Alinar Publishing
www.alinarpublishing.com

Copyright ©2007 by Gayle Eden

First published in 2007, 2007

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

Clandestine

Gayle Eden

Copyright © 2007 Gayle Eden

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written consent of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The right of Gayle Eden to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published April 2007

First Edition

All characters in this publication are purely fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Edited by Tina Addair

Cover by Dian Addair

ISBN

1-906023-24-7

978-1-906023-24-9

Chapter 1

Jane Archer stood with her back to the library wall. The tall windows a few feet away were bare, making it easy to see his lordship, as if he were inside, and not out there, behind the glass.

A bead of sweat ran down between the dark slabs of his chest, pooling into the coal black line of hair, disappearing into the laces of those snug leather trousers. The breeze wafted softly, mussing long ebony hair, which curled past his shoulders, grown damp from his exertions. It was tied back, but long lengths escaped by his brow, one clinging to his jaw and sinewy throat, adhering to browned skin that looked incredibly velvet over chiselled muscle and tendons.

Breath pushed heavy between sensual lips. His deep-set, light brown eyes under straight inky brows were focused on his task. Having a frame of tall brawn, six feet four, broad shoulders and chest, taut waist, long, powerful legs, feet to calves encased in form fitting boots to the knee, Thorn St.Lyon's, the new Earl of Greystone, was no typical aristocrat.

She watched mesmerized at the slightest movement, the flex and reach, had muscles bulging, and his abdomen tightening. Her clothing felt itchy and too tight. Her body under the riding skirt and white blouse was starting to dew and tingle.

Jane laved her tongue over her dry bottom lip, struggling to recall what she'd come to Greystone for? Now, she did not particularly care. She was content to watch the show and enjoy a wickedly sensual sight. She'd seen men half clothed, came upon young men in the lake who had thought to shock her by running out in the buff. She knew a thing or two about anatomy—

Certainly, she had never viewed a man of this build and hue. Frankly the consensus among women who discussed such things, was that judging by the statues available, something seriously was lacking in proceeding decades, because there definitely was not a male in their part of the world whose shape or face looked anything like that.

Then again, she had heard things about Greystone. She heard them from his grandfather who raised him here. She had never exactly formed a picture of him outside the usual image of men who would be heirs. All right, so he had been intriguing in the abstract, even if she thought the old dear was exaggerating his grandson's skill at sports and academics.

Old Charles, a recluse and scholar, had told confided in her that Thorn had been planted in France, to carry out covert missions, she also knew he'd been two years in a French prison before they could get him out safely. The public knew none of this, but then, Jane was the sort of serious minded female that old men seemed to speak freely to. Her deceased father had been Charles's private physician; they had practically lived here the past three years.

In the year whist his grandfather had died, apparently someone had kept his heir hidden until he recuperated and came to take his rightful place at Greystone. Victoria, her friend, believed it was Edmund de Lacy, the Marquis of Warbrook, for several reasons it fit the logical deductions.

He did not look as if he had suffered too much damage. Jane grunted mentally. If men in society were half so healthy, there would not be a number bluestockings and old maids desperately avoiding marriage.

Jane's fingers flexed on the satchel she carried. She fished her hanky out of her pocket with the other, to pat her forehead and neck under her long brown braid.

The movement must have caught the earl's eye, for he froze, appeared to be looking thought the glass, before he came down the ladder. Jane was shoving the hanky in her pocket and taking a step from the wall, when he was there, framed by the wide-open French doors.

Not three feet away, he stared at her and nodded, “Good afternoon."

"My Lord.” She did not curtsey but smiled stiffly, completely guilty of having sinful thoughts earlier. “I'm Jane Archer; I've brought some papers that you will probably like to have."

His black brow elevated. He moved into the room and Jane followed his progress to a chair with a white lawn shirt over the back. He did not put it on, but wiped his face and neck with it, drug it down his chest; an action that drew her complete attention to that area and his abdomen.

My, but he seemed larger, darker, and more masculine on this side of the glass.

Jane jerked her gaze back upwards when he rang for a servant.

He said, when Mrs. Campbell poked her head in, “Something iced, please, Mrs. Campbell."

"Yes, my lord.” The woman beamed and glanced at Jane with a sly wink. “Hullo. Miss Archer."

"Mrs. Campbell.” Jane smiled back at the lady she had played cards and had tea with many times.

When the housekeeper exited, Jane commented, looking somewhere near the earl's shoulder, whist he half sat on the huge desk, “I did some secretarial work for the late earl—"

"I thought there was a Sir Denning—"

"Yes.” She walked toward him. “He's the solicitor, but I handled much of the every day correspondence. Some of his research I did from our rented cottage. My father was his physician."

His lips parted as if a memory just struck him. “Ah, yes. Archer."

"We had moved in, at the last. In fact I've a few things to collect from here also.” She handed him the case. He took it about the time Mrs. Campbell came in with a tray holding two glasses and some juices in shaved ice.

"I'll see to it, Mrs. Campbell,” Jane murmured, taking the tray and walking to the side table, pouring the earl a glass.

"Join me,” he offered setting the case to his other side.

Jane handed him the glass she had poured, noting his strong hands, veined and dark, and the scent of heated male wafting up her nose.

She poured a half glass for herself, and then stepped a safe distance away, though—she would have to have her eyes put out not to sneak peeks of him whilst she sipped, and explained, “Lord Charles did not trust many people. Sir Denning was nearly the same age as he, but worked out of London. Of course, my father was well known in his career, famous for his elite clients, but retired. Your grandfather trusted him and requested his care.

My father was recently widowed, so I thought it would also do him good. He had been at loose ends, and we took a house nearby.” Had she already said that? “But as the earl discovered my education, and we discussed my interests and work, he asked me to take care of daily details that he was no longer able to, it seemed to go from there."

"Interesting."

Since he was looking at her with those pale brown eyes, rimmed by thick black lashes, Jane felt as if someone had dried her mouth out with dust. “He was that. Your grandfather, I mean. He had written all of those books still used at the universities ... amazing man."

"Yes.” The earl downed the contents of the glass and leaned to pour another.

The stretching of his torso, the fan of ribs had Jane swallowing again.

"If you'd like, I can recommend some servants from the locals. I know Mrs. Campbell and the others did their best, but Lord Charles—"

"—

Did not like strangers,” he finished, having relaxed again with his glass and smiled. “I'm aware of my grandsire's quirks. It did not happen as a case of senility. It stemmed from his young manhood, when he had some manuscripts stolen and published by a man he thought was his good friend."

"Really?” She breathed, eyeing those stark white teeth and a smile that likely melted female bones into water. His voice was deep and smooth, slightly accented and intimate.

"Mmm. Yes. A servant was planted in the household, apparently paid for by the man. But, as it happens, I do have house help for Mrs. Campbell, I don't mind, however, seeing to the repairs myself—as I am unused to being idle, and with the social season and the exception of my going up to London ... one must take what pleasure one can before the rigid boredom of ton amusements is upon one."

"Yes. I suppose one must,” she murmured, seeing his gaze slide down her and up, before he drank from his glass.

The earl set the glass down and looked at the bookshelves, which were empty. Books were on the long tables at the end of the room and the shelves ready for polishing. He glanced back at Jane a moment. “You mentioned your work?"

She flushed. “Nothing lofty, I'm afraid. The usual charity boards and school contributions, some clerical work for father. I'd studied some in Italy and as my mother was well educated by her father.” She shrugged. “I had eclectic interests, but certainly could handle research and minor business details concerning Greystone."

He was still staring at her. “Then you must know ... that it teeters on the brink of ruin."

"I have heard you intend to seek Countess for Greystone. I am sure that there will be as many heiresses this season as any other, so I would not worry too much about it. You certainly have enough to sustain you in style long enough to win your bride."

"Yes. There is that answer.” His tone was flat, his gaze unmoving. “One I would have had to meet as earl in any case."

"Yes.” She flushed, not knowing exactly what to add, since it was done and there was nothing for a man to dislike about it. Men got their heiresses, most of the time beauties, and restored their own fortunes, saved their birthrights, spawned their heirs, changed their lives very little, with every advantage.

He reminded, “You said you have things to collect?"

When his gaze went to the desk, she nodded, “And a few things in the guestroom I left behind."

"Your father died, Miss Archer?"

"Last month.” She went to the desk and ignored the fact he watched her while she found a flat satchel in the bottom drawer and laid it atop. Her pen set and tablet, a few slim books. “I removed his things from here already and have them at the rented house."

Unexpectedly, it seemed, he asked then, “Have you enjoyed the London season before?"

She glanced up at him. “Yes. I had my debut. My father was successful in his profession and well known. Nevertheless, I was not a part of the cream of society, and he preferred the company of intellectuals and artists, scientists. So, though we were a part of that life in London, we indulged our own interests."

"You've not wed?"

She tied the flap down and walked around the desk and paused a foot from him. “No.” She could assume his look was assessing the reasons why; that she was no beauty or that she was the opposite of what a deb should be. Yet why she did not elaborate Jane did not know, other than the fact that reminding herself of the reality did not put her in the best mood.

Jane added, while endeavouring to focus on his face and not look down, attempting to ignore his darkly handsome looks, “Females with an education, and frank way of speaking, aren't particularly popular amid society, my lord. Not with the sticklers of the ton and social butterflies. I never quite mastered the art of simpering and eye batting and keeping my opinions hidden."

He smiled, laughing softly, in a deep way that made her skin tingle. Greystone mused aloud, “You remind me of someone..."

She arched her brow.

"Not in looks, but in character."

"A friend, I hope."

His grin lingered. “Yes. A childhood friend who lived nearby, Elise Manning."

"Ah. I am good friends with Lady Victoria."

"Vicki ... She was the youngest, was she not?"

"Yes. After Elise and her parent's died in India, she stayed there until she came into her inheritance.” Jane smiled dryly. “The Manning millions, and the bane of her life. I did not know Elise, as I only moved to this area recently. But Vicki is a very unique and outspoken woman, highly intelligent."

He nodded. “I do not think Viscount Manning would have abided ignorant children."

"So Vicki tells me.” Jane nodded. Her gaze dropped and hastily shifted away. “If you'll excuse me, I'll just get those things..."

"Of course.” He nodded.

Jane shot him a glance, then turned and hurried out, her boot heels clicking on the polished wood floors.

* * * *

Thorn went to the tray, poured the last of the juice into a glass and drank it. He sat there a moment, half on the desk, his gaze absently on the open door leading to the hallway.

Miss Archer. He half-smiled thinking that his first impression was of a small brown wren, however as he had been closer he had noticed her hair was a rich, deep brown, with red highlights. She was not beautiful, but rather intriguing; handsome bones and deep moss coloured eyes. There was directness in her, something absent in too many women he had met in his lifetime, something he would not see much of when he went on the heiress hunt this season.

Thorn mentally ground his teeth, though as he had said, he would have to wed in any case and provide Greystone an heir. It may as well be a rich one who could restore the family fortune.

She, Miss Archer, was not a tall woman, around five foot five he would guess, and though she wore a plain black skirt and high necked silk blouse, he judged she was likely better shaped than corsets and layers showed. There was modesty about her, in spite of the simple long braid and frank eyes, or perhaps it was a pride or confidence.

He suspected his celibate state, whilst recovering aboard Edmund's ship, was getting to him, that and the thoughts of wedding. He conjectured from Edmund, that among those choices would be either a cold beauty, who would sacrifice in bed, or a petulant deb used to being spoiled, one that would require restraint of his hungers and traits. There would be the expectation that they attend every social event and party of importance.

Then again, she could be like Edmund's wife of ten years, a genteel woman on the surface, and a whore behind his back. Poor Edmund, to return from war and find your wife of ten years openly living with another man. To realize, he'd never known her at all. To have to publicly divorce her, and—Bloody hell. He had been about the business of war, and put the earldom and the ton behind him, because even before he became the heir he had avoided that society. He never cared for their stamp of approval and had attended only a few functions, where he found himself either bored or feeling like meat in a lion's cage. If not for his meeting the Marquis of Warbrook, he doubted seriously if he would have ever gone to London.

Then, it was through Edmund that he began his training as an agent. He knew many of his peers believed the only purpose of their aristocracy was to indulge themselves and wallow in the luxury of their status, the superiority of their birthright. To stand around sprouting politics and pretending to know what was best for every man of every class, and to believe, the better belonged to them.

A different sort of man had raised him, and he had been dangerously close to becoming a rakehell, though not the dissolute his father, when he had finally met Edmund and begun planning his mission, Thorn felt that he had finally discovered a purpose beyond the title and rank and expectation of society.

Now of course, it was his reality that he'd become the Earl of Greystone, and his responsibility to see it survive another generation and thrive. It was his place to provide the heir.

* * * *

Thorn blinked to attention when he heard voices in the hall. He straightened and casually slid on the shirt that he had discarded, doing a few buttons and crossing the room. He had deliberately kept his back to Jane, though he did not think her missish. He simply did not like having to explain the scars.

In the hall, he noted that Jane was talking with Mrs. Campbell. For a moment, he could overhear their conversation...

"I've the cottage rented for the rest of the year. I have just finished fulfilling all of father's business, sending books and letters to those on his list, his good friends and such. I do have to go to London and finalize some papers soon."

"Well, Now. I was right sorry he went, but your father was tired, Jane. And he missed your mother very much."

"Yes.” Jane smiled. “I thank you, Mrs. Campbell, for sitting and listening to him talk about her. They were very much partners though society would never have a woman physician. Her father was such, and her mother an herbalist, so she quite knew what she was about. They were the best of friends. I remember every night they talked and talked..."

"I could tell, my dear. And it was no trouble to me. His lordship was ill so long, and the house so empty of visitors. He was good for the earl and I do think he lasted out in order to ease his lordship's own passing."

"I've thought so.” Jane sighed. Thorn could see a heavy valise at her feet. She added, “When things settle down here, do come by on your days off, and see me."

"Oh, I will. Though if the earl's to get a bride, I expect the house will be humming.” Mrs. Campbell grinned. “Quite exciting for those of us who are older, to see Greystone coming alive again."

"Yes. It should be. And he'll have cronies down, weekend parties, mayhap, just to give your practice."

The women laughed.

Then Mrs. Campbell said, “Let me call Ted to carry this out for you.” She motioned to the valise.

Jane opened her mouth, but Thorn strode to them, offering, “I'll see to it."

She looked at him somewhat startled. “Oh—that's quite all right, my Lord. I—"

"Thorn.” He offered his hand.

She stared at it, shook it, though she seemed surprised.

He winked at Mrs. Campbell. “In fact, it's Thornton, but my grandfather didn't like the name. Didn't like my father, actually. He gave it to me—I believe—because grandfather detested it.” He laughed and picked up the bag, following Jane out the entry and seeing her light buggy waiting. He put it in the floor.

Thorn then turned, and Jane stood there.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome.” He nodded.

She answered the traces of his smile and murmured, “I'm aware the previous Earl did not care for your father."

"Father was a complete wastrel,” he said smoothly, having always seen his grandfather as his father. “My mother died when I was born, and father gave up any pretence of being respectable."

"Gave you up, to your grandfather also?"

"Yes. Thankfully,” Thorn supplied. “He died very much the way he lived, shot in a duel for cheating."

She wrinkled her nose. “Ah. Well, so many gents are stuffy and starched, it's rather exciting to have at least one black sheep."

He muttered, “He was more than that. He is why the money ran out. Grandfather had to bribe and pay to cover his scandals and get him out of messes too often."

"Yes. He rambled about it sometimes."

Thorn looked around the rolling green lawn and then to the side where the stables were. He finally glanced back to Jane Archer, watching a few strands from her braid tease her forehead. “I loved it here as a lad."

"The past Earl said you did. He also said everything came easily to you, sports, your studies, particularly languages and sciences.” Jane was looking past him. “He was supremely proud of you. He felt you were Greystone. Meant to be its future.” She finally met his gaze and Thorn could only stare at a twinkle in her eye. “He also said you were quite the flirt and that he was fully aware you'd sneak to the village tavern."

Thorn chuckled. “Um. And here I though I was so very sly."

"Nope. Not a bit. I overheard him telling father, how you'd think he was abed and sneak out on horseback."

Shaking his head, still grinning, Thorn sighed. “It is too bad that I did not see him once more."

"I'm sure. But he felt very close to you, very proud all the same."

"Thank you, Jane.” Thorn held her gaze. “For your father, for everything you did here. I am not so foolish as to believe it was simple letter writing. I know it had to take some skill to keep it all together until I returned."

"It was my pleasure. I enjoyed seeing my father find a purpose. It filled him with a sense of being needed, until his own passing."

Thorn noticed that in the day light, the shadowy grotto green of her eyes, so unusual that he thought someone at a distance might mistake her eyes for brown, were very unique. He murmured aloud, without thinking, “I do not think I've ever seen eyes like yours, The hue."

She flushed obviously, but said, “My mother was a dark woman with a mulatto grandmother."

"Ah. No doubt an exotic beauty?"

"Yes.” She laughed acknowledging that as a gentleman's effort to avoid having his comment construed as an insult. “I take after father, except for the eyes."

He sensed that self-consciousness and thought it at odds with her intelligence and apparent confidence. “A very handsome man, obviously.” He smiled.

She chuckled dryly. “Thank you.” She turned to step in the buggy seat.

Thorn assisted her, watched her pull gloves from her pocket and expertly takes the ribbons.

"Your house is nearby?"

"A few miles, yes. I walked the distance and have ridden it. It used to be a guest cottage, your grandfather said. Sold off a long time ago."

"Ah, I remember it. A stone cottage with black shutters.” He stepped back. “If you have forgotten anything else, feel free to return. In fact, I hope you shall feel welcome here anytime, Jane."

"Thank you, my Lord."

"Thorn.” He scolded with a grin. “I will hear too much formality in London. And, if there is anything at all I may do for you—to assist you or whatever else, I am quite happily at your service."

He saw her eyes go over him in that quick way they had in the library. Far from the mockery, or the teasing he would have done, should have felt, Thorn felt his instincts react on the basic level of a man whom a woman was stealing glances at.

He had bloody well better get to London soon, and to a mistress.

"I ... shall. Thank you again.” She began turning the buggy toward the drive.

Thorn watched her until it reached the main road. He shook his head then and turned to go inside, wanting to finish the physical work and put off the mountain of paperwork, the going through his grandfather's things, the lists he needed to make before he went to London—The many, many lists he must make—not looking forward to opening the Greystone townhouse there, which would have to be re-staffed.

Standing at last in the library, he cursed and went to the desk, then dashed a quick note off to Edmund. He was cognisant society was treating the Marquis like an aberration because of his divorce, and at the moment, Edmund detested every last one of them; the cliques, the superficial sophisticates, and the gossips. He would be damned if he went through the season though, without his friend and ally.

Chapter 2

Two days after her trip to Greystone, Jane sat in the shade outside the cottage, enjoying the small flower garden she had rescued whilst living there. She was expected at Lady Victoria's for supper. There was a servant at the cottage, Mrs. Drayton, who took care of things, having only herself to see to, Jane had never required body servants or much waiting on, the woman was the only employee at the cottage aside from seasonal help they had required.

She had washed her hair earlier and managed a trim with the woman's help. It now had a foot gone and edged the bottom of her shoulder blades, feeling lighter, much healthier, and it would be easier to take care of. In the past months, with so much going on, she had had little time to attend her looks.

The morning had been spent packing books and generally going through things, so that she would know exactly what she needed to take care of in London.

Jane wore a sleeveless green muslin dress, very simple in lines and comfortable enough with a square neck. She had her slippers off and her bare feet resting on the padded wicker chaise, she was trying also not to think of Sir David Norton's return to England.

Shifting her shoulders Jane stared at the small rounded lawn and the trees edging it. Nevertheless, in her mind she was cringing at her future as David's wife. She had managed to put it off for nearly five years, and she knew from his last missive that he would wait no longer. With his business abroad complete, he was ready to return to England and to enjoy his prosperity, he said, which meant he wanted to open the recently purchased Norton Hall, and show off his wealth and possessions.

How she had so misjudged the man's character, she did not know. However, Jane admitted that at the time she had been suffering things she had not experienced before, namely that feeling of invisibility amid society; that not beautiful, not quite blue enough in blood. And too, she had envied her parent's closeness, though they loved her, it sometimes made her feel excluded.

Jane spent much of her life in studies and libraries, and amid people who talked of interesting things. For all she did not agree with society views, nor the female's role there, she had to at least, for that time, consider herself as a woman, a female. That distance she felt from other women and that inability to flirt or play the mating games—it had left her a bit self-conscious and feeling as if she would not find what her parents had.

Being on the shelf was not such a bad thing, Jane reasoned, though she had more freedom and certainly, she had financial independence now. However, back then, when she had been twenty-two, she had seen herself in twenty years; still alone in libraries and studies, never having that someone to discuss her interests with as her parent's had ... and she had panicked.

It made no sense to her now. Jane was honest with herself. She had to be. She knew David, sort of. He had been someone they had always mingled with in London, attended salons where he attended too. She had known he was intelligent and that he had extensive knowledge of art and cultures that he travelled broadly and was worldly. It seemed like an interesting combination of maturity and the sort of man who discussed things other men in society would not. He had female friends, seemed to respect their minds. He was charismatic in the sense that he could discuss so numerous topics with authority—

Jane groaned and reached up to rub her fingertips across her forehead. It was the letters, that five-year absence whilst he was in America. She had grown too, matured, and she had been able to read them with an objectivity that revealed more than she had first gathered about him.

However, the truth was that he had proposed and she had accepted, and the mansion, the plans, everything he had prepared, was based on that fact. He was fifty-six years old, and she would soon be twenty-seven. It was not at all the age difference. It was the tone of his letters, the content and what she read between the lines. He was not at all like her father. He was not a warm man or even one who likely made friends beyond those who basked in his superior knowledge and experience. Moreover, there was something uncompromising in his letters that she finally realized was that thread that kept her honoring that engagement, it was not obvious control of her thoughts, but it was a subtle nuance that made her afraid to break it off.

Jane lowered her hand and glanced toward the lane. She heard the hoof beats long before she saw Lord Greystone, astride a muscular black stallion. As it came closer, she had to admire the blue-black sheen and the long mane and tail, while it progressed. A high stepper, and large enough a beast to carry such a brawny male. She had rarely seen its equal and presumed he must have purchased it outside England.

Thorn was eventually close enough, so that Jane sat up and turned aside, to lower her feet and find her slippers. There was not much she could do with her hair, so she gathered it back, tucked it behind her ears, and then stood, as he dismounted.

He looked incredibly handsome in a stark white lawn shirt, billowing, and snug black trousers and boots. Again, his hair was tied back, but a few strands had blown loose, and it gave him more pirate than prince appearance at the moment.

"Welcome.” Jane smiled and reached up to let the stud blow against her hand. It snorted, making her chuckle lightly. She glanced at his lordship, who was gazing around. “You can hobble him, let him graze,” she suggested.

Thorn did, and then returned to her, waving her back down to her seat and taking it's twin, sitting on the edge and facing her. “I hope you don't mind my dropping in. I was going bloody daft in that study.” He shifted his shoulders smiling. “I don't mind paperwork, but there are mountains of it. The only thing in the books that make sense are your entries."

"Of course, I don't mind.” Jane glanced at the cottage doorway and spied Mrs. Drayton. She introduced the thirish woman and then, “May I offer you something, tea, or coffee?"

"Coffee."

Jane requested two and tried not to indulge herself by eyeing Thorn up close. “If it is any help, there are duplicates already made. I am sure you can find someone in London to be your secretary, who can keep the accounts there, and keep track expenditures. Once you've decided on a bride, given that she is an heiress, your credit will be excellent until you can settle the duns."

His smile was mockery, a mere flex of his dark jaw. “Yes. I suppose so. One forgets it's a business proposition on both sides."

"Certainly. In addition, you will be bringing a very old and respected title to the marriage. Greystone is nothing to sneeze at either. The land was awarded to your ancestors for service to the crown."

"I know.” He reached down a plucked a blade of grass, rolling it in his fingers.

Jane did eye his throat and shoulders when the wind tugged at that collarless garment, plastering it to him in places and helping to create a gap, where the top buttons were undone, vividly bringing to mind what he looked like without a shirt at all.

Mrs. Drayton brought the coffee on a tray. There were moments of adding cream, stirring, each facing the other, and holding their cups in their palms.

Jane sipped but she detected his scent, something earthy and warm, and forgot that her hair was down and she too was informally dressed. However, as her lips left the cup—she caught him eyeing it. When he took a sip from his own, he caught her looking at him.

There was a suspended moment, drawn out, where Jane did not know what to do. Obviously, the tension was her embarrassment. She was nothing to stare at, even with her hair down.

"How old are you, Jane?"

"Twenty seven until next month,” she answered that murmur.

He supplied, “I'm thirty."

"I know.” She chewed her lip, feeling the hair on her nape rise, feeling her heart start to beat too tumultuous. It was the oddest thing. It had never, ever happened before. She had never been so aware, so attracted to a man. She had not smelled their scent, conceived something earthy, virile, and sensual about them.

Of course, she had not. Jane jerked her gaze from his, and pretended to watch something beyond him on the lawn, though she knew he scrutinized her.

"I heard you mention that you had business in London?"

"Yes.” Jane cleared her throat that was growing taut with tension. “I've some ... details ... to see to."

"Do you own a house there?"

"I do. It was used more than other homes and father had an office and a laboratory there. He left it to me."

"Perhaps, you will accept an invitation out with me, whist in London? It is the least I can do, considering."

"You owe my nothing m ... Thorn. Your grandfather paid me."

"No. He did not."

Swiftly, Jane looked at him.

Thorn smiled. “Mrs. Campbell told me. She told me that both you and your father refused compensation."

"My father was very well-off, Thorn, and your grandfather was barely hanging on to Greystone. Lands were fallow; farms empty. There were paintings, furnishing worth a fortune. But who can take one thing from Greystone that doesn't belong there?"

He considered her silently. “As soon as possible. I will see you reimbursed."

"No. We slept and ate there; we enjoyed what would have been a lonely time for my father, a depressed and lost time, in the company of your grandsire, and of the servants. We were surrounded by history and beautiful property. I consider it a clean slate."

"Your father left you comfortable?"

"Yes. When I sell the house, for it is large, and ‘tis not as if I will have use for such a place. I will be more so.” She stared at him. “I'm no heiress, but I will not require the ... expense of being one.” Jane winced inwardly, still not telling him about David for some reason. Honestly, she did not want to vocalize all her reasons for being attached to him.

"You will accept an invitation out, however? To a play or perhaps dinner?"

She nodded. “I would like that."

His thick lashes flickered, shuttering those eyes a moment. “Are you aquatinted with Lord Warbrook?"

"I have met him. Yes. When Lady Vic ... When Vicki and I became friends, and I was visiting the Manning estate, he was there looking over the stables. Vicki has become very involved in running the estate, and as you likely know, her father breed many champion racers."

"Yes. I seem to recall that. Though he was known to collect a few exotic animals too."

"Umm.” Jane nodded. “Manning hall certainly reflects their travels, and their love of the exotic. Viscount Manning did some impressive works in his travels though. Quite respected by your grandfather, too. Vicki said they corresponded."

"I would expect so."

Another silence stretched with the sound of birds and a snort from the stallion grazing happily.

"Would you like for me to get the papers you need for London sorted for you?” Jane offered when he was focused on her again.

"No.” He held her gaze with an intense one. “What I'd like..."

She felt a flutter of panic and looked away.

"I'm sorry, Jane.” He stood. The cup clattered in the tray.

She had set her cup beside it, had her elbows on her thighs, her face buried in her hands when he rode off.

As impossible, improbably, utterly surprising as it was, Jane knew with every fiber of her being, Thorn St.Lyons wanted the same thing she did—

* * * *

In the richness and opulence of the manning hall dining room, as soon as the servants departed, Jane spilled everything to Lady Victoria, every second since meeting him, and every impure thought and reaction.

Victoria, who often ignored the lavishness of her surroundings and dressed, acted, and was, a woman of practical mindedness, listened and sipped her wine. She waited for the whole to be said before commenting.

"Thorn was a friend of Elise's. I do remember him being dusky and handsome. Of course I was not exactly enthralled by men as objects of sex, so—” She smiled though and mused, “He was a rogue, but nothing like his father.” Vicki shuddered, “That one was completely worthless bastard. Thorn had his share of female attention. You know, my father used to hold contests in the conservatory, fencing and the like. Thorn, always won."

"I can well believe that,” Jane murmured. “But I'm anxious, Vicki. I know he must have an heiress. Greystone requires the sort of countess that can only be found amid the ton. That kind of host with the breeding and refinement—and—Yet, I want to see him when I go to London. I know I will. And my own situation..."

Victoria titled her head, the wine red of her hair catching the light. “I have already told you what I think of your association with Sir. Norton. Break it off. I mean it, Jane. You are one of the most perceptive women I know. If you sense something..."

"I don't know that I do. Doubtless it is that we have been apart. Possibly we haven't gotten to know each other."

"Conceivably,” Vicki said tartly, “You are a woman in your prime and your inclination is to mate with a virile male, and possibly, you've opened your eyes and realized that companionship and friendship requires some intimate knowledge, that you do not actually have with David."

She stopped and sat back, eyeing her friend with frank brown eyes. “For God sakes, Jane. At least realize it can be undone. You do not have to wed him."

Jane opened her mouth, then closed it and sighed.

"Come on. Let's move to the study."

Jane followed Victoria, entering the masculine green and wine colored room. Victoria, though dressed in a lovely bronze silk gown, kicked off her shoes and relaxed on the sofa. Jane sat on the matching chaise, staring at the carpet.

"Do you want to know something?” Victoria drew Jane's gaze.

"What?"

"I have been in love with Edmund de Lacy for most of my life."

Jane's jaw dropped.

Victoria arched her brow and snorted. “Shocking, isn't it?"

"You mean ... even before his marriage?"

"Yes. Which is why I stayed away."

"Does he know?"

"No.” Victoria looked away. “That's the irony of his being free. The scandal of the divorce— and I have heard that his ex wife's lover is an arsenic eater. Edmund suspects he will tire of Emma, now the funds are cut off and she's disgraced. He may be bitter, he may hate her, but he is afraid that man will kill her."

"Dear God."

"Horrible, isn't it.” Victoria swallowed. “And I am cold-hearted for resenting the fact, that she is out of his life, and I still cannot have him."

"Would he ... Does he ... want you?"

"I doubt it.” She smiled dryly. “But then again, his mood these days, what with the ton fanning the flames of gossip from the divorce, and his attempting to fulfill his business, run Warbrook, and it isn't as if Emma is a ghost. She is alive and he did love her, I think. They were wed a long time."

"Does he talk to you, confide, I mean?"

"Oh, yes. Treats me like a chum."

Jane smiled at that droll tone. “That's not all bad. The Marquis is an intelligent man, very dignified and somewhat arrogant, but at least he does not view females as inferior."

"Emma, was the perfect wife on the surface,” Victoria mused aloud. “She is still stunning."

"You aren't ugly."

"No. But neither am I a beauty.” Victoria shrugged. “But it's not just looks. Emma was the perfect model of womanhood, and I tried everything to be the opposite. I had an indulgent father, Jane. Moreover, I was positive for most of my life that being unique and not meeting the requirements was an asset. I studied everything I could possibly be allowed to, and a few things on the sly. Edmund, for all he likely was a spy, and for all he was forced to divorce Emma, is, as you say, the epitome of British aristocracy, he's dignified and arrogant and...."

"Handsome..."

Victoria laughed. “Yes. That premature silver hair, those violet eyes, that patrician face, he is bloody handsome, and women notice it. Edmund reeks everything I should detest, being the reformer I have been. But I cannot bloody help it. I knew the moment I saw him, that my heart was lost."

Jane absorbed that. “Well, I do not think that the clouds will always surround him. You still have a chance."

"No. He will pick his wife the same bloody cold, detached, way that Greystone will, and for the same reasons."

"So, whist I am not in love with Thorn and merely attracted— the bottom line is, that the both of us are going to settle for something less?"

"I am not getting myself wed to the wrong man.” Victoria shook her head. “Which you will be doing if you go through with this engagement."

The clock chimed and Jane sighed. “I must go. I've things to do.” She stood, and Jane walked her to the hall. They embraced.

Victoria whispered, “Accept that invitation in London."

"But—"

Holding her hands, Victoria looked her in the eye. “You have never been attracted to a man like that. You said so. The least that can come from it is that when you meet your intended again, you will have enough sense to know the limits you are settling for."

Jane left shortly after; she did not answer that last part, because she already knew she had no physical attraction to David. It had been a cerebral affinity, and he was not an unattractive man.

Chapter 3

Jane had been in London a week already. She finished her business, all but selling the house. Every time she opened the safe and held the deed, she could not bring herself to do it.

It had to be done.

The house was huge, half closed up, at least the parts her father used in his practice. There were dust covers, drawn curtains in the guestrooms. Jane needed to pack things up and store them. She needed to sell the house and find something smaller, temporary. She had a modest amount in the bank, but she would have more if she would go ahead—and sell the bloody house.

David's last letter assumed she had. He would be arriving next week.

At the end of the week, she went shopping. For the first time Jane paid for the services of a professional hairdresser. She purchased a few gowns actually in fashion, though she refused to consider why. She paid for a beautiful forest green dress that had been ordered and rejected. With a few alterations on the design, It was a lovely, low cut, off the shoulder, with straight lines, very thin silk, and showing more of her body in curves that anything she had ever owned.

Telling herself it was her wedding ware, reminding herself—that David would no doubt expect her to flit around on his travels and have the latest styles done, that he was a man of taste— she bought undergarments that were gossamer thin and stockings that were sheer. She bought scent for God sakes...

She waited for a possible invite from the Earl of Greystone.

It came. His card arrived. It occurred to her that she had not given her address and he had likely had to ferret that out. He had gone to the trouble of doing so.

He invited her to dinner and to the theatre.

It was on a Tuesday, and Jane distracted herself for most of the morning amid the crowds and normal London traffic. She had a young maid Alice with her, and certainly walked the girl's feet sore. She returned home in plenty of time, admitting to herself, that she had intended to accept all along. She sent a boy with a note and took a long scented bath.

You are not a seductress. Jane chanted as she bathed. You are no beauty and by now, having been in London, he has seen plenty. By now, he has acquired a mistress or had...

Jane muttered and stood, drying herself, ignoring the fact that Alice was laying out that lovely green gown and a black cape with green velvet edging. She dried, soothed on lotions, put on a sheer chemise and her black stockings.

He was simply feeling as if he owed her something. That was all. He was offering a polite dinner, a night at the opera, because he had loved his grandfather....

"I found a lovely necklace that would match this.” Alice broke through her thoughts and removed a jewel box from the wardrobe.

Never having worn much but the locket her mother gave her, a strand of pearls, Jane had forgotten about the one the girl held up. It was a thin line of emeralds with a diamond in the center. An elaborate Christmas gift from the year her mother died.

"That's fine, Alice.” Jane picked up the gown.

"Let me hold it. You step in. The hooks are tricky."

Jane stepped in the gown and then held her arm aside, so that Alice could hook it up the right side. She nervously smoothed it down her body, flushing to feel so much of her skin through that material. She could not wait to put the blasted cape on.

Her pumps were black with silk bows, and Jane had them on when she sat down for the maid to do her hair. “Something simple."

The maid nodded, but pulled her hair up and back, doing a smooth twist and holding it with pins. She took the length and somehow created a stylish ribbon like effect, securing that with the same tiny pins.

"There, now. Simple enough.” The young maid winked. “You are going to the theater."

Jane thanked her and stood, taking her cape and gloves up.

The maid left, but returned shortly. “His lordship, the Earl of Greystone is in the foyer."

Jane swallowed and nodded. “Help me with this.” She spread the cape.

"You're supposed to let the gentl—"

"I'm chilled.” Jane lied, and they soon had the cape on her shoulders, and tied at the throat.

Jane descended the stairs, holding both hems and cursing her weak knees. At the bottom one, she stared at Thornton St. Lyons and forgot she had legs.

He was gazing around at the art in the foyer, art she had done. Dressed quite stunning, in all black, save for white silk shirt, no hat, but his hair was tied at the nape. He carried a long cape. The frock coat was thigh length, his trousers snug and Hessians gleaming. He was so large, so swarthy ... his profile ... utterly strong.

His light brown eyes were skimming and lit on her. His smile, a white flash, slightly crooked, nearly did her in. “Jane, you look lovely."

She masked her reaction with humor. “Thank you. Amazing what combing one's hair and wearing the latest styles will do.” Jane grinned and took his offered arm.

He chuckled and glanced down at her as the butler held the door. “Nonsense. My compliment was sincere."

"Allow me to return it then, you are quite handsome yourself.” Jane added mentally that she also knew he looked splendid without a shirt.

He murmured something and held the coach door for her, giving directions that she hardly heard. Already feeling small whist holding his arm, seated across from him in the coach, the closeness, the scent, and looking at him, Jane knew that it would be a night of flushing for her, because her body was already reacting to his nearness.

* * * *

Thorn shifted in the seat, pleased that the coach was roomy enough for his long legs. He rested the opera cape across his thigh and leaned his elbow on the open window, pretending to view the congested traffic whilst stealing a few glances at Jane.

He was quite fascinated; having those two images of her stuck in his mind; one at Greystone, and the one at the rented cottage, of her hair down. She appeared uneasy now.

He noted the style of her hair showed off the handsome bone structure of her face, and it drew attention to her eyes. Her mouth was a light pink, not bowed, but curved enough to be feminine. The second glance across, he eyed where the cape parted, but could not discern much from her seated position. He observed that she was smoothing her gloves tensely. It dawned on him that the gown was very fine silk, obviously of the latest style.

"How has your arrival in London been?"

He lifted his gaze to find hers on him. A flush spread to her cheeks, telling him that he had been caught looking. “Productive but hardly interesting. I hired a secretary, ordered a wardrobe, calling cards, the usual."

"The Marquis will likely arrive for the opening balls. You will have a close friend here then."

"Yes. Edmund, for all he detests some aspects of society, is somewhat of an expert on it."

"You weren't in London much?"

"In London, yes. At ton gatherings? Only when I had to be.” Thorn grunted and let his gaze scan her face. “I shall suffer through it."

"You will enjoy yourself.” Jane grinned. “There is every advantage and vice to be had for men here. And for all I have said the worst about it, the balls and entertainment's can be enjoyable.” She shrugged. “It will take some time for you to look over the potential brides. So, you may as well look at the positive side."

The only positive side as far as Thorn was concerned, was the saving of Greystone.

"Some heiresses are quite beautiful,” she said next.

"Yes. I suppose they are.” He looked out the window and attempted to jest. “Though it's not a requirement, I presume one wants the heirs to have some passable looks?"

"I'm sure yours will."

Thorn glanced at her swiftly, to find her eyes on him. For an unguarded moment, he saw what he had seen before, a spark more than attraction, that he deduced was likely evident in his own gaze.

He did not know why. He did not actually want to take it apart and question it. He was so bloody tired of the strain from the week, of people bowing and scrapping, and of them staring—treating him either like some holy icon, or worse, the way some eyed his height as if he were ten feet tall and had three heads. Everyone knew who he was before he entered a shop or office, and when his secretary hired the staff; he was treated again to some sort of reverence that ill fit.

During his covert missions, he had had a completely shaved head and grown a beard, which he had braided. More often than not, he was in the company of the thieves, smugglers and thugs. Even before the war years, he preferred the rustic life at Greystone to the ton. If he could suffer out some rout in card room, he escaped to a common tavern or gaming hell.

Edmund was just the opposite. Edmund could not hide what he was. Thorn often teased him that his breeding and arrogance were like bright peacock feathers. It was not something that he could conceal.

Jane had looked away from him and out the window. Thorn leaned to his own, in order to mark their progress. “Would you care to dine, before or after?"

"After.” She cleared her throat. “Unless you..."

"No. I lunched at the club."

He searched his brain for a neutral subject, suddenly feeling as if it was entirely his fault that she was ill at ease. He saw nothing wrong with a friendship, considering their ties through his grandfather, nevertheless, Thorn was not so dishonest as to deny the chemistry between them either.

"I've heard something of your father's reputation, since I arrived. You are right. He was well known. It seems he named many of the ton amid his clients."

"Yes. They kept him quite busy. He once said that it also gave him some influence. He was interested in new medicines, not like some of his colleagues, who scoffed, and envied the younger, more open-minded physicians. Father often invited doctors from all over the world to visit. He hosted some lectures in the salon.” She glanced at him. “My mother grew herbs for medicinal purposes. Her own interests drew horticulturist and botanist, even farmers into the circle."

"It sounds quite interesting."

"It was,” She confirmed. “They were two great minds, somewhat ahead of their time, I believe. Perhaps someday female doctors will be accepted. I truly think mother would have done far more for women in particular. But society can be ignorant and closed minded."

"And you? All of those interests. Was there one in particular you wished to peruse?"

She thought upon it obviously. “I'm always interested in changing the laws to give females more freedom of choice. To recognize we can run our own lives, and prove that our brains are not deficient if we choose to.” Her shoulders shrugged again. “Women do manage and run many things, behind their husbands. I am interested in education for all classes, in most human rights. Given a choice, I would study law. Nevertheless, I enjoy history and I enjoyed working with your grandfather— doing research. I suppose, given the freedom and the choice, I would study whatever I wished, as men do, and use the freedom to enrich my life and others, hopefully."

"You're an interesting woman, Jane.” He nodded. “Lady Elise was like that. I think that she was able to do much of what she wanted in other countries."

"As has Victoria.” Jane nodded. “Being wealthy and titled helps impress people, but Vicki has managed to do an astounding number of things that this society would find scandalous."

"I can imagine. It takes so little to create gossip here."

They laughed. Then Jane said, “It is terrible that they will not let Lord Warbrook's troubles die down. It must be hurtful, and worse."

"Yes. Edmund is used to being a man of influence. His family is as old and as respected as Greystone. The ton is not very wise, if you consider that he will eventually wed again and offer that title and wealth to one of their desperate chicks."

"Um."

They fell silent a moment as the driver called out. Then the theater and crush of carriages and coaches came into view.

"We are here,” Thorn said, and when the coach stopped, he swung open the door and stepped out, shifting the cape to his other arm to assist Jane down.

It was tedious progress to the private box, and not without rude stares, and not exactly discreet whispers. He heard his name—and only a few times Jane's. Most of what he heard was questions to her identity, and likely, it reached her ears, those murmurings of his bride hunt this season, along with some unkind references aimed toward Jane, that she was certainly no great heiress or looker.

His old distaste and aversion for the shallow crowd rose up. Thorn did not smile. He scarcely nodded when his attention was drawn. He had Jane close to his side, and thanks to his height; he got them in the box after some not—so—subtle plowing through. He released her arm and waited for her to take her seat.

Heat rose up. It was noisy from the lower crowds, and the air stuffy. He took his own chair when Jane was seated, and glanced over in time to see her untie the cape and let fall against the chair back.

He had been right. Thorn jerked his gaze away, also aware that dozens of eyes were on them. That gown cut low and revealed generous breasts. The ivory hue, stuck vividly in his mind from a short glimpse. It was impossible to hold a conversation now, unless he leaned over. Thorn mocked himself for wanting to do that, like some schoolboy, to get a peek at Jane's breasts.

He shifted in his chair and gazed beneath his lashes around at the boxes, the opera glasses turned their way, and fans hiding whispering mouths. He glanced at Jane, to find her sitting upright and stiff, her eyes somewhere down toward the stage, her hands clasped.

It was going to be a bloody long evening.

It was.

Even between acts of a play, that Thorn was not attending. It was too hot, too noisy, and too impossible to ignore that under the magnifying glass feeling.

When he noted Jane's attention wandering, her lack of reaction to even the amusing parts, he leaned toward her and muttered, “I suggest we stop torturing ourselves and leave."

She looked at him, relief clearly written on her face. “I need real air in my lungs."

Thorn laughed and stood, no longer attending the crowd as he waited for her to stand, then helped her on with the wrap. They made out into a thankfully cooler night, and stood a moment simply ridding their heads of noise.

"May I smoke?"

"Yes, of course.” She grinned at him. “I may take it up myself, after that."

He took her arm, casually strolling along the paths, after he lit his cheroot. Thorn found a bench, and Jane sat whist he walked to the edge and enjoyed his cheroot.

It was some time before she spoke; “May I ask something personal?"

He turned and met her gaze, and nodded.

"Was it ... difficult, your part, in the war?"

"Difficult?” He looked at the tip of his cigar. “Yes. Dangerous. Tense. Explosive.” Thorn glanced up and shook his head. “Exciting in some perverse way. Everything you'd expect."

She chewed her lip. “Your grandfather told me some things..."

Thorn considered a moment. “There was much more than anyone will ever know."

She nodded and the way she held his gaze, Thorn felt that if he ever did talk about it, she would likely understand. Odd, but that is what he felt.

"Lord Warbrook was wounded in a mob crossfire?"

Thorn blew a stream of smoke, his eyes slightly narrowed against it. “Yes."

"I see.” Her lips curved, acknowledging the lie. “Well, he had a very good physician. A man in Edinburgh. I heard great things of him. I know that when I met Warbrook at Manning hall, you could tell his love of horses. If the fragments were removed, he will not be dependent on a cane for long. He will enjoy riding again."

"Yes. He tells me the first quack nearly had him convinced, to hack the limb and buy himself an ivory stump with diamond studs.” Thorn heard her laugh and grinned, for it was the sort of morbid humor he and Edmund often exchanged during the war. “But this one, other than insisting on painful exercises, had him construct a Roman sauna ... Quite pampers himself now, does Edmund."

She was still grinning.

Thorn enjoyed that expression and the next one—when her gaze wandered over him. He was observing as it returned to meet his, and he relished the heat in his body this time, the sharpening of his senses.

"You said that you had a debut? I'm not to assume you haven't wed because there were no offers."

She stiffened. He frowned as she looked away. Her voice was strained when she answered rather uncomfortably, “An offer. Yes. I have not wed as yet ... because I wasn't ... ready."

Thorn sensed more to that, yet he was not sure how far he wanted to probe, but he sensed it was as carefully couched as his own evasion earlier. He crushed out the cheroot and stepped up, offering his arm.

The walk back to the coach was filled with a few amusing comments about the play. However, he was aware that neither of them cared what they were saying. He caught the subtle waft of her perfume and realized that the hum of tension, of attraction, was growing stronger by the second.

Dinner at a discreet inn was one of the highlights of his London foray thus far. It was not simply the lack of fashionable crowds, but that after wine and the food, he'd asked Jane questions about herself, and sat listening, watching her. It occurred to him, that part of the reason he was drawn to her, was her realness, her lack of pretense, and a sense of humor that he could guess was much deeper and unrestricted when she was with her friend Victoria. The wine seemed to relax her too.

* * * *

Jane was relaxed. She had deliberately made herself relax after the theater. The only moment she had felt the anxiety return was when he had questioned her reason for not marrying. She hated lying, detested it. However, she was aware that this might be her only private moments with Thorn St. Lyons. He would be swept up in the season, in his bride hunt, and no doubt, he would find the perfect candidate quickly.

She choose not think of her own future. She was twenty-seven years old. All of her life had been seriously dedicated to her mind. For once, she was going to experience what it was like to be a female, just a woman, and to enjoy whatever the attraction brought her during this dinner.

She talked of her childhood, of her mother and more of her interests. But her eyes were on him, as she spoke and traced the rim of the wineglass. Thorn reacted, he smiled in parts, nodded, but she felt as much as saw those light brown eyes dropping to her lips, her breasts, sometimes scanning her face.

It may not have meant a thing to him as a man. Jane could not imagine where or why the attraction happened. Nevertheless, she knew it was mutual. What woman in her right mind, in any mind, would not experience some out of body emotion, realizing a man like that was attracted to her?

The hour was clearly late when they had a strong a coffee, and then Jane excused herself to refresh before they departed.

The fog had risen. There was a stillness and hush inside the coach on the way back. She was looking at Thorn, who was seated across from her, also gazing at her, when he murmured, “The dinner was too short, Jane."

"It lasted two hours,” she murmured back, knowing he meant something entirely different.

He sat up and forward, then reached across for her hand.

Jane offered it and observed with a tense breathlessness as he languidly, carefully, pulled each finger of the glove and slid it off. He placed the glove across his thigh and took her hand in both his. Aware that he observed her too, she instead watched his thumb brush her fingers while the tips of them rested in his palm. In some distant part of her mind, she was amazed to feel tingles spread over her skin, to recognize that her heart was beating faster, her breath hard to push through her lungs.

His hands were strong, dark, and hers suddenly seemed more feminine, now sensual, thanks to that lazy stroke. He brought his thumb over the knuckles, across her fingertips, and the other at her wrist. Jane did not know if it was her breathing she heard, or his, or both—as he slid his fingers between hers, but she felt it at the tips of her breasts; some erotic sensation that adjoined her catalogue of startling discoveries.

Thorn adjusted his seat, easing more in front of her, to the edge, until his longer limbs were outside of hers. And with a subtle pressure, Jane was at the edge of her seat, nevertheless watching that strong hand slide to wrist and hold it there a moment. Careful breaths escaped her when he slid it higher, up her forearm, past her elbow, gradually, until he was moving across to the tie of her cape and pulling the bow.

Jane's gaze flickered up. Thorns did too, from his task, and no shadows could hide the intensity of his expression, the sheen to those eyes and the half-mast lashes.

Her lips parted. She swallowed thickly, when the silk lining of the cloak hissed intimately, it dropped from her and landed on the seat behind. Her other hand had been laying across her lap when he reached for it, gently easing it out and pulling off that glove, the way he had the other. Whilst the hand at her shoulder rested, palm down warm and masculine, on her skin.

Thorn eased that now uncovered hand to his knee, then his thigh, leaving his left hand atop it. His right hand moved across her collarbone, and then ... the back of his fingers swept up her throat to her cheek.

Awash with sensations from that contrast of firm male hands, being so very gentle, yet somehow opening her pores and skin to the least contact. Her eyes closed a moment, teeth clenched while his caress continued; down the side of her neck and back to her shoulder. It slid back to the nape, before he was drawing her forward.

Her free hand rose too, landing on his broad shoulder, and easing up, under his hair. Their mouths touched. Malleable, slightly parted at first, a shaky exchange of scorching breath before he applied more pressure and slanted his head.

Somewhere in the swirl amid the sensual fog in her head, Jane felt the loose circle of the kiss open wider. His warm tongue slid in her mouth. She groaned, became dizzy. Fire flamed in her blood. His low masculine sound echoed.

It took time, a moment or two, of his tongue stroking the interior, brushing across hers, for Jane to act on instinct. But when she did, lifting and letting him under, she felt him release her other hand. It covered her right breast, fingers flexing as a rush of warm air escaped his nostrils and fanned her cheek.

Jane ventured her tongue into his own mouth, moving her head as he had—thinking, that she would die of both pleasure and of that sudden craven thirst, that seem to require more and more of his taste.

Tongues delved, sliding under and over, raking flavor, as they tasted, mated erotically, in that warm, silken pocket. Both his hands were on her breasts. Jane flexed her fingers in his hair; finally freeing the cool silk curls and then both of her hands slid in it, just in time for his kiss to become more explicit.

Thorn captured her tongue and held it a moment between his sensual lips, before pulling back and beginning to nibble at her mouth. He would do that and then run his tongue over the tingling places, moving his head in motions that aroused Jane further and further.

When he skimmed his lips over her jaw, back to her ear, she heard the labor of his breath, the rhythm that was unmistakably sexual. His mouth glided down the side of her neck and Jane fell back—too willingly—as his hands moved up to her shoulders and nudged. Her hands released his hair to fall at his forearms.

He leaned back to look at her.

She flickered a glance from his hooded eyes, downward, where his hands moved to her bodice. The hand to her right found the hooks, and contrary to the Maid's comments, he snapped them open with ease.

Her wardrobe was not exactly Jane's concern as he peeled the material down.

"Jane,” he husked, eyeing her ivory breasts through the sheer chemise. Her nipples were clearly visible and hard.

Jane tried to speak, to say something, but he had tugged the gathered material down until it was under both creamy mounds. Thorn filled his hands with them, kneading and massaging in a way that she felt between her legs as liquid fire.

"Thorn,” she finally raked his name past her tight throat, but had no idea what to say whilst her body was so aroused.

He glanced up again, holding her gaze while he took possession of her hands again.

Thorn did not look away while he placed her hands over her breasts, his own over them. He watched her and traced their shape and fullness with her palms, and Jane fluctuated between keeping that gaze, and closing her eyes while the eroticism overtook her.

It was her hands there, alone, touching, when Thorn leaned down and took her right nipple in his mouth. Jane's gasp that filled the coach. He suckled unhurried, pulled back and went forward again then flicked his tongue across the top.

"My ... God ... Oh...” She arched her neck, loosing track between his suckling both nipples and running his tongue between her fingers on the globes, taking her finger into his mouth next. There was something raw and carnal about him laving her fingers and sucking her breasts at the same time.

Dear God. Completely lost, Jane did not know what to do but pant, moan, and roll her head against the seat. The sensation between her legs was growing stronger, contracting, aching strangely, with every suckle and lave.

The coach jerked suddenly. In a daze, Jane did not realize that it had stopped until she felt the air on her skin.

Thorn sat up, and glanced out the window. She hastily righted herself and began adjusting her gown.

His hands stayed hers after she was covered. “Let me...” He reached to collect her cloak before sliding it around her shoulders and tying it. Only inch apart, the lanterns along the drive revealed the drawn sinew of his face, the aroused heat in his eyes.

"Shall I come in, Jane?” It was an intimate, deep whisper.

"The servants,” she managed, trying to calm herself.

Cupping her face in his palms, Thorn nodded, looking from her eyes to her mouth before kissed her softly. He then got out, assisted her, and walked her to the door.

"Thank ... you,” Jane muttered still rattled.

With the butler standing there, Thorn reached for hand and kissed it, murmuring as he straightened, “Do not leave London yet, Jane."

Then he was gone.

Jane made her way to her rooms on legs that still trembled.

"Did you have a lovely time?” Alice asked helping her undress.

Down to her chemise, Jane muttered distracted, “Yes. Thank you, Alice. I will see to my bath. Goodnight."

The maid left and Jane managed her bathing in a diverted muse and then combed her hair, leaving it down. Later, sitting on her bed, in a plain gown and wrapper. She stared at the mirror against the opposite wall and replayed every moment, every second of tasting and feeling his mouth and tongue. She saw his face, his expression and hot eyes, and heard his breathing in her ear.

Jane shuddered and lay down, dragging the pillow to cradle in her arms. She closed her eyes, and began reliving it all over again.

Chapter 4

"Katherine Seymour,” Lord Edmund de Lacy supplied, as he and Thorn stood at the edge of the crowded ballroom. Edmund rested his weight on the ivory cane, whist his hand, with the champagne glass, motioned to the woman.

"Lady Seymour?” Thorn gazed at the stunning woman chatting with a group a few feet from them. She wore ice blue that suited her tall, slim frame, and had piles of white blond hair adorned with minute sparkling pens.

"Yes. Her father is the Duke of Rosemont. She is twenty-two and disgustingly wealthy. His only child and, she's turned down offers since she was sixteen."

Edmund nudged Thorn with his elbow. When Thorn looked at him, Edmund grinned slightly. “Her father however, has a lust for Greystone, and he has not been too subtle about it since news of your bride hunt. I would say that your chances of success is assured."

Thorn turned his gaze back to woman, and objectively noted her poise and grace. She laughed behind her fan and then artfully closed it, turning toward another speaker, nodding her head regally. That hair certainly was lush and unusual, and the expensive material of the gown aside, it was designed to flatter her frame, which was likely five feet six, certainly taller than her companion.

"Perfect bloodlines. No scandals attached to the name, and a stunning beauty,” Edmund was saying. “You will be envied. Hell, even by me."

Thorn glanced at him.

Edmund shrugged his broad shoulders. “I may be out of commission for various reasons, but I am not blind. She is bloody near perfect. In fact, the only thing keeping her from being perfect—is the very thing you will likely be thankful for."

"And that is?” Thorn arched his brow.

Edmund's violet eyes were shadowed. “She is as practical-minded about the rituals, and their reasons for their existing, as you are. She is on the marriage mart for the advantages, and while it will make you a superior Countess and an envied host, a wife other men envy ... their sort tends to be detached and cold in bed."

Thorn said, still eyeing him. “Yet you would take the same kind of bride again?"

Edmund nodded. “Yes. However, if we are speaking of Emma, while I am trying to struggle past my bruised dignity and bitterness, I will admit that I did not know my wife. I realize that I was rarely home, but aside from that, I do not think I ever looked into Emma's eyes ... because I did not want to see her."

Thorn lowered his brow. “Are you saying that you suspected she had lovers?"

"No. I am saying, that I wed her for her beauty and her bloodlines. I wed her knowing that she would detest the country, even a place as beautiful as Warbrook and that she would grow bored outside the whirl of society. The gowns she and her lover sold, the jewels, were guilt gifts from me, because I may have loved her at the beginning—or the idea of her—but I obviously did not love her enough to change my life, or to pay attention to hers."

And?” Thorn shook his head.

"Nothing. You will likely not get an indiscreet wife with Lady Katherine. However, I know you Thorn, your love of Greystone and your more simplistic pleasures. You are an Earl now and whilst you must needs restore your inheritance, you will also learn the delicate balance of husband to an heiress, society politics, and if you wish to avoid my mistakes, you must please that wife, and..."

"Are you trying to talk me into it, or out of it?” Thorn laughed.

"Into it. You have not a choice. Even if you did not need her fortune, it would be from those,” He motioned to the crowd, “you'd pick your bride, and she, Lady Seymour, would be the finest."

Thorn nodded absently and turned his gaze back to the crowd. He wondered if Edmund realized what a contradiction his actions and his feelings were? His friend was obviously aware of the rules and limitations, yet he saw the flaws in them, and owned the fault on his side of a broken marriage. He put it down to Edmund's dealing with a blow. Likely, Edmund did not realize how confused he sounded.

He now found that lady standing with an elder gent, rather short and rotund.

"The Duke?"

"Yes,” Edmund supplied.

Thorn said, “I suppose this is the prime moment to introduce myself then.” He left Edmund and headed in that direction.

* * * *

Edmund de Lacy watched that tall figure move across the floor, and he observed the heads turning with some amusement. He supposed Thorn, with his throw back looks, would always garner that reaction.

His friend reminded him of St.Lyons's knights. Oft was the time he had teased Thorn about getting his painting done in armour, holding a broadsword. Or, in those days when he would meet with Thorn in disguise, he would marvel that they were both of the aristocracy, the upper reaches of society. Thorn fit so very well with smugglers and pirates, and even as the tavern keeper, he'd pretended to be once.

He watched Greystone bow and could guess when the introductions were made.

Edmund bit his lean cheek inside as Thorn kissed Lady Katherine's hand. He had known Thorn to collect females; no matter if his head was shaved and he had sported that ridiculous red beard, Thorn drew them like bees to honey. Normally it was some peasant girl or serving wench, at least until the courtesan had double-crossed him.

Edmund sighed. That was a bad time for them both. The wife of a high-ranking French officer, she had been a British agent. Somewhere in the tangle of her jealous husband and her other lover, and ambitions at court, she had played the dangerous game of double agent. The only thing that kept Thorn from being discovered and hung was to set up another crime that would get him lashed and thrown in prison.

He himself had nearly been killed when he had discovered her trickery; he had been trying to find a way to get Thorn out of France. They all had, before it exploded in their face. War was messy and the channels got crossed whilst agents were undercover, and missions were fluid of necessity. Eventually Thorn had been rescued, later, told of his grandfather's death and his status, whilst he recovered aboard Edmund's ship.

By then, Edmund was free himself, playing the last of a duel role, suffering the humiliation of having his superiors explain that his wife's actions could no longer be ignored, nor would scrutiny of his life serve the crown's policy on secrecy.

He had barely survived the first quacks attempts to save his leg after he had deliberately incited that riot, used the diversion to get Thorn to the dock and waiting boat, so they could row him out to the merchant vessel turned warship.

It had been a bloody fight between the crowds and between himself and Thorn, when he had made it aboard— and those bloody French pirates who had been tailing them for weeks had fired them upon. He had been standing too close to the keg when it splintered and those iron bands were like knives slicing into his thigh...

Thorn, the bloody loyal bastard, had thought Edmund dead. He had looked half so himself, filthy and having lost weight, his clothing mere rags and his back badly healed. He was not sure that Thorn would not have swam across and fought the French with his bare hands, had Edmund not managed to get his attention.

"Settle down, you raving bastard,” he had moaned, “and get what is left of me below before I bleed to death."

Thorn had carried him below, and Edmund's last thought, until they were in safe waters, and their superiors arrived, was that he may have trained Thorn back then, to use his skill, intelligence, and knowledge for his country. But he could never guess what a loyal and brave friend he was gaining. He did not even know why, since they were opposites in many ways, but through his injury and through this present nightmare of a scandal, he had one man whom he knew he could trust and depend upon, no matter what.

* * * *

Thorn realized his dancing skills were more than rusty. They were inferior to anyone on the floor. However, Lady Katherine, when their steps brought them close, did not seem to mind. She answered his polite questions with a smile and nod of her head.

He attempted to forget that everyone's eyes were on them, and likely on his many missteps. Thorn focused on recalling what polite conversation was, while fully able to admire his partner's beauty and reminding himself to tell Edmund that she was flawless. Really, without powder and no cosmetics that he could see, she had very smooth pearl—like skin and pale blue eyes, a perfect set of white teeth between slightly full pink lips. Her hair was glorious and silken.

"My father has wanted to see Greystone for many years."

Thorn attended Katherine's comment. “My grandfather was something of a recluse. It is in need of some repair and refurbishing before ‘tis open to the guests."

She looked right at him. “I am sure that you will soon have the luxury of seeing it restored, Lord Greystone. It is of an interest to me also."

"Thank you."

Later, when he was once again by Edmund, Thorn told him what Katherine had said.

"That's the opening you need.” Edmund nodded and grinned. “This London society speak, for I will await your card, you will call on me, and we will progress from there."

Thorn rubbed the back his neck, hot with the elaborate and starched cravat. “What is the proper wait for a betrothal and the rest?"

"It depends. Old Seymour knows your situation. He will not be averse to a speedy process ... and the ton; they will celebrate, and give themselves credit for bringing the two of you together."

Thorn dropped his hand and shook his head. Lady Seymour had left for another engagement.

Edmund said, “Two dances next time. And be sure and send her flowers, some sweets."

"You are enjoying this.” Thorn shot him a dry look.

"I am.” Edmund laughed. “Not exactly like our old training exercises, but much more entertaining."

Thorn grunted and was looking around when he spied Jane. He was surprised to see her there, and she was with a woman who looked oddly familiar.

"Who is that?"

Edmund followed his gaze. “Lady Victoria Manning ... and..."

"I know Jane Archer."

"I suppose you do. She practically lived at Greystone these last three years."

"Lady Victoria. She looks like her sister."

"Um. That red hair.” Edmund murmured, “Lady Vicki has the same radical views as her family did. I am surprised to see her at this ball. She shows up during the season, but hardly at these sorts of crushes. I'm afraid our traditions are sneered at by her sort."

"Do you blame her?"

"No.” Edmund took a sip of champagne. “But they are the rules, and if she has been cut and ostracized at times, it is because she lacks discretion, tact, and the sophistication to play the game. It isn't going to further her interests, to make herself a pariah to the very people holding the power."

Thorn muttered something like a curse, not liking those rituals himself. “I am going to speak to them. Would you like to come along?"

Lord Warbrook shook his head. “I think I am going to find the card room."

"Your leg..."

"Has reached its limit,” Edmund said grimly, and then with a last glance at the women, excused himself.

* * * *

Jane was stuck to Victoria's side, though at this late hour and at such a crush, they were drawing very little attention.

She had wavered, hesitated, when Vicki showed up at her house, apparently having come to town and opened her townhouse, and was attending a lecture when she discovered Jane was still in London.

Despite Vicki's claims to be plain and averse to primping, Jane had been impressed when her friend showed up wearing a stunning black silk gown and diamonds. Vicki's red hair most often styled simple was drawn up with a waterfall of curls over her shoulder, and for once she looked every inch the Manning millions.

Jane had allowed Victoria to pick the silver gown from amid those hastily purchased items. It had a sheer overlay that sparkled. She felt quite out of place in it. Her hair had been braided around her head like a crown and between Alice and Vicki there were tiny silver leafs in it. Her shoes were white pumps which Vicki had replaced the tied bows with silver ribbon. Positively, she felt it was too much, and she did not why she let Vicki drag her here...

Until she saw, St. Lyon's headed toward them. Then, Jane did not care why.

Jane had paused with Vicki who was answering some dowager's question; the noise and music blotted out whatever they discussed. She had looked off and spotted Thorn.

After the ripples of awareness settled down, she noted he was in formal black and white this time, complete with neck cloth. She could tell when he turned to step by someone; the length of his hair was tucked under in a que, making it the respectable length of a few others who did not wear the windswept style.

She liked his hair down, down as her fingers had unloosed it. It suited his virile image and she would like to see it wet like that, clinging and inky, dripping water...

Jane wet her lips and slid her hand from Vicki's arm, taking a step back as Thorn reached her.

"Miss Archer.” His eyes twinkled as he bowed.

Aware that they were in a group of biddies and gossips, she curtsied and shot him a dry look for having to do so. “Lord Greystone. How are you?"

"Fine. Thank you, Miss Archer.” He glanced at the ladies and nodded.

Victoria was now done, and they exchanged a similar greeting. More questions and mutual condolences, until the three of them had moved on.

BY the balcony, he inquired if he might get them punch.

Vicki grimaced. “No. Thank you. Unless you promise to pour it out and have a hidden flask of good brandy we may share?"

He laughed. “I do, actually.” He looked around and then frowned. “There is Edmund; I thought he was going to the card room."

Jane looked at Victoria who was staring at the silver haired Marquis. “Perhaps we should..."

Vicki's brown eyes turned on her warning. “I am sure he is catching up on his social acquaintances."

Thorn said rather strongly. “I did not take you for the type of woman who would snub a man because of things beyond his control. Lady Manning."

"I do not,” She snapped. Then sighed and grunted at Thorn. “We are something of neighbours, my lord. It has nothing to do with what I wish, or feel, but rather Lord Edmund's misplaced sensitivity to propriety at this time. Given that rumors are ripe, he is overly concerned on my behalf."

Thorn grunted. “I see."

Jane wrinkled her nose. “What a silly notion. One needs ones friends when these things happen. It is this whole bloody mess about males and females and the way society views us. Lord Warbrook should not be so old fashioned."

"Um.” Vicki said though her teeth, “He can be a prig too."

Jane excused herself. “I am going to speak to him.” She went around the group and approached the Marquis. And, with Vicki's revelation in mind, she saw him differently.

He was six foot tall, one of those broad shouldered, and lean hipped men, who always appeared impeccable. In his formal clothing, his tanned skin gave him a much younger visage, healthier too, in spite of the silver in his hair. When she reached him and curtsied, Jane noted those remarkable violet eyes and black lashes, and along with his aristocratic bones. She could see why Vicki would be strongly attracted.

"How is your leg?” Jane asked after he had murmured his greeting.

"Improving."

"It will, sir. I have confidence that a man of your character will work to see the recovery through. I gather you are athletic, which will speed the progress."

He arched his black brow. “One hopes."

She stood beside him a moment, seeing Thorn and Victoria talking out the corner of her eye. “'Tis a mad crush, isn't it my lord?"

"Um."

"Do you enjoy this society?"

He glanced at her, and Jane looked back,

"It is a vital part of being titled, Miss Archer. The gatherings and amusements serve more of a purpose than the marriage mart."

"Yes. I expect so. Politically, and what with social standing and influence being so much a part of the game."

Edmund laughed finally, and Jane thought that smile quite handsome.

"You are a bluestocking,” he said at length. “I should have known. Not only your work with old Greystone, but Lady Victoria does not make friends who do not share her radical views."

"Well. I am very proud to be Vicki's friend. I will not hold your old fashioned views against you.” She grinned. “I will not even try to conform you, if you will not hold it against me, that I have a brain and use it."

The Marquis nodded, still amused. “That is fair."

Jane winked. “Vicki is your friend too, I know. Therefore, you cannot snub her either, since you are particularly country neighbours."

He sighed. “You are not very subtle, Jane."

"I know.” She put her arm through his. “So instead of standing over here like a statue, pretending that you don't notice all those supposed friends are treating you as if you have the plague. You can come with me, and we shall step out on the balcony with Vikki and Lord Greystone, and we shall have you laughing scandalously before the hour it out."

Given little choice, he let her lead him, and in short order they were all on the balcony. Whilst the men lit cheroots, Vicki gave Jane a whispered lecture, which she ignored, and went to Thorn, requesting that flask.

"Here.” She handed it to Lady Victoria. “Why don't you sip and relax. I have promised Lord Warbrook you will amuse him. I was thinking that you'd relay the story you told me, earlier today, of that corpulent duchess in the dress shop."

Vicki, who had been sipping, spewed the drink, laughing and holding her glove to her mouth.

The men exchanged a look as both women laughed.

After the sips were taken, Jane took a small one and handed Thorn the flask.

"Well,” Thorn asked, tucking it in his jacket. “You must tell it now."

Jane leaned against the elaborate rail beside him. Vicki strolled over to stand a space from Lord Warbrook, who was looking at her also.

"Her grace, Lady Corbett. Was trying on a new gown, and from Madam's chatter I gather the duchess always orders them too small, and then derides the whole shop for their poor seamstress skills. In any event, the shop was crowded and I was looking at a length of silk, with several debs—who were obviously terrified of the old bird. In the process and flurry of re-sewing the garment whilst the woman was in it, adding a panel to the back. She slapped one of the poor girls and Madam went into a high rage...

Victoria looked at Jane. “The Duchess was humored and soothed, as any rich client would be. The revenge of the seamstress was not apparent until her grace was leaving the shop. The debs were laughing and we all crowded in the door to watch her enter the coach ... You see, the panel was quite sheer.... And her grace does not wear drawers...."

Thorn chuckled and Edmund, who knew the woman, laughed and coughed behind his cigar.

Vicki snickered. “Those poor debs were nearly in the floor with hysterics. Well, her Grace's arse is on the massive side, quite lumpy, with a birthmark in the most undesirable place ... very brown."

They were all laughing, Edmund wheezing and loosing his cane.

Jane saw Vicki pick it up for him and heard her murmur. “I don't think those girls will be quite so intimidated by her now. I have been telling Jane, that we should try and spy on a few pompous old Lords. Perhaps our quest for equality would be viewed differently in parliament, if we had wives threaten to draw diagrams of certain parts of their anatomy."

Lord Warbrook was trying to not smile but losing the battle. “Pornography is illegal."

Vikki snorted. “And more available and profitable than tea. What hypocrisy.” She leaned up and winked at Jane. “Jane, perhaps we can do that, if I ever lose my fortune ... or better yet, you can do it and I shall sponsor it, I'm already beyond the pale and considered an eccentric, you are quite an impressive artist.” She looked at Thorn. “Jane did all those paintings at her father's house, you know."

Jane shook her head. “We would be hung. No—I would be hung."

Vicki sighed.” I suppose so. However, it would be fun ... I of course would interview all the models and make sure they ... measure up."

Thorn laughed. But Edmund was flushing red, obviously shocked.

Jane had pity on him. “She is teasing."

Vicki added, “Ah, well. Perhaps I was. I may however start my own private collection. I studied drawing and am quite good at charcoal ... hum."

"You will do no such thing,” Edmund muttered. “It is beyond your causes and perusing your interests, meant merely to shock and scandalize. You are better than that Victoria."

Vicki stared at him whilst Jane and Thorn looked at them both, sensing the high tension.

"I am almost thirty, Edmund. I am not a prude. Just because I believe in equality does not mean I have an aversion to men or sex. It is assuredly not the reason I am not married and having it legally. I am sorrier than you know, that Emma played you false, but I am equally sure that you have bedded more women whilst away from her, than the one man she left you for..."

Jane winced seeing Lord Warbrook's stony expression and cold eyes.

However, her friend was not finished. “It was a terrible thing. But as it is more difficult for her to prove all she must, to be free of you, and to get a legal divorce, she risked scandal for her poor, more inferior choice, added no doubt by her dependence on opium and her depression..."

"That is quite enough,” Edmund growled.

Vicki was still not done. “Yes. It is enough,” she snapped back. “And you are not a man who welcomes pity. You put your bloody life at risk for your country and you are far, far, too much a man, more than they—” she nodded toward the ballroom, “To turn around and pick the very same kind of wife, for the same stupid reasons as you choose Emma. This you will do, damn you. Because you are a bloody arrogant and blind idiot."

When Vicki whirled and stormed off, Jane murmured, “I will go after her."

But Thorn caught her arm and shook his head. He looked at Edmund who was standing there drawn and still.

"She obviously cares for you. Edmund."

Warbrook turned his stark gaze on them and stared a moment. He gathered himself, saying as he parted. “Congratulate me. I have just spoken to Lord Tipton in the card room, and asked for his daughter's hand in marriage."

"Wait here a moment.” Thorn cursed and told Jane, “I will see what it is about."

He was absent long time, and returned, telling her, “Tipton accepted. Apparently, there is a special license. The bloody man must carry it on him at all times. The wedding is to take place quietly.” He brushed his hand down his face and shook his head. “Edmund has it in his head that a young and proper wife will erase this scandal about Emma, and Tipton is high in the instep. He will lend weight to the union. The card room was full of old men ... who no doubt helped assure Edmund that this move is needed for his political career, as much as for his future heirs."

Jane swallowed the dust in her throat. “It's awfully soon..."

"Come. Let's leave."

"You go on. I shall follow in a few moments.” Jane shot him a look, reminding him of his purpose for being in London.

He left. Jane followed sometime later and entered his coach, which was parked across the street. Thorn directed them to the park.

* * * *

The trip was silent though thick with unspoken words. Thorn handed her down at the park and slipped something in the watchman's hand. They were walking side by side, her arm though his, and his short cape around her shoulders.

It was not a cool night and when he paused by the water, she let the cape down and sat upon it, watching him stroll to the edge and gaze at the fog moving through the moonlit surface.

Jane was thinking of Victoria, guessing that her friend was cursing herself for what she had said, yet not knowing how Vikki held her silence, her feelings for Edmund in, for so many years. She could not imagine it. What a horrid tangle.

Thorn walked back to her. Jane watched him undo the neck cloth and remove his collar. He pulled the tie out of his hair and slid off the frock coat, saying; “I had forgotten how bloody confining this stuff is.” He dropped them on the cloak and sat down, drawing his legs up a bit and resting his arms across them, his hands linked.

"You looked handsome, but it doesn't suit you."

He smiled at her. “No. I have a wardrobe at Greystone I prefer. I bloody well paid as much for it as the town duds, so as soon as this is over with, I'll wear what I bloody well please."

"I'm sure.” She picked up the neck cloth and ran it through her hands, looking over his profile as he turned back toward the water. “I will tell you something, but you must promise not to tell Edmund."

"All right."

"Victoria is in love with him. She has been so all of her life."

"Ah.” Thorn nodded and turned his gaze to her. “That is the reason ... Well, I wish Edmund would see that. But I know him well, and I don't think he would see the advantages, rather he would view Lady Manning as someone with potential scandal lurking around her."

"Likely."

He ran his hand through his hair and let his gaze scan her gown. “That is quite lovely."

"Thank you. I seem to have bought everyone's rejects.” She laughed and shrugged.

"Perhaps they were meant for you to buy instead."

"Perhaps.” She grinned.

He reached over and brushed his finger down her cheek, then slid his hand down and took hers. He held it for a moment, brushing his thumb over it, before bringing it to his lips.

Jane held her breath watching him, recalling too much of their last encounter, and affected by his moonlit dishevel. It almost hurt, that pleasure, to look at him, to watch him brush her hand with his lips.

He straightened his legs and released her hand a moment, to reach up and pluck a silver leaf from her hair.

"I like that too. But I prefer it down."

Jane reached up and pulled the pins. They laughed as she unbraided it and silver leaves scattered on the silk lining of the cloak. She finger combed it and tucked it behind her ears.

He said softly, “Now you fit the surroundings ... trees, water, a mist on the ground, those mossy green eyes, and silvery fairy gown."

"I would not make a very good fairy,” she reasoned. “I'm much too practical-minded to believe in magic."

His deep chuckle sounded. But he brushed his palm down her hair. His voice sounded deep and strained, his smile vanished. “Let's pretend you do.” He tugged slightly on her hair. And as his smile faded for a moment and he stared deep into her eyes. His voice much huskier as he repeated, “Let's pretend ... that we both do..."

He drew her by that hold, into a passionate kiss that began open, deep, and sensual. This time, there was no mistaking his desire. His free arm came round her and Jane found herself crushed to him while he ravished her mouth with searing sweeps of his tongue in the velvet prison of his lips.

She moaned, her hands lifting, clutching at his shoulders and her body both heavy and light, her head swimming with pleasure.

The kiss went unbroken though he eased and changed his intent, until her tongue joined in the play. Breathing harsh and strident, it was a need for air in their lungs that lifted his head at last. And with his hold still keeping her head back, she could see up, under those slightly lowered lashes, all the tawny fire in his gaze.

Lips wet, parted Jane slid her hands to his face a moment, seeing her fingers tremble as they crossed his lips, feeling the damp from that kiss, feeling the impulsion of his breath.

"You are beautiful,” she whispered. “It is quite easy to believe nothing else exists when you kiss me and touch me ... when I can look at you."

He released her hair and captured her hand, holding to his lips a moment before shifting, easing them both back, down, on the spread cloak, so that he was leaning over her.

"Can I touch you, Jane?"

"Yes. Please...” She breathed, sliding his hand from her stomach to the hooks of the gown.

He released the hooks and slid the strap sleeves down, peeling the bodice with it. There was no corset to hinder his view, nor a chemise this time and she watched him looking at the skin he exposed from her ribs up, knowing her breasts were aroused, by the ache in them.

"Lovely ... Jane ... So very lovely,” he murmured sliding down to kiss across the tops of the mounds and down between.

Hands in his hair, she closed her eyes and relished the tingles of fire, and yes the deeper ache his mouth drew forth.

When he latched on her nipple, Jane arched and gasped, she whispered his name as the pull started that echo pulsing between her legs. He laved and suckled each, using his free hand to attend the one his mouth left, to tease the wet tips and drive Jane deeper into the cravings.

Her hands moved from his hair to his shoulders, her fingers pulling at the silk of his shirt. She arched and moved restless, both wanting more and unable to stand more.

Thorn raised his head, those mussed locks a wet black in the night and falling against his brow and cheek, his lips swollen and sensual from his suckling.

His hand went to his shirt, fingers applied to the buttons, until it was open and he had pulled it free of the snug trousers.

Jane leaned up on her elbow, her fingers gliding now over the exposed mounds and hollows, the muscle. She paused over his nipple that was distended, and glanced at him.

"Can..."

"Yes.” He shifted and slid himself higher, lying down so that she could turn and latch her mouth onto that disc.

She groaned.

Thorn groaned, and his hand splayed at the back of her head.

Jane loved the texture, the taste and scent of his skin. She rose higher to treat both, and used her palm to rub down his taut stomach, around his lean side, to the satin steel of his lower back. Amazed at the hunger on her tongue, the appetite that he stirred in her for more tasting of his flesh. She indulged it, nuzzled, kissed, laved across his chest, then sliding up, to suckle at the base of his throat.

He shuddered and nudged her head back.

Jane glanced at him, seeing his lips parted, his breathing faster and his eyes glittering hot. She leaned up to kiss him, his arms went round her and his weight took her to her back again.

Thorn's hand reached low, dragging up the skirt of the gown, his knuckles, and then his palm hot against her skin. He had the material gathered at her waist and his leg wedged between hers.

Thorn was kissing her neck when Jane moaned, “I cannot take much more of this ... I cannot...."

He raised his head, breathing sharp. “I am hurting you?"

"No ... its torture though.” She bit her lip and met his gaze through her own slitted lids. “Wonderful and not enough of..."

He swallowed and slid his body down some. “Do you feel me?"

"Yes.” She slid her hands up his back.

"Jane.” He held his weight on his forearm and brought his free hand to her cup her jaw. “You're a virgin?"

"Yes."

He nodded and sighed shaky a moment. “Are you afraid of pleasure?"

"Afraid?"

He sighed. “Some women ... they do not allow nor want..."

"Oh.” She blinked. “I ... No, of course not. I know what is taught to women. I know what the church as well as male physicians believe. My mother tried to refute that.” She wet her lips. “I have read about male masturbation."

He grunted and rested his forehead against her chin a moment. “For women too."

"My mother was not that detailed, I'm afraid."

He laughed strained and raised his head. “I'll show you what she did not tell you."

Jane released a trembling breath and felt his hand leave her face. He lifted himself and slid more to the side while he leaned down and kissed her. She gasped in his mouth. That hand slid between her legs, touching the curls first, then his fingers slid between them, brining a long groan from the stroke of his fingertips on that tender, moistened skin.

Thorn lifted his head, staring at her. “Part for me."

Jane did, feeling his limb slid over hers. His fingers rubbed at first, slickened in the evidence of her arousal. Then he found a spot—that had Jane squeezing her eyes shut.

"No, darling,” he whispered. “Relax..."

Her eyes opened and met his. Jane let the tense breath go and felt his stroke start again, up and down, over the most sensitive nerves. When he rubbed in a circular motion, she made a helpless sound in her throat.

His white teeth flashed. “There ... like that?"

"Yes,” She panted and took the next kiss he gave her with almost wild abandon.

The kiss went on, the rubbing too, until she was moaning over and over, arching and feeling as if her skin was on fire.

"Thorn ... Thorn ... Oh!” She could not stand it, the pleasure was going to erupt through her skin.

He lowered his head, his mouth close to her ear. “Come for me. Sweet, sweet, Jane ... my fingers are bathed in silk ... I love the feel of you, the scent rises up like honey.” His fingertip slid lower, just barely entering her and he rubbed gently. “Ah, Jane ... your passion flows warm and free...."

Jane cried out, feeling the pleasure expand and expand, until he had returned to that place—and it exploded in her, over her, like a blanket of silver stars, causing wonderful warmth and erotic flames to consume her.

When she was whole and he was there, holding her close, stroking her hair, and murmuring when she calmed. Jane sighed heavy and long before pulling back to look at him.

"Amazing."

He grinned and winked though his face was taut. “You were."

She smiled softly back and cupped his jaw. “Will you feel that too, when I touch you?"

"More,” he confessed softly and bit her wrist. “I have been thinking of your hands on me. I have had more wicked thoughts than that."

She slid her hand down, obviously feeling the heat and steel of his sex through the snug trousers. “Do you want to lie down?"

He chuckled. “You sound like a doctor's daughter."

"Oh.” She laughed too.

"I'm teasing.” He sat up, on his knees, and glanced at her. “Are you afraid to touch me?"

"No. I want to.” She shook her head.

Thorn's hands went to his latches, and soon he had peeled his trousers down to his muscled thighs.

Jane stared. She scrutinised everything; from the ridged abdomen to the nest of raven curls, his thick sex, up thrust from it. She leaned and saw his buttocks were indented at the sides, firm and as dark as the rest of him. Straightening, she noted with wonder, the cut and defined muscle of his thighs.

She got to her knees too, ignoring the fact her gown was nothing more than a pool of silk at her waist, and facing him, she reached and softly wrapped her hand around the width of his sex.

Thorn sucked in his breath.

She glanced up, seeing his head down, watching her, and his teeth bearing down on his full bottom lip. “Am I hurting you?"

"No,” He sucked in his breath a moment longer. His hand covered hers, and began to move it slowly.

Jane became aroused watching them, feeling it. “It's so hot and soft,” she whispered. “I had no idea."

"Jane.” He stayed her hand a moment and leaned his head back.

She eyed the veins in his neck, the sinew held tight in his jaw. She moved his hand and held it on her breast, replacing only her own on his sex, and sliding as he had shown her.

His fingers flexed on her breast, and he filled both hands with them. Kneading while he again watched her touching him.

It was wildly erotic. His breathing deep and quick, the sounds he made in his throat.

Thorn muttered and arched his head back again, “Tighter, hold me tighter..."

"Yes.” She was breathing as rapid as he, following her instincts, running her palm over the crown, sliding down to the base and tugging his dark curls.

"Christ. Christ,” he said loud and deep. His hands fell from her and he pushed her hand away, rising higher, bringing her breasts against his groin. “Don't be scared,” he whispered mindless."

"I'm not ... I'm not.” She grasped his hips, letting him move that silken, wonderfully hot part of him between her breasts ... “That feels good."

He held her tight to him and gasped, shuddered, and then froze for a moment; sounds coming from his throat that were raw and masculine.

Jane rested her cheek against his skin; her eyes closed revelling in his pleasure, in the shudder of his large frame against her, the fierce thud of his heart.

Thorn released her and sat back, reaching for the discarded cravat and cleaning himself. He pulled his trousers up and latched them, before gently wadding the material, wiping her breasts free of his seed.

Jane watched his hand, and then looked at his face.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?” He asked gruffly.

She looked down at the soft abrasions. “No. Not at all.” then took the cloth and finished the task, then began repairing her clothing.

He was fixing his shirt while Jane twisted her hair back, using the pins to secure it. Then she stood, and shook out her hem and smoothed the gown.

Lighting a cheroot, he watched her shake out the cape.

"Must you go back, or can you stay in London longer?"

Jane glanced at him. “I can stay longer ... but..."

He took the cape and they began walking back to the entrance. “But, what?"

Jane chewed her lip. “Next week I am expecting someone and my time will be...” She sighed and swallowed. He was in London to find a bride, an heiress, and he would. There was no use denying that reality. “I will be ... free to see you, for a few more days."

Thorn drew her to his side. “I will make the most of it, then.” He sighed too.

Chapter 5

Jane called on Victoria the next morning. She found the lady in the empty ballroom of the mansion, wearing trousers, a linen shirt and barefoot. Victoria's hair was tied back at the nape. She was fencing.

Jane had worn a comfortable cream skirt and lace blouse, a light full-length coat, and had braided her hair and wound it into a bun. She sat on the entry stairs, and watched her friend for some time, Victoria moved lithe and quick, and with obvious skill.

She heard the man behind the mask say, “Careful ... careful ... you are losing your head."

"Sorry.” Vicki lowered the weapon and flipped up her mask. “I'm in a foul mood."

The man, a head shorter than Lady Manning, flipped up his own mask, revealing the sweating face of a male in his late forties, with a thin moustache and broad smile. “Oui. That explains everything.” He came forward and kissed her cheeks. “It is troubles of the heart, no?"

"No."

"Tsk. You are not a good liar, Lady Victoria."

"I know.” Victoria handed him her weapon and peeled off the mask, turning and spotting Jane. “Oh, hullo.” She waved.

Jane waved back and called out. “Does it work?"

"Does what work?” Vicki smiled walking to her.

A servant materialized with a tray of some iced liquid, which Vicki poured. She sipped from hers and sat down beside Jane, calling out to the master, “Thank you, Jacques."

He bowed. “My pleasure as always.” Blowing them both a kiss before departing.

Holding her own glass Jane elbowed her.

"No” Victoria grumped. “It doesn't work. Nothing does. I am going to have to apologize or I will not be able to live with myself."

Jane looked down into the glass. “He is getting married to Lady Tipton."

Victoria bowed her head, cupping her forehead in her hand, she starting crying.

Jane's eyes watered as she slid her arm around her. “I'm so sorry."

"The bloody fool.” Victoria hiccuped. “That chit is another Emma. Damn him.” She raised her head and shot to her feet. She set the glass down and then strode to the long bare windows. “Damn him. He deserves the misery and the scandal. He is so blind."

Jane eyed those wet streaks on Vicki's cheeks. “Maybe, if you told him the truth."

Victoria laughed hollowly. “No. No. It would make no difference. If he simply wanted a titled wife, I am that. However, he is so spooked by scandal, so bloody afraid to have a real woman ... a real marriage and too bloody blind—to know what to value. He thinks it is all that superficial rot. He imagines that a prim and genteel bride, an empty-headed one, who will be more concerned about the proper flower arrangements in the hall—or the right bloody seating arrangement during dinner, is more important than pleasuring them both in bed.

He will not have to explain his past to her, and she will not see his wound with her gown pulled up in the dark. She won't expect him to talk about the loss of his pride and his dignity, about the betrayal and the guilt too—he feels over his first wife. She won't—because she won't care."

"It's the way most men want it."

Vicki looked at her. “Yes. It is. And she will want him to take a mistress, so she will not have to sacrifice her body more than is required for the heir.” Her hands fisted at her sides, her eyes dark. “And she won't help him feel like a man again ... Because she doesn't know that he doesn't feel that.” Vicki sobbed. “She won't know what I do."

Vicki went to her knees in the floor and cried. “He has not taken a mistress because he doesn't feel whole ... Emma's lover did not help his ego, but his wounds..."

"You said..."

Vicki was shaking her head. “That was long ago. Since he came back I discovered that he tried ... tried to take one of the tavern girls."

"He's impotent?"

"In his mind.” She shrugged. “I should not have uncovered it. However, I know he was humiliated..."

Jane thought about it. “I have read that the trauma of war, the wounds and yes, the mind can cause that. It is sometimes temporary."

"It is. I know Edmund. His bloody pride. I know that Tipton chit, a young beauty, barely nineteen. Edmund thinks she will restore everything to him, his reputation and dignity, his manhood. There is nothing bloody wrong with Edmund but his own tunnel vision!"

"What can I do?"

"Nothing.” Vicki sat back on the floor. “Who knows, maybe a young nubile body will stir him and he'll make the heir, and to Edmund ... that will prove everything he thinks is right. He will be content to fulfil all his roles then."

Jane thought it was likely true, depending on how soon after the surgery he'd had his tryst with the village girl. She wanted it not to be true for Vicki, but she realized that Lord Warbrook would value things in his bride that they disdained. And, that his type saw their wives of a reflection of them, not as independent women with their own accomplishments. Sadly, it was the norm in society and in men. Playing host, arranging flowers, waving fans, knowing their place ... It was the way men liked them.

"Are you going back to Manning Hall?"

Vicki wiped her cheeks. “Yes. Is Sir Norton's ship arriving this week?"

"On Friday. I expect he will come to the house. I left a note with his butler that I was here."

"Don't wed him. Don't, Jane.” Victoria shook her head and stared at the floor.

"I don't know. Vicki. What shall I do in my old age? Travel around and find causes maybe, but spend my evenings alone. Go to a cold bed every night. Never have a child, never have someone who might love me."

"That is more than being trapped. That is more freedom, Jane. You do not want to exist with someone who is only in love with himself, and his ideas and accomplishments. That is what he sounds like."

"Maybe.” Jane stood. “We shall see. In any case, I must do the speaking for myself and I must give him a chance, give us one, to know each other again."

Vicki arose and looked at her. “If you change your mind, come to Manning Hall. We can travel together. Who knows, we could find a lover too, for those cold nights."

Jane smiled, thinking of Thorn. “I will. I promise. I will send you a note as soon as possible."

Vicki came to her and they embraced a moment, then Jane parted and squeezed her hands before departing.

* * * *

"Emma has been murdered.” Lord Warbrook stood in Thorn's study doorway.

Thorn dropped the papers he had been reading and stood. “Good God ... Edmund.” He came round the desk.

Edmund walked in, limping heavily. “Whiskey."

"Yes.” Thorn poured two as Edmund fell heavily into a chair. He handed the Marquis one, then took the opposite chair. “What happened?"

"Just what I feared.” Edmund drank half of the whiskey and cleared his throat. “He murdered her. According to the magistrate who paid me a late night call, it was arsenic poisoning. The bastard has fled. The witnesses say he had found another, younger lover, some tradesman's daughter. When Emma grew suspicious, he beat her.” Edmund swallowed and stared into space. “With no money, having sold what she did bring to him, he turned his eye elsewhere. He was in fact renting a cottage not far from theirs, where he met the girl."

"Are they sure? It could have been an overdose. You said yourself she was an addict?"

"They are sure. I am sure.” Edmund stared at him. “I may have resented her, been bitter, but I did not wish such a fate on her."

"Of course not.” Thorn frowned. “Do they know where he might be?"

"They will.” Edmund downed the rest of the whiskey. “I have hired the best men I know to find him. He will hang.” The Marquis shook his head. “She could have bloody cuckolded me, taken a lover and been discreet. I would have tolerated that without a word. Why did she have to..."

Thorn looked into his whiskey. “What will this do to your plans with Lady Tipton?"

"I've no idea. It depends upon how the ton handles it. If they decide to twist the drama and accuse me of killing her."

"They would not go that far."

"Of course they would,” Edmund said flatly. “Life is like a continual play to them. The scandal and misfortune are the highlights. We are the actors, some of us the villains no matter what the truth is."

"I do not believe that. Why would Lord Tipton approach you for his daughter then? You said he is high in the instep."

Edmund laughed hollowly. “Because he's lost his fortune and this is the last season he can afford for her. Because he cannot dower her. Since I am rich, and cannot be too choosy, it's a perfect match."

"I see."

Edmund breathed in deep through his nose and let the sigh go. “Not because of that—or because of pressures from the scandal or men at the club, or any of those bloody things. I would take her in rags with her title and rep, and bloodlines, because she is young and submissive and the perfect deb. Because she will make a perfect Countess, and I will not have to do more than the expected things to make her perfectly happy."

Thorn simply stared at him.

Edmund's smile was a mockery. His violet eyes were empty. “Because I won't ever feel more than respect for her, and gratefulness—if she gives me the heir. I will not bloody care after that.... And she will be glad for it."

Thorn looked away, toward the library windows. He knew as Edmund had known, that is exactly what his life would be like with Lady Katherine. He could see it in her when he had paid that call this morning, sense it in her as they walked in the garden. The surface was what mattered, her poise, beauty, and confidence, her knowledge, that she would be the perfect countess for him, and mistress of Greystone.

"Does Tipton know about Emma?"

"Yes. I sent him a note. The press will report it and there will be an inquest, hopefully a quick trial, for the murderer. But it will dredge up the scandal and the divorce. It is the proper thing—you know,” Edmund sneered, “to give him leave to withdraw the offer and the lady's choice to break it."

"He did not?"

"No. He wants her settled before the ton gets wind of his situation. I believe he intends to leave England."

They sat in silence while the clock ticked and traffic sounds filtered in from the street.

"Do you wish for me to go to Warbrook with you?"

"No. Rumor at the club is that Seymour is expecting you to offer for his daughter soon."

Thorn grunted. “I just paid my first call this morning."

Edmund stood and shrugged, he walked over and set his glass down. “It's all the better for you. The sooner you offer and the betrothal is announced, the sooner wedding plans are made. Seymour will be generous with his only child, and there are no heirs after he dies but her. You may well surpass me in wealth, if you make Greystone productive along with the holdings she brings."

Thorn walked with him out to his carriage. “Send a note if you need me."

"I will.” Edmund got in.

Thorn watched the progress as the buggy pulled out and rolled up the street. War may be hell, but life, at least for Edmund, was no bed roses.

* * * *

Jane spied Thorn with Lady Katherine Seymour, first riding in the park and then later, at the Theater. They made a stunning couple. Thorn with his dark brawn and Katherine all pale blond, slim, tall and lithe. Even the richness of Lady Katherine's clothing, her jewelry, it all added that princess and dark—prince aura to the image.

There were moments, as on Wednesday, when Jane could be objective. She has business to see to and spied them standing together, talking to another couple.

Lady Katherine's hand was on Thorn's arm. He was in black and white and she, a vision in sapphire and pale blue silk. A lace parasol cast a lovely pattern around her head and shoulders; her hair piled high was gleaming like snow with twinkling blue lights.

It was more the fairy tale, than he would pretend with her, more believable and perfect a picture.

People slowed their carriages, turned their heads, nodding and whispering behind fans, smiling their approval and much taken by the striking couple. Jane saw this with a distant part of brain, and she could picture Lady Katherine bringing that same taste and beauty to Greystone. The staff would be overjoyed at the grand parties, and the beautiful old place would come alive with all the glory of its former days.

On Thursday, Jane finished packing up the house and sent many books from the library to her father's favorite universities, and to his colleagues, keeping only a trunk full for herself. Her mother's belongings she kept mostly books on plants, herbs, cultivating, and some interesting herbals from other countries. She kept her notes and jewels, and sentimentally, her wedding dress.

However, the things she thought her mother wished to share, she sent away, to hospitals, orphanages, schools and a house for war widows. Jane tried not cling to objects that would be of use to someone, of the things that her parents would not wish her to pack in an attic somewhere.

The paintings she had done, mostly in Italy, were wrapped and crated for the next home she may live in. The items in her father's lab were offered to young medical students, along with hard to afford books and hundreds of collected magazines.

It was late Thursday evening before she could escape the house. Jane bathed and changed, having worn her oldest gown that day. She pulled on a neat summer white suit and had Alice do her hair in a loose twist. After pulling on comfortable walking boots, she added a flat crowned straw hat with a simple lace ribbon around the brim.

She needed to think, to walk, and to think about David's ship arriving in the morning. Jane was starting to feel a suffocating panic, and she wished she had brought his letters, so that she could assure herself of those things that swayed her not to marry him. At the same time, she had to admit that she had overwhelming feelings for Thorn St. Lyons, and he, had obviously picked his bride—The right one, the perfect one.

Jane left the house and hired a hack to the park. It was crowded at that hour, before sunset. The ton as well as nursemaids and nannies, businesspersons with their newspapers, were scattered about. She walked aimless, with no intent to socialize, avoiding the spot she and Thorn had taken before.

A bit beyond the clusters and groups, Jane came upon a bench just off the path. She sat there awhile, eyeing the trees and branches, seeing occasional strollers and a few equestrians, buggies, on the next row.

Her eyes were absently on the route she had taken, when she spied Thorn and Lady Katherine. Far from the urge to leave, nothing could have pried from the spot as the slow carriage approached. Jane could see the back of Katherine's head and the sunshade of lavender, but a clear view of Thorn, who sat opposite and on her side of the vehicle.

She did not pretend to not be looking as it came closer and closer, and she did not look away from Thorn—who had spotted her and was staring.

When the buggy was directly in front, she could make out the light brown of his eyes. He nodded. Jane nodded back, feeling a sinking in her stomach. She chanced a look at Lady Katherine.

The woman was breathtaking. Her blue eyes touched Jane's, then dismissed her, giving that obvious signal, that Jane was not her equal, not worth acknowledging. Jane's gaze went back to Thorn and in that split second and she knew that he had observed the by—play. Jane smiled slightly and shrugged, then waited for the buggy to pass. She stood, gradually walking back the way she had come.

It was perhaps an hour later, and the lanterns were being lit for approaching nightfall. Jane went to one of the decent Inns for a bland but filling supper. She had exited and was signaling the hackney coach when Thorn's eased to a stop.

Her hand wavered on the handle, her gaze clearly seeing him on the opposite side. Mentally shaking her head, she opened it and got in.

The vehicle pulled out. Jane glanced at Thorn.

"I take it, you have eaten?"

"Yes."

"Have you any plans?"

She shook her head.

He nodded and leaned out, giving the driver directions and settling back.

There was tension, a new kind between them, as the coach rumbled. Golden streaks from the street lamps filtered across the interior. Jane could not read his mind, nor his expression, but he did not take his eyes off her the whole of the way.

The address was unknown to her, but she could discern from the houses, that it was one of those older neighbourhoods—once fashionable and now the mansions were either apartments or private clubs, discreet residences, for mistresses. Also, some businesses and trades, that were not welcome in the fashionable part of town.

The coach pulled into a narrow lane, the looming gothic buildings making it darker, until they came through to a rear yard and carriage house.

Thorn exited and assisted her down, and led her to the rear door.

A knock was answered. The door swung open to reveal a middle-aged woman in brown frock and cap. She smiled and stepped back. “Welcome my, Lord. My Lady."

Jane murmured something and followed Thorn through the kitchens, and through a wooden door, then up a set of stairs. She could smell warm scents, mingled with tobacco and baked bread. The aroma relieved her fear that he was taking her to some house Eros, or one of those salons where anything sexual went on in the open.

What they eventually ended up in was an apartment, with arched windows around, and a clean but sparse sitting room, off from that was obviously a bedchamber.

"Wine?” He removed his topcoat and gloves and let them fall to a chair.

"Yes.” She took off her hat and sat down on the faded brocade settee. Looking around and imagining that her education had just been expanded, for she had always thought men either kept their mistresses in those discreet little houses, or visited the opulent houses of Eros for their pleasure. Of course, some would have decent apartments, somewhere for those chance encounters. She wondered vaguely how Thorn had known of it, and then reminded herself, he had lived in London before.

He had removed his jacket and neck cloth, when he handed her the wine. Thorn sat across from her, sipping his brandy, and then releasing the tie, shoving his hand through his hair and apparently relaxing.

Jane's eyes met his. “You have had a busy week?"

"Yes.” He wore a brooding expression, distant from his answer.

Her gaze flickered away. “So have I. I've finally packed up the house and seen to details I've put off too long."

"I heard something on the streets. It seems you were very generous. You must have emptied the entire library of your fathers."

"He would want them put to use. If he had known or been more himself at the last, he would have loved visiting students and universities, giving those books where they would be needed. The same with my mother's things. I kept what I thought they would wish me to."

"Was it difficult?"

"Oddly no. I know they led full lives, were productive, and made the most of what they were given."

"Jane?"

She turned to look at him slowly, hearing something in his tone.

He put the drink aside, arose, then came to her, reaching for her glass, and setting it aside too. He embraced her and rested his cheek against her hair.

"Will you lie necked with me ... in that bed?"

She had not expected exactly that. “Yes,” her lips said it, even without her mind thinking it.

He turned down the lamp in the sitting area and they walked hand in hand to the elaborate bed. It had a high headboard of dark, almost black wood, carved in a fanciful design. The coverlet he turned back was cream satin, but the sheets were pristine cotton and scented lightly with jasmine.

Jane stood at the side of it, keeping her eyes on him as her fingers undid hooks and slid the layers from her body. She sat down in her chemise and removed her boots, then rolled down her stockings and left them amid the pile that included her jacket, blouse and skirt.

She was unpinning her hair when she felt the bed dip, and looked to find Thorn laying there, hands behind his head, and having that swarthy musculature displayed vividly against the sheets.

Hardly feeling the pins, letting the drop, she finger combed her hair and turned, joining him, laying there against his side. The incredible heat, the heady scent of his skin, sent her pulse pounding and her blood humming though her veins.

They lay there, watching shadows on the plaster ceiling. Jane felt him move his arm so that he could draw her to his side. She turned into it and breathed in his skin. Her lips brushed his upper chest. Sliding her leg over his, she rested her hand on his taut stomach.

It was amazing, stirring, the sleek hotness and feel of his powerful body. She could not help the rush of lust, want, and hunger, the skin pleasure and ache that spread over her. His own palm was moving idly, over her back and side, down to her hip.

The bed creaked intimately as he raised and nudged her to her back. Thorn lowered his head and kissed her, supple, warm, almost too light, before he delved inside and began a lazy, erotic play of their tongues and lips.

Jane had her world once more, which suspended time where she blocked everything but Thorn from her mind. She arched and slid her arms around him, tasting him and raking her teeth against his lips, giving freedom to her instincts; kissing his jaw, his chin, dragging her mouth down to his throat and suckling, before returning to his mouth.

It was not just the breathing in the high ceiling space, but the closeness of their skin on skin, the carnal taste in their mouths—and the hardness of his sex, the wetness of hers, that enhanced their arousal. It was the rake of her nails over the fanned muscle of his back, the arch of her spine. And, the slow drag of his palm, firm and sensual, down her hip and thigh, around to cup her buttock and flex and mould.

The lamp flickered and glowed bright gold. He lifted his head from her throat, lids heavy and eyes shimmering. His breath-floated warm between moist lips that had raked, soothed, and suckled her skin.

They skimmed their palms over flesh, gazes locked, bodies moving in that subtle stretch of pleasure. It was mutual, wholly instinctual, when they began to kiss again, before Jane moved downwards, touching, tasting, rubbing her body against him, seeking to appease and satisfy the erotic craving to do all, to taste, smell him, touch and feel.

And what Thorn could reach, he returned the same, kissing, laving, stroking and keeping that close twine of their bodies, so that when she moved, he moved.

He was behind her, over and under her, as their lips and tongue bathed, and their fingers and palms soothed.

Jane was intoxicated, wonderfully heady and completely in tune with her feminine soul. She sighed, moaned, lost herself even as she indulged her hungers, feeling his fingers between her legs, gliding, touching, tracing a line between the globes of her backside, teasing at the entrance of her sex.

They had moved, eased opposite in their explorations, and she kissed from his feet to the bend of his knee, biting with aroused playfulness, and was rubbing the side of his hip with her palm, when she felt his mouth inside her thigh.

She rose up on her elbow, looking down, watching with fogged eyes as he kissed and laved the tender skin. He was close, very close to those dark brown curls, when he lifted his head and looked at her.

She glanced at his lips and back up.

He used the hand resting between her parted thighs on the bed to touch those curls. He glanced from there to her face again.

"Yes,” she answered that unspoken question and earned a sexy grin from Thorn.

He did not return to his kissing right away, but touched the sleek heat of her, watching her face.

"Am I returning the favor?” She husked and saw the hue of his eyes gleam a bit brighter.

"Yes,” he husked back.

"Do I need instruction?” She moaned when he touched that secret spot and fire danced up her spine.

He looked nonplused a second, and appeared as if he was trying to think of what to say.

Jane, in spite of the erotic haze, laughed softly. “You should see your expression."

He blinked and laughed low, quiet, before he rose up and crouched over her a moment. He leaned down and murmured instructions in her ear.

Jane met his gaze as he lifted and looked at her.

"Really?"

He laughed again. “Jane."

She bit her lip, smiling at him. “What happens if I am not doing it right?"

"That's not a possibility.” He kissed her soft and clinging.

When he parted from that, she whispered, “You've ... had it done before?"

"A long time ago. Years,” he admitted. “On my first trip to London."

Her brow arched.

His white teeth flashed. “You're mind is too curious, sometimes."

"Hmm. And what you are doing ... or rather will do to me?"

"For you. I hope.” He corrected and bit soft at her lip before murmuring. “Twice ... a—"

"A long time ago,” she finished. “What is that, a standard answer men give?"

He bit her ear for that one, and whispered, “The truth. A man would not risk putting his mouth on a woman who ... had other lovers."

"Ahhhh. So I am not your first virgin?"

"I was a virgin then too."

She blinked and rose up, butting her head against his chin.

"Ouch.” He laughed and rubbed the spot while she rubbed her head.

He sat back on his knees as she rose up and pushed her hair back to tease, “You were a virgin? When?"

"Not when I came to London. When I was sixteen and sneaking into the village."

"There was a virgin in the village tavern?” She snorted with laugher.

"Shame on you.” He chuckled but nodded. “Yes. She did not work there. Her mother did. She lured me into the stables."

Jane tisked. “The beginning of your downfall?"

"Hardly. More like groping and fumbling. But it was a start.” He leaned up and pushed her back down. “I'm going to pleasure you, Jane.” His hand slid down to those curls and his fingers found her heat.

She closed her eyes a moment. “I know ... You would not even have to do that, and I am ... lost. But in the most incredible place.” She lifted her lids. “I hope that I give you half so much."

"You do. You will.” He shifted his body and once more they lay opposite. His hand created the space he needed, and then Jane felt the first touch of his mouth there, the first lave and flicker of his tongue.

"Oh Thorn...."

He made a moan of pleasure and increased both the pressure and the laves.

Jane lost moments with her eyes closed, simply absorbing the erotic intoxication. However, she realized her own need to give was still sharp; his scent and feel the taste still a burning desire. She curved her body and began to kiss and lave his sex.

"Ahh, Jane.” His body jerked and he raised his head and gasped.

She knew pleasure when she heard it, and Jane spread her lips over the crown, beginning the motions and doing her own instinctive variations from his instructions. She liked that feel of his flesh; she liked his soap/musk and heat scent.

"Christ ... God ... Umm...” Thorn groaned loud and then cursed. He caught his breath, lost it again and muttered gutturally, “Yes ... Jane ... Yes...” Before he buried his mouth against her again, transferring his pleasure in the carnal laves sucks and devouring of her.

Thorn lost control before Jane. It required almost begging on his part before he gave into the fact she was not going to stop. The sounds of his climax filled Jane with a heady sense of power. His words, tumbling low from raw, from the height of his pleasure, were something she would not forget.

A silence pervaded while she arose and rinsed her mouth then swished some brandy while she eyed his masculine sprawl on the bed. He eventually moved his forearm from across his eyes, and slid up against the headboard, leaning over and finding his clothing.

"Your jacket is here.” She set the glass down and found his cheroots, then refilled the glass, bringing one to the bed.

He shoved his long hair back and lit the cheroot from the lamp. Then sat back watching her settle at his side, facing him. He sipped from the glass and eyed her breasts, then up to her mouth.

"What time do you think it is?"

"Not time to leave,” he said.

She smiled and arched her brow.

He took another full drink and doused the cheroot in the glass, placing it on the bedside table. He raised and pushed her down, leaning over her. “Not until I've fully tasted you.” He slid his down and touched her. “Not until you've climaxed from the stroke of my tongue."

"Thorn..."

"Yes.” He slid down and parted her thighs, eased up and lowered his head until his mouth was upon her. He moaned...

Jane sighed, and it was no time, a matter of minutes, before she let go and felt the climax build, rush through her body and wash over her.

* * * *

An hour later, they had washed from a pan of water Thorn fetched, and completely dressed. Thorn led the way below and out to the waiting coach.

The air was cooler, damp, the night—suddenly too infinite and void for Jane.

She rested her head against the seat let the dew touch her face. An hour ago, she had breathed his breath, tasted his taste and inhaled him. Now, she felt the gulf of reality, of life in the real world and the light of day. In her mind's eye were those scars she'd felt and seen on his back, thirty-forty she couldn't count them all, but when she'd been loving him with her mouth, her fingertips had found them and with each movement of her lips, she'd soothed across the surface to replace that pain with only pleasure.

What secrets they kept ... what doors they closed behind them, to enter their own private world where nothing and no one existed but the two of them.

He kissed her before she exited the coach, but Jane was pulling back emotionally, already feeling that separation she must keep, in order to avoid impossible thoughts.

* * * *

After he left Jane at her house, Thorn had the driver stop and afterward sent him on several blocks from his townhouse. He walked the dark street; memories, sounds, tastes, floating in his head, and contracting his gut with realities that he could not escape.

He lit a cheroot and stopped a moment by an iron gate, sitting there on his haunches, his head resting against the cold strips of metal, while pictures of his grandfather, that wise and kind face, flashed through. The pain of his father's character tore the old man's heart out. Thorn knew behind the anger and harsh words that his grandfather could not understand why his son was so weak and so without morals, scruples, any good character. For a man with strength and intelligence, to have no reason for that was inconceivable.

Thorn also recognized it was why the earl poured knowledge into his own head, why he taught him everything about Greystone, and why he took such great pride in things Thorn excelled at. Thorn mastered it for the old man as much as for his sense of satisfaction. He did not miss his father's love, because he did not need it, and he did not need to understand his father, because he had a man to admire and to look up to, a home and someday a title, to take great pride in.

Thorn scraped his hand through his hair, realizing his grandfather poured everything into him out of love, but also out of that expectation—that he would restore Greystone to its glory and carry the title onward. He did not fret over the lack of funds, because he saw Thorn as it's redemption. And, Thorn acknowledged that somewhere along the way, their roles reversed. He became the object of admiration, the hero, and the very thing his grandfather saw as his greatest accomplishment, his most satisfactory success in life—that love of Greystone and pride of it. It was Thorn. There was no separation between them.

He too loved Greystone, for all of those reasons, for his history and its beauty—and for the old man, for a future it must and should have. Thorn had envisioned it in prison, walked its halls and breathed the scent of it. He knew every secret passage and dusty corner, every inch of land and stone. He had thought of riding his stallion there as a young man, of swimming in the lakes, climbing the trees and sneaking out the kitchen exit. He thought of days in that study, in the library, with his grandfather, looking at maps and globes, watching dust moats dance in arcs of light and absorbing that voice, that endless well of knowledge.

He had thought of coming home to it; of breathing freedom and crisp air and lying in the green grass. He had thought of someday seeing his own son or daughter there, teaching them all of those things, giving them that deep sense of belonging.

Rising to his feet again, he crushed the cigar and finished his walk to the townhouse. Thorn spoke to the butler and went to the master chambers, waving the valet back to his bed as he removed all but his trousers. He sat by the window looking down at nothing.

The evidence of Greystone's situation was too black and white in numbers on the books, and in the lack of maintenance and repairs. The few tenants rent could not hold it together for another generation. There was nothing to restore what needed restored, or to save what was in danger of decay. Nothing had changed since the day began and ended.

Chapter 6

Jane slept late, bathed, dressed, and had her coffee with a sense of trepidation, and the feeling of weight upon her shoulders. Alice seemed to sense it and did not chatter as usual, while they braided her hair and penned it into a coil at her nape, and dressed Jane in modest gray suit and black half boots.

Having already informed the maid that she may have a visitor, Jane decided to sit out in the small courtyard and do some work, instead of pace and fidget and torture her mind with what ifs.

She had coffee left on a tray and found the ideal spot, sitting at the small table brought out from the sunroom, and putting her mind to work on something tedious but necessary.

Fat drops of rain plopped down upon her page, and Jane was just gathering her writing materials when Alice stepped out.

"He's here. Sir David Norton, he says."

"Thank you, Alice."

She went through the solarium door at the same time David entered it from the hall.

For a moment Jane had a clear view of him, tall, stocky with snow white hair to his shoulders; one of those faces that aged well except for squint lines and a few across his brow. He wore all white, a loose square jacket and some twill or cotton trousers with a crisp seam, his shirt was white and his neck cloth a scarf of dark blue, which she recalled, was the color of his eyes. Her gaze dropped to his shoes, square toed, likely ankle length, his hat he held, a straw cream color. He looked colonial.

"David.” She set the papers aside, smiled, and hurried toward him. “How wonderful to see you."

He put his hat on the cane rack and took her hands, kissing them, “Jane. You look the same as when I left."

She laughed, stepped back when he dropped her hands. “Thank you. When did you dock?"

"Oh. Early. I have had a full day already. I had sent ahead, had cards waiting..."

"Well. You must tell me all about your travels and ... oh everything."

He glanced beyond her at the rain striking the windows. “Fetch your umbrella and a wrap, I've instructed the staff to fix dinner for us, as I've a short appointment before then, we can spend the evening catching up."

Jane nodded and hurried upstairs, only collecting the light cape and taking the umbrella off the hook when they were in the foyer. They dashed to the coach, and David grumbled about the ineffectiveness of his straw hat.

"I take it, that it doesn't rain as often in New York and Boston?"

"In the seasons for it. But wardrobes outside society functions are wonderfully designed for ease and comfort.” He set the hat in the seat beside him and pushed back his white mane.

Jane tried to relax, to tell herself that this was a part of her real life, and he was someone she admired greatly, before she had gone to Greystone. But tension stiffened her neck and awkwardness filled her, a recent emotion.

"I'll make a quick stop at my solicitors, then we'll go straight to the townhouse,” he was saying. “I have some interesting things to show you. Most of my collections were sent ahead to Norton Hall. I am sure you will find the writings and artwork fascinating.

I was much impressed with New York society, with Boston too, and Philadelphia. I tell you, Jane, there is much potential in that raw country. Culture though is very much alive. I was privileged to winter in New England—with an amazing writer. And your father would have enjoyed the company of many American physicians and scientist..."

Jane nodded as David talked, genuinely interested and feeling a sense of familiarity in a male voice discussing various subjects. Thorn did not talk much. But then, their time together was so short, so stolen...

"...And Lady Greenfield I think, who is a most gracious host...” David was still chatting. “They quite welcomed my presence. I gave many lectures whilst there.” He laughed. “There is still too much ignorance you know, in the world. But I feel as your father did, that it our duty to rectify that whenever possible."

Jane began to register the rain drumming on top of the coach roof, the hiss of it as the wheels churned through the wet streets. By the time it had stopped, and he had exited, promising to return shortly, she was sighing and wondering what was wrong with her? She used to look forward to conversation, to listening to people talk and learning new things. But she was thinking of the rest of the long evening ahead ... an evening with the man who had sat across from her—And she was dreading every second of it.

* * * *

Hours later, a meal complete and having coffee in the sitting room of the house David had rented, Jane had guilt washing over her, for struggling to get through the before meal look at those interesting writings he'd brought back—flipping through dry as dust tombs, with nary a radical thought or new idea in them. There were a few she had considered enlightening, on religion and science, but it had not escaped her notice that most of them had a preface thanking Sir David Norton for his assistance in writing it.

She sat through meal, skimming over her five years, talking mostly of Greystone, her father, and as there had been nothing particularly exciting in her life to relay. She spoke only of new advances she was aware of, some groups he would be interested in.

Now, she sipped her coffee and eyed David, who stood by the open window smoking a cigar, looking out at the rain.

Was this going to be the rest of her life?

He turned and smiled at her, then strolled to toss the cigar butt into the empty fireplace. Standing there, rocking slightly on his heels, he asked, “Have you sold the house yet?"

"No. Not yet. I will."

He nodded, obviously looking her over. “You will like Norton Hall. I have a full itinerary for the next year too; Rome and India, perhaps the Orient. I have had complete wings cleared at Norton Hall to house my collections. Who knows, someday I may open it up to the public."

"That would be nice."

He nodded. “I've been thinking of all the notes and papers I have in trunks and drawers, you must organize them for me. You were always so good at that, and we'll have them published. It seems a shame to let them lay idle. Before the blasted war, I traveled year round, you know. So many interesting people."

"Yes."

He looked at the clock. “I suppose I must get you home.” He smiled and Jane stood, setting her cup down. David murmured, “I will collect you tomorrow afternoon, for the lecture, and perhaps we shall share lunch."

Jane sat later in the coach, her mind heavy and full, and her body feeling uncomfortable and weary. David, thankfully, merely kissed her hand at the door.

* * * *

Thorn had attended supper at the Seymour's the evening before, and then attended a play later, sitting in the private box behind the Duke. He watched the elder man beam with pride in the presence of Katherine. He could not blame him, for she was everything a man would take pride in.

He scrutinized Katherine, too, who had dressed in white and diamonds, seeing her never slip out of that social role, and witnessing her expressions; that seemed perfect and never irritated, even when people were obviously standing nearly on top of her and forever calling out her name.

During the play, there was some talk, a whisper from behind her fan, a nod of her head, and sometimes a laugh. Nevertheless, it sounded scripted, as if there were comments one must make and she was going through them.

This morning, after the heavy rain, a ride in the park was foregone. He stopped briefly at the Seymour house, and then went to the club for a few hours; listening mostly, to elderly men having political debates, or youthful ones gossiping and making wagers, on everything from which of the goats would stick their spoon in the wall first, to who would be on the outs at the last ball of the season. He very much hoped it would not be Edmund. He hoped some other poor sod grabbed the spotlight for a while, and Warbrook got the break from scandal he deserved.

Bored, restless, Thorn left the club and was headed to Bond Street, when he saw Jane and some gentleman leaving a stately building. He leaned up and looked back to see them entering a coach.

His cheroots purchased, he wasted an hour on the slogging streets with chaps who stopped and chatted. Thorn entered his coach and had the driver aimlessly tooling around, when he saw Jane and her companion again, entering a modest eatery.

He had the driver stop across the street, not knowing why his curiously should be piqued, since the fellow was white headed and had that professor/fatherly look about him, that he would expect acquaintances of Jane's to be. But he sat there smoking and watching the doors though the occasional bursts of traffic.

It seemed too long until they exited, and whilst following the coach back to Jane's house, he recalled her saying something about getting a visitor and how she had only a few days to see him.

Thorn again observed the man escort Jane to the door, take her hands, and then kiss both her cheeks before stepping back and entering his coach.

He had wanted to see Jane.

Seymour wanted to travel to Greystone, he and Katherine, to take a tour. Thorn was aware of what that meant, aside from the fact the duke had always wanted to see it, he was going to assess it's worth, as he had Thorn's, he imagined, every time he and Seymour had cigars and brandy.

He had no idea if his small staff could entertain them, or what sort of things Katherine would expect. He surmised she would have a small group with her; maid, her companion, whatever else to see her needs.

He was not thrilled about the idea, but he knew with that inner instinct, that they were going through the motions leading up to an inevitable match between himself and Katherine. In fact, Lady Katherine had thrown out several hints about which balls were generally attended by the most ton, and where those grand announcements were made. She had said more than once, that her father hosted one every season.

Thorn waited a half-hour and then exited the coach. He walked across the dark street and knocked on Jane's door.

She answered it herself, wearing a plain dun gown, he surmised was something she relaxed in, since it was well worn and much washed. Her hair was in a braid over her shoulder.

"Thorn?"

"Hullo. Jane. Can I come in?"

She looked behind her and murmured something, then back at Thorn with a nod.

He stepped in, seeing a servant heading back through the opposite entry. He removed his great coat, and she led the way to the study. Thorn watched her light a lamp by the desk. Most of the room was shadowed.

"Can I offer you a drink?"

"No. Thank you.” The room was almost empty, only a few dust-covered pieces. The shelves bare, save an occasional volume lying on its side. Thorn walked near to where she leaned her hips against the desk.

"I take it, the person you were expecting ... the one you mentioned, has arrived?"

"Yes.” She was looking past him.

Thorn sensed tenseness in her. His gaze swept over her face. She looked tired and not herself.

"A friend of your father's?"

"They were friends, yes."

He walked over a few feet, easing down on one of those dust covered chairs, elbows relaxed along the arms, and staring at her in that spill of gold light.

"Did I tell you that Emma ... Edmund's wife ... sh—"

"I got a note from Vicki.” She nodded, cutting him off.

Feeling the hair on his nape prickle, he tried, “I'll be going to Greystone at the end of the week. I hope I find things well with Edmund. I think once the man is caught they will speed things through."

"Yes. Likely they will.” She looked around and at the far wall. “You'll be glad for the break, going to Greystone."

"Not really. Lord Seymour and Lady Katherine are coming down ... to tour the house and grounds."

Her gaze touched him briefly. “Congratulations."

He said nothing, but tried to read if she meant that.

"I've no idea how to prepare for it."

"The marriage?” she rasped.

"No. The tour,” he murmured.

"Mrs. Campbell will know. You have a good cook and I am sure the servants have it polished and at it's best. The lady and her father will no doubt bring their own servants. You must dash a note to Vicki and have some riding mares brought over and stabled..."

"Yes. I will do that."

"Mrs. Campbell will..."

"Jane..."

She shook her head and looked away from him again. “I'll make you a list if you like. If it is a weeklong thing, you should invite the Vicar and perhaps Edmund too, a few of the local gentry. Find out the Duke's favorite drink ... They ... the locals.... Have ... respectable daughters and wives, and ... I'll make you a list."

Thorn felt his stomach tightening watching her swallow and wet her lips, sensing the distance she was struggling for. “You look tired, Jane."

"It's been a long week.” She glanced down at her hands.

Thorn stood and walked over to her, raising his hand, running it from the top of her head down, to rest at the base of her neck. “When are you leaving London?"

"Sometime next week."

"Will you—"

"I don't know.” She stood, pulling from his touch and walking by the window.

Thorn's hand dropped. He watched her fold her arms and stare out at the night.

He knew what he should be thinking, attributing her mood to, but he did not want to think about it. He did not want to define anything, call it anything, or categorize Jane somewhere in his life. Every other part of his existence now was that, categories and lists, obligations, and expectations, must, and have to ... But not Jane.

"If your friend ... the gentleman ... is with you, he is also welcome at Greystone."

She made a sound, a laugh, he did not know. “His name is Sir David Norton. He is ... He lectures and writes—” she shook her head.

"I see.” He did not really. “Will he be with you, then?"

"No. He has bought a home. Norton Hall, in Wiltshire.” She paused for a moment and he barely heard the next part. “He's my fiancé."

Thorn felt everything in him stop for an instant. For a moment he just could not think at all. Then he heard himself repeat, “Your fiancé?"

"Yes. We were engaged five years ago. He's been abroad and just returned."

"I see.” He said that bloody stupid phrase and he did not see. However, even as he opened his mouth again, and closed it, he recalled her saying she would had one proposal. He was trying to think at a high rate of speed, thinking of her background, her life of study and work, remembering the kind of woman she was and her interest in law and...

Thorn was trying to put it all together, and he could do that. He could. But not with the other woman ... not with Jane. The man was old enough to be her father—yet he knew on some level—that sort of thing meant nothing to her.

She turned and Thorn saw the deliberate clearing of her features, the masking of her expression. “When will you announce the engagement?"

"A month I suppose. Lord Seymour hosts a grand ball."

She nodded, and though their gazes held, he could not probe behind that mask.

"I wanted to ... see you, before I left,” he said, knowing his meaning was obvious.

She glanced away. “My only free time will be in the morning. David is joining some colleagues at his club."

"The apartment we went to before. There's a café, with a bookshop over it..."

"I'll find it.” She nodded.

Thorn stared at her, struggling with emotions and frustrations that he knew were futile. “I'll see you then.” He walked to the chair and collected his coat and left.

* * * *

It was a gray morning, another heavy rain poured down and overflowed the gutters. Jane, in a hooded cloak, stepped out of the hack and dashed under the black awning, seeing Thorn already there, with his cape collar up and his gaze on her.

The roar and constant of beat of the shower thumped around and overhead, while their gazes held for stretched out moments. Jane shivered inside from the desire there, the pure dominate virility. He reached and took her arm, but instead of leading her inside, Thorn led her between the buildings, into the alleyway, which was walled on the other side by the bakery.

As soon as they were deep enough in the narrow lane, he pressed her against the side of the building and pushed back the hood. His eyes burned deeply into hers. His nostrils flared as if inhaling her very scent. It could not be more clear to Jane that he had spent the night as she had, replaying the seconds, the moments together, feeling that wretched anguish, that emptiness—that only the other could feel. And that overwhelming need to crawl into each other's skin and never leave.

Jane blinked against the rain drenching her face and hair, which she had left down. Thorn was leaning, then kissing her. Her arms parted the cape. She rose on tiptoe, embracing him, madly kissing him back.

The famine in him, the thrust and sweep of his tongue stole her breath. A steamy heat that belied the light chill of rainfall pushed from their nostrils. The tang of water mingled in the flavor of lips rubbing and tongues stroking. He slanted his head, his mouth devouring hers and hands seeking, finding her breasts, under the parted cloak.

She had only worn a lace blouse. The tiny buttons gave way under his urgent quest for skin. Their groans echoed when he had each mound in his palms.

His mouth lifted from hers, his breathing jagged and harsh. Thorn skimmed his open lips across her jaw, bit her ear, and then bent his knees to lave, suckle, to rake his teeth over her aroused nipples.

Her hands tangled in his cloak. Jane leaned her head against the rough stone, her moan drowned by the steady drum of rain. It washed over her face, dripping and touching the skin he exposed by the widening of her cloak. She ached, she burned, and she wanted him.

Straightening, Thorn's hair dripped beads of crystal water, rolling down the swarthy face, spiking wet on his lashes. Those raven lashes were heavy but showing the gold hue, the hunger and fire there.

Thorn kissed her again, this time loose, erotic and wet. At times, the tremor of their breathing parted the exchange. His hands slid lower, feeling though the silk skirt and bunching it, dragging it up, until he wedged his hand between her legs.

Jane jerked, whimpered, when his finger slid fully inside her wet heat. Her eyes flew open. Her lips parted as he stared at her with something different burning in his gaze. Jane searched them, probed that shimmer, a febrile burning of wanting ... to pleasure and possess. She licked the water from her lips and felt the tumbling and roll of more drops. He began a cadence of in and out, a sexual thrust she understood instinctively.

She breathed more rapidly, sharper, her inner muscles grabbing, flexing in, to draw the pleasure from his touch.

He murmured something in her ear. Jane felt him slip his hand away. She made a sound, a moan of protest, but he was kissing and suckling her breasts again, driving her mad until trembles racked her body.

Thorn straightened, breathing hot as his hand found her again, his finger gently thrusting. “Do you like this, Jane?"

"Yes,” she moaned, arching and moving her hips to his touch.

"It feels warm, sleek, and tight. I want inside you so badly, Jane...” He bit her neck and husked, “Oh God ... sweet Jane ... wildly passionate Jane...."

And there it was—that desperate catch in his voice, the revealing of Thorn's hunger; to not only possess her, but to brand her as his own inside, to have her take him too. That painfully deep realization that he could not, that she could not—and all the anger and passion was colliding in these reckless last moments together.

She moved to his cadence, gave herself to the erotic cocoon around them. The rain pouring down did not matter, the where and the way, nothing—but the feel of him and his scent and sound, his husky words reaching the core of her.

She knew his eyes were closed tight, his wet face buried against her drenched hair, his free hand milked and massaged her breast, pinched light at her nipple, rolled it sweetly, erotic, between his fingers, only to milk the mound again. She could feel a different kind of fire building inside, a deeper ache, stoked by the touch and inward thrust.

The ache grew to near frustration. She rolled her head against the rough stone, her teeth clenched, hips reaching for more and more. Thorn ... Thorn, she cried deep in her soul, it was fire and craving, a primal and silent scream to have him consume her, so that the world and what must be when they separated, could be vanquished.

As if he knew the moment, the second she could endure no more, he slid down her, dropping to his knees and burying his mouth against her while his touch remained deep. Thorn suckled, he drank her, laved, ate her voraciously, truly consuming her passions.

Jane flew apart. She cried loudly, hearing the sobbing exclamation of pleasure and longing bounce off the alley walls. Completely helpless, the climax exploded, imploded inside and out, exquisitely shattering her. And how long she lingered, floated in that feeling could have been seconds or moments.

She sank to her knees, her legs liquid, her face buried in her hands. Heavy rain was pounding down on her head. Thorn stood beside her, but she needed a moment, just a moment to know herself again.

She focused eventually, aware of again of precious seconds ticking away. Jane calmed her breathing and sniffed in deep, wiping water from her face and pushing the heavy strands back off her forehead. She stared at the opposite wall, hearing the rain sharper, the sounds of the streets, strident, smelling the real world again.

Jane stood on weak legs, and turned to Thorn.

His shoulders were against the building, his hand cupped over the cheroot he smoked to keep it dry. His eyes were narrowed because of the splatter of rain. Those long curls were tucked behind his ears, weighed with water and glossy as wet ink. She watched as he blew smoke from between his lips. She eyed their dark peach tint and sensual shape, and saw the raindrops bath them and run across the satin surface.

Jane stepped in front of him, close, looking up as he gazed at her. She slid her hands inside his cape, feeling the instant heat of his skin through his white lawn shirt. She moved her hands over him, and then unbuttoned the shirt, enough to slide her hands inside and caress him.

Thorn tossed the cheroot; his eyes closed, and arm locked around her lightly. There was a tremble in his frame, a fire that raged through his blood, that she sensed vein and sinew were struggling to contain.

She kissed him, his throat and nipples, then ran her tongue down his chest. She loved the tang of heat and man, of aroused male animal. Jane eased her hand over the thrust of his sex, obvious in the laced up trousers.

He moaned deep and moved his hips slightly.

Jane unlaced them, freed his sex and felt the burning heat of silk in her palm.

Thorn's eyes opened to slits; his white teeth scrapped his bottom lip.

She reached back and took his hand, joining it with hers, as she touched him, leaning in to latch onto his nipple and suckle, while they pleasured him with long firm strokes, their hands sliding down to the base.

At the point his legs shook. Thorn quietly pushed her away and turned to the wall, one palm going against it, while he leaned slightly down, his hand finishing the last stoke. He made a sound, a deep growl and fell a little, his forearm against the stone, his face pressed to it.

Jane slid her arms around him from behind, her face buried in the material, feeling the tremor and jerk in his muscles, the deep breaths he was drawing in.

Time passed and the rain slackened. He straightened and adjusted his clothing. Jane stepped back and repaired her own.

Thorn stayed with back to her for a moment.

Jane stared at it—the breadth and height of him, at those thick wet locks. A sensation reached her, filled her, emanating from him—from his silence and posture, his slightly bowed head. She silently turned and walked out of the alley, going a block down the street without looking back, before she hired another hack and went home.

Chapter 7

Thorn had two days left to get Greystone in order. He stood in the stable yard, wearing a billowing white shirt, his boots, and leather trousers, having paced a rut before he saw Lady Victoria at last, and her grooms arriving with six horses.

They were sleek and prime and the muscled mount that Victoria rode, astride and in trousers, was nearly as large as his own stud, and all black except for a white mane.

She rode ahead and deftly slid from the saddle, holding the stallion's reins.

"I was getting worried.” He half smiled.

"We had a bit of a delay. One of my mares was down this morning. Nothing serious though."

"Thank you for this.” He motioned to the horses.

"No trouble. They need the exercise. And, don't worry, I know Lady Katherine's type, and spirit isn't it.” She pointed to a small white beauty. “That one will be perfect.” She took off her gloves and they walked to the mounts, petting and soothing them.

Thorn went from one to the other, looking them over, laughing as his stud poked his head out the stall door and squalled.

"That's a prime animal.” Victoria went him. The black beast flexed his nostrils and backed up, rolling his eyes.

"Yes. I won him actually."

"Who from, a prince?"

"Close.” Thorn laughed. “Some Austrian duke. Edmund...."

She glanced at him when he fell silent. “I know.” She spoke only for his ears. “Edmund had some powerful contacts, and Edmund sailed you around on his ship whilst you recovered, and Edmund slipped back and forth out of England—playing is role as Marquis, supposedly only vanishing to have his wound tended..."

"Yes."

She snorted and stepped back, waiting until he had told the grooms which stalls to put them in. They walked a space, leaning against a low wall, watching the men carry water and then go back inside to soothe the animals, until they grew familiar with their temporary stalls.

"I've known what Edmund did, long before he had to hide it. His father and grandfather were much the same. My father said, that it went back to the dark ages when the de Lacey's had the king's ear.” She pushed back a strand of hair that blew in her eyes. “It's where that arrogance comes from.” She laughed. “And that bloody blindness to duty."

Thorn glanced at her. “He's the best man I know."

"Of course he is.” She nodded looking at the stable.

"They've finished the inquest ... caught Hugh."

"Yes. I read that.” She glanced at him then. “He had Emma buried at Warbrook."

"I know.” Thorn shrugged. “Edmund makes his peace his way."

She looked around and toward the house. “How is Mrs. Campbell holding up with the preparations?"

"Excellent, thanks to Jane's lists and notes.” He cleared his throat. “How is she? I haven't heard if she returned to the cottage."

"She sold the house in London,” Victoria said. “I believe she is gone to Wiltshire for a couple of weeks."

"She told me her fiancée lived there."

Victoria grunted and turned to meet his gaze. “Sir David. Have you met him?"

"I've seen him,” he said carefully.

"What did you think?"

"It's not my place to think anything,” he murmured. “Jane obviously makes her decisions and her friends, based on reasons that are important to her.” He looked away. “We all have our reasons for making choices and decisions."

"He's old enough to be her father, and I don't think Jane realizes how wretchedly bored she'd be with him. It's one thing to admire qualities in our sire's and their scholarly associates—it's quite another to choose a husband for them."

"She might be very happy with a man like that. I do not imagine that his age has any relevance to Jane. She never sees just the surface; she has a way of looking almost too deep sometimes..."

When he glanced at her, Victoria was staring at him strangely.

Thorn looked away. After several long moments of silence, he offered, “Edmund tells me you apologized very humbly for that scene on the balcony."

She laughed. “Did he?"

Thorn grinned then and shook his head. “You are very much like your sister was. I could see Elise doing something similar."

Thorn thought of what Warbrook told him, that she had sent a drawing of herself grovelling at his feet. However, the humor of it was that he had been massively huge, decorated with medals and wearing a laurel wreath, whist she had been in sackcloth. It was doing it a bit too brown, but that was her point, as Edmund had said laughing helplessly, that was Victoria.

"I take that as a compliment. However, he is still an idiot if he wed's that Tipton chit. Everything is finished, over, and he has weathered it all with his usual dignity and arrogance. He's only thirty-five—though Christ knows Edmund was born old. The silver hair suits him."

"I'm not giving Edmund advice. It's the other way around."

"You need a rich bride. He doesn't."

"He needs a calm and steady life. A settled one. He deserves it."

She sighed disgusted. “Why doesn't everyone just buy him a plot and monument? Why is it that he should...” She shook her head and pushed away from the wall to face him. “Edmund needs a woman, a real one, not some passive child he must cuddle and spoil. Which he will—simply because of Emma. He needs a challenge for God sakes; he is neither old nor dead. He was wounded and...."

"I know. Jane told me,” Thorn said quietly.

Victoria snapped her mouth shut. She stared and then sighed and took her seat beside him again. “Do you think that he would toss me out of his bed?"

"Do you plan on being in it?"

"Yes. I have already bribed half his staff."

Thorn laughed.

She elbowed him. “Give me some advice, some insight."

"How the bloody hell would I know what he likes in bed?"

"You have known him a long time. What was his mistress like?"

"He did not have one."

"He did have an occasional tumble?"

Thorn glanced down at her, surprised that she was perfectly serious. “You know Edmund's sense of honor. Do you want to trap him?"

"I have waited forever for him to come to his senses. I haven't any choices left. I'm not going to marry another, and if he does plan to wed the Tipton gal, after I seduce him—at least he'll be my first lover."

"Your first."

She guffawed. “Of course. Why is it you men think that giving females knowledge of sex and all that makes them immoral?"

"Sorry. It is a new breed to most of us. You must give us time to catch up and erase our ignorance."

"Men will never see women as capable of ... Oh, don't get me started. You were going to tell me about the women Edmund had."

"The usual. And no, he is not the sort of male who brags or boasts and talks about it. I know of three instances in all the time I have known him. And if you tell him that I said that, I am not going to be on your side."

"I won't. Are you on my side?” She pulled away and looked at him grinning.

"Yes. I am.” He playfully flicked that long tail of hair she had tumbling over he shoulder. “I shall even make it easy for you, and tell you that you likely wasted your coin on those servants. Warbrook is my guest for the next two weeks."

She pursed her lips. “I've been had."

He laughed. “Yes. However, since I will need someone to even out the numbers. I invite you to join us for Thursday, a small supper. I hear you play the piano beautifully, I do not. And the following two days of riding and what not. You may take a guestroom here..."

"No. Thank you. I will accept the invites, but I can be civil and polite, on my best manners only so long. You've got yourself a paragon with Lady Katherine, and I do not trust myself to keep my tongue in my head when that perfection starts to grate on my nerves."

Thorn nodded. Not opening the subject of Lady Katherine's perfection. “An open invitation, then. Come and go as you like."

She nodded and started to head for her mare, then turned on her heel and regarded him a moment. “Does she do that to you?"

"Who?"

"Jane. Does she look too deep, see too deep?"

"Yes.” He cursed mentally even as he said it.

Victoria nodded slowly. “I'm very glad of that. Yes—Very glad."

Frowning, Thorn watched her ride off, or rather thunder off, riding like the wind. He could not guess what she meant by that remark.

* * * *

Jane escaped the interior of Norton Hall for the lush gardens. She breathed in deep several times and tried to clear her head. Walking toward a bench, she could still here Sir David talking to the group of people he had invited to a luncheon.

She was going to go mad here.

Everything was wonderful, the house, the staff, the food, the furnishings. The countryside, and even the guests. She had arrived two days ago and hardly rested before he had her touring the rooms and leafing through heavy tombs, and viewing crates of impressive art.

It should have been exciting, the art in particularly, and the rare books, manuscripts, even the stuffed heads in his hunting room.

However, he droned on and on and on, and did not particularly discuss the piece or find itself, rather it was attached some story of how he came by it, whom he stayed with, what he ate and Oh God. She felt incredibly guilty and wretched for even thinking it. But once he asked her if she slept well, reported the weather, he never stopped talking about himself.

In addition, Jane reminded herself. He did mention a thousand times, all those trunks and writings that he had done. Notes and diaries he'd kept for years on every little thing, that he was expecting her to sort, gather, and prepare for publication.

Jane rubbed her temples and watched the spray from one the fountains. She was in the silver gown, as he had requested she dress formally. Another thing that bothered her on the trip—that verbal list he'd rattled off to her—a bit like instructing a child on what to wear and which subjects would impress their company.

"There you are. Jane"

She dropped her hands as David stepped out the French doors. He wore white again, and carried a cigar. It was an image of him seared in her brain, unfortunately.

"I'm sorry. I have a bit of a headache. The trip down, I expect."

He came over, to stand very close, looking down and puffing the cigar while his blue eyes went over her gown and lingered on her breasts. “You must nap then. To be refreshed, for dinner."

She wanted to stand, but he left her little room. “Thank you, I shall."

He flickered his glance to her face. “I was talking to the Vicar, about the wedding."

"What wedding?” Her back stiffened.

Sir David's brows shot up; he paused with the cigar half way to his lips. “Why ours, of course."

Jane frowned. “Don't you think you should be discussing that with me first?"

"Of course—you may have an opinion to the day and—I can think of no other place to have it, but here at this beautiful house. I was merely ascertaining if he would perform the ceremony."

Jane felt heat flush under her skin. Her heart was racing. She looked him in the eye and knew it had been much more than that. “I take it, you have a preference for the day already?"

"The day, no. But no more than two weeks."

"Two weeks.” She felt sick.

"Why yes, Jane. We have put it off for five years already."

"But—I hardly—know you."

He smiled and winked. “Now Jane. You are no missish gel. You are a mature, twenty eight-year-old woman. There is no need to worry. We have so much in common, so many mutual interests. Our intellect compliments each other, and that is far more important to a woman of your depth than the frivolity of courtship."

She opened her mouth.

He went on. “If ‘tis flowers you wish, the entire garden is yours.” He swept his hand grandly around. “All of the gardens are yours. And there are..."

"It's not about courtship.” She stood, edging around him, and walking a space away. Jane made herself keep her voice stead and calm. They did not have mutual interests or like minds. “We are ... not attracted in the manner that a ... intimate relationship requires."

"Nonsense. I am very attracted to you, Jane, on many levels. Also, on the level of which you speak. Let us be blunt then. I can assure you my functions are as peak as they were in my twenties."

Jane stared at him. She did not know weather to laugh hysterically or ... She cleared her throat, attempting, “We would make much better friends than husband and wife, David."

He blinked and dropped the cigar and crushed it. He walked to her.

Jane found herself suddenly grabbed by the shoulders. His head came down as he pulled her too him for his kiss and a crushing display of passion that she was not ready for. In fact, Jane did not trust her stomach when his tongue thrust in her mouth. It was not his age, it was not their lack of compatibility, and it was—that it was not Thorn St.Lyons.

He lifted his head and set her back. Jane wiped her lips, horrified to see his chest heaving and yes ... the thrust of his sex against the white material.

"I'm sorry.” She stared at him. “I can't."

He stared at her. “You will, Jane. I am a worldly man. A knowing one. I will guide you through it. Think what children we will make? What bright and interesting people we can shape.” He winked again. “A little plowing and a little planting. That is all, my dear."

Dear God ... she could not stand much more.

But David stepped up and stroked her cheek. “I am hearty and strong m'dear. I know it is not fear ... missishness. Perhaps your curious mind wonders beyond the basics, hmm?” He arched his brow. “You were a doctor's daughter; no doubt, you have read much. But I am not an ungenerous husband."

She could not fathom what that meant.

He told her, in a low purr. “I know that I may seem ... all mind and brain on the surface. But I promise you there is another man in the flesh."

"David, I—"

"Let me finish. I have been around the world. There are private places, exotic and discreet clubs, that we may join. If you prefer a female, I would enjoy watching and perhaps participating in..."

"Stop. Stop.” She shook her head and stepped back. Jane's voice locked in her throat a moment, utterly shocked that the David she knew, or thought she did, obviously was a different man. The way he said it suggested it ... told her that his appetites were beyond anything her mind had imagined. God ... how was she to get through this conversation?

Jane swallowed. “No. It is not the sex. It is not anything like that. I like you, David. I respect you. I—God. I do not care about your intimate pleasures or adventures. I do not care—because I have no desire for you. Nor do I wish to be your wife."

He was stunned. It took a while for him to speak, and when he did, it stunned her in return, to hear him say, “You know, do you not? Yes of course you do. You are a doctor's daughter.” He raked his hand through his hair. “Syphilis is very common. Jane. Your father would have told you that. Most of his titled clients have a touch. There are cures that..."

Jane closed her eyes. Heavenly God ... it was worse than she thought. This man was a complete stranger, she realized. A man who thought it a small thing to risk giving her...

Jane shuddered inwardly, her head in a whirl of thoughts. “Please. Do not go on.” She opened them, saw the deep red flush on his skin. Jane drew in a deep breath, determined to get through this with some dignity. “No. I did not know about that. However, I would have if we were unclothed together. I would have contracted it too, you know."

She sighed heavily. She bloody well better get this over with. “I'm sorry. It does not enter into my retraction. I knew, even before you came back, that I had made a mistake."

"We do not have to be intimate."

Oh, horrible. Jane smiled stiffly, because it would be rude to release the grimace she longed to make instead. Her head was now throbbing, her stomach churning from her own naiveté in thinking she actually knew him. There was nothing comfortable about the situation, the conversation, but she drew in a deep breath, composed herself and managed, “Thank you, David. But no. I would not make you a good wife. I have spent most of my life with books and papers and organizing and cloistered for hours and days away from the world. I am glad for my education, for the richness of the people I have met ... like yourself. I am not sorry to have the intellect I do.

—Nevertheless, I do not want to fulfil the same role for you, that I did for my parents, or that I do for any of my interests. When and if I have a husband, I want more than that."

He frowned. “But that makes no sense, Jane. Your mother—the women in our circle, they fight to be respected by men for their intellect and their minds."

"I want that from a husband too,” she told him. “But I want a passion and humor and impulse. And, I want to be a woman in my own skin, with the same mind he respects. But I want him to want and desire me too. I want him to need my passion and my hungers, and to care if I have them. I—"

"That is a foolish dream, Jane. That is for books and fairy tales. Lust, yes. Love, is much more complex."

"I know that.” She wondered if she could ever make him understand. “I know that, David. But I do not fight being a woman. I used to. I used to, because I am judged and measured by the sex I was born to. Because the female body is a prison where the freedoms men have are not allowed us. But I don't struggle with that anymore—because I've learned to love myself and my sex, and thank God I am female."

He stared at her for a long time, and then looked away. He lifted his hand as if to say something, and then dropped it. Finally, he walked toward the house. “You may take the coach when you are ready to leave, and send it back."

"David?"

He paused by the door.

"Don't hate me."

His head lowered a moment. He sighed. “I do not hate you, Jane. I am however disappointed, and imagine your parents would be too. You have obviously lost your way somewhere, and fallen prey to weaknesses that will only bring you frustration and unhappiness."

When he stepped inside, Jane went to the bench and sat down. Her legs were weak, her body drained and her mind sore. She stared at the empty doorway.

What in God's name was she to do now?

Chapter 8

It was like some grotesque puppet show, Edmund thought, standing by the massive hearth in Greystone's main hall. He sipped his brandy and observed the actors on stage...

There was the portly Duke, who had spent the day stroking the wood, sniffing the paintings and drooling over the dead earl's original drafts that were locked behind a glass door. Lady Katherine in all white, with snowy hair aglitter, who had asked a polite question about Greystone's history—and had her eyes glaze over before Thorn was half way through answering it.

Thorn, that perverse bastard, who left the polite chit chat and normal social discourse to him all through dinner, and who shot Edmund an accusing look every time Lady Katherine glazed their eyes over—with ton gossip and witty quips—that weren't all that witty.

And Lady Victoria—Curse Thorn, what was he about inviting her? She was the worst of the lot, her polite sweetness and fake titters, her oozing over Katherine's gown, and that stupid display of fan waving she kept doing.

Now the fraud was at the piano, having played beautifully for an hour, and then begged, blushed, and giggled for Katherine to save her poor fingers and play for them.

Lady Katherine played with all the passion of an iceberg. And—there was Victoria turning pages and smiling. He knew damned well that Victoria Manning mocked those of Lady Katherine's ilk, and he knew if Lady Katherine knew the real Victoria Manning, she would be shocked to the core.

Edmund sighed and polished off his brandy. Seeing Thorn try to slip out when the Duke dozed off, however Katherine had finished her piece, so Victoria was clapping, and Thorn looked at him and started clapping ... and Edmund bowed, smiled, and clapped too.

"Beautiful ... absolutely flawless,” Victoria was saying and slipping her hand through the woman's arm. Since they were headed his way, Edmund sent Thorn a signal to get his arse over there.

"A wonderful performance,” Edmund murmured, avoiding Victoria's stare.

"Thank you. I haven't played in so long.” Lady Katherine smiled and glanced at Thorn as he joined them.

"Very ... moving.” Thorn added his praise as he stood beside Edmund.

Lady Seymour nodded. “Thank you."

There was silence for a moment, and then Edmund said, “Shall we walk in Greystone's lovely courtyard, ladies?"

"Oh, my. I am quite fatigued.” Katherine waved her fan and sighed. “I vow, we have walked miles today and only toured half the estate.” She glanced at Thorn through her lashes. “So impressive, but one must get used to country air and I fear that the trip...."

"Of course,” Thorn said almost too fast. “Shall I escort you to your rooms?"

"What's that?” His grace called from the setae. He lifted his bulk with amazing speed and stood. “Ready to retire, are we? Well, well, had a fine day, Greystone, quite enlightening.” He laughed and came over, pumping Thorn's hand. “Come along, sweetling.” He put his daughter's hand on his arm and pat it. “You must get your beauty sleep."

There was bowing, murmured good nights, and Edmund waited until the guests were out of the room, half up the staircase, and ignored Victoria who was still standing by him.

"Are you out of your bloody mind?"

"What?” Thorn turned from pouring himself some of the tepid coffee.

Edmund scowled. “You are supposed to at least pretend to be charming and gallant, even if—"

"I was charming and gallant,” Thorn cut him off flatly and took a sip of coffee. “I spent the whole bloody day tolerating the Duke's pawing my home like it was some sexual object, whilst his daughter sighed and struck poses on every piece of furniture we came upon, and did I comment? No—"

Victoria was snickering.

Edmund shot her a hard look and said to Thorn. “Remind yourself, please. That you are mere words away from attaining everything you need for Greystone, and for yourself, your heirs, through those two people you have just insulted."

"I do not have to remind myself, Edmund. I am perfectly aware of it."

"Then you had bloody well better be more attentive to your guests, and Lady Katherine in particular."

"Do you think so?” Thorn cocked his brow. “I don't think she felt slighted. Do you Vicki?"

"No,” Victoria said, and Edmund felt her stare at him as she added dryly, “The Duke is here, as Edmund well knows, to admire Greystone and mentally calculate its worth, and add up what he shall invest through his daughter to restore it. Lady Katherine is here, to picture herself its mistress and to have Thorn admire her in it, and to show him how utterly perfect and beautiful and charming a wife and hostess she will be."

Edmund looked at her. “Thorn needs the match. He needs her fortune."

"Yes.” Thorn drew their attention. “I do. And I will remind you, my friend that I have played by the rules? I have her here. I have taken your advice and I—” Thorn set the cup down and shoved his hand through his hair. He shook his head. “Of course. You are right. Excuse me.” He turned and walked toward the study.

Edmund muttered a curse.

"He's bloody miserable."

"Don't start, Victoria.” He stared at her.

Her brown eyes rounded. “He's your friend, isn't he? Why don't you care that—"

"Because he needs the bloody fortune!” Edmund snapped and turned to follow Thorn, but lost his hold on the cane, and it clattered to the ground.

"I'll get it."

"Don't,” he growled at Victoria, who had already reached down and took hold of it.

She arose and handed it to him, her face impassive. “You won't need it much longer."

"Shut up.” He took the cane and balanced himself. “Go home, Vicki."

"I am,” she snapped. Then sighed and muttered, “You're not angry at Thorn. You are not even angry with me."

"Christ.” He sighed and stared at her. “All right. Since you obviously are determined to make a point, make it. Then you can be on your way to Manning Hall—and I can make my way to the study—and we can end the second act of this ... drama, or whatever the hell you have been doing today."

"I'm entertaining Lady Katherine for Lord Greystone."

Edmund snorted.

She smiled. “What? Do you think I cannot do a favor too?"

"This is pointless."

"Yes it is,” she agreed bluntly. “Everything about it is. But Thorn needs his fortune, and the duke wants Greystone, and Lady Katherine wants an Earl, and wants to please her Papa, and you—want to help Thorn. But as usual, you're expecting him to as good at pretending as you are—because you do not like the bloody Duke, or any of the ton, and you don't care that Lady Katherine is as cold and perfect as your Lady Tipton will be. Or that Thorn will bedding a statue instead of flesh and blood woman—because you can live with that, you will live with it, and that's perfectly fine, since she's titled and respectable and—"

"That's enough, Victoria."

She clamped her mouth shut, then whispered, “I hate when you say that."

"Say what?"

"That's enough, Victoria,” she mocked him in a low tone.

Edmund stiffened.

She reached up and touched his cheek. “You've never had enough of anything but arrogance, pride and blindness.” She leaned up kissed him, soft on the lips and then drew back. “You've never had enough of me, Edmund. Because you've never seen me clear enough to let me give it to you."

Edmund felt her hand slip down. He watched her walk across the room.

She paused by the door and looked back at him. And for the first time in his life—Edmund saw that deep red hair upswept and tumbling over her shoulder, that low cut bronze gown that showed her womanly curves, and that face, those deep brown eyes and that arrogant nose, the stubborn chin, and surprisingly feminine mouth...

"You don't want a sedate existence with some chit half your age,” she challenged softly. “You've done all the right things, all the proper and correct things, and done everything expected to cover the other half of who you are. You cannot even be yourself with anyone but Thorn—and even that is not what you need. I know about that, Edmund ... I have waited awfully damned long to lay bare in your arms, to show you why I have loved you since I first laid eyes on you."

Edmund's fingers tightened on the head of the cane. He felt a tension creep over his skin.

"I don't want to be the oldest bloody virgin on earth, you know. Edmund. I want to give pleasure and feel it. I want to feel it with you."

Edmund swallowed and wet his lips, unable to believe his ears, to get his mind around the fact that this was Victoria saying these things.

She sighed. “I don't suppose you're going to do something impulsive now—like hobble over here and kiss me senseless?"

Edmund walked toward her, not actually feeling the pain that usually plagued his leg. He stopped very close and looked down at her. He saw the softness in her velvet brown eyes, and the depths of truth and passion there.

"You have no shame, Victoria. You're constantly courting scandal and gossip."

She nodded, still meeting his gaze.

"I have an intended."

She nodded again.

"I'm tempted to strangle you every time you open that pretty mouth."

She nodded.

He cursed softly.

She reached up and brushed her fingers across his lips. “Marry her if you must. But love me. You can. It's not vexation that makes you want to strangle me every time I open my mouth ... its passion. You want me."

She turned and hurried out the door.

* * * *

"You're a fool."

Edmund heard Thorn's voice, and wondered how long he had been standing in that doorway.

"That is a proven fact.” Edmund tuned to face him, noting the full brandy, the dishevelled hair and an expression he had not seen on Thorn's face before. “I have it branded somewhere on me apparently."

Thorn's laugh was a mockery. “Would you care to change places with me?"

"No."

"And yet—” Thorn waved his brandy glass. “You will keep reminding me that it is my only choice."

"Yes. I shall."

Thorn shook his head, knocked back the full glass, and shuddered. He cocked his brow, “Condolences to us both then, my friend. We have sold our souls in some fashion, and will doubtless taste the cold ashes for the rest of our lives."

Edmund was still staring at the doorway when Thorn turned back into the darkened room. Those words echoing in his head, through him, long after he retired and lay in his own shadow and bitterness

"Wonderful.” Jane muttered sitting on her trunks in the cottage. There had been a note stuck in the door that Mrs. Drayton was on holiday, visiting her sister. The coachman was not thrilled to have to unload the loaded down coach, since the footmen had loaded it at Norton Hall. However, the poor man had no choice.

Jane had helped. Now her hair straggled and the sleeve of her gown was torn underneath and her shins were bruised. She lay back on the big leather trunk, staring up at the plaster and beam ceiling. She was not going to live here. She could not live this close to Thorn and his new bride in a couple of weeks...

Depressed at her thoughts, down the whole of the trip anyway because of the entire scene with David, Jane sat up, groaned and rubbed her back. She was here temporarily, and after she met with Victoria, she may just do as her friend suggested and move in Manning Hall. ’ Course, Warbrook could suddenly bend enough to see her friend as something more as a pain in his arse, and Vicki could have her dreams....

Then, Jane would be back to her vagabond life, growing old and gray, sitting in parlors and lecture halls listening to...

"Bloody hell.” Jane stood and started sorting her things. “I'm going to take it a day at a time, that's what. I am not going to think about it. I just won't."

Hours later, the bulk of her belongings sorted and put away, the trunks dragged to a far corner and stacked, Jane heated herself water and bathed, then changed into a light summer dress and capped sleeved jacket. She tied her hair back, pushed her feet into slippers, and was standing in her chambers, on the top floor, when the thud of hoof beats sounded.

Rising one of the big windows, she leaned on the sill and stuck her head out, looking past the tree line, to the green slope, where riders were coming down.

Jane sat sideways on the sill and leaned back against the side—and knew the lead rider was Thorn. That black beast of his was easily recognizable. It did not take the eyes of a hawk either to guess the vision on the white horse was Lady Katherine. Dove habit or no, the woman brought up the rear at a respectable canter—and the other rider had to be Vicki, because that red hair was uncovered, her horse was equal in size and speed to Thorns, and her riding habit was a brilliant yellow.

Jane laughed, wondering, knowing Vicki's mind, suspecting that her friend was being sweet on the surface and appallingly shocking on the sly.

Thorn and Vicki had reached the ribbon stream and halted, allowing their mounts to drink, and apparently waiting on Lady Katherine to catch up. Jane shook her head. Thorn should have contained that stallion, and rode with his intended...

There was a moment when Lady Katherine caught up. It appeared that she and Victoria were talking. Thorn brought his mount thought the stream and past the tree line, then he came through the near side and stopped.

He looked up.

Jane knew he saw her in the window. She raised her hand.

He did likewise, and then sat there still for a moment.

When he wheeled the mount, she watched the breeze catch that billowing white shirt, sighing as his figure disappeared.

No—she could not live this close to him and not be tempted to see him.

Chapter 9

As soon as Thorn told Victoria that Jane was back at the cottage, her friend stopped by.

"I'll send one of my servants over,” Victoria offered, plopping down on the twin wicker chaise beside Jane's. She unpinned her plumed hat and let it fall to the ground, and turned her face up to the dappled shade. “Trust me; they will glad to have something to do. Manning Hall is opulent, but I am tedious to wait upon."

She reclined, crossed her ankles, and rolled her head to look over Jane's summer white gown; the skirt had an open sheer panel showing a gauzy straight skirt beneath. “I will send you transportation too. God knows I have horses, coaches, buggies and any other vehicle invented."

"Thank you."

"You could just come to Manning Hall?"

"I may.” Jane wrinkled her nose, tucking her hair back under the white net that held it. “I'm recuperating just now."

Vicki snorted. “Not from a broken heart. I can only congratulate you on having you good sense return on time."

"David isn't a bad sort. No different from most men his age."

"If you have to settle. Do not settle for someone like that, though."

Jane shrugged and met her gaze. “How has it been.... At Greystone?"

"Torturous, tense and strained. The only one, who does not notice that no one is enjoying themselves, is the Duke and Lady Katherine. Thorn is not going to have any teeth left from grinding them. You know how he feels about Greystone, they are making it some ... Well, he is just bloody miserable. And Edmund, still pushing and prodding, and though he does the pretty and acts the charming Marquis, it doesn't take a genus to too see that Victoria stiffens when he is around—I do not think she cares for Thorn's friends, including me. Though she is much too polite to show it."

"And you are enjoying it?"

Victoria laughed. “Yes I am. I cannot help it. She is so damned correct. I had all of that training too, and I much more travelled and sophisticated than she is, but it gets my back up, the way she turns up that nose and smiles all the while."

"Poor Thorn."

"Yes. Poor Thorn."

"But he will have his fortune, and I think he will grow used to Lady Katherine and that life after awhile."

Victoria was looking at her. “You are amazing."

"What?"

Vicki rolled her eyes and looked away, up at the leafy branches. “Never mind. Just keep playing the role you are, pretending like the rest of us."

"I am not pretending anything,” Jane retorted. Then asked, “But, what of Edmund? Has he said anything since that ... confession from you?"

"No. He stares at me. But what goes on behind those violet eyes, that hard head, who knows."

"He should be up to riding now. I would almost swear he is carrying that cane as part of his armor, like everything else."

"The leg pains him. However, I think you are right. Edmund must recover these blows and ... God. If I could just get that man alone..."

Jane laughed. Then, she mused aloud. “Hmm. Since Thorn is busy with the Duke in the morning, riding to the village you said, and Lady Katherine is going to be having tea with the Vicar's wife. Why don't you get Edmund here for a picnic? I'll manage it, and you can tell him I need to speak with him on something."

Victoria looked at her. “Do you think he would come—I'm not even sure he would ride in a buggy with me."

"Tell him ... that I am in desperate need of some ... investment advice. I have sold the house and—Oh, think of some elaboration on that, something that will appeal to his male superior brain. I can make my own choice of investments, but I've learned that men imagine we cannot."

"It's worth a try."

They sat in silence some time, listening to the birds; the ruffle of the breeze through branches overhead. After awhile they discussed general things—and neither was ignorant of the fact that Jane kept changing the subject of Thorn.

* * * *

Jane arose early the next morning and heard a tap on the cottage door. Still in her robe, she padded down and opened it, gasping at the line of Manning Hall servants there.

"I don't need you all."

One of the capped maids grinned. She gestured to the basket. “Her Ladyship asked us to set up the picnic. We have brought everything. Only Mary there,” She pointed to an apple-cheeked woman in gray, “will be staying on. She's a good cook and everything else, gets at loose ends at the hall."

"All right.” Jane chuckled and pointed to the side of the house. “Just there, there is a small garden. I'll open the French doors and you can take whatever tables you might need from inside."

The maids curtsied and one brawny footman with a case that was marked with wine merchants seal, winked at her.

Jane was still shaking her head as she went in and opened those French doors, off a parlor that was decorated in sage green and cabbage rose prints. She gave them the run of the house and left them to it, then went upstairs to dress.

* * * *

Edmund argued with Victoria for thirty minuets, over who would handle the ribbons.

"It's my buggy!"

"I do not care. I have seen you driving hell for leather in the countryside. I've no desire to have my neck broken, simply because you drive like a damned idiot."

"Idiot? You go too far, Edmund."

"I got too far!"

"Oh—Get up here and drive then!” She slid over and folded her arms.

He climbed up and set his cane in the floor, smoothed the ribbons in his hand expertly, and got them moving at a smart pace down the country road.

Victoria had donned a yellow gown, very low cut and showing ribbon straps off the shoulder, under her sheer hip length coat. She was seriously not minding that she would not be distracted by watching the road and handling the horses. She was eyeing his dove gray trousers and black boots, the pristine white shirt, absent a neck cloth and collar for a change, and a shorter more lightweight jacket than the frock coats he normally wore. Actually, she was eyeing the way the snug material molded his legs, and..."

Edmund growled, “I sincerely hope you are not staring where I think you are?"

Victoria bit her lip to suppress a smile. “You shouldn't be surprised at anything I do. You said yourself I am scandalous."

He glanced at her, his violet eyes a bit shaded by his black lashes as they went down her and back up. “I do not for a moment believe you are a virgin either."

Her brow arched. “There's only one way to find out."

He put his eyes back on the road. “You've no sense of propriety, and your father should have reined you in when you were young. You've done nothing but run wild since he died."

"I do not run wild. I peruse my interest and I enjoy my freedoms. I never panted with anticipation to be a part of some elite snobby crowd and I know for all they whisper about me and disapprove of me, they'd take me into their bosom, if they thought for a moment they'd get their hands on my wealth."

"The ton being two-faced is not a new subject between us, Victoria."

"True. I'd much rather return to the fact that you caught me admiring your strong thighs."

He grit his teeth. “Do you have to be so ... verbal about everything?"

"With you, yes.” She shifted in the seat. “I want you Edmund."

He made a suffering sound.

Victoria ignored it. “I think you are the most handsome, most virile and delicious man I've ever laid eyes on. And when you are not being arrogant and priggish, I can quite easily fanaticize that you're going to make my first experience and every subsequent one, everything I expect it to be and more."

Edmund muttered a curse and slowed the horses to a stop. The cottage was just ahead, but he turned and looked at her.

She met that stare.

He muttered, “This is a set up, something you planned?"

She nodded. “It was Jane's idea, the picnic. But given that you are not going to corner me at Greystone, and you will be going to London soon to—that—chit—you will be miserable with."

Victoria's brown eyes softened and became vulnerable. “Just today, Edmund. I am not a woman who begs. Do not make me. Give me this one day. I promise that you will not even see me afterwards ... I don't go up to London that often, and once you wed, I—"

"Hush,” he whispered, and shook his head, but then said gruffly, “Today then, Victoria. But—"

She put her gloved hand over his lips. “Don't anticipate or think it out. Just be with me, and let me be with you."

* * * *

Jane knew. The moment she greeted them, she surmised that Edmund had been apprised of the real reasons for being summoned.

"Come along, then.” She stepped between them and led them to the patch of lawn surrounded by blooming flowers. The table was covered with a white cloth; wine chilled, and silver platters lined up. Two chairs, not too far apart, and all the privacy they would need.

She let loose their arms and smiled at them both. “Mary and I are going to eat in the kitchens. Then we are going for a walk by the stream and maybe..."

"We get it.” Edmund smiled at her. “You will not—so—subtly wander off..."

"Right.” Jane reached for his jacket. “Relax and enjoy, and I shall be gone the whole afternoon.” She took his jacket inside.

"They make a striking couple,” Mary said standing back from the doorway. “She's loved him ever so long."

"Yes.” Jane stood beside her, watching Edmund hold the chair for Victoria then pour them wine. His height and lithe build, that silver hair, and Victoria's vivid coloring ... they made a perfect couple.

She put her arm around Mary. “Come. Let's eat and hopefully, let nature take its course."

They went to the kitchen and their meal.

An hour later, with their walking boots on and a couple of books, their own glasses and wine bottle, Mary and Jane headed down to the stream. But Jane could not resist a look back to see how things were progressing.

Very good, she surmised, since Edmund was whispering in Victoria's ear and her friend was laughing happily.

"Do you read, Mary?"

"Oh Yes. All of the Manning servants read."

Jane handed her a book. “Here then, a deliciously wicked novel. One the banned ones, that will singe your fingertips. That, and a glass of wine. Perfect way to waste an afternoon."

The servant laughed. “I'll say.” She hugged the book to her chest and marched on alongside Jane.

* * * *

Thorn returned from the village with the duke in the late afternoon.

Seymour may have been subtle before, however he was blunt on the way there.

He had said, “You may ask for Katherine before we leave, Greystone. That way this wedding can take place sooner. I am sure our visit here is well known and it would be expected for you to place a notice in the Times as soon as we are back in London. Katherine is of an age, and I see you have every reason to not dawdle."

"Yes. Sir,” Thorn had replied feeling his skin tighten.

The duke puffed his cigar and eyed him narrowly as they were seated facing in the open buggy. “Trust me to see to details. My Katherine comes with a fortune and as I admire Greystone, you can rest assured that I've every interest in seeing it returned to its former glory."

"Of course, Sir."

"You may speak to Katherine first, though I'm sure of her eagerness to accept. Then, we will meet in your study and do the formalities before I depart."

Thorn was not sure what he murmured, but the rest of the trip was an out of body experience, everyone he talked to, introduced the duke, and everyone who talked to him—was nothing but a blur. As soon as he returned and looked at Katherine, sitting straight in her light blue gown, sipping tea, he wanted to escape.

"Where is Lord Warbrook?” he asked Mrs. Campbell as the duke and Katherine retired for a nap.

"He went with Lady Victoria to visit Miss Jane..."

"Thank you.” He headed outside.

"My Lord?” Mrs. Campbell caught up with him. “It's the party tonight and—"

"Yes.” He ran a hand through his hair, distracted. “You'll do fine. I'm sure we will all be back in time to—I just need a bit of time, Mrs. Campbell."

She reached out and touched his arm. “Sure you do. You go on, sir. Take a ride or stroll. I was only going to say, that the fish wasn't delivered, so we're having lamb, and I made your favorite blueberry torts..."

He laughed. She smiled. Thorn reached down and bussed her cheek. “Thank you."

She blushed and her hand flew to the spot. “Go on with you.” Mrs. Campbell chuckled. “You've hours yet. And lord knows them what needs beauty sleep won't be down for awhile."

Thorn went to the stable and saddled his stallion. He was headed toward the cottage and hopefully some sanity, and forgetfulness in Jane's arms.

* * * *

Lounging on her plaid blanket, Jane heard the hoof beats before Thorn crossed the stream. She was lying on her stomach, her glasses on the end of her nose, and had been reading. She glanced over at Mary who had been turning the pages of the novel eagerly, but shoved it behind her back at the sight of Greystone.

He wore those calf hugging boots, leather trousers, and a white silk shirt, his hair only loosely tied back and spirals having sprung loose. Jane turned her head, merely observing as he dismounted and let the horse graze. She watched until he was very close to the blanket.

"I didn't know you wore glasses.” He sat down on the grass, facing but beside her.

She slid them off. “Too much reading."

Thorn glanced at Mary. “Hullo."

"Your Lordship.” She smiled.

Jane introduced them. “Mary was reading a wickedly passionate novel when you rode up, and she's not going to be very happy if you hang about and keep her from finishing it."

Thorn chuckled and winked at the maid. “Read on, Mary. Never let it be said that I deprived women of their pleasure."

The maid blushed up to her cap.

"Thorn.” Jane scolded.

He heard her giggle. Then asked, “Where is Edmund and Victoria?"

In low tones, Jane confessed the whole plan that she and Victoria had set up.

"Lucky Edmund,” he murmured and met her gaze.

They saw Mary stand.

"Just going to stretch my legs. Take a walk,” The maid said, slipping her book in pocket. “There's shade on the other side of the stream. Can't take too much of this sun on my freckled skin."

When she jotted off, Thorn said low, “A perceptive woman.” He allowed his gaze to roam Jane's face. “You broke your betrothal?"

"Yes."

"That must have been difficult, given that you were so long acquainted."

"I discovered that David and I make better friends than husband and wife.” She sighed. “I don't wish to discuss it."

Neither did Thorn. Nevertheless, he damned himself for being glad that she was not betrothed ... to anyone. He decided that he really was a bastard, considering—but he was damned glad.

Jane rolled more to her side, sliding the book up and propping herself by her forearm. Thorn's gaze went down her gauzy summer dress. It was a cream and beige, with a low-buttoned bodice.

"Don't you have guests?” Jane murmured.

"Yes. They're napping at the moment."

"You've a party tonight, Vicki said."

"Yes. Will you come?"

"I don't think Lady Katherine would consider me..."

"I don't give a bloody hell what she thinks of my friends. Greystone will always be open to my friends, and If—"

Jane was staring at him.

He fell silent and looked in the distance toward the cottage. “I wish it was us there, in your cool and quiet bedroom. I need you, Jane."

* * * *

Her chest hurt, her eyes watered. She eyed the taunt set of his jaw and mouth, seeing the strain around his eyes, and feeling that unleashed emotion in him. Yes. He did need her. Moreover, after the horrid week with David, she needed him too. Jane had felt bereft the moment they had parted, and the surreal horror of the mistake she'd almost made in wedding a man so wrong for her, only deepened her ache for the man who was so very right. The man who desired her and made her feel desired. Yes, she thought, also feeling that hopelessness at how far his own plans had progressed. There was no beginning and end to her need for him, their need for each other.

Her words put the reality in prospective for the both of them. “It's the light of day, and you and I are different people—"

"I know.” He reached out and covered her hand.

She stared at the dark hue. He had not worn riding gloves and just the strength in that hand, the veins and color, it evoked memories, stirred sensations that were damned difficult to hide.

He drew his knee up, resting his elbow there and glanced to where the maid was, far on the other side, sitting against a tree reading. Thorn moved his hand and touched his fingertips to the top of her breasts. “I'd love to see you in the full sun, laying here nude with your hair down..."

Mesmerized by that lazy husk, the glow in his light brown eyes, Jane felt her nipples grow tight and knew he could see the imprint through the thin material. She too, could easily visualize that picture, and of him also; that swarthy skin and muscle, the dew that would shine on him like that first day.

They were truly mad to play these games, to torture themselves.

Releasing a shaky breath, she sat up and moved his hand away. Reaching for the warm wine, Jane took a sip and let her gaze drift over him, over those snug black leather trousers and that shirt with the collar undone, it slid back enough to show the sinew of his throat and the muscle of his shoulder.

He whispered, “I love the way you look at me."

Her gaze touched his. She lowered the glass, already feeling that fullness of arousal, the heady erotic intoxication. Dear God, she was weak, so weak that she said, “I will come to the party ... late."

"You won't be out of place. Victoria will be there, and the locals..."

"I'll be there. Not at the supper, but..."

"All right,” he murmured and sighed long, as if he had been holding his breath. “I should go."

She watched that nerve tic in his jaw, as he'd set his teeth tightly. “You should,” she mumbled back. “Mary won't talk. However, there is nothing we can do. We can sit here and discuss the weather or any other trivial thing, but what we most want to say, will only make this ... worse."

Thorn stood and shoved his hair back, gazing up toward the cottage. He dropped his hands and told her before leaving, “You don't have to dress formally, it's our version of a country gathering, the vicar and his wife, six or seven others. I suppose you know them better than I do."

"Go on, Thorn,” Jane said quietly, sensing his reluctance, feeling his conflicting emotions, his want to stay. “I can take of myself, and the only reason I care what Lady Katherine thinks, is for your sake. I managed to be in and out of society for years and be invisible. I blend into the background well."

"Jane."

She laughed because laughing was better than crying or screaming in utter frustration. “I'm teasing. Now go. I will see you later."

He did go, and Jane watched him ride off.

It would make things easier for her if he wanted Lady Katherine. She knew that. And, he should want a woman of those looks and that breeding. It would make it easier to leave and to drop out of his life ... so that he could focus on his intended, perhaps even transfer those desires to her.

Jane stood and folded the spread and picked up her glasses and book. After tonight, she would do that. Thorn needed to wed his heiress, but she could sense that he would keep coming to her—and weak woman that she was, ensnared, prisoner to those emotions, every moment she was around him—she would want him to.

Jane did not know how much longer she could keep the depth of her feelings hidden. It tore her apart, knowing too, that it did Thorn also.

* * * *

She and Mary walked a bit and then took their time returning to the cottage. They entered from the back path, and went into the kitchen. After awhile Jane braved a walk though the house and lingered at the French doors seeing the remains of the picnic.

Jane leaned against the frame, recognizing Victoria's hairpin glittering on the ground, and seeing Edmund's gloves by his plate, his cane forgotten too. The white cloth fluttered and bunched around the empty wine bottle. It was a vignette; a still life, of a lover's shared meal, the hints of bare male hands buried in a woman's hair—and desire that took their appetite in another direction.

It was something she and Thorn would never be able to do. A scene she would never play out with him. Jane's smile wobbled as a tear trickled out the corner of her eye. She would never laugh freely with Thorn as Victoria had with Edmund, and she would never boldly ask him for his love as Vicki had done, because he would be bound for life to another woman.

A creak of the floorboards sounded. Jane dashed the tear away and turned, still leaning in the doorway, to see Edmund coming through the entry. His gray hair was dishevelled and his shirt tail out. He carried his jacket and boots. He looked very young, very different as he spied her and smiled.

"She's ... I left her asleep,” he whispered and came into the room, sitting on one of the chairs to pull on his boots.

Mary came in, hiding her smile as she set coffee down. Jane saw that novel still peeking out of her pocket.

"Help yourself,” Jane told him as the maid left.

Edmund had his boots on and stood to pour a cup. Leaving his jacket, he came over to lean opposite her, sipping, and looking out at the remains of the picnic.

Noting the difference, the more relaxed, curiously, more handsome Marquis of Warbrook, Jane mused, “She loves you very much, Edmund."

"I know,” was his gruff answer, after he lowered the cup. “I know, Jane."

"Yes, I suppose you do, finally.” Jane sighed then fetched her own cup, and returned to her spot.

He glanced at her, a small reflective smile on his lips and in his eyes. “How did I get through life, without feeling that..."

She could guess what he meant. How did he get through life not discovering that making love, being with a woman, could feel that deep and that pleasurable? It was written all over him.

Jane said, “Because you had not let Victoria close enough to show you. You didn't have the woman, who wanted nothing more than to make love with you."

He held her gaze and then nodded slowly before looking away. “Yes—I feel for the first time as if I can breathe,” he admitted huskily. “She knows me ... she just looks at me and I feel as if she knows me, down to my soul. And I touched her, and looked into her eyes, and I knew her too."

Jane smiled and touched his shoulder before turning to go wake Victoria.

Chapter 10

Thorn was envious. He stared at Edmund, and it was if a different bloody man had returned from that cottage. Hell, he could be happy for him, Edmund deserved happiness and a woman who was a real woman, but he still felt a twinge of envy that Edmund was completely free, and wealthy enough to do as he damned well pleased.

The guests had arrived and dinner had gone smoothly. The duke seemed content with the vicar's company as they laughed and talked. Lady Katherine was in her element with so many women, young and old, admiring her and asking her questions about the ton, fashions, and other things of female interest—which Thorn tried not to imagine, was going to part of his daily life soon.

Edmund sat at the other end of the table, and for all he was dressed fashionably in black and white; he did not wear a cravat and looked starched up. It was obvious too, when Lady Victoria entered a bit late, breezing in and saying something about having to check on things at Manning Hall, that Edmund had scarcely taken his eyes off her.

She did look lovely with her red hair curled and piled up, in contrast to Lady Katherine's pastel blue and white hair. Vikki's gown was a form fitting black and edged in ruby silk. Katherine wore diamonds, earrings, necklace, and the rest. Victoria wore only a pair of rubies in her ears. The other women wore their best too obviously, even the Vicar's wife who wore black silk, with plumes in her gray hair.

Thorn dressed formally, because he was the host. He was The Earl of Greystone. And, he was morbidly torturing himself by chanting that in his head, every time he looked at the woman he was supposed to propose to tonight.

After dinner, the coffee and brandy were served. The men stepped out to smoke, while the females gathered round the piano.

The duke had gone in the opposite direction with the other men, so Thorn and Edmund stood at the front of Greystone, enjoying their cheroots.

Thorn muttered, “Has some miracle happened, that I do not know about?"

"Hmm?” Edmund blinked out of his muse.

"Your cane?"

"Oh.” Edmund rubbed his thigh. “I decided that the tendons and muscles might become more flexible if I wean myself from it."

"Umm.” Thorn's white grin flashed.

Edmund looked him in the eye and smiled back.

Thorn said then, “Perhaps you should mention it to your physician next time you are examined? I'm sure our comrades would love that prescribed exercise."

Laughing, Warbrook murmured, “It was likely discovered long before me, I just needed the right inspiration."

"I see.” Thorn eyed him up and down. “And you being the honourable man you are...?"

"Yes.” Edmund supplied seriously, “I won't let her go now. I am not that stupid. Victoria can live without me. She has. She is an incredibly strong and intelligent woman. I cannot live without her, however. I feel as if I only exited."

"I'm happy for you. I mean that. After your hellish year I am happy for you both."

"Thank you. It means something to me."

Thorn clasp his shoulder. “I recognize, Edmund, that you are a stuffy sonofabitch at times. But I know what is underneath.” He tossed the cheroot and walked inside.

Where was she?

An hour passed. Thorn sat in the straight chair, listening to the ladies play and mentally counting the seconds. He sat another hour, arose, and walked to the fireplace, standing there, where he could see the door.

Where was she?

When the duke arose and headed toward him, Thorn felt his stomach shrink and everything in him scream resistance.

The man took up a stance beside him and watched a moment as Lady Katherine played.

Thorn's gaze went to Edmund and he felt the starkness in it, the panic, but he couldn't bloody help it. His neck cloth was too tight and the duke's scent of cigars and spice was nauseating.

Under the music, Lord Seymour murmured, “The ladies will break for tea and cakes soon. Katherine is expecting you to take her for a stroll in the courtyard."

Thorn's eyes moved to Katherine, who peeked up at him from the music sheets then looked back down and kept playing. Every note and sound was like a discorded hammer in his head; it was like a maddening amplified death knell.

He had made it through war, through a bloody lashing and prison, and he had never in his life felt such a trapped dread ripping through him.

The duke was talking, talking, and Thorn's eyes were moving over people who laughed and chatted and acted so bloody normal.

The music stopped. There was clapping. His vision skewed and he saw his grace go to his daughter and whisper in her ear. Thorn watched her come toward him, floating, smiling that smile that never altered or varied. He felt her slip her hand through his arm.

"The courtyard is this way.” She laughed when he took a step in the opposite direction.

Thorn turned with her and calmed his heartbeat, his breathing; he focused on clearing his mind—until the feeling lessened. He became more and more detached from them.

Just before stepping out into the courtyard, he looked around ... There was a portrait of his grandfather there on the wall, those eyes and that beloved face. He drew in his breath and released it. He reached the cooler air. Thorn was completely calm again. This was not about him. It was about Greystone and, his grandfather. Greystone could not limp through another year. He had debts in London.

* * * *

Jane moved to the shadows when she heard their footfalls, pressing her back against the wood panels. She had just entered through the courtyard.

They stepped out. She told herself to leave, but she was a mere foot from the wide open doors ... and she knew ... something inside her knew what was about to take place. She closed her eyes, her heart thumping hard.

Thorn's voice was calm, clear, and perfect in her ear

"Your father has given me permission to speak to you, Lady Katherine. On the subject of a betrothal, and eventual marriage between us."

"Yes, my Lord. I am prepared to accept, and I do understand that there is no need to prolong the engagement. Papa has expressed a wish that the notice be run in the Times as soon as we return to London, and by the time of the ball..."

"Very well. As I am not versed in such matters, I will leave the decision of a honeymoon trip up to you—it is your choice of location. As for the wedding..."

"You need not fear. Females are so much better than men at that sort of thing. It will be everything befitting both our stations. My father will, I'm sure, inform you as they proceed."

There was a silence and for a moment, Jane was torturing herself, imaging Thorn kissing that beautiful female. However, she leaned up to see he had raised the woman's hand and kissed it only.

"Should you wish a ring, you will have to wait until I am in London. You may prefer to choose it yourself."

"I shall look forward to it."

Thorn said, “Is there anything you wish to discuss or ask me?"

"No, my lord. I think everything is settled. My papa will meet with you before we leave."

Jane held her breath as they entered and Thorn escorted her through the entry door. She blew the air out as it closed—and stood there hearing the muffled announcement and the congratulations and clapping.

Pushing away from the wall, Jane strolled over and poured a full snifter of brandy. She drank half and covered her mouth with her hand, coughing and feeling the burn. Straightening, she padded to the far end where it was very dark near the shelves, and sat down.

It was a dreadfully long time, and her glass was empty, sitting on the table, when the door opened. Thorn entered alone. He leaned back against the door a moment, eyes closed and tearing off the neck cloth, throwing it down with the collar.

He went to the decanter, shrugging out of the jacket, leaving it on the floor as he poured a glass and turned it straight up, draining it. The bottom of the glass smacked the table. His head bowed and his palms on the surface, he breathed as if he had run miles.

Thorn reached back took the tie from his hair, and poured another. He had it in his hand when he turned ... paused and peered into the dark.

Suddenly—he was across the room, falling to his knees and wrapping his arms around her waist, burying his face against her stomach.

"Jane ... Jane...” He moaned muffled as he rubbed his face against her.

"Shhhh ... shuuu.” She stroked his hair, tears seeping down her face at the restless push of his face, the raw sound of his voice.

He held her tight, his body hot and breathing in deep as he ground his face against her. “Jane...” he whispered hoarsely.

She shuddered, resting her cheek on his head, soothing and stoking over his shoulders. A shudder wracked him too, and Jane eased him back, took his arms from around her and stood. She found his hand and tugged, then walked back to the faux panel and slid aside the hidden door.

He closed it behind him. They went up the narrow stairs, and exited through the panel in the master chambers.

With the drapes pushed back, moonlight spilled across the expanse, fanning over the massive bed with its deep burgundy coverlet. Jane still had his hand while they walked to it and stood at the side.

"Jane...” he began, but she reached up and covered his mouth, shaking her head repeatedly.

"No words.” Jane removed her hand and then began undoing the buttons on the front of the green silk gown. She watched him began to unbutton his shirt.

She slid the gown down, stepped out of it, and sat on the bed to remove her shoes and stockings.

The sheer chemise was next. Her eyes were on Thorn, sliding his breeches off, while she let her hair down and finger combed it.

Jane stood a moment, nude, bare, her head high and her skin bathed in moonlight, her eyes full of emotions as they moved over his powerful form.

* * * *

Thorn stepped back in the shadows, so this gaze could touch her, drink her, and his mind could burn that image inside of it. That image of Jane—with her grotto green eyes shimmering with reflections from the moon. Her face smooth as peach silk, lips damp, slightly parted—her hair glowed where the deeper strands absorbed the light. Her shoulders were smooth and creamy, breasts out thrust, the underside more full, their apricot nipples large and aroused. The slope of her ribs and stomach drew his gaze, the taunt globe of her buttock, and the glisten dark brown curls, then shapely silken legs and small feet.

She reached up, scraping her hair back. He wanted to capture that moment, when she exposed the side of her neck, the line of her jaw, the arch of her brow. She pulled her hair to one shoulder and held her hand out to him. The smile that curved her mouth was alluring, as womanly and as full of passion and knowledge as Eve in Eden.

He went to the door, locked it with a soft click, that seemed to instantly create their private world inside that room.

* * * *

Jane's skin sensitized the moment he stepped close. Her lungs filled with the scent of earthy allure. He lifted her to place her on the bed. Her gaze raked over swarthy satin and muscle, up to the intensity of his face, framed by those long unbound strands of hair. Thorn laid her down, bending over her, pushing his hair back before he leaned for that first kiss...

It was silken heat; moist, lush, and heady, lips sliding open and tongue stroking in to taste. The rush of warm air from their nostrils came, then that echoing moan of pleasure at the taste, tangs and flavor.

Her hands caressed his shoulders, his neck, and his face. Her body arched up in pleasure, want and need.

He lifted his head and rose higher, watching his hand stroke down from her throat to her belly, then across each arm. Thorn lifted her hand, bringing her fingers to his lips. He ran his tongue up each one, and then suckled them, moving his head, laving his tongue on the tip. He bit softly at her wrist, then the bend of her arm, back to her mouth again, for a loose erotic play of tongues.

Jane breathing deepened, her world shrinking into nothing save Thorn, and her senses magnified, attuned to only him

He began to kiss her everywhere, to immerse her body, inch by inch into an erotic inferno with his lips and tongue; dragging his palms over her flesh, until she was as clay, moved, moulded, stroked and shaped.

Jane stretched her body sensually. The flames spread behind every touch. The air in her lungs felt as thick mist, it's sound like sighs of someone finding paradise.

She lifted her heavy lids to find him there, regarding her with fathoms deep expression of male desire, craving—mingled with watchfulness, and a fascination of her pleasure.

Jane felt his hand between her legs, felt his fingers glide between the curls and slicken in the wet heat. When one slid deep, she arched and parted her lips. As he began to draw it out and slide it in deeper, she grasped his upper arms.

He wet his lips, whispered as in a throaty fog, “Are you afraid, Jane ... are you ready to go deeper?"

"I'm not afraid,” she whispered, closing her eyes and feeling him increase the cadence and depth. When he touched her outside, finding those nerves, she went willingly to the blaze, shuddering, her fingers digging into his muscle as it splintered and flooded in her and over her, taking her under for long lost moments.

Jane opened her lids, relishing the softness of the kiss he gave her.

Thorn raised and settled between her legs, his forearms beside her head. “Now, Jane?"

"Come to me,” she whispered and slid her hands down to rest on his taunt buttocks. “Come inside. I want to feel you there. I want to be full of you."

He flexed his hips in, entering her only inches, his voice tight and low. “Together ... sweet, Jane..."

She arched up; their gazes locked, her fingers tight on his arms. He pressed in deep and she arched more.

Her lashes fluttered, pain slashed through her, showing on her face. She bit hard on her lip.

Thorn's lips brushed her ear. “Jane. Jane..."

She relaxed the shocked muscles. “Don't be afraid...."

He moaned deep and raised his head.

She smiled at the mixture of pleasure and worry mingled there. Jane brushed back his hair and cupped his face. She kissed him and then arched again, moving her hips back and forth. He shook his head; half smiled, and then began to do the moving himself.

Jane knew about first times. She closed her eyes and felt him thrusting in her, heard the sounds from his throat and chest, sounds of unrestrained male pleasure. In moments he jerked and shuddered, rolling to his side with their bodies locked, holding her so tight she groaned until he slacked.

Jane heard him whisper a curse, let go a sigh of disgust.

She grinned, not upset that he lost himself in pleasure their first time.

* * * *

It was an hour perhaps, and they had refreshed. Jane sat against his chest; his arms around her, as they looked down from the window seat, down over the misted moonlit lands of Greystone.

Thorn stroked her hair and kissed her brow, her shoulder.

Jane titled her head back, looking at him as he gazed down.

His white smile was sensual, echoed in his eyes.

"What are you thinking?"

He grunted and bit her ear. “Now, you are you going to let me speak?"

Jane chuckled softly. “You spoke ... before."

Thorn raised his head, his brow arched. “Perhaps its better you didn't know what was going through my mind."

"Oh?"

He laughed short. “That's was damned scary. Wonderful, pleasurable for me, and ... But my first virgin."

"But I thought—"

"No. I did not take that girl. I was too...” He pinched her bottom. “Don't laugh."

She was laughing and she teased, “Should I compliment you?"

"No.” He grinned sourly. “When I have you losing control. You can compliment."

Jane wrinkled her nose. “Like grading exams, hmm?"

"I hope not.” He laughed deep and stood, leading her over to the bed and falling back, pulling her over him and massaging her bottom. “Are you sore?'

"A bit."

He sighed and bit her lip, released it murmuring, “That doesn't give me a chance to make a better impression."

"I'm sorry.” She laughed softly.

"Don't be.” He rolled her under him and gazed down at her. “But just for references, how long until you invite me back in?"

He was smiling and there was a teasing glint in his eye, Jane knew he was seriously waiting for the answer. “Hmmm. Let us see. A soak in the tub with some herbs and soothing oil..."

"Sounds inviting..."

"A few hours sleep in my bed..."

"Even better..."

"I'd say around noon...."

"I'll be there."

She lost her smile. “You have ... guests."

"They leave in the morning."

Jane pushed at him and he rolled to the side. She sat up and tucked her hair behind her ears. Glancing back over her shoulder to where he reclined, hand behind his head, looking at her.

"When you leave for London ... it's over."

Thorn stilled his gaze, his breathing, his whole body. He slowly sat up and stared at the open window. “I leave four days, after the Seymour's."

Jane nodded.

"Jane?” He reached for her hand. “Will you..."

"Don't ask me.” She pulled her hand away and shook her head swiftly. “Don't ask me to do that."

He muttered a curse and lay back again, this time heavily. “What if there is a child?"

"There won't be. I am a doctor's daughter, remember? I took precaution."

"Yes.” He sounded almost disappointed. His fingers touched her spine.

She hated herself for saying it, but Jane murmured, “You'll take another virgin in this bed soon. And she'll be your bride."

His fingers stilled. “Not in this bed Jane. There are separate rooms for the countess."

"Nonetheless ... she'll be..."

Thorn sat up and gathered her in his arms, pressing her face to his chest and husking, “I don't want her. What the hell do you want me to do, Jane?” He raised her face, kissed her almost roughly and cupped her face. His eyes probed hers and filled with anger and frustration. “You tell me ... tell me..."

"I'm sorry.” She pushed his hands away and slid off the bed. “That was unfair of me.” She began to dress.

He sat there, watching her, until she was fully clothed. He said as she did the last button, “If I had a way to get the money without her, I would."

"Yes.” She glanced at him. “I'm sorry. Let us not speak of it. We have so little time."

He cursed again, closed his eyes a moment, and then nodded.

Jane leaned, kissed him, and then slipped out the way they had entered.

Chapter 11

He awoke her at noon, in her bed, in the most delicious way. Jane felt the cooler air on her body, opening her eyes to slits and feeling that rush of warm heat where he laved between her legs. When she'd peaked then came floating down, Jane murmured, “Where is Mary?"

He slid up in the bed. “On a few days visit with Mrs. Campbell at Greystone.” He brushed her hair back from her face. “Your coffee is waiting."

She slid up and saw it steaming on the side table by the bed. Jane sipped it, glad she had slept in buff, eyeing his splendid nude body so much in contrast to her white sheets. He was watching her closely as she took several sips, and then she set the cup aside.

Thorn rolled atop her, then slid deep into her.

Jane gasped and blinked. She raised her knees and moaned when he went deeper.

He looked down at her; his smile strained at the corners. “Incredibly ... pleasurable."

She ran her hands up his back. “Yes."

He pulled back and thrust, two, three times with force. “Are you with me, Jane?"

"Yes. God—yes.” She arched her hips up.

He growled low and began to thrust, longer, firmer strokes, over and over; his breathing and sounds matching hers as the erotic friction drove that pleasure higher.

Jane, her neck arched and her body completely absorbed by him, muttered roughly, “Don't hold back."

And he did not; he rode her with strength and force and with thrusts that varied from long and slow to short and quick. He took her out of her head—and muttered himself, that he had thought of it so many times, but it was so much better than his imaginings.

When he climaxed, his body was dewed, hot, and his breathing choppy. He rolled to his side, holding her tight.

Later he helped her heat water and fill the tub, sending most of the water splashing out in a wave, as he got in and reached for her, the herbs and oils sending up an aroma with the steam.

She leaned back against him. “It was exciting—breathtaking."

Thorn kissed her brow. “I've much more to show you."

Jane shivered, and closed her eyes as he used the dipper to pour warm water from the pail and wash her hair. He made her stand eventually, bathed all of her with sensual caresses, and murmured words of praise.

Jane returned the favor. First, washing his hair, stealing kisses between, and then slowly, very thoroughly washing his brawny body.

He was obviously aroused when she finished, but Jane pulled on his shirt and he slid on his trousers, so they could empty the tub and then eat in the quiet kitchens.

Their hair still damp, they carried wine to the small garden and Jane spread a blanket. He lay her down and stripped the shirt from her, sitting a long time simply looking at her lying there in the bright day. The sun bathing her skin, her nipples teased by the breeze and her hair fanned out, drying to light and dark mink strands of silk.

Thorn was barefoot as he stood. He walked until he stood with each foot beside her hips, looking down at her with a wicked smile.

Jane, arms behind her head, whispered, “That's a mischievous look in your eyes."

He went down to his knees, crouching over her and laughing soft and deep, eyeing her lips, then meeting her gaze. “It's your turn to ride."

Jane arched her brow and put her hand on that muscular chest. She rose up slowly; her own smile wicked, and then pushed him down, easily following and sitting astride his hips. “Umm, seems my mount is not prepared to—"

She gasped when he arched up, proving that under those ties he was more than ready. Jane scooted down when he straightened. She used her white teeth to pull that tie, and loosen the laces.

"Naughty Jane...” He laughed, and then moaned as she let her tongue go between the loose ties.

She laved more then grasped the snug leather on either side and started peeling it off. When she had him nude, she then stood over him, looking down and burning hot from the display of male virility. Jane's whispered. “Tsk. What are you looking at, your lordship?"

He sat up and grabbed her thighs, making her yelp again, as he pulled her up to his face, and Jane found herself astride that instead.

"Thorn!"

He rumbled something and laved her again.

Jane groaned, but moved down where his sex was swelled and throbbing. She watched his face change from that teasing to intense desire, as she lowered herself, took him fully inside.

"This feels ... different,” she managed tightly.

He cupped her breasts and sat her straight up, his eyes shimmering between his lashes. “Take your time, set the pace. I could leave you right there, just like that, and be in heaven."

She sank her teeth into her lip, moved up and down, watched a jolt go through him and his head went back. She slid back and fourth and he moaned and arched. Jane got the hang of it. She began to ride him sensually, her heart speeding at his obvious enjoyment. She watched veins fill tendons and muscles flex, and he was like a magnificent male animal, powerful between her legs and glorious beneath her.

Painting, moaning, as lost as he, Jane revelled in the freedom of controlling their pleasure. She saw between her lashes, the moment he looked at her and gave into it. She felt the swell and pulses deep inside as he clutched her thighs and shudders washed through him.

Lying over his chest, they kissed, delicate, soothing, with his hand in her hair.

"You're an expert rider.” He grinned crookedly and pried his lids up.

"Thank you.” She pat his flank. “You're a magnificent mount."

He laughed and rolled them to their sides. “Let's prepare dinner."

"We just had lunch."

"I've a big appetite.” He bit her neck.

So dinner it was. Not bad, for the two of them cooking between kissing and caresses, and some foolish teasing as Thorn was wasting the butter and sweet cream on her nipples, licking it off, distracting her as he smeared it inside her thighs and laved it from her skin.

Thorn stayed the night at the cottage. They slept in each other's arms.

The next day was oddly normal. They cooked breakfast and then rode his horse bareback to the stream, where they read and teased each other with blades of grass and funny faces over the tops of their books. They splashed in the stream, nibbled bread and drank wine. Thorn made her read to him—from a book of his choice, a naughty one which sent them into peals of laughter, when Jane read it with a seriously dramatic air—sighs and moans and panting, moaning through parts.

Thorn's deep chuckles floated through the air and he fell back on the blanket. “My God, you could have been an actress."

She snorted. “In a farce perhaps.” Giggling she said, “Why do they make women faint during sex and men huge as horses. You are quite endowed and I certainly would not—"

He was looking at the stallion, and then glanced at her. “Should you like to try it on horseback?"

She grinned and wrinkled her nose. “Would that work?"

"Let's see.” He took her hand and whistled for the mount. After he was astride, he pulled her up. They walked the mount around a bit, while he obviously thought out the mechanics.

"Turn and face me,” he husked.

Jane did. He reached between them and freed his sex, then lifted her upon it. “Hold onto me."

"Trust me, “she moaned. “I am holding on."

He led the horse through its paces, while Jane laved his bare torso and sighed and moved.

"Christ.” He leaned back and moaned, then quickened the horse's speed.

Jane groaned and held tighter feeling the motion then going with it.

"Hold on,” he said again near his peak and swung his leg over, off the mount. They tumbled to the ground, laughing with his trousers tangled and her dress bunched. However, he was soon enough in her, on the sweet grass, and they were holding tight, both trembling together.

The evening, after bathing Jane watched Thorn shave.

When he was done, he looked back at her through the mirror. “Fetch those oils of yours."

She did. “What do you have in mind?"

He showed her. He laid her on the bed, rubbed her down from head to toe, slowly, sensually, until her skin gleamed and her body was mush. Flexing his fingers on her buttock, he then went to the seam and teased her, until she was at first protesting and then groaning. He slid further up and touched her inside, long and slow. She trembled.

"It's raining out."

She lifted her head and looked toward the window. “Umm."

Thorn raised her up, held her, while he slid the thin chemise over her oiled body and then carried her out back.

"Are you daft?” She gasped chills blanketing her and the material sucking to her wet skin.

"No,” he husked, simply looking at her standing there that way, nipples and the curls between her legs visible, her hair plastered with rain and the material sucked to her skin. “I wish I could paint ... I would paint you that way, wild, sweet Jane.” He came to her and kissed her deep, murmuring against her lips. “I wish I was the rain, pouring myself out over you, like that sheer garment, wrapped around your skin, clinging to it, and the oil, shimmering and spread over every inch of you."

"You are more than that,” she whispered and kissed his jaw, his ear. “You are all inside me—My breath and heartbeat, the heat in my blood and the fire in my bones. You are in the soul of me, a man and a place that I do not have to be anything, but what, and who, I am there. A paradise, where I'm free—and I fly and I drown in the ecstasy of your kiss and touch, your voice and scent."

She pulled back; blinking against the rain that poured down over them. “You are the secret shade of midnight, warm, potent, exotic, mysterious. You move me in ways that make the sun pale by comparison."

"Jane. Jane.” He cupped her face, kissed her deep and passionately, devouring her, holding her tightly.

When her lungs needed filling, Jane pulled back and slid down him, laving his body and pleasuring him, while he flung his head back, water rolling down his carved trunk like diamonds, husking her name, with his hands in her wet hair and his powerful legs trembling—until he fell to his knees, in the muddy yard, and gathered her once more.

"I need you Jane,” he said hoarsely. “I need you."

Uncaring of the mud, the chill, she let the tears mingle with the water rolling over her cheeks. “I know. I know.” And she opened for him, took his flesh into her, their mummers and cries drowned by the storm. The mud and water, the grit of wet earth, didn't matter, nothing mattered, but the fire inside that burned and fused them into one.

In the deep of night, Jane felt him move over her. His hand slipped under where she lay on her stomach, and stroked her body into a hungry ache. Then he filled her there, that way—stroking her inside slow and easy, soft but full. She whispered to him, her pleasure and her bliss, her overwhelming sense of wholeness when he was deep, deep inside. He brought her with him to the summit, and stayed inside her a long while, kissing her shoulders, stroking her cheek, as it lay against the pillow.

* * * *

Thorn had gone home the day before that last day, to check on things at Greystone. Jane asked him not to return until after the evening, she wanted to arrange some things.

So from nine the night before, until eight the next evening, Thorn did not see her. Nevertheless, he rushed through small things at Greystone that required his attention, and took a short nap before dressing fastidiously, to return to the cottage. He opened the safe and took out his Grandmother's ring. He had lied to Katherine. It was a ring that matched the signet, save that it was round and edged in diamonds.

He stroked it with his thumb and remembered the day that his grandfather gave it to him.

"She was a great woman, with an endless capacity to love and to give to others. She wanted more children, to give me more sons, but birthing your father drained her strength. She did not want to go—she said, she could not leave me, she wanted to love me a thousand years."

Moreover, his grandfather had said, “And I could not leave her. I never went far from Greystone and the place she rests, because here I feel her, I remember her voice, I can hear her breathing beside me when I lay in bed.... She is in my heart and head, and she is here, in Greystone."

He put the ring in his pocket and headed out to the stables.

* * * *

"No. No...” Thorn sucked in his breath as he dismounted in the cottage yard. He could feel something was wrong. “No ... dammit ... no ... no..."

Trembles of dread spread over his skin. He let the reins go, looking at the open cottage door. A snort from the stallion drew his attention—and he saw it—Lady Victoria's light carriage to the back of the structure.

His legs were weak, his breath hurt coming out as he stepped up, filling the doorway and spying Victoria.

She sat on a low stool, her face blotchy, red from crying, a handkerchief wadded in her hand, a paper in the other. Without looking at him, she threw it at him. “I hate men. I hate your stupid, stupid—” She shuddered.

Thorn slowly bent and picked up the thing where it hit his shoulder and fell to the floor. He released the wax seal and a key clattered to the floor, echoing in the room.

The page said only: For Greystone ... So that you may have a choice."

Trying to breathe, he let the paper fall from his fingers and followed Victoria's gaze to the mid-size trunk in the center of the room. He could not actually feel, as he leaned down, got the key, and walked over.

Even as he fit it in the lock, Victoria was crying, saying, “She sold her house. She sold all of the jewels and even her mother's wedding dress. I did not know anything ... Thursday, when she came to Manning hall, before the party, she asked me to sell her paintings. I of course would not let such beautiful pieces get out of my reach. I bought them. She said she was investing the money. I did not know about the rest, her jewels, the wedding gown, and even the gowns she bought in London, a journal of her father's ... I never guessed...

Thorn eased the lid back and sat there on his haunches, the key pressed to his lower lip, his skin afire with a kind of rebellion—to what his eyes were looking at.

Money.... Neatly stacked ... in front of pages ... lists ... Lists ... Jane's lists.

His fingers trembled as he pulled one out.

Tenants interested Greystone's farms, of the latest farming tools and books on cultivation ... servants, gardeners and maids, who will work one year at Greystone for free ... Groups, specialist in restoring art and period furnishing, they will work on a volunteer basis ... of you're paid in full creditors in London. Universities who will pay to display any of your grandfather's manuscripts ... A list of local masons, laborers, plasterers and craftsmen, who have been paid in advance and will be at Greystone next week ... A list of livestock already purchased and waiting at Highcliff, farms ... see direction below....

Thorn let the paper flutter back into the trunk, and sat heavily down on the wood floor.

"Where is she?” His voice seemed too loud in the room.

"I don't know."

His head raised, his eyes hard. “You bloody well do! Where is she?"

Victoria was shaking her head repeatedly. “I don't know. I swear to you. The last I saw of her was at noon. I thought nothing of it. She had a valise and ... she invited me here ... I thought ... I don't know."

Thorn rubbed his hands over his face and sat there, staring at the trunk.

"Is it enough?” Victoria asked somewhat angrily.

"Yes—It is at least with everything else she's—” He kicked at the trunk and the lid slammed shut. His fist came down on it, causing Victoria to flinch. “One more day ... just one more,” he murmured roughly. “Why couldn't she—"

Having walked to the door, Victoria spun and snarled at him, “What! What more would you have from her? I am not an idiot! She has given you every bloody thing she has. Her body, her pride, her possessions..."

"I know ... I know...” He leaned his elbows on the trunk, the heel of his hands pressed into his aching eyes.

"God.” Victoria grated. “I could hate you for this."

"I never asked. I did not expect...

"No. Men never do,” she grit low. “You're all so very—” She cursed and told him, “If you see Edmund, tell him, I've gone to find her. She will need my help."

"Take this to her all of it. Take it!” He got to his feet.

"No.” Victoria stared at him. “You made her believe you'd have done differently, given the choice. So you listen to me, you bloody bastard,” She pointed to the trunk. “You take that; you prove to her that you were worth everything she gave up for you.” Tears were running down Victoria's cheeks. “You prove to her, that you can sacrifice as much pride—for love—as she did. You prove it! Thorn. Or I swear to you—I promise you—"

His eyes were stark, his face drawn, hands fisted at his sides.

She slammed the door hard behind her.

Thorn looked again at the chest, his pain and passion surging like an overwhelming wave, as his head went back and he cried out. Then he went to his knees, opened it and fisted hands full, leaning and pressing it hard against his agonized face.

"Jane,” he rasped painfully, “What have I done ... what have you done!” He rocked back and forth, his breathing raw sobs. Sweat ran like a river down his temples, over his face. He shuddered and released the coins, staring as they scattered to the bottom and looking at the one clinging to the center of his hard palm.

"It was for this, that I was to give myself ... that I sacrifice my life ... my heart ... for this, I denied the both of us any life together.” He shook his head. “You loved me Jane.You loved me, damn you!"

He curled his fingers around the coin, holding so tight it cut into his palm. Thorn pressed that fist against his lips. God help me, Jane, God ... I will pay this back to you. Greystone will revive, and I shall exist for that. I will make this sacrifice—worth some bloody thing.

His hand lowered. Thorn dropped the coin among the others and stood. He closed the lid with a loud thump, and turned to stare fiercely at the mocking daylight shining through the window. He would do it, and he would find Jane. He refused to think that they would never be together again. He felt cold, hollow, bereft. And he felt so very deep an ache—for Jane...

Chapter 12

Jane wept for hours, days and weeks. Her grief was a near madness as she had such ripping pain in her heart. She existed in agony, aware of the gamble she had taken—what she had given up, what she was leaving behind.

She knew in her heart that Thorn would refuse the money had she stayed. He had not forgotten the wages owed her before, or that to her father. He both loved and hated Greystone, and the love was greater, because the hate stemmed from the sacrifice it asked of him.

His life—for it's survival. Thorn had needed and wanted her for different reasons, for himself alone. He separated the two, she knew, and drew her breath as his. The hours she allowed him to steal, as his only world. She did believe that, she had to. Because the price she paid was not measured in coin. The money meant nothing. She paid with her breath and life too, the only way she knew how.

Jane recognized that he would see his only choice, in that marriage. He would never have allowed her to offer him or give him money. And—still—she had no way of knowing, save her own desperate hopes—that he might choose for himself now.

The demons she fought were of course, images of him married to Katherine, having refused what she offered anyway.

Jane would sit in the dark, shivering, weeping, pressing her hands to her head as if to drive away the thoughts. She believed. She must, for all she had denied herself, for all she could have settled for. She believed in him.

Somewhere in the passage of time, some heavy hour in her journey out of his life, his world, Jane accepted that she had taken those steps, and made that choice for herself. She buried her selfish emotions, her longing to run back to him. She did not slay her demons, but she eventually put them to rest.

One day she awoke from fog, weak but determined. Jane began living again, having reason—far, far, greater than she anticipated, to began building her own life and world without him in it.

* * * *

"Who is that from, darling?” Edmund, Lord Warbrook, kissed his wife's bare shoulder as she sat at her secretary, reading the days messages. She was dressed in off the shoulder black, her hair piled up and wearing pearls, as they were attending ball later.

"It's from Jane...” Her smile was watery, the words already blurring.

He sighed and straightened, resting his hands on her shoulders. “Why won't you tell me, at least, where she is?"

She leaned her head back and looked up at him. “Because Thorn is your best friend, was your best man, is the godfather to your heir and spare, and you would tell him—and she made me promise. That is why."

He leaned down biting her ear and making her laugh before he headed toward the door, saying, “Very well. I will await you below. One more grand farce, then we can go home and let our son's wrap us around their finger again."

Victoria laughed. “Wrap you. You old softy."

"Am I old, Victoria?"

Her head turned, she looked him up and down, devastatingly handsome in all black, and that silver hair glinting, those violet eyes holding a wicked glint. She purred deep.

He moaned. “Shameless woman."

She wet her lips. “Yes. And unless you want to be fashionably late, unless you want me to—"

"I'm going,” he murmured but added under his breath as he turned. “I'm going to be distracted all night now..."

She called out, “I'll drag you out in the gardens when it's late enough. We haven't done in the Raleigh's gardens yet."

He groaned and shut the door.

Sighing on smile, Victoria got back to her letter. It had been nearly six months since the last one, and she always worried about Jane, out there on her own. But Jane would not let her stay with her back then. She made Victoria go back to Edmund. To the man she had waited forever for. She made Victoria promise to grab that love, that life, with both hands and live it to the fullest.

That was nearly ten years ago. Today was Jane's birthday. Next month would be her sons. A son that Victoria had not even told her husband about ... Because, Jane swore her to secrecy.

My Dearest friend and sister spirit:

Victoria smiled at that and dashed a tear away.

I can hear you grumbling under your breath already, at what I leave out in these letters. But as I know dear Edmund is rather good at unearthing secrets, I would not tempt the man so, for I imagine he not above seduction to pry the truth from your lips.

Victoria thought ... He was not. He had tried it. But of course, she always ended up making him forget his purpose...

I am giving into your whining and catching you up.

What a busy start to the year, where shall I begin? I finished up the research for P I spoke of, and have ended my tenure at the women's academy. Sir R assures me that I will make a good barrister when I am 100 and they allow females to do that. He is an old sweetheart and I think, for all he grumbled he quite liked housing me while I taught at the academy and he was secretly training me in law.

I made enough to send C to very good schools these past years, plus the tutors. His mind is so quick, so advanced; there are few who can keep up with him. He has grown so very tall for his age, another few inches, and he will be looking down at me, with those eyes that seem to see too much for a lad his age.

I have been painting him, trying to capture his boyhood before it flees, because I know he will be like his father and be a man before long.

I am on my way now, aboard ship, to visit a dear friend that I made a few years ago when she was lecturing. An amazing woman, of mixed blood, who is a doctor and has done marvelous things for the profession. I know you would admire her and bask in her presence as I did. I have offered her a month of my volunteering, before C and I decide where to settle down and plant roots. All those holidays, trekking though the dessert and shivering in icy winds, the roughing it through horrid conditions, with my volunteer work ... I am ready to sit and watch him become the interesting character he will be.

However, I sometimes think, my friend, that he would be content to see the world and to meet everyone in it. He has one of those adventurous and fearless spirits, I cannot tell you how many times my heart has dropped to my feet looking for him, only to find him in some daring do with grown men who will indulge him. He climbed the mast this morning, and I was a bloody hysterical mess until he came down.

Victoria laughed, thinking that her own sons put her through much the same.

He asks questions, about you know whom. I tell him the truth whenever possible. I feel that is best. He goes for months without a word of it, and then always catches me off guard—wishing to know more of G and of T. I have caught him in his rooms reading your letters too ... I fear in hopes of getting word of G, and hearing something about T. In addition, he is drawn to men, to sports as much as academics, he is like a free spirit and an old soul combined, with this amazing knack for mastering whatever is taught him.

So like Thorn, and her own husband, Victoria mused.

We have word of a storm brewing, so I will end this and write again on my return voyage. Though I sometimes weaken and lose myself in memories and regrets, I have a full life and C is my very heart, so much of my pride and joy. It is only as he grows tall and independent, that I fall into a silly muse ... wondering ... But I can be happy that G is restored and thriving, that T has poured his heart and sweat into it—as you say, and that he lives the life he wants there, being the man he can be proud of—and enjoy being without circumstances forcing him to pretend.

And dearest, I thank you so very much for not holding your grudge, for making your peace with him—and for encouraging the friendship the three of you share. I am so very glad he loves your sons and that he has made solid friends in the neighbourhood and in London. I want his happiness. You know that. I am very thrilled he has been successful enough to invest and accumulate more assets. I feel that he would have, had the war not occurred. His grandfather has been honored fully for the belief he placed in T.

My deepest love and well wishes, hugs for your wonderful boys.

Jane A.

Victoria stood, and touched the edge of the pages to the candle and tossed it into the fireplace. From the date, it had taken awhile to get to her. This meant that Jane was in England somewhere...

She walked over, collected her pearl silk wrap, and headed below. It was time ... when they returned to the country and Warbrook. It was time to return that favour Jane had done, in bringing her and Edmund together. She had been loyal and faithful for all these years.

It was time to see if, what she sensed in Thorn's eyes, even when he was smiling, going about his life, was the same thing she knew was in Jane's heart. He had asked her often, in the beginning, where Jane was. She knew he discreetly searched for her. But she did not always know where her friend was until Jane sent a letter, and by then sometimes, it was a truth when she said she had no clue. But it was difficult to watch Thorn go through it, though Edmund often told her that Thorn was strong—strong enough, to believe, in spite of Jane's absence.

She was loyal to Jane. But it was time to lend destiny a helping hand. She would make sure Thorn had to come to London. She knew Jane; Jane would bring her son to London to see the sights.

* * * *

"But I thought you said we were going to tour London?” Charles stood looking at his mother, a tumble of curls falling over his forehead and his tall sinewy frame dressed in rumpled white shirt, black trousers and boots. He had been out riding and exploring the land around the country home they rented.

Jane pulled off her glasses and sat back in the chair, letting the book drop in her lap. “We are. We will. However, you must give me time to arrange everything for you classes, and to get the house in order. I don't want to leave it all for the last minute, and we'll enjoy London so much more if I am not fretting about something I've forgotten."

"You always have everything in order.” He shook his head flashing her a white smile. “You are the queen of lists and details.” He strode over and flopped down in a chair, matching hers. “I have met my tutors. We have met the neighbors and you've hired the staff. You have enough work to make you lose what is left of your eyesight, and..."

"All right, all right.” Jane held up her hand. “We will go next week.” He jumped up. She called out, “But..."

He spun, having headed for the door and shot her a long-suffering look.

"But you must promise me that once we in the city—because it is very, very dangerous and crowded, that you will not go off adventuring without letting me know."

"I promise.” He crossed his chest.

"Swear on..."

"Mo-ther” He rolled his eyes. “I promise you I shall be stuck under your nose night and day—and if I want to see something other than museums and mansions I will—"

"Oh, no. Wait a moment.” She stood and regarded him suspiciously. “I can see already you've been up to something."

"Nothing.” He tried to look innocent.

"Charles..."

He blew out a breath. “John, the coachman. He's offered to show me a boxing club and to—well, to show me some of the more ... manly sights."

"Charles!"

"Not those!” He choked on a laugh. “Egad, Mother. You have a wild imagination."

"Perhaps I do. But you are only ten, and men forget that, because you look fifteen. Your intellect and maturity gives an impression that.... You know very well what I mean. I will not have you growing up and learning things you are not ready to process."

He was laughing at her, but tried to sober. “Yes Ma'am."

Jane went to him and cupped that handsome face, the eyes the color of her own, but the rest of it a young version of Thorn St.Lyons. He wore his hair short around the ears and in back, but it tumbled over his brow and always seemed a muss of inky curls. He was darkly tanned from an active life, and he was growing up too bloody fast.

"I don't want to suffocate you, to coddle you. I understand your restlessness, your thirst for life and knowledge, your boundless energy ... Nevertheless, you will be a man someday, and there will women who want you for all sorts of reasons, but one who will want your heart. I don't want you cynical and jaded and too worldly, to recognize that."

"Like my father?"

"No.” She blinked. “He is not like that."

Charles snorted, his smile crooked. “Just because he's not married doesn't meant he's been a monk. He hasn't been like you faithful."

"You don't know that. And when you are older, you will understand that men seek the comfort of a ... It is different from what I am trying to tell you, Charles. I know you will gain experience. However, I do not want you to rush into that phase of your life. Moreover, you have no reason to judge your father by the way I have lived. It is much easier for me to choose not to wed, or to find someone."

"Because you love him."

She looked into those challenging eyes. “Yes I did. However, even if he found someone, or has someone, that does not lessen what we had together. He is only human."

He took her hands from his face and walked to the doorway of the cottage, leaning against it and looking out. “I've done something..."

Everything in Jane stilled. “What? What have you done?"

He bowed his head as if he were looking down at the front lawn. “I found that letter. The one you wrote to Mrs. Campbell. And ... I have been corresponding with her."

Jane swallowed. “For how long?"

"Nearly four years."

Jane's legs were weak. “And your father?"

"No. I believe that she has kept her word.” His shoulders moved in a shrug. “I know you told me about him, and Greystone. But I wanted to know more. Everything. And I wanted to know what he'd done since you left..."

She needed to sit down. She did on a straight chair near the wall. Jane folded her arms around her middle. “I know you've read Lady Warbrook's letters. I thought ... I assumed that was enough."

He shook his head. “Mrs. Campbell lives there. She sees more of him every day, and she ... has a different prospective of him."

"She's very loyal."

"Yes. That is obvious. But she said ... he worked very hard, with the masons and farmers, and that he pushed himself nearly killed himself that first year."

"He would."

"She thought he was driven, and that ... the servants knew he bought the cottage, and could have made money renting it, but he would not. They said, he'd go there and that ... he would sleep there sometimes when it rained."

Jane bit her lip. Her throat burned and her eyes watered. She could picture that—Too easily.

"She wrote much about my grandfathers', about the one that was no good—that he caused all the troubles for Greystone. She mentioned your father too and the things he talked with her about. About your work there. They all knew, even when he was courting Lady Katherine, that three was something between you."

"I see.” Jane looked down at the floor, realizing that she likely exposed her feelings for him without knowing it.

"I ask her, if he had a mistress."

Jane winced, wondering how he'd phrased it, being a lad, and likely having a painted lady vision of that word, wondering how Mrs. Campbell had taken it.

"She said she did not know. That he went to London when it was required and played the role of Earl when he must, but at home, he was the master of Greystone, and that everyone around had great respect and awe of him."

"A man to be very proud of, Charles."

He nodded and his head lifted, as if he looked toward the distant road. “He was a spy, wasn't he? During the war."

She drew in her breath. “Mrs. Campbell told you that?"

"No. Just hints. I can read between the lines. And I gathered from Lady Warbrook, that the Marquis.... “He shrugged again. “If he is so noble and brave, so loyal, how come he did not save Greystone himself and marry you?"

"He couldn't. There was no way to make that kind of money. Daily running of it drained the finances and things had been falling into disrepair from your grandfather's time. There were enormous debts run up by his father. And, things his father stole and sold—that the old earl had to track down and get back.

Yes, he could have stripped it, sold it bit by bit and had a shell. But that was not Greystone ... It ... means more, and it is his home. As for wedding me, it was not up for consideration. I never allowed him to consider it. I have told you with as much frankness as possible, that I wanted him from the moment we met, and I wanted him, fully aware that anything lasting was out of the question."

"He owes you."

"He does not.” She stood.

He whirled around. “Yes he does, mother. He owes you for that work, and for saving him from a marriage, he was loath to make. He owes you for saving Greystone. And he bloody well owes you for—"

"Charles ... please ... please...” She was unable to hold back the spring of tears, her hand stretched toward him. “I understand your feelings. I do. I swear it. But can you not see that is why I stay away, out of his life? I know you are too young to understand. I was liberated with him. I never wanted him to feel anything but free with me. We gave and shared of that—and it is more than a woman or man can expect in our world—in the realities we lived in."

He sighed, muttered, and went to her and hugged her. “I understand.” He stroked her hair and pat her back. “I am sorry. I hate it when you cry."

She sniffed and stopped her weeping. “There, I have stopped.” She sniffed again and pulled back from him.

"Now. I am going to meet you half way, Charles. I will promise that you shall see him, meet him. “His eyes lit up. “Only if you promise me, that you will respect my private feelings and not say anything. I mean that. It would break my heart in too many ways to question it—if he knew everything and sought me out. Owing me, or feeling guilt for not raising you, no matter what it is. I cherish what we had because we freely gave it. I will not have him in my life for reasons other than that. It was a long time ago—and we have lived ten full years of life. People grow and change ... You must allow him that respect, and me."

"I promise you.” He took her hands. “Do you think he's in London?"

"I've no idea.” She narrowed her eyes on him. “Ah, I see. That is also why you are pushing this trip."

He grimaced. “I thought perhaps ... I never expected to meet him actually. I was hoping to see him ... at a distance."

She released his hands. “Well. It is close to the season. If we wait, a couple more weeks and you write to Mrs. Campbell. I will get my details done, and we can go up in time to rent a space and get your wardrobe and ... if he is home, I will summon him for a meeting."

Charles looked unhappy with the delay but nodded. He headed out. “Do you think Mrs. Campbell can answer in two weeks?"

"Yes. We will send a private messenger."

* * * *

They did—and the answer came that Lord Greystone was indeed in London for two months.

Jane had to fight an internal war with herself. She did not want it. She did not want to question, doubt and stir emotions she had buried. She was happy with Charles and with her life. She felt her time with Thorn was a precious gift. He had given her something she would never have had—Love a sense of herself as a woman, and a child. Otherwise, she would have wed David, some version of him, been invisible save for her duties ... or faded into old age.

Her son, her mind, it kept her active and her spirit thrived with energy. She could live with such richness as life and loving him had given her. She felt blessed with the memories and experiences, with the son she had, and the interesting places life had taken her. She had accomplished things, met people, made a difference in lives where ever and whenever she had the chance.

Jane also realized that the time was here that she had to consider what Charles wanted. He never mentioned his father to others, and it was easily assumed that Jane was a widow. People rarely pried into their lives and the sorts of people they mingled with and were around were not the type to judge.

Nevertheless, Charles had his own private thoughts and feelings, and from his confession, she knew that if she did not take a hand in this, he could very well resent her and carry the wrong impression of Thorn.

What she feared most however, was that introduction—revealing a son to Thorn. Yes, ten years was a long time. She read nothing into the fact that Thorn had not wed. There was no reason to believe he would have wed at all if not for that obligation. He was still young and there were bachelors with titles wedding every season, who were older than he, marrying young women in their twenties. It meant nothing.

* * * *

Thorn pushed the papers forward on his desk and sat back, rubbing his nape. He did not know why Vicki did not just have Edmund handle all of this when they were in the city. She had a bloody awful handwriting—and Edmund should really restrain some of things the woman supported; a troupe of actors it was this season, she had a bought a whole bloody building for them. And those odd characters she met—God knew where, who were likely doing experiments that would blow up London some day—or be hung for all that radical writing they cranked out.

Naturally, Edmund protected Vicki. She had no idea he monitored what she got herself involved with. Edmund had powerful friends, who, though amused at the wife he'd finally settle happily with, did make sure she wasn't unknowingly sponsoring someone dangerous to her—or to England.

So, why hadn't he paid these bloody duns?

Thorn arose and went to pour himself some brandy. He stood with it, at the bare window, seeing the gardens but hearing the normal traffic and noise he forgot at times whilst at Greystone. He had completed most of his business and attended a few suppers, a ball. It was always interesting to see Lady Katherine, now that her father had passed.

She had wed shortly after he had gone to London and retracted his offer, a duke her father's age, but a man who worshipped and indulged her. After she had had his heir and a daughter, she entered a long term but discreet affair with a Viscount, a relationship apparently that made them both happy. Her husband, Thorn observed, did not seem to mind.

He spoke to her and they were quite civil, and he was never not amazed at the faces society wore, the rituals they always observed. Or that she kept that aura of perfection intact. He could not imagine her in an intimate scene; she still had the beauty and the coolness of a statue.

He took a long swallow, ran his hand through his hair, now nape length, and threaded with silver, which Edmund liked to tease him about. He saw them in the mirror, saw the sun lines fanning out from his eyes, but thanks to the physical work, his days spent outside. He did not feel the forty years he would reach next week. His mind was as sharp, his body somewhat leaner, tighter, and likely stronger than ever.

There were moments in his thoughts where time stood still. And many, many times—he could understand what his grandfather meant, because he could relive moments, hear the sound of Jane's voice, and feel everything he'd felt ten years ago.

He looked down in his glass. He knew that Victoria was in contact with Jane. Edmund told him that. If not for Edmund assuring him that Jane was very well and very happy, he did not know how he could have come through the first years.

Edmund would tell him no details. But it was enough, in some ways, because he could not go back and do it over differently. The time was a short space in his life, where he would come out of the war and was still grieving his grandfather. He realized that the responsibilities, expectations, and all of it had colored his actions. So few weeks he had so many things weighing on him, and the only part, the best part of all of it, was his time with Jane.

There was a knock at the study door and he turned seeing the housekeeper there. “Mrs. Blanchard?"

"I'm sorry to disturb you, my lord. But this came for you by a runner."

He walked over and took the missive, looking at that familiar script and feeling his head swim. He hardly noticed the woman curtsy and leave. He hurried to the desk and turned the lamp up, and broke the seal.

I realize that this must be a shock to you after so long, not hearing from me, but I am in London and have rented a space for a few weeks. Though you are doubtless busy, I should like to offer you an invitation to dine here and meet someone who has an interest in making your acquaintance. Please do not feel obligated to drop anything of importance and dash here. I am here for a few weeks and shall likely be home in the evenings. If this is any way awkward for you or for any reason you must decline, I shall understand perfectly.

Jane A.

He dropped the letter and stared at it, the surreal feeling still hovering around him. After all this time, he never expected to hear from her. He knew that about Jane. He never hoped...

Thorn looked at the address at the bottom, and then he took out what he would need and answered. He sealed it and rang for the housekeeper.

"Have that sent straight away. And I want my coach ready in an hour.” He stood and headed for the doorway, following behind her, saying, “I won't be home for dinner."

* * * *

Jane held the note in hand a half-hour later, the bold script flowing and so familiar.

"He isn't coming?” Charles was waiting for the answer with a blank expression, trying to mask his feelings of anxiety. He was excited and frightened, nervous, torn between not building himself up for a let down, and wanting to finally meet his father.

He was determined to be a man about the whole thing, show how mature he was. But in his private thoughts, his deepest self, he was simply a boy who had waited ever so long to meet the man who sired him, and did not want to cry or show he cared—if Greystone refused. It was duced hard to be a young man, he decided. Bloody well difficult, to put on a good show of it, when his heart was going from his throat, to the pit of his belly.

"He's coming. And tonight.” She folded the paper and took it to the desk. “Will you give me a chance to—"

"Yes,” he cut her off and ran a hand through his hair. “I hope that woman you hired can cook."

Jane laughed in spite of her tension. “She can. Now, go and dress and let me do likewise."

He went up the narrow stairs and Jane stood a moment, calming herself before she went into the kitchens. The plump woman was already preparing the meal and it smelled heavenly.

"Is everything under control?"

"Yes. It's fine.” The woman smiled at her. “I take it the gentleman accepted?"

"Yes. There will be three of us."

"No trouble. There is plenty. You go on and don't worry about a thing. I've flowers fresh for the table and candles, delicious pies ready to bake."

Jane nodded and went up to her rooms. She stood in front of the vanity, stripped, and though she had bathed earlier, she poured water into a bowl and scented it.

She tried not to think of her body the way a man—the way Thorn might—as she ran the cloth over it. She knew she was in good health, that she was heavier in her breasts and a bit rounder in her hips, but her stomach was flat, her legs and arms and back youthful, much more than some younger women she'd met. Her hair had a few strands of silver, but it was thick and straight and there were only those tiny lines from squinting in the sun or yes, laughter.

Jane turned away and dried, then slipped on a camisole, square necked and short, and the scrap of lace for her bottom half—an indulgence, lingerie, that she bought in discreet shops, a sort of private, personal way, of reminding herself, even when she was buried in libraries and studies and pouring over books, that she was a woman, feminine and sensual.

She put on stockings and garters, and then slid on pumps.

Jane took down a champagne silk dress with snug bodice and straight lines, and then stepped into it, doing the faux pearl buttons up the side to the underarm, and adjusting the off the shoulder straps. She stood at the vanity and brushed her hair, thinking she should cut it soon, it was below her shoulder blades. Jane gathered it and did a twist and penned that, with no other adornment but to pull a loose strand near her ears, a short one at her nape. She collected her fan, and went below.

Jane was sipping coffee in the small but cheerful parlor when Charles came half way down the stairs. He wore a crisp shirt of white and black trousers and boots.

"I don't have to wear a jacket, do I?"

"It would please me."

He muttered and stomped back upstairs. Jane smiled. He was very much like his father when came to clothing.

She was gazing out the window, watching, as the crested coach stopped. Her fingers tightened on the cup when Thorn stepped out. Her breath squeezed thin, her heart seemed to do the same. Through the glass, she watched him walking toward the door, so real, so vivid.

He'd hardly changed at all except for shorter hair, wildly curled now and at nape length. He was still tall, still handsome, built incredibly strong with those broad shoulders and long powerful legs. He wore black trousers, snug, and boots to the knee that moulded. As his black thigh length jacket flapped back, she could see a pristine white shirt with no cravat, no collar. That pirate prince aura she had once imagined on Thorn was still there, in the deep-set eyes, jet brows, and sensual mouth. He was dark still ... He was even more breathtaking and compelling than her memories.

The knock came, and Jane carefully set her cup down. She smoothed her hands over her hips and went to answer it. Pulling open the door seconds later, she looked up into the visage of the man who filled her private dreams for ten long years.

"Hullo. Thorn.” She smiled and stepped back. “Come in."

* * * *

Thorn stepped into the foyer, opening into a small parlor on the right, with stairs ahead and a door on the left. His gaze was on Jane, on her smile, her hair, her face, down her body, everywhere.

He said, “Jane.” And nodded, but his mind was racing. She had changed only in subtle ways, a peek of silver in that sable hair; laugh lines faint at her unique eyes...

He was only half-aware that he let his gaze slide down her body, that champagne silk clinging to more mature curves and showing inches of breasts that were fuller than ten years ago. Her handsome bones and that face ... it was attractive, marked with the confidence of a mature woman, one who had nothing to prove to anyone.

Thorn felt the chemistry too. The moment their gazes touched, it went over him and through him, and hummed in his blood like a quickening.

"Come into the parlor. What will you have to drink?"

"Coffee, please.” He followed her, only absently looking around before shamelessly watching her backside, her hips, noting the V back of the dress and yes, nothing her smooth back and feeling his mouth water.

She said, “Take a seat. I'll just be a moment."

Thorn sat on the long window seat, seeing her cup and saucer there. He smelled dinner but he smelled a scent that haunted him the nights in the cottage ... Jane's scent, that unique and womanly blend of herbs and flowers.

She came back and handed him the cup. Thorn eyed her bodice before she straightened. When he sipped, set the cup aside, and looked to where she sat, a foot away, on the edge of a chair, he knew, she knew, he had looked.

* * * *

Jane felt the flush on her skin, but she was not sure if the rush of heat in her blood had not caused it. From the moment he stepped inside, his warm masculine smell teased her. And he looked at her; she felt his eyes everywhere. That under the lash gaze when she had handed him the cup had not escaped her notice. His eyes still had that lazy hint of sexuality, and nothing had altered, her awareness of him, her senses and chemistry, it was all there.

"I know that you may have questions. I'm sure we should get reacquainted ... and fill in the gaps."

"I'm surprised you even considered that I would not come,” he told her meeting her gaze. “I'd have dropped everything to see you, Jane. And there is nothing pressing on my time."

She nodded and clasped her hands. “Thank you. I am sure we both need to catch up. But I think that may be better said afterwards."

He arched his brow. “We cannot talk during dinner?” His smile was slightly teasing.

"Of course.” She laughed, a bit nervous. “I mean after you meet someone."

He looked around. “I'm sorry. Forgive me. I did forget you wanted to introduce..."

Jane stood, hearing her son's footfalls on the stairs as he came down them. She looked at Thorn—who had a clear view of them—and who had lost his words as Charles kept coming down—until he stood in the doorway of the parlor.

Swallowing, Jane saw him as his father must, save the eyes, a mirror image, so tall, so strong, and likely Thorn was big at that age and knew, unlike others, that he was not in his mid teens.

"Charles.” She beckoned her son forward. Charles came, but his gaze never left Thorn.

"This is Thornton St. Lyon's. The Earl of Greystone.” She watched Charles bow slightly, but looked at Thorn, who was staring at his son, had risen and put the cup down, but could not seem to move. “Thorn. This is Charles Thornton Archer ... your son."

Thorn took a step, looking into that face, and then down, over the young man. He raised his hand, as if to touch Charles's face, and then hesitated. Muscles worked in his throat, as he managed, “I did not know."

Charles nodded. “I know that, Sir."

Thorn looked at Jane, obviously struggling with his emotions.

Jane drew a steady breath. “I had not planned on a reunion, but Charles has wanted to meet you. He recently confessed, that he has been writing Mrs. Campbell for four years. He also reads my letters to Vicki and hers to me. I of course, did not wish for you to feel any obligations toward us, since you were unaware of his existence. However, I feel in fairness, that you should have a chance to meet him. In addition, as Charles has expressed such a strong desire for it. I cannot deny him this request."

Thorn turned his gaze to the young man. “I did not know. I never once imagined or thought...” He looked at Jane. “You said ... You implied that ... there wasn't a possibility."

"My methods didn't work, apparently.” She flushed.

He was trying to contain himself. “I realize that I was in a situation then ... that you had no way of knowing I would take your ... challenge ... not wed Lady Katherine. But—you have known, through Victoria, that I did not wed her, and that I restored Greystone. So—you will help me now—to understand why, you did not think it was right to tell me I had a son?"

She could hear the threads of hurt, and yes anger, the struggle between saying that she had helped him, made it possible, by that challenge, for him to build his own life, to save his inheritance, his way—on his own—and that accusation that she should have told him, she should have let him be in Charlie's life.

"I made a life too, and it was not always in England. When I walked away, I did it with the intent that both of us would live fully, and not regret nor owe each other. I did struggle with the right thing to do, when I realized I was with child. But how would that work for me, would I live in the cottage, share him with you, and let him grow up with whispers? Would I—"

"I would have married you.” He snapped.

"Yes.” She stared at him. “You would have married me, because of the baby."

"Jane.” He cursed.

"Not now,” she said just as strong. “This is not about what should have been done. I asked you here, because Charles wanted it. He is an intelligent and mature young man, and he is the one who wants answers. It is the two of you who need to talk, and to define whatever your relationship will be..."

Charles put a hand on her arm and looked at her. “I think I can speak for myself.” He half grinned and winked. “I realize the two of you have a history and questions, otherwise I would not be standing here, would I. But will you go and help Mrs. Fitzwilliam for a moment, and give us a bit of time alone?"

Jane peeked at Thorn, who looked at the lad with some surprise. She then nodded, sighed and squeezed Charles's hand, before excusing herself.

* * * *

Charles motioned to the window seat. “Please. Sit down, and finish your coffee.” He took his mother's tepid cup and finished it, then eased comfortably into the seat she vacated.

When Thorn was sitting, he murmured, “I think I need something stronger."

"Over there.” Charles smiled and pointed to the decanter. He waited for Thorn to pour and then sit down.

They were looking at each other, over each other.

"It's good to know I will not go bald and run to fat in my old age."

Thorn, who was taking a sip, laughed and then coughed. He met those dark green eyes. “No. Aside from the eyes, you look just as I did at your age.” He smiled and leaned his head, considering more. “It will either be an asset or a hindrance, depending on the situation."

Charles snorted. “Or who is voicing the opinion. Mother gets in a fit because men tend to forget my age and well...” He shrugged.

Thorn nodded. “You've a mind on you too, I expect."

"I do okay."

"I'll wager you do.” His father nodded again. “Just don't let them rush you.” He murmured, “Don't let anyone force you to be something you're not ready for."

Charles nodded back and leaned up, elbows on his thighs as he gazed at the man. “I know everything, from Mrs. Campbell and from mother. Even ... Well, I guessed about the war ... and what..."

"I see.” Thorn mused, “Well. I will certainly fill any blanks you'd like."

Charles chewed his lip and opened his mouth, then closed it. He sat back and stared so long that Thorn knew he was struggling to say or not say anything.

Thorn glanced toward the kitchen, and then back at the young man. “We've much to settle, your mother and I. You must trust us as adults to do so. She is an intelligent and strong woman. I suppose you know that. It is better to leave these things to us, and not question what we have not even resolved ourselves."

"I don't think she was trying to hurt anyone. Neither of us. By not telling you."

"I know that,” Thorn admitted.

"I am not sure where that leaves us, however,” Charles went on. “I don't know, given what I understand of your status, and the rest ... how much of our relationship you wish to expose. I am perfectly prepared to—"

"You are my son, Charles,” Thorn cut him off quietly, looking right at him, so that he would see the certainty. “I should like to have been there, a father all along, but that is done and there is nothing I can do about it. I will be there, here, with every intention of acknowledging it from now on. I don't know you, but I do.” He half-smiled. “As odd as that sounds. And, I want to know you. I can already see what a fine young man Jane has raised—I can't take any credit for it. But I'm proud already of what I've seen and heard."

"Thank you,” Charles murmured.

"I would have wanted you then. I want you in my life now.” Thorn told him in the same tone. “I will deny you nothing that is in my power to give, and I—"

Charles swallowed obviously seeing the emotions Thorn was struggling through. He offered, “If you do not fear scandal, Sir, I do not care what people say or think about it. I love my mother. She is strong, as you say, and she has fought barriers to live the convictions she holds. I know she can stand up for herself. But your society is different..."

"My life is my own. Charles. The title and what it means to others, doesn't reflect the man I am, to the people who know me and who mean something to me."

The boy nodded.

Thorn finished his drink and said, “Now. I shall expect you to help me persuade your mother to travel to Greystone with me. I have concluded all of my business here and I find the season tiresome at best. You should see what you will inherit someday."

"Bastards do not inherit titles."

Thorn looked him in eye. “You are never to say that again, Charles. Not to your mother, to yourself, or anyone!"

Charles swallowed at the steel in that order. “Yes sir."

Thorn relented and stood. “After dinner, I will see my solicitor and we will set in motion what is needed to get your name recorded properly."

"An adoption is difficult."

Thorn smiled slightly. “I have some influence, Charles.” He winked.

* * * *

Jane observed at dinner. She listened to Charles and Thorn talk and realized as she did so, that by learning about his son's past, his school and life, he was also learning about her own.

Like any lad, when Charles filled in information, he always included what Jane had been doing at the time. She was not surprised at the easy flow and conversation between father and son, given that they were so alike. She also knew when Thorn glanced at her; he was filing everything away and filling those years with mental pictures.

After dinner and those delicious pies, Thorn asked if he might take Charles for a drive.

"Of course.” She looked at Charles. “A cape and hat."

He sighed but nodded and excused himself.

In the parlor, she stood by the window, looking at the dark street, aware that Thorn looked at her.

When the tread of her son's boots announced he was upstairs, Thorn said quietly, “A most impressive life, Jane. And you've raised our son well."

"Thank you."

"When I bring him home. I should like for us to discuss his future."

"I suppose you want keep him sometimes."

"I want more than that, Jane. I want him at Greystone."

She turned and looked him. “You'd take him from me?"

"No. I want you there too."

She opened her mouth, but Charles was descending the stairs.

Thorn looked at her. “We'll talk when I return."

Jane watched them leave and then sank down on the loveseat. She knew by that look, that tone, Thorn was set in his mind about it. He was not going to give Charles up now. Moreover, she knew that she could not deny him, nor leave Charles at Greystone without her.

"Bloody hell.” She rubbed her temple. “Here we go again."

Chapter 13

The parlor was quiet when they returned, with only a low lamp burning. Jane accepted the kiss her son gave her on the cheek, before he shook Thorn's hand and excused himself for bed.

Her shoes off and having taken her hair down and tied it back, Jane had her feet on the padded seat, expecting Thorn to take a chair when he removed his jacket.

He did not.

He sat down by her feet and leaned back against the sill, looking at her for long silent moments.

Jane could tell from Charles expression they had enjoyed themselves, likely talked more, they had been gone nearly four hours.

She finally turned her gaze from the dark night, skimming up the white shirt that was a thin silk, and further, over that sensual mouth to his hooded gaze. Without Charles there, without all the first waves of shock, there was nothing to distract from the fact that they were two people alone, who had once passionately found pleasure in each other's arms.

"I'm not going to waste time with explanations that change nothing of what is,” he said finally. “Part of me wants to demand. But he's such a wonderful lad; a shock, a surprise. I kept listening to him, thinking to myself. I am a father, that is my son ... But you've done the difficult part."

Thorn paused a moment, his gaze skimmed over her, and the faint lights from the street shining in and over that champagne gown, her hair and face. He met her eyes again. “I feel as if I've gone from euphoria to anger, and everything in between, since I first arrived here this evening. And none that matters really, does it? Because for your reasons, for whatever reasons, this is where we are and what we have."

"Yes.” She wet her lips.

His gaze followed that then returned. “I know you are capable of raising him on your own, of turning out a fine young man. Nevertheless, he has another inheritance from me. I know you can make him confident enough to carry a stigma, but he does not have to, because I would be proud to claim him. And we can keep secrets like we did before, come up with lies to tell society, and those who would talk, but we don't have to do that, Jane ... if you will marry me, and come to Greystone, we can both raise him together."

She had known it was coming. She'd thought about it most, because it was the solution that was both practical for them, best for her son, and answered all whispers if they claim to have wed years ago ... and she already knew Thorn would insist on that.

"It was the whole idea of my leaving, Thorn. To not be a part of the things that you were obligated or expected to do."

"I realize that,” he said quietly. “But we met our challenges and built our lives, Jane, and we both must think of Charles. He is the one who matters more than both of us."

She looked away and sighed. “Is that what Charles wants?"

"Surprisingly, Jane. He doesn't want either of us to do anything because we must."

Jane smiled.

"Yes,” Thorn drawled. “He is very much like his mama. And very confident for such a young man. However, we are the adults and we must make the decisions that are best in all ways for Charles. As wonderful as he is, to feel as he does about it. We have lived and experienced life, and so we make the decisions based on what we know, will be better for him."

She closed her eyes and absently rubbed her temple.

Thorn reached over and took her hand, holding it and Jane ignored the instant desire with palms and fingers touching.

He murmured, “I can get it done by noon tomorrow, Jane. And we can leave for Greystone right away."

"All right.” She pulled her hand free and looked at him. “We both know it's the only thing that will serve."

He sat up but turned and touched her cheek; his light brown eyes quiet on hers. “Thank you."

She swallowed, watching as he dropped his hand, then stood and fetched his coat. He slid it on and turned to regard her before leaving. “I'll let you tell him, your way. If you'll see everything packed and ready—"

"I will. Goodnight, Thorn."

He nodded and left.

When Jane stood and snuffed the lamp. She felt a whole new anguish in her heart; turmoil in her mind, that Thorn would be hers again, only because she'd given him a son. She turned and walked to the stairs.

Jane was not really surprised, to see her son at the top of the stairs. She sat beside him, slid her arm around him, and leaned her head against his.

"You heard?"

"Yes."

"And?"

He reached and twined their fingers. “It's going to be all right, Mother. Don't be afraid."

Jane's eyes squeezed shut and her heart jerked. She covered his hand with her free one. “I'm not afraid,” she whispered.

He sat with her for a few moments more, then untwined their hands. “Come on. We had best get some sleep."

Jane went to her chambers and slowly disrobed. She crawled into bed with Charlie's gentle words ringing in her ears but she dreamed of another time, hearing them, of another voice and another, more passionate moment.

Chapter 14

It all took place swiftly and discreetly, Jane mused, riding across from Thorn and Charles in the coach, as Greystone came into view. A notice would run in the Times that the Countess of Greystone and Master Charles, the heir, had returned from abroad and were reunited with the earl at last, that due to the child's heath and so on, the Countess had raised him out of England. It was enough to satisfy gossips. Thorn had kept enough distance from society, guarding his privacy, that he assured her no one would dare question him on the details, or what the marriage was not announced before.

Jane had time to write some of the friends she had made and post the letters; Thorn had sent missives ahead to Greystone. There were two coaches filled with all of their belongings...

They were married; she was Jane Archer St.Lyons, Countess of Greystone.

Jane's thumb kept rubbing the ring on her left hand, the one Thorn had taken from a piece of leather tied around his neck, and slipped on her hand. It fit perfectly, it was the twin to his signet—and she recalled back, in the past, when he had asked Lady Katherine if she wanted to pick out an engagement ring. It was obvious he lied, because the ring was an antique...

"Bloody hell!"

"Charles!” She scolded her son, who hanging out the window, not only agog at the magnificence of the baroque castle, but at the lines of servants in the drive.

Thorn laughed and winked at Jane.

She shook her head and then groaned as Charles was waving. By the time the coach stopped, he did not wait for the footmen but hopped out.

Thorn handed Jane out amid the male servants un-strapping baggage, trunks, carrying it in, she laughed too—seeing Charles shaking hands with the servants who bowed to him.

Arms crossed Thorn watched that display. When the lad reached Mrs. Campbell he nearly picked her up in hug, a ripple of laughter went through the lines of servants, and Mrs. Campbell, after squalling, grabbed his face and kissed both his cheeks.

"Oh lord,” Jane muttered. Thorn had opened his mouth to speak, before he could, Charles stood on the entry stairs and said, “Thank you for that warm welcome to Greystone. I am wonderfully glad to be here and meet you all. Won't you please meet my mother? “He signalled for Jane, “Lady Jane Archer St. Lyons, Countess Greystone?"

Jane murmured something but Thorn nudged her to go on. He was obviously amused and still chuckling.

She stood beside her son, thanked them all, and winked at Mrs. Campbell who winked back. And after some clapping, everyone turned to see a full carriage coming hell for leather up the drive.

"That would be Lady Warbrook,” Thorn called dryly to Jane. He shook his head as Victoria tossed the ribbons to one of her sons, before the carriage stopped, and she leapt out amid Edmund's cursing.

However, Jane was running toward her and they met in the center of the lines, hugging and laughing and kissing cheeks.

Thorn by now, had joined Charles, and after some assistance, Vicki's sons and Edmund joined them, standing and watching the two, Vicki in bright green and Jane in a bronze suit.

Edmund finally faced the young man and bowed. “Edmund de Lacy, Marquis of Warbrook."

Charles bowed deeply. “How do you do, sir. I am Charles."

They shook hands and then Edmund drew his sons forward and they stood shoulder to shoulder. “Introduce yourselves to Master Charles."

The oldest, who looked something like both the Marquis and Vicki, bowed. “Alexander Edmund George Phillip de Lacy."

The youngest kicked him in the ankle and whispered. “You forgot to add the titles—"

His brother shoved his shoulder and scowled. “Not this time, you twit. This our Godfather's son..."

The boy with deep wine hair winced and looked at his father.

Edmund and Thorn were laughing.

The boy then bowed to Charles. “Victor James Roland Hunter de Lacy."

"Good God.” Charles looked at him and laughed. “I say, you don't have to rattle all those names off every time you're introduced, do you?"

His brother, who was as tall as Charles, and having jet-black hair, muttered, “No. Alex is in the suds for sneaking off with a tinker yesterday and giving Mother heart failure; he's on his best behavior because his arse is still stinging from father's..."

"You don't have to tell that!” Alex kicked him again.

Thorn looked at Edmund who muttered, “It hurt me more than it did him."

Thorn, smiling glanced at Mrs. Campbell, and nodded his head toward the lads who were talking a mile a minute. She came, announcing that a feast was ready and she could perhaps find them pudding to tide them over before the grown ups were ready to sup.

They were following her inside happily when Victoria and Jane stepped up toward their husband's, arms linked. However, as they turned to go in, Lady Victoria saw Charles—and ran up to him, hugging him and kissing his face.

"I say.” Charles beamed at her. “You are as beautiful as I imagined you to be."

The three watching laughed as Vicki winked and whispered something in his ear.

When he had gone off and the husbands were escorting the wives in, Jane told Vicki. “I'm trying to get him not to grow up too fast, so I dearly hope you did not encourage his flirting practice."

Vicki chuckled. “Of course I did. I told him always compliment a lady, and I told him that with his looks, he would have to beat them off with sticks when he got older."

"Thorn had that same affliction before the war.” Edmund teased.

Thorn met Jane's gaze. “He exaggerates. Now, you ladies go and refresh yourselves and Edmund and I will handle the boys until you're ready to join us for dinner."

The ladies left, arms linked and talking.

Edmund gazed at Thorn, on the way to the kitchens, where they could hear their sons. “I did not know about Charles. Vicki never told me."

"I know that, Edmund.” Thorn nodded.

In the kitchen doorway they paused. Edmund marveled, “By God, Thorn. He looks exactly like you."

"Except for his eyes. He has Jane's eyes."

Edmund stared at him. “I never noticed the color of her eyes."

Thorn glanced at back. “It was the first thing I noticed the day I met her. That and the way she looked at me...."

"I see.” Edmund clasped his shoulder. “And Jane?"

"I don't know, my friend. She can be...” He sighed and shook his head. “We did not talk enough then. But I hope..."

"So do I. Thorn."

Thorn nodded and they called the Lads away from the pudding bowl, and then went for a walking tour of the house.

* * * *

Jane removed her hat and jacket and did little but check the pins that secured her hair, before she went to find Vicki, who used one the guestrooms to refresh. Leaning against the doorway she watched Victoria smooth that bright green gown and noted how very happy and content her friend looked.

"Edmund is very good to you?"

Victoria came toward her smiling. “Yes. He is. Oh, well he can be stuffy, a bit over protective, but he loves me, and I never have a doubt of that.” They headed out and toward the lower hall and Vicki added, “He still makes love to me like that first time. Sometimes. Though, I will admit, I like it when he is a bit uncontrolled and loses himself. He looks at me so eloquent, so often however, during those more intense moments, that I keep falling in love with him over and over."

"That's marvelous.” Jane squeezed her hand.

Vicki murmured, “Yes. You know that Thorn said that to me once ... That you looked at him that way, as if you saw deep into his soul."

Jane felt her stomach tighten. “Did he?"

"Yes he did. I think, Jane, you need to look beyond the fact of why you are now wed to him. I think, that you should not just recall what you felt for him at that time, but what he may have felt for you and had to keep hidden."

Jane walked over to pour them tea. “It's been ten years. I don't know him."

Vicki snorted softly. “Of course you do. We always know the men we love.” She took the cup handed her and added. “No secrets and no lies this time Jane. You and Thorn are completely free. Do not waste a moment of it. It has already been too long."

* * * *

Later, at dinner, Jane thought of that. She sat at Thorn's right and listened to him talk to Edmund and the young men. She was completely aware of him, and of how natural he seemed to fit his role as Earl of Greystone. She sensed that the moment they had arrived, and with the place lovingly restored, she sensed he had lost that feeling of obligation and responsibility—and replaced it with a confidence of where he belonged and what he deserved.

After dinner the lads went off together, and the women sat in the courtyard talking while the men stood at the edge smoking and enjoying their brandy. Jane eyed Thorn's back in his white shirt. He'd taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves and relaxed after the meal. She couldn't help but remember what he'd looked like back then, noting with some heat in her blood that he was still built incredibly strong and broad, able to see through the thin material that swarthy color.

Edmund turned and engaged Victoria in some discussion, an extension of something he and Thorn were talking about. While they were in conversation, Thorn turned and caught Jane's eyes on him. His lashes dipped slightly but the hue was visible as he met that gaze for long moments.

Sparks skittered through her. She had wondered how much of a real marriage Thorn wanted, and if because of the time away from each other there would be a space of getting acquainted...

The answer to that was in his gaze, because she saw the desire clearly there.

By evening, Edmund and Victoria were leaving, having dashed off from Warbrook without much notice. Charles, in his shirtsleeves, hair mussed and boots scuffed, had apparently bonded with Alex and Vic and they were making plans already for the next weeks.

The three of them waved the company off. Charles asked for the rest of the tour, saying he would explore the house more thoroughly as the days passed, but he wanted his mother to come along.

Jane sensed something between the two, though she was impressed and awed by the amount of work Thorn had done as the walked the wings, one, which would house her son's apartments.

It was the portrait gallery that they entered, where Jane got her answer, for it was brightly lit and they walked the row, she spotted all of those paintings she had sold to Vicki.

"He has them all,” Charles said standing on her left. “And he wants the rest you've done to hang here."

Jane swallowed and glanced to the right where Thorn stood some distance, just watching them. “They're not ... They should not be here among so...” She cursed herself for flushing.

"This is exactly where they belong,” he countered quietly. “And any other you create. It is not a matter of what people consider expert, or perfect, here at Greystone, Jane. You know well, that everything and everyone here means something to this house, and the people in it. My grandfather knew that, and he realized that some things are priceless ... things that are one of a kind and irreplaceable."

Jane could see that his meaning was deeper, but she was too overwhelmed to grasp that he had kept a possession of hers, something she had created all of these years ago

"I see. Well. You are welcome to those portraits of Charles, of course."

He winked. “I shall have to let you do mine."

"It would not fit with these.” She laughed motioning to the formal portraits of his ancestors done by the masters.

He cocked his brow. “I was thinking of something entirely informal and—private."

Flushing deeper, aware that her son was beside, her Jane murmured, “Perhaps.” And then cleared her throat, deliberately drawing Charles's attention to the painting of his great great grandfather, whom he favored.

Later, while Charles was getting settled in his apartments, putting his trunks of books where he wanted, and basically talking the ear off the young footman who helped him, Jane and Thorn took a walk outside.

She listened, asked questions as she noticed the formal gardens and hedge maze was restored, the fountains and statuary repaired and beautifully displayed. It was apparent to her that Thorn had taken great pains not only to make it what it was, but to improve it too, and add something of his own.

The newly built and full stables, the larger rear courtyard where summer parties could be held; and in the marble monument that graced the center of a lovely rose garden, a dedication to his grandfather and grandmother. It had smooth columns with engraved bases, the Greystone motto in Latin across the top.

Three shallow round stairs that encircled the sanctuary, in places were male angels with scrolls in their hands and at their feet a lion reclined. Jane walked up the stairs when they reached it, and ran her fingers over the tomb plate, seeing his grandmother and grandfather's name and the words, For all of eternity.

She glanced at Thorn who was leaned against the column watching her. “He would be proud of you. Not just for this, for restoring Greystone, but for the man you are beyond the title."

"I know.” He said quietly, “I wasn't sure, back then. It all seemed more like a burden that required nothing but sacrifice. But over the years, though the restoration, and having to use the intelligence he instilled in me—having the strength to labour and work and build things myself, I discovered that it was not just Greystone, not just about it, but that every generation, every person that lives here, earns the gifts we're blessed with, must deserve the mastership that comes to them, and define themselves by the type of character they display.

My father never understood that. Greystone did not mean anything to him other than a title and a source of money for his own pleasure. My grandparents did not mean anything to him. Greystone never belonged to him, nor he to it.

Jane nodded. “When father and I were here, there was a feeling the moment we stepped on the lands, and every day inside, we used to walk through it and feel that it was more than other estates and castles we'd visited. Your grandfather of course, was an amazing man. But even he said, that Greystone had a soul, a living purpose."

"He was right.” Thorn looked around the monument then out at the setting sun. “Are you ready to return?"

Jane nodded and they walked back and entered through the garden entrance.

Jane excused herself to check on Charles. She walked through the wing, aware that the hour for retiring was close and that she was soon going to be alone with Thorn. No distractions, intimately alone. It had been so long that she had senseless thoughts running through her head, all sorts of doubts, fears, and anxieties that surprised her. Her hands were actually shaking.

At the main chamber she leaned in, to see Charles on the bed with a book, the expansive room already cluttered with his possessions. “I just stopped in to say goodnight."

He looked up after turning a page. “Good night, mother."

She wrinkled her nose, and went over kissing him on his temple, seeing that he was reading Plato. “That would certainly put me to sleep."

He grinned. “It's fathers. He said that I could have his whole library moved to this wing. He has started another."

"No doubt having read everything in both.” She laughed. “I shall see you in the morning.

"Father and I are going to ride over the estates. He wishes to introduce me to the tenants and—"

"Very well. I won't see you likely until dinner. I shall busy myself with Mrs. Campbell. She can run this place without me, but we are old friends and I hadn't a chance to speak with her tonight."

"Stop putting it off.” Charles eyed her. “Go upstairs where your husband is."

She flushed. “Charles."

He rolled his eyes and slid down in the bed, turning his back on her and propping his cheek on his hand to read. “Goodnight mother."

Jane muttered goodnight and left him. She noticed the lamps and chandeliers were out and very subdued lighting on the lower floors. She went to the bedchamber she'd found her trunks in, known that it was not the master chamber, but also aware one door stood between the too.

"I'm Isabel.” A maid curtsied. “I've your bath ready, my lady."

"Thank you.” Jane shook her hand, likening that plain face and ready smile. “I can see to things from here. I've had very few servants."

Isabel nodded. “Mrs. Campbell has talked of you for years with the staff. And how you used to work with his lordship's grandfather."

Jane tried not to flush, wondering what else the woman had said. “Yes. I have a great respect and affection for Greystone."

"I'll see you in the morning then, my lady. Will you have coffee or chocolate?"

"Coffee please."

The maid curtsied again and left. Jane strolled to the vanity and removed her shoes then took her hair down and shook it out. She rolled her stockings off, and then stood to remove her gown and chemise. She found the towelling laid out and wrapped it around herself, going to the bathing area, dropping it and then sinking gratefully into the scented steaming water.

Lying there with her eyes closed, she could hear the sounds of the house, those settling for the night noises. And next door, the muffled voice of Thorn, and what was likely his valet.

She finally bathed, washed her hair and rinsed it, then her body, before wrapping in the towel. The sun had gone completely and the arched windows showed a rising moon. With only a lamp lit by the bed; the colors of gold and cream, deep forest green shimmered and warmed mellow; in the drapes and furnishings and coverlet.

Jane sat at the vanity, rubbing her hair with the towel and looking at the reflection of that bed and warm green coverlet. The last ten years were flashing through her head, years of teaching, working, raising Charles, and all the milestones in his life. But she also thought of nights she had buried her face in the pillow and wept, nights she awoke moaning and reliving the lovemaking with Thorn.

She'd done many things, seen them, been them, but that part of her feminine soul was something she hidden until those private unguarded hours, when she was alone and bare and could shut all the doors—except the ones to that world and that time with him.

Jane dropped the towel and combed her hair, running her hands through it to dry the damp strands. When it warmed and lay in its usual straight mass, she arose and tucked it behind her ears, applying her lotions to her body. Her foot was on the vanity bench, the towel in the floor and her skin completely uncovered, when Thorn came through the doorway.

He stopped dead, having had his gaze on the bed, but glanced over. For a moment they stood frozen in place, until Jane lowered her foot, and with her back to him capped the bottles.

Blowing her breath out slow, trying to ease the race of her heartbeat, Jane had a picture of him, shirtless and wearing only trousers, his swarthy sinew and muscle glowing in the same warm lights.

"I just finished my bath,” she murmured awkwardly, seeing out the corner of her eye that her cream lace gown was at the foot of the bed.

"I know. That scent, your scent, I have never forgotten it."

She tried to walk casually to the bed, considering the fact her nipples were peaked and that she knew his hungry gaze was all over her.

Her fingers touched the lace...

Thorn husked, “No ... No don't cover yourself. Let me look at you, Jane."

She stood there, staring at the pile of lace, her head starting to grow light from the intimate request, his previous admission.

He walked toward her. Jane smelled his warm scent, felt the heat of him as he was close to her side. His hand rose, pushing her hair back behind her ear, his gaze touching her face, her breasts, downward.

"It has been a long time, and yet, at this moment it seems as if I have pictured your face, your body, in my mind for a thousand nights."

"Thorn..."

He cupped her cheek and turned her to look up at him. “Ten years..."

"Yes. That is a lifetime compared to the short span that we were lovers,” she rasped, feeling a kind of pleasure pain at seeing his handsome face up close, seeing that desire in the depths of his eyes.

His thumb stroked across her lips, caressing the bottom one. His tone hushed and deep, but tight with emotion, “There are things I must say, this time. But I have a need that overwhelms even that, a thirst and a hunger—a desire, to make love to you again."

His head lowered and he captured her mouth. Jane moaned, tasting those lips, that tongue that slid in deep and rubbed hers, and the masculine skin that touched her when her arms went round him.

He lifted her, placing her on the bed without breaking the kiss.

That kiss became deep, hungry, wild, and she lost her breath, lost track of the fire that raced through her returning it, tasting once more the flavor of his erotic hungers and unfathomable need.

He raised enough to kiss over her face, to bite at her ear. His warm breaths bathed her neck as he suckled there and laved.

Neck arched, hands on his shoulders, Jane tried to catch her breath but he was everywhere, touching and lips moving over her skin.

"Oh Thorn...” She arched and moved when he cupped her breasts in his large hands, holding them and suckling, running the flat of his tongue around the areola and suckling more.

He raised his head, his lids heavy and eyes burning. His fingers flexed on her breasts. “Let me feast, Jane ... Give me leave to ease this hunger in my blood and soul, I cannot promise you patience and control or anything until I'm appeased."

She made a helpless sound and simply spread her arms, her head back. Then a moan and sigh escaped her as he laved and touched, suckled and bathed her body. His hard palms skimmed and his teeth raked, but to Jane it was that blissful drowning in sensations that only Thorn created. He reached her feet, turned her. She fisted the coverlet, whimpering, crying out at times, from the strokes and kisses, the avid sounds of gratification coming from him.

Trembling when he shifted her legs, having slid down, he moved his head, ran his tongue between her legs. Jane bit into the covers hearing her sounds echoing in the room and too helpless to care.

Thorn moved her until she was on her back again, her silken legs over his shoulders, and he used his fingers to expose the sensitive flesh for his tongue. He dipped his head then and ravished her wonderfully.

"Yes...” She felt the lave of it, the swell of her climax building, and then it was there, exploding and washing over her, dragging her under the dark wave and lifting her up to the highest peak of fulfilment.

He slid her legs down and gathered her against him, kissing her with his sensual mouth scented with her tang, soothing her with hands that could not seem to touch her enough.

Jane lifted her heavy lids, leaning back to look at him while he brushed the strands of her hair back from her face. Her words tumbled out of their own will, husky and soft. “I have missed ... that feeling. Before and during ... This feeling after, that seems as if I have transformed into the being I become, the one I first became, in that world we would go to..."

"Create. The world we created, Jane. “Thorn caressed her back and rested his hand on her hip. “When I met you that day, in the library. When I saw you looking at me. I kept telling myself that I was noticing things about you because I was experiencing the natural urges that men will, when they have not been with a woman in some time."

He grinned softly and shifted his touch, skimming to the curls still damp between her legs. “But I looked into your eyes, and I thought ... there is something different, something about this woman. And when you looked at me, Jane ... Yes, your desire was evident, but unlike anyone else, ever, your passions and your kisses, the scent and taste of you, it made me feel adrift and yet full, as if I was where and with the other half of me, only when we touched."

"Thorn.” She put her fingers to his lips.

"No Jane. Not this time.” He held her gaze and then reached up and removed her fingers from his lips. He rolled her to her back and lay atop her, his weight on his forearms and his hands in her hair. “I have loved you from the moment we stood by carriage that first day. I knew I wanted you, desired you, But because of what I thought I must do, I dared not speak of it."

Jane felt her eyes burn and the tears gathered and spilled over.

"The ring you wear was my grandmother's. I was bringing it to you that last day, at the cottage. I was going to tell you, though I know you could not live being my mistress. I warred with not asking you to take that place in my life—and needing you, loving you too much, to completely let you go."

"I'm sorry."

"Shuu.” He kissed her eyes. “Never be sorry for being who you are. I would not have loved you so deeply had you been any other way. You are the strongest woman I know, Jane. And you were strong enough, to let me go, and I knew that. I did not want your money, your damned lists, I wanted you. But after the hurt faded, and whilst I was meeting that challenge, I realized that you knew me that well, that profound. You knew me better than anyone, even Edmund, you understood what even I did not know yet—"

"I loved you, Thorn.” She sobbed and then bit her trembling lip. “I loved you."

"I know. I knew,” he whispered tightly, holding her close a moment while she cried.

Thorn then slid out of the bed and stripped the last garment from his body. He came back to Jane, lay between her legs and sighed when those silken limbs slid high and snug against him.

He began to enter her, to sink his sex deep, until they were locked tightly skin to skin. Breath rushed out, stilled, and bodies shuddered with pleasure.

Thorn whispered, staring deep into her eyes, “You are my bride, my countess, to the world you will be my wife and the mother of my heir, but to me Jane...” He began to thrust, to move in and out slow and deep, his voice urgent with passion, “you are my woman, my heart and soul, the very breath I breathe."

"I love you.” She cried lost in those words, in the feel of his loving.

"We love ... we have always loved, Jane. In the secret chambers of our hearts, and in the fires of our soul.” He sped his trusts and for long moments they moved and stroked that friction higher, bringing those spoken words into reality, and setting them free—from the quiet place in their hearts, whispering and reaching, drowning and holding, assuaging the deep craving each had for the other.

"Jane. Jane...” he cried out feeling her reaching for the heart of him with her body, her lips that bathed his chest and her hands that caressed his back.

"I am not afraid,” she whispered. “We are free, my love, and there is nothing in our way, nothing to keep hidden and set aside.” She arched her neck and looked up at him, “Nothing will take me from you nor you from me..."

"Nothing.” He closed his eyes and they went down together, holding tight until the wave of pleasure lifted them to the crest, and they were once more cradled in the warmth of afterglow.

After moments they stirred and refreshed, Thorn sat with her at the window, looking at Greystone bathed in the moonlight and softened by a rolling fog.

He gave her a sip from his brandy glass and then pulled her back against him, resting her against his chest as his free hand caressed her.

"I have your mother's wedding dress."

She began to lean up but he held her still. “And everything you sold. I also have an account that is yours in London."

"You did not have to do that, Thorn. I love Greystone."

"Yes. I did, Jane. I had to,” he said simply. “The cottage is yours, to paint, to write, or whatever you wish.” He kissed her hair. “I hope we make love there again..."

"We will."

He set the glass aside and turned her until she sat facing him across his thighs. “I did not wed you to change you, to mould you for the title or society. I married you, to love you, Jane. To love you for the rest of our lives."

She wiped tears that plopped down, rolling on her cheeks. “I know that. And you know—that I have always loved you, no matter what was happening in your life or any challenge that stood between us. I have loved you, because ... I cannot help but do so, nor—did I wish not to."

He smiled a full smile and her heart tripped, melted from it. His hands skimmed her thighs and rested there, and then he watched her face as he touched those curls, feeling the renewed passions rising in her. “Ah, Jane. What promise no secrets holds ... to drink your passions in the light of day or while the rain pours down, to move in your sweet body and hear your breaths in my ear, in the fresh spring grass...."

"Umm.” She moved her hips feeling his touch sink deep. “I cannot wait to make those promises a reality."

He chuckled and then groaned, leaned up to suckle at the side of her neck. “Would you care for a moon-light ride, my lady?"

Jane was already raising and sliding down on his sex. She caught her breath and began to move, arching back, undulating, feeling his hands flex on her hips, bathed by his husks and words of willing surrender.

And he watched her in the moonlight, her body stretched and head back, her hips rising falling, circling and shifting, pulling from him, her pleasure, giving him more passion and pleasure back than any man could want.

"Thorn!” she cried his name.

He watched her fly, uninhibited, so willing, into ecstasy. Thorn joined her there with a rush of light, as she lay atop his chest, his eyes closed and the fire flowing through his blood, into her.

* * * *

EPILOGUE.

"Is this what you want, Charles, or are you doing this because your ancestors are Greystone's, because your father served the crown?"

Charles sat across from his father's desk; his mother stood behind the earl, her hand on his shoulder as they had been working before Charles came in and requested this meeting.

"With all due respect, I know who am enough to make my decisions based on that. I have finished my education and taken my place in society. And I am proud to do so. Greystone flourishes. You and father have given me every advantage. Nevertheless, how shall I know what I can accomplish on my own? Victor and Alex have both been deeply involved with business over the Opium trade. They man their own ships. “He stood and paced, then walked over to the window.

"I have the education to practice law or medicine, to enter the filed of science or any of the areas of interest where remarkable things are happening now.” He rubbed the back of his neck and there was a pensive, far away expression on his face as he looked out.

"My heart is here, but my mind is too bloody restless, I feel ... unfinished, not challenged, It is wonderful to belong and to know one's corner of the world, but out there is where I may meet myself without the walls of protection..."

He turned and looked at his father, their gazes holding for a long time. “So that when I am master of Greystone after you, I will have earned it. So that when I no longer question the understanding of my strengths, I shall know that I've served my country and my fellow man, and that I have made you both proud—by doing those things which you've showed me were important to do."

He turned and dropped his hand, facing them, and it was a visage of a grown man, a man with his father's build and looks, but with his mother's eyes and all the conviction and desire to stand on his own. “I want your blessing. But I will go without it, in hopes that you will someday understand."

Thorn stood and turned to Jane. They shared a soft smile that their son did not see, before the earl kissed her cheek.

He walked toward Charles, his hair mostly silver and now at his shoulders, a big and strong man who fit the aura and image of Earl of Greystone.

Jane, her figure neat in a cream skirt and blouse, her hair atop her head in a soft pouf, came to stand beside him. Her handsome face lined mostly at her eyes, from all the joy, the laughter her life had been filled with.

Thorn held out his hand, and when Charles clasp it, he said, “You have more than our blessing. You have our love and our pride in you, and wherever you go, whatever the situation you find yourself in, you must remember that."

"I will.” Charles smiled, and then Thorn pulled him close for a hug.

He hugged his mother next while his father poured three brandies and they toasted.

Jane sat on the edge of the desk watching them, shaking her head slightly at their equal sizes though Charles was just beginning his prime at twenty-three. They had known since he finished his studies at seventeen that this day was coming. In London, Thorn had worried his son was growing restless, there were women and of course some gambling and raking. When Alex and Victor were on the town too, it was all they could do to keep some their escapades quiet. Of course those in society with long memories dredged up all the old scandals again.

But in the three young men were intelligent, somewhat arrogant, and certainly adept at trying to hide things from their mothers. It was Edmund and Thorn who ferreted out most of the goings on, and, both Victoria and Jane knew it was they who decided when Victor and Alex needed to be steered toward the more challenging careers they now had.

For Charles, it had been Thorn's wish that he reach that conclusion himself and know when he was ready. Today was that day, and it was both wonderful for Jane, and frightening, because she knew the dangers in the world, the things that could happen. She also realized she had to trust in the son they had raised though.

After the men finished talking, Charles excused himself to visit Mrs. Campbell who still resided at Greystone, and had become sort of a grandmother to Charles.

Thorn walked over and wrapped his arms around Jane. “Are you scared, love?"

"Some part of me is.” She rested her head on his chest, feeling the strong beat of his heart. “But he's always been his own person, and we cannot ask more than that."

"Yes.” He stepped back and took her hand. “Let's take a ride in the carriage. It's a beautiful day."

She went along with him out to the stables, and they climbed up when the carriage was ready. Thorn handled the ribbons. She was not surprised when they arrived at the cottage.

He lifted her down and carried her inside, then up the stairs to the bed.

In moments, lying nude, with the window open and the sun streaming in, she reached up and touched his face. “You are in a vigorous mood. We made love this morning, remember?"

"Of course I remember.” He laughed. “Poor Isabel nearly scalded herself with the coffee trying to back out of the chamber."

Jane laughed at that; the maid never knew when Thorn was going to linger in his wife's bed. He slept with her and normally got up early, but there were times when he wanted her—and the maid was the last thing on his mind.

She bent her knees as he settled more between her legs. “You never age, do you know that? Other than your hair turning silver, a few squint lines. You look the same as the day I met you."

He was easing into her warmth. “I've discovered the fountain of youth.” He was in deep and snug. Thorn winked, “My own secret garden.” He moved in her watching her lashes flutter with pleasure. “You have not aged either, Jane."

She chuckled softly. “Of course I have. I have lines around my eyes, a huge silver streak in my hair. You're simply losing your eyesight..."

He bit her ear for that and murmured, “I see perfectly. I see you in my sleep, my dreams, and thankfully—when I open my eyes every morning."

"Oh Thorn.” She held him tightly.

He sped his thrusts. “Ahh, there is the Jane I know. Hold tightly darling; let us steal away once more.... Once more....

And they did, loving through the veil of this world, flying to the secret place their love had created from the moment they had met.

The End

About the Author:

Romance author Eve Asbury, and Romantica writer Gayle Eden are also fiction author B.D. Dillon. They are all alter egos of Dian Addair, an author whose dreams of writing were put on hold in her twenties while she raised a son and daughter and worked several jobs. Romance novels kept her sane during some of those busy years, which took her from West Virginia to living in a suburb of Washington, DC for fifteen more, until finally settling her in East Tennessee, surrounded by the North Holston River, where she can write to her hearts content.

She calls her life as a young grandmother, controlled chaos. Actually it's quite normal for a woman who was born 9th in line and was an aunt by age five. She sets aside Saturdays for family, cooking, and romping with her 5 grandchildren. The rest of the week, when not stealing an hour with her busy husband, she's at the computer immersing herself in another good plot.

A writer who believes in story telling, in giving herself the freedom to write whatever story speaks to her heart. This prolific author says she tries not to limit her characters by outline, but has a vague idea, that generally they run away with. She's found its better to indulge her muse than try and control it. A bit like real life, it happens, and there's always something new and surprising that makes the experience rewarding.

Website address—www.evesromance.com

Other Books by Gayle Eden

Winter Heart

Gayle Eden

Fate has not been kind to Jared Burke, Earl of Winterchase. Too many ghosts from his past life have made him into a man who is as remote as he is untouchable. People called him Beast and claim that his heart is as cold as his dark visage.

Clare Ross is a warm and giving woman; one who has grown strong from the weight of responsibility thrust upon her when her parents died and her younger brother, Aaron, the Viscount Hambelton went off the rails. Now that her brother has once again found his way, Clare is looking forward, with an open heart, to whatever joy life might bring her way.

What few people know is that it was Jared who took the young man out of the cold and gave him what he himself was denied—a second chance to live his life and take his future in hand. Only Clare knows that behind the grim façade, the Lord of Winterchase is much more than he seems and what people claim him to be.

The reclusive Lord agrees to join Aaron and his party at Hambleton to celebrate Christmas and the young Viscount's twenty-fifth birthday celebration. Here he meets Clare for the first time and finds her indeed to be the warm, caring woman that her brother spoke of with such affection. Determined to show her gratitude for what he has done, Clare befriends Jared, but what starts as innocent friendship instantly flames into a desire they never thought possible. Clare is sure, but is Jared willing to take this chance on love and let Clare be the one to melt his winter heart?

To see her other novels, visit:

www.alinarpublishing.com

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