and do it with great panache.”

On a complete impulse, his hand curved around her waist holding her to him. Kathryn shook her head with a sadly playful toss, then tried to stand. Ryder couldn’t help himself. If he let her go, that would be the end. She would be gone from his life. And they would never be friends. Lovers so seldom ever were after they parted. Blowing out a harsh breath, he pulled her back against him.

She laughed, a hollow sound. “Am I your captive then?”

“Certainly.” He pressed his face to her side, savoring her scent. It was the last time he would ever be so close to her. “I shall never let you go.” The words hung between them as false as any of his claims at honor.

Turning towards him, her smile was tight, as if she was playing the part of a lighthearted lady of pleasure. Caressing her fingers down the side of his face, she leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to his lips then stood.

Silent now, she righted her clothes, yanking the heavy skirts to the floor. Her fingers touched her hair, and when she clearly felt the jumbled mess, she let her hands fall to her sides. For a moment, she looked like a little girl who had a very merry time at a party and was now unwillingly readying herself to go home.

His jaw tightening and his chest clenching at the sight of the innocence still touching her in this moment, Ryder could barely stand it. He forced himself to lay back. There was no way in hell he was going to be a party to this ugly ritual of leaving. It was impossible to let the lies slip through his lips tonight or go through the motions he had done with so many other women.

Not with her. And it was killing him to see her do it.

His beautiful angel was fast on her way to becoming the accomplished woman of freedom she had so longed to be. And whoever would have thought it could hurt so much?

Trying to appear at ease, he curled his arm behind the back of his head and watched her. If he studied her carefully enough, he could brand every move she made in his brain so he might take it out later and go over it. Just to torture himself with her memory.

Sighing, she turned to him. Her chest expanded in a big intake of breath. A smile brightened her face. It was as if she was inflating herself with artificial joviality. “It has indeed been a pleasure, Your Grace.”

“Ryder,” he said quickly, unwilling to lose at least that intimacy.

“Ryder,” she said softly, and her façade of cheer faded for a moment, but she tilted her chin up and squared her shoulders. “I’ll never be able to thank you.”

“There will never be any need.” The words sliced through him. He’d said goodbye to so many women. It had never bothered him. But this? This felt like salt in a wound cut to the bone.

“I wish you every happiness,” she said carefully and then, without waiting for his reply, spun on her heel and whisked out of the room.

Silence hung in her wake, mixed with her scent, the scent of cinnamon and roses. If he closed his eyes, he might imagine she was still there.

But she was gone.

And rightly.

They had both been adults. They had confronted their desire, come to an understanding and now they would go on with their lives. Forever changed by each other.

Forever apart.

Ryder rose up onto one arm, and for the first time, he realized he had not taken off Jane’s ribbon. He had been too consumed in the moment to think of anything else but Kathryn.

God, he was an ass. And a fool.

Ryder sat up and rested his head in his hands. All along, he’d been trying to protect her from him. From his locked up heart and dangerous ways. He knew himself and the little he could give a woman. But never once had he thought he might need protection from her.

It was almost laughable.

Kathryn Darrell had knocked out the first stone in the wall he’d so carefully built around his heart, and he was unsure if he’d ever be able to replace it.

* * *

SWALLOWING GREAT GULPS OF AIR, Kate rushed out of the Duke of Albany’s house. Deliberately, she avoided eye contact with the guests. She would not cry, not in front of his peers. Not in front of these hardened lovers.

Gregory followed her out into the chilly night. As a good servant should, he said nothing.

It wasn’t until Kate was in the safety of her carriage that she let the hot tears burning her eyes slip down her cheeks. Her hands curled into fists, grasping great swaths of her skirts. She’d said goodbye to him.

Just as she should.

Tension shook her body, and she leaned back, resting her head against the velvet squabs. She forced herself to take slow breaths. Crying wouldn’t solve any of her problems. Tonight had been another lesson in her abrupt education to the ways of society. She could entertain herself amongst the sinful set. She could even enjoy herself, but she was going to be haunted by the way Ryder touched her heart. She was always going to be looking for him, longing for his touch.

But he didn’t want her.

Not the way she was coming to want him. And she would never let him know. She’d played that horrid game before. She would not love a man who did not love her in turn. No, she would continue on, smiling and when she saw him she would nod and say hello. She would be an independent woman under no man’s control. And she would find happiness.

“I will,” she whispered to the darkness. “I will.”

Chapter 14

IT WASN’T AMUSING.

Ryder blew out a harsh breath, clasped the second bottle of brandy brought to his table and poured the amber liquid into a well-used crystal tumbler to his right. He straightened the bottle, glanced down at the half full glass, shrugged then added another hearty splash for good measure.

The steward at Brooks’s hadn’t even lifted a brow at his Olympian consumption of brandy. It was nigh on two in the morning. The club was decently full. Several groups of lords sat at tables playing cards, shouting out toasts to various ladies of their acquaintance and drinking pitchers of wine. Another group of young toads, fopped out in towering, powdered wig, and pink, green and yellow silk coats sat by the windows, hollering at the women of the night walking the dubious street below. The blasted festiveness was palpable.

It was infinitely possible he was going to kill them all. If the din of his own single-minded thoughts didn’t kill him first.

Tossing a quarter of the brandy back, he spotted the veritable mountain of wadded writing paper resting at his black booted feet. A clean sheet sat on the table just before him on a green felt blotter. The crystal inkwell winking up at him dared him to write yet again. The India ink was depressingly low. He’d used nigh on half a pint.

At varying points of his long occupation in his chair, the servants had tried to collect the papers but he waved them off. The pile on the floor was a reminder as to why he was not going to start another note to Kathryn, despite the siren lure of the white sheet in front of him.

It was ridiculous.

A youth in the first flush of some idyllic infatuation could not be more idiotic. Or worse. A damn poet languishing over the right words to praise his lady love. Even so, the desire to write her, to have some communication with her, consumed him. He’d even sent his footman home to see if she’d written him.

Twice.

She hadn’t.

Apparently, Kathryn Darrell had superior willpower. Unlike him.

Lifting the glass of brandy back to his lips, Ryder eyed the sheet of paper as if it was a direct enemy. An enemy leading him to a certain and unpleasant death.

“Pickling your liver?”

Ryder forced himself to tear his gaze from the note. “Ah, Hunt.” Sprawling back in his chair Ryder gave the duke a half-hearted grin. “If you intend to be an arse, skive off.”

“I could never be anything but perfectly amiable.” Hunt eyed the letters scattered about, shifted his gaze to Ryder, checking for signs of madness, then sat in the opposite leather chair, his emerald green coat almost black in the candlelight. “Practicing your correspondence?”

“These?” Ryder gestured at the offending sheets with his glass. “Nothing, old man, nothing.” He was not about to confess he’d written twenty notes of differing length to Kathryn in the last two hours. And he certainly wouldn’t admit he’d nearly sent five.

Each time, he’d just managed to stop his footman before committing that act of lunacy. Ryder shifted back on the rich, brown leather chair. He’d appear careless if it cost him his last nerve.

“Mmm.” Hunt leaned forward, the silver embroidery on his coat glowing in the faint light. He sat silently for a moment, nodding. Then, with the speed of a damn mongoose, he darted down and snatched one up.

Ryder lurched forward. The crystal glasses shook on the table, but he paid them no heed in his bid to snatch the paper from Hunt’s hand.

“Dearest Kathryn,” Hunt read. He threw back his head and laughed. The bastard laughed so hard he wiped his eyes. “You’ve been conquered.”

Ryder grabbed the sheet. Furious he’d been caught acting so ludicrously, he crumpled the paper into a tight little ball and dropped it back down to the others. “No,” he bit out. “I have not.”

Hunt cocked his head. “Then I’m to assume that those pages in a pretty little pile at your feet aren’t all addressed to,” Hunt batted his lashes and placed one hand over his heart, “My dearest Kathryn?”

Ryder ground his teeth together, unable to deny it.

Shaking his head, Hunt sat forward. “Come now, it seems the only two people who don’t realize the remedy to their situation is yourself and Mrs. Darrell.” He reached for the bottle of brandy, eyed its half empty state then poured himself a stiff glass. “Two more bullheaded—”

“Enough,” Ryder cut in. “I know your intentions are good but—”

“Look man, face facts.” Hunt’s usually laissez fair smile faded. “You’re walking around with all the cheer of a baited bear. You’ve had the woman. You still want her. It’s time you do something about it.”

Ryder was tempted to slam his fist into his friend’s face for linking Kathryn’s name with such scandalous actions, but they had been obvious in their too brief affair, and Hunt did have a point. “There’s nothing to be done.”

Hunt’s eyes widened as if Ryder was the slowest man in Christendom. “Of course there is.”

“What? Self-slaughter?” Ryder drawled, having no wish to play games.

“Marriage,” Hunt said slowly, speaking as he would to a small child.

Ryder sputtered on a sip of brandy and winced as the alcohol rushed into his nose.

Hunt scowled and flicked away the dark spots on his immaculate coat. “Do be careful, this is new.”

Desperate for a lifeline out of this damned line of questioning, Ryder grabbed onto one of his friend’s most sensitive political causes. The extravagance of the wealthy. Anything to avoid the M-word. “You can afford a hundred new coats.”

“Yes, but I like this one. Besides, one shouldn’t just toss money away. The poor in the east end rarely acquire new clothing, go shoeless with great frequency and if the Lords simply gave a few of their many pounds. . .” Hunt stopped himself and pinned Ryder with a knowing stare. “Very clever, but I’ll not be distracted. You can still save the woman’s reputation. Your title, her wealth—”

“Marriage is not an option,” Ryder said flatly, his fingers instinctively wandering to the pale ribbon about his wrist.

“Isn’t it?” Hunt set his glass down and folded his arms across his chest.

Glancing towards the windows, Ryder said in a low tone, “I won’t do it again.” He couldn’t. It would be the worst betrayal of the woman who had been so kind to him.

The silence drew out between them for several seconds before Hunt said quietly, “Jane would understand. You know that, do you not?”

Ryder shifted on his seat, familiar pain cutting at his innards. His parents died when he was young and he had no brothers and sisters. Jane had been the only soothing thing he had in his life. She’d taught him how to be merry and take joy from the simple things. Their marriage had been so peaceful and so short. What he regretted most was they had no child, and she’d. . .

He looked down at the white notes that symbolized his growing betrayal of his first wife. “You know what I did,” he whispered.

The usual calm that formed Hunt’s presence vanished, and he slammed his broad palm down on the table. “You did nothing.”

“I let her die,” he said lowly, his voice near breaking as the memories rushed back him.

“Look at me,” Hunt snapped.

Bile churned in his stomach at the thought of Jane’s death, of her ravaged body, but Ryder forced himself to look up.

Hunt’s face had gone hard. His green eyes spiked with anger and a bizarre mix of sympathy. “She died of small pox, Darkwell. Last I heard, not even you can stop the destruction of disease.”

A muscle ticked in Ryder’s jaw, and he gave the slightest nod to acknowledge Hunt’s words. But he couldn’t stop the never ending self-reproach burning in his belly. He could still see his young wife’s terrified face as she died tortured by the sickness. “I should have taken better care of her. I should have stopped her.”

“She had a large heart, and she wanted to help your tenants,” Hunt said gently.

It didn’t matter. As a husband, it had been in Ryder’s power to forbid her to go amongst his dying tenants. His throat tightened, and he had to suck in a breath. If he had just told her no, she never would have contracted the illness. She would still be alive, if he had just taken better care of her. God, she had been so stubborn. He told her again and again she shouldn’t go. She refused to listen. Yes. He should have ordered her, locked her up if need be.

Anything to keep her safe.

Slowly, he caressed the ribbon that had been so often in her soft hair. If he closed his eyes and remembered, he could still smell her faint scent of lemon and lavender. It was enough to sting his eyes. “I don’t wish to discuss it.”

Sighing, Hunt nodded. “Understood, but I grow tired of your brooding. You can only flagellate yourself for so long.”

Ryder narrowed his eyes. “I don’t brood.”

The duke arched an arrogant brow. “Have you considered that if you do not marry Mrs. Darrell, she’s destroyed?”

He had. Of course he had, but he couldn’t face that thought just now. And as far as he could see, Kathryn had no desire to marry him. She made that quite clear before. “Did you come here to discuss my love life or was Mrs. Barton simply not at home?”

Hunt shoved back from the table and stood. “In truth, I came to get you out of here. I thought you might be growing mold.”

Ryder snorted and glared up at his friend. “You’re amiability is dimming.”

Then again he had been sitting here for hours. And if he sat here any longer, he’d soon be writing another letter. God, it was appalling how much he wanted to contact her.

It was the most strenuous test of his self-control he’d ever known, this simple action of not writing her a letter. He, the Duke of Death, the Duke of Debauchery, was having trouble not writing a letter. If he had heard it of any other man, he would have laughed his head off.

Hunt nodded towards the hall. “You can bring the brandy bottle if you want, but you’re coming with me.”

Ryder eyed the nearly empty bottle. He was afloat in the stuff, and he felt only the faintest of effects. To his surprise, he heard himself ask, “Where did you have in mind?”

Hunt eyed him up and down, a touch of disbelief quirking his brows. “In the prickly state you’re in?”

“State?” His hackles rose. He’d worked hard to control the rages that had stormed inside him since Jane. If he hadn’t been able to control them, he locked himself away. He thought he’d been hiding his unease admirably. Perhaps not.

“You’re in need of a cure,” Hunt said merrily.

Sighing, Ryder pushed his chair back and slowly stood. The room spun just a little, but soon righted itself. “What kind of cure?”

“Mrs. Darrell has infected your blood.” Hunt waggled his brows, an anticipatory gleam brightening his green eyes. “It’s obvious you’re pining away for her, and we must draw her from you as one draws an illness.”

“Pining?” Ryder drawled. “The Duke of Darkwell does not pine.”

“Yes, he does.” Hunt pointed at him. “Like a little school girl for her fluffy white kitten.”

Knowing full well if he started a brawl in the main hall of Brooks’ he’d be out of a club and on his arse in the street, duke or no duke, Ryder managed not to reach forward and knock his friend’s head off his shoulders. Ryder leveled his friend with a ball crushing stare. “Do you wish to have your eyeballs upon the table?”

“Good.” Hunt pulled at his pristine white cuffs then brushed down the front of his silver waistcoat. “I’m ready to see you do something besides drown yourself in a brandy sea.”

They started heading towards the hall. “So, what’s the cure?” Ryder asked.

Hunt laughed. “A new man in town out of the West Indies is throwing a gentleman’s only party.”

“Not a planter. I hate sugar planters. They’re boring as all hell. What kind of amusement do you think we can get from one of those slave owning bastards—”

“I think he was in another line,” Hunt cut in.

“Indeed?” Ryder asked, curious now despite himself. “What line?”

“Let’s say, he might just hoist the jolly roger and ask you to walk the plank.”

Hmm. After the damned angst he’d swum in since meeting Mrs. Darrell, a jump into shark infested waters didn’t concern him. Actually, in comparison, it sounded downright comforting.

Chapter 15

PAPER. THERE HAD TO BE paper somewhere.

Ryder glanced about the male packed hallway, hoping he might spot some sort of desk hiding in the fray of grumbling lords.

But the only thing in the hall, besides the massive paintings in golden frames hanging upon the red and gold silk walls, were men.

Possibly hundreds of them.

The paintings were damn interesting though. Naked women and a few men were depicted in all sorts of positions. The beautiful women seemed to glance down at the onlookers, urging them to try whatever sexual delectation they were participating in. Ryder had tried most of the positions at some point, and he’d certainly seen books depicting the sexual teachings of the east, but never had he seen such large or lifelike recreations.

The center painting was a lecherous pan, tall as a giant, his furry legs and hooves painted feather brown beneath a Grecian torso. A golden flute was at his lips, and he beckoned with mischievous green eyes. Interesting that the most devious and lecherous of the paintings was the largest.

Ryder glanced down the hall, grinding his teeth together. His patience was slowly dimming. He’d come here to forget about Kathryn, and what was he doing? Standing in a large hallway with nude portraits, a group of the ton’s most preposterous men, and all he wanted or could think about was Kathryn.

Perhaps if he summoned a footman, surely he could get a quill and paper? Or perhaps he should just hie off and throw pebbles at her window like some obsessed Romeo? But given his current state, he’d probably chuck a stone and break the glass. Hardly, the way to win a lady.

“Cease and desist, I tell you.”

He snapped his gaze to Hunt who had been shifting from booted foot to booted foot. “Hmm?”

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“And?” Ryder challenged. He couldn’t possibly be that transparent.

Hunt blew out a breath, shaking his head. “You are a pathetic display of manhood.”

Ryder snorted. “My manhood is splendid, thank you very much.”

“Oh?” Hunt’s brows rose innocently. “I thought perhaps you’d lost it all together, what with the way you’re staring about like a moon calf. I know you’re thinking about her.”

Moon? Ryder ground his teeth, trying not to breathe fire. Apparently he was that obvious. And it was damn disconcerting. He was mooning over a woman. A woman who didn’t want to see him again for that matter.

Hunt folded his arms across his broad chest and said as a judge condemning a man to the gallows, “Mrs. Darrell owns your manhood now, my friend.”

“Ridiculous,” Ryder scoffed, but he couldn’t quite stop himself from glancing askance. “I haven’t thought of her since we left the club.” Surely he sounded sincere?

About as sincere as a dockside pimp swearing his girls were sweet as strawberry tart.

Hunt stared back, unblinking. “And I like to dress up in pink satin and trot about in high heeled slippers.”

Ryder pinned Hunt with a mocking stare. “Well, I did hear about the Gaddington party. . .”

Several sets of curious gazes swung towards them. The combinations of words was too good to ignore.

Hunt narrowed his eyes, jerked his finger up and jabbed it into Ryder’s chest. “Speak of it and die.”

Clearing his throat, Hunt glared at the onlookers. “Skive off.”

And at his growling tone, the nosy bastards all looked up at the paintings murmuring loudly.

Ryder fought a laugh, turning his attention back to Hunt. “A might sensitive, are we? Come now, you make a lovely woman. A tad muscular perhaps but—”

“Look here, I’d had ten bottles of champagne,” Hunt huffed, his voice hushed in some feigned stage whisper. “A man that soused, will do anything—”

“Including singing My Wild Irish Rose while waving a peacock feather fan at Lord Wellesley?” Ryder taunted, loving that he was no longer the focus of criticism and that Hunt was the one defending himself.

“I have a very fine voice, I’ll have you know.”

A group of flask drinking, snuffing military men in scarlet coats and enough gold on their uniforms to stun a maharajah pressed into them.

Ryder and Hunt simultaneous threw the young pups a ball-crushing stare.

The youngest, a white powered wig atop his cherry red face, guffawed. “Beg your pardons. It is a bit close in here, is it not?”

At Ryder’s unfriendly stare, the young man swallowed and turned back to his friends who did their best to press into the crowd opposite them.

In truth, the room was growing suffocating what with the lords packed in like sardines, and the smell. . .

Thick perfume, cigar smoke, tragically the ripe odor of male and god knew what else was wafting through the ever-heating hall.

“Who the hell is this duke?” Hunt demanded, eyeing the horde. “And why the devil is he keeping us waiting.”

Ryder shook his head at Hunt’s irritation. The party so far was only intriguing for its lack of host and number of men all located in one place outside a club or a battlefield. Most of them were attired in insane finery. Gold, silver and jewels were encrusted on the men’s coats. Each obviously eager to show their importance.

They all stood milling before a set of gold double doors. If he didn’t know better he’d think he was being admitted to a gaudy Almacks.

“I need a drink.” Hunt glanced about for any signs of a servant, his mouth twisting with displeasure. “If I wanted to mill about with men, I could have gone to Parliament.”

Ryder gave him a hard stare. “This was your idea.”

“Well, I was expecting a divers—”

The shimmering echo of a gong rippled through the air, and the golden doors slowly began to open. A general murmur of confusion and anticipation went up from the crowded gentlemen.

“My lords!” A servant boomed out from somewhere in the crowd. “Please proceed to an island of pleasure.”

“An island of pleasure?” Ryder echoed. He cocked his head and bared his teeth in a mocking grin. “I’m going to kill you, you know that, don’t you?”

Hunt rolled his eyes and started forward, following the crowd pushing forward. As they all pressed in towards the gold doors, the strangest music began to beat. Drums. It sounded like bloody tribal drums, chiming symbols and other unidentifiable music. To Ryder’s surprise, it was damn stirring. And not in the way one might feel marching off to battle.

In fact, if one played the music in the streets, he doubted one would have to fear a decline in population. An enterprising government might play such music to increase the number of tax payers.

And then the gasps and laughter started.

“What the deuce do they see?” Hunt demanded. Standing at least a foot taller than the men about them, he peered over their heads.

“Hell,” Ryder announced, his good humor fizzing away as the feeling increased he was about to be launched into Dante’s inferno.

As the crowd filtered through and they entered into the vast room, Ryder found his mouth slowly dropping. Swaths of red, gold, and purple and been draped form the ceiling to form some massive tent. Candles and torches lined the walls, even massive mirrors swung from the curtains.

Feast like, tables piled high with food and drink were placed all over the room. There was even a small stage with lanterns along the front edge.

That was not what caused the general excitement.

“If this is Hell, I’m Lucifer’s newest devotee,” Hunt said, his voice low with delight.

Ryder on the other hand blew out a harsh breath. “Blast and damnation. Not women.”

Everywhere there were cushions. Red and purple velvet cushions with golden tassels, but in the end what man really cared about such things when one considered the women lounging on them. Wearing nothing but silken fabrics wrapped about their waists in the strangest skirts and tight about their legs. Their breasts were covered by the merest twists of the sheerest fabric, taunting and teasing.

Color was everywhere. The women’s hair was of a multitudinous rainbow. Jet blacks, brazen red, to palest blonde, they displayed themselves like languid cats ready to be stroked and petted.

“Oh yes,” Hunt purred. “A buffet of women.”

And it was.

“Do you think they can stand under the weight of all that gold?” Ryder asked unsure if he was amused or annoyed by the display of decadence.

“Who wants them to stand?” Hunt’s displeased look vanished, now replaced by a wide-eyed one of anticipatory bliss.

The music grew wilder, and a group of women, dressed just like the others, appeared from the back of the room, dancing forward. Their bodies undulated, their hips rippling, mimicking the way they’d rock with a man driving his cock into her.

“Your host, my lords! The Duke of Aston!” a voice shouted.

Suddenly, from some hidden hallway behind the dancing women, another group of women strode into the room, bearing a glittering litter on their shoulders.

“Good god, it’s not.”

“It is,” Ryder said dryly.

“I definitely think we should ask him to be a member of our club.”

Ryder snorted. “That peacocked ponce?”

The women kept walking slowly forward, their half naked bodies dusted with gold. With seeming ease, they kept the litter balanced on their shoulders. On it, a man lounged back on his elbow. He wore black boots, black pants, and a red brocade coat over a white shirt open at the neck. His long black hair was studded with gold and a giant black hat with red feathers sat atop his head. The music came to a halt, and the women slowly lowered the litter.

Well, Ryder’d give the Duke of Aston his due. He knew how to make a splash into the murky ton waters.

Aston stepped off his golden transportation and grabbed two girls to him, nuzzling the blonde one to his right then the red one to his left. He lifted his head and laughed, pressing his hands to their bare waists. “Welcome to my harem, gentleman! Tonight, what is mine, is yours!”

And on cue, the women on the pillows slowly rose to their hands and knees and crawled forward into the crowd of men.

“Yes,” Hunt groaned.

“No,” Ryder moaned in protest.

How the hell had this happened to him? He’d been at peace in Brooks’s. Well, he’d been going mad with thoughts of Kathryn, but he hadn’t been about to be ravished by a pack of sex-crazed females. Not that they weren’t exquisite, but despite the fact he couldn’t have Kathryn, he wanted only her.

He turned to Hunt who was already eyeing a particularly voluptuous redhead. “I’ll be back,” he muttered, not overly concerned about leaving the duke to the ladies.

“Where the hell are you going?” Hunt asked absentmindedly as he reached out to the woman who locked eyes with him, her lower lip moist as if she just licked it.

“I need air.”

Hunt beamed down at the beautiful woman, opening his arms wide. “More for me.”

Ryder shook his head and strode through the pack of entwining men and women. Already groups were moving towards the artfully arranged cushions. Albany’s Devil’s Dance was about to be torn down from its place as the height of sensual sin.

Ryder ignored them, heading back towards the doors. He needed paper and quill. Surely, if he worded a note properly, if he could keep his priorities in order, somehow they could keep a relationship. Indeed, he longed to hear Kathryn’s voice, see her stormy eyes and feel her slender body against his.

“Running off, Your Grace?” The dark voice was rough as gravel and full of mischief.

Ryder stopped and turned. Aston. “No, I need a bit of air. I find it a trifle stifling in here.”

The man’s bizarre amber eyes glinted with humor. He held a gold and ruby goblet in his beringed right hand, the ruffles of his shirt teasing the lip of the cup. “But you mustn’t miss tonight’s entertainment. I assure you. . .” He paused as if searching for the right words. “You will be amused.”

Ryder hesitated for a moment, a good dose of suspicion running through him. “Thank you, but I have seen enough.”

“Ah, but tonight, I have a very special performance arranged. I had no idea you’d be here to see it.” Aston’s deep voice lilted with amusement, clearly enjoying some particularly delicious morsel. “It is a theatrical.”

Ryder inclined his head. “If you insist.” He could just walk out, but he’d never hear the end of it from Hunt, and Aston was up to something.

“Oh, I do. First.” Aston lifted his arms in a bombastic and welcoming gesture. The folds of his floor length red coat billowed about his large frame. “Come. You require a libation.”

What he required was paper. But he was more like to find whips and feather ticklers first.

Begrudgingly, Ryder followed Aston to a table near the small stage. The servant dressed in a turban and white pants, his chest bare, handed Aston a goblet. The duke turned to Ryder and thrust it at him. “You’ll need it.”

Ryder eyed the yellowish liquid wondering if Aston’s plan was to poison the ton. But he took the cup and drank. The rich taste of rum and juice sweetened his tongue. Not bad. Not bad at all. He tossed it back in a few quick swallows. “Again.”

Aston smiled, nodding. “I knew you’d like it.” The duke snapped his ruby-ringed fingers, and the servant instantly produced another drink.

“I’ve heard about your escapade with Mrs. Darrell.” Aston’s voice purred innocently as he handed him the refreshed cup. “I should love to hear about it firsthand.”

Ryder took the cup, the little good humor he’d begun to feel dissipating.

Aston smiled slowly exposing a predatory grin. “I hear she’s quite the beauty and throwing herself headlong—or shall we say skirt long?—at sin.” He twirled his hand contemplatively, the folds of his red coat, swirling. “Whichever term you prefer, of course.”

Ryder locked eyes with the London’s newest cocky prick, ready to cut him down to a more modest size. “I beg your pardon?” he gritted, his voice a subtle warning the good duke just touched on a forbidden topic.

Not heeding that warning, Aston didn’t flinch from Ryder’s gaze. In fact, he stared back like one dock yard dog challenging another. Casually, he lifted his goblet to his lips with the ease of a damn pasha and took a careless drink, the juice lacing slightly down his chin.

Dashing it from his lips, Aston whispered, his voice conspiratorial, “I heard she was quite the piece of tart. That you sampled her slice at the Royal Opera.” He raised his eyebrows ever so slightly. “Was it sweet? For I love nothing better than a sweet slice of tart.”

Ryder slammed his cup down on the table, then his hands curled into twin fists. He was going to rip out the man’s tongue and turn him into a woman so he might sing a different and less offensive tune. “Your Grace, I request you retract your statement about the lady.”

Aston tilted his head as if he was puzzling something out, causing the feathers on his hat to dance merrily. “Pardon old man, but was there a lady in question?”

Ryder exhaled slowly, though he doubted that would help him cling to calm. With every moment, his blood pumped harder, faster, demanding he throttle the duke. The man was a total stranger, and yet he was undoubtedly delighting in this. “Aston, you’re insulting, and I’m one step from knocking you into next week.”

Aston let out a barrel laugh so large, he pressed his hand to his chest and heaved for breath.

Ryder stared at him, hoping the bastard was just mad from too many hours in the sun on the high seas. But nothing would stop him from ripping his head off if he disrespected Kathryn one more time.

“Tell, me Your Grace, do you enjoy play acting?” Aston’s voice dripped with innocence.

A sick feeling grabbed Ryder’s gut. “On occasion.”

“Then you’ll adore this.” And without ado, Aston lifted his right hand.

The music came to a sudden stop, and a young man wearing a silver mask and just a pair of dark breeches jumped onto the stage. His muscled chest reflected the yellow glow of the lamp lit stage. “My lords! Tonight we tell the fabulous tale of a pretty country widow come to London!”

The crowd of men and women attending them turned towards the entertainment. Their wide, lust filled eyes lit with excitement at the forthcoming entertainment.

A few whistles and cheers went up causing the young entertainer to lift his hands to silence them.

Country widow? Ryder glanced at Aston. “What the hell?”

“Enterprising on the moment, my dear fellow. Just like every other man will do with Mrs. Darrell. You do realize she is the fantasy of every man in the ton? If she leads the gents to her lovely tune, she’ll be the jewel of the demimondaine.”

“Stop.” The world was spinning hard and fast, and he wasn’t sure what he was going to do.

“Stop what?”

“Whatever you’re about to do,” Ryder said flatly.

“The moment you took her in the opera, you two became open to such entertaining commentary. I am only giving you what you and every other man wants.” Aston arched a single brow. “Or did you wish for something else?”

The young performer gestured to the right. “I give you the delicious Mrs. D.”

A woman strode onto the stage, her face hidden by a bejeweled mask. But there was no question she was supposed to be Kate. Her blonde hair was curled, tumbling down her back and she wore a surprisingly modest pink gown.

“And her corrupter,” the narrator announced.

To the gasps and laughter of the audience, a man all in black, down to the mask that covered his eyes, took the stage. He circled the girl who bent, pressing her breasts even tighter together as she shivered dramatically at his presence.

“This is disgusting,” Ryder growled, staring at the representation of himself.

“Shh.” Aston waved at him dismissively. “You’re spoiling a splendid performance.”

The man sat on the small couch on stage. “Come, my sweet, have a seat.” And he leaned back parting his legs and pointing to his cock. “Right here.”

The girl playing Kate hesitated, exclaiming, “Oh, but I should not! For I am a virtuous widow.”

The actor turned to the audience and stage whispered out to them, “Ah, but this widow had her bud plucked. So, I will finger her rose.”

The crowd laughed.

“Come, my dear, sit upon me,” the actor commanded, his voice booming dramatically.

The young woman sighed, waving her hand in front of her smile then finally walked over and modestly sat upon his lap.

“And now, there is too much between us. I cannot bear to be parted from you.” The man took the girl in his arms, pulled her skirts up then yanked her astride his lap. “Or your sweet petals.”

“Oh, my lord!” the girl trilled. “Whatever are you doing?”

“Tending to your bush.“

“Oh! Oh!” She squirmed eagerly against him, tugging her skirts up higher and higher, gradually showing off her taut, pale bum to the audience.

And then they began to thrust against each other letting out ridiculously enthusiastic cries of pleasure.

Ryder let out a breath so harsh, his lungs burned then he turned to Aston. “I swear to God, you’re going to burn in Hell tonight.”

“Come now, just a bit of fun.” Aston’s amber eyes glowed with merriment. “The actress is quite good. Don’t you think?”

The entire room was laughing and shouting encouragement to the couple on stage. The entire ton knew how he and Kathryn had been discovered and now they were delighting in it as if it was the only form of entertainment.

“Fun?” Ryder snapped. Fury washed over him.

Suddenly, he felt Hunt’s hand on his shoulder, but he refused to tear his gaze from Aston.

“Let’s go,” Hunt urged quietly.

Ryder brushed his hand away. “I’m not leaving till this scum is a wet spot upon the floor.”

“Scum?” Aston threw back his head and laughed yet again. “Oh, my fellow, it was not I who left the delicious Mrs. D high and dry with no virtue to her name.” Aston leaned forward and winked. “Why, that was you. Wasn’t it, lad?”

White flashed before Ryder eyes. His muscles flexed. His hand flew back, and his fist throttled forward. The punch slammed Aston in the mouth, splitting his knuckles.

Instead of sprawling as Ryder expected, Aston smiled, his teeth bloody. “At last.”

Chapter 16

“YOU SON OF A BITCH.” Hunt launched forward to grab Aston.

Ryder seized Hunt and hauled him back.

“He’s mine,” Ryder hissed, his voice so low, he could barely hear it.

But instead of turning on Aston, Ryder vaulted toward the stage. Without even thinking, he jumped onto the polished wood paneling and grabbed the girl playing his Kathryn from the man’s lap. Pink skirts flew about as he yanked her free. Her muddy brown eyes flared beneath her mask. Regardless of her screams, he tossed her onto his shoulder.

The man in black scrambled from the couch and ran for the edge of the stage.

Ryder carried the girl off the platform. Every step sent his blood firing faster through his veins. Shrieking and flailing her arms, Ryder plopped her down unceremoniously onto a damned tasseled cushion.

Firmly, he grasped her shoulders. “Your acting is sadly deficient. I suggest a new trade.”

She nodded wildly.

A hand grabbed his shoulder, and without looking Ryder whipped around and punched.

Aston blocked the blow with his forearm, and the ass was smiling—smiling!

“Pistols!” Ryder challenged. “At dawn.”

Still smiling, Aston shook his head. “Sorry lad, we fight now or never.”

The man was bloody daft. And Ryder was going to put him out of his misery. “With pleasure.” He darted in, driving his fist into Aston’s gut.

Shaking his head, Aston staggered back. “Good punch. Harder next time.” He whipped his coat off and threw it out to the crowd who let up a merry cheer.

Ryder’s gaze followed the flickering red for a moment, and he realized he and Aston were still on stage with the entire group of guests watching as if they were a Punch and Judy Show.

At that exact moment, Aston jabbed him in the nose. The world exploded in sparks and Ryder twisted back to the duke. Hollers and shouts went up from the harem girls and the lords on the cushions below.

“Good show! Best I’ve seen!” some idiot shouted which was followed by a host of giggles.

Ryder tried to ignore it but it was the most grating sound. Aston darted right, pulled his fist back, the tendons on his arm cording. He slammed a punch into Ryder’s abdomen.

Furious he’d let him get in two hits, Ryder blew out a harsh breath. He balanced on the balls of his toes, focused on Aston’s ugly face then jabbed.

The duke’s head jerked back but he came back up, that damn smile still on his face, only this time blood streamed down his chin. “That’s it, Darkwell!” he yelled. “Give me all you’ve got.”

Ryder shook his head at the man’s lunacy, but kept up the attack. Circling right, countering the duke’s movements, he looked for his next in. He was not going to let him go--mad or not. After all, the man besmirched Kathryn and no man was going to walk straight come the next morning after slandering her.

Hunt somehow got up to the edge of the stage. Standing beside it, his black hair glistening like obsidian in the candlelight, he pounded his hands against the platform. “Take him down, Darkwell! Take the pirate bugger down!”

He and Aston kept beating on each other, exchanging punch after punch until they were slinging badly aimed hooks and jabs. With growing frustration, Ryder realized they were evenly matched, and after several minutes both of them were staggering around the stage, swinging at the air and bleeding like bizarre fountains.

Not to mention they were both breathing like overworked bulls.

Everyone in the crowd jumped to their feet, leaning forward to see who would be last. Over the blur and ringing in his ears, Ryder could have sworn he heard someone making bets.

“Drive the poxy bastard into the carpet!” Hunt shouted again.

“W-What carpet!?” Ryder stammered, his legs heavy and his mouth dry as cotton.

Luckily, Aston swayed on his feet. Blood spattered his white shirt, and the grin had gone from his face. If fact, he was blinking furiously, his right eye swelling up like a plum.

Ryder drew up his fists and tried not to let his legs buckle. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had made such meat of him, but he was going to take the bastard down.

For Kathryn.

Narrowing his eyes against the swaying room, Ryder darted forward and cracked his fist into Aston’s cheek. . . Just as Aston brought his fist up in an upper cut to Ryder’s chin.

His face throbbed like an exploded grape, and Ryder felt the world spin as he tumbled. Bizarrely, Aston cushioned his fall.

“Not a tie!” Hunt groaned.

The crazed duke started laughing beneath him, occasionally sucking in whistling breaths. He slapped his hand against Ryder’s back. “I take it back. I take it back,” Aston gasped. “Mrs. Darrell. . . is a virtuous woman. . . and my entertainment was uncalled for.”

“Damn right,” Ryder slurred, unsure if all his teeth were still in his head.

Face down, Aston rested his hands on the scuffed wood floor. “Now, get off me. You’re as heavy as an ox.”

“Certainly.” Ryder blinked, fought a groan as pain stabbed his ribs, and shifted onto the floor, which seemed like an infinitely safe place right now. After all, one couldn’t fall when one was sitting on the floor.

Ryder looked about. The music started up again and the crowd returned to their various states of dissipation. Damnation, but the place looked like a painting straight out of Lucifer’s dreams. The lords and harem girls, drunk on the fun from the fight and copious bottles of wine and brandy, were all over each other, limbs writhing in one massive bed of cushions.

Aston rolled into a sitting position, eyeing his bloody shirt. “Good fight, Darkwell.”

Hunt jumped up on the stage and glowered down at the mad duke. “What the hell is wrong with you, man?”

Aston wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. It was then Ryder realized his hand was covered in tattoos.

Leaning back on his palms, Aston blew out a satisfied sigh. “Nothing, just one can’t get a decent fight this side of Jamaica. Sorry I prodded you so vigorously, Darkwell. I heard you were a comer, and so I couldn’t help myself.”

Ryder narrowed his eyes. “You arranged the fight, you sick prick?”

Aston wiggled his brows and smiled. “Right on, me hearty.”

The duke struggled to his feat and staggered a bit. He gazed about at the glorious array of sin he too had arranged and let another one of his barrel laughs then winced and clutched his ribs. Panting he stood straight. “Beautiful sight this.”

“You’re crazed,” Hunt stated, keeping his distance from the mad duke.

“No doubt. But I’m happy.” Aston tucked in his shirt tails. And indeed, a blissful smile was pinned on his bloody lips. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a wench waiting for me.” He gave them a salute and started off. A few feet away he stopped. “Oh, and Darkwell, best of luck with your lass.”

Ryder’s fingers dug into the wood below, threatening to leave splinters under his nails. He scowled. “She’s not my lass.”

Aston nodded, a slow and exaggerated motion. “Of course she isn’t. But I do hope you’ll invite me to the wedding. Next best thing to a good fight is a wedding.” And with that he headed out of the room, his gate as shaky as a man tossed about on the high seas.

Ryder and Hunt watched the man go. And when he was gone, Ryder shook his head. “What the hell was that?”

Hunt extended his hand and stared after the door Aston slipped through. “A sodding crack pot. We should definitely invite him to be part of the club.”

Groaning, Ryder took the offered arm and let Hunt pull him to his feet. “He is not going to be a member of the club, and he damn well isn’t coming to my wedding.”

Hunt stared blankly at him for a few seconds then said, “But you acknowledge you’re having one?”

Ryder opened his mouth to emphatically protest the ridiculousness of Aston’s words. But he couldn’t stop thinking how if he and Kathryn were married, he’d never have to see something like tonight’s debacle again. So, instead of answering the unpalatable question, he started for the doors, his step as drunk as Aston’s had been.

He gave the only reply he could think of. “Go to Hell, Hunt. Go to Hell.”

Chapter 17

KATE FINGERED THE INFAMOUS LIST.

It was no longer valuable as anything but a symbol of her own idiocy, and she wished to bloody high heaven that Imogen hadn’t had a jolly old time with Reginald in the closet. At least then, she wouldn’t have a list detailing exactly where the duke could be at any given moment.

For instance, at this very moment, he was likely at his lawyer’s for his weekly meeting regarding his estates.

In an hour’s time, he would go for a ride in Hyde Park. And pathetic though it was, she carried the dratted note about with her as if that somehow made the duke closer.

It was horribly pathetic.

She’d even almost wrote him a letter. . . Five letters, if she was honest, but she’d burned the evidence before Imogen could harangue her for hours on end. In fact, her friend had been annoying beyond all possible reason, walking about with a knowing expression upon her mischievous features.

Kate marched into the breakfast room, tucked the list back into her bodice and picked up a plate. She faced the laden sideboard and took eggs, sausages, a kipper, muffins and bacon. As an afterthought she went back for another sausage. Despite what Imogen said, she wasn’t upset.

Not in the least.

She was a mature woman perfectly capable of handling herself in such a situation.

She sat and poured herself a cup of tea then ladled in four heaping spoonfuls of sugar and a healthy dose of cream. Really, she was perfectly fine. She forked a sausage, skewering it with undue relish. She didn’t need a man. She glanced at the sausage and glowered at it.

Indeed, she didn’t.

A man was the last thing she needed. Darkwell had no effect on her. She had already forgotten him. Forgotten the way his dark eyes heated like coals as he looked at her. She’d forgotten his hands upon her body, and she’d certainly forgotten the way he felt as he thrust his cock inside her body.

No, he held no sway over her.

Kate looked down at her plate erupting with food and sighed. She was such a horrid liar. Suddenly, the food before her looked appalling. If she admitted it to herself, she knew exactly what she was doing. She only ever ate like a starving horse when she was upset. One could hardly call five sausages, a serving of eggs the size of a croquet ball and enough bacon to feed a small military force the actions of a perfectly rational person.

She took a sip of tea and grimaced. Sugar raced straight through her body and caused her teeth to grind together. She clunked the teacup back into its saucer and sighed. What was she doing?

She’d reverted back to being a coward, that’s what. When she arrived in London, she’d been determined to be bold, and now she was tucked away in her London townhouse, her mind going over every moment she’d spent with Ryder.

Again. . . and again.

She pushed back from the table and flung her napkin down on the offending plate of food. Lord, she wanted to see him again so badly it hurt. Nibbling on her lower lip, she pulled the list back out and fingered it. He had no idea she had it. So, if she happened to come across him in Hyde Park there’d be no way he’d know that it was anything but a coincidence.

Kate stood hesitating. If she did see him, what would she do?

She’d be calm, collected, and the experienced lady of society she’d always wanted to be.

It only took her a few minutes to put on a suitable gown for a drive through the park and though it was the last thing she wanted to do, she went in search of Imogen who just smiled and picked up a shawl.

It wasn’t fair that a lady couldn’t go out by herself. But Kate was still holding to the merest thread of propriety.

They hurried out into glorious summer air, and Gregory held the carriage door open. Much to Kate’s relief, the top was already down, so she wouldn’t be completely obvious as she gadded about, looking for Ryder.

They headed across the lane and into the park. Imogen sat in silence for several seconds before she finally said, “Very fine weather, isn’t it?”

The sun was out and the trees throughout the park were extremely green under the bright blue sky. However, Kate knew Imogen too well to be seduced by such banal speech. “You shan’t succeed.”

Imogen batted her lashes. “Whatever do you mean?”

“You couldn’t give two figs for the weather. If you’ve something to say, out with it.”

Imogen lifted her hand to her pale bosom edged with robin’s egg lace. “My, my, aren’t we in a lovely mood? I suppose you need a dose of your duke to make you sparkle again.”

“He is hardly my duke.” Just the opposite in fact. Which, of course, was how she wanted it. She never wanted to feel the way she had when Percy made it clear he had not loved her. His duplicity had only confirmed in her father’s eyes she was a fool.

She had been a fool to give her love to Percy. To give it to any man. In fact, she would never say she loved a man again. Of that, she was certain.

But seemingly that didn’t stop her to risk being a fool again to catch a glimpse of Ryder.

As they trotted down the lane running along the Serpentine, a few carriages rolled by. Whether green or black or blue, they sparkled with a fresh wash. Several had their tops down in the fine weather, exposing their owners. Ladies sat in striped red and cream silk, butter-yellow and lace, embroidered eggshell morning attire, all with hats decked with ribbons and plumes. And with each one that went by, Kate’s heart sank a little.

Lady after lady, from young to old, stared at her as if she were a moving rubbish heap. A particularly smelly rubbish heap. With fish in it. The gentlemen on their fine hunters openly leered at her or looked at her as if she was a set of goods to be bought in a secondhand store.

She was uncertain as to which was more disconcerting. Kate swallowed. She’d known she’d be stared at but she hadn’t realized quite how intently. Nor had she realized how intensely the lords and ladies of the ton would make their displeasure at her presence known.

It was the park, for goodness sake. It wasn’t as if she’d insisted on attending a tea party.

Apparently, more fool her for her optimism.

As they sped along, it became infinitely clear. She was good and truly ruined. Something she had known, but had not truly accepted the full effect of until this moment.

Good God, she was going to have go to Spain, or develop a liking for strudel.

Imogen glanced at a passing carriage of old dragons, their quizzing glasses fixed on Kate, and their mouths pursed in identical frowns of horror. “My, there is quite a chill in the air.”

“Yes.” Kate folded her arms about her middle as though that might stave off the dagger stares.

“Perseverance, dearest Kathryn,” Imogen said cheerfully, though her eyes held a significant amount of doubt. “You must brave it.”

Kate tried to laugh, but couldn’t quite manage it.

“Harlot!” someone shouted and Kate turned about trying to see who it was. Whoever it was had already turned, but a young boy on his pony, his face freckled and pudgy from too many sweets, sniggered.

Imogen’s usually merry expression dimmed. “Ignore it, Kate.”

“Perhaps we should turn back,” she whispered.

Heavens, was this how it was going to be? Could she not even go for a drive? And with a sickening feeling she realized that yes, yes it was going to be this bad. Everyone tried to tell her, but she’d refused to accept the truth.

She was only fit for the likes of the demimondaine now.

A coach pulled up beside them, keeping pace. Its beautifully lacquered black siding reflected the trees, and it too had the top down. The large Carmine crest rested like a miniature shield on the door, the black cross over a white background ominous.

The Countess of Carmine sat, imperiously, a queen of the row. Her black hair was curled upon her head and a magnificent purple hat, bedecked with pale pink flowers and a veil perched atop her perfectly arranged coif. Her purple gown stood out as if she was royalty and her lips, rouged to a rose red, were set in a cruel smile of anticipation.

“Stop your coach,” she called, her voice hard with authority.

Imogen nodded to the coachman. It wasn’t as if they could give chase in Hyde Park. The gossip would be far worse.

Besides, she refused to run away and would not be run off by this woman.

Their carriages slowed. Resting one gloved hand on her carriage door, the countess leaned forward. Other riders, spotting her and the countess, began to gather round, the scent of gossip in the air.

The countess tilted her head and eyed Kate as if she were rotting meat. “Mrs. Darrell, I should give the cut direct but find I must address. . .” Her gaze traveled up and down her coldly. “Your person.”

Imogen started to speak, but Kate put her hand out. She didn’t wish her friend to be implicated in this any more than she had to be. “Pardon me, my lady, but do I have business with you?”

That caught the countess so off guard she stared for a moment, disbelieving that Kate wasn’t cowering under her disapproval. Gathering her momentary shock, she narrowed her eyes. “I do have business with you. I have a duty to instruct you on proper behavior since you seem completely ignorant of it.”

A low hush of whispers circled round the growing group of gossips. Coaches pressed in behind and in front of them. Ladies and gentlemen on horseback made no attempt to ride around, but rather rode as close as they could, all of them eager to see a bit of blood spilled.

“You see, Mrs. Darrell, a more honorable woman would realize the offense she gives to polite society by her stained presence.”

Many of the onlookers nodded at the countess’ words which sent a chill down Kate’s spine. Londoners were notorious for their mob mentality, and though the day was fine, that might not stop them from making an example out of her.

“The air is free, Countess,” Kate said firmly. “That is all I wish to take.”

The countess’s red lips pressed into a line. “Make no mistake, madam, you are not welcome here. You are a scandal and should be driven from all good society.”

Kate swallowed, her gaze darting to the ever growing crowd which now included carriages, ladies and gentleman on horseback. Even those from the walking paths had taken note and were swarming in like bees to honey.

No one was coming to her defense, their eyes intense and excited. So, she would defend herself. “My lady, my society is as good as yours.”

A series of gasps went up from the crowd as if Kate had just thrown the Bible down and danced upon it. Apparently, they all felt she should have the door of society slammed firmly in her face. And be tossed out into the mud to be trampled.

The countess laughed, a frozen sound. “You, madam, are not fit to wipe my boots. With your conduct you have established yourself a wh—”

“Think twice,” a deep voice growled, “before you insult Her Grace, the future Duchess of Darkwell.”

A rush of harried commotion went through the gossipmongers.

Kate whipped around looking for Ryder. She’d know his voice anywhere.

And there he was.

The Duke of Darkwell sat like a furious dark knight upon his black hunter. The crowd parted to allow him to ride through to her carriage. His gloved fists held the reins with a chokehold, and his face was a mask of rage.

Even with fury upon his face, he was the most welcome sight she had ever seen, and her heart leapt at his presence.

The countess sputtered. “Your Grace, surely you shan’t defend—”

As if to make himself absolutely clear he spoke loudly, “Defend my wife? I promise you, I shall bring down all powers of my ducal position to prosecute any who might slander her.”

“But. . . but. . .” the countess stuttered.

“My lady.” Ryder sneered as he pressed his hunter up between the carriages. “You are hardly one to pass judgment, and unless you wish me to air your sins, ride on.” He turned to the onlookers. “That goes for every one of you.”

For several seconds, the lords and ladies who had expected the public and final destruction of one of the wealthiest women in England gaped. But Ryder’s determined glare finally sent them slowly off.

The countess was forced to wait, being locked in by the other carriages. Her face was a pale mask of indignation, and she stared straight ahead. Which suited Kate just fine. If she never had to look at the woman again, she would count herself very happy.

When the din died down Ryder’s eyes softened, though banked anger still heated them. His gaze darted over her, and a muscle worked in his throat. “Are you well? Did they harm you?”

Her own gaze traveled over his face, and she sucked in a sharp breath. Several bruises darkened his already tawny skin. “What happened to you?”

A muscle tightened in his jaw, and he smiled tightly. “Nothing. An exchange of words.”

“I didn’t realize words could leave such marks,” Kate said gently, wanting nothing more than to soothe away any hurt he might have sustained.

“I am perfectly well,” he said, “I only wish to know you are unharmed.”

His obvious concern sent her heart rioting and she had to take several shallow breaths. At last, she managed a smile. “I am perfectly well, thank you. A few harsh words never did anyone too much harm.”

“Oh, Kathryn.” He sighed. “Your optimism is fatal.” He twisted towards Imogen. “Have you told her that? Have you told her if she keeps insisting on this all will work out set of beliefs she’ll end up to her neck in trouble?”

Imogen’s eyes widened, and she just stared up at him, clearly far more affected by the little show than she let on earlier, “I think, Your Grace, she is already up to her ears in trouble. Do you plan to extricate her?”

“Imogen!” Kate hissed.

“I’m only speaking the truth,” Imogen protested. “After today, you must see reason.”

Kate sat back, hating to admit defeat. She grinned tentatively, trying to make light of the terrible situation. “I have been rather stubborn.”

The duke’s dark brows rose. “Stubborn, madam? Bullheaded more like.”

Kate scowled up at him. Who was he to talk? He had been just as difficult. “Now see here, I thank you for your assistance, Your Grace, but I hardly think—”

“Kate, close your mouth,” Imogen said quickly. “Unless you wish to be on the first boat to Spain come tomorrow morning.”

That gave Kate pause. She was indeed going to have to leave. It was as simple as that. If she didn’t find a way to fix her damaged reputation, she would either have to stay locked up in her house, or she would have to hie off the continent. “Yes, well, I suppose you have a point.”

“A point?” Darkwell echoed. “Were you present for this debacle, Kathryn?” His face paled as he shook his head, causing his bruises to stand out in sharply. “The countess was one step away from lynching you here in the middle of the park.”

Kate shifted uncomfortably on her carriage seat. “I am not a child, sir. You need not explain how tenuous my situation is.”

Ryder’s jaw tightened as if fighting back some jaded comment. “I shall meet you at your home in shall we say ten minutes time? And we shall discuss what to do.” He didn’t even wait. He just whipped his hunter about and inclined his head, riding off in the direction of her townhome.

Kate sat up straight staring after him. “Imperious—”

“And chivalrous rescuer,” Imogen cut in.

Kate frowned and folded her arms over her chest. “Those were not the words I was going to use.”

However, Imogen was right. He had come to her rescue when no one else would, and it was clear he cared. More than he’d ever let on. In fact, he seemed furious anyone might speak ill against her. For a brief moment, she had been certain he was going to throttle the countess. An event she might pay money to see.

And she had a terrible feeling those bruises were an effect of words exchanged over her. The very thought caused her silly emotions to blossom with false hope.

Even so, that did not give him the right to order her here and there or treat her as a child. She had enough experience with men who saw her as a piece of luggage to be shunted about. It didn’t matter that her blood was rushing through her veins, that she could hardly believe she had seen him again and that now he was demanding an audience.

Kate bit down on her lower lip, trying to bring herself back down to reality. He was going to demand marriage. She knew it. Though she was sure he had no desire to make her his wife, he had no choice now after publicly proclaiming himself. And any woman of intelligence would jump at his offer.

But Kate had learned the hard way jumping only resulted in one flying through the air, hurtling to the earth below. And she did not have wings which meant if she was not very careful, she would crash.

Just as she had done before.

Chapter 18

PACING HAD BECOME PART OF his existence since meeting that infuriating woman. Ryder forced himself to stop in front of the library’s towering fireplace before he wore a long trench in the polished wood floor.

But damn it, had she no sense?

And her response had hardly been the one he’d been expecting. He was unsure as to why, but somewhere in what remained of his boyish fantasies, he expected her to throw herself into his arms and cling to him, showering him with kisses at his swift ride to her rescue. He’d even considered he might have to wipe a few tears from her frightened face.

Instead, she’d lit up at the sight of him for a few brief moments and then turned into a bristly thistle in the next.

And good God, why had he said that? Future duchess? Wife. He’d proclaimed her to be his wife—in front of half the ton. There was no going back from that. Despite any vows he’d ever made to Jane, he was about to be married. Again.

He ran his fingers over Jane’s ribbon, the fabric now rough from so much attention. Ever so slowly, he untied it and slipped it into his pocket. Even if it was the right thing to do, he couldn’t wear it. Not for this conversation. Not when he took Kathryn in his arms.

He glanced at the open door. Listening for any sound, any sound that might indicate she was here.

The part of him he’d long kept under lock and key was elated at the prospect of marrying Kate. Elated in a positively stupid fashion. One would think he was a boy in the first flush of flirtation, when he’d been innocent and the world held an unsurpassable treasure trove of promise. When he hadn’t lost those he loved to stupid causes.

But for some damned reason, Kathryn Darrell held happiness, an emotion he was a fair stranger to, out to him like an ephemeral prize. A prize which threatened his very vows to the one person who in life and death had been the center of his world for well over a decade.

Jane’s face came to his mind, her soft curls and pale eyes. But the image was fading now. He swallowed, trying not to think about what today’s event meant to her memory.

Ryder eyed the decanters of brandy sitting on the Chippendale sideboard and wondered at its presence in a lady’s establishment. Then again, he knew Kate had a taste for it. She had a taste for things no good young lady should. She was a walking conundrum. It was what he so liked about her.

In the last few weeks, he’d grown to expect her presence, and he could no longer imagine going on without it. Somehow he could make her see reason that marriage to him was preferable to banishment. And she certainly seemed appalled by a life abroad. And who wouldn’t?

Life with the Spanish indeed!

He’d rather skewer himself in the eyeball then put up with those poncing idiots.

Ryder glanced at the open doorway again. He kept listening for the delicate steps of ladies. Where the devil were they? He hadn’t ridden that fast ahead.

He caught his reflection in one of the tall gilt mirrors hanging from the wall, and much to his own disgust, he paused. He’d always been thorough in his appearance, but he never really given a damn about how he looked. Until this exact moment. He found himself smoothing down his black silk waist coat and checking his dark wool sleeves for horse hair.

Unromantic though this proposal might be, he was going to do it right. He’d be thorough if it killed him. It was his duty after all.

Finally, footsteps echoed down the hall, and Ryder turned about the room. The last thing he wanted, though he couldn’t believe he cared, was to look like he’d been waiting like a nervous school boy. He strode to the fireplace and propped his arm along the green Carerra marble.

Clearing his throat, he waited. It was preposterous that he felt any sort of concern at this meeting. He’d stood on the wrong side of a pistol, fought on the continent and he’d even endured Jane’s death.

And yet, Kathryn Darrell managed to awaken a sense of unease in him. It was as if he were standing on a tight rope, that at any moment someone was going to shake.

Kathryn and Imogen bustled through the doorway, and he bit back a curse. What the devil was her friend doing here? “I do believe we are past the need for a chaperone.”

The two women exchanged some mysterious female look. Imogen eyed him warily. “Mrs. Darrell asked for my presence.”

Ryder drew in a slow breath. Not a week ago, Kathryn had done everything in her power to get him alone, and now she was issuing propriety as if they were at a tea dance. “Is this true?”

She stared him down, daring him to challenge her decision. “Yes.”

Well, he’d always been one to live up to a challenge, and he wanted her alone. It would be easier to convince her if he could get her into his arms. It certainly didn’t hurt that he damn well wanted his mouth on hers. “Why?”

Clearly annoyed he was pressing this matter, she said tightly, “I wish to retain my good sense.”

A smile started at his lips as did a decidedly warm feeling in his abdomen. She was concerned about being alone with him because it would affect her judgment? It was the best possible answer to his question. “I understand, but this is a conversation I think best kept between us.”

She glanced towards Imogen and then back towards him. Indecision between what she wanted and what she thought best played across her pale features.

“Come, Kathryn,” he said softly. “You have nothing to fear from me. You must know by now my main interest is only in your welfare.”

Kathryn stared back at him for a moment, her lips pressing into a concerned line.

It killed him that she hesitated. But what right had he to wish she was completely unreserved in his presence? He certainly kept his fair share of himself locked away.

“As you wish.” She clasped Imogen’s beringed hand then let her friend go.

Interestingly, as she departed, Imogen threw him a warning stare that spoke volumes for the care of her friend.

The silence lingered between them as he and Kathryn stared at each other like two opposing armies on the brink of treaty or war. Ryder took a step forward, hoping to narrow the breach. “I am sorry for your discomfort this morning.”

She shrugged, causing her curled hair to brush her neck. However, the action didn’t quite hide the degree of pain to her gesture. “It was my own fault. I should have known I could not go freely about.”

It was impossible, hearing the resignation in her bright voice. When he’d first met her, her determination had been like her shield. She’d been unafraid of anything and though she certainly seemed brave, a little of that innocent hope had worn off under London’s harsh pressures.

“If it is your fault then it is equally mine,” he said gently.

She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“I am an equal partner in our scandal. It simply happens that society is far more kind to the male in these happenings. That doesn’t make me less culpable.”

“True.” She smiled slightly and stepped towards him, her light blue skirts swaying. “But that doesn’t change my predicament.”

“I think it does.” The words felt like marbles in his mouth but he knew it was the right thing to do. And without a doubt, he knew Jane would want him to do what was right. “We must marry.”

The smile vanished, and Kate glared at him, her blue-grey eyes a stony color. To his acute frustration, she stepped back and cocked a brow at him. “Must, sir?”

Ryder sighed. “Kathryn, are you going to be spitefully stubborn again and ignore the events of this morning?”

“Spiteful?” she huffed. “I, sir, am never spiteful.”

Ryder stared back at her. “Good grief, woman, I could say the sun was yellow and you’d proclaim it green.”

She glowered for a moment then the starch went out of her a bit. “I can be difficult, but I simply don’t wish to be ordered, Ryder. I have been ordered about my whole life. By men, I might add.”

It would never be possible for him to understand what it was like to be a woman, completely at the mercy of a father or husband. But he did know what it was like to be controlled by guilt and grief. “I know how important freedom is to you.”

Her frown eased, and she took another step towards him. “You remember.”

“Despite appearances, I remember everything you’ve said or done.” God, he wished he could bite his tongue, but the truth just spilled out.

“You know, we were both emphatic about not marrying that night at the opera,” she pointed out.

Ryder sighed. “I wish I could tell you differently, but there are many reasons why I think it is a mistake that you should marry me.”

Her smile faded again, and her expression grew guarded. “And yet you wish it now. It is very difficult to accept you because your sense of honor demands you assist me.”

“Make no mistake, you are. . .” He didn’t know how to put her effect on him into words. It was equally maddening and wonderful. She drove him to distraction then offered him respite from his self-inflicted and well deserved punishments. “You make me want happiness.”

“Oh, Ryder.” She took several slow steps towards him, the rustle of her skirts as hypnotic as the kindness warming her eyes “You deserve happiness. More than anyone I know.”

Ryder swallowed back the retort that she was wrong. He wanted her to agree to marriage, and a recital of his faults was probably not the most intelligent way to ensure her assent. And yet, could he marry her without her knowing he could never love her, that he could never give her the care a husband should give his wife?

Bile twisted his stomach. “Can you marry me despite—”

“I’ve missed you,” she said softly. “Even your gruffness.”

Relief flooded through him that she stopped the fatal words from passing his lips. Nor had she seen him truly gruff as she put it. And if he had his way, she never would. For her sake, he’d force himself out of the darkness that pulled him down so frequently, and he would try to start again. Perhaps he could do it. “I have missed you too, Kathryn.”

“In truth?” she asked. Though she gave him a cheeky grin, there was definite uncertainty in her stance.

Ryder laughed, a rush of sound that echoed up to the ceiling. “God, yes.” He’d never tell her how much and how he’d thought of her nigh on every waking moment.

She glanced at him from the corner of her eyes. “You know, I had no intention of ever marrying again.”

“Nor I. But sometimes life chooses paths for us.”

“I suppose, but Ryder, I cannot settle into the life of a dutiful wife. I just can’t.” Her beautiful forehead creased with worry, and she clasped her hands in front of her. “Before I was left to rot in the country and had no control over my life. . . I made a very bad mistake putting myself in—” She swallowed as if her dead husband’s name was poison. “In Percy’s hands.”

If the bastard had still been alive, he would have killed him. Slowly. No one had the right to encroach on Kathryn’s beautiful independence nor her sense of self. It was what drew him to her. And any man who tried to take it from her was a coward.

Ryder crossed the room in a few short strides and pulled her against him. He wanted to free her not make her a captive. And God, he wanted to see the light that would come from her when she had no worries, when she was truly free to be herself. Something she could be as a powerful duchess.

“I have no wish to control you or take your freedom.” He gestured from her to him. “This wasn’t what I wanted, but I find now, that having you all to myself is immensely appealing.”

“To yourself?” she murmured, curving her body instinctively against his.

Ryder looked down on her beautiful face. “Yes.”

He was playing a very dangerous game with his own heart. Her eyes were half closed and her mouth was ever so slightly open, offering herself up to him. It was the most erotic sight he had ever seen.

Without another word, he took her mouth in a hungry kiss. The days of turmoil had taken their toll, and he kissed her without restraint. Refusing to hold back the banked up passion inside him, he sucked her tongue into his mouth and wove a hand into her hair.

She gasped against his mouth and wrapped her arms about his shoulders. Molding herself against him, she parted her thighs allowing him to place his leg between them. She groaned and struggled to bring her body closer to his.

Need hammered his body, awakening him. It was like possession. He had to have her. He had to make her his, and he couldn’t stop until he did.

He tore his mouth away from hers and swung her up into her arms. Her skirts spilled over his hands and caressed his thighs as he tucked her against his chest. Glancing about the room, he looked for any surface that might do.

“Kathryn?” A voice called from the hall.

Ryder groaned and stopped in the middle of the room.

“Yes?” Kate called, her voice definitely deeper with desire.

Imogen cleared her throat, the sound muffled through the closed door. She paused for a moment. “Are you well?”

Kate pressed her face to Ryder’s shirt and stifled a laugh. She drew in a soft breath then lifted her head. “Extremely well.”

“It is rather quiet in there.”

Ryder tensed. Had the damn woman been listening in? His ardor faded a little. “I promise Mrs. Darrell is perfectly safe.”

Ryder jerked his head towards the door as he heard a clear snort. Impertinent woman. Then again, it only showed that she was definitely concerned about his Kathryn, which to his surprise rose the woman in his esteem. But damn it, couldn’t she skive off?

“Have you agreed to marry him then?”

“Ah.” Kate looked up into his eyes. She nibbled her lower lip and stroked a hand down the front of his black wool coat.

His entire world stopped in that moment. He had every advantage. Power, wealth, a reputation that could protect her and yet, he was completely uncertain of her answer. Kathryn was not a typical woman which was why he hoped the next word from her mouth would be ‘yes’.

Kathryn’s lips parted in the most beautiful smile. “Yes.”

“Thank God,” Imogen exclaimed. “Otherwise, I was going to have to uproot myself and grow a fondness for lederhosen. Though I might enjoy an exposed male leg. Still—”

“Is that all?” Ryder demanded, his voice a shade harsher than he intended. But damn it, it had been days since he’d made love to Kathryn. And now that she was going to be his, the only thing stopping him was the meddlesome, if well intentioned, woman in the hallway.

“Oh.” Imogen’s voice rose with a touch of embarrassment. “Certainly. Do carry on.” There was a shuffle of material and then, “Enjoy yourselves.”

Her quick footsteps echoed down the hall, and Ryder shook his head. “She is quite something.”

Kate looked up at him, her eyes glinting with mischief. “You’ve no idea.”

“Now where were we?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Her hand caressed the back of his neck. “I think you were trying to find a place to set me down.”

“So I was.” Damnation, he was on fire for her. His blood was pounding, making rational thought extremely difficult. If he wasn’t careful, he might toss her over his shoulder and carry her off to his cave.

As if she could see the passion mounting in his eyes, she said breathily, “I recommend the carpet in front of the fire.”

He started for the green and white woven carpet. “Whatever my duchess commands.”

She smiled mischievously. “But I’m not yet.”

He stopped just a few feet before the banked fire, unsure if the low burning flames or her body against him was causing the warmth inside him. “Not what?”

“Your duchess, Your Grace.”

Ryder swiftly lowered her to the soft Persian rug and propped himself on his forearms over her. “Oh, but you will be.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Soon,” he whispered, kissing her eye lids. “Very soon.”

“How soon?” she asked, hitching her legs up and slightly apart so he could rest between them.

He resisted the urge to roll on top of her and take her in one claiming thrust. Instead, ever so slowly, he took her silk skirts in his hand and raked them up her legs. She shivered, and he smiled down at her as he let his fingers caress her upper thighs, dipping them to the softest skin, just by her core. “Should I wake the bishop of London from his afternoon nap?”

“Later,” she gasped as his fingers swirled over her hot, wet folds.

“Whenever you desire.” He opened her legs wide, giving him complete access.

She gazed up at him, amazement on her face. “We can do this forever now.”

The words sank in like a terrifying blessing. Whether she knew it or not, he was going to be responsible for her safety and happiness. Without replying, Ryder lowered his mouth to hers, choosing to show how much he wanted her rather than saying it.

In that moment, he knew he failed Jane. But with his vow to her, he’d helped to make amends. And now, now he had Kathryn. No matter what it took. He would find a way to keep the vow of his past and still live his future.

Chapter 19

IT DIDN’T SEEM POSSIBLE THAT she was going to be married to this man. Yet, it was true. Kate let her fingers lace into his silken hair as he skimmed his lips over her thighs. With the lightest touch, he traced his fingers over her exposed hipbones, and she parted her thighs even wider, tilting her hips to him.

The man allowed her to be totally free. In fact he seemed to encourage it, for as she thrust her hips towards him, he ever so gently flicked his tongue over her most sensitive spot. Kate cried out, and her fingers tightened on his hair, pressing his mouth against her.

He laughed softly, and the vibrations sent waves of pleasure through her lower body.

“You like that?” he murmured against her folds.

“Yes,” she panted. “Oh, yes.”

Gently, he sucked her hot core into his mouth. The heat and pressure was nigh unbelievable, and Kate looked down at him. It was so erotic seeing his face pressed between her legs. His eyes were closed as if giving her pleasure was the most wonderful thing in the world. His mouth worked her relentlessly, applying pressure then pulling back so she bucked against him.

“Just feel it, Kathryn,” he said against her.

She dropped her head back, glorying in the feel of him. She was so wet, and with every caress of his tongue she flew higher and higher. Her free hand dug into the carpet, and her hips shook against his mouth.

But he didn’t stop, he just kept swirling his tongue and then he thrust two fingers deep inside her. Kate moaned at the intensity of it, and wave after wave rippled through her until she couldn’t think. She watched him, kissing her between her thighs.

To her shock, another pulse of pleasure threw her to a higher wave of intensity. “Please, Ryder. Please.”

He drew back ever so slightly, his face flushed with need and his lips dewy with her moisture. He kissed the inside of her thigh, smoothing his lips clean. “What do you want?” he asked as he smoothed a hand down her thigh to her ankle.

“You.”

He nipped at her hip then licked it. “What part of me do you want?”

Swallowing, Kate stared at him not sure if she understood. Did he truly wish her to say it? “I—”

“Tell me, Kathryn.”

“I want your. . .cock.” The words flew out of her, and her cheeks flamed with embarrassment, but at the same time, it turned her hot body even hotter. How could words make her hungrier for him than she already was?

“Where do you want it?”

Kate blinked up at him, half mad with need for him. “I don’t understand.”

He kissed his way up her tightly laced stomacher and let his mouth hover over hers. “There is more than one place for it to go.”

Her eyes flared. “What?”

He placed his fingers against her opening and probed lightly. “Here,” he said. “Or you could take it here,” and he lowered his fingers to her bottom.

Her eyes flared at the impossibility of that idea. And then he rubbed his lips against hers and whispered, “Or you could take me in your mouth.”

She moaned as his kiss devoured her. He tasted slightly salty, and she realized that was how she must taste.

Even though she loved his kiss, she moved her hand down between their bodies, cupping his hardness through his breeches. “I can do that?” she asked, as she massaged him.

“Most definitely,” he groaned. “But for now, let me tell you what I want.”

“Yes.” It was surprising to realize that though she was a widow, and she’d already made love to this man, she was basically innocent. But she had a feeling that wouldn’t last long. And frankly, she couldn’t wait.

He unlaced his breeches. “Roll on to your side,” he said gently.

On her side? Why on earth would he want that? But she complied, curiosity now mixed with her need.

He lowered himself down by her back. Lightly, he stroked her bottom then pushed her leg up towards her chest so she was exposed. Kate glanced back over her shoulder, unsure of how he would make this work.

Ryder pulled her hips as tight against his as her skirts would allow, and then he rubbed the head of his cock against her wet heat, starting at her bottom and then moving forward.

Her breath came in sharp pants. It was so shocking and delicious that she found herself, rocking her hips back again.

“Now,” she groaned.

He took her hand and wrapped it around his hard shaft. “Guide me, Kathryn.”

She hesitated for just one moment, amazed at how powerful she suddenly felt. She took him in a firm grip, and he moaned. Opening her slick folds, she pressed him against her opening, and he grabbed her hips and thrust in to the hilt.

A gasp rushed from her throat. She felt so full. And at this angle, his cock stroked a spot she’d never known existed.

As he thrust deep inside her body, she glanced back at him. His face was a mask of pleasure, and he pulled her closer to him, freeing her breasts from her corset as he filled her.

Just when she thought the pressure couldn’t grow any more powerful, he placed his fingers in her mouth. Instinctively, she sucked them and then he pulled away and lowered his hand to between her legs. His now wet fingers met her slick core, and a moan ripped from her throat.

It was too much. The feel of his cock thrusting hard into her body and his fingers circling over her pussy.

“That’s it, Kathryn,” he breathed against her ear. “I love to please you.”

His fingers were relentless, and she reached back gripping his hips as he pumped against her. “Oh god,” she moaned, at a loss for words.

She tossed her head back and forth, unable to stand the knot building inside her.

“Tell me what you need,” he said, his voice ragged.

“I don’t—”

“Do you need to come?” he offered.

“Yes. Oh, yes,” she gasped, her fingers digging harder into his hip. “Please, make me come.”

He increased the speed of his fingers and as he pulled out to just the tip, he pressed down on her pussy and thrust his cock deep inside her.

The world exploded around her, and her breath froze in her throat. His hot seed spilled inside her, and as he shuddered against her body, she opened her mouth in a silent scream. Her inner muscles clasped him, not wanting to let him go, and he groaned.

As they came back from the precipice together, he rested his head against the top of hers and their bodies, sweaty from love making they relaxed into each other as if the connection made them one.

Kate drew in several slow breaths. She could do this. She could make love to him day after day and revel in it. They would be together as friends and as lovers. And she could keep her heart safe.

It didn’t matter that she never wanted this moment to end, or that she felt more at home in his arms than anywhere else she’d ever been.

Ryder was marrying her to offer her protection and a chance at happiness. That was all she needed, and she’d find a way to make it up to him, this sacrifice. Yes, she’d be able to keep her heart safe and still have him. She would find a way.

* * *

THE GREAT QUEST OF KATE’S happiness had begun, or at least so it seemed to her. Ryder personally arranged every aspect of their wedding. To her surprise, he seemed born to organize large events, not to mention manipulate the masses into doing exactly as he pleased. Perhaps it was his military training or perhaps it was his glower which seemed to instill an instant desire in anyone around him to improve his mood.

As it was, she stood before the Bishop of London in St. Paul’s Cathedral. It was a feat in and of itself to keep herself from laughing at the joy of it all. The nave was packed with the most prestigious members of the ton and the Houses of Parliament.

Though it was uncommon to have such a public wedding, it was clear Ryder wanted the entire world to witness their joining. And everything was being done to perfection. The aisle had been lined with a white satin runner and cloth of gold swathed the side chapels.

Her own gown was an ice blue, shot through with silver silk, and crystals had been pressed into the shapes of roses all along her stomacher. But even more astonishing were the jewels Ryder produced. She felt laden down and yet at the same time it was like stepping into a magical world devoted to beauty.

Diamonds and pearls were woven into her hair and ropes of pearls had been strung about her neck, several tight to the base of her throat, and three strands hung in various lengths to her waist.

And her ring. My goodness, she wasn’t sure she could even lift her hand, the sapphire surrounded by diamonds was so impressive.

It was so completely different than her last wedding in which no one, not even her father, attended.

Almost entirely because of their scandal, their wedding was the wedding of the year. There was, of course, his infamous dukedom and her fortune, but then there was the fact that the Prince of Wales himself was standing in pink and green brocade in the first row. He looked on with a pleased expression, his quizzing glass at an artful distance as he dabbed his eyes with an embroidered handkerchief.

The prince was renowned for his ability to produce tears.

But Ryder was magnificent. Against all the grandeur, he was simple elegance. His black coat was cut to perfection and made of the finest black moiré. Silver leaves were embroidered along the edging and pockets.

Though many had observed that he still clung to his tradition of an entirely black garb, Kate refused to be daunted. It was a habit he had had for many years. Habits were hard to break, but one day, she’d see him in color.

They knelt together, Ryder’s firm grasp a reassuring anchor in this tumultuous moment. She’d sworn never to wed again, but here she was. In the end, all that truly mattered was that she retain her senses and not prove a girlish ninny.

All would turn out well.

And so when, in a fog, she heard the bishop say her name, she found the ability to say, “I do.”

To her surprise, she realized Ryder had been holding his breath. She looked up at him and smiled. Surely, he had not thought she’d come this far only to turn tail and run from the church. Oh no, she was not one to retreat.

He squeezed her gloved hand and repeated the vows the bishop recited.

And in a trice, well not really, the bishop did rabbit on and on in a drearily emphatic voice about the importance of cleaving towards one husband, and she could have sworn he spent the better half of the sermon, pointing out certain ladies in the congregation, they were married.

At last, his breath gave out, and he gave the final blessing.

The prince applauded, then did everyone else. He minced forward, waving his handkerchief which sent the diamonds upon his salmon pink coat shimmering. “Well done.” He took Kate’s hand and kissed it. “Beautiful, madam. Absolutely beautiful. Could watch a sermon all day if you were before the bishop.”

Kate bit back a grin and curtsied as deep as she might under the weight of her new jewels. “It is an honor simply to be in your presence, Your Highness.”

“Flattery, Lady Darkwell. Flattery,” trilled the prince. “But who wouldn’t want it from such a lady.” He clapped Darkwell on the back. “Lucky man.” The prince looked about then rubbed his pudgy hands together. “To the wedding breakfast, what?”

Ryder inclined his head, an amused expression which one might see used when regarding a spoiled yet charming child on his face. “Certainly, Your Majesty.”

“Good. Good.” The prince clapped his hands and the organ rang out.

With the prince leading the way, Kate and Ryder made their way down the center of the nave and out onto the steps of St. Paul’s. The bells began to peal, and Kate could hardly believe it was all happening. A year ago, she’d never even dreamed the true splendors of London. Now, she was not only here, but at the very center of it.

Which of course was quite a change even from the previous week where she had barely been able to leave the house. And better still, she didn’t have to follow Ryder about, trying to see him. No, he was her husband now. They’d live under the same roof, and she’d chosen to believe he would be different than Percy. That she would see him every day.

She couldn’t cease beaming.

“Happy, Lady Darkwell?” Ryder asked, his hand on her lower back guiding her carefully down the steps.

“Very.” She might not have his heart or his love. She might never truly ever have him. All things she would have allowed herself to want years ago, before she learned how fragile the heart was in another’s hands. But she had this. The beginning of a friendship unlike any she had ever known. And that, that would somehow have to be enough.

Chapter 20

THE DUKE OF ASTON DOFFED his big black hat decked with red feathers and gave his tiger grin. “My invitation was lost, no doubt, in the dubious London postal system.” He shrugged, his gold buttons winking in the morning light. “An oversight I corrected.”

Ryder scowled. An oversight, his ass. He’d firmly planned on a life free of mad pirates.

Aston clapped him on the back. “One must not be daunted by such trifles as invitations, my lad.”

Why the hell did he call him that? Did he look like a lad?

Unfortunately, due to the fact it was his wedding day, Ryder couldn’t quite manage a formidable glower. “Your presence is a thorn in my side.”

“Ah, yes. But every thorn has its rose.”

“I had no idea you boasted petals, Aston,” Ryder drawled.

Aston laughed unperturbed by Ryder’s less than affable welcome. “No. No petals. But I do love a good flower. And your new wife, I’d say, is quite the blossom of the garden.”

Ryder immediately turned his attention to Kathryn who stood in a circle of ladies, who just a week ago would have thrown rotting cabbage at her. Now, they ooed and ahed over her jewels and courted her friendship as if she was a Princess Royal.

Which was just exactly as Ryder planned.

The ton was damn well going to get down on their knees and kiss Kathryn’s toes before he was done. With him as her husband, no one was ever going to hurt her again. And he’d cut the bastard—female or male—to ribbons who tried.

Aston prodded him with his elbow. “Do tell me how you arranged the breakfast to take place here at Carlton House.”

Ryder arched a brow at the bastard’s cheek. “The Prince and I happen to be quite close.”

Aston snorted. “Come now. You’re prickly as a hedgehog and close to no one, save that politician, Hunt.”

Ryder eyed the man with a new degree of interest. He was observant for a blustering peacock. In truth, he had agreed to pay off a large degree of the prince’s debts with his perfumer. No small cost given the prince’s obsession with scents.

“Fine, then keep your secrets to yourself.” Clapping on his big hat, a ridiculous size for any man, Aston gave him a courtly bow. “Now, I shall go and give your wife my good wishes and my sincerest affection.”

“You give her anything but a handshake and I’ll pull your balls through your nostrils.”

“Vivid imagery. But rest assured, I am completely trustworthy.” And he was off like a three masted ship at sail.

Ryder folded his arms across his broad chest. Trustworthy, his arse. The man was about as trustworthy as a walk on quicksand.

“What the devil is he doing here?” Hunt asked, two glasses of claret in his hands.

“My sentiments exactly. Apparently, one doesn’t need an invitation when one’s a sodding pirate.”

“Rumors.”

“Take one look at the bastard and tell me you don’t see him prodding virgins down the plank.”

Hunt gave Aston a once over. The man was currently cooing over Kathryn’s ring.

“Hmmm.” Hunt sipped his claret, his eyes narrowing. “You’d better keep an eye on her jewels. Old habits die hard, I’m sure.”

“I’ll stomp him into the marble first.”

Hunt handed him the other glass. “Here, you’re scowling far too much for a man just married. Your wife will be bound to notice.”

Ryder blinked, astonished that he was letting his irritation show to such a degree. He took the claret and took a quick swig of the rich wine. “Is it so wrong to wish everything to go perfectly?”

“How much perfection could you want?” Hunt gestured at the tables of food and drink that stretched down the long gallery and curved out towards the conservatory.

“It’s enough?” Ryder asked, his voice surprisingly tense.

Hunt coughed. “Enough? Good god man, there’s a full orchestra and you built an indoor pool with water lilies, swans and all.”

“Mmm.” Ryder took another drink. In hindsight, that could have gone badly if he hadn’t prepared. “It’s a good thing I hired keepers.”

“Though I dearly would have loved to see one of the swans fly at the good Countess of Carmine.” A rueful smile curved Hunt’s lips. “She’s wearing enough feathers for one of the male birds to grow confused.”

The very mention of the woman turned his stomach.

Hunt turned to him, giving most of the room his back. “Did you explain to her?”

Ryder’s grip tightened on his glass. Out of habit, he was tempted to touch Jane’s ribbon, but he left it off for the wedding. The first time, he’d gone more than an hour without it. “And what should I explain?”

Hunt pinned him with an impatient look. “About Jane, you dunce.”

Ryder considered lying, but Hunt was too smart for that. He was onto truth like a bloodhound. “No.”

“And when she starts asking questions?”

“Won’t happen. Besides I doubt she’d be interested in my past marriage.” He sounded like a fool, but he couldn’t bear putting Jane and Kathryn in the same thought. No matter how he reasoned with it, he felt like he was betraying both.

“Your wife is a font of questions. You do realize this?”

Unfortunately, Hunt was right. Kate’s curiosity might be rivaled by the scientists at the Royal Academy but only by the merest of degrees. “I will deal with her questions when they arise.”

At that exact moment, as though she felt his inner turmoil, Kate turned towards him. Her grey eyes, cool and reflective, were alight with happiness. His heart tightened at her expression.

God, how was he going to keep distant from her? Every part of him urged to let her in. No, he corrected himself. Not the part of him that held Jane’s hand as she slipped away.

“You know,” Hunt said softly, eyeing his starched cuff. “I have seen few couples look at each other the way you and Kathryn do.”

Ryder shook his head tightly. “We have an understanding of each other. Nothing more.”

“Perhaps—”

“No. She has no interest in love either. And that’s for the best.” Ryder cleared his throat, needing to get away from this line of conversation. “Now, if you will excuse me, I am neglecting my wife.”

Ryder made his way through the crowd of ladies’s wide skirts and gentlemen making merry. Though several people extended well wishes to him, he barely acknowledged them. He only had eyes for Kathryn.

As he came up beside her, he leaned in and said softly in her ear. “Is all well?”

Her lips tilted in her special smile. “It could not be better. Thank you for such a beautiful day.”

The pleasure at her enjoyment hummed through him, and he had to resist taking her in his arms in front of the ton. He doubted they would turn a blind eye to that.

Imogen swept towards them, and Ryder stepped closer to Kathryn. “Your friend looks in high spirits.”

In fact, she looked in very high spirits. Pink stained her cheeks, and her coif had drooped, a feather bobbing against her cheek. A glass of champagne was fixed in her hand, but she was swinging it about. “Darlings!” she exclaimed.

“Too much punch,” his wife confessed.

Damn, but he liked how that sounded. His wife.

Imogen stopped in front of them, swaying ever so slightly. “Lovely party.”

“Thank you,” Ryder said, unsure if he should offer the woman his arm, but she seemed to be having a fine time.

She leaned in close, her eyes wide as if she was about to confess a secret. Crooking a finger at them, she whispered, “But what are you still doing here?”

Imogen waved her champagne glass at Ryder and giggled. “I know what I’d be doing right now, if I’d just married a lovely, lovely duke like you.”

“Imogen,” Kate hissed.

“’Tis true,” Imogen said firmly.

Ryder wasn’t sure if he should hug or throttle the woman, because she was absolutely right. He wanted Kathryn alone and to himself right now. “Perhaps it’s time we depart,” he said, his voice suddenly rough to his own ears.

Kathryn drew in a quick breath, and her breasts pressed to her corset. “I do believe you’re right.”

“Shoo,” Imogen said, waving a jeweled hand at them. “Off you go.” She pressed her hand to her pink cheek. “Now, where is that gorgeous bit of tough, Aston, got to?”

Kathryn took Imogen’s hand and whispered to her.

Ryder could have sworn he heard the words no closets, but that was absurd. Then again, considering Imogen, perhaps it was good advice.

Nodding like a well-warned child, Imogen headed off. He peered through the crowd looking for the blasted pirate. Of all things he was standing with Mrs. Barton. Ryder shook his head. Between Aston’s enthusiasm, Mrs. Barton’s sense of adventure and Imogen’s willingness, they’d no doubt go off to some obscure part of the house for a game of sausage, sausage, who’s got the sausage.

The idea didn’t bear thinking about. Then again if they enjoyed themselves and, more to the point, didn’t get caught who was he to gainsay their fun?

He had to admit, the more he thought about it, the more he agreed with Hunt. Aston would make an interesting addition to the Duke’s Club. But not now. Perhaps never. Perhaps they’d all be lucky and the man would just hie himself back to the Indies.

Ryder offered his arm to his wife. “Shall we?”

Beaming up at him, Kathryn slipped her hand onto his forearm. “I’d love nothing more.”

Chapter 21

“I AM PERFECTLY CAPABLE OF walking, Your Grace,” Kate lilted, not quite able to contain her excitement.

“I’m aware of that, Your Grace,” Ryder intoned with teasing gravity.

“And yet you have a frequent habit of carrying me about.” Kate clasped her hands around his neck, unsure of which way to look. Should she turn to the massive, four storied house just off Green Park that made Spencer house, just a few yards away, look like a hovel?

Or should she look at the wonderful man who had given it to her?

“I love to carry you about,” he said confidently as he strode up the granite steps and through the double red doors of their new residence.

The servants, all in sapphire and crisp white uniforms, stood in a long line awaiting them. But Ryder ignored them and whispered in her ear, “It usually means I’m going to have my way with you.”

Her cheeks burned, and she smiled at the old man she’d run past that first night she met Ryder. “Your butler, I presume.”

“No, Kathryn. Our butler.” Ryder gave the old man a nod. “Isn’t that right, Grieves?”

“Most certainly, Your Grace.” The old fellow lifted his shaggy brows and bowed slightly. “And may I say what a pleasure it is to have a Duchess and to see His Grace in such good spirits.”

Ryder kept walking, his mission clear. But Kate looked over her shoulder and threw the old man, and the rest of the gaping servants, a smile. “Thank you! I look forward to meeting you all.”

And then Ryder started taking the steps towards the upper regions of the house two at a time.

She giggled, amazed at his strength. It was impossible to get a good look at the many paintings hanging upon the walls or the ornateness of the crenellated ceiling. The one thing she did see was the wine-red and gold rug lining the staircase and the ebony balustrade.

On the second floor he turned to the right wing of the stairs and started down the hall. Window after window poured in glorious sunlight causing the crystal on the wall sconces to shimmer like rainbow-colored mist.

“Which one is our room?” she asked.

He cuddled her closer to his chest. “Officially, we each have our own room.”

“Oh. I see.” She didn’t know why she expected any different. They weren’t in love. For goodness sake, she and Percy hadn’t even shared a house. And after their first unpleasant experience, nor had she wished to share a bed. But Ryder was different. She loved the headiness of his spicy scent and the way his strong muscles wrapped her up in a blanket of security.

“A formality I have no intention of keeping.” His smile turn wolfish. “What fun could I have in a bed by myself?”

Her spirits lifted right back up, and she forced herself to recall this was a marriage where she should simply take things as they came. She couldn’t go about acting like a silly twit expecting hearts and flowers. “My thoughts exactly.” She wiggled her brows at him. “Now where is it?”

“The far room at the end of the hall.” He tilted his head down towards her. “Why do you ask, considering you have such excellent transportation?”

“Because.” Kate tickled his ribs, and to her delight, he staggered and choked on a laugh. “I might grow old at this pace. Do you think we shall reach it before my dotage?”

“You evil wench.” He laughed. “Impatient, are you?”

Kate nodded, a smile tilting her lips. “Most definitely.”

Gripping her tightly, he ran down the hall, his boots thudding against the carpet.

Laughter bubbled from her lips. “Stop. Stop!” Though she had absolutely no wish for him to cease.

“Not until you’re in bed where you belong.” And he charged down the hall, halting just before an open white and gold door. He took one step through and kicked it shut.

Kate bit her lower lip, anticipation humming through her veins. At the center of the room stood a huge four poster bed covered in white silk pillows and a goose down throw. Without hesitating he crossed the room and tossed her face down onto the soft mattress. She turned her head towards him, savoring the gorgeous bed beneath her and beckoned with her eyes.

His chest rose in fell in deep breaths as his gaze roamed over her sprawled on the bed.

“Are you coming, Your Grace?” she asked, stretching ever so slowly. “This bed is rather big for one.”

Ryder’s eyes darkened with desire, and he pounced. As he rolled beside her, he crawled onto his knees and pulled her skirts up in a few swift tugs. With surprising force, he had her onto her hands and knees then smoothed his hands over her bottom and thighs. “So, beautiful.” And then he bent down and placed an open mouthed bite on her bum.

Kate gasped at the shock. It had hurt, but only a little, and it sent the most delicious sensations racing through her. Instinctively, she tilted her hips back, offering herself to him.

Good lord, she could take him right now. She was sure if she reached back and touched herself she would be wet and swollen with desire.

“Not yet,” Ryder said firmly. “Now, my sweet, on your back.”

Kate complied immediately, ready for anything he might propose. Ryder lowered himself over her and took her mouth.

She pressed against him, lifting her back from the bed as she drew deeper and deeper kisses from him. But he pressed her back down and soon they were struggling for air as they turned and twisted on the bed.

Rolling over and over, Ryder stopped and pinned her arms down with one hand. “I think it’s time we free you of all these clothes.”

What she really wanted was for Ryder to part her thighs and give her his long, hard length, but he was determined to make this last, and she certainly wasn’t going to protest. “I am rather warm.”

His forehead creased in mock concern. “It is my primary duty to make you comfortable.”

Gazing up at him, she had to ignore the clamoring of her heart at the way his black hair fell boyishly across his forehead. “Proceed then, please.”

With her arms stretched high above her, her breasts threatened to spill free from her corset and the prone position was surprisingly appealing. She found herself hardly able to wait for him to undress her. “Faster.”

He laughed, though it was strained now. His deft fingers worked at the pins that held her stomacher in place. He worked them free and pulled her bodice off and tossed it the floor. The decadence of throwing such an expensive garment to the ground didn’t escape her, and the fact he wanted her so much as not to care only increased her own need.

Her skirts were a prison, and she wanted free of them.

“Allow me,” he said roughly as he undid the ties of her heavy skirts.

The rich fabric slid down her body, layer after layer until she lay in nothing but her jewels, her short chemise, stockings and her corset.

As he stared down at her virtually naked lower body, he growled, “God, I want to devour you.”

The thought of him feasting on her sent a jolt of pleasure straight between her thighs. “I’d like to be devoured.”

“Would you now?” he asked, as his hand went to her corset. He studied the soft curve of her cunny for a moment then flipped her onto her stomach. Her hands free now, she grasped the white pillowy blanket.

He cursed as he pulled at the strings, but finally he peeled the beautiful blue brocade corset, and she moaned at the feel of release. It was delicious as air kissed her skin.

“No more prisons.” And he tugged the corset free, flinging it to join her pile of clothes. His fingers trailed back and then slid her chemise up her legs and he tugged it forward and up over her head.

“Mmm,” she moaned. After the constriction of her undergarments, the feel of the soft sheets against her breasts was shocking in the extreme, but more than anything, she wanted his hands and mouth on her. When she tried to turn, he placed a hand to her back.

“Patience.” He brushed her curls aside and just above the ropes of pearls he’d given her, he pressed a kiss to her neck

The ropes of jewels pressed in against her breasts and stomach as she stretched into him. Lord, it would be a crime if she broke them. She reached up to unfasten the clasp.

“Leave them,” he whispered against her skin as he raked his lips along her shoulder blades. “I want to see my duchess in all her glory.”

His duchess. Kate shivered. The words were as exciting as any touch. “Your pleasure is my pleasure.”

Ryder looked down at her, his eyes soft and hot. Gently, he lifted one of her thighs towards her waist so her core was exposed. He leaned down and whispered against her ear as he plunged two fingers into her wet heat, “I’m glad to hear it, love.”

Kate jerked against him and dug her fingers into the sheets. It was so cruel, the pleasure his fingers caused, because it wasn’t enough. All it did was make her long for his hard length.

As he probed her with his fingers, he leaned forward and turned her face to the side. Though the angle was difficult, he slipped his tongue into her mouth and let his velvet softness take her.

She moaned and pushed her bum back towards his hips.

But he was having none of it. He broke the kiss. “Little wanton, you must wait. On your back again.”

Kate blew out a frustrated breath and turned over.

It took her a moment to realize he was still clothed. She let out a little cry of protest and reached up to push at his coat. “Ryder.”

He laughed softly and yanked his coat and waistcoat off.

“More off,” she said huskily, and she reached up with her leg and teased his shirt with the tips of her toes. “I want to see all of you.”

His black eyes flared, and he took her foot and pressed a kiss to the arch and then to her astonishment, he opened his mouth and lightly bit down. She cried out at the intensity of it. For goodness sake, it was only her foot but it sent the most wonderful shocks up her legs.

Ryder released her foot and tugged at his clothes, his fingers no longer quite as skilled. Tormenting him, Kate raised herself up on her elbows and opened her thighs so every part of her was exposed to him. “Hurry, Your Grace,” she purred. “I’ve waited long enough.”

His breeches hit the floor, and Kate licked her lips at the sight of his hard, erect length. It was so large she hardly believed it could fit inside her. The head was swollen and bobbing in her direction as if it knew exactly where she was.

Kathryn drew in a slow breath, knowing exactly what she wanted to try. He was standing just beside the bed but that still left him too tall to do what she wanted. Before he could say anything, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood before him. Ever so slowly, she placed her hands on his muscled chest, loving the feel of the strength beneath her hands. She let them trail lower.

Glancing up at him through her lashes she asked his own question. “What do you want?”

A muscle twitched in his jaw, and his cock bobbed against her thigh. “What do you want, Kathryn?”

She raised her brows ever so slightly, half afraid to say it aloud, but emboldened by her experiences with him. “I want you in my mouth.”

His chest expanded as he drew in a sharp breath. And then his strong hands came up to her shoulders and very gently, he guided her down onto her knees.

She was barely tall enough, but from this angle, all she could focus on was his hard shaft. It was a bit intimidating actually, and suddenly she wondered at the wisdom of this course, but she wanted to taste him and feel him. Tentatively, she reached out and ran her nails along his thighs. He groaned, and his hands tightened on her shoulders.

A smile tilted her lips. There was something empowering about the pleasure she could give him. Ever so gently, she kissed his hipbone and to her shock, his cock twitched towards her. Bold now, Kate took his length in her hand, her fingers barely able to wrap around it. It was so hot, velvet and hard. She glanced down at the tip and the drop of dew in the little slit. Without thinking, she bent her head and licked it.

He jerked towards her, and his hands wove into her hair, pulling her face closer. Pleased she could make him feel so intensely, she drew as much of his length as she could into her mouth.

“Oh God, Kathryn,” he hissed. “Christ, yes.”

It took her a moment, but she began a rhythm, her hand on the lower part of his shaft and her mouth sliding up and down. She sucked at the tip, loving the feel of its velvety strength. He shuddered, his legs shaking as he clearly fought to keep control.

He began to thrust, shallow little thrusts into her mouth, and she had to keep her lips wide so she could take him. She matched his movements, licking his length and swirling her tongue around his head.

His head dropped back, and he cupped her cheeks, guiding her rhythm. When she gently tongued the slit at the head again, moist with his salty taste, he groaned and stopped her. He grabbed her arms and tugged her back up to him. He cupped her face in his palms then lowered his mouth over hers.

“On your knees, sweetheart.” And he easily guided her up onto the mattress.

Kate glanced back over her shoulder as he pulled her hips up towards him. He mounted the bed and parted her thighs with a knee. He rubbed the tip of his cock against her nub and she cried out. The movement spread her own moisture over her folds and she wiggled back, needing. “Please. Now.”

“Yes. Now.” He grabbed her hips and slammed his hard length inside her.

Kate almost came at the hard intrusion, but her body was completely ready for him. And as he pounded against her, his strong grip keeping her in place, she glanced back at him. It was so thrilling the sight of him taking her body. His face was locked in concentration.

Bracing herself on her elbows, Kate lowered herself to the mattress so only her hips were up in the air. Instantly, she cried out. The angle sent his cock rubbing at her most sensitive spot. Her mouth opened as she gasped at each powerful thrust.

And then his finger circled and pressed against her nub. She let out a shocked moan, burying her face into the bed as she came over and over again, her body speeding towards unstoppable pleasure.

He jerked against her, his breath harsh and his voice rough as he called out her name. His thrust came faster and faster till she felt his hot seed spill inside her.

After a moment, he leaned forward, resting his broad chest against her back. To her shock, he was still hard inside her. Biting her lower lip, Kate tightened her muscles around his cock, and he shook.

“God woman, you’re amazing.”

She smiled, her body completely liquid under him. He slid his cock out of her, and she moaned in protest.

“Still, hungry?”

In truth, she wasn’t sure she could take anymore, but he felt so marvelous.

When he gently turned her, she eyed his hard cock, slick with their mixed pleasure. “You’re still. . .?”

Ryder smiled down at her, his body less tense. “I’ve been hard since I met you, and I don’t think that will change any time soon.”

Kate reached up and cupped the side of his face. Ryder kissed her palm then lowered her hand to his slick shaft. “You don’t think we’re done yet, do you?”

“We aren’t?”

“Oh no, darling. That was just the beginning.” As if to prove his point, Ryder laid down beside her and palmed her breasts.

She arched into his hand, her body awake and immediately heating for him.

“See, my love, you’re not ready to be done.”

Kate swallowed at the words my love. They were just a term of endearment, no different than darling, but they tugged at her heart nonetheless. She couldn’t let herself think anything more of them, even if she ached to. She’d been down that road, and she was not going to go down it again.

“Kiss me,” she said, urgency deepening her voice.

Instead of taking her mouth, he bent his dark head and took her nipple into his mouth.

She grabbed his head, his hair sliding against her fingers. Her nipples tightened into hard, needy points. And in answer, her core throbbed.

He had just used her thoroughly, but she knew without a doubt, she could take him again. His mouth worked wonders over her sensitive breasts. He pressed them together and flicked his tongue over one nipple then the next. Then as if to torture the oversensitized flesh, he nibbled gently on the hard peaks and then applied slightly harder pressure until she cried out. She dug her hand into his hair, pulling him closer.

“I think it’s time for me to kiss other places.” And true to his word, he kissed his way down to the mound between her thighs.

Kate stared at him, trying not to let her heart take over. She could control herself. It didn’t matter that he made her feel like she was the most loved person in the entire world. She would remember he offered her the best thing he could, happiness free of complications. And she would seize every last little bit she could.

Chapter 22

DAMN, BUT HAVING SEX WITH Kathryn set fire to his soul. And he knew why, though he didn’t want to admit it. He wasn’t just having sex with her. He was making love to her body.

He wanted to give her pleasure until she could take no more. Ryder kissed the soft curls just above her pussy and drank in the salty feminine scent. It was erotic, the scent of their love making. He gently parted her thighs and crawled back so he was resting on the steps leading up to the bed. Impatiently, he tugged her towards him so her hips were just on the edge.

With one hand, he hooked her legs around his shoulders. With the other, he pressed her hips down, keeping her in place. She was so beautiful. The silky folds of her sex were wet with hunger.

Hunger for him.

For a moment, he just stared down at her, savoring the knowledge that he gave her pleasure and that no other man was going to give her pleasure again.

Gently, his slicked his fingers over her folds, and she shimmied against him. Ryder smiled then bent his head. Ever so slightly, he lingered above her then flicked his tongue out over her nub. She gasped for breath and bucked against his face. A low laugh rumbled from his chest.

“That pleases you?”

She wove a hand in his hair and urged him down.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” And then he ran his lips back and forth over her, building the pressure and the friction. Her muscles tightened, and her hips lifted off the bed as she reached towards him.

He sucked her into his mouth, loving the salty taste of her. God, he loved the fact she was marked by their lovemaking. He could spend all day taking that in. Licking her like sweet summer ice, he pressed then retreated.

Her head tossed back and forth on the bed. Closing his eyes, he focused on the feel of her against his lips and tongue, hot and sweet, ready for him. He wanted her wet. Intensely wet.

He drove his tongue into her entry, and she shuddered, her thighs tightening about his head. God, he loved how passionate she was. Finally, he couldn’t take the thundering of his blood and the growing hardness of his cock, and he climbed up her body and pulled her back up the bed.

“Tell me what you want.” His voice was barely more than a rough whisper.

Pink stained her cheeks, and her mouth was half open. She slid her hands to his shoulders and down his back. “I want you.”

The words might have meant something else coming from a different woman, but he wouldn’t allow himself to think about that. Instead, he gave her exactly what she asked. Ryder slid his cock along the wet flesh and then he paused at her back entry and probed ever so slightly.

Her eyes widened, and her body tensed. “What are you—” She gasped and bit down on her lower lip.

As he slid his cock in ever so slightly, he flicked his fingers over her pussy, and she grabbed hold of him. “It’s too much.” She moaned. “Too much.”

“You don’t like it?” Though he could tell from the color of her cheeks and the way she moaned she did.

“I don’t know,” she breathed.

“For later, then,” he said gently. He slid his cock with aching slowness back into her core.

She sighed and folded her legs and arms around him. Ryder’s heart slammed in his chest. It was as if she was wrapping her body around him and offering him safety

He gave himself blindly over to the feeling.

He propped himself on his elbows and took her in slow thrusts, until she was rising to meet him. He glanced down and managed to catch her gaze. Pure wonder lit her face.

“I-I didn’t know it could be like this,” she whispered.

Ryder wrapped her in his arms. “Oh, Kathryn. Neither did I.” And he meant it. Nothing had ever felt like this.

And then they were coming together their bodies liquid heat as they moved in one rhythm.

Her thighs tightened about his waist, pulling him even closer to her core. And he rested his head against the pillow, his face buried against her curling hair.

As her fingers dug into his back and her muscles tightened around him, he couldn’t hold back and he pulled out to the tip then thrust in deep one last time before he spilt his seed. Pleasure erupted inside him, hurtling through his body, and he held her tight, gasping for air.

The wave faded and he thrust as deep as he could, letting his head rest against her womb. He felt completely drained. Somehow Kathryn had taken him into her and made him feel something he never had. He felt as if maybe, just maybe, there was a place for him in this world and that Hell was a place he could turn his back on.

* * *

KATE NESTLED CLOSER TO RYDER, amazement leaving her completely at ease. In fact, the house could fall down around her and she probably wouldn’t notice. He tucked them into the covers. Now, she was pressed against his hard body, her cheek resting against his shoulder and one arm draped over his chest.

She traced her hand up and down his strong arm, avoiding the thought that he wasn’t wearing the pale ribbon. That he always removed it when they made love. The very idea of it seemed forbidden, and she had no wish to touch darkness tonight, not when so much happiness surrounded them.

In turn, he wrapped one arm about her, keeping her close to him. Kate glanced up, only getting a view of his black stubbled chin. “I do believe this is the first time we’ve succeeded in finding a bed.”

He paused for a moment then laughed. “We certainly haven’t done things by rule. Rule is rather boring, don’t you think?

“Rules are for people without imaginations or a sense of determination.”

He tapped his finger to the tip of her nose. “And you have quite the determination.”

She tilted her head back and kissed his fingers. “Thank you?” she asked, not entirely sure it was a compliment.

“Kathryn,” he said, cuddling her closer. “Your determination is one of your most winning traits. Without it you’d still be in Shropshire.” He paused. “In truth, how did you determine to come to London?”

“Truthfully?” She wasn’t sure how he’d react. Most people would think it rather pathetic, even if she had to be bold to achieve her desires.

“I long to hear the tale. After all, the ending though surprising, has turned out rather well.”

She kissed his chest, loving the feel of his warm skin. It wasn’t going to be easy to relay this, but it was probably best he understood her relationship with Percy and why she refused to let herself be weak. She drew in a long breath preparing for the story.

“You know,” he said gently, “if it causes you pain, I don’t need to hear it now.” He cupped her cheek. “I would never want to cause you pain.”

Kate blinked half afraid she was about to feel tears sting her eyes. “No. I’d like to tell you.” She shifted closer to him, if that was possible. “I was lonely, is all. Very. And I had no companions except for a very old and proper lady. And Percy came to call. My father hated Percy almost on sight and disapproved of the match. He made it clear I was being a fool. After all, I had a massive fortune and such a young, romantic man as Percy could never want me, someone rather plain, for anything but my money.”

“Kathryn, you are anything but plain,” Ryder said, his voice rough. “Your father should be shot. You are valuable in your own right.”

“No,” she whispered. “He was right. Percy, with his boyish good looks and charm, convinced me he loved me, quite thoroughly.” She smiled in the darkness, though she felt no amusement at her own stupidity. “I allowed myself to be carried away with thoughts of love. I married Percy. And let us just say he thought a wife should be pure and find no pleasure in the act.” She swallowed recalling his grunting over her and the blessed quickness of his pawing. Though she tried not to, she could recall a few rough squeezes and searing pain as he’d stuck himself unceremoniously into her tight body.

“I’d like to kill him.” Ryder’s voice cut through the air with surprising intensity.

Kate couldn’t help it. She laughed lightly against his chest. He was being so kind listening to her. “Luckily, he’s already dead.”

“Skewering wasn’t painful enough for him.”

Her heart warmed at Ryder’s obvious displeasure on her account. “True. In any case, after a week he made it clear he found my intelligence appalling, my face to be plain and that the only appealing thing about me was my fortune. Sadly, and luckily for me, Percy was not aware how savvy my father was.”

“He protected your money.”

“Mmmm. We were only allowed an allowance of ten thousand a year.”

“Still a substantial sum.”

“Percy was furious.” She could still feel the crack of his hand when he returned from his lawyers. “He went to London, and I never saw him again.”

“And you were all alone.”

“Yes.”

Ryder was silent for several moments, then he said quietly, “The country can be quite dreary.”

It had very nearly conquered her usually joyful spirits, what with the silence and rain for days on end. “Oh, yes. And I had days to contemplate the fact I condemned myself to my situation. I did have one luxury though.

“My father, though he was still furious with me and would not see me for going against his wishes, loved my sense of learning. He arranged for all the London papers to be delivered to my home. It was a godsend.”

“You must be very well-versed on the nation’s affairs,” Ryder quipped.

Kate smiled at his attempt at humor and gently slapped his shoulder. “I am and of those abroad. But you know the parts I read with most relish?”

He let out a long suffering sigh. “I’m almost afraid.”

“And you should be. I read the gossip columns with a great deal of satisfaction. I lived life through them, imagining myself to be one of the scandalous people who did as they saw fit. And may I say, you were quite an inspiration.”

“Oh god,” he groaned.

“I read of your escapades with the ladies and dashing doings with the men and thought how I’d like to meet you.”

“And from that you arrived on my door?”

“Not entirely.” This was the bit she was most uncertain about confessing. Kate drew in a quick breath, then rushed out, “Two ladies came down from London. One of them, quite a titter, relayed a bit of sport you’d given her.”

Ryder flung an arm up over his head, tucking it beneath his neck. “Oh, Kathryn, I’m not sure I want to hear this.”

She eyed him the dark, only making out his strong profile. “I don’t need to continue.”

He kissed the top of her head and squeezed her shoulder. “Go on.”

“She said you’d been quite handy when she’d been accosted in the park and you’d joined her in her carriage. Heaven, she’d said. Utter heaven.”

Ryder drew in a big breath then let it out in a whistle. “This has to be the strangest conversation a husband and wife have ever had. You wanted me due to reports from another woman.”

She frowned. “You must understand, I’d only had unpleasant experiences and with one man. And it. . .” She tried to think of words to describe how horrible it had been without revealing how little control she had.

“I think I should dig Darrell up and cut his guts out.”

“There’s no need.” Though she couldn’t hide her own happiness at his care of her. “The worms have done it for you. At any rate, I couldn’t imagine heaven with a man. But the lady was quite adamant that was what you’d given her. It became very important to me that I also experience it. All I wanted was one night with a man who could make me feel pleasure. I wanted to know life was wonderful and not the depressing never ending stretch of loneliness I had known.”

Ryder leaned in towards her. “You’re very surprising, Kathryn.”

She blinked against the darkness, not sure what that meant. “I don’t understand.”

“You never complain. For the most part, you always seem happy and yet you’ve had a sad life.”

Kate bit her lower lip. She’d fought so hard to not let the pain of her life with Percy overtake her happiness. “One can either laugh or cry. I choose laughter. It’s much better for one’s soul, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know,” he said, his voice a little deeper than before.

“I made a decision when Percy died that I would live my life without looking back. And I haven’t.” But it hadn’t been easy leaving that girl behind, the one who had done as her father ordered and who accepted her husband’s dislike with pained resignation.

“You’re truly a wonder, darling.”

“Thank you.” She glanced up at him. Given all the trouble she put him through, she asked, “Is that a compliment?”

“Yes, Kathryn. More women should be like you.”

“More women should learn from my mistakes,” she said gravely. “I certainly have.”

“And what have you learned?”

She hesitated. Could she tell him? Could she tell him that even on her father’s death bed, he called her a fool and that he made it clear he felt no sympathy for her since she’d been foolish enough to believe in love? “It doesn’t really matter. All that matters is I’m here now.”

Ryder remained silent and then he rolled onto his side.

The sudden loss of his body was sharply painful. Had she angered him? It wasn’t as if he had ever bared his soul to her. Kathryn stared up at the ceiling, trying not to read more into his actions than was there. But despite herself, she couldn’t help wanting the heat of him.

And then he reached backward and took her arm, pulling her to spoon against his back. He tucked her arm around his middle. Sighing with relief, Kate rested her face against his broad back. Though she didn’t truly understand it, she hated the idea of him closing himself off to her. And with this one little gesture, he reassured her all was well.

And it would be.

Chapter 23

IF KATE EVER HAD THOUGHTS one might perish from too much happiness, she’d been proven wrong. Every day, new delights were arranged for her. And she had Imogen to urge her to new heights of decadence.

But her greatest corruptor was none other than her husband. Jewelers came to the house, plying her with gems and gold till she shone like a chandelier. She and Imogen sat about the salon, like sultans, being waited upon hand and foot as Madame Sophie brought forth her finest materials for them to select for new gowns.

It was a never ending parade of presents. Whenever she started to pull back, Ryder would somehow mysteriously appear with a fresh bottle of champagne, a host of servants behind him with trays of the most delicious foods and a coaxing smile, accompanied by the words that no one was going to call him a neglectful husband.

It was frightfully endearing the way he peppered her with gifts. Shoes and fans, gloves and hats, all arrived for her selection.

Kate and Imogen took it all in stride, clapping her hands and comparing green silk against pink silk. They put lace and silver braiding up to their faces trying to decide which suited best, and then choosing to take both.

But most overwhelming of all, Ryder wouldn’t let her pay a penny. She tried, lord knew she had, but at the mere mention of it, he lifted a black brow and silenced her on the subject.

He bought her books and furniture from France. The rarest orchids filled her room every day. And when she wasn’t attending a party with her husband or receiving his gifts, she was in bed with him. She barely ever slept. Life had become an endless whirl of pleasure. They chattered like two children who finally found friends. Each morning they dined together, discussed the paper together. He rode and insisted she ride in the carriage as they went out to the park.

It was as if both of them had been starved for human company and affection and finally they’d been admitted to the banquet of happiness.

Kate didn’t quite know what to make of it. All she knew was she was happier than she’d ever been. And her heart, traitorous little thing it was, was slowly softening. Every time Ryder came into a room, she couldn’t stop her gaze from turning to him, just as he looked to her.

When he was gone, she longed for him. When they were together she was completely content.

In short, it was terrifying.

She’d promised herself she would never let herself grow weak under a man’s attentions again. But he was positively relentless.

Each little action he took was designed to make her happier, more comfortable. If she preferred fish to meat, they had fish five out of seven days. If she liked strawberries, a dozen dishes were prepared with the fruit. If she voiced she liked Marlowe, every one of his works would arrive in a crate with her name on it.

Who was ever given such care?

With each day, Kate felt safer, more secure and firmly believed she’d been deemed the luckiest woman in the world. And any day he would tell her more about himself. He would discuss the things that hurt him, just as she told him about Percy.

But the days stretched by and the end of the season neared. Though they talked endlessly, he never mentioned his past or anything that might trouble him. And each day he relegated her to the edges of his life, she grew more and more determined to find a way to be closer to him.

Then as June began to close, the presents continued, but his presence began to fade. Every day, he spent a little less time with her. He smiled less, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The carefree happiness that had begun to brighten his dark face, disappeared. Instead, she saw the duke she first met. The one who roared at his butler through his door.

And Kate felt panic. For the first time in her life, she knew real and true panic.

Today was a perfect example. He sat across from her at the breakfast table, his fork perched in his hand, but no food was upon it. He stared at the porcelain plate as if he might bore a hole through it, and his food remained cold and untouched.

Kate couldn’t bring herself to eat. When she tried a bite of eggs, they turned to glue in her mouth, and she had to use all her effort to chew and swallow.

This Ryder sat silent in his black clothes and wore that blasted pale ribbon she couldn’t quite bring herself to ask about. She was a coward for not speaking of the little slip of fabric. But she was afraid that if she did, he might regress altogether. And he said nothing. This was not the man she had spent the last month with, and she had no idea what to say to him. Still, she had to try. She could not lose the friend who had come to be so dear to her. She could not. She could not go back to that loneliness.

“Shall we go for a ride today?” she ventured, hating herself for the slight brittle cheer in her voice.

He didn’t answer.

“Ryder?”

He looked up suddenly, his black eyes empty and flat. “Pardon?”

She swallowed, her stomach rolling. “A ride?”

He looked to the window for a moment, contemplating the sun and then he looked at the door as if it offered freedom. “No. No, thank you. You should go.” Pushing back his chair, he strode to her and absently pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Enjoy the day.”

As he silently left the room, Kate murmured to herself, “But where are you going?”

Sitting in silence, the tick of the clock upon the sideboard grated on her nerves. She gripped the edge of the table and ground her teeth down. She would not cry. Crying fixed nothing. Crying was for fools.

Even so, her throat began to tighten. She forced herself to take a shuddering breath. She didn’t even need to ask where he’d gone. She already knew. Like every day, he went up to his room and shut the door.

And let no one, absolutely no one, inside.

It was like a metaphor for his life.

Well, she wasn’t going to have it. She wasn’t about to let her dearest friend descend into such darkness. But first she had to find out why he changed with such suddenness.

Kate shoved back from the chair and strode out into the halls. Determination marked her every step as she went in search of their butler. She could have just rang, but frustration was humming through her to the point she thought she might scream.

And screaming, like crying, wouldn’t solve a blasted thing. She already let Ryder’s actions pass too long without seeking answers.

She went through hall after hall, her slippered shoes padding along the parquet and carpeted floors. At last she came to the downstairs and wound her way through the plain servant halls.

“Grieves!” she called.

A few of the maids stopped like frightened rabbits as they spotted her. Belatedly, they dropped into curtsies.

“Have you seen Grieves?” she demanded.

The girls pointed down the hall. Kate nodded and charged off. There were several doors with tall windows, and she squinted through each, trying to spot the butler.

Why in the devil did she have to live in such large house?

At last, she came to a door with an especially polished brass knob and spotted the white haired old man bent over a ledger through the sparklingly clear window. Without knocking, she pushed the door open.

The old man’s head snapped up and his mouth opened and closed like a flopping fish upon the bank. “Your—Your Grace.” He started to stand, the movement slow and laborious for his aging joints.

“No, Grieves, please don’t rise.” She folded her hands together, unsure of how to start. She glanced at the plain, straight backed chair before his desk. “May I sit?”

Grieves’ shaggy brows drew together in consternation. He eyed the chair then her, then the chair again. Clearly, a duchess had never asked to sit on the other side of a desk in his presence. “Of course, Your Grace.”

She hurried into his office and plunked herself down without ado, her skirts rustling. “You’ve known the duke for some time.” It was a statement and not a question.

Grieves closed the large, leather bound ledger and stroked the cover slowly. “I have indeed.”

Lord, she wished she could just come out with it, but even she had to admit a degree of tact was needed. “Then you have recognized his recent behavior?”

Immediately, Grieves’ face shuttered. He placed the ledger aside and clasped his hands before him on the desk. “I don’t know what you mean, I’m sure, Your Grace.”

Kate blew out a breath and inched her chair forward. “I don’t have time for this, Grieves. It pains me greatly to see your master in this condition.” How could she convince the old man of her intentions, and even worse, could she discuss the state of the duke? “Please, I wish to help him.”

Grieves’ old face smoothed a bit and sympathy filled his eyes. Quickly, he looked to the windows as if fearing Ryder might march down and catch him. “Oh madam, I wish you could help him, and I thought you had. He’s been so happy these many weeks.” The butler inclined his white head. “All due to you.”

“Thank you,” Kate said quickly, wishing to get straight to the matter. “But now?”

Grieves let out a great sigh, rather like a bellow’s pump as he leaned back. “He’s been like this for years now, Your Grace. Ever since. . .” The butler caught himself and glanced at the door.

“Yes?” she urged. It was so odd, feeling like a conspirator in her husband’s house. But that was exactly what she was. A conspirator for his happiness. And yet, it felt a little wrong sitting here, asking for his most personal information.

Grieves stood and quickly closed the door. He turned back towards her, his face creased with age and sadness. “Ever since his first duchess, Lady Jane, passed away.”

Kate’s mouth dried. He’d been married. She’d known it. Mrs. Barton had even intimated his devoted nature to the lady’s memory. But he never once let her believe he’d been passionately in love with the lady. In fact, he never once said her name. “He’s been shutting himself away for that long?”

Grieves nodded. “Sometimes for a day, sometimes a month at a time.”

Kate looked down at her hands and whispered, “Good Lord.” Her dark knight was dark indeed. But he had such life in him to waste it in this manner.

“I shouldn’t speak of it,” the butler said, his voice a hoarse whisper.

Kate turned pleading eyes up to him. “Please, I know so little.” It hurt so to confess it, but she needed to help Ryder. “He tells me nothing.”

After a moment, Grieves nodded, his mouth pursing around no doubt painful words. “I’ve known him all his life. ’Tis why he trusts me.” Shaking his head, Grieves gave her his back. “Oh, madam, I shouldn’t.”

“If you care about His Grace, you should. I cannot bear to see him thus.”

“You shall have to. For it is always worse this time of year.”

At last, Kate couldn’t bear to sit any longer. The energy which had driven her to seek this man out drove her to stand. “But why?”

Grieves shrugged and crossed back to his desk. “’Tis the end of the Season.”

“What does that have anything to do with—”

“Pardon, Your Grace, but Lady Jane, poor sweet soul, died in July. Of smallpox. She’d caught it nursing His Grace’s tenants.”

“Oh.” The sound escaped Kate’s lips, her chest squeezing with a ridiculous jealousy and sorrow at Ryder’s pain.

“The duke, well, he’d been on his own, both his parents dying when he was young.” Grieves’ hands twisted together, a sign of his unease at their discussion. “And the former duchess, she was so kind to him, helping him recover grieving for them.”

The sadness of it sucked the energy out of her, and she found herself holding onto the high back of the chair. Was he still in love with her? Mrs. Barton claimed his heart still belonged to her.

Kate pressed her lips together. She’d always known she could not give her love to him. And this was exactly why. In all possibility, he would never love her. Ryder had known so much pain. “But why does he do this to himself?”

The butler looked at her for a moment, then began coughing. His skin turned red, and he lowered himself into his chair. Sucking in a breath, his gnarled fingers curled into fists. “God, the memory of it, Your Grace. I still remember the day of her death. The duke came storming out of Lady Jane’s room. He didn’t say a word, not one. But not a picture nor a book was left undamaged in his study such was his grief.”

“What?” Kate demanded. He never mentioned his wife’s death or really any of his life before they’d met. But like so many things she’d blithely ignored in marrying Ryder, she was becoming fully aware.

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but I’m betraying confidences. I cannot tell you more.”

“I understand.” Though she longed to ask more questions regarding his father’s death, they should be questions for her husband. Questions he most likely did not wish her to ask. “Is there no way to bring him out of this?”

“Not that I’ve seen. It used to be right brutal the first two years after her death. Now, we just wait and see. But I’m sure it won’t be so bad, what with you here. He cares about your happiness. He comes out of his room in the mornings.”

And she was supposed to find that heartening? “How long will it last?”

“Oh, at this time of year?” Grieves smiled, attempting cheer. “The worst of it is over by the fall.”

“The fall?” Her voice grew tight, and she could barely get the words out. Almost three months. Three months of Ryder in pain. No, she wouldn’t allow it. There had to be something to be done.

And she would find it. Life was too short for him to waste it in such self-recrimination. The Ryder she knew would never harm anyone. No, he would lay down his heart, his soul, his body to help them.

She wouldn’t let them go on in silent pain like this. No, it was time for him to share his past. With her.

Chapter 24

KATHRYN, AS SO MANY INVARIABLY did, was staring at him as if he’d gone mad. Totally insane, in fact. Oh, she was trying to hide it as she glanced at him through half closed eyes in the mirror, brushing her beautiful hair in long even strokes.

The evening and the golden candlelight turned her pale face luminous. The folds of her dark blue dressing gown spilled about her legs and the lace at her neck parted to reveal the curve of her breasts. Like this, no one was more beautiful than his Kathryn.

Swirling the cognac in his crystal glass, he shifted positions on his cushioned, chocolate leather chair before the fire. It might be better if she didn’t notice he had observed her concerned glances.

But what the hell could he do? Oh, he knew she was distressed. He’d have to be a moron not to notice the tension in her shoulders, and the way she pursed her lips before speaking to him as if he might suddenly turn into a raging mad man. And he should try harder to assure her, to pull himself out of his growing hell. But. . .

Ryder snapped his gaze to the fire, letting the brightness of it burn his eyes, burn them until they stung.

He’d done the unthinkable.

He let Jane’s birthday pass without notice.

Even now the thought made him want to vomit.

Discreetly, he fingered the worn ribbon circling his wrist. How could he have done such a thing? How could he have let that day slip by when year after year he lit candles and donated funds to her favorite charities? He usually spent the day in quiet solitude, reading John Donne, her favorite poet. Death thou shalt die. . .

But death had not died, not before it had stolen Jane.

Ryder bit down on the inside of his cheek trying to fight back his self revulsion. This year he and Kathryn had gone to a ball on Jane’s birthday. On the anniversary of her birthday, he had drank and caroused with his friends, and then he had taken Kate home and made passionate love to her.

It hadn’t even occurred to him till a week later what he’d done.

At the outset of his new marriage he promised himself he could make Kathryn happy and still devote himself to Jane’s memory. And he’d failed her. He was failing them both.

The pain and guilt of knowing that rolled in darker than any thunderstorm, and since, nothing could make him forget what a deplorable bastard he was.

Even so, he snuck a glance at Kathryn as she rubbed scented lotion over her slender hands. She was worried about him, but that would pass. She would grow accustomed to his ways and lord knew he struggled to keep the real darkness at bay for her sake.

Before he would have locked himself in. Kept to himself until he could meet people again without wanting to kill them all for having the kind of happiness that had been torn from him.

He took a long fast swallow, trying to convince himself his world was not about to implode.

Kathryn turned in her chair, the silk of her gown caressing her long legs. “What are you thinking, good sir?”

“Hmm?” Ryder rubbed the back of his hand over his lips, trying to hide the list of self recriminations from his face.

“You look like Atlas.” She stood, the folds of her gown whooshing into place. A smile tilted her lips as she gracefully closed the distance between them. “Has the weight of the world been placed upon your shoulders?” There was a false note of cheer to her usually rich voice.

He forced himself to laugh and took her hand. If they could just manage to ignore his pain, all would turn out. She’d be cared for, if not entirely loved, and he. . . He’d find a way to never forget Jane again. “Come.”

Easily, he pulled Kathryn down onto his lap. It had been some time since he’d allowed himself this closeness with her and immediately his blood stirred straight to his cock.

Resting her body against him with what seemed like complete trust, she traced her fingers over his jawline. For several seconds she remained silent, her gaze searching his face. “You’re not happy?”

The instant desire that had fired his veins faded, and Ryder shifted uncomfortably. This was not where he wanted the conversation to head. If he started answering these kind of questions, she would ask deeper ones. Questions about the past. And there was no way in hell he was going to discuss his pained thoughts with her. She deserved happiness, and such talk would only distress her further.

If he could distract her with the passion that rose so easily between them, the feeling she was about to tear open a long covered wound would disappear, and he could go on with this masquerade.

Slowly, he lifted the snifter to his lips and took a long drink of cognac, letting it fill his mouth. He didn’t swallow. With his free hand, he tilted her head back and bent to kiss her. She arched to his body and moaned in shock as his lips parted ever so slightly, allowing the rich, burning liquid to slide into her mouth. As they kissed, their mouths working together to share the heady taste, he wove his hand into her silken hair.

When they’d finished the cognac, he let the crystal glass clunk to the thick carpet beneath his chair. He didn’t let the kiss break. He wanted her wild for him and completely without thought. Yet, he could not stop thinking. Thinking of the woman who ruled his past, and the woman who was now in his arms.

Even as desire and hunger filled him, anger at his own lack of control raced through his veins. Ryder tried to force the thought away, focusing on the soft feel of Kate.

Their tongues tangled and sucked gently, the wet heat a blissful reminder of the wet heat they would share later.

Ryder parted her legs and cupped her mound through her dressing gown. She jerked up towards him. Desire surged through his groin and hardened his cock. Her hands clasped at his arms, holding on tightly. God, how had he denied himself this? How had he let himself separate from this woman? Her body was the most beautiful and comforting thing he’d ever known. Easily, he tugged her skirts up and stroked his hand up her thigh, curving his fingers around her hip. She lay against him, her body softening and opening to him.

He loved it. It was bloody amazing and horrifying the kind of trust she instilled in him. In truth, Kathryn held so little back and the weight of it, terrified him. For he had hidden so much about himself for so long.

Ever so slightly, he traced his fingers over the soft curls at the apex of her thighs.

She moaned and opened her thighs further to his touch. At her movement, he dipped his fingertips into her wet pussy. Sighing at the feel of her welcome heat, Ryder swirled his fingers over her nub.

She reached for his arm and did something she had never done before, her fingers twisted into the ribbon at his wrist.

Ryder tensed against her and pulled back instantly. “Don’t.”

* * *

KATHRYN STILLED, SUDDENLY SURE SHE might vomit. She leaned back away from him, her skin chilling under his touch. All this time, she had chosen to ignore the reason he would never love her because of course, she had promised herself she would never love again. But lord how she had lied to herself. And as the room pulsed around her, sucking the air from her lungs, she realized that once again she played the fool.

He was desperately in love with another woman. A woman who had been dead for years. “It’s hers,” she whispered. “Isn’t it?”

Ryder looked away, his hand frozen against her thigh. “We will not discuss it.”

“Is that what you want? To not talk about it?”

He drew in a slow breath. “Frankly? Yes.”

“I see,” she said, her voice panicky to her own ears. “Can you not tell me anything?” She gripped his arms gently but firmly as if he might suddenly disappear from her. “Anything?”

“Kathryn. Not now.”

“No.” She let out a harsh breath. “You know so much about me, I have told you everything. Yet, you will tell me nothing.”

She pushed against his chest gently so she might sit upright. It hurt the way he could make her feel so cared for and then keep her out of every part of his life that was of any importance. “I thought we were at least friends, Ryder. I never expected anything else but. . .” Her throat worked as if the words were too painful to speak.

Ryder looked away his jaw tightening. “I don’t want to talk about her.”

Abruptly, it hit her. And never in her life had she felt more alone.

“No. You don’t wish to talk about her with me.” Kate swallowed against her twisting insides. Could she never learn? She’d been such a fool. Such a fool. Again. “Because you’re betraying her with me.”

Quickly, Ryder pushed Kathryn up and stood, turning his back to her. “What do you wish me to say?” His hands came up wildly, and he crossed them firmly across his chest. “That you are indeed right?”

Kathryn stared at the black expanse of his back desperately wanting to wrap her arms around him. She could feel him slipping further away from her, even further than he had in the last days. And if he was still so in love with his first wife, she’d never be able to pull him back.

“Ryder, she’s gone. You should—”

He whipped around so fast, Kate stumbled back. Fire burned in his eyes, and his chest pumped up and down in harsh breaths. “I don’t need you to tell me she’s gone. I think on it every damn day.”

Lord, she hated it, but fear, fear she was going to push him too far burrowed deep inside her heart. But he needed to hear the truth, needed to break free of the darkness. “Yes and you should always hold her in your heart, but—”

“But what? What do you want to hear?” He took a step forward. “That she gave me the love I so longed for after my parent’s death?”

Kate throat tightened as she backed away from his sudden fury. “I just want you to be happy—”

“Happy?” he barked. “I deserve to die in Hell for not taking better care of her.”

Kate shook her head, a tear slipping down her cheek. “That is not true. You are a good man. You—”

“I promised her when she lay dying that I would always love her, that I would never forget her—” His voice cracked. “And I did.” Now it dimmed to a bare whisper. “I’ve been forgetting her.”

Oh Lord, her chest burned with pain for him. He was so noble, but he’d drowned himself in agony for so long. And he was shoving her away. Her dearest friend in the world, and he was pushing her out of his life. “Ryder, she’d want you to be happy.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked. He hesitated for the briefest moment as if contemplating sharing his pain. But he strode away from her, heading for the door. “I have no intention of discussing this with you.”

Kate ran after him, determined not to let him go. He’d become so important to her, she couldn’t just let him walk away. Fiercely, she grabbed his arm. “Ryder, I’m your friend. I want to—”

“Jane,” he breathed. “Don’t.”

Jane?

The room swung around, and Kate had to blink against the roar of silence stretching between them.

Her grip loosened on his arm, and her mouth turned to sand. Tears stung her eyes and for a moment, she was sure she’d never be able to speak again. “That is not my name,” she whispered.

Ryder closed his eyes for a moment. “Oh, God. Forgive me.”

Kate dropped her hand and nodded. “This is the dilemma, is it not?” Her face crumpled, but she willed herself not to cry. Crying would solve nothing. Instead, she balled her hands into fists. “I will never be Jane. No one ever will.”

“Stop,” he snapped, his voice so low it would have terrified the most battle-hardened man. “You are not one to accuse others of barring their hearts. You have made it clear yourself you will never love.”

His words echoed around her, and her mouth filled with bitterness. She had worked so hard to protect her heart and now it lay open and cut to ribbons. There was nothing left for her to lose.

She couldn’t let her own fear drive them apart. Nor could she let him do this. Not to her. Not to them.

“You are right. But.” After sucking in a harsh breath, she proclaimed, “I love you. Even if it makes me the greatest of fools, I love you.”

That god awful silence hung between them again, and when he didn’t say the only words she could hope to hear in response to her confession, she continued, her voice raspy with unshed tears, “But you would rather spend the rest of your life with a dead woman than with one who loves you here and now.” The words slipped out of her mouth before she could stop them.

“Yes.” He nodded. “You too are right.“ He looked down at her, his face a mask of pain and fury.

Kate stared up at him, her throat so tight it stung. For the second time, she had proclaimed her love and been left with nothing. Lord, why did she love those who could or would never love her in turn?

Digging her nails into her palms, she lifted her chin and hardened herself. She’d already laid herself bare. And he had made himself clear. “I understand,” she said firmly.

Ryder stared straight ahead, his back ramrod straight. “I don’t think you do.”

Kate lifted her hand and smiled despite the salty tears slipping down her cheeks. “No. I do. You would rather live with her memory than love me.”

Letting her hand drop, she started for the door—the door they had so happily come through on their wedding day. “I cannot stay.”

She paused, praying that any moment he would gather her in his arms and beg her to remain. But he did not. She glanced back over her shoulder.

He stood silent, his black eyes pitch in the candlelight.

She shrugged, her gesture tired and extremely distant. “Farewell, Ryder.”

And without waiting to see if there was remorse upon his face, she walked out into the dark hall, leaving the greatest happiness she had ever known—and her heart—behind her.

Chapter 25

“YOU CANNOT GO, YOUR GRACE!”

Kate stood shivering in the cold, foggy dead of night dressed in a warm gown of purple velvet and silver. Ryder had bought it for her, something she was trying not to think about. “I must.”

“No,” Grieves said, his voice gruffer than usual, his face barely visible from the coach lamps. “As impertinent as it is for an old goat such as myself to say, you should stay and talk to him, you should. For you love him, madam.”

Unable to stop herself, Kate glanced up to the glass windows and wondered for one heartbreaking moment if Ryder might come storming out of the house to stop her. But he wouldn’t. She knew that. He was still living in his pain. He would always live in his pain.

She forced a brittle smile to her lips as tears stung her eyes. “I must. I cannot—” Her voice broke. “You’re right, Grieves, I do love him. And because I love him, I must go. I cannot stand by and support the way he brutalizes himself.” She folded her hands before her, digging her nails into the backs of her hands, to strengthen her resolve. “Besides if I stay, he will only hate himself more. I know it.”

Grieves’ shaggy brows rose in consternation, a strange sheen lightening his myopic eyes. “He’ll hate himself even more for letting you go.”

“Please Grieves, don’t make this difficult for me.” She looked up at the cloudy sky. “We must accept the way things are.”

Resignation etched itself into his kind old face. “I don’t wish to, but I understand, Your Grace.” Gently, he took her hand in his wizened one and guided her to the coach. “I will miss the happiness you’ve brought to this house. But most of all, I will miss you.”

Kate couldn’t bring herself to look one last time at the home that had been so full of wonder. If she did, she was afraid she’d break into a thousand pieces. So, instead, she flouted propriety and impulsively embraced the old man who shared his kindness so freely. “Thank you. And I you.”

Grieves’ eyes widened with shock. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “Will you at least say goodbye to him?”

God, how she ached to see him, especially knowing now she could not. “We have already said all that needs to be said.”

Grieves nodded, his old face creasing with sadness.

And this time, without looking back, Kate climbed into her coach and leaned into the blue velvet seat. As the whip cracked and the wheels clattered over the cobblestone of the drive, she closed her eyes.

She’d been alone for so many years of her life, and she knew how to be alone. But now, the very idea of living without Ryder was suffocating her. Still, she could not give in.

So, Kathryn pulled the curtains closed and shut herself into darkness, praying for sleep. Praying she would be able to forget.

* * *

Two weeks later

THE DOOR FLUNG OPEN AND Hunt sighed so loud it echoed across the room. “You’ve gone and cocked it up, haven’t you?”

Ryder cradled the bottle against his chest like a man clinging to a piece of wood at sea and grimaced as someone whipped open the curtains. Sunlight spilled into the room falling on him like poison what with his headache.

“Go—” he smacked against the dryness of his mouth. “To the devil.”

“I’ve already made his acquaintance, thank you. Now get your arse off the floor.”

Ryder sprawled before the cold fire and forced himself onto one elbow. “Care for a drink?” he asked, waving the crystal bottle, its contents sloshing about.

Hunt snatched the crystal from him and poured the liquid into the wash basin in the corner of the room. “I think you’ve had enough for an entire army.”

Ryder shook his head, though the movement sent nails spiking through his skull. “I can. . . still think. Means I haven’t had enough.”

Hunt turned on him, strode forward and planted his feet right in front of Ryder’s face. “Bullocks.”

“Humph.” Ryder rolled onto his side, ignoring his depressingly well-dressed friend. His own clothes had a bit of a smell to them, but he wasn’t going to acknowledge the fact he’d slept in them and lived in them for well over a day. Or two. Possibly three. He was no longer certain.

Hunt had no right to judge how he dealt with the horrifically cruel hand fate had handed him. Even if fate dealt Hunt a damned bad hand as well.

“Are you really going to entomb yourself down here?”

Ryder wrapped his arms around himself and closed his eyes tightly as if that might make the damned duke disappear. “Yes.”

Hunt toed him with his boot. “Then you don’t care what your wife’s up to?”

Letting out a harsh breath, he reached out and smacked Hunt’s foot. “I don’t wish to speak about her.”

“Indeed?” A decidedly gossipy tone pitched Hunt’s voice.

“Indeed,” he drawled. Ryder laid still for several seconds, Kathryn’s face, an ever haunting dream, taunted him. He kept trying to remember the smiling cheeky Kathryn, but all he could see was her tear stained face as he had utterly let her down. At last, he opened his eyes to the austere and dusty light. He rolled onto his back and looked at the disapproving gaze of his friend. “How is she?”

Hunt shrugged, eyeing his emerald ring. “I thought you didn’t care.”

“Sod off.” Ryder forced himself to a seated position, and the world spun at a ridiculous speed. Quickly, he braced his head in his hands. “Tell me. It’s a dying man’s last request.”

Hunt snorted. “Still wallowing in drama I see.” Crouching to Ryder’s eye level, he braced an arm on one knee. “Oh, she’s the center of society. Everyone loves your wife.” Smiling like a contented bastard, he added, “And when I say everyone, I actually mean every gentleman within a hundred feet of her.”

“I’ll call them all out.” Ryder got onto his hands and knees. “I will.”

“That would be a rather long day of duels, old man. And since you seem to be having trouble standing, I’d say your odds at victory are rather slim.”

Ryder stared down at the intricate carpet wondering how long it would take him to find his bearings and his pistols and swords. “Hmmph.”

Perhaps it might be simpler to buy a cannon.

Hunt pointed an accusatory finger. “You have turned misery into an art form, have you not?”

Ryder climbed to his feet, staggered, then turned to Hunt. “And?”

Hunt looked him up and down, disgust furrowing his brow. “And why the hell shouldn’t you find some cheer?”

“You don’t. Why should I?” Still, Ryder swallowed as he recalled the pain-stricken look on Kate’s face as he called her Jane. As he had cruelly ignored that she said she loved him. When he knew how difficult it was for her to say it. Especially when it had become ridiculously clear he loved her. He loved her so much he’d begun to let himself let Jane go. And now, he couldn’t function. At all.

Hunt’s face pressed into a stony glower. “I’ll ignore that comment given your state. Now go and find her.”

“She doesn’t want to see me.”

“Ah.”

Ryder swayed, narrowing his eyes. “Ah, what?”

“Well, the real question here is why she doesn’t want to see you.”

“I know why.”

“You’re an ass,” Hunt said matter-of-factly.

Ryder blew out another breath and gave a small bow. “I am, as you say, an ass.”

“Glad to see we’re in agreement.”

Ryder closed his eyes wishing he could just shove the problem and Hunt out the door. But the last days had been worse than any he’d ever known. He tried to drown her out with drink. But he couldn’t. Kathryn had taken root in his heart, and there was no way he could ever remove her.

And God, the things he had said. She would never forgive him. Rightly.

Hunt folded his arms across his chest and stared down at his shining black boots. “You know, I’ve been your friend for a very long time.”

Ryder eyed Hunt wondering what kind of inspiring speech the man had up his sleeve this time. The mere thought was enough to send him back down to the floor in search of a seat. After the last days, he was ridiculously tired and Hunt wasn’t helping. One of his rallying talks might finish him.

Hunt finally looked up, his mouth a grim line. “I’ve put up with your self-inflicted hate fest for a very long time because you are my dearest friend. We’ve shared much. The death of parents—”

“I don’t need any sentimental—”

Hunt snapped up a hand, his green eyes sharp with intent. “Shut your damn mouth and listen.”

Ryder blinked and listened with a new degree of interest. Hunt was hardly ever serious.

“I have to believe you can get over this.” A surprising tinge of desperation intensified Hunt’s rough voice. “I have to believe you can find happiness.”

Ryder slowly stood, wondering where the hell this was coming from. Perhaps Hunt had not overcome his own dark wounds.

“I’ve waited and stood with you through Hell, always believing that one day you’d pull yourself up out of this grave you’ve been hiding in.”

“It’s not a grave,” he lied.

Is this how Hunt thought of him? All this time, he’d been watching him wallow in grief with what he now knew was detestable self pity?

Hunt snorted. “It is a grave. You won’t say goodbye to the dead so instead you’ve said goodbye to the living.”

The words and the truth of them filled the space between them. For years they’d lived in a tentative truce over all this, but apparently Hunt could no longer keep silent.

“You bastard,” Ryder ground out.

“You’d rather live with the ghosts,” he continued determinedly, “than with me or with most importantly, Kathryn, a beautiful woman who was silly enough to have loved an idiot like you.”

“That’s not true. I’d give anything to love her freelly.” Ryder swallowed. For even as he spoke, he could taste the bitterness of his own dishonesty.

“No, Ryder.” Hunt’s face softened, but he took a step forward, his eyes pinning Ryder to the spot. “You wouldn’t. You’ve cradled your guilt to your chest like a beloved child and now you don’t know how to live without it. And if you don’t stop, Kathryn will—”

“Don’t,” Ryder barked, his eyes stinging.

“Kathryn will live her life without you,” he continued mercilessly, his voice sharp as a blade. “You will never have children with her, you will never grow old with her, in short, you will never have her if you cannot let your guilt go.” The hard lines of Hunt’s face softened and he asked quietly, “Is that what you wish?”

“You’re supposed to be my friend.” The pain of Hunt’s words cut him to the bone, and Ryder couldn’t bear it. “Why the hell would you say this?”

“Because I am your friend. And for my own sake, I have to believe you can overcome this.” Hunt’s eyes dimmed as if he was recalling some distant memory. He shook his head. “When you’re ready to join the world again, come and find the people who love you.”

Ryder stared ahead as Hunt strode from the room and shut the door.

A grave.

He was living in a grave of self-recrimination and self-hate. But it was so deep and he’d been in it so long, how would he ever dig himself out?

For Kathryn, he would find a way.

* * *

THE EVENING AIR WAS COOL and the groomed grass beneath his bum was growing damp, but Ryder didn’t give a tinker’s damn. He’d sat all day with Jane, and he wasn’t quite ready to leave. He’d been talking to her for hours. . .

At first, the pain had been unbearable.

Her pale, buttery headstone stared back at him. But there was also something comforting about the place and the words on the stone. Jane had indeed lived, and here was the physical proof of it. She didn’t just exist in his mind and his memories. She was here, a part of the earth and the grass beneath him.

Ryder fiddled with the green wine bottle before him. “I—” He drew in a breath and shifted, his heels cutting into the earth. “I’ve fallen in love with someone, Jane. Someone I don’t deserve.” The words which should have been so difficult to utter came from him as simply as water flowing from a stream “You would have loved her. I know that sounds strange, but—” Ryder stopped and trailed his fingers through the cool grass. “I need to be with her. I’ve been meaning to say this all day, but I wasn’t sure how.” He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to organize his thoughts. “It’s time. ’Tis finally time for me to say goodbye.”

A tear slipped down his cheek, and instead of dashing it away he let it trickle down and splash onto his black breeches. He was here for a reason. For Kathryn and for himself. “I never came to visit you. Mostly because I couldn’t bear the truth. That I couldn’t make you come back. But now I know that was a grievous error. So, today, I think it’s time we celebrate.”

He uncorked the bottle of white wine, Jane’s favorite. He cleared his throat. “Here’s to you, sweetheart. A beautiful, kind woman whom I will always dearly miss. It was your goodness that took you to God.”

Another tear slid down his cheek and he bit down on his lip, forcing himself to continue with the words that so long had needed to be said. “I know you would have hated what I did, and I wish you had been here to knock some sense back into my head.”

Ryder lifted the bottle. “Here’s to the future. I think perhaps I’ve kept you from peace by not letting you go. And for that I am truly sorry. Peace to you, Jane. Peace to all of us.” Ryder took a drink then slowly, he poured the wine over Jane’s grave. When he let a healthy toast pour from the bottle, he re-corked it and smiled. “I’ll see you again. But now, I must go and live my life.”

He stood, placed the wine bottle in his coat pocket and walked down from the family plot without looking back. It was time to become the sort of husband Kathryn deserved.

Chapter 26

KATE WAS GOING TO KILL Imogen. It was purely that simple. She was, after all, to blame for her current defensive stance by the immense marble fireplace in the Duke of Portland’s Whig ball.

Dancers swept by, skirts billowing and wigs bouncing. The crowd around her pushed and maneuvered. A particularly drunk woman in powder blue had loosened her bodice, lowering it till her nipples showed, and the man with her wove through the people lining the dance floor. They were having a splendid time.

Unlike her.

And every blasted man in the place had at one point or the other asked her to dance. To console her misery, no doubt. As she clasped her champagne glass, she spotted another one.

Pinning what she hoped to be a fiery stare upon her features, she glared at the approaching fop across the Duke of Portland’s ballroom. Decked in puce satin and gold embroidery, his purple waistcoat glittered with a veritable diamond mine. And his hair. Well, it resembled quite the cake. And if he wandered within a foot of her, she might swipe it off his head.

But people—no, men—would insist on asking her to dance. Every person in London knew she and the duke were living separately. Apparently, that made her available to the attentions of any ass who thought to give her a try.

At last, he minced forward on his red-heeled shoes. Sadly, her fiery stare did not affect him. He smiled, his lips slightly rouged. “Your Grace, do me the honor?”

Kate lifted her champagne glass and took a long swallow to steady herself. Throughout the night, she’d been composing more and more ludicrous responses to this question. “I’d rather dance about with a monkey on a chain.”

The fellow blinked at her for several seconds. “But—But—”

She raised her brows and shook her head at him. “No, thank you. Forgive me. I am in ill humor.”

He humphed, causing his wig to twitch upon his head. “Very ill, indeed.” And then he was off, wig high.

Kate sighed, glad to be alone again, even if it would only be for moments.

If another fop, dandy, gentleman or lady of any sort asked her to dance she was going to smash her glass of champagne down upon their head. Oh, it was true, she was standing along the ballroom wall, watching the raucous merriment of the dancers which would lead one to believe she was interested in dancing.

In truth, it was by sheer force of will she wasn’t rolled up in a quilt eating chocolates rolls, drinking wine and sobbing her eyes out. Not to mention the fact that Imogen made it her personal endeavor to ensure she didn’t lock herself up and turn in to moldering dust.

Initially, Kate had been grateful. But at this moment, she was inclined to dunk her friend’s head into the exceedingly large, gold nymph-lined crystal punch bowl. When she’d first arrived in London, Kate hadn’t realized how many idiots were allowed to walk freely about let alone be invited to parties.

A month ago, she probably would have enjoyed the said idiots. Right now, their sugary happiness and carefree bliss only grated on her like sand on glass.

It was beyond painful, standing amidst the merriment.

And she just should have stayed home, because forcing cheer to her face was about as far from her ability as a woman winning a seat in Parliament. She missed Ryder. Missed him so intensely, she felt hollow inside.

Many times, she almost bolted into her coach and headed back to the house Ryder purchased for them. It had been her happiest home. Luckily, Imogen had always been there to present a sound argument. Still, sound arguments didn’t comfort one at night nor uplift one’s spirits while sniffling into a pillow.

“You look like the champagne has gone off,” Imogen lilted from behind her.

Kate jumped, sloshing the bubbly liquid. “For goodness sake, one mustn’t appear out of nowhere. It’s rude.”

Imogen leaned forward, placed a quick kiss to Kate’s cheek then waggled her brows and pressed a hand to her dark green and gold filigree stomacher. “And you wouldn’t know anything about rudeness. I saw you send off Baron Caraden. Silly man.”

“Ha. Men are the devil.”

“I won’t argue that, my dear.” Imogen placed her hand on Kate’s arm. “But I do hate seeing you so out of sorts.”

Out of sorts? Kate swallowed at the sudden pain in her throat. She’d thrown her happiness away. Hadn’t she? She drew in a slow breath and eyed Imogen with new interest. Her cousin’s cheeks were particularly bright. “Why do you look so happy?”

Imogen’s smile dimmed a little.

Kate frowned, instantly sorry she sounded so sharp. “Forgive me?”

“Of course you are forgiven.” Imogen glanced back over her shoulder towards the entrance into the ball. “And I am only happy because a plan is working just as it should.”

Kate rolled her eyes, unable to share in her friend’s unabashed enthusiasm in whatever machinations she was up to. “You are going to get in very serious trouble one day.”

“Ah, but just think of all the fun I’ll have getting into it.” Imogen patted at her curls then took a sip of Kate’s champagne. Bouncing on her toes in time to the orchestra, she looked out to the crowd of merrymakers. “Now, I won’t have you pouting any longer. I want a smile upon your lips. You’re going to dance with someone.”

“No,” Kate said flatly, folding her arms under her breasts in protest. She would not be convinced into anything else which Imogen deemed good for her spirits.

“Why ever not?”

“Because,” she said dryly. “I usually end up wanting to skewer whoever I’m dancing with one of my hair pins.”

“Hmm.” Imogen stopped swaying for a moment. “That would be a rather intriguing end to a dance, but you’ve caused enough scandal this year.”

Kate did not even wish to dignify the comment with a proper response.

Imogen blinked, a slow smile curling her lips as she stared towards the far end of the room. She snatched a glass of champagne from a passing servant. Slipping Kathryn’s glass away, she gave her the new one. “Here, you shall need this.” Batting her long blonde lashes, she said coyly, “I don’t suppose you’re willing to dance with anyone? Anyone at all?”

Tears stung her eyes. Quite irritatingly. “There’s only one person I want to dance with.” She swallowed determined not to cry before the ton. No doubt it would be in Snodgrass’ column if she turned into a watering pot in public. “And he’s not here.”

Imogen pressed in close to her and whispered in her ear, “And if he were?”

Kathryn’s breath stopped in her throat and panic immediately throbbed through her veins. “What?!”

“Don’t hate me, dearest. But he begged to know where you’d be tonight.” Imogen squeezed her arm. “I’ve seen your unhappiness, and I had to tell him.” She gestured slightly with her chin to the end of the ballroom. “He’s here, by the entrance, looking as gorgeous as ever.”

“Imogen, I swear I am—” The moment she spotted him, her throat squeezed off because her heart jumped up into it.

Ryder Blake, the Duke of Darkwell, the Duke of Death, the man who had stolen and in turn broke her heart stood by the Duke of Hunt in a shocking suit of ivory and silver.

Instead of one of the Devil’s damned he looked like a blasted angel.

The ivory coat clung to his broad shoulders, an extreme contrast to his dark hair. His waistcoat was silver cloth, shot through with gold embroidery. But even more superb, he looked perfectly at ease in it.

Kathryn took a step forward and stumbled on the hem of her gown.

Imogen grabbed her elbow. “Here now, how much have you had to drink?”

“Shh,” she shushed quickly, smoothing down the front of her bodice. “A woman in love should not be expected to move with complete grace.” Kate waved her cousin away, her breath light and her head giddy. “He looks—”

Imogen cocked her head, the massive set of lilies in her hair tilting. “Beautiful. I know.”

“Imogen!”

“Heavenly,” Imogen further supplied, nodding in clear agreement with herself. “Bloody marvelous.”

Oh, yes and yes to all of the above.

Ryder looked transformed. The black that had formed his identity was gone—completely. Everyone, even those who were dancing, stared at him. His usual glower had even seemed to disappear, leaving him with a decidedly boyish though weathered expression.

And she simply could not tear her eyes from him. At last, he turned, the candlelight glinting off his jet black hair, and their eyes met.

The air slipped away and everyone in the room vanished save them.

Kate bit down on her lip, tears stinging her eyes at the sight. It was there in his eyes. A lightness that had never been before. He had not only physically shed the trappings of mourning, but dare she hope he had also done so in his heart?

Kate grabbed hold of Imogen, suddenly determined. Determined that she would never let this man go again. No matter what it took.

A slow smile curved his sensual lips, lighting a fire in his gaze. He strode forward cutting through the crowd, his gaze never leaving her face.

Just a few weeks ago, she walked out of his life sure they would never speak amiably again. Here he was crossing a crowded room towards her, absolute certainty on his strong face.

“What do I do?” Kate demanded, her mind a sudden blank.

“What else do you do with a man like that?” Imogen shrugged. “Drag him into the hallway and have your way with him.”

“That isn’t helpful,” Kate hissed, still unable to take her eyes of his approaching, muscular form.

“Hear what he has to say then. Then have your way with him.”

Kate swallowed, for a moment unsure. Unsure that they could ever find the friendship they had lost. “What if—”

“Kate,” Imogen said quietly. “He’s here for you, you know. Look at him. This change, ’tis for you.” She squeezed Kate’s hand. “He is here for you.”

Lord, she hoped Imogen was right, but with Ryder she could never be sure. He was a man of mysterious ways. He had ripped her heart up and done it without even truly intending to hurt her. She knew that. But he’d still done it.

And he might do it again.

“Don’t let him beg forgiveness too easily,” Imogen said. “Make him take you on a trip for his ill behavior. To Italy, I think.”

Kate was tempted to reply she’d never been further from Shropshire than London, let alone the continent, but before she could answer, Ryder stood above her. His broad frame towered over her.

Her hands ached to reach out to him. To touch his face, to hold him in her arms. But it would be foolish to pretend as if nothing happened.

Despite herself, she glanced at his wrist. She couldn’t see if the ribbon was there, his sleeve ever slightly too long.

Wordlessly, he lifted his arm and gently pulled back the ivory fabric, exposing his bare wrist.

Kathryn blinked, her gaze snapping up from his wrist to his face. “I—”

Ryder held out his arm to her. “Would you care to walk with me, Kathryn?”

Kate stared up, hanging on the gentle purr in his voice. Had the beast within truly been tamed? She slowly placed her hand on his arm. The gentle touch sent a shock through her, and even she felt the way his muscles tensed beneath her hand.

Together, they made their way through the crowd.

Kate risked a glance up at Ryder. “Where are we going?”

“It’s a secret,” he replied.

She contemplated him from the corner of her eye. He seemed nervous, yet oddly relaxed. A slight tension played at his shoulders, but his strong face was more peaceful than she could ever recall seeing it.

They walked through the crowd, then into a side hall, then down a barely lit narrow hall. Finally, they came to a tall, white-washed door. Ryder twisted the latch and the balmy night air, full of the smell of hyacinth wafted towards them.

“Come,” Ryder whispered. He took her fingers in his strong grasp and led her out onto the stone path that wound into the small garden.

For her life, she couldn’t understand exactly why she was following him or not demanding they speak of what passed between them. But she couldn’t find the words. Nor at this moment did she care to. Instead, she savored the closeness of him allowing herself to not be bullheaded just this once.

Kate breathed in a deep sigh of relief at the wonderful feel of the cool evening. She tilted her face up to the full moon beaming down on them. The sky was scattered with endless glittering stars. All meant for their wonderment.

Her thin slippers gripped the stones along the path as he led her forward. Fruit trees lined the little lane, and rose bushes were artfully planted beneath them. As they walked in silence, Kate fought back her own nerves. A woman who was less foolish, one who had learned her lessons, would never have come out of the house. She would have stayed firm and protected her heart from further pain. But she’d learned a new lesson in the last weeks.

One could not control their heart, and it was just as foolish to control it as to give it freely.

The path finally led out into a small open area with a stone bench and a sparkling fountain. Trees, their leaves rustling ever so slightly in the breeze, circled the quiet spot.

“You know this place well,” she teased.

Ryder squeezed her hand. “I know a vast many things well. But it is you I wish to know the most.”

Kate’s heart slammed in her chest.

“Kathryn, you have every right to doubt my love for you.”

My love? She knew she should tell herself she was dreaming this. That at any moment she would awake alone in bed, her eyes wet. Lord, he sounded so blissfully beautiful she was certain hyacinth dust was clouding her ears.

He turned to face her, his fingers lacing with hers. “I have treated you most ill.”

She opened her mouth to assure him then stopped. He had treated her ill, but. . . “I never should have allowed it.”

He raised his brows, surprise written across his features. “Allowed, madam?”

“I was afraid of losing what we had, so I didn’t tell you how much you were hurting me or how I saw it hurting you. That was my weakness. I should have out and out told you you were an ass, not sat waiting for the thunderclouds to roll by.”

He blinked several times, then shook his head, lines of remorse pulling at his mouth. “I—”

She lifted a finger to his lips. “No. I promised myself I wouldn’t live in fear when I came to London.” She smiled ruefully. “But I did. I was afraid of caring for you, of angering you, but most of all, of loving you. Hardly the actions of a fearless woman.”

He kissed the pad of her finger then slipped her hand down to rest on his chest. “And yet?”

“And yet, I have realized that no matter what you do, whether you accept my love or return it, my heart will want what it wants. I should never be afraid of that.”

He gazed down on her with what appeared to be wonder. “Oh, Kathryn. I don’t think you have ever truly been afraid. When you desire something you go after it. Fiercely. Beautifully.”

Kathryn had to swallow her heart back at such loving words. So she arched a brow in mock warning. “Nor should I be a mat for you to trod upon with your brusque moods,” she pointed out, not wanting him to forget.

“Never. You will always have only my highest esteem.” He let out a sigh, then brushed a loose curl from her temple. “Kathryn, I am the one who has been afraid. Afraid to let go of the past. Afraid to make myself vulnerable again. And afraid to love you. I know what loss is. I don’t want to feel that way again. And by pushing you away, I lost. I lost the most important thing in my life. The woman I love.” Ryder pulled her to him, caressing his hands down her back. “I love you, Kathryn. I love you.”

Tears sprung to Kathryn’s eyes. “And what has brought this about? Why?”

“You showed me I had chosen to live only a semblance of existence. And you made me want so much more. I won’t live with the past anymore.”

Kate fingered his ivory coat. “You have shed your demons?”

“You slayed them.”

She beamed up at him. “I rather like that idea.”

He smiled back at her, his face full of happiness. “What?”

“That I am your knight in shining armor.”

He cupped her chin, his eyes dark with love. “You are the protector of my heart. It is yours to do with as you will.”

“Then I shall take it and keep it safely for you, with my heart where it shall always be loved.”

Lowering his hand, he let out a rushed breath. The tension in his shoulders eased. “You have no idea how sure I was you would send me away.”

“We have both made mistakes.” She reached up and touched the side of his face. “I’m certain we shall make more. We have a lifetime to make them. I know.”

A laugh filled with pure joy bubbled form his throat. “Indeed.” His face grew more serious. “But now. . .”

Kate bit her lip, unsure what he was about to do.

The Duke of Darkwell, one of the most powerful men in the realm, pulled slightly away from her and lowered himself to one knee.

Kate gasped. He couldn’t. It was—well, it was—for goodness sake, they were already married! She clasped a hand to her cheek, a smile tugging at her lips. “What are you doing?” she whispered.

“My dearest Kathryn, I am on my knees asking you to be my wife. Not because of scandal, nor duty, nor fortune but because I love you and because you have given me my happiness again. There is nothing better I should like than to spend the rest of my days in your company, your bed, but most of all in your heart.”

Tears sprung to her eyes, and she could barely breath she was so overwhelmed. “Oh, Ryder. Yes. I’ll marry you today, tomorrow, forever.”

Ryder jumped to his feet, grabbed her waist and yanked her against him. “Forever, darling. We have forever.”

He lowered his mouth to hers, kissing her ever so slowly as if they had all the time in the world.

And to Kate’s delight, she realized they did. They absolutely did.

THE END

Acknowledgements

My deepest thanks to Lindsey, Carol, Theresa, Delilah, Jenn, Kati, and Erin.

Without you all this adventure wouldn’t be possible.

Books by Eva Devon

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Table of Contents

MY FAVORITE ROGUE

THE GOVERNESS AFFAIR by Courtney Milan

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Aftermaths and Beginnings

Author's Note

TEMPTING JULIANA by Lauren Royal

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Forty-Seven

Forty-Eight

Forty-Nine

Fifty

Fifty-One

Fifty-Two

Author's Note

Books by Lauren Royal

About Lauren Royal

WORTH: LORD OF RECKONING by Grace Burrowes

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Author's Note

About Grace Burrowes

FOREVER BETROTHED, NEVER THE BRIDE by Christi Caldwell

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Epilogue

Books by Christi Caldwell

About Christi Caldwell

FORBIDDEN by Jess Michaels

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Epilogue

Books by Jess Michaels

About Jess Michaels

THE CAPTAIN’S BLUESTOCKING MISTRESS by Erica Ridley

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Books by Erica Ridley

About Erica Ridley

ROMANCING LADY STONE by Delilah Marvelle

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Books by Delilah Marvelle

ONCE UPON A DUKE by Eva Devon

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

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Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Acknowledgments

Books by Eva Devon