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.

Imagine Me

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 August 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 Dian Addair

Cover by Dian Addair

ISBN

1-906023-28-X

978-1-906023-28-7

Chapter One

London's business district was congested as usual. Madeline Duvall stood on her tiptoes, to try and catch sight of Mr. Goodwyn, who'd gone to another building across the street to drop off some paperwork.

Her arms were filled with slim leather satchels and two thick leather-bound ledgers cut into her skin. The pedestrians and coaches, carriages and hacks, obstructed off any glimpse of the opposite street. As usual, on a weekday, the congestion was dense and the noise level high.

Blowing a strand of nut-brown hair which had fallen from beneath her suede black hat, she decided to hire the nearest hack and meet him back at the office, near the docks and warehouses. A male or maid usually escorted females on the streets, and though she had been accompanied by her father's trusted clerk before, she was not now and was getting odd looks by the crowds.

Many of them of them recognized Madeline and cast her a smile, a tip of the hat. Madeline nodded back. Several who did not were eyeing her with rather too much curiosity. Though she was dressed in a lightweight dove carriage coat and black gown of no-nonsense lines—her usual attire when working with Goodwyn.

Like her sister Liddy, younger by one year, she was most comfortable in these areas of London. Her father, a merchant and businessman, widowed when the girls were just nine and ten, had taught them very well. They were educated and capable, very able to see to themselves, as were many females of business.

It was still not a normal sight to see respectable women on the street alone, and while many of these men may know herself and Liddy, they were expected to keep with Goodwyn's escort whenever possible.

Indeed, on the docks and at the warehouses, the clerks and captains were familiar with the girls from a young age Louis Duvall had from the time of his unexpected widowhood, taken turns bringing one of the girl's with him, leaving the other with Mrs. Derry, the housekeeper. They had each been educated whilst travelling and observing their father at his business. Then whilst at one of the homes he owned or rented, being trained in domestic duties, as well as ladylike arts. Especially on the insistence of their aunt Tabatha, who was part of society and wed to Sir Jasper Bryson.

An unusual upbringing to be sure. But Louis could bury himself in business and travel and would have seen very little of his daughters had he not brought them along at times. His girls made him laugh, relax, and forget business on occasion, which was something their mother Melissa had been able to do. Melissa VanHuss had been the daughter of a Merchant. She understood both the realities of being diligent in trade and taking time to enjoy an opportunity when travel permitted.

Since the war with France had ended, Madeline and Liddy had taken every opportunity to drag their father off, when away from England's shores, to enjoy sights and sounds of the locals, and though he grumbled, he was secretly glad for it, they knew.

Their Mama's sister was a great gun. Aunt Tabatha was a woman of cheerful countenance, rotund figure and good sense. She and her husband often hosted Louis or the gel's at their townhouse or country estate. But since she had wed into society, no matter that it was not the highest echelons, she understood from both herself and Melissa's upbringing that Merchants moved in circles very similar to the titled. The females trained as hosts and prepared for wife and motherhood as well as the many unique duties that came with being in a merchant family.

Also, it was not unnoticed by wealthy merchants that daughters and sons were accepted into the best schools and academies and invited to ton functions. Impoverished titles were in need of blunt. It became quite common for the classes to marry, albeit the snobbery very much existed whenever a cit was introduced into the old and established families. Merchants had their versions of debutante balls, though it was of greater import to introduce one's daughter into London society where the guest list included the aristocracy.

The merchants, captains, and businessmen had mansions that rivaled and sometimes overshadowed old money. To Tabatha's mind, Melissa would have wanted her girls to be as comfortable at a Duke's table as they were at the assembly halls in the ever-growing Industrial cities where businessmen set up grand residences.

It went without saying that many of Louis's cronies were not so sophisticated, intelligent, or classed as himself, having obtained their wealth in this generation. Their wives and offspring could be both coarse and boorish, in some cases naively ignorant. Men of all classes still balked at educating their females. Some did not do more than spoil their sons either, by throwing riches at them.

It was this fringe of the newly wealthy that often skewed the opinions of high society, but that was not the norm. Many generations of merchants were greater educated, traveled, and stronger in ethics than the aristocracy. They had their clubs, mansions, and in many cases were the prop that kept many old and respected titles able to live with the dignity and style as before.

To Tabatha and to Louis there were expectations in all classes of society, and hypocrisy existed everywhere. It was to anyone's advantage to have confidence and know the vices as well as the virtues, both male and female.

Madeline was not far from the Royal exchange. London's business district was one of the most crowded. She had spent the morning in two dusty, humid, offices, attempting to settle some business her father needed completed. His age and health had taken a turn this past winter. He intended to remain in London the next few months whilst his physician attended him, and whilst Liddy coddled and scolded him.

Madeline deduced that he was greatly concerned for their future, and that his affairs were in order, in the event he did not recover. Louis had been going at such a fast pace, that he scarcely seemed to notice his age, or theirs, until ill health slowed him down.

Muttering, Madeline walked a bit hoping to find an available hack sitting by the curb, awaiting the many lords and businessmen who would be seeking conveyance. It was nearly the lunch hour.

She was just about to step down off the street, when a lacquered and crested coach rumbled by. She froze, completely unable to think or breathe. And while she took a step back, she had no time to turn and lose herself in the crowd when the Earl of Fairbane's driver paused right there—right at the spot where the occupant was in arm's length of her.

A group of laughing, talking gents had stopped in the middle of the streets. Whistles, shouts, a few curses and mutters filled the air in an effort to unclog the congestion. However, this too was a ritual, largely ignored and more often than not, someone would turn and notice and before long, join in the conversation, or laugh and call out some amusing remark. Bucks passing by were agitating things further by calling out wagers and trying to prod some fellow on a high perched phaeton to squeeze through the melee.

Madeline heard none of it as she mentally groaned and watched the curtain pull back, so that Dorian Engstrom, Lord Fairbane could poke his head out and see what had caused the halt to his progress.

Her stomach tightened viewing that wavy black hair, blue black with only a hint of silver threads. His aquiline profile tensing her further. She wanted to look away but could not pull her eyes from that bronze visage.

His nose was arrogantly flared in agitation that she well remembered seeing on him, brooding brows were the same, lashes thick and long, that mouth, still sensual yet the lines at the sides had deepened. His face overall was harder and more sinewy than the last time she had seen him.

Still there was a harsh beauty to his darkness, an encompassing dangerous edge that emanated from him.

Madeline did not have to see his eyes to remember their deep ebon hue. They were devastating eyes, haunting yet hard, and when he did sit back, settling his broad shoulders and lighting a cheroot; he glanced over blowing a stream of smoke from those flared nostrils, looking to the street as if sensing someone. And her own of anxious gray/blue stare tried to mask anything that might show.

She felt that same sensation, the stomach dropping and light-headedness that came the first time he had looked at her.

"Madeline...” He seemed to still and blink, and it was as if his mouth formed her name but she heard the deep rasp of his tone whether in voice or in her head.

It served to jerk her out of the shock. Madeline swallowed, turning and crashing into a couple, muttering an apology before hastening away, weaving in and out the crowd. She knocked a newspaper from some toff's arm, bungled her jacket in the umbrella hook of some gouty duke, and her right knee smacked into the sturdy briefcase a passing solicitor carried.

Hurry ... hurry ... hurry ... Madeline, her heartbeat thundered in her ears.

"Madeline!” She heard it this time, his shout, and a curse.

But she spotted the brown suit and hat, the familiar figure of Goodwyn standing on a low wall of planters, near a law office, looking worried and vexed.

"I am here,” she called out, seeing the sun glint on his lenses as he looked down.

"Thank goodness.” The wiry Goodwyn jumped off his perch and hurried to her. “I was getting worried."

They reached each other and he took her burdens, offering his elbow for her hand and saying, “What a day. I do believe every soul in London is on the streets. I've secured us a hack, just across the street."

Madeline allowed him to lead her, but peeked back over her shoulder just before stepping off. Mr. Goodwyn always walked fast, which suited her fine, as she was tempted to run. She realized the tall dark man was trying to make it through the crowds.

Dorian was head and shoulders above most, and even without his caped coat, he was broad of shoulder. But it was near impossible to find a clear path to her, and since she had no wish for him to reach her, Madeline turned after seeing that he was standing still while a stream of men blocked his way. Their eyes met again for a brief but long-enough second, Madeline wanting him to realize she had seen him and did not wish to encourage an encounter, then she hastened on with Mr. Goodwyn, breathing her first shaky sigh when they were in the hack.

Though he sifted through the papers, questioning, talking, and they spoke of business on the way to the offices, she stared out the window; her kid glove'd hand gripping the door edge to settle her reeling senses. Madeline tried to tamp down the memories that poured into her head, sounds, smells, emotions that had nothing to do with the Madeline Duvall most people knew, and everything to do with the woman she became after meeting Lord Fairbane.

She wanted to return to their townhouse, to her cool chambers and to the understanding arms of dear Liddy, who was the only one she trusted and confided her secrets to. But there was more business to see to, and a supper with Mr. Goodwyn's wife and family, at their lovely home. She'd accepted last week and his older daughters and son were her good friends. Ordinarily real life, that life, would excite her, for the chance of a relaxing meal with laughter and pure fun as the clan were a lively and amusing bunch—normally, it would balance out the business and fill her thoughts.

But there was another sort of excitement, a mixture of chaotic feelings trying to overtake her mind and body. And when Goodwyn fell silent, losing himself in reading the Times. She sat back, slumped and raised her gloved fingers to rest against her lips. Unbidden the memory flooded, so that the eyes that looked outward saw only those memories in her mind.

Chapter Two

She was travelling in Oxford with her father on business. It was just after her seventeenth birthday and she and Liddy had kidnapped their father from his business and thrown a lively, well-attended party at Browery Farms, her father's favorite house, near Southampton, where they had memories of their mother, and where Liddy had learned to ride the fastest horses from the locals.

And, Madeline had taken Mrs. Derry and the butler out on the lake in a boat at the age of twelve and overturned it, nearly drowning them all, but learning to swim the hard way as the stately Walton turned out to be an excellent swimmer, and after soothing poor Mrs. Derry's panic and gotten her to shore, he had made Madeline swim to him, assuring all that if she snuck out in the boat, and overturned again, she would be able to save herself.

But the party had been wonderful, with much dancing and high spirits. Madeline had many friends in the neighborhood, and many from all over England had accepted the invitation weeks before. Louis, after realizing it was his daughter's birthday, had joined in the fun and purchased Madeline the roan she had been coveting since she was fifteen from Lady Strouth, their neighbor.

Afterward Liddy had elected to go up to London with Mrs. Derry and some of the staff, to get the townhouse ready, and to meet with Madeline and her father who would take a slower route as he had decided to make some personal visits, accept invites put off too long to discuss business and investments. One of his long-time associates was Lord Sherburne, an earl of sixty years with whom Louis enjoyed both hunting and great fishing at the earl's box in Scotland.

When they had arrived at the grand estates however, the countess was in the midst of her end of summer soiree, and though graciously invited to join, Madeline and her father had declined the early day events. Louis saying they would return later that evening, after supper, and whilst the guests were fully entertained with music and dancing.

They had gone to a lovely little Inn and Madeline ate while listening to her father talk. As always Louis's bewhiskered face glowed when he did so and his intelligent gray eyes were focused on the meeting ahead. He had curly hair, gray then as now, and though Liddy's was stick straight and more strawberry than blond, it was from him that Madeline got her own curly nut brown locks that were a challenge to keep contained.

They had arrived at the brightly-lit estate, being shown into the Earl's library/study, and Madeline had sat by the French doors when the earl had entered. The men drank brandy and talked business. These estates and grand homes were not new to her.

The closest Louis had to it however, was a villa in Italy he had not seen but once, and one the girl's had only seen paintings of. There were French properties before the war, but Louis was still trying to sort out some disputes on that with a distant cousin. Nonetheless, other than their London townhouse, which was tasteful and elegant, he preferred the farm, still a small estate of sorts, fully working, and the home had four stories.... There was a seaside house of similar size, an unassuming dwelling in Yarmouth and a dozen rented apartments in Leeds and Yorkshire and Manchester.

Her father partnered in many ventures, there were ships, plantations, exotic parcels he'd circled on maps in his study, where his partners oversaw harvesting, shipping or building something.

Madeline often mused on the sights and sounds unique to the upper crust of English society, the highly charged atmosphere of decadence and wealth that one felt when there were so many together at these entertainment's. The coaches in the yard as they had driven up were polished and crested, brass shimmering, and drivers liveried, distinguished in their top hats and tails.

She was lost in her own daydreams, smelling the scent from a profusion of roses in the garden, and having the glass of Madeira she'd accepted from a discreet maid Iino her hand. The Lady Sherburne had invited her to join the party. There had been times that she had accepted such invites before, but after the weeklong birthday celebration at the farm, she was happy to forgo the more formal society gathering.

"You must stay here tonight. I insist,” The earl was saying. “Do come and join the party. There are a dozen men on your planned stops here. You may find yourself able to make London in half the time. I hear there is some prime flesh at Tatters this year...."

Madeline stood while the men were still in conversation, and as the host invited her to join them. She saw her father's satchel stuffed with papers. Thanking his lordship, she told her father, “If Lord Sherburne doesn't mind, I'll make use of his study and prepare the copies for your signatures. I would welcome some work after my wonderful party."

Her father had explained that to the earl, then, “Thank you, Madeline. Yes. You could leave his on the desk, ready for his seal. And if you agree, we will stay overnight."

Aware that many of her father's business cronies were in attendance she had agreed. Waiting while the host summoned the housekeeper, who instructed her, which chambers to go to when she was ready to retire.

Her father and Sherburne left her, deep in discussion. Madeline carried the papers to the earl's desk, finding writing materials where he'd directed, and later thanking the maid who brought her a coffee she requested.

Removing the deep blue pelisse she had worn, hanging it on the chair back, she pushed up the sleeves of her white blouse. Still in her half boots and blue skirt, her hair was gathered up informally with several fat curls hanging down her back. The blouse was square necked and of light fabric, comfortable with the rose scented breeze wafting through the doors.

The shelf-lined room was done in warm paneled wood and there was a billiard table at the far end near an unlit hearth. A long table with several chairs next, and an expanse before the desk that was a clear path to the French doors. Soft lamps glowed and the smell of books; beeswax and ink joined the outdoors scent. The soft tick of the clock was dominant over the muffled and distant sounds of music, as the ballroom was at the far wing of the mansion.

Copying from her father's notes, and long adept at writing the legal and business documents required, she lost herself in that for an hour, learning from his solicitors and clerks the importance of correct wording and precise language.

Thus it was startling, alarming when a door she had not seen, about mid room had been flung open from the interior. She'd thankfully rested the pen or else ink would have ruined her completed work, but as it was, she froze.

A male dragged a woman through it, holding to her arm, and spinning her around to face him after the banged closed.

"Unhand me, Dorian. How dare you?” The woman nearly shrieked. Her beautiful blond hair trembled with outrage, and the diamond encrusted gown sparkled whilst she struggled from his hold.

"How dare I? I will tell you what I dare. I am dragging you out to that coach, and my mother afterwards, and you will both get yourselves back to Fairbane, where I told you to stay."

"You wouldn't! I will not go. Susan and I..."

"Shut up, Claudia, and listen to me. This is not just my repeated command, but Worley has issued his demands in the cardroom not five seconds ago. In the strongest possible terms, you will stay away from his son."

"Worley is a stuffy old goat. Marc is a grown man."

"He is a silly, green, pup whom like the majority of your lovers thinks getting into your bed is worth the trouble."

It was then, when that free hand reached up and struck his face that Madeline really looked at the man.

Tall, dressed in formal black and white, his ruffled shirt undone and missing a neckcloth, raven black hair glinted in the lamplight, wavy and to his broad shoulders. Lofty, lean and yet obviously muscular, he stood over six feet, broad chest and handsome head above the woman glaring up at him

He wore snug black trousers, gleaming Hessians and a formal jacket with velvet lapel. But there was a rakish dishevel to his appearance, as if he had been playing cards, drinking, raking his hand through his hair, and—possibly having dragged the woman all the way from that distant ballroom.

Handsome, she thought at the time, despite the savage anger and contempt, which tightened his sinewy, bronze face. A harshly cut visage that matched the deep raspy tones of his voice.

But the words between them also registered as he let the woman go with a shove, growling, “I mean this, Claudia. Go home. I will not pay your gambling debts this time, nor Mother's. And if you push Worley into calling me out over your affair with his son, I will divorce you."

"You won't.” The beauty had gained her composure and though she stepped back from him, there was a smug smile on her elegant face. “You won't divorce me. As for my ... gambling. I think my dowry covered...."

"Your dowry! Do not embarrass either of us at this point. We both know that you spent that a week after we were married.” He laughed coldly.

"I have my jewels."

"Fakes,” he snapped, “Just as my mother's are.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Do not distract from the point. Your gambling, as well as my mother's has been a long-standing argument between us. I have told you before that Fairbane is the last of my holdings. Thanks to the mess my mother left my father in, there was barely enough to sustain it. You and she are well matched. In fact, I suspect the two of you planned for some time on our marriage."

"We are not as stupid as you, Dorian."

The man slapped her then.

She flew at him, managing to rake her nails down his face and leave blood dripping.

He, grappling, had said, “Bitch. I won't do this again. I won't. You're drunk, which is the only thing that saves me from wringing your neck. Dammit, Claudia. Stop it.” He shook her roughly.

"I won't give him up. Nor will I bury myself at Fairbane. I had to plot and plan to get myself this far to gain a title that I deserved. I'm not ashamed of that, nor will I apologize to you. You were not that foxed, you enjoyed the sex ... at least for a month. You put me from your bed over a silly, meaningless tryst, with a handsome footman, who would never have breathed a word of it.

Being the daughter of a Baron is nothing; nothing, compared to becoming countess Fairbane. And your mother knew that. Of course she was my friend, my mentor. I did not move in your circles, in hers, she moved in my father's though—Oh, why are we going through this again? You may well hate your mother, but she has friends, she had power."

"She has nothing save that title. The fast set may hang on her skirts, you may have worshipped her from afar, but she will age as you will age, and then where will your lovers be? When you have been cut by the cream of society for sleeping with those hostess's husbands and sons, when you have men fighting like fools for your nonexistent honor. Do you think that I will risk my life for either of you? That I will challenge the slander attached to your name? I would not waste the time. You deserve it, you both deserve it."

"Poor Dorian. The whole of society pities and mocks you.” She had laughed.

"So you tell me,” he retorted. “But this is between you and me. However my mother arranged to attend this gathering, I suppose it was through one of her many lovers. These guests would not welcome either of you in their homes. I have tried to tell you that before my father died he told her honestly how far she had fallen. He was welcome in society, not she. And having borrowed from lovers, from his cronies and moneylenders. Even in a society that tolerates excesses—she has been cut. “I am well aware that your father traveled in fast circles, that mother gave you another idea of her reputation when you arranged to come to Fairbane—and slip into my bed..."

"Are we going through that again?” The woman snarled.

"No, that too is long past. But you became my wife, the countess you wanted to be, and you have tried in these four years to run me down in the gutters with you."

"I beg to differ. Slumming is your taste, my lord. I prefer Worely's heir, and I assure you his digs are well addressed."

A nerve ticked in the man's jaw. “I am through warning you, Claudia. This is the last time. When I go to London I will let it be known that I am no longer covering your debts. I will start a divor..."

"You won't. You can't!” The woman's hands fisted at her sides.

"I will. I mean what I say. If mother dragged you here under some false promise, you are an even greater fool. You both have assumed me in that same category. But I have told her that the dowager house, everything in it has been mortgaged to pay her debts. When that is gone, she is on her own. The same goes for you."

Wrath bathed the woman's face. “You won't do it. You are too afraid of Worley and his ilk to chance the scandal."

"I live a scandal,” he had snarled. “From the day I had the misfortune of marrying you, I live it. I care not that you're no better than a whore. I grew used to my mother's indiscretions long before you came along. Half of society has their beds warmed by each other. Most are discreet. But you are an embarrassment, your drinking and gambling, your gutter class vulgarity disgusts me."

"That is too bad. I will challenge any divorce. I will have my own witnesses."

"Cut that young man loose, Claudia. Go back to Fairbane and let last season's scandal die down. Then maybe..."

"They will find another scandal to discuss. I did not tell that stupid boy to challenge his brother."

The man grabbed her arms, frustration vibrating from him. “Why won't you hear? You force me to take drastic measures."

"Unhand me.” She'd squirmed, “I'll do as I damned well like. I don't need you. I never needed you, save for the title. Go ahead, get the divorce. Even Marc is more a man than you."

He'd let her go so fast she'd stumbled, but ignoring the rage even Madeline could see building in him, she had spat, “I'll end up his wife. You watch and see. That fat goat of a duke will die in some mistresses bed, the hypocrite, and I'll be wed to his heir."

"Stupid ... Delusional.” He had shaken his head. “You insist upon that affair and what I have done will seem kind compared to his wrath. I have tried to tell you, Claudia, that under the veneer of polite society there is a real danger to crossing certain people of power.

Worely is no fool. He has a wife picked out for his son, a young, virginal wife, whose father is a Marquis, whose bloodlines and rep are impeccable. You may think you know the game, but you learned from the wrong people. You admired the wrong people. The duke's bloodlines go back a hundred years past your father's puny title, and had you not maneuvered yourself into marriage with me, gaining my title, you would never have met men of his rank."

He added, “Instead of recognizing that truth, realizing your chance to become a woman of influence and power. You began crawling into the wrong beds and offending your hostesses by flaunting your affairs with their husbands. You blackmailed and bribed to cover debts before some fool came crawling to me in desperation..."

"You are no saint, Dorian. How dare you! When I wed you, you were sleeping with Lord Ralston's wife."

"That is a lie. I had an affair, a discreet affair with her, several years before. That is nothing compared to your actions. You will not learn discretion. You, like mother, have to flaunt your excesses and exceed the boundaries no matter how low. You are ruined as she is, and if I were not required to show my face in London, I would be spared the disgust of hearing what I already know whispered in every club and drawing room in town. I am sick of it."

"I am sick of you.” She headed for the door, then spun back to add, “I will go. I'll take your mother with me. But not to Fairbane. Not to that dreary old house with your dreary old servants. Marc wishes to travel to Rome. I'm sure you'll inform me of the divorce so that I may plan my wedding in time for next season."

"Don't do it, Claudia. I warn you. Do not...."

"I will do as it pleases me,” she'd returned, laughing as in great jest. Then she had looked up and down him. “Your shirt is quite stained in blood, Dorian. I would apologize for maiming your handsome face, but I rather like the fact that I am leaving my mark on you. You were once cruel enough to call me forgettable. Now you will not think so."

The door slammed close. His muttered, “Bitch...” echoed behind it as he touched his hand to his cheek and came away with blood.

Madeline saw it had soaked into his collar as he removed his jacket. Half stunned still by the fray she had witnessed, she had gasped softly seeing the gouges when he turned fully toward the desk.

"Who the bloody hell are you?” He snarled, stilling, with his fingers stained with blood, his hand still half raised to his face.

"Madeline Duvall."

That face had rippled with anger and lack of recognition.

She added in stumbling words, “My father had business with Lord Sherburne ... ah, he is ... we were passing through. And I usually write up the papers afterward ... I ... we're not...” She'd stopped then and came round the desk, going to the decanter and pouring two whiskeys.

Madeline dipped her hanky in one, and walked to him, reaching out the other. “Here, drink this."

He was shaking, fingers holding a tremor of that anger when he took it.

"Sit down. Let me clean that.” She nudged him toward a leather chair and was rather surprised herself when he went.

Sitting, he knocked back the drink, his eyes on her as she leaned over and cleaned the blood from his cheek. The scratches were deep and she held the soaked cloth there while she met those dark eyes.

"I didn't mean to eavesdrop. I saw no way to exit."

That muscle flexed under the cloth. “You're ... young."

Her brow rose and Madeline's smile was still part nervousness. Up close he was even more handsome, and his eyes were compelling. Even though she had witnessed a private moment, not exactly of a man in control, although she couldn't say she wouldn't have done differently, given the exchange.

"I just had a birthday. Wonderful party, by the way. We have a farm in the country. My sister Liddy and I often travel with our father on business, learned it inside and out, and..."

"Christ...” he murmured, “I have befouled the ears of a child."

She'd laughed again, though he was being quite sarcastic. “Other than the fact that your private argument with your wife was aired ... inadvertently in my ears, and I did witness an exchange of violence. I'd say that the London docks and some of Captain George's men could put even you to blush."

"Captain George?"

He was eyeing her strangely, as if he was dazed, not quite believing she was real.

"Just a partner of my father's.” She stepped back and looked at his cheek. “It's stopped bleeding. It may not scar as much as she'd like, but you'll be wearing them a while. She tossed the cloth onto a table. “Shall I refill that?” She gestured to the glass.

He handed it to her, rising as he did, and Madeline felt his gaze as she went to the decanter. He proceeded to the desk, searched out a cigar, lit it and walked to the French doors.

Handing it to him, she decided that standing five feet tall was a disadvantage. Sitting it was not so bad, but now, as she leaned at the opposite door, she had to look upwards at his profile, watching him expel the smoke.

"Who is your father?"

"Louis Duvall. You may not know him. He has some acquaintance among the titled, but other than longstanding friends, who can drag him away for occasional sport; fishing, hunting, he travels and works too much."

"And takes his daughters along?"

"Since my mother died, yes. But Liddy and I take turns. After the war, when he was going to be gone several months, we sailed along. But here at home, one of us sees to the house or our own amusements, the other goes along to the office. It's quite safe and we're well protected."

She laughed. “Most of his associates and the workers and clerks are protective of us. We have grown up with their own children."

He'd grunted, looking off into the darkness, and Madeline knew his mind was not on a single thing she said, but rather on the ugly scene before.

"I'm sorry. It seems a rather miserable existence."

He lowered the cheroot and turned his head to look at her. Madeline resisted a gulp at that black stare.

Feeling her age, sensing that he was going to say something mocking, she added, “Not all marriages are happy ones. No matter what the class. Yet divorce is ... I am sorry.” She looked away into the shadowed garden. “I take it, you are The Earl of Fairbane?"

"Heard of me, have you?"

It was a sneer.

"No. It came up in your ... argument."

"Dorian Engstrom, earl of Fairbane. Fool and...” He fell silent a moment, a very taut silence, before murmuring, “Just which birthdate did you celebrate?"

"My seventeenth."

"Good god.” He groaned and took a step out, as if to remove himself from her presence. Several vulgar words followed under his breath as he downed the other whiskey.

Madeline oddly understood that. He was at least twenty-seven or eight, and worldly in the sense even a well-traveled, educated girl could not be. There was also that air of cynical anger and bitterness clinging to him.

She went back to the desk and placed the papers in a safe spot. Straightened the ones in the leather satchel her father carried. She would take them up to her rooms when she retired. Since she could smell the waft of smoke though the reverberation of the ugly fight hung in the air. She finished the tepid coffee, poured a finger of brandy in the remaining drink and sipped it.

Sitting on the edge of the desk then, she thought the polite thing to do would be to leave. The man obviously had serious problems with his wife, that he would not discuss with a seventeen-year-old girl. Yet she felt ... not pity for him, just some confusion of her own.

Ordinarily she did not judge a man on looks. There were handsome men whose character repulsed her, plain men whom she found charming and attractive. She and Liddy were always discussing the merits of plain-looking, hard working, men as apposed to the polished dandies and fops who eyed them on Bond Street. Or the merchant's sons, a few exceptions aside, whose father's aimed to make matches between their offspring to control the Duvall wealth.

And the earl was a married man.

Yet take away the inclination to be romantic and dramatic, and she still did not know why she couldn't do, as she ought, as was polite—and leave the room.

She instead walked back to the French doors and leaned against it. Seeing that he crushed out the cigar and set the glass on a low wall. He was standing there, looking toward the lit wing where the ballroom was situated.

"Will his grace call you out, if she does that ... leave with his son?"

The earl turned his head, his eyes honing in on her. “He will not have to. The countess will receive passage money to Rome, thinking to meet him there ... Worley will get him married sooner than planned, and Claudia will have to find another young idiot to play."

"You're going to tell him,” she guessed.

"Yes.” The shadow and light showed a clench of his jaw muscle.

"And your mother?"

"She will land on her feet. Like my ... Like Claudia, she knows how to choose those whom she uses."

"Your father didn't divorce her, however."

"No. My father was a fool. He actually chose her, loved her in some ... strange ... fashion."

Madeline crossed her arms and sighed. “Perhaps your society will count you wise to divorce your wife. It sounds as if there has been serious damage done."

His smile was cynical. “As a merchant's daughter, I am sure you will appreciate what damage really matters in our circles."

"Debt..."

"Oh yes,” he ground out, “Mountains of it."

"But you have your ancestral home?"

"Today. By the time word of the divorce gets out, they will be crawling out of the woodwork with duns and notes."

She grimaced. “Perhaps my father can help you."

He laughed, harsh, too long, and without an ounce of humor.

But Madeline was not insulted. She realized what it meant. The man was ruined. Not just from his wife, but from his mother, and creditors wanting the duns paid. Business she knew. Markers and notes would flood his residence; solicitors would be get involved. There would be whispers, scandal—

He may salvage something by ridding himself of Claudia as a wife, but the divorce was the least of it. And having a mother of the same ilk, she supposed it was nothing new, that he had grown up with the gossip.

"Why did you wed her?"

"Because I am my father's son. A fool."

"You loved her?"

"No. Merely I have a warped sense of honor. I was foxed when...” He shook his head, as if recalling her age and finished, “She played the game very well, and I had just enough fool in me to fall for it."

Meaning he thought he had dishonored her in bed, and so he had wed her. It wasn't a trick exclusive to the titled. She and Liddy knew of a certain fisherman who had used his daughter, the same daughter, several times that way with unsuspecting men.

One had been a foreigner, who had the ill luck to take shelter at the Tavern where the man's sister worked. They discovered he had a rich purse, and thus the man woke up with the girl in his bed and a gun to his temple. A wedding followed. The man fled on the next ship. Marriage apparently didn't stop the scheme from being pulled again.

Yet she knew with the titled it was different. Baron's daughter or no, no matter how experienced, taking the woman to bed in his home, no doubt with the countess ready to bear witness, and with the servants around...

"Is Fairbane a productive estate?"

He'd looked at her. “Isn't it past the bedtime hour for chit's your age?"

"I've no idea.” She ignored his tone. “Forget my age for a moment, and pretend I have a brain. Is Fairbane productive?"

"It could be. There have been no advancements, naturally. In fact it has been in a suspended state of creeping by, since my father died twelve years ago."

She tilted her head. “Well, if you find yourself having to mortgage it. Send word to me. Madeline Duvall...” She gave him the London address. “I will see to it that you are able to keep it."

"How grand that must feel, Miss. Duvall. To be so young and so rich..."

"No more than being so titled and so bitterly unhappy,” she whispered back.

Those nostrils flared and he took two steps toward her then stopped, flexing his fingers.

"Your rage is palpable.” Madeline straightened but didn't look away from his dark eyes. “I'm not mocking you, sir. I would bloody strangle any husband of mine who put me through a similar situation. Which is why my father taught both Liddy and I to run our business. And why he humors most of his cronies who would like to have us for their sons.

There are very trusted men around us, ones who will assure that money will go only to those who work for it. As we too, earn it. Fortunately I do not have a society to please. Nor a lust for titles as some of our friends aspire to. What I do have, is a sense of someone's character.... And knowing how much pride the aristocracy take in their homes, I don't imagine you'd save it simply to squander it."

He muttered, “You cannot be seventeen years old."

"I am. My father says, going on forty.” She shrugged. “I won't make you ask for my help. I don't want you to. But neither can I offer it or give it without knowing you need it. I at least will be discreet. No one would know, nor would you have to wait until they are knocking down your door and carting out the ancestral portraits before you settle."

"Either I am foxed ... mad.... Or...” He shook his head. “Your father would know."

"Of course. I don't draw out large sums without telling him."

His cynical smile was back. He was going to say something about her wealth, and access to it, so she added, “He knows every estate and title, even if he doesn't know you personally. So long as papers are signed and placed with our discreet solicitor...."

"By then, I shall be buried in scandal, having a divorced wife—no doubt causing one abroad, as well as the impossibility of disowning my dear mother. You are a naive young woman, better educated than most, and possessing more sense than any deb I've encountered in my life. Whatever politeness there is left me demands that I graciously thank you. But..."

"I'll leave my card on the desk.” She turned to go.

He caught her arm in three steps. “Listen..."

Madeline had turned, looking down at his dark hand on her arm, up to his face, not with fear or surprise, but rippling with shocks that she could not understand.

His marred cheek had started to bleed, to drip from the deepest part of a scratch, likely from him holding it so tensely. And there was a jumble of chaos in his eyes. Anger and bitterness and yes, a loathing because of her youth or her kindness, Madeline didn't know. She was too shaken herself to know—if it was resentment of all, and her wealth, but there was a burning there.

His hand slid from her arm. For moments they simply stood like that, locked in whatever hot emotion that trapped them; the ticking clock, the muffled music, that blood red drop sliding down and dropping on his shirt.

When he flexed again, she reached up without thought and wiped the blood drop away. His hand caught hers swiftly. She could feel the stickiness as her fingers smeared the blood on the back of his hand where she'd grasped him back instinctively.

But he'd pulled her to him and with that hand between them; lowered his head and kissed her. It came out of nowhere, with no intent or meaning, she sensed. When her lips parted under the pressure, the demand in his, his tongue drove inside—to perhaps purge or punish. Madeline found herself overwhelmed with a fury and passion that made no sense, had no warning, but that the emotion in him called to.

Her free hand found his silky cool hair, and buried in it roughly, to hold on while she leaned into him and let him kiss her, taste her, punish her with fervor. Only at some point in the heated stroke of breath from their nostrils, she had mimicked his movement, and it was she who kissed him, delving under with her tongue, tasting him, rolling it through his silken hot mouth, moving her head in counterpoint.

His head jerked up, away, suddenly. He broke their hold, releasing her hand even as he removed hers from his hair.

She felt the swollen state of her mouth, the dampness drying on her lips. Endeavoring to calm the agitated state of her breathing, the thud of her heart, she stared while he raked his hands through his hair. Then, merely stood still while he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Get out of here. Now,” he rasped low. “Now..."

Something penetrated the stupor, a danger, and a turn from outward passion to inward violence. She fled, hearing the crash of the decanter, the growl behind the door.

She did not see him before she left. But Madeline heard the whispers later. He had obviously told the duke of his wife's plan. And young Marcus, the twenty two-year-old earl of Covington, was wed to his tender fifteen-year-old bride not two months hence.

Chapter Three

The scandal came, and having confided the whole in Liddy, Madeline and her sister weeded through whispers and rumors, reading of the divorce in the papers, hearing that the dowager countess was living abroad for her health. There was no contest for the divorce from Claudia; rumors swirled that she was in Rome, then later in France. But the ton for the most part was saying good riddance to them both.

One year after it began, Liddy came to her rooms as was their nightly ritual, to sit in the window seat and talk. As the talk had centered on Fairbane since sharing that confidence with her, Liddy said, “I have spoken with Mr.Bergam, discreetly feeling him out. He hinted that the dowager property was indeed sold. Fortunately to a friend of the earls'. But he has not left London. He is said to be drinking heavily. And.... I'm sorry, there are rumors that he's turned into a regular rakehell."

"That's not right.” Madeline shook her head. “He's not a fool. What can that possibly help? He cannot afford to be so stupid."

"Men are often stupid. Particularly titled ones.” Liddy had wrinkled her nose, braiding her straight hair blindly while she met her sister's eyes. Those green ones were still sympathetic as she added, “He's ruined, Maddy. Even those who disliked his wife cannot understand him wedding a woman so obviously like his mother. One hears his father was a well-respected man, a good one. And that before his marriage, though as you say, there were likely discreet affairs, Lord Dorian served his title well and did much during the war. I understand he lived apart from his wife almost from the wedding, and worked here in London, with the war office Even father knew that."

"Father won't tell me anything."

"That's because he suspects you're not being frank with him.” Liddy tied off the braid and sat back against a cushion. Crossing her arms while she stretched out her feet, she looked very much like Madeline recalled their Mama being when they were young.

Liddy had those pale, fair looks, with dewy skin and good VanHuss bones. Where Madeline got her father's hair color and texture, a mix of his gray eyes with the blue tinge of her grandmother, and the Duvall features of strength or stubbornness—which could be called handsome rather than pretty.

Liddy had the more feline light pink mouth and blond lashes. She was taller than Madeline by three inches, slimmer too, though possessing plenty of curves. Madeline seemed to mature early in body, though she was not overly plump, she still had more generous hips, and notable breasts—which she tended not to enhance with low-cut gowns.

Madeline murmured, “I don't know why he should be suspicious."

"How about the fact that you are inquiring over a divorced man—An earl no less. And you've not been very subtle in asking if he knows of the Fairbane estates."

"It has been on every tongue in London. The gossip. Why should my wondering make him ... wonder?"

Liddly laughed. “Because there are any number of scandals, and you hate gossip, and well, you bring the subject up before he has time to shed his coat at the door."

"I should just ask him right out. I should ask him—to go see the earl and offer to help."

Liddy's brow rose. “Yes. The next time father frequents a house of Eros or...” Her sister frowned. “I say ... do you think father has a mistress?"

"I suppose so."

"Hmmm. Now that would be an interesting bit of information. I wonder if he's bought her a nice home ... keeps her in style."

Madeline glared at her. “Please attend my problem. Knowing papa, she is some plump matronly female who cooks his favorite leg of lamb and reads Gentleman's Quarterly, wears wool knickers and...” Liddy was giggling, so Madeline stopped and laughed too.

But after it died down she murmured, “He's not going to come to me for help, is he Liddy?"

"No. I'm sorry, Madeline. But the kiss aside. You are young. You are green compared to those of his society and ilk. You've seen these men. We both have. They live in their own world, and their titles make them a different breed."

"Yes. I suppose so.” Madeline rested her chin on her hands, looking out the window at the puffs of chimney smoke. “I'll forget him, won't I?"

"You may as well. We know what happens to men who turn into rakehells. He would have nothing but his title in any case."

Though Madeline nodded, she murmured, “But he isn't like them.” And even after Liddy left her to retire, she pictured Dorian in that library, remembered the passion and pain in that kiss. And she groaned at the waste, the regret that such a man would have that terrible mess for a life.

It was three years, just after she turned twenty. When Madeline saw him again.

Meantime she stopped asking questions, made herself ignore the gossip, and there was plenty in her life to keep her busy. She and Liddy were on charity boards, they volunteered at schools and hospitals, they worked with their father and they traveled.

There were flirtations, amusements—and long weeks where she could forget him and enjoy life, as she ought. There were events, birthdays, Liddy's when she succeeded in talking their father into buying an old Scottish castle, which they enjoyed rusticating at, and researching the history.

Life was full, and Madeline was kissed twice more, once by a dashing corporal whilst visiting her Aunt's during a summer party. Another time she flirted with a man who was a mere shadow of Dorian, same in coloring but possessing not the height and breadth. The passion and the emotion was lacking. Madeline put it down to the situation, perhaps the whole of the circumstances, that she had reacted so strongly to the earl.

But that year, when she turned twenty, she and Liddy were invited to a ball given by her Aunt Tabatha and uncle Jasper. It had not escaped either of their notice that that Sir Jasper had brought a handsome Lord Lynbrook to dinner at their house twice, that the blond earl was much taken with Liddy, and that their father seemed to like the man.

Ross, as he insisted Liddy call him, was twenty-seven, polished and handsome—a well-heeled earl whose estates were located in Lincolnshire. He had very beautiful gold blond hair, nice sapphire eyes, and for the moment, Madeline noticed, Liddy actually seemed interested. Which was quite surprising, since she'd hinted, not confided exactly, but hinted—that she had met someone in Scotland who curled her toes with a kiss.

Madeline tried to get more information on the incident, the where's and when—but of a sudden, after their last stay at the old castle, Liddy had shrugged and turned the subject off, seeming to forget she had gone all dreamy eyed over the mystery male when telling about the kiss.

They went shopping. Having to take aunt Tabatha's maid with them as their own was down with a sniffle. Liddy purchased a beautiful green velvet gown with high waist, a ribbon under the breast, and train in back, luscious emerald silk gloves, and shoes. And along with the pearls their father gave her on her eighteenth birthday, she would likely be the belle of the ball, even amid her aunt's society.

Madeline chose a bronze gown, a silk sheath beneath and lace overlay. The gown was cut low enough to satisfy fashion and modest enough to satisfy Madeline's awareness of her endowments. It too was in the empire style, and the long sleeves were sheer lace. She chose paten leather slippers in black, and had her hair trimmed, wearing it swept up in a band, with curls dangling over her shoulder.

Liddy went for a ribbon effect; her beautiful straight hair weaved with the green silk stuff, with one dramatic wave snaking to her small waist.

Upstairs in their aunt's townhouse, after getting dressed, they compared themselves in the mirror and chortled.

"We don't do this often enough."

Madeline eyed her in the mirror. “I take it your hair is not itching as mine is, and you don't recall that it will be sweltering hot in that gown, crowded below with Aunt's three hundred closest friends, and we had to starve ourselves this morning, because aunt insists we should look pale, wan, and hungry."

Liddy snorted with laughter. “You're right. I'm starving, as soon as this ball ends, I will meet you in the kitchens."

Madeline hugged her. “No. I'm rotten. Enjoy yourself, and the handsome Lord Lynbrook. Pretend you do not notice all the debs sticking their tongues out behind your back, because a Cit dares to cast her lowly eyes on one of their earls."

They were walking toward the door, already hearing the music and crowds below when Liddy teased, “You'll catch an eye or two yourself, Maddy. You look ravishing."

"Hmmm. I seem to recall Old Fabersham has one eye. Got the other put out by a maid he pinched on the bum. Perhaps I shall catch it if I bend over within his reach. I hear he wants a wealthy wife ... his sixth I believe."

They were laughing in a very unladylike fashion when they descended the stairs.

Their aunt, who was busy in the receiving line with Sir Jasper, looked up long enough to catch sight of it and smile happily herself. She waved them over, but Madeline pointed to the table where champagne was being served. Tabatha nodded, counting herself lucky to get the gels to attend, and hoping as her husband did, that Liddy had the good sense to see what a catch Lord Lynbrook was.

It was useless to tell them to hide their brains and curb their humor. They were too smart for that and she knew they would be chortling behind their gloves at some of the perfumed dandies and eccentric old dowagers before the night was over. One thing she knew too was, despite being counted as competition by the debs, neither young woman would be cruel and mocking. Even if they abhorred the lack of education afforded such women, and contrary to what most believed, they weren't on the hunt for a title—even if the titled men were hanging about for a rich wife. Madeline in particular seemed to have an aversion to the aristocracy.

It was him. It was Lord Fairbane.

Madeline had convinced herself she was seeing things. It had been three years. It was very late, just the time the elder crowd was leaving, and a few of the younger were making a fashionably later appearance. She'd drank several glasses of champagne and eaten nothing all day.

None of that mattered. By the time he had escorted a tall, ravishing woman to her aunt, and made introductions, she could see him from head to toe. He looked the same, a bit more sculpted, still not smiling or doing more than the polite nod to those who spoke to him.

He wore full ball attire, stark black and white, save for a stickpin in his neckcloth that glowed ruby red. His skin was deep bronze and that hair still waved blue black. The snug black trousers were suited to his long muscular legs.

As she braced herself and looked at the woman, Madeline swallowed the bile in her throat. There was a sophisticated, stunning woman. She had hair rivaling his for ebon silkiness, done with small diamond pins and when she turned to speak to someone, the sapphire eyes flashed, matching a perfect smile. Being her father's daughter, Madeline knew the gown was Parisian, worth a small fortune, and those were real diamonds adorning it.

From her perch by the open windows, Madeleine heard the whisper, Lady Hauser, Sybilla Hauser, the only daughter and heir to the Marquis of Wyckham. Whispers were rippling around the room, wagers as to whether she was Fairbane's mistress or his intended. She appeared to be twenty-five or six; it was rather difficult to judge, as her skin was as flawless as the rest of her.

Gulping down her champagne, Madeline looked around and spotted Liddy, who apparently had been trying to catch her eye. Her sister, who had just finished a dance with the earl of Lynnwood, nodded in the arrival's direction.

Madeline shook her head and turned, slipping out onto the balcony, taking another glass of champagne from a passing servant first. Wishing for all her fortune that she had not come.

Though a few stepped out to take air, for the most part people did not come so far as the intricate railing. Looking down at the back gardens, blindly at the lamps lighting the walkway, she knew when Liddy joined her; breathless as if she'd shoved her way across the room, through the crowd, and likely had.

"I met him. Aunt introduced us.” She took Madeline's glass and sipped. “Good god, Maddy ... he's..."

"Shhh. someone will hear."

"No one will hear anything this far away,” Liddy said more in her ear, attempting to whisper. “He looks bloody dangerous. And though he is handsome, I'll give you that. I did not see all of that smoldering heat and passion. I'd swear he is cold as ice."

"Let's not speak of him.” Madeline glanced at her. “I intend to pretend he is not here."

Liddy rolled her eyes. “I'm not a fool, Maddy. I can see you're shaken. That woman ... she's gorgeous, and too bloody perfect to like."

"Yes. I noticed."

"You can't hide out here."

"Slip me through the crowd. I'm going below, into the gardens. That way aunt will not corner me and force an introduction."

Liddy was looking at her strangely. “You ... You really felt something strongly for him, didn't you."

"Yes. Now, do me this favor, please."

Liddy tried. Walking almost in front of Madeline, who stuck as close to the wallpaper as the crowd allowed. she managed to block her from view until they reached the door; white and gilt edged, that was an exit and entry the servants used. But just as Liddy moved away, speaking to her uncle, Madeline looked back at the room, her hand on the door panel.

He was so blasted tall! She groaned, catching the full look he gave her just stepping off the dance floor with the ravishing LADY Hauser. Though it was only a second, just before she slipped through the doorway, she knew he recognized her.

She nodded to servants, moved aside for trays and ignored the bustle to make her way down the hall, turning from going into the kitchens and heading instead for the garden room, which had access to the outside.

Crossing the dim room, she fumbled for the door latch, swinging them wide and gulping air. It was there, the weak—knee'd heady heat, a surge of blood that left her heart racing. Madeline pulled off her gloves, and dropped them on a bench, standing in the small courtyard, intending to make use of the walk, but unable to stop shaking.

She sat on the bench a moment, adding to her mental image that he likely had drank that first year. There was a harder edge, a leaner intensity to the aquiline bones. And bronze skin or not, he had acquired some harsher lines from abusing himself. But the winged brows, those inky eyes and thick lashes, the velvet mouth she recalled so vividly....

Bloody hell. She stood and smoothed her hands over her stomach and hips. She had kissed other men, more approachable men. Why couldn't she recall what they looked like?

She walked. Not fast, not really aware of doing it. But she strolled the familiar walkway around the house, some stretches of utter darkness, some shadows, able to hear the muffled music and voices, and the clatter of horses, the churn of wheels on the street.

She had made a complete circle when the flair of a match stopped her abruptly. There, by the bench, where she'd left her gloves. He stood tall, mysterious, bathed in the amber glow of the lantern a few feet away.

Crossing her arms, rubbing them slightly, Madeline was conscious that he stared at her, watched her, while he took a draw from his cheroot.

Telling herself he had likely not recalled the event as she had, that the man who had been through much, divorced his wife, may not recall one kiss at all, given his experience before and after. It was more significant in her brain than his. It wasn't the help she had offered, the conversation that stood out in her mind. But the kiss, which was likely, the least he would remember of such a climatic night—doubtless the last time he laid eyes on his mother or his wife.

It was silly, childish, to put so much emphases on something that occurred in such a way. She told herself this in order to take those steps, which brought her a mere foot from him.

The bench, its length, separated them. Since he was already facing her, Madeline merely paused and tried to chant that earlier reminder, while his dark eyes moved from her head to her feet, and too slowly back up, which she told herself, was a simple mental marking of the passing years. She'd been a mere girl then, and she was twenty, fully grown now.

"You don't look much like your sister."

That simple statement sounded like rough velvet wafting against her ears. “No. Liddy, Lydia, actually, favors our mother. The VanHuss's. Lady Tabatha is our aunt, mother's sister, but even she hasn't the obvious fairness."

His head moved in a slight nod, yet his eyes were on her face. “I've heard your name ... Your father's, since..."

"Yes.” She wet her lips, seeing when he drew on the cheroot, that there were faint scars lingering on his cheek. “Lady Hauser is very beautiful."

His brow moved slightly. “As are you."

She laughed, naturally from the lie in that. “Thank you. I was sincere; even women can appreciate stunning women."

"I wasn't being polite for the sake of it,” he murmured and dropped the cheroot. Collecting a glass he'd set on the bench and taking a sip.

She recognized Uncle Jasper's sniffer and the distinct hue of brandy. But his long, dusky fingers distracted her, before she glanced back at his face. “I'm surprised you are here. I gathered my aunt did not move in the highest circles."

"Your Uncle is some acquaintance of the Hauser's. Sybilla and I were leaving the theater when she mentioned making a late appearance."

Madeline nodded.

He took a drink, wet his lips and rolled them in a way that mesmerized Madeline. She felt a curl in her lower stomach; an instant reaction that made her thankful for the shadows to mask whatever it could, when she had to meet his gaze again.

"Lord Lynwood seems to be of some significance to your sister."

"Um. Is there some reason, other than the fact he is an earl, that came to your attention?” Listen to me she thought, I am as cynical and untrusting as he is.

"No."

She shrugged. “He has called on her, via my Uncle Jasper's not so subtle matchmaking."

"You are the oldest?"

"By a year, yes."

He looked down at the brandy and then back at her. “And you..."

She knew what he was asking. “No."

"Has the male population gone blind, are my peers no longer in want of fortunes—to let you remain single so long? I seem to recall you were a rather generous young woman."

It took her a second to register the words and tone, when she did Madeline retorted softly, “Is there a difference in my wealth and Lady Hauser's? Admittedly, she is the more beautiful, and there is the title ... the bloodlines, I am sure..."

He flinched but held his breath a moment before muttering, “That was badly done of me..."

"Yes. It was.” She kept the hurt out of the way because he had meant for her to take it in the rudest sense, both the offering the money, and the kiss. “I have my youth and innocence as an excuse if you require one."

"And I have none."

"Of course you do, given the events of the night.'

He was staring at her. “There was nothing any different in that fight and dozens before, other than the fact I finally said the words to her instead of in my head. Sooner or later it would have transpired the same way."

"Well, since you did not accept my offer, I am at a loss as to why mocking me was your first reaction after all this time."

He looked over her again, down and up too slowly. “I am mocking myself in fact. My age, my cynicism, my pride, which was too great to accept something honest from someone, whom I have learned since—is truly intelligent, and very discreet. But not so discriminating that I am in the company of an obvious heiress—who dangles the prize just a bit out of a reach. Sybilla Knows the game well, she and I are of the same crowd, we cut our teeth on the subtleties my ex wife and mother never learned."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning she is generous with her lovers, of which one must earn the spot, or she is finally ready to pick a husband, in which case, one will find themselves disgustingly rich."

She held his gaze. “And that is more palpable to you? Earning ... your way into a woman's bed for...” She raked her teeth over her lip. “I take it the allusion to her status and savoir-faire, also means she'd be an understanding wife, and yourself an understanding husband? So long as you were both rich, there will be happily ever after."

"In our world, Miss Duvall, that is a wise way to pair up. Titles wed titles, and everyone understands the reasons one's emotions should not be involved. We need our heirs of course, but rather than attaching anything more to such a shared experience, women see that as freedom, to indulge themselves in the more ... avaricious choices. Their lovers need not be titled or acceptable, merely discreet. Even when those of your class ascend to the heights of society, it is through money—and not some romantic ideal. Being a business woman, you should understand the exchange."

"I understand it very well. I understood it perfectly well three years ago,” she returned.

"Ah, but it is much more complex. Titles prefer to wed titles. Blue bloods would rather not dilute unless absolutely necessary. No matter how many titles those outside purchase, it is never forgotten. They can never quite escape the stigma."

She snorted though her anger was growing. “It is only the aristocracy's view of themselves that breeds that type of conceit. I doubt those of ... my class ... toss and turn at night, fretting upon such an opinion. What the titled have squandered and wasted with their desolate and self-indulgent lives, means so very little, that there are record numbers of them at our balls and routes, all vying for the fortune some man has worked himself into the grave for. Too often, just to turn around and fritter that away, too. And simply continue the same feckless life they had before their fortunes were restored."

"Bravo,” he murmured looking at her. “You have indeed lost that wide—eyed innocence."

"I never had it, my lord. That was your perception."

She lowered her arms and walked toward him, stopping to collect her gloves on her way in. “And a rather long way of telling me that you knew what your marriage was and accepted it. That you would have chosen the same rakehell life one hears you are living now, had you accepted my offer, then instead of restoring Fairbane—squandering it instead, on your indulgences."

Since she had to step nearly atop him to get her gloves, she could feel his boot against her gown when she looked up, holding the gloves in her hands.

"You do not have to explain to me why you and Lady Sybilla are perfectly suited. You will get a full restoration of Fairbane and should you wed her.... No doubt there will be many bottles of brandy, and mistresses, in your future."

Madeline almost hated him in that moment, though the emotions chasing through her were too confusing to defiant. “I had thought then, what a waste ... a waste of a dangerously handsome man, one with passion and real blood in his veins, not like your peers.” Her tone dropped to a whisper, “I did not pity you in the sense you assume. I pitied her, for being too stupid to realize what she had."

Madeline stepped around him, heading for the doors. “I could have saved myself the emotion, for you make those choices willingly—you live a fools’ life for the sake of twisted pride. You deserve the consequences."

She was half in the dark room when his hand landed on her shoulder. Madeline did not intend to turn, but she didn't have to, the other hand joined it, and he was kissing her before she registered it.

As before it was punishing, but not hurtful, it was an explosion of chaotic passion and anger. The gloves fell from her hand, his hair filled them as she reached, leaned in. By the time his mouth softened, their tongues flowing lush against and under each, their heads moved in erotic counterpoint—The kiss was a kiss.

The arduous push of their breaths and the humming from the excitement flowed between them. Madeline felt his hands, one cupping her nape, the other low on her spine. Though his warm scent, the solidness of his frame registered. The brandy on his tongue became her taste; it was the flavor of his desire, the heat of his hungers, and the rawness of the sexual motions of his mouth.

When his lips left hers, it was to skim them, open, across her jaw, back to her ear, and down her neck. He returned to her mouth, both hands holding her face. And then the drag of his strong teeth on her lower lip, before those palms were at the side of her breasts, fingers then traveling, splayed over the mounds, kneading through her gown.

His mouth rubbed against hers; his avid breaths fanning the moisture left behind.

Moaning, she lowered her hands to his upper chest, unconsciously arching into the palms that molded her, trembling as her hard nipples were stroked through the too thin, and yet too thick material covering her bodice.

Madeline doubted she could stand longer. She was lying against him as he ran his hands down her sides, then held her against his chest, until the deep thud of his heart filled her ears. It was some comfort that his muscular legs held a tremble too, though not quite as severe as her own. She was untouched save for those still making her body tingle. But he was aroused, and at the moment she did not care if he claimed it as anger. She knew instinctually, it was passion.

His breath trembled out hot as his lips grazed her ear. “Tell me you are not a virgin."

She turned her head, taking a kiss that was slower, erotic, a play of tongues before murmuring, “I'm afraid I am."

He stepped back, bringing her with him, landing in a chair. And while he kissed her, one hand under her chin, the other slid up, beneath her gown, the palm grazing her thigh above her silk stockings. Her hands in his hair again, she let him draw her tongue into his mouth, whilst that palm glided higher. Her knees parted in that side ways position, and she moaned when it stopped between her legs, the palm now burning through the flimsy silk of her drawers.

Dorian moaned in her mouth then, and nudged her away slightly, so that his hand slid down from her jaw, trying to fit into her bodice. “This is certainly a virginal gown,” he uttered tightly.

Feeling his hand flex between her legs, she arched her hips again it, sighing at the ripple of hunger it evoked. “Touch me like that again,” she whispered.

"Christ...” He found the slit in her drawers, and as heat and dampness bathed her sex, Dorian grit, “I am ten seconds from ripping your gown off. If you are going to slap me, and you should, do it ... now.” His finger slid into her sex.

But Madeline groaned in pleasure, softly riding it, and jerking his head back by her hold on his hair. She murmured awkwardly, “Why does that feel so good. Why do you make me feel ... like this."

His eyes glittered in the dark and his hips arched enough for her to note the shape and hardness of his sex under her backside. “For the same reason I am equally aroused, Madeline.” His lashes fluttered and he ground softly, “Goddammit ... fight me. Madeline."

She was aware that she should, aware that he needed her to. But Madeline unlatched the hook on her bodice and tugged downward. He had apparently watched, for his hand slid down, pushing upward, and getting enough of the areola free to run his tongue over it.

Arching, Madeline felt a delicate pressure as his finger sank deeper. There was the slightest burn, but with his soft lips on her breast—and as he followed by sliding his finger out, between her curls. Stroking her in a way that sent fire skittering up her back, the twinge was lost in the following pleasure and incredible sensuality.

Sometime during those waves of erotic stimulation, she was aware that her subtle movements were brushing friction against his aroused sex too. And he raised his head, kissed her hungrily, slanting, while his hands were occupied pleasuring her. The climax when it came was so surprising she clutched at him, biting his lower lip too hard as the shudders worked through her.

When the door opened and a match flared, she was too dazed at first to recognize Lady Sybilla, who had lit a lamp and was leaning against the door smiling, one perfect brow raised.

"Get out,” Dorian growled, which was what spurred Madeline to blink and sit up, clutching her bodice. Dorian's hand slowly slid from her thighs, allowing her gown to fall, and bringing a red stain to Madeline's cheeks.

"You were gone too long.” The lady stared at Lord Fairbane. “The aunt is also searching for your little play mate."

Madeline jumped up and turned to repair her bodice. She could hear the mockery in the woman's voice. She cursed inwardly, realizing then, that she had exposed Dorian's arousal by jumping up from his lap.

"Primed, are you, my lord. Really, Dorian, if you must conduct a tryst, you should at least choose a woman more up to the task."

"Get out, Sybilla.” He rose to his feet.

"I'll wait outside the door. It would not do for you to return alone, after Miss Duvall—though I suggest she find someplace to refresh herself. She has obviously experienced her first climax, and it shows."

Madeline groaned again. No sooner had the door closed than she headed toward it.

Dorian tried to catch her, but she pulled free, and the door opened with Sybilla looking straight at Madeline, and murmuring, “Do not fret, Miss Duvall. I am well able to relieve his lordship of his current state.” Dorian cursed. She added, “One should make allowances for one's future husband, and every woman of the ton knows that Dorian Engstrom is expert at pleasuring woman. I had no idea his passions ran so high, or else he would not have...."

"That's enough, Sybilla."

She ignored Dorian to laugh. “Tell me that later, my lord. In bed.” Then, she said, “Congratulate us, Miss Duvall, his lordship and I...

But Madeline fled. She ran toward the main area of the house, and up the stairs.

* * * *

It was nearly a week later that she told Liddy what had occurred. And on Bond street, she encountered Fairbane and Lady Sybilla, though the earl did not spot her first, and the lady had said loudly while approaching, “Shopping for my trousseau is dreadfully boring, darling. Why don't you visit the tobacco shop? I can see to myself."

He had turned his head from looking across the street, and brought his gaze back to meet Madeline's.

Beneath the brim of her saucy hat she could see the tautness when he nodded politely. She nodded back, and stepped around the lady, having to walk wide because of Sybilla's fashionable parasol. As she continued blindly on to the shop where she'd left Liddy. Madeline told herself that she'd made too much of his wanting her. He was obviously a man who had affairs, who went further with many women. She told herself that he and Sybilla were well suited—the same bloodlines, the same status, and her wealth would assure him Fairbane.

In their world they were perfect for each other, and in that world, they made sense.

The earl and the lady would wed, she would give him an heir, and with a beauty in his bed, one who understood the game, Fairbane would lose no sleep over a kiss; an encounter, and a tryst with Miss Madeline Duvall. In that fast pace of amusements and indulgence, she would be less than a flickering thought.

Madeline finally understood the bitter life of an adult as she wept and muttered to herself the next weeks. She could not lie enough to dismiss the fact that Fairbane overwhelmed her. He attracted her in a dark and seductive way. But people all around her had affairs, they wed for other reasons, and had liaisons for all manner of self-seeking choices. Men, she understood, had frequent sexual encounters and could be attracted to any woman. Females were the same she supposed. But she never felt that intense desire, that emotional storm, with any other male.

Madeline—though she had not had sex with him in that dark room—recognized that she had lost something of herself there. She got on with life once again, but she did not feel alive, in the sense she had felt it when Dorian touched her.

Chapter Four

Dorian had not dismissed Madeline from his mind. Not the way she'd assumed.

In the business district that day, he returned to his coach and had his driver follow her. Sitting across the street whilst she alighted and went into a dusty warehouse office with her be-speckled escort. Later, he had absented his coach and stood on the dark street, seeing across the way that modest house she entered with the brown suited man.

As darkness descended the parlor window showed her dancing with a male her age, doing some lively reel whilst the faint sound of youngsters singing a ditty filtered out.

She had hefted a child of four on her hip, and having seen her in the light only twice and too briefly, Dorian watched her hair tumble from it's confining pins saw the curves in her modest gown, curves that he knew were exquisitely rounded and yet toned.

Her scent, the combination of some rain-fresh flower and sun, haunted him for days. Her taste wouldn't fade from his tongue.

Though the group ranged in age from the man of at least twenty, down to the toddler, they all romped and played. Unlike the self-possessed young woman he had met in the library, or the quicksilver passion he felt in her during those unexpected encounters, this was a carefree, gay and energetic woman. She paid no heed that her curly hair slipped its pins or that grubby hands stained her dress.

He witnessed her exit later, escorted home by the man in glasses.

The Duvall townhouse was familiar to him. Dorian had intercepted her father in front of it years ago.

As he returned to his own residence, Dorian ignored the cards on his desk, notes from the Marquis to meet and discuss plans for the wedding that Sybilla was tired of waiting for. If the time seemed long to her, it was doubly that for Dorian. From the time he'd left Sir Jasper's house with Sybilla, time had crawled—no matter how fast paced his life was in reality.

But before then, sometime in the midst of his divorce dying down, he had pulled himself out of the bottle long enough to shave and dress, to find himself awaiting Mr. Duvall's return home.

He had called him over to the coach and invited him out to dine under the pretence of discussing some investment. But it was rather he fooling himself, as Duvall was perceptive.

Halfway through the meal, he cast those gray eyes on him, and set back, stroking his beard.

"You haven't the capital. I imagine that there has been none since your father died. Fairbane has not done enough to cover half the debt it carries."

Dorian had set back too, his eyes meeting the man across from him while his fingers rested around the coffee cup. “True."

"If it is advice you want, from a business prospective. Marriage to an heiress is your best prospect, your soundest investment. Men of your status understand such necessity—and society considers it good sense to wed for such reasons. The stigma of divorce will not harm your chances as it is well known your first choice was less than wise."

Mr. Duvall had lowered his hand and sipped from his cup all the while looking over Dorian, in a way that made him feel as if the man could see into his brain.

It was not surprising he knew so much, the gossip was rampant, and no doubt Mr. Duvall could uncover the state of anyone's finances. But it was not only that Dorian sensed...

"I'm sure you know any number of heiresses who will give you the advantage of bloodlines for your heirs, and who understands the reasons such a match is desirable."

Dorian was not sure why, but he said, “Your daughters are heiresses."

The man did no more than arch his brow. “My daughters have the luxury of marrying for love. Something I myself enjoyed. You haven't that, nor do men of your ilk value it."

Then later in the carriage after Louis Duvall had reminded him of the obvious solution, the man murmured, “She asked me to help you. Madeline. Right after your divorce hit the papers."

He had put on his gray top hat, holding his gloves in one hand, the other on a cane resting between his booted feet. And it was then that Dorian witnessed not only the man's intellect and acumen, but also his strength and conviction, a kind of sagacity that few men possessed.

"I refused. My daughters are the least spoiled heiresses in London. The fact that they do not ask more than time to enjoy life with me makes it very difficult to refuse them anything, particularly Madeline, who makes me more proud than any son I could have."

Dorian murmured, “You were wise to ignore such an impulsive request."

The man met his gaze. “It was very telling that Madeline made such a request of me. My wisdom, Lord Fairbane, was in understanding that somehow my daughter became infatuated with you, enough to wish to spare you the loss of your home. And in understanding that so long as you possessed a title and rank, that you would find your solution in the time honored traditions of your set.

Unlike my daughter, I understand that you must have an heir and a fortune, and that men of your birth marry women who provide it, without the heart involved. I am not saying my daughter is not intelligent, or is ignorant, far from it, but Madeline, like Liddy, will control her fortune because she is more able to than anyone else. And men of your society are rarely able or inclined to understand the complexities of business.

Madeline will insist upon it, because she enjoys and is good at it. I'm supposing she was under the wrong assumption that given the opportunity you would have been different from your peers ... Your most recent lifestyle says otherwise."

Dorian's jaw flexed though he had no argument for the man's honest observations.

Louis went on in the same tone, “If you wed as you should, as you must, and have the blunt, see this man.” Louis pulled a card from his pocket and wrote on it with a stubby pencil. “These are my holdings, my companies and sound. But they do not operate without capital, and much of that is Madeline's."

They had reached the street across from Duvall's house and the man waited until Dorian put the card away before finishing, “Forgive my bluntness, your lordship. A man of my responsibility, both business and family must judge according to certain standards. My world operates quite opposite of the aristocracy. It is not that my ancestors have not had to walk the political tightrope to gain and keep what we have, and in our own way, we understand the social advantages too. But when it comes to my daughters, I will suffer no fools."

Dorian had told him, “I had no intention of using your daughter's misguided kindness. She overheard a private argument between myself and Claudia, which revealed the state of my affairs..."

"I assumed as much,” Louis nodded. “But you left enough of an impression on her. My daughters imagine that I do not know them as well as I do, my lord. I assure you, I can read both Madeline and Liddy well enough to know what they aren't saying.

Let us be blunt as men. While Madeline is not a silly-headed romantic, she has enough passion and spirit to be capable of falling in love with the first man who stirs her deeply enough. Whilst we may have affairs where no emotion is required. You will exist quite happily doing as you ought, as is wise ... and though I am aware that no such scenario is needed, imagine if you will that you encouraged my daughter and won her, and her fortune? Whilst she managed it, you would carry on the role you were born to, and the one you are most suited to."

Louis got out of the coach, and turned to the window, saying to Dorian, “It is not my concern that you would tire of Madeline, but rather she who would not be satisfied in such a superficial life. With such a man. Passion may be mutual, but it would not sustain an uneven marriage."

"I'm well aware, sir, that you have raised an exceptional daughter. I may be without much save a title, but I have no intention, nor ever did, of taking advantage of whatever ... spurred her offer. I apologize for my mentioning their status as heiresses. It is not pride, for I cannot afford that, nor does honor serve me much these days, but being vastly more jaded ... than yourself, I still have not stooped low enough to encourage a woman for her wealth, who would not understand or agree, to the motives behind it. As you say, in our set, there are heiress’ who find the arrangement perfectly acceptable."

"Well said, Fairbane.” The man had eyed him in the glow of the street lanterns.

Dorian had nodded and the men shook hands. But later, back at the townhouse, he had drank himself into a stupor, brooding on the fact that a mere seventeen year old chit made him feel worse than marriage to a bitch like Claudia ever had.

The kisses ... that hunger and passion in her, the spirit that had made her kiss him back, and really feel a kiss for the first time.

Though he had gone on, dealing with creditors, losing sleep and drinking too much, making a poor attempt at his duties in society, Dorian would lay in the dark, in his bed and think of years of encounters with faceless women, even the discreet affairs. There had never been a woman who could involve his emotions beyond the lust of the moment. There had never been anyone who could put fire in his blood and make him lose his head like Madeline.

Somewhere in the blur of seasons, he had latched onto Sybilla, and not without Louis Duvall's voice in his head. And too, not without wanting to forget what that kiss felt like. He had nearly succeeded, and with a single mindedness, fell easily into the life he was born to. The ton and its amusements, his peers and the similarities in what motivated those of his breeding and birth served to haze out any glimpse he had into any other possibility or choices.

It was that year, three years later, that he got word that his mother was remarried to some Italian count in his seventies. No doubt wealthy and indulgent. Of Claudia, he learned through not so subtle gossip that her life as a courtesan afforded her both indulgence and the intrigue she loved. Calling herself Claudette, using her maiden name, she was the toast of French society.

These events played on his mind as he spent two months at Fairbane, not immune to the fact his aging staff were clinging to the gossip that he was seeing Lady Hauser, a great heiress, and there was more effort put into cleaning and polishing up the house, more whistling coming from the stables that was woefully empty of the prime horseflesh it was built for.

The tenants were much the same when he visited them, not prying but having that hopeful, false cheerfulness, which he suspected in part was also from the news neither prior countesses would likely set foot back in England.

He did not go to the dower house. He had been forced to sell most of the antiques in it before his mother left. It had been a burden and strain on his own estate as she had run through her allowance and owed it ahead of time. There wasn't much evidence left of Claudia, as she'd never liked the estate and hadn't possessed much beyond her trousseau and the jewels she had swiftly pawned, including her wedding rings.

On that trip, Dorian had sat in the evenings looking at the painting of his father, a man he was growing to favor in looks. Though he had been young when his father died, he felt a friendship and affinity with him. Due to his mother's fast life, they had spent time rambling the estate, fishing. Dorian now realized that when he was home from school and his father took him to Scotland or along on a trip with his cronies. It was the escape from the season's gossip, from the rumors and pressures of having the kind of wife Dorian's mother was.

He did not doubt that his father loved her, because scandal would not have stopped him from divorcing her, had he not. But they lived separate lives, save when she was out of funds. In some ways George protected her from her own rep, aware that by staying wed to her, he kept her acceptable, if only amid the fast set. George understood that Susan's lovers used her, that none of them cared for her as he did. But he lived with his choice and sacrificed a great deal aside from pride, to do so.

That was not what Dorian had intended for his own life. It was something he vowed not to do. And yet he'd learned it somewhere along the way, became the man his father was, absent the love or care George had for Susan. He hadn't liked Claudia, and he found her crudeness disturbing instead of amusing or sexual. His vague memories of bedding her were as forgettable as their wedding. He had never confused their fights with passion, because Claudia was too calculating for anything that honest.

Which was why, when he encountered Madeline again, when he saw her for a split second bathed in the glow of the chandeliers, he had forgotten all of his intentions toward Sybilla and her fortune.

He had been stunned at the image of Madeline; the kind of strong beauty in her angular face, the lush brown hair, glowing curls around that band. Though he had not been given enough time to stare, he took in the deep cream of her skin, lustrous in that bronze lace gown, the full lush curves that were so modestly covered, yet more tempting than Sybilla's nipple-low neckline and dampened skirts.

When he'd followed her, it had been impulse. As his every word provoked, was meant to mock. It was a deliberate provocation, a proving what he already knew, that Madeline had spirit and sense, she stood her ground without fear or without a thought to his rank or station in life, or his being a man.

He'd long decided the chit fascinated him. Why else would she stand out in his mind? And though he told himself that he forgot that kiss, he had devoured the way she looked at him, absorbed the intensity that came from those gray-blue eyes.

He had cursed the shadows, the subtle light of the lantern, because they did not show her vividness, yet enhanced the rose red of her mouth, and brought out the subtle lights in her hair, warmed the cream of her skin and made that bronze silk shimmer beneath the lace overskirt. The shadows threw her rounded curves into perfect lines, feminine, so that he could not forget that she was twenty, fully grown, a mature woman this time.

And though she provoked him with nothing more than the honesty he expected, having used such himself. The contrast and truth of his world and his options—to put reality between them—to remind himself too, of that sobering conversation with her father. His senses were alive, electric, seared by the sound of her voice, the scent of her when she stepped close. His mouth watered from the memory of that kiss, as if he had not kissed since.

What had exploded between them, the gratification he felt touching her, in that chair, when his palm smoothed above her silk stockings, felt as if his skin turned inside out, every nerve and sense amplified.

The softness, the humid silk of her sex, stole what control he had left. And though he dreamed many nights afterward of seeing her breasts exposed, free in that replayed tryst. Just the taste, the scented tang on his tongue had him reaching to touch that barrier, to somehow claim virgin flesh that wasn't his to claim. There had been a flame in him, stirred by her whisper, her moan, and the sensual movement that conveyed her pleasure.

His mind had somehow cleared enough to try and make her bring his senses under restraint. But it was Madeline. And he knew in some part of his mind that she wanted him. The violence of his feelings were not anger, but that honor he swore he didn't have—wanting her more than he wanted the next breath, drowning in her already, and wanting to sexually drown in her very essence.

He had fought that war, of knowing he could have her, take her, being fully aware that it was what she wanted, that they would be lovers. And yet it was Madeline, and just as he could not have taken her help or used her kindness to restore his fortunes, he could not make love to her and walk away.

Dorian had tortured himself even while he pleasured her and found pleasure in it. He had, even when Sybilla intruded, wanted to both possess her and let her go, knowing that there was no pretense in Madeline, every word and every gesture was honesty, her desires and responses were like storms of passion, rather like fire that she allowed to burn as it would.

And though he did not take Sybilla to his bed that night, nor allow her attempts at fondling him in the coach to go further, he had after a night of easing his own loins, replaying that scene, thrown himself into society and the world, both he and Sybilla understood.

He slept with her four months later, having no mistress and not inclined toward the streetwalkers and women in the cribs. He grew angry at his obsessive thoughts of Madeline, and he resigned himself to do one honorable thing and not seek her out, as he wanted.

There was an empty taste lingering from Sybilla’ s kisses, an awareness that she was going through the motions as he was, to seal the unspoken understanding. Afterward they had lain in a cold silence, and a too bare atmosphere of reality.

"She may agree to become your mistress."

"Don't speak of her.” He set up and lit a cheroot, looking down at his feet on the bare floor by the square of moonlight, seemingly cold through the parted drapes.

He felt Sybilla lean up on her elbow, and her hand on his back made him resist a flinch. “I have no objection so long as you are discreet. I have already assured you that I will provide the heir, and I understand you're restoring Fairbane, though you will get a dozen rich estates through me. We understand each other, Dorian. Why must you brood when you will gain more with me, than you ever had before? Your reputation is restored and..."

"I know. You don't have to recite everything to me, Sybilla. I have lived in our world and the realities of it far longer than you. And while I am aware that I have vastly more to be grateful to you for, than you will gain from me, I would be grateful for some of that pretense of ignorance your sex takes such pride in. That which assures both parties a long and successful relationship—and ask you again to mind that business only."

She sighed and lay back, saying after he poured a brandy and got up to put his trousers on and sit by the window, “I won't be like Claudia or your mother. I enjoy cards, but gambling to excess shows a distinct lack of control. Something else we take pride in. and I've had a lover for some ten years without a breath of scandal."

He looked at her, not really caring whom it was. “Did I miss something? Were you not a virgin?"

"In the only sense that counts.” She laughed softly. “My point is, your heir will be your own, and you need never fear scandal because of me."

"I know that.” He felt like a bloody bastard, though there was no reason as far as she was concerned for him to suffer it. Still Dorian had gained some skin on that honor and it was sensitive. “I should take you home."

"Yes.” She sat up. “I have an early appointment."

That had been the turning point, the act that sealed his decision. He didn't have to take her to bed, but they were both aware that he had been avoiding a commitment. Since the night at Sir Jasper's it had not been him doing the chasing, but rather Sybilla had realized he wouldn't play the usual games. She'd apparently wanted the match bad enough to dispense with them.

Chapter Five

And here he was ... three years after he had last touched Madeline, three years wrestling with the temptation to see Madeline. As far as the ton was concerned, he and Sybilla may as well already be wed, they treated them as a couple, and all the invites, the gatherings, were worded as such. Her father had cleaned up the debts lingering from Susan and Claudia, and advanced him a sum on the settlement, which he used to restore and refurbish Fairbane. It was once more the impressive estate of fifty years ago, and the stables were full, the pastures rich with sheep, the grounds immaculate, and his stables swiftly building to one of the most impressive.

And what had he done when he saw Madeline again? He had followed her like a schoolboy, watched her at a most ordinary life, so far removed from the formality of his own, so carefree and enviably natural, that he felt more than the length of street separated them. There was a whole woman he did not know.

Aside from the explosive attraction, the things he knew from her father, from their short encounters, there was a woman who had a full life that was rich beyond money, and he realized even had he lost the estates, he could not erase whom he was, and the life he was born to.

He did not wish to, not really. He did not blame his title or society for his mother and Claudia, they were whom they were, and he and his father's choices had caused the problems that came with them. The things he detested about his status and his society, were how bloody easy it was, how easy they made it, for him to accept something less than Madeline would have.

Dorian asked himself, if it was the idea of her, the fact that he knew without the sex that Madeline could satisfy the one part of him that would never be satisfied in the life he now lived—the life he would live. He wanted her, and he had never stopped, even when she was out of his head, there was some residue of that in his consciousness.

In ballrooms, amid the glitter of the ton, and in cardrooms and his club, at the stately dinners, the summer parties, he did not have to think it, to feel it. And there was a realization in him that he didn't resent that kind of power, that lure that had him going after her, following her, wanting her, even when he wasn't trying to.

He went to bed finally, deciding to see Sybilla's father early in the morning and finalize the plans. He had looked into those companies that Louis owned and planned to invest, as well approach the man on a few ventures in his own neighborhood. There were prime pieces of land up for dibs in his area....

Chapter Six

Liddy knew something was up with Madeline when she begged privacy after returning from the Goodwyn's. It was not until they rode in the park, after the fashionable hour, that Madeline confided in her.

"You were bound to see him, eventually, Maddy. Particularly during the season."

"I know.” Madeline nudged her to a spot of shade and they let the horses graze. Madeline in her dove habit and netted top hat, Liddy in forest green and a military style cap. “The papers have been filled with them ... and his impressive work at Fairbane. He's as good as married to her."

"They suit each other,” Liddy expressed dryly. “Though I would have him care for you, peruse you, return some of these feelings you have carried for him. I do not have to tell you the obvious. There are some of his sort who would wed a wealthy woman no matter what her bloodlines and station. But he has that stamp ... the blue bloodedness written all over him. He isn't the kind who would do what he doesn't have to. It does matter who births his heirs."

"I know that. I never imagined that he would...” at Liddy's stare she sighed. “Okay, so I fantasized he would court me. But I never seriously thought he would in reality. Other than an attraction, there is no reason for me to imagine otherwise. And you are right, marrying lady Sybilla answers more than just his financial problems."

"And,” her sister said, “You will never get over him."

"I can't help that,” Madeline said softly. “I can marry and have children. I can have everything I should. But I want him. And yes, I mean in the physical sense."

Liddy's green eyes skimmed her face. “Father isn't going to recover, is he?"

"I don't know.” Madeline shook her head. “He has worked hard, had a full life too, I suppose. He's not young anymore."

Liddy murmured, “He asks why I have not replied to Lord Lynwood's offer."

"Why haven't you?"

"Because ... because I am the same sort of fool you are, Madeline. I want what I cannot have."

Madeline held her gaze. “That man..."

"I can't speak of it.” Liddy sighed and looked away. “But you and I should likely discuss, as difficult as it is, what we shall do when Papa is gone."

Madeline was silent some moments. “He has been getting all the paperwork in order. Two of the solicitors will work directly with us, keeping track of the investments and holdings. We've discussed keeping the flats and houses rented for the men and their families to use when they travel. I don't know, Liddy. I see you and I doing more of the paperwork and making decisions that likely won't be as popular as if father were making them."

"I've thought of that too. Though we own shares, whole companies, our signatures are required; we were in those meetings but not at the table, allowed there because of father. I know the majority of the men trust our good sense, but most aren't ready to have a woman at the table, and we couldn't discuss the business as father has, keeping all of his contacts and socializing with them."

"Father knows it.” Madeline nodded. “Those solicitors speak for us, they will be our voices in those meetings. But from his recent hints, I gather that he has allowed several of the partners to buy him out and he's sold off many of the holdings abroad. We are twice as wealthy and growing more so every day. But I think father learned something about having life and enjoying it—I believe he wants us to be able to do that too. Since this recent illness, he's expressed regret at the lack of time we spend enjoying the simple pleasures."

Liddy had heard him say that too. “For all he has made us independent, we will not be whole without him."

Madeline reached for her hand. “Let's go home, spend the day with him. Perhaps he will feel comfortable enough to tell us what he wants for us. We are secure in that we'll never want for anything. He has assured that we will control our fortune. But you know, father is never at ease speaking of more personal things, and I feel that he wishes to."

They left and returned home. after bathing, they went to their father's apartments and shared dinner with him, played chess. It was when Madeline was watching Liddy get her turn that she noticed the lines in her father's face, the slight bend in his shoulders, and though he was alert and sharp, his breathing was labored and he grew weak very easily. It had been that way since a bad winter cold. His lungs seemed to diminish their ability for air, and though the physician called this recovery, Madeline sensed it was more the calming end.

Her eyes burned with tears and she looked away, into the fire that was too warm for such a pleasant day. What she would not give for the chance to be with Dorian, in the daylight, in an atmosphere of freedom where she might know him as she longed. To know if he played chess well, if he ate his eggs boiled or poached, if he liked to read...

Oh stop it. She mentally scolded. Had she an hour with him, she would doubtless be thinking of his kissing and touching her, making her feel that passion once more.

Chapter Seven

Four months later, on a cold rainy morning, Dorian had his cup half way to his lips when he read of Louis Duvall's death. He put the cup down and finished the piece, before arising and going to his office. He sent a missive to the Marquis and to Sybilla, informing them he would be out of town. Then he had his bags packed and climbed in the coach, as a storm seemed to rumble over the sky.

Stopping at Inns to rest the horses on the way to Browery farms, he was in the company of many of his peers and dozens of more businessmen who were attending the funeral and intending to pay respects to the Miss's Duvall.

The gray sky remained as Dorian's coach joined the long line turning from the main roads to the farm's entry. Predominately black with matching teams, the beat of rain on the lacquered surface and the somber mood was evidence of respect for a man who was genuinely liked and who had left behind an honest reputation.

The farmhouse came into view, four towering chimneys puffing smoke into an afternoon of foggy rain. There were vehicles of every sort parked far in the distance, and though the front doors were opened, showing warm lighting inside, many black umbrellas were clustered as men stood in the main courtyards smoking and talking, still more remained in the carriages.

In his greatcoat and beaver hat, a black scarf beneath and having worn his formal black with an onyx silk shirt, Dorian stayed as he was. His driver wore black oilskin to protect himself from the downpour whilst they awaited the family.

In the distance he could make out a dark awning erected near a cluster of trees and just before a lake. Despite the drear, the countryside was beautiful, the layout of the farm quaint and peaceful, comforting.

When Sir Jasper emerged, Lady Tabatha on his arm, they were led to a waiting coach and people soon followed. Dorian recognized Madeline though two men walked on either side of the sisters, carrying large umbrellas. He watched them rush to another coach, and then the procession moved forward.

It wasn't the rain that kept him from going graveside, but a sea of black umbrellas and a fascinating view of the foreign dignitaries who discreetly arrived and made their way to the females. There were some bareheaded folk, workmen, obviously seamen too from their coats and sunburned faces, a mixture of classes and ancestry all known to one man.

Shaking his head, Dorian wondered at such a life, so much time to live it and do in such a short span. He lit a cheroot, his black gloved fingers holding it when he felt someone looking at him.

Since his coach was alongside another, situated just enough to afford himself and the other mourners a view of the crowd. He was sitting opposite the man who had glanced at him, though would have had a better view sitting on the other end of his coach, he was apparently content to not see better. Or rather he was in a prime position not to be seen.

"Afternoon,” Dorian murmured politely, taking in the deep auburn hair, tied back at the nape, and a rugged face with ruddy dark skin and sky-blue eyes. He wore a jabot; there was a tartan across his shoulder and some sort of badge on it.

"Yourself.” The man nodded, then lit his own cheroot, the ruffled cuffs of his shirt showing at the wrist. He was bare handed, a big man, tall as himself Dorian guessed, and brawny as an oak from the sinew he spied.

They smoked, and after a moment Dorian murmured, “Mr. Duvall was well known. I recognize a few foreign insignias on these coaches."

"Apparently so.” The man's brogue was thick, his tone deep.

"You knew him, obviously?"

"After a fashion.” The man looked across at the crowd and then back. “He bought me out of debtor's prison, ye might say."

Dorian's brow rose.

"I be Douglas McCullough, viscount Coldrick."

Dorian recalled something he had read in the papers a long while back. “You owned the castle ... the old Stuart keep."

"It was me mother's, passed from the line nae matter what straights it was in.” Bitterly he added, “I hae the good fortune to inherit it when me oldest brothers were killed in war. William hae himself a rich English bride waitin’ and Rory hae been promised the hand of Lady Jeanne, the daughter of a lowlander, but an earl no less."

"I see,” Dorian saw only the bitterness, the cynicism he oft recognized in himself.

"Nae, ye dunna. But I be the black sheep, and hae no worries nor fetters upon me. I even survived the bloody war with nary a wound, save me blistered arse from sittin upon it, a clerking for the captain."

"You were likely too young to..."

"They was more than meself what went to the front.” The man tossed the cheroot. “But ‘tis neither here nor there, for I did such a bonny job of blackening me wool beforehand, that neither of the lass's would have me."

He smiled, more natural with a dimple showing in his cheek, and after looking across seeing the crowd shift, he said to Dorian, “The merchant finds me, in the gaol, and offers to pay the debts, me own long owed ones asides. And he gives me leave to live in me own home, though ‘tis not me own but theirs ... and ‘tis both sweet and gall, your lordship..."

"Dorian Engstrom, earl of Fairbane. Just Dorian ... please."

..."Ah, weel. It tastes bittersweet, Dorian, it does, to be both redeemed and beholden. And tae hae yer black marks erased everywhere save yer own mind.” He tapped the coach, to signal his driver and looked over, saying in parting, “Two of meself would not measure up to one of me brothers. But that's done and buried. And now the home what isn't mine, will belong to the lass I dishonored in me drunken blackness."

Dorian's head snapped round, “Not Madeline..."

The man leaned out; looking back at him as the coach made distance. “Nae, yer lordship. ‘Tis the other—the pretty one, with all the spit and fire."

As his laughter floated back, Dorian tossed the cheroot out and signaled his driver to turn. The services were over. He muttered in comment to the Scotsman's parting words, “We're both fools, McCullough. I shouldn't even be here."

But an hour later, most of the crowd had gone and returned to the main roads. The nearest Inn was not far, and another ten miles from that. But he waited until only a few vehicles were left at the farmhouse, and exited. Unfurling his umbrella and paying no heed to the water and mud on his Hessians, he approached the door.

It was still open, and showed a brightly-lit high-beamed room, open with a large hearth burning at the far end. Standing on the stoop, he nodded to a plump gray-haired woman; who wore all black, an apron and black scarf.

"Come in, sir. Out of the rain.” She smiled at him.

"Thank you, no. I wish only to pay my condolences to Miss Madeline and her sister."

The woman looked over her shoulder. He could see Lady Tabatha in black silk and Sir jasper standing with few lords.

"I'll just fetch her then.” She leaned out, “At least go to the side yard there, milord, there is an overhang. I'll send Tibbs with a warm drink."

He murmured something and went as she directed, around to a side courtyard, paved and sheltered a good two feet above, by a roofline extending over French doors. Dorian let the umbrella down and took off his hat; looking around, wondering if he should not have simply sent a note instead of intruding...

He'd taken off his gloves and rested them in his hat, which he perched on a dry spot, was unlatching his caped coat, because of the wool and heat it emitted, when a young lad wearing black armbands brought him a brandy-laced coffee.

"Miss Madeline be coming directly.” The boy left the doors open. “There's fire here, milord, if you wish to come in.” He bowed and left after Dorian mumbled his thanks.

He sipped the coffee having parted his coat enough to ease the weight of it, and was looking into the room when Madeline entered.

Dorian took in several things at once. The fact that her hair was down and pulled back only at the crown, held by combs, and that it tumbled in curls to mid back. That she wore a black silk gown with a sheer short jacket, and that she had wept recently. It was not just the hanky crushed in her fist, but the red of her eyes and the raw look to her mouth.

She came toward him, a slightly bemused smile on her lips.

He bowed slightly, capturing her gaze. “I am sorry for your loss, Madeline ... Convey that to your sister and aunt as well."

"Thank you, my lord."

"Dorian...” He began but as their gazes held, he knew such an insistence on intimacy made no difference to what had passed between them.

"You didn't have to come. A note would have..."

"I likely shouldn't have..."

They fell silent again as the rain behind him picked up and thunder boomed and rumbled.

"Is your driver out in that?"

"Yes."

She waved him back and then stepped out to peer through the rain and fog. “I'll send someone to direct him to the coach house, where he can rest the horses and dry out. He'll likely be hungry."

She left before he could thank her, though he had no intention of staying ... he meant to leave.

Before Madeline returned, her sister entered the room, coming midway and eyeing him with a raised brow. Though she too had on black and had wept recently, she was in fine form as she crossed her arms and said, “You didn't come all this way to stand out in a storm and deliver a line you could have fit on your calling card."

He opened his mouth, but she uncrossed her arms and waved him with a wry smile, “Come in, Fairbane. I'd hate to have to help Maddy drag you inside, should lightning strike where you stand."

He stepped inside after collecting his hat, letting her take it and place the items on a table. She went behind him, helping him off with his coat and making an exaggerated sound at its weight.

"I'd like to think lightning has no cause to strike me.” He sipped from the cup, watched her walk toward the fire, then followed and sat casually on a rolled leather chair arm. “Or was that wishful thinking on your part?"

Her green eyes twinkled. “Oh, I don't waste my wishes on the male sex. Your lordship."

"Dorian."

Liddy pursed her lips, looking him over in a way that made him feel like he was being inspected for the slaughter.

"My boots have ruined your carpets,” he said just to ease that feeling.

"They will clean.” She shrugged watching him take the last sip and set the cup aside.

"I'm resisting the urge to squirm, Miss D—"

"Liddy, or Lydia if you prefer."

"Lydia, you are giving me mental recollections of my days under the eye of a stern nursemaid."

"Your pardon,” she said mildly. “I was merely trying to discern what it was that Madeline sees in you."

Their gazes locked and held. “I deserve that, I suppose."

"I don't know,” Her tone was quiet, softer. “But if you hurt her, encourage her again and walk away, I shall become an enemy you do not wish to have."

He should have laughed, mocked, but aside from the fact she had the money and likely knew the criminals to do some damage, there was a loyalty and love in that threat, that he had never experienced yet did not doubt.

"I shouldn't have come."

"Why did you?” She looked away from him, propping her hand on the mantle and regarding the fire. “She wants you, you know that. And you are all but wed to an heiress. You should have sent a card..."

"I'll just leave...” He stood.

But Madeline came into the room, taking a shawl off her shoulders and eyeing them both as she laid it on a chair. “Did you offer him something to eat, Liddy?"

"I gave him something to chew on,” Liddy said under her breath.

Dorian looked at her, then back to Madeline. “I should leave."

But even Liddy could feel the potency of their locked gazes, even standing back by the fire she could feel the thick heat as they stared at each other.

"Excuse me.” She waited until he looked at her and nodded, then as she passed by Madeline she murmured, “Don't...” and laid her hand on Madeline's shoulder before she exited, closing the door behind her.

* * * *

Madeline walked to the fire and looked down at it, aware that Dorian had sat down again and was eyeing her. She could not know that the firelight glowed on the long curls that slid forward, or that it warmed her skin and reminded him of its smooth softness. When she spoke, Madeline hardly had her thoughts together; she had deliberately delayed returning, standing out by the kitchen doors, trying to calm her emotions, trying to absorb the fact that he was here, he was here...

"Did you receive a packet from Mr. Dahl this morning?"

"I've no idea. I didn't check my ... why?"

"As father was tidying up his business, he sold some of his shares, his companies, and allowed a few the partners to buy him out. There is a similar offer awaiting you."

"He told you?"

She looked at him. “That you talked ... before? Yes. He also told me you'd sought him out several times since. Given the difficulties it would pose for Liddy and I to try and manage half of what he did, he thought it better to simplify things for us. He made many men happy."

She smiled slightly. “Offering the buy outs for a fraction, and letting go some of his prime investments. Still, we have more than we can manage, and more wealth than we need."

She looked back at the flames. “You'll have the opportunity to own the property and the stock at a drastically reduced sum. As for the other investments ... I control his shares."

"I've no problem with that, Madeline. I've met your man of business."

She straightened and stared at him. “I'd like to sell both companies."

"I can't afford that."

"With the upcoming marriage settlement, and the fact that I will sell for only half the worth, I'm sure you can."

He stared back at her. “I'm sure we can continue to do business without ... contact. We have managed this long."

This time a nerve ticked in her jaw. Her eyes were dark and emotion filled. “Don't do that,” her voice was soft, gruff. “Don't ... not now."

"Madeline.” His own tone was rough.

But she shook her head still holding his eyes. “There was a time I would have been able to do it, and perhaps only feel..."

"Madeline.” He sucked in his breath; his hands curling into fists on his thighs as her eyes shimmered.

But in her vulnerable state, the tears were near the surface and her own hands were taut at her sides. “Don't be this way ... now. Not with her money ... not with..."

He was on his feet, looming and dark. The crackle between them was hotter than the fire behind her as he touched her face. “What is it you do to me,” he muttered huskily, his thumb brushing over her lips in time to catch the tear rolling from her eyes. “I can't take you, and I can't let go of you..."

He slid his other hand around her, and soon had her in his embrace, his large hand still cupping her jaw, feeling her tears while his arm held her to him.

Madeline didn't make a sound other than to breathe in a shuddering sigh. Her emotions were raw, her body and mind experiencing the usual storm when she was near him. But she closed her eyes, breathed and felt him. As usual, she hated and loved him for being here, for being here now.

Above her head, in a voice that was tightly rough he murmured, “I've gone too far to cry off now..."

"Yes.” She knew that.

"And even had I not, your father was right..."

She cut him off, “There is no use speaking of it, any of it."

"No,” he whispered, and slid his hand back, near her ear, his fingers in the curls, as he used that to tilt her head back.

Madeline stared up at him, at his black eyes and dark face, the sinew and bone that stamped him a blue blood. “I'm going away for awhile..."

Emotion rippled across his face.

"Liddy is going to Scotland ... I, we love this farm, it is our real home. But I think I shall go some place warm ... someplace where..."

His strong throat worked and his fingers flexed in her hair. “Let me know if it works.” His tone was savagely strained, “Let me know—if distance is any better than time. If you forget and if you meet a man and kiss him, and it feels anything near wh..."

"Don't,” she whispered searching his dark eyes. “I wanted you. Damn the money and your pride, Dorian! I wanted you and you..."

He lowered his head and slammed his mouth upon hers; the kiss meant to erase the words only served to prove even the unspoken ones. And what never was punishment softened and turned to passion, to open mouths gliding as their heads moved, and their tongues drank and rolled malleable and seeking.

Her arms slid up, her hands filtering through his hair for a passionate hold, and his strong arm lifted her more against him, as the kiss went on and on and a tremble overtook them.

The moan was echoed it was the drowning sound of lovers submerging into liquid pleasure. By the time his mouth pulled away and his lips and teeth were at her neck, she had pushed the jacket back from his shoulders, and he loosed her long enough to let it slide down his arms.

The rain beat on the cobbles outside the doors. The sky grew darker and the fire warmer, but Madeline hardly noticed. Having undone his cravat and half his shirt, her hands palm flat on that muscled sinew of his upper chest while he took the combs from her hair and buried his hands in it.

Their bodies, the uneven height hardly deterred him. But his head went back when she kissed his throat and worked her hands into his shirt, to graze them over his pebbled nipples. She scraped her teeth in the hollow of his throat and felt his hands mussed in her unbound hair, holding her to him, aiding her laves and kisses, savoring them.

When he suddenly moved his hands down and picked her up, off her feet, Madeline braced herself on his shoulders, looking down into his hot, dark eyes through the veil of curls tumbling around her face.

Holding her easily by the waist, his gaze roamed her hair, her face, dropping to her mouth and back, before he whispered, “If I do not have you, I will regret it the rest of my life, and if I do.... I will regret that too."

Madeline saw the depths burning, the honesty and pain there, the evidence of the decisions he regretted already. She lowered her head, kissing him smooth and loose, erotic and slow. When his hands tightened on her hips, she lifted her mouth, feeling the moisture, seeing the same on his. “I have always known what I wanted, from the moment I met you, none of the rest mattered. Nothing ... mattered. I never asked for promises. I never expected them. All that I wanted was for you to want me, like this."

He shivered and started to shake his head, but Madeline kissed him again, and made him set her on her feet. With her hands on his upper arms, she could feel the heat and tremble, even though his body was hard with sinew and muscle, she knew he was as weak as she.

"I don't care about anything but right now, because this is real, this is not anything but you and me, and that is all that I wanted. I don't want your honor, Dorian. I want you, I want you—now."

He groaned and caught her to him, burying his face in her hair while holding her tightly. “You tempt me beyond sanity,” he rasped. “Your family is here, there are consequences, and I have denied myself these many years to spare you those things. Madeline ... Madeline ... Do you not think that I could ravish you, devour you and drown with you at this moment? What was the cost for—if not to give you more than I have given anyone ... and that's the emotion that is tearing me apart right now. Help me, Madeline. Help me to deny you. I have trapped myself and cannot undo it."

"Dorian..."

His hands buried in her hair, his forehead rubbing against it roughly. “I can't hurt you, don't you understand? I can lie and pretend and go through the motions of a life void of passion. I never hated my life with Claudia, but I will hate it with her.... And sometimes I hate you for making me want you beyond reason."

She shuddered, holding him tightly. “I am selfish. But since she will have you forever, and I never again, I don't think I can stand it if you leave me wanting again."

"Christ, Madeline ... don't.” He loosed his hands from her hair and moved hers from him, taking steps toward the open doors and half leaning over—as he grasped the facing and pressed his forehead against his outstretched arm.

He rambled off the fact that he had slept with Sybilla, more than once, and that she could now be carrying the heir. That he had taken the funds from her father and that the wedding was to be in a month's time. He rambled more in a nearly incoherent string of confessions, and ended breathing as if he had run, only the hand on his stomach was to ease the pain, the tightness that wouldn't let him breathe.

Tears ran down her face. Madeline wanted to go to him, to cover his mouth with her hand and shut him up, to stop his words and banish the significance of them. But she had known it was no sudden thing but years of his putting actions to his decision and committing himself deeper to it. Society had forgotten his divorce and the scandals as If they never happened, and Sybilla was powerful enough in her own right, to have done that.

Wiping her face, she had a mental flash of the two of them, of herself and Darien, years before, and now, her standing with hair mussed, face red and wet, and him clinging to a shred of control, this time because of her, and this time—the strength of emotion was an inward pain and not an outward rage.

She moved, picked up his jacket and neckcloth, taking up his coat, and walking to stand near his hip. His white shirt was half undone, wrinkled from her hands, and his wavy hair as mussed as her own from the intensity of their hungers.

The rain had lessened to a steady shower, and the cooler night air wafted across them.

Fully aware of where she stood, he did not alter his position as he whispered gruffly, “I love you, Madeline."

When he straightened, taking his jacket from her hands, then his coat, she whispered back, “I know.” When he was dressed for leaving, holding his hat and gloves, and he leaned down to kiss her temple, she added, “I love you too."

Too soon she stood alone in the doorway, looking out at the glitter of rain, feeling as if the storm had ripped through her and left her empty. She slid down, sitting there on the floor, her head against the rough edge of the wood, and her heart strangely quiet and still.

* * * *

Dorian arrived in London two days later, having lingered at a nearly empty Inn for longer than necessary. He had sat in a rough-hewn chair staring at the fire and drinking common ale, never actually finishing a cup, but needing to hold to something cold and unalive, some thing to anchor him to the reality of life. Because he was thirty-three years of age and just getting a taste of the love his father must have felt—was sheer hell.

As his eyes reflected the flames, Dorian tried to imagine his handsome father struggling to banish the image of Susan's lovers, trying to stop loving her and finding himself unable to turn her away, even when she shared her body with him just for more money to feed her obsessions.

He tried to recall the different emotions on his father's face when it was time for the season and he would be heading back to school.

And all he could see was his own image lying on the sheets with Sybilla, his eyes closed imagining it was Madeline there.

When he arrived at the townhouse, then bathed and shaved, Dorian took a long nap and dressed to go out. He noticed the nods and greetings that met him at the club. He had lunch there with the Marquis and his cronies, before returning to prepare for the evening.

That evening he collected Sybilla for a planned night at the opera. She was lovely in winter white with a snowy cape of fur in contrast to her raven hair and pale skin.

They were in his box, Sybilla's jewels attributing to the shimmer drawing eyes from onlookers, as she slid back her cape and unfurled the pearl-encrusted fan.

Dorian's ebony eyes moved around as the lights lowered and the music began to sound.

"Is he here?"

"Whom?” She was looking at his profile but Dorian was still staring into the boxes beyond.

"Your lover."

She wafted her fan slowly. “Not he ... she."

He smiled slightly.

Beside him Sybilla murmured, “We all make concessions, Dorian. I know at the time it seems as if you have sold your soul, your heart, for nothing more than superficiality, but there are moments when you try to imagine yourself in any other role, in any other life, and you realize that without this—you are nothing and no one."

He reached out and took her hand, still not looking at her. Their fingers twined in the gloves, so mockingly echoing the fact that they would never be deeper, closer, than that.

"I love her. I never hated as strongly as I love, Madeline."

After a silence Sybilla stared at him.

And finally he looked at her, their gazes locking in the shadowed box.

"You really mean that, don't you?"

"Yes. I have never quite understood honor, and the times that I thought I did, were the incidents that compounded the regrets I live with. I cannot change who I am, you are right. I gain nothing by ignoring my birthright and my bloodlines. But there is a moment when nothing matters ... absolutely nothing, but that someone touches you, really feels you—so that you know you do more than exist."

Sybilla let her hand go lax slowly. Their hands slid apart. She took her gaze from his and watched the stage, unseeing, as he was, for the remainder of the play.

The following day Dorian let the Marquis into his study, and watched the stately man pace, before he finally drew himself up and faced the spot that Dorian took up by the desk.

"You may settle with me in installments, or arrange something to even the balance in whole. I think five years should give you time to cover it, absent any interest, which, under the circumstances, is not necessary."

"I'm afraid I don't understand?” Dorian shook his head.

The man's sapphire eyes shifted away and then back. “Sybilla has cried off. She has in fact, ran off."

Stunned, Dorian straightened and shook his head again.

The man's face turned a dull red. “She left a note, but it is rather private. You are in no way to blame, and..."

"I see.” Dorian sat back down. “I take it, she was not carrying my heir?"

"No. Of that I am sure. She would not lie about it."

After some uncomfortable ticking of the clock, Dorian poured him a whiskey. He put his hand on the Marquis shoulder. “She will return, I promise you."

The Marquis nodded and downed his drink with a shudder. They shook hands, and then—Dorian spent an hour sitting at the desk, staring into space.

Italy.

Madeline sat outside the villa, her eyes closed and the light linen of her gown fluttering against her calves. It was simple and thin garment suited to the climes, and having no sleeves and a simple tie at the bodice. Her skin was getting unfashionably tanned but she had soaked in the sun and lazed around the small, but airy, house for over a month now.

She didn't have servants. A woman came up from the village bringing fresh fish or bread, whatever Madeline requested. Wine and spirits were in abundance and there was a garden, so she lacked nothing, and though she'd thought she'd spend time working, she'd finished most of it the first week.

There were days strolling beaches, walking amid the vineyards and sitting barefoot in the village, watching a craftsman or weaver. There was what accounted for high society to be found here, but she deliberately avoided it and them, keeping her days and life simple, her appearance eventually blending her in with the local women, save for her lighter eyes.

Raising her gauzy skirt to her thighs, Madeline shifted on the cane chaise and pushed back a curl that the wind teased loose at her temple. She wondered how Liddy was, spending the winter in a cold and drafty castle. Frankly she thought her sister mad to choose that over the lazy pace of the Italian coast. But she suspected Liddy's choice had more to do with her secrets than any care of the discomforting cold.

When the curl teased her again, she sat up, putting her bare feet on the stone floor, and ignoring the wide neck of the gown that slid down her shoulder. Gathering her hair she held it up atop her head for a moment, hating to leave the spot to tie it back, but knowing she would get no relief from the wind tussling it.

Shading her eyes Madeline saw something in the distance, along the village road. It looked to be a figure on horseback. With the sun in her eyes it was no more than a blur.

She stood and walked to the edge of the flagstones, leaning against the freestanding columns, letting the breeze whip her hair at will. She wasn't expecting word from Liddy, not unless something was wrong? And it was too early in the day for the usual delivery of fish.

When the rider grew closer, she put together that it was male, that he rode with only a bridle and that he had the long blue black hair of the locals, and wore the same gauzy trousers and loose shirt she saw on a dozen native men.

Yet there was something making her breath catch, her heart hammer and Dorian was in clear seeing distance—before she let herself believe it.

He paused the mount, resting his hand on his thigh as his enigmatic eyes went over her. Finally he dismounted, shifted the reins to the other hand and pulled the bridle off. After drinking from a fountain, the horse lifted its tail and galloped back toward the village.

Dorian dropped the bridle, keeping his eyes on her as he washed his hands and dried them on the lose tail of his shirt. He was barefoot, bronze skin in contrast to the white as walked to her and stopped to stare down at her upturned face.

"Does it matter, why I am here?"

She shook her head no; not breaking her gaze as his hand came out and eased the neck of the dress down. The wind did the rest and she leaned against the cool marble, her hands behind her, and the full lushness of her breasts displayed to the sun and his eyes. The aureoles shrank, hardened, turning dusk pink in the center. The warm almond of her skin glowed in the sun.

When he leaned down kissing her lips softly, then dipping his head to latch them around her nipple, she flexed her fingers and closed her eyes, moaning softly at the suckle and pull, the touch of his hands afterward as he held them both for his feeding.

Her lashes lifted as he left them, dragging his mouth down the center of her ribs, then a severing sound met the force of his hands, ripping, parting the gown until it fluttered back from her lower arms, leaving her body fully nude and fully bare.

He bathed her tummy, laved around her navel. His hands grasped her thighs, lifting them, so that she slid upwards, braced by the column when he parted them and laved his tongue into the folds of her sex.

Madeline moaned, she trembled and watched through half closed lids as he suckled there too, and then raked a familiar spot gently with his teeth. His hair teased her, blowing silken and cool, his tongue scorched her, yet soothed and created friction at the same time.

When she felt herself drifting, she must have let go, for he caught her easily and rolled until she lay upon the stones, his palms gripping her buttocks and his head moving in sensual cadence while his tongue stroked and teased.

Her thighs tightened against him. “Dorian...” She arched and felt the squeeze inside, the contraction that was building for climax. Then his finger slid into the wet heat, and his lips suckled the nerves until the sun dropped down and exploded through her, melting in waves that had her floating out of her skin.

He carried her into the cooler interior, finding from the open layout, the room with low open windows and a simple bed with white sheets rumpled from her sleep.

Laying her down, he removed his shirt and was looking down at her when her lashes lifted and her eyes cleared.

"You are beautiful,” his tone was deep and soft, distant as if he too could not believe they were here, together.

She felt beautiful, languid and yet hungry. Her hand reached upward, her short nails following the trail of black hair from his navel to the tie of the trousers.

He pulled the knot loose and slid them down his hips, standing fully aroused, dusky and tautly sculpted, absolutely still—as she leaned up on her elbow to let her eyes run over him slowly, lingering, he noticed, on the full thrust of his sex.

"So are you.” She looked up him wearing a smile of pleasure. “That's going to hurt, isn't it?"

He laughed and lay down beside her, gathering her against him, rolling and savoring the skin against skin feeling. He finally put her under him, and brushed her hair back from her face. Their legs slid silk against satin muscle, her hands skimmed up his tapered back.

After holding gazes they kissed. With mere brushes of their mouths, closed, then open, and tongue dragging gentle eroticism across lips and under. He shifted so that his hand found her again, and watching the pleasure in her eyes, Dorian said, “I could spend the day doing nothing but this, laying, touching, kissing."

Her limbs parted and her hand came to rest on his roundly muscled backside. “As could I. But I've waited to feel you in every sense, and I ache for it."

After a kiss, he moved his hips and settled them between hers, looking down as she looked up, and slowly easing his sex into her, inch by inch.

Her flinch, at some point, alerted him. Dorian paused though his body was strained with the pleasure and need. His face was starting to dew and veins pulsed in his neck.

"Relax...” he advised, feeling her stiffening. “Give yourself time. I can feel you squeezing against me. As pleasurable as it is for me, I can see your discomfort."

She relaxed, breathing in and letting her spine and thighs soften, and trying to grow used to the feel of his breadth and length, though she knew instinctively that he was not completely inside.

When he began to move, it was small, subtle flexes, enough to summon more moisture from her sex, and to make the full glide of his own ease deeper into her. When he was embedded fully, they both had no doubt of it.

His breathing was hard, his muscles strained further, and her nails stung his upper arms. It was not until her hands relaxed, her palms began to glide over him, that he began the age old rhythm of thrusting and pulling back, still going slower and more careful than his burning blood wanted.

Madeline felt it, the pleasure skittering up her spine, the heady lightness and still the fullness of craving. “Yes,” her moan came with an arch of her neck; a flash of his face before her eyes rolled in pleasure.

"Yes.” He echoed and drew back harder, went in deeper, riding her the last few strokes with firmer thrusts, before climax caught him unaware. He grit his teeth, burying himself deep and feeling the nerves and muscles in his body as if sparks danced through him.

Much later they lay in the deep tub and soaked amid the bubbles, drinking wine and feeding each other cheese and fruits, exchanging sticky kisses and decadent laves on their body parts that tasted of fruit.

The village woman must have arrived while they were occupied, because Madeline found the covered basket and carried it inside. Dressing in Dorian's shirt and he the trousers, while they fried it and ate, sitting on the tiled floor, and looking out the arched windows at the countryside.

She boiled coffee, added thick cream, and they were on the bed again, nude and facing each other. Looking over bodies and always returning to meet gazes while they drank it.

"You're not going to ask if I am married, if I came to..."

"No,” she cut him off and set the cup aside. Lying back against the pillows she pushed her hair out of her face. “I don't care why. I don't even care for how long. You're here."

He smiled a rather devastating white smile, and leaned forward to kiss each breast before he lay beside her, leaning over to show his own expression as he murmured, “Would you be interested in a heavily indebted, partly cynical, divorced, scandal tainted, slightly used—and wholly devoted earl?"

Madeline's eyes filled but she blinked and pretended to consider. “As an investment, purely from a business standpoint. He would have to offer some future ... return, some guarantee that our assets will grow and the...” His brow was raising and she laughed, touching his face. “I've never been a mistress, you should be selling yourself to me, not pointing out the flaws."

Dorian sat up half way, his body turned toward her and his expression one of honest surprise. “I'm offering you marriage, nothing less."

It was her turn to show shock. “But ... Sybilla..."

"It is a long story. But she cried off. I still have to pay her father back.” When she opened her mouth, he covered it. “No Madeline. Not this time. I have plans, options, and ideas of my own. I can make Fairbane pay, and I will not clear any part of that debt with your money."

"But ... what will we do with it. I'm disgustingly rich. And I must work, I mean I want to..."

He kissed her, and said against her mouth. “The only thing I want from you, is your heart."

"You have that."

He raised to look at her and wink, “And an heir."

She grinned. “I shall enjoy working on that with you."

Dorian suddenly turned serious and lay down, to gather her against him. “There is nothing I can do about my past. About the title ... you'll be a countess, and as much as I know you will hate it, it carries a certain obligation."

She shrugged. “Aunt Tabatha will be thrilled. And, so long as I do not have to live with more pretenses than are tolerable. I will manage."

He hugged her against him and pressed his lips to her forehead. “Love matches are considered vulgar in society."

She pushed him back, and leaned over him. “Very well. We'll act as if we are polite strangers.” Her hand skimmed up his hard thigh, rubbing the surface enough to tease. “We will attend balls and stuffy dinners, and call each other my lord, my lady, and..."

He reached down, putting her hand where he wanted it, on his hard sex. “Somehow I don't think we'll get through a night without touching each other..."

"That is my point,” she murmured and smiled, caressing him firmer while her own body flushed with pleasure. “We'll act as we should, but I fully expect you will allow me to remind you, whom we really are, when it matters the most."

It so closely echoed his words to Sybilla, that he rolled her over suddenly and sank his sex deep, while the gasp still had her breath, he thrust and withdrew. “Tell me you want me."

"I want you.” She found her breath, but rolled him to his back and tested the position, sitting astride him. Leaning so that she could kiss him Madeline whispered, “Is this supposed to feel so good?"

"Yes.” He kissed her and helped her sit up. His eyes moved over her breasts, down to the dark brown curls. “I'm going to show you how good. In a coach ... on a garden walk, whenever and wherever you please."

It was later, when he was behind and she was on her knees, her face damp and body trembling with the fire he stoked, that Madeline gasped, “I had no idea..."

"I'm having more since meeting you.” He caressed her flank and leaned over to bite her nape. His hips moved, thrust and circled, and her moans and groans had him closing his eyes, savoring the sexual chills the erotic fever—that was about to climax for them both.

Moments later he was grasping her hips, building to the climax and growling sexual words that seemed to heighten it for them both. And when the fire robbed him of the ability to speak, they were skin to skin, clutching tight, until the slowing of their hearts had their muscles relaxing.

The moon rode high, and their bodies were tangled amid the white sheets. The scent of sex clung to them, amid the remnants of fragrant soap from earlier, and the sun-dried linen of the bedding. Madeline had dozed and thought him asleep too, as she eased up and out of bed, pouring a glass of wine, once more wearing his shirt, and sitting in the archway to view the man lying in the bed.

His bronze body, large and sculpted, the raven hair in contrast to the pillow. She shuddered on a sigh, half-wondering if it was a dream. If she would wake up and...

"Madeline?” his tone was muffled by the pillow he had beneath him, as he lay on his stomach.

"Yes."

His head raised, his eyes mysterious and catching the moonlight. “It's more than the passion. Though that, is stronger than anything I have known."

She swallowed. “For me, it is. I have loved you even when I hardly knew you. I don't doubt my feelings, Dorian."

"Nor I.” He pushed and sat up, leaving the sheet around his hips as he joined her, sitting opposite and taking a sip of her wine. “I can't live on fish and bread however, My duties require more substance."

Madeline burst out laughing, and catching his smile, she reached out and touched his cheek. “It's gone you know, all that bitterness..."

"I know.” He covered her hand then lowered it, held it. “Why didn't I know what you were really capable of ... I wasted years..."

"I would rather that, and have you come to me as you did, than have you thinking it was all a mistake, and perhaps never having this."

He took a drink of wine and handed her the glass, but pulled to her sit between his legs, wrapping his arms around her. “This doesn't exist in the world I knew. You are unique, Madeline, one of the most intriguing women I've ever met."

"That is good to know."

He laughed at her tone. “We will have interesting children."

She looked up and back at him. “And raise them ourselves, as my father raised us?"

"Yes."

Madeline smiled and sighed.

"Why did you leave the bed?"

She admitted, “To look at you. To tell myself it was real, and I wasn't dreaming. To..."

He grasped her chin and kissed her, raising to murmur, “That's why I didn't want you to leave it. I imagined you beside me so many times since we met."

"I used to think that you were dangerous, that there was an edge to you that..."

He arose with Madeline in his arms, and took her to bed, lightly dropping her down, and then crouching over her.

She saw a fire, a kind of smoldering in his eyes. “What's wrong..."

He held her arms lightly above her head. “I'm hungry,” Then he proceeded to lave her face, her neck, suckle her breasts until she was panting and arching, and when he was finally feasting, laving long strokes between her legs, Madeline was not left in doubt as to what he intended.

Sometime near dawn she was wrapped in toweling, her hair still wet from nearly falling asleep in the tub. Snug against his soap-scented chest, she asked, “How long can you stay away from London?"

"Long enough to marry you and dull some of the craving..."

Oddly enough, she understood that. “Liddy would want to see me married."

His laughter rumbled and he sleepily rubbed her backside, “Somehow, love, I don't think your sister is even thinking of you or us."

She yawned. “How would you know that?"

He slid his hand under the sheet and over the mounds to the lightly pet and pleasure her though she was tired, they both were exhausted, she grew moist and wet. “Someone told me she had spit and fire. Someone who had kissed her, someone with a thick, Scots’ accent."

She raised on her elbow to ask him to explain, but he leaned close, touching his mouth to hers, whispering wouldn't she love to go to sleep on the clouds of a climax? And Madeline forgot all about Liddy as she lay there and let him ease her into sleep, the way he wanted.

Bonus story

Scotland...

Lydia Duvall was freezing to death. At least that's how she felt even wrapped in fleece, rolled into it more like, upon her bed in the corner of the main hall.

The castle was drafty, wind howled like a banshee, spiraling down from the top most of the keep. She imagined it whipped like a white frozen snake down the stone stairs.

Liddy, as she thought herself, had complained when her father purchased the castle, and they had stayed here the first time—in summer—that there needed to be doors and walls. Even the upper stories were open rooms, save for that positively primitive latrine, which, she did not wish to think of climbing to in the dead of night.

But seeing as how the massive hearth had to warm the entire lower great hall, she understood the lack of doors and walls in order for the heat to disperse. She simply wished that she'd put her bed over there, instead of letting him bed down, as he put it, in order to feed the fire.

To her mind, there wasn't a fire hot enough to kill the chill. Her teeth chattered, the old bed was rattling from the shiver in her body. She must have been out of her bloody mind to come here again, at this time of year; she could be in Italy with her sister Madeline. she could be basking in the sun and...

Brrr. Lydia rolled out of the bed, wincing as the cold stones met her bare feet. Fighting to unroll herself, she managed to keep the fleece cape-like around her, and hurry to the hearth. As soon as the warmth hit her face, she opened the fleece by the corners to hold it out and let the fire heat her linen gown. Her long strawberry hair was a mess; straight strands pulled from the French braid by her burrowing.

"Yer freezing me arse off, Lass. Blockin’ the heat that way."

Liddy clamped the fleece shut and turned to the side, looking at that figure on the pallet. He had his plaid spread out over him, but he was so big and brawny, she knew he was nacked beneath. His auburn hair had lost its tie and was lying in wavy silk to his shoulder blades. But since she decided a long time ago that she detested him, Liddy retorted, “Too bad. I am freezing to death in that corner, and if you had any manners a'tall you would have insisted—

"On ye sleeping with me,” he finished.

"Not hardly.” She growled, though the idea sent a shiver up her back. She may have taken him up on it.

Liddy watched only to see that he was going to sit up, before she turned back to the fire. She already knew he was handsome in that craggy, wild way. His face was rugged, his skin ruddy and dark, and his eyes a piercing sky blue.

Douglas Mcullough, viscount Coldrick was six feet three inches of hewn oak and hard muscle. His face was chiseled as if from highland stones and his deep brogue had a rolling sound, a rumble to it, which she sometimes felt in the soles of her feet.

She must have been mad to come here again. She didn't detest him. she was obsessed with him.

"Sit here, lass. Where the sheets be warmed, till I can tend the fire."

"No. Thank you.” Liddy was recalling the first time they met. The night he had entered the castle came to her bed, and..."

"Dunna be stubborn.” She jumped because he was standing right at her shoulder. Liddy's green gaze moved up, over his bare chest, and that sinewy shoulder and throat, to find those blue eyes regarding her under frowning brows.

"I canna tend the fire with ye standing afore it."

Their gazes locked, held for long moments, and she knew her face burned as it had every time she laid eyes on him. He had explained it all—then. This used to be his home, he'd been foxed, and when he'd crawled into bed, felt her shape, he'd thought himself with some tavern maid. He hadn't meant to kiss her, to scare her, to touch her ... there.

But even though Liddy had believed him, though she found out from her father that Douglas had been in debtors prison, the castle heavily mortgaged, and Louis, a business man and merchant, had bought it—more for a place to enjoy with herself and Madeline, than any investment. He'd paid the man's debts, gave him leave to live there, as they would not use it more than a few weeks a year—and being free, having his debts paid up, the viscount had gotten foxed and ... what followed, followed.

Still, Liddy had been more affected by that kiss than she let on. She'd been an unkissed virgin, a serious-minded and strong-willed female. And certainly there were no Scottish giants in the business districts she and Madeline lived in. Here in this castle, it was too easy to forget civilize society, and looking at Douglas made her feel things she didn't want to feel, shouldn't feel, under the circumstances.

Tearing her gaze from his, Liddy stepped aside and sat on his cot. Smelling the warmed scent of wool and wood, a hint of heather and earthy moss, she tried not to sit where he had lain, and perched herself on the edge.

Her eyes watched him take the logs from the niche and lay them in the hearth. He had the plaid tucked around his hips leaving the expanse of chest and back bare. The firelight caught the red curly fuzz that covered those massive pectorals and that swirled around his navel and went below. Looking at his large hands she remembered the feel of them, the way he'd slid one between her thighs.

Indeed growing warm, she deliberately looked glanced from him. It had been years ago. She should have forgotten it. She'd been kissed since then. Ross, Lord Lynwood had been calling on her for many years, so long that the handsome, blond, earl had been counting on her acceptance of marriage. She'd come close, so very close right after her father died, just a few weeks ago. She felt she owed it to him for so many reasons, and he felt secure in thinking so, because she'd allowed him liberties. Well, she'd wanted to, only he hadn't ... Oh, it was all a mess, tangled up in her inability to forget this uncivilized Scot.

She was wealthy, she did not need a fortune, actually Lynwood was one of the few titled men who would court a Cit's daughter without himself needing a fortune. He was fairly well off. She'd met his family, gone to his lovely estates—and he was so handsome he drew female eyes. The opposite kind of handsome that the Scot was. Ross was Adonis, almost beautiful, this man was ... well, suffice it to say, looking at him shouldn't make her weak in the knees, but it did.

Liddy glanced around at the shadows, marked now that fire blazed high. There was a long table not too far away, by the door that led through to a kitchen. Her work was piled on it, documents and ledgers, ink and wax, stacks of papers she had to read in order to keep up with her inheritance and manage her businesses, mostly through a solicitor. As much as her father tried to concentrate it before he died, there was a lot to attend.

Over by the bed were her unpacked trunks, save for the cape on a peg, the dress she'd taken off earlier, and four carpetbags full of her personal items.

Against the wall opposite were crates, many crates. When they had bought the castle she and Madeline had researched the history—Much of it his history. They had sought out some of the original items that had been sold. He'd had years to unpack them and disperse them, yet he hadn't.

Liddy sighed inwardly. She knew he was bitter, knew that letting him live here wasn't the same as him owning it, and that ever since they had met, and he'd been sober, he'd only done those things she asked him to. At least when she was here.

She had no idea what he did when she wasn't in residence, but brood and likely get foxed. Yes of course, he worked the land, but his personal life? And taking the initiative to unpack the crates, and put the castle in some sort of livable order.

It had been over a year since she'd sent the modern stove and amenities for the kitchen. There were comforts, luxuries, that suited the castle, and few of them he'd bothered unpacking. At least he had brought them inside, and carried the ones that belonged there upstairs. She supposed that she would have to get around to unpacking them—because she had told herself if she was wrong and she felt nothing now, this time, she was going to cut the castle and him, loose.

She did not need it. And it didn't provide an income. She had too many rents already and owned houses. She'd give it to him, and good riddance.

"Here, lass. This be hot."

She turned her head, seeing his shadow before he sat down on his haunches, pressing a cup of coffee with thick cream into her hands.

Liddy took it with a murmur of thanks, unmindful when the fleece fell around her hips. Her gaze skimmed him as she sipped and savored the taste. He was sitting on the slab ledge beside the niche, just to the side of the fire, drinking from his own cup. His bent knees causing the plaid to part and expose one whole muscled leg to the thigh.

The red and yellow flames seemed to dance over him, to spark off. She held the cup in her hands, hearing the crackle from the logs, a faint sound of the clock still packed away, and that bloody wind battering the massive walls. But the thick silence was more than that, and unknowingly her eyes measured him, thinking what a painting he would make with that deep auburn hair simmering with fire and all the shadows and warm amber lights from the hollows and sinew of his face.

His brow was wide, his eyes thick blond lashed, and his nose roman, his lips were slightly fuller on the bottom, sensual and dark, and there was a shadow of beard, she recalled he'd said something about growing a beard in winter, to keep his face and neck warm. That face was unique, neck wide sinewy—and strong like the rest of him.

When Liddy flickered her gaze up, it was to find him watching her. She wished like bloody hell that she could have a normal conversation with him, instead of the short provoking exchanges they normally had.

In her mind she recalled a local woman telling about his childhood. He had been the youngest of three brothers, a wild and wooly lad whom, even when his father sent him to school, would slip back home and run the countryside; fishing and hunting, roaming the highlands. Everyone knew him, and everyone had a great affection for him. But he'd grown up, and his wildness turned to raking, and while his brother's did their share, they were mostly gentlemen, well employed. And William the oldest was set on restoring the castle and lands.

The economy being what it was, it took mostly living in the larger cities to get by. William, the then viscount, had impressed enough people so that he moved in society and met an earl, whose daughter he planned to wed. Rory had ambition, and drive, and they were tall, strong men, who were born to lead

The rumors at the taverns, whispered of course, was that Douglas, after their father died, had lived here in the castle, but often went to the lowlands to gamble and drink. But it was nothing like the war—and many agreed that after the war, Douglas was never the same.

It took a year of probing, of discreet questioning to find out that when his brothers went off to war, Douglas had followed. It was speculation, but likely true, that his brothers hadn't wanted him to do it. They'd loved their rogue of a brother, protected him in some sense, and through their contacts, likely through Williams future father in law, they had made sure Douglas saw little combat, that he was given the job of clerking for a captain Neely.

When the brothers were killed and the war was over. Douglas came home a viscount, a bitter and self-destructive man, who cared of nothing and no one, least of all himself.

Liddy tried to remember this, as she'd gone through the years in London, years of traveling and those of reality as the assumed future bride of Lord Lynwood. She was a strong woman in business, in life. But she never gained her balance around this man. He wasn't suave, sophisticated, nor was he the polished and urbane male of the city. She never had trouble talking to any sex—but they had started off with that intimate encounter and nothing had been normal in emotions since.

Taking another drink she moved her gaze away, and back to the fire murmuring, “It must be near dawn."

"'Tis,” he agreed. “I'll set about breaking fast as soon as me eyes are open."

His disgruntled tone pricked her, Liddy replied, “You don't have to cook for me. I can do it myself.” She stood and collected the fleece. “Why don't you unpack the crates today? They've been sitting long enough."

He stood too. “Best dress yerself warm."

She nodded and went to her corner, dragging the fleece with her. As she fumbled in the trunks, he'd gone to the kitchens, to start water heating, to bathe likely, and dress. Privacy was something she had not given a thought to until she'd arrived here again. Last night she had bathed while he was outside seeing to the horses. But she'd bought a new brass tub and copper pipes, and everything for plumbing more than three years ago. That too sat upstairs unpacked.

Sitting on her bed she pulled on wool stockings and half boots. Slipping the night rail over her head, over her chemise she drew on a silk-lined jacket that buttoned up the front. Standing, she pulled on the matching green skirt and latched it at the side. Digging through her bags, she collected her brush, tossing it on the bed as she undid the long braid, so that the straight strawberry blond length fell in ripples to her waist.

Liddy smelled ham and eggs, and was leaning, dragging the brush through her hair when he came through that small door. He carried two plates to the table, obviously ignoring her earlier words. He was dressed now in a pair of brown leather breeches and supple boots, a saffron shirt, as if it were not cold out, and his hair was tied at the nape. From the looks of it, he'd also shaved.

After he'd gone again and returned with cups and a pitcher, a tray with bread and jam, he glanced over at her—about the time Liddy flung her hair back. She was holding a ribbon in her teeth, ready to gather it and tie it.

But even at the distance his blue eyes were obviously going over her, over her face and hair. “Come and eat,” he offered gruffly.

She held his gaze and took the tie from her mouth, gathering her hair at the nape, tying the ribbon. He looked away first, his hands clasped behind his back, merely standing by the chair, obviously awaiting her.

Before she joined him, she looped the long tail of her hair and gathered it in a net, securing the combs. Liddy joined him at the table.

The breakfast was silent too, a bit thick from lack of conversation. The pouring of milk, scraping of a spoon, soon grated on Liddy's nerves.

"I've some work to finish up, then I'll help you arrange what you unpack. You may as well burn the crates, no use keeping them. There will be a delivery sometime next month when the roads are more passable."

Having sat back and pushed his empty plate away, he eyed the stacks of ledgers he'd moved out of the way. “I'm sorry about yer, Da."

"Thank you, he lived a very full and busy life.” She swallowed and pushed her own plate away. “He raised Madeline and I after our mother died...” She felt overwhelmed suddenly, with the sadness and the responsibility her father left to them. Her tone was strained as she picked up her cup and murmured, “He made life interesting, and business challenging, enjoyable for both us. We'll never be able to match his accomplishments, merely try and steward what he left us."

"I'm sure yer intended will help in that."

His mutter drew her eyes to him. “Are you speaking of Lord Lynwood?"

He shrugged and sipped from his cup.

She opened her mouth to tell him that she had cried off. But Liddy changed her mind. Why should she confide in him?

Instead she stood. “I'll see to the dishes."

Douglas sat there as she cleared the table. He watched her move, as he always did, having a dozen memories in the short time she'd been here this time, to make him toss and turn at night.

He muttered to himself and arose; getting himself occupied opening the crates. They were his history, the castle's history, and he hadn't wanted to dig back into his past. He no longer liked to think about anything, not the fact that he'd been the one to lose the castle, the reason someone else owned it. Just as he was the one living, instead of William and Rory—who had done everything in their lives right, not like himself, who hadn't a care for anything until it was too late.

As he went about opening crates, burning the slats and straw, he thought of another thing that haunted him ... or rather the woman. He had not seen Lydia Duvall more than a dozen times, in the weeks she had come here out of the years her father had owned it. But it took all of that time in between, to banish the sight of her from his mind.

Standing by the fire to feed planks into it, he watched her emerge from the kitchen and arrange the lamps on either end of the table. She leaned over, stacking her ledgers and papers, preparing to work.

Douglas saw her now, but saw her as she had been no more than an hour ago. With the fleece around her and that mussed strawberry hair floating loose in strands that touched her brow and cheek. She was a fair woman, as fair as the morning mists, and her height, though not tall, was enhanced by the grace of her movements. She was feminine for all she had more brains and sense than most he knew. He had night sweats from the memory of touching her soft rose scented skin.

The fairness of her hair and skin made her jade eyes all that more dramatic. And though her brows and lashes were blond, it did not wash her out, but rather it gave her a fresh allure. Her lips were Very light pink, her nose straight and the angles of her face not as pronounced as her sister's handsome features, but pretty and delicate.

He knew Lydia Duvall was not in any sense delicate. He'd learned enough about her to know she rode hell for leather and worked like a man in her father's business. He had read in the social pages, a description of her at her aunt's ball, and he could imagine it so well his dreams that night were full of her. And certainly, he knew she had spit and fire, not only because she looked him in the eye when she spoke to him, but because she walked, talked, and carried herself like it.

He left the hearth and went back to the business at hand. Nevertheless Douglas recalled that night, the first one, where he had left the prison and gotten himself a room, a bottle of whiskey and new, clean set of clothing. He'd nearly boiled his skin off after lying in the filth of the gaol, and he'd trimmed his hair, dressed himself in the latest dash, and proceeded to get himself stumbling drunk.

In some part of his mind he was coming to the castle as he had a hundred times before. But there was a bitterness driving him, that was not so thankful that Louis saved him and his home, for the castle would have fallen to ruin like a hundred more—and he would have died of disease or worse before he could ever clear the debts attached to it or him.

But he'd come home with his jacket and shirt rumpled, his steps unsteady, and his vision blurred. He'd either fallen or climbed into bed after pulling off all but his trousers. But the moment her scent and form reached him, he'd grabbed her and kissed her ... more than that, he had not heard her gasp nor felt her fists beating his head, he'd ran his hands over her, pulled up her gown and had his hand between her legs.

It was a combination of her beating the bloody hell out of him, and the fact his finger was wedged in a tight sheathe that was unprepared—that sobered him. Horrified, he'd jerked his hands from her and rolled out of the bed to the floor. Only to scramble back up on his knees clamping a hand over her mouth before she could scream.

"Forgive me, lass. I didna mean ye harm. I swear it. Dunna scream, please. I hae drunk meself blind and dunna even know ... I'm Douglas, Douglas McCullough, this be my ... it was me home.” He'd babbled all sorts of things, anything, to get that look of terror out of her eyes.

Something eventually penetrated, because she calmed and he'd taken his hand away. Eyeing her as he dressed and cursing in his mind because she was young and yes, a virgin. He'd sunk to the depths, he thought—he was a near rapist. And self sick, as well as sick in his guts from drink; he'd apologized and took himself out to the stables to sleep.

Since Louis and her sister were in residence, he'd eventually presented himself and moved inside to sleep in the upper solar. But he'd stayed outside mostly, and he had talked only to Louis. He had watched her with her sister coming and going or walking the land, but he'd kept his distance.

The haunting of her, the thinking of her, it had come of its own accord. He'd been well set to resent them all, to hold to his bitterness and blame someone for the fact he'd made too many mistakes in life to fix them. It never left his mind that his brothers had died instead of him. His life was a waste, a useless one spent on indulging his whims and amusing himself. He shouldn't have been the one to come home.

But as he cleaned the castle of neglect and debris, repaired the walls and timbers and replaced the led windows. He had heard her laughter echoing through the hollow chambers, and he smelled her rose scent when she passed by him wearing some fashionable suit.

There had been a day when he'd been on the roof working, and looked down at the emerald grass amid the jutting rocks. He'd caught a flash of strawberry hair and saw that she was riding a muscled roan—bareback. He'd forgotten his work and witnessed her return from a run, having slowed the mount to a walk. He realized she wore trousers, male attire, and that her hair was down, like skeins of silk, hanging to the small of her back.

She'd dismounted by a boulder and sat, letting the reins hang loose in her hand while she looked around and at the sky. And when her eyes had turned to him, too far to see their color, but knowing it all the same, he'd thought she'd run for her life, take off, but she merely shaded her eyes, then dropped her hand and looked away, and she had lingered awhile, before leaving.

When she left that time, he'd spent a year wondering if she'd return. Then when she had, she'd been older, maturer, fully grown in the sense that the curves had filled out. Her build was slimmer than her sister's hourglass curves, but she was in no way skinny. Her breasts and hips rounded; her legs were long for a woman of her height. And the maturity had given her more of an air of confidence, and more strength of character he somehow sensed.

In any event, he hardly spoke to her while he saw to the deliveries of the crates, and he was aware that she was asking questions about his family. There was some exchange, a heated one, where she'd explained to him they were restoring what possessions they could to the castle. But he'd resented that too.

A moment stood out in his mind of that argument, when they were standing on the path to the door and she'd been dressed in a brown suit, a saucy hat of brown silk, with the lines of a man's top hat. As usual, strands of her hair were blowing lose from the braided bun, and whatever she'd said back, to his bitter words, escaped him, for in that vivid moment, her flushed cheeks and green sparkling eyes mesmerized him.

He'd come close, within inches of kissing her again. Only this time he hadn't been foxed, and this time, his knees had gone weak with something he'd never felt before.

Douglas didn't recall what interrupted them. But the kiss hadn't happened, and he was later thankful, because of what came before, she likely thought him a lecher.

He'd drank the following year, brooded and drank and thought about her wealth, her standing, her father and the life he'd taught his daughter's to lead. In between reading of the social season, after he discovered her Uncle Jasper and Aunt Tabatha were a part of that, he'd read the other news—and had it finally hit him what sort of family she came from. It was more impressive than had she been an aristocrat.

He became a bit obsessed with gathering information on Liddy and her sister, and he had learned that her mother too had been a woman of business sense, a merchant's daughter, and a unique individual.

Douglas resented that too. He became resentful, because it was her father who paid his debts and her father who gave him a roof over his head—In his family home.

A dozen times he left the castle, telling himself he wouldn't return. Let them have it, he would think, it's nothing to me. But he remembered Louis, a man hard not to like, speaking with him, telling him to treat the castle as his own, to see to it repairs were made, to feel at ease with living there, for they couldn't get away to live in it more than a few weeks a year. And he'd remember giving his word, a word that hadn't been worth much before. And in essence everyone in the area ignored the fact that Louis held the deed and Louis stocked the pastures and paid the taxes, everyone treated him as he had never lost it and frittered away his life.

Not sure why exactly—he couldn't let go and walk away, he always returned.

But she began to haunt him...

He finished the last of the crates below and went above to see to the others. It was sheer stubbornness that he hadn't put the beds together and installed the modern pipes and plumbing. He kept the castle clean, and he took care of the stock, but he kept it stark and bare, to remind himself that it echoed his life.

Taking a break from the work, he lit the fireplace in the solar and sat upon the stone stairs. Reaching for his pouch, he filled a small pipe with fragrant tobacco and puffed. He didn't feel the cold because of his labors, and there was a fine sheen of sweat on him. He was tempted to seek out his whiskey, but didn't trust himself anymore, not with her.

Perhaps he should have stopped at the farm during the funeral, instead of staying in his coach. He'd intended to. He'd told himself he would. But he'd long heard of her association with Lord Lynwood. He'd gone so far as to take a trip to London and get a look at the man. In one of the coffeehouses, he'd heard the talk, and discovered the earl was rich, not after her fortune, and obviously infatuated with the merchant's daughter.

He'd hung about the city long enough to see the London mansion she lived in, to discover the vast extent of her father's businesses and the wealth she and her sister would inherit. He had heard enough to keep him in that coach, and return to the castle, cursing—and hoping she would not bring her husband there for the honeymoon.

Douglas grunted and shook his head. He never would have thought she'd return alone, without so much as a maid. He had gawked at the village lad who brought the news that she was on her way. And he had resorted to his surly brooding silence since, telling himself she belonged to another man, a better man, and even if she could do more than tolerate him, he had nothing, absolutely nothing, to offer a woman like that.

"Are you done, then?"

He looked down at the landing, seeing she had changed into a white blouse and rolled up her sleeves, her skirt was plain cotton and pleated.

"Aye.” He stood and waited for her to ascend.

She reached him a bit out of breath, and as he would have emptied his pipe at the window, she commented, “I don't mind the scent of good tobacco."

So he clamped it back in his teeth. They entered the solar and he motioned to the large bed frame. “If ye'll hold the posts, I'll have it together in nae time."

Liddy nodded and took hold of the post he directed her to. Using a soft mallet he had the thing together, the scrolled headboard and footboard attached.

She dressed it with linens after he tossed the feather mattress on the springs; he put the bench under the window and let her then add the cushions and a throw. They were busy with lamps and wardrobes after that, and though they passed each other, nothing was said until she stood by the mantle and watched him light the bedside lamp.

"It's lovely."

He had to agree, though he only nodded. Standing a bit away from her, he saw the bed dressed in black silk and gold, tasseled pillows against the polished oak. And the bedside stands with rounded lamps glowing; the deep burgundy carpet, in front of the bench that held embroidered pillows.

It was below, when he unpacked the family portraits, many of them still missing, that he was hanging one of himself and William and Rory, a painting done in the far pasture, with a beautiful sky behind them—that he went still and stared at it—above the mantle where she had insisted he place it.

He was about twelve then and he recalled grumbling at his father, who made them dress in brown wool trousers, jackets and saffron shirts. They wore bonnets with the family crest and both William and Rory had their hands upon his shoulder. William's hair was the color of his own, but Rory's was black as pitch. And while he scowled, they smiled, and it hurt him like nothing before to look at it.

"They were very good men, brave. I have heard they were both awarded distinction during the war."

He swallowed thickly and nodded.

Douglas could tell she was looking at him, could feel her standing beside him.

"It's not your fault..."

His head turned and he stared at her before walking away. He needed whiskey. But even as his found the flask under the pallet, she said, “It doesn't solve anything, the drinking, it doesn't change a thing."

"How would ye know?” He growled at her.

Her eyes were very calm. “Because you haven't changed since I met you the first time, and I know you've done a lot of that since then.” She nodded to the flask. “We've work to do."

His fingers flexed on the container but at her parting stare before she turned and went back to the scattered items, he threw the flask down. She was trying to drag a bench, a large bench by herself.

"Dunna drag the thing. The legs will break.” He strode over and moved her away, picking up the bench and following to where she pointed, in front of the fire. Added to it over the next hour, were chairs and a sturdy table. Then there were tapestries, other paintings, some done of the castle, and weapons, which weren't of there, but suited their place displayed in the niches.

There was a break for lunch, cold water for her and mead for himself under her watching eyes. They rolled out carpets, put a table to hold decanters, pewter bowls and candle sticks near the wall.

It was snowing out. The fat candles she lit illuminated the room while he put together screens and hammered pegs into pieces taken apart during shipment. By the time she excused herself to put on a pork in the kitchens, he stood by the fire seeing flashes of his plaid in the throws over a chair or bench, the crest on pillows she must have ordered—and on the black velvet upholstered chairs flanking that bench by the fire.

Memories assailed him, spying a chess set he and his brothers had used, a pipe stand and pipe he recalled pawning somewhere locally, and by the row of windows was his mother's embroidery stand, now draped with cloth woven in the neighborhood. There were tall and short candle stands, iron boxes and a long runner of black with plaid edging. Overhead, there were three great iron chandeliers that he'd thought long since melted down and destroyed.

Since he'd unpacked a smaller table, she'd moved her work to that, and slid a high back chair underneath. The larger table she'd dressed with lace edged linen and set a silver bowl in the center.

"Would you set it, please?"

He jerked his gaze to her, seeing that she was holding plates. Nodding, he strode over and took them, set the table and then went back to the kitchens to help preparing the meal.

Having been converted from a pantry and storeroom, the kitchens were not large. The brick oven and open hearth cooking made it chore to prepare anything but the basic, though she was a good cook for someone who likely had servants. The herbs she added filled the space with a nice aroma, and the stores she'd brought, rich butter and chives, which she added to the potatoes and other winter vegetables, made his mouth water.

They carried everything to the table, and he eyed her as she poured wine in both their goblets.

"It seems fitting."

He nodded and having washed his hands and face slicked his hair back, still felt as if he should have bathed before sitting down with her.

She hadn't done more than wiped her face with a cloth, dusted her clothing, and yet he had a hard time keeping his eyes off her.

The clock now ticked on the mantle, and due to the lamps, the candles, the room was brighter, warmer. Her cheeks were flushed from the hearth fire.

"I'll put the pipes together when the weather breaks,” he said resting his knife across his plate. “Nae use of it now, the water would freeze."

"If you use the sewing room, the chamber right off the solar, it will make more sense."

He nodded watching her lips as she drank from her glass. “I've doors planed and sized in the stables. The locks and hinges didna come in time to install them afore winter. But a mon from Edinburgh will come in the spring to re-plaster the walls. I thought tae frame in more at the same time."

She set the glass down, looking at it as if in thought. “I'll be leaving when the weather breaks..."

There was a long heavy silence. Then, she glanced up at him and murmured, “I've brought the deed with me. Father left it to me, since Madeline.... She liked it here, but she has more than she can manage. I've put a large sum in the bank, to cover taxes and expenses which you can draw on, enough to pay any labor and allow for unexpected..."

She cleared her throat. “I've signed the deed, all the necessary papers, I'm giving it back to you."

"No.” His fingers curled into fists.

"Yes. I won't be back. It's your home and..."

His chair scrapped back, his eyes glaring at her. “Nae! Ye wilna’ do this."

"I've done it.” She stood too, throwing down her napkin. “It's your home. I've a dozen of them, and..."

He cursed and strode to the fireplace, his hand raking through his hair. “I willna take it."

"It belongs to you, Douglas. All of this ... belongs to you."

Looking at her, he saw her gesture toward the room at large. But he was stunned, and furious. “I'll leave. I willna’ live here."

Her expression softened but her eyes held his. “Who else should live here? Who cares for it? Just another old castle left to ruin. A place for pigeons and tumbling down as it was, for cattle and sheep to wander through. It's nothing but stone and some vague piece of history to others, but to you, it was, it is home."

"Nae. It was William's ... and maybe Rory's, but I shoulda’ n'er been the one to..."

"Live?” she cut him off.

He swallowed and turned away, but then his eyes were drawn to the portrait and it all hurt worse. “I'll take it back to where it be before. I'll hae it in debt and destroyed."

"I don't believe that. I don't think you would."

"Ye dunna know anything.” He laughed bitterly, his eyes aching on his brother's face. “Ye think that stories and talk in the pubs ... I didna deserve it, not they're lookin’ out for me, and not the place I stand in their stead. I didna care about anything’ but meself for most my life."

Having come around the table Liddy stood with her arms crossed, feeling the hairs on her nape rise. She thought he was speaking to the painting rather than to her. Most of the day she had watched him handle pieces he must have known were once in his possession, and the nerves in his temple would constrict, the sinew would bunch in his jaw, as he were biting back emotion.

She'd seen the pain ripple across his face when he'd hung the painting.

But she'd also felt that her decision was being made for her. That whatever she had built a long ago kiss into, a kiss not really meant for her, it had been more in her mind than in actuality. Whatever it was that Douglas made her feel, whatever it was about him that made her aware of him, as she was not with any other man, it was something he didn't share.

He was saying, “I ne'er loved it as William did, and me feet itched to leave it sae often, I hadna come home in a year afore the last time, before the war, when we supped together."

"But you do love it. It's something of them, something they loved."

He dropped his gaze and then turned to look at her, his large frame taunt with emotion that was echoed in his light eyes. “Ye've a feelin’ for it yerself. I seen so from yer first time here. Ye worked to find what belonged."

And a feeling for you, she thought; though I've no idea why. “You belong here, too. If I didn't care for it, feel for it—as you say, I would sell it to any number of people. I don't need the money and what I've spent on it is nothing I couldn't afford. I understand pride, but it is misplaced in this instance."

"I canna do it. I canna let you gie it to me."

Liddy drew in a long breath and released it. “Think about it.” She turned and started clearing the table. “Consider it seriously."

She felt his gaze on her as she carried the dishes to the kitchens, and every trip to the table and back. She stayed in the kitchens, washing up the items in sudsy water, smelling his pipe and imagining his brooding and likely sipping from the flask.

She heated her bathing water after the dishes were done, and poured it in a large pan. Then went back to collect a flannel robe and gown, her slippers. As she passed by him, going to the kitchens, he murmured he'd be out checking the stock.

Liddy bathed, washing her hair and wrapping it in toweling, scrubbing and drying and dressing—thinking of him out in the snow, in the dark, wondering what she would do if he still refused.

She was by the fire, combing her hair, letting it dry when he came in.

He removed his wet boots and glanced at her on his way to the kitchens. She knew he bathed and heard the sounds of the water pouring. He padded out, barefoot and in trousers later; his hair was wet and slicked back behind his ears. He silently handed her a cup of coffee.

"Thank you.” She set aside the comb and took a seat on the bench. He stood by the mantle, one hand braced on it, the other holding the cup he sipped from.

"How is my mare?"

"Snug and fed,” He glanced at her, his gaze sliding from her now damp hair pulled over one shoulder, down to her slippers on the stool and away. “The snow hae stopped, the wind too, thankfully."

Her gaze went over his chest, as he was standing half in profile, it occurred to her that Ross would never do that, never expose his body, no matter how well formed, to her eyes. He admired her intellect, but he still treated her as most aristocracy treated their ladies, and though she suspected he had a mistress, he was almost prudish in his modesty.

In a sense that was flattering, as a woman, it gave her a nice feeling, but there were times she had considered what intimacies with him would be like. She'd known without a doubt, he held the same views that many men did, that females should not enjoy sex, nor should they have strong passions. There were women who were in homes for having strong sexual appetites, and many physicians believed it an aberration.

Thank god their lives put them in contact with better information. And Liddy herself had talked to women, wives, discreetly, to know that desire was healthy and passion was natural. Still, she would have never said so to Lynwood. She had that feeling that though he didn't mind her fortune, or her brains, he would rather forget she had either.

He didn't like to discuss the fact she could and did control her holdings, and he wasn't comfortable with her knowledge of the world being equal to his.

Liddy slid her gaze to the flames. He had been shocked when she broke it off. Angry and completely startled that she refused him. He accused her of leading him on. And she had. He had told her that she needed a man ... and not in the way she did want one, but rather he stressed the realities, that trying to live and do business alone would mark her as a fast woman. It wouldn't matter whom her father had been, how smart or capable she was...

Part of what he said was true. It was a reality, though she generally had an escort and there would be a staff, and perhaps she'd hire a companion. But none of that was why she had refused him. Not even the fact that his attitudes were different from her own. She refused him because in all the years she was around him, in all the kisses they exchanged, she had felt nothing.

Douglas moved and drew her eyes to him again as he took the seat across from her, propping one of his strong feet on the bench, and drawing her gaze then to the bunched muscle of his body. His position spread his thighs slightly and dried her throat with all sorts of base thoughts.

"You went to university in England?” She flickered her gaze to his, flushing a bit as he had been watching her.

"Nae. In Edinburgh.” A dimple showed as he attempted a grin. “I was thrown out often enough."

She smiled a bit herself, believing that. “Madeline and I had tutors, but we learned the most from father. I did however, talk him into letting us get fencing lessons. He thought it would come in handy as self defense."

"William be ... was a master at it. Rory had the best aim. About the only thing I was better at than they, was boxing and riding, and gambling."

"You did a lot of that ... gambling?"

"Aye."

She bit her lip and watched him tuck the drying strands back behind his ear. “How old are you?"

"Twenty—eight.” His light gaze touched hers. “Yer twenty—two?"

"How'd you guess that?” She laughed softly.

"I read it. About the party, at yer Da's farm."

"Oh ... yes, the last one.” She looked down at her cup. “It's a good memory, amusing actually. Madeline and I took the boat out, something we hadn't done in years.” She told him the story of the butler teaching Madeline to swim at twelve, later teaching her too. “We had invited guests, but for some reason we couldn't sleep that night, and it's our ritual to meet in her room and chat. On impulse we dressed in trousers and grabbed a lantern, and went out on the lake."

"What happened?"

She raised her gaze, ignoring for a moment that his eyes watched her mouth. “It was calm, we could hear the plop of fish, and we'd been discussing.... A man she has been in love with for years ... being rather serious. But we fell silent and suddenly it seemed ... sinister. You know, no moon and all sorts of night sounds. We were laughing and scrambling for the oars, both of us grabbing them and fighting over who could get us to shore the fastest. Madeline won, but I let go and she fell back ... in any event, the oars went over the side. We ended up swimming and feeling all sorts of things under the dark water."

He was grinning.

Liddy laughed and shook her head. “Our clothing was sucked to us, and we had to rouse cook to let us in the kitchens. The things that came out of our boots ... but we were coddled and dried, later we lay on her bed in the dark laughing about it."

"Yer sister ... she wouldna hae a fancy for Lord Fairbane would she?"

Liddy's brows rose. “Oh, lord. Do not tell me that gossip..."

"Nay. I seen him at..."

"At where?” She prodded.

"At yer Da's funeral."

She stared at him. “You came. You were there?"

"Aye."

"Why didn't you ... I didn't see you."

"'Twas raining fierce and there were many people there. I stayed in the coach."

"Oh.” She said it, and yet she saw the way he looked from her, to some point behind, and drank from his cup.

"He liked you, my father."

"I'm nae the mon he was."

"His wealth wasn't all there was to him. Yes, he worked hard, he was smart. But though he took Maddy and myself in hand, he had a private side, even a side that we did not see."

His gaze returned to her.

Liddy told him, “After he died, we were going through papers. We discovered he had a mistress, a woman his age that he left well off. But there was a journal, and as hard as it must have been for him to be discreet, to raise us and see to business, he grieved so over the loss of my mother, that he drank heavily for awhile. He wrote, that he sometimes found it hard to be all that was expected of him. To measure up to our hero worship, to some times simply get through the day. I suppose that is why he worked so hard ... to maybe forget."

"He loved her?"

"Very much. They had known each other. Their families did, all their lives. Aunt Tabatha had an infatuation for him, until she met uncle Jasper.” Liddy grinned. “But father fell in love with my mother on sight. She told us once, when she was very ill, that her father forbade marriage until she was twenty. But that she and my father were lovers before that."

"She told ye that?"

"Yes. Though Maddy and I didn't understand the meaning of it, it simply sounded wonderfully romantic. We eventually understood that they had a kind of ... passion. They were soul mates and knew it. Perhaps, she knew she'd have so little time with him."

He nodded slightly.

"You were a rakehell."

"Is that a question, lass?” He laughed abrupt and leaned to set his cup on the floor. “I was."

"And now?"

He set back, leaning his head against the chair back and regarding her frankly. “I canna afford to be."

She knew she was wading into deep waters. But Liddy told herself that she'd gone all these years thinking of him, yet not knowing him, other than those stories. At least if she never saw him again, she'd know something of his personal life.

"And if you could, afford to be?"

"I dunna know, since I havena the time to...” He stopped and stared at her a moment. “Do ye speak to his lordship of these things."

"His lordship?"

"Lynwood, yer intended."

She considered lying, but murmured, “I ended our relationship."

"Why?"

"Because I—Because we would not make a good match. I allowed the relationship to go on longer than it should. There's nothing to dislike in him, but we are not the sort of opposites who could have made each other happy."

"Because O'his title?"

"No. That had nothing to do with it. I don't mind society, and I have learned to ignore their attitudes toward those outside it. His family was quite charming and kind. But..."

"Eh?” He was regarding her intently.

"I didn't love him. After years of knowing him. I didn't love him, and knew I wouldn't—ever."

A log crackled in the fire. Liddy put her own cup down and crossed her ankles on the stool, smoothing her robe to ease the tension from his brooding stare.

"What will ye do, asides work, when ye leave?"

"Live my life.” She laughed and looked at him. “I am like father in that. I don't let ... I won't let mistakes or regrets bury me. I have too much intolerance to wallow in anything for long."

"As I did? Ye wouldna’ sunk to the..."

"That's different.” She stared at him. “I don't excuse your life before the war, but losing your brothers ... well, I love Maddy, I try not to imagine life without her in it. I have no idea how strong I'd be if she weren't. Losing my father brings home my limitations, and yes, they are frustrating, it exposes my vulnerabilities, and makes me feel somewhat adrift ... I've never been completely alone, never felt it, like you have."

"I dunna share that view. I made me own bed, and canna blame anyone but meself.” That sinew worked in his jaw. “Dunna make excuses for people who let their vices rule them, lass."

"I don't ... normally.” She bit her lip and sighed. “There aren't any men like you in the world I live in.” Her gaze went back to his. “Though I haven't seen you more than a dozen times, and this is the first full conversation we've managed to have. You're..."

He stared at her intently. “I'm what, Liddy?"

"Real,” she whispered and then looked away. She moved her feet, sitting up in the chair, uncomfortable with his gaze now and casting her own somewhere beyond him. “I've likely known more males than females in my life. Talked with them, worked with them, danced ... I don't know why, but I don't recall their faces, their voices, I don't think of them when they're not around...” She realized she had gone to far, and stopped, standing and reaching for her cup to take into the kitchens.

She stood in there a moment, asking herself what the bloody hell she was doing. Why was she blathering all of that, now? When it was very likely that he resented her for owning his home, affording him shelter there, offering to give it to him. She sensed the kind of man he was, the kind of guilt and anger he carried toward himself. What the bloody hell was she doing turning the conversation so intimate.

"I havna’ met a woman like ye either. Nae matter where I hae been."

Glancing toward the doorway, she saw him standing, his hands braced on the beam above it, looking at her.

She released the cup and turned, leaning her hip against the butcher's block and folding her arms to relay an ease she didn't feel. “If society allowed it, more women would reveal their brains and show their talents, and control their lives. It's not that they don't exist, it's just that attitudes make possessing such things scandalous, or unnatural in the female sex."

"That isna what I meant,” his tone was deep, quiet. His gaze skimmed down to her slippered feet and back up. “I ne'r apologized to ye, not outta me cups. For the way I..."

"I believed you, then. It's not necessary to..."

"I shouldna be sae honest, now. But I havena done much in me worthless life that accounts for respectable. Still, I wouldna hae abused a woman."

"I know that."

"Ye were but a bonny young lass. And I feared I gave ye a disgust of me, and a fear of ... things."

"You scared me. I will admit that. But what you said..."

"I dunna recall it all. Ye scared me sober too."

She smiled. “You offered me your dirk to stab you with."

He grinned and arched his brow. “I did?"

"Yes. And after you stopped begging me not to scream, you told me you'd stay away from me, and you apologized a half dozen times."

"I did ... stay away."

"Yes.” Her smile faded. “But I watched you, afterwards. I knew you felt guilt and shame, but I was all right."

"I don't know how ye can stand to look at me. Not just because of that."

Liddy read what he meant. “I've seen you work here, Douglas. You're not a lazy man. Nor are you ignorant. I see the ledgers, I know that though you probably drink too much, you've seen to the business, of running the castle and stock. I know you didn't use the income father provided you on yourself but bought the winter feed and paid..."

"I canna ever make enough to buy this back from ye, Liddy."

"You don't have to."

"I canna take it, free and clear either."

She pulled away from the table. “Don't decide tonight. It's late.” She met his gaze asking him not to refuse yet. “We should retire."

He stepped back to let her through, and Liddy smelled his scent as she passed by. He padded behind her, and then built up the fire while she turned down lamps and blew out tapers.

"Will ye sleep above? There the fire is likely still lit."

She glanced at him. “Yes, if you don't mind—"

"I dunna mind.” He gathered more wood while she lead the way up to the solar. There she sat on the bench, looking out at the snowy landscape while he laid a fire until the room was bathed in tranquil gold.

Still looking out the frosty pane, she murmured, “It's very beautiful."

"Aye."

Something in his tone made her glance at him. He was not looking at the window but at her. Back-lit by the fire, he seemed all the more vivid and powerfully built. She imagined that he walked out of the past, out of the age of Scottish warriors who swung broadswords and wore the plaid and marched to the pipes, who were lord of the castle.

"What goes on behind those eyes of jade, lass?"

"I was thinking ... that you fit this place. You look like your ancestors must have standing there, in that spot."

He grinned, somewhat abashed. “'Tis a romantic fancy to be sure."

She smiled back and stood. “And not usually a romantic and fanciful woman.” Liddy walked to the bed and turned it down, looking over her shoulder to see that he still stood there.

Sitting instead on the edge of the mattress, she let her hands relax in her lap and regarded him. “What's wrong?"

He shook his head, his gaze intense again. “Nothing...” He turned and headed for the doorway.

"Douglas?"

He stopped but didn't turn, and Liddy saw the tension bunching his muscles. “If I were afraid of you, I would have never come here on my own. And if I felt any disgust or any dislike of you, I would not have returned at all."

"Ye were a virgin ... unkissed."

She mentally sighed that it still bothered him. Forcing a laugh in her tone she murmured, “Yes. Well. I was young. But I have been kissed many times since, and my knowledge of such things has vastly expanded."

He didn't move. “Had I been in me wits, I woulda kissed ye differently. I'm glad ye like me even a bit. But I'm nae glad some other mon hae to kiss ye aright.” He waited a heartbeat then, “He was yer lover, Lord Lynwood?"

"No.” Liddy's heart was pounding too hard. Harder when he turned around slowly and looked at her. She whispered, “He treated me like a lady..."

He winced.

But Liddy added, “And I didn't mind. But after months and years, I should have minded ... I noticed his lack of any passion."

"He's a fool.” Douglas's eyes moved over her face and hair. “Yer beautiful, lass. So fair it hurts the eyes."

"Thank you.” She got the feeling he had wanted to say that for a long time and it thrilled her. “It means something, coming from you."

"Why?"

"Um, aside from your obvious experience...” She shrugged, “I don't think you pay empty compliments. And ... since I consider you rather unique, it matters to me."

He echoed, “—matters to you? What I think?"

"Yes.” She looked away from him. “I'm proud of my intellect, not ashamed of my abilities, and most of the time, I would rather men saw that than just my physical assets or my fortune. I assume you already know all of that, but I'm not thinking any of that when I'm here."

He took a step, then stopped and folded his arms simply regarding her for a long time. Then, “I attract ye a wee bit, lass?"

She flushed but smiled. “A bit."

"Goodnight, lass."

Liddy stared at him. “Goodnight.” She watched him turn and head below. When he was gone she lay back on the bed, arms out flung and eyes closed. She'd done it, admitted it, and now she would be on pins and needles until it was time to leave. But she meant it; at least she told herself that. She wasn't coming back. Talking to that man was like pulling teeth. He had smiled, grinned even, and she thought she sensed some intensity in his stare.

As Liddy crawled into the bed, she groaned, here I go again. Just when she decided to cut it—him—loose and get on with life, there was just enough in his responses to make her wonder, what if...

Chapter Eight

Douglas had left her breakfast when she awoke the next morning, and Liddy ate before settling down with coffee and work. She wrote a letter to Madeline, not knowing when she'd take it to the village for posting. But she felt she had to tell her of the progress at the castle, the decision she'd come to.

She changed into a wool gown, put on her fur-lined boots and cape, and went out into the snow-white landscape in the afternoon. She saw him—wondering how he stood the cold, for he had no coat on as he walked the path up, toward the stables.

Meeting him there, she watched him hang a pail he'd used on a peg, and she entered after him, smelling the warm horseflesh and earth. She stroked her roan's nose, while he went down the stalls, seeing to the others that were not work horses, since those were at the opposite end.

When Douglas finished he was washing his hands in barrel, looking at her.

His boots were muddy the leather breeches dirty and his shirt the same, and yet as usual, she felt a bit breathless at all that brawn and earthy muss. It was unnatural how he affected her. Had it been any other man in dirt and sweat, she likely would have thought he needed a bath.

He didn't break the gaze as he came toward her drying his hands on the shirt tail he'd pulled loose, and she knew when he came close that he was thinking of their exchange, and thinking about that admitted attraction.

Though his hand touched the horse's nose, his thumb brushing hers, which had been there first, he was looking down at her, and strands of his deep burgundy hair had fallen over his brow.

"Ye finished yer work for the day then, have ye?” His tone was soft and deep, his light eyes moving over her hair and face.

"Yes. I decided I needed some air."

Those light blue eyes shifted to her mouth and back to meet hers. “The snow is slick and deep, not much for riding or walking in safely. But if ye have care to, Ill take ye up on the stud, for a quick ride."

"I should change."

"There's nae a need. I'll hold ye aright."

The way he said that had her wetting her lips, an act that didn't escape his gaze. But she nodded and stood back while he went to fetch the huge black stud she'd seen him ride before.

In the stable yard the animal flung its head and rolled its eyes, its massive hooves pawed the ground. But he spoke soothing in Gaelic, rubbing his hands over the mount. After saddling it, mounting, he reached a hand to Liddy.

She chuckled and stood upon a rock to reach it. He soon had her settled across his thighs and waited until she adjusted her coat.

"You weigh as nothing, lass.” He clucked softly to the stud, and soon they were riding out of the yard, down a path and cutting through the snow.

Leaning against his chest, she tried to not notice the mingled smell of soap and man and heat, the shift of muscle in his thighs, or the fact it felt very much like an embrace when he held the reins.

"Aren't you cold?"

"Nae.” He halted the horse, just on a rise that overlooked a frozen loch. For a moment they sat there, hearing the blow from the stallion's nostrils, birds overhead, and a faint sound of wind through the surrounding woods.

Liddy looked up at him, to see he was gazing around. She murmured, “Did you swim here, with your brothers?"

He looked down at her. “Aye. And skated too.” His gaze moved over her face again. “Yer eyes are very green, lass. Like spring in the middle of all this white."

"I'm afraid it will sound trite should I return the compliment."

His smile came, a bit bemused. “I should have kissed ye then, the time we were standing on the path..."

She remembered it. “You should have."

He held the reins in one hand, raising the other to touch a strand of her hair that fluttered loose. He let it slide through his fingers. “Would ye be belivin, that I thought of ye, all these years."

"No."

Having watched his fingers touch her hair he met her gaze again. “I hae thought of little else."

Then he kneed the stallion and turned him, riding slowly back the way they had come. He went past the barn and rode a ways until the terrain prevented a smooth ride. And when they entered the stable yard again, he set her down and saw to the horse.

Liddy was already walking back when he joined her, and as they entered he murmured something of needing to wash the stink off.

She gave him privacy and went up to the solar, building up the fire and then changing into a simple gown of light green that buttoned up the front. It had a low round neckline and capped sleeves, and exchanging her wool stockings for white silk, she sat in the middle of the bed and brushed her hair, soaking up the warmth, and his admission. She'd brought a stack of books to read, and after reading all those business letters, she intended to delve into a good novel.

However she didn't move from the spot and sat there turning the brush in her hand, her hair slid around her like a cape, and her gaze unseeing on the fire. It couldn't be considered a quick change between them, considering the years she'd known him. But it was leaps of progress that he smiled and that he admitted something, anything. And as outward calm as she appeared, there was a kind of quickening in her blood, a feeling of erotic awareness that had been missing in her life.

Thanks to Madeline's frankness, and her own subsequent seeking out information, she knew what the possibilities were when it came to male female relationships. And putting him in that role certainly sent her blood racing at a heady speed. The fact that he was somehow untamed and rugged just sharpened the edge of her excitement, and yes, a very natural fear, not as he had implied, but rather that knowing and not exactly knowing.

She looked at the doorway, hearing a rattle, and saw him enter carrying a tray. There were apples and cheese, wine there, and he set it on the side table.

"I would have prepared lunch,” she told him.

His hair was damp, loose, and he wore a half-buttoned white shirt, a pair of snug black trousers and clean boots. “I ate already.” He turned to leave.

"Have you something to do?"

"Nay.” He looked back at her.

"Stay then, and talk."

He turned around, his gaze went over her hair, and the gown. “I'm not a mon that has done much wooing, Liddy. I havna the control tae sit here and look at ye like that and trust myself to be a gentleman."

She had sipped from the wineglass, and now placed it back, pushing her hair over her shoulder as she looked at him. “How much of this are we going to do, then; the looking at each other, trying to make conversation—and likely we should know each other better. When you're wondering if you can kiss me, and I am wondering if you will..."

He was at the bed in three strides, and leaning over her, his hand cupped under her jaw as his head descended and their mouths touched.

Liddy made a sound of surprise, but too soon her hands were threading through his hair, and though he was testing by merely rubbing lips, she opened her mouth and his followed, before his tongue tasted hers.

She followed that movement and rolled her tongue softly through his mouth, feeling heady and resisting another moan at the satin heat inside. It was a sensual kiss, an explicit one, and more arousing than any in her life. She had known, somehow, that it would be. And, when his knee was on the bed, and he was leaning her back, she was lost, completely lost, in a fog of intimacy.

He lifted his head, breathing heavy, and shifting so that his weight wouldn't squash her. Resting his elbow by her head, their gazes held while she too filled her lungs with air.

Having sifted her hands through his hair, Liddy kept one at the side of his neck, sliding down the other, feeling the muscle and heat through his shirt and then resting it there, on his arm.

He leaned in again, this time using his teeth to nip at her bottom lip before kissing her fully. The kiss lasted longer, and their breathing grew sultrier, and Liddy's body was straining toward him.

He raised his torso, fitting a palm under her head, and leaving his hand free to graze down her face, her neck, and then rest at her bodice. When his mouth left hers, he kissed her cheek, her chin, by her ear, before saying huskily, “Ye stop me, Liddy, when it's going to far for ye."

She felt like groaning at the prospect, but moved her hands so that she could put them inside the shirt. He helped her, unlatching it, pulling it free of his trousers, and then sucked in his breath as she was touching his skin, gliding her hands over his chest and down his sides.

They were kissing again, only with less concentration on finesse and more like a sexual mating. His tongue delved, his head moving in slow circles, hers in counterpoint, and parting only to tug at lips with their teeth or run their mouth across jaw or cheek.

Her breathing had accelerated. Her body felt hot, light, yet heavy, and Liddy was aware that the sound in her ears was also his breathing, aroused and difficult. He bit her ear gently, sending chills over her, and then suckled a spot below that which had her nails biting into his sides.

There were things registering in her fogged mind, the firm tingling of her nipples, the dampness between her legs as the kissing had made muscles constrict there. Her nostrils were filled with his scent, his heat, and that pleasure was like a chain unbroken, washing over her. No matter what he did, it felt wonderful.

She was scarcely aware of it however, when his hand moved and his fingers were applied to the buttons of her bodice. It wasn't until he was kissing her and his palm eased over her breast, and she felt that contact, that she jerked in surprise.

He lifted his head, looking at her and stilling his hand. “Did I harm ye?"

"No,” she husked wetting her lips. She looked down seeing his masculine hand there, seeing her gown was parted almost to her navel. He slid his hand away and she stared at her breast, light pink nipple distended and the globe tight, and fair skin chilled. It looked suddenly so sexual.

He'd obviously thought this was her stopping point, and was preparing to lie back, away from her, when Liddy, looked at him.

"I've never been touched like that. I didn't know they were that sensitive."

He made a sound in his throat; his gaze heating as it held hers. When he spoke his voice sounded rough, “I canna lie to ye. I've never a had virgin. But if ye trust me, I can pleasure ye without taking ye fully.” He looked down her body. “I hae thought ye fair, lass. But I've nay seen a woman's body this bonny. And the taste of ye mouth is enough to drown in, but I've a mind and a need to put my lips on other parts of ye as well."

She shivered. “I want to feel you, I want to touch you."

The expression on his face was both pleasure and tense. “I hae never tested my control, Liddy. And I havna been with a woman in years."

She was stunned. “You haven't?"

He shook his head and slid his hand back to her breast, his thumb teased the nipple, and he watched her response, the arch of her spine, the sucking in of her breath. “Let me pleasure ye, lass. I fear I'd break if ye touch me first, I dunna want to be rough with ye, but I'm nigh filled with need just from yer kisses."

Liddy didn't get to respond. He kissed her and took her further into the fog with suckles at her throat and his hand kneading her breast. At some point he slid downward and she was too busy moaning and burying her hands in his hair, as he laved her nipples and then sucked them, to notice he had completely parted the gown.

But his palm skimmed her legs and hip; his fingertips caressed her stomach and sides. he moved downward, dragging his open mouth on her skin, kissing and laving, she arched her neck and shook her head as if she couldn't believe how exquisite it felt.

His hand soothed upwards from her knee, inward to part her thighs. And Liddy felt the glide of his fingers through her curls, the touch of one tip that parted them, and when he glided a sensitive spot, she half sat up, tightening her hold in his hair.

He raised his head and looked at her heavy lids, flushed face, her white teeth sank into her lip.

Raising on his elbow, out of her way, so she could see his hand touching her, he murmured, “Ye feel soft and warm, Liddy.” His finger rubbed the cleft coming away moist. “Hae ye felt this before?"

"No,” she sounded strangled. “Only when you kissed me, and..."

"And when?” His finger returned to their pleasure, stroking slow through the sticky heat.

"When I thought of it ... of you...” She shivered and looked at his hand again. “Touching me there."

His expression became more tense, yet she recognized it was a sexual tension. He watched her face as he eased his finger inside her. The pleasure she felt must have showed. Her hands slid out of his hair to brace herself, he began to glide it in and out slowly, though her breathing was faster and faster.

Tightly he whispered, “Ye can move."

She did, lifting her hips just a bit, sliding downward to ride his touch.

"Liddy...” He leaned over and suckled her breast, his thumb finding the nerves and stroking there. He raised and kissed her mouth, open and hot and hungry. Against it he groaned and then he removed his hand and was over her, down between her legs.

"Douglas."

"I must, lass.” He wedged his shoulders between her thighs. And Liddy floated back at the first touch of his mouth there.

He parted her, laved and tasted her, and his hands moved from her hips to her backside. His finger inserting deep in her sex at the moment he began moving his head, pressing his tongue against the spot—that had her legs trembling and her gasps filling the room.

"Douglas!” She sounded panicked, felt as if she were drowning, and she clutched the comforter in hopes of anchoring herself. He moaned against her skin and began in earnest, with movements of his head, laves and licks to bring her to climax.

He did.

Libby had no choice, the pleasure exploded at some infinite moment—when she was thinking of what he was doing and how good it felt. She didn't remember much except a kind of inner tightening, intensity, so exquisite and so sexual, that she fell into it and the world exploded.

When she came to herself again, she was in his arms, gathered there with her legs between his and his hands soothing her, his lips brushing her brow.

He must have sensed her looking at him, because he pulled back and regarded her with a smile that tripped her heart.

Her answering smile—was sheer amazement.

Kissing then, a sensual kiss that had her arching up against him, Liddy cupped his face, as their mouths parted, more aware now of the hardness and heat of his sex against her hip. “Am I going to touch you now?"

"Aye.” He sounded terse with arousal and excitement. He pushed off his shirt and adjusted so that he sat against the headboard. His gaze was on her breasts as she came to her knees at his hip.

"Are you taking off your trousers?” She ran her hand down his chest.

He held her hand to him, right at the spot, just below his navel. “I shouldna be allowin’ this much."

Her gaze touched his. “Isn't that rather up to me? I haven't before, but that doesn't mean I don't want to. I'm not experienced, not as you were, but you can show me."

He groaned and leaned his head against the headboard, closing his eyes a moment. She could feel the jerk of stomach muscles under her hand. Then with his eyes still closed, he moved his hands down and undid the latches.

She was fascinated, finding something sexual in his hands undoing the laces, and going all hot and breathless again as those auburn curls came into view and his big hand palmed his sex, sliding from bottom to top. And his sex was more than pleasing to look at, tender and yet strong, the veins full and the crown blush. He took her hand and placed it there, cupping his over it.

"It feels wonderful,” she murmured. And she meant it. The silken hot skin, the thickness and pulse throbbing against her palm. Leaning over, she began to kiss his throat, to lave his chest, and finally to latch on his nipples. His hand let hers touch alone, and she had seen him stroke upwards so she did, aware that his hands were lightly in her hair, and that he groaned soft and whispered something in Gaelic.

Aroused completely by him, by what she touched and tasted, Libby was so focused on that, she was some time feeling his hand move, but when he had it wedged between her legs, touching her again inside. She raised her head, and found his eyes glowing like blue fire under half-shuttered lids. The look on his face was feverishly aroused. She kissed him, sensing he wanted her to, and when his hips arched under her touch, she held firmer, touched faster, catching the sound in her mouth just before he jerked and trembled.

He was breathing harsh, his forehead against her shoulder as their movements stilled. Her hand was bathed in his seed and the scent of it hung strong between them.

Leaning his head back finally, he rasped, “I've made a mess of ye, lass."

She removed her hand, and kissed him before leaving the bed. “I'm fine.” She poured water from a bowl, washed her hands and then took the cloth to him.

While he cleaned himself, Liddy drank the wine and sat at his hip, their eyes meeting when he was done.

"That was more than a kiss."

She nodded, her expression as serious as his own.

He adjusted his trousers and leaned to take a drink of her wine. He pulled her back with him, settling her between his legs and back against his chest. His lips rested against her hair as he murmured, “I'll never keep me hands off ye now, Liddy. Ye know that, don't ye?"

"Yes.” His hands were now on her breasts.

"I tasted ye, and all I can think of is doing it more, and feeling myself inside ye."

That's what she was thinking of too.

He rubbed his nose against her ear. “I dunna know how ye feel. Not the pleasure, but in yer mind. I'm nae fool enough to be reckless wie ye, because it's all new. But I'm wantin to sleep in this bed with ye, like this, for as long yer here."

His hands moved to her hair, and he gently tilted her head with that hold, so that he could look at her face. “I told ye I know nothing of courtship, I've gone from a kiss ye'd give me—to doing things I've never wanted to afore. Yer a bonny lass, and fairly steal my breath right now as I'm looking at ye. I'm needin’ to love ye that way—now moren’ ever."

While the words thrilled her, aroused her, and the expression on his face bore the truth of it, Liddy was too smart a woman to ignore the consequences. “I'd get with child from that, Douglas."

He swallowed thickly. “Do ye want me, though?"

"Yes of course. I want to feel everything you make me feel. I want to..."

He kissed her swift, hard, and then pulled back. “I can keep me seed from takin'."

"You can ... oh, yes. I have heard of that."

He laughed quietly but said, “'Tis more than that, Liddy. I'd be takin’ something meant fer yer husband."

"I'm not getting married.” She pulled away and sat up, looking over her shoulder at him. “I'm not."

"Ye dunna ken that yet, Liddy. Ye havna..."

"If I was going to wed someone, it would have been Lord Lynwood. I think I know my own mind well enough, Douglas. I assure you, I am not going to marry."

He was staring at her in disbelief. “Ye may meet someone..."

This time she moved and sat facing him. “I've met men, many of them. My father set up our inheritance so that we could choose whom we wed. And—so that we could wed for love. Since that is not going to happen to me, I'm not going to marry. Now, stop looking at me like that."

He ran a hand down his face, and let it fall heavily on his thigh. His gaze went over her nude form twice before he met her eyes again.

"Then wed me. I dunna want yer money."

"Are you daft?” She blinked. “Why on earth w—"

"I dunna want your fortune. I want you."

She swallowed. “I just agreed to share a bed with you."

"I dunna mean for a time, Liddy. I mean I want ye."

"But that is, for a time.” Her tone was soft, “You've had women, and for men, that is enough. This is enough, until you want someone else."

He was shaking his head. “If ye wanted me, then I'd be daft to need or want another. I didna think about ye these years just for this..."

"Stop.” She reached over and put her fingers to his lips. “Don't say anything in haste. We're.... We've just felt tremendous pleasure with each other. I think we should refrain from any sort of..."

He pushed her hand from his mouth, rose and leaned so that he tumbled her back on the bed, his body over hers, his hips between her thighs. Holding her head in his hands, he pressed his hips against her, watched the pleasure flutter over her face. “Would ye tire of this, Liddy? Of being pleasured and having a mon who wants ye more than breath?"

"That's not what I meant."

He reached down, touching her, caressing until she was wet, and then kissed her hot and deep. His tone husky, his voice threaded with hungers, he asked, “Ye want me inside there, moving and fillin ye, Liddy?"

"I said..."

He raised his hips and unlatched his trousers, shoving them down to his thighs, and then bracing his weight on his elbows—he eased just the crown inside. Trembling, strained, he held her gaze and moved an inch, rocking soft and easy, feeling her nails bite into his back. “It will hurt ye, lass. There's no getting it back."

She arched against him; her body stirred by his words, his expression, and the feel of his sex inside. “I don't want to go back."

He cursed and pushed forward, then muttered something raspy before embedding himself.

"Bloody hell,” she gasped, her nails drawing blood. “That hurt."

He eased half way out and thrust again, then once more, before he pulled out and went down her body, kissing and caressing and lastly rubbing between her curls while he suckled her breast. When he entered her again, she felt more pressure than pain.

He thrust long and slow and then held still, looking down at her. “If ye dunna tell me when there's pleasure, Liddy, I canna enjoy me own."

She smiled rather shakily. “There's pleasure."

He laughed too, pitifully. “Ye lie, lass. But I'll make up for it, I promise.” So saying, he began to thrust and though he kept himself controlled, and withdrew before he climaxed, she knew they'd both missed something because it was her first time.

An hour later Liddy had bathed and held a cloth to her tender skin. She wore a thin gown and lay beside him in bed. He had washed himself and checked the fire below. Now they watched shadows in the room, each heavy with thoughts.

Eventually they fell asleep. Liddy awakening in the night, then drifting again. When she awoke it was morning, and he was gone out to see to the stock. The day progressed, they ate, she worked, and the heavy silence stretched out.

That night, he came up after she was in bed, and stripped his clothing, climbing in beside her. The firelight lit their faces as they lay facing, and under the covers she felt his hand stroking her, caressing her.

But it was the next day, when she was at her work that he came up to her, grazing his lips on her neck, then lifting her out the chair, carrying her to where he'd slid the bench back at the fireplace and made a pallet.

His hands already removing her gown, he tossed it into a chair. On his knees, he simply looked at her lying there in black stockings that shimmered against her skin.

Liddy leaned up on her elbows to rub her hand down his chest. He watched and then arose to dispense with his clothing. When he pressed her down, leaning over her, and her limbs skim up over his hips, offering herself to him in every way, he said, “Hold on, this time, Liddy. Hold tight, lass."

And Liddy did, her breath leaving on a gasp as he thrust into her, curling his body so that he could kiss her erotically while he stroked her fierce and passionately. When their mouths parted her moans and sounds filled the lower hall. She arched her hips, meeting his thrusts, murmuring his name, biting at his throat. Liddy felt as if the fire had moved into her blood, and she heard his softly growled words, felt the sheen of sweat on him as he slanted into her body with abandon.

At some point he raised to his knees, bringing her up with him, and they smoothed each others tangled hair, catching their breath, watching the firelight play on skin and smolder in their eyes.

His hands on her hips lifted and lowered her easily, and she abandoned herself to the incredible sensations, holding to his shoulders and doing her own variations of the sexual dance.

When he came, holding her down, himself deep, he whispered, “Reckless ... that was reckless of me, lass. I lost meself..."

But her fingers covered his lips and her eyes glowed still from the pleasure of their lovemaking. “I don't regret a thing, Douglas.” She moved her fingers and kissed him.

That night, after bathing, he took her again, coming up behind her in the solar, reaching around to touch her, arouse her, until she had to hold to the wall. And he seemed particularly sensual, obviously hungry for her, and the new position brought out the same in Liddy.

Before they slept he said, “Marry me, Liddy. I'm nae good enough for ye. But I'll let ye have the life ye want, any life. I'll nae try and turn ye into someone other than ye are, because ye please me as much out of bed as in."

"Douglas.” She leaned over, looking at him, trying to read his eyes in the amber light. “You do not have to do this."

"I want to. It isna about now, Liddy.” His hands cupped her face. “I hae nothing to offer save myself. And if ye canna love a mon, and if I be enough, then I want ye, Liddy. I want ye..."

She swallowed seeing the emotion in his eyes. “I want you. I have thought of nothing but you, for years. And I thought this, the sex would make that ease, but you overwhelm me. I cannot get through the day now, without thinking of you. I thought I would go for good, having made the decision I had, to give you the castle, cut it all lose so that I could move on. And making love has only made me realize that I lied ... I would come back, I'd come back..."

"Ye love me Liddy, just a bit?"

Oh bloody hell. Liddy laughed rather helpless and whispered, “Aye, you brawny Scot, just a bit..."

He smiled and loosed a shuddering sigh. “I love ye, lass. I hae for a long time."

She lost her smile. “You have?"

He nodded.

Liddy punched him in the arm. “Then why the holy hell did you not come and tell me. Why didn't you..."

His fingers touched her lips. “I hae nothing to offer..."

"Of course you do.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Love is priceless. A woman of my position and wealth knows that. We know that someone has to really love us, want us for ourselves."

"I dunna want yer money."

"I know. But you'll live well, all the same.” She bit her lip, letting the tears roll.

"I'll work for it then, lass. I'll travel wi ye and scare the men from ye while they take ye serious.” She was laughing and he added, “And I'll pleasure ye, and rock ye to sleep at night with our bodies joined."

"And I'll give you children.” She arched her brow. “Sons and daughters to fill this castle ... a William and a Rory...” When his eyes shone with emotion, she sniffed back her own tears. “You may change your mind. You've only seen my good side lately. You haven't seen..."

"I'll take me chances.” He rolled over her, shoving his hair out of his eyes as he looked down. “If ye think ‘tis only this, only what we feel kissing and touching, I'll wait, Liddy, I dunna mind proving it..."

"I don't need to wait. I need to love you.” She put her hand on his chest, moving him so she rolled him back, then she kissed him and murmured, “I need to love you, Douglas."

"Aye, lass,” His hands smoothed over her back and buttocks. “We'll wed when the weather breaks, but for now..."

"Yes ... now."

Laughter rumbled in his chest and half into a kiss he offered, “Hae yer way wi me, lass ... afore I start to beg."

She kissed him, laved him, and was over him like silk and fair mist, wringing words and groans from his lips. His hands buried in her hair as her mouth took him beyond any pleasure he could imagine. Douglas’ strong neck arched and his eyes rolled back in sheer pleasure, somewhere in his mind, or perhaps it was aloud, he whispered gruffly, “I knew ye had fire, Liddy, me bones burn ... me heart is nigh ready to burst...” and the pleasure exploded in him, and he held to her, shuddering on the waves. His last whisper before sleep were words of love, that he had felt bathed, drowned in it.

And Liddy lay her hand on his strong beating heart, letting that whisper echo around the room as the night deepened. This was why she had come, why she had not gotten him out of her mind. All of this time, each of them thinking of the other. It was more than a kiss, more than flesh and blood, sometime during the joining of their bodies, the words not spoken were expressed more honest and eloquently. They were opposites in many ways, and yet, they were soul mates. She felt it, and so had he.

Liddy sighed and closed her eyes. Life was going to be passionate, challenging, interesting, and love was absolutely worth the wait.

The end

About the Author:

Romance author Eve Asbury and sensual Romance 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: www.evesromance.com

Other stories by this Author, available at Alinar Publishing www.alinarpublishing.com/

Clandestine

Nothing could have prepared Miss Jane Archer for meeting the new Earl of Greystone face to face, and never in her wildest imaginings could she have guessed what explosive chemistry would erupt between them.

Undeniable

In spite of mistakes, heartaches, and a future which will require even more of Kate than she planned, Damien knows that what they had, what they made together and what they feel, is simply undeniable.

The Christmas Ball

Slipping uninvited to a Christmas Ball, Shay O’ Sullivan found more than she bargained for when she fell headlong into the arms of seductive rakehell, Lord Derrington. Five years later she's heading for another Christmas celebration...

Winter Heart

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?

Alinar Publishing

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