AN INDEPENDENT LADY
by
Julia Byrne

Julia Byrne lives in Australia with her husband, daughter, and two overgrown
cats. She started her working career as a secretary, taught ballroom dancing
after several successful years as a competitor, and presently works part-time
in the History Department of a Melbourne university. She enjoys reading,
tapestry, and playing Mah Jong.

AN INDEPENDENT LADY

For Patrick and Michelle with my love

DID YOU PURCHASE THIS BOOK WITHOUT A COVER?

If you did, you should be aware it is stolen property as it was reported
unsold and destroyed by a retailer. Neither the author nor the publisher has
received any payment for this book.

The characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of
the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name
or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or
unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part
in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin
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of the publisher.

First published in Great Britain 1999 Harlequin Mills & Boon Limited, Eton
House, 18-24 Paradise Road. Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR Julia Byrne 1999

ISBN 0263 81919 1

Set in Times Roman

Printed and
bound in Spain by Litografia Roses S. A." Barcelona

Chapter One.

"Good God! What next?"

The exclamation, though uttered with barely suppressed impatience, was
not explosive enough to disturb the mid-morning quiet pertaining in the
reading room at White's Club.

One did not, in fact, give vent to explosive exclamations while one was
within the dignified portals of a gentlemen's club. Especially when one
was the possessor of an old, distinguished title, who took pains to
shield from the unwary the fact that he'd inherited every one of the
fierce predatory traits that had enabled his ancestors to seize and hold
the title in the first place.

The outburst did, however, reach the ears of the fair-haired gentleman
lounging in a comfortable leather armchair set at an angle convenient
for private conversation.

"Something amiss. Marc, old fellow?" Viscount Eversleigh enquired idly
from behind the Morning Post. He turned a page. "Good Lord, a third
robbery at Bristol. Situation's getting right out of hand."

Marcus Benedict Rothwell, Seventh Earl of Hawkridge, clenched his
fingers around the letter in his hand and fixed what he could see of the
Viscount with a look of narrow-eyed purpose.

'e's "My sister, Augusta," he began in ominous tones, 'writes to' inform
me that her butler has taken to falling down drunk every evening while
serving dinner; Lucinda has run off to5 Gretna Green with a half-pay
officer; and young Crispin has broken his neck by over facing one of his
father's prize hunters." '?

"Dashed inconsiderate," mumbled Eversleigh.

"I suppose you'll have to post down there and sort everything out, as
usual."

Marc straightened the letter with a snap of his wrist.

"She concludes with the news that your grandfather has finally been
gathered to his ancestors after making a new will leaving his fortune to
the cook and her husband."

"What?"

The Morning Post flew through the air and landed in a small avalanche of
paper. Eversleigh sat up with a jerk.

"Ah." Marc smiled with fiendish satisfaction.

"I trust I now have your full attention. Pel?"

"You do, but that was a damned nasty way of going about i it." |
"Inaccurate, too, if I recall your grandfather's cook."

Eversleigh shuddered.

"I should say so. Wouldn't surprise : me if the old boy did turn up his
toes after one of her dinners. ; Can't see him leaving her more than a
pension, though. Tight- ] fisted old bastard."

"Oh, surely not."

"Of course he is. Why the devil d'you think I'm hanging out for a rich?"
-- He caught the gleam in Marc's usually cool ; grey eyes and grinned.

"You'll have the ancestors spinning in i their sepulchres, casting
aspersions like that. Stiff-necked lot, : the Eversleighs. Not a bastard
among 'em.

But never mind that. I take it you don't really need to dash off to
Gretna, or : attend Crispin's funeral?"

The gleam vanished.

"The only funeral I'm likely to attend in the near future is that of my
grandmother's latest protegee."

"Ahh." Eversleigh nodded as one upon whom light has dawned. Then he
frowned.

"Hold on. Thought her ladyship'd sworn off impecunious poets. It was a
poet, wasn't it? Wanted her to perch on that rock off the beach at
Hawkridge so he could write an ode to a mermaid. Dashed idiotic notion.
The tide comes in at that spot before you can blink.

Remember the time we were caught--"

"I remember," Marc informed him, ruthlessly interrupting this excursion
into their shared boyhood.

"In the case of the impecunious poet, you're a year out of date. After I
sent him packing, we had the artist who was starving in a garret. He
needed a profession until he made his name painting portraits; my
grandmother decided she needed a secretary to take care of all those
plaguey details such as letters of credit and bank drafts."

"Aha."

"Indeed. Fortunately, her banker noticed the artistically embellished
figures on several transactions and contacted me. He'd never approved of
a dowager countess managing her own affairs and was convinced that
Grandmama had dropped a rein or two."

The Viscount looked dubious.

"Very independent old lady, your grandmother. Wouldn't like to be the
one to tell her she can't tool her own carriage anymore."

"You'll be happy to know I don't have to perform that particular task."
Marc glared at the sheets of paper in his hand. "My dear grand mama is
now wide awake to the wiles of struggling artists. Her new companion
possesses no skills in that direction at all " There you are, then."

"Augusta, however, imparts no such assurance that Mrs. Chantry--Mrs.
Amaris Chantry, if you please--won't offer to restore the paintings in
the long gallery, while appropriating more portable articles of
infinitely greater value."

"Oh." A short pause ensued. Eversleigh raised a delicately enquiring
eyebrow as he bent to gather up the Morning Post.

"Someone offered ..."

"Six months ago. A most charming gentleman rented the old Smitton place
and promptly joined the Society for the Beautification of Our Village.
That, according to Grandmama, immediately put him beyond reproach."

"Bloody hell!" Eversleigh jerked upright again, leaving the paper to its
fate. Sheer horror was stamped on his pleasant features.

"Is that crowd of gossiping old biddies still running amok? One of 'em
tanned my hide with her walking cane when I hit a cricket ball through
the vestry window twenty years ago. Thought they'd be safely underground
by now."

"Apparently they're still tottering about on walking canes."

Grandmother, who's the Society's patron, met Mr. battle at one of the
meetings and was much impressed by his knowledge of history. He
purported to be a scholar of art who specialised in the restoration of
old paintings."

"Was he?"

"We never found out. The first painting was taken down, laid on a table
and surrounded by an impressive number of bottles and brushes.

After two days of working in the strictest seclusion to minimise the
danger of ruining the painting, Mr. battle departed with several silver
candlesticks, a handful of snuff boxes, and the first countess's pearls,
which for some insane reason were draped over the statue of her husband
on horseback."

Eversleigh laughed.

"Nice to know nothing's changed at Hawkridge since I've been in Prance."

"Unfortunately that's not quite true. Mrs. Chantry is now in residence.

She's a widow."

"Not exactly a criminal offence, old fellow."

Marc stared grimly at the letter in his hand.

"There's no mention of Mr. Chantry, his style or profession, or how he
met his end. The only facts to be gleaned from the crumbs of information
scattered between page after page on Lucinda's wilful behaviour and the
delicate state of Crispin's health are that Grandmama met Mrs. Chantry
when she visited Bath a few weeks ago."

"Dare say she might. Place is full of widows."

"Mrs. Chantry is a young widow.

"Tragically young" ," Marc added, quoting directly from his sister's
letter.

"Such a sad situation.

Left almost destitute. Forced to earn her own living. And you know what
sort of living might be forced upon a penniless girl as lovely as Mrs.
Chantry." He scowled at the missive again.

"How the hell does Augusta know about things like that?"

Eversleigh grinned.

"I hate to tell you this. Marc, but your sister has been a married woman
for quite some time. Not that I can imagine Nettlebed drumming up the
energy to carouse with widows--young or otherwise."

Marc ignored this judicious pronouncement on his cheerfully indolent
brother-in-law.

"Unfortunately Augusta's worldly knowledge doesn't extend to Mrs.
Chantry's parents. They appear to be shrouded in mystery."

"Probably dead too."

"Oh, that's a great comfort to me. Pel. I hope you're not going to offer
the same explanation when I inform you of the lack of former employers
in our widow's history."

"Perhaps she's been widowed only a short time. You know, Marc, before
you go racing off to Devon to tear the destitute Mrs. Chantry from
beneath your grandmother's wing, you might consider that she really is a
young widow left tragically bereft."

"Have you ever heard of a widow named Amaris?"

This demand gave Eversleigh pause. He pursed his lips and bent his mind
to grave consideration of the matter.

"No," he finally pronounced. And grinned.

"At least, not the type of widow who hires herself out as a companion to
elderly ladies."

Marc did not feel inclined to share his friend's amusement.

"Exactly. The veracity of this particular widow's tragic p also comes
into question when I tell you that she and grandmother met when Mrs.
Chantry almost fell under wheels of Grandmama's coach."

"Good God, how did she manage that?"

"She was faint with hunger. More likely it was the perf mance of her
life.

She could've saved herself the trout Grandmama wouldn't care if she was
treading the boar We've had poets, artists, restorers. Why quibble at an
act res Eversleigh nodded in gloomy agreement.

"Knowing y< grandmother, she's probably fascinated. Like to tread i
boards, herself."

"Not at her tune of life," Marc vowed, rising to feet.

"Pel, you'll have to convey my apologies to the Scatt thwaites. I was
supposed to attend their ball tonight, but i be otherwise engaged."

"Ask Goring over there to convey both our apologie Eversleigh suggested,
rising with alacrity.

"I'll be otherw engaged, too."

Marc lifted a brow.

"You're coming with me?"

"Of course I'm coming with you. Urgent family busines A look of
amusement crossed Marc's face.

"Scatterthwait daughters are worth twenty thousand a year. Each."

"I'm not that desperate. Besides, you might need help moving the widow.
All very well to toss poets through library window. You can hardly do
the same to a female."

Marc muttered something that sounded distinctly like "W not?" Tossing
Mrs. Amaris Chantry through the library wind' would, he decided, go a
lopg way towards relieving his < acerbated feelings.

The situation was getting out of hand. There were far t many people in
the world who were prepared to take adv; tage of his grandmother's
affectionate, generous nature. A since no one else seemed capable of
doing anything about he would have to step into the breach. ______ A
rather nasty sense of inevitability threatened to hover over him.

Rather like a sword about to fall. If he didn't want to spend the
majority of his time evicting confidence tricksters from his ancestral
home he would have to think very seriously about supplying the dowager
with a companion of impeccable lineage and proper notions of conduct.

Said companion would also need to be kind enough to tolerate Lady
Hawkridge's frequently maddening ways, intelligent enough not to bore
him witless within a week, and attractive enough to make facing her
across the breakfast table every morning a not impossible task.

In other words, it was about time he made another attempt to supply
himself with a wife.

The prospect didn't fill him with delight. The last two attempts, while
not exactly disasters, had been crowned by a conspicuous lack of
success.

Fortunately, only one had been a public lack of success.

The other he'd always regarded as more of a lucky escape.

The thought of either situation recurring made him scowl so ferociously
that Lord Goring, when cornered, didn't voice even a mild protest at
having to face Lady Scatterthwaite and her daughters and inform them
that two of the ton's most eligible bachelors would be missing from a
ball put on especially to lure them into their coils.

"If only I could decide where to put the Society. Really, Amy, I am
quite at my wits' end."

Mrs. Amaris Chantry looked up from the pile of letters she'd been
sorting as the Dowager Lady Hawkridge burst into the library like a
small, plump, mauve-clad whirlwind.

Her ladyship was armed with a feather duster.

Amy had no idea why her employer felt obliged to dust since there was a
maid assigned for the mundane task, but she'd been living at Hawkridge
Manor for a full month now and was quite inured to her ladyship's habit
of starting conversations while still en route to her auditor.

She also had no trouble following Lady Hawkridge's rambling discourse.

"The winter parlour would be charming now that we havi some sunshine
after all that rain, but if Mrs. Tredgett shoul( attend, she'd be sure
to take offence. On the other hand, thi drawing-room is far too large,
and so dauntingly formal that persons such as Miss. Pucklenett will be
quite overcome."

Lady Hawkridge took an agitated turn about the library am fetched up in
front of the lectern upon which reposed the family Bible, an imposing
tome of ponderous proportions in whici were recorded the arrivals and
departures of several generations of Rothwells.

Her ladyship looked at the duster in her hand and waved i in a vague
sort of way over the vellum-bound volume.

"I don't know why the Society's meeting couldn't be hell at the Vicarage
as usual," she went on, her cherubic faci marred by a frown.

I'l know the younger girls aren't well, bu they won't be running in and
out of the parlour, will they?"

"Ahh." Amy nodded in complete understanding.

"Mrs. ffol lifoot has begged that you'll hold the Society's meeting here
I suppose no one else has volunteered. In that case, ma'am have the
drawing-room made ready. Miss. Pucklenett positively delights in being
overcome. Think what a treat it wil be for her."

"Good heavens, you're qujte right." The dowager lookec much struck by
the notion, '^oor thing. I suppose she doesn' have a great deal to look
forward to. Not that the Mayhew; ever treat their staff with anything
but the greatest consideration."

"As do you, dearest ma'am." Amy rose from her seat, i warm smile curving
her mouth as she crossed the room to he employer.

"However, I doubt that Mary will view with any thing but the greatest
dismay the fact that you're doing the dusting."

"Well, I thought of the drawing-room earlier, but I couldn't remember
when we'd last used it. And there always seem to be so many rooms to
dust." Her ladyship looked at the duster again and aimed a swipe in the
general direction of a shelf of books. A small cloud of dust motes
danced in the air.

Amy stifled a sneeze.

"Even so, ma'am--"

" Now, don't scold, Amy dear. I've a perfectly good explanation." The
dowager paused, then added in accents of doom," Chickenpox."

"Ohh."

"It's all the fault of the Vicar's wretched offspring. I hope I'm
sympathetic towards children in their sick-beds, Amy, but not when they
infect my maids."

"Perfectly understandable, ma'am. Poor Mary. Would you like me to ask
Mrs. Cubitt if we should send for the doctor?"

"I don't think housekeepers believe in pampering the maids, but if
anyone could persuade her, it would be you. And, after all, I did send
for dear Dr. Twinhoe when the boys caught the chicken-pox. Not that it
did any good. I was hoping he'd give them a draught that would keep them
in their beds, but he said the most we could hope for was that they
wouldn't run about infecting everyone else."

"A daunting thought, ma'am."

Her ladyship shuddered.

"I suppose we should've been grateful that Pelham was visiting here when
they both came down with it, but they were the most dreadful patients.
Marc and Lord Eversleigh, you know.

At least, he's Eversleigh at the moment. When that bad-tempered,
gout-ridden old fool is finally pushed into the family vault, he'll be
the Earl of Colborough."

"Er, bad-tempered, gout-ridden ..."

"Old fool," confirmed her ladyship, brandishing her duster with vigour.

"I said old fool and I meant it. Have you had the chicken-pox, Amy?"

Amy blinked.

"Yes, ma'am." And every other childhood ailment known to mankind.

Fascinated by the unaccustomed are emanating from her employer, she
dismissed childhood ailments and probed delicately.

"I collect you're speaking of the elderly gentleman who lives in that
house on the other side of the cove."

"There is no gentleman on the other side of the cove." Lady Hawkridge
glared at the duster in her hand, hefted it and charged at a nearby
armchair like a knight going into battle. "Only an old fool who said our
Society was a bevy of cackling hens who-- Oh, heavens! The Society!" The
duster was suspended in mid-air.

"What am I thinking of?

Why must Mrs. ffollifoot leave it to the last minute to change her
plans?

We'll have to write notes and-- Amy, do you think."

"Of course, ma'am. It will take only a few minutes to dash off a quick
note to everyone an9 there's plenty of time before the meeting for the
notes to be delivered. Please don't fret about it."

Lady Hawkridge beamed.

"Dear Amy. So dependable." She abandoned the assault on the armchair and
began to circle the room, nicking the duster over bookshelves and
occasionaltables as she passed. Several small ornaments rocked wildly.
Amy rushed to avert disaster.

"So kind," Lady Hawkridge continued, oblivious to the guardian angel of
ornaments following in her wake.

"And with all those letters to answer, too. f don't know where I'd be
without you, Amy dear. My eyes aren't as good as they once were, you
know, and I receive such a volume of mail that I fear they would be
quite worn out if I had to deal with it myself."

Since Lady Hawkridge had, that very morning, espied a rare wildflower
blooming on the cliffs several hundred yards away from Hawkridge Manor,
Amy had no trouble identifying this remark for the kindness it was.

Gratitude filled her heart, causing tears to well behind her eyes.

She would never cease to thank the benevolent providence that had
prompted the Dowager Countess of Hawkridge to call for her carriage that
day four weeks ago instead of summoning a chair to negotiate the hilly
streets of Bath.

Amy didn't like to think about what might have befallen her if she
herself hadn't been on that particular street at the same moment. The
thought only had to creep to the edge of her mind to have her flesh turn
cold and shivery.

She'd been down to her last shilling. The future had loomed like a
crouching malevolent beast, waiting to drag her back into a pit of black
despair from which she could never escape.

"Sometimes," the dowager confided, pausing in her progress to peer at
the pile of letters on Amy's desk, "I wonder if Marc was right when he
accused me of indiscriminate patronage of the arts. Oh, dear, that looks
like his writing."

Amy shook off her memories and returned to the desk to pick up the.

unopened letter she'd laid aside. An arrogant black signature was
slashed across one corner of the envelope.

"I thought it might be, ma'am, since the letter is franked by
Hawkridge." She handed it over.

"The only other letter concerning artistic matters this morning is a
request for a donation to establish a retreat where a group of sculptors
can fashion statues of humans in their, ah, natural forms."

"Oh, dear, I don't think Marc would approve of that."

Amy was sure of it. Not that she objected to his disapproval in this
particular instance, but she also possessed the uncomfortable suspicion
that he wouldn't approve of her either.

She could hardly blame Hawkridge. After hearing the sorry tale of the
dowager's previous experiences with people whom she'd taken under her
kindly wing, Amy had decided that Hawkridge would immediately assume her
to be the latest in a long line of hucksters out to fleece his grand
mama of as much as possible in the shortest possible time.

Rehearsing speeches of explanation in the event that she ever met the
Earl had not resulted in a feeling of confidence that such a meeting
would be pleasant. Hawkridge did not appear to be filled with tolerance
and understanding for his fellow human beings.

While the dowager broke the sealed envelope with a distinct lack of
enthusiasm, Amy glanced up at the portrait of the Earl that hung over
the mantelpiece.

Eyes the colour of sleeting rain stared back at her from beneath level
black brows. There was something about those eyes--something the artist
had tried to capture, only to have it remain elusively out of reach.
Something. Amy shook her head. The more she tried to pin down the
expression, the more it slipped away.

She turned her attention to his other features. Even at the age of
twenty they were forbidding; the straight blade of his nose, the high
razor-sharp cheekbones and chiselled jaw putting Amy forcibly in mind of
the savage Indian warriors fortunately residing in the American
colonies. The air of fierce pride and masculine arrogance was echoed in
the way he stood, leaning with careless grace against the shoulder of a
huge black horse. He held the reins loosely in one large,
elegantly-shaped hand, even though the horse looked as if it was about
to take a chunk out of anyone foolish enough to approach.

Amy felt a familiar shiver slide dow fl her spine. The same shiver she
experienced every time she gazed at the painted image of the Earl of
Hawkridge. The, portrait had been done fourteen years ago, so Lady
Hawkridge had informed her, upon the Earl's succession to his
grandfather's title, but Amy had no reason to believe that those years
had mellowed the arrogant, handsome face or softened the hard, unsmiling
line of his mouth.

The thought wasn't comforting. Even more disturbing was the fact that
the painting had the unsettling effect of distracting her from her work
at odd moments during the day. Too often she found herself searching
those stem features for signs of the boy who'd been catapulted swiftly
and tragically into manhood.

The transition seemed to have been complete.

She could, of course, have used any of the other rooms that comprised
the sprawling maze that was Hawkridge Manor. Lady Hawkridge had kindly
instructed her to avail herself of whatever room took her fancy.

Amy had chosen the library.

And she was honest enough to admit that she'd chosen the room because
the portrait fascinated her. She wished it didn't--fascination,
unwilling or otherwise, did not augur well if she ever met the
original--but that didn't alter the fact.

She was utterly enthralled by the image of the Earl of Hawkridge.

Her only consolation was that she was unlikely to be confronted by the
real thing any time soon. The Manor might have been the Earl's boyhood
home and principal seat, but it was a long way from London where he
apparently preferred to spend his time.

Amy could only be grateful.

She was still busily counting her blessings when the sound of carriage
wheels on gravel wafted through the open windows of the library.

"Oh, heavens!" The dowager looked up from her letter.

"You don't think Mrs. ffollifoot has sent notes to everyone and they're
arriving already, do you?"

"I doubt it, ma'am. Perhaps Mrs. Cubitt has sent for the doctor, after
all.

Would you like me to find out?"

"If you would, Amy. Oh, dear, if it isn't one thing, it's another.

Even dear Mr. Tweedy would be rather in the way when I'm so distracted.
And this afternoon everyone will want tea and there's Mary with the
chicken pox--" With the dowager twittering behind her, Amy crossed the
room with determined strides. Whoever was arriving would have to be
informed that this was not a convenient time to visit. Even if it was
'dear Mr. Tweedy' who, in her opinion, was going to prove rather too
dear for the dowager's purse.

She reached the door, yanked it open, and gave a squeak of shock as a
dark figure loomed over her.

The Earl of Hawkridge stood on the threshold.

The real one.

Amy stumbled back several paces and blinked. It wasn't an illusion.

Hawkridge was standing there in the flesh. The impact on her senses was
all that she'd feared. After one gasp of dismay, she stopped breathing.


Chapter Two Q^y^s^sq \Jood heavens! Marc!"


The startled exclamation came from his grandmother, not the lady he'd
almost bowled over in the doorway.

Marc spared the youthful unknown a quick glance. Fortunately, she'd
retreated in a hurry--before he could indulge an utterly insane impulse
to catch her about the waist and hold her against him instead of letting
her bounce off.

It was not an auspicious beginning. If she was his quarry, several
alternatives to ejecting her were already springing to mind. All
rendered him distinctly uncomfortable.

Reining in his suddenly wayward thoughts, he manufactured a smile for
his grandparent and bent to kiss her cheek.

"Good morning, Grandmama."

"Marc, what a lovely surprise. I've been wanting you to meet dear Amy
for weeks, and here you are."

"Yes." He straightened, erasing the smile when he turned to dear Amy.

The first thing he noted was the bare fingers of her left hand. He
dropped his voice to a tone well below freezing. To his extreme
annoyance, it was the only thing about him enjoying that chilly
temperature.

"Here I am."

Mrs. Chantry shivered slightly. His satisfaction at the be y traying
motion was small consolation for the effect she was having on him. It
was also brief.

Her chin went up. She thrust out her other hand with equal defiance.

"How do you do, my lord?"

"Mrs. Chantry," he acknowledged, and made the monumental mistake of
enclosing her hand in his.

Two wildly opposing impulses assaulted his brain with startling speed.

Her hand felt so small in his, so soft, he wanted to cradle it as if he
held the finest crystal, while at the same time he was rocked by an
equally strong urge to rap his fist against the pointed little chin
aimed so pugnaciously at his chest.

Damn it, his plans didn't include letting his victim know she'd
thoroughly distracted him from his mission.

Triumph didn't appear to be Mrs. Chantry's first reaction to the hard
grip of his fingers, however. When he finally managed to release her,
the colour in her face, already an interesting shade of pink, burned
hotter. She continued to meet his gaze, but defiance was fighting a rear
guard action. She looked guilty--as guilty as original sin.

She also looked as tempting.

Marc continued to study the blush suffusing Mrs. Amaris Chantry's cheeks
while he fought temptation. The faintest hint of lavender water,
overlaying warm female flesh, that wafted to his nostrils didn't help
the endeavour.

There was no doubt about it. His grandmother's latest companion was
going to be trouble.

More than trouble, he concluded grimly, subjecting the total picture to
a comprehensive appraisal. She was potential disaster clad in a cream
muslin gown the exact tint of skin that threatened to make his mouth
water. An elegant primrose spencer, puffed of sleeve and ruffled at the
throat, clung like a lover to small, round breasts that did make his
mouth water.

Resisting the urge to swallow, he jerked his gaze upward.

Hints of the same golden hue as her spencer showed in the rich tawny
hair coiled in a neat twist atop her head. He clenched his fingers
around the whip still in his hand to stop himself reaching out and
tugging at that too-neat coil.

It would have been easy; she barely topped his shoulder.

Eyes narrowed against a vision of silken hair flowing over delicate
curves, he lowered his gaze again, and decided that instant lust had
overturned his brain. He, who had never waxed lyrical about a woman,
found himself in danger of drowning in sable-fringed pools of the
clearest, purest crystalline green he'd ever encountered.

And he'd encountered a few. He'd certainly encountered enough to suspect
that subtle artifice had been employed to enhance lashes that were much
darker than her hair. He would have been happy to prove the theory, but
he was too busy being drawn into the beguiling depths of those eyes.

Fathomless eyes that told him their owner had seen too much and hadn't
liked much of what she'd seen. Eyes turbulent with defensiveness and
defiance, set beneath gently arched. brows and dominating a face too
piquant to belong to a diamond of the first water, but so finely drawn
his fingers itched to touch the petal-soft skin, to trace the fragile
bones beneath.

There was an air of innocence about that face; she looked. untouched.
Which was ridiculous. She'd been married, so she was hardly untouched.
And if her title was a courtesy one, she'd look even less innocent. And
yet, those eyes held an expression that, despite the wariness, despite
the shadows that spoke of knowledge hard won, lacked that indefinable
something that said 'favours for sale'.

For the first time Marc found himself wondering if she really was what
she purported to be. A young widow forced to earn her own living.

The possibility was unexpectedly annoying. Annoying, he admitted wryly,
because in that first instant of seeing Mrs. Amaris Chantry, he'd
pictured her in another position altogether.

Such as under him. In a bed.

He suddenly realised his grandmother had been twittering the whole time
he'd been standing as if he'd been bowled over by the Royal Mail, and he
hadn't listened to a word she'd said. He vaguely recalled such hopeful
phrases as 'delightful company', 'so kind', 'so ready to help."

"And you'll be happy to know she doesn't approve of me setting up a
retreat for naked sculptors."

That got through. Marc's gaze snapped briefly to his grandmother's
impossibly innocent face. She beamed at him. He decided to take charge
of a rapidly unravelling situation.

"I'm relieved to hear, Mrs. Chantry, that you don't approve of people
sculpting while naked."

"Oh! That isn't ... ! mean ..."

From the corner of her eye Amy saw Lady Hawkridge's lips twitch, and
cursed both her employer and the new wave of colour rising to her
cheeks. She'd meant to behave with the sort of dignified maturity that
would convince the Earl she was fully suited to her position here, and
instead was blushing and stammering like a schoolgirl.

It was all Hawkridge's fault, of course. The way he'd pounced on her in
the doorway before she'd had any warning was enough to overset the
staunchest nerves.

Not that he was exactly like his portrait. In fact, as far as she was
concerned, the portrait had a great deal to answer for.

The reality was very much taller for one thing. She had to tilt her chin
up in what was surp to appear a challenging angle to look him in the
eyes. And there didn't appear to be much daylight between him and the
doorway. In any direction.

She tried to tell herself that his elegant greatcoat, adorned with
several capes, added to the impression of overwhelming size, but it was
clear that Hawkridge's tailor did not need to use an inordinate amount
of capes to fill out those broad shoulders, or emphasise the width of
chest that met her gaze when she lowered her eyes.

She lowered them further, hoping for something to lessen the impact.

Hope died a swift and ignominious death. Hawkridge's buckskins clung to
the long powerful muscles of his thighs in a way that caused her own
legs to go unaccountably weak. As for his top boots she could have
climbed into one and disappeared.

A slight movement had her gaze climbing upward in time to see his left
hand clench about his whip, as though he was contemplating using it on
her. She wasn't surprised; in a mind- numbing burst of knowledge she'd
realised precisely what that long-ago artist had so lamentably failed to
capture.

Hawkridge might appear civilised; he might dress with the kind of
fashionable elegance that drew the eye; he might even behave with
civility in polite company. But his instincts were those of the warrior
he resembled.

She should know, Amy thought, bracing herself to confront the fierce
glitter in those piercing grey eyes. She'd fought enough battles of her
own not to recognise another ironclad will when she met one head-on.

"I see you noticed the absence of a wedding ring, my lord," she stated,
recklessly taking the offensive into enemy territory. "I had to sell
it."

She didn't appear overly distressed by the circumstance, Marc decided.
In fact, her air of youthful innocence was in direct contrast to the
cool self-possession that dropped over her like a cloak after she'd
looked him up and down. That wide-eyed examination had had its
inevitable effect. He was glad he'd left his greatcoat on. The garment
hung open, but if he turned slightly away from his grandmother she
wouldn't see his unruly body ignoring the commands of his brain for the
first time since his youth.

He didn't intend to hide his reaction from Mrs. Chantry; he wanted her
shaken out of that surface calm. But she appeared not to notice.

Given that his buckskins moulded his form like a second skin, even a
mild male response would have been obvious. Mrs. Chantry was either so
innocent her marriage was a tale of fiction, which might account for the
guilty secrets in her eyes--her mysterious husband had been a eunuch, a
possibility he dismissed out of hand--or she had turned her back on a
positively brilliant career on the stage.

"Now, Amy, I'm sure there's no need to go into all that," soothed Lady
Hawkridge, jabbing him in the ribs with an unsubtle elbow when he opened
his mouth to find out.

His glare was met with a guileless smile.

"I'm so glad you're here.

Marc, dearest. Augusta is having such a difficult time with Crispin.

You know what young boys are like. Not that you ever listened to anyone,
but Crispin thinks you're an out- and-outer, so he may listen to you,
and heaven knows poor Nettlebed can't--"

"If Nettlebed took a good look at his son instead of taking Augusta's
word for it that the brat is delicate, he might do better," Marc grated,
annoyed at the digression.

He saw a flash of approval in Mrs. Chantry's eyes, and raised a brow.

"It seems you agree, Mrs. Chantry."

She looked a little self-conscious.

"I wouldn't presume to pass judgement, my lord, when I have no
experience with youths."

"You've never been employed as a governess in your, er, career?" . ;
"No, sir. My place here witji Lady Hawkridge is my first position.

Um. that is."

"As a companion," he murmured.

Her lashes flickered, telling him the shot had hit home.

Not so innocent, then. That untouched, barely-out of-the- schoolroom
appearance must be invaluable to her. He wondered what the hell she was
doing as a companion to an elderly lady when she could be earning a
fortune in another, more horizontal, position.

No, better keep his mind off the horizontal plane.

"Then I trust the duties of a companion are more to your taste, Mrs.
Chantry," he added smoothly.

She tilted that defiant little chin at him again.

"Indeed they are, my lord. And speaking of duties--" Taking a deep
breath, she stepped forward, rather in the manner of one about to herd
sheep.

"I'm sure you and Lady Hawkridge wish to enjoy a tete-a-tete, so if
you'd be so kind as to escort her to the drawing-room, I'll continue
with the morning's tasks. Notes," she added when he raised a brow.

"We're holding a meeting here this afternoon of the Society for the
Beautification of Our Village.

Chicken-pox at the vicarage, you know. I'm sure the ladies will be agog
at your presence, if you mean to join us, that is, but first I have to
let them know and."

She finally ran down through lack of air.

"Yes, indeed," seconded his grandmother valiantly, taking his arm and
tugging.

Before he could argue. Marc found himself back in the hall. The lady
he'd come to evict sent him a sweet smile and gently shut the library
door in his face.

He glared at the wooden panels an inch from his nose.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, Grandmama," he began in arctic tones, 'but was
I just ordered out of my own library?"

"Of course you were, dearest. You can't expect poor little Amy to write
notes to everyone with you looming over her shoulder. You tend to do
that a lot, dear. Looming, I mean. You should put a stop to it."

He gritted his teeth.

"Grandmama, you and I need to have a long talk."

"How lovely." Completely undaunted by the prospect. Lady Hawkridge began
to steer him towards the drawing-room, waving a feather duster over a
vase of flowers as they passed.

Several petals floated to the floor.

He decided not to ask.

"I want to hear all the London gossip. You know. Marc, you should convey
those interesting little tidbits that we all wish to hear in your
letters, instead of warning me against unlikely disasters as if I'm in
my dotage."

"I know you're not in your dotage, Grandmama, but ' " Now sit down,
dearest, while I see what needs to be done. Oh, dear, I do hope Amy is
right. Poor Miss. Pucklenett. She likes to be daunted by drawing-rooms,
you know. It's very sad."

Marc divested himself of his greatcoat while he counted to ten.

"If Miss. Pucklenett is another of your lame ducks ' " Really, Marc, if
you ever paid attention to anything other than my affairs, you'd know
that Miss. Pucklenett has been the Mayhews' governess forever. And I do
not collect lame ducks."

He couldn't help smiling.

"Of course you do, love. Look at the way you let Pel and me run wild all
over the place when we were boys."

"That," declared the dowager with dignity, 'was a different matter.

You were our grandson well, you still are, of course and after that
terrible.

Well, Pelham had lost his parents, as you had." She wielded the duster
with considerable violence.

"What else could one do when that silly old fool at Colborough Court
took no interest in his only grandchild?"

Marc's expression turned wry.

"Colborough lost a son and daughter-in-law, too, Grandmama."

"Yes," admitted her ladyship.

"Indeed, he was never quite so irascible until that dreadful day, but to
criticise anyone who tries to go about their lives as best they may,
although he never goes out himself, is perfectly intolerable."

"Ah." Marc grinned.

"Old Colborough still refers to your Society as a bevy of cackling
hens."

His grandmother muttered something unintelligible as she continued to
attack various articles of furniture with the duster. There appeared to
be no logic to her progression. He wondered if he should point out that
several priceless antique urns imported from China by his grandfather
were in imminent danger of shattering.

"Grandmama, forgive my ignorance on such matters, but why are you
dusting?"

The dusting was suspended, saving the urns from their inevitable fate.

"Marc, are you feeling quite the thing, dearest? Surely you heard Amy
say that chicken-pox is everywhere. Mary caught it. So unfortunate, but
I'm sure she didn't do it deliberately."

"Mary being one of your maids."

"Yes, so you see why Amy and I are in such a pucker."

The thought of Mrs. Chantry in a pucker held a certain appeal.

Especially the sort of pucker that sprang in vivid detail to his
suddenly fertile brain. His body approved of the fantasy, too.

Annoyed, Marc shoved his hands into his breeches pockets and began to
pace.

"Mrs. Chantry did not strike me as the sort of person who gets into
puckers.

On the other hand, for a minute or two there, she did look decidedly
guilty."

"Guilty!" His grandparent glared at him as if he'd accused her of
nefarious activities.

"What a dreadful thing to say. Poor little Amy.

Guilty of what, pray?"

"I don't know, although after the antics of your former secretaries,
nothing would surprise me. I merely meant that Mrs. Chantry looked at me
as if she expected to be evicted in the same manner as that idiot poet
and was prepared to fight me every inch of the way."

"Well, I should think so," declared the dowager in indignant accents.

"The very idea! Tossing poor little Amy through the library window."

"Poor little Amy appears to be an enigma," Marc stated, pausing in his
perambulations and fixing his grandmother with a stern eye.

"What precisely do you know about her?"

"Lots of things," claimed the dowager somewhat defiantly. "But I don't
intend to talk about Amy while you pace about like a tiger ready to
pounce on everything I say."

"All right." Raising his hands in a gesture of compliance, Marc strode
over to a sofa and flung himself on to an overstuffed cushion.

"There. I won't even loom."

His grandmother beamed.

"That's much better. Now let me see. Well, Amy reads beautifully. Such
verve. Such passion. Such--"

" Yes, it doesn't surprise me to learn that her acting skills are
superior."

Her ladyship's approving smile vanished.

"Marcus, you are becoming extremely cynical, which I take leave to
inform you is not an attractive trait. Just because we had that tiny bit
of trouble with Mr. battle ..."

"Not to mention Ambrose the Artist and that fool poet."

The dowager had the grace to blush.

"Poor dear Florian. At least he didn't try to rob me."

"No, he pestered you with attentions, as if you'd marry a man younger
than your own grandson. I suppose I should be grateful I only had to
toss him through the window instead of chasing after him as I did battle
to retrieve those damned pearls." j Lady Hawkridge hung her head,
reminding Marc of a chastened schoolgirl standing before a hatchet-faced
governess. Even the duster drooped.

He felt like a brute.

"Grandmama, I'm sorry." Rising, he curved his hands around his
grandmother's shoulders and squeezed gently.

"I wouldn't distress you for the world, but there's no blinking at the
fact that your very nature makes you a target for spongers. If you want
a companion I'll find you one. In fact--"

" But, Marc, dearest, I've already found my own companion." Restored to
animation by that indisputable fact, the dowager whisked herself out of
his hold and continued her whirlwind circuit of the room.

"I can't imagine why I didn't employ a lady before. Dear Amy is so
obliging, so willing, so sweet- natured, so--"

" Who was her husband?" he demanded bluntly, hoping to extract one solid
fact from what threatened to become a panegyric on Mrs. Chantry's
sterling qualities.

The result was a stare of the liveliest astonishment.

"Why, dearest, whoever do you think? Mr. Chantry, of course."

Marc sat down again and put his head in his hands.

"There, there, dear." The dowager flitted up to him and patted him
consolingly with the duster.

"You must be tired. Such a long journey from Town. You should go
straight to your room and lie down."

"Grandmama, I don't need to lie down." He stared in resignation at the
smear of dust on the shoulder of his coat.

"Although I might soon become a candidate for Bedlam. I meant, what was
Mr. Chantry? For all you know, he could have been anything from a
respectable businessman to a thief from the stews."

"Oh, my goodness, how that does take me back. My old nurse, you know.

Whenever we had cherries for tea we'd play a game by counting the pips.
Rich man, poor man, beggar man thief. Whatever came last was the man one
would marry. Oh, my." The dowager sighed.

"I'm trying to elicit some facts here, Grandmama, which are not likely
to be found in the nursery. So far you don't know who Mr. Chantry was,
what he did, or when he died. I've never even encountered the name. How
old is Mrs. Chantry, by the way?"

"Good heavens, I've never asked. And neither will you. Really, Marc!

The thought of asking a lady her age."

"Stow the righteous indignation, Grandmama. Mrs. Chantry, for all her
elegance and poise, appears extremely young. I'd be surprised to learn
she's much above twenty."

The dowager appeared much struck. She blinked in surprise and gave the
matter considerable thought.

"Do you know, Marc, I think you're right. Not that I've wondered, you
understand, but now that you mention it, Amy does seem young. When you
take a close look, that is.

And yet, her manner is quite poised, isn't it? One would naturally
assume she is older."

"Probably what she wants you to think," Marc muttered. "What about her
financial situation? Augusta claimed she was destitute, and she
certainly looks as if a puff of wind will blow her over, but she's
dressed in the first style of elegance."

"Well, of course she is. Do you think I'd let my companion go about in
rags?

Naturally, I gave Amy a little money on account so she could replenish a
sadly depleted wardrobe."

"A little money on account." Marc nodded grimly.

"Now we're getting to the hub of the matter. How much money?"

"Very little," declared the dowager triumphantly.

"I tried to persuade Amy to take more, but she wouldn't hear of it. She
said she was more than capable of fashioning her own gowns from
materials bought from the village draper. And I must say she was right.
She has so many useful accomplishments. Why, she can even cook. Such a
comfort when Mrs. Pickles might be struck down with chicken-^ox at any
moment."

"A comfort, indeed. I note that the gown she cleverly fashioned isn't in
funereal black. Quite the contrary."

"Primrose," stated her ladyship, 'is a very pale shade of yellow, and
when partnered with cream, is perfectly proper for a young widow out of
mourning.

Besides, Amy wears her dark green pelisse when she goes out. She made
that, too."

"Hmm. What about more conventional accomplishments?"

His grandmother fixed him with an innocently inquiring eye.

"Do you mean things like torturing the pianoforte or the harp, throwing
paint at a canvas, singing that reminds you of cats howling?"

Marc grinned before he could stop himself.

"My remarks after the last crowd of debutantes Augusta paraded before
me." Rising, he seized his grandparent in a fond embrace that lifted her
clean off the floor.

"Touche, love. If I promise not to interrogate you any further about
Mrs. Chantry, will you let me stay?"

"As if you need to ask to stay in your own home," protested Lady
Hawkridge in somewhat muffled accents.

"You know I'm always delighted to see you, but only if you promise not
to intimidate poor little Amy."

"I promise I won't intimidate Mrs. Chantry," he repeated obediently,
setting the dowager on her feet. He decided he could safely make such a
promise. If Mrs. Chantry had nothing to hide, a few questions shouldn't
bother her.

Besides, she didn't appear to be easily intimidated.

Amy leaned against the library door for a good five minutes, both hands
clamped over her heart to stop it from leaping clean out of her chest.
She seemed to be having a great deal of trouble breathing. No doubt both
conditions were caused by relief that she hadn't been hurled forth
before she could state her case.

She'd never met anyone more intimidating. She could hardly believe she'd
actually faced down the Earl of Hawk- ridge--the real one--and won a
reprieve.

Aided and abetted by the dowager.

The admission had her frowning. She stopped pressing her shoulders to
the door as though Hawkridge might burst through it again at any moment,
and pondered the point.

For one who had opened her grandson's letter with considerable
reluctance, her ladyship had looked inordinately de y lighted to see the
author.

Hawkridge, himself, seemed as fond of the dowager. The brief smile he'd
given his grandmother had almost startled Amy into peering from him to
the portrait to see if she'd mistaken his identity. The fact that she
was still standing here, instead of sailing through the library window,
was added proof that Hawkridge cared enough about his grandmother not to
dismiss her latest companion out of hand.

On the other hand, he could be biding his time.

Amy set her lips in a determined line. It was one thing for her to know
how woefully unsuited she was to be residing in a gentleman's house;
Hawkridge had no right to look at her as though she'd had a fistful of
purloined trinkets in her possession.

Although now she came to think about it, he hadn't looked at her in
quite that way. His eyes had certainly been hard, and unnervingly
intent, but.

Amy shook her head. She suspected it would be a great deal less wearing
on her nerves if she didn't try to remember the precise expression in
Hawkridge's eyes when he'd looked her up and down. Or anything else
about him.

Fascination with a portrait was safer.

She glanced up at the painting as though to confirm that comforting
conclusion, and waited for the familiar shiver to slide down her spine.

Nothing happened.

Amy frowned and stared harder at the painted image.

Her spine stayed perfectly free of shivers.

Then realisation struck herewith the force of a thunder clap.

She was looking at the portrait of a boy. The boy she'd sought all
along; matured, even hardened by recent bereavement, but defined by his
very youth, the promise of his full strength and manhood still ahead of
him.

The man who'd towered over her in the doorway had fulfilled that promise
and more. But greater physical strength alone didn't set the man apart
from the boy. The difference was in the harnessing of that strength, and
the fierce will that drove it. He'd learned to conceal the warrior
within. Probably enough to escape detection by most of Polite Society.
And it was that--the sheer impact of intense masculinity under ruthless
restraint--that was utterly overwhelming.

No wonder he'd taken her breath away.

Amy shivered, unable to stop her errant mind from wondering if
Hawkridge's control ever snapped to reveal the man behind the polished
facade. And if it did, what would happen if she was in the immediate
vicinity when an explosion occurred?

The questions had an unfortunate effect on her senses. She thought of
the way Hawkridge had loomed over her in the doorway and her legs
trembled. She remembered the piercing glitter in his eyes when he'd
looked her up and down and her wits threatened to scatter to the four
corners of the room. She remembered the sheer size of him and every
nerve in her body quivered, shivered, and generally behaved in a manner
that was alarmingly unfamiliar.

Alarm was not something with which she wished to become re-acquainted.
She had to put a stop to this right now. If she wanted to keep the safe,
peaceful existence she was beginning to carve out for herself she was
going to need every wit she possessed. Legs would be useful if she had
to flee.

And her nerves would just have to return to fascination with a portrait,
because peace and safety were of more importance to her than fascination
with an Earl.

Or any other peer of the realm.

For that matter, they were of more importance to her than fascination
with a male of any description.

Amy straightened her shoulders. With that fact resounding in her head
she should soon recover her own facade. Heaven knew she'd worked hard
enough to perfect it. She would simply stay out of Hawkridge's way until
she was sure it was solidly back in place.

Or, she thought, fixing the painting with a narrow-eyed glare of
accusation, until she'd better prepared herself to face the subject of a
disastrously incompetent portraitist, who had been lamentably lacking in
foresight.


Chapter Three With the praiseworthy goal of avoiding Hawkridge in her
sights, Amy set out for the village of Ottersmead as soon as her notes
were written.

She anticipated a pleasant outing. Ottersmead was a peaceful place,
perfectly suited, she'd decided on her first visit, to the restoration
of jangled nerves.

Situated on a spectacular part of the Devon coast, it was sufficiently
removed from the post road so that constant traffic did not disturb its
sylvan setting, but was still within easy reach of the summer resort
town of Teignmouth.

As villages went, Ottersmead was larger than most. A dozen or so genteel
shops and houses fronted on its main street, at one end of which stood
the Vicarage, a half-timbered edifice surrounded by a very pretty rose
garden that dated from Tudor times. The Green Man, a respectable
hostelry capable of accommodating the occasional visitor in comfort,
presided at the other end of the street; a well-attended market was held
on the first Thursday of every month; and the whole was encircled by
several fine estates, all of which had been owned by the same
aristocratic families for generations.

The residents of Ottersmead were justly proud of their village, none,
more so than the Society for the Beautification of our Village, and Amy
was perfectly happy to assist their efforts at beautification by
delivering her notes in person. Especially when the task coincided with
her desire to escape from the house.

After despatching a footman to deliver notes to those members of the
Society who resided outside the village proper, Amy stepped out at a
brisk pace. The sky was a bowl of deep cerulean blue, the sun shone, and
the blustery wind she encountered on the road overlooking the rolling
swells of the J Atlantic was invigorating enough, she hoped, to blow a
disturbingly persistent image of Hawkridge out of her mind. ' Even a
temporary lull would be beneficial.

She might be able to convince herself that she'd blown the Earl's impact
on her out of all proportion.

The wind had other ideas. Hawkridge materialised at her side as if
deposited there by insidious forces of nature, and long before the
village, nestled in its crescent-shaped bay between the arms of the
surrounding cliffs, had so much as come into sight.

"Mrs. Chantry," he acknowledged in a polite voice that bore no
resemblance whatever to his chilling tones of earlier.

"I hope you don't object to my accompanying you."

"Of course not, my lord." Amy ordered her heart out of her throat,
whence it had jumped at his sudden appearance, and wished she'd had the
courage to tackle the path down to the beach. Once on the sand, she
would have been invisible to anyone on the cliff top.

Not that it mattered. The tide was in. Though the beach was accessible
further along, at this particular point during high tide the waves
lapped against the cliff. It was a shame she'd never lea mt to swim.

"Thank God you're not one of those females who objects to walking at a
smart pace," he observed, matching her speed without effort.

"I

need to stretch my legs after the drive from London."

Amy stared at him suspiciously. Why was he being civil? He didn't look
civil. In fact, he looked distinctly dangerous with his black hair
ruffled in the breeze, his coat open and his hands stuffed into his
breeches' pockets. Even his cravat appeared to have been released
somewhat from its precise folds.

She blinked at him. It was difficult to be sure without actually
peering, but the top button of his shirt appeared to be unfastened.

The elegant gentleman had been replaced by a brigand. All he needed was
a cutlass and earring.

Amy frowned. She didn't approve of pirates.

Unfortunately, disapproval was having little effect on her heartbeat and
breathing. Both usually steady functions had accelerated to a disturbing
rate.

"You must have left town before dawn, my lord," she managed to say,
surprised she could speak at all, let alone string coherent words
together. Her mind scurried to and fro, marshalling arguments, readying
her de fences--wishing she didn't have an almost compelling urge to
study him. Just to make sure she hadn't exaggerated his dangerous
qualities, of course.

"Actually, we left yesterday evening and spent the night on the road."

"Oh. We?" she added when something more seemed called for.

"I drove down with Lord Eversleigh. Colborough's heir." He jerked his
head at the pile of stone perched above the sea on the opposite side of
the cove.

"Ah, yes. Lady Hawkridge mentioned Lord Colborough only this morning."

A swift, unexpectedly wicked grin crossed his face.

"Not by name, I wager."

"Er  ...  no." Amy swallowed in an attempt to ease the sudden
constriction in her throat. By what bird-witted piece of logic had she
considered Hawkridge dangerous when unsmiling? That grin was lethal.
Some misguided woman should have married him years ago to save her
sisters from galloping heartbeats and irregular breathing. \ "I thought
not. Grandmama and Colborough enjoy openi warfare so much I've often
wondered why they never made a' match of it."

Still grappling with the image of that wicked, slashing grin, not to
mention the unnerving thought of Hawkridge in the role | of husband, Amy
struggled to uphold her end of the converj sat ion

"Lord Colborough and Lady Hawkridge have long beeni acquainted?"

"Since childhood. When my grandfather died I thought mutual loss might
eventually draw them together, but Colborough become a virtual recluse."
He sent her a swift glance.

"Grand- mama was widowed six months after my parents and Lord
Eversleigh's drowned in a boating accident. The shock was; too much for
my grandfather."

"I don't wonder at it," she murmured, compassion momentarily diverting
her.

"When Lady Hawkridge told me ..." She shook her head; the task of
conveying sympathy for such a tragedy was utterly beyond her.

"There's really nothing one can say, is there?"

Hawkridge's mouth took on a cynical curve.

"The perfect answer. All right, Mrs. Chantry. How much?"

If he'd snatched her up and dangled her over the edge of the cliff, Amy
couldn't have been more stunned. The change was so sudden, so incisive,
that for a moment she couldn't think. Then a surge of heat shot through
her.

Oh, he was good. Lull the victim into a false sense of security, then
strike. But though her very fingertips tingled with shock, this was
something she could fight.

"I have no intention of leaving Lady Hawkridge's employ, my lord, unless
she dismisses me." She schooled her features to cool composure.

"No matter what incentive you offer."

"You didn't even pretend to misunderstand me." A brow lifted.

"Unexpectedly refreshing. But what made you think I was offering to buy
you off, Mrs. Chantry?"

She looked up at him.

"What else would you mean by 'how much"

He raised his brow again; the sardonic gleam in his eyes all the answer
she needed.

This time the surge of heat was so intense she wondered she didn't
levitate straight off the ground. She looked away quickly, cursing her
fair complexion that showed every change of colour, and reminded herself
that Hawkridge could well be trying to provoke her into giving notice.

"I doubt a man would offer to buy a woman he dislikes. But the answer is
still no."

"I admire your restraint," he murmured, watching her. "Those offers were
blatant insults, but though you refused both, you weren't shocked into
retaliation."

"Women in my position become accustomed to insults, sir."

"Women in your position. Do you mean widows?"

"Not necessarily." She met his gaze head-on.

"Single women, also, may be subject to offers of an insulting nature,
even ... even hounded ..."

She broke off, tilting her chin but looking away again.

"It's the way of the world when a woman has no male protector. However,
the reason I didn't react as you may have expected is that I know your
offer sprang from concern for Lady Hawkridge."

"Indeed? To which offer do you refer?"

Amy set her teeth.

"The one to buy me off."

"And when I implied otherwise?"

"I don't believe your implication was meant to do anything more than
goad me into impulsive behaviour."

"An interesting thought," he murmured.

She clenched her hand around her reticule.

"Careful," Hawkridge advised, glancing down when a sharp crunch sounded.

"Mrs. Tredgett, for one, won't appreciate receiving a crumpled note."

Amy concentrated on not throwing her reticule at him. A lady did not
cast missiles at a gentleman. Even when the gentleman was not behaving
like one, didn't look like one, and managed to make her feel very
unladylike indeed.

"Perhaps I should make it quite clear from the outset, my lord, that I
have no intention of robbing Lady Hawkridge, or of sponging off her.
That should render unnecessary any more offers you may have in mind."

"You come straight to the point, don't you, Mrs. Chantry?" He smiled.

"I like that."

"I'm merely following your example, sir. Besides, under the5
circumstances, I see no virtue in prevarication."

"Good. Then I can be equally blunt." His smile vanished. Eyes the colour
of arctic ice bored straight through her. His voice went as cold as fog
rolling in across a very dark sea. "My grandmother tends to see only
good in people. She's also kind-hearted and generous to a fault. While
those qualities endear her to her family and friends, they also lay her
open to disillusionment and hurt. I will do anything, Mrs. Chantry--
anything--to see that she is not hurt."

Amy swallowed. The knowledge that she wouldn't hurt her benefactress for
the world didn't prevent chills sprinting up and down her spine at the
menace in Hawkridge's tone. A less determined companion would probably
flee in total disorder.

A less determined companion wouldn't, for instance, dream of teaching
him a lesson in determination.

She wiped the scowl from her face and replaced it with a sweetly
approving smile.

"What can I say, my lord, except that your sentiments do you credit."

His eyes narrowed to glittering slits. Amy decided that teaching
Hawkridge a lesson in determination was probably not a good idea while
they were negotiating the steep road down to the village. She wanted to
arrive in one piece.

She infused her voice with the tone of gentle reason, and tried again.

"Only time will prove that I would never betray Lady Hawkridge's trust,
sir.

Indeed, I'm more grateful to her than I can ever explain."

Try," he bit out, obviously unmoved by gentle reason.

She sent him a fulminating glare.

"I doubt you would understand what it's like to be down to your last
shilling, having spent everything else on appearing presentable so as to
gain respectable employment."

This blunt statement seemed to give her opponent food for thought.

After a hard-eyed appraisal, he strode along beside her for some
distance in silence.

Amy tried to calm the turbulent gyrations of her stomach. There was no
reason to be nervous. Hawkridge hadn't dismissed her; she could
withstand the odd insult or two. What else could he do to her?

The question had an unfortunate effect on her senses. They scurried
about as though seeking refuge from a threat. Such frantic exercise was
not conducive to rational thought. She had to keep her wits about her,
because she was quite certain that the next salvo wouldn't be long in
coming.

"You'were not left in fortuitous circumstances, I take it, Mrs.
Chantry."

Amy smiled grimly to herself and decided that brevity of reply was her
only recourse.

"No."

"You have no other family?"

"No."

"I find that difficult to believe. You're little more than a girl.

Where are your parents?"

"Dead."

"Grandparents?"

"I ...  Dead." It seemed a safe guess.

"Hmm. Stonewalled. I'm almost afraid to ask. Er ...  former employers?"

She looked up, startled by the hint of dry humour. Then looked quickly
away when the gleam in his eyes sent a sizzle of heat through her veins.

"N-none."

There was a slight pause. She could feel those light grey eyes aimed at
her like twin rapier points.

"You know," he said at last in a conversational tone she didn't trust
for a minute, 'you intrigue me, Mrs. Chantry. Every one of my instincts
tells me you aren't what you seem. And yet I can't make up my mind about
what it is you do seem, or what it is you are. Or even if it's the other
way about."

Since he'd rendered her almost cross-eyed trying to work that out, Amy
judged it prudent to remain silent.

"However," he continued, still in that pleasant tone that caused her to
snap back to instant attention, 'it's patently obvious that you dislike
lying."

Heat stung her cheeks; it was useless hoping he'd think it was the
natural colour caused by a walk in the brisk wind. "I'm not lying, my
lord. I've never been a companion; therefore I cannot produce any
previous employers to speak for me."

"Perhaps I should warn you, Mrs. Chantry, that I have little patience
with people who even fiddle with the truth to suit their purposes."

Her eyes flashed. She lifted her chin, but pressed her lips resolutely
together.

"Well done," he acknowledged softly.

"Whatever else you are, you're familiar with battle tactics. Was your
husband a military man, Mrs. Chantry?"

Amy's breath caught. Her mind went blank.

"Uh  ...  no."

"A professional man, perhaps?"

"No." / He sighed.

"It would really oe a great deal less wearing on both our nerves if
you'd simply tell me."

She doubted Hawkridge even had nerves.

"Does it matter?" she demanded, goaded into more than monosyllables.

"I don't know," he shot back.

"Does it?"

He'd cornered her. Why on earth hadn't she foreseen quesdons about her
husband? Probably because most people hesitated to ask such questions of
a young widow, she answered herself. Hawkridge clearly had no such
scruples.

Not that any amount of warning would have improved the situation. He was
right. She hated lying. Even fiddling with the truth made her feel
wretchedly uncomfortable. But she had no choice.

"My husband ...  in vested in certain enterprises," she finally
conceded. And almost collapsed in relief when she saw salvation, in the
person of a lady, emerge from the gates of a small estate on the
outskirts of the village.

She barely managed to keep her gasp of thankfulness silent. Her
acquaintanceship with the estate's chat elaine Lady In- gham, was of the
slightest, but that didn't prevent her from transforming her rigid
features into a bright smile of greeting.

"Damn and blast," muttered Hawkridge, clearly not sharing her feelings
on the matter. He scowled.

"Kitty always did have the habit of interrupting at the wrong moment."

At the sound of his voice, the lady in question looked around.

"Amy was just hoping her smile didn't appear too desperate, when her
rescuer let out a most unladylike shriek of delight and launched herself
at Hawkridge.

Amy ground to an astonished halt as Hawkridge not only withstood the
assault, but swooped Lady Ingham into his arms and, laughing, his scowl
quite banished, twirled her around.

Her ladyship didn't appear to find anything strange in his behaviour.

She hung on for dear life and laughed back at him. "Marc, you wretch,
where did you spring from? Oh, heavens, put me down. We're shocking Mrs.
Chantry."

Eyes gleaming, Hawkridge set his assailant on her feet and glanced in
Amy's direction.

"Mrs. Chantry's been at Hawk- ridge for several weeks, Kitty. She must
know you're a hoyden by now."

"Alas, it's true," acknowledged Lady Ingham with a rueful smile for Amy.

"But I'm sure you know how it is between old friends, Mrs. Chantry.
Poor, dear Ingham, though," she bur bled before Amy could answer.

"Such goings on at the gates. He would be shocked."

"How is Ingham?" enquired Hawkridge, a distinctly indulgent smile in his
eyes.

Amy could only stare at him in amazement. Was this the same man she'd
started out with? She hadn't suspected he was capable of laughter, let
alone playful gestures such as twirling a lady around.

Something fluttered inside her as she wondered what it felt like to be
locked in those strong arms. Though not necessarily be twirled. If
Hawkridge wrapped her in his arms, she strongly suspected her head would
spin without any assistance.

The thought paralysed her. Instead of seizing the opportunity to escape,
she stood there like a stuffed owl, wondering why she was tingling all
over as if she really was enveloped in his embrace.

When Lady Ingham started down the steps built into the cliff opposite
her gates with a gay word of farewell and a promise to visit, she was
quite incapable of doing more than respond with a weak smile.

Fortunately, her ladyship noticed nothing amiss; she was engaged in
waving to a little boy who; was already industriously at work on the
pebbled beach below, assisted by his nurse.

Amy could only be thankful.

"You look as if you'd like to follow Lady Ingham, Mrs. Chantry. The
beach here is wide enough to walk on without the discomfort of wet
sandals. Would you prefer to stroll along the shore?" j And risk looking
like a helpless female by clutching the railing all the way down that
precipitous descent?

"No!" she uttered with such force that his brows shot up. When colour
flooded her cheeks his expression went unnervingly intent. ; "A ...
another acquaintance since childhood, my lord?" she; managed to ask in a
voice that showed a lamentable tendency to squeak. Forcing her legs into
motion, she started walking.

"Yes, as a matter of fact."

He sounded intrigued. Which was even more nerve-racking.

Then he glanced up and his mouth took on a sardonic curve. "And aren't
you fortunate, Mrs. Chantry? Here comes a second saviour in the person
of my brother-in-law."

Relief was plainly writ large on her face. Amy didn't care. Lord
Nettlebed's appearance outside the Vicarage was clearly a gift from On
High.

Quickening her pace to something perilously close to a run, she greeted
him with outstretched hand and every sign of pleasure.

Quite forward behaviour in a mere companion.

"How do you do, Mrs. Chantry?" Nettlebed asked, cordially shaking hands.
A smile lit his hazel eyes.

"Just the day for a pleasant stroll, isn't it? After all the rain we've
had, you must be glad to get out of the house."

She now had serious doubts about that.

"Mrs. Chantry prefers to stride," Hawkridge put in, gripping his
brother-in-law's hand.

"Good to see you, Bevan. How is everyone?"

"I thought Augusta gave you that information in expensive detail,"
Nettlebed returned drolly.

"You don't appear to have lost any sleep over it, however. You're
looking disgustingly fit. Marc." He let his gaze rest on Hawkridge's
less-than sartorially-arranged cravat.

"If a little informal."

Hawkridge shrugged.

"I was interrupted in the middle of changing."

An image of Hawkridge ripping off his cravat promptly flashed into Amy's
mind. It was immediately followed by a picture of him shrugging those
powerful shoulders out of his coat. hooking a finger in the neck of his
shirt. ripping. The pictures stopped right there--mainly because her
brain had frozen in shock.

Beside him. Marc felt her stiffen and decided his reply had given the
game away. His quarry had finally realised he'd followed her, regardless
of what he'd been doing at the time.

She ought to count herself lucky he hadn't got further along in the task
of changing into more comfortable attire, he thought grimly, because
when he'd caught sight of her heading for the cliff road at a pace
strongly reminiscent of escaping prey, sheer predatory instinct had
taken over.

He'd shot out of his room and bounded down the stairs without a thought
for what he was wearing.

For all the good it had done him. Far from obtaining answers, he had
several more questions resounding in his brain.

Not least of which was why he experienced a damned painful surge of
arousal every time Mrs. Chantry aimed that pointed little chin in the
air.

"Well, be prepared for a lecture on the proper country attire for
gentlemen," Nettlebed continued, in blissful ignorance of his
companions' emotions.

"If, as I presume, you're on your way to call on your sister."

"I'll drive over later this afternoon," Marc growled. Then mentally
kicked himself when Nettlebed's brows rose lazily at his brusque tone.

"I don't anticipate a lecture, however. As soon as Augusta is informed
that I intend to stay at Hawkridge for a week or so, she'll start
planning a ball or some such nuisance."

His brother-in-law was successfully diverted.

"We're already in an uproar over the party we're holding tomorrow
night," he said dryly.

"For God's sake, don't put the idea of a ball into Augusta's mind.

She tfiinks a social whirl will distract Lucinda from the young man
we've had haunting the place since she returned from that damned--please
excuse me, Mrs. Chantry--that exclusive Bath seminary."

Beside him, Mrs. Chantry stiffened again. Marc sent her a swift glance,
wondering what had set her off this time. There was a tiny line between
her brows, but she didn't appear shocked at Nettlebed's language or the
fact that he was discussing family business in her presence.

Then she seemed to shake off whatever had arrested her attention and
smiled at his brother-in-law.

"Please think nothing of it, sir. Lady Nettlebed has been kind enough to
confide some of her worry to me. Although ...  I didn't know Miss.
Nettlebed had met Mr. Chatsworth while she'd been at school."

Nettlebed nodded gloomily.

"You'd think a Young Ladies Academy would take better care, wouldn't
you?

God knows, they charge enough."

Her answering nod was so full of sympathy anyone would have thought she
had teenaged children herself.

Marc found himself grinding his back teeth, a reaction that gave him a
severe jolt. He knew Nettlebed doted on Augusta; even if that hadn't
been the case, he suspected Amy was smart enough not to cast out lures
to anyone in his presence. But for some odd reason he wanted to tell
Nettlebed to keep his problems with Lucinda to himself.

"I can perfectly comprehend your feelings on the matter," Amy said,
startling him until he realised she and Nettlebed still had their heads
together like a couple of anxious matrons. "But speaking of family
concerns, you must have a great deal to discuss with Lord Hawkridge.
I'll be on my way."

"Can't be late delivering those notes," Marc muttered, not knowing if he
was more incensed with Amy or himself. He fixed his brother-in-law with
a look of heavy meaning.

"You on your way back to the Park, Bevan?"

His lordship remained annoyingly uncooperative.

"No, not really," he said vaguely. He waved a hand at the residence
behind him.

"Had to drop in at the Vicarage. Place is full of chicken-pox. Augusta
hasn't had it, nor has Lucinda for that matter, so the task fell to me
to do the civil. Didn't realise it was so demanding. Feel like I've had
the wretched illness myself, all over again, after listening to Mrs.
ffollifoot."

Marc resigned himself to the inevitable.

"A pint at the Green Man should disperse the mists. Come on--" he sent
Amy a faintly menacing glance '--Mrs. Chantry is in a hurry to be gone."

She tipped her chin up.

"Only as far as the other end of the village, my lord."

As a challenge it was without equal. Annoyance exploded into outright
male wrath. When she'd exchanged polite farewells with Nettlebed, he
deliberately stepped between them, speared her gaze with his, and taking
advantage of a passing barouche, issued his own challenge.

"Don't cross swords with me, Mrs. Chantry, unless you're willing to take
the consequences."

She flushed; her eyes widened. Then she drew back and lifted her chin at
him again.

"So now you're resorting to threats, my lord. I can only wonder, given
your opinion of me, why you didn't simply dismiss me out of hand this
morning. It would have saved us both from an unpleasant walk, not to
mention--"

" I can't dismiss you out of hand," he interrupted through his teeth.

"Grandmama would be extremely upset. And you know damn well I won't
distress her."

She affixed a smile to her face that made his fingers itch. "Now why
would I presume that, sir? I try to reserve judgement about a person
until I'm somewhat better acquainted with him."

Marc inclined his head in grim acknowledgement, and decided to leave his
opponent in possession of the field before he did something he'd regret.

Such as throwing her over his shoulder in full view of the village and
carting her back to Hawkridge where he could kiss that
cat-with-the-cream smile right off her face.

"Your point, Mrs. Chantry." He lifted his hand and, against every sane
instinct, touched her cheek briefly in a parody of a fencer's salute.
His blood surged in his veins. She was as soft as mist. And as elusive.

"However," he continued, 'there is another reason why I won't dismiss
you out of hand. I intend to know you better, also. To that end we'll
continue this conversation on our way back to Hawkridge. You have twenty
minutes to deliver your missives before meeting me back here."

She had delivered her missives in considerably less time.

Amy was still thanking Providence for her narrow escape as the members
of the Society began filing into the drawing- room later that afternoon.
She was also quaking in her little kid sandals. Defiance had taken on a
rather dangerous aspect.

Not that she'd actually agreed to the time limit arbitrarily set by
Hawkridge. She'd simply turned on her heel and stalked off; the prospect
of another conversation with him, in twenty minutes, not to mention the
suddenly unbridled workings of her mind, enough to spur her to
unprecedented speed.

Never had notes been delivered so fast.

She'd been on her way back to the Manor practically before the recipient
of the first missive had taken it from the tray presented by her
housemaid.

Amy was sure she was still unbecomingly flushed from her uphill dash
when Miss. Pucklenett paused beside her in the drawing- room doorway,
hands clasped to her bony breast.

"The drawing-room," she uttered, justifying Amy's assertion that she
would be quite overcome. She seemed oblivious to the elegant,
burgundy-draped windows, the magnificent marble fireplace or the
exquisitely rendered ceiling murals for which the Manor was famous.

"How kind of Lady Hawkridge. How gracious. Just as though I was a real
person. And she is even staying to attend the meeting."

Amy suppressed a smile.

"She is the Society's patron, ma'am."

"Yes, yes, my dear, but patrons aren't required to attend all the
meetings, you know. How shall we ever be able to convey our gratitude,
our awareness of the very great honour, our?"

"For heaven's sake, Clara, sit down and keep your tongue between your
teeth until your wits catch up with it," Mrs. Tredgett commanded, living
up to her reputation as the village dragon. Prodding her friend onwards
with her walking cane, she sailed into the room.

"Real person, indeed! What do you think you are? A ghost?"

Miss. Pucklenett was too busy being overcome by her surroundings to take
offence. Amy doubted she would have resented Mrs. Tredgett's stringent
comments in any case. The Society's ladies had all known each other for
years and, while not members of the upper echelons of local gentry,
being made up of the Vicar's wife, various minor squires' relics, one or
two governesses and the doctor's sister, were perfectly content with
their place in the scheme of things.

Amy was more than happy to be included in their number. It was several
steps up from the last social strata she'd occupied, no one frayed her
nerves with awkward questions, and there was no reason for her
imagination to run riot--unlike its behaviour in the company of certain
other persons.

Half an hour into the meeting, however, she was forced to concede that
Lord Colborough's opinion of the Society for the Beautification of Our
Village had some justification. All of five minutes had been spent on
the tricky question of how many ornamental ducks would be ordered from
the stonemason to adorn the village wall separating the beach from the
gravel led walk optimistically knpwn as the Promenade.

Everyone was happy to agree with Lp. dy Hawkridge's suggestion of six,
each smaller than the preceding one. The motion thus carried
unanimously, the ladies settled down to the main business of the
day--gossip.

When Lady Hawkridge was summoned from the room by her butler a few
minutes after the tea-tray had been brought in, the gossip promptly
swerved to include her grandson.

"I saw it with my own eyes, my dears." Mrs. ffollifoot, as befitting her
position as the Vicar's wife and the Society's usual hostess, picked up
the teapot and, ignoring Amy's claims as the dowager's deputy, poured
tea for the guests.

"There was Hawkridge in the middle of the road, in full view of anyone
who happened along, cuddling Lady Ingham."

"Shameless!" Miss. Twinhoe, a spinster of indeterminate age who kept
house for her brother, leaned forward, nose twitching like an eager
foxhound.

"Shocking!" Miss. Pucklenett's skinny form, clad in drab grey wool,
quivered with excitement.

"Scandalous!" Mrs. Tredgett snorted.

"But just like him," she added, in the tone of one who is an expert on
the subject.

"And he then continued on his way with his cravat positively mussed."

"Oh, heavens! Mussing a gentleman's cravat! Whatever was Lady Ingham
thinking of?" quavered Miss. Pucklenett.

"Why, if dear Mrs. Mayhew were to think that one of her daughters would
behave in such a forward fashion, I would expect to be turned off
without a character and end my days in destitution and poverty."

"There is no need to indulge in exaggeration, Clara," Mrs. ffollifoot
admonished, returning the teapot to its stand. Everyone ignored their
cups of tea.

"Especially as you are still with us despite Miss. Mayhew's attempts to
attract Lord Hawkridge last winter."

Miss. Pucklenett had not spent all her adult years as a governess
without learning to think fast on her feet.

"Miss. May- hew was no longer under my authority at that time, Eliza,"
she declared with dignity.

"And in any case, it was Lady Ingham who encouraged dear Amabel toer,
pursue the Earl."

"Should've known it was useless," stated Mrs. Tredgett.

"But Kitty Ingham never did have much sense. Not surprised she was
cuddling Hawkridge. After all, they were--"

" They weren't cuddling," Amy burst out, unable to stay si y lent
another minute. She was intervening for Lady Ingham's sake, she told
herself. Hawkridge was perfectly capable of looking after himself.

"I was there, since Lord Hawkridge kindly offered me his escort into
Ottersmead. Lady Ingham's greeting might have been, er, enthusiastic,
but it was perfectly innocent."

"Yes, yes, my dear Mrs. Chantry, we all know that." Mrs. ffollifoot
clucked her tongue in affront at having her story stripped of scandalous
connotations.

"But it's the look of the thing. Dear Mr. ffollifoot was grievously
shocked, and I could only be thankful Lizzie and Jane were safely in
their beds and unable to witness such a hoydenish display, although one
could wish that Lizzie hadn't contracted chicken-pox at this particular
time."

"Afraid young Mayhew might sheer off," muttered Mrs. Tredgett in an
aside to Amy.

"Shouldn't think so. Dull as dishwater, poor boy. Give me a red-blooded
male like Hawkridge any day."

Amy swallowed. The thought of Hawkridge demonstrating red-blooded
maleness was not something she wished to dwell upon.

"I'm sure Lady Ingham meant no harm," she managed to say weakly,
resisting the urge to press a hand to the fluttering in her stomach.

"And Lord Hawkridge's cravat was already mussed because he came chasing
after uh  ...  I mean ..."

Everyone sat forward, eyes fastened on her with avid expectation. Amy
gazed back at them, her mind unnervingly blank.

"The wind blew it," she. sfinally got out in a desperate rush. / The
ladies sank back in their seats with a collective sigh of
disappointment.

Miss. Twinhoe recovered first.

"A kind-hearted person such as yourself would naturally say so, Mrs.
Chantry," she said, nodding approval at Amy.

"Oh, no need to colour up, my dear. Your demeanour is exactly as it
should be. I was saying so only yesterday to Miss. Pucklenett, wasn't I,
Clara?

There are several young ladies who would do well to follow your example,
but while Hawkridge is in residence you may be sure we'll have all
manner of forwardness. Encour'aged, I might add, by his own sister. Lady
" Not to mention Lady Ingham," put in Mrs. ffollifoot, whose disapproval
of that damsel seemed to be increasing in leaps and bounds.

"One would think Hawkridge could have his pick of the London debutantes,
without her throwing every eligible lady in the county at his head."

"I daresay she wishes his lordship to be as happily settled as herself,"
suggested Miss. Twinhoe.

"They were engaged, you know," she added, for Amy's benefit.

"But Miss. Ashcroft, as she was then, broke it off, practically on the
day of the wedding. Such a scandal."

"Never understood why," grumbled Mrs. Tredgett, obviously annoyed by her
lack of comprehension.

"Hawkridge has wealth, an old, distinguished title and is indecently
goodlooking into the bargain.

What more did the girl want?"

What, indeed?

Amy thought of the affection and easy camaraderie between Hawkridge and
Lady Ingham and wondered the same thing. Why had Kitty Ingham broken her
engagement? And, more to the point, why had a man of Hawkridge's
predatory nature accepted the blow?

"His lordship doesn't strike me as the type of man to accept being
jilted," she murmured, unable to resist her curiosity on that particular
point.

"Well, he is, after all, a gentleman, my dear," Mrs. ffollifoot informed
her, getting her revenge by assuming Amy was ignorant of gentlemanly
behaviour.

"What else could he do?"

The question continued to exercise Amy's mind for several minutes.

Graceful resignation didn't appear to be Hawkridge's style; perhaps he'd
cared so much for Lady Ingham, he'd wanted her happiness despite the
cost to himself.

The thought caused a strange pang in her heart. It was immediately
followed by a sensation closely akin to fear. Why should she care about
his feelings?

Hawkridge meant nothing to her; except as a dangerous opponent who had a
dismaying habit of invading her mind at inconvenient moments. She would
put a stop to it. After all, it was the portrait that had fascinated
her; she would simply renew her efforts to avoid its subject.

Unfortunately for this sensible plan, she returned her attention to the
conversation to find that Hawkridge was still its main topic.

"Yes, indeed," Miss. Pucklenett was saying.

"I've always found him to be the perfect epitome of gentlemanly
behaviour.

So gracious. Such manners. So very charming."

Mrs. Tredgett apparently felt compelled to throw in a dash of realism.

"A holy terror when he was a boy."

"Poor orphaned lad. Quite helpless to do anything," murmured Miss.
Twinhoe, shaking her head.

Amy very nearly shook hers as well. A holy terror she could believe, but
charming? The perfect epitome of gentlemanly behaviour? A poor helpless
orphan? Were these ladies blind'] "Of course, you don't know anything
about that, Mrs. Chan- try, since you've only just met his lordship."
Mrs. ffollifoot sent her an acid smile.

"He always comes down especially to investigate her ladyship's
companions."

"I'm sure it's very touching that he cares enough about dear Lady
Hawkridge to assure himself of Mrs. Chantry's suitability," declared
Miss. Twinhoe hurriedly.

"Not that there can be any doubt about that, my dear."

"Very protective," stated Mrs. Tredgett.

"Runs in the family."

"And one must remember that the previous companions were men." Miss.
Twinhoe made the pronouncement with all the air of one discussing wild
and dangerous beasts, whose behaviour could be counted upon to be vastly
different from that of more civilised beings.

"Very true," agreed Miss. Pucklenett in hushed accents. She glanced
around and lowered her voice still further as though about to divulge a
hideous secret.

"And we all know of the Unfortunate Habits that effect certain persons
of the Male Persuasion."

Since the entire Society had several times been regaled with the sorry
tale of their friend's long-ago tend re for her father's curate, and the
scoundrel's subsequent elopement with the daughter of a wealthy
tradesman, everyone nodded sagely. A few seconds of silence ensued while
respect was paid to the demise of Miss. Pucklenett's youthful
aspirations to the wedded state.

By the time it was judged proper to continue. Lady Hawk- ridge returned
to the drawing-room and conversation became general.

Amy sat back and contemplated her cup of tea. She completely forgot
about her resolution to keep Hawkridge out of her mind; several vastly
contradictory images of him were whirling therein in dizzying array. She
didn't know which was predominant. The gentleman gracefully accepting
his conge-- her imagination still balked at that one. The boy on the
verge of manhood, struggling with bereavement.

The rakishly dishevelled, wickedly grinning pirate on the cliff top.

Or the relentless interrogator who seemed determined to uncover
everything she'd prefer to forget.

And beneath it all, waiting, was the warrior she sensed as surely as she
recognised the less-than-civilised side of herself.

A warrior, she suspected, who was going to be more than a little annoyed
that she'd eluded him that afternoon.


Chapter Four Amy attached a tiny lace cap to her up swept hair, checked
her appearance one last time in her mirror, and reminded herself that
she'd survived worse fates than confronting an irate male across the
dinner table.

Even one who loomed in doorways, arrived on cliff tops without warning,
and asked a lot of questions.

She was prepared. Hawkridge wouldn't take her by surprise again.

Buoyed by that thought, she cracked open her bedchamber door and peered
cautiously through the aperture. No one appeared to be looming.

Her spirits brightened considerably. Since there were no cliff tops in
the house, and she'd rehearsed several pithy answers to a variety of
possible questions, the evening might not be so bad after all.

Releasing her pent-up breath, she stepped into the passageway, her head
half-turned to close the door.

"Good evening, Mrs. Chantry.

"Aaagh!" Amy whirled and cannoned into her door. Unfortunately, in the
shock of the moment, she hadn't had time to latch it. The door flew open
under the impact. She felt herself reeling backwards and squeaked in
dismay.

An arm taut with sinew and muscle caught her about the waist and hauled
her to safety against a powerful male body. Except that safety was not
the first word that sprang to mind.

Amy squeezed her eyes shut as her head spun like a fairground maypole
gone mad. Thank heavens they weren't on twirling terms, she thought
wildly. She was having enough trouble coping with the masculine heat and
power enveloping her.

She was released before she could melt completely. Senses still
whirling, she leaned against the wall, a hand to her heart, and summoned
a thread of a voice.

"Thank you, my lord."

When he didn't answer, she forced her eyelids open. Grey eyes blazed
into hers, glittering with enough heat to scorch her pale rose silk
evening dress right off her trembling form. "I mean ..." She jerked
herself upright.

"So now you've added creeping up on people to the list!"

The muscles in his jaw locked; the flames abated. He shoved his fists
into his pockets and glared back at her.

"List?" "Never mind," said Amy crossly. She peeled herself away from the
wall and started toward the stairway. With luck, her legs would feel
steadier than limp muslin by the time they got her there.

It was going to be rather more difficult to erase the fierce intensity
in Hawkridge's eyes from her mind. Just for an instant the civilised
mask had been ripped aside. He'd looked at her as if he'd been a brigand
in truth. A brigand about to throw her to the floor and ravish her.

The shocking part had been the primitive thrill that had coursed through
her at the thought.

"I'm sorry if I startled you," he bit out, not sounding sorry in the
least.

"I was on my way to enquire if you'd been unexpectedly struck down by
illness since you didn't keep our appointment in the village." He
slanted a mocking glance down at her.

"Chicken-pox, perhaps."

Amy had no attention to spare for sarcasm.

"Appointment? Oh, yes, appointment." She tried for a tone of airy un
concem--and resisted the temptation to clutch the balustrade with both
hands as they started down the wide sweeping staircase that led to the
hall.

"Yes." He fixed her with a pointed stare.

"The appointment we made before you delivered your notes, Mrs. Chantry."

"Oh, dear, perhaps I misheard you, sir. As I recall, Mrs. Mayhew's
carriage rattled by at that precise moment. Your words must have been
drowned out." Feeling a little steadier when he didn't challenge this
flimsy excuse, she summoned up a polite smile.

"I hope you didn't wait long."

His smile was equally polite, and a great deal more dangerous.

"Not at all," he purred.

"I was right behind you all the way back to Hawkridge."

She gulped, her entire back tingling as if he was stalking behind her at
that very moment. The gleam in his eyes had her straightening her spine
with an almost audible snap.

"Indeed? In that case, I'm surprised you didn't catch up with me so you
could continue your interrogation."

His smile became even more polite.

"Actually, it was my intention to continue our conversation, but I
became distracted by the view."

She tripped over the bottom step.

"The view?"

Hawkridge steadied her with a large hand beneath her elbow.

"Yes. It was quite fascinating."

Amy's brows snapped together.

"One would have thought you're quite accustomed to the view, my lord.
You've lived here most of your life."

"Indeed, but there's always soiyething new to be seen, don't you find?"
/ At this moment, she would be happy to see Lady Hawkridge and a dinner
table surrounded by servants.

"But there's no harm done. If you're determined to remain here, Mrs.
Chantry, we'll have plenty of opportunity for convivial walks to the
village."

"Convivial--" Amy set her teeth.

"Very true, sir. I do trust, however, that you'll refrain from
interrogation, at least while we're toiling uphill."

"Next time we'll take the horses," he assured her, and bowed before
ushering her into the withdrawing-room where the family traditionally
congregated before dinner.

Lady Hawkridge was seated before a cosy fire, reading the Morning Post.
She looked up as they entered.

"Horses?" she queried, putting her paper to one side.

"No, no. Much too large. But, you know, Amy, I'm beginning to have my
doubts about those ducks. Perhaps we should have more fully considered
Miss. Twinhoe's.suggestion of dolphins."

Marc eyed his grandparent with caution.

"Dolphins?" He glanced at Amy as she seated herself at the other end of
the dowager's sofa. The faintest of smiles was playing about her mouth.
His eyes narrowed.

The little wretch knew what his grandmother was twittering about and
wasn't above letting him flounder.

"I think you might find the waters around here a little short of
dolphins, Grandmama," he essayed.

Lady Hawkridge stared at him in bewilderment.

"Good heavens. Marc, what has that to say to anything? Were you
expecting Mr. Brinwell to catch a real one?"

"Er, if you want a dolphin, yes."

Amy stopped resisting the smile fighting to break free and decided--with
great magnanimity, she thought--to come to his rescue.

"Lady Hawkridge refers to the ornamental ducks the Society is
commissioning from the stonemason, sir. To adorn the seawall in the
village."

He stared at her, thunderstruck.

"Good God! Duck st His grandmother took umbrage at his tone.

"Well, you must admit.

Marc, that ducks would be more appropriate than horses!"

"I was talking about riding, love," he returned, feeling quite incapable
of further explanation.

"Oh. Well, in that case I suppose it will have to be the ducks.

Although a nice dolphin, in the act of frolicking, would have served as
a back-rest if anyone wished to sit upon the wall and drink in the
view."

"How odd," Marc murmured. He propped his shoulders against the
mantelpiece, folded his arms and smiled down at his grandmother.

"Mrs. Chantry and I were discussing views only a moment ago:' Amy glared
at him. She had heard enough about views.

Her tormentor hadn't, apparently.

"Perhaps, in the pursuit of searching out interesting views, Mrs.
Chantry, you'd like to ride tomorrow morning? It promises to be a fine
day."

Amy took up the tablecloth she'd been hemming the evening before and
stabbed her needle grimly into the linen.

"I'm here to work, my lord, not jaunter about--" She stopped as if
someone had struck her across the throat, her gaze riveted to the
newspaper beside her. Between one heartbeat and the next the
withdrawing-room at Hawkridge Manor vanished, and she was catapulted
into the past.

"Oh, Amy, dear, you've pricked your finger."

The dowager's Voice came to her from a great distance. Amy shook her
head and wrenched herself back to the present.

"It's nothing, ma'am." She stared at her finger, forcing herself to
study the tiny wound so she wouldn't have to look at Hawkridge. She
didn't dare look at him. She knew he was watching her. She could feel
the sudden tension in him, the coiled waiting stillness of the hunter.

"See. The merest trifle."

"Only one drop of blood," her ladyship agreed comfortably. "But it
always gives one such a start. Now, where were we? Ah, yes, jauntering
about--" She was interrupted when the butler entered to announce dinner.
Amy breathed a sigh of relief. With luck, Hawkridge might put her abrupt
silence down to the sting of her needle.

It seemed he must have; the tension emanating from him abated, and he
stepped forward to take his grandmother in to dinner.

Amy followed, hoping that by the time they sat down, her employer's
notoriously flighty memory would have forgotten about jauntering.

"You know, Amy, jauntering about the countryside puts me in mind of
something," Lady Hawkridge continued, slaying this hope in one fell
swoop.

She smiled fondly at her grandson as he held her chair for her.

"While Marc is here to escort us, we should go out and about a little
more.

You've scarcely met anyone since you've been at Hawkridge, and there's
no reason for you to be so retiring because you're my companion. Quite
the contrary."

Amy contemplated, without enthusiasm, the bowl of chicken soup presented
to her by Pickles. She had just lost her appetite.

"I'm a widow, ma'am."

"Yes," murmured Hawkridge, seated at her right.

"Remember, we don't know the precise date of Mrs. Chantry's bereavement,
Grandmama."

He was sent a quelling look.

"Oh, dear, I'm so sorry, Amy. I assumed, since you're out of mourning,
that your loss was over a year ago."

"Well, as to that, you are right, ma'am, but--"

" Then there's no reason why we can't indulge ourselves with a little
jollification," declared Lady Hawkridge, a pleased smile replacing her
frown.

"Augusta's party will do nicely for a start. Nothing formal, you
understand; merely a gathering of friends to amuse Lucinda until she
makes her come-out."

"But--"

" Now, Amy, you know Augusta will be happy to see you. Why, she was
saying only the other day how she values your judgement, how impressed
she was by your good sense, how--"

"That's very kind of Lady Nettlebed, I'm sure, but--"

" And no more nonsense about being a companion. That is merely a
circumstance; you are perfectly presentable."

" Thanks to your generosity, ma'am. And please don't think me
ungrateful--indeed, I'll never be able to repay your kindness--but I'm
perfectly happy in the company of Miss. Puck- lenett and Miss. Twinhoe
and--" Her ladyship clucked her tongue.

"Goodness me, no, that won't do.

Worthy ladies though they are, you can't wish to end up keeping house
for a doctor, even if he is your brother, or losing your wits every time
you see a drawing-room."

"A depressing fate," concurred Hawkridge, finishing his soup and sitting
back in a casual sprawl that managed to look extremely dangerous. He
contemplated Amy from beneath half-lowered lids.

"But we've yet to ascertain, Grandmama, if Mrs. Chantry has a brother.
And if so, is he a doctor?"

Amy met the challenging glitter in those grey eyes with up tilted chin.

"The answer to the first of those questions, my lord, is no.

Which leaves the second redundant." So pleased was she with that reply
that her appetite promptly returned. She applied herself with gusto to
the second course of lamb cutlets braised in a mint sauce.

"There you are, then," declared the dowager. She waved a cutlet in the
air in triumph.

"If Amy doesn't have a brother, we don't need to worry about him."

"You relieve my mind, Grandmama."

Her ladyship was too busy making plans to suspect sarcasm. "And it isn't
as if you're going to be waltzing with every gentleman who crosses your
path, Amy. That would be too forward in your present circuirfstances.
However, a lady always knows precisely how to behave, and since you're
very much a lady, I have no qualms on that account.

There can be no objection to your attending Augusta's party. Don't you
agree, Marc?"

"No objection," he muttered.

Mrs. Chantry aimed that pointed little chin at him again. She appeared
torn between reluctance to embark on a social whirl and indignation at
his tone.

Her feelings on the subject were the least of his problems, however. He
was glad he was sitting down, a napkin over his lap. Apart from his
usual reaction to that distinctly feminine challenge--a response that
was becoming disturbingly familiar--her mutinous expression reanimated a
vivid mental picture of the view he'd found so fascinating that
afternoon.

The sight of her pert, rounded little derriere swaying agitatedly back
and forth as she'd sped up the hill in front of him had aroused several
rather heated fantasies. He'd wanted to curl his hands around those
tantalising globes, to stroke, to caress, to savour that uniquely
feminine softness.

And that was only the start.

Once the seed was sown, his mind had proved disastrously fertile. The
delicately curved ankles revealed every few seconds by the violent
upward flipping of her skirts hadn't rendered the trip any less painful.
Something had to be done before Mrs. Chantry caused permanent damage.

The first step was to get her away from the house again.

"And since you now have Grandmama's approval in the matter of
jollification, Mrs. Chantry, there can also be no objection to us riding
together tomorrow morning. Shall we say ten o'clock? You'll notice there
are no carriages rattling by, so I'll expect you to the minute."

Amy blinked at him, her wits momentarily suspended. It wasn't
Hawkridge's somewhat menacingly uttered rider that bothered her; she had
just discovered a rather significant gap in her education.

She must have looked as blank as she felt, because Hawk- ridge raised a
brow.

"You do ride, Mrs. Chantry?"

"Er, no."

The dowager looked vaguely surprised.

"You don't ride, dear? Well, not every lady cares for horses, you know."

Amy thought quickly. An instant's silent debate had her abandoning the
idea of following her ladyship's lead. If Hawk- ridge thought she didn't
care for horses, he was perfectly capable of marching her down to the
stables and introducing her to the animals, regardless of her feelings
on the matter.

Her reply had to be prosaic.

It also had the advantage of being the truth.

"It isn't that. My mother and I did live in the country for a time, but
I was so young I scarcely remember it. Then we moved to town."

"Ah, so you did have a mother, Mrs. Chantry."

"Marcus!" His grandmother bent a severe frown upon him.

"That was very rude. Pay no heed to him, Amy."

"I don't intend to, ma'am." Amy took her time over the last mouthful on
her plate, placed her knife and fork neatly side by side and set her
lips in a prim line.

"I've already learned that your grandson does not always behave like a
gentleman."

"Yes, I know. And nothing can be done about it. Though if the gossip one
hears is the truth, several ladies have attempted the task."

"I would be obliged to you both if you'd stop discussing me as if I'm
not here," Hawkridge stated. He raised an ironic brow at Amy.

"My apologies if I seemed rude, Mrs. Chantry. Such was not my
intention."

She sent him a sidelong look, gently mocking.

"I believe you, my lord. You seem to manage the feat without any prior
intent at all."

Lady Hawkridge choked and lifted her napkin hastily to her lips.

"Oh, dear." She coughed discreetly.

"That last mouthful must have gone down the wrpng way." Ignoring her
grandson's abruptly narrowed gaze, she beamed at Amy.

"Have you finished, Amy, dear? Perhaps we should leave Marc to his port.
It might improve his mood."

Amy rose from her chair as though propelled by springs. "An excellent
idea, ma'am."

Hawkridge sighed and stood also.

"Given the female conspiracy to which I find myself falling victim, I
feel I should accompany you. Merely to defend my character, of course."

"If you say so, dearest." Lady Hawkridge patted his arm as she passed
him.

"I'm sure Amy will be glad of your company. I don't know how it is, but
every time I attend one of the Society's meetings I feel ...  quite ...
exhausted ...  afterwards. Oh, dear ..."

To Amy's dismay the dowager began to wilt. To her horror, her ladyship
didn't stop at wilting. Before her very eyes. Lady Hawkridge transformed
herself from a still-spritely elderly lady to one whose air of
enfeeblement was positively ghastly.

A tiny, claw-like hand reached, shaking pitifully, for Amy's arm; she
leaned heavily, her weight quite disproportionate to her suddenly
shrunken size.

Her voice quavered with the weak tones of one croaking out last wishes.

"Perhaps you wouldn't mind ringing for Giddings, Amy? To assist me up
the stairs."

"I'll certainly ring for Giddings, ma'am, but first allow me to escort
you to your room." She would have hauled the dowager towards the door in
her haste, except that Lady Hawk- ridge drooped even more.

Amy had to grab hold of her ladyship with her other hand to prevent her
from slithering all the way to the floor.

"No, no, Amy, dear. I know you won't take it amiss, but I'd like to have
Giddings. When one is overtaken by the wretched weakness engendered by
advancing years, one needs long-familiar faces about one."

"I'm sure that's quite understandable, ma'am, but--"

" And it would take such a load off my mind to know you'll keep Marc
company on his first night at home." Blue eyes lifted pleadingly.

"He likes a cup of tea, you know, and who will pour it when Pickles
brings in the tea-tray if you're upstairs with me?"

"Well, as to that--" The bird-like claw patted her arm.

"I knew I could depend on you, Amy, dear. So kind. Thank you."

Amy sent a frantic glance at Hawkridge. He had taken up his post against
the mantelpiece again, arms folded across his chest, and was watching
the performance with a smile of unholy amusement in his eyes.

Which was all very well for him, she thought frantically. What if the
dowager really was overcome by exhaustion, unlikely though it seemed?

It was part of her job to see to her ladyship's comfort, to accede to
her wishes.

"Would you please ring the bell, my lord," she directed, glaring at him
when he grinned.

*I already have. Giddings should be here at any second."

The door opened on his words. Giddings bustled in, apparently not at all
surprised to see her mistress in an advanced state of decrepitude.

"There, I knew how it would be after all that dusting," she scolded.

"Now just leave her ladyship to me, Mrs. Chantry. I'll have her put to
bed and resting in a trice."

"So kind," croaked the dowager, waving feebly. With a smile for
Hawkridge and Amy that appeared to take the last of her rapidly
dwindling stores of strength, she tottered from the room, supported by
Giddings.

Amy could only gaze after her employer in awed admiration--until a
chuckle from the vicinity of the fireplace reminded her of the remaining
company.

"What convinced you that Grandmama wasn't about to expire in your arms,
Mrs. Chantry?" Hawkridge pushed himself away from the mantelpiece and
crossed the room to a table that held a decanter and several crystal
glasses. He poured himself a small measure of brandy and turned to face
her.

Her gaze rested thoughtfully on the glass in his hand.

"For some odd reason, my lord, I can't imagine you drinking tea."

He raised a brow.

"It would be far too civilised."

"You consider me un civilised "I'm sure you can be perfectly civil, my
lord."

A smile touched his mouth.

"That wasn't quite what I asked."

When she didn't answer, the smile turned wicked.

"Your unspoken accusation is positively reverberating in the ether, Mrs.
Chantry."

She wasn't going to rise to that bait either.

He laughed softly.

"We'll reserve the discussion of my un civilised tendencies for a later
date.

You still haven't answered my original question. Quite an innocuous one,
I thought."

She narrowed her eyes at him.

"After my first shock, sir, I realised you weren't at all worried about
your grandmother's health. Nor was Giddings, come to that. The
conclusion was obvious. However, a companion doesn't argue with her
employer."

"And you are a very proper companion, aren't you, Mrs. Chantry?"

"I hope so. However, I have no obligation to be a companion to you, my
lord.

I'm sure you're quite capable of amusing yourself until you retire, so
I'll wish you good--"

" But my grandmother expressly asked you to keep me company, Mrs.
Chantry."

Amy paused, one foot half-suspended from the floor.

"That was part of her act, as I'm sure you're aware."

"Yes. I did wonder if your lack of concern sprang from instant
recognition of a superlative performance. Merely a fleeting thought, you
understand."

She stifled a sigh, returned her heel to the floor and looked back over
her shoulder.

"Since I've never had the opportunity to attend a playhouse, my lord,
I'm glad the thought was merely fleeting. My answer to your query as to
my lack of concern was the simple truth, no more, no less."

"Excellent. Why don't you sit down so we can explore some more simple
truths together?"

The notion of exploring anything with Hawkridge caused a tremor to
ripple through her. Amy turned very slowly. He stood watching her, one
brow raised, the half-smile playing about his lips holding amusement, a
hint of appeal--and an unnerving amount of charm.

Fascination stirred; tantalising, teasing. Curiosity tip-toed in its
wake.

Miss. Pucklenett had been right. He could be charming. How many guises
did he use to mask the fierce intensity that was evident only in the
stillness with which he waited and the intent glitter in his eyes?

It was probably foolish to ask the question, let alone stay in the
expectation of an answer, but hadn't she prepared herself for this very
situation? Her earlier evasiveness had only aroused Hawkridge's
predatory instincts. If she gave him nothing to sink his teeth
into--another tremor rippled through her--he might cease his
questioning.

Perhaps Lady Hawkridge, knowing her grandson, had reached a similar
conclusion and created the opportunity.

Amy swallowed, walked over to a chair and sat down.

"Very well, my lord. I can see you won't be content until you've
completed your interrogation."

"Not at all, Mrs. Chantry. I'm merely endeavouring to make polite
conversation. It's what one does after dinner, you know."

"You appear to need practice at it, sir."

He laughed aloud at that, the sound causing a. fris son of sensation to
feather over her skin. For some odd reason she found herself holding her
breath until he'd strolled over to the sofa opposite her armchair andaat
down.

"Then let us practice, Mrs. Chantry, by all means. I see yesterday's
news is at hand to assist us." He retrieved his grandmother's discarded
newspaper and, sending her a swift glance, began to read.

'"Another shocking robbery at Bristol. Last night thieves broke into a
gentleman's residence, tied the terrified occupants hand and foot,
including the unfortunate servants, and proceeded to ransack the house.
This newspaper considers transportation too lenient for such scurrilous
rogues."

What do you think, Mrs. Chantry? Should the wretches be hanged when
they're laid by the heels?"

He glanced up as he spoke--and immediately narrowed his eyes on her
face.

Thank God she'd had that warning earlier. Even so it was a struggle to
force her frozen features into an expression of mild interest.

Only sheer determination to hold on to her place here had her managing
the task.

"A very frightening experience," she remarked, neatly dodging a debate
on transportation or hanging. If Hawkridge suspected such a discussion
had the power to disturb her, he wouldn't rest until he knew why.

"But there's no need to delve into the newspaper for a topic of
conversation, my lord. I'm quite happy to answer your questions."

"Hmm." Hawkridge tossed aside the Morning Post and crossed one booted
foot over his knee. He still watched her narrowly, but the expression in
his eyes turned ironic.

"Why do I get the feeling I'm not going to learn much?"

"Why should you wish to, sir?"

"A good question," he muttered.

"When I do learn more, I might have an answer."

"Well, unless you're still labouring under the misapprehension that I'm
here to fleece Lady Hawkridge and so must possess a shady past--"

" No," he interrupted.

"Actually, having had the opportunity to observe you further, Mrs.
Chantry, I believe you're genuinely fond of my grandmother. Under those
circumstances, I can't imagine you cheating her."

"Oh." Amy flushed. The very small, very scared part of herself that was
always wary, relaxed some of her de fences

"Thank you, sir. In that case--" She made to rise.

"However, I am interested to learn how it comes about that a lady of
your tender years finds herself completely alone in the world."

Amy dug her fingers into the arms of her chair, resisted an urge to
grind her teeth, and sat back.

Hawkridge smiled faintly.

"You say you have no family living. What of your husband's relatives?"

"I don't know, my lord."

His brows shot up.

"You don't know?"

"My husband never mentioned his family." She shifted slightly.

"Perhaps I should make it plain that my marriage was very brief."

"I see. I'm sorry to hear that, Mrs. Chantry."

"Yes. And since my own mother died only a few weeks before I Ie--er,
lost my husband, I was forced to find some means of support."

He studied her somewhat thoughtfully, making her nerves jump as she
wondered if he'd noticed her slip.

"It must have been very frightening to be left alone like that. Were
there no friends you could turn to? You mentioned living in town.

Surely somewhere in London."

"My mother and I lived in Branscombe, sir."

When he lifted a brow, she added, "It's near Cheltenham."

"Ah." Another smile touched his mouth.

"Too small to possess a livery stable, no doubt."

Amy frowned.

"Really, my lord, are you still wondering why I don't ride? Why on earth
would you belabour such an insignificant point?"

"A grave fault, I know, but insignificant points sometimes have a way of
turning out to be crucial." His smile turned apologetic.

"Your family, for instance. Are you quite sure there's no one?"

"No one."

A quizzical gleam came into his eyes.

"No one at alh N6 aunts, uncles, third cousins in the fourth degree,
crusty old great-uncles living in seclusion?"

Amy had to smile.

"None that I know of, sir."

"Who was your father, Mrs. Chantry?"

"No one with any connections who might have come to my aid, if that's
where this is leading," she said somewhat drily. "He was merely the son
of a vicar, destined to follow his father into the church."

"Destined? I take it from that, he didn't do as expected?"

"No." She shifted again and tried to relax muscles that were drawing
tighter with each question. She had nothing to hide about her parents.
Not compared to the rest.

"Unless one has private means, the remuneration for newly ordained
curates is not enough to support a wife and family. However, my father
had fallen in love with my mother and wished to marry her immediately,
so he left home to find other work. My grandfather disowned him."

Hawkridge frowned.

"A rather extreme method of bringing your father to heel."

"But quite common, my lord. Even in your own circle."

He inclined his head.

"Indeed. Although the laws of inheritance protect elder sons. And some
of us ..." He hesitated; his gaze shifting to the fire.

"Some of us are fortunate enough to have parents who care about their
offspring."

His brows drew together. He sent her a swift glance before getting to
his feet and bending to place another log on the fire. "So, what
happened to your parents in the end, Mrs. Chantry?"

Amy barely heard the question; her attention was suddenly riveted to
him. He straightened, but stayed where he was, staring down into the
flames. She wished she could see more of his face than a half-profile.
That fleeting moment had left her strangely shaken.

He'd spoken quite matter-of-factly about his parents' deaths that
afternoon.

But just now. had the mask slipped again? This time to reveal
vulnerability? Was he aware of it--or was he using it to lure her into
confiding in him?

"Mrs. Chantry?"

Amy started and glanced up. She hadn't even been aware that her gaze had
fallen to her hands, gripped tightly in her lap, but now her senses were
painfully alert, and al y most. waiting. The quietness was so intense
she felt Hawk- ridge's presence as if they were touching, although he
wasn't particularly close. The fire flickered lazily, sending wisps of
smoke drifting up the chimney. The clock on the mantel ticked,
sonorously, as though time had slowed in the silence of the room.

The entire house seemed to wait for her answer.

"They eloped," she murmured, throwing off the odd notion that, in that
moment, her life had stilled, before moving on in another, unknown,
direction.

"Mama told me they travelled about for some time, seeking work, and then
my father died of a fever a month before I was born."

Hawkridge frowned.

"And your mother returned home?"

"No, my lord. Apparently my maternal grandfather was also lacking in
sympathy." Her chin went up.

"Possibly because my parents didn't manage to get themselves married
during their travels."

"I see." He was silent for a moment, then added, "Inconvenient of them."

The gentle humour eased some of her tension. Amy smiled wryly.

"They were both under age. Without their parents' consent, any marriage
would have been illegal."

"Unlike your own, Mrs. Chantry."

"Yes." She made a sound that wasn't quite a laugh.

"I made sure of it." And had regretted it ever since.

The abrupt silence that followed had her entire body tingling. She
hadn't said those last words aloud, had she? No, that wasn't why she was
suddenly frozen where she sat.

He'd done it again. Distracted her, slipped under her guard and-She came
to her feet with a rush that almost sent her chair toppling backwards.
Her hands fisted at her sides.

"Oh, you are an excellent interrogator, my lord. I noticed it this
afternoon, but apparently the lesson didn't last long enough. How 3 dare
you imply that I'm masquerading under false pretenses, that I wasn't
married at all?"

He stepped forward a pace, brows drawing together.

"Before you whip yourself into a fit of the va pours Mrs. Chantry, I
implied no such--"

" Yes you did! Your statement was deliberately designed to trip me up.

To. to. trick me into confessing--" She stopped short, clamping her lips
shut on the rest.

His voice went very soft, very gentle.

"Confess what, Mrs. Chantry?"

Amy shuddered and made a desperate grab for her composure. What was she
doing? If she wasn't careful, she would be confessing everything.

She pushed away a sudden insane desire to do just that. Pushed it away
violently.

"I was speaking metaphorically, my lord." She took a breath; let it out.

"If you have any doubts about that, I'd be perfectly happy to go
upstairs and fetch my marriage lines for your perusal.

Perhaps that will put an end to your questioning."

She wheeled about on the words, but Hawkridge was beside her before
she'd taken a step. He caught her above the elbow, his long fingers
completely encircling her arm. Amy gasped once, then went very still.

Even her breathing stopped. His hand felt hard and warm, his fingers
terrifyingly strong against the softness of her inner arm.

She shivered, threw off the sensation of having been captured, and
turned, brows raised in haughty enquiry. The expression apparently
needed practice; Hawkridge gentled his grip, but he didn't release her.

And his eyes were glittering, intent on her face.

"That won't be necessary, Mrs. Chantry. I was merely remarking that your
parents' experience no doubt influenced your own. I didn't mean to
discompose you."

Her chin lifted.

"You didn't, sir. I was objecting to your methods.

Now, if you don't mind."

He ignored the tug she gave her arm. His voice went even softer.

"You, on the other hand, are definitely discomposing me."

"That, my lord, is not my concern. I'm sure a man of your intelligence
will be able to think of a solution. Good evening, sir."

Amy jerked her arm out of his grasp as she spoke, and swung about with a
flip of her skirts. Somewhere in the back of her mind she was aware of
Hawkridge's narrow-eyed gaze on, her as she stalked towards the door. No
doubt he was contemplating the view again. She hoped the defiant twitch
of her hips accurately conveyed her mood.

Unfortunately, she had not accurately assessed his reaction. Instead of
eyeing the view from a distance as he'd done that afternoon, Hawkridge
crossed the room with the speed of lightning, slammed his hand flat on
the door, and banged it shut before she'd opened it more than an inch.

Amy whirled, and promptly plastered her spine to the panels behind her.
In front of her Hawkridge loomed, one arm extended past her shoulder,
his hand still holding the door shut, so close she could feel the brush
of his clothing against hers, could feel him breathe.

His face was taut with annoyance, and something else that sent heat
rushing through her veins.

She swallowed. Breathing was well nigh impossible. Masculine purpose and
power swirled about her in crashing waves.

And yet she wasn't afraid. Furious, fascinated, befuddled. But not
afraid.

Which was enough to spur her to a woefully belated protest.

"Really, my lord, I believe f\e answered quite enough--"

" Not even half of them," he grated. His free hand came up to capture
her face. He leaned closer until Amy was sure she was going to merge
either with him or the door.

Both were hard, utterly unyielding; of the two the door was safer.

But Hawkridge was far more potent. His rain-coloured eyes glittered into
hers, sending rational thought to the four winds.

His long fingers moved, tilting her face up to his and sending a fresh
wave of heat swirling through her.

He lowered his head until his breath washed over her lips. "You haven't
answered the most important question of all, Mrs. Chantry."

"But ..." Her voice was a breathless squeak.

"Aren't you satisfied yett " Far from it," he growled softly.

"I intend to alter that unhappy situation."

Before she could make any suggestions, his mouth came down on hers.


Chapter Five q^sqts^q -Hunger surged through him, insatiable, ravenous.
He forgot Amy was smaller than he, forgot she was weaker. Holding her
captive with the weight of his body. Marc parted her lips and plundered.

She gave a muffled squeak of protest, but the roaring of his blood was
louder. She tensed with resistance; he felt only the first instant of
startled surrender.

Soft. Sweet. Slender. Almost fragile against him, but quivering and
intensely alive.

The sensations tore through him in such rapid succession that for the
space of several pounding heartbeats he was oblivious to the fact that
Amy was fighting him. No longer resisting; really fighting. Her hands
were fisted against his chest and she was shoving, struggling, straining
to free her mouth.

The jolt cleared the mists from Marc's mind. He jerked back, stunned by
his own behaviour. He, who had always taken care to control his more
primitive instincts when dealing with women, had assaulted his
grandmother's companion like a marauding barbarian.

He stared at her, wondering why she wasn't screaming the house down.

Her eyes were huge in her flushed face, her breasts heaved. Her lips
were parted and trembling; moist and reddened from the force of his,
they were a temptation he didn't dare linger over.

He wrenched his gaze from the luscious sight, released his hold on her,
and stepped back.

And was promptly snapped back another pace by a teeth- jarring right to
the jaw. The blow was hard enough to blur his vision. Marc blinked--and
decided not to shake his head. It wouldn't be wise while his brain was
rattling.

"You bastardv Amy was calling him a bastard? She had obviously been
rendered completely irrational with shock.

He blinked again and revised his opinion. His grandmother's proper
companion had vanished. In her place was a quivering bundle of sheer
feminine fury.

Her eyes flashed green fire, the sparks threatening to ignite another
explosion of wrath at any moment. Her entire body shook. He could almost
feel her blood pulsing, hot and fast, beneath her skin.

His body, shocked momentarily under control by her blow, hardened again
with a rush that nearly doubled him over.

He cursed, and slammed the cage shut on instincts that had always been
savagely reined.

"Mrs. Chantry," he began. And couldn't think of another thing to say.

His victim didn't have the same problem.

"I may be illegitimate, my lord," she raged.

"And beneath the other women of your acquaintance because of it, but
that does not give you the right to use me for your amusement the minute
you learn the fact!"

Whirling, she pulled the door open, whisked herself through the aperture
and slammed the door shut with the full force of her arm.

Marc winced as the reverberations shook the room. A small painting
hanging beside the door fell to the floor with a crash. The windows
rattled in sympathy. The din didn't help the ringing still going on in
his ears.

God, what had he done? The kiss itself wasn't such a crime. After all,
he'd been driven mad all day by the paradox presented by Amy's innocent
appearance and the wary knowledge in her eyes . he'd been so aware of
her he'd practically felt her every move. the last provocative flip of
her skirts had been the final straw. Was it any wonder he'd kissed her?

But his timing had been absolutely appalling.

"Bloody hell!"

Marc turned abruptly and began to pace. He strode the length of the
room, wheeled and started back. He wished there was something in his
path so he could kick it aside. He was painfully aroused, frustrated,
and furious with himself.

Mrs. Amaris Chantry was a tantalising mixture of knowledge and
innocence, but she was innocent.

At least, innocent of the type of career he'd suspected. No enterprising
widow with an eye to the main chance would have reacted with such fury
to a mere kiss.

Marc groaned aloud.

"A mere kiss' didn't begin to describe the sensations aroused by the
feel of her mouth beneath his. Damn it, she'd even tasted innocent.
Innocent and sweet; almost virginal. He was too experienced not to
recognise the genuine article.

Especially when it hit him in the face.

He stopped pacing and cautiously felt his jaw. Where the devil had Amy
learned to throw a punch like that? She might be young, and
heartbreakingly vulnerable, but she wasn't de fenceless She'd fought
back. She'd treated him to the cutting edge of her tongue. ;.

She'd yielded. For one tiny in^fnitesimal second, her mouth had trembled
and softened beneath his.

Was that why she'd reacted so violently, when his earlier insults had
elicited no reaction at all?

Something deep within him was suddenly alert; a sleeping predator
abruptly wakened.

He started pacing again, fast. He was still aroused, still frustrated,
still furious with himself. But beneath it all, a fierce elation was
beginning to burn.

He hadn't frightened her. For three or four mind-spinning seconds he'd
given his instincts full rein, and Amy had neither swooned, shrieked nor
thrown a fit of the va pours Every eligible lady his sister had dangled
in his way over the years would have indulged in one of those options.

His last fiancee had treated him to all three.

His grandmother's mysterious companion had matched him. He'd have
preferred a passionate response to his kiss rather than a blow to the
jaw, but she'd matched him.

He stopped pacing, and stared, eyes narrowed in thought, at the door.

Somehow he had to find a way out of the disastrous pit he'd dug for
himself.

Because it was suddenly, vitally, imperative, that he discover
everything he could about Mrs. Amaris Chantry.

Amy had packed and unpacked her single bandbox three times in an agony
of indecision before she realised the futility of the exercise.

Not only did she have nowhere to go, she had no way of getting there.

And how could she repay her kind employer by creeping out of the house
like a thief in the night?

The answer was simple. She couldn't.

Frustrated, and inexplicably on the verge of tears, she kicked her
bandbox under the bed and paced to the window. Her agitated reflection
stared back at her.

What was she going to do?

The night-shrouded woods glimpsed beyond the south lawn didn't provide
an answer.

Amy stalked back across the room and sat down on the bed.

An instant later she was up and pacing again. She couldn't sit still;
she felt as if all her nerves were dancing on the surface of her skin.
None of the practised, calculated embraces from her husband before their
marriage, nor the perfunctory pecks that had come later, had prepared
her for such an onslaught of sensation.

The mere memory of the fierce pressure of Hawkridge's mouth on hers
caused lightning to streak through her all over again. He hadn't asked,
he hadn't persuaded, he hadn't even seduced. He'd taken as if he'd had
the right.

How had she so badly miscalculated as to credit him with any civilised
propensities? The man wasn't a warrior. He belonged in a cave.

Amy shivered and wrapped her arms about herself. Outrage aside, it
wasn't Hawkridge's primitive tendencies that worried her--one could get
very primitive when food was handed out where she'd been.

What caused her entire being to quake with alarm was a persistent,
nerve-tingling vision of herself sharing the cave with him.

Amy sank down on her bed and put her face in her hands. This was the
result of fascination with a portrait. Present her with the real thing
and she promptly lost her wits, and reverted to some rather un civilised
behaviour herself.

Heat flooded her cheeks as she remembered her actions, her words. No
lady would have behaved like that. She had sunk herself utterly beneath
reproach--and she'd been doing so well. Her only consolation was that no
one else had witnessed her lapse. She doubted Hawkridge would inform his
grandmother of the encounter. The dowager had obviously retired to her
bedchamber in the sadly mistaken belief that Hawkridge wouldn't attack
her companion the minute her back was turned. He wouldn't be likely ;o
disillusion her.

Especially when the entire episode was all his fault.

That thought provided an effective antidote to self- castigation. Amy
sat up straighter and frowned at the opposite wall.

It was no use sitting here wallowing in mortification. The situation
could have been worse. She might have succumbed to the wild torrent of
excitement that had swept through her the instant Hawkridge's mouth
touched hers; she might have let him sweep her away to realms as yet
unexplored.

But she hadn't been swept away. She'd escaped. And now she wouldn't
think about it again. She wouldn't think about the heat and power of his
body, the hard, thrilling demand of his mouth. She'd do what she had
always done. Put it out of her mind and go forward.

But. forward to where? Why should she be driven from the only safe haven
she'd known--although safe was a moot point at the moment?

Still, Hawkridge wouldn't be staying forever. Surely she could cope with
his presence for a few days.

Planning how to do so provided a welcome distraction. Amy bent her mind
to the task. Avoiding Hawkridge was proving unexpectedly difficult;
given his conqueror's response to any challenge, she doubted the
situation would improve. But she could ensure she was never alone with
him. Even if it meant joining the dowager in her quest for
jollification.

Embarking on a social whirl was, after all, more ladylike than another
bout of fisticuffs.

Amy glanced down at her hand and flexed her fingers. Her knuckles felt
somewhat bruised. So, for some strange reason, did her heart.

She pushed the notion aside. Naturally she felt shaken. It was a
perfectly normal reaction, but nothing to do with her heart. Now that
she was calmer, she'd get undressed, climb into bed, and contemplate
ways and means of sticking to the dowager like a shadow. And then she
would go to sleep.

Dreamlessly.

Doing so shouldn't present a problem. What with one thing and another,
it had been a rather exhausting day.

Her careful planning came undone the minute she knocked on Lady
Hawkridge's door the next morning, only to be in y formed by Giddings
that her ladyship had teft the house to pay morning calls on several
tenants.

Amy stared at Giddings in surprise. It was Lady Hawk- ridge's custom to
take breakfast in her bedchamber before summoning her companion to
discuss the day's activities. Amy then left the dowager to the
ministrations of her dresser while she, herself, attended to any
secretarial duties that fell to her lot. What on earth had possessed her
employer to deviate from her usual course?

When she put this question to Giddings, that worthy individual launched
into a monologue on the miraculous recovery enjoyed by the dowager after
a good night's sleep.

Amy wished she could make the same claim. Thanks to a restless,
dream-filled slumber, she had woken considerably later than her usual
time. To find herself abandoned.

There was only one thing to do. Cutting short Giddings's earnest speech
on the restorative properties of sleep, she descended the stairs in
search of Pickles. The way the morning was shaping up, Hawkridge was
probably lying in wait in the breakfast parlour. She would have a tray
sent in to the library.

It took some time to put this plan into action. When she finally located
Pickles, who was putting away billiard balls that looked as if they'd
been rather violently cannoned all over the billiard table, he
reproachfully informed her that no one had touched the tea-tray he'd
borne into the withdrawing-room on the previous evening. And Mrs.
Pickles had especially baked Amy's favourite macaroons.

Amy adjourned to the kitchen to soothe Mrs. Pickles's wounded feelings.
She accomplished the task by letting Mrs. Pickles ply her with bread and
butter dripping with honey, followed by a cup of coffee, while Mrs.
Cubitt provided a homily on missing meals when she needed to build up
her strength.

Consequently, the imposing clock in the hall was solemnly striking
eleven by the time Amy carried a second cup of coffee into the
library--after first ascertaining that Hawkridge wasn't lying in wait
for her there.

He wasn't. Amy breathed a sigh of relief and locked the door. She wasn't
precisely sure about the propriety of locking an Earl out of his own
library, but that didn't prevent her from defiantly turning the key.

She made sure the windows were latched for good measure.

Then, refusing to so much as glance at the portrait above the fireplace,
she marched over to a shelf of books and commenced work.

Since her normal duties took up very little time, she had asked Lady
Hawkridge to let her sort and catalogue the vast collection of tomes
acquired by various Rothwells over the decades. It was a task she
relished. For years the only book she and her mother had possessed was a
tattered Bible; access to all the books she could read was a feast to
one starved of formal learning.

Amy settled down to the search she'd been conducting for over a. week.

So far, she was forced to the conclusion that no Rothwells had felt it
expedient to purchase treatises or papers on the laws pertaining to
marriage.

Perhaps Parliamentary Acts would help--if she could find them.

She was so intent on her quest that when a section of shelving beside
the fireplace began to swing inwards with a particularly blood-curdling
groan of ancient hinges, she merely glanced around in mild surprise.

Every drop of blood stilled in her veins as mild surprise turned to
shock.

Hawkridge strolled out of the dark cavern beyond the opening,
contemplated the locked door for precisely two seconds, then looked at
her, brows raised.

"Good morning, Mrs. Chan- try."

Amy stared back at him, both hands clutching a heavy book to her breast.
It was no use asking how he'd got in; the answer was perfectly obvious.
She searched wildly for something else to say.

"You deserved to be locked out, my lord."

As an opening remark it was rather undiplomatic, if true.

He retaliated with a faintly menacing smile.

"Well, now we're both locked in."

Her eyes blinked wide.

Before she could think of a solution to her dilemma. Hawk- ridge glanced
down, frowned, and flicked a large spider off his sleeve. It landed on
the floor with a plop and scuttled under the desk.

Amy gazed after it in consternation. She was locked in with Hawkridge
and a spider. A large spider. Things were getting worse.

"And the only way out," he purred, as though reading her mind, 'is the
spider-infested way I came in."

She shuddered.

"But don't worry, Mrs. Chantry. Fortunately for you, I do occasionally
succumb to the odd chivalrous impulse." He pushed the bookshelves closed
and walked across to the door.

Amy shuddered again as the hinges protested with another
nerve-shattering screech. Then watched in astonishment as Hawkridge
unlocked the door.

"That takes care of the proprieties," he remarked and turned to face
her.

She gazed owlishly back at him over the top of her book. It seemed to be
getting heavier, but its bulk gave an illusion of protection.

Hawkridge might 'have succumbed to a chivalrous impulse, but he was
between her and escape. She clutched her burden tighter.

"However, we'll leave the door closed for the moment. I wish to speak to
you alone, Mrs. Chantry--" She took a step back.

'--to apologise."

Amy's jaw dropped.

He gave a short laugh.

"I thought that might be your reaction. You know, Mrs. Chantry, I
believe you've been guilty of the same crime as myself."

"What?" Oh, thank goodness. She'd finally relocated her voice.

"Prejudgement."

"Oh." She considered the charge.

"Well, perhaps, my lord, but--"

" And," he continued inexorably, 'as if that isn't bad enough, your
method of retaliation last night was rather unexpected. For a lady."

Amy blushed to the roots of her hair.

"I am fully aware of that, sir, but I take leave to tell you that you
did not behave like a gentleman."

A rueful smile curved his mouth. Coming forward, he touched his
fingertips to her cheek.

"I know," he admitted gently.

"In fact, my behaviour was atrocious, and I do beg your pardon for it."

Amy froze at the brief touch; her mind reeled. Hawkridge's evident
sincerity startled her as much as his unexpected appearance. Despite all
her resolutions, she felt a softening inside. There was something rather
disarming about a man who admitted he was wrong, without making excuses
for it.

She groped for some sort of response.

"Well ...  Thank you, my lord. I mean ...  I accept your apology. That
is ...  so long as you promise--"

" I never make promises I might not be able to keep," he murmured, still
in such a soft tone that his meaning took a moment to register.

When she levelled a suspicious glare at him, he smiled wickedly.

"Perhaps I should make it clear that I'm not apologising for kissing
you, but for my appalling lack of finesse during the process."

"What! But ...  That ...  You ..."

She stopped before she spluttered herself to a complete standstill, and
tried again.

"Really, sir, if you think that sort of apology is sufficient, you're
fair and far out. I told you last night that I won't be used for your
amusement and ' " I was not," he stated with great precision, 'using you
for my amusement."

"Indeed?" She tilted her chin at him.

"Was last night the way you treat all the ladies of your acquaintance?"

"No," he admitted ruefully.

"But not for the reason you're probably thinking," "Hmph!" Her chin went
higher.

"Clearly, you have more respect for them. What else am I to think?"

Every trace of amusement vanished from his eyes. He lifted his hand and
taking her chin between thumb and forefinger, gave it a little shake.

"Let me make one thing very clear, Mrs. Chantry. I do consider you to be
the equal of the other ladies of my acquaintance, regardless of your
birth.

Furthermore, I had no thought last night of repaying your confidences by
insulting you."

She blinked at him.

His gaze dropped briefly to her lips before he released her. "I kissed
you for another reason entirely, which we won't go into at the moment."

"We won't? No." She shook her head.

"Of course we won't." Her mind seethed with possibilities. Only one made
sense. He was going to offer her a carte blanche without the insult of
'how much' attached to it.

The thought should have horrified her. She should have felt affronted at
the very least although logic told her she could hardly expect a more
respectable offer. Instead, a shiver that felt very like anticipation
brushed her syin.

"However," he went on, the amused gleam returning, "I did derive some
benefit from last night's salutory lesson."

Still grappling with her horrifying lack of horror, Amy could only stare
at him.

He grinned.

"I've finally discovered what your husband did."

She went utterly still; shock blanked out everything. For a minute she
couldn't even think. Then, very slowly, she turned and carefully
returned her book to its place.

"Oh?"

The sudden intensity of his gaze was palpable.

"Do you know, Mrs. Chantry, you've gone quite pale. Why should that be?"

Amy took a deep breath and forced her features into an expression of
unconcern.

"It ...  must be my shock at your powers of deduction, sir."

When he didn't answer, she risked a glance at him. She couldn't do much
about her lack of colour; every drop of blood in her veins had plummeted
southwards along with her heart.

"Well? What did my husband do?"

After another long, nerve-racking moment of contemplation, Hawkridge
started to grin.

"He was a prizefighter."

Amy's colour returned in a rush. She wished she could sink through the
floor in mortification. Failing that, she would have been happy to sink
into insensibility, but even as she wondered how to achieve that helpful
state, the devilish gleam in Hawk- ridge's eyes saved her. To her utter
astonishment, she giggled.

Then clapped both hands over her mouth and stared at him over the tops
of her fingers, her eyes as round as saucers.

And in that moment he knew.

This was the one. This was the woman he'd been waiting for.

A wave of sheer primitive possessiveness hit him with all the force of a
raging torrent. He wanted to reach out, snatch Amy into his arms and
carry her off to a cave somewhere. The sheer violence of the need
startled him.

And he knew how ruthless he could be.

Fortunately, common sense reasserted itself. The nearest cave was some
distance away. He suspected that long before they reached it, Amy would
have reacted to his primitive tactics with another blow to the jaw. It
wasn't the response he wanted.

He pushed ruthlessness back into its cage, took a deep breath, and
smiled.

Amy lowered her hands very slowly. For a minute there, she'd wondered if
she really was going to swoon away for the first time in her life.

Something had flashed into Hawkridge's eyes. Something so fierce, so
utterly implacable, she'd frozen like a rabbit staring into the eyes of
a hawk.

Unable to see anything else. Unable to hear. Unable to feel anything but
the frantic beating of her heart.

Then the expression was gone. He smiled, and a completely inexplicable
feeling of happiness welled up inside her. Before she could contemplate
the wisdom of such a response, she found herself twinkling back at him.

"That statement, sir, was extremely ungallant. And quite incorrect. I
told you yesterday that my husband invested in, uh ..."

He raised a brow when she faltered.

"Never mind," she muttered, flushing.

"It isn't important."

Another smile curved his mouth.

"You don't like to talk about him, do you?"

Amy hesitated, then shook her head.

"He wasn't a very nice person."

"Good. We needn't scruple to speak ill of the dear departed."

She giggled again, a delightful gurgle of sound that had Marc feeling
ridiculously pleased with himself.

Captivated by a playfulness he suspected was new and very fragile, he
was about to continue along the same lines when the library door slammed
open. ; He glanced up, frowned at the exquisitely fashionable damsel
storming across the threshold, and with some difficulty recognised his
niece.

"Good God, Lucinda. Is that you?"

The visitor didn't waste time on this unflattering greeting. She caught
up the full skirts of a powder-blue riding habit that was braided and
frogged wherever braiding and frogging could be placed, marched straight
up to her uncle and fixed him with a steely gaze. The effect was ruined
somewhat by the sweeping black plume adorning her cap a la hussar that
fell over her eyes, practically obscuring her vision.

"Hawkridge, you have to help me get married."

Amy felt her face go blank again with shock. Hawkridge remained
singularly unimpressed.

"Hawkridge?" he repeated, eyeing his niece up and down. "What the devil
happened to Uncle Marc?"

Lucinda dropped her skirts, elevated her small nose and swept the plume
aside. It promptly bounced back into place. "You may have noticed that
I'm quite grown up now." She extended a powder-blue gloved hand.

"How do you do, Hawk- ridge? It seems an age since I've seen you."

Hawkridge contemplated the hand poised under his nose, studied the
bobbing plume and burst out laughing.

"No wonder Bevan cursed that Bath academy," he observed.

"Come down off your high horse, brat."

His niece narrowed her striking blue eyes to glittering slits. "The
name," she said through set teeth, 'is Lucinda." Snatching her hand
back, she yanked the feather aside with enough force to snap its
delicate quill. The plume subsided sadly on to her shoulder.

"No wonder Mama despairs of you ever finding a wife. No woman in her
right mind would have you."

"Very likely not," he agreed.

"But before we delve further into such a fascinating subject, I expect
your newfound manners to extend to Mrs. Chantry."

Lucinda flushed, but tossed her ebony curls.

"Amy and I are friends.

We don't need to stand upon ceremony. Besides, she's only--" Hawkridge
took a threatening step forward. Lucinda stopped in mid-protest and
swallowed visibly.

"I was only going to say she's not much older than me," she muttered
after a moment.

"Hello, Amy."

"Miss. Nettlebed," Amy acknowledged and, responding to the visitor's
imperious air, instinctively dropped a curtsy. Or started to.

Hawkridge wheeled and strode over to the desk, bending close as he
passed her.

"Curtsy to that little minx, Mrs. Chantry, and you won't sit down for a
week."

Amy halted in mid-curtsy. When her knees threatened to wobble, she
straightened and glared at him over her shoulder.

He returned her scowl with a bland smile and propped himself against the
desk.

"Now, Lucinda, what's all this idiocy about getting married at the age
of sixteen?"

"I've turned seventeen, which you'd know if you ever stayed in Devon for
longer than a minute. And it isn't idiocy, Uncle Marc, it's--" She
stopped, and thrust out her lower lip." Oh, now look what you've done!
You've spoilt it."

"You mean your nonsensical pose of maturity slipped," he corrected
drily.

"I didn't think it'd last long."

"Ohh!" Lucinda stamped her foot.

"You're as bad as Mama and Papa. Not to mention that horrid little toad,
Crispin."

"Dear me," Amy murmured, finally gathering enough wit to remove herself
from the battlefield. She began edging towards the door.

"Where has the morning gone? I'd better go and enquire after--"

" No, Amy, don't go." Lucinda halted her progress by grabbing her arm.

Short of tearing the sleeve out of her peach cambric gown, and being
obliged to sew it in again, Amy was caught.

"You know all about Jeremv; Besides, it's thanks to you that he's
attending our party to&ght."

"Indeed?" enquired Hawkridge, his tone suddenly so glacial that Lucinda
released her captive in surprise.

Amy returned to the desk, ostensibly to pick up her coffee cup.

"Would you rather Lucinda met Mr. Chatsworth clandestinely, sir?" she
enquired in the same undertone he'd used to her.

"I'll reserve judgement until I meet him myself," he replied, scowling.

Then replaced the expression with a pleased smile. "Why, I do believe
your good influence is working on me already, Mrs. Chantry."

"If you have something to say about my affairs, Hawkridge, you may
address yourself to me," Lucinda interposed, advancing on her uncle
before Amy could reply to this patently untrue statement.

"I wouldn't come too close to this desk, if I were you, Lucinda,"
Hawkridge countered.

"There's a spider in the vicinity. A very large, black, hairy spider."

Amy had forgotten the spider. Snatching up her skirts, she scanned the
floor around her feet--mercifully spider less--and backed off in a
hurry. So did Lucinda.

"A spider?" she squeaked.

"How on earth did a spider get inside your library?"

"I was showing Mrs. Chantry the secret passage." He glanced at Amy, a
devil in his eyes.

"She was struck speechless with amazement."

"I should think so," Lucinda declared indignantly.

"Really, Uncle Marc, aren't you a little old to be scaring people with
spiders? I'd expect that sort of thing from that horrid toad, Crispin."

Hawkridge raised his eyes heavenwards.

"But never mind that," Lucinda continued, returning to the subject at
hand with the tenacity of the young and self- absorbed.

"What are you going to do to help me?"

"Nothing."

Her eyes narrowed again.

"For one thing, you're too young to be married, and for another, if
Jeremy is the bounder Augusta mentioned in her letter, he hasn't even
asked your father's permission to address you."

'n . o . o," Lucinda admitted reluctantly.

"But how can he when Papa won't grant him an interview?" Apparently
feeling she'd stonewalled Hawkridge with this rhetorical question, she
turned to Amy in appeal.

"You know how it is, Amy? After all, you must have been about my age
when you were married."

"A little older," Amy demurred, conscious of Hawkridge's suddenly intent
gaze. She waved a hand in studied carelessness.

"But, you know, I always wondered what a London Season would have been
like.

The balls, the parties, driving in the Park, all those young gentlemen
vying for one's attention. Such fun. You must be looking forward to it."

Lucinda looked a little startled.

"Well, yes, but ...  I'll still be able to have a Season. Dearest Jeremy
and I will settle in Town.

We'll be the most fashionable couple you've--"

"Dearest Jeremy is flush with funds, I take it?" Hawkridge put in
silkily.

"He'll need to be to pay the dressmaker's bills, if that ridiculous
get-up you're wearing is any example."

"Ridiculous?" Lucinda's voice and colour rose alarmingly.

Amy hurried into the breach.

"I'm sure it's a very pretty habit. Miss. Nettlebed. I'd like to wear
that shade, myself, but it wouldn't appear to advantage on me."

Lucinda subsided.

"Thank you, Amy." She sent a disdainful glance in her uncle's direction.

"For your information, Hawk- ridge, Jeremy thinks I'd look delightful in
sackcloth."

"Sounds as if he's preparing you for a lifetime in the stuff."

His niece ground her teeth audibly.

"Just because Jeremy doesn't have a title or a vault of money like you
do is no reason to be sarcastic.

I'll have plenty for the two of us from that estate old Aunt Cordelia
left in trust for me."

"And no doubt Jeremy is aware of that interesting fact."

"No, he isn't," Lucinda informed him, nose in the air.

"He told me he wouldn't have had the courage to approach me, if he
thought I was wealthy." A besotted smile spread over her face.

"Isn't that noble?

Isn't that gallant? He's so charming, so--" Hawkridge cast another
long-suffering glance at the ceiling. "Of course he is, you goose. It's
his stock-in-trade."

Lucinda stopped rhapsodising and glared at him.

"You don't know anything about it," she cried.

"And, what's more, you don't know anything about gallantry or charm
either.

In fact, you're worse than that horrid little toad, Crispin."

This was obviously an insult of the highest order. Hiding a smile, Amy
glanced at Hawkridge to see how he was taking his niece's reversion to
childhood. He wasn't bothering to hide his amusement.

"It seems to be the fate of younger brothers to always be referred to as
horrid little toads," he observed thoughtfully.

Lucinda stuck out her lower lip.

"What would you know about it?"

"I am a younger brother. And that reminds me. According to your mother,
Crispin is about to totter straight into the grave. What's wrong with
him?

Apart from his toad-like qualities, that is."

"Nothing." Lucinda continued to pout.

"Just because he used to have those wheezing fits for days on end when
he was a little boy. Mama fusses and worries until there's no bearing
it. She wouldn't let Papa send Crispin to school--which would at least
have stopped him tormenting me. I mean, what is the use of having a
brother in the house if he won't help me?"

Amy gaped at this evidence of self-interest, but Hawkridge nodded
approval.

"Crispin must have more sense than anyone's giving him credit for."

"Ohh!" The floor received another stamp.

"Never mind the tantrum, Lucinda. I take it your brother isn't at
death's door."

"Of course he isn't. He only reclines on couches and looks pale so Mama
will fetch and carry for him. No one cares about my suffering."

"Now, that's not quite true. Your Papa mentioned yesterday that you
haven't had the chicken-pox, and I've just remembered that the house is
rife with it.

You'd better be off. Maids are dropping right and left."

"What! You're talking about chicken-pox when my whole life might be
blighted? Ohh!" Lucinda stamped one foot then the other, clenched her
fists and began to pace.

"This is the most heartless family I've ever encountered," she wailed.
She kicked a foot-rest out of her path, causing Amy to step hastily
aside.

"I came here to ask for your help, and what do I get?"

"A spanking if you're not careful," Hawkridge threatened, amusement
vanishing as he came upright in one swift movement.

"Behave yourself or leave."

Lucinda blinked at him in shock, then tossed her head and retrieved her
pose of offended dignity. Unfortunately, all the pacing, stamping and
tossing had her plume abandoning dignity. It slid lower.

"I will certainly take my leave," Lucinda replied with great hauteur.

"And don't bother looking for me any time in the near future. I don't
intend to cross this threshold again until you learn some manners."

Hawkridge grinned and promptly swept her an elegant bow. "Miss.
Nettlebed, thank you so much for deigning to grace us with your presence
this morning.

Our delight at the brevity of your visit is exceeded only by our
relief."

"Aaagh!" After one shriek of frustration, Lucinda stormed towards the
door.

It was all too much for the plume. It slipped its moorings and floated
to the floor, barely escaping decapitation by the violently slammed
door.

"One can only hope," Hawkridge murmured as a second muffled slam
indicated that the front door had been subjected to the same treatment,
'that the doors in this house will withstand the recent violence visited
upon them."

Amy heard herself giggle for the third time that morning with a kind of
stunned amazement. She'd never giggled before in her entire life.

Now she seemed to be doing it every five minutes. The pained look
Hawkridge gave her nearly set her off again.

"Oh, dear," she managed, trying for a suitably sympathetic expression.

"I'm so sorry, my lord. Are you quite deafened?" "Not quite," he said,
scowling.

"What the devil happened to Lucinda?

She was always a brat, but a likeable one. A year or two ago she'd have
been in that secret passage regardless of what might be lurking there,
and probably dragging Crispin along with her. In fact, I'm sure the
little wretches hid there one day in the hope of scaring the wits out of
Pickles."

"I'm afraid certain Young Ladies Academies pride themselves on turning
out very proper young ladies, sir. But don't worry. I believe the effect
is only temporary."

He cocked a brow.

"How do you know?"

"I had a position in a school before my marriage," she replied
composedly.

"For a very brief time. Now, I really should go and make sure the maids
are not dropping right and left, so if you'll excuse me--"

" No, don't go," Hawkridge said quickly, putting out a detaining hand as
she turned away.

Amy jerked back, more in surprise than real alarm, and he withdrew his
hand at once.

"I mean," he said, resuming his seat against the edge of the desk, 'you
don't have to run away because we're alone. I have no intention of
attacking you.

She eyed his hands, clenched hard around the solid mahogany of the desk.

"That's very reassuring, my lord, but--"

" Tell me about this Chatsworth character. What's he like?"

Amy hesitated, conscious of a need for caution, but strangely reluctant
to leave.

"I don't know. I haven't met him."

He studied her wary expression, his smile wry.

"I'm not going to criticise your advice to Augusta, Mrs. Chantry. I know
it's preferable for Lucinda to meet Chatsworth under her parents' roof
rather than clandestinely."

"Oh. Well  ...  I'm glad you approve, sir. Now, I really do have things
..." She faltered again, flustered by a faintly amused regard that yet
held something deeper, and utterly steady.

Then Hawkridge turned aside, indicating the nearest shelves and
releasing her from the intensity in his grey eyes.

"Cataloguing the library," he murmured.

"Grandmama told me you volunteered for the task. Since we seem to have
exhausted the current topic of conversation, it is I, therefore, who
should leave you in peace to continue."

But he made no move to go.

Amy glanced towards the door, not quite sure whether she ought to agree
or demur. After all, it was his library. Then as he looked back at her,
a thought occurred that had her smiling.

"On the contrary, my lord. A task awaits you here that takes precedence
over anything I may need to do."

She crossed the room, opened the door, and glanced back. And this time
her smile was alight with mischief.

"You have a very large, very black, very hairy spider to dispatch."


Chapter Six Q^yys^Q Flow was he supposed to concentrate on catching a
spider after that smile?

Marc gave up the task after a fruitless five minutes, during which time
he concluded that the spider had gone to ground. He couldn't keep his
mind on the job anyway. Thoughts of Amy kept distracting him.

Little details. Like the fine arch of her brows; the delicacy of her
hands.

The shy mischief in her eyes and the tiny dimples that had appeared at
the corners of her mouth when she'd smiled at him from the doorway.

She'd been lucky the entire length of the library had separated them, he
thought, wryly amused at himself, because he'd been on the verge of
doing something that wouldn't have helped his cause in the least.

This hunt needed skill and patience. He'd mended a few fences this
morning, but Amy was still wary, still controlled. Even to letting
herself laugh.

His eyes narrowed as he thought about that. She wasn't intimidated, he
decided after a moment, just. conscious of her behaviour. He could
hardly blame her after their initial encounter.

Damn it, he'd never been so wrong about anyone--and the clues had been
there, if he'd stopped being annoyed at his own response long enough to
see them.

The innocence in her clear gaze, the courage inherent in the tilt of
that determined little chin. Even her scent was all wrong. The widow
he'd imagined would have worn something cloying, far too sweet. The
sweetness was there, but, like Amy herself, it was fragile, elusive,
reminding him of lavender buds, tiny petals defensively closed until
kissed by the warmth of the sun.

He had the feeling there'd been little sunshine in Amy's life.

Marc frowned again. If he hadn't been blinded by prejudice yesterday he
would have seen immediately beneath Amy's guilty defiance without having
to resort to force to get his answers.

On the other hand, he couldn't regret kissing her. Not when the conflict
between suspicion and his instinctive male response to her had, for a
few fleeting seconds, flushed from hiding the real woman behind her
ladylike facade.

He intended to do it again. And in the process find out whatever it was
she was hiding. That it was something to do with her husband he had no
doubt, but he also didn't doubt for a minute that he'd be able to coax,
persuade or otherwise prise the information out of her.

The sound of a carriage bowling up the drive interrupted his thoughts
and drew him to the window. He grinned at the sight of his grandmother
sitting in solitary splendour as her barouche swept up to the front
door. He must remember to thank her for making herself scarce this
morning--a decision he suspected had been deliberate. His beloved
grandparent might be maddening on occasion, put she was no fool.

Somehow she'd known before he had. And approved.

With such an ally in his camp, Amy's fate was sealed.

The light-hearted mood that swept Amy out of the library that morning
had vanished by mid-afternoon. She couldn't have said precisely when the
clouds began to gather on her horizon but, as she walked back to the
Manor after a trip to the village draper, they began to assume ominous
proportions.

For some reason Lucinda's visit kept turning over and over in her mind.

Several facts that she'd either been unaware of before, or unwonted
by--such as Jeremy Chatsworth sharing the same initials as her
husband--suddenly assumed a significance that had apprehension sprinting
around her stomach.

Instead of immediately sitting down to fashion a three- quarter
overdress of silvery-grey gauze for her rose silk evening gown, she
hunted up the Morning Post for a closer perusal of the report on the
robberies at Bristol.

Nothing she read allayed her uneasiness in the slightest. The clouds
slunk over the horizon and crept closer.

By the time she studied her reflection in her dressing-table mirror that
evening, preparatory to setting out for Nettlebed Place, impending doom
hovered about her like a persistent fog. She was not in the mood for a
party.

Unfortunately, she had no choice but to attend. It was better to
confront her suspicions immediately; to see Mr. Chatsworth for
herself--preferably before he clapped eyes on her--and to hope he had
nothing to do with her past.

If he did, she could always feign illness and return home. It wouldn't
take a great deal of effort.

Her plan was not destined to run smoothly.

Half an hour after the family dinner that preceded the Net- tie beds
party, Amy had discovered a very peculiar thing about such gatherings.
It was impossible to search for one particular person while making sure
she wasn't first seen by that person herself.

Of course, if Hawkridge would only behave himself, she'd be able to take
cover behind one of the potted ferns with which Lady Nettlebed had
adorned her drawing-room, and search to her heart's content. But every
time she showed signs of re y treating thereto, Hawkridge loomed at her
side, cutting off retreat and introducing her to yet another guest.

Amy didn't know whether to feel guilty for being where she was, or
annoyed at his high-handed tactics. What was worse, every time she
gathered her wits, intending to deliver a protest, the sight of him,
tall and darkly handsome in elegant black evening clothes, sent her
thoughts off on several highly unsuitable tangents.

It was extremely unfair of him.

"I say, Mrs. Chantry, you look bang up to the nines, but why are you
wearing a cap?"

The demand had her turning to see Crispin, a dark-haired, willowy youth
still some weeks short of his sixteenth birthday, come bounding up to
her. He skidded to a halt, a pleased smile on his face, rather in the
manner of an over-eager puppy waiting for a pat.

Amy's heart sank. She was torn between relief at the interruption, which
enabled her to take a discreet step away from the immediate circle of
guests, and dismay at the expression of canine devotion on Crispin's
face.

"I'm a widow, Mr. Nettlebed," she explained, trying for a repressive
tone that wouldn't entirely crush her youthful admirer.

"Yes, I know, but you don't look like one. In fact--" Amy ceased to
listen.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Hawkridge disengage from his
conversation with one of his neighbours and turn a narrow-eyed stare of
speculation on his nephew, f '--didn't have a chance to tell you at
dinner," Crispin concluded.

She had no idea what he'd been talking about.

"Yes, well, dinner was rather, er ..."

"Rendered hideous by Lucinda's sulks," Hawkridge finished for her.

"Told her Chatsworth wouldn't be there," Crispin confided, I his
attention diverted from Amy. His eager expression didn't falter, lending
credence to the dowager's assertion that Crispin considered Hawkridge an
out-and-outer.

Narrow-eyed stares were clearly to be expected.

"Why should Papa invite him to a family dinner?" he continued.

"Fellow isn't a member of the family. I say. Uncle Marc, were you
serious about teaching me to sail?"

"Yes. But there are conditions."

The caveat didn't appear to bother Crispin. He launched into an
enthusiastic description of an old sail-boat he'd discovered in an
unused barn.

Amy glanced quickly at Hawkridge. The dinner table had been rendered
hideous by Lucinda's displeasure that her darling Jeremy had been
excluded from the intimate gathering; a distinct pall had also been cast
over the meal when Hawkridge had demanded that his nephew render an
account of the sports and pastimes he enjoyed.

The list had been disastrously short. Reclining on a couch while
listening to his mama play soothing music had been at the top, followed
closely by having her bathe his brow with lavender water.

Only the sarcastic tone in which this information had been delivered had
saved Crispin from instant annihilation. That had been reserved for Lord
and Lady Nettle- bed.

As the ensuing battle had raged about her ears, Amy would have been
happy to call an end to the evening then and there. Her presence when
she was almost as much a stranger to the family as Mr. Chatsworth was
bad enough. The fact that every- one--except Lady Hawkridge, who
blithely provided a Greek chorus totally unrelated to the prevailing
subject--felt free to rage and argue in front of her was singularly
unnerving.

As Crispin's conversation began to include such mysterious terms as
luffs, gaffs and booms, she cast a longing glance at the row of ferns
placed artistically behind the sofa where her employer was holding
court. That was her proper place. Not here beside Hawkridge, where she
was being forced to wonder whether her assumption that morning that he
was thinking of offering her a carte blanche was somewhat wide of the
mark. ; After all, a man didn't present his potential mistress to his ;
family and friends when the female concerned didn't move in those
circles in the first place.

At least, she didn't think so. But if he hadn't meant to insult her, if
he hadn't been amusing himself, why had he kissed her?

Amy started to worry again--which worried her even more, because if her
reactions to the possibility of a carte blanche were those of a proper
lady, there wouldn't be any need to worry in the first place.

Especially when she already had Mr. Chatsworth to worry about.

Hmm.

She eyed the glass of champagne in her hand and wondered if the single
sip she'd taken had gone straight to her head. Her thoughts seemed to be
spinning in circles.

When she caught a glimpse of Lucinda, the centre of an , animated group
of young people, nervousness danced an accompanying reel in her stomach.

Without conscious thought, ; Amy started edging towards the ferns again.

Propriety wasn't the only reason propelling her thence. If she could
just catch a glimpse of Mr. Chatsworth, just convince herself that he
had nothing to do with her, that Lucinda's situation was sadly
commonplace, that she knew he couldn't lip_ ut- "Hah! So you're the new
companion, are you? Well, you're a demmed sight prettier than the last
one."

Amy froze several steps short of the ferns. She turned her head to find
herself being examined by two pairs of critical blue eyes, one belonging
to an elderly, silver-haired gentleman who was leaning heavily on a
cane, the other to a younger man enough like his companion for her to
make a reasonably accurate guess as to their identities.

It was all of a piece, she decided, turning fully. Nothing was going as
planned tonight.

Before she could reply to the older gentleman's somewhat unconventional
greeting. Lady Hawkridge rose from her sofa and flitted up to them, an
innocently enquiring smile on her face.

"Good heavens, Bartholomew! Are you finally having Col- borough Court
redecorated? It's the only reason I can think of that would account for
your separation from that armchair in front of the fire."

"Very amusing, Clarissa." Colborough's bushy grey brows drew together
over a decidedly hawk-like nose.

"You can blame Eversleigh, here, for my presence. Young idiot's got no
sense. See how many parties he'll feel like attending when he's over
seventy and plagued by a gouty foot."

"Your foot is no more gouty than mine is," retorted her ladyship.

"You just use it as an excuse to grumble and grouch."

"Much you know," grumbled Colborough.

"Where's that manner less grandson of yours? I've got a thing or two to
say to him."

Her ladyship rolled her eyes.

"Amy, as you've no doubt guessed, this is Lord Colborough and Viscount
Eversleigh." She patted the Viscount's arm.

"Marc's friend since boyhood, you know."

Eversleigh bowed, a twinkle in his eyes.

"How do you do, Mrs. Chantry?

I'm glad to see that Marc managed to restrain himself."

Amy's knees wobbled in the middle of a curtsy. Apparently Hawkridge's
methods of dismissing his grandmother's companions were known far and
wide.

Worse was to come.

As she straightened, Colborough subjected her to another close stare.

"Mrs. Chantry, is it? Don't know the name. Recognise those eyes, though.

So, you're a connection of the Dal- tons."

TJH."

"A remote one, possibly," murmured Hawkridge from directly behind her.

Amy jumped. Awareness rippled up and down her spine on a wave of
tingling heat. He was so close the merest intake of air would bring her
into contact with him.

Before she could do anything so perilous, a very small, still rational
part of her brain ordered her take a careful step to the left.

Hawkridge moved at the same time. In the same direction.

"Going somewhere, Mrs. Chantry?" he enquired in a low growl.

She didn't have breath to answer. Bracing herself, she took a careful
step to the right. With the same result.

Eversleigh grinned at them.

"You know, if you two wish to dance, they're making up sets in the upper
room."

Hawkridge curved his hands firmly around her shoulders to hold her in
place and moved to stand beside her.

"Stow it. Pel," he advised, and in the most fleeting of caresses,
unnoticed by anyone but herself, let his hands slide an inch or two down
her arms, pressed gently and released her.

"Colborough," he acknowledged coolly, as if he hadn't managed to addle
her wits all over again by what she could have sworn was reassurance.

"I'm surprised to see you here."

"Not as surprised as I am," growled his lordship.

"About time you came down to check on things, Hawkridge. Clarissa's been
pestering me to hold a Public Day; she can pester you instead. And
there's a man-milliner by the name of Tweedy hanging around her. You may
oblige me by getting rid of him."

"Oh, I never interfere in Grandmama's life," Hawkridge stated, with a
blithe disregard for the truth that had Eversleigh choking on a mouthful
of champagne.

Lady Hawkridge, completely unperturbed by this reaction, slipped a hand
into the crook of Colborough's arm.

"Why don't we take up Pelham's suggestion. Tolly, and join the country
dance they're getting up."

His lordship gaped at the dowager as if she'd suggested they fly through
the window on his walking cane.

"Have you finally lost the few wits you possessed, Clarissa?"

"Of course not. But if you want Marc to hold a Public Day, we'll have to
leave him to arrange it with Pel. We'll take a little walk instead."
Smiling sunnily, she whisked the cane out of Colborough's hand and
tossed it over her shoulder.

"You won't need that."

Colborough's face turned an alarming shade of red as his cane crashed
into the ferns.

"By God, Clarissa, I ought to--"

" I refuse to promenade about the room with a man hobbling along on a
cane."

"Promenade--" The Earl made noises suggestive of an impending seizure.

"Where the devil do you think we are? The Steyne at Brighton?"

"Good heavens! Brighton! I haven't been there in years. Such fun as we
used to have. Visiting Prinny's little cottage and ..."

Still burbling on about the delights of Brighton, her ladyship led
Colborough away.

Eversleigh regarded their departing backs and shook his head.

"You know, Marc, I'm as fond of your grandmother as if she was my own,
but one of these days someone's going to wring her neck. She didn't even
check her aim."

"No need," observed Hawkridge, slanting a sardonic look down at Amy.

"Who'd be lurking behind the ferns?"

"Well, there is that," agreed Eversleigh.

"I suppose I'd better retrieve the dashed cane. When the old boy
remembers to hobble, he'll probably use it on me if I don't get to it
first."

Amy came to life with a start. Taking a leaf from the dowager's book,
she smiled brightly up at his lordship.

"Allow me, my lord." She started to sidle towards the ferns.

"I'm sure Lord Colborough won't use his cane on me, and you have a
Public Day to plan with Lord Hawkridge."

"Oh, nothing in that," Eversleigh assured her, brows lifting as she
continued to sidle.

"Hold 'em every summer. Enjoyable day, actually.

Marc's people and mine hold a cricket match, and there's a picnic, and
games for the children. You know the sort of thing."

Amy didn't, but that didn't deter her from smiling more sunnily than
before.

The look that flashed into Hawkridge's eyes had her sidling faster, but
the Fates finally decided to do a little smiling themselves. Lady Ingham
swept up to them, greeting the gentlemen with her usual enthusiasm.

Amy felt a fern frond brush her shoulder and whisked herself out of
sight while Hawkridge's attention was diverted.

Not that she couldn't easily be found, but at least she had a perfectly
good excuse for lurking behind the ferns.

And Hawkridge looked as if he was going to be engaged for several
minutes.

Three or four other ladies had drifted across the room in Lady Ingham's
wake, seemingly drawn to him like filings to a magnet.

As Amy watched, he bowed to the latest arrival, a faint smile curving
his mouth.

He'd been right about one thing, she reflected somewhat darkly. He could
be perfectly civil. So civil that every lady in the room seemed
completely unaware of the warrior concealed beneath his polite facade.
Perhaps because the dangerous glitter in his grey eyes had been cloaked
by a cool amusement that dared rather than daunted.

Another mask. Fascinating to watch.

Amy shook her head and wrenched her gaze away. She was not here to be
fascinated by Hawkridge. She had someone else to study. Someone, she
realised abruptly, pushing a fern frond aside, whose appearance was
unknown to her. An instant later she told herself it didn't matter.

The whole point of the exercise was not to see anyone she recognised.

She located Lucinda almost immediately. Several young couples were
engaged in an impromptu dance in the upper half of the drawing-room, but
Lucinda had dropped out, and appeared to be arguing with someone who was
moving swiftly towards the doorway leading to the hall.

The crowd shifted, re-formed; a kaleidoscope of black and white,
interspersed with brilliant colours. She could only see the back of the
man's head and shoulders, but when Lucinda placed a hand on his arm,
gazing up with pleading eyes and indicating the room as though urging
him to stay, Amy was convinced of the gentleman's identity.

Tall. Quite broad across the shoulders. Brown hair. Her husband had been
slim-^oh, thank God! --and very fair. She sagged against the nearest
window frame as tension leached from her body. She hardly dared believe
it. She was safe. Safe! Mr. Chatsworth was totally unknown to her.

Her eyelids closed in relief, then, suddenly realising that someone
might notice her propped against the wall as if she was about to
collapse, she snapped them open again and straightened.

There was no need to collapse. Everything was all right. She was safe.
And now that she wasn't worried sick, she could see that all those small
similarities between her husband and Mr. Chatsworth were really quite
logical.

Given the number of wealthy, well-born girls attending Young Ladies
Academies, there was sure to be more than one gentleman who made a
living by preying on such innocents. And sure to be more than one
gentleman with the same initials as her husband.

She'd worried herself into a frenzy over nothing. Relief rendered her
positively euphoric. At that moment the entire world looked rosy; she
was even prepared to believe that Mr. Chatsworth was genuinely in love
with Lucinda.

Remembering the glass of champagne in her hand, Amy lifted it to her
lips and drained it with several healthy swallows. Then had to fan her
suddenly warm face with her other hand.

"Mrs. Chantry, will you stop doing that?"

Amy's hand paused in mid-flutter. Some of her rosy glow faded. Danger of
an entirely different sort had arrived. She looked up at Hawkridge's
exasperated countenance and promptly plastered a look of innocent
enquiry on her face. "Fanning myself, sir?"

"And don't give me that fluff-brained stare. You know very well what I'm
talking about."

She exchanged the fluff-brained stare for a disapproving frown.

"Well, if you would refrain from introducing me to all and sundry as
though I was a friend of the family, I wouldn't need to hide behind
ferns. Which, I might add, is my proper place." She paused, and thought
about that.

"No, not ferns precisely, but not in the middle of the dinner table. I
mean, the middle of a party."

Hawkridge eyed her empty glass and thoughtfully removed it from her
hand.

Warming to her lecture, Amy swept on.

"And see what has come of it.

Lord Colborough thinks I'm a member of the Dalton family, whoever they
may be."

"You probably are," he murmured.

"Your father might have been destined for a humble curacy, Mrs. Chantry,
but I wouldn't be surprised to learn that your mother sprang from a
minor branch of a noble family. In this case, the Daltons."

She stared at him.

"Good heavens. What makes you say so?"

"Because you have more than surface elegance and manners. You have
breeding."

Her eyes went round. / "In fact, it didn't occur to me until Colborough
mentioned it, probably because your hair is much lighter, but your eyes
and lashes are exactly like Nick's."

"Nick?"

"The Earl of Ravensdene. A friend of mine."

"Oh. Another earl. There seem to be a lot of you. Earls, that is.

Although there's a lot of you, as well." She looked him up and down, and
frowned.

"I don't think I meant to say that."

Hawkridge's lips twitched.

"Tell me something, Mrs. Chan- try. Have you ever had champagne before
tonight?"

"No," Amy confessed. Drawing closer, she added confidingly, "It wasn't
on the menu at the poorhouse."

His brows went up.

Amy didn't notice. She was too busy wondering why she'd said that, too.
She caught sight of the glass in Hawkridge's hand and a dismaying
explanation occurred to her.

"Oh, my goodness! I'm inebriated!-" This time the smile reached his
eyes.

"Not at all, Mrs. Chan- try.

Merely a little hazy. Probably because you hardly ate a morsel at
dinner.

Some fresh air should do the trick." Depositing her glass on the edge of
a fern-pot, he offered his arm." We'll go outside."

"We certainly will not," Amy contradicted, deciding to ignore his
strictures on her eating habits. Owing to the faint spinning, sensation
in her head, she could only concentrate on one of his iniquities at a
time.

"It would be most improper."

Hawkridge fixed her with a look of heavy meaning.

"Trust me, it isn't as improper as the two of us continuing to lurk
behind the ferns in this furtive fashion."

"But / have a reason to lurk." She frowned.

"Don't bother trying to recall it," he said, correctly divining the
cause of her expression.

"Besides, you may have noticed that the schoolroom brigade have
adjourned to the terrace. Augusta ordered me to make sure their antics
don't get out of hand since, according to her, I'm overly concerned
about the well-being of her offspring. I came in search of you to
request your assistance."

"Ah. Now, that," she pronounced, nodding incautiously, 'is exactly what
a companion should do." She placed her hand on his arm:--mainly for
balance, since nodding had caused the room to tilt in a very strange
manner--and smiled sunnily up at him.

"Where is the terrace, my lord?"

Marc took a deep breath, resisted the temptation to take advantage of
his quarry's delightfully hazy state, not to mention the cover afforded
by his sister's over-enthusiasm for ferns, and began to steer Amy
towards the nearest french windows. He felt extremely noble.

The last thing he wanted was the company of the noisy crowd on the
terrace.

On the other hand, there wasn't a lot he could do at a party.

Although an interrogation on the subject of poorhouses wouldn't be a bad
idea.

This piece of inspiration vanished as soon as they crossed the
threshold. So did his feelings of nobility.

The softest of early-summer breezes enfolded them, carrying a heady
combination of scents from the garden. It mingled with Amy's unique
feminine essence, and, drifting upward on the warmth of her skin, rose
to tease and tantalise.

Marc tensed as desire roared to life within him. The crowd on the
terrace vanished. Every precept of civilised behaviour threatened to do
the same.

He wanted to sweep Amy into his arms and carry her into the dark
recesses of the garden, to lie her down, cover her with his body; to
sink into the warmth and scent of her until he was sated.

Every instinct he possessed strained towards her, wanting. wanting.
Aching, he jolted to a stop a mere foot beyond the window, anchored only
by the touch of her hand on his arm. A touch so light he barely felt it,
and yet that alone held him back, even while his entire body hardened.

Shaken, Marc clenched his free hand and thanked Providence that the
light spilling from the drawing-room was behind them.

And that the object of his fantasy had problems of her own.

She tripped when he halted so abruptly, and frowned down at the
flagstones beneath her feet.

"I think the paving needs attention, my lord."

"Take a deep breath," he grated. And did the same. It didn't help. He
focused on the crowd at the other end of the terrace and tried to
remember why they were there.

"Is that a lot of people over there, or do I need to take some more deep
breaths?"

A smile tugged at his lips despite himself.

"It's a lot of people," he confirmed.

"Noisy people. We can supervise them from here. Would you like to sit
down, Mrs. Chantry?"

"I don't think so," she said, subjecting the question to lengthy
consideration.

"Then let us take a short stroll to those steps while we discuss--"

" Earls!

The interruption was as abrupt as the sudden tension in the little hand
resting on his arm. Marc looked down, brows raised. He got the distinct
impression that Amy was avoiding his gaze.

"I don't have anything to do with them," she said, flushing.

His eyes narrowed. She was recovering fast if she could come up with an
apt red herring at short notice. On the other hand, red herrings could
sometimes be just as informative as the truth. He decided to follow the
bait.

"I hesitate to contradict you, Mrs. Chantry, but you're talking to an
earl right this minute."

Amy waved that aside.

"I mean, I'm not a close connection of any earls." She shook her head,
apparently quite worried by the possibility.

"My mother would have told me."

"I didn't say you were a close connection of the Daltons," he corrected
gently.

"However, we'll know for certain when I discover the name of your
maternal grandfather."

"What! But ..." She stared up at him in dismay.

"I don't want you to discover any such thing. Why should you wish to do
so?

He's probably dead and--"

" Probably? I thought you said he was dead."

Her colour deepened.

"It seemed a logical assumption, sir.

You must know that I can't be sure, however. Besides--" she lifted her
chin '--he's dead as far as I'm concerned."

"An understandable sentiment, Mrs. Chantry, especially if you did indeed
spend time in a--"

" So there you are, Hawkridge." Lucinda stormed up to them, a vision in
white sarcenet decorated with pink and white rosebuds. The same flowers
were placed artfully among her curls. Unfortunately, the sweetly
feminine costume did not match her expression.

"Now that you've forced poor Jeremy to leave, I hope you're satisfied."

Marc resigned himself to postponing questions about Amy's
acquaintanceship with the poorhouse.

"Spare us the histrionics, Lucinda. How did I cause Chatsworth to
leave?" "He said he was intimidated."

Marc snorted.

"Since I exchanged no more than half a dozen words with him, I suggest
he was intimidated by his surroundings. You should be grateful to be
spared future embarrassment. If he feels out of place here, how's he
going to cope in London?"

A good question, Amy mused. She found herself harbouring a sneaky fellow
feeling for Mr. Chatsworth. Since he wasn't her husband come
inconveniently to life, she could afford it-- even if it was highly
unlikely that anyone was going to fall in love with her and carry her
off to the terrors of the metropolis.

The thought had a surprisingly lowering effect.

She pushed it aside in time to hear Hawkridge advise his niece to take
herself off.

"I shall be happy to oblige you," Lucinda retorted.

"Fortunately, there are others who sjlow more sympathy for the agony
endured by--"

" Lucinda, please." Lady Nettlebed, an attractive dark-haired matron,
fashionably attired in midnight-blue silk, stepped on to the terrace.

She had a shawl draped over one arm.

"You can be heard in the drawing-room. And you shouldn't have come
straight from a warm room without a shawl."

"Wrap it around Uncle Marc," Lucinda recommended, stomping back to her
friends.

"Preferably around his neck."

Lady Nettlebed gazed after her daughter with acute dismay before turning
a look of displeasure on Hawkridge. Since she was several years older
than her brother, and was blessed with the same cool grey eyes and
patrician features, the look might have been effective had it been
turned on anyone else.

"As if encouraging Crispin to defy me isn't bad enough, you're now
upsetting Lucinda. I hope you're satisfied. Marc."

"I wish people would stop hoping that," he muttered.

"It's not an imminent possibility."

At the growled comment Amy felt a craven desire to melt into the
shadows.

Unfortunately, her hand was still resting on Hawkridge's arm; though the
flagstones had ceased their sudden tendency to move, she wasn't as
confident about the steadiness of her head. She made a mental note never
to touch champagne again. It obviously had a very detrimental effect on
her senses.

Rather like Hawkridge, actually.

As if to prove the point, the muscles beneath her hand tensed. The
thrill that rippled through her at the awareness of leashed power was
quite shocking. It was also totally unwarranted, because Hawkridge was
clearly taking a grip on nothing more than his patience.

"If you'd calm down, Gussie, you'd see the wisdom of--"

" Calm down?" Lady Nettlebed's voice rose.

"When you wilfully intend to lead my only son into danger? No wonder
Lucinda is so stubborn. I know who she gets it from."

Amy cleared her throat discreetly. Since she couldn't melt into the
shadows, her second impulse was to help.

"Ah  ...  if Lucinda is stubborn, ma'am, perhaps it's no bad thing.
She's unlikely to be led astray, or--or cozened into a hurried
marriage."

Lady Nettlebed glanced at her as though surprised to see her there, then
shook her head.

"Oh, dear, how very rude of me. I'm so sorry, Amy. What with Lucinda
giving me no peace, and Crispin not speaking to me at all, I scarcely
know if I'm on my head or my heels. And all Grandmama can say is that
Marc knows what he's doing." She whisked a scrap of lace out of the
dainty reticule hanging from her wrist and dabbed at her suddenly
brimming eyes.

"Nobody understands."

Hawkridge's mouth curved wryly.

"Gus, you know I won't let anything happen to your precious cub. I'll
come over tomorrow and we'll talk about it. In the meantime, I can see
Colborough getting redder in the face, so you'd better go back inside
before Grandmama succeeds in driving him insane."

"She's probably telling him about that awful Mr. Tweedy inviting her to
the Assembly Rooms at Teignmouth." Lady Nettlebed sniffed and dabbed
harder.

"You see what happens when you're in London, Marc? But / don't
interfere. / don't tell you what you should do, or that you should visit
more often, because I know why you stay away."

With a final muffled sob, her ladyship whisked about and fled into the
drawing-room.

"Well, well," Hawkridge murmured, brows raised. He glanced down at Amy
and smiled faintly.

"I'd apologise, Mrs. Chantry, but you might as well know the worst."

"Worst?" Amy eyed him suspiciously.

"What worst?" "Families," he said cryptically.

"I suspect you've never experienced the dubious delights of domesticity
at its most basic. Brace yourself. The next few weeks should prove
enlightening. Now, I think we've spent enough time as chaperons. We
shall adjourn to the supper table?" where you will eat more than you did
at dinner, if I have to feed you myself."

This rather high-handed decree sailed right over Amy's head. She was far
too busy contemplating the dubious delight welling up inside her at the
knowledge that Hawkridge wasn't planning an early departure.

She wasn't sure which emotion was uppermost, dubiety or delight; both
shimmered through her in equal proportions. The unsettling mix
threatened to make her head spin all over again.

She tried to tell herself that she had no business feeling delight.

After all, it was Hawkridge's portrait that had enthralled her, not the
man.

She told herself that dubiety wasn't necessary, because he would be kept
too busy with a Public Day, teaching his nephew to sail, preventing his
niece from eloping, and getting rid of Mr. Tweedy, to enthrall her any
further. ^ The result was not what she'd hoped for. Anticipation
continued to swirl inside her until she felt as though she stood poised
on the brink of a precipice. The sensation was somewhat alarming.
Especially for one who had never coped very well with heights.

Under the circumstances, teetering on the brink of a precipice was not a
good idea.

It was not a good idea at all.


Chapter Seven Q^zrys^Q It would have been too much to state that
squirrels wearing very heavy boots had taken up residence inside Amy's
head the following morning, but she felt a trifle frayed when she
descended the stairs at an hour considerably later than her usual time
of arising.

She couldn't entirely attribute her fragile state to the glass of
champagne she'd imbibed the night before. Not when she'd spent several
sleepless hours worrying about her indiscreet utterances at Lady
Nettlebed's party. Not after the inordinate amount of time she'd spent
remembering the gentle understanding in Hawkridge's voice when he'd
tried to reassure his sister about Crispin.

Not when she'd passed the long hours before dawn contemplating the
lowering suspicion that, like Lady Nettlebed, she knew why Hawkridge
didn't spend a great deal of time in Devon. After all, constant
encounters with the lady he'd wished to make his wife, only to see her
married to another, could be nothing but painful.

Brooding over that explanation had caused another hour or two of unrest.
All in all she had definitely lost the euphoric glow occasioned by her
glimpse of Mr. Chatsworth.

The sight that greeted her when she reached the hall did not augur well
for its return any time in the near future. Mr. Tweedy was standing in
the library doorway, contemplating the hall as though assessing the
value of its contents.

Amy regarded his portly form with displeasure. A scarlet waistcoat was
stretched over his girth, making him look like a particularly well-fed
robin.

When he turned his head in her direction, beady eyes, a short beaky nose
and ruddy cheeks adorned with side whiskers added to the illusion. His
pursed lips curled upwards in a smile that set her teeth on edge.

"Ah, Mrs. Chantry." Tweedy minced forward, beaming and rubbing his hands
together.

"And how are we this morning, after our little party last night? Not too
overcome by the honour?"

Amy raised her brows .7 enjoyed a most convivial evening, sir."

Tweedy's smile lost some of its brilliance.

"How fortunate. I believe one of the other guests--a Certain Young
Gentleman, shall we say--left rather early. I thought you may have felt
the same, er, discomfort. On the other hand, one must grasp one's
opportunities to study the ways of polite company, mustn't one?"

The stony stare she sent him in response to this question bounced off
Tweedy's armour of determined geniality without so much as inflicting a
dent.

Amy set her lips.

"Were you expecting to see Lady Hawkridge, sir? She has not yet come
downstairs."

"Oh, no, dear lady, I wouldn't dream of disturbing her ladyship. I
merely stopped by to pay my respects on my way back from the village.

Hawkridge's groom--Mawson, I believe--offered me a lift up the hill.

I was happy to accept. The climb sometimes proves rather too much for
one of my, er, mature years."

Amy inclined her head. Since Tweedy's rented house was half a mile
beyond the Manor and he usually made the trip to Ottersmead in his gig,
she suspected he'd deliberately set out on foot, hoping for an
'accidental' meeting with Lady Hawk- ridge.

"Not that you young people will enter into my feelings on the matter,"
he continued.

"I was saying so only a little while ago as I was chatting to Mr.
Chatsworth." Tweedy tittered at his mild play on words.

"He was standing outside the Receiving Office, you know, when Mawson and
I were both collecting mail."

"Indeed, sir."

"Always delightful to receive communications from one's friends, isn't
it?

However, the walk back to my cottage is rather long. When Hawkridge's
groom gave me a lift, I offered to deposit your mail here in the library
by way of thanks. I have seen your butler do so, and knew precisely
where to put it."

"I see." Amy glanced quickly past Mr. Tweedy into the library. The pile
of letters on her desk--or rather, Hawkridge's desk--proved the veracity
of Tweedy's excuse. She resigned herself to being polite.

"Thank you, sir."

"Don't mention it, my dear. I'm always happy to be of service. Every
little attention must be observed, mustn't it. I'm sure you understand.
After all, your own position depends upon such careful observances, does
it not?"

"I try to make myself useful to Lady Hawkridge," Amy replied with as
much patience as growing irritation allowed. She'd sensed Tweedy's
dislike of her at their previous encounters, but the dowager's presence
had prevented him from firing such openly barbed darts. / His smile
slipped a little further.

"Indeed, Mrs. Chantry, indeed.

However, your usefulness has its limits. Ladies of a Certain Age need a
man about the place to take care of those little matters of business
that tend to puzzle the female mind."

"This female mind is a little less easily puzzled than you might
suppose," Amy said drily.

"Besides, you may have noticed that Lord Hawkridge is in residence?" An
ironic smile curved her mouth.

"He is quite enough man about the place."

Tweedy permitted himself another titter.

"No doubt you find him rather intimidating," he agreed archly.

"But he won't be here forever. I've heard he never stays longer than a
week at the outside.

Perhaps you, too, should start planning your departure, Mrs. Chantry."

Amy's brows rose.

"At your suggestion, sir? I hardly think so."

"I merely suggest that you consider the future, my dear.

Circumstances are forever changing, are they not? One should never
dismiss advice out of hand. You could return to Bath and consider, er,
employment with a gentleman. One with reasonable means, of course."

"That advice, sir, is as unnecessary as it is unwarranted," Amy informed
him roundly.

"I have no intention of leaving Lady Hawkridge's employment. Nor do I
anticipate any change in her ladyship's circumstances that would cause
my employment to be terminated. Now, if you will excuse me ..."

Tweedy's pursed lips puffed out in a small pout.

"Of course, Mrs. Chantry, of course. Far be it from me to keep you from
your duties.

Perform them well, my dear, but keep in mind that informing Lady
Hawkridge of this conversation is not one of them."

"I wouldn't dream of repeating a conversation of such little
significance, sir."

"Yes, you are very confident, Mrs. Chantry." The pout became a spiteful
sneer.

"No doubt you have become quite the favourite. I suspected as much.

However--" with another glance about the hall '--there appears to be
enough for two." Tweedy stepped away from the library doorway to
retrieve the beaver hat he'd placed on the hall table, and sent her a
malicious smile.

"Perhaps Mr. Chatsworth will be more amenable to advice from one who is
older and wiser. Ottersmead is quite a large place, but I doubt it can
accommodate all three of us."

Already halfway to the front door to see off her unwelcome guest, Amy
wheeled about and stared at him.

"What on earth do you mean by it hat sir?"

"Think about it, my dear." Tweedy minced past her to the door, opened it
and started down the front steps. His parting words fell into the sunny
morning like cold little pellets of rain.

"When one person in our walk of life is unmasked, people tend to ask
questions about other newcomers to the district."

Amy stared after him, frowning. Unease stirred faintly at the back of
her mind. Though Tweedy clearly considered her a rival for the dowager's
patronage, he'd always been perfectly civil to her, if not downright
unctuous. He'd never given her any indication that he considered her
anything other than a lady forced to find employment due to straitened
circumstances.

What had made him suspect she was something else?

She closed the front door and walked slowly towards the library, pausing
in front of the enormous gilt-framed mirror hanging above the hall table
to examine her reflection. This morning, in deference to the faint ache
behind her eyes, she'd tied her hair back with a simple band of
Wellington green silk, leaving it free at the back to fall in artless
ringlets to her shoulders. One or two tendrils had defied the ribbon to
curl at her brow and temples, rendering the style rather informal for a
companion. But not, she decided, studying her cream muslin gown adorned,
today, with a green sash to match the ribbon, unsuitable for a morning
at home.

What had Tweedy seen that apparently put her on a par with him and Mr.
Chatsworth? / What, for that matter, did Tweedy know of Mr. Chatsworth?
Did he suspect him of dishonesty merely because he himself lived by his
wits, or did he have some definite knowledge that would discredit
Lucinda's suitor?

If he did, should she warn someone? Hawkridge? Lord Nettlebed? What
could she say?

More uneasy than ever, Amy wandered into the library, her gaze going
straight to the pile of mail. Her frown deepened as she remembered that
Pickles hadn't been in the hall. No doubt Tweedy had entered the house
without ringing the bell; she had no trouble imagining him doing so. But
most people on an errand of courtesy would have left the handful of
letters in the hall, not made themselves further at home by strolling
into the library as if they owned the place.

Simple presumption?

Or, she thought, focusing abruptly on the top of the pile where a folded
and sealed square of paper bore her name and direction, had Tweedy
originally intended to express his sentiments in writing?

Amy contemplated the missive for a moment, then picked it up and broke
the seal. The sheet was devoid of message or signature, but as she
smoothed out the folds another smaller piece of paper fluttered out. It
appeared to be a cutting from a newspaper. She opened it.

And felt the blood drain from her face with a speed that had her
grabbing for the edge of the desk for support. Shock coated her entire
body in a sheet of ice. She couldn't move, couldn't think.

Could only hold the report of the robbery at Bristol clenched in a hand
that wanted to fling the paper aside and could not.

Dear God. Who would send her such a thing?

A violent tremor shuddered through her, breaking her frozen paralysis.

Shaking with reaction, hardly able to look at the cutting without
feeling sick, she hurried over to the fireplace. Paper and kindling were
always laid, although since the advent of warmer weather a fire hadn't
been necessary. She crouched, reaching for the tinder-box, then halted
abruptly as rational thought reasserted itself.

How could she explain why she'd lit a fire on such a warm, sunny
morning?

Amy eased her grip around the paper, took a deep breath, and forced
herself to think.

No ghost had sent her that cutting; she'd established that Mr.
Chatsworth wasn't her husband--the only other person to whom the article
would mean something. It had to be Tweedy; trying to frighten her away,
but unable to resist baiting her verbally when he'd seen her.

No wonder he'd deposited the mail in the library where she would
probably be the first to see it.

But why the cutting? Why would he assume it meant anything to her?

She'd never encountered him before she'd come to live at Hawkridge
Manor.

Had he known her husband? Seen her with James from a distance?

It was possible. Those who lived by their wits on the fringes of Society
must sometimes encounter others of their ilk.

The more intelligent denizens of the criminal world were even more
tightly knit.

But if Tweedy knew about her past, why hadn't he threatened her with
outright exposure just now, instead of merely rendering advice?

Amy shook her head. There were too many unanswerable questions for the
puzzle to be easily solved, but one thing seemed clear. Tweedy couldn't
know everything or he would have used his knowledge to discredit her.

Amy set her lips in a determined line and stuffed the cutting into the
pocket of her gown. If Tweedy thought he could intimidate her into
leaving, he was in for a sad disappointment. Without proof, he could do
nothing.

Feeling more defiant than brave, despite the logic of her reasoning, she
put her hand on the wood box to push herself upright. One of the logs
shifted-slightly. Before she could blink, something large, black an^
hairy scuttled into her line of vision. It stopped less than an inch
from her fingers and stared at her with tiny malevolent eyes.

Amy forgot all about Mr. Tweedy.

Marc strode into the hall, and was halfway up the stairs when an
ear-splitting scream, reverberating with feminine fear and outrage,
threatened to bring the house down.

Wheeling, he put his hand on the bannister, vaulted it and landed in the
hall running.

When he burst through the library doorway a pounding heartbeat later,
the sight that met his eyes pulled him up short.

Amy was standing on top of his desk, one hand clutching her throat, the
other holding her skirts at a level that was not quite shocking and more
than a little tantalising.

He allowed himself one quick glance at elegantly turned ankles and
slender calves clad in white cotton stockings that for some odd reason
sent a jolt of pure lust through him before lifting his gaze to her
face.

"You didn't get rid of that spider!" she shrieked, still at the top of
her lungs.

Marc closed the door, leaned back against it and decided it wouldn't
improve matters to inform Amy that she'd just scared the wits out of
him.

"I did try," he said, with great self-restraint. The remark didn't
appear to soothe her in the least.

"Well, you'll have to try again, my lord! And this time you'd better
succeed!"

He took a deep breath, determinedly kept his gaze on her face mainly for
his own sanity and relaxed the battle-ready tension in his muscles.

"Certainly, Mrs. Chantry. If you'd give me the spider's precise
location, I shall be happy to oblige you."

"There." Amy pointed a shaking hand at the wood box "It climbed on to
that log and ...  and stared at me."

Marc quirked a brow.

"Stared at you."

"Yes! As if I was its next meal!"

A muscle quivered in his cheek.

"Don't you dare laugh at me, sir."

"I wouldn't dream of it, Mrs. Chantry. Over here, you say?" He strode
over to the fireplace and hunkered down to examine the log. A long thin
leg protruded from beneath it. No doubt about it. The spider had taken
refuge, its nerves shattered by the scream at close quarters. It would
be an act of mercy to put the creature out of its misery.

Marc picked up the log and smacked it smartly down on the one beneath
it, spider undermost.

Amy let out another shriek and clapped her hands over her ears.

Sternly suppressing a grin. Marc shook the corpse into the fireplace and
straightened, brushing his hands.

"There. Nothing like rescuing a fair maiden from a spider to start the
day."

The fair maiden uncovered her ears and glared at him. "Well, I'm very
grateful for the rescue, my lord, but did you have to kill the poor
creature?"

"Poor creature? A minute ago it was a carnivorous monster."

Amy blushed and bit her lip.

Releasing the grin tugging at his lips. Marc strolled towards her.

"To tell you the truth, Mrs. Chantry, I considered a speedy dispatch to
be more merciful than chasing the spider all over the room, prior to
showing it the door."

"Oh." She shuddered at the very thought.

"I see what you mean, sir. I dare say even a spider would be terrified
by such an ordeal."

"I meant it was more merciful for you," he corrected drily. He stopped
beside the desk and held out his hand.

"As it is, you may descend from your perch in perfect safety."

Amy glanced briefly at his hand. He was apparently under the impression
that descending from the desk was going to be easy. ; When she didn't
immediately iv ail herself of his assistance, he raised a brow.

"I assure you, Mrs. Chantry, your assailant is quite dead."

"Yes, I know that, sir. Thank you."

"Well?"

Amy felt herself blushing again.

"Um perhaps if you were to leave the room ..."

Both brows went up.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I mean, what if the servants heard me scream? It would be very worrying
for them, and--"

" This house is very old, Mrs. Chantry. Its walls are thick. I doubt if
anyone heard you from the servants' quarters. However, in case I'm
mistaken, you'd better come down from there before someone feels moved
to investigate."

Amy sighed and gave up the task of trying to get rid of her rescuer so
she could sit down on the desk and slither off.

"This is no doubt going to sound absurd, my lord, but ...  I have a
small problem with heights."

"Heights?" The quizzical gleam in his eyes turned incredulous. She
watched in resignation as he measured the distance to the floor.

"Mrs. Chantry," he began in a reasonable tone that made her seriously
consider screaming again, 'the road to the village is situated at a
"height" You didn't appear to have any trouble with that. What is the
problem here?"

"The problem, sir, is that this desk is not the road to the village.

The road to the village, you might have noticed, is set at some distance
from the edge of the cliff, causing one to look out over the sea. In
fact, in several places there are trees blocking one's view of the
descent. However, if I was to stand at the edge of the cliff and look
straight down, I would probably/a;Z down. That is not a desirable
outcome, my lord."

There was a suspicious hint of movement about his mouth. "A most
wndesirable outcome, Mrs. Chantry. However, take a look at your feet in
relation to the floor. You are not standing on the edge of a cliff. The
top of that desk is about three feet high. That is hardly what one would
call a great height."

Amy began to feel slightly desperate.

"From your point of view that may be true, sir, but my eyes are not in
my feet. They're in my head--which is more than another five feet
higher. That is over eight feet, my lord. Eight feet! And when I look
directly down it seems a lot worse."

"Then don't look down," he suggested, the curve of his mouth suddenly,
inexplicably, tender.

"Just step over the edge."

When she stared at him, aghast at this reckless suggestion, he added
softly, "I'll catch you."

Amy's breath caught instead. She had the strangest feeling he was
talking about something far removed from stepping off a desk. Before she
could decide precisely what, however, Hawkridge lowered his hand and
tilted his head consideringly.

"Of course if you consider that too risky an option, I can always lift
you down."

It was the gently musing tone that did it. Amy straightened her spine
and glared at him.

"Kindly give me your hand, sir." She took a determined step forward.

"And if you say one word about this to--" The door crashed open as Lady
Hawkridge burst into the library in her usual whirlwind fashion.

Already teetering on the brink, Amy jerked her head up, wobbled for
several unnerving seconds, then pitched forward.

"Good morning, Grandmama," Hawkridge said calmly as she tumbled into his
arms.

"Good morning. Marc dearest. How kind of you to help Amy off the desk."

Amy made a strangled sound of shock and virtually leapt from Hawkridge's
arms. The thought flashed through her mind that he'd let her go only
because of his grandmother's presence, but there was no time to
contemplate the hard tension in his body. The crumpled piece of paper in
her pocket, shoved too hurriedly out of sight while she'll been in a
crouched position, chose that moment to fall out.

Everyone watched its progress to the floor. When Hawk- ridge moved to
retrieve it, Amy pounced. Snatching it out from under his fingers. , she
stuffed the paper back in her pocket.

"A ...  a recipe for Denmark Lotion," she stammered wildly,
straightening like a marionette whose strings had been violently tugged.

Hawkridge studied her flushed face, his eyes so intent she wondered they
didn't bore straight through to her scrambling wits. She turned to the
dowager, knowing she should leave well alone but unable to stop
babbling.

"I hope you don't mind me cutting it out of the paper, ma'am. It's very
good for freckles, you know."

"No, of course not, dear. But--" Lady Hawkridge tilted her head '--you
don't have any freckles."

"Well, no, but one never knows when a freckle may appear, does one?

And since I take quite frequent walks to the village, I thought."

She caught a glimpse of Hawkridge's politely raised brows and knew he
didn't believe a word she was saying.

"Oh, dear, and I was about to ask if you'd take a basket of clothes to
Lavender Cottage," the dowager murmured, earning Amy's undying
gratitude.

"But you may go in the barouche if you don't wish to walk," Not at
all,"ma'am." Her voice still sounded as if someone was shaking her back
and forth. Amy took a steadying breath, and carefully avoided
Hawkridge's gaze.

"I enjoy my walks to the village, especially when the objective is a
visit at the Cottage."

Her ladyship beamed.

"I know you take a great interest in our little project, dear. And the
children love to see you."

"Yes, well ..." She started towards the door with what she hoped was a
firm step.

"Let me fetch my bonnet and pelisse and--"

" Be back here in five minutes, Mrs. Chantry. I'll drive you to the
village."

Amy's firm step faltered rather badly. There wasn't a single hint of
suggestion in Hawkridge's tone. It was an order. She looked back over
her shoulder.

He smiled--like a cat who had just put out a very large paw and pinned
down a mouse intent on escape.

"After all, we wouldn't want to expose your complexion to the elements
any longer than is necessary, would we? And my greys are overdue for
some exercise."

She was in a great deal of trouble. Hawkridge seemed to have developed
the habit of setting neat little traps for her without any warning. She
could have refused a favour on her own account, but there was no
gracious way to do so if he was going out anyway.

"Thank you, my lord," she managed to say with creditable calm.

"I

won't keep you above a moment."

The curve of his mouth still held far too much satisfaction for her
peace of mind. Amy tilted her chin. She might have been outwitted, but
she was far from pinned down. She left the room as if driving into
Ottersmead with Hawkridge was all her own idea.

"Are you quite comfortable, Mrs. Chantry?"

As comfortable as one could be when expecting an interrogation to start
at any moment.

"Yes, thank you, my lord. Your phaeton is exceptionally well sprung."

Hawkridge cast an amused glance down at her as they bowled through the
gates and turned on to the main road to Ottersmead.

"So that's why you have a death grip on the hood. You're afraid you'll
bounce off at the first bump."

Amy flushed and removed her hand, folding it over its clenched twin in
her lap.

"I trustithe road is not that perilous," she returned somewhat drily. /
'.

I trust so, too," Hawkridge murmured.

"Especially as I thought this route might be less harrowing for you than
the cliff road."

She blinked at him, wondering if she'd heard correctly. The road they
were on wound inland past woods and fields for a mile or two before
dividing into two branches; the right leading to the main post road, the
left curving back towards Of- tersmead.

The route lacked spectacular views and was longer. She'd thought
Hawkridge had chosen it so he'd have plenty of time for interrogation.

Instead, he was taking her foolish fear of heights seriously.

No, she thought immediately. Impossible. He must be teasing her. After
all, anyone who had trouble descending from a desk had to expect a
little raillery on the subject.

"Thank you, my lord. But as long as I see terra firma around my feet in
every direction, or I have something to hold on to, I do not have a
problem."

His smile was wry.

"Does that mean I put the hood up to no purpose? I thought you might
feel more secure in a high carriage if you couldn't look down."

This time she gaped at him. Her brain seemed to be having a great deal
of trouble catching up with the conversation. Such a small thing:
raising the hood because she was perched several feet above the ground.
She wouldn't have thought of it herself until it was too late.

She shook her head in bemusement.

"I don't know what to say, my lord.

Thank you."

He cast her a searching glance.

"You sound positively astonished, Mrs. Chantry. Do you think me so
incapable of care or consideration?"

"No ...  no ...  of course not. I ..." She floundered; caught in a
morass of surprise and conjecture.

"I mean, I know you care about your family, but--" When he raised a brow
she sank deeper.

"Well, you only have to look at the way you tell them how to run
their--"

" Yes, Mrs. Chantry?"

Amy took a firm grip on her wits.

"What I mean, sir, is that you show great consideration for the welfare
of your family."

"To the point of telling them how to run their lives."

The gleam in his eyes had her winning free of the verbal quagmire
tugging at her feet.

"If you must know, sir, it seemed that way at last night's dinner.
However, I quite understand that you don't wish to see your young
relatives fall into trouble because of over-protection by one parent and
a disinclination to bestir--" She finally managed to put a halt on her
runaway tongue.

"A disinclination to bestir himself on the part of the other," Hawkridge
finished for her.

"A telling summation, Mrs. Chan- try."

He sounded more thoughtful than annoyed, but Amy flushed.

"And one I had no right to make," she said immediately.

"Please forgive me, sir, I--" "Stop that," he said very quietly.

She stopped. So did her breathing.

"You may say anything you wish to me, Mrs. Chantry." His gaze was very
direct.

"Anything. On any subject."

Anything? On any subject?

"Uh, my lord ...  the road? It is starting to curve towards Oftersmead,
and unless your horses know the way ..."

He returned his gaze to the road, but not before she caught the quick
flash of laughter in his eyes.

"That wasn't the subject I had in mind," he murmured. His mouth curved
in a faintly crooked smile.

"I

want you to trust me, Amy."

"I  ...  I do trust you, sir."

"One wouldn't have thought so the other night when, after I'd assured
you I no longer suspected you of ulterior motives, I was attempting to
discover something of your background."

When silence greeted that remark, he continued as if they were
discussing nothing more innocuous than the weather.

"But tell me where you received such an accurate insight into my family.
Was your own mother over-protective or weak? Either would account for a
marriage entered into when you were scarcely past childhood."

"I was seventeen!" Amy exclaimed indignantly. And obviously no more
sensible now. He had just managed to slip under her guard again by
saying her name in that spine 1 tingling, velvety dark tone. It was a
tone he'd never used before.

She didn't want to think about why he was using it now. Or why he'd used
her name. Or why he wanted her to trust him. He was going somewhere with
this, but she was too bemused by the entire conversation to pay much
attention to its point.

"And my mother was neither over-protective nor weak. In fact, she had
very little to do with my marriage."

"You managed the business yourself?"

"I had no choice, sir. Mama was ill for a long time before her death.

I had to manage for both of us."

"You're used to that, aren't you?" he said, glancing down. "It's not a
matter of trust, although you don't trust easily. It's a matter of
independence."

"You should be able to understand that, my lord. You, too, had to take
charge at a young age. I dare say that's why everyone has become
accustomed to leaning on you."

"Never mind my family for the moment, Mrs. Chantry. It's your reticence
on the subject of your past that interests me. Although a predilection
for fighting your own battles goes a long way towards explaining it."

"I'm glad something's been made clear," she muttered.

"The point I'm trying to make," he said, sounding as if his patience was
beginning to wear thin, 'is that you no longer need to be so
independent."

"Why not?"

"Because you're living under my protection, damn it. That means if
you're in any kind of--"

" I don't see why I should stop fighting my own battles just because I'm
living in your house. You don't lean on anyone."

"That's different," he bit out.

"I'm a man."

"All the more reason to keep my independence," Amy retorted, starting to
feel rather annoyed herself.

"When a man is in charge, disaster usually results."

"Is that why you lied about that scrap of paper this morning? To avoid
disaster?"

She slammed back in her seat as if he'd whipped the horses into a
headlong gallop.

Although why she should be so stunned was a mystery. He was merely
running true to form.

"Perhaps I should have explained in greater detail, Mrs. Chantry, the
consequences of your continuing to fiddle with the truth."

The very faintest thread of warning wound through the velvet of his
tone.

Outrage rescued Amy from her stunned paralysis. She actually felt her
breasts swell as she drew in enough air to rend him limb from limb.

Metaphorically speaking.

"Let me tell you, sir, that a request for my trust is not of much use
when it's immediately followed by threats! Yes, I did lie about that
wretched piece of paper, and you would have done exactly the same in my
place. In fact, you do do it. All the time!"

That switched his attention away from her iniquities.

He hauled on the reins so abruptly Amy had to grab for the hood to
prevent herself being catapulted into the air. The horses plunged to a
stop, snorting and squealing their indignation at their unaccustomed
treatment.

Their owner added a few muttered curses to the din before they settled
down.

Tying the reins around the brake, he turned to her with a distinctly
menacing glitter in his eyes.

"Would you care to explain that statement, Mrs. Chantry?"

Amy swallowed, and decider she didn't particularly care to explain that
statement in the least. She could hardly tell a prominent member of
polite society that, despite his facade of civility, she had no trouble
picturing him prowling through tracts of icy wilderness, hunting woolly
mammoths and other such prehistoric creatures.

"You take me up much too fast, sir," she muttered.

"All I meant was that you use the same social ...  lies, if you will,
that we all use to spare people's feelings."

To her relief, the hard line of Hawkridge's mouth softened. An instant
later he started to grin.

"Several members of polite society might argue with you on that score,
Mrs. Chantry." Then, more soberly, "Very well, I agree with you to a
point. Most of us try to behave with some semblance of civility, but ' "
Indeed, we do, my lord. Just think what a shambles we'd be in without
polite platitudes and ' "I said I agree to a point. What I wish to know
is whose feelings were you trying to spare this morning? And why?"

She clamped her lips together and lifted her chin.

"You don't want to look at me like that, Mrs. Chantry. The result might
be more than you'd expect."

"More threats, sir?"

"Damn it, Amy, you were worried about something and I'm not talking
about that blasted spider. I understand you sparing my grandmother's
feelings; mine are a damn sight less easily overset. Kindly forget your
distrust of the male sex for a moment and tell me what the devil was on
that paper?"

Amy sighed. Hawkridge was quite capable of sitting here in the middle of
the road until he got an answer. She might as well give him one.

If he asked to see the paper, she could always say she'd destroyed it.

Uncomfortably aware that lies seemed to be piling up on top of each
other, she resolved to stick as closely to the truth as possible.

"If you must know, sir, I received a message from Mr. Tweedy, warning me
not to interfere in his pursuit of Lady Hawkridge."

"What!" Hawkridge's eyes narrowed.

"You deduced all that from a newspaper cutting?"

"It was particularly applicable to my situation, sir." That was
certainly the truth.

"I thought such a thing would only upset her ladyship. Now, may we
continue to Ottersmead before--"

" Particularly applicable-- In what way?"

"It referred to the behaviour of servants. You know, if another carriage
were to come around that bend--"

" Good God! Do you think that's going to be the end of the matter? For
one thing, Mrs. Chantry, you are not a servant.

And for another, you will hand over any more warning letters to me. Is
that clear?"

"It was my warning letter," she retorted, wincing at the idiocy of the
statement.

Hawkridge made a snarling sound in his throat and reached for the reins.
Amy received the distinct impression he wanted to reach for her throat.

"This is no time for your stubborn independence," he grated.

"Especially when your reasoning seems to lack any semblance of logic.

Did you stop to consider for one moment that a modicum of distress on
Grandmama's part now, might be preferable to the greater distress caused
the longer Tweedy is allowed to run his course?"

"Lady Hawkridge would be no more distressed to see the back of Mr.
Tweedy than you would, sir. She is, however, kind-hearted enough to be
upset on my account. That is what I wished to avoid."

He whipped his head around to study her for a moment, then shortened the
reins and gave his horses the office to start. "Did Tweedy threaten
you?"

"Not in so many words. He seemed to be labouring under a similar
misapprehension aboutfmy past as your own." - Still smarting under the
lash of his words, she elevated her nose. "I would like to know what it
is about me that immediately causes some people to assume the worst."

Hawkridge winced. Amy was incensed enough to derive considerable
pleasure from his reaction. It was small consolation for that remark
about her lack of logic.

"In Tweedy's case, Mrs. Chantry, he would probably assume the worst
about anyone in your position. It isn't personal."

"Hmph."

"As for myself, I did admit I was wrong about you."

"Hmmph!"

"And in all fairness, you must admit that Grandmama's previous lack of
judgement, not to mention the lack of information about your background,
greatly influenced my opinion."

"Hmmph!"

"However, I'm happy to inform you that, even if I wasn't already
convinced of your innocence in respect to your past, your present
behaviour would do the trick."

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"That mutinous little chin is just begging to be captured so its owner
can be thoroughly kissed."

"Wha?"

"Fortunately for you, the village is upon us."

They swept into the main street of Ottersmead before Amy could get her
mouth closed again.


Chapter Eight

73^S$> )

Oy the way," Hawkridge said, as if he hadn't just sent her thoughts
whirling off on several shockingly unsuitable tangents.

"Who are the clothes for?" He cast a glance at the basket reposing at
her feet.

"Obviously not naked sculptors."

Amy choked and regained her powers of speech.

"Really, my lord!"

He grinned.

"Yes, Mrs. Chantry?"

Despite grappling with a nerve-tingling memory of the last time he'd
kissed her, Amy giggled. It was useless trying to think of a quelling
response in the face of that wicked grin. Besides, wickedness was rather
reassuring.

His remark about kissing her could be put down to the same diabolical
tendency.

She sternly quelled a niggling feeling of disappointment.

"The clothes are intended for the children at Lavender Cottage," she
informed him with as. much dignity as she could muster. / "Yes, I
deduced that there were children at Lavender Cottage. Where is the
place? I don't recall a house of that name in Ottersmead."

"I believe it used to be known as the old Smitton residence. Lady
Hawkridge rented it last month on behalf of the orphaned children and
and unmarried mothers of the parish."

She felt the sharp glance he sent her like a flash of heat against her
cheek and resolutely kept her eyes to the front. "I'm surprised Lady
Hawkridge hasn't mentioned the project to you."

"I'm not," he returned somewhat drily.

"The last tenant tried to rob her. Although how she could equate battle
with orphans is beyond me.

However, the Smitton place is on a steepish street. We'll leave my
phaeton at the Green Man and walk."

Amy took a moment or two to digest this information. She'd been rigidly
braced for criticism or comment, even an implication, about the
influence she must have asserted on behalf of the local orphans and
unwed mothers; by the time she realised nothing of the sort was
forthcoming, Hawkridge was turning his horses into the cobbled space in
front of the inn.

She was instantly diverted by a noise from the Esplanade opposite that
sounded like the squawking of several seagulls.

"I was under the impression the Society for the Beautification of our
Village had already met this week," Hawkridge remarked, frowning at the
small crowd of ladies responsible for the 'racket. He drew his horses to
a halt.

"They have, sir."

"Then why is a good proportion of the membership waving to us from
across the road?"

"I have no idea, my lord." She waved back to the crowd of chattering
ladies, hoping the excitement on every face wasn't caused by the fact
that she was out driving with Hawkridge. "Perhaps Lord Nettlebed can
enlighten you. I believe the horse tethered a few yards away to your
left is the chestnut he usually rides."

Hawkridge followed her gaze as he tied off the reins. "Hmm. And a bay
gelding keeping it company." He descended from the phaeton and strode
around to her side.

"I wonder if it's too much to hope that Bevan is partaking of some
exercise in company with his son."

Before she could venture an opinion on the subject, another phaeton,
driven by Viscount Eversleigh, clattered into the yard and pulled up
next to them.

Lord Colborough's gruff tones smote her ears.

"Morning, Mrs. Chantry. Hawkridge. Where the devil is Jennings? Hey!

Jennings! Jennings, I say!"

"No need to yell, sir," Eversleigh said, wincing.

"Good morning, Mrs. Chantry. You're looking in tune with the season.
That shade of green becomes you."

Amy smiled at him.

"Thank you, my lord."

Hawkridge scowled, seized her about the waist and whisked her out of the
carriage before she could blink.

"Mrs. Chantry is a widow," he informed Eversleigh, setting her on her
feet with a distinct thump.

"Widows wear dark colours."

Amy snatched her hands away from his shoulders--where they'd shown a
distressing tendency to linger--and glared at him, torn between umbrage
at his lack of gallantry and relief that her exit from the phaeton had
been accomplished so easily.

When she saw Eversleigh grinning, she all but dived back into the
carriage in search of her basket.

"Going on a picnic?" he enquired innocently when she emerged with her
property.

"We're dancing attendance on my grandmother's latest project," said
Hawkridge, sounding as if he was speaking through clenched teeth.

"Where is Clarissa?" growled Colborough in much the same tone.

"Off somewhere with that Tweedy fellow, I suppose."

Hawkridge turned, an evil smfie curling his lips.

"I have no idea," he purred.

"But since Grandmama decreed this morning that our Public Day will be
held in three days' time, you may be sure he'll take every opportunity
on that occasion to push his suit."

"Might as well hold it here and now," Eversleigh remarked, forestalling
the explosion gathering on his grandparent's countenance.

"Half the village seems to have gathered across the way, and here comes
Nettlebed with Lucinda and the In- ghams."

"Hah!" barked Colborough, momentarily distracted. He watched the others
stroll towards them for a moment before turning back to Hawkridge.

"You had a lucky escape there, Hawkridge, even though you might not have
thought so at the time. Know Ashcroft had his doubts about letting his
daughter marry you, and he was right. Sweet gal.

Kitty Ingham, but not up to your weight. Would have bolted in fright at
the first fence." He chuckled.

Amy suddenly decided that she really ought to be on her way to Lavender
Cottage.

"Uh  ...  my lord--"

" I say, sir," Eversleigh expostulated at the same moment.

" There's a lady present."

"What's that got to do with anything?" demanded his grandparent.

"Mrs. Chantry was married, wasn't she? She isn't going to swoon at a few
blunt words. Stands to reason," he added, as one throwing in a clincher.

"Hardy lot, the Daltons."

"Good morning, everyone," Lady Ingham called, before anyone could
comment on this pronouncement.

"Isn't it a lovely day?" She caught sight of Amy as she rounded
Eversleigh's phaeton, and promptly cut off her retreat.

"Oh, Mrs. Chantry, did I hear Lord Colborough say you're a connection of
the Daltons? Sarah is one of my dearest friends, you know. I saw her in
London during the Season, but she and Ravensdene had to cut their stay
short since she was expecting to be confined. Have you heard how she
goes on? And the dear little baby?"

"Nick wrote to me a few weeks ago," Hawkridge answered while Amy was
still frantically sorting through a variety of responses.

"From the tone of his letter, I deduced that Sarah was in the pink of
health and they're both besotted with the heir. And by the way. Kitty--"
he sent Lady Ingham a very straight look '--Mrs. Chantry's connection
with the Daltons, if any, is very distant. She's never met them."

"I understand," Lady Ingham said immediately. She turned a warm smile on
Amy.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Chantry. I won't say anything. There's nothing more
awkward than people assuming something about one that may not be true.
But I'm sure Marc will find out the facts for you if you wish it. He's
very good at that sort of thing."

The remark was obviously meant as reassurance. Amy returned her
ladyship's smile with a weak one of her own and wondered what that
exchange of looks between Hawkridge and Kitty Ingham was all about.

She already knew Hawkridge was a stickler for the truth on matters of
importance. But she wasn't sure if Lady Ingham meant that the proper
connections were also important to him.

Either alternative was disturbing as far as she was concerned.

She shook off the thought and took a firmer grip on her basket.

"My lord, if you don't mind, I'll ..."

"Amy! There you are!" Lucinda appeared at her other side, clad in a
scarlet riding-habit adorned with gold braid and epaulettes. The sight
was so startling, it took Amy a moment to hear what Lucinda was saying.

"I'm so sorry you didn't meet Jeremy last night," she rattled on.

"He particularly wished to speak to you because I told him you wanted to
help us."

"I beg your--"

" After all, you know what it's like to be in love."

"Well--"

" But Jeremy is looking forward to meeting you at the Public Day." "
Excellent," said Hawkridge, drawing his niece's attention." Perhaps
you'll remind me, Mrs. Chantry, to recruit Chatsworth for the cricket
team." He raised a brow at Lucinda.

"I presume he did learn the game at school."

Lucinda scowled and stuck out her lower lip.

"He did go to school, didn't he?"

"I think you'd better leave it right there," Nettlebed advised as his
daughter's countenance took on a dangerously angry hue.

"Are you ready to go, Lucinda? Your mama will be wondering what's become
of us."

"Yes, indeed, and so will little Anthony," put in Lady In- gham. She
tucked her hand in the crook of her husband's arm, neatly distracting
him from his conversation with Colborough and Eversleigh.

Amy watched as he smiled down at his wife. He was some years older than
Hawkridge, unremarkable in countenance, unassuming in manner, clearly
happy to indulge his much younger wife.

"Ready to go, my dear?" He patted her hand, the glance he swept over the
assembled company, resting for a moment on Amy.

"Mrs. Chantry, I do hope you'll come and visit one day soon. Anthony is
always talking about the pretty lady who helped him pick flowers a
couple of weeks ago. Of course, he and his nurse were trespassing," he
added drolly to Hawkridge. "The little scamp caught sight of your
grandmother's roses when-he was out for a walk, and was bound and
determined to bring some home to his mama."

"As if we don't have enough of our own," Lady Ingham said, laughing.

"But do come, Mrs. Chantry. Please don't feel you must wait on Lady
Hawkridge. We're much of an age, you know, and I would so like us to be
friends."

Amy promptly sank beneath a tidal wave of guilt. The deluge came out of
nowhere, swamping the faint ripples she'd felt before, and sending her
hurtling into a maelstrom of regret, worry and recrimination.

By the time she surfaced the Inghams had departed and Nettlebed was
assisting his daughter into the saddle.

As he reached for his own reins, he caught her eye and gave her a wry
smile.

"I think you'd better come and visit us, too, Mrs. Chantry. We could do
with some sensible advice."

Another wave of guilt threatened to roll over her. Amy braced herself,
determined not to lose her footing. When had the trickle she'd been
living with become a flood? she wondered. Even last night hadn't been
this bad.

Until then, the only person she'd deceived was Lady Hawkridge, and she'd
tried to make up for it by anticipating her ladyship's every whim; had
even told herself that she might eventually confide in her benefactress.

Since Hawkridge had arrived, the list of people she was deceiving was
growing to nightmarish proportions. She'd thought she would be living
retired with an elderly widow, not becoming the recipient of all this
kindly attention.

She didn't like it. She didn't want any attention. Unless it was
Hawkridge paying-No! She didn't mean that. She was becoming overwrought.
Was it any wonder?

"What's Crispin doing this morning?" Hawkridge demanded, jolting her
back to her surroundings.

"Who cares about him?" Lucinda retorted.

"Papa asked him to come riding with us, but he preferred to go off to
some mouldy old barn."

"Painting that yacht in the old boathouse," Nettlebed explained.

"You'd better talk to Augusta, Marc. She's not happy. Not happy at all."
"Later," Hawkridge said briefly.

Amy suddenly realised he was watching her closely. She instantly
plastered a smile to her face and looked up at Eversleigh, who had just
emerged from the inn.

"God knows where Jennings is," he remarked.

"Can't find him anywhere."

"Does the fellow^ expect us to sit here all day?" barked Col- borough.

"Although I can't say I blame him for making himself scarce with that
screeching going on across the road. Stop that infernal din!" he roared
suddenly, raising his voice to a pitch that could have been heard over
cannon-shot.

"A man can't hear himself think!"

The ladies stopped chattering as if hands had been clapped over their
mouths. They stared across the road, shock and horror on every
countenance.

Then, as Colborough half rose from his seat, they turned as one and fled
down the street like a flock of panicked grey partridges.

Eversleigh groaned.

"Oh, very nicely done, sir. That should add to your reputation as a
gentleman."

Colborough glared at his grandson.

"It worked, didn't it?"

Hawkridge started to grin.

The Viscount raised his eyes heavenward.

"I don't see Jennings reappearing," he pointed out. Then, with a swift
glance at Hawkridge, he looked at Amy and winked.

"Do you want to try flushing him from cover, Mrs. Chantry? Old Jennings
always has an eye for a fetching female. You might have more success."

The grin was wiped from Hawkridge's face in a flash. "That," he stated
in nothing less than a snarl, 'was not amusing, Pel. Find him yourself.
And you can tell him that if he wants to continue running the Green--"
He stopped dead as he caught sight of the sign hanging over the door.

Everyone except Nettlebed followed his gaze.

"Frog?" they chorused, in accents ranging from outrage to disbelief.

The painted image of a very fat, self-important green frog smirked back
at them.

"Meant to warn you," Nettlebed said gloomily.

"That's why the Society are so dashed excited. They thought a Green Frog
made more sense than a Green Man. Poor old Jennings didn't stand a
chance.

Found him putting up the new sign not half an hour ago. Probably
drowning his sorrows in the cellar."

"Good God!" muttered Hawkridge. He seized Amy by the wrist.

"Pel, we have an errand to run. Track down Jennings and make him take
down that ridiculous sign. I don't care what the Society thinks. This
time they've gone too far."

"I'm not telling them that," Eversleigh began.

"They've probably gone to bring up Mrs. ffollifoot and that Tredgett
woman as reinforcements."

"Then tell them Jennings will lose business if he changes the name of
the inn. Tell them the damn sign fell down. Tell them anything you
please.

Just do it!"

He yanked the basket out of Amy's hand.

"As for you, Mrs. Chantry, if you've quite finished receiving
compliments and invitations from every male in the place, we'll depart
before the Society has stone ducks waddling about the yard."

"Stone doesn't waddle," Amy informed him in stony accents.

"And I was not--" She was hauled out of the yard with startling
velocity.

"For heaven's sake, my lord!"

It was a testament to her outrage that she still had breath to protest.
But Amy eyed the steep hill in front of her and decided to postpone the
rest of her lecture until they arrived at Lavender Cottage. It wouldn't
take long.

She was being towed upwards with relentless despatch.

"You do realise, I suppose, that Lords Colborough and Net- tie bed are
staring after us with their mouths hanging open, and that Lord
Eversleigh is doubled over with laughter," she began when they halted at
their destination.

Marc looked back over his shoulder. Since the cottage was situated less
than a minute's walk from the inn and commanded an excellent view of its
yard, the most cursory glance was all he needed to see that Amy was
right.

He scowled, shoved the wicket gate open, and towed Amy up the path.

"I'm glad Pel finds^ the situation so amusing," he growled, thumping a
peremptory fist against the front door. "He might not laugh so hard when
I inform him that he has an odd notion of compliments."

"He was only being kind, my lord. There was no need for you to stand
there wielding a club."

"Wielding a clubt " Um." She wasn't going to explain that.

"Never mind," he said grimly.

"I've grasped the general picture." He glared at the door.

"Doesn't Grandmama have a superintendent or someone running this place?"

"The matron is probably busy, sir. Charitable institutions are not like
private residences where people are forever visiting."

"And that reminds me. What the devil was Ingham about, issuing
invitations for you to call? You only met him last night."

"Lord Ingham is a gentleman, sir." Her pointed stare told him he could
have taken lessons in gentlemanly behaviour. "He, too, was merely being
kind."

"Well, he can keep his gentlemanly kindness for Kitty. It's why she
married him."

The door opened just as he raised his fist again. The stout,
motherly-looking woman in the doorway fell back a pace or two with a
startled squawk.

Marc lowered his hand and turned his scowl into a smile. He noticed that
Amy manufactured a similar expression. It rivalled the yellow front door
for brilliance.

Obviously she felt even less like smiling than he did, but he didn't
have time to contemplate the matter. The lady in the doorway was looking
at him with bright-eyed expectation. He cast his mind back a couple of
decades and came up with a name.

"Good morning, Mrs. Fidler. How are you?"

"Well, if it isn't your lordship! Fancy you remembering me. I swear you
weren't no more than a schoolboy when I left my place with Lady
Hawkridge to marry Mr. Fidler. I'm very well, sir, and enjoying my
position here. It keeps me busy, Mr. Fidler having been gathered to his
reward two years ago." She smiled and nodded, apparently not
heart-broken by Mr. Fidler's departure.

"And Mrs. Chantry's brought you to see her ladyship's good work, which
is only right and proper, I'm sure. Good morning, ma'am."

"Good morning, Mrs. Fidler. May we come in?"

"Lawks! Whatever is the matter with me, chattering here on the step?

Of course, ma'am, of course. No doubt you'll want to see the children.

Cora's taken them into the garden for their lessons."

"What a lovely idea. Yes, I would like to see them. Perhaps you could
show Lord Hawkridge about while I step outside."

"Aye, that I will, ma'am. Are those the clothes Lady Hawk- ridge
promised to send? Just pop them down right there, m'lord, and come this
way."

The fervent light of the charitably inclined gleamed in Mrs. Fidler's
eyes.

As Amy took advantage of the situation to vanish down a short passage
leading to another door. Marc resigned himself to a thorough tour of the
premises.

Fortunately the house was small. He saw and heard everything he needed
to see and hear in twenty minutes. It was enough to inform him that,
thanks to Amy's influence. Lavender Cottage was unlike every other
almshouse in the entire country.

Escaping at last with the excuse that his horses would be growing
restless, he made his way to the garden.

It, too, was small, but charmingly laid out with a winding path that
followed the slope of the hillside in a series of descending steps as it
meandered through a maze of flower beds. Wild roses ran amok among more
formal arrangements, jasmine draped itself over the surrounding hedge,
and everywhere he looked lavender nodded gently in the breeze, adding
its perfume to the mix and making his head spin.

It must have been something }ike that, he thought, because the minute he
saw Amy he felyas if he'd been kicked in the chest. All the air vanished
from his lungs, the bright colours at the edges of his vision dimmed, as
if the garden had disappeared in a mist, leaving only Amy framed in an
incandescent circle of light.

He stopped, eyes narrowed against the brightness; the circle widened,
and he saw that she was sitting on a child-sized chair in front of a
group of half a dozen very small children, reading from a book open on
her lap. Every little face upturned to her wore the same expression.
Rapt attention.

He knew exactly how they felt. Marc thought suddenly. He could have sat
there himself, endlessly, absorbing the play of expressions chasing each
other across her face, listening to the soft lilt of her voice, filling
himself with her essence every time he drew in a breath.

It wasn't desire, the strange longing that shook him then, although
desire raked across his flesh with increasingly fiery claws whenever he
saw her.

This was something else; something deeper, something so much a part of
him that, if it was ever torn away, the loss would threaten his very
soul.

He loved her.

The knowledge hit him with such finality he didn't even question it.

As if he'd known the instant he'd learned she could match him, but had
called it desire, protectiveness, anything, to prevent himself from
again becoming a hostage to fate.

His entire body shuddered as a sense of unbearable vulnerability swept
over him. For an infinitesimal second he was twenty again, waiting,
helpless, for the news that two of the people he'd loved most in the
world had been taken from him.

Then his hands fisted at his sides and he reminded himself that this
time he wasn't helpless, this time he could protect. And this time, by
God, if the same malevolent twist of fate stopped him protecting Amy,
then he'd go with her into whatever lay beyond.

He clenched his teeth as a primal roar of human defiance rose in his
throat, and as if Amy felt the storm of emotion raging within him, she
looked up, her clear green eyes wide, her lips slightly parted.

He fought down instincts that were as violent as they were primitive,
steeled himself against agonising need, and strolled forward.

"My lord! Are you ready to go?" She leapt to her feet, causing the
children to blink and transfer their attention to him. Their expressions
went from rapt to severely disapproving.

Marc couldn't help smiling, albeit wryly.

"Something tells me I'm not going to be very popular if I take you away
before you finish your story, Mrs. Chantry, but I don't want to keep my
horses standing any longer than is necessary."

"It's all right, my lord. I'd just started another rhyme. Cora will be
happy to finish it when she returns from putting her baby down for his
nap." She glanced down at the circle of faces.

"Stand up and say good morning to his lordship, children."

There was a general scramble as the group got to their feet. "Good
morning, his lordship."

Marc grinned.

"I'm afraid I must take Mrs. Chantry home now," he told them.

"But she will visit you again very soon, and you may see her at our
Public Day if you wish."

One urchin removed his thumb from his mouth.

"Will we see your horses, too?" he demanded.

"Yes, as long as you do precisely what my grooms instruct you to do
while you're in the stables."

Everyone nodded solemnly.

"Well, then," said Amy, bestowing a smile on her charges that had his
eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

"You may go and watch the kittens until Cora comes back, but no touching
them, mind. Not until they're bigger.J " I 'member," lisped one little
girl.

"Cos the mama cat will smell us on them and leave, and then they'll be
orphans like us."

"Yes, but you have Mrs. Fidler to look after you now" Emmy. She isn't
going to leave you."

The child gave a shy smile, nodded and ran off. The rest streamed after
her without wasting time on social niceties.

"You have a way with children, Mrs. Chantry," Marc observed, taking her
arm to lead her out of the garden.

She eluded him the instant his fingers made contact, her smile winking
out like a snuffed candle.

"Thank you, my lord. You would appear to possess a similar way, if you
truly meant they may visit your stables."

"I meant it. Mawson will see that neither they nor my horses come to any
harm."

"That's very kind of you. Now, if you don't mind waiting a second or
two, I'll take my leave of Mrs. Fidler and--"

" I've already taken the liberty of doing so on your behalf. If we go
along this path, it will take us back to the street without having to go
through the house. Mrs. Fidler is an excellent woman, but she does tend
to chatter."

"Oh. Well ..."

"Of course, chatter can sometimes be useful. I believe there are two
other girls living here."

"Uh  ...  yes. Jane and Ellen." Amy tried to pull herself together with
the stern reminder that engaging Hawkridge's interest in the dowager's
project was of more importance than the confused state of her emotions.

Unfortunately, it was difficult to ignore the fact that since they'd
arrived at the cottage, she felt as if she'd been caught in a whirlpool.

First there'd been the strange cloud of depression that had descended on
her when Hawkridge had made that comment about the reason for Kitty
Ingham's choice of husband. If anything had been needed to confirm her
assumption about his reasons for staying away from Devon, it had been
those words.

Her reaction had given her quite a jolt. Her throat had felt tight;
there'd been an odd ache in her chest. The last thing she'd felt like
doing was smiling and chatting to Mrs. Fidler as if there was nothing
wrong.

She'd managed to throw off the sensation--after all, there was nothing
wrong--but it had taken a surprising amount of effort. And then
Hawkridge had managed to overturn her senses again when she'd glanced up
to find him watching her with that piercing intensity in his grey eyes.
It was the look she'd glimpsed in the library, only more so.

Utterly implacable. Fiercely determined. Almost. brutally relentless.

No, she thought at once, Hawkridge would never be brutal, but that look
had been enough to cause her heart to leap quite violently into her
throat and lodge there for several seconds.

And now he was being so polite, she was beginning to wonder if her
disordered mind had been playing tricks on her.

"Jane and Ellen?" he prompted.

Amy jumped.

"Oh, yes." Really! This wouldn't do. She'd presented a happy face to the
children, she could manage a composed visage for Hawkridge.

"They've found positions as housemaids, sir. However, most such
positions require people without dependents, which is why the children
are housed at Lavender Cottage until they're older. The girls contribute
a little towards their food and Cora is teaching them their letters."

There, that was better. All she had to do was keep her mind on what was
important, and forget what was not.

"And Cora's story?" he asked, holding the gate open for her.

"An all-too-common one, I'm afraid. She was seduced, abandoned by the
man who had promised to marry her, and then lost her place when her
mistress discovered her situation. Parish relief was her only
recourse--respectable recourse, that is--but I can assure you, such,
relief is grudging and insufficient at best."

He sent her a swift glance as they started down the hill.

"A sadly commonplace tale, indeed. Very similar to your mother's, except
that her destitution was caused by your father's death."

Amy felt her breath catch, even though she'd been expecting something of
the sort since Hawkridge had discovered the purpose of Lavender Cottage.

"In case you're wondering, sir, Lady Hawkridge knows nothing of my
mother, or of my own circumstances except that I'm--except that I was
married. I admit I interceded when poor Cora was caught trying to milk
one of your cows, but--"

" I wasn't criticising you, Mrs. Chantry." He smiled down at her, a
smile so gently reassuring she felt her heart hesitate and flutter
before it resumed its usual rhythm.

"I would expect nothing less of you than that you'd help a girl in
Cora's situation. As for Grandmama, I'm only too happy for her to be
involved in such a project. Her patronage of poets and artists and the
like only seems to land her in trouble," he finished drily.

Fortunately for her beleaguered mind, they reached the inn at that
moment, saving her from the necessity of a reply. As Jennings bustled
out, full of thanks and excuses, Amy leaned against a handy carriage
wheel and tried to gather her wits.

She hoped the task wouldn't take long. She still had the conversational
shoals of the drive home to negotiate.


Chapter Nine 1 hey took the cliff road. Amy didn't know whether
Hawkridge chose the route by force of habit or because he'd accepted her
earlier assurances, and didn't have time to enquire. They had barely
passed the vicarage when he returned to the subject of her past.

"Tell me about your mother, Mrs. Chantry." He glanced down at her.

"If I was correct in assuming her situation to be similar to Cora's, she
must have been an exceptionally courageous young woman to rear you as
she did."

Amy debated for a moment, then decided that after visiting Lavender
Cottage, his interest sprang from genuine concern.

"My mother's situation was somewhat worse, sir. At least Cora hasn't had
to go into the poorhouse. You see, parish officials are loathe to
support able-bodied adults. One must work. Which is all very well, bat
work isn't easy to find when one has a babe in arms, or even a young
child clinging to one's skirts. Whenever Mama found a position, no
matter how lowly, there were always ...  compromises to be made."

"Involving the men in the situation?"

She made a small, assenting gesture.

"I was too young to know anything about it, of course, but I remember
how she would sink into despair sometimes, that she often looked afraid.
Eventually the poorhouse, or workhouse as they're coming to be known,
must have seemed safer for both of us."

"And harder to get out of than the Fleet, I imagine."

"No one wants to lose free labour," she said drily.

"You can't leave unless you can prove you won't be a charge on the
parish, but how can one search for employment when one is forever kept
busy and confined?

It's a circle of hopelessness, especially for the simple, the old and
sick, or children who, like myself, lack formal education."

"You have more than formal education, Mrs. Chantry. Thanks to your
mother, I presume."

Amy nodded.

"Most workhouses have classes for the younger children, but I was
considered too old by the time we entered one. So, at night. Mama taught
me everything she could remember from her own schooling."

"Even how a lady should behave," he murmured.

"She was a lady, sir! Not only by birth, but in all the ways that
matter."

He smiled faintly.

"Having met you, Mrs. Chantry, I have no doubt on that score."

Slightly mollified, Amy subsided.

"Eventually I was taken into the superintendent's house to be trained as
a maid ..."

"But?" he prompted.

"I grew older, sir. Old enough to draw the attention of the son of the
house and  ...  his friends."

"Hnun. I think I hear " doltish" friends in there somewhere."

The comment drew a smile from her.

"I began to look for another position," she continued, more at ease.

"Whenever I was sent out on some errand or another. Eventually I found a
place at the Misses Appleton's Academy for Young Gentlewomen.

I."

She glanced down, then lifted her chin. In this instance, at least, she
would give him the truth. And hope it would pacify her conscience for a
while.

"I lied, sir, to gain a position as a junior schoolmistress. I even had
Mama write a reference purporting to be from a school in Yorkshire. It
wasn't difficult to play the role. A junior mistress is more of a maid
than anything else. She's expected to wait at table, supervise the
laundering, serve tea to the senior teachers, that sort of thing. Any
teaching is done by rote from Miss. Mangnell's Historical and
Miscellaneous Questions, and is restricted to the very youngest girls.
And the Misses Appleton ran only a modest establishment. They didn't
cater to the Upper Ten Thousand, as Mama put it." Her confident facade
wavered a little.

"I know I'm sadly lacking in the sort of accomplishments that might be
expected of a companion, indeed of a lady, but--"

" Amy."

The gentle tone, his steady gaze, had the rest of her speech vanishing
into the ether.

"You are a lady," he said quietly.

"A lady waiting for the right setting."

He held her gaze an instant longer, then returned his attention to the
road.

"Yorkshire?" he queried after a moment.

Amy tried to answer and discovered she'd just lost the thread of the
conversation.

"Um ...  It was the first remote place I could think of, sir."

He smiled at that.

"I expect the superintendent at the workhouse wasn't too pleased about
your advancement in the world."

"I told him only that I'd found another maid's position," she confessed,
still feeling strangely disoriented.

"Even that enraged him, although heaven knpws he had plenty of other
girls to choose from. He called me every name he could think of and
threatened to throw Mama into the street."

Marc's eyes narrowed.

"What stopped him?"

"She was ill by then, mainly because of the conditions in the place, and
he was answerable to higher authorities. Not that I knew that at the
time, but I told him I'd go to the local magistrate unless he allowed
Mama to stay until I could find another place for her. Fortunately, it
didn't take long.

I paid for a small room off the kitchen of an inn, and Mama helped out
with the work whenever she could in return for her food. We were lucky;
they were good people."

He nodded.

"She was there when you met your husband?"

"Yes." Amy fixed her gaze on her hands.

"Actually, she met him first.

He was staying there, and she became quite attached to him. He was. kind
to her."

Marc watched the myriad expressions cross her piquant little face and
wondered at the last. Sadness and regret he understood, but there'd
been. hesitation. Uncertainty. As if she might have said more, but had
retreated into the safety of silence.

He stamped down on a surge of impatience to know the entire story. He
needed to know. She'd been desperate to get her mother out of the
poorhouse. Her dying mother. Desperate to get herself away from its
superintendent--probably sensing, with the instincts of the small and
vulnerable, that the man had another purpose in taking her into his
house.

But how desperate? She'd lied--he was glad of it; his blood ran cold
when he thought of how close she'd come to having her innocence brutally
stripped from her--but to what other straits had she gone?

He needed to know to protect her from any consequences.

"You were very close to your mother, weren't you?" he said, making his
voice as soft and unthreatening as possible.

"You took care of each other."

Her gaze flicked upwards, then away. She nodded.

"There were only the two of us, you see. All my life. When she died ..."

There was silence for a moment, filled only with the sounds of bird song
and the steady clip-clop of the horses' hooves. They topped the rise
overlooking the sea, and he reined in, transferring the ribbons to one
hand.

"I know," he said, very low. He reached out and took one tightly
clenched little fist in his free hand.

"I know." And raising her hand to his mouth, he turned it and pressed
his lips to the delicate tracery of veins at her wrist.

The pulse beneath her skin leapt and quivered. Probably because he'd
startled her rather than in response to the caress, but even as he felt
an answering tension invade his own muscles, she was drawing her hand
away.

Faint colour tinted her cheeks.

"You ...  always manage to surprise me, my lord. I don't know why."

His mouth curved in a somewhat crooked smile.

"Don't you?" he asked wryly.

"Given your opinion of my, er, tendency to wield a club, I find that
hard to believe."

Amy felt herself blushing again. The heat seemed to emanate directly
from the faintly throbbing place where his lips had touched. It even
threatened to cloud her mind, because, despite knowing that Hawkridge
would find the rest of her story even harder to believe, she was rocked
by an unexpected urge to tell it.

As if she hadn't already said enough! No wonder she was feeling rattled;
as though someone had picked her up and shaken her to see what fell out.

The trouble was, she'd never trusted anyone enough to confide in them;
the sense of vulnerability was nerve-racking. Although Hawkridge had
prompted her with nothing more than the briefest of questions, spoken in
the gentlest of tones.

And just now, his quiet acknowledgement of her loss--a loss he'd known
himself--had aroused a sense. almost of kinship with him. A closenes^
she'd never expected to share with a man.

For some reason, that made her feel more vulnerable than ever, as if
she'd just skated out on to very thin ice.

She resisted the urge to rub the still-tingling spot on her wrist, and
scrambled back to safer ground.

"Goodness me, my lord! The view from here is quite spectacular isn't it?
I can see why Lady Hawkridge was so eager to show the spot to Mr.
Tweed--" She stopped dead as another patch of thin ice threatened to
crack beneath her feet. The heart-shaking smile on Hawk- ridge's face
was abruptly replaced by narrow-eyed purpose.

"I think I'll have a word with this Tweedy fellow," he growled.

"He's been a little too busy for my liking."

"I can assure you, sir, that Lady Hawkridge is in no danger of being
taken in."

He scowled at her.

"Then what the devil does she think she's doing, running about the
countryside, looking at views with Tweedy?"

Amy had a sudden vision of Lord Colborough's irascible countenance when
discussing the same subject.

"You could always wait and see," she suggested, wondering if her
startling suspicion was correct.

The expression in Hawkridge's eyes seemed rather to imply that she'd
taken leave of her senses.

"Wait around for the situation to deteriorate?" he demanded. He took up
the reins and flicked-them against the horses' rumps.

"No, thank you, Mrs. Chantry. I know better."

Somewhat incensed at having her suggestion summarily dismissed, she sat
back and folded her arms.

"I'm sure you do, sir."

"What does that mean? That you think you know more about the situation
than I do?"

"Not at all, my lord."

"Oh, yes, it does." His scowl darkened.

"I know what's going on in that independent little mind. You think
Grandmama should enjoy limitless freedom to get herself into trouble."

"She might get herself out of it, too."

"The way you were going to get yourself off that desk?" he asked
silkily.

Amy stuck her nose in the air.

"I was going to sit down upon the desk and slide off it," she informed
him.

Marc had a sudden vision of her dress sliding upwards as she did so.

The image nearly caused him to rip a layer of paint off his phaeton as
he turned in at the gates.

The narrow escape didn't improve his mood. Not only was Amy sitting
there beside him with a distinctly disapproving look on her face, he had
just been struck by the several disagreeable facts.

He grimaced inwardly as he remembered his half-amused, supremely
confident assertion that she belonged to him. As if possessing her
physically was all; as if making her his wife, while needing skill and
patience, was inevitable.

After what he'd learned this morning, marrying Amy might not be as easy
as he'd supposed.

And his own position was to blame. The social gulf between them was
wide.

Though the circumstances of her birth were unknown, everyone was aware,
at the very least, that she was a penniless widow without connections.

Not that he gave a damn about that, but Amy would. If he showed his hand
too plainly in public, it would give rise to the sort of gossip that
would shred her vulnerable little soul to pieces. Some well-meaning, but
misguided, fool might even try to warn her against responding to him.

On the other hand, given her mother's situation and her general distrust
of the male sex--rather justified, he had to admit--he suspected too
overt a pursuit in private would send her fleeing again.

And then there was her damnable independence.

Marc scowled again. The entire business threatened to be a long,
painstaking process. hcj didn't want painstaking. He wanted her. Now!

Immediately! If not sooner.

He wanted the right to protect her, to ravish, to love. He wanted to
make her laugh again. He wanted-- "Excuse me, my lord, but are you still
exercising your horses? Or have you forgotten the way to the stables?"

Marc jerked his attention back to his driving to discover he'd just
overshot the turn to the stable yard His horses, being the polite,
well-bred animals they were, hadn't argued his apparent decision to
circle the house.

He thought fast.

"It just occurred to me, Mrs. Chantry, that if you don't ride, you
probably don't drive."

"Well, no, but--"

" Then this would be an excellent opportunity for me to teach you."

"Oh." For a second or two, she looked adorably confused. "Thank you, my
lord, but ...  I do have a considerable pile of mail waiting on my ...
I mean, waiting on your desk."

They turned a corner. The gravel strip between terrace and lawn narrowed
considerably. He didn't want to think about the damage his off-side
wheels were doing to the grass.

"Some other time, perhaps," he said smoothly.

"Tyrant though I am, I do believe that ladies should be able to drive
themselves if the need arises."

She frowned.

"I didn't say you were a tyrant, sir. Merely ...  extremely conscious of
your responsibilities." Her frown vanished.

She looked inordinately pleased with the pronouncement.

Marc winced.

"It's a good thing I'm not inclined to be puffed up with my own
importance," he said drily.

"You would soon burst that particular bubble, Mrs. Chantry."

"Oh, dear." She looked up at him in apparent concern, but he didn't miss
the quick flash of mischief in her gaze.

"I'm sorry if I offended you, my lord. You did grant me leave to say
anything I pleased to you. On any subject."

"Something tells me I may have been a bit too liberal with that
permission," he muttered.

"Since you're exercising the license, however, tell me what I should
have done on the previous occasions when Grandmama got herself into
strife?

Allowed her to be pestered by unwanted attentions or robbed blind? Waved
battle off with the pearls, perhaps, or-- Damn it! Now look what's
happened!"

The horses trotted dutifully past the stable turn-off again. Amy glanced
around as they swept by, and had to resist an insane urge to pat
Hawkridge soothingly on the hand.

"I can certainly understand why you chased after Mr. battle," she said
placatingly.

"But before that, have you ever waited for an outcome other than a
continuance of trouble?"

To her surprise, every trace of wry humour vanished from his face. He
flicked the reins against the horses' rumps with a white-knuckled
restraint that sent her an abrupt reminder of the warrior beneath the
gentleman. If he hadn't been confined in a carriage, Amy knew he'd be
pacing.

"Once," he said flatly.

"Once I waited for my parents to return from an afternoon's sailing. I
waited too long to save them."

Her lips formed a silent 'oh' of comprehension. Compassion welled inside
her, wrenching at her heart. This time it was imperative she touch him,
if not physically, as he'd touched her, then emotionally; that she let
him know he wasn't alone in feeling loss and grief. Or guilt.

"Was it a storm?" she asked softly.

He was silent for the few seconds it took them to round the corner of
the house and bowl along the carriage way to the front door. There he
stopped the horses and tied off the reins, but he made no move to
descend from the phaeton. Merely leaned forward slightly, resting his
forearms on his thighs, his hands clasped loosely between them as he
stared straight ahead, f Her heart ached when she thought of what he
must be seeing in his mind's eye.

"I'm sorry," she murmured.

"You don't have to--" " No," he said, and half-turned his head towards
her, briefly." Time heals, Amy. I want you to know." He paused for a
second, as though remembering.

"There was a calm that after 1 noon, and fog. Not bad when the wind came
up again, but still dangerous in patches. And though Pelham's father and
mine had probably been rowing during the calm, they'd been too far out
to sea to reach the cove and safety before dark. They were run down by a
revenue cutter in pursuit of another craft. Smugglers, using the fog as
cover."

"I'm so sorry," she whispered.

"That sort of waiting must have been terrible."

He glanced down at his hands.

"It didn't get bad until nightfall.

There was no reason to worry, we thought. Both my father and Pel's were
experienced sailors, had often run under lights, in all weathers. But
eventually my grandfather and I, with Pel and Colborough, went out
looking for them. We found the cutter. They'd gone back, searching for
survivors, but their speed had been such at the moment of impact that,
by the time they came about, patched up the damage to their own boat,
and tacked back to the spot, there was nothing."

Nothing but wreckage, floating on the surface of the sea.

"Their bodies eventually washed ashore along the coast. Dr. Twinhoe said
it was very likely they'd all been killed on impact. Or injured so badly
that even a minute's delay in rescue would have been too long once they
were in the water. But I'll never be certain. If we'd gone out earlier
...  sailed back with them ...  the cutter might have seen two boats."

"You weren't to know that such a thing would happen," Amy said gently.

"No." He turned his head at that, smiled faintly.

"Hindsight is a wonderful thing, isn't it? The revenue officer in charge
probably regretted his decision to run without lights, in hindsight. He
was hauled over the coals for it, of course, but he'd been chasing
smugglers. No one was going to reprimand him too strongly for that.

It was put down as an accident. Unfortunate, but unforeseen."

"I'm glad you told me," she murmured.

"Now I can better understand Lady Nettlebed's distress at the thought of
Crispin sailing."

"She'll soon become reconciled. It's in his blood. We all lea mt to sail
practically before we could walk. Even Augusta. In fact, I think poor
old Bevan paid his addresses to her out on the water more often than
not."

Amy tilted her head, instinctively finding the way to lead him back to
the present.

"You allowed your sister to sail, my lord?" She widened her eyes at him.

"How very liberal of you."

He grinned.

"Minx. I had nothing to do with it. At the time, I was still at the
horrid little toad stage." Then, more soberly, "I hope you also better
understand my owner--" She smiled at him.

"The word you're searching for is protectiveness, sir. It does you
credit."

His brows went up.

"A rather surprising remark, considering our earlier conversation."

"Not at all," she replied composedly.

"A woman appreciates a man who can be relied upon, no matter how
independent she may be. So long as he respects her own abilities."

"Oh, I respect your abilities, Amy. Believe me."

The softly voiced assurance had her composure threatening to beat a
hasty retreat into caution.

"Yes, well, according to Mrs. Tredgett, protectiveness runs in your
family, so--" The rest was swallowed on a startled gulp as she realised
what she'd said. It was useless hoping that Hawkridge hadn't been
similarly struck.

"Aha!" He pinned her to her seat with a fiendishly anticipatory gleam.

"Gossiping with?" the Society, I see."

Amy blushed as if she'd been found out in a heinous crime. "Urn ..."

"Denial is useless, Mrs. Chantry. You may as well tell me what else was
said.

I don't want you going about with any erroneous impressions."

The words 'poor helpless orphan' jangled loudly in her head.

"Helpless' now made more sense, but she didn't think Hawkridge would
appreciate hearing it.

"Good heavens, my lord! Just look where the sun is. I really must be--"
She sprang up, remembered where she was, and sat down again.

Hawkridge smiled his cat-with-the-captured-mouse smile. "Let me save you
the trouble of sparing my sensibilities, Mrs. Chantry. Knowing Mrs.
Tredgett and company, you were probably treated to an inaccurate
description of my broken engagement to Kitty Ingham. God knows, they've
all been speculating about it for the past five years."

Amy's embarrassment vanished. She stopped worrying about how she was
going to escape when she couldn't even manage the simple task of
descending from a phaeton. She was suddenly, intensely interested in
broken engagements.

"Inaccurate, sir? I mean, Miss. Twinhoe did happen to mention ..."

"Yes, I'm sure she did. She mentions it to everyone. To hear Miss.
Twinhoe tell it, I was jilted at the altar. The simple truth was that
I'd proposed to Kitty in the mistaken belief that, because we'd known
each other since childhood, she'd make me an excellent wife."

"That seems a most, ah, logical decision, my lord."

"A little too logical. The only reason I made it was that everyone was
in a frenzy about the succession because I'd been held up on the road to
Newmarket a few weeks earlier. And at that point I hadn't met anyone
else who-- Well, never mind."

"Oh, dear. I'm so sorry, sir. I didn't mean to cause you to recall more
painful memories."

"The only painful part was getting myself winged by a highwayman before
I managed to disarm him," he said, grinning. "There's no need to picture
me as a heartbroken suitor. For one thing, my heart wasn't involved in
the first place, and, for another, I began to suspect that Kitty, too,
had a few misgivings. When I asked her about it, she was very grateful
to be given the opportunity to cry off. Unfortunately, she felt so
guilty about accepting in the first place, she's been trying to find a
replacement ever since."

"Good heavens. That was five years ago?"

"Yes."

"And in all that time she hasn't found a lady to put up wi-- I  ...  I
mean--" He grinned again.

"Kitty hasn't. A couple of years ago, I thought I had, but I
discovered--fortunately before any formal notices were sent out--that
the lady concerned was acting under instructions from her very ambitious
parents.

When she was given a taste of one of her, er, duties, her acting skills
proved unequal to the task."

Amy was quite certain her eyes were going to pop right out of her head
with astonishment.

"Oh, my," she uttered, and was only prevented from adding 'how foolish
of her' by the opening of the front door.

She almost slid off her seat in relief when she saw Lady Hawkridge.

"Yoo hoof Amy. Marc." The dowager waved from the top step.

"I think you'd better come in now. Amy will be getting freckles. And
Marc, dearest, there seem to be some very peculiar ruts in the south
lawn.

Perhaps you'd have a word with Thorpe about them."

Her ladyship disappeared.

"Pel was right," Hawkridge muttered as the front door shut again.

"One of these days someoye is going to wring Grand- mama's neck."

Amy didn't hear him. She was too busy trying to suppress a blush that
wouldn't have left room for the smallest freckle. As Hawkridge sprang
down from the phaeton and strode around to her side, she jumped to her
feet, this time determined to leap to the ground and flee.

She had grievously underestimated the size of the carriage step and the
distance of the leap.

Before she could make a fool of herself, Hawkridge was there.

"It's all right," he said.

"I'll lift you down."

Amy forgot about blushing and glared at him.

"This," she declared, 'is ridiculous. I am not going through life being
lifted down from desks and carriages." She grabbed hold of the hood.

"Kindly stand aside, sir. I'm going to do this even if my head spins so
fast it whirls right off my shoulders."

He started to smile.

"Amy, every lady needs assistance descending from a high-perch phaeton.

That's why they invented the things. We'll compromise. I'll hold your
other hand while you step down."

That sounded reasonable. Amy put out her hand and had it enveloped in a
hold that felt rock steady. She could have been clinging to the iron
railing adorning the Inghams' access to the beach.

Two steps and she was on the ground.

A delighted smile spread across her face.

"I did it!"

"No," he contradicted very softly.

"We did it. Think about that, Mrs. Chantry."

"Ah ...  yes. Well ..." All she could think about was the hard grip of
his fingers and the compelling purpose in his eyes. "Thank you, my
lord."

His fingers tightened for an instant before he released her.

Amy stepped back. She had the distinct impression that she should keep
stepping back, that she shouldn't stop stepping back until she was
safely in the house. But something else, something quite alien to her
naturally wary nature, was driving her.

She put out her hand, touched his arm--the merest butterfly touch, but
the awareness of leashed power beneath her fingers was even stronger
than it had been last night. She hoped her voice wouldn't betray that
for some strange reason she was trembling inside.

"I do understand why you dislike waiting," she said softly.

"But, this time ...  there can be no harm in it. Please."

His eyes went light, and brilliantly intense.

Amy didn't wait to see with what expression. Wondering what on earth had
possessed her, she snatched her hand away, turned, and fled into the
house.

Marc wheeled and clamped both hands hard around the nearest object.

The rim of the front off-side wheel dug into his palms. He didn't dare
let it go, didn't dare watch Amy race into the house.

God, one little touch and his entire body was hard and throbbing. One
little plea and he was shaking with the need to go after her, toss her
over his shoulder and carry her upstairs to his bed, where he could
demand the rest of the story--and a whole lot more.

He wondered if she'd understand that. Or the fact that the soft, sweetly
serious expression in her eyes had threatened to tear apart the bars
keeping his instincts caged.

Wait? He'd never felt less like waiting. Only one thing reconciled him
to that course of non-action.

The promise he made to himself in that moment that, once he knew the
whole story, he really was going to toss Amy over his shoulder and carry
her off to his bed. And there she would stay until she agreed to marry
him, even if he had to keep her tied up and helpless.

The thought had a certain appeal. But there was a catch.

He wanted Amy to love him in return, and that couldn't be forced. /
Chapter Ten Q^^ps^Q I he next few days were not spent in the peace and
quiet that Amy had anticipated when she'd come to live at Hawkridge
Manor.

Nor did she have a lot of time to wonder if she'd done the right thing
in asking Hawkridge to wait, instead of interfering in any schemes
hatched by his grandmother. When she'd dashed into the house after their
excursion to Lavender Cottage, Pickles had been waiting to inform her
that since a Public Day was to be held in three days' time. Things Would
Have To Be Done.

Amy had gone in search of her employer, only to find that the dowager
had departed to enjoy a picnic with Mr. Tweedy on the beach below
Colborough Court. Even though there was a perfectly good beach at This
provocative behaviour confirmed Amy's opinion of her ladyship's
intentions--in fact, she wondered with some amusement how long Lady
Hawkridge had been trying to bring Colborough to heel, only to have her
grandson put unwitting spokes in her wheel.

Less amusing was the realisation that her plan to join the dowager in
her quest for jollification, and thus avoid danger, was rapidly coming
to nought. In fact, she'd forgotten all about it.

Her lapse in memory had been bad enough although, in view of Hawkridge's
apology after he'd kissed her the other night, quite understandable.
What threatened to suspend her wits over a precipice was the added
realisation that the scheme had lost its appeal.

Amy seized gratefully on the distraction of a Public Day. The Manor
became a veritable hive of activity. Dust covers were removed from the
state rooms; a section of the south lawn was rolled for a cricket pitch,
causing several footmen to go about practising their bowling action;
and, to the accompaniment of Mrs. Pickles's instructions and
exhortations, a seemingly endless army of macaroons marched out of the
ovens.

At first, Hawkridge prudently removed himself from the fray by spending
several hours at Nettlebed Place, helping Crispin prepare his boat to a
state of seaworthiness that would satisfy that young man's mother.

Amy was glad of his absence. Truly she was. She decided it was a great
deal easier to keep him out of her mind when he wasn't always underfoot.

Unfortunately for this happy exercise in logic, there appeared to be no
predictable pattern to his comings and goings.

Instead of departing for Nettlebed Place in the morning and staying
there until evening, he developed the knack of appearing just when she
was returning a pile of books to a shelf an inch or two above her head,
or lifting large vases of flowers. ," There was nothing in his nylnner
to give cause for alarm, but Amy began to feel. small. Delicate. Even
fragile. Which was rather alarming in itself.

She began peering around corners whenever she had to carry anything
heavy.

Then there were the disturbingly persistent thoughts that wafted through
her head at odd moments during the daywhether Hawkridge was there or
not. The warmth that enfolded her when she remembered the touch of his
mouth against her inner wrist; the tingling little arrows of heat that
darted about inside her when she recalled the sudden intensity in his
eyes before she'd fled into the house.

She made valiant efforts to put the tantalising memories out of her
mind.

Truly she did. She studied the portrait diligently, for instance,
willing fascination with an inanimate object to return.

Hawkridge overturned the scheme by striding into the library in search
of a boat-hook he'd mysteriously left there. And when she glared
accusingly from him to the painting, he had the temerity to explain that
it had been done fourteen years ago. The grin he wore when he left the
room nearly caused her to heave the nearest available object at his
head.

She brooded on his narrow escape for some time.

Finally, on the general principle that doubling her duties would leave
her no time to think at all, Amy offered her assistance to the
housekeeper.

It worked. Until Hawkridge managed to outwit her by cantering past the
drawing-room windows at the precise moment she was dusting an extremely
expensive jade statue. She managed not to drop the statue, but it was a
near thing.

There were no two ways about it. The man appeared to great advantage on
horseback.

Amy found herself entertaining a rather wistful longing to ride with
him.

Until her uncharacteristic lapse into the realms of fantasy was
interrupted by a very junior housemaid, who had been instructed to
inform her that his lordship refused to allow his grandmother to turn
the state drawing-room, which housed innumerable priceless objets dart,
into a skittles alley in case the weather turned inclement.

At that point she decided that Hawkridge had formed a fiendish plot to
overturn her wits, for diabolical reasons of his own, and sallied forth
to try her own skills at distraction on the dowager.

Fortunately for the objets dart, the weather was inclined to clemency.

Everyone awoke on the appointed day to a soft misty haze that
transformed itself into cloudless blue skies and brilliant sunshine by
the time the gates were opened at nine o'clock.

Marc descended the stairs shortly beforehand, anticipating the pleasures
of pursuit while he had an excellent excuse to spend an entire day with
his quarry. Not that the past few days had been fruitless. Amy had
started blushing, then frowning disapprovingly, whenever she saw him. It
was a very encouraging sign.

A considerable setback, however, awaited him at the breakfast table.

Crispin was sitting in Amy's place, under the doting eye of his
great-grandmother, devouring food as if he hadn't seen any in a week.

"Thought I'd come over early to fetch that jib you have stored in your
boathouse. Uncle Marc," he said by way of greeting.

"Why are you dressed like that? You are going to help me clean it up,
aren't you?"

"Good God, Crispin, you're as single-minded as your sister. Did you
happen to notice the booths and tents set up on either side of the
carriage way We're holding a Public Day today. Good morning, Grandmama."
He bent to kiss her ladyship's cheek.

"You're looking delightful as usual. That's a very frivolous cap."

"Thank you, dear." The dowager twinkled up at him.

"I believe Pelham is bringing Bartholomew over. One must look one's best
for such a momentous occasion."

Marc eyed his grandparent's guileless countenance with suspicion.

"And since everyone for miles around attends these things, Mr. Tweedy is
sure to make an appearance. What are you up to, Grandmama?"

"Oh, just tying up a few loose ends, dearest. Have you seen Amy this
morning? I wish she wouldn't work so hard, but the dear girl insisted on
writing replies to those letters I gave her yesterday."

"Don't worry. I'll see that she has the rest of the day free."

Her ladyship beamed.

"Thank you. Marc. I thought you would."

"What about my boat?" Crispin objected, as Marc walked over to the
sideboard to help himself to a liberal portion of ham.

He turned to appraise, his nephew's willowy build.

"Today you can play cricket. We need an extra man."

Crispin looked taken aback for a moment. Then a broad smile spread
across his face.

"Thank you. Uncle Marc. I haven't played cricket all that often, you
know--dare say I'll be bowled out at the first ball--but it's capital
sport."

"Almost as much fun as sailing," Marc murmured with an answering grin.

"You'd better go home, Crispin, and change out of those disreputable
clothes.

Put on something comfortable, it's going to be hot."

"Right. See you later, Grandmama." With a violent shove of his chair,
Crispin was off. Pounding footsteps sounded in the hall; a second later
the front door slammed.

"That boy is crying out for some male pursuits," Marc observed as he
carried his plate back to the table.

"Can't you have a word with Augusta, Grandmama?"

"I think you've already given her enough food for thought, dearest.

She doesn't really wish to see Crispin become spoilt, you know, but old
habits are hard to break. And he was very sickly as a small boy.

To watch him struggle for air was quite terrifying."

"Yes, I know. But Bevan should have taken a stand when Crispin grew
older and got him out on the water. God knows, he used to sail as much
as any of us, and it probably would've done the boy the world of good."

"Of course, dear. I've always thought so, but you must remember that, in
this particular matter, Nettlebed's feelings for your sister constrain
him.

It isn't only Crispin's health that concerns her. Her fear of sailing is
very real. Indeed, you, too, still feel the effects of your parents'
deaths." Lady Hawkridge rose and patted his cheek on her way to the
door.

"I'm so glad you've found a reason to stay at Hawkridge, Marc."

Marc watched the door close gently behind his grandmother and gave a wry
smile. His sister wasn't the only member of his family gifted with
perception on that particular subject. Not that sailing held any fears
for him, although he'd severely curtailed the activity out of
consideration for the dowager. His reaction had gone much deeper.

He'd spent as little time as possible at Hawkridge.

He pushed his plate aside and rose to stroll over to the windows
overlooking the small ornamental lake.

Mine, he thought, with a rush of possessiveness he hadn't allowed
himself to feel for a very long time. Every field, every tree, every
simple cotter's dwelling: his. He loved the place, had always loved
riding over the land, keeping a watchful eye on the crops, discussing
the' latest methods of cattle-breeding with knowledgeable farmers.

But those days had lost their magic when his father and grandfather had
no longer been there to ride with him.

With the links to his immediate familial past abruptly severed, his
future yet to unfold, emotionless duty had taken the place of the
soul-deep sense of belonging that was his birthright..

But it hadn't entirely left him, he realised now. He'd been waiting;
without knowing. Waiting for a reason to return home to stay. To live,
to love, to reclaim his future.

With Amy.

Seized by a sudden sense of urgency. Marc wheeled, strode over to the
door and flung it open. He crossed the hall in several long strides,
subjected the library door to the same cavalier treatment, and opened
his mouth to issue a comprehensive edict on the writing of letters when
the sun was shining.

The effort was wasted. No widow possessed of a tantalising mixture of
maddening reserve and mischievous charm was there to receive it.

His quarry had flown.

Amy was busily congratulating herself on finishing the dowager's letters
before the crowd gathering on the lawn outside the library became too'
noisy After sealing the last missive, she had exited through the french
windows just as the occupants of Lavender Cottage, accompanied by Mrs.
Fidler and Cora, rounded the corner from the carriage way

Shrill cries of delight greeted her appearance. Beneath the din she
thought she heard a door slam somewhere, but she found herself being
swept away on a tide of small children before she could glance back.

Eventually, leaving Mrs. Fidler chatting with several acquaintances, the
tide veered towards the stables, where her escort was rendered
speechless with excitement at the offer of a ride on one of the farm
horses.

"They'll talk about nothing else for a week," Cora remarked, as the
children lined up for the treat. She bounced the rosy- cheeked baby on
her hip, and clucked at him.

Amy smiled and nodded, struck, not for the first time, by Cora's quiet
manner of speech. She was a tall girl, too thin for her inches, but with
her guinea-gold hair and blue eyes, already regaining her looks after a
fortnight at Lavender Cottage. She was also a talented seamstress.

Amy was determined to see Cora set up her own dressmaker's
establishment, where she'd be able to keep her child with her and earn
enough to do more than survive.

"How is the little man?" she cooed, as the baby grinned at her with
toothless charm.

"May I hold him a moment, Cora? He's so adorable."

"He's likely to dribble on your pretty gown, ma'am."

"As if that matters," Amy said, taking the baby.

"Are you cutting a tooth, then, little fellow?" She planted a kiss on
one flushed cheek and nuzzled his neck, breathing in the sweet baby
scent. He gurgled happily in response and batted her with a playful
fist. Taking the hint, Amy lifted him into the air.

That was how Marc found her as he strode into the stable- yard. The sun
shone on the tawny curls peeping from beneath the most ridiculous little
cap he'd ever seen, her muslin gown shifted lovingly over her curves,
and she was laughing, swooping a baby into the air and making the child
laugh, too.

The kick of desire caught him so hard it almost knocked him backwards.
He stopped short, braced against a raging torrent of lust, until he
thought he had himself under control. At this point it wouldn't help his
cause to throw Amy into the nearest stall and take her on a pile of
straw until she was helpless and clinging to him.

But that was precisely what he wanted to do. And seeing her with the
baby made it worse. He wanted it to be his baby she was holding. He
wanted her to belong to him in the most primitive way possible. To plant
his seed in her body and watch her grow big with his child. He wanted it
with a fierce longing that startled even him.

He had a sudden premonition that it was going to be like this for the
rest of his life. Every time he came upon Amy unexpectedly. Baby or no
baby.

The thought didn't bother him particularly--given his nature he could
expect nothing less--but if he didn't put them both into a position
where he could do something about it in the immediate future, he simply
wouldn't be answerable for the consequences.

To hell with discretion in public, he decided in that moment.

He'd just have to see that no one got near enough to Amy to meddle
before he'd declared himself in private.

Setting his jaw, he strode forward.

The baby took one look at his face and burst into tears.

Chaos and mayhem erupted.

Dogs started barking wildly, leaping about, overturning pails and
sending what had been an orderly line of children shrieking in all
directions. His horses, unaccustomed to earsplitting wails and loud
clanging disturbing the peace of their existence, set up an accompanying
chorus of protest and threatened to kick their stalls to pieces.

Amy and a girl he assumed was the baby's mother both started cooing like
agitated pigeons in an attempt to stem the flood.

Everyone else turned to see what had caused the commotion. His grooms,
who had all been standing around with vacuous smiles on their faces as
they watched Amy play with the infant, indulged in one second of shock
at his presence, then leapt into action. One scurried around gathering
up children, another tried to quiet the dogs, the rest vanished into the
stables to calm their precious charges.

Marc smiled grimly after them, then tried to soften the expression when
he reached Amy.

The baby cried harder.

"Oh, dear, I can't imagine what is the matter with him," Amy was saying,
frantically trying to soothe her burden.

"Perhaps his tooth came through."

"Here, give him to me, ma'am. He might have a bit of wind."

"If I could make a suggestion," Marc began.

Amy squeaked and jumped.

"Good heavens, my lord! Must you creep up on me like that? I almost
dropped the baby."

Marc eyed the bundle sobbing pitifully on its mother's shoulder and
winced.

"I think I might have startled him," he confessed.

"Well, if you insist on sneaking up on people like that, I'm not
surprised.

Go away at once."

"For heaven's sake, ma'am ..."

"It's all right  ...  Cora, isn't it?" He smiled at the girl.

"Mrs. Chantry is correct, as usual. We shall depart forthwith."

"We?" Amy blinked at him.

"I didn't say--" He cut her off by the simple expedient of taking her
hand and tucking it into the crook of his arm. Then covered it with his
other hand to prevent any escape.

"I really must insist that you accompany me, Mrs. Chantry. Who knows how
many susceptible infants may be scattered about the place? I'll need you
to steer me clear of them."

"But--" She glanced distractedly about the yard. The dogs were sulking
at having their fun cut short, pails had been righted, the children were
back in their places.

"The children haven't finished their rides."

"All the more reason for us to leave while they're occupied."

"But--" With a conspiratory smile for Cora, which left her open mouthed
he led Amy away.

"Amy, my love, I applaud your motives in starting Lavender Cottage. I
will be more than happy for you to expand on the project if you wish,
but I don't intend to be accompanied by a tribe of small children for
the rest of the day."

Amy's head threatened to spin as she tried to sort all that out.

Several things rang ominous warning bells. The trouble was, she didn't
know which bell was ringing loudest. The warm weight of Hawkridge's hand
over hers didn't help in the decision. / "Um  ...  I don't think it's
proper for you to address me so informally, sir." She might as well
start at the top of the list.

"Why not?" he asked, refusing to cooperate.

She frowned.

"It supposes a closer relationship than, er ..."

"Don't tell me you're a servant, Amy, because you're not."

"Well, not precisely, but--"

" You can call me Marc, if it will make you feel better."

She almost tasted his name on the tip of her tongue. Fortunately she
stopped herself in time.

"That would be most improper, my lord. A companion does not put herself
forward."

"Just as well," he murmured with a startling about-face. He came to a
halt where the path from the stables met the carriage way On their left
lay the shrubbery. To the right the windows of the Manor gleamed
benignly down on the crowds scattered over the lawn.

"I won't have to worry about you throwing yourself into the front line
before hostilities commence."

"What!" Her brain reeled anew.

"What are you talking about now, sir?"

"Colborough has arrived, armed with cane. And if I'm not mistaken, the
smugly smiling butterball mincing along with Grandmama on his arm is
Tweedy.

Remind me to have a word with him when Colborough's finished. If there's
anything left."

"Oh, my goodness!" She stared in dismay from one party to the other.

Colborough had clearly sighted prey and, brows beetling, head thrust
forward, was bent on a collision course.

"Do something, my lord! We can't have bloodshed on the south lawn!"

"Why not? Tweedy deserves to lose a pint or two. For threatening you, if
nothing else."

"But ..." She made a grab for her wits as they whirled past on the
carousel that was her mind.

"He didn't threaten me. At least, not precisely. And I told you the
other day he means nothing to Lady--"

" You told me not to interfere," he interrupted ruthlessly." You also
implied that Grandmama knows what she's doing." He studied Colborough's
rapidly reddening countenance.

"I hope you're right."

"Oh, heavens!" Amy would have wrung her hands, but she was too busy
trying to push Hawkridge towards the rapidly closing space between the
combatants.

It was like trying to push a wall. He didn't resist; he simply didn't
move.

"This is no time for levity, my lord. Speak to Lord Colborough! Fetch
Lord Eversleigh! Do something!"

He grinned.

"You may cease panicking, Mrs. Chantry. Grandmama is veering off into
the shrubbery in a manoeuvre that would turn Wellington green with envy.
What are the odds that by the time Colborough reaches the spot, she and
Tweedy will have vanished?"

"I am not interested in betting, my lord. Oh, my goodness, what am I
saying?

This won't be the end of it. You'll still have to--"

" Good God, you're right." Turning on his heel in a move as rapidly
executed as the dowager's, Hawkridge started towards the other side of
the house. Amy had the choice of being whisked off her feet, or
accompanying him. She chose the more dignified option.

"What are you doing, sir? It is no use leaving. Lord Col- borough will
only confront Mr. Tweedy another time."

"Grandmama can fight her own battles." He slanted a challenging glance
down at her.

"Isn't that what you prefer to do, Mrs. Chantry? Which, I might add, is
an attitude directly opposed to your attempt just now to shove me into
the breach."

She flushed.

"I didn't think you'd noticed."

"I notice everything."

"Indeed?" She glared at him.

"Then why didn't you go where I was trying to put you?"

"Because I didn't feel like being mowed down by Colborough. Nothing
short of knocking him down would have prevented that unhappy outcome.

Of course, if you have any other suggestions as to the disposal of my
person, I'd be happy to hear them."

"Don't tempt me, sir."

He started to grin.

"You must admit the day promises to be interesting." They turned the far
corner of the house as he spoke and he paused to cast a comprehensive
glance over the colourful throng on the lawn.

"In fact," he added rather thoughtfully, 'very interesting."

Amy followed his gaze. Several people seemed to be eyeing their sudden
appearance with smiles of approval and satisfaction. She realised her
hand was still tucked snugly in Hawk- ridge's arm and snatched it free.

"You appear to be very popular, my lord. No doubt everyone is happy to
see you in residence."

"If it comforts you to think so, Mrs. Chantry." He met her suspicious
stare with a bland smile.

"Since we've arrived at the area set aside for civilised pastimes, would
you like to try something? Archery, perhaps?"

Amy was not in the mood for civilised pastimes.

"Only if you're the target," she retorted. Then closed her eyes in
horror.

"Oh, no. Tell me I didn't say that."

His shout of laughter had her cautiously slitting one eyelid open.

"You said it." Wicked grey eyes glinted down at her.

"But on second thoughts, we'll try something else. Your aim, Mrs.
Chantry, is already far too accurate."

Amy decided not to ask for clarification on anything Hawk- ridge might
say that day. It was all too nerve-racking.

Deliciously nerve-racking.

She promptly read herself a lecture on the dangers of deliciously
tingling nerves.

Despite the lecture, her nerves continued to tingle at odd moments
during the morning. Hawkridge was entirely to blame for the phenomenon.
Whenever he was stopped by a visitor, or drawn into conversation with
one of his tenants, Amy very properly continued on her way, only to find
him back at her side when she walked around a booth or paused to watch a
game of horseshoes.

She was wondering whether she should issue a protest in y ^ interests of
propriety--and whether he'd take any notice ^it--when she caught a
glimpse of the dowager through a ^p in the crowd and was promptly
distracted.

"Look there, sir! Lady Hawkridge has exchanged Mr. '^eedy for Lord
Colborough."

Hawkridge turned his head, his height giving him a consid^ible advantage
in locating his grandparent.

"So she has. I ^nder how she managed the task, or if she had some
assis('tice from Colborough?"

"Oh, dear. How can you say that with such unconcern? ^llat do you think
has become of Mr. Tweedy?"

"I neither know nor care." He cast a curious glance down at t16! ".

"I

wouldn't have thought you cared a fig for Tweedy's N, either."

"I don't wish to see the man come to any harm. After all, ^didn't
actually threaten me in person."

"Good God," he muttered.

"A babe in the woods. You Sild be locked up for your own good."

my glared at him.

"I'm not quite the fragile little flower y *i seem to think me, sir.
What's more, Mr. Tweedy doesn't f^hten me. And I must say it would serve
you right if his |iness body was to be discovered by some innocent
visitor."

is frown vanished in a burst of laughter.

"God, you're a flight. You know, Amy, when you cease being a companion,
f^ might try your hand at writing Gothic tales."

my's eyes widened. She stopped walking so abruptly her Wd slipped from
his arm. A quite hideous tremor of uncerl^tty caused the bright morning?
to dim suddenly, as if a cloud 1'^ passed over the sun.

"Why should I cease being a com- C^ion, sir?" "For no reason that should
alarm you," he said immediately, Sending contrite.

When she didn't respond, he touched a fin- f to her chin, tilting her
face up to his.

"Don't worry," he W softly.

"I phrased that rather badly. I certainly don't wish (C See you depart."

Just try it and see what happens, he added silently.

"Oh, well ..." Amy lowered her lashes and looked away, flustered by the
sudden fierceness in his grey eyes. Fortunately, Lady Hawkridge have
into view again, flitting from group to group like an animated butterfly
towing a large cocoon in its wake. She noticed that Colborough had
abandoned his cane in the interests of keeping up with the dowager's
erratic progress.

It suddenly occurred to her that though her ladyship's progress appeared
erratic, she was forging a similar path through the crowd to the one she
and Hawkridge were taking, rather in the manner of an advance guard.

The notion struck her forcibly enough to have her digging in her heels
when Hawkridge started off again.

"What's the matter?" he demanded.

"We can't stand here. Mrs. Tredgett's seen us."

"What? Oh ..."

"Good morning, Mrs. Chantry. My lord." Mrs. Tredgett's voice boomed out
over the crowd, rendering escape impossible.

"Good morning, ma'am," they chorused like a pair of obedient children.

Amy met his eyes and had to smother a giggle.

Mrs. Tredgett marched up to them.

"Perfect day," she barked. "See your roses are well advanced." Having
disposed of the niceties, she looked at Amy and waved her stick in the
direction of her head.

"What's that you've got on your head, child?"

Amy blinked.

"A cap, ma'am."

"Ridiculous piece of nonsense. No, don't start blathering on about being
a widow. I've been a widow for forty years, but no one ever saw me
wearing such fripperies. Might as well put a brand on a girl when she's
still got her life ahead of her. Take it off. You're young enough to get
away with it."

Amy managed to close her mouth on yet another repetition that she was a
widow. Thank goodness she hadn't needed to utter it; for a minute there
she'd thought Mrs. Tredgett had wanted to save her the trouble because
she wouldn't have believed the statement.

She realised her fingers were gripping Hawkridge's arm, and relaxed her
hold.

"I couldn't agree more, ma'am," he said, watching her narrowly under the
guise of examining her offending head wear

"But such fripperies have their uses, you know."

Mrs. Tredgett chortled wheezily.

"And I'd wager you know 'em all," she said, punching him playfully on
the arm.

Hawkridge stood up manfully under the blow.

"A gentleman never contradicts a lady," he murmured.

Amy nearly choked as Mrs. Tredgett rocked about with laughter.

Fortunately a seizure was prevented by Miss. Puck- lenett's breathless
arrival.

"Good heavens, Maude, are you all right? You've gone quite purple in the
face. How do you do, my lord? How do you do, Mrs. Chantry? I've just
been on a tour of the state rooms. Such elegance. Such exquisitely
rendered ceiling murals. We were even permitted a tiny peep into the
muniment room and the winter parlour, although they weren't strictly
included in the tour."

Mrs. Tredgett recovered her voice and snorted.

"Anyone would think you'd never seen it all before, Clara. Pack of
busybodies, if you ask me. Surprised you didn't march right through his
lordship's bedchamber."

"Heavens, Maude!" Miss. Pucklenett's face turned bright red. "What a
thing to say. I assure you, sir ..."

"It's all right, Miss. Pucklenett. I gave strict instructions that my
bedchamber was to be looped."

Miss. Pucklenett eyed him as one would an incendiary firecracker.

"And how are the Society's ducks coming along?" he asked with a fiendish
smile.

"They are still ducks, I presume, and haven't been transformed into
frogs?"

Miss. Pucklenett promptly fell into a morass of half 3 sentences,
flustered explanations and stammered excuses. She was eventually stopped
by Mrs. Tredgett who took her arm in a firm hold.

"Told you so, Clara. Silliest idea I ever heard, changing the name of
the inn. Don't wonder his lordship put his foot down. But come along.

We've taken up enough of everyone's time. Plenty more people waiting to
meet Mrs. Chantry, you know."

She led Miss. Pucklenett, whose mouth was still mutely opening and
closing, towards the refreshment stall.

Amy gazed after them in consternation.

"No wonder Mrs. Tredgett's been a widow for forty years," Hawkridge
observed.

"Mr. Tredgett obviously departed for safer surroundings."

"Urn ..."

"Her presence also explains why we haven't seen Pel all morning."

"Yes, I dare say. My lord, what did Mrs. Tredgett mean about people
wanting to meet me?" "Nothing in particular," he said, resisting the
urge to bend down and kiss the frown from her brow.

"Merely the natural interest everyone has in the happenings on the
estates roundabout."

"Oh." That was a reasonable explanation, Amy supposed.

They started off again and she caught another glimpse of the dowager,
still moving ahead of them. Perhaps there was a set pattern to these
things.

After all, what did she know about Public Days?

She proceeded to learn. She learned that she'd been right in saying that
Hawkridge was popular and that everyone was happy to see him--but the
level of happiness seemed beyond what was usual, as if he'd never
attended a Public Day before.

She learned that everyone wanted a chance to greet the lord of the
manor--but that their greetings were so enthusiastic they struck her as
more in the manner of a welcome; as if he'd returned after an absence of
years, instead of paying regular, if brief, visits to his home.

She learned that nobody thought it odd that her hand remained tucked
snugly into the crook of Hawkridge's arm, and decided, tentatively, that
anyone who lived under his aegis was automatically accepted.

But it was all very odd. And there was something else about the beaming
smiles on everyone's face that puzzled her. A kind of pleased
satisfaction.

She would have been happy to join in the general air of approval, but
she had the distinct feeling that she formed an unenlightened minority
of one.

After a while, however, she forgot to worry about it. Once she and
Hawkridge had traversed the lawn a couple of times, he declared his duty
to be done and that it was time to enjoy themselves.

And Amy learned something else, something utterly irresistible. That,
with Hawkridge, she could have fun.

Suddenly it was incredibly easy to converse with him, to laugh at the
antics of a pair of puppets; to scold when they encountered Miss.
Twinhoe and he promptly threw that lady into confusion by expressing the
hope that her heartrending tale had lost nothing in the telling; to
tease and coax him into letting her try her skill with a bow and arrow
after all.

She learned how very safe she felt half-encircled in his arms as he
showed her how to aim and release the bowstring; and how ridiculously
thrilled she could be when she actually hit the target. / She learned
that magic existed.

Somewhere, far, far back in her mind, a little voice warned that the
sunny hours would disappear, taking the magic with them, but as morning
flowed into afternoon it was easy to ignore the voice of caution. By the
time a crowd gathered to watch the traditional cricket match, and she
found herself ensconced on a rug beneath an ancient oak in company with
the dowager and Lady Nettlebed, it had been silenced completely.

She settled back happily while Eversleigh's team accumulated an
impressive number of runs, laughing with the rest whenever Nettlebed,
who was the referee, had his decisions hotly debated.

"I don't know why Bevan puts himself through this year after year,"
observed Augusta, idly waving a fan to move the warm, still air beneath
the trees.

"Yes you do, dear." The dowager patted her hand.

"Nettle- bed would far rather argue than run up and down a cricket
pitch."

"Well, at least he can keep an eye on Crispin while he's out there.

You don't think he's looking a little over-heated, do you, Grandmama?"

"Nettlebed, definitely. Crispin looks perfectly stout."

Lady Nettlebed sighed.

"Oh, dear. I am trying not to be a fussbudget."

"Yes, I know, dear."

"Do the boy good to run about a little," Colborough put in gruffly.

He was ensconsed in a rather magisterial fashion on a chair next to Lady
Hawkridge, keeping up a running commentary on the players' skill, or
lack of it. Amy cast a glance from him to the dowager, and was suddenly
struck by something in their expressions. There was nothing blatantly
obvious in their manner, but her ladyship's usual bright smile seemed to
have a touch of smugness about it, while Colborough wore a resigned, but
definitely proprietary air whenever he glanced at her.

She found herself wondering, not for the first time, about Tweedy's
fate.

"Good God!" Colborough exploded, making her jump and switch her
attention to the match.

"Told Pelham he should've given the lads a few pointers, but no. Said
they'd played be y fore. Where, might I ask? Look at that fool up at
bat.

Doesn't know a thing about the game. There! What did I tell you? Caught
out!"

"Never mind, Tolly. That was the last of your batsmen. We can have tea."

They had tea under the oaks; Pickles leading a procession of servants,
bearing drinks and delicacies, out from the house. Everyone else who had
stayed to watch the match converged on the stalls set up to dispense
lemonade and ices.

And Amy forgot all about Colborough, Tweedy and the dowager. She took
the teacup a maid handed her without taking her eyes off Hawkridge as he
strode across the lawn towards her.

He'd stripped off his coat and cravat at the start of the match, but now
his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows and he'd loosened the neck of
his shirt.

With his muscled forearms exposed, his face and throat sheened with
sweat, and his black hair hanging over his brow, he looked more like one
of his own grooms than a peer of the realm.

Until one saw the authority stamped on his face.

He also looked thoroughly disreputable, heart-stoppingly handsome and
more than a little dangerous.

Amy found herself fanning her face with a leafy twig, although she
couldn't have said why she suddenly felt so flushed. It didn't help her
soaring temperature that he came directly to her side and hunkered down
on his heels, his eyes glittering, appearing lighter than ever in his
tanned face.

"Enjoying yourself?" he asked^, smiling at her with that warm light
she'd noticed several times that day.

Quite ridiculously thrown by the question, she nodded and took cover
behind her tea.

"Here you are. Marc." Lady Nettlebed handed her brother a tall glass of
chilled tea.

"I thought you might prefer this to a cup."

"You thought correctly," he said, and standing, tipped his head back and
drained the glass with several long swallows.

Amy's gaze widened as she watched the process. One stray drop of tea
escaped, trickled over his chin, and travelled downwards, slowly. Down
over tanned, gleaming flesh, down over the rippling muscles of his
throat, down into the opening of his shirt. Down.

She followed it. In her imagination. Down through the thicket of hair
glimpsed through the fine lawn of his shirt, all the way down to his
waist.

That's where she stopped, because suddenly she was looking at his face
again where his waist had been a second ago.

She blinked, and went absolutely still, staring straight into eyes that
had gone from warm to scorching in seconds.

He wanted her. There was no mistaking it. She'd never seen such savage,
searing desire in a man's eyes, but every feminine instinct she
possessed recognised it--and responded. She felt a shuddering urge to
lie down, a need to surrender. The sense of acceptance, of awareness,
that struck her in that moment was absolute, and utterly terrifying.

To her everlasting relief. Lady Nettlebed returned with another drink,
and broke the spell.

"I hope you noticed that I haven't run, clucking, to Crispin's side,"
she said archly as Hawkridge stood up.

"Although I'd rather he played cricket than sail."

Hawkridge took the glass, demolished its contents--Amy didn't dare watch
this time--and thrust it back into his sister's hand.

"I

noticed."

Lady Nettlebed's brows rose.

"Listen, Gus," he said, in the same curt tone.

"If Crispin is boat-mad, the best thing I can do is teach him the proper
way of going about things. And you might have a word to Bevan to that
effect.

God knows, the damn boat used to be his."

"I already have," Lady Nettlebed admitted. Then gave a rather resigned
sigh.

"If nothing else, the situation has brought Crispin closer to his
father.

Thank you for that, Marc."

A faint smile touched his mouth.

"I'll repeat what I've already told you, Gussie. We won't sail out of
the cove until Crispin knows what he's doing, he's promised he won't
sail alone, and he'll wear a life-belt whenever we're out on the water.
All right?"

His sister returned his smile with a wry one of her own, gave him a
swift hug and returned to her husband's side.

Hawkridge watched her for a second, half-turned as though he would speak
to Amy, then wheeled and strode back out to the pitch, his hands fisted
at his sides.

Amy discovered she'd been holding her breath throughout the entire
exchange.

She gasped in some badly needed air. Good heavens, the heat must have
melted her brain. She must have lost her senses. Surely Hawkridge hadn't
looked at her as if . as if. But he had.

And that wasn't all. She had the dreadful feeling that if he'd made one
move towards her, just one, she would have lain back on the grass and
let him.

Oh, heavens. She didn't know what, didn't dare think about it.

No wonder Kitty Ingham had broken her engagement, she thought suddenly
as her restless, darting gaze halted on that lady.

Lord Colborough's remarks flashed through her mind; comprehension
exploded with blinding clarity. No wonder Lord Ashcroft had entertained
doubts about the entire business. Hawkridge might be able to conceal his
true nature from society in general, but not from men who'd known him
all his life. What father would want his innocent, gently bred daughter
to face that blistering intensity on her wedding night?

The knowledge that she'd not only faced it when Hawkridge had kissed
her, but thrilled to it, sent streamers of heat flowing through her.

But he'd done nothing since.

Amy clutched her tea-cup as if the delicate china could somehow anchor
her while she sorted out her wildly spinning thoughts.

Hawkridge hadn't made any advances. At least, not the sort of advances a
woman in her position could expect.

Of course, until she'd stared at him in that very improper manner, she
hadn't given him any reason to suppose she would be amenable to improper
advances.

The thought that he might do something about it, now, made her tremble.

The realisation that immediately followed, that he would not, had her
lips parting on a silent gasp of discovery.

Her gaze flew to where he was standing, tall and powerful, as he waited
for Pelham to send down the first ball; the hard line of his mouth and
the determined set of his jaw indicative of the fierce will that drove
him. He possessed all the natural arrogance of a man used to commanding
what he wanted, but it was also the dominance of a man whose first
instinct was to protect, whose strength of will was built on a
foundation of unshakeable honour.

He would no more dishonour her than he would himself.

Amy put her tea-cup carefully on the grass and contemplated the
discovery that somehow, at some point in the past few days, she'd come
to trust him.

It made her feel incredibly safe. At the same time, the faintest whisper
of sadness stirred at the back of her mind.

No, not sadness precisely. Wistfulness, perhaps.

She pushed the notion aside. She should be grateful for the sense of
security that wrapped her around. She was grateful. No one knew the
dangers to a woman of clandestine relationships better than she.

But as the match resumed, the dangers of improper liaisons faded slowly
into oblivion. The vision of Hawkridge wielding a devastatingly
effective bat drove every thought out of her head--except a deliciously
improper, purely feminine appreciation of sheer masculine power.

The sight was riveting.

The return to earth, when it came, was shattering.

There was no warning. Nothing. She heard Lucinda call her name, looked
up-And looked straight into the face of disaster; into the face of the
one man she had hoped never to see again.

Into the face of her husband.


Chapter Eleven Q^nrs^Q A-my froze. There was nothing else she could do.


She went absolutely still while ice-cold fear trickled down her spine
and her hands dampened. Lucinda's lips were moving, but she couldn't
hear what the girl was saying. The world she'd created was shattering at
her feet in vicious, razor-edged shards, waiting for her to take the
first mis-step that would tear her to pieces.

Then, as a sharp crack from the direction of the lawn heralded another
six, the world snapped back into place. A different world, perhaps, but
one worth fighting for. Her mind went as cold and clear as the sheen of
ice on her skin. As cold and clear as the mocking smile in the eyes of
the man Lucinda was introducing as Jeremy Chatsworth.

He bowed.

"How do you do, Mrs. Chantry?"

Oh, yes, she remembered those smooth tones, the polished bow. He held
out his hand, quite confident she would respond.

And she did. She had no choice. Not here. Not now. She extended her
hand; her fingers were enveloped, and pressed around the folded square
of paper he slid into her palm.

"Mr. Chatsworth," she acknowledged coolly, and knew she hadn't betrayed
herself. And he wouldn't expose her; to do so would be to expose his own
lies. He would want a meeting before he did anything. He'd been very
good at arranging meetings.

She laid her hand on her lap and waited. She was even able to summon a
faint smile for Lucinda as the girl sat beside her.

"Is he not charming?" she whispered to Amy, as Chatsworth began talking
to the dowager under the cold gaze of Lady Nettlebed.

"Is he not the most elegant gentleman you've ever seen?"

"Actually," Amy returned coolly, "I consider your uncle to be more
elegant."

"What! Uncle Marc!" Lucinda gaped across the lawn.

"Well, all I can say, Amy, is that you have a very odd notion of
elegance.

And, what's more, Jeremy is a great deal more amusing than Hawkridge."

"I'm sure you think so."

Lucinda's brows met for an instant.

"You sound rather strange. Are you feeling quite the thing?"

"No, as a matter of fact. I think it's the heat." An avenue of escape
opened.

"But you're quite pale." Lucinda peered closer.

"Very pale, actually.

You're not going to faint, are you? Jeremy particularly wishes to become
acquainted with you."

"I'm afraid our acquaintance will have to wait," Amy said, rising to her
feet. She managed the task of staying upright by the simple expedient of
imagining the furore that would ensue if she didn't.

Fortunately, her movement caught Lady Hawk- ridge's attention, making it
unnecessary for her to intrude on the conversation. / "If you don't
mind, ma'am," she began before anyone else could comment on her lack of
colour.

"I'll return to the house for a while.

I have a slight headache."

"Oh, dear. Are you sure, Amy? You'll miss the rest of the match."

"Yes, I know. I'm sorry. I think it's the heat." She wondered how often
she'd be required to repeat the excuse before she could get away.

But the dowager nodded.

"I don't wonder at it. Lie down With a cool cloth over your brow, and
you'll be better in a trice. Lucinda, go with her."

Wo/ Please," Amy added in a milder tone as several heads turned.

"I

just need to be somewhere cooler for a while."

"Of course, dear. Off you go."

"Perhaps I could escort you, Mrs. Chantry." Jeremy Chats- worth leapt to
his feet with what he no doubt considered to be the epitome of masculine
grace.

She'd once thought so, too, Amy remembered.

She swept him an uninterested gaze, determined to have a moment alone
before she had to confront him.

"No, thank you, sir."

Turning, she walked away towards the house, conscious of a vague sense
of astonishment that she could move at all when every joint and muscle
felt frozen. Even when she emerged from the trees into full sunlight,
there was no difference. The heat bounced off her as if she was encased
in stone.

But her mind moved swiftly; thinking, thinking.

She wondered if Hawkridge had seen her leave.

That caused her to falter. She stopped, looked back. Everyone appeared
very small and far away, she thought vaguely. Almost. faded. As if she'd
stepped out of a misty painting.

But she could see Hawkridge clearly.

Something tore at her heart. A swift burning slash.

Perhaps it was the last tiny thread of magic being ripped away. It was
silly, really, but she couldn't stop the sudden pang of wistful longing
for what might have been. If the magic of the day had been real.

If it had been Hawkridge she'd met two years ago.

If he'd been of her station.

If.

Amy shook her head, set wistfulness firmly to one side, and, realising
in that second that she was completely unobserved, took the few sideways
steps necessary to take her into the shrubbery and out of sight.

The note had told her to meet him on the beach in ten minutes.

Well, he would just have to wait, Amy thought as she trod resolutely
down the steps outside the Inghams' gates. She wasn't tackling the stony
path leading to the beach below Hawkridge Manor for anyone. The stairs
at least had a railing to hold on to. And the time spent walking back
towards the Manor was necessary to prepare herself.

She stepped on to the pebbled beach, keeping her eyes on the uneven
surface as she made her way around outcroppings of rock and small sunlit
pools, until the pebbles became more scattered and she was walking on
the strip of sand that formed a narrow crescent-shaped beach at the foot
of the cliffs at Hawkridge. The sea whispered a few yards away, its
secrets hidden beneath the sparkling blue surface.

She'd been here once before, with the dowager, and had been enchanted by
the wild solitude of the place, the rugged cliffs, the crenellated
formations of rocks that gave the beach the appearance of another world.

Now the almost-empty landscape looked strangely forbidding, even in the
mellow golden light of late afternoon. A few people were still about,
but they were some distance away and strolling in the same direction as
herself, making their way back to the path and the Manor.

Not that she wanted anyone to witness her meeting with Chatsworth. So
far she'd been lucky. Most of the people whom she'd met that morning
were at the cricket match, and other visitors had been leaving in large
enough quantities for her exit through the side gate to go unremarked.

Chatsworth had chosen his time well.

She wondered if Lucinda knew of the meeting. If the girl.

had been told a clandestine meeting with Amy was necessary if she was to
help them. She wished she'd thought to mention it to Lucinda, herself.
She might not want witnesses, but the thought that no one knew where she
was, or who she was with, was suddenly very disquieting.

But it was too late. She glanced up to find the man she'd known as James
Chantry leaning against a large rock a few paces away and staring out to
sea.

The cynical thought that the pose allowed her to admire his profile had
a surprisingly calming effect on her nerves.

Amy took a deep breath and walked forward.

He turned his head as she approached.

"You took your time," he said without preamble.

She gave a short inward laugh. A good thing she hadn't expected a
concerned query about how she'd survived the past year.

"I didn't think you'd leave Lucinda so soon, James," she answered
mildly.

"Especially when you appear to have just arrived."

He shrugged that off.

"Have to keep her eager for my company." His lips twisted
contemptuously.

"And the rest were only too happy to see me go."

"Yes, well, you can hardly blame them for that." She studied him, seeing
few changes since their last meeting, when the scales had well and truly
fallen from her eyes.

"Is that your real name?" she asked abruptly.

"James Chantry? Or is it Jeremy Chatsworth?"

"The first," he said. And studied her thoughtfully.

"Don't worry, Amy. We're definitely married. I've been standing here
wondering if that's an advantage or not."

"Feel free to procure a divorce at any time," she retorted.

He gave a short laugh.

"Still an innocent. Divorce requires several expensive steps, dear wife,
resulting in an Act of Parliament. People of our station don't trot into
the House of Lords every day and demand one. And an annulment," he added
smoothly, 'would prove most embarrassing for you. Af y ter all, I was
perfectly capable of performing my husbandly duties.

It was you who always found an excuse to avoid your obligations."

Her chin lifted.

"I deserved more than a hurried tumble on your mistress's bed, James."

"You didn't know Nan was my mistress at the time."

"Maybe I sensed she was more than a friend when I discovered you were
living with her! But that doesn't matter. We've had this argument
before. You found me employment where the maids had to live in and were
supposed to be unmarried. Did you expect me to open the back door and
smuggle you into the house at night?"

"Why not?" he asked carelessly.

"You made sure I knew about the broken latch on the dining-room window
so I could rob the place."

She gasped and flinched back as if he'd struck her.

"That was unintentional. You questioned me, before I knew--" She broke
off as accusations and explanations tumbled through her mind with a
speed that left her utterly sure of the conclusions. But she still had
to ask. She still had to hear it.

Perhaps it was a perverse sense of her own guilt that had her wanting
the final confirmation. Like probing a continually aching wound.

"Are you responsible for those robberies at Bristol? Did you set your
friend up as a maid in one of those houses, like you did me, so she
could let you in and pretend to be tied up with the rest?" ^ His smile
mocked the merfories evident in her shaking voice.

"You weren't as co-operative, if you recall, Amy. Bloody ungrateful, in
fact, considering all the trouble I went to for you. Yes, the Bristol
robberies were my work. I needed money after I met Lucinda."

"But the last robbery was less than a week ago."

"God, Amy, you ought to know that money doesn't stretch far when you're
living in this sort of style." He ran his gaze over her.

"You must have spent a bit yourself."

She ignored that.

"So ...  it was you who sent me that cutting. It wasn't Tweedy."

"Tweedy? What made you think it was him?"

"He brought the mail into the house that morning. The paper with my name
on it was on top. Do you mean he had nothing to do with it? You don't
know him?"

"Never met the man until a fortnight ago. He was merely a distraction
for Hawkridge's groom. It was easy to slip the note into the pile of
mail on the seat of Mawson's gig while Tweedy was begging a lift. I
didn't expect him to actually deliver it, but I'm not surprised he
couldn't resist nosing through the stack."

So Tweedy was of no importance to her. His words that day had been pure
spite, motivated by his ambitions towards the dowager. And, she thought
suddenly, she wouldn't be surprised if they never saw him again.
Colborough appeared to have routed him completely.

She realised Chatsworth was still speaking. Somehow it was easier to
call him that in her mind. To give herself some badly needed distance
from the threat he posed.

"I thought the cutting would give you a little warning before I turned
up out of the blue," he was saying.

"Which is more than the bloody nasty start you gave me when I saw you at
Nettlebed Place the other night."

He rapped it out as if she should have had more consideration. Amy
inwardly shook her head.

"I saw you, too, but I thought ..." She gestured slightly.

"The dyed hair is obvious, but ..."

He shrugged.

"A little padding in the shoulders of my coat, a higher heel on the
shoes.

It's amazing how one's appearance can be changed with a little ingenuity
and effort."

"Costly effort, I imagine. You look finer than when I met you."

"All in a worthy cause. But you can relax, Amy. The third robbery was
the last. Nan's gone back to London. You can't have the same maid hiring
on and disappearing too many times in the one town, and she was starting
to nag me to tell her what else I'm getting up to.

Still, it netted me enough to last until--"

"Until what? Until you seduce Lucinda? You won't find her so easy,
James. She's headstrong, but she knows her own worth."

"Then she won't refuse marriage. And headstrong suits my purposes very
well."

Amy stared at him, horrified.

"But you can't marry her! It would be bigamy!"

He laughed aloud at that, but a second later his eyes narrowed, almost
with hatred.

"You know, you're a dangerous woman, Amy. That innocent, fragile look
pulls a man in, makes him want to look after you. Until he discovers the
truth."

"And that is?"

"You're strong-minded. Too bloody strong-minded. It's not a trait men
want in a woman. Especially when added to stubbornness, independence,
and a damned inconvenient set of morals. If you want to get on in this
world, let our situation be a lesson to you. You quickly lose your
appeal and become a nuisance." "Thank you," she said drily.

"I'm glad you explained that to me. For several weeks I actually blamed
myself for driving you into another woman's arms, because I wouldn't
join you in London until Mama ..."

"You were to blame," he interjected nastily when she faltered.

"But never mind that. Just make sure your morals don't get in my way
this time."

"I don't know why you expect me to put a spoke in your wheel, James.

Lord Nettlebed is no fool. If you offer for his daughter, he'll
immediately make enquiries into your background and that will be the end
of it."

"Not quite. When Nettlebed discovers that Jeremy Chats- worth has no
background, he'll pay handsomely through the nose to be rid of me.

Especially when he knows his darling, headstrong daughter is capable of
eloping."

"And if Lucinda refuses to elope?"

"I've already thought of that," he said, in such a dismissive tone that
she hoped, fervently, that Lucinda's heart wasn't truly engaged.

"Seeing you with the old lady the other night gave me the idea. If
nothing else works out, you're perfectly placed to help me toss the
Manor. Some of the stuff in there must be worth a bloody fortune."

"Are you madt She stared at him in amazement.

"If I wouldn't help you before, what makes you think I'll help you now?"

"Because if you don't," he said very softly, 'if you even breathe a word
to anyone about anything I've told you, I'll be forced to reveal the
details of the Tinsley job to the proper authorities.

Anonymously."

Fear clamped an ice-cold vise around her heart. Her stomach churned.

"I didn't know what you intended! I--" A snap of his fingers cut her
off.

"Do you think they'll care a fig for that? Oh, no, Amy. Not when you
took your share of the proceeds and ran."

He was right. Dear God, he was right, and the knowledge haunted her
every waking moment. And most of her sleeping ones as well.

"It was that or sell myself. Or go back ..."

"To the poorhouse," he finished for her.

"Well, whenever you feel like refusing to co-operate, remember that life
in the Hulks or on a convict ship is worse than the poorhouse."

She didn't answer. Let him think her frightened, cowed by the threat of
transportation or worse. He was looking so sat y isfied, so smugly
confident that his threat would keep her under control.

And why not? She'd never defied him before. Never flatly refused to fall
in with his plans. She'd been horrified, disillusioned, frightened by
the glimpse of violent temper he'd shown her. She'd argued. She'd
pleaded. But she hadn't defied him.

She'd fled.

"We'd better go back," she said quietly, and turned away to retrace her
steps.

"It's getting late."

He gave a satisfied grunt and straightened away from the rock.

"Where the hell are you going? The path's over here."

"I prefer to use the stairs beyond that outcrop of rocks."

"Don't be an idiot, Amy. The tide's coming in."

She stared in dismay as she realised Chatsworth was right. They hadn't
been on the beach all that long, but apparently time made no difference
to the tide. Water was sweeping up to the rocks, cascading into the
pools she'd picked her way around earlier, rushing into crevices and
exploding in fountains of spray when it could go no further. Even from
where she stood, the power of the waves was awesome. Apart from the
inconvenience of getting wet to the knees--or higher by the time she
reached the spot--if she lost her footing on that treacherous section of
beach she'd be swept under before she knew it.

But the path didn't look any more inviting.

Amy glanced up at it and called herself every kind of fool for being
where she was in the. ; first place. The cliff at this point wasn't
precisely vertical but it was steep enough to make the ascent look like
a daunting task. The thought that everyone at the Manor no doubt spent
most of the summer months scampering up and down it made her shudder.

"What's the matter?" Chatsworth demanded, giving her an impatient scowl.

Then his frown cleared and he grasped her arm with ungentle fingers.

"God, don't tell me you're still indulging that stupid fear of heights.
Get moving, Amy, before there's no beach left for us to stand on."

He jerked her towards the path as he spoke. Amy let the momentum carry
her up the first few feet before she shook her arm free.

"It's all right, James. Your gallant assistance is no longer needed."

She grabbed hold of a protruding chunk of rock and used it for balance
while she gathered her skirts in her other hand. They were going up, she
told herself. She wouldn't have to look down.

"Then hurry," he snapped behind her.

"There might be awkward questions asked if people see us together. We
don't want any suspicions about you until your usefulness is finished."

"So considerate," she muttered.

"Yes, that's all very well, but we could have finished our business and
walked back a few minutes apart if you hadn't felt obliged to question
everything I said. But that's you all over, Amy. Nothing but trouble."

Amy raised her eyes heavenward and started climbing. In truth, the path
wasn't as daunting as it had appeared from the beach, in some places
there was even a natural step or two, but with only one hand free and
several loose stones underfoot, progress was slow.

Despite that, however, she was doing rather well. She was even beginning
to congratulate herself on conquering her fear--as long as she didn't
look down--until the path made a slight turn that took it on a parallel
course across the cliff side for several feet, and from the corner of
her eye she saw nothing but space.

"Oh, God."

She ground to a halt, closing her eyes before her head started swimming.

But that only made it worse. Without sight, her other senses sharpened.
The wind, which until then had been nothing more than a mild breeze,
suddenly seemed to buffet her with the j express intention of knocking
her off her feet .1 She opened her eyes again, keeping her gaze to the
right. A stunted bush grew out of the cliff almost level with her face.
^ She stared at it until her eyes watered, trying to pretend that |
bushes were all around her, but her limbs were so rigid, she | couldn't
even put out a hand to grab a branch in case the | movement caused her
to lose her balance.

"For God's sake, Amy. What's the matter now? We're nearly there."

The sound of Chatsworth's impatient voice snapped open some of her
mental shackles. She could breathe again.

"James, I'm sorry, but do you think you could go ahead and let me hold
on to your hand? I don't think I can trust my balance."

"Hold my hand7 Are you out of your mind? How's that going to look when
we get to the top? This path doesn't take us back to the road, you know;
we're going to end up on the other side of Hawkridge's home wood. What
if people are still wandering about?"

"I'm sure they'll only think--"

" God, anyone would think you hadn't been living here for a month. Get
out of my way, Amy. I'm not your bloody nursemaid. ".

He pushed roughly past her as he spoke, but not to her left as Amy
half-expected. Stung by his scorn, she had just managed a tentative lean
towards the. -cliff when he stormed by on the inside of the path,
shoving yer sideways and sending her stumbling into the top branches of
another shrub that was growing up only a few inches below the path.

Amy gave a short gasping scream as she felt the shrub tear loose beneath
her weight. As if at a signal, the entire edge of the path crumbled,
seeming to gather momentum as the first stones she'd dislodged in her
stumble began bouncing down the cliff. She didn't have time to turn, to
grab hold of anything, to dig in her heels.

In the single sickening instant before she lost her footing and the
world turned over, she caught a glimpse of Chats- worth's startled face.
Then the ground dropped from beneath her feet.

Marc was not in a good mood. He didn't know how one small female could
manage to disappear between one second and the next, and stay missing,
but he was going to find out. And then he was going to put a stop to it.

Amy was supposed to be in the house. More specifically, in her
bedchamber.

Recovering from a headache.

She wasn't anywhere in the house. He knew because he'd just spent a
fruitless thirty minutes searching the place. He also knew she wasn't in
her bedchamber because he'd damned propriety and looked in there, too.

She had obviously taken herself and her headache elsewhere.. Perhaps
she'd walked back to Lavender Cottage with its inhabitants.

He paced up and down the terrace while he considered the notion. It
would have made sense, except that she wouldn't have gone for a long
walk in the heat if she'd had a headache.

But if her head wasn't aching, why had she left? She'd seemed perfectly
happy sitting under the trees watching him play cricket.

The fact that her gaze had been on him whenever he'd glanced across the
lawn had been very encouraging. Unfortunately, it had also been
frustrating, because she'd looked so deliciously flushed and soft, he'd
wanted to drag her behind the nearest tree and see how much more flushed
and soft he could get her.

His frustration wasn't eased when he'd walked off the field at tea to
find Amy looking up at him in a way that had caused him to resort to the
recitation of complicated mathematical equations in order to stand up
with some degree of comfort.

He'd managed to keep his mind on the task, but only because they'd had
an audience.

Things had improved a fraction when play had resumed. There he'd been,
systematically demolishing every ball Pel- ham sent down to him, with a
single-minded ruthlessness that at least gave him an outlet for his
physical frustration, and the next instant he'd looked across to the
trees to discover that Amy had disappeared.

So had his concentration. The next ball had thudded into the stumps,
sending bailes flying to the accompaniment of relieved cheers from the
opposition.

Marc scowled at the memory. He'd been well on his way to a century, damn
it.

Mrs. Amaris Chantry had a lot to answer for.

"Marc? What are you doing out here? Your grand mama wants to know if you
wish to eat dinner, or have supper later."

He wheeled about to see Kitty Ingham step through the French windows
from the library.

"I don't know about you," she continued, 'but I've been eating all day.

Dinner is the last thing on my mind."

"Hello, Kitty. I didn't know you and Ingham were still here."

"Anthony's nurse took him home a couple of hours ago," she said,
reaching him and slipping a hand through his arm. "But Lady Hawkridge
invited us to stay if we wished. I was looking forward to a chat with
Miss. Chantry, but I believe she's indisposed." "So she said, but she's
not in her room." He frowned, sweeping the outskirts of the home wood
with an all-seeing gaze.

Nothing moved in the shadows that had formed now that the sun had
slipped below the horizon.

"Are you worried about her. Marc? She might have gone for a walk now
that it's cooler."

"I'm not particularly worried; there's still plenty of light and she
wouldn't go near the cliff, but I didn't realise the dinner- hour had
arrived. If she has gone for a walk, she should be back by now." He
glanced down and gave Kitty a quick smile. Tell Graridmama supper will
be fine. I think I'll go for a walk, myself."

"But your sister is here, too, and Pelham and Lord Colborough."

"They'll survive without my presence."

Her lips curved upward.

"I'm sure they will. Would you like some company on your walk?"

He grinned.

"No, I wouldn't."

Kitty laughed.

"I didn't think so. Is Mrs. Chantry the one, Marc? I do hope so. Augusta
and I are running out of eligible cousins, friends and acquaintances.
Not that any of the girls we've cast in your way for the past five years
would have done anything except make you thoroughly miserable."

"Thank you very much," he said sardonically.

"Why did you keep trotting them out in that case?"

"I meant that none of them were capable of feeling as you do," she said
gently.

"I wasn't, myself."

His ironic smile disappeared.

"Did I frighten you. Kitty? Is that the true reason you broke our
engagement? I know you married Ingham because he's the gentle,
unassuming sort, but--"

" No!" She shook her head vigorously.

"I wasn't afraid of you, only of disappointing you. I know I tried to
explain it at the time, and couldn't. But I hadn't been married myself,
then, so I didn't know about intimate relationships."

"For God's sake. Kitty, what did you think I was going to do to you?

I'm not a brute. I am capable of treating a wife with consideration."

"Oh, dear, now I've made you cross. Marc, I didn't mean that at all.

Of course you're capable of consideration. You're the best person I
know.

Apart from Ingham, that is," she added with a smile.

"But some people feel more.. passionately than others.

I know I'm not one of them, and that suits me perfectly well, but you
couldn't be happy in a marriage where polite consideration was the order
of the day." She raised herself on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

"And I do want you to be happy, my best and dearest friend."

"Apart from Ingham, that is."

She giggled and gave him a little shove.

"Go and find Mrs. Chantry. I think she may cast a few obstacles in your
way, but something tells me you won't give her up as easily as you did
me." "I won't give her up at all," he said, and grinned.

She was alive. And the world had stopped spinning.

Amy clung to that knowledge and didn't let herself think about anything
else until her heart stopped pounding. She wished it would hurry up and
settle down, because she wanted to hear if rescue was on the way.

Then she realised she could hear other sounds. The wind; the rushing of
the sea; the startled screech of a gull as it swooped past her. She even
heard the quick flap of the bird's wings as it veered away.

But she couldn't hear anyone hurrying to the rescue.

"James?"

The name emerged from her throat in a tentative croak. Nothing stirred;
no one answered.

She called again, louder.

Silence. ,; Of course he was gone. He prpbably hadn't even waited to see
if she'd fallen all the way to the beach.

Perhaps she had.

She opened her eyes, cautiously.

And immediately choked on a strangled cry of terror. Oh, God. She was
lying face down on some sort of ledge, so close to the brink she could
see over it.

The space she occupied was tiny, barely enough to take her full length.
If her legs had been stretched out her feet would have dangled over the
edge.

Below her the sea swirled and eddied as the tide continued to rush in.
She almost felt the pull of it, dragging her over, dragging her down.

No!

The cry of denial tore from her throat and was whipped away by the wind.
Her fingers dug into the stony ground so desperately her nails broke.
She squeezed her eyes shut again on the realisation that in front of her
and on both sides there was nothing but empty sky.

Something was whimpering. Several seconds passed before Amy realised it
was herself making those terrified animal sounds. Had she fainted?

Dear God, don't let her faint. She would fall over the edge for sure.

The edge. She had to get away from it. She couldn't stay here all night.

Clearly, no one except James had witnessed her fall, and he would think
first of himself. As far as he was concerned, she might be dead and he
might be blamed if anyone saw him near the scene. He would be long gone.
There was no one to raise the alarm; no one would realise she was
missing. Why should they indeed? Everyone thought she was lying down in
her room, not lying on a stony ledge suspended over nothing.

Don't think of it! Don't think of it!

Her hands were still clutching dirt and stones. Think about that, she
ordered herself. She wouldn't fall while she still clung to the earth
beneath her. It only felt like she was about to fall when she opened her
eyes. So she wouldn't open her eyes and she wouldn't let go.

But if she didn't open her eyes, how was she going to crawl back from
the edge? She didn't even know if there was enough room to crawl
backwards.

Don't think about that either. There was room. There had to be.

She dug her fingers in harder, and concentrated on breathing. Only on
breathing. James had said she was strong- minded. If ever there was a
time to demonstrate strong- mindedness, this was it.

In. Out.

Dust tickled her nose. Grit shifted somewhere.

She shut out the distractions and concentrated. After a while breathing
became easier. She started to imagine that the ledge was wider. Very
carefully, she built up the picture in her mind. She could move. There
wasn't a sheer drop right in front of her face. She could ease some of
the tension in her fingers. She even imagined that the ledge sloped
upward a little, making it safer, that there were bushes on either side,
closing her in.

And that Hawkridge was waiting for her, his hand outstretched, ready to
steady her if she stumbled, to lead her to safety.

When his image was firm in her mind she moved one leg backwards, very
slowly.

There was room. At least a yard, maybe more. Taking a deep breath,
keeping her eyes tightly shut, Amy shifted, one muscle at a time, until
she was lying against the cliff.

The tiny sense of security afforded by the rock digging into her side
had her muscles turning to water. Tears of relief welled in her eyes;
she started to cry. Heaven knew what the combination of dust and dirt
and tears was doing to her face, she thought, and started to laugh
instead. The laugh ended in a hiccup, but at least it stopped her
crying. She began to wonder if she was injured, and was vaguely
astonished that the question hadn't occurred to her before.

Well, it had occurred now. She put the picture of a wide ledge
surrounded by bushes to one side of her mind and concentrated on
herself, beginning with her head. It was difficult to be sure with her
eyes closed, but if she didn't count incipient hysteria, she seemed to
be in one piece. She ached and throbbed in several places, her left
thigh stung rather badly, but nothing appeared to be broken. Despite a
hazy memory of landing with a jarring thud, it was clear she hadn't
fallen all that far.

The knowledge didn't provide her with any great comfort. Given her
terror of falling any further, it was useless trying to get back to the
path. She didn't even know if there still was a path.

After reaching that conclusion, there was really nothing left for her to
do except call out every few seconds, and wait to be rescued.

By the time dusk was more than a grey tinge in the sky, Marc had
exchanged vague concern for real worry. He'd combed the shrubbery, the
orchard, the home wood, and even the stables, without result, and had
despatched a groom to Lavender Cottage, only to be informed on the man's
return that no one had seen Amy since the middle of the afternoon.

Frowning, he watched the groom retreat to the servants' hall. Then,
struck by the sudden notion that Amy might have run away for some
obscure reason, he returned to her room and flung open the doors of her
wardrobe.

Her clothes were still there, hanging in a neat row; her rose silk
evening gown, the peach cambric, a wanner dress of his- cuit-coloured
wool, and her green pelisse. She'd been wearing her cream muslin.

Something stabbed at his heart at the sight of the tiny collection, but
he didn't spare the time to think about that, or his relief that she
hadn't run away. Worry congealed into a ball of fear that lay cold and
heavy in his gut.

For some reason, his certainty that Amy wouldn't go near the cliff was
no longer rock-solid. He didn't think she would go willingly, but when
he considered the fact that she was hiding something, and that Tweedy
hadn't been seen since the dowager had apparently abandoned him for
Colborough, certainty tottered and threatened to crumble.

Wheeling, Marc strode out of Amy's room, took the stairs in several
perilous bounds and left the house through the front door. He didn't
stop to tell anyone of his suspicions--he'd already entered the
drawing-room once, ascertained that Amy wasn't there, and stalked out
under the astonished stares of its occupants. No need to give the crowd
in there any more reason to speculate on his sanity.

But as he headed back towards the woods, he saw Crispin approaching from
the direction of the lake.

"I say. Uncle Marc, that's a capital little row--" His nephew stopped,
goggle-eyed, as he strode past him without pause.

An instant later, the boy was on his heels.

"What's up?" he asked breathlessly.

"Where are you going?"

"The beach."

"The beach? But the tide's in. Probably up to the high-water mark by
now."

He didn't need Crispin to tell him that. Fear spread its ice- cold
fingers wider.

The sensation wasn't pleasant. Anger, he decided, was a very good
antidote.

When he found Amy he was going to throttle her. And then he was going to
tell her in no uncertain terms that she was never to go anywhere without
him again. In time, if she behaved herself, he might let her go from
room to room without an escort, but that was all she could expect.

The absurd thoughts didn't alleviate his fear one bit.

"Amy's missing," he said curtly to his nephew.

"She might have gone to the beach, and she hasn't a notion of how fast
the tide comes in."

There was one thing to be said for the boy. He didn't need to have
things spelled out.

"It's all right. Uncle Marc. If she couldn't get back to the path in
time, she'd climb the rock where that dim-witted poet wanted Grandmama
to sit for him."

"Maybe. Heights upset her balance."

"Better to feel giddy than to drown."

Marc sent his nephew a quick, wryly amused glance.

"Right on the nail," he said.

"Thanks, Crispin, I needed that."

"You like Amy, don't you. Uncle Marc? So does Mama. She thinks bad
things have happened to her. She says that sometimes when Amy doesn't
know anyone's watching her, she looks frightened."

"Your mama is a clever lady."

"Well, sometimes. Look, there's the path. Good thing it's not really
dark yet. Can you see anyone down there?"

Marc swore.

"Damn it, I should have taken the time to grab a lantern.

Stay behind me, Crispin. Something's not quite--" He broke off before
he'd descended more than a dozen steps, and swore again.

Comprehensively.

The landscape looked terrifyingly different to the last time he'd seen
it.

Crispin peered past his arm.

"Good Lord! Half the path's gone."

The boy's voice rang out in the still air. A faint echo carried back to
them. And then another voice.

"Crispin? Is that you?"

The cry had Marc's head coming up like a hunter scenting prey.

"Amy!" He started downwards again, moving as fast as possible with
rubble shifting beneath his feet.

"Crispin, stay where you are! The path starts again further down, but
this section appears to have fallen straight down the cliff."

"No, wait. Uncle Marc!" Crispin yelled excitedly.

"I can see her." He pointed a steady finger.

"Look! Through those bushes over there.

There's some sort of ledge, and I can see a scrap of white."

Marc turned his head in the direction Crispin was pointing, and felt his
heart shudder to a stop. From where he stood, balanced on the
cliff-side, the view was better than Crispin's.

The small huddled form his nephew had glimpsed was lying only feet from
the edge of a sheer fifty-foot drop to the sea.

He swept the scene around her with swiftly assessing eyes. "Christ!

She must have gone over with the landslide. And the ledge broke her
fall."

"How are we going to get to her?"

"I'll get to her. Crispin, I want you to go back to the house as fast as
you can without running yourself short of breath."

"I'll be all right. Uncle Marc. What do you want me to do?"

"Fetch Pelham and half a dozen strong men. The strongest; they'll have
to take both our weights. We'll need lanterns, plenty of thick rope--"
he glanced in Amy's direction again, thinking of injuries '--and
blankets.

You'd better warn everyone else, but tell them not to panic. Amy's
alive.

That's all they have to worry about at present."

Crispin followed his gaze.

"She hasn't called out again. Do you think she's all right?"

Marc refused to contemplate any alternative.

"She'd better bloody well be all right," he grated, 'because when I get
her out of this, I'm going to beat her to within an inch of her life!"

"Good Lord!" Even from where he stood. Marc saw his nephew's eyes widen.

"You're not really, are you. Uncle Marc?"

"Of course I'm not. But the fantasy is extraordinarily satisfying."

Crispin flashed him a quick grin.

"We'll be back before you know it," he said, and disappeared.


Chapter Twelve Ohe hadn't called out again because she was struggling to
hold back the torrent of tears dammed up behind her eyelids.

He was here. The relief of it threatened to overwhelm her fragile
reserves of strength.

"Amy!"

Marc. His voice came from somewhere above her, but closer than before
"Amy! Answer me, damn it!"

She dragged in a breath.

"Yes."

"All right." His voice lowered. She counted two heartbeats before he
spoke again.

"Can you cover your head with your arms? There's a slight overhang above
you. I'm going to lower myself over it to reach your ledge, and I'll
probably dislodge a few stones in the process."

Her eyes flew open in alarm. She knew immediately that she'd made a
ghastly mistake. Without daylight to dazzle her eyes after they'd been
closed so long, she could see with hideous clarity. Her carefully
constructed vision of a wide ledge shattered and vanished.

"You can't!" She clamped her eyes shut as the sky spun dizzily. Her
fingers dug into rock. If she could have crawled inside the ledge
beneath her, she would have.

"There isn't room!"

"Yes, there is. It's all right. Just lie very still."

He didn't have to tell her to do that. She'd been still for so long, she
didn't think she could move. Even to obey his instruction to cover her
head.

What did it matter, anyway? She was already covered in dust and rubble.

A hail of pebbles rained down on her as she contemplated that aspect of
the situation. A light thud sounded a mere inch or two away, and she
sensed a darker shadow come between herself and the early-night sky.

He must have landed like a cat.

The thought vanished when she felt his hands touch her hair.

"Marc." It was a whisper of thankfulness.

"Yes," he murmured.

"I'm here, love. Let me see if you're hurt."

"No, I'm ..." Her voice wobbled and she took another shuddering breath.

She wanted to cry again. It was weak and foolish, but she couldn't help
it.

"Shh." His hands moved over her head and face, brushing away dust and
dirt.

Then, as if he was examining something incredibly fragile, he ran his
hands over her arms, gently circled her ribs, carefully felt the length
of her spine, stroked downwards.

And flipped her tangled skirts up to her thigh.

"My lord!" The urge to cry vanished.

"Yes?"

"What are you doing?"

"Seeing if anything's broken."

"But ..." She started to shiver inside. Her fingers dug in harder, but
only because the warmth of his touch startled her so. She almost forgot
her precarious position for a few heady moments.

"There's nothing broken," she managed to say.

"I'm blocking out what little light there is, but I think you're right."

"Of course I'm right. They're my bones. I ought to know if they're
broken or not."

"Hmm. If you're well enough for indignation, you can't be too badly
hurt.

Can you sit up? I'll check your other leg."

Amy contemplated the question. Momentary forgetfulness was one thing;
moving quite another.

"No."

He was back at her head in a flash, cradling it in one large hand.

She felt him bend closer.

"Is there something wrong with your back? Is that why you can't move?

Are you in pain?"

His urgency had her feeling stupidly weepy again. She began to feel as
if she was on a see-saw.

"It's not that," she said wretchedly.

"I

can't move, or I'll fall."

He exhaled on a long breath.

"No. You won't fall, Amy. I won't let you."

"You don't understand. I have to open my eyes to move, and I can't."

Her lower lip trembled.

"I can't."

He touched his fingers to her face, brushed them over her lashes.

"Yes, you can, darling. I'm between you and the edge. Just open your
eyes and look at me."

His voice was so deeply tender, she simply did as he asked. As if she
was impelled by something that would have bade her follow him--even over
the edge if he'd suggested it.

Her lashes fluttered up. She blinked rapidly a couple of times, ready to
retreat into darkness, then her gaze focused on the reassuring bulk that
leaned over her in the gloom, and stayed.

"That's better. Now ..." He covered her hands with his, gently easing
the tension in her fingers.

"Slowly."

The instant she felt Marc lift her into a sitting position, Amy grabbed
hold of his arms and hung on. The muscles beneath her hands were like
iron. She wanted to fling herself against him and burrow in.

"I thought of you, you know." The shaky admission was out before she
knew it.

"Did you?" He propped her against the cliff and, without making any
attempt to pry her fingers loose from his arms, carefully probed the
side she'd been lying on.

"Yes." She shivered as his hand moved over her ribs. "Whenever my
pretend ledge wavered, I'd think of the way you held my hand when I
stepped down from the carriage, and it would steady again."

She felt the swift glance he sent her, but he continued checking
downwards.

"I called out, too. Until my voice got too croaky. I didn't think anyone
would come until morning."

His hand stilled, tightened fractionally, then continued.

"Did Tweedy bring you here?"

"Tweedy?" She took a moment to bring the man's image to mind.

"No."

"Then what in the world possessed ? No, never mind. We'll get you home
first."

That was good. But for some unaccountable reason she couldn't think why.

Everything began to take on a strange, dream-like quality. As if it was
happening to someone else. Even the touch of Marc's hand on her thigh
evoked nothing more than a rather detached interest in her various
wounds.

"Is anything broken?" she asked without any real concern.

"No, but I think this leg's been bleeding." "It was stinging," she said
vaguely, and tried to remember what she'd been doing before it all
started.

"Did you win the cricket?" she asked suddenly. / "Yes."

"That's nice."

"Oh, God, Amy ' " Yes, my lord?"

"Nothing. I ' A shout from above interrupted him. He loosened the grip
she had on him and shackled her wrists in his hands. But that was all
right, she thought. As long as he was holding on to her, she'd be safe.
She heard him shout something back. The conversation seemed to go on for
a long time; she recognised Eversleigh's voice, heard one or two others,
then a rope came snaking down from somewhere and Marc reached out to
pull it in.

She kept her gaze where it was. On his face. His eyes were washed of
colour in the night, but, glittering faintly, utterly steady, they
stayed on hers, commanding her trust.

"Amy, I'm going to tie the rope around myself. You can hold on to me
while I do it."

She nodded, and hung on when he transferred her hands to his shoulders.

"Good girl. Now I'm going to stand up with you. We won't fall because
there's at least six men up there holding the rope, and I'll be holding
you."

Her heart lodged in her throat. Some of the dream-like quality faded,
but before she could protest against standing on that precariously small
ledge in the middle of nowhere, she was on her feet and locked in Marc's
arms.

She flung her own arms around his neck, pressed her face to his
shoulder.

Reality crept temfyingly closer.

"Don't let me go!"

"Never," he vowed, his mouth very close to her ear. Then, looking
upwards and raising his voice, "All right. Pel. Keep the rope taut, even
when we're back on the path."

A confirming shout came back.

"What are we going to do?" she asked, trying to keep her voice from
shaking.

"I'm going to carry you up to the top of the cliff," he said as calmly
as if they were going for a walk in the gardens.

"But--" Her voice dried up completely when he swept her skirts upward
again and lifted her against him.

"Put your legs around me," he ordered.

The sharp command didn't give her any choice. Amy obeyed, simply because
she sensed the alternative would be a great deal worse. Such as hanging
over his shoulder with an excellent view of the drop below them.

To her dismay, the last comforting threads of detachment were whipped
away by the cool wind gusting against her bare legs. She was abruptly,
excruciatingly, aware that she was clinging to Hawkridge in the most
intimate way possible, as if she was going to crawl right inside his
clothes and cling to his bare flesh.

"Oh, my goodness!"

"Hold on tight," he said, transferring one hand to the rope. "You'll
feel us drop a little when I step off the ledge, but we're perfectly
safe."

He hoped. Marc prayed his men had a good grip on the rope. This was the
moment when they were most at risk--for the few seconds between swinging
out from the ledge and making contact with the cliff again--when the
sudden jolt on the men's arms as they took his and Amy's combined
weights would test their strength, and the strength of their lifeline. -
The rope around his chest was also going to tighten rather painfully. It
was for that reason he hadn't tied Amy to him.

If he was safe, she would be, too, because he had no intention of
letting her go. And judging by the way she was clinging to him, nothing
short of an earthquake was going to wrench her loose.

Deciding not to give either of them any more time to think about it, he
stepped over the yige.

Amy gave a short gasping scream and clung tighter. Then gasped again
when his feet slammed into the cliff with a force that jolted every bone
in his body.

"Are you all right?" he grated. He'd tried to protect her as much as
possible, but there wasn't a lot he could do with only one arm to shield
her from the impact.

"Yes." Her voice was a squeak.

"Are we there?"

"Not quite. We're making for the path." He fore bore to tell her that he
was virtually walking her across the treacherous face of the landslide,
with their safety dependent on the men above them, until they reached
the place where the path started again.

But she obviously had a good imagination. And it was running riot.

"Oh, my goodness!" She pressed her face harder into his shoulder.

"Are you sure those men know what they're doing?"

"I'm sure."

"What if the path falls to pieces again when we get to it?"

"We've still got the rope."

"What if the rope breaks?"

"It won't;' " But what if?

"Amy, are you always this pessimistic?"

Her legs tightened, pressing her more intimately against him. He took a
moment to reflect on the perversity of a body that could harden
instantly in response even in the face of mortal danger.

"Only when I'm dangling over a cliff at the end of a rope in the dark,"
she quavered.

He didn't feel like smiling at the breathless answer.

"Just keep quiet and hold on."

Ten seconds later, she was off again.

"Have you done this a lot, my lord?"

He set his teeth.

"All the time when I was a boy."

"You climbed this cliff with a rope when you were a boy?"

"It seemed like an interesting challenge at the time."

"But--"

" Amy, I know you're terrified, but could you refrain from conversation
until a more convenient time?"

"Terrified. Yes, you could say that." She waited a breath.

"I

was only going to say that one would have to assume you were lighter
then."

"Amy--" His feet hit a patch of flat ground and he knew they'd reached
the path. Easing his grip on the rope for a second, he prised Amy's arms
from around his neck and hitched her over his shoulder before she had
any warning.

Her legs fell from around his waist and he used his free hand to return
her skirts to a state of modesty before clamping his arm about them.

"I liked it better the other way," she said in a very small voice.

Wonderful. She liked torturing him.

"I don't suppose ...  No. I dare say it must have been very
uncomfortable for you, my lord."

"Uncomf--" Gritting his teeth, he started upwards.

"Amy, when I get you out of this, I'm going to either kiss you witless
or put you over my knee. I haven't decided yet. Unless you wish me to
make the decision while your pretty little rear is so close to hand, I
suggest you shut up."

She shut up all the rest of the way to the top of the cliff.

She remained silent when they finally reached safety. But that was
probably because several people began talking at once.

Eager hands reached to pull them over the top. He recognised his
grandmother's anxious tones. Colborough was barking instructions. His
sister and Nettlebed joined in. Crispin was yelling encouragement as he
continued to haul in rope with an action that would have earned him
line-honours at a regatta.

"What the devil--" Marc began, lowering Amy to the ground and releasing
her.

He yapked the rope from around his chest before he was hauled in with
it, then, warned by the tiniest of sighs, whirled and snatched Amy back
into his arms as she sank against him in a dead faint.

"Such a dreadful thing to happen, Dr. Twinhoe. Why, we've all been up
and down that path hundreds of times, with never a thought that it might
collapse."

The dowager wmng her hands, then scurried over to the bed where Amy was
lying, an unwilling prisoner. She began plumping up pillows.

"There, that's better, isn't it, dear?" She didn't wait for an answer,
but flitted across to the windows, where she drew the curtains against
the bright morning sunlight.

"From what his lordship was telling me last night, dear lady, all the
rain we've had recently must have softened the soil." Dr. Twinhoe closed
up his bag and patted Amy's hand.

"When Mrs. Chantry tripped and stumbled against a shrub on the side of
the path, the roots tore loose, together with a great chunk of earth and
stones, and started a small landslide."

"Dreadful!"

"Yes, indeed. But, fortunately, Mrs. Chantry's injuries are minor. A
nasty bump on the head, a bad gash and various scratches and bruises.

I won't remove the bandage on her leg this morning. Just dropped in to
see how she was going on. Dare say you have a touch of the headache, my
dear."

Amy opened her mouth.

"Who could wonder at it?" exclaimed the dowager, pattering back to the
bedside.

"So very kind of you to call in, Dr. Twin- hoe. What would we do without
you?"

Amy closed her mouth again.

"I expect you would go on perfectly well," he responded, twinkling.

"A day or two in bed and plenty of quiet is what's needed here. I'll
leave a dose of laudanum with you, m'lady, now that we know the head
injury isn't serious. Sleep is the best cure for a shock of such
magnitude, but I expect Mrs. Chantry to be able to drop off without any
assistance."

"Especially after very little sleep last night," her ladyship agreed.

"Marc kept poking his head in every hour or so and telling us to wake
her to see if she was still sensible. Quite absurd of him. Amy is always
sensible, aren't you, dear?"

Amy's lips parted.

"Bit of a newfangled thing that, waking the patient for a bump on the
head."

Her lips closed again.

Dr. Twinhoe shook his own head.

"Hawkridge told me he'd seen it done in the Peninsula. Can't do any
harm, I suppose. Now, before I go--" he raised his bushy brows at the
dowager '--tell me who informed Mr. Tweedy that chicken-pox is rife in
the village?"

Her ladyship's eyes opened to their widest extent.

"Good heavens, I've no idea. What makes you ask?"

"Merely that Tweedy came knocking on my front door before I'd swallowed
my breakfast this morning, and wanted my opinion about a spot on his
nose.

Man's an idiot. Told him he'd been out in the sun too long yesterday,
but he insisted that chicken-pox was all over the place."

"Well, fancy that. Of course, I did tell Lord Colborough that one of our
maids had come down with it, but I can't imagine why he would pass the
information on to dear Mr. Tweedy, Why do you think, Amy?"

She took a breath.

"Mumbled something about a walking cane and being threatened with the
ffollifoot girls."

Amy exhaled and subsided into the bedclothes.

Dr. Twinhoe frowned.

"The man must have been drinking, and at a disgracefully early hour,
too."

"Disgraceful," agreed the dowager.

"I shall tell him so, if I see him again."

"Don^t think you will," said E^r Twinhoe, picking up his bag and heading
for the door.

"He was driving his gig, and there was a chest and a carpet-bag in the
back.

I'll call in again tomorrow, Mrs. Chantry. In the meantime I don't want
you to leave that bed. No reason to."

"No, indeed, Amy, dear." Her ladyship scurried around the bed and
produced a small silver bell which she placed by Amy's hand.

"I'm sure you must be perfectly exhausted, answering questions every few
minutes. Now, you have a nice, long sleep before you worry about
receiving all the visitors who are calling in to see how you go on. If
you need even the smallest thing, just ring this little bell." - After
straightening the already straight quilt and giving the pillows a final
pat, Lady Hawkridge tip-toed out of the room after Dr. Twinhoe.

Amy contemplated the closed door for several seconds. When she was quite
sure that the dowager was being true to her promise to keep visitors
away, she sat up. No dire consequences followed.

She could have told Dr. Twinhoe, if he or anyone else had allowed her to
speak, that such would prove to be the case. Lying about in bed, for
whatever reason, had not been encouraged in the poorhouse.

And she had every reason to leave her bed. Her mind had been made up
last night when she'd recovered her senses, when all the fuss and
commotion had died down, when everyone had come to the conclusion that
she'd gone down to the beach for some fresh air and had tripped on the
path.

She had a vague recollection that it was Hawkridge who'd put the tale
about, but, despite the aches and pains and confusion that had
constituted the rest of her night, she hadn't been fooled into thinking
he believed the story.

A quick frown creased her brow. There was something else he'd said.

When they were on the ledge. Something she felt was important, but that
had been lost in the confusion that followed.

After a moment she shook her head. It no longer mattered. She was going
to tell him everything. No matter what the risk. It wasn't only for
Lucinda's safety. She truly believed her intervention wouldn't be
necessary; the girl was too closely guarded. She simply couldn't
continue to lie to him.

Not any more. Not to him.

She would have to leave, of course. She didn't think Hawk y ridge would
throw her to the wolves--remembering the way he'd cradled her all the
way back to the house, she didn't think he could be so gentle and tender
one moment, and behave with such heartlessness the next--but he would
hardly want her to stay. She knew he disliked lies and pretence--she
could hardly blame him--and she'd lied to him, to his grandmother, to
everyone. And they'd all been so kind to her.

The weight of guilt threatened to drag her under the bedclothes again,
to hide until she could creep out of the house unobserved. But that was
the coward's way, and she wouldn't be able to live with herself if she
took it.

Moving gingerly, Amy climbed out of bed and proceeded to dress herself
in her peach cambric gown. The cream muslin was but a memory; even Amy's
thrifty soul conceded that no amount of scrubbing and mending could
restore its tatters to anything resembling a dress.

Clothed, she examined her reflection in the mirror. It was the first
time she'd seen herself since the accident. The sight made her wince.

Her arms were decorated with darkening bruises intersected by scratches
of varying lengths, and a wide bandage circled her head, holding a cold
compress in place over one eyebrow. Thanks to its presence, her hair
fell to her shoulders in wildly tousled ringlets, despite Lady
Nettlebed's ministrations last night which had removed a collection of
leaves and twigs.

There was another bandage around her thigh, but that, at least, was out
of sight. The same couldn't be said for the graze along one collarbone.
As for her hands. Amy shuddered and set abot^t rectifying the situation.

Ten minutes later she tip-toed to the door, opened it and peeped out.

Given that the bell Lady Hawkridge had left with her wouldn't have been
heard more than a few feet away, she half-expected to see a maid on duty
outside her room.

The passage was empty.

On a sigh of relief, she slipped silently out of the room and, moving
like a wary, slightly battered little ghost, set off in search of
Hawkridge.

Pacing up and down the terrace or anywhere else for that matter was
becoming something of a habit.

Marc brooded grimly on the fact that he was going to wear a path in the
flagstones, or in any one of a number of carpets.

On the other hand, the exercise did serve to keep his tightly coiled
body occupied, while he planned strategies in his mind.

Unfortunately, only one strategy had any appeal. As soon as Amy awoke
from her. nap, he was going to lay everything out for her in no
uncertain terms.

Politely, of course. He wasn't going to yell. After all, she'd been
through a harrowing ordeal. But he would be firm.

He paused at the far end of the terrace and considered the plan. A
slight modification was necessary. He was going to lay almost everything
out for her in no uncertain terms.

Enough to give him the right to look after her from now on. Enough to
protect her. To cherish her. To win her heart.

Enough to make sure she didn't get herself into any more situations that
threatened to shred his self-control into tiny, little pieces and toss
them to the four winds.

He started pacing again.

She was going to marry him. He wasn't going to brook any defiance.

She could forget her independence for five minutes and admit that she
needed him. He'd saved her life, damn it. He'd proved that when a male
took over, disaster didn't ensue. In fact, if anyone had caused a
disaster, it was Amy for going to the beach in the first place.

He ground to another halt, eyes narrowed in thought, as he remembered
that he still didn't know why she'd indulged in a pastime guaranteed to
terrify her.

Something told him the answer to that little question would prove very
enlightening.

"Uh  ...  my lord? May I have a word with you?"

Several words. And then-He stopped in mid-thought, whipping around when
he realised the tentative little voice he'd heard wasn't in his head.

A giant fist slammed into his heart. Every strategy involving
politeness, consideration and even a modicum of civilised behaviour fell
at his feet and smashed on the flagstones. Amy stood a few feet away,
looking as if someone had taken a club to her.

"What the devil are you doing out of bed?" he yelled.

"Damn it, Amy, do I have to climb in there with you to make sure you
stay put?"

Amy blinked at the outraged question and resisted an insane urge to nod.
She had the feeling that if she did, she'd be back in bed, with
Hawkridge, before she could take another breath.

The thought caused such a pang of longing, she forgot why she'd left her
bed in the first place.

"This is it!" he snarled, starting to pace with an abruptness that made
her jump.

"This is the final straw!"

She blinked again, wondering what she'd missed.

"I waited." He halted and transfixed her with an accusing glare.

"I

did what you asked, and look what happened! You nearly got yourself
killed!

"But--"

" And why? Because I was waiting. For you to tell me what was going on.
For you to trust me. And have you? No! You'd rather cling to your
stubborn independence."

"But--"

" Well, no more! You've had a free rein long enough. I'm pulling it in."
/ She narrowed her eyes at him.

"I beg your pardon, my lord?"

"Look at you!" he demanded, running his gaze over her with glittering
thoroughness.

"Just look at yourself."

Before she could tell him that she already had, and didn't wish to
repeat the experience, he closed the distance between them in three long
strides. One sharp tug and he'd whisked away the shawl she'd draped
about her arms. It went sailing on to the flagstones.

Amy gazed after it in bemusement. Then jumped when Hawkridge touched the
scratches on her arms.

A visible tremor shuddered through him. His voice went hoarse.

"God, Amy. Look at you."

She looked at him instead, her eyes widening at the sudden raw emotion
in his face.

He studied her injuries for a moment, then still holding her wrists as
if she was made of fragile glass, raised her hands to his mouth and
pressed first one abraded little palm to his lips, then the other.

A river of sensation flowed all the way to Amy's toes and back again.

She forgot about everything except the heart- shaking tenderness with
which he touched her. He was warmth and strength and safety.

Everything she needed in that moment.

"My lord ..." She gazed up into the darkening grey of his eyes and
couldn't remember what she'd been about to say.

"Hush," he murmured, and releasing her hands, drew her into his arms.

"It's going to be all right, little Amy."

Bending his head, he took her mouth with his.

It was the sweetest, gentlest, most intensely cherishing kiss Amy could
have imagined. No, she thought hazily in the instant before her mind
blanked and she softened against him. She could never have imagined a
kiss like this.

His arms tightened about her with the utmost care, cradling her. He
parted her lips, but so tenderly she yielded without a qualm. He stroked
his tongue into her mouth with a deep, slow, possessive caress that had
every muscle in her body melting to the consistency of warm honey.

She stopped thinking and let herself feel. Just for this moment. Just
for this one kiss. Surely no one could begrudge her this, before she had
to destroy everything she held-No!

Awareness, barely acknowledged and almost instantly suppressed, dashed a
wave of cold reality over her in the same moment that Hawkridge broke
the kiss.

He continued to hold her, but she felt as if a yawning chasm had opened
between them. Heat blazed in his eyes; it couldn't warm-her.

His body felt like coiled steel, but her senses had gone numb.

She didn't dare think what she'd just thought.

She didn't dare.

His brows drew together and he touched a hand to her face. "Amy? What is
it, love?"

She stiffened and drew herself out of his arms.

"I ...  have to talk to you."

"Yes, I know. But not here." His gaze swept over the windows opening
onto the terrace.

"The place is swarming with concerned neighbours, who will very likely
feel obliged to interrupt us if they catch sight of you. Can you walk as
far as the shrubbery?"

She nodded. It was all she could manage. His sudden shift from outrage
to tenderness already had her emotions teetering precariously on the
brink. Her voice threatened to fail her completely when she thought of
the kindness of the people she'd come to know.

The people she'd deceived, she reminded herself ruthlessly. She had no
right to indulge in foolish tears and wistful yearnings. Even less right
to be treated like a fragile lady who was going to shatter if handled
too carelessly.

"We can go further afield, if? you wish, my lord." She deliberately made
her voice cool and polite.

"I really am much better this morning. And I assure you, I have as
little desire to be interrupted as yourself."

He sent her a quick, frowning glance.

"Not for the same reason, I suspect. Don't worry, Amy. I've done this
the wrong way around, but there's nothing to distress you."

"I seem to be rather less distressed than yourself, my lord.

And." her pose of remote politeness trembled on its shaky foundations '
... I haven't thanked you yet for saving my life. Indeed, at risk to
your own."

"That's all right," he said with a wicked grin.

"I'll savour my reward when you recover."

"Well, you've already kissed me wit--" His eyes flashed silver fire.

Amy swallowed and tried to recover lost ground with a touch of humour.
It took an incredible effort.

"I mean ...  I trust you're not going to carry out your threat to beat
me." "So you remember what I said last night."

"Yes." They turned into the shrubbery as she spoke.

"But since you were under a considerable strain at the time, I didn't
place a lot of credence in it."

Hawkridge jerked to a stop. Without warning, he was looming over her.

"Considering that kiss we shared not two minutes ago," he grated
menacingly, 'that was a big mistake. The only reason I'm not putting you
over my knee, Mrs. Chantry, is that it would be difficult to find a spot
that isn't already black and blue."

Amy stared into the blazing eyes so close to hers, and decided it would
be better to stay silent until she had her thoughts in some sort of
order. She seemed to be having a great deal of trouble keeping up with
Hawkridge's changes of mood. He was bouncing from outrage to concern to
a rather ominous edge of danger with a speed that left her already
shaken wits reeling.

"Here," he growled, straightening.

"Sit down before you fall down."

She was steered over to one of the benches set at intervals along the
enclosed walk, and released. Her legs gave way thankfully.

"Now--"

" Before you start, my lord--" and before she lost her courage '--I have
something to say." "So do I," he said.

"And I've already waited long enough to say it.

In fact, more than long enough to confirm my opinion that waiting for
certain people to come to their senses is extremely unrewarding."

Her spine straightened. She lifted her chin.

"You consider waiting three days to be excessive, my lord?"

"More than excessive."

"Well! All I can say is--" She stopped, suddenly realising she didn't
know what to say. In fact, she was completely baffled.

"Why are we having this conversation?" she asked, her voice rising.

"Nothing has happened to Lady Hawkridge. What were you waiting for,
anyway?

Why should you care if I trusted you or not? Why?"

"Because you're going to marry me, damn it! It would be gratifying if
you trusted me, too." He glared at her astonished face for a second,
then turned aside and took several impatient strides along the path.

"Bloody hell!"

Amy gazed after him, her brain reeling in shock. She couldn't think.

She couldn't speak. She couldn't move.

Perhaps she hadn't heard correctly.

When Hawkridge wheeled about and strode back to her, she hadn't moved so
much as an eyelash.

He sat down, laid his arm along the back of the bench and covered the
small fists clenched in her lap with his other hand. His eyes blazed,
demanding hef compliance.

"Amy, I know you prefer to fight your own battles, but last night made
it patently obvious that you can't fight every battle alone. I want the
right to protect you. To ...  care for you. You're going to marry me."

"But ..." Something shuddered and threatened to break open deep inside
her.

She trembled.

"There's no need to be afraid," he said at once.

"I know we've only known each other a week; that doesn't matter."

The words aroused a faint sense of surprise. She felt as if she'd known
him forever. As if she'd recognised him that very first day.

The terrifying awareness inside her shuddered again, harder.

He tightened his hold on her hands.

"Say yes."

A flicker of indignation sprang to life. She hung on to it, almost as
desperately as she'd clung to Hawkridge last night. "How can I do that,
my lord, when you haven't asked me a question?"

He half-smiled at that.

"And give you the chance to say no? Do I look like a fool?"

No, never. He looked like the man she loved.

Oh, God!

She squeezed her eyes shut, as if cutting out the sight of him would
take the knowledge away. She couldn't breathe. Because if she took
another breath, then time would move on and awareness would become
knowledge and-But sheer physical reflex, far beyond her fragile control,
released the breath she was holding, and like the tide sweeping over the
rocky beach below them, awareness, knowledge, acceptance, broke free and
flooded every part of her being. Heart and mind and soul.

She loved him.

How had it happened? How had she not known it until this moment?

The questions meant nothing; they were gone as soon as she asked them.
All she knew was that she'd been offered a piece of heaven--and had to
stay in the hell of her own making.

"Amy?"

She opened her eyes, looked at him. At those stem, handsome features.

At eyes that could glitter with fierce intensity or gleam with wicked
laughter. At the hard mouth that had possessed hers with devastating
gentleness. At the face that would haunt her for the rest of her life.

She was vaguely aware that Hawkridge was speaking again. Vaguely aware
of his rueful laughter as he said, "All right, Amy, if it's the question
you want, you shall have it. Will you do me the very great honour of
becoming my wife?"

"I  ...  can't," she said almost inaudibly. And almost doubled over with
the pain of saying the words. Oh, how could she bear it? If she'd been
alone she would have fallen to the ground in a tiny ball of agony and
waited there for her heart to finish bleeding.

As it was, she had to draw back, to wrench one hand free, to press her
fingers to her stomach. She was dying inside. And it was going to take
forever; she could see by his expression that he wasn't going to accept
her refusal.

"Why can't you?" he asked with a gentleness that tore at her soul.

She wondered if knives could be as sharp, as brutally cutting. The pain
stole her breath. She couldn't speak, couldn't answer him.

"You're not still entertaining the idiotic notion that you're a servant,
are you, Amy? Because if you are ' A quick shake of her head cut him
off.

He waited for a moment, then his eyes narrowed, his voice went hard.

"Is it because you're illegitimate? I don't care about that; it isn't
your fault, anyway."

"No." She uttered the word through dry lips.

"It isn't that. I She broke off, turned her face away. If she'd been
able to, she would have turned away completely, shielding herself from
the storm she sensed building within him.

"Then why, damn it? Do you think I'll tell you how to run your life?

Is that it? I won't. I respect your independence. Your strength. It's
one of the things I ' "Please," she whispered, almost choking on the
lump in her throat.

She had to stop this. She had to get away until she'd regained control
of herself, until the pain eased. If it ever did.

She owed him an explanation, she knew that. But not now.

"Please whatt he exploded, getting abruptly to his feet. He took a step
or two away from the bench before whirling to face her. There was a
white line about his mouth, but she was too distressed to worry about
the reason for it.

"God, Amy, you can't leave it like that!"

She wondered vaguely why not. He'd accepted Kitty In- gham's refusal,
hadn't he?

"Did Chantry mistreat you?" he demanded.

"Do you think I will? Tell me why."

"All right!" she cried, breaking under his insistence. When he took a
step towards her, she sprang to her feet, holding out a hand to ward him
off. Her breath kept catching. She had to wait until she had enough air
to say it quickly.

"I can't marry you  ...  because my husband isn't dead."

She saw the shock hit him, turn his face white. Then his eyes narrowed,
and she knew he was thinking back, searching for anything that might
have given her away.

Pain stabbed through her, relentless, brutal, crippling.

"I know ...  there's more ...  but ..." Her voice became wholly
suspended by tears.

"Later," she whispered.

"When I can speak. When I can ..."

It was impossible to continue. Turning blindly, Amy walked towards the
shrubbery entrance. She didn't know how she managed it; even then she
had to stop for an instant. She drew in a breath, wondered how she would
get to the house; told herself she would crawl there before she gave in
to the agony tearing her apart.

She knew Hawkridge was standing where she'd left him. She could feel the
violent storm of emotion raging around him. But she couldn't look back,
couldn't let him see. "I'm sorry," she uttered.

"I'm so sorry. I wish ..."

Gathering her last ounce of resolve, she took an experimental step.

And another. Then, knowing she was out of the shrub y bery, and out of
his sight, she broke into a stumbling run, gaining momentum, until she
was fleeing towards the house as if every demon inhabiting her personal
hell howled after her in savage, triumphant glee.


Chapter Thirteen Ohe made straight for the library. She didn't know why.


Sheer instinct, perhaps. A hunted creature fleeing to the place where
she'd found a measure of safety.

Or had she fled here in a last desperate bid to deny the pain, and the
cause of it?

But there was no denial. No shield against pain. No hiding from the
truth.

Amy stared up at the portrait, her arms held tight across her waist, and
knew with an anguish that tore at her heart that, without noticing,
without knowing, she'd taken the step from fascination with an image to
love of the man.

How could she not? she thought, groping her way to a chair and sinking
on to it. The portrait was of a boy, striking, commanding interest, but
ultimately meaning little.

The reality was a man, strong, protective, honourable; commanding all,
meaning everything.

Amy made a tiny sound of pain and began to rock back and forth. She
couldn't think clearly. And yet, somewhere in her mind, she knew she'd
have to go upstairs, pack, make sure she hadn't left her room untidy.

She'd have to speak to Lady Hawkridge. Tell her. She stopped rocking,
seizing on the thought. Yes. That she could do. Before anything else,
she'd end this deception, tell the dowager the truth, apologise.

As if that would make it better, she thought, getting stiffly to her
feet.

The cut on her leg ached; she scarcely felt it. What was a cut on the
leg compared to the vicious claws embedded in her heart?

She deserved it, she thought suddenly in an agony of self- blame. Not
only because she'd deceived people, but because she'd been so heedless,
so foolish. What had she been thinking? What.

But that was it. She'd been thinking only of Hawkridge, focusing so
intently on him, on his actions, his words, that she'd ignored the love
blossoming secretly in her heart.

Well, no more hiding from the truth, she told herself, moving towards
the door. She could never put him out of her mind, she was his into
eternity, but one day, maybe, the worst of the pain would ease, and if
she set things right with the dowager, she would still have some pride.

The door opened on the thought, causing her to jump. Lady Hawkridge
peeped into the room.

"Why, Amy, dear ...  what are you doing out of bed? I just looked in
upstairs to see if you were sleeping and you weren't there."

Amy took a moment to let her startled nerves settle. For a second there
she'd thought. hoped. feared. "You've been crying," continued the
dowager, coming into the room and closing the door.

"You know, Amy, I don't wish to scold, but you really shouldn't--" Her
ladyship broke off, her syidenly shrewd gaze studying Amy's face.

She nodded.

"This isn't because of last night. It's not because you're in pain."

"No, ma'am." Amy glanced down at her arms, still clasped tightly across
her waist.

"At least, not that sort of pain."

"Well ..." Lady Hawkridge crossed the room and sat down on the sofa set
to one side of the fireplace.

"That explains why Marc went charging off on that wicked black stallion
of his not five minutes ago. Come and sit down, dear, and tell me all
about it." She patted the seat next to her.

Amy felt her lower lip tremble. She sank her teeth into it until it
steadied, then complied, seating herself beside her employer and
clasping her hands tightly together.

"I presume Marc made you an offer," the dowager began, startling Amy
into looking at her.

"And since I've never seen anyone looking so miserable after accepting
one, I presume you refused."

"Yes, ma'am. I-- How did you know?"

Her ladyship smiled.

"Amy dear, I've known since I met you that you're perfect for Marc. He
obviously didn't take much longer to come to the same conclusion."

"Perfect?" She shook her head.

"Ma'am, even excluding the facts of which you're as yet unaware, I'm
penniless. I have no family. At least, none that I know of. I--" The
dowager clucked her tongue.

"Good heavens! Marc must have expressed himself with an extraordinary
lack of address if you think that sort of thing is important to him."

"It isn't only my lack of connections," she said very low. "My parents
weren't even married. Mama and I spent years in the poorhouse. I  ...
I've lied to you consistently, ma'am. Mostly by omission, but also in
pretending to be a widow. There was good reason for it. At least, I
thought so at the time, and if you'll allow me to explain--"

" Amy, dearest, explanations will make no difference at all."

Amy's eyes widened in dismay. Every drop of blood drained from her face.

"They won't?"

"Oh, you poor child." Her ladyship moved closer and put a comforting arm
about her shoulders.

"I seem to be as maladroite as Marc is today.

It must be the disappointment. I was so sure everything was going along
swimmingly. Of course, you may explain, Amy. But it won't make any
difference to the way I feel about you." Perhaps sensing from her
companion's rigid posture that comfort would only shred her control
further.

Lady Hawkridge removed her arm from about Amy's shoulders and sat back.

"I still wish to welcome you into the family, and I fully intend to do
so."

"But ..." Amy shook her head in bemusement.

"You don't seem to understand, ma'am. I'm illegitimate. My first proper
post was as a kitchen maid to the superintendent of the poorhouse, and
after that I wasn't much more than a housemaid. I've been masquerading
as a lady's companion. Indeed, as a lady. And--" She took a shaky
breath.

"Far from being a widow, I have a husband who is very much alive."

"Oh, dear," said the dowager, pursing her lips in grave consideration.

"Yes, indeed. That is a problem. I wonder what we should do about him?"

Amy could only stare at her employer in mute confusion. Her mind,
battered already by heartbreak, remorse and unbearable pain, was
completely unable to cope with anything else. She simply waited. For
judgement. Castigation.

She knew not what.

Lady Hawkridge lapsed into silent contemplation for several minutes,
then sat up with an air of decision.

"Have you told Marc about your husband, Amy?"

She nodded.

"And I just realised ...  I'm sorry. I should have thought of it before
...  But I was so distressed, and ...  I have to warn Lord The dowager
untangled this incoherent speech and seized on the point that was
missing.

"Why?"

Amy took a ragged breath.

"Ma'am, my husband is Mr. Chatsworth."

"Good heavens!" Lady Hawkridge fell back against the sofa, a hand to her
heart.

"Yes." Amy braced herself for blame, recrimination, and revulsion.

"God bless my soul, what a dreadful shock to have one's husband return
from the grave like that. Not that I wouldn't have wished to see Marc's
grand papa because I was very much attached to him. But he was a good
person, which it seems to me your husband is not."

"Uh ..."

"When did you find out?"

Amy's brain reeled anew.

"Yesterday. Oh, ma'am, you don't have any reason to believe me when I've
lied to you, but I truly didn't know.

You see, he left the party early the other night, and--"

"Well, of course, you didn't know, Amy. And you haven't actually lied to
me, dear, except about being a widow, which I dare say is quite
understandable now that I know Mr. Chats- worth is your husband. What's
more, I wager you've told Marc a great deal more about yourself without
lying."

"Yes." She glanced down at her hands.

"I wanted to tell him everything, but  ...  I didn't know why. Then."

"Hmm." Lady Hawkridge's mind was clearly on more pressing matters.

"What did Marc say about Mr. Chatsworth?"

"I only told him my husband was alive, and Marc ...  that is, Lord
Hawkridge didn't say anything. Not that I wondered about that. I could
scarcely speak, myself."

"No, indeed." The dowager sat up again and patted her hand
sympathetically.

"As for Marc's uncharacteristic silence, well, you must have given him
quite a shock. You know, Amy, when a man has laid bare his heart, and
been rejected, for whatever reason, he will not be thinking with any
clarity of intellect."

"He didn't mention his heart," Amy pointed out in a very small voice.

Lady Hawkridge shook her head.

"Really, Amy, I can only imagine that your head must have received a
harder bump than we first believed.

Why else would Marc ask you to marry him if he wasn't in love with you?"

"Because he wants me, ma'am. Oh, dear, that sounds terrible. I mean, I
think he does. That is, he looked at me as if he does.

I think."

The dowager frowned.

"It seems to me that you both require assistance in clarifying what you
think. Let me make one thing clear. Marc would not offer marriage purely
to satisfy his physical urges."

"I know that, ma'am. If I'd expected any sort of offer at all, it would
have been a carte blanche. But I've come to know him, you see.

He's very protective, and honourable, and."

"Yes, Marc is protective and honourable," affirmed his fond grandparent,
ignoring the sudden sheen of tears in Amy's eyes. "But he's also an
unattached, exceptionally healthy young man. He's taken mistresses
before from what one would term the ranks of respectable widows. If that
had been his intention in regard to you, the only circumstance that
might have stopped him is the fact that you're my companion. And that
could easily be overcome.

I don't wish to cause you further distress, Amy, but, once you'd
responded to his advances, he would simply have made you an offer that
would ensure your future financial security and thus satisfy any male
notions of honour."

Amy felt a faint spark of interest.

"He's done that before, ma'am?"

A rather mischievous gleam lit her ladyship's eyes.

"One shouldn't confess to knowing about such things, but yes. When
you're married, it will be different, of course. Knowing Marc as I do, I
shouldn't think he'd even look at another woman." ,; "But we're not
going to be ma pied Anguish, momentarily stifled in talking about
Hawkridge, returned with devastating force. Amy dug her ragged nails
into her palms to stop another onrush of tears. The sting of last
night's grazes barely registered.

"Whatever his reason for proposing marriage ...  I've destroyed it. Even
if I wasn't already married, I deceived him. Just like that other lady.
He won't want to see me again."

"Of course he will," declared her ladyship stoutly.

"And when he does, you will have to tell him everything."

"I intend to, ma'am. If he'll listen." Imbued by her employer's
determination, she stiffened her spine.

"If he won't, I'll write him a letter. Perhaps you'd give it to him when
I'm gone."

"I don't think you should make any plans to go anywhere, Amy. It sounds
as if Marc already has enough to overset his temper. Chasing you all
over the countryside isn't likely to improve his mood."

"No, ma'am."

"What we shall do is go upstairs so you can rest in bed while we decide
what to tell Bevan."

"Yes, ma'am."

"A brief note to the effect that an acquaintance recognised Mr.
Chatsworth yesterday and warned us that he's a fortune- hunter of the
worst kind should suffice. Until Marc is aware of the facts, the fewer
people who know Chatsworth is your husband, the better."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And then, Amy, after you've told me the entire story, you are going
have a nice, long sleep, even if I have to tip Dr. Twinhoe's laudanum
down your throat."

"But, ma'am--"

" You don't wish to show Marc a haggard countenance, do you?"

"No, ma'am."

"That's better."

Surprisingly, she did sleep--for several hours--the vicissitudes of the
past two days proving more effective than Dr. Twinhoe's laudanum.

The long rest enabled Amy to rise from her bed with nerves fluttering in
her stomach, but decision firming her spine.

None of the decisions involved leaving Hawkridge Manor.

At least, not yet. She couldn't leave before finding out if the dowager
was right in thinking that Hawkridge was in love with her.

And if he was. Oh, if he was. But Amy suppressed the pang of yearning
immediately. She'd sealed pain away in a dark corner of her mind, but
there it crouched, waiting to spring out and devour the tiny flicker of
hope that burned, valiant but terrifyingly fragile, in the deepest
recesses of her heart. She couldn't risk that vulnerable flame by
thinking too far ahead.

It would be enough if he still wanted her.

Besides, her ladyship hadn't known all the facts when she'd voiced that
opinion. Hawkridge did know her background and, knowing it, would never
have proposed an improper liaison.

Which meant that she would have to propose it.

Amy reached for her clothes and began dressing. It was a good thing she
was accustomed to fighting her own battles, she mused, because she was
going to need every ounce of determination she possessed. She couldn't
afford to stumble. If she hesitated just once, if Hawkridge suspected
for one instant that she was quaking inside, his highly developed
protective instincts would strip her of all hope.

So she planned. And she waited. She waited so long that when the front
door banged, hours after the dowager had looked in on her way to bed,
she leapt out of her chair and almost stumbled from sitting curled up
for so long.

Putting a hand to the mantel to steady herself, Amy stood poised,
listening, hardly daring to breathe in case she missed the sound of his
footsteps passing her door. Until she was sure it was him.

A faint echo of his voice came to her as he spoke to Pickles. He must
have reached the top of the stairs. She slumped, only then acknowledging
that she'd been worried about him. He'd been gone so long andhis
footsteps, muted by the carpet, stopped outside her door.

Amy froze, her gaze flying to the doorknob. A pulse pounded in her
temples; her breath seized.

His footsteps moved on. A door closed further along the hall.

She gasped in air, dashed over to the door and flung it open.

The empty hall, lit by candelabra at regular intervals, stretched before
her.

Amy pressed a hand to her breast to slow her breathing. Her heart
thudded against her palm, her vision blurred. And in the misty haze that
formed before her eyes she saw her mother, Cora and every unmarried
woman she'd ever encountered in the poorhouse, their thin hands clasped,
warning in their faces, despair stealing their youth.

Except her mother. The misty image smiled with a serenity never
attainable in life, and, for the first time, Amy understood why her
mother had left home and family, casting aside every semblance of
security, for a love that was stronger than any fear of consequence.

A love that was worth any risk. A love that needed to give, of
everything she was.

Lifting her chin, she walked down the hall and knocked softly on
Hawkridge's door.

It was opened before she'd lowered her hand. He loomed over her, big and
powerful, just as she'd first seen him, his brows drawing together in a
quick frown.

"Amy? What the devil?"

He broke off, glanced swiftly towards the stairs, then grabbed her hand
and yanked her into the room.

"What the devil are you doing here at this time of night?" he demanded
in a wrathful undertone.

"Don't you know that Pickles is going about the house snuffing out
candles?"

He thumped the door shut, making her start. Amy's eyes widened. She
hadn't anticipated a flood of reproaches, but Hawkridge looked neither
heartbroken nor filled with revulsion. His fingers were still gripping
her hand, but the frown between his brows indicated annoyance more than
anything else.

"I have to speak to you," she said at last, and tried to stop the
fingers of her other hand from shredding her skirts.

He studied her frowningly for an instant, then released her hand,
raising his own to touch the faint bruise on her forehead. "You've taken
your bandage off," he murmured.

And he'd removed his coat and cravat. But she registered the small
details only because she didn't want to think about the remote calmness
in his voice, the lightness of his touch.

Had she destroyed everything? Was it too late?

But even as the pain so carefully locked away threatened to break free,
his gaze flashed back to hers and without warning his eyes turned
molten, brilliant, searing. The blast of heat hit her like a wall of
flame. She gasped, almost staggering back. He wheeled, strode across the
room to the windows, and shoved his fists into his breeches pockets.

"All right. I'm listening."

Amy swallowed. She was shaking all over after that coruscating look, but
not with doubt. He still wanted her.

She clutched determination to her like a shield and launched into the
speech she'd rehearsed for hours.

"My lord, you did me the very great honour, this morning, of asking me
to be your wife, and though I had to refuse, I wasn't ...  specific
enough in my refusal."

He turned slowly to face her. She couldn't be sure in the shadows where
he stood, but she thought his mouth quirked. "Amy, I think

"I

can't marry >-you because my husband isn't dead", is rather specific."

"As far as marriage goes, yes." She swallowed again.

"But-- I could be your mistress." Despite her resolve, the last words
were whispered.

But he heard them. He came forward, until only a few feet separated
them.

When she looked into his eyes, her heart started racing like the hooves
of a runaway team.

"You're willing to be my mistress? To put yourself in such a vulnerable
position?"

"Yes."

" Why?"

"Because last night ...  we could have been killed, and I would never
have known ..." She shook her head sharply.

"I realised that being with you, belonging to you, is more important
than safety or logic or all the sensible things that say I shouldn't do
this. I know you won't abandon me if there should be a child, or leave
me destitute if you tire of me. And--"

" Tire of you?" Marc stared at her, trying to clear the haze that seemed
to be impeding his thought processes. He couldn't remember everything
Amy had said. An explanation for her offer hammered somewhere in his
brain, but all he could think about was the offer itself.

She was willing to give herself to him without any assurances as to her
future, without the security of marriage, to take the risks her mother
had taken.

She was willing to trust him.

"Why?" he said again.

Amy lifted her chin. She would give him this. She would give him
everything.

"Because I love you."

A shudder racked his powerful body. She could see it from where she
stood.

He whipped his hands out of his pockets, closed the distance between
them in two long strides and caught her up in his arms.

"Oh, God, Amy! Amy! It's going to be all right. I promise. You don't
have to worry. I--" He broke off, pressing his mouth to her hair, her
face, her throat.

He was shaking, she realised in wonder. The strength in him was
overwhelming--he could have crushed her without thinking about it--but
he was shaking, shuddering like a blooded stallion straining at the bit.

She couldn't think beyond that. He'd seemed so invulnerable. Not to
hurt, but to her. His was the position of power, his the control. She
hadn't suspected she could affect him so. Just for an instant, she had a
glimmer of understanding, that there was more here, in his fierce
embrace, than simple desire, but he was speaking again, his voice so low
she couldn't make out the words, and the feeling slipped away. All she
knew was that urgent male hunger roughened his voice in a way that sent
chills of excitement feathering over her flesh, that the coiled tension
in his body made her press against him in a purely feminine instinct to
assuage that hunger.

Then he lifted her, strode over to the bed and lowered her on to it, and
she ceased thinking at all. He came down over her, pinning her to the
bed before she'd taken another breath.

Amy trembled as she felt his weight for the first time, gasped as he
pressed a knee between her thighs, parting them, bringing their bodies
into such intimate contact that her senses swam. She'd known he was big,
but lying beneath him like this, completely at the mercy of his much
greater strength, was too much. Too soon. Too fast.

Excitement set fire to every nerve-ending, but she hadn't expected him
to claim her seconds after her offer to become his mistress.

She gripped his shoulders, not certain if she was going to cling or try
to hold him off.

"My lord ..."

"Marc," he said, pressing urgent little kisses over her face. "Say it."

"Marc--" The rest was smothered as his mouth came down on hers. His
fingers speared through her hair, holding her head still; his tongue
plundered, penetrating, retreating, over and over until she couldn't
think beyond the demands he was making. Every muscle in her body
trembled and went weak, preparing for surrender.

Every muscle in his shuddered and went rigid, ready to conquer. The arms
about her were like iron; his shoulders tensed, seeming to curve over
her, around her. He crushed her into the bedding, moving against her
with a fierce urgency that renderedjheir clothing well nigh invisible.

She made a small frantic sound, the hard thrust of his body overwhelming
her almost to the point of insensibility, and as abruptly as the storm
had broken, it ceased. Marc wrenched his mouth from hers and stared down
at her.

"Amy. God, what am I doing? I can't make love to you like this."

She gazed back at him, shaking. Her eyes felt as if they were eclipsing
her entire face. His were blazing.

"You can't?"

"No." The word was a hoarse groan. His chest heaved as he struggled to
control his breathing.

"I've never been so close to losing control. I could hurt you." He moved
again, this time with a slow yearning thrust that sent a wave of
piercingly sweet pleasure through her. If his weight hadn't held her
down, she would have arched.

He let his head fall forward until his brow rested on hers. His teeth
clenched.

"And, apart from that, I can't make love to you here."

"Why?"

"Don't move."

She blinked at him.

"I didn't move."

"You're breathing, damn it." He took a breath himself. "Bloody hell!"

Battening his hands on either side of her head, he pushed himself away
from her with such force she felt as if part of her had gone with him.
But even as the wrenching sense of loss took hold, he was scooping her
up off the bed and carrying her across the room.

"Not a word," he growled softly, and set her on her feet to one side of
the door.

He opened it, glanced up and down the hall, then, drawing her out of the
room, shut the door and led her back to her own chamber.

The instant he closed her door she was in his arms again and his mouth
was on hers.

Just as well, Amy thought hazily. Her legs weren't going to hold her up
another second. She was trembling like a leaf in a tempest, tossed this
way and that, but even as she quivered in anticipation of another storm,
she realised his embrace was different. He held her as if he'd never let
her go, the rigid male flesh pressed to her was no less intimidating,
but she sensed the urgency driving him was under an iron-fisted control.

And knowing it, she yielded, sinking into the warmth and strength
enfolding her, lifting her mouth for his kiss, parting her lips for his
possession, until a new and pulsing heat began throbbing deep inside
her.

"God," he muttered, lifting his head and staring down into her dazed
eyes.

"I don't know what's worse. Not kissing you at all, or kissing you
knowing that's all we're going to do for the moment." "It is?" she asked
hazily. She looked about the room and finally caught up with him.

"Is that why you brought me back here?"

"No." He bent to nip her lower lip in the gentlest of tiny bites, then
put her firmly away from him; "I brought you back here because we don't
want the maids finding you in the wrong bed in the morning, or wondering
why you're up and dressed before dawn. My appearance at that hour won't
arouse any questions. I often ride early."

"Oh." That tiny bite had obviously unhinged her wits. She couldn't seem
to think straight. Did that mean he was going to stay all night?

But in that case, why was he pacing over to the window as if he wanted
to put as much distance between them as possible?

"I thought you meant that because I was hurt, we weren't ...  But I
really am much better now and--" She forgot the rest when he swung about
to face her.

The fierce desire in his eyes had the muscles in her lower body
dissolving into liquid fire.

"Oh, yes," he said, very softly, as if she'd asked a question. "I'm more
than capable of making love to you without adding to your bruises. I'm
just trying to keep my distance long enough for us to talk."

"Talk? Oh, heavens!" She made her shaky way to a chair and sank onto it.

"Yes, my lord. I think you had better stay over there. I just remembered
that I have a great deal to say."

Despite the barely contained intensity vibrating in the air around him,
a wicked smile dawned.

"Say it fast."

Amy swallowed.

"This will come as something of a shock."

"After this morning, Amy, I'm immune to shocks."

"I don't think so, sir. You see, my husband is Mr. Chat- sworth."

"What?"

"Yes." She clasped her hands.

"I didn't know until yesterday because I didn't see him at Nettlebed
Place, but it's all right because Lady Hawkridge wrote a note to Lord
Nettlebed warning him that James is a fortune-hunter who preys on
innocent schoolgirls.

That's one of the things he does. He knows the parents will pay him off
rather than risk a scandal. Not that he actually elopes with them. He
used to disappear, and now he's married to me, but nobody knows that
except you and Lady Hawkridge."

This breathless speech was destined to remain unacknowledged for several
seconds. Not that Hawkridge appeared to be struck dumb with shock, Amy
thought, studying him anxiously. He was watching her, but the frown in
his eyes seemed more thoughtful than anything else.

"That isn't all," she went on, determined to get everything out at once.

"He slipped me a note yesterday, telling me to meet him on the beach so
he could blackmail me into helping him with Lucinda, and if she won't
elope with him, he thinks I'll help him rob you and Lady Hawkridge. But
I won't." She leaned forward, her eyes pleading.

"I won 't\ I'd rather be transported than betray you so."

His eyes narrowed with sudden attention.

"Why is transportation a threat?"

"I helped him before." The memory washed the colour from her cheeks.

Her fingers gripped, entwined, tangled.

"But I didn't mean to. I didn't know."

"Amy." He came forward and hunkered down before her, covering her
restless hands with one of his.

"It's all right, sweetheart. I had to ask, to know what you'd done so I
can protect you, but there's no need to be afraid. No one's going to
hurt you.

This is what you almost told me the other day, isn't it?"

"Yes. I wanted to tell you." She clung to the steady reassurance in his
eyes, the strength of his hand.

"You see, a few weeks after I met James, he asked me to marry him. I
think.. 1 think it was impulse.

Perhaps he wanted me and knew I'd accept nothing less than marriage.

He said he wanted to take care of me, although it was I who was
employed.

That was odd. He had money, but no apparent means of support. When I
asked about it, he talked vaguely of investments. I believed him--what
did I know of such things?"

He nodded.

"Go on."

"After we married James wanted us to move to London where he had
friends, but Mama was too ill. She couldn't travel and I wouldn't leave
her, so he went alone, saying he'd find work and a place for us to live.
I had to leave the school to nurse Mama and, at first, James did send
money, but his letters became fewer, and angrier, and finally stopped
altogether."

Hawkridge stroked his thumb across her hands.

"And then?"

She glanced down briefly.

"After Mama died I followed James to London. He got quite a shock when I
turned up. It was almost as if he'd forgotten my existence. I even had
to spend that first night at a coffee-house because there was no room
where he was living--or so he said. But the next day he found me a place
as housemaid to Lord Tinsley."

"An exceedingly wealthy Viscount," Hawkridge put in drily. "You don't
need to tell me the rest, Amy. Several pieces have finally dropped into
place.

Such as your reaction to that report in the Morning Post."

"You know what that cutting was about?" she asked, her eyes widening.

"I looked through my own copy of the paper. That article was the only
one that seemed apt." A wry smile curved his mouth.

"I know you asked me to wait until you confided in me, but, as you know,
waiting is not my favourite pastime. I intended to find out what had
upset you, one way or another."

She blinked at him.

"Asked you to wait?-- But ... 1 was talking about your grandmother."

His brows went up.

"Grandmama seems to be doing quite well on her own account, if the
conversation I had earlier today with Colborough is any indication. But
never mind that. Am I right in assuming that Chatsworth broke into
Tinsley's house, tied you up along with the rest of the servants and
robbed the place?"

"Yes." She would have wrung her hands again if Hawkridge hadn't been
holding them.

"I didn't mean to help him, but James asked questions about the family
and their movements and so forth, and I answered. I felt so guilty about
leaving him on his own for weeks and weeks, and then we still couldn't
live together.

The only way we could meet was when I was sent out to the market or
given a half-hour off. I was so anxious to make up for my neglect, for
my coldness, as he put it, that I didn't think twice when he questioned
me. I thought he was making an effort to be nicer." She shook her head.

"Stupid! Stupid!" "No," he said sharply.

"Innocent. Frightened. Alone." His fingers tightened on each word,
until, realising he might be hurting her, he released her and stood up.

"Do you think a judge will take that into account?" she asked shakily,
watching him pace over to the window again. She wished she still had his
warmth to cling to.

"You see, that isn't all. When I realised what I'd done, what James had
done, we had the most dreadful argument. I'd been totally mistaken in
him.

He told me he'd struck up an acquaintance with Mama and I to find out if
there were any wealthy pupils at the Misses Appleton's school, and since
he'd given up the scheme for my sake, I had to help him in his other
endeavours.

"The Tinsley robbery wasn't the first, nor did he intend it to be the
last.

I refused, of course. I threatened to inform against him, but he
laughed.

He pointed out that the money he'd given me previously, indeed, the
money he forced on me then, would convict me along with him. After all,
who would believe a girl from the poorhouse? So ...  I took the money
and ran."

He turned.

"To Bath?"

"No. Not then. I went to some little town ...  I can't even remember its
name. I found work at an inn, but, after a while, the innkeeper ...
Well, I had to wedge a chair against my door every night. One night he
started to smash his way in, and I climbed out of the window and ran
away again. He hadn't paid me, of course. I'd been there less than the
half-year, but I still had some of the money that James had given me.
This time I managed to think--running from a drunken innkeeper wasn't as
frightening as running from transportation or the gallows--so while I
walked to the next town, I planned.

"I'd heard the Tinsley s' housekeeper talk about Bath, that it was full
of elderly widows so I bought a fashionable dress, travelled by various
stages to Bath and took a room at a respectable inn. I thought if I
posed as a widow, I might have a better chance of being employed by
one."

When no comment on that assumption was forthcoming, she made a little
gesture.

"That's all."

That probably wasn't even half of it. Marc thought savagely, pacing
restlessly about the room. He couldn't be still. His entire body was
coiled and tense with the need to lash out at something. If that drunken
lout of an innkeeper had appeared before him, he would have smashed his
fist into the man's face, and once started, he probably wouldn't be able
to stop.

As for Amy's matter-of-fact account of walking about the countryside,
alone, in the middle of the night, his blood ran cold at the thought of
what might have happened to her.

Not frightened? She must have been terrified. Facing the world with
nothing and no one; with the spectre of criminal charges hanging over
her. And then to find safety, only to have the past rear its head.

"On the other hand," he said aloud, wheeling abruptly to face her, 'that
makes things easier."

She looked confused.

"Posing as a widow?"

Yes, he thought grimly. That made things very much easier. But he wasn't
going to inform Amy of that.

"The coincidence that caused Chatsworth to choose Lucinda and follow her
home," he said.

She shook her head.

"I should have realised that a place like Bath, with its Young Ladies'
Academies and wealthy older people, would be a target for someone like
James."

"You could have stumbled across him at any time, Amy. That sort of
criminal life requires regular changes of residence. But it doesn't
matter now. The point is, he's here, where we can deal with him."

Chaining the primitive savage prowling beneath the surface, he crossed
the room, took her hands and drew her to her feet. "But we'll talk about
that later."

"What are you going to do?" she whispered.

"Right now?" he asked very softly, and framed her face in his hands.

"I'm going to make love to you."

He watched her eyes widen, felt the tremor that rippled through her, and
had to clamp a firmer hold around the reins of control. She'd been hurt
scarcely more than twenty-four hours ago.

Tonight she needed gentleness.

If he kept telling himself that, he might be able to manage it.

He lowered his head to kiss her.

"Urn ...  my lord?"

It was the tone of voice that warned him. He paused, looked into her
eyes, and felt a reluctant smile tug at his lips.

"Yes?"

One little hand came up to rest against his chest.

"There's just one more thing."

"This time I'm not making any predictions as to my immunity to shocks.

What is it?"

"At first I wasn't going to tell you, but I promised myself I wouldn't
lie to you again, even by omission."

"You never lied to me about your true nature, Amy. That's all I cared
about.

Now, tell me."

"You promise you'll still make love to me?"

"Yes, damn it. What?"

"I haven't done this before."

He thought his heart stopped. He knew his brain had.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked very politely.

"I never lived with James. The day we married I had to go right back to
the school, and in London he was living with another woman, although I
didn't know it at the time. We never--" She blushed, enchanting him.

"Made love."

He took several deep breaths. It was a good thing he was already
prepared to be gentle, he thought, because the knowledge that Amy was
innocent, tpat she was his, only his, threatened to banish every
instinct except the violently throbbing need to possess her.

"Did you love him?" he asked abruptly, and knew he hadn't asked before
because he hadn't wanted to hear the answer.

"No." She regarded him solemnly.

"I know that now. If I'd loved him, I would have made more of an effort
to be a true wife. I liked him. He was very charming at first, but I
didn't love him. Maybe I was afraid of being alone after Mama died."

Her gaze dropped to her hand, still resting against his shirt, then
lifted again.

"I'm not afraid of being alone any more. I was prepared to leave, when I
thought you wouldn't want me because I'd lied to you. I know I can
survive on my own. I've done it. That isn't why I went to your room
tonight. I choose to be with you, to be your mistress, for as long as
you want me."

"Oh, God, Amy--" He swooped, taking her mouth before the next words were
clear in his mind. Forever, he thought hazily. He wanted her forever. As
his mistress, his wife, the mother of his children.

He had to tell her that, had to reassure her that everything would be
all right, but coherent thought was impossible with her lips softening
and parting beneath his, with the sweet scent of her skin filling his
senses, with her body trembling before he'd even touched her.

Later. He was going to need every ounce of control he possessed to take
her gently. If the savage inside him had to wait, so could reassurance.

He broke the kiss long enough to pick her up and carry her over to the
bed, the soft surrender in her eyes enough to bring his body to full
aching arousal in seconds.

But she blinked it away when he stood her beside the bed, and he felt
her tense.

"Don't be frightened," he murmured.

"You took me by surprise before. I won't lose control this time. I won't
hurt you." "It wasn't exactly frightening," she said, so earnestly he
had to smile.

"Just ...  faster than I expected." She blushed, and met his gaze shyly.

"But it was exciting. I liked it."

The smile reached his eyes.

"Let's see how you like slow," he murmured and, holding her gaze with
his, reached behind her to unfasten the buttons at the back of her
dress.


Chapter Fourteen Olow promised to dazzle her senses.


His arms encircled her; sweet captivity. His hands exerted the gentlest
pressure to draw her closer as his fingers slipped buttons free of their
fastenings. Her dress loosened, fell away to pool at her ankles.

Amy tipped her head back, wanting Marc to kiss her, to distract her from
the nervousness quivering inside her. She wanted him, but she'd never
stood before a man and let him undress her. When he loosened the ribbons
of her chemise and swept the straps aside, the sudden shyness took her
by surprise.

Then he lifted a finger to trace the long scratch across her collarbone,
bent and repeated the caress with his mouth, and shyness vanished in the
wave of emotion that swept over her.

She swayed and brought her hands up to his chest. The fine lawn of his
shirt bunched in ha" fists, making her blink as she realised that she,
too, wanted to touch, to see him without the trappings of civilisation.

"Yes," he said huskily, straightening as her hands fluttered over his
chest.

"Take my shirt off, sweetheart."

Amy tilted her head, distracted by the practicalities of the task.

He'd unfastened the garment earlier, but she'd have to tug it free of
his breeches and lift it over his head. And her arms were restricted.

But the goal was too seductive. Without a second's thought, she shimmied
free of the confining straps drooping down her arms and reached for his
shirt. A quick flick of his fingers had the top button of his breeches
undone to facilitate her task. Then she hit a snag.

Her chemise shifted minutely. She glanced down to see its lacy edge
clinging precariously to the upper slopes of her breasts. She wasn't
built to keep a chemise in place by gravity alone. It was one thing for
Marc to remove her garments with gentle care; quite another for her to
toss aside years of modesty while flinging shirts about.

She looked up at him.

"You're too tall for me."

A pulse was beating rapidly in his throat, but he smiled. "Stand on
tip-toe and pull. I'll help."

Amy took a deep breath, hoped it would improve the situation, and
obeyed.

The shirt came off, her chemise succumbed to gravity, and she
overbalanced into his arms.

They came around her instantly, holding her crushed to his chest.

Wild little sunbursts of heat exploded inside her as her nipples rasped
against hair-roughened muscle. She forgot about modesty. The sensations
winging through her were too enthralling to leave room for anything
else.

She would have cried out in wonder at the piercing intensity of the
pleasure, but Marc's mouth was on hers, swallowing the sound and taking
the soft little whimpers that followed.

She flung her arms around his waist, clinging to his strength; her own
had deserted her. His mouth was hot, his arms hard, the smooth flesh of
his back burning her hands as she pressed them to the long muscles
bracketing his spine. She parted her lips, aching for the intimacy of
having him inside her mouth, needing to be part of him and knowing only
that way.

Marc shuddered heavily as Amy's tongue met his with shy eagerness, as
she joined him in a sensuous dance of demand and retreat. Sliding,
stroking, tasting, taking. Her wild response went to his head like
potent brandy; the softness of her breasts, their firm little peaks
pressed to his chest, had his body hardening to the point of agony.

He tore his mouth from hers before he gave in to the urge to take her
right there on the floor.

"Amy, sweetheart, we have to slow down."

She blinked up at him, her eyes dazed with the beginnings of arousal.

"I thought we were going slow."

"In that case, we'd better try slower."

"I don't think that's a good idea," she said weakly.

"I'm finding it very difficult to stand."

He gritted his teeth against another wave of need, and prayed he'd have
the strength to keep his footing against the undertow of aching desire.
The sweet openness of her response almost brought him to his knees; it
also threatened to shred his control.

"Then we'll lie down," he said hoarsely, and lifted her on to the bed,
turning away immediately before he managed to shock her right out of her
dazed state. The single glance he . had of soft round breasts, their
rosy little crowns begging mutely for attention had the reins of control
slipping and sliding through his fingers as though he'd never seen a
naked woman before. He didn't dare look at her until he'd retrieved
them.

Unfortunately, Amy wasn't co-operating. She slithered down the bed and
reached out t@ touch his thigh. The need to turn, to move so that
questing J^the hand could slide over the front of his breeches, had his
teeth clenching so hard his jaw cracked.

"It's very odd, my lord, but when I touch you, it makes me feel quite
incredibly weak."

"And you make me feel incredibly powerful," he grated, sitting down to
yank off his boots. Too damn powerful. For the first time he understood
how his primitive ancestors had been capable of dragging the women of
their choice into a cave and taking them whether they were willing or
not. He, too, could have plundered, ravaged, devoured. And he would, he
promised himself as the second boot hit the floor. But not this time.

She was already bruised.

He turned his head on the thought. Amy made a move as though she would
cover her breasts, then went still, watching him. The love and trust in
her eyes shook him to his soul, clearing the mists of desire long enough
for him to see the pale blue mark that curved around her ribs. He
already knew her arms looked like she'd been dragged through a row of
hedges. God knew what he couldn't see.

Grimly determined to find out. Marc turned fully towards her and pushed
her petticoats up to her knees. She'd put on her white stockings but no
shoes.

He drew her stockings off, taking note of each small wound as it was
revealed. None were serious, but he glimpsed the bandage beneath the
froth of her petticoats," remembered the sight of her blood on his hands
when they'd returned to the house last night, and shook with the need to
pull her up into his arms, to feel her against him, warm and safe and
alive.

When he got his hands on her husband He shut off the thought instantly.

Chantry, or Chatsworth or whatever he chose to call himself, had no
place here.

Amy stirred and reached out to touch the hand he'd fisted beside her
hip.

"See. I'm not really black and blue all over."

Marc sent her a look that told her precisely what he thought of that
assessment, but his touch was gentle as he lifted one little foot and
brushed his lips across the scratch on her instep.

Amy felt her toes curl.

Her petticoat slid higher as he touched his mouth to the faint graze on
her calf. Heat bloomed. He kissed the bruise on her knee; she sank
deeper into the bed. He swirled his tongue gently around another on her
thigh; every muscle quivered and went limp.

"Marc?"

"Hmmm."

"Are you going to kiss every single bruise?"

"Every single one," he murmured, and turned his attention to her other
leg.

Amy thought of the various locations of her wounds.

"Oh, my goodness."

His mouth curved against her inner thigh. The hot tingle of excitement
that resulted distracted her so much she didn't realise her bunched-up
petticoat and chemise were being removed until cool air brushed her
skin.

She shivered, but not with cold. He curved his hand to her waist,
brushed his thumb across the underside of her breast, stroked downward
until the heel of his palm rested above the soft triangle shielding her
femininity. And everywhere he touched, she burned.

"You're so tiny," he whispered.

"So soft."

"You're not," she breathed, scarcely able to speak. She didn't have to
touch him to know the truth of that statement; sudden tension denned his
muscles in a way that had her softening inside in a response as
primitive as the sheer physical power of his body. She wanted to move,
to arch into his touch, but the shuddering stillness in him held her in
a vise of almost unbearable anticipation.

"No," he said, and her eyes widened at the guttural tone of his voice.

"I'm bigger than you. Harder. Stronger." His gaze flashed to hers,
silver fires jbuming, and she trembled with helpless excitement.

"Does that frighten you?"

Very slowly she moved her head from side to side.

"It should," he said. And suddenly his hand was shaking against her
flesh.

"It should, because it scares the hell out of me. Oh, God, He bent; his
arms went around her, clasping her hips as he pressed his face to the
softness of her belly. She felt the sharp edge of his teeth, the hot
sweep of his tongue.

"I could devour you," he said hoarsely.

"Take you to places you haven't even dreamed of.

Dark places, where all you'll know, all you'll want, all you'll feel, is
me, inside you, taking you, until you scream with the pleasure of it.
And I'll keep you there forever. Mine! Always!" His arms tightened.

"Now are you scared?"

For a moment she couldn't speak. Her lips parted, but she couldn't
answer.

Love flooded her entire being, love so powerful, so all-encompassing she
wondered her heart didn't simply shatter with the pressure of it. And
with it came a swift bright flash of awareness--that in the battle he
waged between savage desire and equally fierce protectiveness, it was
she who held the balance.

She lifted her hand, touched his head.

"I'll never be afraid with you, Marc. No matter where you take me. No
matter how long you keep me there. I know you'll never hurt me."

"No," he vowed.

"Never. You never have to be afraid again." He shuddered as a measure of
control returned, wondering how she'd done it, how she'd drawn him back
from the brink of savagery. And knew, when he straightened to look at
her, that it was her fragility and trusting innocence that had given him
the strength to harness his instincts. Not the easy control he'd used
with other women.

A fragility that was all too apparent in the delicate body he could have
lifted with one hand; an innocence that brought a blush to her cheeks
even as she smiled.

"I'm not afraid now," she said softly, and held out her hand. "And I
won't break."

"I hope not," he rasped as his fingers enveloped hers.

"Because I can't seem to concentrate on bruises when so many other sweet
places are waiting to be kissed."

She blushed again, but her gaze travelled over him as if she, too,
wanted to savour. The tip of her tongue moistened her lips and with a
hoarse sound of need. Marc lowered himself over her.

Amy cried out softly as his weight came down on her. He was so big, so
strong. The dark pelt on his chest brushed her breasts, excitingly male
to her female. She stroked her hands through it, slid them upwards. Such
hard muscle beneath warm supple skin. She felt both safe and deliciously
wanton lying beneath him like this, the sense of vulnerability that had
overwhelmed her before lessened with her legs locked between his.

"We're so different," she murmured, stroking her hands downward again.
Her fingers found two hard male nipples nestled in whorls of hair and
she stroked curiously.

His breath hissed between his teeth.

"Oh, I'm sorry." Her gaze flew to his.

"Did that hurt?"

A smile glittered through the blazing intensity in his eyes. "You tell
me," he growled. And cupping one breast in his hand, he stroked his
thumb across its niched pink tip.

Amy gasped and jerked as a thrilling little fris son of pleasure darted
through her.

"Did it hurt?" he murmured.

"N  ...  no."

"Good," he said, and did it again, slower, firmer.

Fire streaked straight to the place where her legs were pressed
together. He made a rough sound in his throat and stroked her again and
again, until her nipple was a hard little bud of throbbing sensation,
until she was whimpering, clinging, trying to anchor herself asher
senses threatened to fly apart. / A protest, a plea, parted her lips,
but even as she arched in frantic demand. Marc bent his head and closed
his mouth hotly over the peak he'd tormented and her vision hazed. She
fell back against the sheets, lost in the fierce pleasure of his mouth
at her breast.

He didn't stop until she was quivering and writhing beneath him, and
then only so he could deliver the same sweet torment to her other
breast.

"I knew you'd be like this," he rasped.

"Sweet and hot and wanting."

Amy moaned under the fresh onslaught, barely hearing the husky words.

Wanting? She burned. She craved. Hot little sparks kept cascading
through her. She was aching in places that hadn't even been bruised.

She needed him to touch the throbbing place between her legs, needed to
part them, to cradle his hard male flesh against her, to have him fill
the aching emptiness within, but he kept his own legs clamped about
hers.

The thought came to her that he was restraining her so he could hold on
to his own control, and with a sound of frustration, she shifted,
struggling to get her hands between them, to be rid of the one remaining
barrier.

"No, Amy. Wait." He lifted his mouth from her breast, his breath bathing
the wet, rosy tip.

"You really are tiny, darling. I have to be sure you're ready for me."
"I am ready," she said with sudden fierceness.

"I want you."

He gave a short, ragged laugh and kissed her, quick and hard.

"God, you don't even know what I'm talking about, do you? And right now,
it doesn't seem to matter."

He rolled away, shucked his breeches in one swift move, and was back
beside her in seconds. It was time enough for Amy to see what he meant.

"Oh, my goodness."

"Don't worry," he growled as he gathered her into his arms. "The
seemingly impossible is not only attainable, but, as of this second, as
inevitable as the tides." His mouth came down on hers. He parted her
legs with his hand and slid one long finger into her secret, most female
flesh.

She gave a muffled cry, startled by the invasion and the intense wave of
pleasure that broke over her. The wet, gliding sensation of his thumb on
a place she'd never been aware of before was so shockingly, deliciously
voluptuous, she forgot about the mind-numbing intimacy of his touch and
simply responded; arching, moving in counterpoint to his caresses in a
dance as old as time..

The pressure of his mouth turned almost brutally demanding, but his hand
remained so gentle the combination made her senses swim. She felt her
body melt beneath his fingers, felt her legs widen in wanton invitation,
felt the waves building, higher and higher. Then he carefully lifted her
bandaged leg over his hip and her eyes flew open at the first seeking
touch of his body.

Her breath seized. Her heart had raced past frantic long ago. She stared
up at him, quivering with a primitive awareness of his size and power,
of her vulnerability.

"Marc?"

He framed her face with his hands, holding her still for his gaze as he
rocked against her, the gentle movements in stark contrast to the
tension shuddering through his body.

"Hush," he murmured.

"It will be all right, darling. Just be still. I'll try not to hurt you,
but if I do ...  it will only be for a moment."

His face was hard-edged with passion, his eyes narrowed, fiercely
intent, but his voice was so darkly tender she felt it resonate deep
inside her, relaxing her, easing his way.

"It doesn't matter," she gasped, every particle of her being suddenly
focused on the place where they joined. He was barely moving, entering
her only an inch or two at a time before drawing back. The sensation was
driving her wild. She wanted more of him, all of him.

With a small frantic sound she lifted herself, sheer female instinct
guiding her to wrap her; legs around him--and with an almost audible
crack the chains of his control snapped open. A harsh groan tore from
his throat. Clamping an arm around her hips to hold her still, he thrust
hard, driving himself to the hilt.

A lightning flash of pain streaked through her, gone in seconds.

Pleasure followed instantly, flooding her with sensations beyond belief.
She trembled uncontrollably, aching for more.

There had to be more. She sensed it in the streamers of heat coiling
tighter and tighter inside her, but Marc held rigidly still, his
breathing harsh against her cheek.

"Are you all right?" he ground out.

"Yes." Her voice was high and thin, almost soundless. Somewhere in her
mind she knew he was waiting for her body to adjust to his, but all she
could think of was the urgency building inside her, the incredible sense
of joining. One. Inseparable. Hearts beating wildly in tandem, breaths
mingling, limbs clinging. And the heavy throbbing of his flesh within
hers, the soft secret pulses of her response that made him groan and
shudder with the effort at control.

With heart-shattering care he withdrew a short way, then pressed deeper.
She moaned and arched, her head falling back over his arm.

Steel and heat locked around her. His lips seared her throat.

"Amy  ...  I don't think I can go slow anymore."

"I don't want you to," she cried.

"Oh, Marc  ...  Marc.."

"Yes!" he said hoarsely, and pressing his face to her hair, he began to
move with a power that had her crying out in mingled shock and
excitement. Her senses reeled, recovered, then revelled in his fierce
possession. Tension wound, tighter, tighter; heat flooded her until she
thought she couldn't take anymore. She would burn, like lightning
exploding until there was nothing left.

She sobbed frantically, trying to fight free of the coiling heat, to
catch up to her soaring senses, to breathe. He muttered something; words
of reassurance, of demand, she couldn't tell. Then he slid one hand
beneath her hips and lifted her into his thrusts, and the unbearable
tension sprang open, flooding her with pleasure so intense she screamed,
knowing nothing but the wild pulsing of her body; wanting nothing but
the exquisite release washing over her; feeling only him, inside her,
all around her, taking her. Blind and helpless with the ecstasy of it,
she gave herself up to him.

And with her utter surrender Marc loosed the savage in him.

Clamping his mouth over Amy's to swallow her cries, he thrust again and
again into the hot silken depths of her body, driving for his own
release until the world vanished in a white- hot blaze of completion.

"You are going to marry me."

The gravelly-voiced decree wafted down through the layers of oblivion in
which she floated.

Amy stirred and tried to drift upwards. It wasn't the first time she'd
surfaced. She vaguely remembered tender kisses following the storm; the
comfort of a cool, damp cloth between her legs; the secure haven of
strong arms. She'd drifted, feeling utterly replete. As if something she
hadn't even known was missing was now, forever, part of her.

Marc.

She smiled and tried to snuggle closer. And discovered that Marc was
lying half-over her. He was heavy. She contemplated a vague protest,
then decided it was too much trouble. She couldn't move anyway. Every
muscle and bone in her body had melted.

"Amy."

The soft demand halted another descent into lassitude. Amy opened her
eyes and blinked sleepily up at him.

"Hmmm?"

Amusement curved his mouth, but his eyes glittered with a lazy
sensuality that caused an echo of pleasure to hum inside her.

She closed her eyes again to savour the sensation.

He put his lips to her ear. 'you know, there's a certain etiquette that
must be observed in these situations, Mrs. Chan- try."

"There is?"

"One does not go to sleep when one's partner is trying to conduct a
conversation."

"Oh." Amy prised her eyelids open. Limp though she was, she managed to
curl an arm around his neck.

"Not asleep," she sighed, and stretched languourously beneath him.

Her very limp form was abruptly crushed to the bedding. Marc came over
her, thrust her legs apart with his and pressed himself against her in
unmistakable demand.

Amy's eyes snapped fully open. She was suddenly feeling a vast deal more
wide awake.

"That's better," he growled, and moved back slightly.

She pouted in disappointment. She'd never pouted before in her entire
life.

"Stop trying to distract me," he ordered. But he bent to stroke his
tongue across her lower lip.

"We need to talk."

"We do?" That was going to be difficult, she mused, because he'd just
succeeded in thoroughly distracting her.

"Yes. You're going to marry me."

"What?" Her brain reeled.

"Amy, see if you can pay attention here. We're getting married."

"But.-;' She tried to rally her startled wits.

"How? I mean ...  oh.

Marc, I want to marry you more than anything in the world, but--" The
rest was smothered by a fierce kiss. When he finally let her up for air,
her senses were whirling.

"Divorce," he said succinctly, and smiled.

Amy blinked at the expression. Only a simpleton would have called it
nice; the set of his mouth held far too much deadly purpose.

"Divorce? But  ...  the Earl of Hawkridge can't marry a divorced woman.

Think of the scandal."

"Believe me, my little innocent, there'll be a great deal more scandal
when people start suspecting you're my mistress. Which they will," he
added when she opened her mouth to argue, 'because, after tonight, I
have no intention of staying out of your bed. The only scandal attached
to a discreet di y vorce brought by a woman is when the husband contests
the charges, causing some very nasty linen to be aired in public."

She considered that.

"What makes you think James won't contest? Not because he wants me, but
..." She looked up at him, sudden distress shaking her voice.

"I don't want you to give him money. To  ...  to  ...  toy me."

"Amy." He stroked her tousled curls, then cupped her face in his hands.

"My sweet, beautiful Amy. I'm not going to buy you. I'd never do that to
you. Chatsworth won't contest a divorce." His face went hard.

"If he tries it, he'll end up on the gallows."

Her swift intake of air had him cloaking the murderous look he knew was
in his eyes.

"So might I," she whispered.

"No." The answer was immediate, and absolute.

"We can get him on the Bristol robberies, which have nothing to do with
you.

As for what happened in London, if Chatsworth is stupid enough to
mention your name, his rantings will be put down to revenge because you
warned Lucinda's family about him."

"But ...  Lord Tinsley ..."

He lifted a quizzical brow.

"Darling, how often did the Tins- leys see you during the few weeks you
spent dusting the furniture? Once? Twice?

They'd never recognise you, especially now."

"No. I suppose ..." Her eyes widened when she realised she'd run out of
'buts'. For the first time, hope shimmered on her horizon. She almost
believed the tiny golden flame wouldn't wink out if she daredao seize
it.

"I'll find out from Lucinda where Chatsworth is staying, and see him in
the morning," Marc was saying, as if that was all it would take.

"He's not at the Green Man, but he must be somewhere within reasonable
distance."

Amy's mind reeled at his unshakable confidence. If nothing else, she
believed that James would try to turn the situation to his advantage. Or
that he'd turn violent if his plans were thwarted.

She shivered slightly.

"You will be careful, won't you, Marc? James has a temper. I didn't see
it until the robbery. One of Lord Tinsley's footmen tried to resist and
James beat the man insensible, even though the first blow had subdued
him. And the other day  ...  I don't think he meant to hurt me, but if
he hadn't shoved past me on that path, I probably wouldn't have fallen."

"So that's how it happened." Marc's eyes narrowed.

"Chats- worth can count himself lucky if he lives long enough to make it
to the gallows.

She lifted her hand to his cheek.

"Nothing terrible happened," she said softly.

"I'm still here, thanks to you."

"Your idea of terrible, and mine, are several hundred degrees apart," he
muttered. Then his voice lowered, went dark. "But you're right.

You're here, in my arms, and--" he gathered her closer until she could
feel the throbbing urgency in his body '--if I don't have you again
right now, I'll go out of my mind."

Amy blinked up at him. She'd thought the tension rippling through his
muscles for the past several minutes had been caused by anger at
Chatsworth.

Obviously, she had been grievously mistaken.

"Good heavens, my lord! Have you been in this state the entire time
we've been discussing my divorce?"

The smile glinting in his eyes held both wickedness and rueful
amusement.

"Thanks to you, Mrs. Chantry, I've been in this state since I walked
into this house last week. What do you intend to do about such a sorry
situation?"

"Hmm," she murmured, and made a little purring sound in her throat as
she savoured the male power beneath her hands. Leashed, his strength
enthralled her. Unleashed, it was a ravishment of her senses that she
couldn't wait to feel again.

"I shall set my mind to thinking of a solution, sir."

"Think fast," he ordered, and pressed his fingers to the soft curls
between her legs with an urgency that had a broken cry of pleasure
rippling from her throat.

"Shh," he whispered, easing the pressure to a touch that merely
tantalised.

His kiss smothered her immediate demand for more. When he lifted his
mouth a fraction, the wildfire of excitement had subsided to a simmer.
She had the distinct impression that he intended to make her simmer for
a very long time.

"What?" she asked hazily.

"It's probably too late, but try to be quiet."

"I thought you wanted to make me scream." The mists cleared somewhat.

"You did make me scream."

"Darling, when we're married you can scream to your heart's content--and
mine. No one will hear you from my chambers. But until then we must be
discreet."

"Oh. Well, I'll do my best, sir."

"Do more than that," he growled.

"Grandmama's room is right across the hall."

"Oh, dear." She laughed up at him with her eyes, and, deciding she
wasn't going to be the only one to simmer, slid her hand down his body.

"How very inconvenient for you."

He clamped his fingers around her wrist and glared at her. "I haven't
made a practice of seducing my grandmother's companions, Mrs. Chantry."

Amy passed her predecessors under rapid review.

"I should hope not, sir."

For a moment Marc stared in, surprise, then his shoulders started
shaking in silent laughter Amy giggled. The little wriggle she gave as
she tried to muffle the sound in his throat was too much. Amusement
vanished.

"Never mind," he muttered, loosing her wrist.

"I'll find a way to keep both of us quiet."

He didn't have to. When simmer turned to incendiary heat, when the
leashed power of his body exploded into desperate, driven need, sweeping
her away on a tide of exquisite sensation, Amy found a way to keep quiet
that proved very effective indeed. For the second time in as many days,
she swooned clean out of her senses.

And this time, when she stirred in the warm safety of his arms, she
surfaced to the sweetest discovery of all.

"I've been waiting to tell you," he murmured, and touched his mouth to
hers with heart-shaking tenderness.

"I love you, Amy."

He loved her.

Amy walked along the cliff road towards Ottersmead, trying to suppress
the urge to skip every few steps. She'd told everyone she needed a walk
in the fresh air, but, of course, she was really hoping to meet Marc on
his way back to Hawkridge.

With that goal in sight, she simply couldn't have stayed in the house
another minute; she was too restless with anticipation. Happiness
bubbled inside her as if she'd drank several glasses of champagne.

The whole world looked radiant and fresh and new. The sea was bluer than
ever, the sun beamed down with golden radiance, flowers bloomed by the
roadside in riotous abandon.

And Marc loved her.

He loved her enough to risk the scandal of divorce so she would be free
to marry him.

Her feet executed several skips before she could stop them. The
resulting twinges in her thighs reminded her that she'd spent almost an
entire night indulging in unaccustomed exercise.

Amy giggled, and skipped again in sheer defiance of twinging muscles.

She would never forget such a night. Never. She had followed him,
without hesitation, into those dark places where passion held sway,
because love had lit the way. Nor had she felt anything less than Marc's
true equal. Though the urgency of his desire had seduced her again and
again, he'd gifted her with the sense of her own seductive power. He was
so very male that, for the first time in her life, she'd gloried in
being female.

Amy hugged herself as little thrills winged through her at the memories,
tripped around a curve in the road and came face to face with her
husband.

"Oh!" She jerked to a stop. The world lost some of its radiant
brightness.

She blinked and looked around. There was no one else in sight.

"James."

"Well, well." His lip curled.

"If it isn't my fortunate little wife, none the worse for her tumble. I
was coming to call on you, Amy, but this is better. Saves me the trouble
of finding a private place where we can talk."

She took a step back.

"I don't think we have anything to say to each other."

"You only need to listen," he told her, cutting off her retreat by
seizing her arm.

"Come on. Over here."

He began to pull her across to a small grove of trees that stood between
the cliff and the road at that point. She expected him to stop as soon
as they were out of sight. When he didn't, she began to dig in her
heels.

"This is far enough," she warned as they broke free of the trees. The
edge of the cliff lay a mere twenty feet beyond. She kept her gaze away
from it.

"I mean it, James. We're out of sight, if that's what you want."

"What I want?" he repeated, halting and jerking her around to face him.
He released her, much to her relief.

"If I ever got what I wanted, Amy, you'd have broken your neck in that
fall the other day."

Her lashes flickered, the only sign that fear slid down her spine at his
words.

"Did you push me deliberately?" she demanded.

"Of course not." He shrugged in dismissal.

"It would've been a convenient accident, nothing more. But since you are
still around, and since Lucinda has been packed off to stay with friends
for several weeks, and no one will tell me where she is, I need to make
some alternate plans." He came closer, his eyes cold with suspicion.

"I don't suppose you had anything to do with Lucinda's departure, did
you, Amy?"

"I know nothing about the Nettlebeds' plans," she said with perfect
honesty.

"Good. Because if I find out you did know something, I'll make sure you
suffer another accident, one with more permanent results. I could do it
right here and now. There's no one around."

Amy didn't answer. She was reasonably sure James's threats were empty
while she was still of some use to him. Her mind was racing down another
track.

Marc would have gone first to Nettlebed Place and, since James was
annoyed rather than furious, it was clear no confrontation had taken
place. With his quarry apparently flown. Marc would be on his way back
to Hawkridge.

The thought had barely occurred when she heard hoofbeats, coming fast.

Before James could stop her, Amy turned and dashed for the trees.

It was useless, of course--he'd only been a yard or two away--but her
intention was to get closer to the road where a cry could be heard over
the constant hushing of the sea. When James's fingers closed around her
arm, she drew breath and screamed.

"Marc!"

"You bitch!" James jerked her to a halt and wheeled, dragging her back
towards the cliff.

Amy didn't bother crying out again; all her strength was needed to slow
James down, to give the rider time to catch them. She didn't know if it
was Marc--screaming his name had been pure instinct--but she prayed that
even a stranger wouldn't ignore a woman's scream coming from the trees.

She went limp with relief when she realised she was right.

The hoofbeats stopped abruptly, then came the sounds of a horse being
ridden swiftly after them.

Brilliant sunshine struck her eyes a second later.

"Let me go, James," she said quickly.

"You don't want to arouse any more suspicions."

It was a desperate bid to gain her freedom, but she knew her scream had
already destroyed his plan to use her, indeed had destroyed everything,
for what explanation could he give, even to a stranger?

She saw the knowledge in his eyes, saw rage explode into violent
purpose. As a huge black horse crashed into the open, he dragged her
closer to the cliff, shifted his grip to her wrist and flung her out at
arm's length.

Amy staggered; she'd been expecting a blow. Then, as she regained her
balance, she saw the rider and a sob of thankfulness rose in her throat.

Marc, eyes blazing, mouth set hard; avenging fury astride a wild-eyed,
demonic monster. She wouldn't have been surprised to see flames shoot
from the horse's flaring nostrils as it reared and pawed the air before
Marc brought the animal back under control and turned it to face them
head-on.

She glanced quickly at James. He had to release her. What choice did he
have?

But his lips drew back in a snarl, and she knew. Revenge. Or distraction
to give himself time to escape. He held her at an angle, his body
part-way between her and the brink, but one hard swinging pull would be
all that was needed to send her staggering. Sheer momentum would do the
rest.

She couldn't fight him, couldn't even cling in a bid to take him with
her.

To do so she'd have^ get closer, and his arm was locked, holding her in
position.

"Back up!" he yelled.

"Back up or she goes over the cliff."

Marc didn't hesitate. He didn't argue; he didn't try reason; he didn't
ask what James could possibly hope to gain in killing her.

In the split second before he moved, Amy saw murderous fury flash in his
eyes. He slashed his reins across the horse's neck, drove his heels into
the animal's flanks and charged straight at Chatsworth's outstretched
arm.

Amy screamed, flinching away instinctively. She was released so abruptly
she stumbled. A huge black shape flashed past her. She felt a blast of
heat, heard the scream of an angry stallion, then she hit the ground and
rolled.

The horse was still screaming. Or maybe it was her. Dazed, she tried to
turn, to see. Then Marc was there, snatching her up in his arms, his
hand holding her cheek pressed tightly to his chest so she couldn't see,
couldn't hear. When he eased the pressure seconds later, all was quiet
again.

The screaming had stopped.

"It was James, wasn't it?" she said shakily, clinging to him. "He went
over the edge."

But Marc wasn't concerned with Chatsworth.

"Amy. Oh, God, sweetheart--" His hands ran over her, searching.

"Are you all right?

When I saw you on the ground. Did Demon touch you?"

"No." His urgency steadied her, strengthened her. She sorted through the
blur of the last few minutes and drew back to look up at him.

"You used him  ...  Demon  ...  as a weapon."

"Yes." His eyes were still blazing, still violent.

"I would have used anything, anyway I could."

"I would, too," she whispered, and burrowed close again. "Oh, Marc."

His arms closed about her with fierce protectiveness, pressing her cheek
to his heart. The violent pounding beneath her ear gradually slowed to a
strong, steady beat. The sun felt warm again, birds resumed their
morning chorus; leaves rustled, flowers nodded in the breeze. And she
was filled with a passionate sense of gladness that she was alive, that
both she and Marc were safe.

James had had choices. And in trying to destroy her, had destroyed
himself.

"Do you think we should go down there?" she asked softly. "Do
something?"

"I will in a moment," he said.

"But there's no possibility that Chatsworth will have survived that
fall.

There are no convenient ledges at this point; he'll have broken his neck
on the rocks."

Amy shuddered.

His mouth touched the top of her head, then he put her away from him,
curving his hands around her arms as though holding her steady.

"Darling, what I have to do could take a couple of hours. You're going
to have to be very strong. I want you to go home--Yes," he emphasised
gently when her lips parted on a protest.

"Go home and instruct Mawson to bring the gig to the top of the Inghams'
steps.

I'll ride back there, retrieve Chatsworth's body and bring it up that
way."

"But ..." Amy tried to think.

"Won't you be seen?"

"All the better," he said somewhat grimly.

"The only thing we wish to hide is your past involvement with Chatsworth
and, thanks to his penchant for secluded meeting-places, we'll be able
to manage it if I act fast. All you need to say is that while we were
walking back to Hawkridge, we heard a cry and discovered that someone
had fallen over the cliff. Only Grand- mama is to know the truth. Can
you do that, sweetheart?" His hands tightened.

"I know it's asking a lot to pretend that you haven't just been
terrified for your life, or that Chatsworth was nothing more than a
recent acquaintance when in reality--" She stopped him with a finger
against his lips, and a gaze that held all the gentle feminine strength
in her nature.

"Marc, it's because of me that you're involved. I can do whatever you
ask of me."

"Why did I even doubt it?" he murmured, and smiled in rueful
acknowledgement.

"Go home, darling. I'll be there as soon as I can."


Chapter Fifteen Oo you sent Mr. Chatsworth over the cliff. Well, that
will certainly save a lot of trouble."

Lady Hawkridge nodded thoughtfully while she reviewed the story related
to her by her grandson, then smiled benignly at the pair opposite.

From the shelter of Marc's arm, Amy gazed at her employer in
astonishment.

They were in the library, the dowager en- sconsed on an armchair, while
she and Marc occupied the sofa. No doubt her wits were still somewhat
scattered; she was finding it very difficult to reconcile her ladyship's
angelic appearance with her ruthless practicality.

Marc apparently had no such trouble. She glanced up to see a look of
amusement cross his face.

"I didn't intend to kill him, Grandmama. There was only a second in
which to act. Chatsworth might have been armed, he was certainly
threatening to send Amy over the cliff, but most people, when charged by
a horse, tend to forget everything in the interests of getting out of
the way. When Demon's shoulder struck him he must have been closer to
the edge than I thought."

"Of course, dear. However, since you were saving Amy's life, no one will
think anything of it."

"Since no one else was about, they won't know that Amy's life was in
danger," Marc corrected.

"We don't want people wondering why Chatsworth would try to kill someone
he'd only just met. Listen carefully. Chatsworth met with an unfortunate
accident while out for a walk. In a distracted state of mind owing to
the frustration of his ambitions towards Lucinda, he took the wrong path
down to the beach, slipped and lost his footing."

"Quite logical," agreed the dowager.

"Why, poor little Amy had a fall on the right path not two days ago.
Very dangerous places, cliffs. We must put up a warning sign." She
nodded decisively.

"Where did you take him. Marc? Not to Mr. ffollifoot, I trust."

"No. I don't want Amy reminded of him every time she goes past the
churchyard. I returned him to his last place of abode, fortunately
outside our parish boundary." "Thank you," Amy said with real gratitude.

"But, Marc, with Lucinda gone, how did you discover where James was
staying?"

"I saw Lucinda before she left, sweetheart. Thanks to Grand- mama's note
conveying a warning from a supposedly disinterested source, she was
shaken enough to let drop that he was putting up at a tavern a few miles
down the coast." His lips curled.

"It isn't one of your more salubrious places. When Mawson and I turned
up with Chatsworth's body, the tap- keeper promptly claimed his
belongings in lieu of payment. I went through them to make sure there
was nothing to incriminate you, and handed them ovenf There was money in
Chatsworth's pockets. If the tap's feeling generous, he might part with
enough to pay for a proper burial."

"Oh, heavens." Amy bit her lip, guiltily aware that she should be more
shocked at this ruthless disinterest in the fate of her husband's
remains.

Marc glanced down at her, his eyes hard.

"Don't expect me to feel sympathy for the man, Amy. He would've killed
you without compunction."

"Yes, indeed." Lady Hawkridge shuddered.

"What a dreadful time you must have had with him, Amy. In London, too.
What will you do about his lodgings there. Marc? Search them?

"Only if Amy thinks there might be anything that could link her to him."

He sent her a questioning look as he spoke, but Amy was already shaking
her head.

"Only our marriage lines, and I have those. I didn't keep James's
letters, nor write any myself." She paused.

"He wouldn't have kept such things. He was very secretive, very careful
to keep his plans to himself until he was ready to act."

Marc's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

"So his cohorts might not know that he was going by the name of
Chatsworth while he was in this vicinity, or that he was in Devonshire
at all." "Very likely not, judging by what he said yesterday. In any
case, I don't think he told anyone he'd married me." She frowned. '-Do
you think his friends might enquire into his death?"

"They'll have to hear about it, first. Frankly, I doubt they'll even
enquire into his protracted absence. Given Chatsworth's recent
activities, their immediate assumption will be that he's been caught and
imprisoned in Bristol to await transportation or hanging. Anyone else
involved in the robberies will lie low to save their own skins."

"The only sensible thing to do," Lady Hawkridge concurred. She gathered
up the stitching she'd been engaged with before Marc had returned to the
house and prepared to rise.

"Well, that seems to take care of everything. So comforting to know that
we don't have to worry about Amy's former husband popping up again."

"Oh, ma'am, I'm so sorry to have brought all this trouble upon you. I
only hope that poor Lucinda isn't dreadfully hurt after learning that
Mr. Chatsworth ...  I mean, James ...  was a fortune-hunter."

"Lucinda is young and resilient," Marc informed her, rising to assist
his grandmother.

"When I left her this morning, she was already vowing never to be taken
in again. She plans to be an ice-maiden and is going to wear nothing but
white, and possibly silver. I give the role three months."

"Oh dear."

"And besides, Amy, it wasn't you who caused any trouble," Lady Hawkridge
added.

"It was all Mr. Chatsworth's doing. Now, I think you should go upstairs
and lie down. The last two days and nights have been so fraught with
shocks and surprises you've hardly had any sleep. And we don't want you
looking pea ky on your wedding day."

"Uh ..."

"Just leave everything to me." The dowager beamed. "There's nothing I
enjoy more than planning a wedding. And, in this case, we have two
nuptials to arrange. However, I think you and Amy should be married
first, Marc. We don't want things happening out of their proper order.
People can count, you know, and Amy will be very sensitive to such
gossip."

Ignoring the wildly conflicting emotions chasing one another across her
companion's suddenly rosy countenance, the dowager tripped towards the
door.

Marc crossed the room to open it for her, a wry smile curving his mouth.

"Colborough isn't going to ask me for your hand, is he, Grandmama?
Because if he does, I'd feel duty bound to inform him that you're a very
dangerous female."

"I'd rather you didn't, dearest. Acquiring a new wife at Bartholomew's
age is quite enough for him. Besides, I'm perfectly capable of bestowing
my hand without your permission." Smiling serenely, her ladyship left
the room.

"That puts me in my place," Marc observed ruefully.

"I can see I'm going to have a great deal of trouble curbing the
independent tendencies of the females about the place."

Amy rose somewhat shakily. Far from wishing to claim her independence,
she felt more in need of support than the dowager. No doubt it was the
result of all the shocks and surprises, but her legs seemed somewhat
reluctant to hold her upright.

"Is it really all over?" she asked.

"It's over." Marc turned. The glittering triumph in his eyes had her
breath seizing.

"And we're just beginning. I stopped by the vicarage on my way home.
We'll be married as soon as Mr. ffollifoot has the licence ready.
Probably in a day or two."

"A day or two?" Her voice rose to a squeak, then all but vanished.

"Oh, my goodness."

He started towards her.

"Is that an argument?"

"No, my lord."

"You realise you won't be independent any more? You'll be mine."

"Yes, well ..."

"I'm over-protective. I'm possessive."

"Yes, I do believe I've noticed that."

"My instincts are downright primitive. In fact, when it comes to your
safety--" he stopped a pace or two away, his eyes fierce '--it wouldn't
be too much to state that I'm a savage."

Amy took a deep breath. Her legs might be wobbly, but Marc was clearly
the one in need of reassurance. Closing the distance between them, she
touched her fingers to his cheek. "I know," she said softly.

"That must be why I'm not worried about becoming a nuisance to you when
you discover I'm not really as helpless as I look."

He frowned and captured her hand.

"What?" "Just something someone once said to me. You know. Marc, when
food or clothing was scarce in the poorhouse, I often had to protect
Mama's share, and mine, with tooth and claw, so there's really no need
to warn me about your instincts." A dimple peeped at the corner of her
mouth.

"Better to worry about what sort of instincts our children will
inherit."

His face went blank.

"Children?"

"Yes." She tilted her head.

"I presume you do want children, my lord.

You'll need an heir for one thing, and a little baby would be--"

"Baby?" he said in such a strange voice that she stopped. His eyes went
violently intense.

"A baby?"

He swooped.

Amy found herself lifted, tossed over his shoulder and carried out of
the library before she could utter more than a small startled shriek.

She contemplated the marble tiles passing rapidly before her eyes and
tried to retrieve her wits.

"For heaven's sake, my lord! What are you doing?"

"Taking you to bed."

To bed? But it's the middle of the day! What will people think?"

"You're supposed to be resting. No one needs to know what else you'll be
doing."

"But ...  I didn't mean we had to get started on the project right this
minute."

"Mrs. Chantry," he murmured, in a voice that made her suddenly glad she
wasn't ascending the stairs under her own steam.

"We're going to start on the project the minute I get you into my cave.
I mean, bed."

"Oh, my goodness."

He carried her into his room and deposited her on the bed before she
could think of anypiing else to say.

Head spinning, wits still whirling, Amy struggled up on her elbows, only
to sink back down again when Marc strode across to the door, locked it,
then turned and paced slowly towards her.

Holding her gaze with his, he removed his coat and tossed it aside.

Then, ignoring the havoc his boots were going to wreak on the bedspread,
he came down over her and gathered her into his arms.

"That's better," he growled, and kissed her.

No, she thought hazily, he sank into her. And she melted into him.

Passion flared, dark and searing, but beyond the meeting of lips, of
tongues, of huskily whispered desires, she found a deep well of
tenderness, a gentle cherishing, and a need that bade her lay her heart
before him, to give him everything, her strength, her vulnerability and
all that lay between.

How easy it was. To yield, completely. To take, utterly. His hands
framed her face; he took her deeper, until she knew nothing but the
total joining of all that they were. Minds touched, hearts merged, souls
entwined. When he lifted his head, she was soft and pliant, his. He was
hers, until death and beyond; she knew it absolutely.

"I love you," he murmured against her mouth.

"Love you ...  love you.

My sweet Amy."

"I didn't believe this was possible," she whispered back. "Not really.

Until now. Oh, Marc, I love you so. I know I have a lot to learn, that
I'm not--" He silenced her with a gentle finger across her lips.

"Do you want proof that you're a lady?" he asked.

"I know in you I've found the other half of myself. Nothing else
matters. I don't care what brought you here, only that I found you. But
if you like, if you give me your grandfather's name, I'll write to
Ravensdene, have him search his family records to see if there's a link
to your mother. Only if you wish it, Amy."

"I think I would like that," she said after a moment's reflection.

"Then I'll do it, but remember when I said you were a lady waiting for
the right setting? Now you have it."

She thought about that, and a joyous smile spread over her face.

"In your cave?"

He smiled back at her.

"That, too. But most of all--" he bent to emphasise each point with a
kiss in my home ...  in my life ...  in my heart."

Amy's breath caught at the deep note of sincerity in his voice. She
looked into her own heart and saw the tiny flame of hope, so fragile
only hours ago, transformed into truth, burning bright and clear and
steady.

And as Marc gathered her closer, she saw reflected in his brilliant grey
eyes, their future.

The family she'd never had, times of care and laughter, and a love that
would grow stronger and deeper through all the years ahead.

MILLS BOON --------------^^

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